Kenneth Calhoun - Black Moon

Macy! Macy must have sent them!

The road straightened for a stretch and he looked back at his sheep, huddled against the wind, struggling for footing. Some of his sheep were panting. Yes, his sheep. He had claimed them, eager to secure possessions, being so suddenly a person with nothing. And there was something else at work—a strange allure of animals, as if the notion of other living creatures was somewhat novel. It was, in a way. After all, he was a kid from the L.A. suburbs who had little experience with livestock. But in his sleep-deprived mind he sensed something marvelous and cosmically awesome about their animal presence. It was possibly a subtle form of emotional hallucination, or maybe he had pulled on a thread of some great, hitherto invisible truth. He didn’t know. He felt ownership, and with it a vague and complicated sense of transcendent wealth.

He owned beasts.

But that didn’t mean he had no need for pants.

HE knew as soon as he got behind the wheel—even before he had discovered the sheep—that he was going back to California. Felicia’s birthday was only days away and he intended to be at her parents’ house, where he knew she was sure to return. The epidemic had most certainly altered the timing of things, but if anything, it made her trip home even more likely, he figured. He aimed the stolen truck down the road he and Jordan had taken in weeks earlier, which meant riding the highway back up and over the towering range before dropping into Yellowstone and angling toward Utah.

The truck had some muscle, powering up the switchbacks to the summit, which was a plateau covered with thick tundra-like scruff and a low haze of purple flowers. Small rivulets cut meandering courses through it like long, dark cracks. The road was lined with tall painted sticks, which measured the height of the snow during winter. He could see the craggy blue peaks of the range all the way to the horizon and, tucked in canyons and craters, white bibs of glaciers and lakes shining like chrome. Thunderheads piled up in the distance, threatening to topple and spread like a canopy of loose wool over the pale sky. The wind passing through the cab was suddenly cool, the air thin. It was a relief to the sheep, it seemed. They were no longer panting.

The only sign of civilization at that altitude was a trading post called Top of the World—a log-and-sod structure with a broad plank porch and a tin roof. Behind it sat a small prairie house, which seemed to serve as merely the foundation for a radio antenna that telegraphed upward several stories like a giant hypodermic needle. Beside the house sat a green swing set, and the ground was littered with brightly colored toys—a surreal sight, given the desolate location.

Pulling to a stop in the parking lot, he shut off the engine and looked around the cab for something—anything—that could pass as clothing. He found a pair of massive mud-caked boots behind the passenger seat and struggled to put them on. Behind the driver’s seat was an open-top toolbox containing a hatchet and a car jack. There was nothing else. Not even a map in the glove box, which he had intended to wear like a towel wrapped around his waist. Given his anxious nature, this was a worst-case scenario. His youthful years were plagued with recurring nightmares of finding himself naked in public. It wasn’t the most persistent articulation of his many fears, but certainly one that came to the forefront of his mind as he exited the truck, hands cupped to conceal his aroused state, thinking, Oh, jesusgod, this is insane.

He stomped toward the storefront in the cool wind, then glanced back at the animals in the truck bed. They peered at him through the racks. There were definitely more than six of them, it seemed. Gaunt, elderly faces—movie villager faces, Chase thought—and black eyes rimmed with gold. So hard to tell how many because they all looked exactly the same and they kept shifting around, changing position, their hooves scuffing at the grit on the floor of the bed. He envied their woolly coats. And what did they think of him? How many times, he wondered, had they seen a totally naked human?

He clomped up the creaky stairs and peered inside the window, past the Yes-We’re-Open sign and those promoting bait, maps, and supplies. He scanned the store for people but his eyes found no one. To open the door, he quickly allowed one of his hands to abandon its post and turn the knob, then pushed his way in, feeling the cold glass of the door’s window against his shoulder. The interior was dense with clutter. An archaic cash register sat below a massive moose head. The walls bristled with antler wreaths. There were a few short aisles of groceries and camping supplies, plus a wall of souvenirs. A jackalope had been mounted atop some glass cases that held fishing flies and pocket-knives. There was no one else in the store.

Rather than call out, Chase moved quickly to the back of the store, where, among the fishing gear, he caught sight of a mannequin dressed in waders, essentially rubber overalls with built-in boots. He kicked off the massive boots he had worn into the store and started stripping the headless figure, peeling the waders off and discarding the flesh-tone plaster corpse. It hit the hard floor with a clatter, chips of its enamel skin scattering on the tile. Fortunately, the waders were large in size, perhaps even extra large. When he pulled them up around him, cinching the straps down like suspenders at his shoulders, the fit was roomy enough to accommodate his stubborn erection.

He looked around for a shirt. In the souvenir portion of the store there were Top of the World T-shirts. He chose one that said I’VE BEEN TO THE EDGE on the front, pulling it over his head.

Now he was suddenly conscious of the fact that, should the storeowner materialize, he might not be able to walk away with the goods. It’s not like he could buy anything. He had no money. The best thing to do was get the hell out of there before anyone showed up. He started for the door but decided to scoop up several boxes of cornflakes. For my sheep, he figured. Probably thirsty too. Near the register, he spotted a bowl of matchbooks. He might need fire. He grabbed a book and tucked it into the front pocket of the waders. There was a metal tub by the door, filled with what appeared to be hand-carved Christmas tree ornaments. Chase bent and flipped it, emptying the tub. He tossed in the boxes of cereal and carried it out. He could stop anywhere for water now.

Walking in the waders was odd. He moved stiffly through the wind in an impenetrable sheath. It was like wearing a diaper made out of an X-ray bib. In the places where his skin made contact with the material, there was a potentially chafing friction. He was already in a highly sensitive state. In the short walk to the truck, he knew this was going to be a real problem. Some underwear would sure be a lifesaver. He looked back at the store, then at the house.

He was startled to see a man sitting on the porch.

Chase’s first instinct was to run. He resisted the urge and instead walked as quickly as possible around the truck to the passenger side, where he put the tub on the seat. Then, closing the door, he started back around the front of the truck, where he noticed a colorful display of insects stuck to the front grille. He waddled around to the driver’s side.

All of his attempts at stealth were in vain, however, because the man appeared to be looking directly at him. He was watching Chase steal from the store but, judging by his slumped posture, didn’t seem to care. His head swung slowly from Chase to the highway and back. It seemed to Chase that the man’s lips were moving, that he was talking to himself. He recalled how he and Jordan had seen Felicia’s dad sitting on his backyard patio at three in the morning talking to himself. That was before Chase believed in the insomnia epidemic, dismissing Jordan’s warnings as slightly psycho ramblings.