Filaria - Brent Hayward [58]
They were in the throes of guffaws.
Phister, however, had been stunned by the disclosure. The boys had been talking about Philip. The coincidence was more than alarming. He wanted to ask a million questions but dared not to ask one. He was suddenly convinced that not only had Philip survived the encounter in the warehouse, but that he was nearby, following, watching.
The car was directed down several halls of varying width and function, none really like the ones back home — pipeless, overgrown, green and rank — until they approached a camp of sorts, where cots had been set up. Here were more people, going about their business, some sleeping, some reclining on the floor. Pausing, a few watched the car and the gang draw closer.
More sounds of music reached Phister, again recalling the sweet sounds he had heard in another world. A voice began to sing. His heart ached. He looked at Cynthia: she was grinning at the people ahead and paid him no heed.
A woman, holding a child to her breast, smiled, and gave a tiny wave.
In the air lingered the smell of food. Canteen food. Phister’s stomach, registering it, twisted; he realized he yearned for sustenance, of course, but also for a place like this, for people to come home to, for friends.
Close enough to call out, Cynthia said, “Hey, look what we found, driving out of a pod at shaft sixteen. Check this car out! Check these dudes out!”
“And we think the little guy,” Bert shouted, “might be the one!”
The look in those flashing green eyes demanded silence.
But the other boy said, “They don’t even know where the fuck they’re from or where they are! They ain’t got no teeth!”
Phister tried to keep his lips together. He had never thought that having no teeth would make him feel out of place.
The car stopped. McCreedy said to the passengers, “Get off the car. Get off the fucking car now,” and, turning to Phister, added, “I’m not feelin so good, boy. I need water. I need water.”
“Okay. You wanna lie down?” Phister was embarrassed by the driver’s show of vulnerability. He did not know what to do with his hands.
“I won’t be getting out of my seat.” McCreedy drew a deep, shuddering breath as the two boys clambered down. “You have to bring my stuff up here. All these ugly people, with their hair and fucking tattoos and colours. They’re making me ill. My guts is on fire. My brain is on fire.”
“Sure, sure . . .” Phister also climbed off the car, not feeling too good himself, trying to dispel jitters with concrete action. For a moment he stood on wobbly legs, among these strangers — all of whom had a purpose, moving in that graceful way they had, smiling, touching — as if he had ceased to exist altogether. He had become smoke.
How he missed his home. Pangs so strong inside they were like shooting pain. He needed to return to the life he knew. McCreedy did too. They were both decomposing out here. He could convince himself no longer: he was not worldly at all; he was naïve and out of his league. And lonely. Intelligent, beautiful, dangerous people like Cynthia were not his type. She wasn’t even the same animal as he was. He was a fool to have thought anything else.
Resigned, he decided to go in search of food, and water.
The canteen was located in an overgrown room to the left of where the cots were set up. In appearance, it was almost identical to the ones he had known and eaten at. He entered and took a slow inventory, letting his hunger, which would soon be assuaged, indulge in its cramps and growls. He filled his lungs with the scents. These new areas of the world shared aspects both familiar to him and yet transformed — like the outlet, on the wrong side of the hall, and this canteen. Subtle ways almost more unsettling than if they were totally unfamiliar; the alterations between these and similar ones back home confirmed again that he was irrevocably lost.
(A momentary flash, from someone else’s perspective, a quick vista so foreign he had no idea what it could be but that left him reeling.