Rage Read Online Free PDF

get passes to the Placerville Drive-In this Friday night.
        I shut the classroom door, crossed the room, and sat behind the big desk. My legs weren't so good. I was almost to the point of sit down or fall down. I had to push Mrs. Underwood's feet out of the way to get my own feet into the kneehole. I put the pistol down on her green blotter, shut her algebra book, and put it with the others that were stacked neatly on the desk's corner.
        That was when Irma Bates broke the silence with a high, gobbling scream that sounded like a young tom turkey getting its neck wrung on the day before Thanksgiving. But it was too late; everyone had taken that endless moment to consider the facts of life and death. Nobody picked up on her scream, and she stopped, as if ashamed at screaming while school was in session, no matter how great the provocation. Somebody cleared his throat. Somebody in the back of the room said "Hum!" in a mildly judicial tone. And John "Pig Pen" Dano slithered quietly out of his seat and slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
        They looked up at me from the trough of shock.
        "This," I said pleasantly, "is known as getting it on."
        Footsteps pounded down the hall, and somebody asked somebody else if something had exploded in the chemistry lab. While somebody else was saying he didn't know, the fire alarm went off stridently. Half the kids in the class started to get up automatically.
        "That's all right," I said. "It's just my locker. On fire. I set it on fire, that is. Sit down."
        The ones that had started to get up sat down obediently. I looked for Sandra Cross. She was in the third row, fourth seat, and she did not seem afraid. She looked like what she was. An intensely exciting Good Girl.
        Lines of students were filing out onto the grass; I could see them through the windows. The squirrel was gone, though. Squirrels make lousy innocent bystanders.
        The door was snatched open, and I picked up the gun. Mr. Vance poked his head in. "Fire alarm," he said. "Everybody… Where's Mrs. Underwood?"
        "Get out," I said.
        He stared at me. He was a very porky man, and his hair was neatly crew cut. It looked as if some landscape artist had trimmed it carefully with hedge clippers. "What? What did you say?"
        "Out." I shot at him and missed. The bullet whined off the upper edge of the door, chipping wood splinters.
        "Jesus," somebody in the front row said mildly.
        Mr. Vance didn't know what was happening. I don't think any of them did. It all reminded me of an article I read about the last big earthquake in California. It was about a woman who was wandering from room to room while her house was being shaken to pieces all around her, yelling to her husband to please unplug the fan.
        Mr. Vance decided to go back to the beginning. "There's a fire in the building. Please-"
        "Charlie's got a gun, Mr. Vance, " Mike Gavin said in a discussing-the-weather tone. "I think you better-"
        The second bullet caught him in the throat. His flesh spread liquidly like water spreads when you throw a rock in it. He walked backward into the hall, scratching at his throat, and fell over.
        Irma Bates screamed again, but again she had no takers. If it had been Carol Granger, there would have been imitators galore, but who wanted to be in concert with poor old Irma Bates? She didn't even have a boyfriend. Besides, everyone was too busy peeking at Mr. Vance, whose scratching motions were slowing down.
        "Ted," I said to Ted Jones, who sat closest to the door. "Shut that and lock it.-
        "What do you think you're doing?" Ted asked. He was looking at me with a kind of scared and scornful distaste.
        "I don't know all the details just yet," I said. "But shut the door and lock it, okay?"
        Down the hall someone was yelling: "It's in a locker! It's in a Vance's had a heart attack! Get some water!