Lexicon

psyched!” He tried the door again. “This is what we’ve been working for! This gives us a fucking chance!” He grinned.
    Tom’s head turned, examining the darkness. Wil didn’t know what he was looking for.
    “We have the plane. Fueled up, sitting on a strip out back. We’ve got drugs, we’ve got a big fucking probe, twenty minutes we’re in the air and pulling this guy’s head open.” The man looked at him. “Nothing personal. But we need what’s in there more than you do.” He tried to rap Wil’s head with his knuckles. “Man! I could kiss you!”
    Tom said, “You realize how much emotion you’re displaying right now.”
    The long-haired man looked at him. Then he lunged at Wil, grabbing his head, his fingers raking his skin. He forced his shoulders inside the car. His shoes scrabbled at the door. Tom hit the gas; the truck lurched forward. The long-haired man yelped and slipped and for a second Wil thought he was going to be dragged right out of the car. Then the fingers lost their grip on his head and neck and the man disappeared.
    “
Fuck!
” he said. “What’s happening?”
    “Bad things,” said Tom.
    “That’s your friend?”
    “No. Not at the moment.” Metal gleamed ahead. It was railing, the same kind that had guided them down the driveway. For a moment Wil thought Tom was going to try to smash through it. Then they swung in a semicircle. The railing curved endlessly. “Oh, I see,” said Tom. “We’re in a pen.”
    “A pen?”
    “Cattle yard.” He backed the truck around. Now they were facing the light pole. The long-haired man shambled out of the light toward them. Tom shifted gears. The pickup’s wheels spun in mud.
    “Oh,” said Wil. “Oh, wait, no.” The long-haired man grew in the windshield. At the last moment, Tom jagged left and the long-haired man thumped against the side of the truck. In the red glow of taillights, Wil saw him pick himself up out of the mud and begin to shamble after them. “You hit your friend,” Wil said.
    Tom braked. Wil caught himself. He looked at Tom. “What are you doing?” Tom didn’t answer. “Your friend is coming.”
    “Stop calling him my friend.”
    “Well, that fucking guy is coming. He’s twenty feet away.”
    Tom’s eyes flicked to the mirror.
    “Seriously. Time to go.”
    The long-haired man slapped the rear window. He ran to Wil’s door and tried to tug it open with one hand. The other hung at a broken angle. The man gave a frustrated cry. His fingers scrabbled against the glass. His eyes kept moving to Wil, tight and hungry.
    “The driveway is a funnel,” said Tom.
    “So let’s—” The man threw his head against the glass with a
crack
. “Let’s try something, you know?” Tom didn’t respond. The man head-butted the window again. “Please. Tom. Don’t make me sit here and watch this guy kill himself against the window.”
    Light flared ahead. Wil shielded his eyes. Something coughed and snarled.
    “Aha,” said Tom.
    “What is that?”
    “Truck.” Tom shifted into reverse and threw an elbow over the seat. “Big truck.” Ahead, the lights shivered. The snarl rose to a throaty roar. The man with the straggly hair fell to the mud and rose again. They swung in a half circle and Tom threw them into drive. As they bounced away from the driveway, Wil saw darkness coalesce into a shape. It was an animal transport, as large as a house, a grille like a grin. Smoke belched from twin exhausts above its cabin. As it moved into the pen, light fell across bright red cursive script on its front:
Faithful Bethany
.
    “We have to get out of here.” Their headlights bounced off metal railing. “Can we break through that?”
    “No.” Tom hauled the wheel.
    “How do you know? Maybe we can break—”
    “If we could break through, they would have chosen somewhere else.” The transport filled the windshield. Tom accelerated toward it.
    “What are you . . . what are you . . . Jesus!” He threw out his hands. Tom yanked the wheel. The pickup jumped. The transport clipped them and everything leaned and spun. Then the tires bit. They accelerated toward the driveway and freedom beyond for ten glorious seconds and then Tom braked again.
    Wil, who had been straining forward, hit the dash and fell back in his seat. The pickup came to a halt at the driveway mouth. There were lumps in the mud. Big lumps. People, he saw. Three people, sitting.
    “Who are they?” He looked at Tom. “Poets?”
    “No.”
    “Why