Free Tornado Alley by William S. Burroughs Page B

kicked in the crotch.
    "So you've seen it?"
    He nodded, shuddering. "Something between a centipede and a plant, growing in his intestines, spreading its roots."
    "We could poison it, maybe? With an injection?"
    "Ticklish business. It's tapped into Reggie's bloodstream, poor chap. Well, it's either that, or—"
    We looked at each other and understood. Luckily, we had some rotenone. The doctor filled his syringe and we went in. The stench was enough to knock a man flat on his ass, it got into your throat and your lungs and gagged you.
    Oh God, now we can see it, moving around under his skin. We give him a knock-out dose of morphine and largactil.
    A quick slash and a grab with pliers, and he has the horrible red head—the creature was stirring and writhing and roots and heads sticking up everywhere. He shoved the syringe in and drove it home, then the needle was torn from his hand and he leaped back.
    "Get out of here, it's spitting eggs!"— and larvae and in fact Reggie lost all human semblance as the heads and roots protruded from every inch of his body, spurting out larvae with transparent needle teeth.
    I paused only to shoot Reggie in the head. Then we ran for our lives, but we were too late, we were covered with the larvae, digging into our eyes and nose and every orifice eating their way in...
    But we were survivors. We bathed in kerosene which serendipitously was to hand. Like any mutant organism, this was incredibly susceptible to biologic and chemical agents, being without immunity—a whiff of kerosene and my nose is clean. The tent and the ground around it we converted into a pool of cleansing fire. Unthinkable to make camp here.
    We walk until fatigue and darkness call a halt. After a dinner of tinned meat, Wilson lights his pipe.
    "He must have stumbled onto something."
    "You mean that hell-creature was conceived in a laboratory?"
    "Afraid so, old thing."
    "Then none of us are safe!"
    "Afraid not, old bean. You know what makes a jumping bean jump? It's the jumping bug inside it."
    "What do you propose?"
    "We will find the laboratory and destroy it."
    "What with? Three handguns and a shotgun?"
    "This complete Shakespeare is impregnated with state-of-the-art implosion agents. Much more destructive than the extroverted, out-going formulations."
    "How activated?"
    "In several ways. If captured and facing ... you have but to say: Out! Out! brief candle, or the book can be activated by remote telepathic control."
    "Do you know where the laboratory is located?"
    "Of course. I have my orders, and the co-ordinates."
    "Well, let's go."
    We set out at dawn. End of a dead-end street—that is what we are looking for.
    1) Three leads. High walls. A sort of face on a bladder.
    2) A museum. I was in a room with exhibits—no exits. Look down to my right and I see an open space ahead, and a sunlit wall about one hundred feet away. Something wrong about the wall. It is a painting. A painted wall. It is not really ouside the museum.
    3) The dead-end reeking street, stinking of rotten time and light.
     
     

the FUs

     
     
     
    The old householder is awakened by someone beating on his door.
    "Oh God," he moans, "another drunken Indian." He slips on his army jacket and drops a snub-nosed Charter Arms revolver—the one that killed Lennon—in the side pocket. He leans against the wall for a moment, feeling a sharp pain in his left arm and shoulder.
    "Go away. I'll call the police."
    "Won't get here in time to do any good. You ruined my daughter."
    "We'll be there right away, sir." The door is about to give way. The householder stands about eight feet away from the door, gun leveled. Sirens approaching.
    The door gives way. The Indian rushes in with a baseball bat, his eyes wild, like an enraged horse. The squad car screeches to a stop outside. The householder shoots the Indian in the leg. The Indian falls, groaning, and rolls on his side.
    Door bursts open and wild-eyed cops rush in, guns drawn. Seeing a man in an army-type