Filaria - Brent Hayward [83]
He shuddered again and stepped on the accelerator slightly more to gain a little distance. All he had left was his hope to one day revisit that pristine place, replace his thoughts by those in the mind he’d discovered there. He would leave crippled Young Phister behind. Leave these thoughts and doubts.
Taking his eyes off the hall to quickly study the cryptic engravings on the hunter, searching for assistance in the marks, or perhaps to learn how he had found that strength to get away from Cynthia’s gang, a loud shout, from very nearby, startled him and he instinctively braked, pulling hard on the steering wheel and swerving, looking up just in time to see what appeared to be a small, extremely white toddler, naked, standing just a few metres in front of the wheels and waving its arms frantically as it vanished beyond the hood’s line of sight.
“Shit!”
Moving sideways through the grit — McCreedy’s body lurching forward in the seat — the car came to a stop.
“Not again,” Phister muttered. “Not again . . .”
There had been no thump this time. Thankfully. No scream, no sickening sound of bones splintering under the wheels.
Young Phister, hands trembling, wondered if what he had seen was human, or even real.
“Hello?” Half rising from the driver’s seat, he called out. The word, through the fabric of his shirt, was muted but echoed down the length of the dusty corridor. Ahead, from under a rolling tongue of thin smoke that was licking at the ceiling, materialized another dusty phantom. A man, this time. And then another. Marching, stoic, expressionless.
“Hello?” Phister’s voice broke. “Hell — ”
Clambering slowly up over the lip of the hood — real, but too pale, too pale — appeared first the small white hands, the domed head, the small torso of a young boy. Phister could only watch in horror as the naked child finally managed to pull his chubby legs up and, puffing, stood on the hood of the car. But when the toddler lifted his face to grin at Phister through the windshield, Young Phister’s blood went cold: there were huge gashes on the child’s neck, in three places. Flesh hung limp and grey.
“Hi yourself,” the boy said. “We meet at last.”
“Do I, do I know you?”
“Not really.” When the boy grinned again, he showed tiny, sharp teeth. “But first let’s talk about your inability to drive this thing. You should watch out, you know. You could have killed me.” Those eyes were cold and green and now they turned towards McCreedy, slumped in the passenger seat. “What’s up with your friend?”
Phister was dry-mouthed. He could not look away from the boy though he felt strong and growing repulsion. He said quietly, “That’s McCreedy. He’s dead.”
“Funny.” The boy’s eyes flicked back towards Phister. “Me too.”
There was a long pause. Fearful of what the answer might be, Phister asked, “Am I also dead?” For the idea that he was in a world of the deceased had never gone away, bursting to fruition again with the boy’s sudden appearance and comments.
“Dead? You? What kind of dumbass question is that?” The gashes on the toddler’s neck exposed raw gristle and dull bands of slack, lifeless muscle.
“I’m not? Then what about these people? Who are they? Are they dead?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“These others.” With one arm Phister indicated the men, who were at that moment walking past the car. “Why are you the only one who can understand me?”
“Think I’m associated with these people? Is that what you’re getting at?” The boy seemed offended. “I don’t know who they are. Maybe they speak another language. How should I know?” He motioned. “What is that thing you’re holding?”
Phister looked at the hunter. He had forgotten he was fondling it. He held it up.
“Can I see it?”
The boy came forward to lean against the windshield. On tiptoes he reached across to take the rod, which he turned over a few times