Migrators

by Ike Hamill

  Flames shot up from the pile.

  Liz shouted her chants over the popping of the fire.

  She moved away from the heat. She kept her pace even and controlled, but her head swiveled back and forth as she looked at the creatures that Alan and Bob couldn’t see. She turned to face the fire and stepped backwards over the line, out of the circle.

  “Yes,” Alan whispered. His tears gushed with his relief.

  Liz was at his side in an instant.

  “Alan. Oh my god, what have we done?” Liz asked.

  Bob came to his other side.

  Alan squeezed the tears from his eyes and he turned to look back at Joe. His son’s jaw hung down in horror and his hands were pressed against the screen. The boy looked past the adults to the bonfire. Alan turned to follow Joe’s gaze. The flames reached high into the night.

  If he unfocused his eyes and let the dancing flames blur, Alan could see what his son saw. There were shadows moving in front of the flames. They were thrown by the migrators, and they were frantic. The migrators were trying to flee the fire, but the circle of borax gave them nowhere to hide. They moved so fast, but when Alan blinked he saw still-frames of their movement. It was the panicked hands-and-feet gallop of a frightened ape. They ran counterclockwise around the fire.

  “We have to call this off, Alan,” Liz said. “You need a hospital immediately. I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

  She dug in her pocket for her phone.

  “That won’t work,” Alan said.

  “What?”

  “Your phone,” Alan said.

  She looked at it and stabbed the face with her finger. Her hand fell to her side when she realized that Alan was right.

  “We’ll drive then,” she said.

  “No,” Alan said. He rose to his feet. He wrapped his good arm around his bad. One of the blood vessels near his elbow hadn’t been cauterized completely and blood oozed down the front of his jacket. Urine soaked the front of Alan’s pants.

  “You’ll lose the hand, Alan,” Liz said. “It’s a hundred times worse than your foot. And your arm! Oh my god.”

  Alan looked to Bob. The man was still holding the long torch. His gaze shifted between Alan and the fire.

  “How long do we have to wait, Bob?” Alan asked.

  “Until they reverse their direction,” Bob said. “The book said it’s too dangerous to go in until they start running clockwise and they slow down. Of course, the book only talked about trapping one at a time.”

  “No,” Liz said. “Sophia caught two one time. She didn’t have any problems. And in the passing ceremony, they used as many as would come.”

  Bob nodded.

  “Alan,” Liz said. “You need help for your hand and arm.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Alan said. “It’s working. I don’t want to turn back.”

  “Guys,” Bob said. He was pointing.

  Alan had to blur his eyes again and let them get lost in the fire to see what Bob referred to. The shadows were moving from right to left now. They were circling the fire clockwise and moving slower. Alan stepped forward before Liz could protest. He took a deep breath and stepped over the line. Alan stumbled. It was like stepping into a fast-moving current. The air was heavy and swirling with the movement of the migrators. As Alan’s head crossed the plane into the circle, he saw them.

  The three of them ran on all fours with their faceless heads low to the ground. They circled the fire, weaving between Alan’s legs as they ran past him.

  Alan struggled to remember the word. Sophia had written that the word was a command meaning “cure,” but Marie’s entry suggested that the word just meant “come to me.”

  He remembered.

  “Grush-sh-tep!” Alan shouted.

  The things stopped moving.

  “Grush-sh-tep,” he said again. Their faceless heads turned towards him. Alan felt a fresh squirt of urine release in his pants. Their attention was nothing less than terrifying.

  “What’s happening, Alan?” Liz shouted. He could barely hear her over the crackling of the fire. He realized how hot the flames were.

  The things approached and Alan’s fear rose. They had tasted him twice and now they were coming to eat the rest of his flesh. One of the creatures quickly flanked Alan, moving to the space between Alan and the borax line. He was trapped between the three migrators and the hot fire. They slinked forward with their faceless heads turned up to him and their torsos pressed close to the ground.

  “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.r />
  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.

  X • X • X • X • X

  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.

  From outside the circle, Liz screamed. It sounded like she was a mile away.

  Something’s gone wrong. Horribly wrong.

  Alan’s cold hands could barely feel the fabric of Joe’s jacket. He clamped down even harder and pulled. He pulled his son and the migrators back and tried to angle towards the edge of the circle. Their tug was strong. Alan closed his fists around the jacket and leaned back, using all his weight to tear his son from the grip of the migrators. One of the creatures fell away and Alan felt some give.

  His legs burned. Alan couldn’t even feel his hands. He had managed to turn enough that the edge of the circle was at his back and the fire was at his face.

  “Alan, do something!” Liz screamed.

  Alan had a burst of desperate inspiration. He shifted his weight and pushed his beloved Joe towards the fire.

  Joe screamed.

  The migrators fled. Suddenly, it was only Joe’s weight in his hands. Alan kicked his legs and drove himself backwards, away from the fire, and across the line of borax. He collapsed to the ground. Joe landed on top of him. Alan pulled his son into a tight hug.

  Liz ran to their side.

  “Are you okay, Joe? Joe?”

  “Yeah,” Joe’s muffled voice said. His face was pressed to Alan’s shirt. “Dad? You’re squeezing me too tight.”

  Bob approached and tapped Liz on the shoulder.

  “We have to turn them loose, Liz,” Bob said. “You have to do it.”

  Alan watched his wife stand up. She moved with Bob to the top of the circle—farthest away from the house. Liz closed her eyes and paused. She began speaking the words she’d memorized from the book. The closing passages of the process were the most complex, but Liz didn’t hesitate once she started. As she spoke, Bob picked up the bucket of water and splashed it on the borax line, breaking the circle near the hole they’d dug.

  Alan held his breath, wondering if the creatures would behave.

  The shadows dancing in front of the fire picked up speed and headed for the top of the circle. Liz finished her recitation and fell backwards. Her hair and clothes were blown back by a fierce wind. The fire flared and sparks rose up into the night sky.

  “Dad—too tight,” Joe said.

  “Sorry.”

  Liz picked up the pitchfork and used it to hurl walnut leaves towards the fire. Bob splashed water down into the hole and then started refilling it with the dirt they’d excavated.

  Alan held Joe tight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Prognosis

  NOVEMBER 1

  ACCORDING TO the man behind the counter, it normally took hours and hours between having the MRI and getting a doctor to review the results. The man suggested that they should consider themselves lucky that they were getting immediate attention. For the hour that they had to wait for the results, Alan didn’t feel lucky at all. His left knee bounced with nervous energy. Liz put her hand on his thigh to quiet his leg, but he paid no mind.

  Finally, after seventy minutes, a woman wearing a purple top came through the door and tapped on her tablet. She smiled at Joe and waved. Liz and Alan collected their son and followed her down a corridor. The doors on either side had lights next to the handles—green or yellow. She led them through the fourth door on the left. The outer room had games and books and toys for little kids. The doorway at the back led to a smaller room with a table.

  The doctor—an older woman with glasses on a chain—came in a few minutes later. She had a laptop tucked under her arm. Her name tag said “Dr. Chandrell.”

  Thank god for name tags, Alan thought. I can barely remember my own name.

  “Joe, would you like to
stay here for a minute while I talk to your folks? There are some good books on the middle shelf you might like.”

  “Here,” Liz said. She handed Joe her phone. “Don’t kill my battery, and don’t install anything.”

  Alan kissed Joe on the forehead before he followed the women into the back room. Once the door was closed, the doctor got right to business.

  The doctor opened her laptop and clicked on a file. The screen was filled with a black and white cross section of a brain. The doctor moved a control and the patterns of tissue spun and swirled as she moved through the layers.

  “We’ve got nothing but great news,” Dr. Chandrell said.

  “Pardon?” Liz asked.

  “I see just a tiny amount of swelling here,” Dr. Chandrell said, spinning her cursor over a gray location, “but really nothing to be worried about.”

  “Doctor,” Alan said, “I know you’re all very careful here and I’m not trying to impugn anyone’s professionalism, but are you sure you have the correct scan there?”

  “Joseph Harper, son of Alan and Elizabeth?” the doctor asked.

  Liz took Alan’s hand.

  Alan nodded. “Yes, that’s us. It’s just that Doctor… what’s-his-name said he was pretty sure we’d find a tumor.”

  “Prewalski,” Liz said. “His pediatrician’s name is Prewalski.”

  “Yes, that’s what we were looking for. I’m happy to tell you that we found no evidence of a tumor. You’ll want to consult again with your pediatrician to discuss other possibilities and look for other potential causes. How’s he feeling today?”

  “No complaints this morning,” Alan said. In fact, Joe had gotten up before Liz or Alan and woke them up with a big smile on his face. He didn’t even seem troubled by the scary events of the night before. His mood had been so good that Alan didn’t want probe. Once the migrators were freed, the family had fled quickly in Liz’s car. Alan hadn’t even stopped to change his pants before they headed back for the hotel.

  “So what do we do?” Liz asked.

  “Keep an eye on him for any symptoms. Especially watch his temperature. An infection could explain some of the symptoms, and if it flares you’ll see it in his body temp. Your pediatrician will have the results of Joe’s blood tests—that will be another good indicator of other potential causes.”