What the hell for? You lost what little sense you had? It wasn’t just that Big Earl was huge in his head. Casey felt the big man’s phantom arms crush his ribs, drive the breath from his chest. She made her bed. She had her chance.
“Casey!” Rima slammed both palms against the window, hard enough that he felt the jolt in his legs. “Please! Don’t leave me out here!”
“I … Dad, no … I have to h-help …” His hand wouldn’t obey. What was wrong with him? It was as if he were a robot whose circuits had frozen. “Can’t l-leave her to d-die out there. What if there really is s-something …?”
This is your problem. You think Eric thought about anything other than getting rid of me? You think he didn’t mean it? Big Earl oozed contempt. He might have killed me, but at least he had the guts to do what needed doing.
“S-stop comparing me to him.” A lick of anger, but his skin was suddenly pebbly with gooseflesh as a dark chill rippled through his veins. What’s wrong with my hand? Then, another and much stranger thought: Is it mine? “I’m my own p-person. I can handle m-myself.”
“Casey!” Rima pounded again. “Open the door!”
Then be a man.
This was the problem with being Big Earl’s son: you hop-skipped right over being a kid. True, he didn’t particularly like Rima; he wasn’t going to put himself on the line for her. But opening the door was so simple. And it is the right thing to do. A man makes his own decisions, too. So why did his hand refuse to move? “Dad, she just n-needs to—”
You giving me lip? You saying no to me?
“N-no, sir … I m-mean …”
Spit it out, boy.
“You’re … you’re d-dead,” Casey stammered. Whatever held him in place, was wrapped around his body, tightened its grip, like the muscular arms of a gigantic octopus. His ribs felt brittle as crackle-ice. His chest didn’t want to move. “Why … h-how can I still be h-hearing you? P-please, I h-have to open the d-door, just l-let me …”
You have to listen to me, boy.
“Casey!” Rima pleaded. “Please, listen, Casey, please!”
“I …” He couldn’t make his lungs work. “Dad, n-no, I n-need …”
I’ll show you what you need. His father’s voice sizzled in his blood. Take you down a peg.
“N-no, Dad,” he gasped, thinking to his hand: Move, move! Hurry, unlock the door, unlock the door! “S-stop. Just l-let me …”
And that was when he saw his hand … glimmer.
“Ah!” he screamed as the skin rippled and wavered as if underwater. Everything around him—the sense of the car seat beneath him, Rima’s terrified shouts, even the numbing cold—suddenly dropped out, as if the soundtrack to this movie had hit a glitch. There was only his hand, which was trying to deform and shift, growing larger, rougher, thicker, and cracked with calluses. Tufts of hair sprouted over the knuckles. It was as if his hand had slid into Big Earl’s skin. Or maybe Big Earl was only turning him inside out the way you shucked a messy glove and what he now saw was what lay beneath.
Or he’s in my blood, eating his way out. This couldn’t be real. Dizzy with horror, he watched as Big Earl’s hand jerked away from the lock.
“N-no.” A sudden cold sweat slimed his neck and upper lip. “Puh-please, d-don’t. Stop, s-stop!” He could hear his breath hissing from between clenched teeth, feel the shudder in his biceps as he tried fighting back, to make Big Earl’s hand obey, to stop moving, to stop …
Casey slapped himself, very hard: a stunning blow, an open-palm crack as sharp as a gunshot. A cry jumped off his tongue. There was a wink of pain as his teeth cut his cheek. Very faintly, above the thunder of his blood, he heard Rima shout: “No, Casey, stop! Don’t let him—”
“H-help,” he panted, his mouth filling with salt and rust. His voice sounded so small, almost not there at all. “E-Eric, help, someone, please …” And then his hand—his father’s hand—was a fist, and Casey couldn’t fight it. He could feel his will draining away, the numb acceptance of a beaten dog, which he knew too well because he’d been here so many times before: kneeling, watching Big Earl advance with that switch, his fist, a belt, and knowing that running only made things a hundred times worse.
He hit himself again and again and again, and all those books had it totally wrong: there was no numbing, no going away, no mental click so he could float above and let this happen to that boy-shaped punching bag. He felt this, each and every blow, right into his teeth, his bones. With every punch, he heard his breath come in a grunt—ugh, ugh, ugh—as his head whipped to the side, snapping on the stalk of his neck. He could feel the skin tear over his cheek, and there was now blood on his chin, down his throat, and then his vision was blacking as he kept beating himself, Big Earl bellowing with every blow: You want help, you want help, you want—
“Listen to me! You’re Casey!” Rima was right up against the glass, even as Big Earl was still raging, but—impossibly—it was the arrow of her voice, sharp and true, that pierced his terror. “You are Eric’s brother; you are yourself; you are Casey, and Casey would open the door! Do it, Casey! Please, don’t let me die out here. Open the door, Casey; fight him and do it now, do it now, do it—”
I’m Casey. He grabbed desperately at the thought. I’m Eric’s brother—
No, you are mine, boy. Big Earl was huge in his head. You are my blood, you are—
“Casey, fight this!” Rima shouted through glass. “You are your own person!”
Mine, boy! You’re mine and I’ll make a man of you—
“No one makes me! I’m Casey!” Roaring, he drove his fist forward, hard and fast, throwing all his weight into a blow he aimed not for his face but the window. Through a haze of pain and tears, he saw Rima start back, and then he screamed as a bomb of white-hot pain erupted at the moment of impact, streaming through his bones to ball in his shoulder. He felt the skin over his knuckles tear, and now there was blood smeared on the window, and more dripping from his hand—but, he saw, it was his hand once more, his.
And Rima knew … Somehow she knew, but how? No time to wonder. In a few moments, he thought he might not care, because he could feel that one weird rocket of strength ebbing and Big Earl still there, this hulking presence at the edge of his mind, withdrawing, yes, but only as a grudging wave does from the shore: so far, and no further, because the ocean is remorseless and eternal—and it would be easy, so easy to stop fighting, to let Earl swamp him, drown him. It was only a matter of time anyway, wasn’t it? Big Earl was strong—he always had been—and Casey was nothing but a kid, a runt, another mouth to feed, a miserable excuse for a son who would never amount to—