Phantoms

now… wasn’t that somethin’?”
    Kale scratched his itchy calf. Beneath the itchiness, there was now a dull little spot of pain, throbbing.
     
    It had reached the end of its feeding period. In fact, it had overfed. It had intended to move toward the sea later today, through a series of caverns, subterranean channels, and underground watercourses. It had wanted to travel out beyond the edge of the continent, into the ocean trenches. Countless times before, it had passed its lethargic periods—sometimes lasting many years—in the cool, dark depths of the sea. Down there where the pressure was so enormous that few forms of life could survive, down there where absolute lightlessness and silence provided little stimulation, the ancient enemy was able to slow down its metabolic processes; down there, it could enter a much-desired dreamlike state, in which it could ruminate in perfect solitude.
    But it would never reach the sea. Never again. It was dying.
    The concept of its own death was so new that it had not yet adjusted to the grim reality. In the geological substructure of Snowtop Mountain, the shape-changer continued to slough off diseased portions of itself. It crept deeper, deeper, across the underworld river that flowed in Stygian darkness, deeper still, farther down into the infernal regions of the earth, into the chambers of Orcus, Hades, Osiris, Erebus, Minos, Loki, Satan. Each time that it believed itself free of the devouring microorganism, a peculiar tingling sensation arose at some point in the amorphous tissue, a wrongness, and then there came a pain quite unlike human pain, and it was forced to rid itself of even more infected flesh. It went deeper, down into jahanna, into Gehenna, into Sheol, Abbadon, into the Pit. Over the centuries it had eagerly assumed the role of Satan and other evil figures, which men had attributed to it, had amused itself by catering to their superstitions. Now, it was condemned to a fate consistent with the mythology it had helped create. It was bitterly aware of the irony. It had been cast down. It had been damned. It would dwell in darkness and despair for the rest of its life—which could be measured in hours.
    At least it had left behind two apostles. Kale and Terr. They would do its work even after it had ceased to exist. They would spread terror and take revenge. They were perfectly suited to the job.
    Now, reduced to only a brain and minimal supporting tissue, the shape-changer cowered in a chthonian niche of densely packed rock and waited for the end. It spent its last minutes seething with hatred, raging at all mankind.
     
    Kale rolled up his trousers and looked at the calf of his right leg. In the lantern light, he saw two small red spots; they were swollen, itchy, and very tender.
    “Insect bites,” he said.
    Gene Terr looked. “Ticks. They burrow under the skin. The itchin’ won’t stop until you get ‘em out. Burn ‘em out with a cigarette.”
    “Got any?”
    Terr grinned. “Couple joints of grass. They’ll work just as well, man. And the ticks’ll die happy.”
    They smoked the joints, and Kale used the glowing tip of his to burn out the ticks. It didn’t hurt much.
    “In the woods,” Terr said, “keep your pants tucked in your boots.”
    “They were tucked into my boots.”
    “Yeah? Then how’d them ticks get underneath?”
    “I don’t know.”
    After they had smoked more grass, Kale frowned and said, “He promised us no one could hurt or stop us. He said we’d be under His protection.”
    “That’s right, man. Invincible.”
    “So how come I’ve got to put up with tick bites?” Kale asked.
    “Hey, man, it’s no big thing.”
    “But if we’re really protected—”
    “Listen, maybe the tick bites are sort of like His way of sealing the bargain you made with Him. With a little blood. Get it?”
    “Then why don’t you have tick bites?”
    Jeeter shrugged. “Ain’t important, man. Besides, the fuckin’ ticks bit you before you struck your bargain—didn’t they?”
    “Oh.” Kale nodded, fuzzy-headed from dope. “Yeah. That’s right.”
    They were silent for a while.
    Then Kale said, “When do you think we can leave here?”
    “They’re probably still lookin’ for you pretty hard.”
    “But if they can’t hurt me—”
    “No sense makin’ the job harder for ourselves,” Terr said.
    “I guess so.”
    “We’ll lay low for like a few days. Worst of the heat will be off by then.”
    “Then we do the five like