More people opened their doors and stepped outside to see what was what.
An idea popped into his head. If he were to snatch up one of those people and bite his head off, people would flee much better.
While he was thinking about this, he picked up a Mustang convertible—it happened to be black—and used it to smash another car—a brown Mercedes, not that it matters.
The noise was astonishing, and the Destroyer liked it, so he roared again, and the roaring and the car smashing brought the last few semideaf people from their homes.
Some ducked right back inside and slammed their doors.
Some began to make phone calls with shaky fingers.
Others used their phones to make videos, because that’s just the way the world was nowadays.
Only one man ran, shoeless and in his boxers, to hop into the car in his driveway and go tearing down the street in terror.
This would not do. Risky would be very annoyed with him if he caused insufficient terror.
He was going to have to . . . to . . . kill.
But again, he distracted himself by breathing fire, all down the side of a moving van—Mayflower Transit—which turned to flames most gratifyingly.
Leaving flame and fire behind, the Destroyer approached a house that looked vaguely familiar. He blinked his dull eyes at the mailbox. The name on it read “MacAvoy.”
Something about that seemed familiar.
He used one massive fist to crush that mailbox, but the way it was squashed left the name still readable.
The mail had spilled out. Brightly colored junk mail on slick paper. That kind of paper was tasty, but Mom had said not to eat it because then she wouldn’t know all the best deals at Safeway.
She liked to wait for sales on Nutella.
The Destroyer frowned, which was not easy with a metallic face and dead, lifeless eyes. What was Nutella? What was Safeway?
What was Mom?
It was like something was in his head trying to squirm around in there and make him think about . . . about stuff. Strange stuff.
But he had no time for strange stuff. He was the Destroyer! He had a reason for existence: destruction. He had a mission: create so much destruction that everyone fled the city and Risky could lay a perfect trap for Mack.
Mack. That was another of those squirmy things in his head. What did it mean? Why was it in there?
He frowned harder still and scrunched his eyes and even pounded the side of his massive bullet head. What did that word mean?
Mack?
In frustration, the Destroyer punched a hole in the roof of the nearest car.
“Hey! Stop that!”
The Destroyer was almost relieved to have someone to vent his anger on. And there she was. A girl. The one he’d thought of when Risky was trying to teach him about smashing idols and knocking over butter churns.
He did not know her name, but yes, she seemed familiar. He pounded the side of his head again, trying to get the faint memories either to come together and form a picture, or to go away and stop confusing him.
“Hey. Hey, it’s me, Camaro,” she said. She was bold, that was for sure. He stood about ten feet tall, and she was barely half that.
He tried to say that word. Camaro. But it came out all muddy and garbled. “Unhargo?”
“Yes, Camaro Angianelli. Duh. What do you think you’re doing?”