The Curse

by Charles L. Grant

  Denver was standing with hands defiantly on his hips. The boulders on the side, in the ground, were tearing loose, rolling toward them. Syd grabbed her hand and they began to run, slipping in the mud, ignoring the lightning that caged them, the thunder that mocked them. She turned once, and stopped to watch as the first of the hands poked through the ground, seeking purchase to pull their monstrous bodies into the open. Denver leaned down.

  "Syd!" she screamed, and he was gone.

  And when she fell, rolling, sitting with one hand in front of her face for protection, the figure on the hill plucked a doll from the ground, held it up to the thunder, and tore off its head.

  SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW

  GILA! By Kathryn Ptaceck

  PROLOGUE

  . . . And the green lizards, and the golden snake,

  Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

  SHELLEY, Adonais

  The cloud welled up, expanding, towering, looming, blossoming. Up, up, up into the shape of a mushroom. The wind surged, screaming and sweeping outward in a circle of total destruction. Plants withered, animals died, stone and sand melted and fused.

  The wind of destruction and change spread.

  Then, abruptly, the destruction lessened, decreased. The radiation had already seeped, changing what it touched.

  And on the fringes of that wide circle, the lizards watched.

  1

  Erlinda Gonzales glanced up at the clock as she washed the grease off the red countertop. Eleven thirty-five. Twenty-five minutes more, and the El Ranchito Carry-out Diner/Reptile Gardens/Curio Shop on the highway turnoff to the White Sands National Monument would close for the night, and then she could leave.

  As she pushed back a strand of black hair, the Chicana sighed, for it had been a long, exhausting day. It had been hot, unusually so for mid-September, and the air was sluggish. The metal fan, set high on a shelf, merely served to push hot air from one end of the small diner to the other. The Ranchito had no air-conditioning. Maybe, if she opened the windows, she'd catch a cool night breeze. The stocky woman glanced at the red curtains. No, there'd be dust all over by morning.

  Wearily she recalled the day's cranky turistas, who'd complained continually about everything. And there'd been wrong orders and broken crockery, as well; and Tiny, the cook, had been in a foul mood since midmorning when he'd burned his hand on the grill.

  And she was uneasy; she didn't know why. Perhaps it was the heat of the day. Maybe it would rain.

  Sometimes she felt uncomfortable before a change of weather. The wind blew now, a low moaning sound that put her teeth on edge.

  Still, soon, so very soon she would be going home, and Tomás would be waiting in bed for her. And she would slip into his arms, and the uneasiness and tiredness would disappear, and things would become much, much better. Yet home was a twenty-mile drive along a darkened road not much better than a washboard. At least the jolts would knock the dust of the day off. But the six-o'clock alarm would ring and the same tired routine would begin again. The same kinds of customers, the same kinds of problems, over and over.

  With a jangle of India cow bells the door opened, a gust of wind sweeping in, and the woman glanced with resignation at the new customer, struggling to close the door.

  It was Billy "Tex" Perkins, an old regular and independent trucker. He was friendly, chatty, and always left a good tip. The rangy man slid onto a brown-and-white cowhide bar stool at the counter.

  "The same as usual, Erlinda," he said, then leaned back, cupping his hands, to light a cigarette. He inhaled quickly, the smoke streaming out of his nostrils in two pencil-thin lines.

  She called over her shoulder to the cook in the kitchen. "Four over easy, stack of cakes." Wiping her hands on her yellow apron, she poured the man a cup of coffee. "How's business been? You're late tonight. I expected you over an hour ago." Erlinda pushed the cup across to him.

  "Got delayed." Tex traced the wet ring left by the cup with a tobacco-stained finger. "Good goin's lately. Could be better, though." He shrugged. "Or worse." He grinned suddenly. "Whyn't you come along with me sometime, Erlinda?"

  She studied the creases in his face, the wind-beaten and tanned skin, and smiled. For years he had been asking that of her. She wondered what would happen if she said yes someday. But it wasn't likely, not with dark-haired Tomás to go home to.

  He drained his cup and held it out for more coffee.

  "Comin' here tonight I seen this big animal just outside of my headlights. Really strange, y'know? Could have sworn it was a coyote. Maybe a wolf. Maybe just a big tumbleweed."

  She grinned. "Maybe it's a camel left over from the cavalry days."

  The trucker laughed. "Could be." He lit another cigarette.

  Above the groaning wind, a muffled giggle sounded from a secluded corner booth, back behind the now-silent jukebox, and Erlinda came around the corner. She crossed her arms and stared disapprovingly.

  "Okay, you kids, break it up. You know the rules. Order or get out." Her voice was firm, yet her dark eyes were slightly amused.

  The embracing couple pulled apart, and the blonde girl patted her bouffant hairdo. She tittered nervously, and twin spots of red appeared on her cheeks. The boy dropped his eyes to the table, then moved his hand surreptitiously as he closed his zipper. Erlinda sighed.

  "Oh, we'll take two Cokes, please," the brown-haired boy said at last. He nervously played with a button on his shirt and refused to meet Erlinda's eyes. The girl beside him wiggled.

  As Erlinda walked away, she could still hear their furtive whispers. "Hey, watch it, Steph, that hurts!"

  She shook her head, then paused at the booth closest to the counter. Red Chief, a fixture at the diner, slept with his old head cradled on the scarred plastic table. His green-and-black flannel shirt was threadbare in spots and one elbow poked out a ragged hole. His jeans were dusty, dirt caking the creases. The laces of his boots were long gone and the tongues flapped loosely when he walked.

  Poor old man, she thought with pity. No one at home wanted him, not his son, his son's wife, nor their five children. His wife had been dead for twenty-three years. He didn't even have the dignity of his own revered ways, for Red Chief—Erlinda didn't even know his real name—had worked for the white man all his life, had tried to live the way of the white man, and then in his old age, he had been rejected by the white man. In the past, the aged ones would have simply walked out into the desert until they dropped. Now, he slept in the diner, drinking away what little money he had, and wandered around the fringes of the desert, as if seeking an answer to his woes innature.

  The waitress got the drinks and eyed the kids as she set the glasses down with a sharp tap. "Your dad know where you are, Stephanie?" she asked the blonde.

  The girl shrugged, a gesture made elaborately casual. "Oh, yeah."

  Sure, Erlinda thought.

  "You two gonna get in trouble one of these days," she said.

  "Hey!" the boy, Steve, protested. He glanced at the girl, then at the woman. "We ain't doin' nothin' illegal. It could be worse; we could be neckin' out on the mesa."

  "Yeah. But her father isn't goin' to stand for no boy messin' with his baby girl."

  "I'm not a baby," the girl said loftily, and looked into the mirror of her compact. She tugged at her lacy white blouse and hastily buttoned one of the buttons that stretched across her full breasts.

  "No. You're not," the woman admitted, deciding to leave them alone. As she rounded the counter, Tex leaned down to brush some dirt off his boots, then busily applied himself to his meal. She glanced back at the clock. Eleven forty-nine. Why did time pass so slowly at night? Especially before closing. She picked up the gray dishcloth and began wiping the counter surface again.

  The wind rose in a steady howl, whistling through the crack around the windows and door. Sand shifted across the floor. Damned white stuff, the woman thought. Got in her hair, her clothes, all over the counter. Why the turistas were so eager to see
a big sand box, she didn't know.

  A prickling crept along her neck, tickling the back hair. On moonlit nights when the desert became a sea of white, as it was this night, the abuelos danced in the graveyards, holding skeletal hands and moaning the names of those about to die. Or so her grandmother would say. Crazy old woman, Erlinda thought, shrugging, dismissing her relative's mystical turn of mind.

  "Them new boots?" she asked Tex with a vague nod of her head.

  "Yeah." The trucker drew his legs up to better show off the black boots with the pointed toes and high heels. "Brand new. Paid two fifty for 'em," he said with a touch of pride in his voice.

  "I think you got taken, Tex."

  "Nah," he said, as he stirred his fork through his eggs. "They're genuine lizard skin."

  "Yeah?" she asked with curiosity, and leaned across the counter. If she talked, she wouldn't notice the uneasy feelings. Unconsciously, she fingered the gold crucifix on a chain at the base of her throat. "What kind of lizard?"

  "Dunno. Guess maybe it's just plain lizard lizard."

  Another giggle burst from the booth where the two teenagers sat. Erlinda glanced up sharply, reprimand on her lips, when a horn honked outside. Another trucker? Should know that they didn't have outside waitress service.

  The honking continued, the whining sound piercing the woman's head, even over the sound of the shrieking wind. "Sounds like your horn got stuck."

  "Damn," the man said. He sipped his coffee and wavered, torn between finishing his meal and fixing the horn. It was obvious he didn't relish going back out into the sandstorm.

  "Hey!" said the boy, looking at the trucker. Stephanie was frowning, the corners of her generous mouth mulishly pulled down. "Turn it off, man."

  A new sound was added—that of metal being crushed or twisted.

  "Goddamn, that tears it," Tex shouted, wiping his mouth and tossing down his paper napkin. "Some s.o.b.'s gone and hit my rig!" He stood up and in five strides had crossed the dirty expanse of the diner's floor. He slammed the door behind him so hard that the glass panes wobbled.

  There was a moment of silence as the wind lulled, then a bloodcurdling scream. The kids pulled apart and stared around, their eyes large. The wind renewed its shrieking and howling. The boy's lower lip trembled, and he looked toward the waitress.

  Reflexively, Erlinda pulled out the 12-gauge shotgun from behind the counter. She'd kept it there ever since that crazy guy with the .45 had come crashing into the diner late one night years before, demanding all the money, telling her to lie down on the floor so that he could use her. She'd been lucky that night. A sheriff's deputy had just gone off-duty and was eating there, and had shot the guy in the chest before anyone was hurt. Tomás had bought her the shotgun the next day, and it was never far away.

  She checked the barrels. Both were loaded.

  Licking her lips, Erlinda slowly advanced toward the diner's door.

  The teenagers had scrambled up from their booth and were backing toward the counter, their hands gripped in fright.

  Red Chief never looked up. He just kept sleeping and snoring.

  Hiss. Hiss.

  The sound was loud, louder than the wind.

  Something was on the other side of the door.

  Erlinda's heart hammered in her chest, and her palms were sweaty. She couldn't get frightened; it would freeze her up. She would put a bead on whoever—whatever—it was. . . .

  Erlinda raised the shotgun to her shoulder, sighted, and began to squeeze the trigger.

  With a resounding crash that shook the entire diner, the door and wall caved in, the plaster dust rising in great clouds.

  Forgotten, the shotgun dropped, and Erlinda screamed and screamed and screamed.