Salem's Lot

8

The dump was still smoldering.

Dud Rogers walked along the edge, smelling the fragrance of smoldering offal. Underfoot, small bottles crunched and powdery black ash puffed up at every step. Out in the dump’s wasteland, a wide bed of coals waxed and waned with the vagaries of the wind, reminding him of a huge red eye opening and closing… the eye of a giant. Every now and then there was a muffled small explosion as an aerosol can or light bulb blew up. A great many rats had come out of the dump when he lit it that morning, more rats than he had ever seen before. He had shot fully three dozen, and his pistol had been hot to the touch when he finally tucked it back in its holster. They were big bastards, too, some of them fully two feet long stretched end to end. Funny how their numbers seemed to grow or shrink depending on the year. Had something to do with the weather, probably. If it kept up, he would have to start salting poison bait around, something he hadn’t had to do since 1964.

There was one now, creeping under one of the yellow sawhorses that served as fire barriers.

Dud pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, aimed, and fired. The shot kicked dirt in front of the rat, spraying its fur. But instead of running, it only rose up on its hind legs and looked at him, beady little eyes glittering red in the fire glow. Jesus, but some of them were bold!

‘By-by, Mr Rat,’ Dud said, and took careful aim.

Kapow. The rat flopped over, twitching.

Dud walked across and prodded it with one heavy work boot. The rat bit weakly at the shoe leather, its sides aspirating weakly.

‘Bastard,’ Dud said mildly, and crushed its head.

He hunkered down, looked at it, and found himself thinking of Ruthie Crockett, who wore no bra. When she wore one of those clingy cardigan sweaters, you could see her little nipples just as clear, made erect by the friction as they rubbed against the wool, and if a man could get ahold of those tits and rub them just a little, just a little, mind you, a slut like that would go off just like a rocket.…

He picked the rat up by its tail and swung it like a pendulum. ‘How’d you like ole Mr Rat in your pencil box, Ruthie?’ The thought with its unintentional double-entendre amused him, and he uttered a high-pitched giggle, his oddly off-center head nodding and dipping.

He slung the rat far out into the dump. As he did so, he swung around and caught sight of a figure-a tail, extremely thin silhouette about fifty paces to the right.

Dud wiped his hands on his green pants, hitched them up, and strolled over.

‘Dump’s closed, mister.’

The man turned toward him. The face that was discovered in the red glow of the dying fire was high-cheekboned and thoughtful. The hair was white, streaked with oddly virile slashes of iron gray. The guy had it swept back from his high, waxy forehead like one of those fag concert pianists. The eyes caught and held the red glow of the embers and made them look bloodshot.

‘Is it?’ the man asked politely, and there was a faint accent in the words, although they were perfectly spoken. The guy might be a frog, or maybe a bohunk. ‘I came to watch the fire. It is beautiful.’

‘Yeah,’ Dud said. ‘You from around here?’

‘I am a recent resident of your lovely town, yes. Do you shoot many rats?’

‘Quite a few, yeah. Just lately there’s millions of the little sonsawhores. Say, you ain’t the fella who bought the Marsten place, are you?’

‘Predators,’ the man said, crossing his hands behind his back. Dud noticed with surprise that the guy was all tricked out in a suit, vest and all. ‘I love the predators of the night. The rats… the owls… the wolves. Are there wolves in this area?’

‘Naw,’ Dud said. ‘Guy up in Durham bagged a coyote two years ago. And there’s a wild-dog pack that’s been runnin’ deer-’

‘Dogs,’ the stranger said, and gestured with contempt. ‘Low animals that cringe and howl at the sound of a strange step. Fit only to whine and grovel. Gut them all, I say. Gut them all!’

‘Well, I never thought of it that way,’ Dud said, taking a shuffling step backward. ‘It’s always nice to have someone come out and, you know, shoot the shit, but the dump closes at six on Sundays and it’s happast nine now-’

‘To be sure.’

Yet the stranger showed no sign of moving away. Dud was thinking that he had stolen a march on the rest of the town. They were all wondering who was behind that Straker guy, and he was the first to know-except maybe for Larry Crockett, who was a deep one. The next time he was in town buying shells from that prissy-faced George Middler, he would just happen to say casually: Happened to meet that new fella the other night. Who? Oh, you know. Fella that took the Marsten House. Nice enough fella. Talked a little like a bohunk.

‘Any ghosts up in that old house?’ he asked, when the old party showed no signs of hauling ass.

‘Ghosts!’ The old party smiled, and there was something very disquieting about that smile, a barracuda might smile like that. ‘No; no ghosts.’ He placed a faint emphasis on that last word, as if there might be something up there that was even worse.

‘Well… gettin’ late and all… you really ought to go now, Mister -?’

‘But it’s so pleasant, speaking with you,’ the old party said, and for the first time he turned his full face to Dud and looked in his eyes. The eyes were wide-set, and still rimmed with the dump’s sullen fire. There was no way you could look away from them, although it wasn’t polite to stare. ‘You don’t mind if we converse a bit longer, do you?’

‘No, I guess not,’ Dud said, and his voice sounded far away. Those eyes seemed to be expanding, growing, until they were like dark pits ringed with fire, pits you could fall into and drown in.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Tell me… does the hump on your back discommode you in your job?’

‘No,’ Dud said, still feeling far away. He thought faintly: I be buggered if he ain’t hypnotizin’ me. Just like that fella at Topsham Fair… what was his name? Mr Mephisto. He’d put you to steep and make you do all kinds of comical things-act like a chicken or run around like a dog or tell what happened at the birthday party you had when you were six. He hypnotized ole Reggie Sawyer and Gawd didn’t we laugh…

‘Does it perhaps inconvenience you in other ways?’

‘No… well… ’ He looked into the eyes, fascinated.

‘Come, come,’ the old party’s voice cajoled gently. ‘We are friends, are we not? Speak to me, tell me.’

‘Well… girls… you know, girls… ’

‘Of course,’ the old party said soothingly ‘The girls laugh at you, do they not? They have no knowing of your manhood. Of your strength.’

‘That’s right,’ Dud whispered. ‘They laugh. She laughs.’

‘Who is this she?’

‘Ruthie Crockett. She… she… ’ The thought flew away. He let it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this peace. This cool and complete peace.

‘She makes the jokes perhaps? Snickers behind her hand? Nudges her friends when you pass?’

‘Yes… ’

‘But you want her,’ the voice insisted. ‘Is it not so?’

‘Oh yes… ’

‘You shall have her. I am sure of it.’ There was something… pleasant about this. Far away he seemed to hear sweet voices singing foul words. Silver chimes… white faces… Ruthie Crockett’s voice. He could almost see her, hands cupping her titties, making them bulge into the V of her cardigan sweater in ripe white half-globes, whispering: Kiss them, Dud… bite them… suck them…

It was like drowning. Drowning in the old man’s red-rimmed eyes.

As the stranger came closer, Dud understood everything and welcomed it, and when the pain came, it was as sweet as silver, as green as still water at dark fathoms.