The Devil Delivered and Other Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

private one, huh?”
    “About you, William.”
    William pulled up his goggles and squinted until his eyes adjusted. He glanced at Jack Tree, then back to Daniel. “You closed your borders?”
    “This morning.”
    “An empty gesture,” Jack Tree said, shaking his head.
    William studied the old man. The wind picked up strands of his long gray hair and tugged with steady rhythm. His high-tech wraparounds looked snug and sleek and insectile. His cheeks were scored with deep wrinkles, the brown folds and black tracks mapping their own valleys, dry creeks, and ridges.
    “Hardly empty,” Daniel was saying. “NOAC needs oil. Same old story. Fuel to keep the Pakistanis toe to toe with the Sikhs. The machine’s thirsty, and the moneymen are sweating.”
    “Sanctions,” Jack Tree said, facing Daniel at last. “It’ll break us apart.”
    “No, it won’t.”
    The two fell silent.
    William reached under his absorption collar and scratched his neck. The material’s osmotic qualities were fine for reclaiming moisture, but it felt like fire ants when friction heated it up. “What about my research?”
    Jack Tree pulled off his glasses, his eyes sharp and black amidst a nest of wrinkles. “Research? Research your way back home, boy. This ancient land never belonged to you, no matter how hard you pretend.”
    William said, “I found a den yesterday. Three antelope inside.”
    Jack Tree frowned.
    “They’re fully nocturnal now. And smaller. Their front hoofs are spatulate, like shovels. Imagine that.”
    “The animals are gone,” Jack Tree said.
    William shook his head and smiled. “Just changing their old ways. Behold necessity and adaptative pressures, selection in all its glory.”
    “Is this your research?”
    “No. But it’s interesting, isn’t it.”
    Daniel cleared his throat. “Like I said before, William, you do what you like. I’ll tell you something, though. If peace and quiet’s what you’re looking for, you might end up being in the wrong place.”
    Jack Tree laughed bitterly. “Welcome to hell, then, Potts, and it’s about to break loose.”
    “Old news,” William said, snapping his goggles back down.
    Daniel stiffened. “What do you mean?”
    “Hell hath no fury like Nature scorned, Daniel.”
    JIM’S STORY
    Saskatchewan, Canada, July 19, A.D . 1972
    Dust-covered cars and trucks crowded the farmyard outside the house. Everyone else was inside, neighbors and friends and relatives all circling Jim’s mother, as if by numbers alone they could hold her there, in one place, forever.
    Jim knew they’d say something if they could. They’d yell and show their rage, if they could. He leaned against his mother’s Impala, rolling a cigarette. I can’t blame her. I can hate her, but I can’t blame her. Dad’s slipping fast, only days left now. Metastasis, the doctors called it. From the bones to the liver, and still spreading. He already looked dead, doped up against the pain, withered by the months of chemotherapy. Three-quarters gone, one-quarter left and going fast.
    He lit his cigarette. One of the barn cats had slipped out and now lay sprawled atop one of the herbicide drums lining the barn’s wall. The cat stared lazily at Jim, then blinked and looked away.
    The house door opened and Jim’s mother stepped out, her cigarette dangling from her lips as she paused and fished for a light. For a moment Jim hoped she’d see him, and he reached for his lighter, but then she found her own and lit up. Pulling hard on her cigarette, she went down the steps, every line of her long, angular body stiff with fury. The door opened again as Grandpa and Ruth came out. Jim’s heart jumped at seeing Ruth.
    My wife. I’ll never quite believe it. So beautiful, so solid, so sure of herself. And it was me she picked. Why? Why the hell why?
    Ruth’s green eyes scanned the yard until she found him. She shrugged: It’s no use . She stayed on the porch while Grandpa joined Jim’s mother. The old man spoke to her