Free Thirsty by M. T. Anderson Page A

looking at my mouth.
    “Hm?” Tom prompts.
    I gabble lamely, “I’m — I’m a victim of peer pressure.”
    “What?” says Jerk.
    “Shut up,” says Tom. He has turned and is walking away through the squat trees. He says, “We’re sick of your complaining.”
    Now the wind is very violent on the hilltop. The dead branches are clacking together.
    Tom and Jerk are running away from me. They are leaving me alone in the night.
    I run to catch up with them, but I am too slow. They are hopping by strides through the trees.
    I dash as quickly as I can through the creaking branches. The branches tear at me and I can’t see well — my night vision has been blotted out by Tom’s flashlight. I can hear them ahead of me, and Bongo I see a couple of times, flying one way or another.
    I am completely alone now. That is what I realize. Tom and Jerk must hate me. Even if Tom is just playing a stupid joke and does not realize how close he has come to the truth, to my secret, this trick, this dumb trick, shows he can’t be trusted. Whatever happens to me, I can’t tell them now.
    I catch glimpses of light in front of me. I can’t tell if it’s the flashlight or the headlights of some car, prowling on the dark road below.
    I stop and listen.
    Everything is silent, except the wind in the trees. It rocks them gently.
    Something scurries through the woods above me, back toward the hilltop. I think it is a falling branch or some other piece of forest detritus.
    Now I can see the trunks of trees. My vision has improved. I can see the tree trunks standing.
    I stand there in that groping wood. I try to get my bearings.
    Pushing at the bracken, I head down toward the base of the hill.
    There is someone behind me, stalking through the woods.
    “Tom,” I call. “Jerk.”
    But there is only one person, one pair of footsteps, and it has sped up now that it has heard my voice. There is no answer. Just a quick walking.
    I turn; I run. I’m lost in a choking nest of firs. I keep brushing them out of the way. There are more.
    The Thing with the One-Piece Hair. It must be the Thing.
    I look behind me and see it pacing down the hill, chasing me. Branches rake across its dead flesh, but it doesn’t push them out of the way. Some of them snap off against its face. It has its eyes locked on me and does not blink.
    I am scrambling through underbrush, and sticks jam against my arms, and I am all alone in the echoing forest with the Thing.
    It keeps walking toward me, with its arms hanging at its sides. I can hear it, and while I am hopping through the bracken and the broken trees, its steps are perfectly rhythmic.
    “Help!” I am screaming as loud as I can. “God, will you help! Help! Help! Help! No!”
    The ghastly emptiness of the forest, the miles and miles of hikeable trail, the lonely roads, no relief I can think of —
    And then I hear its voice. It speaks not in one voice, but in the voice of a congregation, with the voices of women and men together, calling as one, “Stop. Do not run. That will mean more pain for you. Running will mean more pain. Stop.”
    I look back, and it is not far behind me, just the length of a bus, except that buses don’t go through the woods; and it is stretching out its sluggish arm toward me — and it calls a strange word —
    And as if in a dream, I cannot move except in slow motion. My foot rebounds against the ground — I push myself off and creep forward through the strangling air.
    The Thing is walking closer.
    I grab on to trees and try to pull myself along. “God!” I try to scream, but the air is as thick as Jell-O in my lungs. I feel it purging outward, slow and thick as phlegm. I am mute. I am trapped in an arc, both my feet off the ground.
    The Thing steps over a tree trunk.
    I feel the ripple as my heart beats once.
    The Thing raises its hand. It looks for a moment at its blunt, dusty fingers. And then the monster’s cold flesh wraps around my wrist.
    Suddenly, time is real again.
    I