Part 12 (2/2)

I scramble to the edge of the bed and fall off the end. ”Wait,” I say to Chet. ”It's accusing you -”

”I know what it's saying. I know you don't believe it. Stand back.”

”Destroying me will only delay investigation. There are more like me,” warns the Thing. And then says more pitiably, ”Please do not destroy me.”

”Back, gross mephitic beast,” Chet says with a sense of dramatic relish. He raises his hands. ”Here is an end to your monstrous and unhappy lies.”

”Don't, Chet!” I yell, running and putting my arms out between them. ”I want to know which of you is telling the truth. Stop! Just talk!”

”I am the one telling the truth, Christopher,” says the Thing, nodding its head erratically in my direction, trying still to keep an eye on Chet. ”I am -”

”Come on, Christopher. Don't be stupid,” says Chet. ”There's nothing that the Forces of Darkness could do with the Arm of Moriator. The Arm destroys negative beings. That's why we activated it.” He asks the Thing, ”Can you explain that little inconsistency in your story?”

The Thing pauses. ”We have not yet determined what use the Arm might be to you.”

”No. I bet you haven't,” says Chet. ”You're not the -”

The Thing has raised its arms in some kind of spell.

Chet whacks his hands together. A blaze of light fills the room. My ears pound.

I lie flat on the floor.

The Thing bucks in agony, a latticework of veins ablaze on its skin, capillaries burning - it gapes terrified at its roasting hand - the suit melts into a blue polyester slurry - and from head to toe its skin peels away, an empty dirty husk, leaving nothing but a silver cord writhing like a worm on a griddle, seared with white light.

I cover my eyes from the glare.

There is a silence after the roar. In the vacuum, Paul's voice dribbles in informatively from the lawn. ”This lumpy part is called the mantle. On either side of it, you can see two little holes as we pan in. These provide the breathing part of the slug, for the inhalation purposes of air and oxygen.”

No one, I realize, has even heard the blast, any more than they could see the Thing. Carefully, I lift up my head. The wall-to-wall carpeting has made impressions on my face and arms.

Chet is standing there, on the bed, smiling inscrutably. The Thing is gone. ”Do not fear, Christopher,” Chet says. ”I have defeated the foul fiend.”

I get up on my knees and point at him. ”Look,” I say. ”I don't know what's going on, but -”

”You could thank me for saving you. But it's all in a day's work. Well, time to go.”

”No, Chet, wait! Wait!”

”I really have to go. Pressing business away West.”

”Chet! If you want to prove yourself, cure me right now. Please. Then I'll believe you.”

”Sorry, Christopher. No can do right now.”

”Chet, I need help. I believe you, Chet.”

”I'm glad you believe me, Christopher. That gives me a nice warm feeling deep down inside. I'll be back in a few weeks. Promise.”

”Chet, d.a.m.n it!”

”Hang tight 'til then.”

”Chet!”

But he walks toward the wall, dissolving, shedding a gray cloud of atomized suit coat and flesh.

”Chet, d.a.m.n it!”

He splashes into the wall and is gone.

It is as if he and the Thing had never been there.

My room is quiet. A bobbing green light from the sun and a tree outside swings like a yo-yo against the wall. Out in the yard, the peepers are chirping irregularly.

I can hear my brother's voice, m.u.f.fled. ”That dark stripe is the muscle, used for locomotion. Let's close in with the zoom lens and see what . . . ,” he says. ”Whoops. Eew. Eh! Ick! s.h.i.+t! . . . Okay, end of take.”

One day, the late spring rain is falling like marshmallow. Warm, wet, and sticky. The sickly pale green gra.s.s of spring is swamped with it. The gutters clog and clot with dirt and red wood chips.

My head is upside down like a bat, hanging off the end of the sofa. People in general don't like hanging upside down, but I can see why bats do it. It is not just the novelty of the way the blood in your head makes a sound like moths playing percussion. It is also great the way that you feel like you inhabit a different world. It's like people can't touch you, because they're aligned with the floor.

I am listening to my parents, and they seem farther away because they are in the right-side-up world.

”Don't tell me that!” my mother is yelling. ”Do you know how long it's been since you got a raise? Do you know?”

My father says something, but I can't hear it.

”What are you saying? Just tell me what you're saying,” screams my mother, ”because I do everything I can to keep this family going, and I don't want to hear -”

My father says something else, very softly, but slams the table while he says it.

My mother says, ”Your older son spends his life watching TV, your younger son - G.o.d knows - is doing drugs or - I don't even know what - and you're going out to play golf. Play golf! Great father! Golf! Go ahead, in the rain - I hope you get a bogey!”

Then they tell each other to go to h.e.l.l, and they start slamming doors.

Upside down, everything seems so light and strange. The white lamp has risen like a bubble and now bobs against a tabletop. The TV Guide TV Guide has shot up onto the sheltering sofa. Everything is poised with infinite care. has shot up onto the sheltering sofa. Everything is poised with infinite care.

I have almost gone to sleep when my father comes in.

He says, ”Christ,” and walks out again. Then he looks in again. ”What are you doing?” he demands. ”Don't you have anything better to do than lie around daydreaming? You're not even right-side up. Get up. Do something.”

So I get up. I start to pace.

As I pa.s.s through the front hall, my father is leaving to cool down in the car.

I pace in circles from room to room.

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