Page 7 of Bad Seed
Without pause, I leap over the counter. My legs kick the scale to the ground, dragging the computer with me.
“Sir,” the clerk reaches out to stop me, but I’ve got momentum on my side. Plunging forward, I ram through the door that’s not even locked. Boxes are piled up along with huge bins forming mazes. Walking to the point of nearly running, I work around them as the clerk stops in the doorway.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says as if he can stop me.
There! A fire exit. Dramatically, I raise my boot and kick the door in. It flies as if it wasn’t even locked and rams into the back wall. Not looking back, I dash out of the store.
“You forgot your package!” the clerk calls as the door slams shut behind.
Sure enough, I’m behind the strip mall in a loading zone. Leaping down, I eye up my surroundings quickly. My truck’s not too far, but I can’t take the direct approach in case they’re watching. Maybe, if I ease around the back of the alley, I can come up from behind and…
Red!
I jerk back, scraping my arms on the brick corner.
The all-red tracksuit, like he’s mimicking the boss. Rounder than his brother, he is the brains behind the muscle. For as demented as Green can be, the real psychotic orders come from Red. If he catches me, it’ll be the grill for sure.
“Daddy!” a small voice cries out as a purple balloon goes bounding on past.
Hunched at the knees, I turn out just as the family walks past and blend into them. I have no idea where we’re going, but I can break off after we’re past the Bells. The sounds of people and feet scraping over pavement manage to puncture through my pounding heartbeat. I keep a constant watch from the sides of my periphery, scouring for any sign of the Bells. Luckily, they stand out as damn near everyone’s wearing purple for some reason.
Though, that also leaves me in black looking like a dead thumb. I have to ditch this crowd fast and get back to my safe house.
We walk under a sign that I don’t lift my head to read and into mayhem. Country music twangs over the cry of children on cheap rides, the bleat of goats, and the overpowering scent of…
Of…?
I whip my head around, certain I’m imagining it. Purple balloons. Purple drinks. Purple signs in folksy handwriting.This can’t be. I am not in a—
“Welcome to the eggplant festival. Here!” A bubbly older lady with dirt under her nails thrusts an eggplant in my face.
I blink slowly. “No, thanks,” I say dumbly. “I don’t want to buy one.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s free,” she says and shoves it into my arms.
It slips off, teetering for the cement and a hundred feet pulverizing it to mush. I scramble, cradling the eggplant like a baby. Taking a deep breath, I check to make sure it’s okay, and I didn’t scar the flesh.
Is this what it feels like for normal humans to hold a monkey? The woman keeps handing eggplants out to people who juggle them back and forth or toss them into their bags without a care. A fire burns in my heart to rescue them all before they’re bruised, beaten, or worse. But, as I glance over my shoulder, I catch a swath of red in the sea of purple.
Shit. I need to blend in. With one hand on the eggplant, I follow the crowds doing my best to lap them without shoving. It’s not easy as they keep stopping to ooh and aah at every little thing.Yes, it’s a llama. We’ve all seen those. Move!
“Watch your feet!” a voice shouts.
I freeze, only for a gnome-sized woman with a pruned face to run up and whack me on the knees. “You’re standing on the art!” she chides.
“Oh?” I shift my shoe to find a carrot below. In my haste, I walked into a chalk art garden. It’s beautiful with rows of carrot stalks, lettuce heads, and eggplants so realistic I can almost feel them. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be sorry, just move,” she scolds again. “Damn tourists.”
Cowed by the four-foot gnome, I stumble back like a giant who’s had his beanstalk cut out from under him. People surge around behind me, trying to give me a wide berth that leaves me open for the Bells. Without thought, I turn from the chalk art into a line of stalls. Homemade soaps and jewelry fly past. I’ve got to disguise myself somehow.
Find a way to blend in.
There!
A stand filled with trucker hats is just what I need. I pick up the first one my hand finds while I keep staring around. No sign of Green or Red so far. Maybe they didn’t see me come in here.
“That’s a bestseller,” a man says.
