Part 61 (1/2)
I gettin down to look, put a hand on her face. Her skin is burnin, her lips is swole dry.
”She sleepin, Macky. She isnt gone yet.”
”She goin to be, though?”
”Try an shade her. Be doin what you can.”
”We goin to get some water, Ratch? They havent brought us water in a real long time.”
”Boy, you got any sense? Got any sense at all?” I standin, lookin at Macky, lookin at Lily, thinkin bout her in the mossy place, in the pretty goldy light.
”Isnt no water. Isnt goin to be none, either. Lily goin to die like Dit an Little Nik. I spect you an me, we goin to die too.”
I turnin an I gone, Macky cryin an theres nothin I can do. Cant do nothin for Lily, cant do nothin for me. Pock say somethin I dont hardly hear. Whatever that somethin doin in my head, it doin it again. . . .
The sun, he boilin in a white an empty sky. My skin be fryin, sweat burnin in my eyes. Dontfigure goin far, just far nough to see. Dont know why, just know it gotta be.
Theres a little place I can hunker down some, look past the draw an down on the flats, stretchin out below. I inchin up an look, inchin up slow. My heart near stoppin, they right there close. I could throw a rock an hit Sal an p.h.u.c.kin k.n.o.b Dole. I could hit Gandolph Scott, sittin on a stripy Rhido.
Isnt no use tryin to count. Theres Rhidos far as I can see, black old hides covered in the dust they feet stirrin up. Dust an s.h.i.+t an bout a zillion flies. Switchin they tails, shakin they pointy horns bout. Snortin, snuffin, pawin at the ground, Drills perchin on they backs.
Ratch, Im thinkin, what the p.h.u.c.k you doin here, get up get outta here fast. This is what part of me thinkin. Other parts thinkin what Froom is sayin, how Drills they hearin Rhidos, only that kinda hearins not the same. . . .
”Ratch, you outta you head? What you doin up here?”
”s.h.i.+t, Mockit, don't be doin that!”
Mockit, he come up behind me, I bout jump outta my skin.
”Get on back,” I tell him, ”you dont belong up here.”
”Whats the matter with you? Dont no one belong up here.”
”Maybe I do.”
”Do what?”
”I here, you seein that plain. Maybe thats where I spose to be.”
”You talkin funny now. Dont be doin that, Ratch. You kinda scarin me.”
I lookin up, lookin Mockit in the eye. ”You the one said it. They doin that dream out there.
They done it before, they doin it again.”
”Huh-uh,” Mockit shakin his head. ”I never said a thing like that. Even if I did, I dont know what I talkin bout, you know that.”
”Mockit. . .”
Mockit, he stop. He hearin it too. So do the Rhidos, so do the Drills. Theres thunder way off, thunder an a awful cloud of dust. Whatever it is, its just cross the flats, comin up behind a little rise. The ground begin to tremble, like the world be comin apart. I can feel it in my belly, I can feel it in my parts. Lookin down theres little grains of sand, dancing on the dirt.
Thunder dyin, the ground not shakin, ground keepin still. Hot wind blowin cross the flats, hot wind burnin, chokin ever breath. Hot wind scorchin, scarin off the dust, showin whats hidin up there. . . .
Mockit, he seein it first, eyes comin outta his head. Then I seein it too, seein what he see, seein what a chile be seein, wakin up cryin, wakin from a dream.
My gut wanta be throwin up, but they nothin in there, nothin it can do.
What waitin, what sittin up there is Rhidos, Rhidos standin with they heads down low, Rhidos still as they can be. Rhidos that got no color at all, Rhidos white as the moon, Rhidos pale as dead bone!. . .
”p.h.u.c.k p.h.u.c.k p.h.u.c.k,” Mockits moanin, shakin his head, sweat drip-pin off his nose.
Somethin wet, somethin runnin down his leg.
”Stop doin that,” I tell him, ”ever thing stinkin enough round here.””Cant help it, Ratch. I likely doin somethin else too.”
”Mockit, that be the last thing you do, I tellin you that.”
If me an Mockit havin a dream, it getting more scary all the time. Hunkered on them Rhidos is Drills, an they isnt like Drills I ever seen. They fur is dull as dirt, they baby s.h.i.+t brown.
They whiskers an they ruff is kinda white. They all got long pointy sticks, an the sticks got raggedy skins hangin off the end. Some got skins, an some got strings of yeller bones. Even far off, you can hear bones rattlin in the wind.
Our Drills wearin armor made of wood, stickers an dead turtul hats. These Drills isnt wearin anything at all. Nothin but snik an lizert skins wrapped about they heads.
”Isnt many of em,” Mockit sayin real low, ”we got moren that.”
”I can see, you dont have to tell me that.”
”What you gettin on me bout, Ratch? Havent done nothin to you-”
Mockit, he stop, cause somethin happenin cross the flats. One of the Rhidos movin outta line, clompin up ahead of the rest. The Drill on his back, he got his head covered with a scary lookin mask. Mask got big white teeth, got s.h.i.+ny red eyes, got a muzzle painted black.
The Drill standin up, start hoppin, screechin an shakin his pole at the Drills over here. The rest of his bunch, they start jumpin round too.
I leanin up an lookin down. Gandolph Scott, he be bout to have a fit. He howlin, barin his teeth. Wavin his pole, screamin at the Drill across the flats. He turn round, an bark at Sal Capone. Whatever he sayin, Sal sayin no. He yellin at Gandolph, Gandolph yellin back.
Then, fore you can blink, Gandolph swingin his pole, slammin Sal hard across the head. The blow lift Sal off his Rhido an knock him to the ground.