As the stranger continued to tug at the worm, David could feel it frantically searching for escape, its thin, sinewy body wiggling in desperation for any place it could hide, but the tweezer’s grip held strong despite the struggle. First the tweezers came into view, still held firmly in the stranger’s cracked fingers. Millimeter by millimeter, more of the tweezers pulled free, until their pinched tips came into focus holding the black hair-like thing. Keeping it as taut as a guitar string between the tweezers and David’s nose, the stranger continued to pull. Two inches. Four. Six. Eight. David experienced a weird slipping sensation deep behind his left eye.
“Big bastard,” said the stranger.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Caught between the urge to shut his eyes and wish it all away, and the shock of the spectacle that was, literally, unraveling before him, David watched as eight inches became ten, then a foot, and it kept coming. As the tweezers continued to pull, the stranger brought the free end of the creature closer and closer until it was mere inches from his own face. The body slowly coiled upon itself, betraying the length of its reach, while the stranger kept pulling. Then, in less than a blink, it sprung, lunging toward the stranger’s own eye. Just as quickly, the stranger lowered the tweezers, causing the worm to miss its target and strike between his cheek and eye.
“Cripes!” the stranger shouted. “Gotta twist her. Hold tight.” Readjusting his grip, the stranger shifted the tweezers so they were perpendicular to the tightened string of the worm and started rolling them between his fingers, wrapping the glistening obsidian string like a piece of black spaghetti. Once the worm had been shortened enough and a safe distance established between its free end and the stranger, he started to pull again, and the sliding sensation returned to David’s nose. After another inch or so, David felt its body squirm in the cavity above his nostril.
“Tickles, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” David breathed in reply.
“Means she’s about out.”
The tickling slowly faded while the man continued the slow turn of the tweezers. David held his breath.
“And here we go,” the man shouted, giving a final yank on the tweezer, freeing the other end of the worm from inside David’s sinuses. A few quick taps on the insides of his nostrils announced the last of the worm’s body had been pulled free. The stranger thumped David’s chest in triumph, hopped off David and took the worm to the fire.
Through his clear right eye David could make out the man’s emaciated body hunched over the fire, and the wiry end of the worm that had just been pulled from his head flailing about, desperate to escape the flames into which the stranger tossed both the tweezers and the worm. The stranger took a seat on the ground, and the two of them listened to the pops as the worm crackled into dust.
The wind shifted and the smoke from the fire began to blow in David’s direction, but before he could move, he pulled in a lungful and fell into a coughing fit. The harder he coughed, the more aware he became of the liquid still in his lungs, and he rolled off the log onto the ground. His coughs turned to hacks, his eyes began to water, and David threw up. As he looked on at the splash of liquid and bile where he had been sitting, his nose twitched. Whether it was the wiggle of another worm or a stray bit of puke, David didn’t know. Either way he started to sneeze violently, interspersed with fits of coughing and gagging. He pressed his eyes shut, hacking and spitting and sneezing while his body did its best to evacuate itself of every bit of foreign matter. As he continued to spew out wretchedness, the stranger placed a hand on his back, patting him lightly, encouraging a successful purge.
“Well, whattya know,” said the stranger, the patting of his hand slowing as David’s outburst arrived at its conclusion. “I guess maybe you can sneeze ‘em out. Looks like you cleared out a few stragglers.”
The man’s hand reached in front of David’s face from behind, pointing to the vile mess that poured out of David. There, wriggling in a wet mound of snot and vomit, were three more worms, freshly expelled from David’s head. The dry grip of the man’s hand clasped the back of his own and lifted it from the log. David tried to pull his hand free, but the man held tight.
“Not so fast, boy. Ya gotta kill ‘em.”
The wet, messy pile let out a horrible smack as David’s hand, guided by the stranger, slammed onto it, crushing the remaining wrigglers into a paste of nastiness.
“Now, you can sleep if you want.”
With nothing left to throw up, David dry heaved, laid his head and body down on the dusty ground between the log and fire and passed out.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A HINT OF POISON
“—dumped in my truck and stole my CDs. What would you suggest I do?”
David scooted closer to the two men seated on the shabby couch opposite him, dragging the feet of his wooden chair across the concrete in little scrapes and scratches. The TV behind him still buzzed with whatever video game he interrupted. With the icy way they both glowered at him, he didn’t dare turn around to find out what game it might be.
“I get it. I’m only saying, he didn’t mean any harm,” the man on the right said. The couch creaked as he shifted his weight to lean in closer to David. “Like I said, he isn’t right in the head,” he whispered. David tasted beer on the man’s breath.
Far across the room, over the man’s shoulder, the crazy CD-stealing, truck-crapper trembled in a corner as he cautiously observed the three seated men. Catching David looking his way, his body quivered, and he shifted his gaze to the floor. He twisted the tip of his shoe back and forth on the cement, as if he expected to somehow burrow through it. David returned his focus to the other two men.
“Well, you didn’t have to beat me with a pipe,” David shifted the steak on his eye.
“You chased our friend through our house while you waved a hatchet.”
David nodded. “So, what’s wrong with him?” he asked.
“There’s a lot wrong with him. At least there is today. Every day he’s worse. A few years ago, he was like everybody else. Pretty sure he’s got the poison.”
The man on the left remained silent, looking David up and down. Occasionally, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, then thought better of it. Sweat dripped from David’s brow, and mixed with the blood of the steak, causing a small stream of red to run down his cheek. He hoped they didn’t notice.
The chill of the room hit David. The day outside, while not quite sweltering, had been hot enough to discourage anything more than shorts, sandals and a t-shirt (which, coincidentally was what David wore). But now a freezing bite stung his bare skin as he began to realize he was alone, in the basement of three strangers—two of whom just kicked the crap out of him. He took the steak from his swollen eye and let it flop onto the coffee table between himself and the men.
The two men seated at the other side of the table, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with the cold, barefoot in jeans and t-shirts. A blue shirt on the left, red on the right. David wiped the sweat from his forehead and the men waited patiently for him to respond.
“He was poisoned?” David asked. “Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?”
“No man, it’s a long-term thing,” the guy in the red shirt replied. “No hospital’s going to help Ben. It’s all in his system now and they can’t clean that kind of mess up—not once it’s settled in like it has with him.”
“You saying you don’t know about the poison?” Now it was the other man’s turn to speak. “Figures. News don’t say nothin’ about it. Sure, they talk about the protests and have special segments on how to grow your own organic garden, but nobody ever talks about what’s actually happening.” He slammed his fist down on the table onto the steak, sending a spray of cow’s blood across David’s shirt.
The man in the red shirt stood and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Calm down, Chris. Breathe.” Then, to David, “He gets pretty emotional. Guy’s his brother after all. Can’t blame him really.�
�� He turned back to face Chris. “You okay?”
Chris nodded, wiping his hand on his pants, smearing them with red to match his friend’s shirt. The man in red sat back down on the couch.
“Chris, is it?” David asked the man in blue. He turned his eyes to the man in red. “And you? I didn’t get your name.”
With this olive branch of civil conversation, the tension apparent in the two men’s shoulders relaxed, and the tightness in David’s chest lessened.
“Paul,” said the man. He reached a hand out to David, who took it and shook.
“Well, hi Chris and Paul. I’m David. David Sparks.” He tipped his head to the back of the room and looked to Chris. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Ben,” replied Chris, looking to the floor, unable to meet David’s eyes. “His name’s Ben.”
“Well, listen guys,” said David. “Now that we know each other, I have to tell you I’m sorry for busting in to your …” David looked around the room, taking in the walls of raw studs and cotton-candy insulation. The only light in the room came from a few bare bulbs screwed into simple porcelain fixtures mounted to blue junction boxes nailed to the bare ceiling joists. Obviously a work-in-progress. “… sorry for busting into your home.”
Chris chuckled. “Nah man, home’s upstairs. This is where we hang out to get away.” He pointed to the TV behind David, game screen paused. “It’s our makeshift man-cave.”
“There’s a fridge behind the couch,” added Paul. “Got a few beers in it if you want one.”
David shook his head no. “Thanks, but I’ll pass this time.”
As Chris stood, the couch creaked again, and Paul sank a little lower as it teeter-tottered on its uneven legs. “I’m gonna grab one, you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Come over here, Ben. It’s safe. Sit down with our friend David here and have a beer. Let’s educate him a bit—show him what’s wrong with you. Only way he’s gonna learn.”
Ben stopped twisting his toe on the concrete and studied his brother.
“He’s cool,” Chris assured him. “Besides, we took his toy.”
“And I’ve still got my pipe,” added Paul, giving it a few knocks on the cement. David hadn’t noticed he still had it by his side. Another wave of nausea hit, and he reflexively reached up to touch the tender flesh around his eye. It had swollen again, unaided by the soothing pressure of the hunk of beef now dripping a pool of blood onto the cold gray of the concrete.
TWENTY-NINE
SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED
Long before the first beams of sunlight crossed the lake horizon, a cacophony of birdsong woke David from his night’s slumber. The fire had long since burned out, and, not knowing where he was, David decided against sneaking away. Instead he lay still on the ground, listening to the birds call in the dark while the sky to the east slowly brightened. As the sun breached the horizon, he stood, stretched and walked back along the worn path toward the sound of crashing waves.
The rolling of the waves lulled him to meditation as little by little, the sun crept higher and higher. Cotton candy to salmon, salmon to sherbet orange, David breathed in time with the waves. As the sun crested the endless expanse of water before him, his breath stopped, overcome by the sheet beauty of the sunrise. A shuffle of feet, scraping unevenly across the sandy beach, broke the tranquil silence. Pat-scraatch, pat-scraatch, pat-scraatch, the footsteps grew ever louder as they approached. David didn’t turn. He knew it was the stranger. The stranger who probably saved his life.
“Never get tired of it. ‘Course I can’t really see it no more, but I remember it all the same. The sound and the growing light alone enough to trigger the memories, that’s how strong they are.”
Side by side, the two of them stood in unison, beholding the rising sun. Once the full circle of light broke free of the water, David faced the stranger, finally getting his first good look at the man in full daylight. Although still a bit sore, David’s vision returned to normal while he slept—the temporary loss of vision (clearly a side-effect of the infestation) gone now he’d been rid of the vermin.
Barefoot in the sand, the man wore simple, but ragged clothing. A tattered pair of khaki cargo shorts and a dirty white t-shirt made up the extent of his garments and his long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail with a loose piece of string. The stranger’s face was heavily sun damaged. His dry, splintered skin mottled from the ravages of years of unprotected time spent in what David was learning was quite a dangerous place to be. The man looked, by David’s estimation, to be a prime example of an aging, emaciated hippie. While not quite malnourished, the man exuded a sense of sickness, as if no matter how much he ate, it would never be enough—like an old man in the throes of cancer. Still, despite being a bit old, a bit crooked and a bit crunchy, David saw him as normal and, after last night, safe.
The only thing truly odd about the man’s appearance were his eyes. Centered in the blue of his eye, where the pupils should be, sat two storm-cloud gray masses, like giant cataracts.
“Stopped working long ago,” said the stranger. “For the most part, at least. I can still make some things out. Likes I can see you staring at ‘em.”
Embarrassed, David returned his sights to the water. The old man laughed.
“I don’t mind none. Rather you see ‘em then not, ta be honest. Good reminder of things, far as I’m concerned.”
“What happened?”
“Same thing as happens ta any of us that stay in the world. Just gone and went bad. Probably could’ve traveled east and got ‘em replaced. Heard the government was doing that for people—long as they registered and moved into a haven. Not me though. Definitely not me. As you can see, I’m happy right here where I am.”
“Speaking of that, where are we? I was on my way to Chicago, when, whatever happened last night, happened,” said David. “Pretty sure that wasn’t the landing my pals had in mind.”
“Well boy, that’s a pretty simple question.” The man slapped his hand on David’s back and said “You’re right where you need to be. Let’s go back to my camp. Talk about it over breakfast.”
---
“Ghost.”
“What was that?” asked David, looking up from the fire.
“Get the feeling you’re wondering my name, is all. Well I ain’t gonna tell you that. Don’t have a name no more now that I think of it. Not exactly part of society out here. Most just call me Ghost.” The man poked at the eggs cooking in the pan over the campfire, with a broken branch, coaxing them to cook evenly. “That’s what people think I am anyway—those who manage to catch sight of me at least. This ain’t no metropolis, but still there’s travelers from time-to-time. I just try ta stay outta the way.”
“You didn’t stay out of my way,” said David.
“No.” Ghost laughed a wet laugh and coughed. “No, I most certainly did not. I do like to keep to myself, but that don’t mean I’m heartless. Any man needs my help, he’s got it—and you, my friend from the sky, you sure as hell looked like you needed my help.”
“That I did. That, my friend, I most certainly did,” David mused, drifting off slightly before continuing. “Thank you, by the way. For everything. Last night, by the water, I might’ve drowned… and the stuff with the—” David opened his hand in front of his face, wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes. “Well, whatever that was, thanks.”
“Sure ‘nuff,” said Ghost. “Sure you don’t remember what those were? I tol’ you ‘bout ‘em last night…”
“Oh I remember, alright. I’d just rather not think about it. I keep thinking I see things wiggling in my peripheral vision. Like we maybe missed one, but I’m pretty sure it’s PTSD.”
“Ha! Yah, we got ‘em all. I double-checked while you were sleepin’. Yer clean.”
“Well, thanks again. On a related subject, I was wondering—”
“Put out yer bowl boy.”
Doing as he was told, David picked up the wooden bowl from the dust
between his feet and held it in front of the old man. The man lifted the pan from the fire and tipped it toward the bowl, scooping half the eggs in.
“Seagulls,” he said, pushing a handful of eggs into his own mouth. “Used ta have chickens, but well … you know—I ate ‘em. Still pretty good though. Least they ain’t filling their bellies with trash like in olden times, right?”
David took a pinch of eggs between his fingers, and, realizing too late that they were still extremely hot, dropped them back into his bowl. He blew across the steaming meal, enjoying the silence. Gingerly, he touched at the eggs again and found them cool enough to handle. With his fingers, he scooped a small handful and shoved them in his mouth, letting out a pleasurable moan as they spread across his tongue and slithered down his throat into his waiting belly.
“Anyway, I was wondering,” David continued, through a mouthful of eggs. “Your eyes, what happened to them? Cataracts?”
“Nah, not cataracts. Like I said before, same thing as happens to most of us who decide to stay out here. The poison done it. Does it to all of us I suppose. Well, except them who stay bottled up in them fishbowls they call society. I’ve been out here all my life. Was born out here, an’ I’m staying out here. Spent some time in the settlements but wasn’t happy. Needed the open air—even though I was probably dying a little more every breath I took. No, my eyes went to the poison, same as everyone else fool enough to live a natural life. Body’s going too, I can feel it. Skin’s getting itchy, muscles ache. Can’t even stand up straight no more. But I guess this is what forty years in the wild will do ya.”
“It’s been forty years since you left the settlements?”
“No,” the old man huffed. “Forty years since I was born. Give or take a year.”
“But you look so—"
“—so old? Guess I do. Can’t see myself clearly no more—not that I even would want to if I could. I can feel it, sure enough.”
The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks Page 12
