since he needed to get to his truck. It didn’t turn until he was inside. He threw the truck in reverse and pulled into the crossroad. It had sensed him and shot out two long runners of snot to pull itself toward the backing Chevy. It grew mouths. Some yelled “Tekeli-li!” Others made the sound of fire engines and turkey buzzards. One mimicked a reporter from Channel 42, “Tex DOT has no explanation of the mysterious slime on I-35.”
He turned his truck toward Doublesign. The creature was gaining speed. It had made some of the strands into tentacles that were holding on to his tailgate. He put the pedal to the metal. 40, 50, 60. At 75 the main mass couldn’t keep up, but about a gallon of the goo had managed to plop itself in the bed of his truck. It was making little green eyes that looked like zits and little centipede legs to scuttle across the bed. It slimed its way up his back window and its little eyes just spun around. Two mouths formed, their voices thin and high like a kid that has breathed in a helium ballon. One yelled, “Tekeli-li!” and the other said, “?Si usted ve un soggotho escaparse!” Nat laughed. That was — what’s his name on KHHL out of Leander. Man, he was funny.
Before.
Yeah, before.
Nat tried to concentrate on his driving. He rolled his window up as far it would go. A tiny thick tendril was pushing itself against the window, a tiny eye forming at the tip. He didn’t want to take it into the village. He had some bug-spray, a Crip-blue bottle of Raid Flying Insect Killer. He braked hard and leapt out the passenger side window and let the loathsome mass have it.
The sky looked blue, hazy, but not dangerously so. The sun was white and some turkey buzzards were flying off to the west. The ground had grass and a few late-season bluebonnets on it. Figuring it was not against the law to pick them now, Nat gathered a few and one Indian paintbrush for contrast. He put them in his truck on the passenger’s side next to the Bible. He decided to open it, to look for cures. Father Murphy had disgusted him by suggesting that some
He opened the Bible to find that it too was a trick.
The book had been hollowed out. There was no
1. “Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy in the
2. “Divinatory Deep Structure in
3. “ Prophetic Patterns in Innsmouth Jewelry,” Ellison Marsh
4. A selection from “Crave the Cave: The Color of Obsession.” Esther Harlan James. Diss. Trinity College 1996, pgs 665–670
5. A selection from “A Refutation to Shrewsbury’s ‘Elemental Schemao.’ ” Mary Roth Denning. Diss. University of Chicago 2007, pgs. 118–126
6. A selection from “Fieldwork with the
7. “Cthulhu in the Necronomicon,” Laban Shrewsbury
8. “The
9. “The Prehistoric Pacific in Light of the ‘Ponape Scripture’ (Selections),” Harold Hadley Copeland
Everything near becomes distant — Goethe
AD MEIORVM COVLHI GLORIAM
As usual, Nat did not know who was tricking whom. The small black book with its simulated leather binding had probably been one of those books college kids buy for a class. Juan had bought one for his Southwest life and literature class and another for his HVAC class at the community college. Juan had been working in Dallas when the Rising had occurred. Mama loved Juan better; he was the gang-free smart son. Nat smiled at his brother’s favorite joke, “What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?” “Juan on Juan.” Nat started to throw the book away, but who was he to judge? Certainty went out of the world three years ago. Daymares and night-reams were the scaffolding of reality now; loved ones walked into the sky.
He opened the hollowed- out Bible; on the flyleaf someone had written two verses in heavy pencil. Genesis 28:16–17: And Jacob awoke out of his sleep, and he said, Surely Jehovah is in this place; and I knew it not. And he feared, and said, How terrible is this place! this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. And Job 3:8: May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.
He drove on to Doublesign. Felix Washington stood on guard duty. He was the Rev. Jackie Jones’ uncle. Felix was a very popular man, and at 78 certainly the oldest left. He had been a jazz pianist back in the day; he’d played gigs in Austin as little as five years ago. He had also saved a coffee can full of marijuana seeds. Marijuana provided a good buzz and it was good for trading with the some of the other little towns that still remained, like Thalia. Felix still tickled the ivories at the Kuntry Kitchen, and Nat had seen his name on yellowing posters for The Soft Machine and The Mahavishnu Orchestra. He liked to piss people off by saying, “Cthulhu ain’t no worse than white people.” Felix opened the gate and waved him on.
Nat drove to Santa Cruz. Father Murphy sat at the wooden picnic table near the entrance. He had his pocketknife out, looking for all the world to be carving something in the rotten wood. He indicated that Nat should sit beside him.
Nat realized how angry he was. His heart pounded. The fat bastard had had him risk his life for a book. A book wasn’t going to solve their problems, certainly not the Bible. Hadn’t we seen hundreds of people using the Bible to lay It back in the sea? Who was this fat Irish-man, telling his family and friends what to do for the last two decades? He had preached against his cousin Cody’s queerness, so Cody had run off to Houston to live in the gay community there, sealing his death when the waves that came with the Rising wiped Houston off the globe. He denied the Mass of the Dead for the scores of suicides, saying the Rising was God’s test of our faith. As though the death of millions was a little algebra quiz. Nat wanted to start smashing him with the Bible — hit that red uneven face that always reminded him of a potato. Nat couldn’t sit down.
“I brought your damned book.”
“Thank you, Nat,” said Father Murphy.
“It’s hollow.”
“Many people find the Bible hollow these days.”
“No, I mean it is really hollow. You sent me there for nothing.” Nat took out the little book from inside and tossed in front of Father Murphy. Murphy showed no surprise. Murphy continued his carving, some complicated sign.
“When did you really know the human world was over?”
“Three years ago, like everyone else.” Nat wanted the guy to finish. He looked at the church door.
“Oh, she’s in there with the others. I am as good as my word. I understood the world was over when the Bishop sent me here. I was sent to this little hellhole as a punishment. The Mother Church doesn’t like its priests to stick their dicks in altar boys’ cherubic little mouths. Did you know that? So they sent me here and I knew the world was over when I saw Christ’s face in there. All that look of suffering. He had been mutely telling the human infestation for years and years.”
