Forever Never Ends (31 page)

***

The alien pulsed, its glutinous sap coursing through its root system. Its spores were still spreading, but with the lack of solar radiation, its cellular activity had slowed. It took advantage of the rest to analyze the other symbols it had collected.

May-zee. Mush. Muh-aaack. Kish.

Jeesh-ush. Ahhm-feeel.

Chesh-urrr.

And those it had gathered before:
shu-shaaa, maz-zuh, nig-urrr, peg-heee, eyezzz, chreez
.

And the one its heart-brain kept returning to, the one which glowed deep in the furnace of its metabolism: tah-mah-raaa.

The symbol must have meaning. The alien had dissected many different kinds of patterns in its trip across the cosmos. Solving this one was only a matter of time. And it had forever.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tamara followed Chester into what she thought must be his kitchen. She saw only the outlines of things, lesser shadows in the blackness. An old wood cook stove lurked heavily in the corner. The bones of broken furniture protruded from heaps on the floor. She smelled the damp soot of the chimney, the sweet odor of liquor and decaying fabric, and the thick
whang
of rancid bacon grease. The cool March air seemed cloying in here, pressing against her like a second skin.

"This way, darling," Chester said to her. She bumped into his back as he stopped suddenly.

I can see into the future, but I can't see in the dark.

The random syllables skittered across her mind, as elusive as wet rats:
shu-shaaa, maz-zah, muh-aack
. The green glow radiating from the ridge was the visual equivalent of those sick psychic signals she was receiving, its dim pulse growing stronger in the forest beyond the door. As they’d driven past her Toyota on the way to Chester’s farm, the signals had been more intense, direct,
personal
.

"There's a tone,” Chester said, and she felt his leathery hand and cold plastic pressing against her arm. She took the phone and squinted at the old-fashioned rotary dial. She counted the holes with her fingers and rang her home number.

Robert answered before the first ring had died away. "Tam?" he said, breathless.

"Yes, sweetheart. It's me."

He sighed in either relief or anger. "Where the hell—I mean, I'm sorry, I've been worried sick—where are you, honey? Are you okay?"

She nodded, fighting the tears and laughter that wanted to mix themselves together. "Yeah, I'm fine. God, I miss you."

"I miss you, too. What's going on?"

"It's a long story. You know the Gloomies?"

"Um—"

"They're here.
It's
here."

"What?"

"And it's bigger than I thought. Are the kids safe?”

“Sure. They’re sleeping. Now what the hell—”

“Keep them inside, no matter what. I've got to go, honey. I just wanted to let you know I was okay. I'll be home soon."

I hope. God, to be back in my warm bed right now, my flannel nightgown on and Robert snoring, with no Gloomies dancing and no visions painting themselves inside my head. No shu-shaaa and peg-heee and all this other random madness. Just plain old ordinary problems.

"Don't go," Robert said.

"I have to. Take care of the kids."

"Tam, Ginger has it, too," he burst out before she could hang up.

"What?"

"Seeing things. You know. She said something about the people with green eyes. Honey, does that have anything to do with your Gloomies?"

"Yes. Oh, God, Robert. Don't let anything happen to them.”

"Tell me where you are."

"No. It's better this way. I love you," she said, and this time she couldn’t stop the tears.

Chester took the phone from her. "Your wife's in good hands, mister. Don't you worry none.”

Then Tamara heard Chester draw a sharp breath. The phone dropped to the floor. Wet, oozing hands clutched her shoulders. The Earth Mouth must have overwhelmed her senses, because she hadn't registered the creature sloughing up behind her. Now, at the contact, her mind sparked and she was connected, for a fleeting moment, with the thing that had once been called Junior Mull.

His scrambled synapses shot her a broken jumble of symbols,
fishfuck moonshine taxismoke shu-shaaa cheshur cheshur cheshur chesssh—

She twisted to escape, but he—
it
—was only pushing her aside, as if she were standing in the way of its dead heart's desire. Its green eyes were locked onto Chester, glowing like radioactive gemstones in the coal mine of the room.

"So, come to claim the family keep, huh?” Chester said, with more than just a touch of mania in his voice.

The thing stepped past Tamara, leaving a slick trail on her shoulders where its limpid fingers had clutched. It closed on Chester, panting in a moist expiration that passed for its breath. Tamara realized the creature's instinct had brought it here as if reeled in by some ancestral fishing line.

Her clairvoyance had been slow in picking up what Chester had instantly understood. Because Chester recognized the dripping, waxen hulk of swampmeat that reached its limbs toward him.

"Junior, just get the fuck on back. You ain't
right
no more. Don't you see that, boy?" Chester shuffled slowly backward across the wooden floor.

"Shu-shaaa . . . shay . . . home . . .," it said, gurgling as if its wide, wet mouth was full of snuff. "Shay . . . kish . . . chesher . . ."

The green eyes cut a path like flashlights, and Tamara saw the rictus of Chester's face in their glow. She felt along the kitchen counter as the Junior-creature closed on Chester. The old man had his hands up in front of him as if to offer peace, but the creature's peace was more insistent, more urgent, more compelling.

Tamara's fingers brushed across some dishes and felt the rim of the sink. A jar tumbled, throwing a silver glint before shattering on the floor. Then her fingers closed on greasy metal and she lifted, finding comfort in the weight that filled her fist. She stepped forward quickly and swung with all her strength. The iron skillet smacked flush against the thing's skull with a sound like someone stomping grapes.

Milky luminescent fluid burst from the pulpskin and oozed down the stem of the creature's neck. The thing turned to Tamara, flashing a toothless smile made bright by the iridescent scarlet-red pistils dangling in its deep throat. A throat that was the lily of her dream, the throat that was a smaller replica of the Earth Mouth, as if the creature and the
shu-shaaa
Gloomies shared a common hunger.

Pupil and master.

Acolyte and high priest.

The seeker and the enlightened.

The pollen mote and the God seed.

The yield and the harvest.

She swiped sideways with the skillet and it axed into the soft neck. The creature's head canted to one side like a cornstalk hit by a hailstorm. She chopped again, her hand slick with the thing’s leakage, and the head rolled off, hitting the floor like a blob of wet dough. The decapitated body swayed for a moment, then regained its balance and took a juddering step forward.

Something gripped her elbow and she almost swung the clot-soaked skillet again. But she saw Chester's too-wide shining eyes and stopped herself. Through his touch, she could sense his fear and revulsion, she could feel his hatred of the thing that had brought such horrors. His anger smelled like stale sweat and shorted-out copper wires.

Chester tugged at her, leading her out of the house, his thin fingers pressing her flesh like iron bands.

"Who was it, Chester?" she said, once they were on the porch, panting in the safety of moonlight.

"Guh—grandson." Chester gasped. "Just like fucking chickens, these things is—they come home to roost."

Tamara tossed the skillet off the porch and rubbed the creature's oily juice onto her skirt. DeWalt must have heard the struggle, because he ran toward the porch steps, his hands clenched around the shotgun.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Family reunion," Chester said, looking over the hills. "Now let's go blow this alien sonavawhore back to Kingdom Come."

They walked to the shed and gathered their makeshift ordnance. Emerland was slumped like a puppet waiting for its strings to be jerked. He lifted the sack of Sevin without being told and followed Chester between the dark outbuildings.

DeWalt walked behind them, loaded down with herbicide, the shotgun, and the detonator. The wide white moon shone down, throwing their long shadows over the field.

Back at the farmhouse, the headless Junior-thing stumbled out of the house onto the porch steps. Tamara watched as it fell to the ground and scrabbled awkwardly among the weeds, as if searching for its head and heart and hope and all things lost. She lifted the can of Roundup and headed for the forest.

***

Nothing made sense.

Those people walking across the graveyard, Preacher Blevins in the lead—and was that Amanda behind him?—shuffling like a pack of drunks in the moonlight, heading for the parsonage. And Nettie's car, empty in the church parking lot. Where was Nettie?

Bill jumped out of his truck and hurdled the short hedge that marked off the cemetery. The preacher turned toward him slowly, as if the air were molasses.

"Howdy, Preacher," Bill called, a bit uneasily. It was well after midnight. Was this some kind of strange revival service?

But the preacher was Baptist. The preacher knew as well as anyone that Satan walked the night, especially when the full moon floated across the sky. Bill looked toward the church at the lamplight streaming from the open vestry door. The light cast an oblong yellow rectangle on the trimmed grave grass.

"Bill."

It was Nettie, weak and wounded. Her voice hadn't come from the church. Instead it had floated over the headstones from the parsonage.

"Nettie?"

He ran across the neat cemetery, dodging the white monuments, praying to the Lord to keep Nettie safe, not caring that he was treading over the graves beneath him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something odd about the preacher and the others. They were
shimmering
.

Then the smell hit him, barbed into his nose like a winch hook. Skunk cabbage and stinkweed, moldy sawdust and rancid cedar. A moist and fungal stench.

"Help me, Bill," Nettie called again.

He dodged through the tombstones the way he'd skirted defensive linemen while scoring those high school touchdowns. But he had a feeling that this was the biggest game of his life, that more was at stake than championship rings and scholarships.

The parsonage’s dark bricks were stolid against the trees, its windows with their neat white trim like sanctifying eyes. Nettie was on the porch, holding her left ankle and pulling on the doorknob. Even from twenty yards away, he could see the moonlit tears trailing down her cheeks, her eyes wide and frightened. He rushed across the dewy ground and knelt beside her.

"What's wrong, honey?" he whispered, afraid and feeling helpless, as if Nettie were a bird with a broken wing. He didn't know where to touch her.

"Ankle's broken, I think," she said between clenched teeth. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him, then put her mouth to his ear. "I'm so glad you're here."

He held her a little away from him so he could see her face. Then he saw her ankle, twisted at an awkward angle above her white shoe. "What's going on?"

"The preacher. Gone bad. His eyes . . . look at his eyes."

Bill turned his head. They were coming closer, wet and dripping, arms outstretched like trembling blasphemies. Their eyes shone inhumanly deep and unholy green. The preacher smiled and his mouth was alive, like a thing separate from his flesh, wiggling with bright worms.

Satan.

Satan was here, now, just the way the Bible promised. The Lord had called for the end without so much as a trumpet blast in warning
.

"Sweet Jesus, save us," Bill said.

"I don't think Jesus can beat these things," Nettie said. "At least, not by Himself."

Bill shook his head, lost. "Green eyes. That part wasn't in the Book of Revelations."

Sounds drifted across the narrow strip of yard, flyblown hymns rising from those walking gates of hell.

"Bill, they're coming." She whimpered a little from pain. "They want me. Us. All of us."

Bill put his arms under Nettie, lifted her body that was still fresh and warm and naked in his memory. Her breath whispered across his neck. He looked around, wondering which way to run, but already they were upon him, wet arms and bright eyes and dead wet faces and ripped skin and fingernails sharp as thorns.

The preacher pressed his mouth near, the thick rinds of his gums snapping hungrily. Amanda Blevins, or the demon that now owned her fermenting flesh, reached for Bill with viscid hands. Others of their kind had come out from the trees or behind the marble headstones or perhaps up from the very ground itself.

Bill grew confused, as if someone had pumped him full of six kinds of drugs, or Satan had thrown open the door to a crazy house. Because words and images flashed across his mind, things green and quick and not of this earth. He felt Nettie being pulled from his arms as he squirmed under the hothouse assault. Tongues writhed near his cheek like snakes.

"Nettie!" he screamed, swinging his fists like sledgehammers against the blanched pulpy meat of the hellspawn.

Floodlights suddenly erupted, giving detail to the horror, revealing the devil's hordes. Their mouths opened in apocalyptic glee. They had seen the light. And the light exposed their ungodly hunger.

***

DeWalt stumbled, and then regained his footing. His legs were sodden tree stumps, dense granite pillars, tonnage. He absently reached into his front pocket for the habit of his pipe. He was putting it to his lips when he was struck by the vision of tobacco plants under a gleaming sun, rows upon rows waving their fat juicy leaves in shimmering reverence, full fields of rich decadence and sharp dewy blossoms, green armies with their nicotine arsenals. He tossed the pipe into the undergrowth.

DeWalt looked around at the long shadows of branches and the looming treetops. Even under the full moon, the night woods were secret and treacherous.