Page 4 of Starved Until Sunset

“Little fuckers,” Cody said. “Shrieky Pete and I just cleaned that sign.”

“Always something to do in lovely Parson’s Hollow.”

“Or run from.”

They drove along Main through town. Another DPW truck passed them, and Cody sounded the horn and stuck his arm out the window in a wave, receiving the same in response.

“Was that Spiffy?”

“Yeah. He and Bill were patching potholes today.”

“Ugh, better them than us.” Demetrius put his head back against the seat, consciously keeping himself from thinking about how many other sweaty heads over the years had rested in the exact same spot. “I hate pothole patching.”

A mile past the town line on the northeast end of Parson’s Hollow, Cody slowed the truck and turned into a narrow dirt lane. He glanced over at Demetrius as he eased the big truck down the heavily rutted road. “How you doing over there? All okay?”

“I’m okay, just tired. Really glad it’s Friday.”

“Hate to shoot down your balloon, but it’s Thursday.”

“What? It is?” He checked his phone display. “Crap.”

They’d reached an open sandy area in the middle of a tight growth of trees. A deep pit waited at the far end, clouds of flies buzzing above it. Cody slowed the truck to a stop and shifted into reverse. He gave Demetrius a tight smile as he turned to look over his shoulder, the truck beeping as he backed up. “At least it’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes special night at Margie’s.”

“There’s that, I guess.”

Cody stopped the truck. “I need some direction.”

“Go backward very slowly,” Demetrius said.

Cody smirked. “Still sassy even though you’re tired and just found out it’s not Friday. Such a spark in you.”

“I’m a veritable beacon of inspiration.”

Demetrius climbed down and moved to Cody’s side of the truck. He made a face as he approached the edge of the pit. The buzz of the flies was so much louder this close. Standing several feet back from the edge of the pit, he waved Cody back until the truck’s bed was right at the lip. “Stop!”

Cody stayed in the cab, operating the hydraulic lift for the truck bed. Demetrius looked into the pit at the other roadkill carcasses that had been dumped earlier. A large wolf lay sprawled across some raccoons, tongue hanging out the side of its jaws. It looked big and intact, the only evidence of violence the blood-matted fur at its throat, swarmed by flies. Then the animals they’d cleared that day tumbled out of the truck, scattering the flies, and Demetrius stepped farther back. The sound was always terrible. Hooves and claws scraping across the metal bed. The thump of impact and crack of bone. He winced, then checked to make sure the truck was empty.

“Clear,” he called, and Cody lowered the bed.

“Run free, guys,” Demetrius whispered as the flies returned, then he rounded the front of the truck and climbed back into the cab.

Cody put the truck in gear and drove back into town. The sun was close to setting, painting the clouds a deepening orange. Demetrius let himself move with the motion of the truck, shifting his eyes from the setting sun to Cody’s profile. He looked masculine and natural driving the big truck. Demetrius had driven it a few times, and pretty well, he thought. But he could tell Cody really enjoyed driving it, so he was happy to be the passenger.

At the DPW garage, Cody parked the dump truck in the lot behind the main building. They got out and locked the doors, then walked side by side through the open roll up door.

“Fred and Shaggy are here,” Shrieky Pete called out.

Demetrius managed not to roll his eyes, but he shot a glance at the back corner, where an old linoleum kitchen table was set up under a metal stairway. The top of the table was coated with grease and other stains. A half dozen chairs circled it, the type that might have come from school offices or libraries. Shrieky Pete sat in the shadowy corner, swiping a big, dirty thumb down the glass of his phone. Demetrius couldn’t imagine what he was looking at, and didn’t want to know.

“Which of us is which?” Cody said. Demetrius heard the touch of steel in his tone.

Shrieky Pete didn’t even look up. “Does it matter?”

“I think I’m Fred,” Demetrius said quietly. “You don’t have the build to pull off a neckerchief.”

“So, I’m the stoned scaredy cat who’s always hungry?” Cody frowned and crossed his arms. “Huh. That kind of fits.”

The door to the manager’s office at the top of the stairs opened, the hinges whining with the effort. Demetrius marveled, yet again, that in a place specifically geared toward keeping a small town running, no one had made the effort to oil them.