The Harvest

From here into the outskirts of Buchanan was mainly a downhill ride, and Kindle found he didn’t have to work the gas pedal much; it was struggle enough to keep the walking stick pressed against the brake to impede the acceleration of the truck. It occurred to him he’d be in some profound trouble if he passed out again. “So stay awake,” he told himself. He remembered that a Place Had Been Prepared For Him in the regional hospital as long as he didn’t run his hiccup truck off the Streets of Laredo.

He passed two other cabins—the property of men as solitary as himself—but he didn’t stop. If he stopped, nobody might be home; and Kindle did not relish the prospect of starting up this truck again. Better to drive as far as possible toward Buchanan, or at least down to where the streetlights began.

But then—in a wash of fear that took him by surprise—Kindle remembered that Buchanan might not be the Buchanan he remembered.

Last week, the monsters had come to Buchanan.

Curious ambulatory sponge-things who had infected everybody’s blood.

Was this a real memory or some kind of trauma hallucination? Well, Kindle thought, it sure felt like a real memory.

Still: Monsters?

And if that was true…

He did not summon the images, but here they came: Monsters out of comic books, tentacle-headed things unloading from a flying saucer; or the zombie-eyed human eunuchs out of a dozen movies, slaves of the Overmasters and hungry for human flesh. They had Prepared a Place For Him on the communal barbecue.

Kindle shook his head. He couldn’t decide whether this was fu

(He did, in fact, apply a sudden pressure there, because the truck had picked up a great deal of speed without his noticing.)

No, Kindle told himself sternly. No dying allowed. Go for help. Follow the plan.

See the monsters if you must.

The truck rattled on.

He had reached the suburban margin of the town just inside the city-limits sign when his pain and fatigue crested, and the truck rolled into an embankment and came to rest with its headlights pointed at Orion.

The impact dashed Kindle against the steering wheel, causing the horn to emit a squawk; then he rolled back, semiconscious, into the seat. The truck’s motor rumbled on.

The sound of the horn and the grinding engine woke a thirty-year-old insurance investigator named Buddy Winkler, who had recently become immortal but who still liked to get a good night’s sleep. He went to the window of his two-year-old tract house and gazed with sleepy astonishment at the semivertical Ford riding a dirt bank in the vacant lot next door. Then he phoned 911. He gathered up a blanket and hurried out to the accident, where he quickly surmised there was nothing he could do to help the injured man inside—a screaming and broken mortal man whose eyes rolled wildly at the sight of him.

Monsters, Kindle thought—dimly, when he thought at all.

Monsters leering down at him.

He screamed until he was mute.

And after a dark time he recognized hospital corridors, and understood for one lucid moment that he was lying on a gurney cart with medical staff bustling around him.

A frowning face lofted into proximity, and Kindle reached up with what remained of his strength and took this person by the collar of his gown.

“Get me,” Kindle gasped, “a human doctor.”

“Relax,” the entity pronounced. “I am human.”

“You know what I mean, you alien shitsack! Get me a human doctor, you monster!”

Kindle fell back gasping.

The man looming over him turned away. “Can we have some sedation here? The patient’s hysterical. Oh, and somebody call Matt Wheeler.”

Now I think maybe I am safe, Kindle thought, and embarked upon a sleep that would last for two days ru

Giddy light-headedness and fog. Kindle awoke once again.

He was in bed. His leg was bound and in traction. It hurt, but only a little. Kindle guessed he was sedated and that right now nothing would hurt very much.

He felt distant and vague, and he supposed if you tore off his arm and beat him with it that would be okay, too. Probably a nice opiate drip on that IV.

But the main thing was that he had made it to the hospital. He took a certain pride in that. His memory was fuzzy, but he recalled that it had been a long and harrowing journey.

A man in medical whites approached. Kindle watched this process with languorous detachment. He managed, “You must be the doctor.”

“That’s right, Mr. Kindle.”

“I asked for a human being.”

“You got one. My name is Matt Wheeler.”

Matthew Wheeler was an ordinary-looking man with a woebegone face. He’s too young, Kindle thought idly, for all those frown lines. “You’re human, Dr. Wheeler?”

“As human as you are, Mr. Kindle.”

“Not one of them?”

“No. But they can treat you as well as I can. There’s no need to worry.”

“Maybe,” Kindle said. “Has the town changed much? I’ve been up in the hills since, since—” Since what was it called? Contact.

“Not much.” Dr. Wheeler looked uncomfortable. “Not yet.”

“How’s my leg?”

“It should mend reasonably well. In time. May I ask how you broke it?”

“Walking out back of my cabin. Fell in the fuckin’ mud.”

“How did you get into town?”

“Dragged my ass down to my truck.” The memory was a little clearer now. “Then I drove.” He shrugged.

“That’s remarkable. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

Kindle was alert enough to recognize a compliment. “I guess I’m hard to kill, huh?”

“I guess you are. You were a sorry mess when the ambulance brought you in, or so I’m told. The leg will heal, Mr. Kindle, but you’re going to be here for a while.” The doctor made a notation on his clipboard. “I understand your attitude about… human beings. But I can’t be in the room twenty-four hours a day. You’ll have to cooperate with the hospital staff. Will you do that for me?”

“You’ll be around, though?”

“I’ll be around. I’ll make a point of it.”

Kindle nodded agreement.

“You’ll probably want some more sleep.” The doctor turned to leave the room.

Kindle closed his eyes, then opened them. “Dr. Wheeler?”

“Yes, Mr. Kindle?”

“How many of us are there? I mean—there are more of us in town, aren’t there?”

The doctor looked even wearier. “A few. I want to get us all together in a couple of weeks. Kind of a town meeting. Maybe you can be there. If you lie still and let that bone mend.”

Kindle nodded, but vaguely; he had already forgotten the question, was already easing back into sleep.

Chapter 12

Brookside (II)

For the memorial service Miriam picked out what she still thought of as her church clothes, though she hadn’t been to church for years: black dress and hat, white gloves, an unscuffed pair of orthopedic shoes.

She adjusted the hat a final time in the mirror by the front door, then stepped out into a hazy summer morning.

More than two weeks had passed since the night she was touched by the Thing.

No longer the Eye of God—what a mistake that had been! It was, Miriam supposed, still the agency of God, as a plague of locusts might be His agency; but it was alien, insinuating, false, and quite un-Godlike in its offer of unconditional absolution. Miriam supposed she would recognize God easily enough when she faced Him: God was Justice, and carried a sword. The Thing, contrarily, had spoken in the plangent and intimate voice of a lover. It offered too much and did not hate sufficiently.