CHAPTER SIX
The Weenie Roast
I
The moment Wilburn’s body hit the floor, the vexpids turned around—and left. Some scuttled up the remnants of the walls while the rest filed out through what did not remain of the walls, moving with unhurried, orderly efficiency like patrons exiting a theater. Ez might have been invisible for all the notice they took as she jostled her way through them to where Wilburn lay, and knelt, pressing an ear to his chest. He was alive. The buzzing of the swarm made it impossible to hear, but she could feel Wilburn’s heartbeat through his shirt, solid and steady, although she wasn’t much relieved. Few poisons killed instantly, she knew. It might take hours, even days for the full extent of the damage to manifest. It was insanity to hope. The fact that the hornets were leaving bespoke doom. It meant their task had been accomplished—their purpose fulfilled.
In her mind’s eye Ez watched the corruption spread through Wilburn’s body, radiating outward from the point of the sting like a splash of violet ink. Ought she to amputate the finger? The whole hand? …Or was that only for infections? She tried to remember how her father used to treat snake-bitten animals and couldn’t, and she was pretty sure she would have if it had been amputation, so… not that. Something dull then, like a poultice, perhaps yarrow and quillroot extract with… but a poultice? What was she thinking? This was vexpid venom, no mere common snake bite. If an antidote existed it would surely belong to the realm of the impossible, the unreal—magic. Despair washed over her. Once again, she could do nothing for her son. The only person who could possibly help Wilburn now was… Gramma Fark…
Ez’s throat tightened. Thoralf stepped back to give her room as she crawled, half choking with tears, to Gramma’s side. The older woman could hardly have looked deader than she did. But when Ez pressed a finger to the artery under the corner of her jaw, she found a pulse, albeit ominously faint. “Wake up,” she begged, squeezing Gramma’s shoulder. “Wake up, please. I need you. Please. Please… WAKE UP, DAMN YOU!” Gramma’s head lolled as Ez shook her roughly, only stopping when Thoralf whinnied in protest.
“Sorry!” Ez gasped. She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily. You’re in shock, she told herself. Well, no shit, she told herself. It was very hot. Ez coughed. It was very hot. As the hornets’ humming faded in the distance, a new sound was growing louder: a crackling, hissing, rumbling roar. Ez turned around. Dozens of vexpid carcasses in varying states of dismemberment littered the room, their mangled shapes jutting from a quagmire of thick, acid-green gumbo. And thank heaven it was so, for without the gumbo, the fire would have spread across the floor, whereas at present it was confined to the cottage’s southwestern quadrant, where both of the oil lamps had broken. It was a mark of Ez’s weariness that for a moment she considered doing absolutely nothing about it. The cottage walls, which were of solid brick, could not themselves catch fire, though they certainly could break if they got hot enough. All that was burning was the table and the chairs, the kitchen cabinetry, a window frame, and the front door: in other words, every wooden thing the fire could touch. But the smoke couldn’t accumulate too thickly thanks to the extra ventilation the hornets had added. Perhaps she could get away with just… not putting it out. After all, there wasn’t much dry wood left to be burned. Even as she thought it, a large ember jumped from the top of the linen cabinet and landed on the bottom step of the loft staircase, which burst instantly afire.
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Damn hell… Ez staggered to her feet, then nearly toppled over as a head rush whited out her vision. No no no. She couldn’t lose consciousness now—they’d all be toast. Bracing a hand on Thoralf’s shoulder, she waited with her neck bowed, her chest heaving. After several long moments, a semblance of strength returned to her, and she stumbled her way through the wreckage to a missing section of wall and thence into the outer darkness. Shovel, she thought. She moved robotically in the direction of the potato patch, focusing on not focusing on the many boiling pains throughout her body. She gulped deep lungfuls of the chilly air and found herself reviving slightly. The way back was rendered easier by her use of the shovel as a walking stick, but as she set to flinging gore into the flames, fatigue slammed over her anew.
Her vision narrowed. One more scoop, became her mantra. One more scoop… One more scoop… Nock, draw, loose—no wait. One more scoop… She was vaguely aware of Thoralf kicking bricks around or… something… she was too tired to check, but she assumed he must be helping. One more scoop…
The hornet sludge made an ideal extinguishing agent, for it was both thick enough to smother oil fires, and wet enough to quench the burning wood. The only drawback was the smoke. Greasy black clouds of it chugged off the dying embers, and it was this, on top of the pervading stench of slaughter, which at last forced Ez to be sick. Dropping the shovel, she bent over and retched until no more would come. As she straightened up, ears ringing, her vision a blur, she was struck by the self-evident fact that she was finished. Her body had given all it could. Now it was over. Not over over, she hoped… just... for awhile. She felt as if she’d crossed an ocean since waking up that morning. Had it really only been a day? Just one?
“Thoralf,” she mumbled, “can you…?” She gestured blearily to the few remaining places where the rubble still smoldered. Fortunately, Thoralf stamped to the affirmative, because Ez hadn't the strength to pick the shovel up again. She barely made it back to Wilburn before falling to the floor. Her final act, as darkness closed around her, was to reach out for his hand, his warm, blessedly living hand. Then she was gone.
