Pontypool Changes Everything Part 11

Greg sits in a chair in the bas.e.m.e.nt leaning back against the wall. His Higher Power is distressed, pacing in front of the door that Grant has disappeared through. The Higher Power puts his ear to the door.

"What do you think he's doing in there?"

Greg shrugs.

"What a show he puts on. Very dramatic individual. What do you think he was talking about?"

Greg looks up at the tall figure.

"I don't know, why don't you open the door and ask him?"

The Higher Power puts his hands under his chin and mouths "No." Greg shrugs again, this time a little contemptuously. The Higher Power lays a hand on the door behind him and drums lightly with his fingers.

"OK, OK OK. Let's find out what we're getting ourselves into."

He clicks open the door and as it falls ajar he steps clear. Greg can see Grant's legs. He's leaning against a file cabinet. The blond head of a teenage boy is working back and forth between the dangling ends of his undone belt. The long legs of a woman step in front, blocking the view. Her hands gather the back of her skirt, raising it across the bare cheeks of her a.s.s. The Higher Power reaches in and pulls the door closed.

"Oh Christ, that's all you need."

Greg is obviously affected by this. His face is flushed, and his breath quickens. The Higher Power, knowing full well what does and doesn't lie within the bounds of his control, gestures defeatedly to Greg's hands - which are now descending purposefully into the top of his jeans. Greg leans, bent over in concentration, a gangster clutching his fatal wound. And when he expires, he looks up, his face soaked with sweat. Unable to make eye contact with his Higher Power, he asks, "n.o.body came by, did they?"

The Higher Power, looking a little older now, smiles wearily and again mouths a silent "No" while absentmindedly waving a hand up and down the hall.

"I gotta say though Greg, there are people who'd disapprove of this. People you respect."

The door pops open behind the Higher Power and Grant emerges, his cheeks pink and his eyes glazed. No sign of the other two. He looks up and down the hall, causing the Higher Power to look away quickly, embarra.s.sed, even though he's invisible. Grant walks towards Greg and leans over, placing his mouth beside his ear.

"There are two other volunteers, like you, that are working down here this morning. They just sucked my d.i.c.k. Thought you should know. Thanks for making it possible. Now go in there and see if they need any help with the filing."

13.

No More, Not Me The church is a three-cornered hat made of newspaper. The hat is lowered by hand into a pool of oily water on the street. The water is refreshed from below by a catch basin. A strongman in red-striped tights with fists against his hips shakes his face, just beneath the surface, just beneath the paper boat. Cold water rattles between his closed eyes and the newsprint hull.

This is the strange little vessel that G.o.d made especially for people who have overcome addiction with the help of baby Jesus. They are sitting in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the hat, crowded around card tables and spooky candles. They are trying to isolate a kind of breathing that starts in the left lung and moves up the abdomen like a light hand, teasing in pinches and rolling nipples between knuckles. A flame enters the room and steps around the seated people. Without making eye contact the flame mounts the wick, splas.h.i.+ng hot wax on thighs drawn around the candle. Finally, the flame crosses its legs, lights a cigarette, and blows illuminating smoke in a man's face. The man looks up at the candle and speaks with lips that are made gold by the light.

"My name is Donny, and G.o.d knows I'm still an addict."

A woman to his left frowns for him, and a little bald man to his right looks down thoughtfully at the tight T-s.h.i.+rt he's wearing. It has risen above where his swollen belly hangs out its starkly public flesh. He pulls at the s.h.i.+rt with his thumb but fails to hide his belly. He folds his hands in front of it and looks up bravely across the table. A thousand hairs weave and wiggle on his bared stomach. He has to concentrate to listen. The room of people becomes silent to dignify his struggle. The man is visibly grateful. He focuses thoughtlessly on Donny. Donny begins explaining something that is constructed like a list. He has bulleted his lists with a light karate-chopping hand on the table edge.

"And if I do these things to the best of my ability, maybe I can live a life free of the fear that I've lived with ever since I was a kid. Fear. I've always been afraid that I was a geek. And I was willing to trade in anything not to be myself. To become a wiseguy, someone who intimidated you. But now I'm trying to find out who that geek is. Who he was trying to become. I hear the word geek geek and I realize it's a word that I use, that I still use, to intimidate myself. Not you. You don't give a s.h.i.+t. I know that now. I have only ever scared myself. I don't have to do that today. Keep an open mind." and I realize it's a word that I use, that I still use, to intimidate myself. Not you. You don't give a s.h.i.+t. I know that now. I have only ever scared myself. I don't have to do that today. Keep an open mind."

A woman is sitting across from Donny. She has taken the lovely b.r.e.a.s.t.s that G.o.d gave her for feeding babies and frolicking alone in the woods, and surgically redefined them as "huge t.i.ts." She has been staring at the folded hands of the bald man all through Donny's sharing. She thinks that this little bald man's bravery is beautiful, and she has been fantasizing about oiling up that taught tummy and riding it like a pony. Donny has lowered his golden face in his own dramatic pause, but he can't help but look up to see if it's really the moment he thinks it is. He sees the glazed eyes of the woman across from him and, of course, her sweatered b.r.e.a.s.t.s plunge him into a powerful default response. Donny feels his p.e.n.i.s jumping in little coughs, and he smiles at the woman, who isn't looking at him. He thinks before speaking - I'll never be the geek I wanna be. I'll never be the geek I wanna be.

"My biggest problem is about eight inches long. That's the distance between my head and my heart. I can think just fine, thank you very much. That's what I do best. Taking the world apart and putting it back together exactly the way it should be. I do this so f.u.c.kin' well that when I'm finished I'm in a f.u.c.kin' room full of nutcases who wanna teach me how to pray for G.o.d to fix me. But, you know, he does. Really. He does fix me. These are better days, only that lump of s.h.i.+t that lies eight inches south drives me crazy."

The little bald man has sat forward, resting his face in his hands. His elbows are on the table beside Donny's hand. It still chops away even though lists no longer govern what he's saying.

"You know, when I ask people, y'know, what the f.u.c.k should I be like now that I'm no longer like myself, you know what they say? They say, 'Hey Donny, just be yourself!'"

Donny leans forward, drawing his audience over a nastiness he knows they'll all enjoy.

"Well, well, well. That's just never gonna be a good f.u.c.kin' idea, is it?"

The bald man smiles against fingertips that hide his mouth.

"I am a person who wants you to die along with him. That's who I am."

The woman across from him feels, along with everyone else in the room, all of the possibilities, the little s.h.i.+ver of Donny. She bisects the upholstery of her cleavage with the table edge. Donny gently drops his hand, transforming it from a karate chop into a coin that rolls across the table and lodges securely in the soft slot of her body. The little bald man sits back and his belly flies like a huge fruit bat out from over his belt. He has grown exited and he speaks.

"Thank you Donny. My name is Mike, and I'm an addict."

Attention is suddenly dispersed around the room and in this chaos everyone feels a refreshed opportunity to have another shot at being a little more dignified.

"Well, you know, no f.u.c.kin' big deal, this. I was in a tight f.u.c.kin' spot. That was my problem. That's what brought me here. Not the 'G.o.d this, G.o.d that.' I didn't wanna become a good person. f.u.c.k no. I just wanted to go from 'A' to 'B.' 'A' happened to be a f.u.c.kin' nightmare where I'm holding the barrel of a gun in some guy's mouth; but, you know, whatever. Keep an open mind. And 'B,' I didn't even have a f.u.c.kin' 'B.' So I come here 'cause all you f.u.c.kin' people are talkin' about how people like me get out of a jam. So I'm hangin' around, and the first few months I'm not shootin' dope. A good thing. But I'm still bringing a piece to meetings. And I'm keepin' my distance, with my hand on the piece, thinking, if one of you f.u.c.kin' f.a.gs tries to hug me I'll blow your f.u.c.kin' nuts off, right? But soon I leave the gun at home. I don't even know why. I guess it just doesn't seem to matter anymore. I can't really see myself using it, so I leave it at home."

Greg is bored. He's heard Mike talk about bringing a gun to meetings a thousand times. He knows it's important that Mike is being honest about this, but, Greg thinks, how come he's honest about the same thing all the time? how come he's honest about the same thing all the time?

"So I start listening to what you were talking about, and I thought how f.u.c.kin' weird it is that the gun I was packin' was packin' up my f.u.c.kin' ears. Y'know what I'm sayin'?"

Several people laugh. Greg looks around irritated, they always laugh at the same s.h.i.+t. they always laugh at the same s.h.i.+t.

"I get rid of the piece. I start thinking: alright, alright, for f.u.c.k's sake, I suppose I gotta get a f.u.c.kin' job now and... and ... I do! And I say alright, I guess I gotta call up the old lady and tell her that, no, I'm not gonna blow her f.u.c.kin' brains out. She's safe, and she don't even have to believe me,like you said, it's just true. She'll figure it out. Dee-dee this and dee-dee that, and pretty soon I notice, I only notice, I don't understand it, but I see that I go towards 'B' by being this nice f.u.c.kin' guy. And I say Holy f.u.c.k! How did I become this person worthy of my son's respect? This stand-up guy. Jesus Christ! And you tell me to be grateful and I say: f.u.c.kin' right, I'm grateful, I'm grateful all to f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l. And you say be grateful to G.o.d. Be grateful to G.o.d?"

Greg notices his Higher Power sitting in a swivel chair just outside the circle. The Higher Power nods toward Mike for Greg's benefit, then he flips his hands, giving up, making a psychological face that Greg finds insulting. Greg watches Mike's mouth open and close around the word f.u.c.k f.u.c.k and he remembers his boss earlier that day: his face flushed, not with embarra.s.sment, but with the bracing clarity that comes from blowing your load down a volunteer's throat. Greg fantasizes about being on both ends of the arrangement. He finds that they are touching the same ice cube, equally cold and satisfying. The two men are exchanged by the act, no longer thinking about each other, or sucking each other, but laughing, now, because they are and he remembers his boss earlier that day: his face flushed, not with embarra.s.sment, but with the bracing clarity that comes from blowing your load down a volunteer's throat. Greg fantasizes about being on both ends of the arrangement. He finds that they are touching the same ice cube, equally cold and satisfying. The two men are exchanged by the act, no longer thinking about each other, or sucking each other, but laughing, now, because they are not not each other. Greg thanks Mike in mumbled unison with every one else. each other. Greg thanks Mike in mumbled unison with every one else.

Donny, who has been the chairperson, takes the pause after Mike as an opportunity to close the meeting. Mike accepts this, and stretches in his chair before standing and patting himself down. His belly, which continues to win every battle it wages, governs him physically as he stands. Others follow, pus.h.i.+ng empty chairs towards the centre of an enclosure that they begin to make with arms tossed around each other's back. The woman across from Donny pulls her hands down and hops away from the circle.

"Oh. Oh, one last thing - um - oh, yeah. April - addict. The women's retreat up at the Elora Gorge has been cancelled due to the restrictions that were just announced. Re: the AMPS AMPS problem up north. So if you have paid already, contact your Group Service Representative for a refund. That's me at this group. If you don't know who your problem up north. So if you have paid already, contact your Group Service Representative for a refund. That's me at this group. If you don't know who your GSR GSR is ask any member. Thanks." is ask any member. Thanks."

Greg feels a whimper run across his chest. His feelings about the disease he has have been making ever-tightening circles around him. Not yet inside, but preventing anything from leaving. Greg lowers his head for the serenity prayer, which he p.r.o.nounces sub-sonically as: "Gaw gra ma tha savanah tee ta set ah ha ah kenna shay, ah tha crash ta shay ah they aka ah tha wistah ta oh the dimffimff."

The people who have left the meeting are gathering at the rear door of the church, smoking cigarettes and arranging groups that will leave separately and arrive together at a cafe on Queen Street. Greg is standing alone, feeling self-conscious of the fact that his Higher Power is the only one who'll stand with him. And even then, this invisible being, dressed in black, appears to want to mingle.

On the other side of a tall hotel lobby ashtray that tilts at the edge of the asphalt, Mike is lighting April's cigarette. April reaches across to hug him, keeping her hips back to accommodate Mike's leading stomach. He in turn bows his back out between his shoulders to create a cave in his chest where April can store her giant b.r.e.a.s.t.s for the duration of the hug. They part smiling, embarra.s.sed and thrilled by the comfort of their touching.

"How long have you been the GSR GSR?"

"About eight months. What's your home group?"

"Oh, I don't have one right now, but I'm thinking of joining this one."

"Great. Let's go put your name in the ledger."

"OK."

April leads Mike back into the building and down the stairs. When they return, everyone will have left, and not wanting to go straight home on a Friday night they'll go off together to a cafe three blocks west of where the rest of the group has already convened.

April, who has created a safer world for herself, has a test that a man must pa.s.s before she'll spend any time with him. This test is based entirely on the spiritual principles of the program she's adopted. Honesty. Open-mindedness. Willingness. Tolerance. Acceptance. He must also be able to care for himself completely. She is watching Mike for this now.

Mike carries himself like a gallant caricature of kindness. He makes amends to women whenever G.o.d will let him, swooping open doors and laying out well-defined compliments. He listens carefully and smiles apologetically at his own compulsion to solve their problems. He might be the kind of Mr. Right that April has been looking for.

When April and Mike move in together she will teach him the real thrill of lifelong romance, its enduring pyjama party of dirty thoughts. The delicate gift, the body as an object. But first he must prove that he can be, and not be, her sister.

Greg is standing alone near the top of an alley that runs behind a highrise apartment. Alone. Alone except for a Higher Power who stands under a streetlight, impatient now for his young charge to surrender his increasingly bizarre will. The Higher Power knows that this is a dangerous time for Greg. He has a strange new disease and n.o.body knows for sure how or when it will manifest itself. The Higher Power leans into the dark and, covering his mouth, shout-whispers: "Greg! Greg! Come on, let's go have a coffee! Greg!"

But Greg disappears into the dark of the alley. He's heard something and he's going to investigate. The noise, coming from behind a dumpster at the far end of the garbage-strewn alley, is human in origin. A crying growl, a sc.r.a.ping sound. Greg stops halfway. Behind him three cars pa.s.s noisily by the entranceway and their warm triple swoosh pulls Greg cautiously back a couple of steps. He is frightened by the slurps and rustles he hears coming out from under the dumpster.

"Greg! Greg! Come on! Get out of there! Greg!"

The Higher Power feels a little slighted in being ignored. I shouldn't have to try so hard. I shouldn't have to try so hard. He lowers his head and sighs before straightening his back and arms. He steps into the alley and swaggers for courage as he walks to its dark end. He lowers his head and sighs before straightening his back and arms. He steps into the alley and swaggers for courage as he walks to its dark end.

Greg is standing pinned against the wall, facing the back of the dumpster. The Higher Power is prepared to be forceful. To launch him toward the street by his collar. He reaches out, holding two fingers over Greg's shoulder, and he looks over his back. He blinks once at what he sees, freezes for a second and then bolts up the alley and turns the corner at full tilt.

A face is a marvellous thing for those who possess it. It is really the only thing that distinguishes us. Not quite enough to recommend us, just a trickster feature of our anatomy that makes everyone appear famous. But still, the face is beautiful. A sensitive sign of obscure integration. And every once in a while that integration is challenged.

Like now, behind the dumpster. A man is lying back against the garbage bags piled there. His face is mask-like sad, with worried eyes and eyebrows angled in an anxious incline. His mouth is pursed in a whistle, sucking saliva noisily as if through a straw. In fact, he has been sucking through straws. He has made straws out of the left cheek and upper lip of a woman who is lying across him, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, protected gently from falling loose on its broken neck. The flesh of her face is raised in turrets, sucked into b.l.o.o.d.y spouts that are white and new at their tips. Like infant mouths, blind and despairing, they open and close on her frail, dying exhalations. When the man looks up, registering Greg with tiny flecks of light across his black eyes, he gathers the straws in his hand and folds them over, sealing the woman's mouth. She bucks once, kicking an old coat at her feet, and dies.

14.

A Discomfort Of Facts Julie pulls the hair offher brother's face.Jimmy squirms a little trying to get comfortable against her thigh. Julie reaches around his front and puts her hand on the gla.s.s he holds while he moves around on the floor between her splayed knees. She squeezes her eyes while he puts a little too much weight on an elbow that is pus.h.i.+ng just below her hip. Once settled, Julie removes her hand from the gla.s.s and Jimmy slurps hard once, clearing the purple ice of colour. They have been sitting on this floor in a tiny clubhouse in the backyard, built by their father, for three days. Their unusually warm spring break had been restricted to the activities of penitentiary inmates seventy-two hours ago when a gang had invaded the Wheelers' cottage. And on this day their parents had joined Jimmy in his silence, making Julie feel isolated by her willingness to talk. She exercised this willingness by telling Jimmy stories that lasted six or seven hours.

While she speaks Jimmy listens; but he also watches. He watches for germs squis.h.i.+ng at the corners of her mouth, or viral clouds near her cheeks. He doesn't exactly know what he's looking for, except he thinks with certainty that at some level these tiny invaders must wear pointy leather shoes. White pumps. They'll have dozens of fat, scrambly legs encased in thick white nylons. He keeps his fingers caged around the straw that he seals tightly with his lips.

Julie is thinking about where she left off. The story is about the Wheelers in the afterlife. Over the course of many hours they have been the rulers of the world. They are the first married superheroes, driving through s.p.a.ce in a flying monster truck. They have been reincarnated as fish, teachers, metal detectors and horseflies.

Most recently Julie has, out of boredom, brought them back to Earth as giants who enact a terrible revenge on the living.

"Mrs. Wheeler's huge head is as big as a truck and her arms are like trees. She stamps on the ground, squas.h.i.+ng people. She holds them under her giant shoes, leaning against their heads until they pop like those plastic bubbles of air used in packing crates. She finds this addictive and heads toward the city centre, growing agitated because the population is finite. She finds a main intersection and, grabbing handfuls of waiting commuters, begins to snap open their tiny craniums with her thumb. She moans small satisfactions to herself. Mr. Wheeler, whose hands are as big as horses, is trying to dig the biggest hole in the world. Each scoop of dirt that he drags out of the earth could fill ten dump trucks, and when he tosses them over his shoulder they pa.s.s in the sky over people's heads like giant black clouds. After a full day of digging, Mr. Wheeler is standing in a hole that reaches up to his chest. Around him are tall, tall mountains. Since his day is about a thousand of our years long, people have moved from the dangerous cities away from the maniac head squeezer and have begun to live in caves in the side of the mountain. As night approaches, Mrs. Wheeler returns from the city, wiping her jammy fingers on the front of her dress. She crouches down against the mountain to help her husband out of his hole. In the process they cause a landslide that kills all the people. They decide that it's time to get some dinner and they wander off. They find a country near the equator that is composed entirely of ruff.a.ge and they start grabbing giant handfuls and stuffing their mouths. The salad contains tiny stalks that get caught between their teeth, and they discover that if they clench them hundreds of monkeys, frantic to escape, push the trapped food free. They smile at each other, their lips streaming a dark green juice that carries the bodies of squiggling monkeys off their chins."

Julie looks up. A car is approaching the cottage. She stretches her neck so that she can see above the windowsill to where the road appears between the trees. The car is going very fast and it sprays stones as it brakes dramatically at the foot of her parents' driveway. Julie slips out from under Jim. He drops his elbows against the wood floor. Unable to speak, he rolls his gla.s.s angrily across to the wall.

"Shhh. There's somebody coming to see Mom and Dad. Come on."

Julie grabs her brother's hand and they sneak out of the clubhouse. Jim resists her. He's frightened of his parents, more than usual.

He thinks that they're sick, and he's right.

The children crouch behind a large green wheel of hose that hangs on the side of the cottage. They hear a door open and a man emerges. Very serious. Mud on his clothes. Is that mud? Is that mud? Julie pushes her brother down and she covers his back with crossed forearms. Julie pushes her brother down and she covers his back with crossed forearms. Listen. Listen. She hears an animal, a bird maybe. Something crying across the lake. No. Not across the lake. She hears an animal, a bird maybe. Something crying across the lake. No. Not across the lake. Nearer. Nearer. Julie turns her head, her face an inch from the side of the cottage. Julie turns her head, her face an inch from the side of the cottage. From in there? From in there?

The sound becomes shrill. Louder. It It is is in there. in there. Julie drags her brother into the bushes across the path. The front door opens and Julie can hear a man yelling. Pursued. She keeps her eyes trained on a small patch of the front yard that she can see through the leaves. The man running. Mom. Dad. Julie drags her brother into the bushes across the path. The front door opens and Julie can hear a man yelling. Pursued. She keeps her eyes trained on a small patch of the front yard that she can see through the leaves. The man running. Mom. Dad. After him. After him. She leaps from the bushes to the edge of the cottage. Mom and Dad are chasing him into the lake. The man dives in from the sh.o.r.e and Mom and Dad fall on each other, howling. Slapping each other. Biting each other. She leaps from the bushes to the edge of the cottage. Mom and Dad are chasing him into the lake. The man dives in from the sh.o.r.e and Mom and Dad fall on each other, howling. Slapping each other. Biting each other.

Mom has a piece of Dad's cheek between her teeth, and when he turns from the lake she doesn't let go. Suddenly they stop. They see me. They see me. Dad punches Mom under the chin, knocking her teeth from his face. She trips her tongue under the piece of flesh and snaps her mouth forward, catching and swallowing in one movement. With his eyes steadily on Julie her father pushes his wife to the ground and steps toward her. His cheek has a hole where her mom bit him. His eyes are huge and black. Mom springs from the ground, knocking his limp arm out of her way as she breaks into screaming flight. Julie grabs Jim by the arm and they run down a path that goes behind the clubhouse. Dad punches Mom under the chin, knocking her teeth from his face. She trips her tongue under the piece of flesh and snaps her mouth forward, catching and swallowing in one movement. With his eyes steadily on Julie her father pushes his wife to the ground and steps toward her. His cheek has a hole where her mom bit him. His eyes are huge and black. Mom springs from the ground, knocking his limp arm out of her way as she breaks into screaming flight. Julie grabs Jim by the arm and they run down a path that goes behind the clubhouse. Where is that tree? Where? Where is that tree? Where? Here. She pushes Jim up first on a ladder of tilting sticks nailed to the trunk, and she follows him, trying to force the rungs out with her heel as she climbs. Here. She pushes Jim up first on a ladder of tilting sticks nailed to the trunk, and she follows him, trying to force the rungs out with her heel as she climbs.

Something crashes against the side of the clubhouse. A grunt. Growl. It pushes back and something else falls through a bush. Julie covers her brother's mouth. Her mother steps out of the bushes near the base of the tree. She doesn't look up. Her husband follows, in a stupor, walking very poorly. He approaches his wife, tries to lean against her, and falls. He lies on his back almost directly under where Julie and Jim are holding each other on the branch of a tree. One of his eyes has been p.r.i.c.ked by a twig and the other blinks. His lips slap against the violent, soundless air that he's forcing through them. He reaches up to point at Julie, but his hand fails, and he grabs his wife's wrist, yanking her down on top of him. She hunches her shoulders down to his face, and with a single snap breaks both of their necks.

Julie can feel her brother shaking. In fact, she can see it in the leaves around them. Weapon. I need a weapon. Weapon. I need a weapon. She reaches to a small leafless branch and pulls it back. The branch splinters but doesn't break. Mom rises from her husband. Listening. She turns to find the noise, and her head flops on its broken neck.Julie yanks once, hard, but the branch holds. Mom twirls to face the tree. She lifts her head off her chest and holds it, controlling it in her hands like a remote device. She spots her children. Julie freezes in the monster's glare. She reaches to a small leafless branch and pulls it back. The branch splinters but doesn't break. Mom rises from her husband. Listening. She turns to find the noise, and her head flops on its broken neck.Julie yanks once, hard, but the branch holds. Mom twirls to face the tree. She lifts her head off her chest and holds it, controlling it in her hands like a remote device. She spots her children. Julie freezes in the monster's glare.

The mother tries to make a word with the torn skin of her mouth and falls to her knees. She lowers her head in her hands and little sobs pump in the broken pipes of her neck. Julie looks down at the matted leaves clinging to the back of her mother's bathrobe. She feels a sudden compulsion to reach out.

"Mom? Mom? What's going on, Mom?"

The sound of her voice, the identification of this savage creature as mother, opens a flood of pain. Julie suddenly feels a panic of responsibility. She leans her brother against the branch and hovers her foot down to a rung. She scrambles to where she can begin lowering herself. One leg. Another. A hiss. A hand s.n.a.t.c.hes her ankle.

"Mom?"

She feels something hot and wet slide across the soul of her foot.

"Mom!"

Teeth biting. Not biting. Teething. Teething.

"Jimmy!"

A form falls past her. Jimmy drops from the branch onto his mother's head. Julie springs off the ladder to the ground and lands in a confusion of bodies. Jimmy is sitting on his mother's chest and, with his eyes closed, he slaps wildly at her face. The woman drags her dark angel wings through the leaves, frantically touching the ground beneath her.

Julie drives in the stake. It rides a groove of tongue and drips to a point through the base of Mom's skull. Like a canoe gliding onto sand it rests in the fresh opening behind her, followed by a wake of lake blood. The woman shudders softly under her children and closes her perspiring body with an invisible sheen of pearls. Dead.

[image]

The woods around Lake Scugog are not a jungle. Dragons do not stalk deer up and down black hillsides. Siberian tigers do not sulk over the torn body of a villager. There are no monsoons, no undiscovered species of spider, no diamond mines. There is a snake, however, hanging, quite contrary to its known behavior, high in the top of a tree. This snake, a common garter snake about twenty-six inches long, has coiled the length of its body around the thin, bending tip of a Birch. The snake holds its strong neck and powerful jaws out away from the tree. Its tongue oscillates in the sun like a skipping rope. At a dizzy distance of fifty-five feet below is the body of a woman nailed to the ground through her mouth. Beside her is her husband: still alive, though insensible. His only movement is in his hands. They repeat a broken tap at the ground beneath him. A ceaseless investigation that will go on for days. The snake, whose eyesight is poor, cannot see these minute twitches; its tongue, however, touches a picture so complex that something closer to the future than the present s.h.i.+mmers on its fork. Two children run into the woods along separate tapered paths and, when the tongue slips back to refresh itself against the cool bones of the snake's mouth, they disappear.

15.

Contact Greg can see Grant at his desk. Steve and his girlfriend are standing on either side of him. To Greg they look like a family. Grant flips the tip of a pen at the girl. She looks across to Steve, who shrugs. She looks back and nods seriously. Grant writes in a pad, tears off the sheet, and hands it to Steve without taking his eyes off the girl. Steve folds the paper and tucks it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket. He reaches across and takes his girlfriend's hand. She exhales visibly and follows Steve around Grant's desk. They walk directly toward Greg. Greg jumps. I've been watching you. Uh oh. I've been watching you. Uh oh. Steve doesn't look up as he pa.s.ses. His girlfriend looks directly at Greg. He can see fear in her clapped-open eyes. She pa.s.ses him and he thinks: Steve doesn't look up as he pa.s.ses. His girlfriend looks directly at Greg. He can see fear in her clapped-open eyes. She pa.s.ses him and he thinks: Those eyes have seen something. Something horrible? No. No, those eyes are hiding something. Those eyes have seen something. Something horrible? No. No, those eyes are hiding something. Greg turns, and she has hesitated at the office door. Greg turns, and she has hesitated at the office door. Hiding something she wants to show me. What? Why me? Hiding something she wants to show me. What? Why me? Greg feels his skin lift in scales around his neck. Greg feels his skin lift in scales around his neck. She hasn't told anybody yet. She's sick. Like me. Like the guy in the alley. She hasn't told anybody yet. She's sick. Like me. Like the guy in the alley.

"Greg?"

Greg jumps a second time. Grant is touching his elbow, drawing him through the brightly lit office to his desk.

"You alright there, buddy?"