Drink for the Thirst to Come (31 page)

Instead, he was watching out that damn bunch in the woods. Because he was, he saw the Thing—saw it come. Almost burned his eyes white. Like sunlight screaming, it set black shadows climbing the inside of his shack. He heard the coming Thing fry the air, felt it whomp the ground. For seconds, the shack shivered on its stone posts. Then the wind sucked out of him and deep thunder boxed his ears. The damn air punched his chest a second later and rolled across him, wiggled the flab of his face.

The old hunter dog jumped sudden and wild, looking, singing.

“Best write
that
down, what do you say?” Earl said. He wrote:
Stars shoot back!
He wrote,
July Forth the stars shoot back. A come. A big come!

He figured the Philly folk were gone. Found later he was wrong. Figured the Thing had whomped down by Ong’s Hat Cross where the Ford Sisters had their shack. That was that for them, he figured. Too bad. He liked those Ford girls.

Earl ran outside to look for fire sign.

Nothing but a glowing wake across the sky where the Thing had passed. He listened for the fire trucks to come shouting out of Chatsworth. Nothing.

Too much Independence fun,
he figured.
All your money, Cap Hainey, and you don’t even care about, about...
Took him a half-minute. “Don’t even care about them poor people,” he figured out loud.

In a few minutes the star trail was a blue smear down the sky. After a good half-hour, there were still no trucks nor men.

“Up to me,” he told the old dog and humped toward the woods. Naught to it normally but tonight that hundred-foot walk was an uphill mile. Each step sank him to his ankles. Each step shoved backward in giving earth, like wading a running tide.

The black wall of the forest rose ahead of him. The dark place where the trees stood open above him whispered. “What’s that?” he asked. “What say?” Little shit and grown man, Earl had never been afraid, not ever, of man, critter, woods, nor night. Pine-born he was and fearless was he.

Now the forest was a stranger; it whispered in a tongue he’d never heard. What was different? Something changed, but what the hell, he didn’t know. He’d write it down when he did.

Twenty steps into the forest and the trees folded shut behind. The world—shack, bogs, and Chatsworth—was gone. Now it was him and the sand. The trees stood black and silent. Above, the pine boughs were black fingers against the blue ghost of the star trail. Even that soft light was spreading into the big night. He stood like a dumb-shit, like them folks from the city. Ignorant, new, lost.

Out of the forest came a ripple. Something breathed across him and the world rumbled. Earl’s toes tried to grip the sand through his boots. Night’s breath was cold, bad; a smell wrapped him. From down the trail a scream squeaked his spine. Wasn’t man or woman; no animal he’d ever heard made that noise. Something, though, something clamped in pain was down ahead dying.

He tried to grab hold of it, remember the noise, the stink, for writing down later.

When a branch he should have known bit his ankle, when creepers he should have felt damn near snared his legs, when a heaved up root he’d stepped over for seventy years nearly tumbled him into the bog-feed, he stopped dead. Chill sweat covered him. Too much new. He’d walked the path to Papoose Crick since the Great Depression. It was become something else. Night’s heat was gone (
and Christ, I should have brought th’ lamp
).

He heard it, then. This time he could not forget.

He hadn’t run since he was a boy. Men didn’t run.

He ran.

It followed him.

Back to the shack. His hair stood wet with damp and chills climbed his bones.

He grabbed his crayon and scribbled,
Black sky.
He added,
Black forever everware. Everware suthins diffrent.
That was something he felt true but didn’t know why.

Then he did.
The diffrence is it is diffrent!
he wrote.
Before: everthin was all the same, the same forever. Trees, paths, places, all ways the same. Now not. Now alls different
.

From his rear window, he watched the dark hole in black forest, the white sand path that led there. Everywhere difference, everywhere he listened—and he listened again to the night—even silence had a stranger’s voice, and from the pines came the noise where the silence ate.

He woke when something thumped the shack’s ass-end where his head lay. Fog had come while he slept and the shack was wrapped in a gray glow.

Another something whomped the wall. He laid his hand against cool glass. The fog on the pane shoved back. His hand tremored. “Can’t see shit,” he told the old dog. The hand pressed to the glass was veined, red and blue, thick skinned, crossed with scars and stories. The same, that at least. Nails, yellow, thick, chipped, dirty, after seventy years of night writing, his right thumb and first two fingers were black with crayon wax, the pinky edge of his hand was gray with news ink. Like always, those hands were truthful. And now they shook,
damn bastards
.

Another something whomped his wall and screamed.

Onto the porch went Earl, the old dog trailing.

The shack might have hung miles high in the air for all Earl could see of the earth below his own damn steps. He and the dog sniffed. To Earl’s thinking, the morning smelled a little like fire—and something else too. Something maybe the dog placed.

What the hell,
he thought
, 90-something and afraid. Christ.

Another whomp to the back of the shack. A flapping scream followed.
The dog trembled against Earl’s leg.

Earl gave the animal a shove with his knee. “Ought to by Christ take and shoot you, you old bastard. A ’fraid dog ain’t useful.”

The dog waddled toward the gray morning. He stretched his neck, took one step down, another. Then his body jerked and he sounded one long howling note. The bass end of it curdled into a growl as he scratched backward to Earl’s legs. Dog-song echoed from the day.

This was a good old dog, lazy on his porch but one to fly, flapping ears and jowls, singing pretty into the trees and off the trail, taking long-leg strides ahead of roaring trucks and charging junkers bouncing after game. He’d run the night, unafraid of men, guns, or the tearing death of wheel, tooth, or claw, this old dog.

Now, the old bastard tucked and whimpered into the shack.

Another thing hit the back wall, another scream, more flapping from the mist. Echoes. Earl hear the old dog whimper.
“What the hell?” Earl said.

The world stank a little like outhouse, something of old oil and gas—like them old fish boats by Egg Harbor. Fire scent still soaked the air and something else lay on the bottom of all those stinks.

“The fuck?” Earl said. Saying, it came to him. The day smelled, damn if it didn’t, like sex.
Once he caught hold, Earl reeled in. Damn if it wasn’t the biggest part of the morning: the thick odor like that place women had. He remembered
that
damn much about it, anyway,
haw-haw
.

“You old shit,” he said to the hound, “what good’s a dog afraid of a little pussy?”
The dog shuffled deeper into the shack.

The flapping from the back sounded like someone shaking a wet sheet to dry. Two, three wet sheets, a dozen. Then another thud and more. Out of the sound came a stream of birds, big and small, running, reaching for the air. With them came fox, coon, squirrel, possum, a swarm from around the shack, from under it, the swarm flowed over Earl’s roof, his porch and into the fog away from the woods.

Later, he tried to write down the sounds: birds so scared they forgot air had buildings and trees in it. Squirrel frightened enough to run with fox or any critter as would eat them standing still or on the run. He tried to write down cries so terrible as to frighten a chase hound. Some reason, broken flapping birds were worst.

Later, he wrote,
Birds will be last to go!
A minute after, he calculated fish might be, but didn’t bother writing it.

Earl stepped off the damn porch. Two paces and the shack was a gray smear in the blank day. “A man could lose hisself a step from his own damn shack,” he said. Having said it, he realized it was true. Inside, he kicked around stacks of
The Sentinel
, looked under some of the stinking clothes he figured on washing sometime, he scattered the pieces of his old radio hiding in under yards and yards of plastic tarp. He tossed aside tools, wire, pistons and rods, rooted among boxes, bottles, engine parts. He finally found the rope, good yellow stuff—the plastic kind the electric men used to stay the power poles over by the highway—two hundred feet, coiled neat.

He tied one end to the porch post, the other around his gut, then he stepped down onto the sand again.
Still like wading
, he thought. “Wading a running tide!” he said.

The shack disappeared, behind. Alone in the mist, he trudged through giving sand and payed out the rope. All around and overhead, the flap of wings, the rustle of paws and claws in sand continued. All invisible in the mist.

What the hell he was doing, he didn’t know. He just felt the need to go, to look, felt he ought be on the trail. Whatever strangeness was here, it had come from the sky to his patch of wood this foggy morn. His duty, he figured.

He had forty, maybe fifty feet of nylon rope left on the coil when screams, a thousand of them, echoed from the mist. Some near, some distant, the screams held a thousand terrors, all on the move toward him.

A breeze stirred the stink of dirty sex. The air cleared enough to let him see the opening in the forest wall. That darker spot in the gray seemed a mile off. But that was the fog. It was close. Earl squinted. There was movement at the edge of his seeing. Sand, the forest floor rolled, moved toward him. Out of the screaming woods and rustling brush, the sand rippled. In slow-motion, the wave front crested, broke toward him, almost frozen but not.

The wave’s breath came on the breeze: rotted meat and sex. The sand it was, that’s what screamed the thousand, the million tiny voices. The sand and the things the sand was eating.

Nik, nik, nikniknik
, the sand said a billion times above the hissing flow of coming tide.

From the trees, Earl’s dog—the young one who’d been hunting when the Thing came down—the stupid animal now came dragging its ass end. The damn animal hauled itself from the pines. Where the wave crested, it collapsed, rolled head over ass, then stopped, stuck, sinking, in the rippling sand and devoted itself to screams.

From the shack, the old dog returned the call.

Whole thing took a minute. At the end, the dog was gone. For a few seconds it struggled, seemed to sink, sink slow, like a boat oozing under. When the hound rolled over, it was dead and no longer screamed. It continued writhing, being argued over by so many tiny mouths. The dog went side-up first, then belly up, ribs like teeth. Earl saw. No legs, no more, no more hind-end and belly. The thing was body cavity and bone, unwinding guts, dissolving flesh and blood seeping into the sand. The sand drank. The sand ate. The dog melted like ice on a grill and was soon gone. A minute, maybe two.

Earl wrote:
Sand cum from out of space.
He wrote it but knew that wasn’t right.
Our sand made alive by...
He held the crayon above the page of
The Tom’s River Sentinel
. His hand shook. What to say, what made the sand alive? He wrote:
That star fucked us shur.
Good an answer as any.
Fucked Mother Earth and made it live!
He was writing on the picture of the astronauts, the lie, back from that fake moon trip, sitting in their little trailer, talking with the president through the window. Astronauts all smiles and teeth.

The morning had stopped screaming, the mists cleared some. The wave rolled closer to Earl. He backed away, kept a good twenty, thirty feet of still earth between the living rolling sand and his own damn self. He could see a little now. Even so, he wound the yellow rope around his arm back to his porch. He hugged the post, the post he’d raised in the Great Depression.

The sand wave stopped a couple, three yards from his steps. It hushed, waiting. A pot set to simmer. He heard more than saw through the thinning fog, but the forest was moving, creaking, cracking. Trees, a few, then more, fell, rolled, tore the brush, the brush crackling in its own dissolving ways. He pictured the pines, falling, upended, rolling, sinking, eaten like his dog. A wind blew and the fog tore to shreds around him.

With the wind, Earl got a little of himself eaten. A grain of sand on the wind, a speck of grit to his eye. Nothing unusual in the Barrens. He blinked, wiped the corner, like always. From deep inside him, the familiar pain grew teeth. White heat grabbed the side of his head, fire flashed a bright hot needle inside his eye... One grain, but it ate fast and hungry; thing ate fuller than he could have thought.

That thought came and was written down, later. In the moment, the pain dropped him to his knees. He fell, hands first, on his porch. By the time he’d wiped the grain away, the eye jelly was gobbled, the lid nibbled through, eaten out. That part of his seeing was gone, gone for good.

Later, the sand wave swept forward, rolling slow like molasses in January. It surrounded the shack, rolled on by. Later…

Later, he wrapped his head in torn parts of his last clean shirt, took to wearing the goggles he’d kept when he junked the Indian cycle, 1942, wrapped and taped himself inside the plastic tarp. That’s when he wrote,
Hell, there’s always sumthin gon to kill you... mite as well be this,
which was as true as anything ever written down, he figured.

Later, the car came out of the silence, banged and screamed. It seemed a strange and alien thing. It rolled on metal rims, tires eaten, gone. The engine was over-racing, coughing toward a stall. But the spinning rims kicked sand every which way, sprayed tiny teeth into the air.

“Sand eats rubber!” he called to them. “But I guess you knew that,” he said to himself.