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Thunderbird was in a frenzy, beating the Batmobile's roof flat, smashing it down onto the car in the
crusher's saddle. It either hadn't noticed his exit via ejection seat or didn't care and was taking it out on
the car.
Batman tried to stand, wobbled, fell to one knee, put out a hand and touched . . . the remote.
He snatched it up. It looked okay. He had seen Pale Boy working it from atop the pyramid, making
the crusher respond to his commands.
He glanced at the Thunderbird. The bully was leaning way over the Batmobile now, trouncing it with
both tires.
Batman thumbed the ON button. The crusher whined. The saddle moved, sucked the Batmobile's
front end into the machinery along with the Plymouth on which it was riding, as well as the left tire of
the Thunderbird as it came down to strike another blow. There was a smashing sound, then the mewl of
the Thunderbird's motor, followed by what was distinctly a human scream. Behind this came a
mechanized screech, and the crusher jammed with a portion of the Batmobile hanging out of it.
The Thunderbird jerked back its left tire. Only it no longer had a tire. Black oil gushed from where
the tire had connected to the chassis, spewed all over creation.
The Thunderbird spun around on its rear tires, the blood bending forward to bring the windshield low
enough to spot its prey.
It saw Batman. Its hood opened and slammed shut rapidly and repeatedly, revealing an interior darker
than its paint. Its underbelly heaved. Finally the hood hung open and a tongue the size of a foyer rug
flicked out and licked what was left of its grillwork. Then the hood closed and the Thunderbird lowered
its body to the ground, straightened itself, gunned forward on three wheels, the nub of its left tire
punching up dust.
Batman was already moving. He darted for the pyramid. Went up it light and fast as a squirrel. The
Thunderbird turned to pursue him, working at half speed, limping. Batman reached the wilting top of
the pyramid, put a foot on the back of the chair, the seat of which, due to the shifting of the pyramid,
was facing toward the edge of the deep drop.
Batman looked down. He saw the back of the billboard and the highway. A car went by in a flash of
lights, a buzz of engine.
He looked back at the Thunderbird. It was climbing the pyramid, favoring its nub. Up it came,
putting its front right tire out, forming a pincher, clenching metal with it, pushing with its hind tires.
Slowly, steadily, oil dripping from its wound, it made its way up.
It paused, stretched its hood and windshield, trying to get a good look at its adversary.
Batman could see that the crack in the Thunderbird's windshield was wider yet. The membranes that
had held it were ripped loose. A dark, featureless head was poking out of it, wriggling like a mole
trying to work itself free from a too-tight hole. Shadows still slammed against the interior of the
windshield, and something that looked like two black basketballs were rolling around behind the glass.
Eyes behind sunshades?
He could also hear the Thunderbird wheezing through its carburetor. The crusher had taken some
wind out of it.
After a moment, it started up again. The pyramid rocked, shifted. Car pieces broke free and fell
away.
The Thunderbird, nearly to the top, groped for Batman with its impossible tire, the rubber of it
stretching to form a four-fingered hand. Batman stepped onto the back of the bent chair, just out of the
way.
The Thunderbird pushed with its back tires to give it the added reach and---
As Batman expected, and counted on, the weight of the Thunderbird was too much. The pyramid
leaned way back . . .
And fell apart.
Batman coiled his legs and leapt over the Thunderbird. He went wide of the falling pyramid, hit on
his shoulder hard enough to feel it in the heels of his boots, then tumbled and came up on his feet.
He turned to see the Thunderbird tumbling over the edge of the drop. It scrambled with its hind tires,
its one good front tire, but there was nothing to hold on to. The pyramid was no longer. It was a mass
of separating junk and the junk went over the lip of the drop and splattered in all directions, and the
Thunderbird went too, sailed a goodly distance through the air, hit the side of the great hill with the
impact of a missile, bounced toward the billboard, struck the back of it and went through with a rip and
a snap, and wearing Barrett's posterboard face over its hood, windshield, and roof, it hit the center stripe
on the highway with an explosion of metal and oil. A lick of flame fluttered from its tail end, went out.
The Thunderbird rolled and shed parts and ended up lying on its roof with the posterboard wrapped
around its upper half, Barrett's spectacle-adorned face peering up at the night.
The Thunderbird lay there and trembled. Parts thrown out of it continued to roll and clank down the
highway, then they quit clanking, made moist meaty noises, and eventually stopped traveling. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]