Weed

by Peter Ponzo

  Chapter 36

  The scratching came from somewhere in the living room ... in the corner, by the window. The room was dark and I couldn't see a thing. I slipped slowly from the couch and crept to the lamp on the desk. The scratching stopped, but I could hear heavy breathing. Shit. Was it Hans again? Had he entered through the basement, through the broken window? I considered running upstairs to find my revolver, but I needed more light. I switched on the lamp then jumped away from the light, toward the stairs, away from the breathing in the corner.

  There, sitting against the wall, was a black ... a black … something. It was the size of a man, but it wasn't moving.

  "Hans?" I whispered.

  No response, just the breathing—actually more like shallow grunts.

  "Hans von Oerschott?" I said, more loudly.

  For some reason I didn't feel threatened by the black shape. It was curled against the wall, in a corner, like a child.

  The breathing stopped.

  "Fan ... Fan ..."

  It was saying something, with obvious difficulty. I moved closer, thought better of it and tilted the lamp shade to illuminate that corner of the room. The shape raised a shaggy arm to cover its face. It was crammed into the corner, its knees pulled against its chest.

  "Fan ..."

  It was trying to speak my name. Somehow I felt pity for this creature. If it were Hans—and I was certain it was—then it needed help. Yet it had evidently killed at least two people, so was dangerous. I moved closer, squatting before the shaggy beast. In the light from the lamp I could see that it was no gorilla, just a man-sized creature, covered in hair, thick, curly, oily and black. Its eyes were closed, its chest heaving, arms curved over its head as though to ward off any blows from above. I couldn't imagine that it was afraid of me. Indeed, its arms were thick with muscle and its chest was the size and shape of a barrel. Except for these exaggerations, it was the same size as Hans von Oerschott.

  "Hans? Is that you?" I whispered.

  "Yuh ...hep ..." It held out an arm, long, with what seemed like overly thin fingers.

  "Hep?"

  "Fan, hep me." Its hand curled into a fist, then opened, a naked palm up. The eyes, beady and bright in the light of the lamp. Winking rapidly.

  "Help you? Yes, yes, I can. I'm certain I can. I just need more time, a little more time. Hans, can you walk? Are you hurt? In pain? Can you come with me? I need to find you a place ... uh, yes, in the basement. Hans, follow me—please."

  I knew exactly where to put him.

  "The corner of the basement where Charles hid Penney. It has a bed. It's perfect. Hans, you can stay there until—"

  Suddenly the black shape lurched forward, out of the corner, rising to its feet. I jumped backwards, stumbled.

  "Hans!" I shouted. "Stop!"

  The shaggy figure staggered then fell. I turned and ran to the stairs, leaping up two-at-a-time, to my room. The revolver was in my night table. I pulled open the drawer, but it wasn't there! Where? Charles. He last had it when he went to the basement in search of ... where? Where would he have put it?

  "Miss Fleetsmith?"

  I spun about to see a shadowy figure at the door.

  "Hans! Stop!" I shouted.

  "Miss Fleetsmith, it is I."

  "Oh shit ... Charles, it's you. Where in God's name did you put the Smith and Wesson?"

  "In your night table drawer, where it usually—"

  I turned and stared at the table. Wrong table. I leaped across the bed and opened the drawer on the other night table. Why in the world would I have two night tables, at a time like this? I yanked out the revolver, turned and raced past Charles and down the stairs.

  "Miss Fleetsmith, is there something wrong?"

  "Follow me" I shouted over my shoulder.

  When I got to the living room the black shape was gone.

  "Yes, I'm sure it was Hans. Shaggy, yes, but Hans nevertheless."

  Charles, Josey and I were sitting in the living room. Josey was shaking.

  "Were you able to communicate with him?" Charles asked.

  "Sort of. He grunted, breathed heavily, called me Fan. He was in trouble and came here for hep ... help. He was pathetic."

  "He's a killer, Miss Fleetsmith."

  "No, I don't think so. I mean, yes, he killed, but it was beyond his control. He wouldn't have killed me, not here, not tonight."

  "Then why, pray tell, were you in search of the revolver?"

  "Hmm. You know, he wasn't a gorilla, just quite hairy. His physical features seemed exaggerated, sloping forehead, barrel chest, beady red eyes—but he was not that far removed from Hans. Much like ..."

  I looked at Josey. She was wrapped in a fluffy robe, curled up on the couch, but her face was almost as hairy as Hans.

  "According to Miss Josey," Charles said, "she and von Oerschott used the Dermafix almost simultaneously. That would imply a similar evolution of the ... the—"

  "Affliction," I volunteered. "Call it the affliction. Boone does. Which reminds me, I should give him a call, tell him about our visit tonight."

  "This morning, Miss Fleetsmith."

  I reached for the phone on the end table and began dialing. Why did I remember his home phone number?

  "It is morning, early morning." Charles looked at his watch. "Three fifteen, to be exact. Might I suggest that you wait—"

  "Hello? Boone?" Some broad answered the phone, grumpy.

  "It's after three in the morning."

  "Oh, sorry ... yes, it is late ... uh, early. Can you ask him to call Fran Fleetsmith when he wakes up. It's quite important ... "

  "Atlanta, He's in Atlanta."

  "Oh, I see. Atlanta? What? Shit! He told me he could get everything we needed through official channels. No need to fly to—

  "I'll give him your message."

  "Yes, you do that!"

  I slammed the phone down and turned to Charles. "The stupid dame. Said she'd give Boone the message, then she just hung up."

  "It is early morning, Miss Fleetsmith. I suspect she has every right to be upset at—"

  "Who is she? What the hell is she doing answering his phone?"

  "She's a live-in playmate, honey." It was the first thing that Josey had said. She was grinning beneath all that fur. "You know? The cowboy comes home from a hard day in the saddle, she's there to rub his—"

  "Shit! He went to Atlanta! I wanted to go there, visit the CDC. Now that the affliction has spread, they're bound to be interested. Now that there's a case right there, in Atlanta, I'll bet they're already working on it."

  "You refer to the Centre for Disease Control, Miss Fleetsmith? Yes, it is quite likely that the Dermafix affliction has piqued their interest. May I suggest that you contact them and—"

  "I'll go there myself! Boone, that bastard. What does he know about the affliction? Why did he go to the CDC? What makes him think—"

  "There was a death by Dermafix in Atlanta, was there not? I suspect that was the reason for his—"

  "Death by Dermafix ... sounds like an Agatha Christie mystery. But yes, you're right Charles, that was the reason for his visit to Georgia." I somehow felt better. "I don't know why I'm so angry tonight ... this morning. I think Hans' hairy visit threw me off."

  "It's the playmate on the phone, honey. That's what threw you for a loop." Josey was still grinning. "You expected to get your cowboy, but you got his bimbo."

  I stared at Josey. She was almost as hairy as Hans, and she did use the Dermafix when Hans did, yet she seemed to have little difficulty with her speech.

  "Tell me Josey," I said, "do you have any trouble with your speech?"

  "Sorry, honey. You want I should shut up, right?"

  "No, no, not at all. It's just that Hans couldn't even say 'Fran' or 'help'. He grunted, said Fan and hep. Yet you both took the Dermafix at about the same time."

  "You have already observed, Miss Fleetsmith, that the progression of the affliction vari
es with the individual," Charles said. "Indeed, the evolution of the disease appears to be less than deterministic. In some cases there is just fuzz, sometimes a membrane to cover a wound, sometimes a cocoon within which a modified individual evolves. It may very well be that Hans von Oerschott is genetically quite different from Miss Josephine—"

  "Bloody right!" Josey said. "The bastard started life as a ape so he ain't got far to go with this Dermafix crap!"

  That seemed to sum it up pretty well, so we just sat and stared at each other for some time without speaking. Soon Josey yawned, rolled off the couch and headed for bed.

  "Night all," she said.

  "Good idea. I could use a good night's rest." So I followed Josey. Charles switched off the light and took up the rear.

  But I didn't sleep much. I must take a trip to Atlanta, to the Centre for Disease Control. What have they found? Can I assist them? Will my theories be of any value?

  Who the shit was that woman in Boone's apartment?