And she waited to die.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
MAGIC MARTI IN THE MORNING
WNOW RADIO, MARYLAND
“This is Magic Marti at the mike and we are in a world of hurt out there. The storm is parked over Stebbins County and we’re seeing torrential rains and gale-force winds. Small and moderate streams are flooding, and we’re getting reports of road washouts. Telephone and cell lines are taking a beating from the storm, which seems to have knocked out communication with local police and fire. That’s the bad news, and I wish I had some good news to throw at you, campers. If you can hear my voice, then get to high ground, lock your doors, and we’ll ride this out together. ”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CONROY’S ACRES
Selma Conroy said nothing as Homer Gibbon paced back and forth across the dining room floor. He was agitated, his eyes jumpy, his fingers twitching. Every step was an awkward lurch as he fought the increasing stiffness in his muscles.
“He lied to me,” Homer snarled. “He lied to me. To me. ”
He turned and swept his arm across the table, knocking dishes and stacks of magazines and a week’s worth of mail onto the floor with a crash. Homer slammed his fists down on the tabletop and leaned on them, shaking his head slowly back and forth.
“I thought he understood. ”
Selma said nothing. Magazines and unpaid bills littered the floor around her like fallen leaves.
Homer stopped moving and looked down at his hands. They were caked with blood. They were cold hands, pale and …
… dead.
That’s what Volker had told him.
You are a dead, damned thing. The doctor’s words down the phone line. Venomous and filled with betrayal. Not the voice of the Red Mouth at all.
He held his right hand up to his eye, studying it. The flesh did not look right. Even apart from the scratches and blood, it looked wrong. On a deeper, more troubling level.
Wrong.
His skin … moved. Like the way flesh crawls when it contracts in the cold. Or when there is so much fear the skin wants to retreat from it.
Like that. Only … not like that at all.
It rippled. As if something were moving just below the surface.
He could barely feel it, though. His arms and legs were stiff and sore. Everything hurt. It was all he could do not to scream with each step.
You are dead.
Dead.
A damned thing.
The doctor had done something to him. Volker had admitted it. He’d thrown some scientific bullshit at him. Parasites and crap like that. The doctor had actually tried to hit with some shit about vodou.
Dead.
Homer pressed his left forefinger to the back of his right hand. The flesh trembled with a sensation like squirming.
“Oh God fuck me,” whispered Homer. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
I damned you, Mr. Gibbon. I damned you to suffering so that you’ll understand.