Settlers Top

The vomiting duel went on for twenty minutes before showing any sign of letting up. In between cries of “wha’ the hell d’ja do ta me?” and “it’s poison, ah tell ya! Damned In-jeen poison!” the two seemed to wretch up not only the few morsels of a mysterious green, but everything else they have eaten in the last twenty-four hours.

The sickness abates, but the night continues with its fires and prehistoric creatures that seem to come and go with the twitch of every shadow. The driver gathers enough strength to bring him back to the pickup, but once inside, he feels like it is just enough to stay breathing. The sweat dancing on his skin makes him feel like a reptile. He imagines a gecko sunning lazily on a rock, then he sees it, as his own reflection in the windshield.

He knows the best thing to do in this situation would be to sleep it off; but every time he closes his eyes, the fires of hell reach out to claim him for himself.

“Am I dying?” From how it feels, it would be a reasonable question.

Even though it feels like permanent insanity, he retains enough wits to figure that all drugs wear off eventually, the length of time depends merely on the dosage. He remembers swallowing whole two –or maybe three- of the wretched stubs.

It turns out that they are the buttons of a cactus. The Indians use them for their satanic rituals. They even have a name for it. If only he could remember what that damned Indian called it.
“Strip out, somethin’.”

“Strip-hot-shee.” He sees the hitchhiker waver into existence like gasoline fumes. It’s a memory or a hallucination, but there’s the hitchhiker standing with the Indian. Paranoia sweeps him up like the sudden nausea previously.

“Both of em. They’re out ta kill me!” He spins around frantically, searching for the hitchhiker. There are pairs of eyes everywhere. The whole darkened farm-scape has come alive to watch the show. There comes a voice that could be many voices, but it rings out a few shimmering words.