Pavlov's Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page B

Blazer to squeeze through without losing a whole lot of paint.
    The van behind the coupe tried to immediately seal the gap, but Ken honked and pointed his gun at that guy too. Then, with a thank-you nod, which seemed ridiculous, Ken plowed the Blazer through the small gap and tore through the grassy median, his trailer bouncing and tools clanking behind.
    After about forty yards, he saw he wasn’t the only one with that idea; other drivers had seen something that spooked them, and were swerving out onto the grass, trying to get around the blockage in the road. Shapes hung onto the cars closer to the accident: some on the hood, some still leaning in through the windows. Feet kicked blindly for purchase, and the cars slalomed from side to side.
    Jorge came running down the median, fleeing from another figure behind him. He wasn’t watching where he was going, and didn’t notice the old station wagon with a madman on its hood, heading right for him.
    Stomping the gas, Ken sent Big Bertha surging forward. The heavy bumper of the Blazer clipped the rear end of the station wagon and sent it into a long, sideways skid. Its lead wheels hit a ditch and the station wagon rolled, missing Jorge by an inch. The hijacker on the hood went spiraling off into space, his arms and legs as loose as a rag doll’s.
    Ken watched it fly, and felt a thump as the Blazer hit something. He had a sick certainty that he hadn’t hit a log. He stopped the Blazer and looked out; a man with twisted and crushed legs reached up toward the window, desperately pulling himself along on one arm. Ken groaned and opened the Blazer door.
    He had stepped out to help the man when a terrific crunch of metal on metal pulled Ken’s head up. On the highway, a huge passenger van had just collided with the wrecker, and they both were careening down the sloping median, right into another vehicle, this one a bright-red Jeep Cherokee.
    A moan from the grass brought Ken’s head back around.
    I just hit a guy , he thought, and a cold sweat sprang from nothing on his brow. Holy shit, I just hit a guy.
    “Hey!” Jorge yelled, scrambling for the door handle on the Blazer’s passenger side. Behind him, aided by the peculiar slope of the median, the injured man staggered after, almost catching up. Ken was struck by the missing face.
    And don’t forget , a gleeful voice sang in the back of his head, you just hit a guy.
    Jorge got into the car and slammed the door shut. Without even trying for the handle, the man without a face slapped his hands against the window and brought his mouth to it, jaws opening wide to bite at the smooth glass.
    “Well?” Jorge yelled, and Ken snapped out of it.
    With one last glance at the man he’d hit, Ken got into the Blazer, yelling, “I’m sorry!”
    He eased onto the gas and spun the wheel, turning the heavy vehicle away from the carnage. Another car behind them flipped as it tried to do the same thing, and within seconds, staggering, shuffling figures descended on it like ants on a dead bird.
    Ken goosed the accelerator, and the Blazer shot forward. “What the hell was that?” he yelled. His hands were shaking even as they squeezed the steering wheel.
    Jorge shook his head. “I lost my phone.”
    “Your phone? That guy had no face . What the—Jesus!”
    All four tires locked up as Ken slammed on the brakes, sending the Blazer into a skid. Big Bertha swayed, but held the road.
    People who had run from the attackers now stood on the eastbound side of the highway, right where Ken was headed. There were maybe four pedestrians in all, and he made a snap decision.
    “Let them in,” he said.
    “ What? Did you see what was happening?”
    Ken hit the steering wheel. “Hell yeah, I saw. And we can help them.” And you hit a guy! his conscience screamed. “Let them in.” He set his jaw, and Jorge had seen enough of that look at work to know he shouldn’t even try to convince him otherwise.
    “Whatever you say, boss. But I ain’t