The Influence

by Bentley Little

  Tax looked to the left, hoping to spot the telltale dust cloud that meant someone else was coming to dump trash or yard waste at the landfill.

  Nothing.

  Looking to the right, he saw that the shadows had grown and lengthened from even a few moments previously. The entire far side of the pit was now so engulfed in murk that he could barely see it. Closer in, near the mounds of rubbish that had been dumped this week, shadows within the shadows moved. They had to be rats, but not all of them looked like rats, and he was afraid to go out and check for fear of what he might find.

  The CD ended. From somewhere nearby, there was a high birdlike whistle, and for the first few seconds, he thought it was a bird. But the phrase went on too long, a song not a fragment, and it actually seemed to have a tune. There was no one here but him, and, frowning, he peered through the sliding window to see if he could determine the source. He saw nothing, and he opened the door behind him to peer out the back but saw nothing unusual there, either. The whistling continued, the sound becoming increasingly disconcerting.

  He thought of that thing they’d accidentally shot out of the sky on New Year’s Eve, shivering at the recollection of it. He knew what Father Ramos and everyone said it was, but he’d helped carry it into the smokehouse, and if that thing was an angel, it was an angel from Hell. He’d always been one to laugh at those liberal pansies in places like New York and Los Angeles, where politicians passed laws against shooting off guns to ring in the new year, but he wished now that there’d been such a law on the books here in Cochise County. Maybe not everyone would’ve abided by it, but some of them would have, and one might have been the guy who shot the fatal bullet.

  It was that angel creature that was the reason he was so spooked out here now when it started to get dark. He’d dreamed about that thing, and those nightmares had left him feeling like a five-year-old boy coming out of an R-rated horror movie. He’d been going to mass every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening since it happened, praying for his soul the way Father Ramos told him he should, but God wasn’t giving him much strength these days.

  Tax saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned back toward the window.

  Where a small shriveled hand was reaching up and placing a dirty coin on the narrow shelf in front of the sliding glass.

  He cried out in surprise and fear, immediately backing up, his heart hammering crazily in his chest. The whistling was louder now, and it was obviously coming from the thing in front of the booth. Whatever it was, it was too short to reach the window, and he was glad that the shelf was there to block it from his sight. That shriveled little hand was creepy enough by itself, and he did not want to see what it was attached to.

  The hand withdrew, leaving the coin, and the whistling lessened in volume as whatever it was moved away. Tax was breathing hard, and he quickly turned around, realizing he had not locked the door behind him. Leaning over quickly, he did so, just as there was a faint knock on the thin wood.

  He held his breath as though trying to fool the thing into believing he wasn’t there. He had never been so scared in his life.

  The knock came again, slightly stronger this time, and with it, the whistling, muffled by the closed door.

  Had he heard that tune before? It seemed to him that he had.

  Tax took out his cell phone, but it had been acting up lately, and of course this was one of those times when it was on the blink. In fact, it didn’t even turn on at all; the battery appeared to be dead.

  He heard a new noise, and was surprised to find that it was coming from his own mouth as he hummed along to the whistled tune. He stopped humming and clapped a hand over his mouth the way a cartoon character would. It knows I’m here, he thought wildly.

  Obviously.

  That’s why it was trying to get in.

  There was a fusillade of pounding on the door, and a small fist broke through the cheap wood—the same shriveled little hand that had left the coin on the shelf. Thinking fast, Tax kicked the door open and made a run for it, dashing out even as the creature connected to that horrible hand tried to disengage itself from the door. He didn’t look back, not wanting to see, but made a beeline for his Jeep, only a few yards away on the side of the shack.

  The whistling was loud, filling the air around him, and if he hadn’t had to get to his vehicle so quickly, he would have plugged his ears with his fingers. But there was no time for wasted movement or extraneous thought, and he reached the Jeep, pulled the key out of his pocket, jumped in and started that mother up.

  He wished he’d driven his pickup today—he’d feel a hell of a lot safer locked inside a cab than out in the open air—but this provided easy access and quick maneuverability, and he backed up, spun the car around—

  —and saw what was after him.

  It was a creature of the dump, with discarded wig hair and torn mismatched clothes. The size of a small child, it appeared to be female and was holding a tattered purse by its frayed strap. Beneath the castoff trappings, the face and body were brown and wrinkled with the dehydrated look of beef jerky. It pointed at him.

  And the Jeep’s engine died.

  Tax tried frantically to restart the vehicle, turning the key in the ignition, as the little creature waddled toward him on unsteady legs, still pointing.

  Could there be more of them? He didn’t know, didn’t even have any idea what it was, but judging by the way it moved, he was pretty sure he could outrun it, and rather than continue trying to start the Jeep as the monster continued to approach, he decided to make a run for it. Pulling out the key, he leapt out and sped toward the road as fast as his feet would carry him.

  From overhead, a crow swooped down, whistling the tune that was still issuing from the wrinkled mouth of the waddling creature. Other birds charged out of the sky, coming from nowhere, all of them whistling that maddening melody. One of them clawed the top of his head, another pecked the back of his neck, still others attacked his back. Crying out in pain, he tried to keep going but was engulfed in a whirling fury of feather and wing, talon and beak. Attempting to bat the birds away, he tripped over an unseen rock or piece of refuse and fell hard on his side, still trying to fend off the avian attack. Pecked and clawed relentlessly, it was all he could do to protect his face. He rolled over, turtling up duck-and-cover style.

  And then the birds were gone.

  He pulled his hands off his head, looked up to make sure it was safe—

  And stared into the shriveled face of his whistling pursuer. This close, he could see the deepset empty eyesockets, the snakelike holes where a nose should be, the grim line of the lipless mouth. The wig was gone, and so was the purse, but he recognized the raggedy clothes as belonging to one of Linda Ferber’s kids. It lent the monster the appearance of an evil dwarf, and for all he knew, that’s exactly what it was. He tried to get up and run away, but that skinny arm reached out to hold him down, and the same tiny hand that had left the coin on the shelf grabbed a hank of his hair.

  He was humming again, he realized, and for a few seconds, before the hand shoved his head down and smashed it into a rock, both the humming and whistling were in perfect harmony.

  TWENTY FOUR

  Ross took a shower in the morning before eating breakfast and going out to feed the chickens, but halfway through, water began splashing against his ankles. The drain was stopped up, and he washed his hair quickly before the pool at his feet overflowed the lip edge of the stall. He got out, dried off, and a few moments later, when he turned on the hot water in the sink in preparation for a shave, that drain was clogged, too. Deciding to skip the shave, he put on his clothes and walked across the yard to tell Lita and Dave—my landlords, he thought with a smile—but they were having their own plumbing issues. Dave was using a plunger on the kitchen sink, and Lita called out from the bathroom that the toilet was still overflowing.

  “I don’t mean to pile on,” Ross said, “but my drains are all plugged up, too.”

  Dave had worked up
a sweat, and he put down the plunger and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his arm. “That’s it. We’re calling someone.”

  Jackass McDaniels was at the ranch a mere twenty minutes later, the back of his truck packed with a sump pump and various types of drain-clearing equipment. “I was thinkin’ on the way over that maybe your septic tank’s full,” he said, getting out of the cab.

  Dave shook his head. “It’s not that. Each drain is backed up, individually.” He took the handyman on a tour of the house and guest house, Ross and Lita tagging along, and after McDaniels checked the septic tank just to make sure that wasn’t the problem, he brought in a coiled wire snake connected to an electric motor that he plugged into a kitchen wall socket. “We’ll start in here,” he said. “It’s closest to the main line.”

  The three of them stepped back as McDaniels put on a pair of rubber gloves, inserted the coiled cable into the drain as far as he could push it, then turned on the motor. A terrible clanking filled the room; it sounded as though the pipes were being torn apart. But the snake, fed by the handyman’s gloved hands, continued to unspool down the drain. The clanking became more muffled and then there was a loud wet pop.

  The stench that came from the sink was nearly overpowering and reminded Ross of the terrible smell in the root cellar. McDaniels flipped a switch on the motor to reverse direction, then shut it off and withdrew the snake. Tangled up in the coils was what looked like a mass of bright green string, but within seconds after hitting the air, the green filaments coalesced into a disgusting gray goop that dripped thickly onto the sink in bloblike patches.

  Lita’s eyes were big. “What the hell is that?”

  “I don’t know,” McDaniels said, “but that’s what was clogging up your drain.”

  Ross took a step forward to look at the gelatinous glop. He had no idea what it was or how it had come from that tangle of strange green threads, but he was pretty sure he knew its source.

  McDaniels turned on the water, washing everything down the sink, and leaving the tap on to make sure the drain was clear. It was.

  “Next,” he said.

  In the bathroom, the toilet water was already black and thick like oil after being plunged, and the handyman told them to wait while he got something out of his truck. “That snake’ll crack your porcelain all to hell. We need something a little more delicate for this job.”

  Lita was staring at the obsidian-colored water. “What do you think’s down there?”

  “What was that back there?” Dave asked, cocking his thumb toward the kitchen.

  Ross didn’t say anything, but he thought about the chickens and the bees, the simultaneously clogged pipes, and wondered if the ground beneath them was contaminated, if that monster in the shed had somehow tainted the earth for miles around and the poison was seeping up through the thin spots and causing havoc.

  McDaniels returned with a handheld device from which protruded a long thin probe. “I think this’ll work,” he said. It did, and this time there was nothing unusual to see when he withdrew the tool.

  It was another story in Ross’ shower, where the water had not gone down and there were tiny creatures swimming in the water. Buglike, shocking pink, the size of paperclips and almost as flat, they had appendages that approximated human arms and legs, and looked like miniature Olympians breaststroking their way around the pool. The creatures had clearly come up through the drain, though no new ones were emerging at the moment, but their presence gave McDaniels pause, and he hesitated before inserting the snake.

  The handyman glanced back at Dave, Lita and Ross. “If any of you have any idea what’s goin’ on here, you better fill me in, cuz I’m completely lost.”

  “Not exactly,” Ross said. “Not specifically. But I’m pretty sure of the original source.”

  The three of them told McDaniels what they’d seen at Cameron Holt’s place. The description of the monster matched his recollection from New Year’s Eve, but the handyman seemed surprised by the account of Holt’s workers all worshipping the shed. Even more surprising to him was the description of Holt’s odd subservience. “That sure as hell don’t sound like the Cameron Holt I’ve come to know and hate.”

  “It’s because of…”

  “The angel’s influence?” McDaniels said.

  “I’m not sure I’d call it that,” Dave admitted.

  “To be honest, it’s brought me nuthin’ but good luck.”

  “That’s not what it’s brought everyone,” Lita said.

  “I know. I heard.” He looked toward the pooled water in the shower and the little pink creatures swimming in it.

  “You know, I’m not religious,” Dave said. “I don’t believe any of that happy horseshit. But I’ll give you this: that thing has power. Dead or alive.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ that, too,” McDaniels told them. “But how’s that even possible?”

  “The way I figure, it’s like nuclear waste. You know how those spent fuel rods are all used up but still radioactive and will be for another thousand or something years? It’s the same situation.”

  Lita nodded in agreement.

  “The only thing is,” Ross said, “it’s not consistent; it’s not predictable. Logically, the people closest to the body should be the most affected. But it doesn’t seem to work that way. It’s random. Even the effects vary in a non-patterned way.”

  “My cousin the engineer,” Lita said, smiling.

  “It’s something we have to consider,” Dave admitted.

  Lita put a hand on the handyman’s shoulder. She nodded toward the shower. “I understand if you don’t want to—”

  He pulled away, offended. “Don’t want to what? Do my job?”

  “It’s just those things in the water...”

  But he’d put on his gloves and was already shoving the cable down the drain. He plugged in the motor, started it up and fed the snake into the pipe. Black gunk bubbled up, obscuring the swimmers and filling the room with a foul odor far worse than that of the kitchen sink in the Big House. Seconds later, the water began to drain, and in moments the shower stall was empty save for a thin layer of black silt on the tiles. McDaniels turned on the shower and washed the residue down the drain, letting the water run for a few minutes to make sure everything was clear. Turning off the water, he shook his head. “I just don’t understand where this stuff’s coming from,” he said. “This ain’t an open system. You got a septic tank, and all your drain pipes lead to the main line, which goes there.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t even want to think about what’s in that septic tank.”

  Ross stared at the shower nervously, then looked over at the sink and the toilet. He felt uneasy. What if he was shaving and something came out of the sink? Or, even worse, if he was taking a dump…

  He pushed the thought from his mind.

  “You want me to call Fred Hanson, have him come out here and vacuum out your tank? Just in case?”

  Both Dave and Lita nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” Dave said.

  “I’ll ask him if he’s come across anything else like this lately. Anybody’s likely to know, it’s Fred.”

  “In the meantime?” Lita asked him.

  “Keep your eyes open.” He gestured toward the toilet. “And, I was you, do your business quickly.”

  He picked up his equipment and headed outside, the three of them following. “So how much do we owe you?” Dave asked.

  “I don’t know. Ten bucks?”

  “Ten dollars? Come on, I know it’s more than that.”

  “I told you, that angel’s been good to me. I’m gonna have more money than I know what to do with. And if you can’t use your good fortune to help out your friends…” He held up a hand as Dave took out his wallet. “In fact, this one’s on the house. I know Fred’ll charge you up the yingyang for scoopin’ out your poop hole, so just consider this one a freebie.”

  “Hold on a second,” Lita said. She ran into the house and hurried back moments
later with two jars of honey. “Here. We’ll barter instead of pay.”

  McDaniels grinned. “You know I won’t turn down free honey.”

  “Then it’s a deal,” Dave said. “You want some more? Because—”

  “No, this is plenty. Thankya.” The handyman lifted his snake motor onto the back of the pickup.

  “You’re a good man,” Lita said.

  The handyman smiled widely. “I am, ain’t I?” He finished packing up and walked around to the driver’s side of the cab. “I’ll call Fred as soon as I get back.”

  “Thanks again,” Dave said. “Appreciate it.”

  Ross announced that he was going to feed the chickens and check for eggs, and both Dave and Lita said they’d come with him. To the surprise of all, the birds were acting perfectly normal, and, just as surprising, they collected nearly three dozen eggs—all of which appeared to be normal as well. Dave went to check on his bees, and Ross followed Lita over to where the goat and her horse were penned up. Again, there was nothing unusual to be seen. It was as if the past few weeks had never happened.

  “Honey!” Dave announced from the other side of the house. “We have honey!”

  “Maybe whatever it was seeped into our pipes instead,” Lita speculated. “Maybe the ground’s clean now.”

  It made no logical sense, but then nothing made much sense these days, which meant it was just as valid an explanation as anything else. For some reason, Ross was reminded of a Dr. Seuss book, The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, where a red ring around a bathtub transfers from object to object until it ends up contaminating all of the snow outside of the children’s house.

  “I think that’s yours,” Lita told him.

  Ross was confused. “What?”

  She pointed to the shack. “The phone. I think it’s yours.”

  He heard the ringing now and hurried over. He wasn’t sure how long it had been going on, but whoever was calling did not hang up, and he grabbed the handset. “Hello?” he said breathlessly.

  It was Jill, calling to tell him that she hadn’t found out anything. She had talked to Michael Song and to Father Ramos, but neither of them had any insights—or at least none they were willing to share. Father Ramos, in particular, seemed guarded, almost as though he was hiding something, she said, and while that was definitely out of character for him, a lot of people were behaving in ways that they ordinarily wouldn’t.