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Crow just shook his head, looking pale and shaken.
“Why’d you call out like that? Why’d you call her name?”
Crow frowned at him. “What?”
“Just now. You yelped like you’d been burned and then said ‘Val!’ real loud. What’s the deal?”
“I…don’t know,” Crow said. “I don’t think I said that…did I?” He looked down at his hand and his palm was an angry red. In his mind the words replayed in a nasty whisper: She is going
to die and there is nothing you can do to save her. Nothing! “Jesus Christ,” he said slowly, “I wanted to come here, you know, to ease my fears, to put this shit to rest. I didn’t come here for this shit. ”
“No argument. ”
“I think we should get the fuck out of here and I mean now!”
Newton only nodded and together they backed off the porch, lingering at the top step just long enough for Newton to take a picture of the front door, but as he did so he dropped the walking stick that he’d tucked under his arm. He bent down to pick it up and instantly there was a tremendous CRACK! and the entire center section of the sagging porch tore free from the age-weakened supports and plummeted downward. Newton heard the sound and looked up but he was shocked into immobility, absolutely frozen to the spot; then something hit him in the side hard enough to drive all the air out of his lungs and he was swept off the porch and went tumbling down into the yard, banging elbows and knees as he went. Crow, who had tackled him, rolled over and over with him until they both lay sprawled in the weeds two yards from the porch. The sound of a ton of wood and plaster crashing down onto the tired boards of the porch floor was like a slow thunderclap that chased them down into the yard and washed over them to echo off the stone wall and the distant line of trees.
Sprawled among the weeds in a tangle of too many arms and legs, chests heaving with shock, hearts hammering like fists against the insides of their sternums, mouths dry with dust and terror, they looked up to where the bare porch should have been, but what they saw was a mass of jagged spikes of wood, torn plaster, ripped shingle, and splintered lath. A cloud of gray dust hung over everything like smog.
“My…God!”
Crow struggled to a sitting position and spit grit onto the ground between his shoes. “You almost met your God. ”
“That was…the roof?”
“Used to be,” Crow said and winced as weeks-old aches flared up again. The wrist Ruger had nearly crushed was throbbing badly, and his palm felt burned.
“Oh my…it could have…” Newton sputtered. “I mean, it nearly fell on us. ”
“Yes, it sure as hell did. ”
Newton swallowed and they sat there, staring at the porch. He cleared his throat. “Kind of strange, it happening just now. ”
“Oh, you think?” Crow shook his head.
Another chunk of the roof sagged down, hung swaying for a moment, and then broke off and thudded down onto the mess, kicking up more dust.
“That’s not normal,” Newton said.
Crow said, “We left normal when we started down that hill. ”
Newton felt something warm on his forehead and wiped his hand over his face. It came away with a smear of blood across the palm. “Shit. ” He glanced at Crow, who was picking pieces of dust off his tongue. “Is it bad?”
Crow leaned over and peered at the cut. “You’ll live. ” He dug a Kleenex out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him.
“You saved my life,” Newton said, marveling at the idea. He had never been close to death before and the thought that he was actually in a real life-or-death moment excited him, despite his fear. He dabbed at the cut and then stared at the tissue, amazed at how intensely red his own blood was. “I don’t know what to say. ”
“For the love of God, do us both a favor and save the gushy shit for some other time. Preferably after time ends. Besides, I was trying to save my own ass and I jumped off the porch. You were in the way, so you got to come along for the ride. End of story. ”
“Fair enough. ”
“So—let’s go back to Plan A, which is hauling ass out of here. ” Crow crossed his legs under him and got to his feet, then bent and began slapping the dust off his trousers, glancing at the house as he did so. Newton was looking at Crow and saw his face change from annoyed to slack to a mask of total shock, and Newton whipped his head around to follow the line of Crow’s gaze. What he saw twisted his heart like a rag and together they stared in complete horror as from the cracked and shattered timbers of the broad porch roof, from each little pocket of space between beams and shingles, through all the weather-worn holes in the lumber poured a seething, bristling, boiling black mass of roaches. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands, their chitinous shells gleaming like polished coal, their million scrabbling legs skittering and hissing over the debris. The whole black festering tide of them began sweeping down the porch stairs directly at them.
Crow grabbed Newton’s coat and hauled him up, spun him roughly, and gave him a violent shove away from the house. “RUN!” he screamed.
And they ran. Both of them, very fast, as behind them a wave of insects swept after them with a hiss like foam over the hard-packed sand of a beach. They left behind the walking stick and Newton’s camera, which he had dropped again during the fall from the porch. They left behind Crow’s machete, buried now under tons of rubble through which a hundred thousand roaches were swarming.
Crow and Newton ran the wrong way at first, cutting in the most direct line across the large front yard, dashing through the patch of sunlight to the edge of the forest by the overgrown fields, tearing along the line of trees, moving fast despite the spongy ground. Crow risked a hasty glance over his shoulder. He was horrified to see that the roaches were spreading out across the field, the carpet of them covering dozens of square yards.
