Filaria - Brent Hayward [2]
Nausea flickered in the abyss of Phister’s empty stomach, while, on the dashboard, the little battery icon, half-full, flashed steadily.
The car, having said its piece, waited.
McCreedy took some dried moss from an inside pocket of his vest, pushed it into his maw, and chewed. He offered none to Young Phister. The driver was an addict. A damn addict. Phister liked the stuff, sure, but he didn’t have a problem like McCreedy’s: he could stop any time. He watched McCreedy’s mouth moving, watched the old man squint and nod to himself, and mumble. All Phister wanted to hear now was the old man admitting, before they both died, that he, McCreedy, had no clue where they were and never had.
“Mad old car,” Phister said quietly, after a moment. “Filing your unheard complaints.” He patted the scarred quarter panel. “And there is a problem with our understanding. You’re right. We don’t understand half the stuff you talk about.” Trying to smile now, and looking at McCreedy again, but of course he got no reaction, so he flushed, fell silent, cursing himself for trying once more to break the barrier between him and the driver. The insane car would be better company. Phister wanted to apologize to the vehicle but would never hear the end of it if he did. He touched it once more.
“You know,” the car said, “I nonetheless feel an obligation. To fulfill my duties. Whoever you are. You asked about the weather outside? Well, let’s see. Today, the weather outside is. The weather. Today? Outside? The weather?”
There was a quick burst of static from under the hood. Phister yanked his hand back and McCreedy’s laugh was cruel. With a motion of his head the old man spat, dark fluid spattering the flags and strands of moss sap running down the stubble of his chin. Wiping these away with the back of one hand, McCreedy stared into the haze ahead. “You hear that garble? Sure shut the fucker up. Weather outside always do that.” His voice was dry, his eyes glassy with moss.
The car, indeed, remained quiet.
The hallway, too. Deathly quiet.
Phister tugged at the plughead, breaking contact. He stowed the plug quickly and regained his seat.
“Always wants to tell you about the weather,” McCreedy said, leering horribly as he put the car into gear. “Wants to talk about outside this and outside that and the fucking weather and it never can.” He laughed that unpleasant laugh again.
Screw you, Phister thought, holding onto the brass handrail with both hands as the car, fully charged now, picked up speed. Screw you. Mists, like cobwebs, whipped through what few strands of hair Phister had on his head. Moisture cooled his exposed skin. They passed a puddle reflecting light up at the poorly illuminated ceiling — a silver scale — and then it was gone.
These hallways did go on and on and on.
Despite his better judgment, Phister soon said, “McCreedy?”
No response.
“What do you think it means, anyhow? The car, when it says that. This old machine?”
Still nothing.
“About the weather. About outside. About staff, and guests and parents.”
“How the fuck should I know.” McCreedy flicked across a quick glance, glazed eyes narrow. He shrugged. “Things it remembers. Things it thinks we give a shit about. But I don’t really have a clue and I don’t really care. So shut up and let me drive, all right? There’s a canteen coming up. You’ll see. We’ll eat there and be home by nightfall.”
“Yeah. Home . . .” It occurred to Phister that he and McCreedy could, with the car now charged, continue driving for another three days. Farther away. Farther away from home. What would the halls be like then? The same? Changed in even more subtle ways? Without water, he and McCreedy would be dead anyway. They neared that final cul-de-sac. Should have kept mum about spotting the outlet in the first place, he thought, and we’d be out of juice soon, maybe