October (27 page)

He watched the thing work against the shovel. The muscles in Kevin's arms, his legs, his back, felt like stretches of molten lead.

He felt cold night-sweat on his skin, smelled the odor of burning leaves, mingled now with the odor of shingles and insulation and car metal, the burning flesh of men

Even this is life. Death is life. I own even my own death, it belongs to me, makes part of my whole.

I AM ME.

Now
, he told himself.

Eyes averted, one shivering hand keeping firm pressure on the shovel, he reached down and took hold of the thing. He released pressure on the shovel. The thing came gently free of the soil. Its many legs pulled up from the dirt, curling tightly around his fingers. He felt the thing's tail whip across his knuckles. His thumb brushed across the thing's face; he felt the tiny mouth opening and closing, trying to bite.

Do it,
he told himself.

He held the thing before his face, not looking at it.

He opened his mouth and put it in.

Caught!

The thing went wild with fury. He was caught, was being lifted from the soil!
Fight!
He moved his tiny claws ineffectively against the human's finger.

Millenniums would not end like this! He would not let it happen!

What was this! Its tiny eyes saw the human's mouth opening, saw himself going in—

Find purchase! Catch hold!

Kevin Michaels held the thing in his mouth. It let go of his fingers, strained for his tongue, tried to scrape its legs into it.

Now.

I am life
, he thought.
I am me.

Kevin brought his teeth together.

WHAT IS HE DOING!

Kevin's mouth filled with burning liquid.
Acid.
A thousand, a million memories, not his own, washed over him, were gone. He felt Davey Putnam flow through him, released. The history of mankind, an evil, endless train back to the caves, the trees, a rushing line of hate and death. The memories flashed to brilliance; he saw a cold field, men with homed masks, a huge pyre of burning sticks, a human slave within, screaming for release. He saw the dark sky burn, the color of pumpkin . . .

ALL IS LOST! It felt its legs pull away from its mind, the fade of its existence, spiraling at last toward the end . . .

Its tiny eyes looked out; saw the pyre of orange flame rising in the night, saw the burning of the world, the sacrifice, just for itself . . .

I WAS A GOD!

Kevin collapsed, gasping. The pictures let him go. He was himself, all himself, and he lay touching his hand with his own hand. He touched his face.

He was not dead.

He felt wonderfully exhausted. He rolled over, looked at the burning-cloud sky, cold patches of night between. It was beautiful, all of it was beautiful.

Me.

Yes, Father.

Yes, Eileen.

He rose, stumbled to where Rusty lay dead. He collapsed beside the dog in the hard furrow of dead pumpkins. His eyes faced the burning town. He heard, far off but nearing, the wail of many sirens.

He turned his eyes away, closed them.

His body was suddenly very tired. He felt his hand fall on the cold, furred body of the dog. In his head he heard sad, triumphant, human music that sounded like Brahms.

"Good dog," he whispered, closing his eyes.

This would be a good place for them to find him.