Blue World

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Yellowjackets!” he gasped. “Must’ve been a million in here!”

  “Not that many,” Toby told him. “It’s yellowjacket summer. But don’t worry about ’em now. You’re safe.” He was smiling, and he lifted his right hand.

  The boy’s hand was covered with them, layer upon layer of them, until it looked as if the hand had grown to grotesque proportions, the huge fingers striped with yellow and black.

  Joe stood staring, openmouthed and terrified. The other toy whistled again—this time a short, sharp whistle—and he yellowjackets stirred lazily, humming and buzzing and finally lifting off from his hand in a dark cloud that rose up and flew away into the woods.

  “See?” Toby slid his hand into his jeans pocket. “I said you were safe, didn’t I?”

  “How…how…did you do—”

  “Joe!” It was his mother, calling him. “Come on!”

  He wanted to run, wanted to leave tornadoes whirling under his sneakers, but he forced himself to walk at a steady pace around the gas station to where his mother and Irish were out of the Voyager and waiting for him. He could hear the crunch of the other boy’s shoes on the gravel, following right behind him. “Hey!” Joe said, his face tightening as he tried to smile. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “We thought we’d lost you! What took you so long?”

  Before Joe could answer, a hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. “Got hisself stuck in the bathroom,” Toby told her. “Old door oughta be fixed. Ain’t that right?” The pressure of his hand increased.

  Joe heard a thin buzzing. He looked down, saw that the hand clamped to his shoulder had a yellowjacket lodged between the first and second fingers.

  “Mom?” Joe said softly. “I was—” He stopped, because beyond his mother and sister he could see a dark banner—maybe two or three hundred yellowjackets—slowly undulating in the bright sunshine over the road.

  “You okay?” Carla asked. Joe looked like he was about to upchuck.

  “I think he’ll live, ma’am,” Toby said, and he laughed. “Just scared him a little, I guess.”

  “Oh. Well…we’re going to get a bite to eat and something cold to drink, Joe. He says there’s a café right around the bend.”

  Joe nodded, but his stomach was churning. He heard the boy give a low, weird whistle, so soft that his mother couldn’t possibly have heard; the yellowjacket flew off from between the boy’s fingers, and the awful waiting cloud of them began to break apart.

  “Just ’bout lunchtime!” Toby announced. “Think I’ll walk thataway with ya’ll.”

  The sun burned down. A layer of yellow dust seemed to hang in the air. “It’s hot, Momma!” Trish complained before they’d walked ten yards away from the gas station, and Carla felt sweat creeping down her back under her pale blue blouse. Joe followed further behind, with the red-haired boy named Toby right on his heels.

  The road curved through the pine woods toward the town of Capshaw. It wasn’t much of a town, Carla saw in another couple of minutes; there were a few unkempt-looking wooden houses, a general store with a CLOSED PLEASE COME AGAIN sign in the front window, a small whitewashed church, and a white stone building with a rust-eaten sign that announced it as the CLAYTON CAFÉ. In the gravel parking lot were an old gray Buick, a pickup truck of many colors, and a little red sports car with the convertible top pulled down.

  The town was quiet except for the distant cawing of a crow. It amazed Carla that such a primitive-looking place should exist just seven or eight miles off the main highway. In an age of interstates and rapid travel, it was easy to forget that little hamlets like this still stood on the back roads—and Carla felt like kicking herself in the butt for getting them into this mess. Now they were really going to be late getting to St. Simons Island!

  “Afternoon, Mr. Winslow!” Toby called, and waved to someone off to the left.

  Carla looked. On the front porch of a rundown old house sat a white-haired man in overalls. He sat without moving, and Carla thought he looked like a wax dummy. But then she saw a swirl of smoke rise from his corncob pipe, and he lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Hot day today!” Toby said. “It’s lunchtime! You comin’?”

  “Directly,” the man answered.

  “Best fetch Miss Nancy, then. Got some tourists passin’ through!”

  “I can see,” the white-haired man said.

  “Yeah.” Toby grinned at him. “They’re goin’ to St. Simons Island. Long way from here, huh?”

  The man stood up from his chair and went into the house.

  “Mom?” Joe’s voice was tense. “I don’t think we ought to—”

  “Like your shirt,” Toby interrupted, plucking at it. “It’s nice and clean.”

  And then they were at the Clayton Café, and Carla was going inside, her hand holding Trish’s. A little sign said WE’RE AIR-CONDITIONED! But if that was so, the air-conditioning was not functioning; it was as hot in the café as it was on the road.

  The place was small, with a floor of discolored linoleum and a counter colored mustard yellow. There were a few tables and chairs and a jukebox pushed back against the wall.

  “Lunchtime!” Toby called merrily as he followed Joe through the door and shut it behind them. “Brought some tourists today, Emma!”

  Something rattled back in the kitchen. “Come say hello, Emma!” Toby urged.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and a thin woman with gray hair, a deeply wrinkled face, and somber brown eyes came out. Her gaze went to Carla first, then to Joe, finally lingered on Trish.

  “What’s for lunch?” Toby asked her. Then he held up a finger. “Wait! I bet I know! Uh…alphabet soup, potato chips, and peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches! Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Emma replied, and now she stared at the boy. “That’s right, Toby.”

  “I knew it! See, folks around here used to say I was special. Used to say I knew things that shouldn’t be known.” He tapped the side of his skull. “Used to say I had the beckonin’ touch. Ain’t that right, Emma?”

  She nodded, her arms limp at her sides.

  Carla didn’t know what the boy was talking about, but his tone of voice gave her the creeps. Suddenly it seemed way too cramped in this place, too hot and bright, and Trish said, “Ow, Mommy!” because she was squeezing the child’s hand too tightly. Carla loosened her grip. “Listen,” she said to Toby, “maybe I should call my husband. He’s at the Sheraton on St. Simons Island. He’ll be real worried if I don’t check in with him. Is there a phone I can use somewhere?”

  “Nope,” Emma said. “Sorry.” Her gaze slid toward the wall, and Carla saw an outline there where the pay phone had been removed.

  “There’s a phone at the gas station.” Toby sat down at one of the stools facing the counter. “You can call your husband after lunch. By that time, Mase’ll be back from Halliday.” He began to spin himself around and around on the stool. “I’m hungry hungry hungry!” he said.

  “Lunch is comin’ right up.” Emma returned to the kitchen.

  Carla herded Trish toward one of the tables, but Joe just stood there staring at Toby, then the red-haired boy got off his stool and joined them at the table, turning his chair around so he rested his elbows on the back. He smiled, watching Carla with steady pale green eyes. “Quiet town,” she said uneasily.

  “Yep.”

  “How many people live here?”

  “A few. Not too many. I don’t like crowded places. Like Halliday and Double Pines.”

  “What does your father do? Does he work around here?”

  “Naw,” Toby replied. “Can you cook?”

  “Uh… I guess so.” The question had taken her by surprise.

  “Raisin’ kids, you’d have to cook, wouldn’t you?” he asked her, his eyes opaque. “Unless you’re rich and you go out to fancy restaurants every night.”

  “No, I’m not rich.”

  “Nice van you got, though. Bet it cost a lot of money.” He looked over at Joe
and said, “Why don’t you sit down? There’s a chair for you, right beside me.”

  “Can I get a hamburger, Momma?” Trish asked. “And a Pepsi?”

  “Alphabet soup’s on the menu today, little girl. Gonna get you a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, too. That suit you?” Toby reached out to touch the child’s hair.

  But Carla drew Trish closer to her.

  The boy stared at her for a moment, his smile beginning to fade. The silence stretched.

  “I don’t like ’phabet soup,” Trish said softly.

  “You will,” Toby promised. And then his smile came back again, only this time it hung lopsided on his mouth. “I mean… Emma makes the best alphabet soup in town.”

  Carla could not stand to look into the boy’s eyes any longer. She shifted her gaze, and then the door opened and two people came into the café. One was the old white-haired man in overalls, and the other was a skinny girl with dirty-blond hair and a face that might’ve been pretty if it was clean. She was about twenty or twenty-five, Carla thought, and she wore stained khaki slacks, a pink blouse that had been resewn in many places, and a pair of Top Siders on her feet. She smelled bad, and her blue eyes were sunken and shocked. Winslow helped her to a chair at another table, where she sat muttering to herself and staring at her filthy hands.

  Neither Carla nor Joe could help but notice the swollen bites that pocked her face, the welts going right up into her hairline.

  “My God,” Carla whispered. “What…happened to—”

  “Mase called on her,” Toby said. “He’s sweet on Miss Nancy.”

  Winslow sat down at a table by himself, lit his pipe, and smoked it in grave silence.

  Emma came out with a tray, carrying bowls of soup, little bags of potato chips, and the sandwiches. She began to serve Toby first. “Have to go to the grocery store pretty soon,” she said. “We’re runnin’ low on near ’bout everythin’.”

  Toby started chewing on his sandwich and didn’t reply.

  “My bread’s got crust,” Trish whispered to her mother; sweat clung to her face, and her eyes were round and frightened.

  It was so hot in the café that Carla could hardly bear it. Her blouse was soaked with sweat, and now the unwashed smell of Miss Nancy almost sickened her. She felt Toby watching her, and suddenly she found herself wanting to scream. “Excuse me,” she managed to say to Emma, “but my little girl doesn’t like to eat the crust on bread. Do you have a knife?”

  Emma blinked, did not answer, her hand hesitated as she put a bowl of soup in front of Joe. Winslow laughed quietly, a laugh devoid of mirth.

  “Sure thing,” Toby said as he reached into his jeans pocket. He brought out a folding knife, got the blade extended. “I’ll do it,” he offered, and started carving the crust away.

  “Ma’am? Here’s your soup.” Emma put a bowl in front of her.

  Carla knew she couldn’t take a bite of hot soup, not in this already-steaming place. “Can we…have something cold to drink, please?”

  “Nothin’ but water here,” Emma said. “Ice machine’s broke. Hush up and eat your, soup.” She moved away to serve Miss Nancy.

  And then Carla saw it.

  Right there. Spelled out in letters, floating on the top of her alphabet soup.

  Boys crazy.

  The knife was at work, carving, carving.

  Carla’s throat was dust-dry, but she swallowed anyway. Her eyes watched the moving blade, so terribly close to her little girl’s throat.

  “I said, eat it!” Emma almost shouted.

  Carla understood. She put her spoon into the bowl, churned up the letters so he wouldn’t see, then took a mouthful that all but seared her tongue.

  “Like it?” Toby asked Trish, holding the blade before her face. “Look at it shine! Ain’t it a pretty th—”

  He did not finish his sentence, because in that instant hot alphabet soup had been flung into his eyes. But not by Carla. By Joe, who had come out of his daze and now grabbed at the knife as Toby cried out and fell backward from his chair. Even blinded, Toby held off Joe as they fought on the floor, and Carla sat transfixed while precious seconds ticked past.

  “Kill him!” Emma screamed. “Kill the little bastard!” She began beating Toby with the tray she held, but in the confusion most of her blows were hitting Joe. Toby flailed out with the knife, snagging Joe’s T-shirt and ripping a hole in it. Then Carla was on her feet too, and Miss Nancy was screaming something unintelligible. Carla tried to grab the boy’s wrist, missed, and tried again. Toby shouted and writhed, his face a twisted and terrible rictus, but Joe was holding on to him with all his dwindling strength. “Momma! Momma!” Trish was crying—and then Carla put her foot down on Toby’s wrist and pinned the knife hand to the linoleum.

  The fingers opened, and Joe snatched up the knife.

  Both he and his mother stepped back, and Toby sat up with the fury of hell on his face.

  “Kill him!” Emma shouted, red to the roots of her hair. “Put that knife right through his evil heart!” She started to grab the blade, but Joe moved away from her.

  Winslow was standing up, still calmly smoking his pipe. “Well,” he said quietly, “now you done it. Now you gone and done it.”

  Toby crawled away from them toward the door, wiping his eyes clear with his forearm. He sat up on his knees, then slowly got to his feet.

  “He’s crazy as hell!” Emma said. “He’s killed everybody in this damned town!”

  “Not everybody, Emma,” Toby replied. The smile had returned. “Not yet.”

  Carla had Trish in her arms, and she was so hot she feared she might pass out. All the air was heavy and stagnant, and now Miss Nancy was grinning into her face and pulling at her with her filthy hands.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here,” Carla finally said, “but we’re getting out. Gas or not, we’re leaving.”

  “Are you? Really?” Toby suddenly inhaled, and let the air out in a long, trilling whistle that made Carla’s skin creep. The whistling went on and on. Emma screamed, “Shut him up! Somebody shut him up!”

  The whistling abruptly stopped, on an ascending note.

  “Get out of our way,” Carla said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s yellowjacket summer, lady. Them things are just everywhere.”

  Something touched the café’s window. A dark cloud began to grow, to spread across the outside of the glass.

  “Ever been stung by a yellowjacket, lady?” Toby asked. “I mean bad, deep stung? Stung right to the bone? Stung so bad that you’d scream for somebody to cut your throat and end the misery?”

  The windows were darkening. Miss Nancy whimpered, and began to cower under a table.

  “It’s yellowjacket summer,” Toby repeated. “They come when I call ’em. They do what I want ’em to. Oh, I speak their tongue, lady. I’ve got the beckonin’ touch.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Winslow shook his head. “Now you’ve gone and done it.”

  The bright sunlight was going away. Darkness was falling fast. Carla heard the high, thin droning noise from the thousands of yellowjackets that were collecting on the windows, and a trickle of sweat ran down her face.

  “State trooper come here once. Lookin’ for somebody. I forget who. He says, ‘Boy? Where’re your folks? How come ain’t nobody around here?’ And he was gonna put a call through on his radio, but when he opened his mouth I sent ’em in there. They went right smack down his throat. Oh, you should’ve seen that trooper dance!” Toby giggled at the obscene memory. “They stung him to death from the inside out. But they won’t sting me, ’cause I speak their tongue.”

  The light was almost gone, just a little shard of red-hot sun breaking through when the mass of yellowjackets shifted.

  “Well, go on, then,” Toby said, and motioned toward the door. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Emma said, “Kill him right now! Kill him and they’ll fly off!”

  “Touch me,” Toby warned, “and I’ll make ’
em squeeze through every damned chink in this place. I’ll make ’em sting your eyeballs out and go up your ears. And I’ll make ’em kill the little girl first.”

  “Why? For God’s sake…why?”

  “Because I can,” he answered. “Go on. Your van’s just a short walk.”

  Carla set Trish down. She looked into the boy’s face for a moment, then took the knife from Joe’s hand.

  “Give it here,” Toby ordered.

  She hesitated in the twilight, ran her forearm across her face to mop up some of the sweat, and then she walked to Toby and pressed the blade against his throat. His smile faltered.

  “You’re going to walk with us,” she said, her voice quavering. “You’re going to keep them off, or I swear to God that I’ll shove this right through your neck.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Then you’ll die here with us. I want to live, and I want my children to live, but we’re not staying in this…this insane asylum. I don’t know what you had planned for us but I think I’d rather die. So: which is it?”

  “You won’t kill me, lady.”

  Carla had to make him believe she would, though she didn’t know what she’d do if the time came. She tensed, drove her hand forward in a short, sharp jab. Toby winced, and a little drop of blood ran down his throat.

  “That’s it!” Emma crowed. “Do it! Do it!”

  A yellowjacket suddenly landed on Carla’s cheek. Another on her hand. A third buzzed dangerously close to her left eye.

  The one on her cheek stung her, the pain searing and vicious. It seemed to make her entire spine vibrate as if she’d suffered an electric shock, and tears came to her eyes, but she kept the blade against his throat.

  “One for one,” he said.

  “You’re going to walk with us,” Carla repeated as her cheek started swelling. “If either of my children is hurt, I’ll kill you.” And this time her voice was steady, though four yellowjackets crawled over her knuckles.