Never did find out for certain what he did, but I’ve heard he kept threatening suicide and that he even cut his wrists a few times; little, superficial cuts that didn’t amount to anything. Basically, he just wanted attention.
“Anyway, Carl and I had a friend named Hobie Crowley. Hobie smoked all his life and got lung cancer about ten years ago. He didn’t have much family, so he checked into the V.A. hospital over in Beckley. Died there, too, and now he’s buried up at Arlington. While he was in the hospital, Hobie met a fella who had served with Earl in the army, and Hobie told us about it when Carl and I went to visit. According to this guy, Earl’s unit got tired of his fake suicide attempts. He was disrupting things, and all of them were paying the price for his foolishness. Their master sergeant told them to handle it for themselves, so that’s what they decided to do. One night in the barracks, they all got a hold of Earl, dragged him into the showers and cut his wrists for real. He was back here soon after that, living with his parents until they died and staying on over there ever since.
“He lived off welfare mostly, just like half the rest of this state’s population. See, there’s just not much work in West Virginia, unless you can farm or fix cars. That’s what Earl did. He fixed junked cars and sold them for beer money, poached a deer or two or five to put grub on the table. He was your standard redneck hillbilly. Except that Earl was crazy, too.”
“If he was so crazy, how’d he live this long?” Kevin asked. “I’m surprised somebody didn’t try to help him, have him committed. Or else put him out of his misery for good.”
“Oh, folks have tried.”
“They did?” Kevin snorted. “Not hard enough, then.”
“Rose and I, and Carl, and most of the other folks in Punkin’ Center tried to help Earl at one time or another. But we gave up. It was like feeding a stray dog. You’re nice to him until he bites your hand, and then you don’t feed him anymore. The sheriff was out at Earl’s place off and on for the last ten years or so, straightening him out on one thing or another. The Secret Service even paid him a visit one time.”
Kevin sat up straight. “For what? Was he one of these militia nuts or something? The Sons of the Constitution? Did he post something threatening online?”
“No, nothing like that,” I chuckled, “though it wouldn’t have surprised me. I know that Earl thought Timothy McVeigh got a raw deal; thought he was a real patriot. And Earl wouldn’t have known how to use a computer if his life had depended on it.”
“Well what was the Secret Service checking him out for?”
“Monica Lewinsky, believe it or not.”
“Monica Lewinsky?” Sarah’s brow crinkled. “The girl that banged President Clinton in the Oval Office?”
“The same. During that whole big stink, when Ken Starr was investigating the White House and all of that, Earl became convinced that Bill Clinton was the Antichrist. Said he even had the Bible verses to prove it. Now mind you, before President Clinton, Earl swore up and down that it was Gorbachev. Remember that birthmark on top of Gorbachev’s head? Earl thought that wine stain hid the number of the beast.”
“Six-six-six,” Kevin whispered.
“Wasn’t there a movie about that?” Sarah asked. “
“Maybe,” I said. “Never much cared for those horror movies. I was big on John Wayne, and Laurel and Hardy. And a few of—”
Something splattered against the window with a wet thump and Sarah skittered away from the door. It was a wad of slime, clear and viscous. It clung to the glass like phlegm and slowly started to dribble down the pane.
All four of us stared at the slime, and then at each other. In the silence, we heard that now familiar hissing sound—the whistling of a worm, and somewhere close by, too. Kevin and I both ran to the window, but the fog concealed everything.
“Do you see any worms?” Kevin whispered.
“Nope.” My heart hammered in my chest. I turned to Sarah. “Did you see anything come up to the window?”
“No, there was nothing. Just the rain and the fog.”
“Then they can spit, apparently,” Kevin mused. “Maybe that slime is like acid or poison or something.”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve touched some it, had it on my fingers, and it didn’t do anything to me.”
“Sure smelled awful, though,” Carl added, making a face. “Stank to high heaven.”
“That it did,” I agreed. “Like fish and chlorine, put in a blender and mixed together.”
We listened for a while longer, but the noise didn’t repeat itself and there were no more spit attacks. I took Sarah’s place at the door and continued with my story.
“Anyway, Earl reckoned that Bill Clinton was the Antichrist, and before him, Gorbachev. He figured the birthmark on Gorbachev’s forehead was hiding a six-six-six. And before that, it was Henry Kissinger and Ronald Reagan. His troubles with the Secret Service started in the middle of the Clinton impeachment hearings. One night, Earl showed up drunk down at the VFW post in Lewisburg, claiming that if Clinton weren’t stopped, God would destroy America for its wickedness. That got him some applause from the hard-line Rush Limbaugh junkies that do their drinking in there, but not much else. So then Earl wrote an angry letter to Clinton and mailed it off to the White House. He even included his return address. I don’t know for sure what he said, but I guess he made some threats and I guess they took it seriously, because one sunny morning in April, two black SUVs came cruising through Renick, crossed over the Greenbrier River, and started up the mountain to Punkin’ Center. We all got on the horn with each other as they passed by, because everybody knew who they were. You can tell, if only by the official government plates on the back of the cars. They cruised up the dirt road out yonder and eight federal agents knocked on Earl’s door, paying him a less than friendly visit. I guess that eventually they decided he wasn’t a threat, because nothing else ever happened. For a while after that, Earl calmed down, but soon, he was back to normal. He started up again when Gore and Bush ended up in court over the election, and some folks called the Secret Service, but they must have determined he was harmless. Just a lot of hot air.”
“Boy,” Sarah said, “did they miss the call on that one or what?”
“They sure did.” Carl nodded. “Earl got away with talking crazy like that, but I have to fill out a damn stack of forms and wait three days every time I buy a new hunting rifle for deer season. There’s no justice in this world.”
I grinned at Sarah and Kevin. “Don’t mind Carl. He’s just mad because they wouldn’t renew his hunting license last year, on account of his eyesight.”
“That’s because they’re a pack of idiots.” He frowned. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my eyes, and I can see fine to shoot.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Because something tells me there’ll be plenty of shooting before this thing is done.”
Carl’s face grew sullen and grim. I’d never seen him look older than he did at that moment. Or more frightened.
The conversation was sporadic after that, and we remained on topics other than the weather and what the rains had brought with them. I needed a dip bad, and I had to fight to stay awake. I was exhausted, that type of weariness that creeps into your bones and makes your eyes itch. The coffee wasn’t doing anything to help me, either. My daughter, Tracy, had given me some coffee and chicory that she picked up while on vacation in New Orleans. I hadn’t touched the stuff, because it made me jittery, and the doctor had told me to stay off of it. But I seemed to recall that it had more caffeine than regular instant coffee did, and wondered if I could rig up some way to brew it on top of the heater. Doctor’s orders be damned. And I was already jittery. The can was down in the cellar’s pantry.
I grabbed the halogen flashlight, clicked it on, and opened the door that led downstairs to the cellar. Darkness greeted me, along with a familiar smell. That wet, fishy stench was in my basement now, although more muted than it had been outside.
I swallowed and suddenly Sarah was there behind me with the pistol in hand.
“Need any help?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, a bit too eagerly. “But let’s be careful. You smell it too, don’t you?”
She nodded. “You think they’re inside the house?”
“Not yet. But I reckon they’re close.”
We started down, and my joints creaked along with the old wooden stairs.
An inch of water covered the concrete floor, and pretty much everything that hadn’t been sitting up on pallets was now ruined. Forgetting that Sarah was with me, I cursed, and then blushed when she giggled.
I walked around, shining the light into corners and surveying the damage. A three-inch crack had appeared in
