Violet Eyes by John Everson Page B

cloud.
    “Get the fuck up,” he hissed at himself. But he had to admit, the words didn’t sound quite right. His mouth was shaking, and it sounded more like “Gi da fuhp.”
    What’s wrong with me? he thought, as he tried to regain control of his legs. They felt like boneless worms. He struggled to move them, but even though he could feel the grass against his skin, they didn’t seem to be able to prop him up. His face remained pressed to the sod. The blades of grass tickled the inside of his ear. He could feel his eyelid blinking, spastically, all on its own. He seemed to have lost all control of his body in that moment. Nothing was working but his brain, and even that had jolts of…something. He felt like a rock, trapped by the oscillating light of a disco. He could see, but not move. In his head, he felt tiny fingers moving, grabbing, squeezing…
    Billy tried to cry, but nothing came out. He was like a still frame—a moment in time, caught and pressed. The moment expanded, and he screamed…but there was no sound. Only the feeling of tiny fingers. Touching him. Moving inside. Poking. Probing…
    And then the moment passed, and Billy’s legs worked again. He pulled his knee forward, and then his hands, and then he was on his feet, running, running, running away from that horrible moment back to his house.
    He got the door open with trembling hands and went immediately to the bathroom. There was pressure in his head, an ache behind his eyes. He leaned over the sink and stared into the toothpaste-spotted mirror above it. With his index fingers he pulled down his lower eyelids, exposing the tender pink flesh beneath. Billy held them that way for many seconds, staring intently at the veins in his eyeballs ( Were there more of them than there should be? ) and at the glistening flesh beneath ( Did the pink seem to twitch a little bit now and then, all on its own? )
    A tear leaked from the corner of his right eye, and slid down his cheek. Billy flashed back to a moment on the island. A moment after they’d all been forced off the beach and attacked by a swarm of flies. After they’d taken up shelter in the abandoned Quonset hut. Casey had pulled her allergy medicine out of her bag. Billy didn’t know why that particular moment stuck in his head; there were far more dramatic things to remember. Certainly his best memories of Casey involved her slipping out of her clothing to let his fingers slip over her amazing, silky-smooth breasts. He had held them sometimes as if they were some mystic food, kneading them into readiness for him to pierce the skin of her tender flesh elsewhere. He’d hold those generous breasts with his hands while bringing his hips tight to hers, slicing in and out with a part of himself into a part of her, but never releasing her breasts, except to kiss…
    Despite those more luscious memories, right now as he stared at reddening eyes, he remembered Casey looking tired and scared and handing him some Benadryl tablets after they’d run from the flies. He was covered in bites, and she’d said that the antihistamine in the allergy pills would help take some of the discomfort away.
    After popping the pills he’d felt sleepy before too long, but the itchiness of the dozens of tiny bumps along his ankles and legs had eased up. The things had hung on his flesh like mosquitoes, refusing to let go of his skin whether he ran or stopped and tried to brush them away. He’d never seen flies like that before. They were small but tenacious. Why did they bite him so much? Was he really a good food source, which his thick skin and angry hands? Or did they need something else from him?
    Ever since he’d gotten home, he’d wondered about the things they had seen on the island. What kind of experiments had they been doing in that silver hut? They’d picked a pretty out-of-the-way Key to set up shop in, and he didn’t think it was your usual weather outpost or anything like that. He’d seen some of the