I skidded to a stop. I was less than ten feet from the door. When the driver got out, I’d be dead meat. A boot appeared. I dropped to my belly and tried to worm under the truck, alongside the double set of rear wheels. My backpack caught on something. Another boot joined the first under the cab door. I scrabbled against the concrete floor, forcing myself forward. Something ripped as I popped under the truck’s dark, oily underbelly.
I heard Ace yelling from the direction of the cab. “If the rest of that meat isn’t loaded in five minutes flat, I’m adding one of you to the load.”
“But there’s someone in here, Ace!” one of the gang yelled back.
“Forget that! It’s just Brick messin’ with you. Fix his hash after I’m on the road.”
The boots disappeared, and I heard the cab door slam. A moment later thumping sounds started coming through the floor of the truck—the Peckerwoods had started loading meat again.
I had five minutes to get out of here before the truck pulled out. It seemed hopeless. If I crawled out the back or side of the truck, the guys loading meat would spot me. If I crawled out the front, Ace, in the driver’s seat, would see me.
I crawled forward. My backpack caught again. I backed up and rolled, trying to see if I could escape on the far side of the truck, but I wound up on my back with my pack holding me off the ground like a turtle upside down on its shell. I struggled, trying to turn over in the tight space under the truck without making any noise. I could smell my own sweat over the stink of grease and tire rubber—it smelled like fear.
Then the truck roared to life.
The noise of the engine was deafening. I craned my neck to look toward the back end of the truck. I was clear of the wheels. If it pulled out, I wouldn’t get crushed. Instead I’d be left lying in the middle of the shed, completely exposed to the not-so-tender mercies of the Peckerwoods. Being crushed would be preferable.
Out of desperation, I did the only thing I could think of. I groped around above me and found a greasy strut. I pulled on it experimentally—it would support my weight. Then I kicked out with my feet. My boots thumped against the spare tire stored horizontally underneath the truck. I forced my boots into the space between the undercarriage and the spare tire. My head was perilously close to the front wheel.
I heard a clang of metal on metal coming from the back of the truck, and then someone slapped the truck twice. It ground into gear and pulled out of the shed—with me clinging to the bottom like a doomed barnacle.