Текст книги "A Feast of Flesh"

Автор книги: Aaron Polson

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 5 страниц)

Sanctuary.

“Patterson, your station!” came a shout to his left.

The hot metal ball ripped through Tommy’s body and dragged him to the ground just as the rifle crack snapped to his ear. His chest bloomed midnight crimson, but he was able cushion the baby, twisting as he fell. The blood in his throat was warm and metallic, and the world began to bleed with black ink. Two pairs of boots, military style with blue, woolen trouser legs pulled over the tops, approached.

“Good shot, Patterson.”

“God, is that a baby?”

Take her… She’s healthy. Wet gurgles squeezed from Tommy’s mouth instead of words.

“Goddamn thing is probably sick, too. Tainted.” A pause. “Either leave it here for the meat wagon, or toss it back over the barricade. Let her own kind deal with her.”

Tommy felt the baby lifted from his arm...

In the Primal Library

When we were twelve, Bobby Milton and I rode our bikes to the library to look at naked pictures in the National Geographicmagazines they kept on the second floor. We would go after school, in the autumn of our seventh-grade year, before the weather turned too cold for boys on bikes. Bobby’s older brother, Nate, told us about the pictures of bare-chested native women. Being dumb and horny and without access to real nudie mags—Bobby’s dad was a youth pastor at the Baptist church and my dad was in Hawaii with his secretary—we scurried up the creaking stairs to the magazine room and spent an hour or so flipping through the glossy pages.

The Springdale Carnegie Library was an imposing structure of stone, a tomb filled with dusty, creaking innards. The woodwork, though intricate and beautiful, had weathered years of schoolchildren’s abuse. Railings groaned with the slightest provocation, floorboards rubbed against one another with wails and whimpers, and the whole place reeked of yellowed paper and mildew. The second floor, where the magazines waited in tall cardboard sleeves, was illuminated by a few naked bulbs and always rested in uneasy shadow.

We stayed long enough for the sun to skirt closer to the horizon, almost vanishing from the narrow windows—just long enough to find other pictures under the yellow magazine covers, grotesque cave paintings from Lascaux in France and artists’ renderings of Neanderthal man. Pictures that inspired an imaginative game of chicken, Bobby and I conjuring the poor Neanderthal into some hunched creature of the shadows, a man-beast that chomped and crunched on the bones of little boys who remained on the second floor past dark.

"He’s got awful teeth," I’d say, "yellow-saw teeth, for grinding and tearing."

Bobby countered: "A big, flat forehead and black eyes for seeing at night."

"Hands as big as your head."

"Muscles and veins popping through his skin."

"Face like rough leather."

"Looks like a bear, extra hair all over."

"He bites his prey on the neck and tears out the jugular."

Our original purpose lost, we pushed our hideous descriptions until one of us broke and bolted for the stairs. We clambered onto our bikes and rode to my house because it was closer. On the way, every crooked tree limb reached out as the gnarled hand of our prehistoric man-thing; we collapsed on the front lawn, heaving and panting until our hearts slowed and our panic crackled into laughter.

Winter came, and our trips to the library stopped. Bobby’s father was transferred, and I lost the courage to climb to the second floor. In time, I forgot the Neanderthal man’s smashed face.

It’s a shame how some things can be forgotten.

Six years later, when I took Stacy Pfiefer to the second floor under the guise of studying for a physics exam, the memories of our man-thing resided in the most primitive folds of my brain. Stacy said she wanted to study—alone—and my broiling hormones permitted one motive.

"We need a quietplace to study," she had said.

I heard, I want to be alone with you, Nick, and my heart quickened.

But once she spread her homework across the walnut table in the reading room, once she flicked on the little lamp and started reciting equations, once she pushed me away when I started nibbling her neck, I knew my interpretation of "quiet place to study" had landed wide of the mark. I was aroused, though, perhaps prompted by memories of the twelve year old who had climbed those creaking stairs with his buddy to sneak a peek at a naked breast in an old magazine.

After one more failed attempt at romance, Stacy pushed me away and said, "Look, mister. I’m here to work. I thought you understood." Her face distorted in the dim light.

"Sorry," I said, happy in the shadows because she couldn’t see the bulge in my jeans.

Embarrassed and horny, I excused myself, intending to relieve a little tension in the bathroom. There were three rooms on the second floor: The big periodical reading room, with its boxed copies of old magazines and racks of newspapers, the nonfiction collection on the other side of the building, and the small alcove between with the stairs on one side and a tiny storeroom and toilet on the other.

Stacy had just the one lamp on in the reading room, so as I stumbled toward the bathroom I smacked my foot against a heavy object, nearly dropping to the floor. My eyes adjusted gradually, and my arousal was lost to curiosity. I lifted a yellow-bordered copy of National Geographic; the box was full of them, for sale—a nickel apiece.

What’s more, I recognized the cover: Paintings from that cave in France, bizarre renderings of men and animals from prehistoric times. The memories started to flicker: Bobby and I, boys of twelve; the shadow-men we imagined. I flipped the magazine open, hungry to find the picture of our Neanderthal that inspired so much childish terror.

"Nick?" Stacy called from the next room. "You all right?"

"Yeah, fine. I’ll be back in a minute."

"Hurry, okay? It’s a little spooky in here. I heard a noise."

"It’s an old building," I said.

I turned every page, but couldn’t find the picture. I knewthat magazine. We’d looked at it so many times. Confused, perplexed, and just a little frightened, I moved to the doorway of the small storeroom, reached inside the opening, and felt for the light switch.

The light flickered, illuminating the room like a flash of lightning, and went out. A blown bulb. In that moment, I saw images on the walls—misshapen paintings, black-and-red stylizations of deformed, not-quite human, things. There were other beasts engaged in carnal acts with the man-things. Smears of blood. Elongated arms, legs, genitalia. The walls spread in twisted, pornographic cave paintings—not the hunting images from National Geographic. Twisted. When the light flickered off, I was momentarily blinded, but the images remained, lurking behind my eyes.

My heart lodged in my throat.

I opened my mouth, ready to call for Stacy, but a thumping sound stopped my voice, followed by a heavy crash, like a body hitting a hardwood floor. My limbs became stone; terror crept up my spine and locked onto my brain stem—the primitivebrain. I was twelve again. I stumbled away from the dark room, glanced to my right, to the reading room where I’d left Stacy. Black shapes shifted across the lamplight. I fled, crashing down the stairs and through the front door.

I left Stacy alone on the second floor. I climbed into my car and drove away like Bobby and I rode our bikes—spurred by fear, frightened by every misshapen shadow along the quiet, neighborhood streets. I breathed for the first time in my driveway, panting like a child.

I rested my head against the steering wheel and waited for my heart to stop its assault.

After a few moments, I laughed. I pounded the steering wheel and laughed at myself, pricking my courage and replacing my fear with embarrassment. The paintings had been figments of my imagination, memories of those afternoons years ago, when I was a horny, stupid kid. When the light popped, I was startled. No body hitting the floor, just the protests of an old building. I glanced at the clock on my car’s dash. Nine o’clock, the library’s closing time.

Stacy was going to be pissed.

I worked through excuses, writing my script for Stacy, trying to find a reason for my sudden flight. As I turned down the final street of my return trip, flashing red-and-blue lights screamed. Police lights—and an ambulance. I parked and wandered toward the lights, drawn like a Neolithic primitive to the fire. A small crowd had gathered, watching as she was wheeled out on a gurney, covered with a sheet. Our shadows were blown obscene by the flashing lights—strange shapes dancing across the parking lot and lawn.

The librarian fingered me, said I’d come in with Stacy. She said she heard me pounding the stairs, running away. It wasn’t until closing time, when the she checked the second floor, that she found Stacy’s body crammed inside the narrow bathroom. The police questioned me, took molds of my teeth to compare with the marks on Stacy’s neck and chest. Springdale broiled with the cannibal case for four months. In the end, I was absolved by the snatches of skin found beneath her fingernails, the flesh that Stacy gouged as she fought for her life.

Of course, I was as guilty as anyone, but I wasn’t alone. That thingin the library had been born all those years ago—in the depths of our imaginations—of two fathers. The teeth marks on her body may have mimicked my own, but the flesh belonged to Bobby Milton.

Familiar Faces

A short, stout man in a wrinkled grey suit stood next to the window of his hotel room. He poked one thick finger through the Venetian blinds, prying them open slightly so he could peer into the darkness outside. A single light flickered high on a lamppost above a silver sedan—a long, luxury model that showed its age with a little rust around the wheel wells. The only other light came from a little cluster of orange fire blinking in the distance. Behind him, sitting on the edge of a double bed with a rust-colored comforter, a thin woman, mid-thirties, wearing garish, slightly smeared lip gloss poked her hair into an awkward pile on her head.

“Are they out there, Manny?” She asked, her voice hushed.

The man turned, showing her his square face smudged by a few days’ worth of beard. The blinds snapped shut as he pulled his finger out. “I can’t see anything.” He stroked the few greasy strands on top of his head. “Hell, I should move the car. Y’know, park it closer to the doors.” He waved the black pistol in his other hand, gesturing toward the blinds.

“What? Go out there now?” She stood up and wrapped herself in her own arms. “Not with them out there, Manny. We don’t know. They might be waiting for you.”

“Yeah. Alright. Sit down, will ya?” Manny shuffled to the nearest nightstand and laid the handgun on top. “You’re right.” He dropped onto the bed, and the old springs gave a weak whine under his weight. “So Liz, what now?”

“You need some sleep, Manny. Look at your eyes. We can’t keep this up.”

He glanced into the mirror on the opposite wall, noted the cheap knock-off abstract painting above the bed, and squinted to see the purple circles around his eyes. Liz paced in front of the mirror, slapping her pale upper arms. “It’s so cold in here,” she said.

“Furnace is probably out. Hell, we were lucky to be able to kick start the generator.” Manny flopped back on the pillow. “Turn the lights on, babe.”

“Manny, you got the light over there.” She waved one pale hand at the lamp next to his side of the bed.

“No, I want the big lights. All of them. I ain’t sleepin’ in the dark if I don’t have to.” His hands slipped behind his head, and he kicked off his worn leather loafers. “We’ll leave real early tomorrow. Try to stay ahead of them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up abruptly, like he was listening to something. “Do you hear that?”

“What, Manny? I don’t hear…”

His fat finger pressed against his lips. “Shhhh. Listen.” A small sound, somewhat like a woman brushing her hair, seemed to radiate from the walls. His hand slid over the gun, and his fingers tightened around the grip.

“Manny,” Liz said, “it’s just the fan. You know, the ducts.” She walked over to the wall and brushed a hand in front of the vent. “I tried to turn up the heat when we came in, but it’s only the fan blowing.”

“Pilot light must be out.” His knuckles whitened around the pistol as he swung his legs off the bed, socked feet thumping onto the floor. “I can’t take much more of this shit.” He waddled into the bathroom. “Did we check in here?”

“No, Manny. Come on, will ya?”

One chubby finger flicked on the fluorescent bathroom lights while he poked the pistol toward the ceiling tiles. “I just gotta check, okay? I don’t want to wake up dead, ya know.” Using the barrel of the gun as a probe, Manny propped up each ceiling tile. An old syringe, stashed there by some former occupant, rolled from under a tile and clattered to the floor. “Freakin’ druggies.” He pinched the syringe between two fingers like a dirty diaper and tossed it in the waste bin before snapping off the light.

“Satisfied?” Liz asked as Manny emerged from the bathroom. He shrugged.

“Let’s hit the sack, okay. I want to get outta here early.”

“Where to, though?”

“I dunno. Keep moving.” Manny sat on the bed, picked up the phone receiver, and checked for a dialtone. “Still dead.”

They lay next to each other in a rather lumpy double bed. Manny remained fully dressed except for his shoes and suit coat, and he rested on top of the blanket. His eyes were shut but his body was tense, a tightly wound spring in a suit, ready to pop at the slightest sound. Next to him, with the thin hotel comforter tucked snugly around her neck, Liz slept in a curled fetal position. All lights remained on in the hotel room, burning like a midnight sun, illuminating the stained yellow walls and casting strange shadows in the shag carpet.

A few hours passed before Manny bolted upright, quick as a loaded mousetrap. The room was still bright, and he glanced at Liz as she snored next to him. An awful odor, a blend of raw sewage and mold, hung in the air. They always brought the smell with them—even his brother, when they found him locked in the basement of the club with the other bodies. He had become one of them, mindless, black-eyed, and scratching at the walls. Manny shook when he remembered the bullet shattering his brother’s skull and spraying the dark ooze of his undead brain against the concrete floor.

A click from the hallway.

Manny’s wide, white eyes, like two little radar dishes, scanned the room. Slowly and quietly so as not to upset Liz, Manny slipped his feet to the floor. He didn’t look at the gun as his hand slipped around the grip.

A slight thump sounded outside the door on the hallway carpet. Manny crept across the brightly lit space, flinching slightly as he saw his reflection in the mirror. “Damn,” he uttered, almost inaudibly. He pushed against the wall next to the door to their room.

A small tapping sound started in the hallway, something that sounded like little fingertips or tiny hands poking at the wall. Manny brushed his forehead, rubbing the back of his wrist against the sweat that started to drip there. Inside his chest, Manny’s heart tapped against his ribcage, mocking the fingertips in the hallway.

The sound amplified, echoing from the other side of the door now. Tap, tap, tap. Manny lifted the gun, holding it across his chest, pointing the barrel at the door. He wrapped his left hand around the doorknob and waited. He looked sideways toward the door and then shifted his gaze across the room to the window. Tap, tap, tap.

“Jesus Manny,” Liz sputtered as she jumped in the bed, “you scared the crap outta me.” Her face squashed into scowl. “What the hell is that awful smell?”

Manny’s thick eyebrows knit together as he frowned. The sound in the hallway stopped, almost as if waiting. He glared at Liz, shot her this disgusted look that read of weariness and terror. The sound of his own, pounding heart swelled in his ears. A thick drop of perspiration meandered down his nose, dangled for a moment, and dropped to the floor.

“Sorry,” Liz whispered, her voice so low it almost was lost in the comforter she held tightly at her throat. Manny responded with a quick wave of his gun before bringing the barrel against his lips, shushing her.

The sound started again, this time louder, almost like fists throbbing against the walls, dozens of fists pounding lightly, probing for something. Manny squeezed his eyes shut. Liz’s face washed white in contrast to the blurred smudge of eye shadow around her eyes. Manny took a deep, wispy breath and opened his eyes again. His index finger crept toward the pistol’s trigger.

But then the noises moved away from their room, further down the hallway, soon disappearing entirely. Manny sighed lightly and slumped to the floor like a discarded pile of raw clay. For a few, quiet moments, he rested his head against one arm as it was crooked across his bent knees.

“I think they’re gone, Manny,” Liz whispered, her face whiter than the dingy sheets.

He stumbled and grunted to his feet and cast a dour look at her as he moved to the window on the other side of the room. Gently prying the blinds open again, Manny peeked through the window. Outside, the high street lamp flickered, almost a strobe effect. He looked at the car, still sitting where they’d left it. Then, maybe just a trick of the flashing light, he noticed a little, hurried movement just on the border of darkness around the car. They’re out there, he thought, always in the dark. He pulled away from the window.

“Come to bed, Manny. Please.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sleepy. It’s going to be dawn soon.” His heavy body dropped in a chair next to the window. “Clocks, time, none of it means a damn thing anymore, but the sun is still gonna come up, and that means light. We can get the hell outta here.”

She watched him for a moment, tilted her head, and sank back to the mattress.

With the pistol resting in his lap, he watched her sleep for another few hours. Once weak strands of daylight filtered through the blinds, Manny groaned out of the chair and shuffled to his shoes at the side of the bed. The bed squeaked again when he sat on the corner, and Liz roused.

“Manny,” she whimpered, “is it time to go?”

“Yeah babe. We better hit the road.” He fully opened the blinds now and looked out the window at the parking lot. The silver-grey sedan was still there, but the darkness and shadows had vanished. He could see that the lot was devoid of other cars, just as it had been last night. The only other vehicle in view was a rusted hulk abandoned in the ditch next to the highway about two hundred yards away. “We were lucky to find this place, what with a working generator and all.” He looked at the glowing lamps next to the bed. Drawn by curiosity, he lifted the receiver from its cradle again and listened to silence on the line.

“Hey Manny, I’m going to clean up, okay? Take a shower. We’ve been moving for days, and I’m a wreck.” Liz had stripped to only her bra and panties, showing her pale body in the morning light.

“I dunno, we should go. Last night…”

“They left last night, right?”

“I guess. Seems so.”

“The lights are still on.” She beamed a lopsided, smudged grin. “When are we going to find running water again, huh? C’mon, Manny.” Liz bent over and snatched up her clothes in her arms. “I’m really a mess. It’ll make me feel a little human again.”

“It’ll be ice cold,” Manny said.

“Pleeease?”

“Alright. But hurry.” He slipped his arms into the suit jacket. “I want to hit the road.”

“You’re a peach,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before hustling into the bathroom.

The room fell quiet around Manny as he sat on the bed, but the sound of the shower soon swallowed the silence. He stood and paced the room, dropped the clip from his pistol as he walked and counted the remaining cartridges. “Three,” he mumbled. “Three ain’t going to do us much good.”

The lights blinked with a pop and went dark. The yellow room took on a weird morning pall, the only light streaming from the open window that faced west. “Liz,” he called, striding to the bathroom door.

“What the hell happened,” she said as the shower squeaked off.

Manny pushed the door open, throwing just a little light on Liz as she rubbed herself dry with a towel. “You okay?” he asked.

“Not with the door open. Damn it’s cold, Manny.” She pushed him out with one hand and clicked the door shut with the other. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He first caught the smell again—that awful rotten smell that always came with them. Then their sound came back: dull opened-mouth moans, scurrying and tapping from just down the hallway. Manny pulled the action back on the pistol, chambering a round with a metallic click. Next to him, the bathroom door lock clicked home, echoing his gun. He started to sweat under the suit.

“Liz, we gotta go babe.”

“Just a minute,” she called, “it’s damn near impossible to dress in the dark.”

Tap, tap, tap—louder, closer.

“Now, Liz, unlock the goddamn door.” Manny’s heart swelled and filled his chest cavity.

Tap, tap, tap—just outside the door of their room. Then silence.

Manny’s pistol hand shook with his throbbing heart, and he blinked when sweat dripped in his eye. “Liz?”

“Just a minute,” she called.

A swift, scrabbling noise crawled from floor to ceiling in the hall. A muffled thump sounded, then a crash in the bathroom.

“Oh,” Liz’s voice came through the door like simple surprise. “The vent…”

“Liz!” Manny grabbed at the doorknob and twisted hard, but the lock held.

“Manny, they’re—” Her voice ended in a little squeak and damp gurgle.

Something large hit the door and flopped to the floor. Manny could hear squeaking sounds on the tile. He steeled himself to ram a shoulder into the door and break the lock, but the wet, smacking noises on the other side told him it was too late. He choked on a little vomit in his mouth, spit on the floor, and rubbed a fist against his burning eyes.

Manny trotted to the window and looked at the car. Why’d we pick the goddamn second floor, he thought as he imagined the jump. He looked back across the room, tightening his white-knuckled fist around the pistol. Something moved in the hallway—just a little dark shadow passing underneath the door. He stumbled closer, like in a trance.

Blackened things, thin and gaunt fingers, probed from underneath the hallway door, curling and latching on like talons, scratching and tearing at the veneer. The fingers withdrew, and a moment later the door rattled on its hinges with a crash like they were trying to batter it down. The bathroom door remained shut, and all was quiet but for the small smacking sounds within.

Manny stood for a moment in the middle of the room: the dirty, disheveled bed on his right, the awful mirror mocking his movements on the left, and the hallway door ahead, shaking with each new collision. They’ll get through, he thought as the door let out a slight crack with the latest assault. He looked at the gun, felt its heaviness in his hand.

The door gave with the next thrust, and the lean, hollow face of one of the things poked into the room—a face that once belonged to a teenage girl. Manny leveled the pistol at its head and fired; the gunshot filled the room, and the thing jerked backwards. Blood and black filth sprayed against the wall. Another ghoul crawled over the body and forced into the room, this one wearing its skin in loose, grey strips with wrinkles and lines thickened with blood.

The bathroom door cracked open just as the second thing snarled. Liz’s face appeared in the open doorway. Her shoulder and throat was torn apart with serrated gashes—teeth marks, and the arm hung limp. She, it, looked at Manny with black eyes, and fell in behind the other zombie as they crept toward him. He fired again, dropping the first zombie. The Liz-zombie hissed, an awful sound squeezing from her familiar face.

One shot left, Manny thought.

He glanced back over his shoulder and noticed the crayon smudges of dark smoke rising from the fires in the city. “Where the hell were we going to go, anyway,” he muttered. He looked back at the Liz-zombie and dropped to the floor, propping his back against the foot of the bed. It staggered toward him, trailing the limp arm.

He thought of his brother and the rest of the family. All dead.

Liz. They were going to get married, someday.

His hand shook as he pushed the pistol into his mouth, and tears trickled out of his eyes as he forced them shut. With a quick squeeze of the trigger, a little pop sounded, spraying blood across the framed painting above the bed. Manny’s body sat upright for a moment before slumping to the floor. The Liz-zombie paused for a moment, a flicker of recognition almost burning in its empty eyes, and then it fell on the body, joined by other ghouls as they shambled through the open door.

Sea of Green, Sea of Gold

“Pile the bodies high...

Shovel them under and let me work -

I am the grass; I cover all.”

Carl Sandburg, “The Grass”

A hawk pulled Ben’s focus from the trail, or something dark and swift likea hawk flying through the clear sky. As he looked up, his left foot snagged on the trail, and his ankle crumpled, sending him to the dirt. A grunt slipped out of his mouth when he struck. There had been a tiny pop as he went down.

“Ben?” Barry pulled the straps tighter on his hiking pack and jogged forward, already sweating under the Kansas sun. He stumbled to a stop next to Ben, slipped out of the pack, and dropped it to the ground with a dull thud. “Damn man…you alright?”

Ben’s face twisted. He glowered at Barry. “Do I look alright?”

“Sorry.” Barry dropped to his haunches.

“Sprained…I think.” Ben pulled off the boot, his long face red with the effort, and then delicately rolled back the grey-brown sock. His ankle had already puffed to twice its normal size, red and bulging. Pain shot over his knee, across his back, and to the base of his skull with each throb of his heart. “Must’ve tripped on a rock,” Ben said, but his mouth hung open as he searched for the offender. “I had to have tripped on…”

Barry mopped his fat, round face with a handkerchief, and then allowed his eyes to wander away. Surrounding them on every side, the Flint Hills. Limestone formations cut into deep valleys and folds in the earth by glaciers 10,000 years before encroached in every direction. Tall strands of razor thin Switch Grass and the fat-headed Bluestem, both native to the prairie in the Konza Preserve, covered the hills, some as taller than a grown man’s waist. It was a golden-green blanket covering crumpled stone, but alive—holding the hills together. The rocky nature of those hills had protected the Konza from pioneers and farmers, and now the government guaranteed protection by making it a national preserve, a piece of land lost in time. It was land which remembered a time before roads and houses and the interference of humans.

“God…it’s like we could drown in the grass.” Barry flipped open his phone. “No trees.”

Ben squinted at Barry. “What?”

“No trees nearby…you know, for a splint. No trees means no limbs. No sticks. Nothing but grass. Not even cell phone reception. Shit.”

“I can use your hiking pole.”

Barry looked at the aluminum rod in his hands with an expression of surprise. “My…pole?”

“Like a crutch. I don’t need a splint. Here,” Ben said. He tore a section of his pants on the right leg, starting at the cuff and ripping until he removed a strip. Taking the strip of torn cloth, Ben began to wrap it around his swollen ankle.

“What are you doing?”

Ben winced as he tightened the makeshift wrap. “Trying to keep the swelling down, at least until we get back to the car.” They’d been friends for a long time, ever since Ben’s parents moved next to Barry’s. Since that day in third grade, when Barry’s sister, Lane, had joked that his butt was made of donuts. Ben’d laughed, and Barry had chased him with a pocketknife for five blocks, only to slip on a garden hose and collapse face down with a mouthful of grass. The pocket knife had rattled into the street where Ben had picked it up. It’d been open to a nail file.

Ben smiled with the memory. “I expected you to be the one to sprain—”

A shadow cut across the sky again, and Ben glanced up from his ankle. He expected to see Barry standing between him and the sun, but he wasn’t.

“Those birds.” Barry pointed to the sky. “What are those birds?”

“Dunno. Vultures?”

“Grandpa called them turkey-buzzards. Scavengers.” Barry shivered. A breeze cut across the rolling hills, and the grass bowed, its hushed voice praying in a strange whisper. “Let’s get you back to the car.”

After Barry helped Ben to his feet and picked up his own pack, the two men turned and staggered the way they’d come, straining up an incline. Ben struggled with his lame ankle and the makeshift crutch. Barry crested the hill in front, stopped, and waved to his friend.

“Can you see the car?”

Barry shook his head. “No. No that’s not it. It’s those god-damned birds, man.”

The air filled with the scratch-clunk of Ben’s awkward gait until he joined his friend and leaned panting on the walking pole. “Where’s the car? We…should be able to see the car…from here. The road at least.” He sheltered his eyes with one hand and squinted. “Nothing.”

“Ben.” Barry patted his friend’s shoulder. “Ben—that’s a dude down there.”

Below them, at the bottom of the fold between two hills, a black shape twisted in the grass. He—it looked like a man—was only a few feet from the trail, on his back, waving his hands in the air. From a distance, he could have been a black beetle, legs kicking the sky in death throes.

“It’s like he’s wrestling something.” Barry brushed his arm against the sweat on his face. “Looks like he’s trying to get to his feet.”

“Barry…those birds are right over that guy.” Ben gave his friend a shove. “We should help.” The bigger man lurched and began an awkward, teeter-tottering jog down the hill. Ben followed as quickly as he could, almost hopping exclusively on his good leg. His head wobbled uncomfortably as he tumbled down the last few yards of incline. Ahead on the path, Barry stopped short and held out his hand a few yards from the stranger.