“EHHH EEE NNNN!” Tony gurgled. His smeary hands swarmed over the glass. “OHHHENNN UHHH, EHHH EEE NNN!”
“Tony! Let him in, Casey!” Rima tried reaching past to jab open the locks. “Hurry! Open up, and let him in, hurry!”
“NO! Don’t open it, don’t open it!” Before he knew what he was doing—no, no, that was a lie; he knew what he was doing, all right—Casey gave her a good one, a stinging backhanded swat. He pulled the slap at the last second; he didn’t want to knock her out, just stop her. The blow caught Rima on the forehead just above her left eye. He heard her gasp, and then she went sprawling, the back of her head thudding against the passenger’s side door. “Rima, damn it! Stop! We can’t help him!”
“What is wrong with you?” Tears were leaking from her eyes, and a thin trickle of blood inched down her jaw from where she’d bitten her lip. She put a trembling hand to her forehead, like a little girl who couldn’t believe that the parent she thought was so wonderful just five minutes ago could turn on a dime. “We would help you.”
“Then you’re stupid,” Casey said, flatly. “You’ve got a death wish. Getting ourselves killed won’t save him.”
“My God, what are you?” Her mouth worked like she wanted to spit. “How can you do this? Why are you letting him do this?”
“Him? What the hell are you—” He broke off at a sudden, wet, squeaking sound that reminded Casey of running his finger over the condensation of a bathroom mirror. He looked back to see Tony’s hands scrabbling over the glass like wet spiders, his bloody fingers trying to dig in but finding nothing to grab. At the sight, Casey’s stomach turned over.
Every man for himself, boy, Big Earl whispered. You’re doing the right thing. Don’t listen to her. Stay strong. Be a man.
No. But it was such a tiny thought, no more substantial than a soap bubble, and he could feel the crush of Big Earl’s enormous hand over his mind. This … Dad, it’s not right, it’s not—
He heard himself suck in a quick breath as the night beyond Tony, that awful black jam of shadows … moved.
“What is that?” Rima’s voice was a thin shriek. “Oh my God, what is that?”
I don’t know. He didn’t want to see this. Casey tried jerking his eyes away, but it was as if the same force that had controlled his hand was unfurling in the hollow of his skull, reaching fingers to grasp at his head and hold him fast so he couldn’t look anywhere else. It was exactly like the time Big Earl came home from the pound with a mutt. Casey had been … he couldn’t remember how old. A little kid. Ten? Twelve? He just didn’t know. But the dog, he remembered: a Heinz 57, tan with a white ruff and a delirious, stubby little tail that went wild as the dog jumped up to flick its wet pink tongue at Casey’s chin and try to lick his giggles.
Cut out that baby crap, Big Earl had snarled. Giving the rope knotted around the dog’s neck a hard yank, Big Earl had marched the animal into the woods behind their cabin. Reluctant now, the dread growing, Casey had trailed, wishing he were anywhere else.
It’s not a damn pet. I’m trying to teach you something here. Take this—his father thrust that wicked Glock into Casey’s hands—and kill that thing … NO. Clamping a hand over Casey’s head, Big Earl turned him back, the way you’d crank a hot water tap, when he tried backing up and looking away. Do it, you little pissant. Grow a couple, and be a man for once.
If he had been the man his father wanted, Casey should’ve shot the bastard dead, right then and there, and saved Eric and him all this trouble, these years of grief. But he was just a kid, and what Casey remembered was how everything inside just … stopped, the way that dog’s stubby tail suddenly stilled. The small animal had looked up at Big Earl and then to Casey, and then its dark eyes, so bright before, dulled—like it knew what would happen next.
Unlike the dog, though, Casey couldn’t look away from Tony and this horror show now. Because it was only human to stare at what should stay buried in nightmares; to gawk as a wolf brought down a deer and began to eat it alive. To play shoot-’em-up video games. Or was it that Big Earl simply wouldn’t let him turn away? Casey was no longer sure, and maybe that wasn’t important anymore.
Now, Casey couldn’t help but watch—horrified but, yes, breathless, excited—as a long muscular rope slithered from the blackness beyond to coil around Tony’s waist.
“No,” Rima said, broken. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “Tony.”
“OOOHHH!” Tony shrieked. His eyes were headlamps, white and round with terror. “OOOHHH!”
TONY
A Thing with Eyes
THEY WERE THERE, they were right there. Open the door, open the—
“OOORRR!” Tony slapped at the window with fingers that were more bone than meat. With no tongue now, everything came out as mush, but they must see, they must know he needed help. Help me, help me, don’t let me die! Open the door, open the door, the door! “ORRR!”
Blood poured down his throat, and Tony choked, hacking out a brackish spray that tasted of salty copper mixed with the thick gag of gasoline. He could feel his life pumping from shredded arteries and veins, and a creeping cold spreading from his limbs toward his chest, rising for his head. He was dying; he was going to die out here.
Rima, help, help, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave—
From somewhere close behind, the thing bellowed. His heart turned over. What was it, what was it? He could not see it; he had never had the chance, because there was only the dark, that strange fog that had contracted on itself, and then the cold slash of the night, and this thing’s claws and jaws and steaming, stinking breath that smelled of rot and bloat.
Then, through the blood-smeared window, he saw Rima’s face swim toward him, and he felt a bright flame of sudden hope. Yes, yes, open the door, let me in, please! But then he saw Casey push Rima away and … had Casey hit her?
Oh God, oh God … A suffocating drape of despair closed around his chest and stoppered his breath. Casey was going to leave him out here, let him die … Please. He slapped at the window again, hearing the high squeaky drag of thick blood over cold glass. Please let me in, please save me.
Then he felt it—the night, the fog, the monster; it was one and the same—gathering itself out there, closing in, moving. “Uhhh,” he moaned, “uhhh, eeesss …”
A thick, strong rope—no, an arm, a tentacle; what is this thing?—wormed around his middle.
No no no! “OHHH!” The scream bubbled from his mouth on a choking gout of fresh blood. He felt the rope tighten and bunch, the muscles tensing. “OHHH!”
With one savage jerk, it yanked him from the glass. Wailing, Tony hurtled backward, rocketing through the night like a yo-yo recalled by its owner at the twitch of a finger. The rope flicked, releasing him, and Tony let out another scream as he flew in a plunging arc. He crashed to the gas-slicked ice, like a large stone dropped into a still pond. A wide corona of gasoline shot up, then splashed back down to mingle with his blood.