Over the course of a manic morning she was to hear many more tales of splitting headaches and nosebleeds, strange vibrations and worries of earthquakes. She didn’t see the pattern until she got a break at lunchtime, and by then the source was all too obvious.
3
Fred had been up for the best part of an hour. The nosebleed had obviously stopped of its own accord overnight, but he stood at the washroom mirror for a long time before he could bring himself to clean up the mess. He was frightened that if he touched the coagulated blob below his nostril and dislodged it, he might let loose a flow he couldn’t stop.
Is this it? Is this the first sign?
He’d been drinking constantly for months now. Tony at the bar had warned it was all going to catch up to him one of these days. But
one of these days
hadn’t come, and Fred had kept at the booze like a man on a mission.
And now here it is.
He found that it actually worried him. Not enough to get him to stop, but enough for him to think that he might do so…sometime. That thought was enough to get him moving. He dabbed at his nose, gingerly at first, then with more intent when he saw he was in no imminent danger of bleeding out. He was relieved to find that he cleaned up nicely, the blood washing off and leaving no trace behind apart from a still-raw tenderness in each nostril and a taste of copper at the back of his throat.
If only everything could be wiped so readily.
He had finished his third smoke and had just fetched the first beer of the day from the fridge when someone knocked on the trailer door. He ignored it to start with, and turned up the television, but the knocking got more insistent. Whoever was there knew Fred was inside, and wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“Come on, lad, get your shit together,” a well-known voice shouted. “I got a job for you. Cash in hand, no questions asked.”
Fred knew Charlie Watson’s kind of jobs. Shit shoveling, garbage collecting, septic tank cleaning—all the crap nobody else wanted to deal with.
Except those that don’t have any other choice. Those like me.
Charlie knocked again.
“Fuck off. I’m not here,” Fred shouted.
He heard the old man laugh.
“A hundred bucks says you are.”
A hundred bucks would cover his booze bill for the coming weekend. That got him out of his chair. He rose and put the beer back in the fridge.
“Later, baby,” he whispered, and opened the trailer door.
Charlie spat out a thick clump of tobacco and squinted up at Fred.
“You look like warmed-up shit, boy,” the older man said. “You need to cut down on the booze.”
“You’re one to talk,” Fred replied, and lit up another smoke, making sure he kept upwind of Charlie. Some days the stench was enough to make you gag. It wasn’t so bad this morning, but the odd-job man still smelled like a wet dog that had rolled in a cow pat, and he looked like he’d been soaking in shit and piss his whole life—which wasn’t too far off the mark these past few years. Charlie was Fred’s main drinking buddy, a man who could be relied on for company at any bar in town, and a willing ally in the quest for oblivion after a bad day. When he wasn’t doing that, he was trying to find enough dirty work to pay for his nights. It looked like he’d found something.
“So what’s the job?” Fred asked. He spotted that Charlie had a red stain in his moustache, to match the yellow nicotine streak in the gray. He remembered his own nosebleed, and the futile efforts to clean a shirt that was now consigned to the garbage bag.
“Something’s going on in Hopman’s Hollow,” Charlie replied, heading for his battered pickup, expecting Fred to follow. “Ain’t too sure what yet, just that there’s a shitload of clearing up to do, and the money’s there, if you want it?”
“I want it,” Fred called after him. “Give me a second.”
He went back inside the trailer and changed into his work gear—a denim shirt and Wranglers that might last out the year if he didn’t put too much effort in. His work boots were in a similar state of disrepair, the left one starting to come away from the sole.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
He pulled the boots on, only then realizing that they were still damp from three days before when Charlie had them clearing out a creek on the west side of town. He squelched slightly as he stepped down out of the trailer.
Charlie was already in the pickup, waiting, a crumpled smoke dangling from the right side of his mouth. Fred got in the passenger seat, sat as close to the door as he could, and rolled down the window. If anything, the smell was worse inside the truck, and even lighting a cigarette of his own didn’t help matters. He breathed through his mouth. It helped some, but not much. He was grateful he hadn’t managed to eat any breakfast, for it would surely have made another appearance by now.
The old man didn’t seem to notice. He put the truck in gear, an action that made the old box creak and grind. The muffler let out two loud bangs, and the truck finally wheezed into life and crept away from the trailer. The vehicle didn’t have many more miles left in it.
Much like me
, Fred thought, then smacked himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. He was spending too much time locked in his head. Maybe this jaunt with Charlie was just what was needed to take his mind off things.
If Charlie saw Fred’s frustration, he didn’t mention it.
“Some news, huh?” the old man said as they drove through the trailer park.
“Ain’t seen any yet,” Fred replied, intent on keeping any chat to a minimum until he could get out into the fresh air. “What’s up?”
“Just half the town coming down sick, that’s what’s up,” Charlie replied, and laughed, a high whiny thing like a hyena in pain. “Headaches and nosebleeds. Even had a touch of it myself just after midnight, but a couple of slugs of Jack put paid to it quick enough. Ain’t a headache in the world that Jack can’t shift.”
“Amen to that,” Fred replied, and wished, not for the last time that morning, that he’d stayed in his trailer and tested that hypothesis.
* * *
Fall was almost over. The trees lining the highway had lost the vibrant red and oranges from their foliage and had settled for dirty brown scraps that fluttered and fell like dying birds in the slight breeze. The sky hung over them like a piece of blue porcelain, and the wind coming through the open window was bracing, to say the least. But as the old truck gained speed, Charlie’s body odor seemed to dispel, and Fred even started to enjoy the ride.
Unfortunately, they weren’t going far.
Not nearly far enough.
Hopman’s Hollow was little more than a boggy pond a mile out on the eastern edge of town, just off the main highway. Or rather, it had been when Fred last passed it a week before. Since then it had taken on pretensions of being a small lake, having grown to three times its previous size. It now covered an area nearly the size of a football field, and the murky water lapped up close to the road.
As they got closer still, Fred saw that a small offshoot from the main body of water had undermined a patch of John Hopman’s land at the rear of his house. Fred’s heart sank as he saw the exposed septic tank, its contents clearly oozing from a rupture at the rear end into the new expanse of pond below it. The tank itself, a cylinder some eight feet long and four feet in diameter, hung precariously over the new shoreline.
More shit shoveling.
John Hopman stood on his lawn, arms crossed, staring grimly at the enlarged hollow. He acknowledged their presence with a nod as they parked at the end of his drive.
“Think you can do something, Charlie?” the landowner said.
The landowner had a drop of fresh blood under his left nostril, but Fred knew better than to mention it. There was little sense in further riling a man who was clearly in a foul mood. Besides, the Hopmans weren’t known for their goodwill and hospitality. The family had been the richest folks in town for over a century now; most land, biggest house, and loudest voice in any decisions made by the town council. They were feared and hated in equal measure, but never loved, and Fred had always tried to keep his dealings with them to a minimum. He was surprised that Charlie had brought them here in the first place, for the old man had, on many occasions, made his feelings about
the first family
perfectly clear.
Parasites, leeches and worms; and that’s just the good ones.
Fred was woolgathering. Again. He nodded in John Hopman’s direction, and turned to go after Charlie.
The older man was already over by the septic tank. Fred walked over to join him, aware that the
hum
was back—distant but noticeable. His headache returned with a vengeance, pounding behind his right eye.
“Get over here, lad,” Charlie said. “It’s going to take both of us to stop this booger toppling over. Ain’t like it’s the first time I’ve had you work through a hangover, is it?”
Seconds later Fred was knee deep in muddy water that had too many suspicious bits floating in it to think about. He had most of the weight of the septic tank on his shoulder, and as Charlie pushed from one side some of the contents spilled out and ran down the front of Fred’s shirt.
Another one ruined.
Fred took as much of the weight as he could, and tried not to breathe too heavily as Charlie attempted to right the tank. From what Fred could see, it wasn’t going to happen—they’d need some heavy lifting gear to help. He was about to tell that to Charlie when things got a lot worse.
It happened fast.
Hopman was being sensible and stood well back, which was just as well for the bank that had been supporting the tank gave way completely, sending it, and the two workmen, tumbling into deeper water. The edge of the tank struck Charlie a glancing blow on the brow. Fred saw blood spurt, just before the older man and the tank started to sink. As he started to go under, Charlie’s eyes rolled up to show only white.
Fred didn’t wait to think. He let go of the tank and dived for Charlie, catching the man just as his head dipped below the surface. He was aware that the septic tank was sinking fast, burps and gurgles accompanying it as it fell from sight, but Fred was fixed on helping the older man. He gathered Charlie up in his arms and, making sure he had solid footing beneath him, started to wade back toward the new area of banking. He was dismayed to see the sides crumble away from him, the pond growing faster than his wading pace. Hopman was still up on his rapidly shrinking lawn, staring aghast at the growing expanse of muddy water that threatened to overwhelm his property.
“Give me a hand here,” Fred shouted. At the same moment he felt the water
sucking
at his legs, threatening to sweep him off his feet. He struggled forward as fast as he could manage, Charlie a dead weight in his arms.
Hopman’s gaze shifted, looking over Fred’s shoulder. The landowner’s face went white, and Fred didn’t have to look back to know he was in trouble. The tugging at his legs got stronger fast and seconds later the current lifted his feet off the bottom. He rearranged his hold on Charlie to ensure the man’s mouth would stay above water and started to swim with his free arm, kicking hard. The tide pulled harder.
“For pity’s sake, Hopman, help us,” he shouted.
The man didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the center of the pond, eyes wide; mouth open in astonishment.
Fred put all he had into the swimming stroke. He finally felt something solid underneath him and was able to plant his legs down. It had to be the septic tank, lodged somewhere below on the bed of the pond. He stumbled and fell forward, just as the water sucked away from beneath him, as if someone had pulled out a plug. The tide pulled at Charlie, threatened to tug him out of Fred’s grasp. He gripped tightly at the old man’s shirt, praying that it would hold. Water roared and foamed all around him.
Suddenly all went quiet.
Fred, with Charlie beside him, lay across the top of the septic tank, half of which was embedded in a steep muddy bank.
* * *
A voice called down to them.
“You still alive down there?”
John Hopman was some feet above, looking down, then past them. Fred followed his gaze and almost forgot to breathe.
The septic tank was perched on the edge of a drop that fell away out of his view, but the sound of water dropping into the new chasm told him it was of some depth. The pond no longer existed. In its place was a huge muddy hole that even now was falling in at the edges, soft clay soil seeping farther into the gaping hole.
Fred shifted his weight, and the septic tank lurched to one side alarmingly before settling again.
“Get some rope,” he said to Hopman. “And you’d better do it quick.”
Hopman complied this time, and moved away out of sight. Fred made sure that they were in no immediate danger of toppling backward into the hole, and checked on Charlie. The older man was out cold, his face white with only a high patch of color on each cheek. The wound at his brow looked superficial, although it was still bleeding, and he was breathing, fast and shallow, but breathing.