No, he couldn’t go to the police. If something were going to happen, it had to be through Randy’s own intervention.
Randy looked back up the street, at the dark house. Were his friends in there? And if they were, what kind of shape must they be in by now?
Were they even alive?
Randy’s heart sank with the knowledge that probably Little T and War Zone were dead; their bodies just hadn’t turned up yet. Randy swallowed and began walking back toward the house. Defeatist thinking would get him nowhere. The house seemed to grow larger, more menacing, as he walked closer. He thought he saw a flash of movement, white, almost ghostly, in one of the windows, and then decided his eyes must be playing tricks on him, fear-induced hallucinations. His breathing suddenly came a little quicker, his stoma
