Norton, Andre - Anthology (12 page)

 
          
 
He'd fainted again. His hand had slipped from
the tourniquet, and though I knew it should be loosened every so often, I
wondered how much blood Uncle Bob had lost and how much more he could afford to
lose.

 
          
 
Tightening the belt, I caught an end of the
stick in one 96 of his belt loops. Now I could safely let go of it. But what
could I do instead? Sitting there in the darkness, shivering in the night chill,
I really didn't know.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob needed a doctor, a hospital. Help
would be needed to move him. If I could get to the pickup, parked about a half
mile away, I could call for help on the CB, the citizens' band two-way radio.

 
          
 
The pitch-black night had substance. It shook
with the growls and snorts of the beast as I eased toward the far side of the
lodgepole
pines. At the edge of the grove I peered out into
the open darkness. The sounds of the beast were far behind me. All I had to do
now was move toward the pickup as quietly as possible.

 
          
 
But I couldn't do it. I'd forgotten to get the
keys. I'd need them to unlock the pickup and the ignition lock. Otherwise the
CB wouldn't work.

 
          
 
Ashamed as I am now to admit it, I was glad I
didn't have to leave the shelter of the pines. And when the beast suddenly came
raging and snorting around the grove I felt relieved and lucky as well.

 
          
 
Scrambling back into the pines, I tried to
move silently. But the darkness became thicker, and behind me, the creature
tried to thrust into the pines. Limbs swayed overhead. The big nostrils snorted
in frustration. A blast of its hot breath swept pine needles up and around me.

 
          
 
Crawling around in my fright, I lost my way. I
couldn't find Uncle Bob. Bumping into trees, I called softly but there was no
answer, and thoughts of how I never should have left him alone plagued me.
Suppose the tourniquet had loosened. Suppose he was bleeding to death. It would
be my fault. Once again I'd tried to tackle something too big for me. I shivered
because I was cold and because I was scared. Maybe I was crying a little, too.

 
          
 
Then I heard a sort of sobbing sound—this time
not my own. Pausing, I listened until it came again. It was
a
Uncle Bob. He was delirious.

 
          
 
Carefully loosening the tourniquet, I detected
no sign of new bleeding, and throughout the rest of that horrible
night—listening to his moans—I checked it from time to time. It would have been
easier if I could have talked to him—gotten his advice—but it was just
me
and that rumbling monster. Uncle Bob stayed unconscious,
and I was going to have to face things—the beast and myself—alone.

 
          
 
Along toward dawn, when my eyes had adjusted
to the darkness, I got Uncle Bob's car keys. Then, shivering, I removed my
shirt and tore it into strips to bandage his thigh. With more strips of shirt
and two strong lengths of fallen branches, I splinted his broken thigh the way
I'd been taught in Scouts. I'd never splinted a real fracture before, and I hoped
it was all right.

 
          
 
The grayness of dawn had begun to sneak
through the trees by the time I had finished. So I crept toward the edge of the
pines where the rhythmic sounds of the beast were louder. Peering out at the
huge, lion-colored form, I saw that its eyes were closed. It was asleep. Those
rumbling sounds that had terrified me throughout the night were snores!

 
          
 
Moving quietly to the far side of the grove I
paused, breathing hard, shivering and sweating. Maybe I should just stay with
Uncle Bob until people came looking for us. I'd be alive, but would Uncle Bob?

 
          
 
Breathing deeply, I stepped out from the
lodgepole
pines. My legs felt like wood, and fright was
like a beast inside me, trying to get out. I had to force myself not to look
back. I had to keep going. If it rushed after me, I'd certainly hear it.

 
          
 
The pickup was on the other side of a little
hill just ahead of me. I wanted to run but knew that the noise would wake the
beast. When I finally reached the brow of the hill, glinted off the windshield.
It was an encouraging sight and I moved ahead too eagerly. A rock tumbled down
the hill.

 
          
 
Back by the pines a faint snore became a
startled eruption of sound. Though I couldn't yet see the beast, the blasts of
barking sounds were enough to convince me to run. Scrambling down the hill,
practically falling, I glanced over my shoulder. It was going to be close.
Frantically I dug into my pockets for the keys. Maybe I wouldn't make it.

 
          
 
Both my mind and body raced. I thought of my
conversation with Uncle Bob yesterday and about all the things I wanted to tell
him during the night. Now, with no assurance that I might be right, I was going
to have to face it alone. The clicking of the beast's huge claws on the rocks
behind me was a terrifying reminder.

 
          
 
Fumbling with the keys, turning them in the
lock, I felt the creature's hot breath. The door was open! But the beast was
there, blocking me from shutting it. I scurried back across the seat. It was
the moment of truth.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob kept a revolver in the glove
compartment. He had taught me how to use it, but I hesitated.
A revolver bullet?
Big-game hunters used special
high-powered rifles. A revolver bullet would only make the beast angry. It
would never kill it.

 
          
 
The beast rocked the pickup in its efforts to
get to me. Any moment it was apt to turn the whole thing over and wreck the CB
radio antenna.
And then what?
I reached toward the
glove compartment. Maybe I should take a chance and try shooting at it. Or
maybe I should take a different chance—one I had wanted to discuss with Uncle
Bob.

 
          
 
I had my hand on the glove compartment but I
didn't open it. I faced the huge pug-nosed face that was slobbering and
growling through the open door. In that instant, fragments of my first
impressions of the beast began to fit together. Or did they? Maybe it was just
wishful thinking. Maybe I'd better get the gun.

           
 
The monster growled deep in its throat, its
hot breath steaming the windshield. The pickup rocked wildly. I braced against
the dash and clung to the steering wheel. I shouted, but this time it was not a
meaningless, frightened yell. The fright was there, of course, but this time I
shouted words—commands.
And if I were wrong—if they had no
effect?

 
          
 
"No! Down! Stay!" Somehow my aching
lungs took in another breath.
"Down!
Stay, Mingo,
stay! Mingo . . ."

 
          
 
Yes, the beast did look like a mammoth Chinese
pug. It had the same coloring, face, and grunting sounds of Aunt Beth's Mingo.
That's what I had wanted to discuss with Uncle Bob last night. I wanted to know
if he thought it possible that the radioactive rain could have caused a dog to
grow to such an unbelievable size. Mingo had been lost just before that
destructive drenching rain, and this giant creature, despite its size, strongly
resembled that tiny champion pug.

 
          
 
"Mingo!"
I
shouted again.
"Down!
Sit!"

 
          
 
Did those eyes look less angry? Were they ever
really angry or were they just alight with the friendliness of a lonely pet? I
yelled to make myself heard above the loud,
puglike
grunting sounds.
"Mingo!
Sit! Sit, Mingo!"

 
          
 
For a horrible moment he stared, blowing his
breath into my face. Then he backed off and sat on the ground, his head as high
as the cab roof, his eyes alert,
his
breath quick and
eager.

 
          
 
"Good boy," I said, my voice shaking
and squeaking. "Good boy. Stay, Mingo."

 
          
 
I put the key in the ignition switch, turned
it,
then
called into the CB mike. "
Ten thirty-three
.
Ten thirty-three
." That was the emergency CB distress
call. Voices answered. I told the
CBers
—and the
police who had also tuned in—what had happened and where to find us. Before I
signed off I had one more urgent thing to say.

           
 
"Please, do not be frightened by the big
animal with me. He's just an oversized friendly dog. Please do not think you
have to shoot him. Please!"

 
          
 
Later that day when I was finally able to
visit Uncle Bob in the hospital, I told him how I had helped get Mingo to a
high-fenced corral belonging to a veterinarian who specialized in treating
large animals. Everyone—the vet, doctors, and scientists—all thanked me for
alerting the police not to kill Mingo, large and fearsome as he looked. He was
going to be a great source of study and research, and privately, for Aunt
Beth's sake, I hoped they might even discover how to get him back to normal
size.

 
          
 
When I finished my story, Uncle Bob gave me a
funny little smile. "I think the biggest discovery has already been
made," he said. "And you made it when you faced up to something big
without a chip on your shoulder."

 
          
 
I nodded, beginning to understand. "If
I'd grabbed your gun, I could have spoiled it all by shooting at Mingo.
And," I admitted sheepishly, "I guess I've spoiled a lot of things
because . . . because they were bigger than me . . . and because I was just a
runt. . . ."

 
          
 
Uncle Bob smiled. "What matters is how
big you are inside." He reached out and grasped my hand. "Thanks for
what you did for me."

 
          
 
It was great to shake his hand and not have
him mad at me for something I'd done wrong. It was a nice feeling and I was
going to try and keep it that way—from now on.

            
Kevin
Wheatmore
thought how unfair it was to be twelve and have to
trim the hedge instead of reading his new book on interplanetary survival.

            
"Didn't you know
two weeks ago about the book report?" his father asked.

            
"Sure, but you don't
understand. . . ." He didn't say any more. He never knew how to answer questions
like that.

            
"Be as sullen as
you want, but finish that hedge." His father returned to the other side of
the house and Kevin heard him start the lawn mower. Then, over the mower's drone,
he heard a
jetlike
whine that came closer and closer.

            
A fireball circled the
house next door, smashing into the chimney. A loud explosion resulted and the house
went up in flames.

            
Just before it struck
the chimney, a green opalescent figure emerged from the burning machine. It darted
convulsively back and forth over the houses before diving into

the
Holmans
' back yard.

 
          
 
"Call the fire department, Mom,"
Kevin shouted as his mother ran out on the front porch. "I'll see if they
need help getting out of the house." He ran toward the rear. The
Holmans
' back door was usually open.

 
          
 
Fourteen-year-old Joyce Holman was a good
friend. Kevin had seen her return home on her bike about half an hour ago, and
when he reached their yard, he was relieved to see that both Joyce and her
parents were safe. They were gathered around the green creature that had
flattened their zinnia bed.

 
          
 
The thing was as large as the outdoor cooker
nearby, and it was shaped like the wasp pupae he and Joyce had found last
summer. But this thing was not dormant. Pulsing and wiggling, its wing pads,
feelers, mouth parts, and legs were tightly folded against its body. It smelled
like fermenting grass.

 
          
 
As Kevin hurried toward the group, he saw a
green appendage whip toward Mr. Holman. Another wrapped around Joyce and her
mother. A green quivering mass enveloped them. Mr. Holman's hammer dropped to
the ground. The
Holmans
were gone.

 
          
 
Kevin's stomach surged but he grabbed a board
leaning against the fence and ran toward the monster.

 
          
 
"You can't get away with that. Joyce is
my friend. The
Holmans
are our neighbors."

 
          
 
He struck the monster with the board only to
have it jerked away from him.

 
          
 
As he watched the contorting insect body,
Kevin thought he was going crazy. Moving like dough being kneaded, it took on
the form of Joyce Holman. It reached toward Kevin.

 
          
 
"Don't you touch me," he shouted.
But before he could dodge the green hand, it grabbed his wrist. A painful
burning sensation spread across his skin. His arm was being drawn into the
monster. He screamed.

           
 
For a moment Kevin thought it was his scream
that made the monster drop his arm, but it must have been the fire sirens as
the engines blasted their arrival. The creature clapped its hands over its
ears—Joyce's ears.

 
          
 
"I forgot about the cursed sounds of this
planet," a voice that sounded like Joyce's said. The thing had taken on
the insect shape again, but as the sirens began to wind down, Joyce's figure
returned. This time a flesh color spread over the skin, and short brown hair
curled over the head. Except for the bloodshot eyes that glared at Kevin from
an angry face, it looked just like Joyce.

 
          
 
Firemen, dragging extension ladders, hoses,
and chemical packs, came around the house. Kevin's mother and dad were with
them. Mrs.
Wheatmore
rushed toward Joyce.

 
          
 
"Don't touch her, Mom. She's a
monster!"

 
          
 
"Oh, Kevin!"
Mrs.
Wheatmore
took Joyce in her arms and nothing
happened.

 
          
 
"My mother and dad!
They're in there!" Joyce pointed to the burning house. Firemen were just
about to dart into it when the roof collapsed. Kevin's mother and father tried
to console Joyce.

 
          
 
"Mom!
Dad! Be
careful! She ate the
Holmans
!" Kevin shouted.
"That's not Joyce, I tell you. She's a monster!"

 
          
 
"Kevin, that's enough," roared his
father.

 
          
 
"Excuse me, mister, but the kid is
suffering from shock," one of the firemen said. "Nothing could live
in that building. He knows it. Look at the burn on his arm. He's a brave kid.
Must have tried to save them."

 
          
 
The
Wheatmores
took
Kevin arid Joyce home, and Dr. Brennan was called to treat Kevin's arm.

 
          
 
"This shot will put you to sleep for a
while," Dr. Brennan said. "When you wake up, everything will be all
right."

 
          
 
"No, you've got to listen to me. . .
." The injection took effect.

           
 
It was late in the evening when Kevin woke up.
The pain in his bandaged arm brought back the memory of the fire and the
Holmans
. He sat upright in bed. Were his mother and dad
safe? Where was the space alien now?

 
          
 
Suddenly he was aware that his door was
opening, and that a strong odor of fermenting grass permeated the room. The
creature, using only the rough figure of a human body to allow it to walk,
stood in the doorway. "I want you," it said. "I need your
help." Its voice began with Mr. Holman's deep tone and pitched to Joyce's
voice.

 
          
 
"What have you done with my mother and
dad?" Kevin didn't know that anyone whose heart was pounding as hard as
his could still live.

 
          
 
"Your mother and father are downstairs
watching television—the noise box. I need them so that everything will seem
normal until the pack arrives on this planet."

 
          
 
"What planet do you come from?"

 
          
 
"From
Olgorin
.
In two weeks
Olgorin
will be in a positive position to condense messages from earth via the nuclear
frequency accelerator. Then my pack will swarm. But you must help me find a
quiet place where I can send my signals. There are too many city sounds
here."

 
          
 
"This pack—are
they like you?"

 
          
 
"Of course.
We
are
creatwasps
. I'm in a stage of travel
transformation and I need food."

 
          
 
"Is everyone on
Olgorin
like you?"

 
          
 
"We are the only ones remaining now. That
is why I am here as a scout."

 
          
 
"What you mean is that you're coming here
for food. We would be your food." Kevin found it difficult not to scream
at the creature. "There are small animals in the fields along the highways
on the edge of town. Why don't you eat them?" The
creatwasp
didn't answer. It only shrugged its half-human shoulders and left the room. It
was decided that because Joyce's only relative was a bachelor uncle who
traveled, Joyce would stay with the
Wheatmores
. She
settled into the guest room.

 
          
 
The
creatwasp
had
been able to take over Joyce's figure, voice, and mannerisms so well that it
had no identity trouble with her friends or teachers. Only Kevin could not
forget what she was, and the urgency of proving this to others before the
creatwasp
pack swarmed to earth got him into trouble. He tried
again to warn his father, but it accomplished nothing.

 
          
 
"Tell me, Kevin. Hasn't Joyce always been
your friend? Didn't she teach you to dive rather than belly flop last
summer?"

           
 
"But that was Joyce, Dad. This is a
creatwasp
. You read about all the cats and dogs that are
missing. Well, Joyce—"

 
          
 
"Stop it. That's a terrible thing to say
about the poor girl."

 
          
 
"Dad, just smell her. You'll know."

 
          
 
"That's enough, Kevin." The subject
was closed. A week after the fire, Kevin took the homeroom attendance record to
the office where the principal's door was open. Joyce was in the room with him,
and Kevin could hear some of their conversation.

 
          
 
"I know that you have gone through a
terrible experience, Joyce, but it doesn't give you the right to be impertinent.
Miss Jones told me that when she asked you to put the algebra problem on the
board, you barked at her."

 
          
 
"Meow, meow," Joyce answered. From
where he stood, Kevin saw the back of Joyce's neck turn green. She was having
trouble controlling herself. When Joyce noticed him, Kevin hurried out of the
office.

 
          
 
Two days later the newspaper carried the story
of the principal's disappearance. "No clues ... no notes ... no ransom
letters," Mr.
Wheatmore
sighed, quoting the
news-paper at dinner.

           
 
"Kevin, eat your dinner," his mother
said. "You're getting so thin."

 
          
 
"I'm really not hungry. I've got so much
homework,
I'd like to be excused."

 
          
 
Waiting upstairs until he heard Joyce go to
her room, Kevin turned on his favorite radio station. It was rock—the Mama
Bugs. He liked to listen at full volume. Soon his parents would settle down in
front of the television and he could talk to Joyce. He didn't really expect her
to listen to reason though.

 
          
 
"Come in." The
creatwasp's
voice sounded like the school principal's. Opening the door, Kevin was repulsed
at what he saw. Though the
creatwasp
was partially in
its original shape, its head was a green version of Joyce's, collie paws rested
on the arms of the chair, and a cat's tail twitched from the insect body.

 
          
 
"Turn off that radio!" The
creatwasp
lunged at him, placing two collie paws on his
chest. Kevin shoved against it with both hands.

 
          
 
"Do it now!" Strong insect mandibles
thrust near his face.

 
          
 
"Let me go and I'll turn it off."
The
creatwasp
followed Kevin across the hall to his
room. As he snapped off the radio, the
creatwasp
returned to Joyce's form, though it still had some difficulty with the collie
paws.

 
          
 
"Small animals do not agree with
me," the
creatwasp
said. "You saw what
happened in the principal's office the other day."