In Constant Fear (12 page)

“Big Guy,” Jimmy said, indicating the nearby wheat field.

Their fields stretched way out into the distance and had been well in advance of ours, all of it ripe and golden the last time we'd been there—but that wasn't what Jimmy was pointing out. The whole thing had been stripped and from what we could see, there wasn't an intact ear anywhere.

“Those damn weevils,” I muttered.

“Looks like it.”

It was a hard thing to imagine. Thousands, millions, I guessed, of weevils cutting a huge swathe across the country: a big black wave of them sweeping up from our place, over the hill, and then down into the next valley, on to bigger and riper pickings. It was also surprising that from what we could see, they appeared to have a diet of nothing but wheat.

“Maybe that was what scared them away,” Gigi suggested.

It did make a kinda sense, but it didn't altogether sit that easy. We'd fought them off; surely Nick and the others would've done the same?

Eventually we made our way back up the hill, no one talking, still not sure what'd happened and in a strange way feeling like we'd been abandoned. We'd lost our only neighbors, and been left to face an increasing threat on our own.

When we got back to the farm and told the others, they were every bit as dumbfounded as we were, asking all manner of questions we had no way of answering: why hadn't they sent someone over the hill to tell us? Why hadn't they come to us for help? Were we sure it was weevils?

Later I went out and checked our fields again. Just that one day of sunshine (and maybe all that rain) had created yet another bewildering leap skywards. The overwhelming majority of what the weevils had left was now plump and apparently ready for harvesting. It was a miracle, and time for us to start thinking about how we were gonna to mill the wheat, though Jimmy had told us not to bother, that we could leave that to him.

I wasn't really sure why, but for some reason I found myself going around checking on Lena's guide wires; reattaching stuff that had been blown off during the storm, digging a couple of new holes for posts that had become unstable in the sodden soil. It wasn't exactly the greatest alarm system ever, especially as only one of us was guaranteed to hear it, but for some reason knowing it was there made me feel that bit more secure.

It didn't happen too often, and I'm not altogether sure what the reason was, but that night Thomas not only fell asleep with no trouble at all, it looked like he was gonna stay that way. In fact, he was so quiet in that snug little nest of his, I checked on him a coupla times to make sure he was okay. It made for an unusually relaxed evening, and after dinner, Lena poured us both some hooch—unless I was reading the signs incorrectly, in the mood for a little love-making.

It wasn't the way it used to be—before Thomas, I mean—and I wouldn't've expected it either. Maybe it never would be like that again. I just figured that if I left it up to her, let her make the decision, then eventually we'd find our balance again—a different one maybe, but it'd be the right one for us. And anyways, let's be absolutely honest about it, at my age I ain't always got the energy myself. When it did happen, and providing we didn't get any interruptions from Master Thomas, it was still one of the best feelings I'd ever known.

Pardon me for being so indiscreet, but when I was younger, I used to have a more than healthy sexual appetite, but sadly, no way of fulfilling it. Problem was, I was never all that comfortable in the company of women (the archetypal “big guy”—who never ever got the girl). Some guys can chat away with women they've just met as if they've known them all their lives; with me, I talked to women I'd known all my life as if I'd just met them. It was like that for so long, well into my twenties, that eventually I decided that if I wasn't gonna miss out on that side of life altogether, there was only one way for me to receive a little sexual pleasure.

Took me four months to summon up the nerve. I knew where to go—the wrong end of Union; everyone knew that, but I didn't think I'd ever persuade myself down there. That first occasion was one of
the most embarrassing episodes of my life. It just didn't feel right: she was a total stranger, we'd exchanged barely a dozen words, and there we were participating in the most intimate act two people can. But gradually, shit to admit, I did become something of a regular, with several ladies; some who cared, some who didn't, some who I left with a smile on my face, some who I left with my heart so heavy I thought it might've stopped. But my pledge to myself as I skulked back to where I'd hidden Mr. Meltoni's limo was always exactly the same:
I'll never, ever do that again.

See, I wasn't really sure what I was looking for. I remember the last time I went, I got into this slightly weird mood: I didn't want sex, I wanted something else. I wanted this short, rather homely little Latino lady to tell me she loved me, that was all. She didn't have to touch me, or me her, just declare that in that moment she had more feeling for me than any other person on this earth. Crazy, huh? I mean, she did oblige, but not all that convincingly. It even went through my head that those people who ran those places were missing a trick: there should be “emotional whores”—rooms where you could go and be told you're a special person and worthy of love. I think it'd be a real money-maker. I mean, I might've been lucky enough to have found Lena, but there are plenty of people, men and women, out there who don't have anyone and I reckon they'd be happy to pay handsomely for someone to spend thirty minutes filling in those great aching voids in their wasteland hearts.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is—and, please, forgive a tired old cliché from a tired old big guy—having sex and making love
are
two very different things. One reduces us to the animals we unquestionably are, while the other raises us up to the spirits we hope to be. You're not devouring flesh, ransacking the sensation of another's body, but feeling something flowing back and forth, taking away the pain, reaffirming who you are to each other.

I don't know what time it was, what with that big cracked cup of hooch and making love, but it was a rare night of deep relaxation and for once I was sleeping the Sleep of the Satisfied Gods. There was every
chance I'd've stayed that way too, if it hadn't been for Thomas reverting to type and noisily summoning his nurse, comforter and court jester.

I kind of stumbled across to him, bent-kneed and bent-backed, jigging his drawer up and down, shushing him, hoping he'd settle back down where he was, but he wasn't having any of it.

“Clancy!” Lena wearily complained, which didn't leave me with a whole lotta choice. I gave a long sigh, took a real careful hold of the little guy, fearing how groggy I was that I might drop him, and made my way outside.

I commenced on my usual circuit, hoping it would either make him sleepy or wake me up, but it didn't do either. I went clockwise, counterclockwise, even threw in a little zigzagging for good measure, but nothing seemed to work. The only times he stopped crying were those when he was summoning up strength for the next round. Eventually I was that tired, that brow-beaten, I just had to rest. I slumped down on the porch, leaning against a post, still rocking Thomas back and forth. Every now and then he'd fall asleep for a few moments, and then me, and then, I guess, both of us . . .

It was one of those occasions when you're awake before you realize you've actually been asleep, when you're jolted there through discomfort or alarm, and consciousness comes in a breakneck rush. I awoke coughing repeatedly, with something sharp lodged in my throat, obstructing my airways, making me gasp for air.

Thomas was screaming in such a way I'd never heard before and I looked down to see something in my arms that at first I didn't recognize. It was black and bubbling with movement, thousands of tiny wriggling bodies, and finally I realized the little guy was covered with weevils. They were
everywhere
—I couldn't see even a glimpse of his skin, just this pulsating dark coating, most of them grouped around his nose and mouth, jostling each other in an effort to get inside him, like flies seeking out moisture.

I leapt to my feet, shaking the little guy as hard as I dared, brushing them off him, only in that moment realizing I was covered too, that it was weevils in my mouth making me choke.

I coughed and spat, ejecting what I'd almost swallowed, eventually managing to cry out, “
Lena! Jimmy—!
”

I was about to run inside, to head into the shower again, but those things were everywhere, thousands and thousands of them, stacked high against the front of the house, the door and windows, as if they were trying to break them down.

I could hear someone inside approaching, responding to my call, their footsteps echoing across the floor. “
No! Don't open it!
” I shouted. “Block it up—weevils are everywhere. I'm going down to the creek—”

I ran over there as fast as I could, sweeping weevils off Thomas all the way, feeling those hundreds of tiny feet crawling all over my body. It was as if they were searching me, prying here and there, looking for something. The moon broke through the clouds, giving me a better view of the surroundings area—Jesus, the entire ground, everything I could see, was covered by this black crawling mass making their way toward the house.

When I got to the creek I jumped straight in and dropped to my knees so the water was up to my chest, splashing it over a shrieking Thomas, sluicing those damn things away as best I could. I fumbled with his tiny clothes, stripping him off, thanking God it was a warm night, just letting them float off downstream. But it wasn't only him, I had to get rid of my own clothes, too. Somehow I managed to tug them off me while juggling him from hand to hand, but at one point he slipped from my grasp and fell in. He was gasping with shock as I pulled him clear of the water, and damned if a number of weevils weren't still clinging on to his downy little head.

One by one I swept them away 'til finally I stood there in the middle of that creek with Thomas in my arms, both of us free of weevils, and utterly naked.

The only thing was, what the hell were we gonna do? We couldn't get outta the water, not with all those damn things massed around us. Over in the house the lights were now on, and I guessed everyone was trying to kill the weevils that had got in and blocking out those who hadn't. I just didn't get it—I thought they'd moved on? Or was
this a different swarm? A second wave? For sure there were a helluva lot more of them.

I don't know how long I stood there hoping they'd go, but the longer it went on, the more I got it in to my head that maybe this wasn't just them overrunning us on their way elsewhere—that maybe it was us they were after?

I know that sounds crazy—insects don't do that kind of thing, right? But no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I heard the sound of a branch breaking upstream, and don't ask me how, but I knew what it was even before it hit the water. There were some overhanging trees back there, and I reckoned those weevils had been collecting on them, more and more, 'til finally their weight broke a branch. There was a further crack and another splash, and another—Jeez, a whole damn armada was coming our way.

I tried moving to one side to let the first branch float by, but the creek wasn't wide enough and I was forced to just wait 'til it reached me then stamp on it, push it underwater and hope I'd drown them—but the moment I did, they started crawling up my leg, going for my crotch. All the time I was clinging onto Thomas, doing my best to calm him, while he screamed with all the fear a seven-month-old could muster. It was mayhem: trying to drown them, splashing them off me, missing the odd one, seeing it crawling over Thomas or feeling it tickling its way over me.

Another branch arrived, another skirmish in our river battle, and this time I used the first branch to sink the others, trying to keep the weevils as far away from us as I could, though the creek was now thick with their bobbing little bodies. Over and over they came, branch after branch, 'til I was so exhausted, flailing away while hanging onto Thomas—I wasn't sure I could take it anymore. Thankfully, a few moments later, I realized the barrage was slowing, that maybe they'd run out of overhanging branches.

I was left standing helpless and naked in the middle of that creek, my old chest huffing and heaving, my whimpering baby son clutched in my arms, the enemy probably massing on the bank, looking for another way to attack.

Suddenly I heard this weird sound, muffled and metallic, like someone was trying to vomit into a tin can. It took me a while to realize it was Jimmy.

“Big Guy . . . ! Big Guy!
Can you hear me?
”

I didn't know what he'd done—sounded like he was shouting down a long tube. Maybe he'd found something and pushed it outta an upstairs window, or even the chimney.

“Big Guy!” came the muffled cry again.

“I'm okay!” I called back. “I'm in the creek with Thomas.”

“Can you get back?” came Lena's voice, also all tinny and distant.

“No! We'll have to stay here!”

“All night?”

“We got no choice. Don't worry, we'll be fine,” I added, though I wasn't as confident as I was trying to sound.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

So that was what I did: I more or less stayed where I was, wading around in the water to try to keep myself as warm as I could, to stop my old legs from going numb, being careful not to trip on the uneven bottom of the creek, and grateful for the occasional shouted conversation with the house.

Sometime in the early hours the weevils came again, several more branches heavily laden down with insects floating down the creek—and ya know the really chilling thing? I never heard a crack or splash. Which left me with only one conclusion: they'd found branches elsewhere and carried them into the water. I mean, it was beyond belief, but what other explanation could there be? Again I had to go to war: sinking, soaking, drowning. A whole gang of them got past me at one point and started swarming over Thomas but he was so exhausted, he barely reacted.