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creating a second storm of blood, brains, and bone. My
father turned toward Mr. Grimes, dripping what was left of
the last interloper. The killer bus driver promptly collapsed
to the wet earth.
“Holy shit!” he shouted, beady eyes wide. “I know who
you are!”
“Then we understand each other,” I said. With my father
spent, I returned him to his sleep. I extended my hand to
help the trembling killer to his feet.
“W-what are you gonna do to me?” Mr. Grimes
stammered. “You gonna make me into some fucked up art
exhibit?”
“Nothing has changed, Mr. Grimes,” I assured him. “We
are simply back where we began—you are taking me to
New Victoria.”
“And then what?” he asked.
“I will release you back into your natural habitat,” I said.
Mr. Grimes seemed relieved, exhaling what he surely thought
was his final breath. Behind us, the vehicles of the dead still
cast their yellowed light into the darkness, revealing my
work, if not my art. The killer bus driver surveyed his losses.
“I can’t believe you killed my guys!” he said, running
thick fingers through his dripping hair. “I was friends with
some of ‘em, and they wasn’t no pushovers, neither!”
“Friends, Mr. Grimes, are no substitute for family.”

42 | Mark Anzalone