" Benny took a step off the hill. "You won't lose," he
said. "You've got the knife."
The hand was small and fisted, there in the dirt. It had been just below
the surface of where he'd been standing. It had been there, in
Clarence's soil, for months, decomposing, the last of Marci
going. Somewhere just below that soil was her head, her face sloughing
off and wormed. Her red hair fallen from her loosened scalp. He gagged
and a gush of bile sprayed the hillside.
Danny hit him at the knees, knocking him into the dirt. He felt the
little rotting fist digging into his ribs. His body bucked of its own
accord, and he knocked Danny loose of his legs. His arm was hot and
slippery, and when he looked at it he saw that it was coursing with
blood. The knife in his other hand was bloodied and he saw that he'd
drawn a long ragged cut along his bicep. A fountain of blood bubbled
there with every beat of his heart, blub, blub, blub, and on the third
blub, he felt the cut, like a long pin stuck in the nerve.
He climbed unsteadily to his feet and confronted Danny. Danny was naked
and the color of the red golem clay. His ribs showed and his hair was
matted and greasy.
"I'm coming home," Danny said, baring his teeth. His breath reeked of
corruption and uncooked meat, and his mouth was ringed with a crust of
dried vomit. "And you're not going to stop me.
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