Filaria - Brent Hayward [57]
“Sure,” said Bert, the other passenger.
“They look exactly like them.”
Phister opened his eyes a crack as McCreedy spat up a hard chunk of some dark matter which had risen up from his lungs; it rolled off his lips, bounced from the car frame, and rustled in the leaves covering the floor.
“What did happen to you guys?” Bert asked. “I mean, your skin, your scalps?”
McCreedy seemed to be about to respond but was suddenly racked by a spasm of violent coughing. He could not stop for a long while, bending forward in the seat, retching and spluttering. The car, without the weight of his foot on the pedal, slowed down. Phister did not know what to do. One hand hovered over McCreedy’s back.
When the fit subsided, McCreedy sat up once more. But as he wiped at his mouth with the fingers of his glove — releasing the steering wheel for a second — the glove became stained, strung with blood-flecked phlegm.
“Shit. You okay, pops?” Nudging at Phister. “What’s up with your friend? Is he all right? You’re sure he’s not contagious?”
“Radiating sickness,” Bert said. “That’s what they called it. In the play.”
“Radiation,” corrected his friend.
Looking at McCreedy, Young Phister was forced to acknowledge that the old man seemed, at this juncture, nothing but tiny and frail. Not at all like the tough fucker Phister had left with on this expedition a mere few days ago. Truthfully, he could not imagine McCreedy even walking again, let alone fighting or showing any signs of being the crusty old bastard Phister knew from back home. Recalling Philip’s wails as McCreedy pounded on him brought a wistful smile to Phister’s lips. How fast a person could deteriorate, he thought. How fast a person could change. And, for the first time, he wondered if there really was something terrible happening to the driver, something aside from withdrawal.
Maybe something was happening to both of them.
“Is he already dead?” Bert asked. “I mean, is he dead?”
“Dead? I’m not dead. I’m sitting right here.” Yet McCreedy’s voice was thin and reedy, as if he were talking from another plane. He looked up from the mess on his glove to take the wheel again. The car gently swerved. “I’m as alive as anyone. So ask questions to my face, you little prick.”
“You ain’t as alive as me, pops, I can tell you that much. And I’ve seen dead people in my day — they pass through here sometimes, looking for whatever it is dead people look for. They seem healthy compared to you!”
“Leave him alone,” Phister said. He wished McCreedy could show Bert and his companion some of that lost energy, maybe grab the pair in headlocks or elbow them both hard in the chops. Knock their heads together. “Just leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s coughing up his lungs?”
“What kind of drugs is he on?” Bert asked.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday.” The boy put his hand on Phister’s shoulder. “I’m talking about dope. Him all fucked up like that. What kind of drug is it?”
“It’s, uh, it’s called moss.”
“Never heard of it. What does it do?”
“It gets you high.”
“Fucking smart ass.” The fingers tightened painfully. “Got any of this moss stuff on you?”
“No, we don’t,” McCreedy said. There was a loose rattling sound in his throat. “If we had any, I’d take it myself and feel less shitty. Now let go of him.”
Laughing, Bert released Phister. He wrung the hair on his chin with one fist, which rustled like the vines. “Anyhow,” he said, “the play. The play. If ever you get a chance to see this travelling roadshow, this play, run for your life. It’s shit and heavy-handed and it’s a load of propaganda. That’s what Cynthia says. Plus, the guy that puts it on is this creepy old bastard.” Bert and his friend grinned at each other. “So we stole some stuff from him.”
“Cynthia came back from hunting. Remember? When she saw him all set up?”
Both boys chuckled at the memory. “Fuck, yeah. I never seen her change so fast. Thought she was gonna tear that fucker a new asshole. He didn’t finish the show before he