Billy by Whitley Strieber
Billy was one of those children who were so perfect that it seemed impossible that tragedy could ever reach them.
He'd been so damn complacent. 'Not to do anything about the man in the yard—may God strike me down!'
He imagined excited hands fumbling against his son's naked skin. Then they were parting Billy's naked legs and his father was cringing in agony.
Then the wind swept up from the south bearing its marvelous freight of prairie smells, the aster and the grass and the mystic perfume of the corn.
His son's body lay glowing in the moonlight.
His son's body lay crumpled beneath a tree.
His son's body floated pale in the slow waters of the Pomander River, surfacing from time to time like an exhausted fish.
His son's body lay beneath the pulsating flesh of a huge human maggot, and his eyes were wrinkled shut and his hands were purple they were tied so tight.
"I am praying now," Mark whispered into the perfumed air. "God help my boy."
He turned over and, as he had a dozen times before, placed his face in his pillow. Then he wept in the breeze, in the moonlight, in the sweet Iowa night. A bird sang alone.
12.
It wasn't like waking up, it was sudden and cruel; this was the first time Billy had ever been pulled to awareness by pain. His body jerked against the straps, an involuntary spasm. Then his eyes opened. Even as it left him, his young mind clung to the blackness. For a last blessed instant he was nowhere, he was nobody.
Then he felt the inevitable humming of the van, the humming and the jostling. The air was sweet, scented with pine. The odor penetrated deep into Billy's soul, bringing dense memories.
The kitchen was gold with afternoon light, and there was his apple and glass of milk on the counter, and the air smells piney because Momma has just mopped the floor.
When he reached for the apple the illusion shattered. He knew where he was and who he was with and so he fought, kicking, jerking his arms, shaking his head as the van bored on, deep into the night.
From the front a woman's voice sang, very high:
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray ..."
The voice piped and wavered, never quite on note or key. When it went high Billy went with it up the mountains. Then it broke and down they fell, sailing through black air.
As they fell Billy began to become consciously aware of the pain that had awakened him. Memory and dream slipped away and he was left with only the truth: he was thirsty, and it was a torment beyond belief.
Every part of him, his belly, his arms and legs, even his skin suffered for water. His mouth felt like the dentist had jammed it solid with cotton logs. The humming of the van became the muttering of a brook and he saw water bubbling over stones, saw the thick green depths of the Pomander River, tasted water pouring from the faucet under the oak tree in the front yard.
He had stood there. From there he had watched. And now he drove the van. Even though Billy's head was no longer buried under covers, he could not see him, not more than a glimpse and that only if he arched his neck back as far as possible.
Then he was a dark hunched bulk behind the wheel.
"I'm thirsty!"
The singing stopped but the van hummed on. Being ignored made Billy's cheeks burn. He wanted to somehow get to that ugly man and hit him until his head broke open like a cantaloupe. "I'm thirsty," he repeated. He tried to sound angry, but he could barely whisper.
The figure remained hunched over the wheel and the, van hummed on. Billy's vision wavered. Tears came.
He gazed through his anguish at the shadowy night, the tops of pine trees hurrying past, the stars. It was as if he was at the bottom of a deep, deep hole and he could just barely see the sky way up there. 'The stars,' he thought, 'we used to count them in those days, lying in the front yard and we would talk about all the people in all the worlds so far away.'
Then he thought, 'This is how I will escape. I will turn the straps into molten leather by making my wrists and ankles hotter and hotter like that guru could do—make himself hotter or colder, it said so in the paper—and then I will get him by the throat.' He concentrated on his wrists, imagining them getting hot, imagining that the leather was crackling, creaking, getting weaker.
Of course nothing happened. But couldn't people bend spoons with their minds, either ... or was that possible in California? He imagined the straps getting hot and weak, hot and weak.
They were getting looser, too, at least a little. Hotter and hotter, wrists and ankles, and he could smell it now, the stink of the burning leather. Yes, looser by inches, by degrees, looser and looser . . .
With a soft tearing sound his right ankle became free. A moment later his left wrist was out and he was pulling, fumbling, working until at last he was completely free.
The van still hummed, the stars still followed them, the trees still tumbled past. Billy sat up. He turned his head and there just two feet away was the ghoul, dark and hunched, singing through his nose.
To himself Billy said, 'Your muscles are steel, your blood is molten uranium, your bones are hot iron.' He moved as precisely and quietly as a spider. He put his hands around the thick neck of his tormentor, holding them just an inch from the shaking flesh. Then he throttled the life out of him.
Something began to happen. Billy felt it first as a change in the humming. Then came the rattling of gravel as the van left the highway. As it moved along a dirt road the tires rumbled. The slower the van went the faster Billy's heart beat.
Billy realized that he was still strapped to the bed, still trapped, still helpless. He tossed his head from side to side, moaning with disappointment. It had been so real!
The engine went off and the van grew silent. Billy listened, his limbs taut against his bonds, his face tickling with tears.
He groaned aloud, a sound that sank into a sob. "Now, now," came a low voice. It had a rattle in it, and a curious lilt as well. If a man and a woman were both talking at exactly the same time, this was how it would sound.
Billy flew into a wild panic. The tighter the straps held him the harder he struggled.
"Billy, relax, son, take it easy. Nobody's going to hurt you." The voice rose as it might when you were comforting a dog: "It's OK, Fido, it's OK, there, there boy. Easy . . ."
"I hate you! I hate you!" He spat but there was no spit, so all that came was a fluffy rasp.
"Son, I have a nice big thermos of Evian water. Have you ever had Evian water? It's cool and clear and it's just as sweet as a fresh mountain stream."
When the man opened the thermos, Billy could smell the water. He'd never noticed before that water had a smell. "Please," he said. He heard the begging in his own voice and wished he could sound stronger, but it was no use. He couldn't fight, he couldn't get away. He was too little and this man was too big and he was so far from home and he didn't know where he was or anything!
The man put his hand behind Billy's head and lifted it, and brushed the edge of the thermos against his lips. The water stung where it touched his cracked mouth, but it tasted so good, so cool, so rich, a million times better even than it had smelled.
He got two big gulps before it was snatched away. "Go slow, Billy, you don't want it to come back up."
That reminded Billy of what he had done, soiled the sheets. That was all gone now, there was nothing left but the kitchen-floor smell of pine. The man had cleaned him off while he slept. That must be why his pajama bottoms were gone. He shuddered.
The water came back and he drank again. This time he got more and it flowed down his throat, bringing with it waves of relief. His head lay against the man's strong hand and he drank and drank.
As he drank he looked at the man's face. It was pale and soft, with cheeks that were too smooth. He looked like he was made of Silly Putty, like if you touched him you would leave a fingerprint. His eyes darted to the window every time a car went past.
He took the thermo
His smile was so unexpected and so bright that Billy uttered a burst of laughter. "So," the man said in his eerie voice, "we aren't all frowns, are we, Billy?"
"How do you know my name?"
"I know a great deal about you." He reached a hand out, hesitated for a moment, then touched Billy's arm. Despite his determination to hate this man, and his conviction of terrible danger, Billy felt relieved.
He was hungry for orientation. "What time is it?"
"Eleven."
Eleven at night. Billy thought about that. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Not in the bed, please, Billy." The voice pleaded, and Billy had the curious impression that this man was a sort of servant, almost a slave, or wanted to be. Billy realized that he could get the man to do what he wanted, like Uncle Hank had been when Billy was little, always carrying him on his back, buying him toys and candy ... at least until he married Kate and had Matt.
Mom had said, "My brother loves kids." She explained that certain people were able to stay a child inside even after they grew up. Uncle Hank was such a person.
The man's hand was massaging Billy's upper arm, and Billy tried to move away. "I won't hurt you," the man said. "I've got to work on your circulation."
"I have to go really bad."
"I'll let you up. But you'll have to go on the roadside. Can you do that?"
"There are cars."
"We'll walk a ways into the woods. We're in a thick forest."
Instantly Billy decided he would run off into the forest.
When his wrists were freed his hands started to tingle. Then the same thing happened to his ankles. The man had to help him sit up, and he felt very dizzy and funny, like the van was tumbling slowly over and over. The man crouched before him, rubbing his feet and his hands, rubbing and slapping.
Billy watched his bald spot. He wished he had a gun embedded between his eyes and he could fire it right into that spot and then the man would collapse like a bunch of rags. Then Billy would get out of the van and stand by the roadside until a car stopped, and he would tell them to take him to the nearest phone. But he had no gun, he had nothing. He thought of kicking the man, but it would do no more than make him mad, and that would obviously be a mistake.
When the man looked up Billy was confused by the expression, which was of an intensity quite beyond his experience. The man moved back until he was sitting on the cot opposite.
He smiled again, mischievously, and Billy thought of when he used to babysit Matt and the little boy had done something that he knew Billy would fuss at him about. Suddenly the man reached out. Billy flinched, but then the man's fingers were touching his cheek. They were warm and soft and thick, and Billy became aware that the man was fat. "It's not going to be bad," the man said. "Believe me, Billy, I promise you with all my heart and soul."
"I want to go to the bathroom."
"All right! We'll go right now." The man slid open the side of the van, which was at once flooded with crisp night air. It was startlingly cool, and Billy began to shiver. "I don't have any pants."
"You won't need them, it's dark."
"I can't go outside without pants. And I don't have shoes. I can't walk in the woods without shoes."
"Don't be such a baby!" There was a weird, whining harshness there that made Billy even more scared.
"Don't I have any clothes?"
"Of course you have clothes! Now move!"
The tone made Billy scurry straight out of the van. The man took his wrist and without a word led him in among the trees.
Instantly the world changed. Billy was not often in woods this deep. They belonged to fairy tales, the woods dark and deep . . .
They were darker than Billy had thought possible, so dark that he couldn't see anything except the man's small flashlight, a wavering pool of yellow that occasionally revealed a huge trunk.
He heard the calls of forest birds, soft and scary.
A car passed the van. When it slowed the man stiffened and his hand went more tightly around Billy's arm. "It hurts," Billy said, pulling his shoulder away.
The car went on. "I'm sorry," the man said. He loosened his grip. The ground was covered with pine needles and also very steep and it cut into Billy's bare feet. After another couple of minutes the man stopped. "Here," he said.
Billy's mind had focused to a single idea. He was like a bird being held outside of its cage, waiting for the instant that its owner's mind would stray. "I can't do it if you're here."
"I can disappear just like this." The man turned off his flashlight. Now the darkness was so perfect that it seemed to Billy almost to have a life of its own. A feeling of complete helplessness overcame him. He thought he had stifled the sob of despair that built in his chest, but the man's hand touched his shoulder. "It's OK, Billy," the man said. Then, as if the dark might somehow sanctify his words, he added something incredibly icky. "I love you so darn much, son."
That encouraged Billy to overcome his fear and take a couple of steps away. The man made a small sound in his throat, shuffled. Billy took three giant steps, brushing against a tree. The man's breathing was now noticeably farther off. Billy stepped all the way around the tree.
Behind him the flashlight flickered on, then flashed wildly among the tall trunks, just missing Billy's shoulder. "Christ," the man said.
Billy moved off, trying to remember the locations of the trees he'd glimpsed in the beam of the flashlight.
There was a steep slope, and Billy slid down. Uttering a stifled cry, the man followed him. His body was heavy and he slipped and scraped noisily along. When he was close Billy heard the little sounds he was making, like the way the crows muttered when they landed in the front yard.
Without another thought, throwing his hands out in front of him, Billy hurled himself farther down the slope, fumbling against trees as he went, scrambling around them, going down and down. Behind him the man raised a howl and came plunging after him. His light flickered yellow, a magical eye.
The forest spoke a deep unknown language, murmuring to itself as Billy scrabbled along. He skinned his knee, bruised his shoulder. His hands were before him like a blind man, his feet were stinging from the pine needles. Something flapped away, screaming an angry scream.
Billy became aware of the details of the darkness, its thicker places, the directions where the shadows seemed more open. But the flashlight was far more effective than intuition and night-blind eyes, and the man came very fast. Under his breath he kept making sounds, grunting and furious. They no longer reminded Billy of a crow, but rather of the fearsome noises the tiger had made at the Des Moines Zoo during the class trip: back and forth it had gone in its cage, and its snarls said it wanted you.
Billy had to feel his way, his arms outstretched, his hands spread as if to turn a blow. He went through the whipping trees, grasping, pulling, struggling. They spread their piney sap along his arms, their needles pricked his palms and dug into his feet.
The man plunged down the bank, crashing into trees and gasping when the limbs whipped his face.
Soon Billy could not tell which direction he was going in, whether up or down, falling or climbing. His lungs ached, his nostrils flared, his head pounded. As Billy gained speed the man's clamor was gradually absorbed by another sound, a roar as if of a huge wind. But there wasn't any wind. Closer and closer Billy came to this sound. He no longer dared to look behind him. If the flashlight was right there, he didn't want to know it.
Then the stars filled the sky. Billy stopped, incredulous. Before him was a sky more vast even than that of the prairie night. The stars stood in millions and millions. The roaring filled his ears, and then he understood where he was.
Realizing his predicament he reeled forward, his arms turning round and round. Below him he saw like in a model train layout a
Fifty feet to his right a mountain stream threw itself off the cliff. Down and down the water went, pale in the starlight, down into the silent valley. To Billy the stream sounded like the trumpet that calls you to death. Some archangel blows it. Supposedly.
He was falling. The slope was too steep and the soil too loose to hold him. He pressed himself back against the bank. It felt like he was in an elevator, just starting off but speeding up quickly. In another moment he was going to be out in the air, falling to the music of the water. He saw a dog walking lazily across the compound between the cabins.
"Momma," he said. He scrabbled, he grabbed at the loose dirt, he found that he most desperately did not want to die. He'd had hardly any life yet! He threw back his head and screamed, and the stars wavered in his tears.
As if it was a hook made of cold iron, the man's hand closed around his upper arm. Then his face was there, beside Billy's face. "I love you," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard over the gush of the falls.
How Billy hated to hear that! But the man was strong and he laid himself against the arm and watched the stars disappear as he was dragged back into the cliff-hugging woods.
Roughly, the man pulled Billy up the slope. It took him a long time and a lot of rest stops. He wheezed and cursed under his breath, but never for a second did he release Billy's arm, let alone loosen his grip.
At first Billy was defiant, thinking that he would get away again and this time he would find some tiny path down the face of the cliff, secret since the days of the Indians and the mountain men.
But his shoulder and knee hurt where he had hit them, and his feet were raw and he wanted to be warm again.