The Starving Years Read Online Free PDF Page A

want to hit the bar—that’s fine. But the tide’s coming in, so we’d better decide which way we’re gonna swim.”

Chapter 4

    “Keep an eye on Eighth Street.” Javier said. He dragged Nelson into position to watch the intersection, while Nelson pondered what he would ever do if he accidentally told Javier to “keep an eye” on anything. The potential for awkwardness just kept building. “Watch for a yellow truck.”
    “Like a pickup truck? A dump truck? Or what?”
    “A truck with a red bandanna tied to the door. That’s all I know.”
    The sound of breaking glass sparkled over the top of the crowd’s roar. Nelson scanned the street once, twice, and back again—and only on the third pass did he notice the red bandanna. “There. It’s a moving truck.”
    As he pointed—wondering if he should adjust for Javier’s monocular vision—a bulky item lobbed from the crowd hit the wall beside Marianne’s head. Chunks of plastic flew in several directions, and a shard of the brick façade sloughed off. A piece of upholstery with straps attached came to rest at Nelson’s feet: an infant car seat. The crowd was suddenly way too close. “Come on,” Javier urged. “Let’s go.”
    The crowd edged nearer still, and more people broke away—people who’d been normal people once, people in suits, people in office casual, people in uniforms—but the gunshots, the riot, whatever had happened caused them to change. Now they were dirty, bloody, desperate and confused.
    Nelson led the way this time, tugging Marianne along behind him. It was like dodging the plastic laminate tables in the dark conference room—except these obstacles were moving, and they had trampling feet and flailing fists—and some of those fists held sticks and pipes and anything else they could clutch that might crack someone’s skull. One of those fists held a knife.
    He crouched and scuttled toward the truck faster, now dragging Marianne so hard she staggered and lost her footing, regained it, and pumped her legs with all her might to keep up.
    And Javier? Nelson spared a glance over his shoulder. He spotted Randy first, in his tailored blue shirt and conservative tie, punching a guy wearing construction coveralls in the face. He bent and helped Javier to his feet— Javier was getting trampled?— and the two of them forged on toward the truck.
    “Nelson!”
    Nelson spun back toward Marianne. Some guy in a suit with wild eyes and blood around his mouth was hauling at her hair. A kung fu move Nelson had learned from his twelve-year-old sparring partner took over, and the heel of his hand connected with the crazy guy’s chin. The snap sounded louder than the gunshots. It did its job, too—the guy let go of Marianne’s hair to clamp both hands over his bloodied mouth, howling.
    As Nelson pulled away, he began to shake. He’d never actually hit anyone before. Not like that. Not for real.
    Finally, finally they made it to the truck, Marianne with a broken heeled shoe and a torn earlobe missing its earring, Nelson with a sleeve of his polyester-blend dress shirt torn mostly off at the shoulder, and his khaki pants splattered with blood. Someone else’s blood. Hopefully.
    He dragged Marianne up to the driver’s side and pounded on the tinted window. It rolled down. An angular guy in his twenties with dark hair and a couple weeks of ragged stubble was at the wheel. He looked at Nelson hard, sinews cording in his neck as he swallowed, waiting to hear what Nelson had to say for himself. “Red bandanna,” Nelson gasped—he hadn’t realized he was out of breath. And he hadn’t realized his hand was throbbing.
    “Javier?”
    Nelson turned to make sure Javier was still there, and spotted his black hair and black eye patch among the crowd.
    The guy clarified: “Are you Javier?”
    “Me? No, I…” shit, was the guy going to bolt if Nelson admitted he wasn’t? The whole yellow truck / red bandanna scheme suddenly seemed way too convoluted.