After the First Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

sounded. He had seen him do this before, his voice reassuring, soothing, almost tender. He remembered that voice vividly just before Artkin had shattered the face of the police officer in Detroit with a blast from the revolver. If the thousand pieces of that face were put back together now, the countenance just before death would be peaceful, expectant, without any hint of the horror to come.
    “Why are you driving this bus today?” Miro asked. He knew this question would draw Artkin’s wrath—Artkin always discouraged needless conversation in operations—but Miro was disturbed. He did not want anything to go wrong with his first death.
    “My uncle is sick. I take over sometimes for him. I passed a special driver education course.” Like a schoolgirl reciting her lesson.
    Artkin darted Miro a glance of annoyance and then turned to the girl. “I’m certain you are a careful driver, miss, and that’s good. We would not want anything to happen to the children. Just keep driving so the children do not become upset.” His voice still reassuring, reasonable.
    The girl actually smiled at Artkin, a wan smile, uncertain perhaps, but a smile all the same.
    Artkin looked at his watch. Miro glanced at the kids in the bus. Some of them seemed to have gone limp and sat languidly in the seats, as if in a daze. Miro wondered: How strong were those drugs?
    “You have seventeen minutes left,” Artkin said to him.
    Miro nodded. For a moment, he had been as deceived by Artkin’s gentleness as the girl had been. But the reality of the situation imposed itself again on him. He glanced at his watch. In seventeen minutes—no, sixteennow—he would kill this girl. He wondered how old she was. Eighteen? Seventeen? His own age?
    The girl shifted gears as the van in front of them began an uphill climb. The children barely stirred. Miro saw Artkin pondering the children. He looked doubtful, his forehead wrinkled in concern. Artkin seldom showed doubt. Had the drugs been too powerful? Or was Artkin merely deep in thought, selecting his possible victims: who would die, who would live?
    Artkin became conscious of Miro’s study.
    “Don’t concern yourself with them,” he said, indicating the children. “Look to her.” He nodded toward the girl. “You have less than fifteen minutes.”
    Miro felt the presence of the gun under his jacket, like a tumor growing there.
    She was furious with herself. Her pants were wet—her panties, really, but she hated the word
panties
for some reason—and her fingers actually ached where she gripped the steering wheel and she could feel a migraine beginning, a dart of pain imbedded in her forehead above her right eyebrow, but these things didn’t matter. What mattered most—what she was furious about—was the way she had sat there all the time, numb and dumb, while these animals took over the bus, took complete control of her and the children while she did absolutely nothing at all. And those wet pants, her flesh chilled now between her legs. Her bladder and the muscles there—always a weakness. A sneeze could do it, or sudden laughter, and she wouldfeel a small oozing of delight followed by the shameful knowledge that she was wet again. She owned sixteen pairs of pants—all right, panties—but, jeez, this was the limit.
    She kept her eyes on the van ahead, following orders. Ordinarily, she hated to follow orders—at home or at school—but usually did. Another weakness. And here she was, complying again, carrying out the instructions they had given her. Not they: him. The older one. The one in command. Funny, you’d think she’d be more intimidated by the older one rather than the boy, but it was the boy who worried her. Even now, she could feel his intensity as he crouched nearby. Even though he had put the gun away, in his jacket someplace, she felt a sense of dread, menace. He had looked at her with those deep brown eyes, almost black, and she felt as though he were measuring her for a