Deke knew, suddenly and absolutely, that if he didn’t have bacon, this man would kill him. He might kill him anyway, but without bacon… yes, certainly. He
“Cooler in back,” he said in his new, strange voice. The hand lying on top of his magazine felt as cold as a block of ice. In his head, he heard whispering voices that didn’t seem to be his own. Red thoughts and black thoughts.
An inhuman voice asked,
The man moved past Deke and up the center aisle. He walked with a heavy limp.
There was a phone by the cash-register. Deke looked at it, then looked away. It was within reach, and he had 911 on the speed-dialer, but it might as well have been on the moon. Even if he was able to summon enough strength to reach for the phone-
There was a convex mirror mounted over the door, a gadget that came in especially handy in the summer, when the store was full of kids headed up to the Reservoir with their parents the Quabbin was only eighteen miles from here-for fishing or camping or just a picnic. Little bastards were always trying to kite stuff, particularly the candy and the girly magazines. Now Deke looked into it, watching with dread fascination as the man in the orange coat approached the cooler. He stood there a moment, gazing in, then grabbed not just one package of bacon but all four of them.
The man came back down the middle aisle with the bacon, limping along and scanning the shelves. He looked dangerous, he looked hungry, and he also looked dreadfully tired-like a marathon runner going into the last mile. Looking at him gave Deke the same sense of vertigo he felt when he looked down from a high place. It was like looking not at one person but at several, overlaid and shifting in and out of focus. Deke thought fleetingly of a movie he’d seen, some daffy cunt with about a hundred personalities.
The man stopped and got a jar of mayonnaise. At the foot of the aisle he stopped again and snagged a loaf of bread. Then he was at the counter again. Deke could almost smell the exhaustion coming out of his pores. And the craziness.
He set his purchases down and said, “Bacon sandwiches on white, with mayo. Those are the best.” And smiled. It was a smile of such tired, heartbreaking sincerity that Deke forgot his fear for a moment.
Without thinking, he reached out. “Mister, are you all r-”
Deke’s hand stopped as if it had run into a wall. It trembled for a moment over the counter, then flew up and slapped his own face-
The third and fourth fingers folded slowly down against the palm.
These voices were in his head.
His Hovercraft hand floated forward and the first two fingers plunged into his nostrils, plugging them. For a moment they were still, and then oh dear Christ they began to dig. And while Deke McCaskell had many questionable habits, chewing his nails was not one of them. At first his fingers didn’t want to move much up there close quarters-but then, as the lubricating blood began to flow, they became positively frisky. They squirmed like worms. The dirty nails dug like fangs. They shoved up further, burrowing brainward… he could feel cartilage tearing… could hear it…
And suddenly Deke’s fingers belonged to him again. He pulled them free with a wet plop. Blood pattered down on the counter, on the rubber change-pad with the Skoal logo on it, also on the unclad lass in glasses whose anatomy he had been studying when this creature had come in.
“How much do I owe you, Deke?”
“Take it!” Still that crow-croak, but now it was a
“No, I insist. This is commerce, in which items of real worth are exchanged for currency plain.”
“Three dollars!” Deke cried. Shock was setting in. His heart was beating wildly, his muscles thrumming with adrenaline. He believed the creature might be going, and this made everything infinitely worse: to be so close to a continued life and still know it could be snatched away at this fucking loony’s least whim.
The loony brought out a battered old wallet, opened it, and rummaged for what seemed an age. Saliva drizzled steadily from his mouth as he bent over the wallet. At last he came out with three dollars. He put them on the counter. The wallet went back into his pocket. He rummaged in his nasty-looking jeans
“I tip twenty per cent,” his customer said with unmistakable pride. “Jonesy tips fifteen. This is better. This is more.”
“Sure,” Deke whispered. His nose was full of blood.
“Have a nice day.”
“You… you take it easy.”
The man in the orange coat stood with his head lowered. Deke could hear him sorting through possible responses. It made him feel like screaming. At last the man said, “I will take it any way I can get it.” There was another pause. Then: “I don’t want you to call anyone, partner.”
“I won’t.”
“Swear to God?”
“Yeah. Swear to God.”
“
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you-”
“If you call someone, I’ll know. I’ll come back and fix your wagon.”
“I won’t!”
“Good idea.” He opened the door. The bell jangled. He went out.
For a moment Deke stood where he was, as if frozen to the floor. Then he rushed around the counter, bumping his upper leg hard on the comer. By nightfall there would be a huge black bruise there, but for the moment he felt nothing. He turned the thumb-lock, shot the bolt, then stood there, peering out. Parked in front of the store was a little red shitbox Subaru, mudsplattered, also looking rode hard and put away wet. The man juggled his purchases into the crook of one arm, opened the door, and got in behind the wheel.
But he didn’t. He picked something up instead-the loaf of bread-and pulled the tie off the end. He took out roughly a dozen slices. Next he opened the jar of mayonnaise, and, using his finger as a knife, began to slather the slices of bread with mayo. After finishing each slice, he licked his finger clean. Each time he did, his eyes slipped closed, his head tipped back, and an expression of ecstasy filled his features, radiating out from the mouth. When he had finished with the bread, he picked up one of the packages of meat and tore off the paper covering. He opened the plastic inner envelope with his teeth and shook out the pound of sliced bacon. He folded it and put it on a piece of bread, then put another piece on top. He tore into the sandwich as ravenously as a wolf. That expression of divine enjoyment never left his face; it was the look of a man enjoying the greatest gourmet meal of his life. His throat knotted as each huge bite went down. Three such bites and the sandwich was gone. As the man in the car reached for two more pieces of bread, a thought filled Deke McCaskell’s brain, flashing there like a neon sign.
Deke backed away from the door, moving slowly, as if underwater. The grayness of the day seemed to invade the store, dimming the lights. He felt his legs come unhinged, and before the dirty board floor tilted up to meet him, gray had gone to black.
When Deke came to, it was later-just how much later he couldn’t tell, because the Budweiser digital clock over the beer cooler was flashing 88:88. Three of his teeth lay on the floor, knocked out when he fell down, he assumed. The blood around his nose and on his chin had dried to a spongy cake. He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He crawled to the door instead, with his hair hanging in his face, praying.
His prayer was answered. The little red shitbox car was gone. Where it had been were four bacon packages, all empty, the mayonnaise jar, three-quarters empty, and half a loaf of Holsum white bread. Several crows-there were some almighty big ones around the Reservoir-had found the bread and were pecking slices out of the torn wrapper. At a distance-almost back to Route 32 two or three more were at work on a congealed mess of bacon and matted chunks of bread
But then his own guts took a fantastical, skipping leap and he clapped his hand over his mouth, He had a hideously clear image of the man’s teeth closing on the raw, fatty meat hanging out between the pieces of bread, gray flesh veined with brown like the severed tongue of a dead horse. Deke began to make muffled yurking sounds behind his hand.
A car turned in-just what he needed, a customer while he was on the verge of tossing his cookies. Not really a car at all, on second glance, nor a truck, either. Not even an SUV. It was one of those godawful Humvees, painted in smeary camouflage blobs of black and green. Two people in front and-Deke was almost sure of it-another in back.
He reached out, flipped the OPEN sign hanging in the door over to CLOSED, then backed away. He had gotten to his feet, had managed at least that much, but now he felt perilously close to collapsing again.
His hand rose in front of his eyes. The first two fingers, coated with dried blood up to the second knuckles, were poked out and hooked. They were trembling. To Deke, they almost looked like they were waving.
The person in the back of the Humvee leaned forward, seemed to say something to the driver, and the vehicle leaped backward, one rear wheel splashing through the puddle of vomit left by the store’s last customer. It wheeled around on the road, paused for just a moment, then set off in the direction of Ware and the Quabbin.
When they disappeared over the first hill, Deke McCaskell began to weep. As he walked back toward the counter (staggering and weaving but still on his feet), his gaze fell on the teeth lying on the floor. Three teeth. His. A small price to pay. Oh yes, teeny dues. Then he stopped, gazing at the three dollar bills which still lay on the counter. They had
