witchcraft and Satanism and all that high, happy horseshit, so it all came natural to him. We grabbed some old man, some ragbag, tied and gagged him, then dragged him into a vacant lot one night and tied him to a tree. We piled wood all around him in a big heap and then we lit him up. Specs said it was expiation, that we had to make a burnt offering and that would keep The Shape happy and on our side.
It was horrible.
The old man died screaming, lit up like a candle. I saw his eyes actually boil out of his head and his skin superheat like wax and run off the skeleton and into the flames. When he was smoldering I told The Shape to come and get him. That was the first time it ever appeared to us, took on physical form. It took our offering…absorbed it…but somehow I knew it wasn’t what it wanted.
It wanted something living, not something burnt.
It was angry at what had been offered.
It wanted another.
Two days later, Specs got sick.
14
We’d just come back from scouting out some vehicles to get us out of the city and Specs had been acting funny all day. He wasn’t saying much. After we’d settled in, he came over to me.
“ I got something, Nash,” he said. “I got something real bad.”
“ You’re just tired,” I told him.
“ I been coughing for three days.”
And he had been. I think we were all aware that something was going on, but maybe we justified it in our own minds by saying it was just a cold or something…even though we all damn well knew that even cold bugs were serious business these days.
“ I can’t even breathe out of my nose, Nash,” he told me. “My muscles and joints ache all the time. Sometimes I have trouble breathing.”
“ Don’t say anything to the others, not yet.”
He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t do that, Nash. I can’t take the chance of infecting them with what I have.”
Good old Specs. Guy went through life pretty much afraid of everything. One of those people that God or Nature or what have you had given barely enough strength and fortitude to get through day by day. But when the chips were down, he was as strong as they came. As selfless as you could imagine.
We told Janie and Sean and they would have been totally justified to want to get away from him, but they didn’t. He was one of us and we were going to make it together.
“ Don’t you worry, little brother,” Sean told him. “We’ll get you on your feet. Before you know it, me and you’ll be hunting Trogs again.”
Specs tried to smile at that and a tear slid from his eye.
The next few days were bad. Specs’ skin began to take on a bluish, cyanotic tinge that concerned us all. He couldn’t breathe. He was gasping all the time. He was hot to the touch and a sour-smelling sweat rolled down his face. He’d have choking fits that would go on for ten minutes. In a last ditch attempt, Sean went and found us some military-grade antibiotics and we shot Specs full of them. It did no good. It was simply too late.
Mostly he was incoherent, thrashing in his sleep and even convulsing. There was little we could do. Janie mothered him the best she could. Now and again, he’d wake up, look at me, and start talking about throwing corpses in the back of the garbage truck in Youngstown or sleeping in cars or any of the other stupid things we’d done.
It was then I realized he was going to die. The idea of that cut me open, made me bleed. We’d been through a lot. Specs was like some stupid little brother that annoys you, hangs around, but won’t go away and you’re secretly glad for it. I didn’t want to be without him.
Then one day, he said to me, “Nash…don’t let me die like this…it hurts…everything fucking hurts…I can’t even breathe. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
I just shook my head; it was unthinkable.
But Specs was insistent. “Please, Nash, don’t make me suffer. Give me…give me to The Shape.”
It was insane and I told him so, but he kept pushing and he
It was horrible.
The old man died screaming, lit up like a candle. I saw his eyes actually boil out of his head and his skin superheat like wax and run off the skeleton and into the flames. When he was smoldering I told The Shape to come and get him. That was the first time it ever appeared to us, took on physical form. It took our offering…absorbed it…but somehow I knew it wasn’t what it wanted.
It wanted something living, not something burnt.
It was angry at what had been offered.
It wanted another.
Two days later, Specs got sick.
14
We’d just come back from scouting out some vehicles to get us out of the city and Specs had been acting funny all day. He wasn’t saying much. After we’d settled in, he came over to me.
“ I got something, Nash,” he said. “I got something real bad.”
“ You’re just tired,” I told him.
“ I been coughing for three days.”
And he had been. I think we were all aware that something was going on, but maybe we justified it in our own minds by saying it was just a cold or something…even though we all damn well knew that even cold bugs were serious business these days.
“ I can’t even breathe out of my nose, Nash,” he told me. “My muscles and joints ache all the time. Sometimes I have trouble breathing.”
“ Don’t say anything to the others, not yet.”
He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t do that, Nash. I can’t take the chance of infecting them with what I have.”
Good old Specs. Guy went through life pretty much afraid of everything. One of those people that God or Nature or what have you had given barely enough strength and fortitude to get through day by day. But when the chips were down, he was as strong as they came. As selfless as you could imagine.
We told Janie and Sean and they would have been totally justified to want to get away from him, but they didn’t. He was one of us and we were going to make it together.
“ Don’t you worry, little brother,” Sean told him. “We’ll get you on your feet. Before you know it, me and you’ll be hunting Trogs again.”
Specs tried to smile at that and a tear slid from his eye.
The next few days were bad. Specs’ skin began to take on a bluish, cyanotic tinge that concerned us all. He couldn’t breathe. He was gasping all the time. He was hot to the touch and a sour-smelling sweat rolled down his face. He’d have choking fits that would go on for ten minutes. In a last ditch attempt, Sean went and found us some military-grade antibiotics and we shot Specs full of them. It did no good. It was simply too late.
Mostly he was incoherent, thrashing in his sleep and even convulsing. There was little we could do. Janie mothered him the best she could. Now and again, he’d wake up, look at me, and start talking about throwing corpses in the back of the garbage truck in Youngstown or sleeping in cars or any of the other stupid things we’d done.
It was then I realized he was going to die. The idea of that cut me open, made me bleed. We’d been through a lot. Specs was like some stupid little brother that annoys you, hangs around, but won’t go away and you’re secretly glad for it. I didn’t want to be without him.
Then one day, he said to me, “Nash…don’t let me die like this…it hurts…everything fucking hurts…I can’t even breathe. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
I just shook my head; it was unthinkable.
But Specs was insistent. “Please, Nash, don’t make me suffer. Give me…give me to The Shape.”
It was insane and I told him so, but he kept pushing and he
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