Free HIGHWATER: a suspense thriller you won't be able to put down by T. J. Brearton Page B

paint thinner. The shelves Tom had been building for Brian still sat in the corner, unfinished. The can of polyurethane he had planned to varnish them with sat on the workbench at the back of the stall, the jar of pungent paint thinner next to it.
    Christopher got in the passenger side of the car and Tom rounded the front of the Chevy to get in the driver’s side. He made a conscious effort not to look outside, not to peer through the six side-by-side garage door windows and become fixated again on the burning kid.
    The keys were in the console. Tom never bothered to hide them. Not out here.
    His empty coffee cup was still in one of the cup holders. He tossed it into the back and replaced it with Steph’s crystal glass filled with well water. Christopher set his next to Tom’s in the other holder.
    Tom started the engine. Moving a little faster now, he reached up and clicked the button on the garage door opener, clipped to the visor. The door started with a jerk, noisy, and began to trundle up along its pulley. They drove out of the garage, into the wet, snowy night.
    Once clear of the garage, Tom braked. They were in the open part of the driveway. The short way out to the main road was ahead and to the right. Parka was only a couple of yards away. The kid at the back was still burning, still snapping and popping silently, those comet-like things issuing from him, somehow, the flames orange and blue, limned white. Tom looked at Christopher, and the question must have been printed on his face.
    “Go,” said Christopher. “We need to go now.”
    Tom continued to sit a moment longer. “I can’t,” he said. Discouraged by the smallness he heard in his voice, he cleared his throat and said. “I’ve got to go inside. Call Bill Wepple. Call an ambulance. I’ve got to.”
    “They’re wagerers,” said Christopher immediately and emphatically, having likely anticipated the argument from Tom. “They’re not the same as people. And this one is turning.”
    “Turning?”
    “Yes,” said Christopher. “Defective.”
    “They’re just kids,” Tom said again. The Blazer was cold, despite the heated garage. They had only been back for maybe three hours, maybe a little more. The engine rumbled.
    “No,” said Christopher, “they’re not.”
    Tom leaned forward and, despite his internal opposition, looked closely at the four figures in his driveway. They each watched the Chevy Blazer. Mannequins. Still as statues.
    “I can’t just go around them.”
    “No. Stop at the last one. The one turning.”
    The Chevy rolled forward. Tom started around the first kid, passing him on his left.
    The wide-body Chevy did not easily fit between this first figure and the next. Tom spun the wheel and angled in between them. It was barely enough. The vehicle rubbed against the kid, and as it drew ahead, the side view mirror on Tom’s side caught the kid in the crook of his elbow and rotated him slowly.
    Not statues after all , thought Tom.
    The kid didn’t fall over, but his body, his clothes, made a shushing noise as they rubbed alongside of the Chevy. The sound sent chills down Tom’s spine.
    Now past this second trespasser on his lawn, Tom had to spin the wheel hard left to get around the third. Then there was the kid who was on fire. Tom hit the brakes. Even though he hadn’t been going fast, not on the slick lawn in between the flanking trees, not with such a short drive to Cherry Road, the vehicle still slid for a moment. Tom felt the terror flash through him, the terror of impact, of running this kid over. Running him down like a deer.
    “Tom,” said Christopher.
    Tom looked over. Was he dreaming? Maybe this was only a dream, after all.
    “Get out,” said the green-eyed stranger in the denim coat.
    Then Christopher took his glass of water out of the cup holder. He opened the door, stopped and looked back in at Tom. His eyes went down to Tom’s glass still seated there in the console. Grab it.
    “We can do this