Run With the Hunted Read Online Free PDF Page B

reach under the bed, searching for me. When it came near I grabbed it with both hands and bit it with all the strength I had. There was a ferocious yowl and the hand withdrew. I tasted wet flesh in my mouth, spit it out. Then I knew that while Simpson was not dead I might very well be dead very soon.
    â€œAll right,” I heard my father say quietly, “now you’ve really asked for it and by god you are going to get it …”
    I waited, and as I waited all I could hear were strange sounds. I could hear birds, I could hear the sound of autos driving by, I could even hear my heart pounding and my blood running through my body. I could hear my father breathing, and I moved myself exactly under the center of the bed and waited for the next thing.
    â€” S EPTUAGENARIAN S TEW
    Â 
    ----
    The fifth grade was a little better. The other students seemed less hostile and I was growing larger physically. I still wasn’t chosen for the homeroom teams but I was threatened less. David and his violin had gone away. The family had moved. I walked home alone. I was often trailed by one or two guys, of whom Juan was the worst, but they didn’t start anything. Juan smoked cigarettes. He’d walk behind me smoking a cigarette and he always had a different buddy with him. He never followed me alone. It scared me. I wished they’d go away. Yet, in another way, I didn’t care. I didn’t like Juan. I didn’t like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that’s why they disliked me. I didn’t like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn’t like my father or mother either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach. Juan was dark-skinned and he wore a brass chain instead of a belt. The girls were afraid of him, and the boys too. He and one of his buddies followed me home almost every day. I’d walk into the house and they’d stand outside. Juan would smoke his cigarette, looking tough, and his buddy would stand there. I’d watch them through the curtain. Finally, they would walk off.
    Mrs. Fretag was our English teacher. The first day in class she asked us each our names.
    â€œI want to get to know all of you,” she said.
    She smiled.
    â€œNow, each of you has a father, I’m sure. I think it would be interesting if we found out what each of your fathers does for a living. We’ll start with seat number one and we will go around the class. Now, Marie, what does your father do for a living?”
    â€œHe’s a gardener.”
    â€œAh, that’s nice! Seat number two … Andrew, what does your father do?”
    It was terrible. All the fathers in my immediate neighborhood had lost their jobs. My father had lost his job. Gene’s father sat on his front porch all day. All the fathers were without jobs except Chuck’s who worked in a meat plant. He drove a red car with the meat company’s name on the side.
    â€œMy father is a fireman,” said seat number two.
    â€œAh, that’s interesting,” said Mrs. Fretag. “Seat number three.”
    â€œMy father is a lawyer.”
    â€œSeat number four.”
    â€œMy father is a … policeman …”
    What was I going to say? Maybe only the fathers in my neighborhood were without jobs. I’d heard of the stock market crash. It meant something bad. Maybe the stock market had only crashed in our neighborhood.
    â€œSeat number eighteen.”
    â€œMy father is a movie actor …”
    â€œNineteen …”
    â€œMy father is a concert violinist …”
    â€œTwenty …”
    â€œMy father works in the circus …”
    â€œTwenty-one …”
    â€œMy father is a bus driver …”
    â€œTwenty-two …”
    â€œMy father sings in the opera …”
    â€œTwenty-three …”
    Twenty-three. That was me.
    â€œMy father is a