Bedbugs (48 page)

I sensed more than saw Ajut as he charged toward the creature. Still clamped in the monster’s violent embrace, I saw Ajut swing the butt of the rifle over his head, but as it came down in a whistling arc, the creature casually swept the blow aside. The impact sent Ajut staggering to one side where he hit his head hard against the side of the igloo and fell down.

“Ou est le papier?”

The words exploded in my ears, and I thought for a dizzying instant again that it was Ajut who had spoken, but he was lying facedown on the hard-packed snow floor, and I could see a bright red splash of blood on the snow. I looked into the creature’s face again and was nauseated by the sour, rotten stench of its breath. All strength drained from my body when I saw the snarling anger in the creature’s yellow eyes.

“
Ou est le papier?
” the beast bellowed.

It took several moments for my terror-stricken mind to register that this . . . this creature was actually speaking French. Stunned into silence, all I could do was nod my head to signal that I understood he wanted to know where the paper was. I had absolutely no doubt what paper he meant, and I was simply hoping that he wouldn’t kill me before I could give it to him. I couldn’t recall the French words for,
It’s in my pocket
, so I shouted in a hoarse voice, “
Oui! Oui! Le papier!
”

Grunting softly, the creature eased its grip on me and lowered me to the ground. My first impulse was to go to Ajut and see if he was still alive, but the instant I started to turn away, the creature grabbed me and dug its fingertips painfully into my shoulder hard enough to make me cry out.

“
Vite!
” the creature roared. “
Le papier! Vitement!
”

Trembling with fear, I reached into my parka pocket and extracted the folded piece of paper. My legs almost gave out beneath me, and I almost lost consciousness as I handed the paper to the creature, who grunted as he snatched it out of my hand.

“
Merci
,” the creature said; and then, without another word, it shouldered through the gaping hole it had made in the side of our igloo and disappeared.

I stood there for a moment, absolutely stunned, watching numbly as the creature dashed across the ice at a speed that was much greater than any normal human being could run. Within seconds, it seemed, it was nothing more than a black speck on the sun-glazed horizon. A low groan from Ajut drew my attention, and I turned to aid my fallen companion.

Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, July 26, 1964:

I
t’s been four days since the monster attacked us. Fortunately, Ajut’s injuries were minor, and he was able to guide us back to the tribe. Aside from a sharp headache and a purple bruise the size of a baseball on his forehead, he seems fine.

Last night, I went to him and asked if he would tell me more tales of his people and their beliefs, but he flatly refused. When I pressed him, he finally spoke to me in a low, even-toned voice. Not once did he take his gaze away from the small, flickering flame of the whale oil lamp.

Transcript of a conversation with Ajut, a member of the Inuit tribe.

Final Entry:

Y
ou say, Father Robert, that you came here to teach us your religion, to bring us the truth of Christianity. During our time at the old sailing ship from the south, I have seen you embraced by an
inua angkuni
. You looked the spirit straight in the face—you spoke to it in a language that I have never heard before, and you did not lose your mind when you looked into the spirit’s yellow eyes. You not only lived through this experience, but as far as I can tell, you are still in your right mind. This makes me think one of two things: either your religion is very strong and it protected you from the spirit, or else you never were in your right mind in the first place. A third thought occurs to me, that you perhaps are also an
inua angkuni
.

I have much to think about.

The demon may not have harmed you, but he left some of his evil inside my head when he touched me. I can feel his evil spirit, shifting about inside this painful swelling on top of my head.

Please leave me for now. I have much to think about.

Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, August 3, 1964:

A
pparently Ajut’s injuries were worse than they appeared, or maybe he was simply too old to survive them and it was simply his time to go. The Lord alone knows, and He moves in ways that we mere mortals cannot always understand. Regardless, Ajut died shortly after I spoke with him. I can’t help but feel responsible for the death of this man. I hadn’t known him for very long, but in the short time we spent together, I recognized a strong and loyal individual, and I would like to consider him my friend. I grieve his loss as does his entire tribe.

But many of the things he said to me have made me question exactly how strong I believe my faith is . . . and it makes me wonder.

Ever since I began my conversations with Ajut, and after seeing what I have seen, the events that occurred out at the ruined sailing ship have become confused in my mind. They are making me begin to question the very foundations of my faith. In spite of the confusion that day, I think I know
exactly
what I saw. It was an extremely tall, ugly, gray-skinned man with yellow eyes who spoke and, apparently, wrote in flawless French.

But how can that possibly make sense?

How can anyone or, if he truly is not human, any
thing
exist alone out in this frozen wilderness?

How in God’s name does it survive?

How does it stay warm?

What does it eat?

Since the events of that day, especially following Ajut’s death, I have begun to see that life here in the North—even life in the spiritual world—is very different from life in our so-called “civilized” world. Ever since then, my sleep has been plagued by terrifying dreams that awaken me several times during the night. I sit in the frozen darkness, sweating and panting heavily as a wrinkled and scarred face with glowing yellow eyes—”Piss Eyes”—drifts in the darkness in front of my vision. Sometimes I watch as the features on this horribly ugly face gradually melt into the smiling face of my dead friend Ajut.

After considering things for several days, I believe I finally know exactly what I saw out there on the ice. I did, indeed, see and was touched by an
inua angkuni
, one of the evil spirits the Eskimos believe inhabit this icy realm. And I have decided that, with or without the help of anyone from Ajut’s tribe, I must go back out onto the ice and search for this creature, whatever he may be, whether man or spirit or demon. I will search for it until I find it.

—for M. S. and Steve Bissette

“R
evenge is a dish best served cold,” isn’t that what they say?

I can hear the tremor in my voice as I say this.

I’m leaning forward with both fists on the kitchen table as I stare straight ahead at the man sitting in the chair across from me.

His name is Roy Curry.

Almost thirty years ago, we served together in Vietnam. We saw plenty of action in Binh Dinh province. A lot of friends died there.

And a few people who should have died there didn’t. But that was years ago.

Maybe a couple of lifetimes ago.

Today, I should be happy. I’m having a dinner party. A dinner party for two.

But right now, Roy doesn’t look so happy. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here. In fact, I’ve had to strap his arms and legs to the chair to keep him here. I sure as hell don’t want him moving while my back is turned. It’s hard enough, slaving over a hot stove in such stifling August heat.

I don’t need any more trouble, that’s for sure.

I’m cooking a dish I’ve always loved. I call it Chinese gingered tuna, although I suspect there’s some other, fancier name for it. It’s my absolute favorite meal, but I haven’t had it in years.

Not since Ma died.

Given the choice, though, I think Roy would just as soon not be here today.

I’m glad he doesn’t have a choice.

Too bad for him.

You see, I owe him one.

A big one!

Our time—at least my time—in Vietnam was pure hell. I’d been drafted in 1965, right after graduating from high school. The Army sucked, especially for a country boy from Hilton, a little doo-hickey town in western Maine. The whole fuckin’ war sucked.

I was surprised and happy as hell when my tour of duty was up, and I got out of that fuckin’ hellhole with only one wound.

One physical wound, anyway.

A small piece of metal, a fragment from a grenade, had shattered my left kneecap and torn through my leg. The scar that runs up the inside of my knee, halfway to my balls, looks like a narrow, twisting mountain range.

Ever since I got discharged, for almost thirty years, now, I’ve been walking with a limp. In the winter, I have to use a cane because the knee joint stiffens up so bad in the cold.

And it’s all Roy’s fault!

Like I said, I owe him a big one!

“Jesus Christ, Roy! Stop staring at me like that, will you? I swear to Christ, I’m gonna. . . .”

I know my voice doesn’t sound as strong as it should, but—Shit! I can’t stand the way he just sits there, staring at me.

And that fucking smirk of his!

“Yeah, just keep smilin’, asshole! You just keep it up!”

Roy doesn’t say a word.

But he doesn’t stop glaring at me, either. It’s like there’s a secret fire of hatred, still burning deep inside his eyes.

But he doesn’t scare me.

Not anymore.

I think I’ve finally gotten over all that. Probably because of what I decided to do.

I have to be careful that I don’t get too mad and start yelling. It might get my neighbors upset. The walls in this fucking building are paper thin. I wouldn’t want anyone calling the cops or anything.

I might have to stop my dinner party if they did.

I try to calm myself down by controlling my breathing as I turn my back to Roy—Shit, he ain’t going
nowhere!
—and continue to prepare the meal. I work for a while without turning around to look at him, but I talk to him over my shoulder, describing every step of the recipe.

“Besides the ginger, which
has
to be fresh, the next most important ingredient is the pineapple. It has to be sweet, but not too ripe. Canned is okay, but fresh gives the dish its distinctive taste. You can also use canned tuna. Fresh is better, too, of course, but it doesn’t really matter.”

As I’m chopping the fresh pineapple slices into tiny cubes and stirring them into the sauce that’s simmering with the vegetables in the wok, the knife catches the tip of my index finger.

It only stings for a moment.

I watch as the cut beads up with a little scarlet drop of blood. Squeezing the tip of my finger, I shake the blood into the mixture and stir it in.

Why not?

Blood for blood.

“Isn’t than another famous old expression, Roy? Blood for blood?” I ask.

Roy doesn’t answer. I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t know or care.

As I work, though, I start to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

I know what Roy’s doing behind my back

There’s no way he can get away from me, but I can feel him, staring at me.

And I can feel the nearly thirty years of hatred he’s focusing on me.

As well he should.

The aroma of cooking food fills my apartment like a dense summer fog. The snap of ginger burns my nasal passages. The sizzle of everything in the wok sounds like a long string of firecrackers going off.

Or something else.

The sound sort of reminds me of distant gunfire.

Nighttime firefights.

The flashbacks haven’t been very bad for the last ten years or more, but I think seeing Roy after all this time is bringing it all back. Images and memories seem sharper than they’ve been in a long time!

I shake my head and focus on my cooking.

I’ve always hated cooking, mostly because I’ve never seen the point of taking so much time and making a big mess for just one person.

I live alone. Never got married or anything.

But when it’s a dinner party, even for just two people, it’s probably worth the extra effort.

It certainly is worth it for Roy.

Like I said, I owe him a big one.

“It’s about ready,” I say.

I lean close to the wok and inhale deeply.

Then, for the first time in almost fifteen minutes, I turn around and look at Roy.

He’s right where he was, sitting there in the chair, ramrod straight. Eyes straight ahead.