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His finger had five pounds on an eight-?pound trigger and Vic was a twitch away from killing something. His eyes cut back and forth across the wall of evergreens and shrubs. Then a tangle of vines parted and a figure stepped out into the gloom, and Vic lowered his gun, smiling thinly. He slid it back into the shoulder rig he wore beneath his windbreaker.
“’Bout fucking time you showed up,” he said, squatting down again. “You look like shit. ”
The figure stared at him with fevered eyes. It stood swaying on dirt-?streaked legs, its clothes in rags and showing skin that had been bleached white with blood loss. There was a brightness of sweat on the stranger’s face and his mouth hung open, lips slack, teeth clotted with blood and dirt. There were bullet holes in its chest and stomach; some of them still seeped blood and pus.
Vic cocked his head and peered up at him. “If you can hear me, then do what you came here to do. You’re on the edge now, and you gotta do this right—and right means right now. ”
The figure took a single step forward and then fell to his knees. His eyes were demented but pleading as they locked on Vic’s, but the mechanic shook his head. “Uh-?uh, chief. You gotta do it. It’s no good if I help you. Spoils the mojo. ” He took a toothpick out of his pocket, tore off the plastic wrapper, and stuck it between his teeth. Mint. Very nice.
The dying stranger toppled forward onto his chest and lay there. Vic frowned at it for a moment, then relaxed when he saw that there was still a little movement of the chest. Still alive, but definitely on that edge. He idly chewed the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Come on, sparky. You’re four feet away. If you want it that bad, crawl. ”
The dying man did that. Slowly at first, just a faint flexing of white fingers in the dirt and a weak kick of the feet, and then the fingers dug into the mud and the toes of the shoes found purchase on a tangle of root, and the dying man began to crawl, wriggling like a misshapen snake through brown grass and mud.
Vic watched him, fascinated. He’d read about this in some of the books he’d found at the Man’s house, and on Web pages he’d prowled on the Net, but he’d never witnessed the process before. It was nothing like in the movies.
The man made it to the edge of the swamp and Vic felt a jolt of excitement shoot through him. This was it, he realized; the shit was really happening!
The dying man was at the end of his strength now, and with his very last effort he pulled himself over the bank and into the swampy mud. Blood still leaked from his wounds and it soaked into the black muck, becoming part of it. Vic could hear how hungrily the mud sucked at the wounds, drinking from them.
“Oh, hell yes,” he said softly.
“Yes…” This time it was the voice of the dying man. Faint but real, and it was full of joy as the swamp sucked the last blood out of him. “Oh…yes!”
Then there was a smell like sulfur and burned meat and gasses erupted from the swamp, curling up on either side of the dying man’s head. A moment later something black bubbled up all around him and Vic leaned close to see. It was thick, like blood, but it was the color of ink. Steam rose from it. It splashed all over the dying man and his face was completely covered in it. It pooled on the surface of the swamp and the biggest pool formed around the dying man’s head.
Vic waited for a moment to see what would happen next. The man looked dead; Vic could see no movement at all in his chest or back. And then he heard it…a faint sound. Like a baby nursing at a breast. A sucking sound.
Vic put his hands on the bank and lowered his head so that he could see the man’s mouth. Yeah, there it was. The man was drinking the black ichor of the swamp.
Smiling, Vic sat back on the bank and chewed his toothpick, feeling immensely pleased and powerful. It was a full ten minutes before the man raised his head from the surface of the swamp and sucked in a huge lungful of air. He turned with painful slowness and crawled back to the firm muddy ground and lay there, gasping, his eyes jumping with fever, his fingers twitching.
Vic tossed away the toothpick and took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. He smoked it all the way down, smoked another. It took about that long for the man just to sit up, and even then his head drooped down between his knees, muck and black goo dripping from his mouth and nose.
“How do you feel?” Vic asked sarcastically.
Karl Ruger just shook his head. A heavy barking cough spasmed through his chest and he vomited between his splayed legs. It was a mixture of red and black blood.
“I feel strange…. ”
“You don’t say,” Vic purred, enjoying this.
“My head…all fucked up…”
Vic snorted. “Pal, you don’t know the half of it. ”
Ruger looked at him, his rheumy eyes sick but hostile. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Well, let me put it in words you might understand. I,” he said, “am the right hand of Ubel Griswold. ”
The dying man’s eyes jumped.
Vic saw the words hit home and nodded. “Yeah, baby. Two dogs, one leash. ” He bent forward, leaning his forearms on his thighs. “So listen close. My name’s Vic Wingate and the Man has work for both of us to do. ”
Frowning, Ruger looked down at his chest, at the bullet holes that were not clogged with black goo.
“Good luck with that,” he rasped. “I’m fucking dying here. ”
