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it； but the thing in the toilet had sounded pretty strong； like a good…sized fish or something。 Scotch tape just wasn't good enough。
Jonesy stood beside the Arctic Cat； looking around with wide eyes； running his hands through his hair （he hadn't put his gloves back on and he'd been out here long enough to nunib his fingers）； breathing out big white puffs of vapor。
'Where the fuck？' he asked aloud； and slammed his fist down on the table。 A stack of little boxes filled with nails and screws fell over when he did； and there was the friction tape behind them； a big fat roll of it。 He must have looked right past it a dozen times。
He grabbed it； stuffed it in his coat pocket … he had remembered to put that on； at least； although he hadn't bothered to zip it up … and turned to go。 And that was when Beaver began to screaming。 His calls had been barely there； but Jonesy had no trouble at all hearing the screams。 They were big； lusty； filled with pain。
Jonesy sprinted for the door。
8
Beaver's Mom had always said the toothpicks would kill him； but she had never imagined anything like this。
Sitting there on the closed toilet seat； Beaver felt in the bib pocket of his overalls for a pick to chew on； but there weren't any … they were scattered all over the floor。 Two or three had landed clear of the blood； but he'd have to rise up off the toilet seat a little to get them … rise up and lean forward。
Beaver debated。 Sit tight； Jonesy had said； but surely the thing in the toilet was gone； dive； dive； dive； as they said in the submarine war movies。 Even if it wasn't； he'd only be lifting his ass for a second or two。 If the thing jumped； Beaver could bring his weight right back down again； maybe break its scaly little neck for it （always assuming it had one）。
He looked longingly at the toothpicks； Three or four were close enough so he could just reach down and pick them up； but he wasn't going to put bloody toothpicks in his mouth； especially considering where the blood had e from。 There was something else； too。 That funny furry stuff was growing on the blood； growing in the gutters of grout between the tiles； as well … he could see it more clearly than ever。 It was on some of the toothpicks； too 。 。 。 but not on those which had fallen clear of the blood。 Those were clean and white； and if he had ever in his life needed the fort of something in his mouth； a little piece of wood to gnaw on； it was now。
'Fuck it；' the Beav murmured； and leaned forward； reaching out。 His stretching fingers came up just short of the nearest clean pick。 He flexed the muscles of his thighs and his butt came up off the seat。 His fingers closed on the toothpick … ah； got it … and something hit the closed lid of the toilet seat at just that moment； hit it with terrifying force； driving it up into his unprotected balls and knocking him forward。 Beaver grabbed at the shower curtain in a last…ditch effort to maintain his balance； but it pulled free of the bar in a metallic clitter…clack of rings。 His boots slipped in the blood and he went sprawling forward onto the floor like a man blown out of an ejection seat。 Behind him he heard the toilet seat fly up hard enough to crack the porcelain tank。
Something wet and heavy landed on Beaver's back。 Something that felt like a tail or a worm or a muscular segmented tentacle curled between his legs and seized his already aching balls in a contracting python's grip。 Beaver screamed； chin lifting from the bloody tiles （a red crisscross pattern tattooed faintly on his chin）； eyes bulging。 The thing lay wet and cold and heavy from the nape of his neck to the small of his back； like a rolled…up breathing rug； and now it began to utter a feverish high…pitched chattering noise； the sound of a rabid monkey。
Beaver screamed again； wriggled toward the door on his belly； then lurched up onto all fours； trying to shake the thing off。 The muscular rope between his legs squeezed again； and there was a low popping sound from somewhere in the liquid haze of pain that was now his groin。
Oh Christ； the Beav thought。 Mighty Christ bananas； I think that was one of my balls。
Squealing； sweating； tongue dancing in and out of his mouth like a demented party…favor； Beaver did the only thing he could think of： rolled over onto his back； trying to crush the whatever…it…was between his spine and the tiles。 It chittered in his ear； almost deafening him； and began to wriggle frantically。 Beaver seized the tail curled between his legs； smooth and hairless on top； thorny … as if plated with hooks made of clotted hair … underneath。 And wet。 Water？ Blood？ Both？
'Ahhh！ A hhh！ Oh God let go！ Fuckin thing； let go！ Jesus！ My fuckin sack！ Jeesus！'
Before he could get either hand beneath the tail； a mouthful of needles sank into the side of his neck。 He reared up； bellowing； and then the thing was gone。 Beaver tried to get to his feet。 He had to push with his hands because there was no strength in his legs； and his hands kept slipping。 In addition to McCarthy's blood； the bathroom floor was now covered with murky water from the cracked toilet tank and the tiled surface was a skating rink。
As he finally got up； he saw something clinging to the doorway about halfway up。 It looked like some kind of freak weasel … no legs but with a thick reddish…gold tail。 There was no real head； only a kind of slippery…looking node from which two feverish black eyes stared。
The lower half of the node split open； revealing a nest of teeth。 The thing struck at Beaver like a snake； the node lashing forward； the hairless tail curled around the doorjamb。 Beaver screamed and raised a hand in front of his face。 Three of the four fingers on it … all but the pinky … disappeared。 There was no pain； either that or the pain from his ruptured testicle swallowed it whole。 He tried to step away； but the backs of his knees struck the bowl of the battered toilet。 There was nowhere to go。
That thing was in him？ Beaver thought； there was time for that much。 It was in him？
Then it uncoiled its tall or its tentacle or whatever it was and leaped at him； the top half of its rudimentary head full of its stupidly furious black eyes； the lower half a packet of bone needles。 Far away； in some other universe where there still might be sane life； Jonesy was calling his name； but Jonesy was late； Jonesy was way late。
The thing that had been in McCarthy landed on the Beav's chest with a smack。 It smelled like McCarthy's wind … a heavy reek of oil and ether and methane gas。 The muscular whip that was its lower body wrapped around Beaver's waist。 Its head darted forward and its teeth closed on Beaver's nose。
Screaming； beating at it with his fists； Beaver fell backward onto the toilet。 The ring and the lid had flown up against the tank when the thing came out。 The lid had stayed up； but the ring had fallen back into place。 Now the Beav landed on it； broke it； and dropped ass…first into the toilet with the weasel…thing clutching him around the waist and chewing his face。
'Beaver！ Beav； what…'
Beaver felt the thing stiffen against him … it literally stiffened； like a dick getting hard。 The grip of the tentacle around his waist tightened； then loosened。 Its black…eyed idiotic face whipped around toward the sound of Jonesy's voice； and Beav saw his old friend through a haze of blood； and with dimming eyes： Jonesy standing slack…jawed in the doorway； a roll of friction tape （won't need that now； Beaver thought； nah） in one dangling hand。 Jonesy standing there utterly defenseless in his shocked horror。 This thing's next meal。
'Jonesy； get outta here！' Beaver shouted。 His voice was wet； strained through a mouthful of blood。 He sensed the thing getting ready to leap and wrapped his arms around its pulsing body as if it were his lover。 'Get out！ Shut the door！ B…' Burn it； he wanted to say。 Lock it in； lock both of us in； burn it； burn it alive； I'm going to sit here ass…deep in this fucking toilet with my arms wrapped around it； and if I can die smelling it roast； I can die happy。 But the thing was struggling too hard and fucking Jonesy was just standing there with that roll of friction tape in his hand and his jaw