"If you couldn't breathe, you'd be dead," Remo said, himself breathing shallowly at the edge of the cloud. "Which I'm going to be if I stand here one more minute."
Leaving the trunk open, Remo went back to the front of the car. He slid in behind the steering wheel. The massive shift of weight at the rear of the car a moment later told him that Billy Pierce had climbed out. The trunk slammed shut. Another moment and the door across from Remo opened. Billy slid in beside him. The car instantly listed to the right.
Remo had powered down all four windows before stopping the car. Billy's broad index finger immediately made a move to the window control switch on his door.
"Leave it," Remo commanded. He was looking over his shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic. "But I'm cold," Billy complained.
"Fat people are never cold," Remo argued.
"I'm cold," Billy repeated. "And it's glandular." The sweat from his long trip in the trunk dripped down his massive frame. It had chilled him the moment he had come in contact with the crisp night air.
"The window stays down," Remo said firmly. As Remo pulled back out onto the road, Billy Pierce crossed his arms tightly. The shivering, aging hippie settled into sullen silence.
THEY DIDN'T DRIVE FAR.
The farm came up quickly on the left. There were two large fields bisected by a dark public road that ran up between them. Remo pulled off the main route and onto the narrower side road. The black-shrouded road stretched off into darkness far ahead. Remo and Billy got out of the car.
"Where are they?" Remo asked.
"They wouldn't be out in the open," Billy said, rolling his eyes, as if Remo knew nothing of covert operations. "They want to do this in secret. There's an access road at the edge of the woods beyond the field. The trucks will be there."
Remo looked at the nearest field. It was thick with early-autumn corn. The stalks grew high above his head.
"Okay, east or west woods?" Remo asked.
Billy scratched his grimy head. "Um..."
Remo closed his eyes. "Great," he muttered with a deep sigh. "Okay, here's what we do. I'll take east you take west. If you even think you've found your little buddies, come back to the car. I'll meet you back here in twenty minutes. And in case you have any ideas about bolting..."
Remo reached out and tweaked Billy's ear. The pain was so horrific and engulfing, the animal-rights terrorist didn't have time to scream. When Remo pulled his hand away, Billy sucked in a deep breath. He nodded his understanding.
Standing in the middle of the road, Billy began scratching his head again. "Er... just one question," he began sheepishly.
Once Remo had aimed him west, Billy started out across the road. He vanished amid the corn a few seconds later. Remo heard him crunching and stomping and swearing his way through the stalks. "Give me strength," Remo groaned. Turning, he headed into the nearer stalks of tall corn on the opposite side of the road from the animal-rights activist.
A moment later, the field swallowed him up.
CLYDE SIMMONS HAD PARKED the rental truck at the end of the access road twenty minutes before. He and Ron DePew were standing outside the truck now. Waiting.
A small brook trickled off into the distance. The constant, nearby noise of running water coming from the intense darkness tensed Clyde's already jangled nerves. He checked the luminescent face of his watch. It glowed eerily green.
"They're late," he said.
"Just so long as they get here before Zit-Face," Ron replied. He was gingerly touching the sticky, coagulated mess beneath his nose where he had reglued his false mustache. He'd accidentally put it on upside down. The bristles had stuck up his nostrils and made him sneeze for much of the trip from Medford until he'd snipped most of them off with a pair of key-chain fingernail clippers.
"He's late, too," Clyde noted.
"Mmm," said Ron. He scratched at one end of the mustache. His face contorted in pain. "Ouch!" he yelped.
Clyde glanced at him. "Leave it alone," he said, annoyed.
"I can't," Ron complained. "It itches."
"Take it off, then."
"Mona told us to leave them on."
"Mona isn't here," Clyde said, a cold edge in his voice. "And even if she was, she doesn't know everything."
"You wouldn't say that if she was here."
"Yeah, well ... maybe," Clyde admitted, perturbed. He stared off into the night.
There was no sign of the second truck anywhere. Just the endless babbling brook. Occasionally, the sound of a car would echo across the gently bowing cornfield. Clyde sighed loudly, looking back to the rear of the truck.
He and Ron were standing near the grille. Together they had managed to get the BBQ out of the back. It was tethered at the rear of the vehicle, out of sight. Every few minutes, the creature would low plaintively. It was almost like a cross between a cow's moo and a sheep's bleat, without being fully either.
Ron stroked the mustache as if trying to massage the itch away. "You don't like Mona much, do you?" he asked.
"Yeah, right," Clyde mocked. "We get the grunt work and she gets the glory."
"There hasn't been much glory yet," Ron pointed out.
Clyde smirked derisively. "Are you kidding me? With what we've got tied back there?" He jerked his head to the rear of the truck. "She's about to go national. Without either of us."
Ron continued to toy with his mustache. "Still, it's worse for Huey. He's married to her."
Clyde looked at his partner as Ron played with his mustache. He had been doing it since they'd left Medford. Something in Clyde finally snapped. "Enough is enough," he growled.
Clyde grabbed one soggy end of sagging horsehair. With a mighty wrench, he ripped the mustache from Ron's face.
Ron DePew's shriek of pain was muffled beneath a pair of horrified, snatching hands. Ron's palms clamped firmly over the injured area as his body reacted to the blinding shock of sudden, intense pain.
"Shh," Clyde admonished. He dangled the false mustache between two disgusted fingers. Ron's discomfort had the instant effect of lightening Clyde's mood.
"That hurt," Ron's muted voice whimpered. "It's better to get it over with fast. Like a BandAid. Here." Clyde shoved the mustache back at Ron.
"Get that away from me," Ron complained. Removing his palms from his face, he felt at the raw flesh on his lip. His fingertips came away wet. Blood. "You ripped half my frigging face off!" he cried.
"Quiet," Clyde ordered. He cocked an ear to the cornfield. "Did you hear something?"
"No," Ron whined. He wasn't paying attention to anything beyond his injured upper lip. He continued prodding at his face.
After a moment, Clyde relaxed. "Nerves," he said, shaking his head.
"Who cares about your nerves?" Ron said, his lips twisted. He mumbled from the corner of his mouth. "Can you see teeth through this?" He pointed at the biggest lip hole.