Duck’s aunt was from Chicago. She had taught him about genuine Chicago hot dogs with, what was it? Seven toppings? He wondered if he could remember them all.
Mustard. Relish. Onions. Tomatoes.
His mouth was watering at the thought. But then his mouth would have watered at the idea of a real hot dog topped with Brussels sprouts.
He made up his mind. It wasn’t about freaks versus normals. It was about whether he could just leave Hunter out there cowering all through the night.
No. He’d bring him the relish and then, if Hunter needed a place to hide, he’d let him stay in the basement here at the house.
Duck slipped the relish into the pocket of his jacket and headed with great reluctance back into the night.
It took only a few minutes to reach the church.
“Hunter. Yo, Hunter,” he called in a hoarse whisper.
Nothing.
Great. Perfect. He was being punked after all.
He turned and started to walk away. But around the corner came a group of seven, maybe eight kids. It took him only a second to spot the baseball bats.
Zil was in the lead.
“There’s one!” Zil shouted, and before Duck could even react the seven boys were rushing him.
“What’s up?” Duck asked.
The boys surrounded him. There was no denying their menacing attitude, but Duck was determined not to give them an excuse to start swinging.
“What’s up?” Zil mocked. “The Human Drill wants to know what’s up.” He gave Duck a shove. “One of your kind killed my best friend, that’s what’s up.”
“We’re sick of it,” another boy chimed in.
Various voices muttered agreement.
“Guys, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Duck said. “I’m just…”
He didn’t know what he was just. The hostile eyes around him narrowed.
“Just what, freak?” Zil demanded.
“Walking, man. Anything wrong with that?”
“We’re looking for Hunter,” Hank said.
“We’re going to kick his butt.”
“Yeah. Maybe rearrange his nose,” Antoine said. “Like maybe it would look better sticking out the side of his face.”
They laughed.
“Hunter?” Duck said, working to sound innocent.
“Yeah. Mr. Microwave. Killer chud.”
Duck shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, man.”
“What’s that in your pocket there?” Zil demanded. “He’s got something in his pocket.”