by David Coy
“You guys continue with that strip to the east like I tol’ you to. That’ll finish it up, hokay? We can ship out of here tomorrow night like we planned already.”
That night, asleep in his bunk, Villaroos dreamt of sweet full lips and of a long and strong tongue that snaked from between them and filled his mouth. When he lay between the woman’s round legs, he felt her totally and her warmth and scent covered him. The dream was so surreal that it woke him and left him feeling cheated because it was only a dream. He looked up at the twin full moons and tried to remember each detail of the taste and touch of her but could summon only a few sensory glimpses of her smooth nakedness. The memories left him feeling frustrated for their brevity.
He rolled over and hoped the dream would replay, knowing in his heart it wouldn’t even start again.
* * *
The next morning, he ate hurriedly and left the shelter before Brown or Douglas were even out of the showers. They’d know where he was.
He hefted the mini into the back of the truck and headed for the ravine. By the time he got there, the big red sun was over the horizon and sending its dull heat into the truck’s cab. The heat would boil the water out of the chopped-up plant shit covering the plain, raising the humidity to maximum. In another hour, the air would feel like a goddamned womb.
Another day in fucking paradise already.
He swung the truck around along the rim of the ravine and parked it. When he stepped from the cab, the wet heat smothered him like a warm towel. By the time he got to the back of the truck, sweat was already running off his nose and under his sunglasses. He tugged the mini to the edge of the truck’s lift gate and squared it around. Squatting, he backed into the straps, slipped his arms through and tightened the straps down. He lifted the defoliator with a grunt and got his balance, then had to take off his sunglasses to wipe the sweat off the inside of the lenses.
Standing on the edge of the ravine, he traced out as good a path as he could to the bottom, and tried to imagine where he’d have to put each foot. At the bottom was the patch of dark foliage, packed tight into the ravine.
He cinched the straps against his shoulders and started down. The incline was steep, and each step added another more difficult one he knew he’d have to make coming back up. He breathed heavily, and the massive defoliator wasn’t helping his balance any. When Villaroos had another hundred meters to go to the point where he thought he could head straight down, he decided to stop to clear his glasses. Standing there, he had to shift his weight constantly to maintain his balance. His toes hurt from the pounding they were taking from the downhill walk.
He wished to hell he didn’t have to do this job.
He looked down to get his bearings and shook his head in disgust at himself.
Fuck this shit already.
It was easy to misjudge distance in such rough and alien terrain, and he’d done just that. The viney shit was farther down than he’d guessed; and the angle, he could see, was steeper than he’d thought. Worse than that, he could see now that the slope going down to the tangle was made of loose, decomposed rock fragments covered with litter. He couldn’t possibly make it down to the safety of the ravine bottom from here; it was too steep and slippery. He’d have to traverse the slope and go down on the far side. He turned enough to see his tracks going back up and had half a mind to call the thing off and just forget it.
He wiped his brow on his sleeve and blew sweat off his nose.
No, he had to go on. He didn’t want them to think he couldn’t do his job. He’d defoliated entire continents with the right crew and the right equipment. He wouldn’t let a patch of ass hair stand in the way of a schedule.
He shifted his weight and started across the slope, putting one foot in front of the other. With each step, he sank down and slid in the soft material until it stopped, sending a miniature avalanche of stuff down the slope and out into space. He didn’t like that.
By the time he was halfway across the slope, he had to stop again and wipe sweat off his glasses. This was murder. He’d already decided to leave the defoliator in the ravine. They’d have to write it off because he wasn’t carrying the goddamned thing back up.
He took a few more sliding steps, then had to rest. The sideways strain on his knees was killing him. He went down on one knee into the slope, the other leg propped out straight downhill, hoping to hell he could get back up again. The sun was high; and when he turned his face toward it, the red heat of it broiled him.
Goddamn shit already.
He felt a sting on his arm and swiped at an ant-thing that left a dull trace of juice when he smashed it.
He was soaking in his own sweat. He took off his glasses and stuffed them into a pocket; he didn’t have a dry place to wipe them any longer.
It took some effort to get to his feet, but he managed with a grunt and sending rock and soil down the slope. He watched it tumble down and onto the mass of dark green vines below.
When he took the next step, his foot slid down and away from him, sending him onto his hip. He started to slide, sending bushels of rock and debris down the slope.
“Shit!”
He flopped over onto his stomach and, for brakes, splayed his legs and arms wide. He felt leaves and crap go up his pants legs and then down into the tops of his boots—but he did stop.
“Goddamned sonofabitch already . . . you bastard . . . ”
The defoliator felt like a truck on his back, and he wished he could somehow get it off. He’d never be able to get back up to more solid ground with the damn thing pressing down on him. He pushed slowly away from the hillside and got on his knees. He got one hand onto the first strap and leaned a little further back to work it over his shoulder. Knees don’t balance weight like a foot; and when he leaned back, the weight of the machine got away from him and pulled him over backwards.
“Aggghhh . . . shit!”
He hit hard on the defoliator’s smooth coils and started to sled down on the loose surface of the slope. He tried to stop himself by digging in with his heels and hands but couldn’t brake the slide. He knew it was coming, and an eternity later he slid out into space and tumbled in a free-fall. He watched helplessly as the red ball of the sun flashed by, then dark vines, and then the wall. There was a rush of air over his ears just before he crashed, defoliator first, into the soft, wet vines of the alien plant.
The weight of the machine pulled him deep into the tangle, and he felt its wet limbs give way like rot as he crashed through them. The air around him was alive with pieces of plant, flying up and smacking him in the face and driving wet up his shirtsleeves. Just when he was sure he would fall completely to the ground below, he stopped with a jolt against an especially thick vine.
Goddammit!
He could tell immediately that nothing was broken. The fall into the vines had been noisy, but the plant’s pulpy wetness had cushioned the fall perfectly, leaving him covered with wet plant stuff, but unhurt. He wiped pieces of it off his face and pulled it out of his shirt. A sweet, musky scent, cloying and heavy, filled his nostrils; and he twisted his face at it.
He was almost completely sitting up, the thick, soft vine jammed between the defoliator’s coils. He could feel the vine’s coolness against an exposed patch of skin at the small of his back.
The ground was completely obscured; but by shifting his head around, he could make out a patch of ground about three meters down. Just a little more speed would have pushed him completely through the shit to the ground below.
Villaroos tried to picture how to do it. The only way was to squirm around, fall and hope he didn’t break something on the way down.
For better or worse, he started to squirm and kick.
The vines gave way easily, coming apart in his hands and under his boots with wet sounds like breaking melons. Keeping his balance was difficult with the defoliator on his back, but he managed; and flailing and twisting, he crashed through to the ground. He was covered with plant juice, and strips of gr
een crap stuck in his hair and on his face.
He came out in a little depression, a clear spot just big enough to move around in. He wiped the stuff off his face and shook it out of his hair. There was also plenty of space to get his hand on the wand of the defoliator—and he couldn’t wait.
He pried the wand loose from its mount and brushed green shit off the controls. When he turned it on, the deep hum of the coils made him smile.
“Now I’m going to get you, you green mother fucker.”
Crouched in deep shade on one knee, he waited until the indicator said Go. Then he pointed the muzzle toward a spot of light and hit Start.
The defoliator’s cables twisted out of the wand like thin snakes. Vibrating and twitching in anticipation, they worked out of the muzzle and into the dark green foliage. Villaroos waited until they were out all the way, a full ten meters.
“Yeah, get in there real good. I got a surprise for you, green shit.”
Then he hit the switch labeled Cut.
The cables came to life with a burst of magnetic energy. Thrashing and buzzing with unstoppable violence, they tore the plant and ripped it, pulverized it, filling the air with a cloud of green spray.
“Fucking green shit! Take that, eh!”
His voice was lost in the defoliator’s roar.
In seconds, he’d cut a neat hole in the foliage big enough to walk through, and he did just that, his boots shoving the green mush out of his way as he went. He smiled.
Once he got out into the open, he turned and extended the cutter’s cables once more and let loose, sweeping the muzzle back and forth through the tangle in a wide sweep.
“How you like it, huh?”
The cutter’s cables tore through the plant’s limbs like a scythe, raising a cloud of shredded material that rained down on him.
In less than a half hour, Hector Villaroos, with the help of a Yarrow Model 40 Magic Defoliator, had reduced the tangle of soft green vines to a mountain of green mush. When a hard-shelled turtle-thing walked out of the goo, Villaroos flapped the murderous cables at it, turning it to a brief cloud of red spray.
That’s the way you clear the shit out.
He moved over into the shade of the ravine’s wall and squatted down. He worked his arms out of the straps, then leaned against the machine. Feeling tired and suddenly very thirsty, he reached for his water bottle on his waist and remembered that he’d left it in the truck.
Shit.
Struck by an inspiration, he plucked a ragged strip of the plant off his arm and squeezed it. Several drops of clear fluid ran out and dripped into his belly button. He didn’t have to think about it long. He raised the scrap of plant over his open mouth and squeezed another few drops onto his tongue. The fluid was thin and tasted just like water, and the wet contact between water and his mouth set off a desire to have more immediately.
He scooped up a handful of green mush, formed it into a rough ball, held it over his open mouth and squeezed. A trickle of pale green fluid ran into his mouth, and he gobbled at it.
He got up and moved into the pile of green, tramping through it, looking for a big stem of the stuff to squeeze and suck on.
His foot hit something solid.
“Ow!”
Villaroos reached down in the mush and dug around, probing with his hands through the wet. When his hand found the offending object, he pulled it out and shook it off. He’d seen plenty of rib bones of cattle on the vast, bare plains of the Amazon, and he figured that’s what this was, but smaller. Turning it over and around, he could see that the inside of it was scarred with small pits as if something had eaten into it. Making a face, he returned the bone to the green mush with a backhand.
He explored some more and came up with what looked like a large hip bone, but like none he’d ever seen.
He tossed the bones back into the material without another thought, scooped up big handfuls of the shredded plant, wadded them up, squeezed and drank.
After about fifteen repetitions, he’d had enough, if not quite his fill. But feeling refreshed, he waded through the homogenized plant to a spot where he could start up out of the ravine.
He left the defoliator right where it was.
Fuck that already. It’s staying here.
He called Brown and Douglas from the truck and told them he was going back to the shelter for an early lunch. What he really wanted to do was get in the shower and wash off the green crap and sweat.
* * *
The shower’s spray beat on his head and back, pounding away the grime and sweat and plant crap. He let the water pound on him until it lost its charm and began to annoy him.
He noticed the rash on his arms, neck and face as he was drying off. He’d had plenty of rashes; you couldn’t do his kind of work and not get shit on you. This one didn’t look too serious. It itched a little, and he splashed some rubbing alcohol over it to see if that would take care of it. It stung like hell, but the itching mostly stopped. He figured if it got any worse in a few hours, he’d use something stronger from the medicine chest.
Putting on fresh socks, he noticed the same rash on his calves.
Fuckin' shit gave me some damn rash.
He mixed and matched some lunch items from the larder and sat down to eat. He was just getting started when he heard the truck pull up outside. They must have finished early. He thought they might. There wasn’t that much left to do.
“Are we going home on time, Browny?” Villaroos asked, not looking at him.
“Si, señor. All done. Dougy sent the Yarrow back up.”
“One of you guys call that shit-eater from planning after lunch and get him down for his damned inspection already.”
“We’re ahead of schedule,” Douglas yelled through the door.
“Fuckin' right,” Villaroos said, still not looking up. Brown sat down and stretched out. He looked at Villaroos’ face and didn’t want to say anything; but he couldn’t ignore the blazing red rash on it either.
“What the hell did you get into?” he asked.
“That shit in the ravine gave me a rash,” Villaroos said taking a bite of sandwich.
Brown made a face as if the rash on Villaroos’ face was absolutely hideous. Villaroos saw it. Brown grinned.
“It’s a damned rash already. Big
fuckin' deal,” Villaroos said.
“Well, I’m glad it’s not on my face.”
“Hey, well, fuck you.”
* * *
That night Villaroos dreamed again. It was an ugly dream of twisted limbs and toes that pointed backwards. Like a wet, rabid dog, a feeling of sick fear ran through it. He thought he could control it at one point and change it to something else, something nice, sweet and pleasant; but when he tried, the dream spun him around and around and chewed at his legs while he batted lamely at it with hands, turned to stubs.
He awoke in a sweat.
The twin moons had somehow absorbed the evil of the dream and cast a dullish pall over his bed.
The itching came over him slowly and grew in intensity until he thought he would die from it. It came like a living thing and gnawed at him inside and out. He started to scratch his arm. When he made the first scratch, he felt little hard holes there with his fingertips.
“What the hell . . . ?”
He got up and walked stiff-legged into the bathroom and turned on the light. Squinting, he looked at his arm, and a cold surge of fear went up his spine.
The pits were small, like pencil points. There were hundreds of them on his arm and the backs of his hands. He looked down and knew the dark, itchy areas on his calves were patches of the same stuff. He turned his hands over and saw that his palms were a solid mass of densely packed, hard little holes.
He looked in the mirror, knowing what he’d find. Tiny, hard pockmarks covered his neck and chest. He touched a particularly dense patch in and around his belly button.
His voice trembled. “What the fuck is this already?”
He pulled the ski
n back tight over a little patch on the back of his forearm and could see tiny round things down in the holes. The things looked like they’d melted down into his skin.
“Uhhhhh . . . I gotta get to a damned doctor, man . . . ”
But first he had to do something about the itching; that was first. He opened up the medicine cabinet and found an assortment of lotions and antiseptics in tubes and bottles. With trembling hands, he chose a tube of something that had Cortisone on the label. He opened it and squeezed half of it into his hand. He slathered the white paste onto his arms and face, then swapped hands and worked it into the holes. He hurriedly squeezed out most of the rest and did his stomach and his sides around his waist. He forced out the little that was left with shaking fingers and rubbed it on the back of his neck and as far down his spine as he could.
“Fuckin' shit . . . ”
The itching didn’t let up. It grew in intensity until he thought he’d go mad. He wanted to tear his skin off with his nails starting at his waist first and then under his chin. His ankles would go next, then his calves. There was a stiff hair brush on the back of the toilet, and he snatched it up and started to work it over the patches on his waist, and then under his chin with quick, tight little strokes. He worked the brush frantically around his neck with one hand and dug at the hard patch on his side with the nails of the other hand. He saw his agitated reflection in the mirror and whimpered.
Shower. Hot water.
He turned on the shower and got in, turning the knob over to hot. The showerhead was adjustable, and he dialed the fine, hard spray. He wanted the pressure to go higher, but knew it couldn’t. He turned slowly under the needle-like spray, letting the water work on the worst spots. He turned the temperature higher until the water threatened to burn him and steam filled the bathroom like thick smoke.
He coughed.
The heat of the shower relieved the itching somewhat, but he started to notice that some of the patches had started to sting and burn instead of itch. The pain was like a candle’s flame on a spot on his leg that grew and spread until it set all the patches aflame. Trembling, he turned off the water and stood there naked, with his arms spread wide, awash in the stinging pain.
