Thirsty

by M. T. Anderson

  I feel people’s eyes on me all the time. “Why are you watching that gruesome footage?” my mother asks. “You want your brain to turn to mush?”

  And when I keep watching I notice her lingering by the door, looking at me as if she’s worried about me. She’s worried about why I have to keep staring at these scenes. I can’t pay attention to the screen when she looks at me that way because I’m too busy being looked at. I just sit there, not looking back, hoping she’ll go away, and I wonder: What is the difference between the look of a parent who is concerned and the look of a parent who is suspicious?

  She doesn’t look concerned or suspicious when my brother watches riot footage, because he talks constantly about the media and the splicing techniques.

  She almost glares at me, though, as if she knows, maybe somewhere deep within her, that what I’m watching is myself being killed on screen. I’m staring at it because I need to know what might happen to me. I need to understand why I am hated.

  I keep telling myself that it will not happen, that soon this will all be a memory.

  But I do not know when Chet is coming; or why he would come; or if he is coming at all.

  Peeper frogs are starting to chirp in the woods. The sunlight is bright through the leaves of the oaks. My brother is out there, in the back yard, filming slugs.

  He has a big biology project to do. He decided to do a science documentary on the life cycle of the slug. That way he can work with video equipment and lots of gastropods.

  I am lying upstairs on my bed, trying to get some sleep. Through my open window, I can hear my brother’s voice. “Establishing shot. The lawn,” he says. “A fearsome jungle for the average garden slug.”

  Somewhere downstairs, my mother is talking on the phone, comparing her antidepressant brand with her friends’.

  It has been some time since I’ve slept. I hate the sunlight, now. It makes me weary.

  I am trying to fall asleep, but I can still feel the dull thirst sucking at my upper palate. Everything bothers me. The glint of light from my posters. The hiccupping, nervous chirp of the peepers. The distant rumble of a lawn mower.

  Something shifts over near my desk.

  I turn the other way and jam my wrist in my ear. I close my eyes. My arm is uncomfortable, twisted so my wrist will fit in my ear. I turn the other way.

  Something scuffs the rug.

  I open my eyes. A man is in my room, staring down at me.

  I sit up, yelping. It is the Thing with the One-Piece Hair. It approaches me. Its hands are spread outward, ten fingers raised in a fan. It has no expression on its face.

  “No! Shit! Get out!” I scream, scrabbling with my sleeve to reveal Chet’s symbol.

  The Thing keeps walking toward me.

  “What’s your problem?” calls Paul. “Can you shut up?”

  “Christopher,” says the Thing with the One-Piece Hair in its voice like many speaking. “Do not be alarmed or attempt to flee. I am a servant of the Forces of Light.”

  I babble, “No, you’re not! You broke in! Get out! You’re . . . This is illegal!”

  “I am a servant of the Forces of Light, and I have been instructed to approach you.”

  “No, you’re not!” I scream, holding out the sigil on my arm. “Get out! You can’t do this! This — this is breaking and entering.”

  It gazes at me. “As I am a five-dimensional construct, the concept of ‘entering’ has no useful application in this scenario.” It walks toward my bed. Its knees are by the edge of the bed. It bends down over me so its dead eyes are close to my face. I can smell its steely breath as it speaks.

  “Get out!” I scream. “Help! Help!”

  The door slams open against the wall. My mother storms into the room. “Chris!” she says. “Good god, what’s wrong?”

  “Help me! It!” I say, inarticulately.

  “What?”

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” yells Paul from the lawn. “You okay in there?”

  “He’s fine,” my mother calls. “A nightmare or something.”

  “As you may observe, calling for help was ill advised and futile,” the Thing points out, straightening up.

  “Chris, what’s the matter?” my mother asks, concerned.

  The Thing is prattling obliviously, “I have come to make inquiries of the whereabouts of the Arm of Moriator, which was taken illegally from our arsenal twenty-eight days ago.”

  “The Arm . . . it was taken illegally?” I stutter. “I-I mean . . .”

  “Who are you talking to?” my mother asks. “Hello? Earth to Chris.”

  “Never mind,” I say to her. “I’m fine now.”

  “You’re fine now. Great. Why is this family so crazy? Why, and I ask why, is this family so crazy?”

  “You have seen the Arm of Moriator?” asks the Thing.

  I nod.

  “Who are you nodding at?” asks my mother. “Who are you nodding at?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Chris, why don’t you come out and talk to us like a normal human being when you’re done being a psychopath. Okay?” She closes the door behind her.

  The Thing starts in again. “You have been in contact with a being of some power. I encountered him and attempted to warn you that harm would come if you assisted him. Please identify this being.”

  The Thing waits.

  “His name is Chet,” I say.

  “His name is not Chet. Chet is not his name at all.”

  “If you know . . .”

  “His name is a pattern of thought. You cannot replicate it?”

  “No,” I say. “I guess we weren’t formally introduced. I mean, by brain or anything.”

  “He remains unidentified. His purpose is unclear. You will now clarify?”

  My jaw opens and closes while I think. I am frightened, but my mind is working quickly. What can I safely tell the Thing with the One-Piece Hair, I wonder — and does it serve Light or Darkness?

  “There are some vampires,” I say. “He promised me . . . Well, anyway, these vampires, they’re trying to cast a spell that will interfere with the rituals for binding Tch’muchgar.”

  “Continue.”

  I hesitate. I can’t explain about where the Arm is. If the Thing is evil, it might not know yet about the Arm. I don’t know who I can trust. Chet is not here. For all I know, Chet is not anywhere.

  “How do I know you’re from the Forces of Light?” I ask.

  “We do not require that you believe us.”

  “Who are you? Why have you been following me?”

  “I repeat: I am a servant of the Forces of Light. Twenty-eight days ago the being you refer to verbally as ‘Chet’ entered our arsenal and, deceiving us as to his identity, received the Arm of Moriator for what he termed a highly secret mission. He explained that you were to be the human operative for the Forces of Light. For some days, we did not suspect anything. Then it came to our attention that there was no such mission authorized by our higher authorities. We believed there was some error. I was sent to monitor your activities and report back. Having followed you for some time, I reported that it did not seem you were engaged in any destructive activity. As it is inobvious how the Arm of Moriator could be used for evil, we concluded that you were in fact working for the powers of Light and that we had made some error.”

  The Thing turns its left profile toward me and continues. “Seventeen days ago ‘Chet’ attempted to get in contact with you to give you the Arm. This time, I immediately sensed that he was a powerful negative being, and I approached you to question you about him. Before I could speak with you, he arrived and incapacitated me.”

  The Thing shifts its head again to present its right profile. “Since then, I have continued to monitor your activities to establish to what extent you were in collusion with ‘Chet.’ In spite of your vampirism, I have reached the conclusion that you were most likely deceived as well and are not knowingly in the service of Darkness. For this reason, I approach you now in an attempt to establish
the whereabouts of the Arm of Moriator and ‘Chet’s’ possible motives in stealing it.”

  The Thing stands there and waits.

  Finally, I admit, “Yes, he tricked me. He told me he was from the Forces of Light.”

  “He is not from the Forces of Light.”

  “I know. He just said that to —”

  “We have evidence that he is working for the Forces of Darkness. Explain.”

  “I was saying. He wanted me to activate the Arm of Moriator for him.”

  “The Arm is dangerous to powerful spiritual beings of Darkness and its activation can result in their annihilation. Explain his application.”

  “He wanted me to . . .” I hesitate. Then, in a shaky voice, I ask, “If I tell you all this, are you going to cure my vampirism?”

  “That is of secondary importance.”

  “Please,” I say. “I need to know that you’re going to help me.”

  “I repeat that that is of secondary importance. Please continue.”

  “Not until you’ve told me you can help me.”

  “You are in no position to bargain. You may have compromised the security of your nation and our cause. In the event of noncompliance, you could be reported to the local human authorities. You will continue your explanation.”

  “If you’re from the Forces of Light, you’re supposed to want to help me!” I protest angrily.

  “We care deeply about the future of the human race. You are not currently of the human race. Your actions, in keeping with your vampirism, may well have compromised the security of your nation and our cause.”

  I’m crouched there on my bed, fuming, sulking.

  “You will continue your explanation.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but you better help!”

  “We will do our utmost in the event that this situation can be resolved to our satisfaction. Our aim is to ensure that the imprisonment and torture of Tch’muchgar the Vampire Lord continue indefinitely. Any aid you provide in furthering that aim will be seen as evidence of good faith. You will continue your explanation.”

  “Chet asked me —”

  “One moment and I will record this statement.”

  “What?”

  There is a click from within the Thing. “Continue,” it says. “Recording.”

  “I was saying, the being I call ‘Chet’ —”

  There is a whisper of air. My mattress bobs slightly.

  I swivel.

  Chet himself is there, standing grimly on my bed, his arms crossed.

  He stares down at the two of us. His shoes bite deeply into my blankets. He looks darkly at me, then turns to the Thing. “Deceiving the poor boy,” he chastens. “Is there nothing you wicked, wicked people won’t stoop to?”

  I’m trapped between them. I don’t know which way to go.

  Chet says, “Christopher, get away from it. It means you harm.”

  “Identify yourself,” the Thing demands, backing up warily. “Identify.”

  “Christopher, stand up and go over by that wall.”

  I scramble to the edge of the bed and fall off the end. “Wait,” I say to Chet. “It’s accusing you —”

  “I know what it’s saying. I know you don’t believe it. Stand back.”

  “Destroying me will only delay investigation. There are more like me,” warns the Thing. And then says more pitiably, “Please do not destroy me.”

  “Back, gross mephitic beast,” Chet says with a sense of dramatic relish. He raises his hands. “Here is an end to your monstrous and unhappy lies.”

  “Don’t, Chet!” I yell, running and putting my arms out between them. “I want to know which of you is telling the truth. Stop! Just talk!”

  “I am the one telling the truth, Christopher,” says the Thing, nodding its head erratically in my direction, trying still to keep an eye on Chet. “I am —”

  “Come on, Christopher. Don’t be stupid,” says Chet. “There’s nothing that the Forces of Darkness could do with the Arm of Moriator. The Arm destroys negative beings. That’s why we activated it.” He asks the Thing, “Can you explain that little inconsistency in your story?”

  The Thing pauses. “We have not yet determined what use the Arm might be to you.”

  “No. I bet you haven’t,” says Chet. “You’re not the —”

  The Thing has raised its arms in some kind of spell.

  Chet whacks his hands together. A blaze of light fills the room. My ears pound.

  I lie flat on the floor.

  The Thing bucks in agony, a latticework of veins ablaze on its skin, capillaries burning — it gapes terrified at its roasting hand — the suit melts into a blue polyester slurry — and from head to toe its skin peels away, an empty dirty husk, leaving nothing but a silver cord writhing like a worm on a griddle, seared with white light.

  I cover my eyes from the glare.

  There is a silence after the roar. In the vacuum, Paul’s voice dribbles in informatively from the lawn. “This lumpy part is called the mantle. On either side of it, you can see two little holes as we pan in. These provide the breathing part of the slug, for the inhalation purposes of air and oxygen.”

  No one, I realize, has even heard the blast, any more than they could see the Thing. Carefully, I lift up my head. The wall-to-wall carpeting has made impressions on my face and arms.

  Chet is standing there, on the bed, smiling inscrutably. The Thing is gone. “Do not fear, Christopher,” Chet says. “I have defeated the foul fiend.”

  I get up on my knees and point at him. “Look,” I say. “I don’t know what’s going on, but —”

  “You could thank me for saving you. But it’s all in a day’s work. Well, time to go.”

  “No, Chet, wait! Wait!”

  “I really have to go. Pressing business away West.”

  “Chet! If you want to prove yourself, cure me right now. Please. Then I’ll believe you.”

  “Sorry, Christopher. No can do right now.”

  “Chet, I need help. I believe you, Chet.”

  “I’m glad you believe me, Christopher. That gives me a nice warm feeling deep down inside. I’ll be back in a few weeks. Promise.”

  “Chet, damn it!”

  “Hang tight ’til then.”

  “Chet!”

  But he walks toward the wall, dissolving, shedding a gray cloud of atomized suit coat and flesh.

  “Chet, damn it!”

  He splashes into the wall and is gone.

  It is as if he and the Thing had never been there.

  My room is quiet. A bobbing green light from the sun and a tree outside swings like a yo-yo against the wall. Out in the yard, the peepers are chirping irregularly.

  I can hear my brother’s voice, muffled. “That dark stripe is the muscle, used for locomotion. Let’s close in with the zoom lens and see what . . . ,” he says. “Whoops. Eew. Eh! Ick! Shit! . . . Okay, end of take.”

  One day, the late spring rain is falling like marshmallow. Warm, wet, and sticky. The sickly pale green grass of spring is swamped with it. The gutters clog and clot with dirt and red wood chips.

  My head is upside down like a bat, hanging off the end of the sofa. People in general don’t like hanging upside down, but I can see why bats do it. It is not just the novelty of the way the blood in your head makes a sound like moths playing percussion. It is also great the way that you feel like you inhabit a different world. It’s like people can’t touch you, because they’re aligned with the floor.

  I am listening to my parents, and they seem farther away because they are in the right-side-up world.

  “Don’t tell me that!” my mother is yelling. “Do you know how long it’s been since you got a raise? Do you know?”

  My father says something, but I can’t hear it.

  “What are you saying? Just tell me what you’re saying,” screams my mother, “because I do everything I can to keep this family going, and I don’t want to hear —”

  My father says somethin
g else, very softly, but slams the table while he says it.

  My mother says, “Your older son spends his life watching TV, your younger son — God knows — is doing drugs or — I don’t even know what — and you’re going out to play golf. Play golf! Great father! Golf! Go ahead, in the rain — I hope you get a bogey!”

  Then they tell each other to go to hell, and they start slamming doors.

  Upside down, everything seems so light and strange. The white lamp has risen like a bubble and now bobs against a tabletop. The TV Guide has shot up onto the sheltering sofa. Everything is poised with infinite care.

  I have almost gone to sleep when my father comes in.

  He says, “Christ,” and walks out again. Then he looks in again. “What are you doing?” he demands. “Don’t you have anything better to do than lie around daydreaming? You’re not even right-side up. Get up. Do something.”

  So I get up. I start to pace.

  As I pass through the front hall, my father is leaving to cool down in the car.

  I pace in circles from room to room.

  The first time around the house, I think about how I played right into the vampires’ hands. I ask myself how Chet could possibly use the Arm for evil. I do not come up with an answer.

  The second time around the house (as I pass through the kitchen, where my mother is adding soap powder in the dishwasher), I think about how Chet would have come back and really helped me by now if he cared. If he were good, he wouldn’t have abandoned me.

  The third time around, I realize that I am all alone. I have probably played into the hands and claws of evil, and now I am all alone.

  And my revolutions get quicker and quicker as I think: Damn Chet, damn him because now I can’t speak to anyone, can’t tell anyone; and the thing I want to tell them most, the thing I need to say to them, is just that: that I can’t speak, and that I’m all alone; and how can you tell people you’re all alone when you’re all alone?

  How?

  Silence is there, stifling me like a dirty sock.

  The afternoon rain drools down the gutters, and the birdseed washes around on the feeder dish. Rain muffles the house and drowns the yard.

  My mother is sitting at the table, with her hands spread wide on the blond wood. The gray wet light of the rain has seeped into her hair and it is turning gray, too.