Part 25 (2/2)
The steps were irregular, and for a moment Julio thought it sounded like a woman. For another moment he heard Grandfather's words and saw the carrion in the brushes.
The images scattered and disappeared.
”Dumb jerk don't know what he walking into, right?” Julio whispered. The words frightened him.
Albert wasn't moving. ”Wetbacks. Greasers. Mex--right? Okay. Okay, Albert? Okay.” The blade sprang out of the handle.
”Shut up,” Albert whispered. ”There he is. See him?”
There were no streetlamps, so the figure was indistinct. In the darkness it could be determined that the figure was that of a man: heavy set, not old, walking slowly, almost as if he were afraid of something.”That's him,” Albert said, letting out a stream of breath.
Julio's throat was dry. It pained him when he tried to swallow. ”Okay,” he said.
Albert said, ”Okay, look. Go up and pretend you want a handout, y'know? Make it good. Then let him have it, right away.”
”I thought I saw something,” Julio said.
”What's that supposed to mean?”
”I thought I saw something, I thought I saw something. You mind?”
”Where?”
”I couldn't make out.”
”Who you bulling? You want to go back?”
”All right, so I was wrong.”
The figure had pa.s.sed the boxcar and disappeared into the shadows, but the footsteps were still clear.
”You ready?” Albert said.
Julio paused, then he nodded.
”The h.e.l.l,” Albert said. ”You're scared green. You'll probably louse it all up. Let's go back.”
Julio thought of going back. Of what would be said, of all the eyes turned on him like ominous spotlights. The laughter he heard was what he hated most.
Albert looked anxious; the footsteps were dying away.
”Screw you,” Julio said. ”You coming with, or not?” He put the knife up his sleeve and held it there with his palm cupped underneath.
Albert rubbed his hands along his s.h.i.+rt. ”All right, I'll follow you--about a minute. Sixty seconds.”
Julio listened. Suddenly he didn't tremble any more, though his throat was still dry. There was no more pictures in his mind.
He waited, counting.
Then he smiled at Albert and started to walk.
It will take only a few minutes, he thought. No one will see. No one will give Julio Valasquez the old c.r.a.p about chicken after this. No one .
Up ahead, he could see the man. No one else: just the man who was a louse and who didn't deserve to live.
And the long shadows.
He looked over his shoulder once, but the darkness seemed alive, so he jerked his head around and walked faster, with less care.
At last he caught up with the man.
”Hey, mister,” Julio said.
Introduction to
THE HUNGER.
by Richard Christian Matheson
I was young and saw him rarely.
But when he was around, I always watched him secretly; entranced.
As if he were lined with silk.
He wasn't feeling well by then and seemed like a weary Merlin. Grey; half-voiced. But incantation phosph.o.r.ed in his tired eyes.
Wizards are strong.
For years he'd alchemized words into sublime ideas. Those into haunting tales of charm and tragedy. Mystic. Despairing. Beautiful.
Magically, he even turned too few years into a stunning lifetime. And when he disappeared for the final time, not in a puff of smoke, but quiet sleep, he left us a few secrets; maps to his miracles. This one is called The Hunger.
Water to wine. Brilliance and poetry from paper and ink. He could do anything.
Except live forever.
Farewell great magician.
THE HUNGER.
by Charles Beaumont ----------------------------.
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