Dark Benediction

Paul stood exposed in the moonlight, carrying the shot-gun at the ready. The voice sounded like that of an adolescent, not fully changed to its adult timbre. If the youth wasn’t a dermie, why wasn’t he afraid that Paul might be one? And if he was a dermie, why wasn’t he advancing in the hope that Paul might be as yet untouched?

“I said, ‘Nice night, isn’t it?’ Whatcha carrying the gun for? Been shooting rabbits?”

Paul moved a little closer and fumbled for his flash-light. Then he threw its beam on the slouching figure in the shadows. He saw a young man, perhaps sixteen, reclining against the wall. He saw the pearl-gray face that characterized the final and permanent stage of neuroderm! He stood frozen to the spot a dozen feet away from the youth, who blinked perplexedly into the light. The kid was assuming automatically that he was another dermie! Paul tried to keep him blinded while he played along with the fallacy.

“Yeah, it’s a nice night. You got any idea where I can find a doctor?”

The boy frowned. “Doctor? You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what? I’m new here.”

“New? Oh…” the boy’s nostrils began twitching slightly, as if he were sniffing at the night air. “Well, most of the priests down at Saint Mary’s were missionaries. They’re all doctors. Why? You sick?”

“No, there’s a girl… But never mind. How do I get there? And are any of them dermies?”

The boy’s eyes wandered peculiarly, and his mouth fell open, as if he had been asked why a circle wasn’t square. “You are new, aren’t you? They’re all dermies, if you want to call them that. Wh—” Again the nostrils were flaring. He flicked the cigarette away suddenly and inhaled a slow draught of the breeze. “I… I smell a non-hyper,” he muttered.

Paul started to back away. His scalp bristled a warning. The boy advanced a step toward him. A slow beam of anticipation began to glow in his face. He bared his teeth in a wide grain of pleasure.

“You’re not a hyper yet,” he hissed, moving forward. “I’ve never had a chance to touch a nonhyper…”

“Stay back, or I’ll kill you!”

The lad giggled and came on, talking to himself. “The padre says it’s wrong, but you smell so… so… ugh…” He flung himself forward with a low throaty cry.

Paul sidestepped the charge and brought the gun barrel down across the boy’s head. The dermie sprawled howling in the street. Paul pushed the gun close to his face, but the youth started up again. Paul jabbed viciously with the barrel, and felt it strike and tear. “I don’t want to have to blow your head off—”

The boy howled and fell back. He crouched panting on his hands and knees, head hung low, watching a dark puddle of blood gather on the pavement from a deep gash across his cheek. “Whatcha wanta do that for?” he whimpered. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you.” His tone was that of a wronged and rejected suitor.

“Now, where’s Saint Mary’s? Is that one of the hospitals? How do I get there?” Paul had backed to a safe distance and was covering the youth with the gun.

“Straight down Broadway… to the Boulevard… you’ll see it down that neighborhood. About the fourth street, I think.” The boy looked up, and Paul saw the extent of the gash. It was deep and ragged, and the kid was crying.

“Get up! You’re going to lead me there.”

Pain had blanketed the call of the craving. The boy struggled to his feet, pressed a handkerchief against the wound, and with an angry glance at Paul, he set out down the road. Paul followed ten yards behind.

“If you take me through any dermie traps, I’ll kill you.”

“There aren’t any traps,” the youth mumbled.

Paul snorted unbelief, but did not repeat the warning.

“What made you think I was another dermie?” he snapped.

“Because there’s no nonhypers in Galveston. This is a hyper colony. A nonhyper used to drift in occasionally, but the priests had the bridge dynamited. The nonhypers upset the colony. As long as there aren’t any around to smell, nobody causes any trouble. During the day, there’s a guard out on the causeway, and if any hypers come looking for a place to stay, the guard ferries them across. If nonhypers come, he tells them about the colony, and they go away.”

Paul groaned. He had stumbled into a rat’s nest. Was there no refuge from the gray curse? Now he would have to move on. It seemed a hopeless quest. Maybe the old man he met on his way to Houston had arrived at the only possible hope for peace: submission to the plague. But the thought sickened him somehow. He would have to find some barren island, find a healthy mate, and go to live a savage existence apart from all traces of civilization.

“Didn’t the guard stop you at the bridge?” the boy asked. “He never came back today. He must be still out there.”

Paul grunted “no” in a tone that warned against idle conversation. He guessed what had happened. The dermie guard had probably spotted some healthy wanderers; and instead of warning them away, he rowed across the drawbridge and set out to chase them. His body probably lay along the highway somewhere, if the hypothetical wanderers were armed.