He looked cleaner then, though still somewhat altered, and she clutched it to her and took it back with her, back to the old room, because it was his, because he had given her toys and chocolate and because she wanted something of his which he would not want anymore — not when it was that dirty.
Later, much later, when she looked at it, fully unrolled, spread out upon her bed, she was delighted to see that it bore a perfect likeness of his face, traced in the juices of his own body, lying there flat, dark now, conforming in every detail to his countenance. . .
Save for the eyes — which, strangely, seemed horizontal — just slots — as though they viewed straight across the surface of the world, as if the world were flat and his gaze traveled on without end, forever.
She did not like the way it showed his eyes, so she folded it up and took it back and hid it away at the bottom of her toy box, forgetting it forever after.
This time, for some reason, she remembered not to drop the lid, but closed it carefully.
SIX
Here! The scrabbling man on hands and knees in the drainage ditch. Dark eyes seeking an opening. An X of canvas belts upon his back. Above him the lightnings, upon him the rain. And about the next bending of his way, he watches/they watch/it watches, for he/they/it — it — knows that he is coming with a pain in his head. And it glances into the place where the storm meets the earth and the mud is born, wipes splashes from its coat, sniffs the air, sees the man’s head and shoulders pass the turning point, withdraws.
The man finds the opened sewer and crawls within.
After twenty feet he flicked on his hand torch and shone it upon the ceiling. He stood then on the walkway beside the slop and leaned his back against the wall. Mopping his brow on his khaki sleeve, he shook droplets from his hair and dried his hands on his trousers.
For a moment, he grimaced. Then, dipping into a shoulder-pack, he withdrew a tube of tablets, gulped one. The thunders echoed about him in that place and he cursed, clutching his temples. But it came again and again, and he fell to his knees, sobbing.
The level of the slop in the center ditch began to rise. Observing it in the light of his torch, he rose to his feet and staggered further inward until he came to something resembling a platform. The smell of refuse was more powerful here, but there was space to sit down with his back to the wall, so he did. He switched off the torch.
After a time, the pill began to take effect and he sighed.
See how feeble it is that has come among me.
He unsnapped his holster and thumbed down the safety catch on his revolver.
It has heard me and knows fear.
Then, between the rumbles of thunder there was only silence. He sat there for perhaps an hour, then drifted into a light sleep.
That which awakened him might have been sound. If so, it had been too soft to have registered consciously.
It is awake. How is it that it can hear me? Tell me. How is it that it can hear me?
“I can hear you,” he said, “and I’m armed,” his mind automatically falling to the weapon at his side and his finger finding its trigger.
(Image of a pistol and feeling of derision as eight men fall before it clicks upon an empty chamber.)
With his left hand he turned on the torch once more. As he swept it about, several opallike sparkles occurred in a corner.
Food! he thought. I’ll need something before I make it back to the bunker! They’ll do.
You will not eat me.
“Who are you?” he asked.
You think of me as rats. You think of a thing known as The Air Force Survival Handbook, where it explains that if you cut off one of my heads –which is where the poison is — you must then slit open the ventral side and continue the cuts to extend the length of each leg. Subsequent to this, the skin can be peeled off, the belly opened and emptied, the backbone split and both halves roasted on sharpened sticks over a small fire.
“That is essentially correct,” he said, then. “You say that you are ‘rats’? I do not understand. The plural — that’s what I don’t understand.”
I am all of us.
He continued to stare at the eyes located about twenty-five feet from him.
I know now how you hear me. There is pain, pain in you. This, somehow, lets you hear.
“There are pieces of metal in my head,” he said, “from when my office exploded. I do not understand this thing either, but I can see how it may be involved.”
Yes. In fact, I see that one of the pieces nearer the surface will soon work its way free. Then you must break your skin with your claws and withdraw it.
“I don’t have claws — oh, my fingernails. Then that must be what’s causing these headaches. Another piece is moving around. Fortunately, I can use my knife. That time I had to claw one out was pretty bad.”
What is a knife?
(Steel, sharp, gleaming, with a handle.)
Where does one get a knife?
“One has one, finds one, buys one, steals one, or makes one.”
I do not have one, but I have found yours. I do not know how to buy or steal or make one. So I will take yours.
And more opallike sparkles occurred, and more, and more, and slowly they drifted forward, and he knew that his gun was worthless.
There came a terrible pain within his head and white flashes destroying his seeing. When it cleared, there were thousands of rats all about him and he moved without thinking.
He pulled the bulb from his ammo belt, withdrew the pin, and hurled the bulb into their midst.
For three pulsebeats nothing happened, except that they continued their advance.
Then there came a blinding solar-corona blaze, which did not diminish but persisted for many minutes. White phosphorus. He followed it with napalm. He chuckled as they burned and screamed and clawed at one another. At least, something within him was chuckling, some part of him. The rats fell back and there came another pain within his head. There was an especially violent throbbing in the vicinity of his left temple.
Do not do that again, please. I did not realize You to be such a thing as You are.
“I damned well will do it, if you try what you tried again.”
I will not. I will bring forth of rats for You to eat. Of the young, fat ones. Only deliver us from Your wrath.
“Very well.”
How many of rats do You desire?
“Six should do it.”
They will be of the very best and plumpest.
They were brought before him, and he beheaded them, cleaned them, and roasted them over the sterno stove he carried in his pack.
Would You care for more of rats? I can give You all that You desire.
“No, I need no more,” he said.
Are You certain? Perhaps six more?
“These have been sufficient, for now,” he said.
You will remain until the storm stops?
“Yes,” he said.
Then You will go away?
“Yes,” he said.
Come back to me one day, please. I will always have more rats for You to eat, I wish to have You come back.
. . . And deliver us from Your wrath, oh thing You name in Your pain as Carl Lufteufel.
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling.
SEVEN
Aboard his cart, Tibor McMasters rode in style, with a flourish; pulled by the faithful cow, the cart rattled and bounced on, and miles of weedy pasture passed by, flat country with stalks rising, both tough and dry: this had become arid land, not fit for crops any longer. As he rolled forward, Tibor exulted; he had finally begun his Pilg and it would be a success; he knew it would.
He did not especially fear cutpurses and highwaymen, partly because no one bothered with the highways. . . he could rationalize this fear away, telling himself that since no traffic passed this way, how could there be highwaymen?
“O friends!” he declared aloud, translating into English the opening words of Schiller’s An die Freunde. “Not these tones! On the contrary, let us sing of –” He paused, having forgotten the rest. God damn it, he said fiercely to himself, baffled by the tricks of his own mind.
The sun blazed down, hot as minnows skimming in the metallic surf, the tidal rise and fall of reality. He coughed, spat, and continued on.