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And Leonard was forced to agree。
〃As for the Pusser boy； I'll arrange for someone to take care of him。〃
〃What about the truck？〃 His voice； to his own ears； sounded panicky and stupid： the same old Harold Leonard。
〃Once again；〃 Blake said； 〃just trust me； alright？〃
And right then something went ping in Harold Leonard's head。 Maybe it was the way Blake leaned on the T…word till it squealed。 Maybe it was the whiff of reptile…smile on the other end of the line。
Either way； something clicked： and Harold Leonard realized that Blake was playing him like a fiddle； stroking his every insecurity even as he force…fed him his own rationalizations。 And Harold knew then that he was not a part of Werner's gang； and never ever would be。
It was a fact that made him proud。
Harold sat up a little more erect； as if he'd just grown in stature。 He reflected the smile back through the miles of fiber…optic cable； and was glad he did。
〃Sure will； Werner；〃 he promised。
〃And thanks for setting me straight。〃
Blake took another three minutes； give or take a second； to stroke Leonard utterly into submission。 Then the two men hung up； each certain in his own mind of what had to be done。
Blake leaned back in his chair； thought about the conversation past。 How easy it was to bamboozle the little shit。 And paradoxically； how close they had e to actual honest confrontation。 How wele； in so many respects； that confrontation would have actually been。
Of course； there was no place for straightforwardness in human politics。 The bank shot was always best。 As in the case of ol' Harry； his problems were best addressed by a separate phone call entirely。 A very simple directive； to be executed right away。
Ah； but Harry； he sighed to himself。 How nice it would have been to； just once； show you how I really feel。
Blake shrugged； dismissing the notion as shamelessly romantic。 He sat back and sucked on his Chivas； staring into the fire。
The fire was beautiful。
It knew no promise。
Twenty…Two
born of poison raised in poison claiming all form as its own it rested silent virulent hidden growing surrounded by trees and crawling shadow sharing itself with the mud and rock beneath its wheels the desolate road ahead the dead…end culvert where it all began in the days before the bridge awakening its seed in everything it touched reaching out in insatiable monstrous desire for more of its own kind
There were five dozen drums half…buried in the shit pit out back of Terry Honeger's land。
It was； in fact； Boonie and Drew's first dump site； way back at the dawn of their PWD affiliation。 Boonie'd picked it for many of the same reasons he was to later select Black Bridge： privacy； proximity； ease of disposal。
At the time； it had seemed like genius。 The Honegers； after all； were the most worthless fuckers in all of Felton Township； with a hardcore defile…your…own…nest tradition that spanned back over generations。 Of the three to four heavily wooded acres they owned or abutted； literally dozens of pockets had been cleared and devoted to rubble； kibble； and rot。
But the shit pit was their apex of achievement。 It was an old sinkhole； some eighty feet long and thirty feet wide； and a good fifteen deep at the center。 It had opened up one spring like an act of God； and far be it from the Honegers to quibble with Providence。
They had every kind of crap you could possibly dream of throwing away down there： washers； driers； box springs； packing crates； old tires and engine parts； cardboard； baseboard； drywall； brick； raggedy linen； regular garbage； on up to auto parts； including a rusted…out Gremlin that Terry's cousin Strong John had rolled straight over the steep embankment and left wheels…up like a capsized beetle。
The rains； when they came； filled the hole； making a rich garbage soup。 In the warmer months it was stagnant； home to snakes and mosquitoes and all manner of crawling； grublike things。 e the cold it became even more treacherous； a forgotten and frigid wasteland。
They would never even know the difference； Boonie had said。 And even if they did； fuck 'em。 Nobody could prove nothin'； and nothing could be traced。 Even if the Department of Environmental Resources caught on； the Honegers would be the ones to eat it； but even that problem never arose。
The Drew…spawn shuddered as Overmind sifted through its ruined brain： pirating thoughts； cannibalizing memories。
Remembering 。。。
The first trip had worked out well。 They were able to drag some debris aside； roll down the first two dozen drums； and pretty well bury it over。 But the fact was that they'd underestimated how much sheer space the drums took up。
The second trip had consisted of one half barrels； the other half cover： an abandoned sofa； some rickety lawn furniture； one hell of a lot of cardboard。 It had barely been enough。
By the third load； Boonie and Drew had learned two valuable lessons。 First： how amazingly fast this shit piled up。
And second： what a great big wonderful world it was。
The following year was devoted to locating spots that could acmodate anywhere from a dozen to a hundred…odd barrels。 They were few and far between； but they still managed to successfully unload in dozens of remote locations before stumbling on Black Bridge。
And destiny 。。。
The Drew…spawn reclined in the driver's seat； stretching and shifting in ways not intended for mortal flesh。
Before it was done； it intended to revisit them all。
It caught its own gaze in the rearview mirror； paused to marvel at the renovations it saw。
The face： no longer Drew's； but a dissipated； scum…sheened caricature。 Socket…skin receded； the ligature visible； like fleshy little points on a pass。 One eye； loose and paddleball dangling at the end of its rubbery optic stalk。
The head： staved in from the left； as if a demented soda jerk had doled out two scoops' worth of brains from mid…forehead to ear。 That ear； disengaged by the blow from its mooring； weighted at the lobe by a heavy cross earring and dangling by a thread。
The hair： a black tangle； clot…catcher to the squirt of pallid matter that had spritzed from his right earhole。
The skin： pocked and abscessed； the cartilage of his nose exposed； revealing the new forms and colors unfolding within 。。。
A cloud of gnats hovered； drawn like moths to a flame。 The Drew…spawn batted absently at them； a reflex action。
Beneath the red bandanna； it chuckled。 And why not？ All around it was staggering； delirious change。 Rippling through the ragged； self…mending upholstery。 Rumbling through the chassis； though the engine was down。 Awakening in rubber； petrochemical； and steel。
They had been there together； former man and machine； for over an hour。 Recouping。 Transforming。 One tire had blown going through the downed tree； spent the next five miles spewing M？bius strips and shreds of itself down Route 11 while the rim ground out fireworks against the pavement。
It had taken this long for the tire to grow back。
The Drew…spawn got out of the truck； shambled over to the lip of the shit pit。 Overmind paused； strategizing。 It was a ways down； and far too steep for this awkward form to manage。
No matter。
〃Nheh 。。。 〃 it gurgled； raggedy breath rasping through the punctured lungs。 It held up its swollen left hand； the fingerless leather glove stretched tight as a sausage casing。 With its right hand it grasped the portion of the left middle finger that jutted out。 〃Hnuh 。。。 uh！〃
The finger stub came off with a wet pop。
The Drew…spawn regarded it for a moment； an inch…long cylinder of meat and moist bone。 It turned the digit round and round as Overmind felt the essential oneness they shared。
It existed in both； rooted in the cells of both stump and stub。 It was aware of itself： as parasite and host； as seed and source。 Somewhere in the Drew…spawn's mind was a fragmented memory of a picture in a book： a touch； bringing life。
Drew…spawn and Overmind smiled； as best they could。
And tossed the piece into the pit。
Overmind didn't even stay to watch as the finger stub tumbled end over end into the soup。 It didn't need to。
It knew exactly where it was going。
The Drew…spawn clambered back into the truck and reached for the ignition； key now and forever at one with the hole。 It felt the essential unity； as the engine sparked to new life。 Felt itself part of the whole。
While down in the shit pit； sixty drums full of kindred spirits awakened to the touch。 To likewise throw off their shackles。
And set themselves free。
Twenty…Three
By quarter of one； Otis was fishing for the rudiments of consciousness in a vast Wild Turkey ocean of his own design。 He had filled his head with liquid lead； it sagged on his shoulders； too heavy for thought。
That was the whole idea。
In the room at the back of the trailer； Boonie was making those noises again。 Terrible noises。 In his sleep。 Evidently； no bination of shots and downs was enough to kill this pain； but at least it had him down and out； had kept him so for the last four hours。
Otis