|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trev looked down. A mess clung to the leg of his jeans. A chunk of skull, hair still clinging to its patch of scalp, slid down the denim. It had come from Francine's head. There was a cavity above her right ear. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He set his revolver on the pavement and tugged the plastic bags off his hands. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was a slash at the side of his jeans just above the knee. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Like one of the cuts in Lisa's jeans. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I'm a fashion plate, he thought, and chuckled softly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
His skin under the slash felt burnt. The bullet must've nicked him. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He touched the glop that had splashed the leg of his jeans. It felt spongy and warm. He scooped some off and stuffed it into his mouth. Moaning at the good taste of it, he shoved his fingers into Francine's head and started to dig out more. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sandy stood in front of him. He took his fingers out of Francine's head and reached for her. He wrapped his slippery hands around her buttocks and drew her closer. When he pressed his mouth between her legs, she grabbed his hair. She yanked his head backward. He gazed up between her breasts at her frowning black face. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
'Grandpa Chidi,' she said. 'Remember him?' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trev nodded. He remembered. But he didn't care. He strained against Sandy's grip, trying to get his |
|
|
|
|
|