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Something made him to look back. Perhaps, it was the mad hope that now his troubles would vanish, and he would see a normal street with normal signs... or, at least, something that would help him to explain what was going on...

Instead he saw the door into which he had almost entered was opening. It was opening as slowly and silently as he closed it. For some reason this frightened him even more than if it had sharply swung open and on a threshold a huge fat Asian with a curved knife in hand had appeared.

Tony rushed away without waiting until the door opened completely. Fortunately, a crossroads was nearby, not more than twenty yards. Logan dove around a corner to the right and immediately slowed to a furtive walk, sensitively listening to the night.

All was silent. It seemed he was not pursued... however, that door had opened silently and if he had not looked back... Though–was it certain that behind the door there was a real danger?

But Tony was no longer in the mood to argue abstractedly about the logical validity of his fears. He hastily looked around. Right opposite him there was a sign for the next business. "Nails." Manicure & pedicure salon. There was no light there. Of course–such salons are not open at night. But nevertheless Tony distinguished well enough the dark letters forming the word "Nails"–this time the word was perfectly right, without any surprises. He also saw the classic picture which was always present at the window of such shops–a woman in an armchair, with polished finger- and toenails.

Only the expression on the woman's face disturbed him.

Tony stepped nearer to the dark glass. Yes, no doubt–the drawn face was deformed by a grimace of an intolerable pain. And only then he moved his gaze again to her nails. Actually, there were no finger- and toenails–they had been pulled out and steel nails had been hammered into the blood-stained meat which he at first accepted as red varnish.

Everything had been drawn with great skill and attention to detail–much more carefully than an ordinary advertising pic
ture. The artist, seemingly, enjoyed the process.

And, probably, drew from nature.

And, Tony heard sounds causing frost to settle again in his entrails.

Though, actually, in these sounds there was nothing awful. Nothing connected with pain, death or even mystery. These sounds are perfectly familiar to millions of Americans and, to tell the truth, pester many of them.

The simple melody played by ice cream trucks.

Surprisingly, devised to attract children and not at all to frighten them, this melody always seemed ominous to Tony. He did not know why, but he heard something insinuatingly eerie, mystical, otherworldly in it. Certainly, being a sane person, he never had been actually afraid of ice cream trucks (though, even in his childhood he had not been a real fan of their goods, and al
most never bought from them). He only thought sometimes, hearing this tune, that in a horror film it would come in handy. Clowns, also apparently intended only to amuse, for a long time held a firm place in such films. Why are ice cream men worse?

And it seemed now he would learn why.

Certainly, these trucks aren't out late at night, especially with the sound on. But this one was.

Judging by sound, it moved–slowly as they usually do in search of clients–on that street from which Tony had just escaped. Logan flattened himself against the glass of the ominous nail salon, hoping that the truck would pass by without turning into this street.

But it turned.

Tony saw it. To the sight, it was the usual angular white truck with a serving counter on the right side surrounded by posters with pictures of different kinds of ice cream. Even the headlights burned, as they should. And the sign on the roof said "ICE CREAM"–not "I SCREAM" or anything like that. But Lo
gan still mentally begged it to go farther along the street without stopping.

The truck passed him by a couple of yards and stopped. The music played several more bars and ended. Only the taillights silently flickered.

"Well, and what to do now?" Tony thought. "To go back to that street with the hospitably opened door of Scar Service? To go forward in order for that truck to follow me again? But to be at a stop, apparently, is the silliest..."

"Mister," a quiet hoarse voice, almost a whisper, came from the truck, "you want ice cream."

It was a statement, not a question.

"No," Tony squeezed out. "Thanks, but I already feel cold."

"Cold," repeated the voice as a sad echo. "Always cold. Nobody wants ice cream. A bad business."

He became silent, and Logan wanted already to sympath
ize politely about his problems, but the ice cream man started talking again:

"Then a hot dog?"

"Hot dog?" Tony was surprised. Usually they are not sold from ice cream trucks, though, of course, there were trucks that sold all kinds of food... "Is it indeed hot?" Logan felt that now he wanted to eat something warm and with meat. Perhaps at least this would help him to get warmed up at last. Though one hot dog is probably not enough for this purpose...

"It's my hot dog," the driver answered in the same sad and low voice. "I took it for myself. But I can sell it to you. And I'll eat ice cream."

"Mmm..." Logan was not inspired by this suggestion, "I think, you'd better keep your meal for yourself."

"Don't worry, mister, I haven't touched it yet," simply answered the driver. "It's a good hot dog. Even still in a bag. Only one dollar."

"Perhaps, I'd better take it or he won't get off my back," Tony decided. "Eventually, I always can throw it away, and one dollar isn't a lot of money."

"All right, give it," he approached the window. There was not any light in the truck, but Tony could hear the driver move from the front of the truck to the serving window. Then he began to rummage in the depths of the truck body; Tony heard a muffled gnash, like a sound of a blunt knife on something firm. Though, probably, it was just a squeak of an opening box.

"Tell me please," Tony decided to use the situation, "What is this place? Looks like I've lost my way. Is it Manhattan?"

"It's Downtown," hoarsely reached from darkness. Logan had a quick thought that the ice cream man is, seemingly, chilled–possibly, from recently eating too much of his own goods.

"Downtown of Manhattan? " specified Logan. Brooklyn has its own downtown, which, however, is not a bit like what Tony has already seen this night...

"Downtown of New York," the ice cream man obstinately answered; a low buzz similar to the sound of a working mi
crowave reached Logan's ears. Tony decided not to engage in geographical disputes and asked a more practical question.

"How I can get from here to Brooklyn?"

"You can't get anywhere from here except in the morning."

"And what time is it now?"

"Midnight."

Have they all agreed together on the time or what? Tony angrily thought, but aloud he only politely said:

"I'm afraid your clock is slow."

"I don't have a clock," the ice cream man objected and rustled with something. "Your hot dog, mister."

Though Tony was not a prudish adherent of formalities, this vulgar "mister" without a surname began to irritate him. They haven't spoken this way in God knows how many years, he thought. Wasn't he taught to say "sir" when addressing a customer?

From the dark window (why doesn't he turn on the light?) a plastic bag emerged. Tony, reaching in his pocket for his wallet, remembered his newly gained wisdom of thinking about the liter
al meaning of words. What if he indeed was going to be fed a piece of dog? Although Koreans and Chinese eat dogs, they also eat insects...

With some caution he took the parcel. No, inside was ap
parently quite an ordinary hot dog, warm to the touch and generously covered with ketchup splotching the package from within. Tony, holding his purchase in the left hand, began to roll back the bag neck with the right one–carefully in order not to touch his meal with dirty fingers. Feeling how hungry he indeed was, he brought the hot dog to his open mouth and...

A moldy smell stopped him. And just in time to under
stand that the dark red was not ketchup at all. Now Logan saw that the "sausage" sticking out between two halves of a roll was crowned with a dirty chewed nail.

Tony reflexively flung away the "hot dog," struggling with an emetic spasm which had rolled up his throat. The chubby cut-off finger fell to asphalt separately from the moldy bread. Logan backed away from the truck, but a hand shot the window with sur
prising quickness and seized his wrist.

"Hey, mister!" The voice was still hoarse and low, but all melancholic grief had disappeared from it at once–now it was a spiteful hissing. "Who's gonna pay?!"

But neither the intonation of this voice, nor that he had almost become a cannibal, made Tony stare in mute horror at the hand holding his wrist. The wooden-rigid fingers of the ice cream man were not simply cold–they were literally ice cold. And his hand–it was clearly visible even in the dark–was absolutely white. Not just pale, but white.

Because it was all covered with hoarfrost.

Tony, acting reflexively, not rationally, pulled his hand at first upwards, and then sharply and with all his force–downwards, striking his opponent's wrist against the window edge. Subconsciously he expected that it would weaken the ice cream man's grasp, but the effect surpassed expectations. The crunch of breaking bone sounded–and, obviously, not only bone–and then the frosty hand simply severed, still hanging on Logan's wrist like an ice handcuff. There was not any blood, and could not be–only dark frozen shards scattered every which way.

Tony raced down the street in sheer terror. Raced like a cat with a burning rag tied to its tail by gooder children–only the role of a rag was played by the hand of the frozen corpse dangling on his wrist. There could be no doubt that this hand had been dead before separating from a body, and no rational hypotheses helped any more. Tony shook his arm while running, trying to get rid of the dreadful "bracelet," but the dead fingers held firm. As if they had been frozen in this position, as if he had not seen and felt how they moved, and rather quickly...

Was the truck pursuing him? Tony ran without looking back, but, anyway, behind him there was neither light of headlights, nor a familiar melody. Possibly, that... that
thing
could not drive the truck with one hand. Nevertheless, Logan turned at the first opportunity, and having reached the following corner, turned again, already almost convincing himself that he once more had safely escaped the chase.

But, hardly had he left behind the third crossroads, when his shadow forward in the light of headlights approaching from behind him.

"The ice cream truck," Tony helplessly thought. "Or the postman with a hatchet. Or the bus. Something or someone has caught up with me..."

He was absolutely exhausted and had no more energy to run. And how could he escape from a vehicle? The last few times it had been possible to escape because he had found somewhere to dive. But now ahead was only a straight street with closed rows of houses on both sides...

Tony stopped and turned towards what was overtaking him from behind.

"My God," he exhaled in the next moment, "At last!"

A police car was slowly approaching him.

Logan had no idea what the officers could do about a dead cannibal driving on the streets and how to explain events to the them without being considered a complete loony, but it was not the most important thing. The main thing–for him personally–was that the nightmare would end now. Let those who are obliged by their duty deal with all the problems. He was ready to rush to
wards the police with open arms, but understood that it was not a good idea. How would a cop react, seeing in the middle of a night street a suspicious person in dirty clothes with a torn off hand on his wrist? It was better to remain on place and to behave as calmly as possible. Otherwise he could get a bullet from his saviors.

Meanwhile, however, the patrolmen did not seem con
cerned. The car came nearer without a siren or flashers and without any commands through a loudspeaker. Though, probably, they still simply have not made out the details. Tony stood motionless, stretching his face in the most friendly smile–which, in fact, did not require any special efforts from him.

"And maybe I am indeed a loony," Tony thought, continu
ing to smile happily. "And they'll take me away, give me a nice little injection, and the next morning, I'll wake up in a warm cozy mental hospital in the normal world."

The car slowly approached closer. Tony saw that there was only one cop inside, and he was white. Logan never considered himself a racist, but at this moment he was pleased that in a dodgy situation he would be talking with a person of his own race. Then the car drew up next to him. Tony saw on its doors the familiar abbreviations NYPD and CPR. And... the car passed Tony at the same leisurely speed.

Tony could not trust his eyes. Didn't the cop see
what
was dangling from his wrist?! This, after all, was not Halloween night! Or simply had the cop not made it out in the darkness?

"Hey!" Logan shouted, swinging his hands and running after the car. "Officer! Wait!"