Filaria - Brent Hayward [59]
Even those words were not his own.)
Approaching one of the water spigots, he took a cup from the dispenser and drank a bellyful. The water was clear and tasted like none he’d ever had before. It sat in him like cold stone. He tried to smile at the faces around him — there was a group of older men, eating at a table — but no one acknowledged him. He took a second full cup of water back into the hall.
“Hey, wake up.” Handing the cup to McCreedy, who had dozed off. He wanted to talk but it would be futile. Too little too late. So he watched McCreedy drink. Water trickled down the old man’s chin, poised there to drip.
Then he noticed two young boys, perhaps twelve or so, crouching quietly, partially hidden by the front bumper of the car. Were they tampering? Had they been spying on McCreedy? Phister looked directly at them. One said, “We got a plug for this thing, over there. It’s on a stand that rolls around. You want us to charge it?”
“Uh, sure . . .”
And, standing several metres away, with two other people — the stout girl and a tall, bone-skinny, shirtless man — stood Cynthia. Staring at him. When their eyes met, she made her way over. Watching her approach — her figure, her skin — Phister got nervous. He wiped his hands on his grubby pants.
Meanwhile, McCreedy had finished the water, and he dropped the cup onto the floor of the car. He belched. By the time Cynthia had made it to Phister’s side, the old man was fast asleep again. Cynthia lightly grabbed Phister’s upper arm. “Did you get any food yet?”
“Uh, no.”
“Later, then. I want you to come with me. I’ve been thinking. We have to talk.” Her grip tightened. Phister watched the two youths trying to wheel the plug stand up to the car, forcing the device through the rustling vines and cursing its slow progress. The charger they were going to use was a spindly thing, like a short, thin man made out of sticks. Its face was a contact plate, complete with copper script. Phister had never seen anything like it.
“Okay,” he stammered, “but, uh, but lemme help these guys first. Hang on.” Stalling, he pulled free from the grip, stepped onto the running board, and grabbed at the plughead. As he unwound the cable with practiced movements of one arm, he hoped that Cynthia, who had still not spoken but was watching him intently, would move off.
In his sleep, McCreedy snorted.
Phister handed the plughead to the nearest kid — who not only had different-coloured eyes, one red and one blue, but, he saw now, was not a kid at all. In fact, both of the boys charging the car were short adults. Could he trust nothing here? Legs and arms fully developed, necks bulky and strong, faces more haggard and serious than any child’s should ever be. Had they changed shapes? Surely they hadn’t looked like this at first. Phister struggled to remember —
Cynthia said bluntly, “Now let’s go.”
Without a choice left to him, Phister stepped down. Cynthia took him by the arm again and they walked. After a moment, far enough away from the car to be out of hearing range, she said quietly, “Listen. I’ve been looking for . . . well, something, for a long time. For someone. The hunter was going to help me. I’ve been doing what I did to you, when we met, to every guy we come across. I’m not sure what our next move is but I need to keep an eye on you. You’re going to have to stay here. With me. Very close.”
“Why? I can’t stay here. I’ve gotta go home. But I feel . . . It feels . . . I feel like I’m not who I was.”
“And who were you?”
“Young Phister, that’s all. No one.”
“Well, listen, Young Phister. No one. I’ll be honest with you. That hunter has been around since the time of the engineer. It belonged to a close acquaintance