There would be creatures there.
And food.
The camper trailer had a New Mexico plate, as did the ’74 Chrysler hitched to it. They were the only vehicles in the out-of-the-way camping ground. The two aluminum-and-canvas folding chairs standing outside the door were red and green, and the embers of the dying campfire — prudently placed well away from the camper — glowed in the night. A short distance from the vehicles was a small cemented area with a low, squared-off, U-shaped stone wall around it. Inside stood half a dozen metal garbage cans with special, tightly fitting lids to keep the wild animals from foraging in the trash.
Furtively, silently, Tom crept up to the garbage-can enclosure, his eyes constantly flitting toward the quiet monsters nearby. The cans smelled of food. It excited him — and he salivated. He felt the cans. He groped them, frustrated because he could not find a way to get inside them. And he knew the food was there. He tugged at a handle. It would not give. He pulled at the screw-on lid. It would not budge.
He froze at a small, sharp sound from the larger monster. At once he crouched down among the cans, unwilling to leave his newfound source of food.
Suddenly a part of the large monster was thrown open and a shaft of light shot out from inside and reached a long finger toward him across the desert floor. Startled, he squeezed down into his hiding place, fear welling up in him, pressing in his throat.
From the light two creatures emerged. They looked dark and menacing to him, silhouetted by the light behind them. His eyes devoured them. One of them was a different one. Like the one who was with him. It carried a large brown lump in its arms. He watched them tensely. The creatures made noises at each other. The same kind of noises his creature made.
“I'll get the fire.” One of them walked toward the pool of light on the ground.
“All right, dear.”
“Watch your step over by the cans. There's a little ledge. Hard to see.”
“I will.”
The creature with the brown bulk in her arms was coming straight at him. Terror rose in him. And rage. The creature was coming to take his food from him. The food he had found.
He threw a quick glance at the other creature not far away. It was kicking sand over the glowing pool of light. He whipped his eyes back to the approaching one, headed straight for him. And the food.
And fury swept away his terror.
He leaped from his hiding place. He stood defiant, trembling and menacing, before the woman, who stood frozen in shock. His eyes bloodshot and wild, his hair matted and blood-caked, his bristly face streaked with dirt, he looked wholly terrifying — and terrified. He drew his cracked lips back in a silent snarl.
The woman screamed. She dropped her bag of garbage and turned to flee in panic. She tripped and fell heavily to the ground.
Tom's attention was on the woman to the exclusion of all else. Desperate, intent only upon defending his food from the intruder, he growled deep in his throat as he slowly advanced on her. The woman stared up at the ferocious, unearthly apparition and whimpered in raw terror.
Like claws, Tom's hands came up before him. He was ready to pounce upon this enemy at his feet. He was wholly intent on his prey, oblivious to the man at the dying campfire.
Horrified, for a split second the man stared at the fear some specter that threatened his wife. Then he was galvanized into action: He swooped down, grabbed a piece of firewood glowing in the embers and ran toward the brute whirling it in the air. It burst into flame.
Tom was about to leap when suddenly the flaming firebrand was thrust at him, aimed straight at his face.
He howled in startled fear and jumped back. The blazing enemy was upon him! He could feel its scorching heat, and the blinding light seared his eyes. Lightning fast memories surged through his mind… the blazing, broiling disk high above that burned his skin, come down to chase him in a thunder of sound and power; the blast of fire and smoke when he had fought the strident, tormenting creatures in the canyon; the sudden yellow light that roared and hurt, biting his flesh. His enemies. Enemies of light and heat. Enemies he could not vanquish…
The man swung his fiery torch frantically back and forth before the terror-stricken Tom, screaming his rage at him. Sparks flew from the burning wood and bit Tom's face and hands. He stumbled back, retreating from the fiery enemy, staring at it in spellbound panic. He trampled on the garbage bag dropped by the woman and nearly lost his balance. The bag broke — and the smell of food reached him through his terror.
Unthinkingly, governed by an inborn need, never taking his eyes from the threatening creature whirling the dreaded firebrand at him, he scooped up the broken paper bag and fled into the protective darkness of the desert…
Randi surveyed the feast spread out on the broken brown bag. Carrot tops with bits of vegetable still left on the greens; several pieces of melon rind, smelling sickly-sweet but with only the best part of the pulp scooped away; celery tops with many small stalks; a bread wrapper with a few stale slices of white bread; the empty tin of a canned ham, some of the fat still adhering to the inside; some wilted lettuce leaves; a couple of brown apple cores; and — best of all — a pile of fried chicken bones with substantial bits of meat still left on them, especially on the carcass and the wings. There were two cans of Coke with sip or two of liquid still inside — and a carton half full of our milk.
She looked at her husband, who had sat gnawing on a chicken bone, warily watching her lay out the food. She felt tender and proud. And a little ashamed. When he'd left her behind in the ruins, she had thought he'd gone for good, but she'd been too exhausted to try to stop him — or to follow.
And then — he had returned to her. With food.
She eyed the milk carton. She knew she — and Tom — desperately needed the liquid. Resolutely she picked it up and put it to her mouth. She gagged. She closed her nose and forced herself to drink. She heaved. But she kept it down.
She picked up a melon rind and broke it. Beads of moisture formed in the break. She handed it to Tom. He look it and greedily raked the sweet, moist pulp into his mouth with his teeth…
The food was all gone. Randi's hunger and thirst had quickly overcome her revulsion at eating the leavings of others. It was nourishment. She had eaten only enough to sustain her — and Tom had devoured the rest. She felt restored. Even her waning hope had brightened. Perhaps. Perhaps they would still survive…
She wiped her hands on her clothing, vaguely amused at her gesture. She ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to untangle it a little. Tom was watching her.
She returned his earnest gaze. She felt herself in the grip of a deeply satisfying, primitive emotion. Her Tom. He had foraged for her. He had provided for her. And she loved him.
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered. “I'm proud of you. I'm so very proud of you.”
He was intent upon her. Unwittingly he touched the blood-caked wound high on his head. Her heart flooded with concern.
“Oh darling,” she said, speaking softly, her voice shaky and low, “I so wish I could make you know how I feel.”
She realized he would not understand her words, but she kept on talking to him. “I love you. And I feel she helpless… I wish — I wish I could make up for all the times you needed me. For all the times things needed to be said between us… For the hurt—” Her voice broke She gave a little sob. “And now… If only I could make you understand, we could be all right. If only I could make you understand how much I love you…”
The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, please, Tom… Please understand me… Please…”