Creeping Crud

Creeping Crud

         They sat on the tailgate of Bobby’s old pickup, drinking beers and talking in somber voices. They’d been tight since grade-school. If you saw one of them, the other was usually close by. Each was the closest the other had to a brother.

         After a few beers they were usually rowdy and boisterous, but tonight was different. Bobby had lost his job down at the factory, and was considering moving to the city to look for work. After being joined-at-the-hip for nearly twenty years, they were both taking the news pretty hard.

         “Hey,” Mike said suddenly, “did you see that article in the news. About that guy they found in Austin, burned alive.”

         The mental image slammed into Bobby’s head like a driven spike. Skin blackened and shriveled. Body curled into the fetus position by the heat. The stench of burning flesh in the air. Everyone said it smelled like roasted pork. He thrust the image from his mind with an effort.

         “House fire,” he asked, when he could speak.

         Mike shook his head in the dark, causing Bobby to smile. What am I supposed to do, hear your head rattle?

         “Nope,” Mike replied, “they don’t know what it was. The body was burned to ashes, leaving the head, hands, and feet virtually untouched. Know what I think it was? Spontaneous human combustion. It happens you know. One minute you’re just sitting there eating Cheese Doodles, and the next you’re Bar-B-Que."

         Bobby laughed.

         “You watch too much TV,” he said, “that shit doesn’t really happen. It takes hours, and a lot of intense heat, to cremate a body. They don’t just go poof, and go up in flames. Hell, if that was the case, every drunk in the state would flame-on. Not enough blood in their alcohol system. Know what I mean? The guy was probably just smoking in bed and fell asleep."

         “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Mike admitted. He sat there quietly for a moment, then slid off the end of the tailgate and stood up.

         “Gotta go,” he announced, “some of us have to work tomorrow.” He instantly regretted his choice of words. Bobby was pretty broken-up about the job thing. And he would have to go and mention it right as he was leaving.

         “See you tomorrow,” Bobby said quietly, ignoring Mike’s slip-of the-tongue.

         He watched as Mike’s taillights disappeared down the dirt track, then turned to look out across the valley below. He hated the thought of moving to the city. They were nice to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. At least that had been his thought up until now. But things had changed. He was out of a job, and with the economy on the ebb, there was no work locally.

         He hated the thought of leaving. He’d grown up here. Put down roots. He loved the people, and the small town mentality. He had so many memories here. Breaking his arm in third grade. Making the football team. Discovering girls. Hell, he'd lost his virginity not fifty feet from here. Over by that big old oak tree. God bless Sally Parker.

         A faint rustle in the leaves overhead caused him to glance upward. The moon was on the wain and there wasn’t a lot to see. Too dark. Probably just a squirrel. Or an owl. He turned back to his beer without giving it another thought.

         It flowed through the treetops like water. Quiet as a butterflies’ wings, as deadly as a mamba. It searched for prey on the ground below, not with eyes, but with something more akin to a heat seeking device. It was neither animal, nor mineral, nor vegetable, but had something in common with all. And like most predators, it hunted by night. Its shape was amorphous, amoeba-like, and it moved much the same way as water that’s spilt on the floor spreads. It had a rudimentary intelligence but its thoughts were simple, and without feeling. Food, reproduction, shelter. These were the drives that pushed it through the treetops. Searching.

         A rustle of leaves caused Bobby to glance upward again. Again he saw nothing specific. He had an errant thought, hoping that whatever was up there didn’t crap on his truck, then something dropped on him like a blanket, enfolding him in a slippery, burning embrace.

         Mike closed the shop early. Damn economy. If it got any more sluggish, he was gonna wind up in the poor house. Or living under the Hwy 71 bridge like a troll. As he passed Sutter’s drug store he happened to glance at the newspaper rack. The day’s headline leapt out at him, grabbing his attention. “LOCAL MAN DIES IN MYSTERY FIRE. SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION???”

         He fed some change into the display and grabbed the top paper, imagining how it was gonna feel when he poked this baby in Bobby’s face. Man it was gonna be great.