West With Giraffes(48)

If that sight wasn’t horrifying enough, halfway between me and them was the Old Man, wobbly as a drunk, shotgun aimed their way. If he took a shot like that, with a gun like that, he’d be more likely to hit Girl than the demons after her. I had to stop him.

Hearing Boy stomping behind me, though, I spun back around. He was pawing at the downed panel. He had to get to Girl. Once again, I threw my full weight under the panel, rushing to get it up in front of him, Red pushing, too, then snatched the rifle from the truck cab and sprinted toward the Old Man.

I was halfway to him when I heard the shotgun’s blast.

Stunned, I stumbled, dropping the rifle in the cornstalks, and braced for what I’d see.

But the Old Man had missed and fallen to his knees.

Across the cornfield, the men, knowing the Old Man couldn’t stop them now, were back at it. One was wrestling with the rope around Wild Girl’s neck, Girl throwing him around like a puppet until she reared up and the second man’s rope found its mark—her front leg. Pulling the rope taut, he now had Girl splay-legged and they were closing in.

For a moment I stared at the sight, deaf to all but my own thundering heartbeat. Then scooping up the rifle, I stood, aimed, and fired.

As the leg-rope lackey dropped into the flattened stalks and the other took cover, I was hearing nothing but my nightmare’s rifle report . . . because this was not the first time I’d shot a man.

The lackeys disappeared into the cornfield, and within seconds, I spied streaks of yellow and red careening through the stalks.

To the sound of their truck barreling away, I stared at the gut-wrenching sight before me. Girl was wandering slow among the cornstalks, a rope dangling from her neck.

Struggling up on his boots, the Old Man lurched her way. Heart in my throat, I remembered word for word what he’d said in DC.

There’s no taking the giraffes out of the rig, because once they’re out, there’s no guarantee we’d ever get ’em back in, and that’d be the death of them one way or the other.

The Old Man fell again. I ran to him. Blood was running down his face. He tried to get to his feet and couldn’t. Grabbing him by an arm, I was struggling to get him up, when there was Red, camera swinging from her neck, grabbing his other.

“Get the rig,” he gasped as we got him to his feet.

I ran to the truck. Wires were dangling behind the starter. I shoved them back up and got the engine going, then rolled the rig and Boy into the cornfield, splaying stalks as we went.

We jolted to a halt behind the Old Man, who was now down on his haunches, cooing his giraffe-speak to Girl twenty yards away. Girl’s matchstick legs were swaying, the rope moving with them, like she was readying for more lions.

“Let her see Boy,” the Old Man called over his shoulder.

I swung the wild boy’s trap window open. Boy’s head popped out, and as soon as he saw her, he started bumping against the rig’s side to get to her.

“Easy . . . easy, Girl,” the Old Man kept cooing, all the while whispering back my way. “Lower the side—we’ve got to get her back in.”

“But couldn’t Boy be out, too?”

“Not unless he falls out. He’ll want to, but he won’t step down on his own. Unless Girl starts loping away. Then I don’t know what the hell he’ll do. But it won’t be good.”

Boy, head still out, was bumping the rig so hard the frame was shuddering.

Seeing him, though, Girl slowed her swaying and took a halting step toward us. The Old Man cussed under his breath and I saw why—the splint on her wounded leg was half unwound. And it was bloody. Balancing on three legs, she was now doing her best not to use the wounded one.

The Old Man moved toward her, and the Girl kicked—a heart-crushing weak one—and it loosened the bandage even more. Another kick could have her falling to the ground and, once down, maybe never getting back up.

“Onion—” the Old Man hissed back. I grabbed an onion, pushed it into the Old Man’s waiting fist, and stood back.

Girl’s snout caught the scent. So the Old Man tried moving toward her again, holding out the onion. She still wasn’t having it, readying a weak—and maybe last—kick.

The Old Man stepped back quick, lowering the onion.

A second went by. I moved nearer to get a better view. The Girl’s neck moved with me, and the Old Man saw.

“Step closer,” the Old Man whispered my way.

I stepped closer.

She moved her neck back, forth, eyeing me up, down.

“Closer!” the Old Man hissed.

I forced myself to do it again. I was close enough to be kicked. Again, the Old Man was holding out the onion, this time toward me. I should have taken it, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Instead I was fighting the urge to disappear into the cornstalks, too, so I wouldn’t be the Old Man’s last-ditch chance at saving the terrified giraffe above us.

“Take it!” the Old Man ordered. When I still couldn’t make myself move, he scrambled to me, stuffed it in my pocket, and shoved me forward.

Nostrils quivering, Girl stepped wobbly toward me, close enough that the useless rope was dangling near enough to touch. Then, exactly as she’d done the first night in quarantine, she lowered her neck to sniff out my onion. I pulled the onion from my pocket and held it up. Her tongue snatched, her neck rose, and the onion slid down.