Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,51
Mercer crouched beside Gradie, shining the light into the tortured face. The eyes opened at the light—one eye was past seeing, the other stared dully. “That you, Jon?”
“It’s Jon, Mr Gradie. You take it easy—we’re getting you to the hospital. Did you recognize who did this to you?”
Linda had already caught up the telephone from where it had fallen beneath an overturned nightstand. It seemed impossible that he had survived the blood loss, but Mercer had seen drunks run off after a gut-shot that would have killed a sober man from shock.
Gradie laughed horribly. “It was the little green men. Do you think I could have told anybody about the little green men?”
“Take it easy, Mr Gradie.”
“Jon! The phone’s dead!”
“Busted in the fall. Help me carry him to the truck.” Mercer prodded clumsily with a wad of torn sheets, trying to remember first-aid for bleeding. Pressure points? Where? The old man was cut to tatters.
“They’re little green devils,” Gradie raved weakly. “And they ain’t no animals—they’re clever as you or me. They live under the kudzu. That’s what the Nip was trying to tell me when he sold me the skull. Hiding down there beneath the damn vines, living off the roots and whatever they can scavenge. They nurture the goddamn stuff, he said, help it spread around, care for it—just like a man looks after his garden. Winter comes, they burrow down underneath the soil and hibernate.”
“Shouldn’t we make a litter?”
“How? Just grab his feet.”
“Let me lie! Don’t you see, Jon? Kudzu was brought over here from Japan, and these damn little devils came with it. I started to put it all together when Morny found the skull— started piecing together all the little hints and suspicions. They like it here, Jon—they’re taking over all the waste lots, got more food out in the wild, multiplying like rats over here, and nobody knows about them.”
Gradie’s hysterical voice was growing weaker. Mercer gave up trying to bandage the torn limbs. “Just take it easy, Mr Gradie. We’re getting you to a doctor.”
“Too late for a doctor. You scared them off, but they’ve done for me. Just like they done for old Morny. They’re smart, Jon—that’s what I didn’t understand in time— smart as devils. They know that I was figuring on them, started spying on me, creeping in to see what I knew—then came to shut me up. They don’t want nobody to know about them, Jon! Now they’ll come after...”
Whatever else Gradie said was swallowed in the crimson froth that bubbled from his lips. The tortured body went rigid for an instant, then Mercer was cradling a dead weight in his arms. Clumsily, he felt for a pulse, realized the blood was no longer flowing in weak spurts.
“I think he’s gone.”
“Oh god, Jon. The police will think we did this!”
“Not if we report it first. Come on! We’ll take the truck.”
“And just leave him here?”
“He’s dead. This is a murder. Best not to disturb things any more than we have.”
“Oh, god! Jon, whoever did this may still be around.”
Mercer pulled his derringer from his pocket, flicked back the safety. His chest and arms were covered with Gradie’s blood, he noticed. This was not going to be pleasant when they got to the police station. Thank god the cops never patrolled this slum, or else the shotgun blasts would have brought a squad car by now.
Warily, he led the way out of the house and into the yard. Wind was whipping the leaves now, and a few spatters of rain were starting to hit the pavement. The erratic light peopled each grotesque shadow with lurking murderers, and against the rush of the wind, Mercer seemed to hear a thousand stealthy assassins.
A flash of electric blue highlighted the yard.
“Jon! Look at the truck!”
All four tires were flat. Slashed.
“Get in! We’ll run on the rims!”
Another glare of heat lightning.
All about them, the kudzu erupted from a hundred hidden lairs. Mercer fired twice.
.220 Swift
•I•
Within, there was musty darkness and the sweet-stale smell of damp earth.
Crouched at the opening, Dr Morris Kenlaw poked his head into the darkness and snuffled like a hound. His spadelike hands clawed industriously, flinging clods of dirt between his bent knees. Steadying himself with one hand, he wriggled closer to the hole in the ground and craned his neck inward.
He stuck out a muddy paw. “Give me back the light, Brandon.” His usually overloud voice was muffled.
Brandon handed him that big flashlight and tried to look over Kenlaw’s chunky