There was no path, only the almost vertical ascent. Crumbled rock for a
few yards, with the roots of sage finding their scanty life in the dry soil.
Then jagged outcroppings of crude crags, sometimes with accidental footholds,
sometimes with overhanging and untrustworthy branches of greasewood, sometimes
with no aid to climbing but the leverage of your muscles and the ingenuity of
your balance.
The sage was as drably green as the rock was drably brown. The only color
was the occasional rosy spikes of a barrel cactus.
Hugh Tallant swung himself up onto the last pinnacle. It had a
deliberate, shaped look about it—a petrified fortress of Lilliputians, a
Gibraltar of pygmies. Tallant perched on its battlements and unslung his field
glasses.
The desert valley spread below him. The tiny cluster of buildings that
was Oasis, the exiguous cluster of palms that gave name to the town and shelter
to his own tent and to the shack he was building, the dead-ended highway
leading straightforwardly to nothing, the oiled roads diagramming the vacant
blocks of an optimistic subdivision.
Tallant saw none of these. His glasses were fixed beyond the oasis and
the town of Oasis on the dry lake. The gliders were clear and vivid to him, and
the uniformed men busy with them were as sharply and minutely visible as a nest
of ants under glass. The training school was more than usually active. One
glider in particular, strange to Tallant, seemed the focus of attention. Men
would come and examine it and glance back at the older models in comparison.
Only the corner of Tallant's left eye was not preoccupied with the new
glider. In that corner something moved, something little and thin and brown as
the earth. Too large for a rabbit, much too small for a man. It darted across
that corner of vision, and Tallant found gliders oddly hard to concentrate on.
He set down the bifocals and deliberately looked about him. His pinnacle
surveyed the narrow, flat area of the crest. Nothing stirred. Nothing stood out
against the sage and rock but one barrel of rosy spikes. He took up the glasses
again and resumed his observations. When he was done, he methodically entered
the results in the little black notebook.
His hand was still white. The desert is cold and often sunless in winter.
But it was a firm hand, and as well trained as his eyes, fully capable of
recording faithfully the designs and dimensions which they had registered so
accurately.
Once his hand slipped, and he had to erase and redraw, leaving a smudge
that displeased him. The lean, brown thing had slipped across the edge of his
vision again. Going toward the east edge, he would swear, where that set of
rocks jutted like the spines on the back of a stegosaur.
Only when his notes were completed did he yield to curiosity, and even
then with cynical self-reproach. He was physically tired, for him an unusual
state, from this daily climbing and from clearing the ground for his
shack-to-be. The eye muscles play odd nervous tricks. There could be nothing
behind the stegosaur's armor.
There was nothing. Nothing alive and moving. Only the torn and
half-plucked carcass of a bird, which looked as though it had been gnawed by
some small animal.
· · · · ·
It was halfway down the hill—hill in Western terminology, though anywhere east of the Rockies it would have been considered a sizable mountain—that Tallant again had a glimpse of a moving figure.
But this was no trick of a nervous eye. It was not little nor thin nor
brown. It was tall and broad and wore a loud red-and-black lumberjacket. It
bellowed, "Tallant!" in a cheerful and lusty voice.
Tallant drew near the man and said, "Hello." He paused and
added, "Your advantage, I think."
The man grinned broadly. "Don't know me? Well, I daresay ten years
is a long time, and the California desert ain't exactly the Chinese rice
fields. How's stuff? Still loaded down with Secrets for Sale?"
Tallant tried desperately not to react to that shot, but he stiffened a
little. "Sorry. The prospector getup had me fooled. Good to see you again,
Morgan."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Just having my little joke," he
smiled. "Of course you wouldn't have no serious reason for mountain
climbing around a glider school, now, would you? And you'd kind of need field
glasses to keep an eye on the pretty birdies."
"I'm out here for my health." Tallant's voice sounded unnatural
even to himself.
"Sure, sure. You were always in it for your health. And come to
think of it, my own health ain't been none too good lately. I've got me a
little cabin way to hell-and-gone around here, and I do me a little prospecting
now and then. And somehow it just strikes me, Tallant, like maybe I hit a
pretty good lode today."
"Nonsense, old man. You can see—"
"I'd sure hate to tell any of them Army men out at the field some of
the stories I know about China and the kind of men I used to know out there.
Wouldn't cotton to them stories a bit, the Army wouldn't. But if I was to have
a drink too many and get talkative-like—"
"Tell you what," Tallant suggested brusquely. "It's
getting near sunset now, and my tent's chilly for evening visits. But drop
around in the morning and we'll talk over old times. Is rum still your
tipple?"
"Sure is. Kind of expensive now, you understand—"
"I'll lay some in. You can find the place easily—over by the oasis.
And we … we might be able to talk about your prospecting, too."
Tallant's thin lips were set firm as he walked away.
· · · · ·
The bartender opened a bottle of beer and plunked it on the damp-circled counter. "That'll be twenty cents," he said, then added as an afterthought, "Want a glass? Sometimes tourists do."
Tallant looked at the others sitting at the counter—the red-eyed and
unshaven old man, the flight sergeant unhappily drinking a Coke—it was after
Army hours for beer—the young man with the long, dirty trench coat and the pipe
and the new-looking brown beard—and saw no glasses. "I guess I won't be a
tourist," he decided.
This was the first time Tallant had had a chance to visit the Desert
Sport Spot. It was as well to be seen around in a community. Otherwise people
begin to wonder and say, "Who is that man out by the oasis? Why don't you
ever see him anyplace?"
The Sport Spot was quiet that night. The four of them at the counter, two
Army boys shooting pool, and a half-dozen of the local men gathered about a
round poker table, soberly and wordlessly cleaning a construction worker whose
mind seemed more on his beer than on his cards.
"You just passing through?" the bartender asked sociably.
Tallant shook his head. "I'm moving in. When the Army turned me down
for my lungs, I decided I better do something about it. Heard so much about
your climate here I thought I might as well try it."
"Sure thing," the bartender nodded. "You take up until
they started this glider school, just about every other guy you meet in the
desert is here for his health. Me, I had sinus, and look at me now. It's the
air."
Tallant breathed the atmosphere of smoke and beer suds, but did not
smile. "I'm looking forward to miracles."
"You'll get 'em. Whereabouts you staying?"
"Over that way a bit. The agent called it 'the old Carker
place.'"
Tallant felt the curious listening silence and frowned. The bartender had
started to speak and then thought better of it. The young man with the beard
looked at him oddly. The old man fixed him with red and watery eyes that had a
faded glint of pity in them. For a moment, Tallant felt a chill that had
nothing to do with the night air of the desert.
The old man drank his beer in quick gulps and frowned as though trying to
formulate a sentence. At last he wiped beer from his bristly lips and said,
"You wasn't aiming to stay in the adobe, was you?"
"No. It's pretty much gone to pieces. Easier to rig me up a little
shack than try to make the adobe livable. Meanwhile, I've got a tent."
"That's all right, then, mebbe. But mind you don't go poking around
that there adobe."
"I don't think I'm apt to. But why not? Want another beer?"
The old man shook his head reluctantly and slid from his stool to the
ground. "No thanks. I don't rightly know as I—"
"Yes?"
"Nothing. Thanks all the same." He turned and shuffled to the
door.
Tallant smiled. "But why should I stay clear of the adobe?" he
called after him.
The old man mumbled.
"What?"
"They bite," said the old man, and went out shivering into the
night.
· · · · ·
The bartender was back at his post. "I'm glad he didn't take that beer you offered him," he said. "Along about this time in the evening I have to stop serving him. For once he had the sense to quit."
Tallant pushed his own empty bottle forward. "I hope I didn't
frighten him away."
"Frighten? Well, mister, I think maybe that's just what you did do.
He didn't want beer that sort of came, like you might say, from the old Carker
place. Some of the old-timers here, they're funny that way."
Tallant grinned. "Is it haunted?"
"Not what you'd call haunted, no. No ghosts there that I ever heard
of." He wiped the counter with a cloth and seemed to wipe the subject away
with it.
The flight sergeant pushed his Coke bottle away, hunted in his pocket for
nickels, and went over to the pinball machine. The young man with the beard
slid onto his vacant stool. "Hope old Jake didn't worry you," he
said.
Tallant laughed. "I suppose every town has its deserted homestead
with a grisly tradition. But this sounds a little different. No ghosts, and
they bite. Do you know anything about it?"
"A little," the young man said seriously. "A little. Just
enough to—"
Tallant was curious. "Have one on me and tell me about it."
The flight sergeant swore bitterly at the machine.
Beer gurgled through the beard. "You see," the young man began,
"the desert's so big you can't be alone in it. Ever notice that? It's all
empty and there's nothing in sight but, there's always something moving over
there where you can't quite see it. It's something very dry and thin and brown,
only when you look around it isn't there. Ever see it?"
"Optical fatigue—" Tallant began.
"Sure. I know. Every man to his own legend. There isn't a tribe of
Indians hasn't got some way of accounting for it. You've heard of the Watchers?
And the twentieth-century white man comes along, and it's optical fatigue. Only
in the nineteenth century things weren't quite the same, and there were the
Carkers."
"You've got a special localized legend?"
"Call it that. You glimpse things out of the corner of your mind,
same like you glimpse lean, dry things out of the corner of your eye. You
encase 'em in solid circumstance and they're not so bad. That is known as the
Growth of Legend. The Folk Mind in Action. You take the Carkers and the things
you don't quite see and you put 'em together. And they bite."
Tallant wondered how long that beard had been absorbing beer. "And
what were the Carkers?" he prompted politely.
"Ever hear of Sawney Bean? Scotland—reign of James First, or maybe
the Sixth, though I think Roughead's wrong on that for once. Or let's be more
modern—ever hear of the Benders? Kansas in the 1870s? No? Ever hear of
Procrustes? Or Polyphemus? Or Fee-fi-fo-fum?
"There are ogres, you know. They're no legend. They're fact, they
are. The inn where nine guests left for every ten that arrived, the mountain
cabin that sheltered travelers from the snow, sheltered them all winter till
the melting spring uncovered their bones, the lonely stretches of road that so
many passengers traveled halfway—you'll find 'em everywhere. All over Europe
and pretty much in this country too before communications became what they are.
Profitable business. And it wasn't just the profit. The Benders made money,
sure; but that wasn't why they killed all their victims as carefully as a
kosher butcher. Sawney Bean got so he didn't give a damn about the profit; he
just needed to lay in more meat for the winter.
"And think of the chances you'd have at an oasis."
"So these Carkers of yours were, as you call them, ogres?"
"Carkers, ogres—maybe they were Benders. The Benders were never seen
alive, you know, after the townspeople found those curiously butchered bones.
There's a rumor they got this far west. And the time checks pretty well. There
wasn't any town here in the eighties. Just a couple of Indian families, last of
a dying tribe living on at the oasis. They vanished after the Carkers moved in.
That's not so surprising. The white race is a sort of super-ogre, anyway.
Nobody worried about them. But they used to worry about why so many travelers
never got across this stretch of desert. The travelers used to stop over at the
Carkers', you see, and somehow they often never got any farther. Their wagons'd
be found maybe fifteen miles beyond in the desert. Sometimes they found the
bones, too, parched and white. Gnawed-looking, they said sometimes."
"And nobody ever did anything about these Carkers?"
"Oh, sure. We didn't have King James Sixth—only I still think it was
First—to ride up on a great white horse for a gesture, but twice Army
detachments came here and wiped them all out."
"Twice? One wiping-out would do for most families." Tallant
smiled.
"Uh-uh. That was no slip. They wiped out the Carkers twice because,
you see, once didn't do any good. They wiped 'em out and still travelers
vanished and still there were gnawed bones. So they wiped 'em out again. After
that they gave up, and people detoured the oasis. It made a longer, harder
trip, but after all—"
Tallant laughed. "You mean to say these Carkers were immortal?"
"I don't know about immortal. They somehow just didn't die very
easy. Maybe, if they were the Benders—and I sort of like to think they
were—they learned a little more about what they were doing out here on the desert.
Maybe they put together what the Indians knew and what they knew, and it
worked. Maybe Whatever they made their sacrifices to understood them better out
here than in Kansas."
"And what's become of them—aside from seeing them out of the corner
of the eye?"
"There's forty years between the last of the Carker history and this
new settlement at the oasis. And people won't talk much about what they learned
here in the first year or so. Only that they stay away from that old Carker
adobe. They tell some stories—The priest says he was sitting in the
confessional one hot Saturday afternoon and thought he heard a penitent come
in. He waited a long time and finally lifted the gauze to see was anybody
there. Something was there, and it bit. He's got three fingers on his right
hand now, which looks funny as hell when he gives a benediction."
Tallant pushed their two bottles toward the bartender. "That yarn,
my young friend, has earned another beer. How about it, bartender? Is he always
cheerful like this, or is this just something he's improvised for my
benefit?"
The bartender set out the fresh bottles with great solemnity. "Me, I
wouldn't've told you all that myself, but then, he's a stranger too and maybe
don't feel the same way we do here. For him it's just a story."
"It's more comfortable that way," said the young man with the
beard, and he took a firm hold on his beer bottle.
"But as long as you've heard that much," said the bartender,
"you might as well—It was last winter, when we had that cold spell. You heard
funny stories that winter. Wolves coming into prospectors' cabins just to warm
up. Well, business wasn't so good. We don't have a license for hard liquor, and
the boys don't drink much beer when it's that cold. But they used to come in
anyway because we've got that big oil burner.
"So one night there's a bunch of 'em in here—old Jake was here, that
you was talking to, and his dog Jigger—and I think I hear somebody else come
in. The door creaks a little. But I don't see nobody, and the poker game's going,
and we're talking just like we're talking now, and all of a sudden I hear a
kind of a noise like crack! over there in that corner behind the juke
box near the burner.
"I go over to see what goes and it gets away before I can see it
very good. But it was little and thin and it didn't have no clothes on. It
must've been damned cold that winter."
"And what was the cracking noise?" Tallant asked dutifully.
"That? That was a bone. It must've strangled Jigger without any
noise. He was a little dog. It ate most of the flesh, and if it hadn't cracked
the bone for the marrow it could've finished. You can still see the spots over
there. The blood never did come out."
There had been silence all through the story. Now suddenly all hell broke
loose. The flight sergeant let out a splendid yell and began pointing excitedly
at the pinball machine and yelling for his payoff. The construction worker
dramatically deserted the poker game, knocking his chair over in the process,
and announced lugubriously that these guys here had their own rules, see?
Any atmosphere of Carker-inspired horror was dissipated. Tallant whistled
as he walked over to put a nickel in the jukebox. He glanced casually at the
floor. Yes, there was a stain, for what that was worth.
He smiled cheerfully and felt rather grateful to the Carkers. They were
going to solve his blackmail problem very neatly.
· · · · ·
Tallant dreamed of power that night. It was a common dream with him. He was a ruler of the new American Corporate State that would follow the war; and he said to this man, "Come!" and he came, and to that man, "Go!" and he went, and to his servants, "Do this!" and they did it.
Then the young man with the beard was standing before him, and the dirty
trench coat was like the robes of an ancient prophet. And the young man said,
"You see yourself riding high, don't you? Riding the crest of the wave—the
Wave of the Future, you call it. But there's a deep, dark undertow that you
don't see, and that's a part of the Past. And the Present and even your Future.
There is evil in mankind that is blacker even than your evil, and infinitely
more ancient."
And there was something in the shadows behind the young man, something
little and lean and brown.
· · · · ·
Tallant's dream did not disturb him the following morning. Nor did the thought of the approaching interview with Morgan. He fried his bacon and eggs and devoured them cheerfully. The wind had died down for a change, and the sun was warm enough so that he could strip to the waist while he cleared land for his shack. His machete glinted brilliantly as it swung through the air and struck at the roots of the brush.
When Morgan arrived his full face was red and sweating.
"It's cool over there in the shade of the adobe," Tallant
suggested. "We'll be more comfortable." And in the comfortable shade
of the adobe he swung the machete once and clove Morgan's full, red, sweating
face in two.
It was so simple. It took less effort than uprooting a clump of sage. And
it was so safe. Morgan lived in a cabin way to hell-and-gone and was often away
on prospecting trips. No one would notice his absence for months, if then. No
one had any reason to connect him with Tallant. And no one in Oasis would hunt
for him in the Carker-haunted adobe.
The body was heavy, and the blood dripped warm on Tallant's bare skin.
With relief he dumped what had been Morgan on the floor of the adobe. There
were no boards, no flooring. Just the earth. Hard, but not too hard to dig a
grave in. And no one was likely to come poking around in this taboo territory
to notice the grave. Let a year or so go by, and the grave and the bones it
contained would be attributed to the Carkers.
The corner of Tallant's eye bothered him again. Deliberately he looked
about the interior of the adobe.
The little furniture was crude and heavy, with no attempt to smooth down
the strokes of the ax. It was held together with wooden pegs or half-rotted
thongs. There were age-old cinders in the fireplace, and the dusty shards of a
cooking jar among them.
And there was a deeply hollowed stone, covered with stains that might
have been rust, if stone rusted. Behind it was a tiny figure, clumsily
fashioned of clay and sticks. It was something like a man and something like a
lizard, and something like the things that flit across the corner of the eye.
Curious now, Tallant peered about further. He penetrated to the corner
that the one unglassed window lighted but dimly. And there he let out a little
choking gasp. For a moment he was rigid with horror. Then he smiled and all but
laughed aloud.
This explained everything. Some curious individual had seen this, and
from his accounts had burgeoned the whole legend. The Carkers had indeed
learned something from the Indians, but that secret was the art of embalming.
It was a perfect mummy. Either the Indian art had shrunk bodies, or this
was that of a ten-year-old boy. There was no flesh. Only skin and bone and
taut, dry stretches of tendon between. The eyelids were closed; the sockets
looked hollow under them. The nose was sunken and almost lost. The scant lips
were tightly curled back from the long and very white teeth, which stood forth
all the more brilliantly against the deep-brown skin.
It was a curious little trove, this mummy. Tallant was already
calculating the chances for raising a decent sum of money from an interested
anthropologist—murder can produce such delightfully profitable chance
by-products—when he noticed the infinitesimal rise and fall of the chest.
The Carker was not dead. It was sleeping.
Tallant did not dare stop to think beyond the instant. This was no time
to pause to consider if such things were possible in a well-ordered world. It
was no time to reflect on the disposal of the body of Morgan. It was a time to
snatch up your machete and get out of there.
But in the doorway he halted. There, coming across the desert, heading
for the adobe, clearly seen this time, was another—a female.
He made an involuntary gesture of indecision. The blade of the machete
clanged ringingly against the adobe wall. He heard the dry shuffling of a
roused sleeper behind him.
He turned fully now, the machete raised. Dispose of this nearer one
first, then face the female. There was no room even for terror in his thoughts,
only for action.
The lean brown shape darted at him avidly. He moved lightly away and
stood poised for its second charge. It shot forward again. He took one step
back, machete arm raised, and fell headlong over the corpse of Morgan. Before
he could rise, the thin thing was upon him. Its sharp teeth had met through the
palm of his left hand.
The machete moved swiftly. The thin dry body fell headless to the floor.
There was no blood.
The grip of the teeth did not relax. Pain coursed up Tallant's left arm—a
sharper, more bitter pain than you would expect from the bite. Almost as though
venom—
He dropped the machete, and his strong white hand plucked and twisted at
the dry brown lips. The teeth stayed clenched, unrelaxing. He sat bracing his
back against the wall and gripped the head between his knees. He pulled. His
flesh ripped, and blood formed dusty clots on the dirt floor. But the bite was
firm.
His world had become reduced now to that hand and that head. Nothing
outside mattered. He must free himself. He raised his aching arm to his face,
and with his own teeth he tore at that unrelenting grip. The dry flesh crumbled
away in desert dust, but the teeth were locked fast. He tore his lip against
their white keenness, and tasted in his mouth the sweetness of blood and
something else.
He staggered to his feet again. He knew what he must do. Later he could
use cautery, a tourniquet, see a doctor with a story about a Gila monster—their
heads grip too, don't they?—but he knew what he must do now.
He raised the machete and struck again.
His white hand lay on the brown floor, gripped by the white teeth in the
brown face. He propped himself against the adobe wall, momentarily unable to
move. His open wrist hung over the deeply hollowed stone. His blood and his
strength and his life poured out before the little figure of sticks and clay.
The female stood in the doorway now, the sun bright on her thin
brownness. She did not move. He knew that she was waiting for the hollow stone
to fill.
7 comments:
The Carkers have horrified me since my youth, and I'm in my late 50s.
This story terrified me when I was 13 in 1968 and I still felt a reluctance to visit it again in 2020. Still scary.
Brilliant in its subtle and straightforward depiction of the horrors that wait patiently on the fringes of our everyday lives.
I read They Bite when I was about 12 in Alfred Hitchcock Presents My favorite In Suspense. It stuck with me. A few years later I read Geoffrey Household's novel Dance of The Dwarfs and immediately thought of They Bite. Now I'm reading Patrick O'Brian's The Happy Dispatch and again feeling the connection.
Funny, I have this story in numerous collections over four decades, but stumbling upon it in full here had me reading it all once again and delighting in the chills it has given me since I first read it in 'Leonard Wolf's Complete Book of Terror' (1974). I was 10 years old and barely grasped the blackmail aspect but that hardly mattered to the visceral shock I enjoyed discovering it -- oh! the "infinitesimal rise and fall of the chest" was burned into my mind then and there! Every reading since has only augmented my understanding and enjoyment of it. I think this is one of the finest examples of short horror fiction ever written. Again, it can be found in countless horror and spec fiction collections since it was first published... but it is wonderful to have it in full right here. Thank you for offering it.
Read this in high school in the 70s. It quickly became a favorite. Every now and again, I read it.
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