Lovecraft could hear the muted inflections of an argument, or at least a sad leave-taking. Howard did not come directly back out to the living room, but went outside, where he seemed to be loading his car.
In his twilight state of consciousness, Lovecraft closed his eyes and listened to the thumping of the car doors, the creak of the garage, the muffled sounds of Howard swearing. He heard the heavy sound of Howard’s footsteps on the porch, the scrape of the front door, more footsteps, silence.
“HP?”
Lovecraft opened his eyes to see Howard standing over him, his expression tired and concerned. In the light he looked dead tired and rather forlorn. “Yes?”
“I was worried for a moment. You looked like you were in some kinda trance.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes.”
“Are ya ready?”
“As always.”
“Then let’s go,” said Howard. “I’ve explained everythin’ to Ma, and I don’t exactly want to be wakin’ my father, if ya know what I mean.”
“I believe I do,” said Lovecraft. He followed Howard outside and got into the passenger’s side of the dark green ‘31 Chevy two-door, putting his cane and his satchel in the back. He had to try twice before his door would catch.
“I packed some supplies and I’m bringin my pistols, just in case. We gotta get some gas and some grub,” said Howard. He pulled out onto the deserted road and headed toward town just as the sun raised itself fully over the eastern horizon, over the silver angel on the radiator cap, Illuminating a landscape still fresh with the scars of the night’s storm.
AFTER GASSING UP the Chevy, Howard forced the reluctant Lovecraft into the local diner for breakfast, but only after assuring him that the coffee would be free. The regulars were already there, heads bowed over their steaming black Texas joe, chewing thoughtfully in silence or holding sideways conversations about the same tired old topics with the same tired people. They paid Howard little heed, but all eyes watched the Yankee newcomer as he tucked up his soiled white pants before scooting into the booth. The waitress approached them immediately from behind the counter, ignoring the beefy man who held out his cup for more coffee.
“Mornin’, Sally,” said Howard. “I’ll have a stack of hotcakes.”
“Sausage, eggs, bacon?”
“Yeah, I’m feelin’ a little hungry.”
“And for you, sir?” Sally looked down at Lovecraft as if she were about to scold him about something-probably for his strange attire. “I’ve brought my own repast, if you don’t mind,” said Lovecraft. ” ‘Scuse me, sir?”
“I’ve brought my own food,” said Lovecraft, somewhat annoyed.
“And if you don’t mind, I shall enjoy it with some of your free coffee.”
Sally gave Howard a quick glance, about to say something, but the look on Howard’s face quickly changed her mind. “Well. .” she said. “I s’pose I don’t mind, Mister.” She went off mumbling.
“May I borrow your spoon?” said Lovecraft. “They seem to have neglected a full setting for me.” He produced a can of pork and beans from under the table and proceeded to open it with a small can opener, being careful to go only seven-eighths of the way around so that the top stayed on when he folded back the jagged circle of tin.
“Look, HP, I’ll buy ya some breakfast if ya can’t afford it. Ya ain’t really eatin’ that at this hour of the mornin’, are ya?”
“My diet is quite suitable for my constitution, thank you.” He poured an inordinately long stream of sugar into his coffee and stirred briskly before licking the spoon and dipping it into the open can. “Do you mind if I begin without you?”
“No, not at all,” said Howard, roIling his eyes. He sipped his coffee loudly, glaring, while Lovecraft ate his pork and beans with his teaspoon-the man seemed to have no clue about his eccentric behavior. When his own food arrived Howard dug into it like a starved man. The smell of beans had been rather unappetizing at first, but it had made his stomach rumble with hunger nevertheless.
They ate quickly. Each time Lovecraft tried to make conversation, Howard snubbed him and went back to his food until he had mopped up his egg yolks with his toast. When Lovecraft was on his third cup of coffee, much to Sally’s annoyance, he began to glance around at the other customers in the diner. “Are you acquainted with everyone here?” he asked Howard, looking from person to person.
“Yeah. More or less.”
“No strangers?”
“No. Look, they ain’t likely to accost us in no diner at breakfast time.”
“The minions of Cthulhu can be most subtle,” said Lovecraft. “As you are well aware from my writings,” he added as an afterthought.
“Let’s go, HP.” Howard fished some change out of his pocket and left it on the table. “How about you leave the tip?” he said.
“What you’ve left is more than generous.” Lovecraft carefully folded the lid of the can back down and slid out of the booth, taking the empty container with him. He followed Howard to the door of the diner and scanned up and down the street although there was absolutely no traffic.
“What’re ya lookin’ for?” said Howard.
“Just attempting to confirm my intuitions,” said Lovecraft. “I have the oddest feeling that we are being followed. Can’t you sense it yourself with those barbarian instincts of yours?”
“I know what it feels like to be watched, HP, and it don’t feel that way to me now. Don’t let your imaginin’s get the best of you now. Things are weird enough.”
“Then I shall beg your pardon.” Lovecraft glanced once more over his shoulder and shrugged. “Perhaps they are watching from some other realm or though some arcane sorcerer’s contrivance.”
“Or maybe just binoculars,” said Howard, opening the door to his car and pausing to let out the blast of hot air. He wiped his brow, though he hadn’t broken into a sweat quite yet. “It’s gonna be a hot one.”
Lovecraft got into the passenger’s side and settled comfortably against the hot leather, closing his eyes and stretching his neck backwards as the engine labored and then roared to life. “Yoik,” he said, placing his can between them on the seat.
“What?”
“An enthusiastic expression.”
“I’ll be enthusiastic when this is all over and done with.” Howard slammed the gearshift and lurched forward into the road, not bothering to look behind him or check the rearview mirror. While Lovecraft was looking the other way he quickly grabbed the empty can and flung it out of his window.
THE BLACK SEDAN glided silently out of the side street, muffling the crunch of gravel under its tires, consuming the sound. The car was large and hearse like in its proportions, and its outward design was in no way remarkable; and yet where its black finish and polished chrome should have gleamed or sparkled, its surfaces had an oddly flat quality.
One would have imagined the entire sedan to be covered in a coat of dust, but it was remarkably clean, indeed, strangely clean for having driven through the dusty roads of north Texas.
The window of the sedan opened very slowly, and an oddly indistinguishable face emerged to take a momentary look at the discarded can. And suddenly, in a motion so swift it would have been no more than a blur to anyone watching, the figure inside leaned out and snatched up the can, returning to its pose in the car window as if it had not moved at all. The face sniffed at the can, its nostrils quivering like those of a famished wolf; a black, serpentine tongue emerged from between tight lips and pushed its way past the jagged metal lid into the cylinder, emerging slowly, covered in the syrupy bean gravy, a single wet bean clinging to its split tip; and now the indeterminate face turned to the air and took a quick draught of it before it was swallowed up once again in the flat darkness inside the car.