“Alan!” Liz called.
He was too frightened to reply. He could barely breath in the smokey air. One of the creatures tucked its arms to its sides and began to rear up on its legs. Alan took a step backwards and nearly stepped on another migrator. He looked down to see it spinning in place and gathering its limbs beneath itself. He considered a leap. He could try to jump the one near the line of borax. It was still on the ground. Or, he could try to jump over the fire.
Just past the migrator, he saw Liz move to the edge of the borax. He had to do something before she did something stupid, trying to save him.
Suddenly, it was too late. The migrator that had reared up in front of Alan reached out with its ugly short arms and fused hands. He couldn’t back away more, the one behind him was closing in also. They reached forward and grabbed Alan. He dropped to his knees.
He expected pain. What he felt was a deep numbing cold. It was almost a relief from the heat of the fire. He lost track of the migrators. They moved around him. Alan turned his confused eyes to the sky and wondered how long he had to live. Something jabbed him in the side. Alan saw the charred end of Bob’s torch. The burning rag had been removed. Alan grabbed at the stick and it pulled him away from the fire. He pulled himself upright, expecting the migrators to descend on him again. Alan stumbled over the borax line, into the arms of his wife.
“Alan, thank god,” Liz said.
Alan shook his head, trying to clear his eyes. The smoke still stung them and he couldn’t see clearly. He felt Bob’s hands on his foot.
“What are you doing?” Alan asked.
“Alan, stop,” Liz said. She gently pulled his arms away from his chest.
He realized that his jacket and flannel shirt were gone. He was standing there in a t-shirt. His injured foot was bare as well.
“Your foot, too!” Liz said.
“What? What’s happening?” Alan asked.
“It worked,” Bob said. “You were right.”
“What worked? I don’t remember what I was doing,” Alan said.
“Your arm and your foot. Do you remember that you lost a toe and most of your right hand?” Liz asked.
“And your elbow,” Bob said.
“Yes,” Alan said.
“Look,” Liz said.
Alan blinked again. He opened his eyes wide and let himself see. His left foot was bare and standing on the cold ground. The shoe, sock, and bandage were all gone. Instead of the nub left from the amputation of his big toe, he saw a perfectly normal digit on the end of his foot. He turned his hands to his face. They were both there—all ten fingers, no visible bones. He turned his left wrist to his eyes. He still had the scar from when he was twelve—there was apparently a limit to how much the migrators would heal.
“Joe,” he said.
“Is it safe?” Liz asked.
“They’re moving clockwise again,” Bob said. “The diary said they used them multiple times in one session.”
“He’s just a child,” Liz said, moving in close to confer with Alan. “We have options. We have western medicine.”
“Liz,” Alan whispered, “you’ve read all the information. Even after a year or so of terrible treatment, he could be stunted, uncoordinated, and have a shorter life expectancy. That’s if he survives.”
“It’s too much,” Liz said.
“You can’t hold them for too long without using them,” Bob said. “It’s not safe. What do you want to do.”
“You decide,” Liz said to Alan.
Alan blinked and then turned for the Cook House. He walked to the door of the screened building. The dead grass was cold away from the fire, but it felt good on his newly-repaired foot. Alan felt a tiny spark of hope for his son’s future.
“Joe,” Alan said as he entered the Cook House and sat down, “we need to talk.”
“That’s real, isn’t it,” Joe said, pointing at the bonfire. Bob was talking to Liz near the fire. Alan and Joe saw their backs surrounded in a halo of flame.
“Yeah, bud, it is.”
“What are those things? Are they the things from the cellar?”
“Yes, but that’s just how they got in. I want you to understand—they’re not always going to be in our cellar. We’re going to turn them loose in a minute. They’re only here because we called them here.”
“Why would you do that?”
“For this,” Alan said. He lifted his bare foot up so Joe could see it in the light from the fire.
“Your toe is back,” Joe said.
Alan nodded.
“Aren’t they the things that took your toe? Now they brought it back?”
“In a way, yes. We found instructions on how to use those things to heal people. I went in there just to test it out and make sure it was safe. I needed to know it would be safe to take you in there.”
Joe shrank from Alan’s words. He pulled away from his father and Alan felt a stab of sorrow replace the hope in his chest.
“Joe, come with me. We’ll go together.”
Joe shook his head. When he was a little boy, Joe never wanted to admit that he was afraid. He would either come up with an excuse to get himself out of uncomfortable situations, or he would just withdraw. Alan preferred the excuses. Excuses could be reasoned with. Withdrawal didn’t leave any room for negotiation.
“Joe, it’s okay. I was just in there—you saw me—and now my foot is better, see? You have to trust me.”
Joe slid back on the bench.
“Alan,” Bob called, “you don’t have a lot of time.”
Liz came over towards the screen. Alan held up his finger to ask for another moment.
“Joe, I know it’s scary, but we have to go.”
“Listen to your father, Joe,” Liz said.
Joe pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins.
Alan put out his hand. Joe slowly shook his head back and forth.
“No kidding around here, bud,” Alan said. He moved his hand closer to Joe.
Joe took his hand.
At the edge of the borax circle, Alan stood behind his son with his hands on Joe’s shoulders. He could feel his boy trembling beneath his hands. Alan gave Joe’s shoulder a squeeze with his healed right hand. The hand felt better than new—it felt strong and capable.
“We’ll go in on three, okay?” Alan asked.
When he blurred his eyes, Alan could see the migrators passing in front of the flame. One had a hitch in its stride. Its shadow limped by every couple of seconds. Another was slower than the rest. Even the limping one passed it every few rotations.
“One. Two,” Alan said. He felt Joe’s shoulders tense under his hands. “Three.”
He stepped with Joe and pushed him into the circle. The creatures ran past, weaving by their legs. The limping one squeezed between Alan and Joe. Alan felt its cold touch on his bare foot.
“Say the word I just taught you,” Alan whispered in Joe’s ear.
“Grush-sh-tep,” Joe said.
“Again.”
“Grush-sh-tep.”
“Again.”
“Grush-sh-tep.”
The limping one stopped and regarded the father and son. Alan felt the vibration of Joe’s moan before he heard it.
“It’s okay, Joe. They’re going to help you. I’m right here.”
The second and third migrators stopped, forming a triangle with the limping one. Joe tried to run. Alan pushed down on his shoulders, holding him in place.
“No,” Joe said in a long moan.
“Hold still,” Alan said.
The migrators pounced. All three came for his son and Alan held him out, offering his son’s body to the creatures. Alan couldn’t look. He turned away as one of the bruised-looking phantoms gripped Joe’s head with its unnatural arms.