Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [9]
Peterson chuckled. “Got it.”
“Seriously, know that wrinkle cream they’re doing all those fucking commercials for? With that really fucking hot broad?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them. And nobody uses ‘broad’ anymore.”
“What’re you, the fucking language police? I can’t say ‘fuck,’ I can’t say ‘broad,’ mind telling me what the fuck I can fucking say?”
Peterson cracked his gum especially loudly. “Say whatever you want.”
They walked up to the front of the house; Mike rang the doorbell. “Thanks a fucking lot, wiseass. Anyhow, this guy’s the one who designed that wrinkle cream, pretty much.” He smiled. “Oh, yeah, you know that computer in the Hive?”
“What, that creepy little kid?”
Mike nodded. “That’s this guy’s daughter.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Fucking nuts, if you ask me. I mean, you really wanna talk to a fucking little kid every time you use your fucking computer?”
“We picking up the daughter, too?”
Rolling his eyes, Mike asked, “Did you even fucking listen to the briefing? No, Bob and Howie’re handling that.” Mike didn’t envy his brother Bob catching that assignment. Taking a little kid out of homeroom always sucked. The teachers all got fucking indignant and the kids were all stupid, and it was just a fucking mess.
Besides, it served Bob right. His partner didn’t crack gum in the car. Howie Stein was a good guy. Better than Mike’s little brother fucking deserved, as far as Mike was concerned.
Finally, the front door opened. Mike at first thought it had opened automatically, because no one was there.
Then he looked down and saw that Dr. Charles Ashford was fucking handicapped. He was in a wheelchair.
Millions of fucking dollars of equipment in the car, a fucking briefing beforehand with Major Cain, and they couldn’t fucking once mention that the guy was in a fucking wheelchair?
Putting on his game face, Mike looked down at Ashford and said, “Excuse us, sir. There’s been an incident.”
Ashford’s eyes went all wide. “What?”
“You have to come with us,” Peterson added.
“How did it happen?” Ashford sounded pissed.
“Sir, please.” Mike said that mainly because he didn’t have the first fucking clue what had happened, much less how. He was just going where Major Cain told him to go.
He looked at Peterson and nodded in the scientist’s direction. Peterson, miracle of miracles, got the fucking hint, and went around to start maneuvering Ashford out the door.
One advantage to the guy being a fucking cripple was that they wouldn’t have to argue with him too long, they could just bring the fucking wheelchair out.
As Peterson grabbed the wheelchair handles, he repeated, “You have to come with us.”
“But my daughter already left for school.”
Mike tried to sound soothing when he said, “It’s been taken care of, sir.”
Peterson wheeled Ashford toward the SUV. Mike wondered how fucking crippled this guy was, and whether or not they’d be able to get his scrawny ass into the SUV.
Maybe Bob had gotten the easier assignment after all.
As Peterson wheeled Ashford down the driveway, he cracked his gum.
Ashford winced. “Must you do that? It’s extremely annoying.”
All of a sudden, Mike decided he really liked this Ashford guy.
Five
Angela Ashford hated homeroom almost as much as she hated being called Angie.
Unfortunately, she had to put up with both of those things every day. Everyone called her Angie like she was some kind of dumb little girl, and she wasn’t. She was a big girl, and smart, too.
And she hated homeroom.
Homeroom was mostly annoying because it had Bobby Bernstein in it. Angela hated Bobby Bernstein. All he ever did was pull on her hair and call her names with his stupid friends and call her father a cripple.
Angela hated that.
Especially the part about Daddy being a cripple.
It wasn’t Daddy’s fault that he was a cripple. Or that Angela used to be one.
He had tried to help her.
She still remembered the conversation Daddy had with those men from the company he worked for. Angela wasn’t supposed to be listening,