Pig City by Jonathan Mary-Todd

Author:Jonathan Mary-Todd [Mary-Todd, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781467700146
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group

CHAPTER EIGHT

S

oon as we stepped outside, Wendell thought he heard people coming. And he’d been right before. Not wanting to risk Hank Bradley coming back, we nudged open the door of a building across from us.

It was a cold I’d never felt before. Frost lined the walls around us. My throat tensed up, and the freeze crept into my veins. Icy hunks of red and pink meat hung from hooks and chains on the ceiling.

I waved to Wendell and Abner. “Let’s get to the back. Behind the pigs.”

A steady hum filled the room, from whatever kept the air so cold. As we walked deeper inside, I noticed the room blocked out most of the smell, too.

“How long do we wait?” Wendell asked.

“I dunno,” I said. “If they’re putting down pigs somewhere else, it can’t be that long ’til someone comes in.”

Hot breaths drifted out in front of me. Wendell picked at the side of a pig and put flecks of the meat in his mouth, cringing sometimes from the frost left on. I shoved my hands far into my coat pockets, my fingers stiff and raw.

“Whoever you heard,” I whispered to Wendell, “they’re probably gone. Maybe not far, but gone.”

He nodded and shuddered from the cold.

Holding one of the little boy’s hands with mine, I stepped back toward the front. After wrapping the other hand in my sleeve, I slowly twisted the door handle. Wendell slid his head near mine. Through the opening, we heard small voices—faraway yelling. Then nothing.

“Maybe they went the other way,” Wendell whispered.

“Then we leave,” I said. “Now.”

As we stepped out of the freezing building, a man turned the corner to our right. He was thin and small, shrunken-looking like a dried fruit. White and blond hair came to a point high on his forehead. Light footsteps.

At first the man’s eyes were fixed on the ground. He murmured, “incompetent . . . do not have the time for this,” in the same high voice that we’d heard on Hank Bradley’s speaking machine. Seth Tyson. He tilted his head up and stopped, and so did we. Understanding twisted up his face.

“Hhhaaaank!” he shrieked into his own speaking machine.

We ran the other way as Mr. Tyson’s machine squawked on, hearing only the rough shape of his angry shouts.

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