Free The Satyr's Head: Tales of Terror by Brian Lumley, Ramsey Campbell, David A. Riley

atop the ladder, damning doctors who could not reverse time at fifty, damning anything and everything in his path; hoping that the minor irritations of thirst, mosquitoes, and rough living might distract from the greater pain at the back of his mind; but having even that last hope dashed.
    However he still had enough breath to swear at the white dust that stung his eyes, caked on his lips, and clogged his nose. His rich and varied oaths stirred a faint ghost of the sergeant (decorated in Korea) buried under the layers of fat accumulated while sitting around in executive suites. That sergeant would not be floored forever by the double defeat in bed and board-room. That sergeant would come back swinging. Even as he swore, he noticed the shack.
    It was a crazily derelict heap of boards, held together more by habit than joinery. It could hardly have been a human habitation. Yet a solitary man stood hoeing a patch in front of the porch.
    The car stopped. The man was intent on his work, and presumably had not heard. At any rate he paid no heed, but continued leisurely to ply his hoe. The shack was set back over a hundred yards from the road, and little more could be made of the worker except that he wore ragged denims, and his carroty hair glowed in the sunlight.
    The driver rubbed the excess dust from his spectacles, and looked again. Still the man with the hoe disregarded him.
    ‘Hi, there! Hi!’
    The movement of the hoe slowed to a stop. There was a pause for a count of about forty, as though the red-head were deciding whether he had really heard anything: then he turned. Shading his eyes against the sun, he peered at the car. At last he ambled towards it. The driver waved as the ragged denims approached.
    ‘Howdy, Tindy,’ shouted the red-head.
    ‘Tindy?’ Something besides the greeting puzzled the driver. In spite of the heat there was no sweat on the red-head’s face; in spite of his work no dust on the stubble. Perhaps out here they were so used to discomfort that it had no effect on them. The ex-sergeant was again reminded of what years of soft living had done to him.
    ‘Glad t’see y’again, Tindy,’ grinned the red-head.
    ‘I’m not Tindy,’ said the driver.
    ‘Not Tindy?’
    ‘My name isn’t Tindy,’ rasped the driver; then regretting his irritation, ‘it’s—er—it’s Driver.’
    ‘Driver, huh?’
    ‘Driver.’
    ‘I’m Keziah. Call me Kez.’
    ‘Can I get to Stotetown this way?’
    ‘I coulda took an oath as you was Herby Tindy.’
    ‘I’m trying to…’
    ‘O’ course, now I come to look at you, I can see you’re not.’
    ‘Tell me...’
    ‘You’re younger than Tindy. Better kept. Herb Tindy was kinda scrawny.’
    Driver closed his eyes and grasped the steering wheel, clicking back the rising anger, not listening to the musing drawl.
    ‘You’re nicer rounded. Like to see a rounded man. A man oughta have plenty of flesh on his bones. Weren’t moren’ a mouthful on old Tindy.’
    Even when Driver heard the words they seemed to have no meaning. The sound added up to no more than the buzzing of a lazy fly. ‘Flesh,’ the hayseed had seemed to say. ‘Mouthful.’
    Driver turned to Kez, and was faced with a gleaming smileful of white teeth. The fool was friendly, and was entitled at least to a civil answer.
    ‘What did you say?’ asked Driver.
    ‘ You aiming to sell sumpn’?’ said Kez. ‘We ain’t got much to offer in return ’cept a few old roots.’
    ‘I’m not selling anything,’ replied Driver.
    ‘Beans, now,’ went on Kez. ‘I guess you ain’t got no canned beans in back there:’
    ‘No beans,’ confirmed Driver.
    ‘Beans make mighty tasty eatin’,’ said Kez. ‘But if you ain’t sellin’ anything, I guess you’ll be wanting sumpn’.’
    ‘I want…’
    ‘Aw!’ A bellow of laughter interrupted Driver, and Kez clapped his hands with sudden understanding. ‘Now I know what you want. You’ll be wantin’ a drink o’ cool, clear,