End Time Read Online Free Page B

hands sat at ten and two o’clock, normal driving position—but the driver’s own hands—young-man hands—sat on his thighs, a finger going tap-tap-tap as if impatient with everything.
    The young man was wearing an extra pair of arms.
    Wearing.
    It seared into the back of her skull in all of a second. The top section of a human body had been skinned, the shoulders and arms, specifically, cut from the torso; a large hole where the neck used to be, a broad flap from the spine, leaking blood. From inside the bloodstained Laker’s Jersey, the dead arms protruded from the arm holes, gripping the wheel. The driver wore the skinned mantle like football shoulder pads, so he could steer from the 6 o’clock position with his real hands.
    The rest of the body lay on the backseat. Head and trunk intact; only the arms and back flap of skin missing. Lovely, angelic face. Another Sweet Jane.
    The young man looked around from his place at the wheel. “Buenos Dias, Officer.” A small round tattoo of Felix the Cat grinned at Cheryl from the Chicano’s forehead.
    â€œSir, please put your real hands on the steering wheel.” Chippy felt her voice about to crack, but somehow it didn’t. Flat, even, controlled.
    â€œNo problemo.” But just before he placed his hands on the wheel, his finger flipped a switch on the dash, powering up the hop-and-dance feature of the hydraulics. The radio blasted to life at the same time, the tune from the funk band War way back in the 1970s. The late Charles Miller’s black tar voice rumbled out the car window, the thumper “Low Rider.” Perfect choice as the musician had been murdered in LA and the killer never found, perfect Hollywood.
    Now that she thought back to it, she seemed to remember the words coming out of the radio were wrong here too. Was this the first time she’d heard the wrong words coming out of a radio? Cheryl couldn’t quite remember—not with a dissected Sweet Jane in the back of the car, a guy wearing an extra pair of hands, and that hand over her Glock.
    2 Mins 30 Seconds to Back Up—an ice age:
    All my Frenz know the Low Slider
    That Low Slider skins ’em always better
    The Low Slider skins a little slower
    Low Slider is a real goer.
    The powerful thump of the jumping car hydraulics and the low beat of “Low Rider” caught her by surprise, and Cheryl stepped back. The other half of Sweet Jane lolled around in the backseat like an armless broken doll. The music kept rocking on, the grinning face of Felix staring at her from the kid’s forehead.
    Low Slider knows every street, yeah
    Felix is the one to meet, yeah
    That Cat don’t use no mask now
    Low Slider make Jane his bitch now
    Then the Chicano boy did the second stupidest thing of his life. A gun appeared in his real hand and pointed out the window.
    â€œI got something for you, chica.”
    Cheryl didn’t think; she drew and fired. The kid’s face exploded. Bye-bye grinning kitty. But the car kept pumping away, and the girl in the back rolled from side to side. As the hydraulics sapped the battery, the car jumped lower and lower, the song fading on the radio:
    Take a little tip, Take a little tip
    Take a little tip from me
    Smack her on the lip,
    Smack her on the lip for me
    Cheryl’s three minutes were up, and two San Bernardino black-and-whites screeched to a halt behind her. She sensed the officers at her back, guns drawn but pointing at the Chevy. The Chino car dead on the pavement.
    One of the backup cops examined the orange Chevy. Glanced at Sweet Jane in the rear and had to turn away for a moment. Then mastered himself, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and reached into the front seat. He showed Cheryl the young man’s weapon. A fake gun from a magic store, the little red flag poking from the muzzle; the flag read: Bang .
    And that’s when Cheryl thought she would gag. But the spasm passed, just a spell of