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his goofy old leather jacket； Beaver taking Duddits's lunchbox and saying You like this show？ But they never change their clothes！ And then saying…
'Fuck me Freddy；' Henry told the overgrown cabin。 'That's what he said； what he always said。' Tears running from his eyes and down his cheeks。 If it was just wetness the fungus wanted and judging by the jungle growing out of the toilet…bowl； it liked wetness just fine … it could land on him and have a feast。
Henry didn't much care。 He had Jonesy's rifle。 The fungus could start on him； but he could make sure that he was long gone before it ever got to the dessert course。 If it came to that。
It probably would。
5
He was sure he'd seen a few rug…remnants heaped up in one er of the shed。 Henry debated going out and getting them。 He could lay them down on the bathroom floor； walk over them； and get a better look into the tub。 But to what purpose？ He knew that was Beaver； and he had no real desire to see his old friend； author of such witticisms as Kiss my bender； being overgrown by red fungus as the pallid corpse in that long…ago medical offprint had been growing its own colony of toadstools。 If it might have answered some of his questions about what had happened； yes； perhaps。 But Henry didn't think that likely。
Mostly what he wanted was to get out of here。 The fungus was creepy； but there was something else。 An even creepier sensation that he was not alone。
Henry backed away from the bathroom door。 There was a paperback on the dining table； a pattern of dancing devils with pitchforks on its cover。 One of Jonesy's； no doubt； already growing its own little colony of crud。
He became aware of a whickering noise from the west； one that quickly rose to a thunder。 Helicopters； and not just one； this time。 A lot。 Big ones。 They sounded as if they were ing in at rooftop level； and Henry ducked without even being aware of it。 Images from a dozen Vietnam War movies filled his head and he was momentarily sure that they would open up with their machine…guns； spraying the house。 Or maybe they'd hose it down with napalm。
They passed over without doing either； but came close enough to rattle the cups and dishes on the kitchen shelves。 Henry straightened up as the thunder began to fade； being first a chatter and then a harmless drone。 Perhaps they had gone off to join the animal slaughter at the east end of Jefferson Tract。 Let them。 He was going to get the fuck out of here and…
And what？ Exactly what？
While he was thinking this question over； there was a sound from one of the two downstairs bedrooms。 A rustling sound。 This was followed by a moment of silence； just long enough for Henry to decide it was his imagination pulling a little more overtime。 Then there came a series of low clicks and chitters； almost the sound of a mechanical toy … a tin monkey or parrot； maybe … on the verge of running down。 Gooseflesh broke out all over Henry's body。 The spit dried up in his mouth。 The hairs on the back of his neck began to straighten in bunches。
Get out of here； run！
Before he could listen to that voice and let it get a hold on him； he crossed to the bedroom door in big steps； unshouldering the Garand as he went。 The adrenaline dumped into his blood； and the world stood forth brightly。 Selective perception； that unacknowledged gift to the safe and cozy； fell away and he saw every detail： the trail of blood which ran from bedroom to bathroom； a discarded slipper； that weird red mold growing on the wall in the shape of a handprint。 Then he went through the door。
It was on the bed； whatever it was； to Henry it looked like a weasel or a woodchuck with its legs amputated and a long； bloody tail strung out behind it like an afterbirth。 Only no animal he'd ever seen … with the possible exception of the moray eel at the Boston Seaquarium … had such disproportionately large black eyes。 And another similarity： when it yawned open the rudimentary line that was its mouth； it revealed a nest of shocking fangs； as long and thin as hatpins。
Behind it； pulsing on the blood…soaked sheet； were a hundred or more orange…and…brown eggs。 They were the size of large marbles and coated with a murky； snotlike slime。 Within each Henry could see a moving； hairlike shadow。
The weasel…thing rose up like a snake emerging from a snake…charmer's basket and chittered at him。 It lurched on the bed Jonesy's bed … but seemed unable to move much。 Its glossy black eyes glared。 Its tail （except Henry thought it might actually be some sort of gripping tentacle） lashed back and forth； then laid itself over as many of the eggs as it could reach； as if protecting them。
Henry realized he was saying the same word； no； over and over in a monotonous drone； like a helpless neurotic who has been loaded up on Thorazine。 He shouldered the rifle； aimed； and tracked the thing's repulsive wedge of a head as it twitched and dodged。 It knows what this is； it knows at least that much； Henry thought coldly； and then he squeezed the trigger。
It was close range and the creature wasn't up to much in the way of evasion； either laying its eggs had exhausted it or it wasn't doing well in the cold … with the main door open； Hole in the Wan had gotten quite cold indeed。 The report was very loud in the closed room； and the thing's upraised head disintegrated in a liquid splatter that blew back against the wall in strings and clots。 Its blood was the same red…gold as the fungus。 The decapitated body tumbled off the bed and onto a litter of clothes Henry didn't recognize： a brown coat； an orange flagman's vest； a pair of jeans with cuffs （none of them had ever worn cuffed jeans； in junior high school； those who did had been branded shitkickers）。 Several of the eggs tumbled off with the body。 Most landed on either the clothes or the litter of Jonesy's books and remained whole； but a couple hit the floor and broke open。 Cloudy stuff like spoiled eggwhite oozed out； about a tablespoonful from each egg。 Within it were those hairs； writhing and twisting and seeming to glare at Henry with black eyes the size of pinheads。 Looking at them made him feel like screaming。
He turned and walked jerkily out of the room on legs with no more feeling in them than the legs of a table。 He felt like a puppet being manipulated by someone who means well but has just begun to learn his craft。 He had no real idea where he was going until he reached the kitchen and bent over the cabinet under the sink。
'I am the eggman； I am the eggman； I am the walrus！ Goo…goo…joob！'
He didn't sing this but declaimed it in a loud； hortatory voice he hadn't realized was in his repertoire。 It was the voice of a ham actor from the nineteenth century。 That idea called up an image God knew why … of Edwin Booth dressed as d'Artagnan； plumed hat and all； quoting from the lyrics of John Lennon； and Henry uttered two loud laugh…syllables … Ha！ Ha！
I'm going insane； he thought 。 。 。 but it was okay。 Better d'Artagnan reciting 'I Am the Walrus' than the image of that thing's blood splattering onto the wall； or the mold…covered Doc Marten sticking out of the bathtub； or； worst of all； those eggs splitting open and releasing a load of twitching hairs with eyes。 All those eyes looking at him。
He moved aside the dish detergent and the floor…bucket； and there it was； the yellow can of Sparx barbecue lighter fluid。 The inept puppeteer who had taken him over advanced Henry's arm in a series of jerks； then clamped his right hand on the Sparx can。 He carried it back across the living room； pausing long enough to take the box of wooden matches from the mantel。
'I am he and you are me and we are all together！' he declaimed； and stepped briskly back into Jonesy's bedroom before the terrified person inside his head could seize the controls； turn him； and make him run away。 That person wanted to make him run until he fell down unconscious。 Or dead。
The eggs on the bed were also splitting open。 Two dozen or more of those hairs were crawling around on the blood…soaked sheet or squirming on Jonesy's pillow。 One raised its nub of a head and chittered at Henry； a sound almost too thin and high…pitched to be heard。
Still not all