Br’er Robert
He stopped when he found them. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw. It was only a pattern of color and form, like one of those fucked-up head videos—except for the smell, the slaughterhouse reek: blood and vomit and shit.
“Please–” Decker whispered. “For God’s sake—please–”
Decker lay on his back on the floor, his face grey as a dirty rag, lips slack, eyes drifting in and out of focus. His arms twitched helplessly at his sides. An occasional spasm kicked through his legs. Brian knelt over him, his little face pressed down into Decker’s stomach, like he was going down on him but he wasn’t—he wasn’t, he couldn’t be—because–
Because there wasn’t anything there, anything except blood and ripped flesh and squirming purple intestine spread across the floor. Decker’s stomach, his whole body from the ragged hole of his crotch to his wetly pulsing heart, lay wide open and steaming and little Brian pressed his face deeper and deeper into it.
Chewing.
Frankie moaned, hours-old Big Mac working back up his throat. Brian heard him and lifted his sweet little angelic face. Blood ran down his cheeks in place of tears; a huge limp chunk of Decker’s liver filled his lips. He tossed his head like a lizard swallowing a mouse and the chunk slid down his little throat.
He smiled up at Frankie, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “I believe in the Boogerman,” he said. “But he don’t look like you.”
Frankie stepped backward, gagging. He barely noticed when his bowels let go and squirted shit down both legs of his jeans. Brian stood up and started toward him and Frankie turned and ran. He crashed through the rest stop’s door and sprinted blindly.
The corn, he thought. Get into the corn. He’ll never find me.
He raced down the slope toward the field. Bobby’s laughter rang in the van behind him. He’s just a little kid! He’s not a monster, I’m the monster, there aren’t any monsters, he’s just a little kid!
