This choice: Flip to another part of the book • Go Back...Chapter #24Space Parasites by: Seuzz   You pinch off a few pages and turn them all at once.
Now this is odd. It looks like someone--Blackwell?--has cut the pages out of a paperback and glued them inside this folio. The collector must have cut up two copies of the original, because each folio page contains two pages of the paperback: the front and reverse. You flip back a few pages until you can find the beginning, and you flip a few more pages in to find the end. You frown. It's not a complete story. It's not even a complete set of chapters. It's just extracts from a book. The page numbers--it starts on "84"--suggest it was a novel. But why would someone want to save these precise pages from that novel? Why go through the bother of getting and destroying two copies of the original instead of just squirreling away one complete copy?
You start to read, thinking maybe you'll recognize the importance of the extract after you've read it.
* * * * *
But the soldier just wouldn't stop screaming.
He pulled at his wrist and ankle restraints and arched his back. His head whipped back and forth, and beneath the band that shrouded his eyes his face turned purple. He was naked, except for his briefs, and every lean muscle on his body strained and pulled. But he was tied down too securely, and the doctor continued to drive the narrow forceps into his navel.
Sam had to turn away, and his eyes fell on the Old Man. The Director's teeth and eyes gleamed as he leaned forward in his chair, his hand gripping the handle of his cane. It was a loathsome sight: the palpable fascination and excitement on the Director's face. Sam buried a fist in his jacket pocket, and shoved his feelings of repugnance deep down in his gullet as well.
The screams abruptly turned into a gurgle, and Sam glanced back to see the doctor now pulling the forceps back out. He was moving slowly, but the muscles in his forearm quivered. The thing inside the soldier was fighting back hard.
And then it came out. Pinched at its base by the tips of the forceps was a thing that looked like eye. It was round and white and there was a pupil in it. Blood vessels pulsed beneath its membranes, and a long, thin, bloody red cord stretched tautly between it and the soldier's navel. And then that cord snapped and the thing was out of him. The soldier collapsed, panting.
"It's okay now, son," the Old Man said softly, and leaned over to stroke the man's fevered brow. "It's all over."
"That thing--!" the soldier gasped. "Is it out? Let me see it."
"You don't need to see it, soldier," the Old Man said. "Maybe later--"
"It made me do things! Oh, God, it wasn't me!" the soldier groaned. "But I-- I--!"
"You just get some rest," Sam said, breaking in. He shot a meaningful look at the orderly, who picked up a syringe.
"Not yet, Sam," the Old Man said quietly. "Just one question for our boy here, and then he can--" He leaned over the soldier. "You remember everything, do you?" The soldier grimaced, but nodded. "Good. Because there's one more out there, isn't there? Do you know where?"
The soldier swallowed. "Yes. A patrolman, in the town. It wasn't me who--!" His face twisted up. "But I was there. I saw, and--"
"You don't have to say anything about that," the Old Man murmured gently. "But this patrolman. He has name. Do you know it?"
"Brad Davison."
"And why a patrolman?" the Old Man asked. "You remember what you did. Do you remember what you were thinking while--"
"Jesus!" Sam himself jumped a little in surprise at the sound of his own voice, for he hadn't meant to exclaim aloud. But he clenched his jaw as the Old Man shot a slit-eyed sidelong glance at him, and stared stonily back.
The soldier mumbled something, but the Old Man patted his shoulder. "Yes, alright, that'll be enough for now. We can find patrolman Davison." He glanced again at Sam. "Now, we'll just give you something to take the edge off those bad memories." He nodded at the orderly, who plunged the syringe into the man's arm.
"He's got a nest with him," the soldier mumbled, and then his head fell to the side.
"Ah. Mm. I'm getting soft in my old age," the Old Man muttered to himself, then sighed. "We'll have to bring him back out, but we'll give him an hour's respite first. Sam? A word with you?" With a quick flick of his wrist he gestured at the agent as he limped from the examination bay.
Sam quietly swiped at his sweaty upper lip and followed. His reaction had nothing to do with what he'd just seen, and everything to do with the tongue-lashing he was about to receive.
* * * * *
"That's for being a fucking jerkwad at halftime," Tom growled as he slammed his fist into Terry's gut. But Terry just rolled his eyes. The blow didn't hurt, for he was still encased in the body of the Squanee Squirrel costume, and so was well-padded all over. That's why he'd only taken the head off before getting onto the bus: he knew he'd get a few blows. And he also knew that Tom and the other basketball players would know that's why he'd left it on, and so they'd have no qualms about punching him. It was all so predictable. As predictable as the twenty-point loss the team had just suffered.
The bus rocked lightly as it raced down the highway. Tom fell back into his seat on the other side of the aisle, and Terry went back to staring out the window. The cornfields raced by, stretching for miles and miles and miles. Twenty-six miles, to be precise, between Squanee City and Woodview. The rivalry between the Squanee City Squirrels and the Woodview Weasels was just about the only source of local entertainment in the small Iowa towns. Otherwise, it was just cable TV and corn fields.
And he'd rather look at the corn fields than listen to the coarse and guttural chatter of Tom and his teammates. His dad had made him try out for the team, even though Terry would have preferred to spend his Saturdays reading and daydreaming. But his brother had been a star forward at the high school five years before, and parental dreams die hard. Terry hadn't tried, but he hadn't not tried hard enough, and Coach Kirnberger had felt safe "compromising" by offering Terry the position of mascot. That was maybe marginally better than being on the court and getting trapped in the showers, but it meant that Tom and Paulie and Chad and all the others could still hassle him mercilessly. And all Terry could do was run up and down the sidelines making a fool himself and trying to outdo the Woodview Weasel at playing the fool for the crowd. Even the cheerleaders treated him contempt.
Terry jerked back into the present as he felt the bus slow and then pull over to the side of the highway. He craned his head to look, and saw the flashing lights of the police prowler as it too edged onto the shoulder, coming to rest a dozen yards behind the school bus. The hell?
The players had noticed too, and they pushed Terry away from the window as the patrolman walked down the side of the bus toward the doors. Chatter and guffaws and ribald jokes went up, and then Coach Kirnberger stood up and told everyone to settle down. Silence fell for only a few seconds, though, before the chortling started up again as the patrolman led the coach back to the cruiser.
Terry went back to staring out the window, but he had only a few seconds to himself before he felt strong arms yanking at him. Hoots went up as Tom dragged Terry into the aisle and threw him to the floor. "If you'd been doing your job during the game--" he growled.
"What were you assholes doing?" Terry sneered back. They couldn't hurt him while he was in the suit, and they wouldn't do any worse to him afterward, when he was out of it, if he didn't lip off at them. "You're the ones who kept fucking up on the foul shots."
Tom pulled his fist back, and Terry closed his eyes. He opened them again, though, at the snigger from the team captain. Tom dropped onto Terry, straddling his chest and rocking back and forth on the cushioned costume. "Someone grab his head," he called, and Terry felt strong hands seize him by the ears. Tom made a horrible snorking noise in the back of his throat, and Terry sighed with despair as Tom leaned over and let the long, thick loogie dangle from his mouth. Terry closed his eyes and shut his mouth tight. The loogie, when it hit his upper cheek, was warm and slimy.
"You ladies get back in your seats." Kirnberger's voice cut through the laughter. He hadn't been long in the cruiser. "Help him up." But no hands went out as Terry flopped clumsily around before slowly pulling himself back to his feet. He glanced at the coach out of the corner of his eye, and saw him frowning. "Munson, I want to talk to you when we get back to the school," he barked at Tom. "We need to talk about the way you treat your teammates."
Like I'm a teammate, Terry thought bitterly to himself. He pushed his way to the back of the bus, and fell forward onto the back seat as the bus jerked into motion. Oh, but he's probably not even going to talk to Tom about the way he treats me. Because he knows I'm not on the team. Not really.
Terry glared moodily out the back window. The highway was long and straight, and the flashing lights of the police cruiser were visible long after the cruiser itself had just become a dim dot in the distance. Terry vaguely wondered why the patrolman was just sitting there, and why he had pulled the team bus over in the first place. Then he forgot about it.
* * * * *
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