Dig.
He angled the shovel, pushed it downward—
He stopped. In the loose dirt, something twisted, dug down away from him.
Quickly, ignoring the tightening pain in his forearms, he pierced soil with shovel blade, pressed down.
Outside, around him, the cold night brightened with orange light. His eyes, oversensitive, drank it in. The smell of burning leaves impregnated the taut, cold air, wafted away.
Something moved against the blade of the shovel, tapped, and squirmed away. He forced the blade down and felt it trapped, fighting for release.
Yes!
The sky in front of Kevin was on fire. He felt insistent movement against the shovel. He looked down to see the thing's head pulling away from the shovel blade, curling down into the loam, leaving a wake of churned, moist soil behind.
He brought the shovel up to his eyes, stared at the smooth U cut out of the steel blade at the tip.
Dig!
The smell of burning leaves reached achingly across his nostrils again. This was life, all of it was life, flooding into him. This was what Eileen knew, what Brahms sensed—even in death, life. A flood of life.
He jammed the shovel back into the dirt. His aching muscles were joy. Cold sweat beaded his face.
The shovel split earth, lifted dirt, drove down, split earth again.
He shivered in pain and cold and joy. The shovel blade drove, lifted, drove—caught.
Again, he felt movement against the blade.
The thing's head bored up from the dark loam. One of its tiny, jointed legs pushed up, waved like an antenna before moving against the shovel blade, scraping methodically at it up and down.
The thing stared up at his face.
It was slug colored, reptilian. Its long, thin tail ended in a tiny, split fork. Behind its head were the merest bumps, the hint of horns. Its small, round mouth opened and closed like a gasping, prehistoric fish. Its eyes were round, slightly raised, dark, blank, like gray wens.
He watched the thing work against the shovel. The muscles in Kevin's arms, his legs, his back, felt like stretches of molten lead.
He felt cold night-sweat on his skin, smelled the odor of burning leaves, mingled now with the odor of shingles and insulation and car metal, the burning flesh of men
Even this is life. Death is life. I own even my own death, it belongs to me, makes part of my whole.
I AM ME.
Now, he told himself.
Eyes averted, one shivering hand keeping firm pressure on the shovel, he reached down and took hold of the thing. He released pressure on the shovel. The thing came gently free of the soil. Its many legs pulled up from the dirt, curling tightly around his fingers. He felt the thing's tail whip across his knuckles. His thumb brushed across the thing's face; he felt the tiny mouth opening and closing, trying to bite.
Do it, he told himself.
He held the thing before his face, not looking at it.
He opened his mouth and put it in.
Caught!
The thing went wild with fury. He was caught, was being lifted from the soil! Fight! He moved his tiny claws ineffectively against the human's finger.
Millenniums would not end like this! He would not let it happen!
What was this! Its tiny eyes saw the human's mouth opening, saw himself going in—
Find purchase! Catch hold!
Kevin Michaels held the thing in his mouth. It let go of his fingers, strained for his tongue, tried to scrape its legs into it.
Now.
I am life, he thought. I am me.
Kevin brought his teeth together.
WHAT IS HE DOING!
Kevin's mouth filled with burning liquid. Acid. A thousand, a million memories, not his own, washed over him, were gone. He felt Davey Putnam flow through him, released. The history of mankind, an evil, endless train back to the caves, the trees, a rushing line of hate and death. The memories flashed to brilliance; he saw a cold field, men with homed masks, a huge pyre of burning sticks, a human slave within, screaming for release. He saw the dark sky burn, the color of pumpkin . . .
ALL IS LOST! It felt its legs pull away from its mind, the fade of its existence, spiraling at last toward the end . . .
Its tiny eyes looked out; saw the pyre of orange flame rising in the night, saw the burning of the world, the sacrifice, just for itself . . .
I WAS A GOD!
Kevin collapsed, gasping. The pictures let him go. He was himself, all himself, and he lay touching his hand with his own hand. He touched his face.
He was not dead.
He felt wonderfully exhausted. He rolled over, looked at the burning-cloud sky, cold patches of night between. It was beautiful, all of it was beautiful.
Me.
Yes, Father.
Yes, Eileen.
He rose, stumbled to where Rusty lay dead. He collapsed beside the dog in the hard furrow of dead pumpkins. His eyes faced the burning town. He heard, far off but nearing, the wail of many sirens.
He turned his eyes away, closed them.
His body was suddenly very tired. He felt his hand fall on the cold, furred body of the dog. In his head he heard sad, triumphant, human music that sounded like Brahms.
"Good dog," he whispered, closing his eyes.
This would be a good place for them to find him.
October Page 19
