By the time I had gathered pine needles to make a softer bed for him, it was almost dark. I crept toward the edge of the grove. The beast was waiting. Though it was lying down with its head resting on gigantic clawed feet, its eyes were wide open and alert. It must have spotted me because immediately it jerked its head in my direction. Bouncing to its feet, it growled, and I fled back to Uncle Bob.
He'd fainted again. His hand had slipped from the tourniquet, and though I knew it should be loosened every so often, I wondered how much blood Uncle Bob had lost and how much more he could afford to lose.
Tightening the belt, I caught an end of the stick in one 96 of his belt loops. Now I could safely let go of it. But what could I do instead? Sitting there in the darkness, shivering in the night chill, I really didn't know.
Uncle Bob needed a doctor, a hospital. Help would be needed to move him. If I could get to the pickup, parked about a half mile away, I could call for help on the CB, the citizens' band two-way radio.
The pitch-black night had substance. It shook with the growls and snorts of the beast as I eased toward the far side of the lodgepole pines. At the edge of the grove I peered out into the open darkness. The sounds of the beast were far behind me. All I had to do now was move toward the pickup as quietly as possible.
But I couldn't do it. I'd forgotten to get the keys. I'd need them to unlock the pickup and the ignition lock. Otherwise the CB wouldn't work.
Ashamed as I am now to admit it, I was glad I didn't have to leave the shelter of the pines. And when the beast suddenly came raging and snorting around the grove I felt relieved and lucky as well.
Scrambling back into the pines, I tried to move silently. But the darkness became thicker, and behind me, the creature tried to thrust into the pines. Limbs swayed overhead. The big nostrils snorted in frustration. A blast of its hot breath swept pine needles up and around me.
Crawling around in my fright, I lost my way. I couldn't find Uncle Bob. Bumping into trees, I called softly but there was no answer, and thoughts of how I never should have left him alone plagued me. Suppose the tourniquet had loosened. Suppose he was bleeding to death. It would be my fault. Once again I'd tried to tackle something too big for me. I shivered because I was cold and because I was scared. Maybe I was crying a little, too.
Then I heard a sort of sobbing sound—this time not my own. Pausing, I listened until it came again. It was a Uncle Bob. He was delirious.
Carefully loosening the tourniquet, I detected no sign of new bleeding, and throughout the rest of that horrible night—listening to his moans—I checked it from time to time. It would have been easier if I could have talked to him—gotten his advice—but it was just me and that rumbling monster. Uncle Bob stayed unconscious, and I was going to have to face things—the beast and myself—alone.
Along toward dawn, when my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I got Uncle Bob's car keys. Then, shivering, I removed my shirt and tore it into strips to bandage his thigh. With more strips of shirt and two strong lengths of fallen branches, I splinted his broken thigh the way I'd been taught in Scouts. I'd never splinted a real fracture before, and I hoped it was all right.
The grayness of dawn had begun to sneak through the trees by the time I had finished. So I crept toward the edge of the pines where the rhythmic sounds of the beast were louder. Peering out at the huge, lion-colored form, I saw that its eyes were closed. It was asleep. Those rumbling sounds that had terrified me throughout the night were snores!
Moving quietly to the far side of the grove I paused, breathing hard, shivering and sweating. Maybe I should just stay with Uncle Bob until people came looking for us. I'd be alive, but would Uncle Bob?
Breathing deeply, I stepped out from the lodgepole pines. My legs felt like wood, and fright was like a beast inside me, trying to get out. I had to force myself not to look back. I had to keep going. If it rushed after me, I'd certainly hear it.
The pickup was on the other side of a little hill just ahead of me. I wanted to run but knew that the noise would wake the beast. When I finally reached the brow of the hill, glinted off the windshield. It was an encouraging sight and I moved ahead too eagerly. A rock tumbled down the hill.
Back by the pines a faint snore became a startled eruption of sound. Though I couldn't yet see the beast, the blasts of barking sounds were enough to convince me to run. Scrambling down the hill, practically falling, I glanced over my shoulder. It was going to be close. Frantically I dug into my pockets for the keys. Maybe I wouldn't make it.
Both my mind and body raced. I thought of my conversation with Uncle Bob yesterday and about all the things I wanted to tell him during the night. Now, with no assurance that I might be right, I was going to have to face it alone. The clicking of the beast's huge claws on the rocks behind me was a terrifying reminder.
Fumbling with the keys, turning them in the lock, I felt the creature's hot breath. The door was open! But the beast was there, blocking me from shutting it. I scurried back across the seat. It was the moment of truth.
Uncle Bob kept a revolver in the glove compartment. He had taught me how to use it, but I hesitated. A revolver bullet? Big-game hunters used special high-powered rifles. A revolver bullet would only make the beast angry. It would never kill it.
The beast rocked the pickup in its efforts to get to me. Any moment it was apt to turn the whole thing over and wreck the CB radio antenna. And then what? I reached toward the glove compartment. Maybe I should take a chance and try shooting at it. Or maybe I should take a different chance—one I had wanted to discuss with Uncle Bob.
I had my hand on the glove compartment but I didn't open it. I faced the huge pug-nosed face that was slobbering and growling through the open door. In that instant, fragments of my first impressions of the beast began to fit together. Or did they? Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe I'd better get the gun.
The monster growled deep in its throat, its hot breath steaming the windshield. The pickup rocked wildly. I braced against the dash and clung to the steering wheel. I shouted, but this time it was not a meaningless, frightened yell. The fright was there, of course, but this time I shouted words—commands. And if I were wrong—if they had no effect?
"No! Down! Stay!" Somehow my aching lungs took in another breath. "Down! Stay, Mingo, stay! Mingo . . ."
Yes, the beast did look like a mammoth Chinese pug. It had the same coloring, face, and grunting sounds of Aunt Beth's Mingo. That's what I had wanted to discuss with Uncle Bob last night. I wanted to know if he thought it possible that the radioactive rain could have caused a dog to grow to such an unbelievable size. Mingo had been lost just before that destructive drenching rain, and this giant creature, despite its size, strongly resembled that tiny champion pug.
"Mingo!" I shouted again. "Down! Sit!"
Did those eyes look less angry? Were they ever really angry or were they just alight with the friendliness of a lonely pet? I yelled to make myself heard above the loud, puglike grunting sounds. "Mingo! Sit! Sit, Mingo!"
For a horrible moment he stared, blowing his breath into my face. Then he backed off and sat on the ground, his head as high as the cab roof, his eyes alert, his breath quick and eager.
"Good boy," I said, my voice shaking and squeaking. "Good boy. Stay, Mingo."
I put the key in the ignition switch, turned it, then called into the CB mike. "Ten thirty-three. Ten thirty-three." That was the emergency CB distress call. Voices answered. I told the CBers—and the police who had also tuned in—what had happened and where to find us. Before I signed off I had one more urgent thing to say.
"Please, do not be frightened by the big animal with me. He's just an oversized friendly dog. Please do not think you have to shoot him. Please!"
Later that day when I was finally able to visit Uncle Bob in the hospital, I told him how I had helped get Mingo to a high-fenced corral belonging to a veterinarian who specialized in treating large animals. Everyone—the vet, doctors, and scientists—all thank
ed me for alerting the police not to kill Mingo, large and fearsome as he looked. He was going to be a great source of study and research, and privately, for Aunt Beth's sake, I hoped they might even discover how to get him back to normal size.
When I finished my story, Uncle Bob gave me a funny little smile. "I think the biggest discovery has already been made," he said. "And you made it when you faced up to something big without a chip on your shoulder."
I nodded, beginning to understand. "If I'd grabbed your gun, I could have spoiled it all by shooting at Mingo. And," I admitted sheepishly, "I guess I've spoiled a lot of things because . . . because they were bigger than me . . . and because I was just a runt. . . ."
Uncle Bob smiled. "What matters is how big you are inside." He reached out and grasped my hand. "Thanks for what you did for me."
It was great to shake his hand and not have him mad at me for something I'd done wrong. It was a nice feeling and I was going to try and keep it that way—from now on.
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
by WILMA BEDNARZ
Kevin Wheatmore thought how unfair it was to be twelve and have to trim the hedge instead of reading his new book on interplanetary survival.
"Didn't you know two weeks ago about the book report?" his father asked.
"Sure, but you don't understand. . . ." He didn't say any more. He never knew how to answer questions like that.
"Be as sullen as you want, but finish that hedge." His father returned to the other side of the house and Kevin heard him start the lawn mower. Then, over the mower's drone, he heard a jetlike whine that came closer and closer.
A fireball circled the house next door, smashing into the chimney. A loud explosion resulted and the house went up in flames.
Just before it struck the chimney, a green opalescent figure emerged from the burning machine. It darted convulsively back and forth over the houses before diving into
the Holmans' back yard.
"Call the fire department, Mom," Kevin shouted as his mother ran out on the front porch. "I'll see if they need help getting out of the house." He ran toward the rear. The Holmans' back door was usually open.
Fourteen-year-old Joyce Holman was a good friend. Kevin had seen her return home on her bike about half an hour ago, and when he reached their yard, he was relieved to see that both Joyce and her parents were safe. They were gathered around the green creature that had flattened their zinnia bed.
The thing was as large as the outdoor cooker nearby, and it was shaped like the wasp pupae he and Joyce had found last summer. But this thing was not dormant. Pulsing and wiggling, its wing pads, feelers, mouth parts, and legs were tightly folded against its body. It smelled like fermenting grass.
As Kevin hurried toward the group, he saw a green appendage whip toward Mr. Holman. Another wrapped around Joyce and her mother. A green quivering mass enveloped them. Mr. Holman's hammer dropped to the ground. The Holmans were gone.
Kevin's stomach surged but he grabbed a board leaning against the fence and ran toward the monster.
"You can't get away with that. Joyce is my friend. The Holmans are our neighbors."
He struck the monster with the board only to have it jerked away from him.
As he watched the contorting insect body, Kevin thought he was going crazy. Moving like dough being kneaded, it took on the form of Joyce Holman. It reached toward Kevin.
"Don't you touch me," he shouted. But before he could dodge the green hand, it grabbed his wrist. A painful burning sensation spread across his skin. His arm was being drawn into the monster. He screamed.
For a moment Kevin thought it was his scream that made the monster drop his arm, but it must have been the fire sirens as the engines blasted their arrival. The creature clapped its hands over its ears—Joyce's ears.
"I forgot about the cursed sounds of this planet," a voice that sounded like Joyce's said. The thing had taken on the insect shape again, but as the sirens began to wind down, Joyce's figure returned. This time a flesh color spread over the skin, and short brown hair curled over the head. Except for the bloodshot eyes that glared at Kevin from an angry face, it looked just like Joyce.
Firemen, dragging extension ladders, hoses, and chemical packs, came around the house. Kevin's mother and dad were with them. Mrs. Wheatmore rushed toward Joyce.
"Don't touch her, Mom. She's a monster!"
"Oh, Kevin!" Mrs. Wheatmore took Joyce in her arms and nothing happened.
"My mother and dad! They're in there!" Joyce pointed to the burning house. Firemen were just about to dart into it when the roof collapsed. Kevin's mother and father tried to console Joyce.
"Mom! Dad! Be careful! She ate the Holmans!" Kevin shouted. "That's not Joyce, I tell you. She's a monster!"
"Kevin, that's enough," roared his father.
"Excuse me, mister, but the kid is suffering from shock," one of the firemen said. "Nothing could live in that building. He knows it. Look at the burn on his arm. He's a brave kid. Must have tried to save them."
The Wheatmores took Kevin arid Joyce home, and Dr. Brennan was called to treat Kevin's arm.
"This shot will put you to sleep for a while," Dr. Brennan said. "When you wake up, everything will be all right."
"No, you've got to listen to me. . . ." The injection took effect.
It was late in the evening when Kevin woke up. The pain in his bandaged arm brought back the memory of the fire and the Holmans. He sat upright in bed. Were his mother and dad safe? Where was the space alien now?
Suddenly he was aware that his door was opening, and that a strong odor of fermenting grass permeated the room. The creature, using only the rough figure of a human body to allow it to walk, stood in the doorway. "I want you," it said. "I need your help." Its voice began with Mr. Holman's deep tone and pitched to Joyce's voice.
"What have you done with my mother and dad?" Kevin didn't know that anyone whose heart was pounding as hard as his could still live.
"Your mother and father are downstairs watching television—the noise box. I need them so that everything will seem normal until the pack arrives on this planet."
"What planet do you come from?"
"From Olgorin. In two weeks Olgorin will be in a positive position to condense messages from earth via the nuclear frequency accelerator. Then my pack will swarm. But you must help me find a quiet place where I can send my signals. There are too many city sounds here."
"This pack—are they like you?"
"Of course. We are creatwasps. I'm in a stage of travel transformation and I need food."
"Is everyone on Olgorin like you?"
"We are the only ones remaining now. That is why I am here as a scout."
"What you mean is that you're coming here for food. We would be your food." Kevin found it difficult not to scream at the creature. "There are small animals in the fields along the highways on the edge of town. Why don't you eat them?" The creatwasp didn't answer. It only shrugged its half-human shoulders and left the room. It was decided that because Joyce's only relative was a bachelor uncle who traveled, Joyce would stay with the Wheatmores. She settled into the guest room.
The creatwasp had been able to take over Joyce's figure, voice, and mannerisms so well that it had no identity trouble with her friends or teachers. Only Kevin could not forget what she was, and the urgency of proving this to others before the creatwasp pack swarmed to earth got him into trouble. He tried again to warn his father, but it accomplished nothing.
"Tell me, Kevin. Hasn't Joyce always been your friend? Didn't she teach you to dive rather than belly flop last summer?"
"But that was Joyce, Dad. This is a creatwasp. You read about all the cats and dogs that are missing. Well, Joyce—"
"Stop it. That's a terrible thing to say about the poor girl."
"Dad, just smell her. You'll know."
"That's enough, Kevin." The subject was closed. A week after the fire, Kevin took the homeroom attendance record to the office where the principal's door
was open. Joyce was in the room with him, and Kevin could hear some of their conversation.
"I know that you have gone through a terrible experience, Joyce, but it doesn't give you the right to be impertinent. Miss Jones told me that when she asked you to put the algebra problem on the board, you barked at her."
"Meow, meow," Joyce answered. From where he stood, Kevin saw the back of Joyce's neck turn green. She was having trouble controlling herself. When Joyce noticed him, Kevin hurried out of the office.
Two days later the newspaper carried the story of the principal's disappearance. "No clues ... no notes ... no ransom letters," Mr. Wheatmore sighed, quoting the news-paper at dinner.
"Kevin, eat your dinner," his mother said. "You're getting so thin."
"I'm really not hungry. I've got so much homework, I'd like to be excused."
Waiting upstairs until he heard Joyce go to her room, Kevin turned on his favorite radio station. It was rock—the Mama Bugs. He liked to listen at full volume. Soon his parents would settle down in front of the television and he could talk to Joyce. He didn't really expect her to listen to reason though.
"Come in." The creatwasp's voice sounded like the school principal's. Opening the door, Kevin was repulsed at what he saw. Though the creatwasp was partially in its original shape, its head was a green version of Joyce's, collie paws rested on the arms of the chair, and a cat's tail twitched from the insect body.
"Turn off that radio!" The creatwasp lunged at him, placing two collie paws on his chest. Kevin shoved against it with both hands.
"Do it now!" Strong insect mandibles thrust near his face.
"Let me go and I'll turn it off." The creatwasp followed Kevin across the hall to his room. As he snapped off the radio, the creatwasp returned to Joyce's form, though it still had some difficulty with the collie paws.
"Small animals do not agree with me," the creatwasp said. "You saw what happened in the principal's office the other day."
The fermenting grass odor was heavy in the room. Something—possibly the smaller animals that did not agree with it—had weakened the creature. This could be his chance to get rid of it!
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 8
