Page 68 of Them

Tim scrambled to his feet and staggered forward. He had to do something. He had to—

“Who… who do you think you are?” Lane repeated, his voice rapidly fading. There was a minute click! like the pull of a pin. And then, almost in a whisper: “I know who I am…”

The Nightwalker’s mandibles parted as its legion of oily tongues sniffed at Lane’s face, ready to snap…

And then the old man’s hairy knuckles plowed through the slimy tendrils, ramming into the back of the Scorpion’s throat with a fleshy slam.

The monster gagged. Bit down.

“Death,” said Lane.

A blinding flash of yellow and blue erupted from the Scorpion’s neck. A metallic ringing as foul and pervasive as any sound Tim had ever heard pierced his eardrums. Fibrous scales burst off the Scorpion like popcorn shrapnel, each trailed by a shower of purple viscera. The legs, with no body to hold them, blindly circled each other for a moment and then collapsed to the ground, where they wriggled and writhed like dying fish. The disembodied tail followed suit as steaming chunks of skull and stalk rained down about the lawn. Glowing blood speckled the grass.

Tim, covered in rat shit and alien gore, rushed to Lane’s side. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll be okay.” But as he pressed his hands down on Lane’s chest and felt the warm ooze of human and Scorpion blood intermingling, Tim knew it wouldn’t be. “It’s okay.” He could feel his heart breaking into pieces, the shards stabbing him from within. “We’ll get you someplace nice and dry and—”

One of the Scorpion’s massive scythes had fallen atop Lane’s legs. “Oh God.” Tim bent down, curling his hands around the bottom lip of the dead alien’s tremendous limb. He took a deep breath. “I got you, buddy.” These were forgotten muscles, but they could be remembered. Staring at Lane’s bubbling face, smoldering brow, he had to remember. “I got you.”

The coarse exoskeleton dug into his hands, dredging cuts in each palm and finger. His legs rocked lower, searching for the strength to free his friend, and finally the loose limb began to tremble. It felt as if every blood vessel in his brain would burst, but he pressed on, drawing in oxygen with every desperate breath as the dead rock lif—

“Shhh.” The old man reached up toward Tim’s mouth with a hand that no longer resembled anything human. Most of the flesh had been blown away. What remained was torn and blackened, flapping strips of skin like flypaper in the night breeze.

Tim ignored him.

“s’ok,” Lane whispered, swallowing the rainwater pooling in his open mouth. “s’ok, bim.”

He lowered the titanic leg back down, unable to lift it beyond an inch. “I’m sorry,” he said, falling to his knees by Lane’s side and taking his friend’s mangled hand, exposed and splintered bone rubbing against his skin. He choked back a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

“s’ok bubby. s’ok.”

Tim shook his head. It wasn’t okay. It really wasn’t.

“im,” Lane said, head lolling back and forth, eyes no longer seeing. “Tim.”

“I’m right here, buddy.” He touched his free hand to Lane’s gray hair. Brushed a piece of grass from behind his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“ake s’long s’you need.”

“What?”

“take s’long as y’need. find y’firewash. ere waitin’ f’ya.” A bubble of blood burst from between his lips.

Tim wiped it away with his fingers. “Wish I had some cranberry juice to give you.” He was crying harder now.

Lane suddenly lifted his head off the ground, just an inch or two. “er ay are.” His eyes had regained their focus, staring past Tim into the clouds above.

“Who? Who do you see?”

“s’everyone.”

Tim tried to follow his eyes, but there was nothing there. Just the night and its storm.

Lane rested his head back on the grass and closed his eyes one final time. “’ake y’time bubby. ’en we go. waitin’ f’ya.”

“Where?”

“wherever’s next.”

Eight days later, the 7th of September, 2030, by his count, Timothy Cassius Wheeler was ready to go.