Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Read Online Free Page B

knew that, again, someone had ransacked his stuff.
    At least, Columbo would have guessed that.
    Roddy placed his twelve-pack on the snack counter. I hurried downstairs, to hide the other one behind the last row of seats in theater one, our designated drinking area. Roddy would use his twelve-pack to entice his court of paint huffers and skate rats down into the theater, so we’d learned to stash our own. Roddy made friends with thirsty burnouts.
    When I arrived back at the snack bar, Trace and Bryan were shotgunning beers. Roddy was slowly sipping his, still holding the bottle of MD 20/20.
    “Where’s Gary Jay?” I asked.
    “Yeah, where is that strong-armed little fucker?” asked Roddy. “You’d think he’d—”
    And then Melinda came around the corner, from the stairs leading up to the street.
    Melinda restocked the salad bar at the Giant Foods and was currently having a sloppy romance with Bryan. She was still in high school but heading toward senior year. She was gap-toothed and apple-cheeked, but it all hung together as “cute.” Bryan, vaguely dropping hints that he’d someday join the army and maybe become a Green Beret, hid his blazing, doomed passion for Melinda with a gruff nonchalance.
    “Hey, guys,” said Melinda.
    “Yeah, what’s up? Huh,” said Bryan, sipping his beer to hide the smile that cracked his face.
    Roddy looked pissed. You could tell he’d had something sinister and threatening in the breech, and Melinda had queered his pitch with her dopey cheerfulness. Melinda slid her shoulder under Bryan’s free arm and tickled his stomach.
    This was dark territory for Roddy. Two obviously innocent fellow employees—my stammering and buddy-buddy eagerness on the beer run had crossed me off the suspect list, and Trace’s big, open face was a window into his crammed-with-facts, college-bound brain. My love of R.E.M. and science fiction were two more strikes against me. Roddy couldn’t conceive I possessed the boldness of thievery with such mama’s-boy tastes.
    And, worst of all, there was Bryan, sharing the warmth of a female.
    “Yyyyyyeah. Well, I’m going up, get my buds.” Roddy grimaced as he killed his beer, placed the MD 20/20 on the counter, and mounted the stairs, off to collect his low-protein minions.
    “Naw, I’m not giving them back,” said Gary Jay. “He can’t even prove I’ve got ’em.”
    Trace said, “Who else would steal ’em? Someone came in to see a movie, and then they went into his room . . . ?”
    “Maybe.” Gary Jay, Trace, and I were in the projection booth. The muffled sound of Deep Purple’s “Wasted Sunsets” thrummed through the walls. Dan’s carpeted snoring was louder.
    “Man, the dude’s such a psycho. He’s up there with his dickhead friends; you can go put ’em back now,” I said. Maybe I whined.
    “He
acts
like a psycho.”
    I said, “What difference does that make?”
    My guts were gnarled with this unpleasant feeling of fear, and then anger at myself for being afraid, and then guilt. If Gary Jay went down, it would be only because he got caught. I had a sneaking suspicion that Bryan, Trace, and I—compared to Gary Jay—were pussies. If he’d put the throwing stars back, I could erase some of that. An hour ago I was boring a hole through my limited suburban existence, catching a glimpse of the larger world. Now I was begging my friend to preserve the lame-ass status quo. The next few years of my life—all through college, actually—would be a cursive progression: a huge loop forward and then a frantic, straight line back.
    “Well, I tried,” said Trace, like he’d carved it on a fresh tombstone. He walked away, defiantly, out of the projection booth and down the stairs into theater one for a fresh beer.
    I took two seconds too long in thinking of something equally final and self-absolving to say. Roddy kicked the door open.
    Behind him I could see four of his runty associates. It was as if Roddy were Dr. Moreau but, instead