“We need to get the tire changed before those thunderheads up there turn loose on us,” says Connors, pointing west.
Rounding the rear fender of the ambulance the men gather around the flat tire and stare at it without saying a word. The tire yawns, a hole gapes in the side-wall.
“Strange spot to have a blowout,” says Dr. Shaw. “You’d think if we ran over something the damage would be on the treads, not the sidewall; at least you’d think so, anyhow. Right?”
“Like I said,” says Hollander. “we didn’t hit anything, something hit us.”
On closer inspection, they find an evil-looking chunk of steel buried in the rubber. It’s been hammer-forged and sharpened into an effective spearhead. A small part of a splintered shaft is still fixed to the end of it. “This is no accident. This is by design,” Connors says, eyeballing the horizon. “Someone threw this thing and blew the tire.”
“Let’s change it quickly then,” says Dr. Shaw, walking towards a dead tree to urinate. “This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Right… as soon as you’re done watering the lawn, make yourself useful, and go tell Dr. Valentine and Rose that I said to stay inside, and keep the doors locked until we’re finished here. And hey, don’t wander off, we’re hitting the road as soon as the last lug’s tight. You got it, Shaw?”
“Yeah, Yeah,” says Shaw.
Shaw shakes it, zips it up, and returns to the Fish, where he finds Dr. Valentine cradling her injured hand, her eyes are half-closed. Rose is sitting across from her. When Dr. Shaw pokes his head inside, Rose glowers at him. He sees her but ignores the look. He knows well enough how the thing feels about him. “The Major thinks it’s better if you two hold up in here for now. They’re fixing the tire, and we’ll be getting on our way again.”
Rose is still glaring at Dr. Shaw. Dr. Valentine says nothing and nods her head. She puts the medicine-bottle to her lips. Frowning she turns it upside down and shakes it. The top of the bottle rattles on the chain which is attached to the bottle. Bone dry. Shaw closes the door. Rose locks it from inside.
“You know, Rose, you remind me of my daughter,” says Dr. Valentine, her voice slurring.
Rose sits quietly. She can smell the strong smell of the medicine on Dr. Valentine’s breath. Dr. Valentine forces her eyes to open and focuses on nothing in particular.
“She had a sweet spirit, always smiling, and singing… dancing. It was such a blessing to have known her. I was very lucky to have been her momma.”
Rose smiles gently. “I’m sorry Dr. Valentine.” Rose feels sad for her. It’s a shame that no matter what happens, nothing will bring Dr. Valentine’s daughter back to her.
“What will they do with me when we get to Fort Worth?” she asks. Her voice sounds all quivery. She can’t help how it comes out.
“They want to learn more about you. We think you can help us make things the way they were before,” says Dr. Valentine.
“Dr. Shaw wants to kill me.”
Dr. Valentine only nods and slips into a restless sleep.
Something unexpected and wonderful catches Dr. Shaw’s attention. Just there beside the front door of the service station, not fifty feet away, is a long red box with a sliding top. The white lettering on the front says 6 cents, Enjoy, Coca-Cola, Ice Cold.He thinks, not ice-cold now,but a Coke, is a Coke, hot or cold, and boy does he ever have one hell of a hankering for one.
It’s not so far away that he can’t grab a few and be back before anyone’s the wiser. The major and the sergeant are busy, furiously working to replace the blown tire. Dr. Valentine and that little monster are locked up tight. It’s not like I’ll even be out of sight. What could possibly happen?
He reaches for the lid, placing his fingers on the long black handle to slide the dust-covered lid open. It’s stubborn, but it slides. And inside is a whole lot of… not-a-damn-thing. He sighs, not bothering to close the box. He raises his head and something inside the station changes his mind about returning to the Fish. Near the back of the store, on a shelf is an issue of, Popular Science Monthly, Mechanics and Handicraft, it’s sitting right there on the shelf waiting for him to take it. The rest of the place looks pretty much ransacked. It’s a real treasure; one that he can’t resist. There may never be another publication of anything, ever again. And he never had the chance to read the issue staring him in the face, not twenty feet away.
The door opens easily, making the temptation even easier. There’s broken glass on the floor. It crunches under his feet like rice at a wedding. He steps gingerly as he goes, trying not to make too much noise in the loneliness of the station. He leans forward with each step he takes, looking past the endcap of each aisle for potential trouble. The place smells of concentrated urine.
One of the store-front windows is broken out, and bats have made a home in here. They cling from the ceiling by their toes. He steps even softer, so he doesn’t spook them, and works his way to the shelf. September 1942, the cover is beautiful and crisp. Its cover is graced with a large gun, being triggered by three brave soldiers. Nope, he hasn’t read this one. He rolls it up tightly and shoves it into his back pocket. He kicks a newspaper lying at is feet. It reads: Roosevelt Calls Troops Home, to Fight Alien Menace.
Glass breaks behind him and his hair stands up on the back of his neck. A cold shiver runs up the length of his spine. He clenches his teeth. His legs feel heavy. His blood seems to pool in them. He can barely manage to turn. He expects to find a Wicked Briar standing face to face with him, but that isn’t what he finds. A large dog, coming from a dark room in the back, spots him and bares its gleaming teeth. It hunches down, shoulder blades arched, ready to lunge at Shaw. Its hackles raise, and it drools long lines of thick saliva, which trail to the dirty floor.
“Oh, okay there, nice dog. You’re a nice dog… nice…”
It’s not a nice dog. It snarls and barks once in warning.
Shaw searches for a weapon or something which might distract the animal. There’s a tire iron on the counter. It’s too far away to reach, but he reaches out for it anyway, in vain. His useless attempt to reach it causes the dog to step forward and come into the light. It has growths of some kind on its back. Small, almost bonsai-like, trees sprouting from it. The vines run throughout the fur. The same as the deer in Salado, except more advanced. Further along in whatever transformation its undergoing.
“Are you alone, boy? Let’s hope you are.”
As if on cue, another canine comes from around a shelving unit, snarling, and growling, and clicking its teeth together.
“Oh, shit. Okay. You have a friend. A damn-ugly-friend. I’m just going to move to the counter so I can get over to that little tire iron. Okay, guys?”
The animals are intelligent. They won’t allow him to move much more than a few inches in any direction. For every inch, Shaw moves the dogs take two steps, and already, they are maneuvering to foil his plans to defend himself or escaping. The first, a German Shepherd, lowers its angular head, gluing its keen eyes on Shaw. The second, a mixed-breed, circles around, never losing track of Shaw, it snaps strong teeth into the empty air. Together, the dogs are moving in the close the gap and make a kill.