Het thought of Chad Figgins farting on the top bunk, and laughed. The fart had smelled of rotten eggs and had cleared the shack. He laughed again and coughed. Then, insidiously, he thought of the knife rack in the hutch. Without further thought he lifted his head and tried to move.

Time to end this.

But severe vertigo overtook him and he faded to black. He dreamed of a snowy aspen forest with a stream winding through. All around he heard the slick sound of parting snow. The Being was coming towards him, but this time there were more, and they didn’t want him as a plaything. He stumbled through snowdrifts in his fevered clumsiness. On the last fall, a white robin landed on the ground before him, its delicate feet sinking into the glistening powder. He lifted his face, his chin covered with snow. The bird closed and opened its beak like an animatronic robot.

You didn’t do it right, the bird said. Now it’s got you.

He woke at 3:40 a.m., beads of sweat dotting his skin like tent condensation. Matt wiped his hand across his forehead and marveled at the blood and sweat. Something hissed to his right and his heart skipped. Just the lantern using the last bit of gas. The dying light flickered across the walls, perhaps the last time he’d see them. Light finally gave way to darkness and the shack he’d known was no more.

He turned on his headlamp and studied the plywood plank above him, following the grooves with fatigued eyes. The light was erratic as he shivered. Various shapes and patterns were ingrained in the wood. In the upper left, a bald eagle and a cloud. Below that, a man standing, maybe his father. The man looked at something far away. On the ground, behind the man, lay a crumpled body. To the right of the body he saw tall grass and a line of trees. Next to this were no shapes or patterns at all. Something big blocked out the scene, and he had a good idea what it was.

“I’m going to die today,” he said. “I’m going to die today and no one is going to know how or why.”

His eyes filled with pointless, dehydrating fluid. He blinked it away.

For the first time in his life, Matt Kearns asked something of God, if there was such a thing.

“Please God, don’t let me die. I’ve lasted this long. Please.”

Matt rolled onto his side and curled into the fetal position. Outside, wind caressed the old logs and the orchard grass sighed. He rolled onto his back, the weakening lamplight shining on the plywood. The big, consuming shapeless thing disappeared. The crumpled body now stood next to the man, and below them, running at their feet was Elmo.

“Oh how I miss you, old buddy,” he said.

The infection bore deep, and he closed his eyes.

Day 7