By Gary Morton
A collection of dark fantasy and horror fiction
Copyright by Gary Morton,
Text as edited at frightlibrary.org, 2026
Blood Voices
Garage Sale
Red Light Lady
A Short Vampire Christmas
Vampire Dream
Castle of Fangs
Star
Winter Prophecy
Walking Dead-Man's Blog
Seeing the Werewolf
The Rainmaker
Grave Walker
King Flame's Underground Party
Symbol on a Tomb
IT (a future tale)
The Scarsdale Loop
Escape from Breaker's Maximum Security Prison
The Brutality Zone
Shadow in the Backyard
The Neon God
Pumpkin & His Chainsaw
Sergeant 666's Direct Death Democracy
The Faceless One
Remembering Nancy
Faces in the Ice
Murder Soup
Chasing the Headhunter
Digger
By Gary Morton
Witch fire gifted me with blindness, and I was cast into a buried demon's darkness. Today I have risen in the smoke and can see. Long ago, I entered you and sipped your blood. I sealed your fate. How you lusted, panted; memories of your early desires are hidden in my mind like the many bodies in your basement. Some of them are pieces, others are stumps. Time rots the flesh away and leaves shining bones; it leaves our soul in the power of voodoo, trapped in the reassembled fragments of a skull.
Once we were sociable and kind, but I entered and brought the withering into you and your inner universe. You dreamed of falling and awoke drooling in the belly of a nightmare. You devoured the sweet flesh of the innocent. The night was long, the heart a dry bellows, the hands trembling, the head stabbed by imaginings, the blood magma explosions, and finally the joy of murder … creamy flesh against the black vinyl of a raincoat and blood raining on our blond wig.
You see her trying to choke out a scream and rattle free of the chains. You remember flowers not from a grave, but from a garden in the churchyard and the cross. It is painful remembering the early days of kindness. They shrivel like the wilting blooms. A wrinkled petal falls from your hand, and I'm in you like a rusted metal skeleton. Turning, grinning, and scanning with a beast's fiery eyes. Hold your head and moan; I'm many voices whispering your secrets. Rage and strike up the fountains of her blood and leave a memory of her smeared in fingerprints. I'll know another secret you can never forget.
You dress like her and walk like her; it's your own throat you seek. A severed head is rolling in the tunnels of your mind, and you're a werewolf fleeing your transformation in the slashing rain. Their faces hang from spelunker's spikes, and their hearts are spilled on the stone. I read your future in the entrails; I make you psychic, so you can't hide in the dull pain of crushed intestines. We share visions of the dead rotting in tombs and know a cryptic wisdom from the pattern of the bodies. In the name of oracles, graven images, and the relics of the damned, we descend and pull moldering flesh from the earth … broken bones jutting from torn cloth, and my brothers and sisters, the grinning skulls. I've been many pleasures and voices for you, and now I'm falling into dust and death rattles.
A gurgle of blood in the bowels of the impaled tells you I've lied.
It’s Halloween, the jury is assembled, and the magic circle will break you. The dead have risen as the dead, and we can face them. I've brought moonlight here to the basement, and webs of lies are illumined. The glory was never yours. My lies were the power. You know this now as you lift the blade to your throat. The voices of the skeletons are frightened whispers. They tell you that I was never more than one voice - the voice of blood and suicide.
+++
By Gary Morton
Memories of garage sales are often friendly images of sunny Saturdays in summer, perhaps strolling on a morning-bright city street and stopping to buy some needed item. In my younger days, when I lived in small-town Canada, such sales were the fruit of a Sunday drive on dusty county highways. We bought things like hand-me-down clothes, tools, battered toys, and baskets of strawberries and corn. I still have an old, grainy Polaroid photograph of my first wife out front of a sale held in a bleached rural garage.
Odors of tarred gravel roads used to rise to my nostrils when I thought of garage sales, but that was yesterday, and this is today. Now, thoughts of garage sales summon a demon to mind. This thing is a genuine nightmare that walks in images of gloom and the damp soil of open graves. It is more than recollection; it is here in reality in this city every night. Call it the boogieman if you're a kid or a shambling corpse if you're an adult. No matter what you call it or what you know, it will still be somewhere in the dark, day and night, on an evil mission to satisfy its peculiar form of hate.
If gloom lingers in place of sunshine in my thoughts, I suppose it's because I have held a garage sale nearly every weekend this summer, and it's been the darkest and hottest summer in recorded Toronto history. On Saturday mornings, I rise early and wait for the sun. Each time a smoke-shaded wall of cloud inches in from a heat storm on the bruised horizon.
Only the pale glare of the sun gets through, and I'm suffering in it now as I remember and consider the black reputation of this part of town. It could be that the long shadows of dark days create evil, or that the electricity rising in overwhelming heat is a force that leaves people in their beds and uses the stolen energy to bring something else to life. Aberrant weather that, if prolonged, might open doors to ghostly worlds. I can't really say what it is that powers the supernatural.
Here, it's a ghoulish child killer that's loose on the night streets, and this one is sure to claim more victims as the police are everywhere and yet haven't any power against it. I do have evidence, but they wouldn't believe me if I told them. They'd probably think me crazy and arrest me. Though it is the truth, and it has to do with my garage sales.
The strange events began on that second Saturday sale of mine, when the air was so hot, heavy, and dirty. It made me choke as it scratched into my lungs with static and dust. I'm just past middle age now, and I've been scarred and bruised by an unlucky life, so at my best, I usually still feel somewhat lousy. In that weather, my hair and whiskers felt like an itching bur patch.
Superstition filled my mind in that gloom. Everything seemed like a sign of biblical proportions, and the day definitely did open with a bad omen. My sale had barely started, and I was already at the curb, sparing with a fatuous city inspector.
"You had a yard sale last week," he said. "If you're using this place as a store, you're in violation of city bylaw 20086C."
"I'm well aware of bylaw 20086C. If you look at the sign on the maple tree, it says garage sale. The law allows each resident to have two garage sales per year. Last week it was a yard sale, so I'm entitled to this sale and one more garage sale."
"Just watch yourself, or you'll be ticketed," he said. He shook dripping sweat off his jowls and popped his head back into the air-conditioned interior of his city car.
"Bastard," I muttered as his wheels spun up dust.
"What did you say?" Jen Lu said as she stepped up.
"Muggers, Jen. Muggers, meaning what a scorcher it is today."
"It certainly is. I need a fan for my porch. I don't have the air conditioning out there."
"I've got fans galore, Jen. Just follow me to the garage, and you can pick an ace one from my selection."
She did follow me down the drive - slowly, with her pesky little poodle, Bambi, nipping at my heels nearly every step of the way. The asphalt had softened to the point that it sank with my footsteps, and I couldn't use my cane at all. It was with great relief that I entered the semi-darkness of the open garage.
Jen Lu stopped and stood beside me, staring with wide brown eyes at that great collection of junk -- an assortment so awesome that even Bambi was muzzled by it. My garage is a large one. So old, in fact, that it was originally a barn. Over about a hundred years, it underwent various renovations to become a more modern home for dust motes. I have a whole wall of tools for sale, and just about every sort of garden implement.
"Where do you get all of that stuff?" she said.
I shrugged. "There are many items that were already inside when I bought the place, and they've been there for decades. Dick Black, the previous owner, didn't use the garage at all. Many of the antiques remain from some other owner from way back. I believe his name was Dovecraft or Lovecraft - something to that effect. I have racks of dishes and stuff at the back. I collect this merchandise from all over the neighborhood. In that way, I'm a collector of sorts, and I never throw anything out. People buy the strangest things. Often I've spent Sundays at the Rosedale Diner, enjoying diner and a few drinks with money I got from the sale of some odd piece that turned out to be rare or antique."
"I think I prefer your yard sales," Jen Lu said. "Your garage is creepy."
"Sure, it looks creepy, but I can assure you that it's been swept clean. There are no cobwebs or rodents in my place. I keep it sharp as a store."
"Okay, so which aisle is the fan in?"
"Oh yes, fans. You're in luck because I have a pile of them right here by the door."
It was a sale. I polished up a battered fan for Jen and sold it to her for five bucks. As she walked away, I figured I'd begun the day with a smooth transaction. Yet that wasn't the case, because as she reached the end of the drive, Bambi went nuts and nearly broke off the leash as she tore at the pant leg of another customer.
Bambi looked rabid or something. Jen had to scoop her up, and the dog still foamed and snarled as she carried it off.
At least this guy was a gentleman about it. All he did was grunt, look down at his frayed cuff, and then back up at my cardboard sign.
I stood watching from the garage doorway, trying to get a handle on him. The man was like a tramp, wearing a frayed cloth coat in high summer. Yet he was unlike your usual tramp as he wore a wig. He was the only bum I ever saw with fake hair, and it was cheap - a matted high comb back he must've found in the novelty bin at Honest Ed's Discount Store. It combined with his mold-wrinkled face to create a person of unidentifiable race and culture. Most striking was his nose - it was a gross lump shot through with blue-black spider veins, indicating that he had enough of a drinking problem to have died in the gutter a few times.
Somehow, he had managed to climb out of the gutter this day, but he hadn't cleaned himself up. His work boots were sodden and mud-covered, and under the open coat he wore a sort of green gardener's outfit that had turned mostly gray and stained.
My sign only had two words on it, yet it took him a minute to read it. So I figured he was either blind or hungover. When he did turn and come down the drive, a slight and sinister breeze blew. The lilac leaves seemed to shiver like they were cold or something, and to make things worse, I could smell this guy before he even got near me.
It wasn't a pretty smell. Once, I poisoned a bunch of rats in the garage, and when I opened up the smell was so foul I couldn't eat for a day. It took nearly a week to air out the place. He smelt like that -- like death. And as he came down the drive in slow steps, I felt like watching a scene from a zombie movie.
My hair bristled as he stepped up to me, yet I didn't let him faze me. I still acted like a salesman.
"You need money at this sale, pal," I said.
"I got money," he replied. "Lots of money."
Growing cataracts obscured his eyes, and his teeth were rotten. He had a voice like his tongue was jammed in his throat. For a moment, I didn't reply but just stared. I'd seen tobacco stains before, but I could've sworn that his teeth were outright loose like piano keys in his mouth.
"Anything in particular you want?"
"Just to look around."
I waved an arm, and he walked inside. He didn't look at any of the new stuff, only the ancient junk. And he had a way of pulling things out of the piles like he knew exactly where they were all the time. I watched him walk over to the darkest corner and lift something out that looked like a rope. For a moment, I trembled in the withering heat; it really gave me the creeps watching him. Being trapped inside with him would be nothing short of terrifying.
When he came back to the door, he was carrying an old skipping rope. "I'll buy this," he said. "How much?"
"Er-ahh, five dollars will do."
"Okay," he said, then he pulled out a wad of bills. There was no organization to the way he'd rolled them, and in the wad, I saw everything from fifties to old, obsolete one-dollar bills.
He shambled away in the heat shimmies of the overcast day, and I saw him cut down a path in the vacant lot three houses away. I really wondered who he was, and in the end, I decided that he must be one of those people with a freakish illness. Like the one that makes kids look like deformed freaks. Except that his disease made him look like he'd just risen from the grave.
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It had been headline news. The neighborhood buzzed with the conversation of frightened parents all week. A little French girl, Lisa Landry, had been killed near the Taddle Creek schoolyard. Detectives were part of a heavy police presence on the streets, yet despite that, I hadn't thought much about it.
Only in the dreary weather of another Saturday morning did I find myself considering the issue. She'd been strangled by an unknown item they thought to be a thin rope or thick wire. It was a terrible way to die, and the horror of it seemed to consume me as I crossed the back yard to the garage. I thought I could smell those dead rats again, and the foul odor brought the skipping rope I'd sold to Mr. Death and Disease to mind.
At the garage doors, the bagel I'd gobbled for breakfast sank like a hot stone. My intestines felt like another variety of skipping rope - one trying to break free of my body.
My head spun, and I think I would've blacked out right then if it weren't for the sight of Danny Swartz coming up the drive. This was all three hundred pounds of him, with his heavy brows and cheeks adding another few pounds. He was an awesome vision, and despite his size, he walked like a human hammer, trying to head-butt the world out of his way.
"You look worried?" I said as he lumbered up.
"Yeah. A big oak branch fell on my fence. I need a chainsaw."
"Geeze, Danny. With the kind of gruesome stuff that's been happening this week, I don't know if I should sell anyone a chainsaw."
"Your sense of humor is sick. Have you got that saw or not?"
"Okay. I have one. But it isn’t the latest and greatest."
Five minutes later, Danny Swartz was walking away like a sort of hurried rhino, swinging a dusty chainsaw. I ended up staring out at the empty street, thinking it odd for a Saturday. Very few people were out early, and the usual crowd of noisy children wasn't there at all. It was dark and breezeless, an atmosphere most people would find unsettling and depressing. But I didn't. Instead, I smiled. And the reason was that I hate kids. On the weekdays, noise from the daycare a couple houses away drives me nuts, and the little devils are always making fun of my cane and limp and snatching stuff from my sales. A world without the lice-crawling little brats was my kind of world. I felt that maybe the killer had done us all a favor if he was keeping them locked in their houses.
I know it sounds bad for a person to hate kids, but you have to keep in mind that I'm a guy with a background of three failed marriages. There never were any kids, and I've not learned to like them. As I age, there seem to be more and more things that I don’t like. Getting older isn't getting better; it is everything getting worse. Business is my way of shutting out the world. With just a garage sale, I can count money and items and be busy enough that I don't think of anything else.
The rest of the morning was peaceful and quiet - no milling crowd or huge sales of lesser items. Those who did show were nearly all middle-aged, and they bought big-ticket items. I sold a lawnmower to Joe Singh and a trunk to Alice Manson. Larry from the pizza joint bought an antique cabinet radio. All of them mentioned the killing and how the neighborhood was going to the dogs. Larry seemed happy in a way, as a week ago, there weren't any cops around at night. Now that they were out in force, he felt protected.
I felt protected, too. Sure, it was hot, dusty, and dark, and there weren't even birds singing. But I was beginning to like this new quiet neighborhood. At least I was up until noon, when Mr. Death and Disease showed up.
He came when no one else was around, dressed the same but looking uglier. The bit of comic effect he'd had on his first visit was gone. This time, the guy was just plain vile, and when he said he just wanted to look around again, the sight of the tobacco mush rolling in his mouth nearly made me vomit.
A foul odor rose from him and clung to me as he passed. As he rummaged through the junk at the back, I felt relieved to have him at a distance.
I wondered what nutty thing he would buy and wasn't a bit surprised when he came up with an old rusted shovel. It was bent and nearly eaten through, yet he grinned as though he'd found a great prize. They say money isn't clean, but the bills he paid me with looked like they'd been dug up from the city dump. As he walked away, the stench hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. I had a terrible feeling of being strangled in rising fumes of death and garbage.
--------
On the fourth Saturday, the interior of my garage was brighter than the sky outside. Light that did get through was pollution-filtered, creating an amber haze. The city inspector had already done a drive-by to intimidate me, and I felt relieved that he hadn't stopped.
Pretty women seemed to be the order of the morning, and I’d been ogling a few of them as they moved about inspecting the goods I'd lined on the grass beside the drive. I look better than I feel, so I still do okay with the ladies, and I suppose I'm lucky in that my sex drive has not evaporated with the rest of my health. It's still mostly look but don't touch. After three failed marriages, I've learned to keep to myself.
My only big sale was to Mary Michaeledes. She bought a chipped study desk for her little girl, Janine. It was during my conversation with her that I learned of the latest killing.
"It was late last night," Mary said. "It isn't even in the news yet. Danny Schwartz’s little boy, Jimmy, was murdered. Beaten to death right in the park with a large thing like a shovel. Whoever did it is sick and cruel. They don't know how a ten-year-old like Jimmy got outside that late. Most of us are going to make our kids sleep with us now so they can't possibly get out."
"It's a damn shame," I said, shaking my head. "They've got patrols all over the place, and a thing like this happens. I don't know what to say to Danny."
"Oh, you won't have to say anything. He was taken away this morning. He's cracked completely. Just mumbles and cries."
Mary left in a hurry, like she wanted to get back to her little girl. I started feeling queasy as I watched her go up the street. A large object like a shovel killed him, she'd said. And hadn't I sold Mr. Death and Disease a shovel? "Naw, just a coincidence," I decided. Mr. Death and Disease wouldn't be strong enough to beat anyone to death. A creepy person like him wouldn’t have been able to lure a ten-year-old boy like Jimmy outside, and Jimmy could have just run away if there had been an encounter.
Being a businesslike person, I decided to tag Mary's desk for delivery and pulled out my red marker. I didn't have a scrap of paper, so I needed to grab one in the garage. Those supplies were stacked all the way at the back, behind solid shelves of junk. It was hard to see there, so I turned on the floodlight.
The beam was so bright it hurt my eyes. It did a great job of illuminating the garage, but I didn't use it during a sale because it also spotlighted flaws and all the dust, dirt, and grime. Stains and cobwebs can kill a sale, so it's better if people don't see everything.
I stepped behind a heap of canvas bags and went around the shelving. The light filtered through, but the air was full of dust. Pausing, I studied an old television set that had somehow been put back there. It looked saleable, so I decided to move it out later. When I looked down the aisle for the paper shelf, I noticed footprints on the dusty wood floor. There were a lot of them, and they weren't my own familiar prints.
I scratched my head. Customers didn't rummage around so far back. Someone must've got into the garage. Yet that wasn't possible when I kept it locked up tight during the week.
I followed the footprints to the end of the aisle. They turned behind some plastic drums and ended at the back wall. At that spot, there was a barely visible doorframe and a latch. It was unhooked, so I simply pushed and watched as the door swung open. Stepping through, I found myself in the narrow space between the garage and my back fence. Beyond the fence, there was a ditch full of weeds, a section of the park, and a path leading up the hillside to the old graveyard.
It really did perturb me that someone else would know about a secret door in my garage. One I hadn't known about myself. As I stood there wondering who it could possibly be, a strong odor rose to my nostrils. Looking down, I saw some loose earth at my toes.
"Mr. Death and Disease," I thought. "That's his revolting odor. No wonder he isn't around today. He isn't buying anything because he’s simply sneaking in and helping himself."
I decided to fix his wagon by simply putting the inside latch back in place, and I was about to step back inside when I saw someone moving along the hillside path. I pulled my glasses from my pocket and tried to get a better look. A frown crossed my brow as I recognized Mr. Death and Disease.
He was going up and not down, so he wasn't coming my way. I followed his progress as he made his way to the top. Just before he went over and out of sight, I thought I saw something else in a gap in the pines … something ugly like a large scarecrow, with a skeletal frame and frightening skull-like features. Yet it wasn't a scarecrow because it suddenly moved and disappeared behind the trees.
Possibly, I'd witnessed some sort of heat hallucination. No person could look like that. On the other hand, no person could look like Mr. Death and Disease either. Yet he was for real.
As I went back in the door, a wicked case of the creeps crawled over my whole body. I hoped I would never see Mr. Death and Disease again.
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Low clouds like dark chunks of sponge drifted overhead. It was Saturday again, but not much of a day for a bake sale. I say bake sale because the city bylaws didn't allow me to hold another garage sale.
I've never baked a thing, so the supplies placed out at the front were stuff I'd purchased at the Maples Donut Shop. I had a cooler of ice with bottled lemonade and pop, too. My business plan was to fish for big customers by talking to people I knew as they came by. If any of them needed a particular item, I would take them back to the garage.
It didn't take all that long to set up. I actually felt satisfied for a moment. Annoyance quickly replaced that mood as the city inspector drove up. This time, he got out of his car and walked over. "Well, a Saturday morning bake sale," he said, patting his large shirt-bursting belly.
"Lovely day for one, isn't it?"
"Certainly is a day like an oven. Say, did you bake these goodies yourself?"
"I did, and I was up half the night putting the finishing touches on some of these little beauties."
"That's good because if you had bought them elsewhere, you'd be reselling baked goods without a license."
"Seems there's a law for everything these days."
"Yep, there is - including a law that says your garage is to stay closed today."
"No problem. This is a bake sale. If you really want to help, you could buy something."
"Buy. I'm afraid not. But I do want a few samples. I wouldn’t want you to be selling anything unhealthy."
I watched glumly as he wolfed down four free samples and drank a bottle of lemonade. To make conversation, I asked him why the street was so dead on Saturday morning. He burped grossly and replied, saying, "It isn't even eight o'clock for one thing. Another reason things are quiet is that another kid has been found dead."
"Not murder again! How did the kid die?"
"Sergeant Mohikbar told me they can't find a cause of death. Wasn't a mark on him, but his face was ghastly, like he was frightened to death."
"Frightened to death? But that's not really possible, is it? Something must've been done to him."
"All I can say is that I was there when they found the body late last night. I caught a glimpse before they bagged it, and that kid's face was as white as one of those powdered donuts. Looked like someone sucked the soul out of him. Vampire or the bogeyman got him."
"There aren't any vampires. You must know that?"
"I used to think that way. Don't any more."
"Vampires, how nice," I muttered as the inspector drove away.
Lately, things had been getting so dark and offbeat it was like the whole community was descending into Hades. I concluded that this kid killer was just plain overdoing it. The guy had to be a bizarre psychopath. One victim every few months would've been more than enough to keep the usual killer happy.
Sipping a cold beer I'd loaded into a pop bottle, I studied the dust drifting in the vacant lot up the road. The clouds were low and oppressive like a sinking gravestone. My knees felt weak, so I sat on a book box and munched a donut, and as I swallowed it, I felt about as empty and useless as the hole in the center.
Drowsiness near sleep had settled on me when a loud fluttering of wings roused me. I realized the noise was coming from the garage, so I got up quickly and went down the drive. Four screeching crows were flying up the treetop, and as I stopped at the door, I heard a heavy thump and stuff falling inside.
A strange feeling came over me as I opened up. I could feel a spirit moving in my garage, and it was something evil that I'd never felt before. It spooked me, yet I wasn't that frightened. I still went in and looked around.
Thick dust swirled in the air. Despite it, I found the problem in moments. A whole series of upper shelves had collapsed at the back. Yellowed newspapers, rags, and twigs from a bird's nest had toppled down.
I walked up to the mess and, out of curiosity, picked up one of the old papers. It was the Toronto Star dated June 5th, 1954, and the headline read - Madison Murders Unsolved. I squinted at the text, which was barely legible. I did make out enough to get that it was a story about a series of child killings that had happened in the area back in '54.
One of the killings had been done with a skipping rope, another with a shovel. There were six victims in total. I gulped, and a terrifying sense of confusion rose as I read more. I thought of Mr. Death and Disease, and then I noticed a light and stopped reading. The back door was open, meaning someone might be in the garage.
I rushed to it, finding wet footprints in the dust. They were edged with red like blood, so I took the last three steps to the door very slowly. More blood covered some old newspapers in a recess there, like a bleeding body may have been stored there, and then carried out.
The door was ajar, so I looked out, finding bloodstains on the grass and the board fence. Whoever it was had gone over the fence and across the park to the hillside. I decided to follow, but first I got some rags and wiped up the blood on my property. When the garage was locked up, I walked around to the park.
The street was still empty, and so was the park. Not a soul in sight, and it made me wonder if some sort of evil spell had been cast. I had the feeling that a thousand eyes were watching me from behind darkened windows. Since I'd seen Mr. Death and Disease up on the hill, I decided to check that area.
Swings creaked eerily as they rocked in the breeze. The wind hummed strangely through aluminum slides. Oil black clouds were rising beyond the hilltop as a thunderstorm approached. I knew it would be another of the recent electric storms as my body hair was already bristling.
The hill path wound beside the park, and one fork of it led to the decrepit old Towns Graveyard at the top. An orange heat flash lit the sky as I began the climb, and I was sure I saw a figure moving in some pine scrub higher up.
Strong wind shook the foliage. Random gusts of light rain came in like percussion. I don't know why I pressed on, but I suppose the desire to get to the bottom of things still outweighed fear.
The branch to the top was nearly choked off by thistles, burs, and sumac. I moved up it slowly, my eyes darting suspiciously to every shadow and wind-rocked bough. I definitely didn't want a sudden confrontation with Mr. Death and Disease, so I halted at a huge mud puddle and then cut through some rotting logs. I came over the top under the cover of sumac. From there, I peered through the leaves at a vision of windswept weeds and broken stones.
The graveyard's only stone angel had fallen, and behind it an obelisk pointed crookedly at the storm rising on the horizon. It was hard to see anything in detail on the darkened hilltop. Rainwater had already formed puddles in some of the sunken lots, and thick tangles of weeds played tricks on the eyes. I stepped left to a spot where I could see far into the yard, and from there I spotted human movement. It was definitely Mr. Death and Disease walking on the stones at the far end.
As I focused on him, I thought of the 1954 paper and the bloodstains. Water suddenly tumbled into a puddle in front of me, hairs rose on the back of my neck, and for a moment, my whole body seemed to shake.
Mr. Death and Disease was slightly bent and moving from side to side in front of one of the gravestones. He held a stick resembling a divining rod. Small objects swung on nearly invisible strings attached to it.
There are people who want bizarre rituals performed at their graves, but this looked more like necromancy, and a man who could double for one of the dead was performing it.
He wasn't looking my way at all, so I crept forward across the sodden ground and got behind an elm tree in the middle. From that spot I could see a lot better. Mr. Death and Disease dripped with rain, and the rod was really a gnarled branch. Stripped of leaves and bark, it was hung with tiny mittens. These mittens were fat, so I assumed he'd filled them with some concoction of spice or magic herbs.
I could hear him mumbling an evil prayer as he waved the stick over the grave, and this went on for some time before he stopped. Not taking any chances, I ducked back, only peeking out again when I heard a click. The stick was lowered now, and I could see him setting the tiny gloves alight.
They burned furiously at first, and then began to smoke. He repeated pretty much the whole ritual over, swinging the burning mittens this time - an effect that was definitely evil. I knew something obscene was burning inside those mittens, as the odor of the smoke reaching me was foul.
He stared at the grave and never looked back, not even once. Perhaps that was part of the ritual, yet at that point I didn't look at the grave. My eyes kept following the trailing smoke from the rod. I felt a spiritual power rise in the graveyard, and for an instant, the tree shook with more than wind, as some unseen giant had boxed it. Then it settled, and my eyes went to the grave, which was definitely stirring.
It had an old, crooked gray stone with an inscription nearly weathered off it. The ground before it was mounded with weeds and broken sod. Tears in the sod were irregular and bursting with soft earth, as if this grave had opened before and was doing so again.
Maggots and root filaments spilled out as the sod split wide. Fingers of bone appeared in the crack, and when that happened, my mouth gaped wide enough to be a second opening grave.
I could see rotted flesh and a silver ring on the struggling hand. A blackened arm laced with remnants of muscle followed, then a big lump of red clay popped aside, and a skull appeared. Pieces of a cap and scalp clung to it, though the face was rotted off. Broken teeth grinned demonically; red light shone in the eye sockets. Horror and the fear that it would spot me led me to duck back behind the tree.
Rain showered across the treetops, and a second gust spooned the water down on me. I felt terribly agitated and fought to keep my teeth from chattering. Leaning into the tree trunk, I eased around and looked again.
The skeletal ghoul had risen completely. It towered to a height of seven feet on the grave mound. Wet earth and a thick ooze of decay and mud dripped down from the frame of swollen bones. Without a doubt, it was the most frightening thing I had ever seen.
An aura of great power surrounded its ravaged body, but the real shock came from another aspect of it. I could see obscene decorations hanging from it, and as more mud slipped away, I saw that they were items from my garage. It wore the skipping rope as a necklace, and the shovel was fastened to its left arm. The light in its eyes came from pieces of fluorescent plastic. A pair of garden shears hung from its shoulder, and what looked like tiny scalps hung from its hipbone. When I looked down, I saw it wearing a pair of my old, torn work boots. Newspapers and rags wadded in its rib cage and heavy twine binding its bones held it together.
Mr. Death and Disease was still using his smoking rod, and the ghoul began to follow him as he stepped through the graves. They were moving away from me over the wet ground to a break in the trees on the hillside.
I was too frightened to come out of hiding and remained frozen there for a few minutes. It was the ghastly fumes from those burning mittens that finally brought me around, and when I did step from behind the tree, they had gone down out of sight.
Foolish curiosity got the better of me again, and I crept over and looked down, seeing Mr. Death and Disease and the thing moving through the park. Heat flashes lit the sky, illuminating two police officers sitting in a cruiser on the park bridge. They were pale and stiff with blank, hypnotized expressions on their faces.
I knew then that I couldn't stop the ghoul that Mr. Death and Disease had raised. Trying to talk to the police would be useless when the creature could simply hypnotize them. And if they found evidence from my garage, they would charge me.
As I walked back, I was quite sure that the monster had detected my presence all along. Yet it had left me alone.
A bit of thinking, and I knew why. It knew I couldn't stop it, and it also knew that I was a soul brother of sorts. I dislike kids and it hates kids.
They say that everyone has a skeleton in the closet. I guess with me, it’s in the garage.
+++
By Gary Morton
T-Bone's work boots squeaked grossly as he walked down the damp access tunnel. The sound was loud enough for a rat to hear, and it squealed as it dived through the grid and down the cracks leading to the subway corridor. A train was already rumbling below, so he paused, staring at trickling groundwater and bleach stains on the eroded wall. Moments later, the door stopped shaking, and he produced his key, threw back two huge bolts, and entered.
Concrete dust gave the stuffy air an aged taste. Drifting down because of the nearby trains, it had coated nearly everything: his girly pictures, toolboxes, chairs, and the bank of screens. A cleanup would help, so he pulled some rags from his pack and polished the panel, screens, and his leather chair. He sat for a moment with his feet on an orange crate and rolled the new filter circuit in his palm. A moment later, he got up, slid the panel drawer out, and inserted it.
As the panel closed, the button locked and ten monitors lit up, their light combining with the single fading fluorescent bulb, giving the room a sort of movie-theatre feeling. Using the keyboard, T-Bone edited the settings file, and then he rebooted the operations computer and watched as the screens refocused.
A similar but slightly different picture showed on all ten screens. And with the new filter, the images on the center screen were clear; video effects like pink sunlight, underwater blur, and depth distortion were now gone. T-Bone could see the activity at ten city intersections, and by simply changing the coordinates, he could switch to nearly any intersection in the Greater Toronto Area and lock it in the center screen for a better view.
T-Bone's hobby was highly illegal and also highly secret, as only he knew of it. No one else would believe it to be possible. Two years ago, T-Bone had moved to Toronto to aid with the red-light project - the installation of more red-light cameras at city intersections. The system itself detected red-light jumpers by recording their plate numbers. Privacy rules dictated that the system be set to see nothing else. And at Transit HQ, high above T-Bone, they saw nothing else. Up there, the city computers and banks kept the system working, reporting system failures and pouring gold into the treasury as violators were issued computer-generated tickets.
The red light system saved lives, but despite its many advantages, there were always nasty people who questioned it and filed legal challenges. Privacy crackpots, T-Bone saw them as that. Always worrying that Big Brother would be secretly watching everything and invading citizen privacy. Silly folks. T-Bone knew Big Brother wasn't watching. In installing the new system, he'd made sure it was foolproof. Government officials and police could not use it as a general surveillance tool.
Time jades all people, and T-Bone had been hired to maintain the system as well, which was just a little too much temptation. He'd wanted to experiment with the camera system and the software, so he'd run a cable straight down to this abandoned subway service room and built his custom system from discarded systems and parts. A thing of beauty, it worked in conjunction with the main system. The main computers could go right on recording violators while T-Bone tinkered around, honing his underground lair into an electronic den where he could spy on city intersections.
It had been a boring scene at first, with the distortion, weird colors, and lack of control. Yet odd as it was, he'd often sat in his chair for hours. He watched workers stream across the walks at rush hour, kids going to and from school, Friday night drunks, and midnight raccoons. Parades and rallies, weddings and funerals all went by in the pink sunlight. It was a dim, distorted alien world where no one was quite right, and it suited him. The human aliens were beings he really couldn't fathom. Sometimes he hated them and wished the fizz and snow of the screens could somehow replace them, filling the world with the peace of silent noise. He couldn't grasp their motives, and he didn't care about the things they cared about. They were all losers hiding from the fact that they'd soon be bones rattling in a coffin.
He’d never really belonged in any world, though he hid his attitude with a wide smile and strong handshake. T-Bone, the friendly mulatto engineer, always working in mostly white corporations, and he had some real technical brains behind his simple tradesman-like facade.
Ugly things hide behind simple names. An ugly, demonic thing likely lurked behind the word "Earth". Even his name - T-Bone - had an ugly story attached to it. He was originally from Australia, and his name was Larry. His family had moved like Gypsies across that wilderness. A rough life, and he was often left with abusive relatives. At age ten, he'd been brutally raped by an uncle on the sand beach at Highland Falls. And though he didn’t call the police, some of the other kids had witnessed the crime from the bushes. Unidentified men from town strangled his uncle a week later, and the day Larry started school was the day he got tagged with his nickname. The other boys were sitting on the bridge railing as he passed, and because he wasn't part of the local gang, he went by silently and apprehensively, ignoring their whispers and giggles. Then one boy, Eddie, suddenly shouted, “The Bone! We saw you get the Bone!” And they all roared with laughter as he turned white and started to run. At school, the nickname became his name, and even the teachers picked it up without knowing why. He returned to Highland Falls that first evening, planning to jump and drown himself -- his self-esteem sinking right into the mud at the bottom when he discovered that he was a coward.
By the time T-Bone's family moved on, the damage had been done, the loner's personality had been cast, and a host of devils lurked inside it: weird homophobia, distrust, brooding, anger, resentment, and the rejection of all the usual values society tagged onto individuals. It was a perfect personality mix for the cameras. He felt calm and in his proper place, watching a distorted world of intersections and people obeying lights that he couldn't care less about.
His reason for the new filter and the end of distortion was women. The city had many beautiful women, and he wanted more than just a distorted view of some of them. There was one in particular he wanted to see in true color, and as the memory of her rose in his mind, he began hurriedly switching through intersections along the grid, many of them with simple view cams he’d added himself. What was it? Silver Birch and Jenson Ave, which was the corner - somewhere in the 300 range. Running a string, he watched as all ten screens blinked through intersections, then something caught his eye, and he hit the stop key. It was a light jump in progress on the Mansion Road; a big sucker of a truck barreling through at high speed, its silver box leaving waves of distortion on the screen as it flashed by. Quickly switching to the next intersection on the route, T-Bone watched the truck approach. A young woman pushing a carriage was just getting across. “Thank God,” he thought, “I sure don’t want to see a baby get pancaked.” Then a man appeared on the crosswalk. T-Bone's view showed him from the rear. Brown-skinned like him and wearing a blue suit. He seemed to be stoned or something as he stopped in the center and faced the oncoming truck.
It was still a hundred meters away, and T-Bone bit his lip, wondering why the idiot wasn't getting off the road. Then his eyes widened in amazement as the man suddenly tried to escape. He ran for the right side, throwing his arms out as he tried to leap. Something light, gossamer, and almost invisible flashed in front of the truck, and then it was gone. But the man remained; he hadn't been fast enough and was now food for the big grill.
The truck nailed him. T-Bone saw the crazed eyes of the Chinese driver, the impact, and the body bouncing high in the air, bordered by blood spray as it headed straight for him.
Frightened and gasping, he fell out of his chair, and the orange crate clattered as it overturned. Sitting up, he saw purplish liquid pouring on the screen. Switching back through the grid, he tried to find the truck, but it didn't appear at the next light.
He had a recording of the accident, so he switched the whole thing to the center screen and replayed a version without the distortion. “Damn shit,” he muttered as the body and blood spray flew straight for him again. With his arms spread and shooting up at about forty-five degrees, the guy looked like some sort of superhero taking flight. Only it was a death flight, and T-Bone wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he watched red blood pour on the lens.
“Bad news day,” he thought, and then he looked at his watch. Nearly nine p.m., and if he wasted any more time, he would miss her. Switching back through the lights, he got Silver Birch and Jenson on one of the screens, then moved to the center for a better view.
Ten minutes passed without a single person passing by. A few cars trailed exhaust as they drove slowly through the intersection. Other than that, it was about as exciting as staring at a still of plastic fruit. Then she appeared, coming off the side street. Her windblown platinum blonde hair excited him. Everything about her turned him on. Only he wasn't quite sure why. She wasn't the type he'd gone for in the past. Robust, healthy women had been his preference. This one was more like a ghost. Pale skin, slim with delicate features, and always wearing white dresses, thin as gossamer. The whole effect was enhanced by her long, luxurious legs. Other women were dragged and bent by the wind, but she floated into it, fluttering like a flag of beauty. Seeing her close up and in true color made him gasp. And at that moment, she seemed to look his way, her eyes like twinkling crystal.
Then she was gone, hidden in the shadows of an oak tree, and T-Bone nearly ran to the screen, trying to see more of her. A few seconds passed, then he saw a bit of silky white, her legs moving as she went up the steps to her home.
She lived in the second house up from the north corner, a two-story frame dwelling. A weed garden and its riot of wildflowers covered the front, and a huge oak tree blocked any view of the living room window. Hitting the keyboard, T-Bone used a code that would cause the red-light camera to swing. This being a repair tool for remote circuit repair, only T-Bone had modified the code so he could move the lens and maintain a specific view. The scene he chose was her bedroom window. He couldn't see much of it, just a glitter of dark glass with a leafy branch swaying in front of it most of the time. But it was enough to lock him there for more than two hours.
Near midnight, the bedroom light came on, and he saw her moving past the window. He remained frozen and impassive as he watched her brush her hair. After that, she left the room, returning ten minutes later. She pulled off her top and bra, walked to the window, and opened it a crack. T-Bone stared with hypnotized fascination as she smiled out at the night sky.
Then the lights went out, and T-Bone sighed deeply and rose from his chair. There hadn't been a man in the room with her, and that made him happy. If there had been a lover, it would have meant no in for him. A lover would've meant he would never have her. But now he saw an opportunity, and his stony face broke into a grin.
-----
T-Bone's happiness was short-lived. Three days passed, and she didn't show at the lights, and her bedroom light didn’t come on. A state of apprehension and worry began to eat at him. He began to fear the worst. Using the secret room in the daytime was too risky, but he still thought of chancing it as a way to see if she came out of her house in the morning or at noon. One more day passed, and he decided to compromise and simply go to the corner of Silver Birch and Jenson, hang around, and see if he encountered her.
He knew that simply standing on the corner all day could get him reported to the neighborhood watch, so he dressed in a repair outfit and took a city van. The day was sunny, his mood gloomy -- but that didn't bother him as his mood was nearly always on a downer. If he could catch sight of her, things would change.
Silver Birch was a winding street overarched with maples. There were also a number of birch trees in front of mostly small bungalow-style houses. Her house was in the older section of the street, and as he approached the intersection, he felt a twinge of guilt. Parking right out front would be too obvious, and he knew that if he tempted himself, he would try to stare in the windows. For the sake of self-control, he pulled over before he got to the intersection, in a spot where he had a clear view of the sidewalk and the lights. If she came out, he would see her, and that would be good enough.
Two hours passed, and T-Bone saw in close-up some of the same people he used to watch by camera, back when it was possible to spy openly during the daylight hours. It was interesting but not all that exciting, and all the while he kept biting his nails, hoping she would show. She didn't, and noon hour arrived with the sunlight shifting out of the trees and onto the van. He started to sweat in the heat and with the sweat came semi-delirium and worry. Why was nobody coming out of that house? What had happened?
Finally, it was too much, and he got out, deciding to walk by for a closer look. There was nobody on the street, and as he stepped to the shady sidewalk, a cool breeze swept him, and he felt a lot better. At the corner, he waited for the light, and then he sauntered past the first house toward the riotous weed garden that marked her house. He faced straight ahead as he passed, then, when he was at the driveway, he took a quick glance.
And what he saw surprised him so much, he stopped, turned to face the house, and gaped. The place was a dilapidated, boarded wreck, crouched in rubble, trash, and weeds. A faded for sale sign stood in the center of the yard, nearly buried by long grass. The driveway was cracked like it had been through an earthquake. And the weed garden wasn't a garden at all; it was just weeds. Paint peeled on the sills, and the whole place seemed to be on a tilt. No one could possibly be living there; no one could have lived there for at least ten years.
His hair stiffened, and a feeling of eerie fear crept into his blood as he raised his eyes to the bedroom window. It was the only window in the house that wasn't boarded, and the glass was intact. It shone with dust and darkness, like cellophane on a well of emptiness. All of T-Bone's dreams vanished as he stared at it, then he lifted his eyes to the moldy shingles on the roof above and felt a tear falling across his cheek.
A gust of wind blew through the weeds, and a sheet of yellowed newsprint rose and blew past him. Suddenly, the mix of sadness and fear became too much, and he turned and began to run. Jumping into the van, he slammed the door, and moments later, he'd swung a U-turn and was speeding away.
----
Back in his technological lair, T-Bone, the sad eye of the underground, stared listlessly at the nighttime intersections. There was nothing to really watch for now that she was gone. Force of habit kept him going more than anything else. Sometimes, as he watched empty roads and the clock ticking past 3 am, he realized he'd been doing this so long he didn't know of anything else to do.
But mostly he realized nothing, and just stared, feeling somewhat dead inside like he'd finally gone all the way and actually turned into a mindless camera. But not quite because he still had a bit of the predatory instinct and often switched through various lights to interesting scenes. At the end of about three weeks, he had taken to watching the West Queen Street strip, an area of heavy drug use and prostitution. On one corner, a number of hookers hung out. Over three days of observation, he learned about all that anyone could need to know about their sordid lives.
But like a voyeur, he kept watching anyway, seeing fat Johns and their filthy laughter and pimps yanking hair as they pulled the drugged-out girls from the gutters at 2 a.m.
One Friday night, as he stared into the darkness, the rubbish and the trickling sewer water, he saw something different. He saw her, his platinum lover, out strolling in the night breeze. His heart leaped, but his eyes didn't believe what they were seeing. T-Bone rubbed them hard, but she didn't disappear. Red from the flashing light glowed on her pale skin. She moved forward with the slender beauty of a tigress. As always, she wore white, and this time it was shorts and a halter-top; an outfit that highlighted her perfect long legs. As she reached the center of the intersection, she looked his way; the moonlight glittering in her eyes made him feel as if she could see right through the camera to him in his lair.
As she turned away, his heart skipped a beat and then nearly burst as a red Porsche suddenly sped through the light, blowing its horn. She leaped out of the way so fast he could barely believe it, and then she walked off into the shadows and was gone.
----
T-Bone's mission in life was to find her again. Now that he knew she was out there, he would never give up. A fantasy developed in which he would spot her on camera, run to his car, race to her, and pick her up. To help make the dream come true, he worked on the equipment, developing new settings so he could switch through intersections and swivel the cameras faster. To his rear, he installed a map of the city; it covered the whole wall and had two bright red dots marked on it, one marking her home intersection and the other marking the new one she had shown him on the other side of town.
There wasn't any time to look at the clearer focus on the center screen; his eyes flashed across all ten screens, absorbing the distortion, the winking lights, and the blue-tinted night. T-Bone flew across the intersections like a racecar driver going off on ten roads at the same time, a mind-boggling effort that possessed him so much so that he sat there with the determined look of a madman as he hammered at his keypad and controls. On the Friday following her reappearance, he really went out of control, shooting through the lights on a trip that lasted for hours. By 2 a.m., which he considered prime time, he didn't think he could go on anymore. Horrible pain stabbed at his eyes, colored lights and distortion swam in his aching head, and his stomach had turned sour on him. But he couldn't stop himself; he kept working the night until finally he fell right out of his chair and vomited wickedly.
He thought his entire stomach lining was going to be thrown up, but after a minute, he felt a bit relieved and raised his head. And it was then that he saw her, just a glimpse as she had already crossed the street. The platinum hair, profile, and her way of walking were unmistakable. Bouncing to his feet, he ran closer to the screen, slipped on his own vomit, and moaned miserably as he hit the floor.
----
In the daytime, T-Bone was often dead tired and dragging himself like a sack. Lack of sleep showed as drooping purple bags under his eyes. What work he couldn't put off, he passed on to subordinates. He had a private lakeside office in a high-rise, but no secretary, so it was easy to leave the door closed most of the time. In the afternoons, he slept with his face on the desk, uneasy sleep peppered with haunting dreams. She was there in bizarre dream intersections and alleyways, always tossing him fleeting smiles and then vanishing before he could reach her. Often, he woke in a state of burning frustration, and he now kept whiskey in his drawer. A solid shot of Club and he'd stroll to the window, look out at the distant lake and islands, and try not to think of her, and it often worked for a short few minutes. But not any longer than that, she always escaped him, but he could not escape the ghostly image of her always rising in his mind.
As a loner, he didn't have friends he could use as a distraction. It was always the reek of whiskey, and then his feet pulling him beneath the smoggy sunrise, into damp darkness and his voyeur's lair. Over a few weeks, he spotted her a few times. Just fleeting glances and never a solid sighting. Even in his worst moments of frustration, he still carefully consulted the map and marked sightings with a large red dot.
When his luck improved, it was again a Friday night, and rather than jumping the system through lights, he'd decided to take it easy and study the crowds streaming from various events around the city. A formally dressed concert hall crowd was spilling across a Yonge Street intersection, and as it began to thin, she appeared. Her long white dress was elegant, revealing a sophisticated side of her personality he hadn't seen before. Headlights flashed across her face as she walked across the street, headed directly for a handsome gentleman leaning on a newspaper box. Her eyes glittered like gems or like the eyes of a woman in love. And in that instant, T-Bone felt jealousy he'd never felt before. His hands rose from the keyboard, and he gripped the air. Then, when he saw that the man was only lighting a smoke, and she was just passing him, a great feeling of relief passed over him, and he slumped in his chair and watched calmly as she vanished in the night-lights.
She began to appear almost nightly, and T-Bone spent a great deal of time studying the map. At one point, he noticed that she grew closer to his lair with each sighting, and he began to believe she was coming to him, driven by passion. But rather than arrive, she outright passed him, appearing next at a set of lights farther north.
T-Bone was heartbroken by this, and after the sighting, he swore he would get to her; if only he could somehow study the map and predict where she would appear next. At work, he'd all but forgotten about his job as he sat locked in his office, drinking and staring at a replica of the map. Yet the more he studied it, the more confused he grew. Trying to make a logical pattern out of the dots proved elusive because there were endless patterns you could create and apply, and you never knew if they were valid. Heaps of paper napkins grew on the floor as T-Bone worked at tracing every pattern possible: angel faces, demon claws, shapes of vehicles, birds, bears, ornaments, and plants. His drawing seemed endless. And the connection of dots was never quite right; somehow, he always knew it, discarded his work, and started again.
Friday arrived again, and with so many sightings on Friday, T-Bone arrived at the office with a bunch of notepads and a bottle of whiskey. By the afternoon, he was drunk with crumpled paper all around him. His hands shook so much he couldn't write, so he threw the pen aside in frustration and leaned back in his chair. His vision swam in an alcoholic haze as he stared at a large copy of the map tacked on the wall. Then things got so blurry he could see nothing but the red dots marking the intersections where she'd appeared. The dots seemed to float on their own in midair, and then they connected, and he saw a word.
“LOVE,” he said it aloud, and then he knocked over his whiskey bottle and pulled himself up. The chair he simply threw aside as he hurried to the map. Staggering slightly, he pulled a red pen from his pocket and, as carefully as he could, connected the dots the way he'd seen them. When he was finished, he'd spelled the word LOVE at an angle across the city map. It was almost perfect, except that the last dot had not been filled in yet. T-Bone knew beyond any doubt that this was it and that last dot was the intersection where she would appear next.
----
T-Bone had sobered up by sunset. Stopping off at his downtown apartment, he showered, shaved, and put on a light suit. He took his city wagon and drove leisurely across town. The sun was falling in a blaze of red glory that seemed pointless as a backdrop to the everyday people on the sidewalks. Lights in the sky held little meaning or beauty for him; all of his faith had been placed in the glittering eyes of a woman. The sun couldn't sink fast enough, and twilight couldn't sift in soon enough for T-Bone. Nightfall meant he would see her, and this time, he would not let her get away.
As he reached the corner of Grace and Allan, the last rays of sunset were rising like streamers of fire over the western treetops. Almost like a natural fireworks celebration, indicating a great event to come. Getting out of the car, he looked around at the quiet neighborhood, and then he took a walk to get the feel of the intersection.
The streetlamps came on as he reached the lights, giving him a better view of the houses. This was a clean residential street of front gardens, porches, and neat fences. Only one house looked out of place, an abandoned place on the northeast corner. It was overgrown with weeds and in bad repair, much like the house where he'd first spotted her. This one didn't even have a for-sale sign in the yard, like the owners had given up on attempts to sell it.
T-Bone crossed the road and stood out front for a few minutes, staring in at the dark, cobwebby windows. He saw nothing, and all he heard and felt were wind chimes and the breeze. A gentle tinkling and touch that would likely have spooked others raised T-Bone to a state of elation.
He knew the time wasn't right; she wouldn't show this early. But just knowing she would was enough to cheer him. His feet took him back to the car, where he sat and waited in a state of certainty underwritten with feelings of aching romance. He felt like a groom who knew his bride would eventually appear.
The breeze drifted softly through the window and his hair as the hours passed, and as 2 a.m. approached, he began to stir like a corpse in its coffin. His new suit scratched his chest and knees as he opened the door and eased himself out. Stepping to the sidewalk, he stretched, raising his arms high, an unwitting worshipper of the full moon flying high in the ragged fleece of leaf and cirrus angel hair above.
Fresh lilac-scented air filled his nostrils, and he felt unusually strong and exhilarated as he walked to the lights. Once there, he leaned on a newspaper box and studied the deep shadows and crowded houses. There wasn't any late-night traffic on the deserted street, and the only sounds now were vague snatches of party music carried in on the breeze. His eyes turned to the abandoned house across the road. The grounds were shrouded in darkness, but moonlight spilled across the treetops and spotlighted some of the higher windows with a ghostly glow. He studied a weird reflection of the moon in the glass, and then a sports car whooshed by on the road, breaking his concentration.
T-Bone watched the red taillights recede in the night, then he looked back at the house and saw a flash of gossamer in the driveway. It was her walking out to the sidewalk, and even in deep darkness, her skin shone with pale moonlight. He could see the heavenly glitter of her eyes and her silky crown of platinum hair even before she came under the lamps.
Her step was purposeful, like a woman who knew where she was headed, perhaps hurrying in the darkness for fear of what might lurk in the night. Her dress was light and silky and open at the neckline. The breeze blew its folds high, revealing dazzling legs. As she reached the corner, the light flooded down on her face, perfect cherry lips, and small nose. Her expression was self-absorbed, as if some inner turmoil had her slightly upset.
She didn't notice T-Bone at all; her eyes failing to grant him recognition as she began to cross. She was headed straight for him, but despite that, he couldn't wait. Stepping away from the box, he moved toward her, blocking her path so she'd be forced to speak to him there in the center of the street.
He was almost face-to-face with her when she noticed him approaching. Her reaction was a startled glance; she halted immediately, began to back off, and, when she saw that T-Bone was still stepping up, she turned and ran straight up the middle of the road.
T-Bone hesitated for a moment, and then he shouted, “No, you can't run from me this time! Wait! Please!”
But she didn't listen, and he could see her escaping. Turning, he began to pursue her, sprinting as fast as he could. An eerie feeling swept him; it was almost the same as all of those nights of pursuing her by camera, except that this time he could really feel the chase, wind in his face, and the exhilaration of a pounding heart.
She didn't vanish this time, and he gained on her rapidly. He knew he'd have her in a few seconds, and as he ran, he dared not take his eyes from her fluttering form for fear she would be gone. He saw her long legs moving as swiftly as his, and then she was running no longer. Quick as a dancer, she stopped and turned; he saw her beautiful smile and blowing dress, saw them fade and vanish, replaced by headlights and the grill of a speeding truck.
T-Bone had enough time to jump aside, but he didn't do it. He just kept running toward the truck and certain death. He kept running because he knew his dream woman was a ghost. He'd known since that night at the Silver Birch intersection when he'd seen the abandoned house.
In life, he could not have her, and so he'd decided to join her in death. He was certain she loved him, or she wouldn't have left him that message on the map. And if she cared that much, then he wouldn't let trucks or red lights get in his way again. Raising his arms, he smiled as he ran, and when the truck hit him, he flew so high in the air that his body landed in the telephone wires. But he saw none of that. T-Bone saw ephemeral flashes, a world of pink sunlight, blue-tinted night, and distortion. The alien world he'd seen through the unfiltered cameras, and ahead on the street, he saw her, smiling as she waited for him on the corner of Silver Birch and Jenson.
+++
By Gary Morton
The scent of blood served as a sensual beacon as Daniel moved through the semi-darkness. Hulking snow banks cast turquoise shadows. Wind in the alleyway whipped the swirling snow into a vortex that sucked him forward, and like some wintry telescope, it took him toward its end - an exploding kaleidoscope pane that was Christmas bustle in the city square.
He halted at the alley mouth and reeled momentarily from the glare. His frozen ears were tuned out, but here the sight of spinning red emergency lights cued him, and he listened. The sound of the sirens rose to a high wail - a mournful announcement of death in the cold. Rescue workers and police wearing rain capes raced over slippery concrete toward a mangled auto that had just fused itself to a metal rail at the street side of the square's huge Christmas tree. Flames rose on the tinseled pine, blood and battered bodies littered the long salted walkway; it was clear that the driver had somehow jumped a barrier at high speed and cut down pedestrians.
Daniel saw a patchwork crowd forming, a fat man in tears, a woman screaming, but he wasn't sickened or sympathetic. Instead, the odors of fresh blood reddened his cheeks and rose in his nostrils again. It uplifted him like a song - a superb symphony of departed life, detached and melodic. Yet this time it wasn't his song. He didn't feed on the dead or particularly enjoy the sight of corpses. There really was nothing for him here, so he put his hands on his hips and snorted. Then he spun left. Dark shadows formed in the streaks of blowing snow, and something grotesque and winged raced up the night to a rooftop.
Icy wind raced over the wall as he looked over the city. A glow of yellow-blue filtered through the millions of snowflakes from buildings falling away to the horizon. This was a cold, lonely view, leaving him feeling strange and exiled. He found himself briefly longing for yesterday, then a glow of red rising from below reminded his sharpened senses of blood thirst and today.
Snow rushed in, putting false tears in his eyes, and through the melting glimmer, he saw frightening symbols of Christmas: the silver and gold, and the evergreen with tiny angels, a star rising, and the painful cross. Bright colored bulbs swirled in memory, and more than any other hue, he saw red; radiant on friendly faces, decorations, plants, and reindeer images. Red that dripped like beautiful blood to the knees of children from the suits of a thousand rogue Santas.
This was a city of blood, and anyone who could direct its flow had a greater gift. Red could be any gift, or memories of how things used to be. Daniel's eyes glowed with that peculiar crimson of the past, and a sudden tint lit the snowflakes, so that across the city people suddenly looked twice, thinking that the wind was blowing with ruby tinsel instead of snow.
Daniel soared in the eye of the night, then stepped out on a dim street. The wind was blowing hard, and only a few of the many streetlights were lit. The central city towered beyond the snowy rooftops of this empty neighborhood. It cast a haze of bluish light across the sky, and out of it came white as the gusts swept snow off the rooftops and sent it down in billowing clouds.
He wrapped his scarf up over his chin and walked slowly past the boarded buildings. His heels seemed to click in time with the high roaring sound of the storm racing in the distant scrapers. The streets were open, windswept, and clean, with huge snowbanks piled on junked autos, building facades, and doorways.
The house he used to inhabit stood by a crumbling variety store. Daniel halted and looked up at the boarded bedroom windows. It didn't seem like home anymore, but like the loneliest place in the world. Its spirit had departed long ago so that nothing of its past remained.
He knocked crusted snow from his cheeks as he turned from the stinging wind; ahead, warm Christmas lights illumined the windows of his old watering hole. He could barely see through the steamed and frosted windows, but he did hear music. And it was the same music that used to play thirty years ago, when he was younger and untouched. Beyond the glass, people were conversing, laughing, and dancing as they partied, and though they were only silhouettes, he knew all of them.
Daniel walked in boldly, almost unseen, and suddenly found himself under the mistletoe with his old flame, Linda. She had stars in her eyes like some new Christmas decoration. Yet she was much more than porcelain, her skin being just as pale but with the luminosity of youth that sends life beyond any of its imitations.
Daniel kissed her there, and he danced with her as the band played rock tunes and covers of carols. They drank rum, and if he could see nothing in the mirror behind the bar, perhaps it was because of the steam.
It all became happiness and the subterranean warmth of yesterday. Later, they joined old friends at a table, and they laughed and talked in slurred voices about the simple things of the waterfront neighborhood they used to know.
By one o’clock, they'd partied and drunk too much. Linda felt hot; perhaps feverish, so they put on their coats and stepped out into the cold blast of night. He put an arm around her as they looked down the frozen streets and saw the last small ghosts of yesteryear. Then she stepped away in the darkness, and he saw her full lips rise to a smile. Fangs cut at the edges, leaving bruised blue flesh. "Yesterday we drank the wine, and now only blood remains," she said as she faded into the wind and the snow.
A howling gust blew behind him, and he heard the sign knocking above the door. He took a last look over the snow-laden sill and saw faint light, knife-edge shadows, and desolation. Turning from the frosty window, he walked away, and he felt his bones rattle as the cold cut through his clothes. Something cruel bit at his stomach, and something wicked shrouded the street ahead. Snow and blindness settled as he shivered and tried to forget.
But he could not do it, and his eyes flashed with faint fire just before the power swept him over the chimneys to the sky and the city.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Nod yourself asleep with a cotton-candy dream in your headspace, and the rushes shoot you high to a realm of orchestral music. Here you're strolling beside a jade-blue pond in a land of tall palms, watching a wealth of sunbeams in ice-crystals - fast on their way from the heavens, glowing gold in the crowns of rolling clouds.
It all drifts slowly away from your open palm and into the blue face of twilight, so you race through these moments you've stolen, trying to tag the golden fleece of fortune before it slips away.
Beautiful feelings are ephemeral in every land, and here the night spirals down in a carousel of colors ... so you keep on running, reaching for the heavens as an inner voice shouts, 'What freedom it is to dream alone on my own!'
Now you're on your own in cold, lonely corners, and many melting forms mix aimlessly in a play of lantern light. The night has stuffed its magic deep in bleak pockets, so you turn and take a sidelong glance down an alleyway, wondering what evil will take shape.
We all have enemies, they're at large in the secrecy of the world, and if there isn't a blade flashing at your back, there's a bundle of cash with your name on it, or maybe a face of blue death at your door. So you let the shapeless take form, let the hidden become visible. You set your dark forces free.
Now your dreams scatter from you with the lizards and the bats, and your broken teeth chatter by towering stones. Forms are hideous scarecrows spattered with crimson, moving against a blur of grey-streaked ebony walls. You know how it always is on these late starless evenings, and you shuffle wearily to the Blue house, hoping to work for some White. If you could put your finger on what's changed, your chances would be better, but the sweat and nightmares, the bones and the cobbles, make answers a blur. Time is short when you're a lone wolf scavenging among the tombstone towers, but the shadow gangs are the first step down to the ravening mob. It's better to gamble on a vamp or the shakes, better to turn down a familiar gloom row and go for the sane.
Feet in the gutter by a sconce light flickering on a grim, grease-scarred wall, you look up at a purple bruise that once was the moon. When the vamp strides up, his cape is trailing ashen fog; his face is stern, having the strength of a statue among men made of rot. Yet something's not quite right - you think it is in his eyes, they've yellowed when once they shone with distinction like his pearl clasp.
He shows you the White, and of course, he has an elegant manner; it makes you ashamed of your stoop and your drool. He steadies you with a firm hand on the shoulder, in his eyes, he says you're still human enough for use, and then he asks for a Red name.
You give him her name and say she's fresh, definitely no disease or face of blue death, one of the rare untainted ones - no withering, a princess.
As vampires always do, he smiles confidently and pulls you to him with a rough hand. "A name is not enough, take me to her!"
She lives in a small ivy-covered keep in one of the uphill circles, and sentry stones stand like cracked fists there. Poison dew is the only guard left to hinder you as you steal through the deep grass with your customer, the vampire. He's going by sense of smell now, and he really has no use for you, but a deal is a deal - the Red for the White.
Phosphor-bright windows. His eyes smolder low. A sweep of dark hair, a slim, gliding figure, and he visibly chokes at the sight. He looks to you fiercely, and at your open palm, then he charges the oak-and-iron door and boots it down. He steps back as the thundering crash resounds in the structure's ancient hallways.
Silence comes with her, her shadows, and a hint of fire. Flames lick from the end of her silver weapon. Her black dress and hair flow liquidly like silk as she poses and directs the gun's molten stream.
A fountain of fire devours the vampire. He flings his arms up, his cape lifts, sending a tongue of flame over the gnarled oaks, painting the soot-fogged sky red. He's a stumbling torch when her weapon is long empty, then he falls to his knees in a cloud of hissing smoke.
Her white teeth glitter, and you remember the stars as she steps out confidently to view his corpse. You see her cheeks like rouge-tinted porcelain as he springs up. He surprises her and takes her by the throat to the wall. In a tangle of ivy, she's flowing with blood. White wax crumbles, his hands fall away, and you see the crooked claws ripping her flesh. He's hungrier than fire, breaking away ribs, tearing at the heart.
Your head is spinning, but there's nowhere to go, so you watch, not wanting to see him feed. He spares you now, turns, and lets the Red slide down the wall. With one crooked claw, he grabs his distorted wax face and breaks the melted mask away. His scorched wig drops, there's only blood-speckled black rot. A nose bone, canine teeth, and yellow eyes tell his story.
Now you know what has changed. With one filthy claw, he squeezes raw Red on the powdery White, and then tosses you the pouch.
"Our deal, Red for White, not diseased," he hisses. "Don't you tell the others. Don’t tell it around. There are no vampires anymore. I was the last. And this poisoned world has killed me too."
Now there is nothing but the twilight and the darkness, inhabited by hideous diseased scarecrows and the predators of animal night. The sounds of his feeding fade as you make for the bushes behind a sentry stone; there White powder fizzes through your skin and spots of red stain your wrist - you kneel, nod yourself asleep with a white candy dream in your headspace, and the rushes shoot you . . . . . . . .
+++
By Gary L Morton
1: Body in the Grass
2: New Guy in Town
3: A Castle Appears
4: He Rises in Flames
5: In the Stacks
6: Beasts in the Night
7: The Capture
8: Face to Face with the Vampire Queen
9: The Enemy Arrives
0: Midnight
----------
Part One: Body in the Grass
The train pulled out and rocketed west in a radiant blur of sunlight. I turned from the exit ramp and stared down the sand bluff at the dappled mirror of water. Willows and an arched bridge showed in the reflection. A rope and rubber tube rocked in the breeze at the shoreline.
My eyes followed a robin soaring up the bank into hazy blue sky and puffs of white cumulus. Oakdale rested on the far bank. Small compact towers and an odd sprawl of commercial structures. It had a definite small city feeling, but in a weird way. Something seemed wrong in the picture.
I sighed with relief, hoping this little hideaway of the North would live up to its reputation. Being outside of the central web of international law, the place was perhaps one of the only towns I could enter without being placed under constant surveillance.
My head suddenly whirled at the magnitude of my personal situation and failure. I found it hard to believe that the world track of megacities was now beyond my reach. Yet it was a certainty. Tiny, unaligned places like Oakdale were my future.
It was a curse to have been born Grant King. A man destined from the beginning to become the star and then an outcast of entertainmentnet.99; on the run from corporate law firms and petty tyrants that wanted to see me in hell.
Anxiety and a charge of anger twisted my face. See me in hell; I'd see them in a hotter hell! I thought of breaking bones, then I spat in the dust as I turned to the sidewalk. Mud had gotten on my shoe. I slipped, and as I caught my balance, I realized what had been wrong in the view of the town.
This train stop belonged in town, not on the outskirts of it on a lush riverbank wood lot. They didn't even have a terminal or transit into the core. Did they think people came here to study birds and jog the half-kilometer stretch into the city?
Muttering, dealing with mild confusion, I headed into town on foot. The beauty of late spring seemed to do little for my mood. Worries about my financial situation clouded my mind. I could last perhaps another month, then I'd need a job of some sort. Producing blockbuster entertainment had been my only talent in New York. In a small Canadian city, I had no saleable skills.
In earlier days, I'd survived as a stuntman. After I got lucky and moved up the ladder, money oozed from my pockets. Surviving without wealth felt like a new situation, and it had me kicking stones as I walked.
Electric cars slipped quietly by and some of the net.99 billboards shielded the landscape as I passed hotels and rental cottages on the outskirts. It seemed incredibly quiet for a Saturday morning. My best bet seemed to be to head for the center of this small city and its clutch of diminutive skyscrapers.
The road broke at the grounds of Oakdale College and circled wide around a park and the river. I cut through on the path and soon found myself following a rushing brook. Crossing a tiny bridge, I took a shortcut over a field of wild flowers toward the central town square. I was about halfway across and on a path running through deep grass when I stumbled onto a large bundle in the weeds. As I looked down at it, a jogger suddenly appeared on my left and came to a stop beside me.
A gasp escaped my lips as the image of a mutilated corpse fused itself to my brain cells. I stepped back quickly, raising my arms in a defensive gesture as my eyes flashed to the jogger. This was a big man standing in the morning glare, and his face was long, heavily whiskered, and grim. His expression twisted into a speculative grimace as I watched, as though he were studying some minor oddity. Some irritating bit of morning road kill in need of explanation.
“It's murder,” I said bluntly. “Murder of the most horrible sort.”
He made a broad gesture. His sunken eyes widened. “I disagree. In this case, it appears to be suicide. You wouldn't want to claim this body.”
I looked back at the corpse. The man lay crumpled in the grass and soaked in crusting blood. His head was thrown back, and the neck had been torn open, perhaps by a rabid human or animal. The eyes were wide, bulbous, and staring, and his face was frozen in a last expression of horrified shock. “Suicide? Claim the body? Why would I do that? The police will be claiming it.”
“That's good to hear. Bill Thompson's the name. Glad to meet you.”
“Grant King,” I said, feeling more than a little baffled as I shook his coarse hand.
Bill Thompson reminded me of a friend of mine, a character actor from the old Sinematic 3Ds. He was positively morbid and definitely an individual of the loony sort if he thought in terms of claiming dead bodies. I decided to humor him.
Thompson pulled out a tiny pocket phone. “You can go on about your business. I'll call the police chief and clear this little matter up. I plan on claiming the body for my wax museum, so I'll need your address. You'll have to verify that I made the discovery.”
“Sure, I'll verify that. But I'd better wait and talk to the chief. I just came in on the train, so it'll look pretty darn suspicious if I leave the scene. He might even think I'm armed and dangerous.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. King. Just remember that I found the body, not you.”
“Don't worry. I wouldn't forget something important like that, and I really do think that this fellow would look excellent done up in your wax museum. A sort of shocking dead man exhibit. Highlight the ghastliness of the whole thing in a way that will knock the pants off the soft bellies of small city society.”
“Precisely,” Thompson said, and then he got engaged in a strange phone conversation with the police chief. I could see the chief's personal icon on the screen, and as he rambled on with questions, I studied the corpse. Violence had occurred on the upper body. His collar and shirt were ripped, and I could see a wicked abrasion on his chest. Either a tiger had leaped and launched a deadly blow, or a very strong and vicious human had mauled him. It certainly wasn't suicide, and as further evidence, I spotted a fresh trail beaten in the long grass. The killer had cut across the field to trees at the edge of a small rise. I couldn't see beyond it.
The police chief arrived alone in one of those all-terrain cruisers that most small city cops use these days. This copper didn’t have a professional style - his big wheels tore through the grass, and he stopped right at the corpse. Another foot and he would have run it over.
A silver patch on his breast identified him. He wore a western tie and hat - sort of a clone of older US-style sheriffs. He jumped out and walked up to Thompson. “What you got, Bill?”
“Looks like another suicide. Probably a victim of a brain virus. I found him here in that condition. This fellow here is Grant King. He's new in town. Came down the path just after me.”
“Dan Shanon's the name,” he said as he turned and appraised me. “Chief Dan Shanon. What's your take on this death?”
“My take is that it's a killing. It looks like there may be a wild animal on the loose. It took him down and escaped over that rise.”
Police Chief Shanon stared uneasily at the corpse. Concern and suspicion showed as he squinted in the bright sunlight. His rugged features were perfect for a cop, but I detected a shallow aura … perhaps a hint that he was like a superficial movie cop with no real brains behind the looks.
He confirmed my impression when he spoke. “The victim is Alfonso Kreiger. He's a friend of yours, Thompson - isn't he? I suppose he'll look nice done up in your wax. For now, I'll have to cordon off the area and do a search. My feeling is that this is a case of death by misadventure.”
“Misadventure,” Thompson said. “I just can't see how you figure that.”
Ignoring Bill Thompson, Shanon turned to me. “I don't want you to leave town while this investigation is underway. I'm not going to hold you. Just let me know where you're staying.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering just what brand of oddballs ran this town. Place the body in a wax museum - what crazy people.
.........................
Part Two: New Kid in Town
It really would have been better to enter town without attracting attention. My original plan had been to remain invisible and maybe work under an alias. That idea was shot to hell now. If Chief Shanon ran a detailed trace, he'd draw up my past and legal enemies far worse than organized crime. If they came to town, anyone in their way would probably end up in a case of net.99 storage wax.
Pressing on, I noticed that lush greenery sprouted everywhere in this town. Dense bursts of grasses and flowers nearly choked the walkways and roads. Songbirds and butterflies sprinkled the air with flashes of color. A rustle beside me turned out to be a prowling feral cat, and I spotted hawks flying near the taller buildings downtown.
A series of arches marked the entry to the core of Oakdale, and whether by vehicle or on foot, and regardless of the direction of approach, you got greeted by an immense Oakdale arch. I walked under a pedestrian version that dripped with vines and wore a beard of tiny bell-shaped flowers. Beyond it, the green extravaganza faded, and I encountered pedestrian traffic of the sort you would expect to find in a small city on a Saturday.
Unlike most cities and many small towns, all the structures in Oakdale were modern. Civic buildings, corporate digs, and sprinklings of stores were all elaborately fronted. Eccentric local art and sculpture dominated. The largest open space surrounded the town hall - a public area, band shell, and garden. In the garden, a huge statue of a gloomy and long-dead Canadian politician stared out at the commercial area.
I paid scant attention to the locals brushing by me. Caught up in my personal woes, I felt little need for others. Heading into the town hall and its garden, I found a bench under a hybrid broad-leaf tree. This spot was slightly elevated, and gaps in the greenery allowed a good view of the town. Brushing the sweat from my forehead, I looked out at the crowd strolling in the commercial area. Casual spring dress was the norm, and the locals were of a broad genetic mix - no serious hints of vanity gone wild or racism. In New York, I'd often found myself surrounded by a crowd of the same white movie stars. And they weren't the real stars but the product of unregulated genetic selection and plastic surgery. In Oakdale, some of the locals could even be described as in need of a face transplant, so there was definitely a separate social force at work here.
Passing cars misted the road with water vapor. Children ran and played on sun-glittering paving stones; adults snacked and chatted on patios under sunshades that twisted high in the air. Local shoppers rushed in and out, creating a mirrored spin of revolving doors. The entire scene looked normal on the surface, and yet it didn't feel quite right.
Though their behavior seemed like normal social interaction, I knew there was definitely something odd about these people. Call it a gut feeling. I had the notion that an intimate conversation would show them to be of the same weird strain as Chief Shanon and Bill Thompson.
There weren't any hotels in view, and I needed a cheap place to stay. Looking around, I spotted a tanned woman on a bench just to my left. She wore a spring outfit. In its current setting, it showed as red. She had great legs, and her hair was short, neat, and blond. Gold tints clouded her lenses as she shifted lightly on the bench. Obviously, she was locked into a broadcast. Probably similar to the sound and video I used to produce before I moved into entertainment vacation packages.
I decided to pump her for information and got up. My approach showed on her wrist screen, and I saw her glasses clear and her blue eyes open. An invisible charge passed between us. Eye contact became an instant bond like love at first sight. But without the love. Neither of us belonged in Oakdale, and that led to understanding. Perhaps it was a close friendship at first sight.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” I said. “I just came in on the train. Never been here before. Do you know of a good hotel or place to stay, reasonable in price?”
“Yeah, I do. The other side of the town hall. There are four or five hotels there. I don't know about the price. You'll have to shop around.”
“Thanks,” I said and turned to walk away.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “There are a few things you might need to know about Oakdale?”
“I've already had a few surprises.”
“Sit down, and I'll clue you in. I'm Alice Wolland, and I'm not from Oakdale, either. I think I'm the only person staying here who is a stranger in the sense that I'm not related to anyone local.”
“That's bad news for me. I'm planning to stay around for a while. Maybe get a job. If this is a place of close relatives, doors might be slammed in my face.”
“It's not like that. People come here. They can stay, but no one does. The local culture is weird.”
“My experience is that their conversation is weird, but mostly they behave like normal people.”
“If you don't mind my asking. Why would you be moving to a small town like this - without a job offer or family and friends?”
“I'm from New York. Lived in a few other big cities. For years, I've dreamed of escaping the rat race and living in a small city. Janet, my wife, would never allow it. Last year, she died of a rare form of cancer. I haven't worked since. I found this place while surfing the new net for offbeat travel destinations. It seemed the ideal place for a new start. So here I am.”
“Here you are, and you're full of shit!”
“What?” I said, taking on an offended look as I pulled away from her on the bench.
“You're really full of it. You came to Oakdale for the same reasons I did. You’re on the run from something and know this town is a free zone as far as international law is concerned. Isn't that right, Mr. Grant King?”
“That's right. How did you recognize me?”
“My mother pushed me to be an actress. Your Martian Experience thing was on my course list. I saw two of your recorded lectures. No one else looks exactly like Grant King.”
“Yes, they gave us the power to patent our looks – but it only worked in a personal way for the top executives in the entertainment industry. Anyone who pays the price can look like a star. It was never a problem for me before. Guess it is now.”
“So now you're on the run. How do you expect to escape them? The entertainment net is in complete control of the United Nations intellectual property committee and nearly all city police forces.”
“I suppose I would have to do like the others and kill myself to escape them completely.”
“But I'm not dead, and I've escaped.”
“Yes. And I can see that it's a youth thing. My guess is that you're twenty-five and got the urge to escape from the perfect world of glamour society and your parents?”
“It wasn't perfect. They wanted to homogenize my life - an artist can't hide from the rough edges.”
“Have you found the rough edges here in Oakdale?”
”More than you know. What have you seen so far?”
“A corpse in the park. The rotten thing is that some nut from a wax museum and the police chief also showed up. They call it death by misadventure. It looked like murder to me. Regardless of what it is, I have to tell the chief where I'm staying. If he does a check on me, I'll be found out.”
“No problem there. If Chief Shanon finds that you're a loser, he'll cover for you and leave you alone. Anyone important, he'd run out of town.”
“Isn't that the opposite of what police usually do?”
“It is. But here in Oakdale, they don't like influential outsiders who might talk of the weird stuff that happens. You've already seen something, but you’re hiding and aren't in a position to reveal it to anyone.”
“What exactly do you mean by weird stuff? Got an example or two?”
“The rotten nut from the wax museum you mentioned. Thompson - he's a crazy mortician. There are killings all the time - every second or third day - and you know who got murdered because they end up as brief displays in his wax museum.”
“Thompson said he was going to claim the body we found today. You mean he really does put them in his wax museum? Why that's positively ghastly.”
“Not only that. He does it fast. The corpse you found is probably already on display. Has to be because its burial ceremony will be at sunrise.”
“I'd like to attend that.”
“Sure - I'll take you there if you want. You'll have to see it to believe it, but first let's book you a room.”
.........................
Part Three: A Castle Appears
I ended up staying at the Oakdale Paramount, and to be honest, it was more bottom of the heap than top. Its suites were located above an early variety of wired theatre, making it about the oldest structure in town. Bottom line is, it was affordable.
Before we entered, Alice leaned back, hands on her hips. She stared up at the offbeat, cake-like design and said the place had character. I read that as a character like a character actor, where being ugly and unusual can often be an asset.
She seemed giddy while we were at the desk and kept elbowing and distracting me. On the inside, the atmosphere was of a mummified sort - stale air and dreary vaults for hallways. Alice rang her knuckles on a brass fixture as we entered the room, and she seemed quite pleased by the grand view. Choosing the fourth floor had been wise, as it offered the best view of the town. The rear suites had beautiful cupped balconies set up with spring planters and patio tables. She immediately decided that we would have dinner out there.
Though it was still early afternoon, my light travel style presented a roadblock. Simply put, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. Not even a suitcase. Not even a suitcase. Most people carry a bag of essentials, or at least a pocket Surf-All or a wearable neo-laptop for communication. I'd learned long ago that you could be tracked via anything you owned or picked up. In the business area, my platinum Internet account had been canceled, but I had hundreds of other business accounts, as well as my public accounts. I knew all of them could be tracked, so I used none of them - it was a way of making it difficult for them. Anyone wanting further vengeance on me would have to work to find me.
I did have some cash and the ability to launder money, so Alice and I decided on a straight exchange. I would pay her for the use of her net accounts and show her a few secrets of privileged access. To make this enjoyable, we took in the fresh air on the balcony. She watched the bustle in the open concourse below while I tweaked her connection to place my order. Beginning with a check on my own identity. I did a crack and found five active searches on my name. They'd turned up nothing so far, and I was glad of that. Two of them had been initiated by a dangerous character named Ming Tse.
In most things, Alice remained a kid at heart. While net shopping, she wanted to play a game of guessing my preferences, from clothing to food. At first, I played along and we laughed a lot, but then my humorous mood was swept away by an idea.
“Hold it a moment,” I said as an ugly revelation rose in my mind. “Cancel those orders. Don't let any of them go through.”
She giggled, thinking I was joking. “Why would I do that? You want to sit here in the same clothes day after day. Starving as you look at four bare walls?”
“It's not that. I just remembered that identity isn't the only way to trace people. Your purchasing profile can identify you just as fast.”
“Yeah, but that's illegal. There are consumer privacy laws, you know.”
“You're forgetting that I worked for the entertainment net.”
“You mean the people that spin the world with their spin, making suicide possible in a world where it’s genetically impossible?”
“I do mean them, though I call them petty bastards. Let's order at random. My whole life's been disconnected anyway, so I might as well change all of my old habits.”
Alice agreed with the random thing and then proceeded to order everything according to her preferences. It took an hour, and later we went out to shop for a few items I didn’t want to purchase via the net. That went smoothly, and evening arrived with a warm blaze of sun and dinner on the balcony.
Alice ordered an Italian pasta dinner. I wolfed the main course down, and I tried to regain my dignity by sipping wine as I nibbled on dessert. Sunset hues hazed the town below. Great mounds of greenery and a mix of trees hid most of the streets. Some open areas showed through as glimpses of small-town beauty. About what you'd expect - people strolling with dogs, small groups of loitering teens, kids in their loose clothing, shouting and playing roller games. The scene stood in contrast to my memories of New York, where decadent people tended to gather in large party gangs in the evening. New York had seemed beautiful when I was there, but in memory it came up as tarnished.
Alice smiled sympathetically as she finished her last bite. “The town looks idyllic from here. But it isn't New York. This place is lacking when it comes to men.”
“You mean there aren't many single men in this back alley?”
“They all have fatal personality quirks. Probably you have them, too. People in your business are divorced most of the time.”
“Thanks a lot for lumping me in with the others. I agree that I do have flaws. My wife became just another person making excessive demands on my time and emotions. Demands I couldn't meet. It went downhill from there. People who are proud and think of themselves as perfect see too much imperfection in their loved ones. Everyone in the business is like that. We are genetically primed for healthy personalities and relationships. Yet it never quite works out because our negative cultural conditioning overrides it all.”
“You were established. You had your place at the top of society. Was your downfall really because of petty squabbles?”
“We played God, and I've never been fully satisfied with the results. This is a world like a zoo. There's a bit of everything in it, and it is all in cages ready to be packaged and sold as entertainment. Politics is controlled by the media, which is under the thumb of the global info-entertainment net. Dissent and social change remain as another regulated form of entertainment. The celebrity class now exists solely to perpetuate itself. Even art is limited to forms that can be quickly piped into the hungry brain cells of the preprogrammed masses. People shouldn't forget how this world came about. It really began when the Internet and the free dissemination of ideas threatened the profits of the old media and entertainment industry. Old and some newer media had the money and the power, so they conned us all. We allowed them to chain freedom of speech, and we let them commercialize the net and then the entire public domain. Every idea and form of communication was packaged and labeled as intellectual property. A dollar value was assigned to everything. We spend our entire lives renting back tarnished ideas and rewrites of old fictions to experience a simulation of free expression.”
“Ah, so you decided to get political and reaped the reward of it.”
“I wrote a secret paper on the system and how it would crash within fifty years.”
“Do you really think it will?”
“It might. But that piece was really written as a scare tactic. People at the top do it all the time to bring about small changes. Our leaders are not open to new ideas. Only the bogeyman can make them act.”
“But aren't we supposed to be genetically superior - born to be creative forever?”
“That's one of their fairy tales. Unlimited creativity is too risky for them. They've put up walls to prevent the rise of revolutionary ideas and change. This is a safe world for them. Safety has a high price, and rulers who only get older become gods of petty revenge. I've angered them, so they've kicked me off of Olympus.”
“Is there no way back up from the bottom?”
“There is. I've been punished before, but I always had something to trade, like ideas for new blockbusters. I'm one of the few people who do think, but this time I'm in a dry spell. I have nothing. To get out of the hole, I'd have to impress them with a marvelous new gift.”
“Okay, so there's no quick way back up for you. But why are you trying to hide from them?”
“They make the punishment work by taking away your privileges and leaving you an open target. My legal rights have been removed. Anyone who wants some sort of revenge on me can track me and do whatever they want to me. Some of them will eventually trace me here, and if I have to, I'll kill them.”
The last of sunset opened like an Oriental fan in the West. Twilight began to sift through, and I joined Alice at the railing - putting my arm around her as we chatted some more and studied the town.
We watched a crowd gathering out front of a dance club, then my gaze got drawn back to the skyline. I observed something fading in and out in the distant light. It began to vanish, then it returned like a sudden mirage. Its hues were subtle, touched by twilight. Almost like an etching or colored pencil sketch standing against the haze. The picture forming was of a castle - enormous, magnificent, but also aged and crumbling in places. Central towers, a citadel, crenelated walls, and the main gate fortifications radiated golden light. Blood-colored fog blew at the base of a massive southern keep. The northern portion had experienced a glorious collapse, and it fell to earth as a waterfall of vines. Jagged walls and huge blocks thrust through in spots like broken teeth or fangs.
“Disney,” I said as I stared in amazement.
“Disney - what are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about that castle on the horizon. It's a relic of the ancient Disney entertainment empire. The design is unmistakable. I wonder why it's been left to decay that way?”
“I don't know. They've restored part of it. I noticed it weeks ago, but when I tried to get info on it, the locals didn't have a name for it. Kids call it the Castle of Fangs because of those sharp stones poking through the vines to the north. I tried to visit it once and couldn't get through the gate. Despite its condition, there are live-in owners. Mostly it's a mystery. Whenever I ask people in town about it, they say they know nothing about it.”
“It's not on the maps either. I studied this area in detail before choosing it. That parcel of land is listed as wasteland. No structures are marked. I wonder if the older town records have anything on it.”
“They might, but the people sure don't, or else they're keeping it secret. No one seems to know the names of the occupants.”
“Then it is certainly a key to our mystery. I mean the strange town and its residents. You can be sure the castle is somehow related.”
“Who exactly was Disney? Perhaps it’s somehow tied in with him.”
“Disney was a creative man who built an entertainment empire that has lived on after his death. He would have been long dead when that castle was constructed. His empire, along with a number of others, merged and gained control of the world's wealth and financial systems. Giving us the entertainment net. It was the cradle of our society and, in some ways, the downfall of mankind. I suppose Disney saw it coming way back then and simply bought into it.”
.........................
Part Four: He Rises in Flames
The Castle of Fangs towered over me in my dreams, swallowing the sky like a living monster of decay. Huge stones thundered to the earth around me. I stared up into a halo of moon-glare, watching cracked towers tilt and spew dust as they began to crumble. A corpse flew from the splitting rubble. Then a door banged, and I woke from the nightmare. I opened my eyes and shielded them when the overhead light came on. Peeking through my fingers, I saw Alice standing at the foot of the bed. She wore a gold headband, gold loops, and a gold jacket, and she wore a smile.
“Oh God, I'm hungover,” I said as I sat up in bed. “I can't remember a thing. Guess I passed out.”
“I warned you about drinking too much.”
“You did didn't you - and damn me for insisting on buying Calera classic white. That old-style alcohol is brutal.”
“I've brought the cure,” she said, pulling a foil pouch from her purse. “Get dressed, and I'll mix it for you.”
My head and eyes felt swollen. I got dressed, put on a new jacket, and went to the balcony for some fresh air. Alice was already there at the table, and as I sat, she poured the pouch into a glass of water.
It fizzed up, and I immediately seized it and drank. Grogginess ballooned in my head as my thirst abated. “It's a bit early to be getting up,” I said.
“You told me to get you up. You wanted to see one of Oakdale's sunrise funerals.”
“I forgot. Yes, I can't miss it. That's my corpse they've got there, and they can have it. The sooner the case around it is buried, the better it is for me. Let me grab a quick shave, and we're off.”
Alice's hangover cure worked smoothly. As we walked out of the hotel, I felt like the top of the morning. Though it looked more like the middle of the night, with Venus being the only indication of a new day coming.
We had time to walk, so I waited while Alice grabbed something from her glove compartment, then I took her arm, and we headed down the street. A fine mist had rolled in at ground level, and it picked up radiance from store signs and displays. These were the old models with nighttime interactive mode, meaning that if we got too close, video clips would be triggered, perhaps even the horrid face of some huckster halfway around the world would appear to offer us late-night discounts.
Alice took us north on a parkette path, and once out of the haze, the stars seemed incredibly bright. I could see the moon buried in western clouds and a vague outline that I knew to be the Castle of Fangs.
A trail at the rear of a long shopping complex took us to the museum. Dark wet grass and weeds overhung the path, and I felt cold dew trickling between my toes as we approached. I didn't get a view of the front of the place. Alice said the event was taking place in the field and the graveyard at the back. From the rear, the wax museum was a molded metal fortress lit by a faint light that cast its blue glow through the haze. The rows of recessed windows were dark and glossy, and the vaulted door had the authority of a tomb. What could best be described as a mob had gathered in a trimmed portion of the field next to the parking area. None of them wore any sort of special ceremonial dress, but several people were carrying glow-in-the-dark torches that imitate fire.
More than anything else, the torches created the mob effect. Their flicker and shadow worked to turn the Oakdale crowd into sinister Neanderthals sporting hooded eyes, sharp cheekbones, beards of shadow, and bruise-purple mouths.
We emerged unnoticed from the gloom and stood in silence at the edge of the cleared area. A faint smear in the east indicated the approach of sunrise, and as I looked to the horizon, I spotted a number of ebony objects in the field. A longer study revealed these to be totems and a few squat statues - the totems had a metallic sheen, the statues a dull stone appearance. Beyond them, obelisks and gravestones were visible in the faint light. When I'd absorbed the full scene, I knew we were standing on the edge of a carpet of grass. The totems and statues rested to either side as the grass stretched to the graveyard. In that sense, the graveyard was almost an extension of the mortuary, which they called a wax museum.
People whispered, and Alice remained silent as I continued to look around. Then the museum door began to open. Despite its appearance of great weight, the motion was silent. Two men dressed in broad-brimmed hats and long jackets emerged from the totally dark interior. Their heavy boots echoed in the lot as they stepped up. I recognized one of them as Bill Thompson.
They halted at the edge of the parking lot, and the somber cast of their faces drew a hush from the crowd. Thompson looked pale and bloodless, like maybe he'd decorated himself with his own makeup. The role of a cultist minister cloaked him well. I saw him as exactly the sort of guy who would be involved in the supernatural and magic.
Thompson cleared his throat and addressed the mob. His voice came off as affected with disproportionate emphasis at the end of his sentences. Call it a bad production in general, yet it seemed impossible that a prayer and address like Thompson's could be happening, and that made it spooky.
“Chosen Ones of Oakdale, a man has died in the holy manner, and as always, he will remain nameless in death - his estate obliterated, his family forgotten, and his children orphans. His gravestone shall bear the image of the mystic, and the angel of dawn will consume his ashes. In death, he will prosper in the valley of the fangs. Born from the darkness, to the darkness he will return as ....”
As Thompson rambled on, his bizarre eulogy drew shivers from the crowd. It failed to frighten me and instead got me thinking about the supernatural. It would be wonderful to believe in a dark power as he did. My personal vision had always been an atheist deal of thankless mortals. People living on for a century or more, and as the shadow of the grave faded, it became more necessary than ever. It would be great to be up on that mountain, seeing creatures or gods, souls rising to the unknown. Thompson's delusion represented the world as it should be. He'd outstretched his arms to the graveyard, and I knew many petty people who would only obtain salvation six feet under.
Thompson's speech ended abruptly, and his stocky assistant took charge at that precise moment. He turned to face the rear of the museum. Blue light gathered on his frozen face, and as he opened his arms, a faint beam suddenly shone from his eyes to the door. The dull metal absorbed this light, and though it was definitely fake - a cheap laser trick - it did work to open the door. It also triggered the lights inside. They flickered then lit up with great brilliance.
Rivers of candle power poured from the windows. Electrifying wattage that drew a shrill scream from someone inside the museum. Gasps and excited whispering swept the crowd. We could see someone stumbling to the doorway. This person was blinded and in agony. Hands covering his eyes, he emerged and fell on the steps. Radiant light backlit him, making it nearly impossible to make anything out. Then the lights suddenly went out, and I saw retinal flashes everywhere I looked.
As the blindness abated, I noticed that the door had shut and the man was now slowly getting to his knees. If you could call him a man. Sticky wax coated his entire body, and the heat from the lights inside had melted it to some extent. Some of it had peeled from his face, revealing patches of rotting flesh and wine-stained skin.
This man looked familiar, and as I studied his crumpled clothes, I realized they belonged to the corpse I had found in the park. Only now the corpse was alive - in some sense of the word. This hideous reincarnation radiated death more than life.
As he rose fully from his knees, the glow-all torchlight spilled on him, creating an image all the more ghastly. Stiff lips erupted as he spat bile and vomit. Pain and anguish came unbidden in the form of a guttural moan rising from his quivering chest. A red tint brightened in his swollen eyes, highlighting huge fangs and a beard of wet wax that hung like slime from his chin.
“I can't believe it. He's a vampire.” I said to Alice. Then his mouth twisted like a ravenous slash of decay, and he began to approach us, slowly, as if he was learning to walk all over again.
I didn't want to take my eyes off the drooling fiend, but Alice was tugging at my sleeve. As I turned to her, I saw Bill Thompson leading the silent crowd across the field to the totems at the edge of the graveyard.
Alice and I followed, hearing the waxen monster huffing just behind us as we walked. Thompson took us through the totems, and we gathered next to the squat statue of a toad-like deity.
Bill Thompson remained calm and pale, and the others were also silent and unafraid. I turned and could see the shambling corpse approaching. It sniffed loudly, as if scenting blood, and then something happened that distracted us all.
A halo of light appeared in the graveyard next to the statue of an angel. A nude woman stood in this light - her hair and flesh flowing, golden and beautiful. I could see voluptuous curves, breasts - the vision aroused me, and it also aroused the beast.
Moaning like some monster from hell, the waxen vampire charged toward the graveyard. The wet grass slowed him and tripped him. He stumbled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness of the stones. He showed up beside the stone angel moments later.
He halted a short distance from the woman, let out a tremendous cry, and then rushed forward. I expected her to cower, but instead she stepped forward, her motion indicating the toss of a knife. Something silver flashed from her hand and expanded to a cloud of brilliant dust that streamed into the running monster.
A wave of flame and steam shot skyward as the waxen vampire ignited. And he didn't collapse, but stopped dead in his tracks. Small fireballs continued to ripple up his body and explode. His head ballooned with more fire and went off like a Roman candle, trailing brain matter as it shot between the gravestones. Then his torso exploded in a grotesque flash of flaming flesh. Searing waves expanded from the burning rib cage, and a moment later, we could see little other than smoldering embers next to the stone angel. I looked for the woman, but during the explosion she had disappeared.
Bill Thompson stepped forward and led the mob into the graveyard, and though Alice again tugged at my sleeve, I remained firm and refused to move.
“I think I've seen enough,” I said.
“The rest is rather dull, anyway,” Alice said. “They collect and burn any remains they find, and you never do get to see the grave woman or learn whether she's real or a projection.”
“She's real all right. That dead man walking as a vampire was real, too. He rose as the undead, which is completely impossible.”
“You’re right, and maybe Thompson's wax caused that to happen.”
“I don't think so. According to the mythology, he must have been bitten by a vampire before he died, and thus rose again.”
.........................
Part Five: In the Stacks
Oakdale's library stood on a long rise set off from Oak Lane by a covered walkway. The large structure had a community design with false brick, a weed garden, bay windows, and skylights. Alice mentioned that the large northern extension contained the stacks.
“Print stacks,” I said as we stood on the sidewalk, shielding our eyes and looking up. “I haven't read a paper book in years.”
“Neither have I, but they have a print version of the town records, so it's better to check them here, where we won't be noticed.”
“You really think they’re watching us?”
A horn beeped before she could answer. Turning, we saw police chief Dan Shanon grinning and waving as he drove by in a black-and-white town cruiser.
I shook my head in dismay as we mounted the library steps. We entered, signed in, took the hall to get around the computer readers, and passed a lonely scan machine to enter the stacks. This vast room was musty and cavernous. Rows of high shelves ran nearly its full length. The system of retrieval was antiquated - a single database computer to search for the title tag, which you were then supposed to find in the aisles.
Alice took my arm and pulled me away from the computer, leading me down a narrow aisle. Filtered sunbeams poked through from above, creating a patchwork of dusty spotlights on the towers of books. The silence felt comfortable and warm. I heard nothing but the soft pad of our footsteps as we navigated the maze of shelves. We stopped way back in the stacks, and I waited as Alice searched the titles. She pulled out a few editions and thumbed through them, and she clicked her tongue with satisfaction upon opening a wide leather-bound file.
I followed her down a broad aisle that opened on a reading area. Sunlight streamed in the window, and we sat at a table that granted a view of the weed garden. She opened the book and began to riffle through the pages, finally settling to read one of the final chapters.
I couldn't see the copy, and she was chewing on her tongue with interest, so I interrupted. “Find anything interesting?”
“Yeah, a lot. Our Castle of Fangs first existed in Yorkville Heights on the outskirts of Toronto 300 years ago. Originally, they called it Castle Borealis. When the theme park died, it became a graveyard storing materials from other Disney parks. A man named Jack Marsden bought it for $ 65 million and moved the entire thing, stone by stone, to its location here. Marsden also moved parts of the theme park. When he finished the monumental task, he lived in the castle for a grand total of three years before dying of a rare blood disorder. Marsden was an eccentric character, and his reputation kept the castle alive as a tourist attraction after his death. There’s a book on the clever methods he used to move the castle.”
“So who owns it now?”
“I'm getting to that,” she said, flipping some pages. “Ah, here it is. The castle went through a long period of abandonment. Being owned by the Montezuma Group. They never found a use for it, and 25 years ago, they sold it to Daniel Saul, a wealthy Canadian scientist. He repaired the castle and took up residence with his wife, listed as a retired actress named Liz Parker.”
“Daniel Saul. I didn't know he married Parker. They both vanished from the public eye years back.”
“Who are they? I've never heard of either of them.”
“Daniel Saul made the news thirty years ago. As a wealthy scientist, he created a scandal with animal experiments involving gene therapy and nanotechnology. Supposedly, he was attempting to create new life forms that would be both animal species and machines. He got busted for unethical practices and went to one of those paradise prisons. I didn't know he got released. Liz Parker had some degree of fame before she went mad. She was mostly involved in underground Gothic stuff - a sex goddess in old plays and film features to do with vampirism and the occult. Liz believed she was a descendant of actual vampires. She tried to raise her daughter in a weird manner, and the International Child Protection Agency stepped in. She wasn’t connected with Saul at that time. Perhaps they met and married in a madhouse or prison.”
“We have our vampire connection in Liz Parker.”
“Yes, and with Daniel Saul in that castle, I wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
“Oh, nothing. I have an idea of what might be happening.”
“So what's our next step?”
“I want to return to the field and check out a few things at the spot where I found that corpse. Maybe we can do it tonight.”
Alice agreed to proceed and that we were making progress. We decided to return the book and leave the library. Strolling out into bright sunshine, we slowly made our way to the bottom of the steps. It came as no surprise when Dan Shanon appeared on the sidewalk. He wore a trooper outfit. A frown creased his forehead.
“Mr. King,” he said. “Just a word on that corpse you found. The death has been ruled as misadventure, and the burial took place this morning.”
“You mean the case is wrapped up?”
“Not quite. Bill Thompson says you attended the ceremony this morning. I'd appreciate it if you keep quiet about what you saw.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“We don't like any advertisement of our eccentricities. Odd things can get to be news, and that would draw undesirable visitors to our little town.”
I grinned. “Most other towns are doing everything in their power to get publicity.”
“Yeah, and you would know. I did some checking on you. Oakdale's just about the only place you have left. After your experience with those people, you should know why we want to keep a low profile. You do anything to draw publicity, and I'll throw you back to the sharks.”
“I guess you've got me there. The truth is that I want some privacy, just like folks in Oakdale do. Anything odd that I see, I quickly forget.”
“That's good,” Shanon said, and then he turned and walked back to his cruiser.
........................
Part Six: Beasts in the Night
Alice and I passed the evening hours in a club called the Paper Lantern. We expected Dan Shanon to tail us there, conclude we were on a dance party trip, and leave us alone. Chief Shanon did follow us. I watched from a luxury bathroom as he parked his cruiser out front and sent in a brutish undercover man. The guy walked through the club, looking around, and then he sat at a table near us. A half hour later, he left, and when I checked for the cruiser, it was gone, too.
I wore fake headgear. It made me the only person in the place not tuned into the exotic dance console. Near midnight, I sat alone at a table sipping L.L. Latso rum cola. Layered music does not work without enhancement, and I was beginning to wonder if the noise bombarding me could be any indication of the true sound. Sensory images provided for the dance vistas didn’t register with me either. Without a direct connection to brain cells, they came across as an assault of needling frames. Electrifying and skeletal stuff that tormented the optic nerve and produced nausea.
Alice had hooked up her wearable and a headset. She spent most of the time dancing with a tacky Tony Adams beach-movie look-alike. My headache grew like a tumor as I watched them. The last dance seemed to last forever, but it was really about 15 minutes, then she got thirsty and returned to the table for a drink.
The plastic Tony came in tow with her. She mocked my wearied frown and grinned as she sat. A passing waiter served her a lemon drink. Alice guzzled that and then leaned back for a moment with her eyes closed.
Bronze-skinned Tony shuffled from one sandal to the other as he chewed on pacifier gum. Being too charged to sit, he reached down and tried to pull Alice up. The rude move irritated me, so I grabbed his arm and forced it away. Alice squirmed in her seat and jumped when I reached over and removed her headset. Her eyes glazed over with confusion. Tiny wrinkles formed on her freckled nose, and she sneezed. In an instant, her cheeks went from ruby to pink. She stared at me, dumbfounded.
“We're going for a midnight stroll. Remember?”
Her eyes rolled like her brain had been jarred. Then she stiffened. “Right. We'd better leave through the back.”
Alice waved Tony off, and as he shuffled back to the dance floor, we rose and followed the aluminum railing to the back door. We were about to exit when Tony suddenly reappeared. He burst from the curtain of flashing lights to our left and made a grab for Alice. Fury and hot blood rose in my head. I stepped into his path and yanked his headset off. A hard shove, and he went stumbling across the dance floor, and as he crashed into another man, I tossed his headset in after him.
Confusion developed as more people collided on the dance floor. Putting an arm around Alice, I hurried her outside. It was like rushing into paradise. The back of the Paper Lantern contained a garden and club playground for people who wanted to do more than just dance. A midnight game of volleyball was underway, and lovers strolled in the garden. I didn't get to see much more than that because I could feel Alice's glare burning up the corner of my eye.
I turned and faced her.
“That was rude of you. Shoving my partner like that.”
“Sorry about that. I guess I panicked.”
“It looked more like jealousy to me.”
“What if it was?”
“Forget it.”
“Damn, this whole place is walled in. I thought there was an exit here.”
“See that recess just behind the fountain. The grass banks up against the wall there. We can grab that branch and swing to the top.”
“Sounds like you've done it before.”
“Many times. Escape is often the only remedy for the kind of guys I meet here.”
We followed through, taking a romantic stroll through the garden. Moonlight glowed on the gushing fountain, making the romance seem real. I saw something more than friendship in Alice's glittering eyes, and wished we could stay. Moments later, that idle wish vanished in the burst of sweaty energy it took to get over the wall.
Alice plunged into sheer darkness and a soft weed bed. I remained in the haze of colored light and noise at the top of the wall. Jumping into the unknown did not suit me. I heard water flowing and did not want to land in it. Seconds later, the moon emerged from a cloud and melted the darkness below. It gave me the confidence to drop down. Rolling up, I saw Alice at my shoulder, facing a rushing brook that curved like a moat around the back of the club.
A graceful leap took her to a stone at the center. A second hop and she reached the far bank. My own lack of agility put me beside her with soaked feet. I looked down at dripping cuffs and flattened silverweed, then ahead at a moonlit vista of parkland.
A grassy field ran for a quarter of a kilometer south before turning west. The lights of a residential area glowed just beyond a soft line of firs in the east. Heaps of huge stone blocks reinforced the bottom of a ravine that rose at the bend in the park. Moonlight created an eerie saucer of gloss on a water tower at the top.
Alice put her hands on her hips, then turned her gaze to me. “We pass the bend. From there, the trail forks in three directions. The spot where you found the corpse would be near the river.”
She led the way as we waded through thick weeds, and then it was smooth going on the trail. It dipped toward the bend and into the ravine. Large blocks of stone reinforcing the banks dwarfed us, and the rising ravine-side and thick lilac brush buried us in a shadow of silence and gloom.
Alice pulled a glow flashlight from her purse, and we used it for light as we pressed ahead. A breeze carrying sweet odors of the river touched us, and at the bend a broad scene opened. Some of the town's taller buildings lined the heights bordering acres of parkland. Night-lights, the moon, and stars cast a glow of silver on the treetops and fields.
We could hear the murmur of the river, though we couldn't see it. And we also heard something else - a distant growl.
I gazed up the ravine-side. “That sounded mean, like a cougar.”
Alice glanced back. “I doubt it. Raccoons are the fiercest beasts in this town. If you're worried, I brought this just in case.”
She'd pulled a pistol from her purse. It had the Remington label.
“I hope you don't plan on firing that antique. It'll likely explode and blow your hand off.”
“It won't explode. The antique look is just the design. I borrowed this from my father when I left home. It has a molecular computer for a fast lock on a target. The bullets are superheated projectiles that are instantly generated by a nano engine in the barrel. It's guaranteed to penetrate just about anything.”
“It's also in violation of the gun control laws. You'd better make sure that Shanon never catches you with it.”
“I never use it. It's just something I like to have.”
“Okay, let me get my bearings. Is that set of lights Oakdale College?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
We took a trail through the center of the parkland, walking slowly as I looked about, trying to pinpoint the place where I'd discovered the corpse. I aimed for a spot between the lights of the college and the other distant lights from the town square. Once there, I saw the field of wild flowers I had crossed on entering town. The grass was beaten down in one area, and we found Shanon's tire tracks.
“What exactly are we looking for, Grant?”
“In the dark, not much. But we already have our first clue.”
“Which is?”
“This area wasn't searched. Most of the field is untouched. Chief Shanon didn't have to investigate because he knew exactly how the murder happened. His investigations are just to cover things up.”
“It puts us at a dead end, really. We can't go up against Shanon.”
“There's something else I want to look at. When I found the corpse, I saw a fresh trail beaten to that rise.”
Grass and wild flowers rustled at our shins as we walked to the rise. Maples towered over the field there, and a path wound over the top. Scrub choked the path, and moving up it in the dark was frightening. My nerves tingled, and I felt Alice press close to my back. She moved beside me when the bushes broke at the top.
The Castle of Fangs glowed in a spill of moonbeams to the West. Just ahead, the rise dropped off sharply, and the sand cliff descended to the riverbank. Flotsam spotted the swollen river. Logs and branches bobbed in its skin of moonlight. A shadowy island of debris drifted slowly in the main current, its bloated appendages lapping the water. Bubbles and foam rose in its wake, giving the impression that something large and vile had risen from the bottom.
Alice pointed to the far bank. A spot to our right. We could see a green light, and it was an odd effect. Swamp gas was picking up rays from an unknown source and forming a shape like an eye. It aided the moon in casting a ghostly illumination over a swampy area that stretched back into acres of widely spaced firs.
Looking along the shore, I saw a dock at the swamp's edge and a large motorized raft tied to it. Other glow lights began to show in the fir trees, and they cast shadows, some of which appeared to be human forms.
“They're doing something in the woods over there. I can't tell what.”
“Heading in the direction of the Castle of Fangs, Grant. That's what.”
The glow brightened, and we saw a shadowy group of about twenty people passing through a small field toward more firs and the road to the castle. As they reached the road, the lights began to whirl and strobe in the boughs. We heard faint snarling reverberate over the river. There were sounds of a struggle, branches crashing. I strained to see, but it was impossible to make anything out in the shifting mass of lights and darkness.
Moments later, the song of a nightbird was the only sound, and we could see the lights pressing deeper into the firs.
“How do we get over there? I want to see what happened.”
“We have to go back and over to Oakdale College. The nearest bridge is there.”
The brush snapped at us as we raced down the rise, then it was a pleasant late-night jog over to the college. Its front gates were closed, so we followed the fence line. At the rear, spotlights showed the exit, a road, and the bridge. This was an arched bridge, and from the top we could see a black flow of moonlit water and little else. A rutted road ran along the shore on the far side, so we crossed and followed it to a dead end. From there, we had to pass through an acre of staghorn sumac, using a narrow path.
The sumac took us into a long, shallow ravine and broke at a broad elm tree. We eased around its trunk and found ourselves with a sudden open view. A glow of moonlight capped the roof of a temple situated in a shallow depression ahead. Deep grass banked the open central area. The edifice looked primitive and incomplete, being just a sculptured slab of deep gray stone mounted on five squat pillars. Though the stones making up the floor were smooth, the rest of it was roughhewn. A dense core of darkness marked its heart, and it cast an illusion of impenetrable power.
Alice leaned on my shoulder. “This place must be one of Thompson's temples”, she said.
“Yeah, and the ceremony they practice probably involves sucking your heart out and replacing it with a ball of hot wax.”
Ground ivy sprouted through the jigsaw of cracked stone pieces that made up the temple floor. Some of these pieces were tablets marked with inscriptions in an unknown language. The silhouette of a huge object was visible through the veil of shadows at the center.
Though the place appeared abandoned, we didn't want to walk unprotected into its darker areas. It had the unsettling feel of a cursed tomb, with its enveloping silence leading one to assume the presence of snakes, black widows, or lurking demons.
“We've got to check this place. We'll have to chance using your light.”
“Okay,” Alice said, then she fumbled with it while pulling it out and accidentally triggered its brightest setting. The layered yellow flash dropped to normal illumination as she adjusted it. Darkness receded, revealing another tablet at the center. This one had been raised and mounted on poles with straps and an iron rail. The sketch-like carving appeared to be ancient and authentic. It was of one image that stretched to the crumbled edges … a picture that looked morbid more than spiritual. It showed a primitive man being devoured by a huge fanged beast.
“Repulsive, isn't it?” I said.
“Let's just hope that Thompson hasn't brought it back to life. Whatever it is.”
“He's probably tried.”
Exiting the temple, we climbed the bank on the far side and took a path out of the ravine. Night flies began to dog us, and a faint odor of rancid mud in the air told us we were approaching the swampy area. Debris blocked this path in many places, and twice we had to climb over the rotted trunks of fallen trees. Eventually, a broader path opened, and it was banked by bushes, mostly lilacs.
About a hundred yards in, we detected movement in the lilac bushes, then heard a dragging noise and loud rustling. I raised a finger for silence as Alice switched off her light. Crouching on the path, we watched as a heavy shadow emerged from the bushes ahead of us. The long, bulky phantom appeared to be dragging a body.
The creature stopped and panted from the exertion, and it gained definition as it moved away from us and out of the cover of overhanging foliage. A filter of moonlight put it fully into focus, revealing it to be a large cat. Its hindquarters were of a powerful design, and it resembled a cougar, though it was much bigger. Red markings on its hip identified it as a genetic hybrid, though not of known registration.
As it moved to a turn in the path, we spotted the corpse dragging under it. The beast had its jaws sunk into the shoulder of this corpse, pulling it up as it padded forward.
It seemed like we were in the clear, then a nightbird fluttered in the bush, causing the beast to halt and drop its cargo.
It sniffed and growled as it studied the brush, and then it turned and looked back on the path. Its features were awe-inspiring and terrifying. Moonbeams transformed its eyes to brilliant coins of light. Blood dripped from its extended canines, whiskers, and its chin. Without a doubt, it detected us, yet it chose to ignore us.
It turned its long body, giving us a view of the corpse; the victim being a man with wild brown hair and a death expression that was both predatory and ghastly. Veins had exploded in his cheeks, swelling them with blood. His forehead was a purple welt, and his eyes were open and shot with red. Fangs pierced his swollen lips, causing them to run with blood and pus.
Sinking its canines firmly into the corpse's shoulder, the cat growled, shook it, then continued down the path. Alice and I trembled and didn't dare move for about two minutes before we stood and began to whisper.
She seized my elbow. “What do you make of that?”
“I think it's one of Saul's animal creations. He's been at work again, combining nanotechnology with genetics. Not only is that beast powerful, but it also appears to be intelligent.”
“It saw us. I'm sure.”
“We're fortunate in that it seems to be on an assigned mission. The body it is dragging is one of the townspeople, freshly risen as a vampire. The cat is doing some sort of cleanup. It had the strength to hunt down the vampire and take it down. I'm not sure what it's doing with the body. Taking it to the castle or maybe just disposing of it somewhere.”
“I suppose Daniel Saul creates the vampires, too.”
“That's my belief. I think Liz Parker had him recreate the vampire myth. He must have created nano technology that works in the blood. Once bitten on the neck in the classic fashion by one of those vamps, the nanobots enter and cause the corpse to rise again as another vampire.”
“I think we've got it, Grant. But why? And how do Thompson and the townspeople come into it?”
“Through technology, Liz Parker has realized her dream of becoming a vampire. She uses Bill Thompson and his cult to supply her victims. They also do cleanup work. When the monsters rise, they dispose of them with their fire ritual. Any they miss the cat picks up. Daniel Saul gains in that his wife is happy. With control of the town, he can continue his work without interference.”
“If that's true, it's a risky game they're playing. Sooner or later, they won't be able to contain it completely, and the vampirism will spread like a plague.”
“Now that would be entertainment. A bigger package of it than anything our ruling class would want.”
Ducking off the path, we slipped through deeper brush and walked slowly over the lumpy ground. Faint light and green-tinted haze began to show in the distant firs, indicating that we had reached the swampy area we'd viewed from the hill. Patches of boggy ground appeared. Mist poured like smoke over these mud holes, and in the end, we had to go around the entire swamp as it was impassable. In some spots, misted reeds were lit up by lights from the castle entry road. The green eye of the swamp we'd seen from over the river had been an effect of this mist and light.
The castle was now close by. We could hear dogs howling in one of the flanking towers. Ahead, ground fog drifted over the forest floor, submerging most of the wild flowers. It was easy going as there was very little brush - just the broad pine trunks, the occasional boulder, and a mound. Further on, the shore of a pond appeared as glaze and shimmer, and we could see across it to the castle gate and its fortifications.
Spotlights illumined a portion of the entry road and a black-caped guard marching in billowing mist at the edge of the darkness. The castle clock tower shone with magnificent light, and more lights glowed in the upper yard.
Faint voices and the sound of a car engine carried on the breeze. A group of people walked into view behind the gate. Some of them were guards, and a pale blond woman at the center of the group appeared to be Liz Parker. Her outfit was loose and black, and her movements were sleek, trailing a glitter of jewelry as she walked.
Alice halted at the shore and turned to face me. “I think the queen vampire just passed there. That puts the front definitely out. There's no easy way inside. If we climb the wall, they'll spot us.”
“How do we get to the ruins? We might be able to enter there.”
“Okay. We follow the shore of this pond and pass through some more woods. Keep in mind that the ruins have no lights. It's going to be dark.”
Polished stones lined the shore, and we heard nothing but the gentle lapping of the water as we walked. Cold fingers of mist touched us and then faded as we reached a solid curtain of brush. Prickly branches lashed at us as we pushed through, and I felt relieved when the foliage broke at a path that ran beside the castle wall.
The track was ill-defined, tufted with grass in places. Rubbish indicated occasional human traffic. We couldn't see the ruins yet, but the wall was obviously a part of them. A heavy growth of ivy bit into the crumbling blocks, and many stones had broken away in the higher sections. The whole thing rose like a giant's broken dentures, and the decay showed everywhere on the path. Often, the broken fragments were embedded in the earth or heaped in gravel near the track.
Dark cavities in the wall spooked us more than the trembling forest. If another of the cat creatures existed and lurked up there, it could be down on us in a second. Alice showed the bravery that I lacked. Her slim hips swayed confidently in front of me as we followed the wall. Finally, the path widened to puddles and patches of pebbled mud, and we halted.
We didn't dare use the light. The scene was gloomy but just bright enough for us to see that we'd reached the perimeter of a trash yard. Strong odors were another clue. The breeze had died, and the air felt stagnant and heavy. It tickled my nostrils and placed a flavor of dead roots and musty rot at the back of my tongue.
Alice led the way around the puddles, and we'd soon eased our way to drier ground. Two huge piles of concrete rubble rose beside us, and from that point we could see a portion of the wall that had collapsed completely. The view across the rubbish heap added a completely new decrepit aspect to the castle. A damaged flanking tower rose oppressively and blotted out the moon. Ramparts, crenulated walls, and a citadel loomed in the darkness. Time had hit this portion of the castle like a slow bomb. Most likely, it had been the structure's shoulder against the 50 years of hurricanes that rode in during the last phase of global warming.
Battered junk and rubbish poked from the weeds and from mounds of earth and rubble. Rusted fenders, broken appliances, and skeletons of worm-eaten wood and plastic were the rising evil in this graveyard. The scene stretched to a second castle wall. It was fortified, yet had some stones missing. Someone had placed a rickety fence to create a path there. Clean grass and earth bordered this path. We spied one section where the wall had eroded to steps and decided to use it to climb to the top.
It was slow going as the yard was a minefield of broken bottles and sharp metal. We got about halfway across, and then I saw something move near the wall and halted.
“I think I saw something jump the fence there.”
Alice stopped and stared. “I can't see anything.”
“Maybe it was nothing,” I said as I scrutinized the offending section of the yard.
Piles of drums, lumber, and some scrub prevented a clear view. I wanted to be sure, so I picked up a broken piece of brick and tossed it. There was a double bang as it ricocheted off a car wreck and some drums. A fluttering of wings followed, and we saw a bat rush up into the night sky.
Ruts and a bed of cracked mud were immediately in front of us. We moved through the spot cautiously. At the last deep rut, we had to look down. As I finished the hop over it, I lifted my head and saw something red and white flashing down an invisible wire of night. I didn't get out of the way in time, and it hit me like a ball of snarling fury. I crashed into Alice, sending her rolling aside as I went down into the rut with an assailant on top of me.
Though the impact was stunning, I still managed to come through with an instinctive move I remembered from my early days as a stuntman. Holding the attacker, I rolled, and the bank of the rut gave me the back support to throw him off.
Sharp stones bit into my shoulder blades. A gasp of pain escaped my lips as I burst to my feet. I'd done it fast enough to beat the attacker up, and I could see him rising. Dizziness swamped my vision as I got out of the rut and backed away.
The blurred scene sharpened. My assailant was a man in badly tattered clothing, and I could see him pulling on a huge shard of glass that had embedded in his arm. Blood trickled as he tossed the shard away.
The rest of his appearance came as a shock. Cherries of black blood oozed from a plague of scabs on his arms and torso. Burn tissue, blackened wounds, and a protruding rib cage made up his chest. His face was little more than a fanged skull. Seared flesh and bone formed a mask over eyes deep as shotgun barrels and bright as afterburn. A projection of hate and hunger created his personality, and I had only a moment to think before he hissed, raised a clawed hand, and lunged.
His fanged mouth snapped at me, and bits of vile decay sprayed my face as I grappled with him. He screamed horribly as I threw him down into the rut.
I backed off a few steps, then he flew up and came at me again. This time, I was ready. Going down into a fast crouch, I bucked him over me. He went into a mound of concrete, hitting his back hard. I could see the light in his eyes glimmering electrically as he struggled to rise, and in that free moment, I looked around for Alice.
She was to my left and on one knee. I could see that she'd been stunned but was now coming around. She had her gun out.
The vampire didn't appear to see her at all. He got to his feet and stumbled over a crack as he staggered toward me. Then Alice fired, and the super-heated projectiles created a chain of light that turned his chest into a shower of fireflies. The charge lit the rest of the body to bright neon. Vapor hissed as it melted.
Hot ashes exploded from the liquefying mass. Sparks winked as the ashes fluttered to the ground, and I saw Alice smirk as she put the gun away. “How do you like that for scattering the ashes?” she said.
More bats flew overhead as we hurried across the yard. The fence proved easy to vault, and the path along the wall revealed no surprises. I boosted Alice up into the eroded portion, and she used the gaps and vines to get the rest of the way up. I waited for her signal, then made the climb.
Crouching at the top of the wall, we looked deeper into the castle grounds. This was a better view of the collapsed northern portion. The court directly below was composed of flagstones that looked like they'd been heaved loose by an earthquake. Weeds, shrubs, and vines burst through the cracks, covering most of it. A large heap of rotted shingles rested against the wall nearby. The remains of a collapsed shed were at the center of the yard. It had been partially swallowed by a ridge of limestone that had been pitched up during some past rumble of the earth.
An intact keep rose at the end of this wreckage, and it looked much older than the restored Disney towers of the castle. Spotlights from the yard beyond backlit it, while the front portion of the damaged court was plunged into darkness.
“Looks like a dead end,” Alice said. “That wall running to the keep is fortified with a defense rail.”
“It's impassable, but we could try entering through that door at the bottom of the keep.”
“It's bolted and solid reinforced oak. We'd need explosives to open it.”
“We've got your gun, remember. It'll cut the lock easily.”
Our jumping point was down to the mound of shingles. I went first, sliding to the bottom before Alice followed. Numerous stones stood askew in our path. We picked our way through them, sometimes hopping over ridges of broken limestone. The ground leveled out as we got nearer to the keep, and we were almost at it when fresh trouble arose.
An incredible cracking noise startled us, and we swung around and looked back at the tumbled shed at the center. Boards and earth were rising there, and roaring accompanied the movement.
“Run for the keep!” I said. Though I may have said it to myself, as Alice had already gone into flight ahead of me.
In moments, we were in the shadow of the towering structure, and rather than wait for Alice to act, I simply seized her purse and took out the gun. She was looking back at the ruins, and a gigantic thing was tearing out of them. I looked long enough to see that it was bigger and uglier than any cat, and then I turned and fired at the locked door.
A combination of vaporization and force took the lock out of existence and threw the heavy door open. It hit the interior stone with a loud crash. I grabbed Alice to pull her inside, then stopped dead because something was racing out.
We both staggered back and nearly fell as a rushing cloud of bat wings swept us. Alice went down as they swarmed up into the sky, and I turned back to see if the creature was getting any closer.
Gleaming coils spun in the darkness. It appeared to be an armored snake moving toward us at incredible speed. Raising the gun, I aimed, fired, and staggered back from the visible shock of the impact.
The blast stopped the creature and set it on fire, but it did not kill it. Flaming coils writhed; a vicious hiss of pain flew with steam from its fanged throat. In the light, it appeared to grow in size and ferocity.
“It's recovering, let's go,” Alice said.
She rushed through the open door, and I followed at her heels. Cobwebs swept my face, and I couldn't see a thing, but I was still able to get hold of the door and force it shut.
Alice's light came on, and we suddenly found ourselves in a dungeon-like room. This place could only be described as grisly and vile. The walls were hung with torture implements that had been set up like some sort of decorative ironwork. Bones and skeletons had been heaped at the far wall. Most of the room was hard to see because of the enormous cobwebs that hung everywhere. We did see a stone staircase we had to ascend if we wanted to get any further into the castle.
Scraping sounds near the door helped us speed across the room. Alice cursed as she swept cobwebs from her hair, then we were at the stairs and on the way up. Below us, the door flew open, and flames rushed in, causing us to sprint for the first landing. We went up so fast that we burst off the steps and got tangled up in a dusty curtain in the archway.
We choked on dust as we got out of the curtain. Alice's light revealed another room - this higher one had some furnishings, but it lacked the beauty of cobwebs and skeletons. The stairs to the third level were on the far side, so we hurried over. I paused there to look around the room, only to find that the snake was still pursuing us. It burst through the curtain like a fiery worm and set it to smoldering.
Panicked, we began the climb to the next level, and then did a blind run through it and up more stairs. At the fourth level, a broad walkway connected the keep to the castle's inner fortified wall. Electric sconces lighted this section, though the keep's adjoining room was in darkness.
“I don't hear the snake,” Alice said. “Do you suppose we've escaped it?”
I looked back down the stairs and saw nothing. Then I heard a grating noise. Turning right, I saw something white emerging from a darkened room. It wore cobwebs like bandages, had a face that was both evil and cadaverous, and was seven feet tall.
I couldn't fire from such close range. “Run,” I said to Alice. And as she sprinted off, I shoved the gun in my belt and rushed the thing. Clouds of dust and rot puffed up as we collided. It was like hitting a heavy canvas bag. My check barely moved it and arms like tough rope were closing around me in a bear hug. I delivered a desperate blow to its chin and heard its brittle teeth crack.
Releasing me, it staggered four steps back, and the full view of its face came as another blow. Veined mold and brain matter showed in mostly empty eye sockets. A blood-crusted jaw protruded hideously while the rest of its face was fleshed by oozing tissue and stained linen bandages.
Dust and insect rot spilled from its lolling mouth as it moaned and charged again. Ducking to the side, I ended up backed against the wall. It did a clumsy turn and came for me there.
With only a moment to act, I dived and rolled over the edge of the stairs, tumbling down a few steps. The fall stunned me, and just as I was about to scramble to my feet, I saw the snake. It had been quietly slithering up from below and was almost on me.
The other beast had smacked the wall in its rush on me, and it was now turning and heading for the stairs. I didn't have time to look, but I heard its footsteps. Heading up as fast as I could, I went for its knees and hit them hard.
That move bowled it over top of me, and as it crashed down the stairs, I scrambled to safety. I looked back and saw the snake lunge. It caught the thing's head and shoulders and sucked them down its throat. Foul smoke rose, but the rest of the body didn't want to go down.
Satisfied that the snake was choked, I turned. Alice was a few steps away, so I hurried to her. She hugged me briefly, then we both ran off in the sconce light to the end of the walkway.
.........................
Part Seven: The Capture
A doorway led out onto the wall walkway, and a set of stairs ran down into the castle underground. Alice feared we would find horrors in the subterranean depths, and I wanted to get a view from the wall, so we eased through the door. That put us out on the walkway with stone fortifications rising just over our heads on both sides. A charged rail glowed along the top, and faint sulfurous light lit the interior stones, giving us a dim view. Deciding to go right, we walked down and stopped at a loophole that gave us a view of the inner grounds.
Spotlights on the walls lit the towers and created a haze of light below. Small trees, greenery, and walks of interlocking stones created a garden atmosphere. This section led to a paved court near a tower, and beyond that, the citadel basked in strange green light. A number of the black-clothed guards stood near the citadel, and these emaciated creatures had skeletal faces and eyes that glowed like red embers. They carried beam guns of some sort. Movement in the garden below attracted our attention, and we saw something large and spidery moving in the shadows at the dark end near the wall.
Alice sighed. “Maybe we should just try to get out of here. I can't see any point in going any further.”
“We can escape the castle, but we can't escape the town. They'll know we're onto them and come for us there.”
“Then what do we do?”
“I have a plan, but we have to talk to Liz Parker.”
“She's too well guarded. We'll never get to her.”
“We've got this far, and we've got a weapon. There's still a good chance of catching her by surprise. I see a way in, too. This wall runs to that tower near the citadel.”
Our feet sped silently on the stone as we continued along the wall. We came to a bend, and the tower came into view. Spotlights on its sheer side provided enough light to reveal an open door. Gloom filled the interior, and though no guards showed, I drew the gun just in case.
We crept up and then entered quickly to escape being exposed by the light spilling down. One of the black-cloaked guards stood over by the stairs. He had his back to us, and I didn't wait for him to turn and possibly shout. Pushing Alice to my side, I fired a blast from the gun. It hit and made a staggering flare of him. He burned like cork and crumbled in silence, leaving only glowing embers for us to tiptoe over.
Descending the stairs, we found another large, cheerless room. I peeked through the arch, saw that it was full of people, and then pulled back, taking Alice with me. It was absolutely silent, so I took a second look and discovered that none of the people were alive. They were wax figures of an abnormal variety.
I slipped in with Alice glued to me. We moved deeper into the room with our eyes flashing from figure to figure, just in case one of them turned out to be more than wax. This ghastly show appeared to be a display of historical figures. Their dress was of various periods, and their faces were all pulled into ghastly leers of either lechery or fright. I guessed it to be more of Thompson's artistry, and I wondered if he'd coated real bodies to create this work.
Alice stopped and studied a Greek figure with lifelike brown eyes. A crash echoed from the stairs above. Something heavy and metal clanged and scraped. Heavy boots thudded, and shouts rang out.
Guards were rushing down. They were on to us, and we were left with no option other than to race to the bottom. Fortunately, the exit room was empty, and the door was ajar. I burst through the opening only to find myself charging straight for one of the black-clad guards. His moldering jaw fell open in surprise. I hit him and sent him flying to the pavement.
Alice halted beside me, and we looked around for the best direction to run. Ten more guards were approaching from the direction of the gate, and others were streaming from the tower. We took off toward the dark evergreens at the side of the citadel. Bullets and fire streaks ripped off the stones. A laser flash and an explosion vibrated behind us with such force that for a moment we were running on air.
My feet came back to the ground, and I was able to burst ahead, dive, and roll to safety in the shrubbery. Bullets tore through the leaves as I scrambled up with the gun in hand. I was about to fire when I noticed Alice wasn't with me. She'd fallen, wounded in the explosion. Hostile guards were surrounding her. Other guards tailing me were holding their fire. Behind them in the drifting smoke, I saw Dan Shanon and Liz Parker approaching.
..........................
Part Eight: Face to Face with the Vampire Queen
Torches flickered on the sweating stone walls in the dungeon-like room. Shadows shifted like menacing monsters as I tried to shake off the grogginess. I wondered how long I'd been out. Then a heavy iron door opened, and my thoughts went to my immediate survival.
Liz Parker entered, three of her guards in tow, and they had Alice with them. Alice gave me a defeated glance, but except for a bandage on her arm and a small bruise on her face, she looked okay.
The contrast between Liz Parker and the creatures she chose to live with was stark. Though they were grotesque, she was beautiful. If anything, her looks had improved. The gaunt, unfed appearance of her movie days had vanished. In the older flicks, she had sunken eyes and a pale face. Those features had matured. Her cheeks now had color, and her blue eyes were softly shaded and compelling. Full red lips blended into a smooth complexion, and her blond hair formed natural curls as it fell to her shoulders. Bands of pearls on her neck carried the same gloss as her irises and teeth, and more jewelry glittered on her wrists and fingers. She had the full magic of female youth and beauty, so if vampirism granted her any powers of mesmerism, they were powers she didn't really need.
She looked at me, frowned, then signaled with a painted nail. Her guards obeyed the silent command, taking Alice back through the door to be imprisoned in another room.
I'd hoped for signs of weakness, but saw none in Liz. Her walk was confident and the height of feminine elegance. She wore a mildly cynical smile, and when she spoke, her words carried like music in my ears; each sentence seemed to rise from some hidden current of the English language.
“Mr. King. You knew our game before you came out here. So what is it you want?”
“I guessed the truth when Alice and I dug up the records on the Castle. I thought about turning you in then. It would have made me a new hero of the establishment, and you'd have ended up on display in a zoo. But how long would my good fortune have lasted? In time, I'd be back on the outside again. I decided to try to get a look around this place. I was going to approach you with an offer.”
“You mean you intended to blackmail me. Force me into cooperation for one of your sleazy entertainment extravaganzas. It never would have worked. I left that business behind long ago.”
“I assumed you'd left the entertainment business behind, and I also considered your husband, Daniel. A deal I could offer him to protect his work.”
“Daniel has passed away. He's been dead for more than two years. A victim of one of his own experiments. He died having finished his work, and he left me complete control of the technology.”
“Sorry to hear about your loss. I do know you have control. If you didn't, vampirism would escape from this area. So you have a system, but there is an area of control you don't have. I can give that to you.”
“What do you expect to get for it?”
“I expect sanctuary. For myself and for Alice.”
“I ran a trace on Alice. She's just a rich kid. Sooner or later, she'd try to run back to her family. I haven't decided what to do with her. I'd be a fool to trust her.”
“She'd never run back. I ran her profile through a stolen security account I have. They faked the legal and psychological data on her. She isn't a runaway at all. The truth is, she was sexually abused by her family. Alice tried to kill her father. They decided to cover for him and made her an outcast. They dumped her in Oakdale to get her out of the way. She doesn't know that I've found out, but she's lucky I did. I attached myself to her because of it.”
“This is all interesting, but you really have nothing to offer.”
“Yes, I do. My expertise on the inside. I can get the dope on others just like I did on Alice. I also know how their security works and that eventually the big fish will detect you. When that happens, they'll destroy you. I propose that we solve that problem. My plan takes us out from under their thumb and destroys their entertainment empire altogether.”
“That would be wonderful. But I don't want to work with a person whose only motive is revenge.”
“I admit that revenge is part of it. But it's not all of it. The truth is that they are the vampires. They drank our freedom, and they force the entire world to drink from a blood supply of creativity that's gone stale. As an artist, I don't want to work for them. So we get rid of them. Put some new blood in at the top and unlock the prison doors. Once that's done, Castle of Fangs is free, and others will be at liberty to pursue unfettered creativity.”
“And just how do we do that?”
...................................
Part Nine: The Enemy Arrives
Oakdale's airport, its landing strip, hangar, and tiny passenger terminal rested in a checkerboard of open green fields a half kilometer outside of town. We'd arrived early, and I was beginning to perspire as I shuffled back and forth outside the terminal building. A fat sun hung in the haze over the runway, forcing me to shield my eyes. Finally, I heard the buzz of an engine and spotted the gleam of a plane.
A blast of cool air hit me as Alice came through the terminal door. She stood beside me, sipping a pop as the plane winged out of the horizon like a big fly.
“Tell me about this Ming Tse guy,” she said. “You say he's connected to organized crime, yet he's flying a plane with the net.99 colors.”
“He works with both. At the net, he's a global fixer and talent scout. I've sold work to him in the past, but only when desperate. His real job is to find new feature ideas and enslave the creators to the industry. Ming is about the worst there is in the business, but he will get us in the door.”
Radiant vapor and heat shimmied, enveloping the plane and trailing like a disintegrating energy shield as it taxied up and turned. It stopped and ran cooling gusts for a minute, then the ramp began to lower.
Five heavily armed plainclothes guards suddenly appeared from the interior. They rushed down, disarmed the lone airport security man, and roughed him up. We were left staring in amazement as Ming appeared on the ramp. At first, I didn't recognize him. Instead of his usual business suit, he wore a khaki hunting outfit. He descended to the tarmac and assembled his armed entourage. Then he saw us and walked over.
Sunlight glittered in his fierce brown eyes as he gave Alice a quick assessment. Despite the show of force, he appeared excited rather than suspicious.
We had a deal, Ming,” I said. “Why have you brought the Secret Service in tow?”
“Don't be intimidated by them, Grant. They're just a few company field agents. I brought them along to make sure you're on the level. Last rumor I heard had you in Mexico and surviving by selling cadavers to the transplant industry. I hope you haven't been trafficking in the victims of these vampires.”
“That's a malicious rumor. I wouldn't sell corpses. Liz Parker destroys all of the bodies in Oakdale as an extra precaution. She doesn't really have to do it, though. Her late husband, Daniel Saul, set up the technology of nano vampirism to disable itself when outside of this local area.”
“We did a pass over the castle on the way in. I have to admit that I'm impressed. One look and I decided to go with a hunt design for the property.”
“Judging from the way you're dressed, that's obvious.”
“Hunting adventures are where the money is. Recent legal restrictions have made big game rare. Not nearly enough for the industry. I want to keep the name Castle of Fangs and set it up as a hunting-adventure world for the super-rich. Our lawyers will include legal protection for Parker in the contract, and we'll pull some legal strings for you. That's if you keep your end of the bargain.”
“We had some other ideas,” Alice said. “Hunting those beasts is a high-risk game to be playing. Your super-rich clients will end up dead. We nearly got killed just scouting the place.”
“Who is she?” Ming said.
“She's my partner in this deal. Tipped me off on the place.”
“What's this about nearly getting killed?”
“That was part of the discovery. Our vampire queen didn't come into this scheme willingly. At first, we didn't even know what was going on in this town. When I got wise, we went on a night expedition and almost got killed by monsters. Our chances of survival were slim against such horrifying attacks by blood-hungry creatures. We blew a few of them away in the ruins. In the end, we got captured. I convinced Liz Parker of her need for long-term protection. Otherwise, we'd be dead.”
“My clients would pay any price for an experience like that. I want to go in on a hunt right away and start setting it up.”
“Sure, you can do that if you want. We can drop your bags off at the hotel, contact Liz Parker, and set up a midnight adventure. You would have three basic choices: a hunt in the ruins, a battle on the castle grounds, or a terrifying adventure in the catacombs. It doesn't matter if you blow a few of the beasts away because Parker has the technology. She also has the entire town of Oakdale as flesh for use in any production.”
............................
Part Ten: Midnight
Alice and I stepped off the clock tower elevator at the stroke of midnight and climbed a curved stone staircase to the very top. We entered a well of stuffy darkness and used a glow light to find the light switch. Soft rays filtered through a stained glass panel overhead, illuminating the musty stone room.
This attic had been converted to a guard post, though it wasn't currently in use. Sparse furnishings included a bench, a table, and some scratched wooden chairs. An axe and an ancient clock gear were mounted on the wall. Directly across from the door, a heavy iron grille covered a window gone completely opaque with dust and cobwebs.
Alice winced at the dusty table, then pulled a tissue from her purse and began to clean it. I watched as she dumped her pack and rummaged through some stuff, then I went over to the window and tried to slide the grille open. It wouldn't budge, so I took the axe from the wall and used the blade to pry it. Cakes of rust showered to the floor as it creaked aside. Three feet of heavily streaked window space showed, and I coughed as I slid the second panel to the left.
The view was excellent. A fresh breeze rushed in. I stood in the white glow rising from the clock face, which was below me. Looking down, I saw Bill Thompson and a gang of townspeople arriving at the gate. Liz Parker and a few of her black-clad guards were walking across the court to meet them. Figures of a more sinister variety could be seen moving in the shadowy garden near the citadel.
Oakdale showed as a starfish of lights in the sky to the east, and the river came into view as a ribbon of moonlit silver just beyond the wall. The water turned and flowed out of sight near the ruins, and a twinkling of colored lights drifted toward the shore at that spot.
“I see Ming and his men,” I said.
Alice stepped beside me, holding binoculars. “Where?”
“The river. By the ruins. Looks like they're following our map exactly.”
“I have them in focus. They're docking the raft. Wait! Ming has jumped ashore. He's fading into the brush. The rest are following on his tail, and one man is staying behind to guard the boat.”
“Check the grounds near the old keep. If Liz arranged it right, something should be happening just about now.”
“Murk is about all that's happening. I can see our favorite trash yard and the collapsed wall. Ah, something is moving there. One, two - a whole damn crowd is coming up from the graves of trash. They aren't pretty either. I'd say their faces are uglier than the slime dripping from them. Obviously, they plan to feast on something meatier than garbage. The biggest one is walking in the scrub near the wall. He must be eight feet tall.”
“Want to bet on how long Ming can last?”
“Maybe five minutes, once the fighting starts. Much longer after he rises as the undead?”
“I think we should finish our bottle of wine here. We can go out to pick up the bodies in about an hour. Shanon will see them to the airport.”
“Where exactly are we flying Ming to?”
“My old neighborhood. The private net.99 community in New York City. The parties have gotten dull there over the last hundred years. I expect that Ming and his company of vampires will dance things up.”
“I see - you get your revenge. Now the hunt goes back to them, with vampires as the hunters.”
“It's more than petty revenge. By the time they figure out what's happening, nearly the entire ruling class will be vampires. Then Liz Parker pulls the nano plug, and they perish.”
“Leaving new artistic forces in control.”
“Exactly.”
Alice lowered the binoculars and smiled as we embraced. “Let's drink the wine,” she said.
We kissed, then I looked over her shoulder as I held her. Fireworks were rising in the treetops near the ruins, and explosions skated on the river, taking Ming's raft under. The greatest vampire show on Earth had begun.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Strong summer winds carried me across the continent, and I felt like the breath of life. Everywhere, the same bright sun ruled the sky. Now the buildings of Toronto towered overhead, and a flash of sun on tinted glass nearly bowled me over. Staggering back, I vowed to stay off the streets in the daylight before permanent rings of pain formed around my eyes. As I caught my balance, negative thoughts hit me, and I felt nauseous as I stepped into the shade of a doorway.
Being able to read minds is mostly a curse, so the few of us who have the ability to use the blocks are the truly gifted ones. This time, the black thoughts were coming from a line-up by the next building. I'd seen the place on the news: a courthouse, and a handsome serial killer named Paul Teal was on trial there. These people were his fans, or I should say a few of his fans mixed in a crowd of young teenage girls. People who stood around from midnight to noon waiting for the court to reopen. Some of them were as sick as him in their own little ways.
Often, serial killers are lone men who have gone back to the old ways; the life of a man, the predator. It's a way to break the trap of modern society, but it never works for serial killers because they're trapped by the sexual distortions ruling their minds. They have nothing, but are unique in what they lack: human feelings. Their fans aren't unique at all. They bring to mind the sad truth that it is a second-order celebrity society. The second order means that the celebrities need only fame, not moral reputation. Get the exposure, and you enter the upper class of celebrities.
Paul Teal's image appealed to some of these people in the same way my movie-star image appeals to some people. Everybody loves somebody big, because it's a way of ducking the fact that they hate themselves. Paul Teal didn't appeal to the teens, of course. His victims were of that tender age, so ostensibly, they wanted to see him punished, but the truth was that they were curious. Torture and death draw the curious and the fascinated, and often they're lambs who wander too close to the wolf.
Canadian society wouldn't really punish Teal. The court action began as a freak show and would end that way. I've lived in societies where Teal and his accomplice wife would have gotten twin guillotines. Imagine that, twin guillotines across the street, there at Toronto City Hall, and the crowd yelling with joy as the heads fall. I'd watch it myself because the guillotine is so perfect. The once mighty killer kneeling in subservience and all that blood wasted and splashing on the steel.
Yes, I sound like a Neanderthal, believing in execution in modern times. But the truth is that some people aren't theologians, humanists, lawyers, or determinists. I'm a person who believes people are responsible for what they do, and if they are caught, execution is the punishment they have earned. That's if they are caught, and since I will never be caught, execution is something I don't have to consider.
I love my being, not the flesh or the blood that feeds it, but the mind and the soul. A contradiction since I'm supposed to be without a soul. Perhaps it's a personality quirk, I don't know, but I do know that I felt my spirit recharge as I turned away from the crowd. And I felt it because the human ghost is in all of us. Maybe I should say I have a soul, but a dark one.
Two beautiful women emerged from an office tower's revolving door, bringing me to a halt. The rest of the crowd immediately turned to shadows, making it easy for me to tag along behind them. I prefer cities because of the women, and I don't find modern society to be cold and alienating the way others do. According to the bachelors in my crew, Toronto sucks when it comes to women. Hit Montreal or New York unless you want to meet ladies who won't even go to a dance with you without checking a stat sheet to see if you're up to their minimum requirements. Whatever happened to animal magnetism, love at first sight, and people who look for human qualities in lovers? Materialism, maybe. Somewhere, a monster is filming endless love stories while turning the real thing into statistics, telephone calls, fakery, hustling, and ads.
People like to criticize and then be like the people they put down, but I do have animal magnetism, so I haven't lost everything. Usually, I go for blondes, medium height, and full-figured, and it bothers me to be ruled by a couple of small statistics like that, so it was refreshing to find myself ducking the blond this time.
A leggy brunette stole my attention. She wasn't full-figured, outwardly pleasant, or haloed by innocence, but she did have an air of feminine delicacy and beauty that was hard to resist. Picking up on her thoughts, I found her to be a vibrant person, so I knew the delicate look was an illusion. Her thoughts were beautiful thoughts about people and life, and that made her very rare.
Being young and beautiful is all that counts in life, and she was that and mature too, but it was the correct form of maturity. She knew that life was mostly a childish game you wouldn't enjoy if you got too serious. I didn't read her mind to pick that up. I saw it in the laughter spilling over her violet lids as she glanced at me and turned away.
Her heels clicked lightly on the stone as she went up the steps and into a computer store. As the revolving door swung, a sense of loss hit me. The fragrance of her perfume lingered, exotic and lonely. Seeing her had made me feel young, and now I remembered my age, 420 years old. I always look about thirty, but I don't always feel thirty. Sometimes I feel ancient, like I'm turning to stone, and that's how I felt as I went up the steps. I needed her like a fix, and it wasn't just her blood.
Cold air-conditioning hit me, and I found myself in a store as big as a warehouse. I wandered past mountainous bins of cheap office supplies and caught sight of her in the software section. Waving a clerk away, I walked around and behind her. She was taking down a box, moving smoothly in a short black dress that fit perfectly. Her legs looked lovely, skin tone so perfect she didn't need stockings at all.
Stepping beside her, I studied the shelf of neatly stacked games. The two she fancied were vampire games: Bloodnet and Noctropolis. Immediately, I read her mind, or else she read mine, because she turned to me and smiled. The bubbly laugher in her brown eyes worked its magic. I felt suddenly pleasant, young, and happy.
"Bloodnet is the better of the two," I said, picking up that she was more interested in it.
"Not really," said a goggle-eyed clerk as he stepped over.
I could see he was the type of know-it-all computer nerd I would never get rid of, so I immediately put it in his mind that there might be a shoplifter at the front.
He glanced back to the front but refused to leave the lady.
"Which do you think is better?" she said.
"Neither," said the clerk. "You don't want that sort of stuff. It glorifies evil. It could warp your mind as Dungeons and Dragons does." He pointed to the overdone B-movie-style artwork on the boxes. "We've got Battle Critters on special. It's a new one." He took down the box. "Cute Disney animals that fight with hilarious weapons. Your daughter will love it."
"It's not for my daughter, and I hate Disney," she said.
"I rather like the idea of Disney characters killing each other, but with shotguns, like in that game," I said, pointing to a science fiction shooter game.
"What kind of people are you?" said the surprised clerk. "Why would anybody hate Disney?"
"Disney is just a greedy corporation," she said. "They ruin fairy tales by making everything cute, with happy endings. And I already have the new D&D game, which I think builds imagination more than it warps minds."
Defeated, the clerk headed for the front. I grinned as she looked me up and down. "I'm more into real-life games," I said.
"I know," she said, "you're playing one now."
"How about playing with me and coming for lunch?" I said, putting hunger in her mind.
"I planned on taking a stroll on the beach," she said.
Her answer knocked me off balance. It always worked when I put hunger in a woman's mind. Then it occurred to me that she might be hungry for something else. "There's a beach in Toronto?" I said.
"You from out of town?"
"Yes. I'm here with a film crew."
"Say, aren't you ..."
"No, a lot of people mistake me for him. I'm his cousin. I work on the scripts, sets, and things. I couldn't even introduce you to him. He gets me work, but he personally hates me."
"So you want to take me to the beach?"
"Yes, but I don't have a car. I can get a taxi, unless you want to fly."
She laughed, then she put the box down, and we headed for the front. The clerk was there next to an author signing autographs. We paused for a moment, looking at the writer.
"You know who he is?" she said.
"No. I'm not really much of a writer. I've done a few scripts. Watching these successful guys sign autographs just makes me jealous. I don't think a writer should be a salesman or media celebrity anyway."
At that point, my eyes went to a guy at the magazine rack. The clerk was watching him, and he really did look like a shoplifter. It suddenly hit me that I knew him. It was Alfie, one of the guys on the crew. His clothing looked ridiculous - a trench coat, dark sunglasses, and a fisherman's cap in the summer. I knew he was disguised in order to tail me and that Jackson, our director, had put him up to it. This was getting to be too much. They wanted to control the production so much that I couldn't even go for a walk anymore, like maybe they were worried they might have to delay a scene if I got lost. Served me right for forgetting to hypnotize them. Feeling anger rise, I put it in the clerk's mind that he should grab Alfie.
Since we hadn't bought anything, we went down an aisle to the exit, almost reaching the door before the clerk went into action. He jumped Alfie from behind, and a struggle ensued. I grinned as a bin of dollar items went down under Alfie's weight. The best part was knowing Alfie thought of himself as a very important person, a key player in a big movie outfit, and that no one would believe him. He could whine, threaten, and complain, and it would get him nowhere. His disguise fit him as far as I was concerned. He really was a bum, so being treated like one would do him good.
Her name turned out to be Donna, and the beach was a few miles southeast on the waterfront. We got out of the taxi and strolled under some old maples. Rocky break walls and the sand were ahead, and it amazed me that the beach was so big. I didn't expect such a place in Toronto. Gulls circled in the cirrus-trailed sky as we crossed the grass to the beach boardwalk. A few bodybuilder types and women in bikinis were on the beach.
Reaching the change house, we stopped, and she went in to change. I stayed on the boardwalk, shuffling back and forth, watching a volleyball game, thinking how much I liked her bubbly personality. Donna had laughed and talked much on our stroll, and that was half of the fix I needed. It was always that way, a warm conversant woman and me, the strong, silent type, sucking in the emotions I didn't have. I felt nice, but it still saddened me because it was so fleeting, and it would pass as fast as her life. I would drink her blood, and she would awaken a different person, one with no use for me, with her own lust to satisfy. Life is emotion, and I suppose we undead get so old that all feelings go numb. To remember what love is and for life to be even worth living at all, I have to drink emotion from my victims before I drink their blood.
She emerged wearing a light-red bikini, and she had the figure for it, if not the tan. Her skin was creamy, and I could see that she was the delicate type that stayed in the shade. Sudden arousal hit me, and I turned and looked back across the park, hoping she wouldn't notice. Her grin was so broad as she stepped beside me, I assumed she did. Vampire or not, lack of control still causes me embarrassment, and I'm sure I was pink for a moment before I turned a more greenish color. Green for loathing because it was then that I saw the production van cruising down the beach road and knew that my director had somehow followed me.
Donna's eyes were on the volleyball game, the sand, and the waves. I could see that the beach curved out to a rocky point that could only be reached on foot, and told her I wanted to go out there. She seemed surprised but agreed, and I took her hand as we headed across the sand. Looking nervously back, I saw the van parking under a willow by the ice-cream stand and figured I'd have just enough time to finish with Donna before Jackson got to us.
She slowed the walk down a lot by playing at the edge of the water. I kept glancing back but saw no one heading in our direction. The wind grew stronger farther out, and when we came to the rocks, Donna drew back from the shore. A path took us to a tiny, isolated area of the beach. Fierce waves rolled in, the break walls creating a small rip tide effect, and combined with the wind, it sounded almost like the roar of the ocean.
It was a near-perfect romantic atmosphere, and hypnotism wasn't really necessary. Donna turned to me, hair blowing in the wind, and I let the roar grow in my head as we kissed. It was a lovers' kiss, and I drank all the feelings I would need for a while. Then I drew back, prepared to release my inhibitions and let bloodlust rule.
I looked deep into her eyes, then something flashed in my peripheral vision, and I turned to look. My disappointment was impossible to hide. It was Jackson, my director, his bald head shining as he came through the boulders. Several people were behind him, coming down the path, costumed people who were less than actors. He'd gotten them at a local science fiction convention and was using them as extras in our new B-quality horror movie.
It was all too much; the crashing waves became waters of nausea. Memory hit me hard, and again I had to face the truth. And the truth is, I'm not a vampire, and never will be one. I'm a B-Movie actor, Jackson's discovery and practically his slave, so I like to dream some, get a woman, and well, you know. It lasts for a while before they catch up with me again.
A tear formed in the corner of my eye, and then I noticed Jackson had frozen, just standing there staring at Donna. I looked back at her, saw wide eyes and brilliant teeth. Large incisors are about to close on my neck. She hadn't noticed the others; her attention was still on me. Then I caught on; she was crazy, like I was, and spent her days trying to be the vampire she wasn't, trying to be the interesting creature she never could be. I should have been sad, but I wasn't. Instead, I was happy.
I let her teeth close on my neck, and I could see Jackson from the corner of my eye. He was raising his camcorder, and he had that crazy look on his face. I'd seen it once before. The day he discovered me. It was the weird look he got when he knew he'd found a star.
+++
By Gary Morton
Evan looked across the fire-lit living room at Doc Steffax. “Come on, Doc. Psychology is one thing. Call it the science of human behavior, but you're a professional writer just like I am. I mean, you guys come across like an elite group of scientific prophets with all your tiresome pages on the perfect people who are going to live in the wonderful societies that you will construct.”
Doc frowned as he turned his stern features from the window and the hail rattling against it. “My written work is based on repeatable experiments. I don't approve of popular guesswork. Man is his behavior only. The inner self and personal identity most of you fiction-writer types value - these are only illusory center points for organizing and directing human behavior.”
Evan's boyish face grew intense in the flickering light. “My brain ticks in the human way. I study behavior through an experiment called life, and I reflect on it through another experiment called fiction. People are sensual; they love pleasure, Doc. That's the nature of things, and you're missing it. The self is an electric point of ecstasy - we live to feel life. The explosion of images, sounds, and ideas we take in from art, literature, movies, and so on - it's a sensual thing just as much as sex and drugs. We're addicted to life and to our own creations. We are what we enjoy. Even writing is a sensual experience, because writing is making the language of thought into pleasurable images.”
Doc's armchair creaked as he leaned forward. “If you're on about literature, you must know I favor pure and responsible literature that reinforces society's values. Modern writers are involved in everything except healthy storytelling. You people have jumped in over your heads, and only to come out with the sad belief that we're all junkies being shuffled about in a meaningless machine world. The benign big-brother state that is your new devil isn't really so bad at all.”
“Yeah,” Evan said, creasing his large blue eyes. “Here I thought we'd died and become irrelevant like the poets, but you say we're messing with everything but healthy storytelling. It's easier when you're lost like the poets. You can live in fantasy like the old prophet up the road. Say, I just had a thought. Maybe it'll give you self-perspective. The eyes of the world are on us now. What do they see? They see two cottages and a log cabin on a snowy mountain. I own the first cottage because I'm evil Evan Marsen, and I'm writing a novel that's sure to further the corruption of the younger generation. Up in the cabin, there's the crazy old prophet, an evil throwback with a weird view instead of a worldview. But now the evilest music begins as they get a close-up of you, Doc. That's because even though you think you're a savior of mankind, there are many people who think you're the most dangerous guy alive - the man who sold the planet a powerful new science of behavior modification that will eventually erase the human spirit.”
Doc Steffax remained as cool as stone. “You're addicted to emotional behavior. You like to dig out nasty reactions from people. I can live without the eyes of the world. I don't want any negative influence on my thinking. I'm working on a difficult paper.”
“Well, so far I sure haven't been able to influence you. Must be because I'm a lightweight fiction author. Watch out for the old prophet, Doc. He might move you to spiritualism. Say, it could be that the old goat is writing a masterpiece of prophetic poetry right now. Something in a new Biblical style that'll make him remembered when we're long forgotten.”
Doc Steffax swallowed some strong whiskey-laced coffee and took on a placid look. “I've decided to go with you tomorrow, to visit the prophet. He should be an interesting character. Not a logical person, but a remarkable one I can examine further.”
“Suit yourself, Doc,” Evan said. “I hope you like strong home-made moonshine and a gloomy future. The old angel-possessed devil never carries any good news. He's more of an end-of-the-world prophet.”
The north wind boxed the tops of the evergreens on the southern slope of Decker’s Mountain, but the shaking was only a paper tiger beating a circle above what had been a clear, cold day on the ground. The sun was beginning to set, and it was pouring tinted light through mottled bands of clouds on the horizon. Doc Steffax turned his gaze from the cabin window and the south. He felt small, as though he were a child. The bigger magic of the mountain towered over his logic, and for a moment, he considered the possibility of a glory greater than behaviorism.
Evan's long blond hair shone with the light of sunset. His eyes were liquid like the sky. He listened calmly as the old prophet spoke. The prophet's dark brown eyes twinkled like the eyes of a younger man. A spirit seemed to be smiling behind his coarse gray hair and leathery face. “Here is the prophecy. Every wrong road to wisdom will be traveled. You,” he said, pointing to Evan,” say we are what we enjoy. Doc Steffax says we are what we do, but in no case do we have what is called an inner self, as it is an illusion. Rather than answer your trick questions directly, I will illustrate. When you belong to another, what does he own? He owns what you do, he owns what you enjoy, and he holds your soul in chains. But he doesn't own what you think. He can't fully own that without being you. Is it a simple illusion that your master cannot be? I think not. So the real question is not what you are; rather, it is: To whom do you belong? I have answered your question with a question, which is fitting because if our inner being is an illusion, then so are all questions and answers. On Evan's other point, I have a straightforward answer. I don't live to feel and enjoy the images of prophecy or images of anything else. I prophesy because I live.”
“I don't know exactly what you mean,” Doc said. “Do you think we belong to supernatural spirits and gain reality through them?”
The prophet turned his gaze from the fireplace, gave Doc a look of disbelief, then dropped his bony body onto a small rug and sat cross-legged. He took a necklace of painted bones from around his neck and stared ahead stonily as he held it in his palms. “In clear ice, I see your future. On a bitter night, Satan celebrates as the north wind. He rushes over a glacial land. The moon is full above, by the fire below, the child of the one has become the baby of the other. Fate tests three men by confession. In hope of deliverance, they will confess to Satan. Doom comes with the calling of his name.”
The snow coating the lake was like a fine blue powder in the soft twilight. Evan smiled elflike. “I see a vision, Doc. You know who I see in it? I see our old prophet. He's placing his magic bones in a drawer and taking out his reading spectacles, and he's chuckling. He's laughing at us and what a couple of dopes we are to be taken in by his witch-doctor routine.”
“I suppose so,” Doc said. “When it comes to witch doctors, picking out a fake is difficult. That's because the real articles are also quacks. I got to hear a prophecy anyway, so that's my money's worth. For now, it's back to the books and my paper. I've no more time for entertainment. I'll be seeing you Saturday. I hope you won't be feeling argumentative.”
As the winter days blew toward Saturday, a deep, ruffled blanket of snow thickened over the mountain and lake. On Friday, the south wind returned from oblivion and began a melt that smoothed to ice with Saturday morning's hail. By Saturday evening, the north wind was howling like a wolf as it beat its paws along beneath the rising full moon.
Evan's thoughts were drifting as he gazed out the cottage window and listened to the wind tearing across the moon-bright sheets of glare ice. “I wanted to be isolated, Doc, but if I'd known the North Pole was shifting south, I would've stayed in Toronto.” He remained at the window, hypnotized by the frozen world outside, then, as he was about to turn away, he saw headlights flashing, down on the county road. “A beat-up pickup is pulling in, Doc. I bet it's someone on the wrong road to Boonfield Crossing, like always.”
The lights of the pickup switched off, and a young, long-haired man got out in the moonlight. There were a couple of things about him Evan didn't like - the desperate look on his face and the speed at which he slid across the ice to the door.
When the door burst open, and the man stepped in holding a Glock pistol, Evan was sure he didn't like him.
Evan decided he’d better do as he was told and began tying Doc's wrists and legs to the chair. Doc stared straight ahead at the blunt barrel of the handgun and the young man holding it. He studied the man carefully, noting his long, stringy hair, thin lips, and icy blue eyes. Searching his thoughts, Doc tried to find the right psychology for the situation, but there was none - he felt like the powerless victim he was.
Evan smiled sweetly. “Come on, Danny. You say you've read my work. If so, you know I'm not the sort who would turn people in.”
Danny's street-hard face remained sullen. “I set out to commit the perfect crime. It won't be perfect if there are witnesses who can say I was in this neck of the woods. And famous witnesses at that. Serves you right anyway, Evan. My shrink says my depraved and callous attitude was helped along by your books.”
Seeing an opportunity to seize control of the situation, Doc loosened his clenched teeth and spoke. “Your psychiatrist is correct, Danny. But just like Evan helped you warp your mind, I have the power to help you heal it. You say you've committed a crime, we'll take your word for it, but I don't believe in jail terms for people who aren't responsible for what they do. I can treat you in secret and really make you an acceptable person.”
A log popped in the fireplace, and Danny grinned evilly. “I am a better person, Doc. I'm a graduate of one of your behavior modification schools. My shrink was against the treatment. He hates you more than he does Evan. Before the modification, I was a serial rapist. Now I dispose of my victims. It was a modification with a big M.”
“How do you like that, Doc?” Evan said, amazed. “He's more your baby than mine.”
Doc's face switched from gray to red. “Can't you shut up just for once, Evan!”
Danny held up his left hand as a command for silence. “You see why my crime is perfect. It's because the cops will never suspect me. I'm an angel made holy by the divine Doc Steffax. I am a bit confused, though. Evan says I'm your baby, and you say Evan warped me. It's funny because I remember saying I raped because Satan was in me. One thing is for sure: I'm not responsible. We all agree on that. And if I find out who is responsible, it's curtains for him. How about you, Evan? You know Doc, and Satan is a character in your novel Fall to Paradise. Which one of you is responsible for my crimes?”
Evan felt like he was looking down at himself from above. “Satan is responsible,” he said quietly.
“Satan,” Danny said, his pupils dilating and his hands shaking. “How about you, Doc - is it Satan?”
Doc remembered the prophecy and its mention of Satan, but he wasn't capable of believing in anything supernatural. Danny looked crazed enough to be tricked, so he decided to try it. “Yes, Danny, Satan is responsible. Satan is inside your head. You will have to shoot him to get him out.”
Danny's hands shook again, and then he fired. The Glock cracked four times, and the bullets struck Evan and Doc. “Now no witnesses will see me kill Satan,” Danny said. “Satan, I always knew it was you.”
The north wind howled, then died down just after Danny pulled the trigger on Satan.
+++
By Gary Morton
*Blog entry October? @ WalkingDead-man.blogpower.com
*This entry is hashed in story form. I would rather paint a word portrait of my personal history than bore people with inane political comments, reviews, and offbeat opinions.
Guess Who’s Truckin’ Again?
Sure, I’m a dead man on the move, and I plan to rule this crummy northern city. If you think you can stop me, then scrape your ass off the gutter slime and try. But don’t count on success with those silver bullets, because I absorb the poison as fast as it's dosed out.
Here’s how my new deal as a dead guy began.
An oppressive dream stank in the broken chamber of my soul. Eyes burned with a razor’s light, and I could not move or breathe. A heavy hand of death snaked from eternity to lie across my melting brow, its sweaty covering stirring murky thoughts of some grotto of the soulless as I wakened partially; the veil lifting enough to grant me awareness of the nightmare. Beyond me, I saw sterile darkness and felt the cold of death; icy, bitter cold, like a man frozen in ice would feel.
Pinned in my corner of death, I could do little but look up through the cracks in one evil eye. Currents in the gloom became fresh flashes of light, and dead silence grew to the whisper of a song in my right ear. Tongues of evil rose and spoke as the roar of a storm. Rain lashed the shore and trees. The dragon whistle of a hurricane’s wind as it recklessly shattered something large and wooden on the rocks.
Desperate cries for help reached me and faded in circuitous routes of the wind. A boat or a shipwreck, I thought, then a flash of lightning snapped beside me, and my vision spun in a kaleidoscope of rain as the charge threw me over. I felt a dull hammer blow, and my opening nostrils picked up smoky odors. They clung like the perfumes of a rank swamp and of the grave and pyre; an incense of slime, burning flesh, unspeakable rot, and festering corpses.
Water spilled in all directions. Spray burst in streams from dirty waves breaking on the shore. Heavy rain and hailstones threshed the landscape like the beating of monster wings. Something huge and wooden battered the rocks continually. I kept trying to move, to escape the dream, but I remained numb and bound, drifting in a hellish flood of half thoughts and uncertainty as the storm shook me in and out of consciousness. Then, over time, the air grew crisp and still.
My head cleared. Oily water oozed out of my ears and nose. I could see a break wall composed of huge broken stones. It had a hole cut through it for a culvert that carried a thick flow of polluted water. The storm had caught me up and thrown me to the bottom of the wall, and water tumbled into the lake beside me. Something fat and swollen like a huge dead fish existed above me, and it stank like death. A trickle flowed into my mouth, and the taste wasn’t of fresh water but industrial pollution and something else; blood, a trickle of blood was pouring steadily over my lips and into my throat.
Dawn broke faintly red through leaden clouds. I could see clearly, and the picture held a repulsive aspect. Twisted half-dead trees bit the sand with exposed roots. The stained walls and tall stacks of an ancient factory rose in the distance. What I’d thought were huge dead fish were my legs, swollen with watery corruption and existing above my fattened and fish-chewed middle. The storm had left me on my back on a downward angle, my head and broken neck propped bizarrely on my rib cage.
My condition was ghastly. I was dead, long time dead, a body washed ashore, and I was healing. The healing flowed from the blood of another body and energized some bath of pollution and chemicals that had gathered in parts of my cortex and brain. Two corpses hung from the rocks above. Freshly storm killed, they were bleeding; a blond woman heavily through a gash in her neck. A natural cut in the boulder directed the flow to my lips.
The hull and mast of a sailboat lay smashed over the break wall nearby. A willow tree sat partially uprooted on the sandy shore. Doom and devastation had come with the windstorm, but it hadn’t killed me. Instead, it had washed me up from a watery grave and somehow given me a new being and awareness, but not genuine life. I wondered how it could be possible, and then I remembered my past life, and other lives I’d lived. I hated them all, hated myself. I’d always been evil, though this was the first time I’d known of it. It made me unique; people lived and died once. Perhaps there were others like me.
They were full lives, reincarnated existences, but this time I’d come back as a dead man. There seemed to be no explanation for it. Lightning, blood, a body, and brain fed on the vile wastes of a factory. I thought it over, and I knew. Power of evil; I’d always been wicked. If I were back, it was an accidental formula of depraved men and demons. They had called me, and as their unknown messenger, I would carve out a new frontier of hell in the land of the living.
The light grew salty and washed gray as I continued to feed. Slowly, the healing worked its magic. I watched the swelling subside. My body expelled vile gases, maggots, worms, and liquids. Eventually, I could move my arms enough to reach up and put my twisted head and neck in place. Convulsions seized me and tossed me about for an hour. When the time had passed, I could move; my first act was to crawl to the dead bodies above, sink the remains of my decayed teeth in, and eat some of their flesh.
Evening arrived with a blaze of hellish red. I was well enough to stand; my brain was clear enough to take stock. “Human,” I thought. “Perhaps barely.” My body remained a moldered mess. Rotted clothing, dead skin, and greenish gore formed a scaly coat over my flesh. My face remained mostly eaten. I felt hard clumps of hair on my head. I could move, but I did not breathe, and my heart did not beat.
Looking to a moonless sky, I shivered, and the hunger rose again. For some evil reason, whatever reason, the secret was blood. I needed more of it to heal and to walk as the dead. It was my guess that enough of it, a large feeding, could give me a passably human appearance.
Stumbling in the twilight, I got over the rocks to the shore. My left leg dragged wretchedly as I moved through the sand, using my nose more than my eyes in my hunt for fresh blood. There was none, and I seemed to be in a remote spot; nothing but empty sand beach, forest, and the spotlights on the distant factory stacks.
Returning to the rocks and the bodies, I tore off the man’s shoes and laboriously put them on, wishing the skin on my hands was new like the leather. Then I climbed back to the beach and headed through an open field toward the factory. It was strange to walk without feeling, but in some ways, it was better. Dry weeds, thistles, and stones had no sting; my legs didn’t get tired, and I wasn’t winded. But the more energy I expended, the more the hunger grew. Blood powered me, though my heart did little more than quiver occasionally. The blood spread through my body with hundreds of tiny shivers and convulsions. I needed to be situated near a strong supply.
The factory leaned visibly, crouched like a predator in its shadow; this boarded-up beast was dead but not buried. I saw lights in the southern section and heard some faint clanging of machinery. The rest of the factory was dark, and the whole thing stood behind rusted fencing with barbed tops. Moving to the front, I spotted a gravel road winding into darkness. There weren’t any cars in the lot, so I assumed that automated machinery had been left running unattended in the night.
A blast of hunger hit me with a fist to the belly. I was at the point where a man would stop to catch his breath. Since I’d just fed, I knew the feeling would get much worse, and I would be ravenously desperate if I were to exert myself for any long period. Perhaps I had to heal more to reduce my craving.
Following the road out, I walked in the haze of yellow-tinted light. I thought little and felt nothing other than hunger, the slow swing of teeth, and the tight pull of my jaw and neck. Insects of some sort were fluttering, and I caught one in my mouth. It did nothing for me. There were animals in the woods. I could smell their blood, but had little chance of catching anything. Slower-moving human meat was the prey. I speculated on the wisdom of animals. They wouldn’t come near me, not in a million years. They were far too smart, while men, in their pride and assumed glory, would take a quick and bloody fall to their proper place beneath me in the food chain.
I came to a light and lane. There had to be a house as there was a mailbox, but it was too far in to see. Dr. Dean Randall was the name on the box, and that was good enough for me. I needed a doctor, and more so, I went down the lane cursing my bad foot as it dragged in the muck.
A lonely spotlight illumined a quaint country house. It had once been a farmhouse; it was clear that the doctor had refurbished it as his own private digs. He had satellite TV, an added two-car garage, and all the other modern amenities. The doctor was also in the house. The lights were on in three of the rooms downstairs.
With the scent of blood as my guide, I moved through a lilac hedge and across brown grass. Breeze and open windows told me the doctor’s location in the house, and that no one else was present. Sliding a swath of flowering bush aside, I peeked in. The room had been extended with a big screen TV at the front and a half-wall hiding the back section. The glow of what looked to be computer screens lit the back.
The curse of hunger gnawed at me as I dragged my aching leg around back. Dizzy spells, a feeling of falling downhill, and the throb of my rotting brain shook me with mini-earthquake force. Staggering in the unlocked screen door, I seized the edge of a heavy table and held myself up. The roaring poured like wax out of my ears and nose. I shuffled quietly toward the doctor’s scent, resembling a dying man in the desert making those last steps to water. But I didn’t dare jump in.
Fortunately, darkness webbed most of the house. The Doc was an energy-saving sort of person, but not conscious enough to turn off appliances. Light flickered from a movie playing on the big screen; he had two computer setups on in the back room and sat in silence at one. Blue-white light shone on his face, revealing a plump and aging man with a respectable shock of gray hair. He was typing a message to someone on one screen; on the other, he had a photo. I strained my eyes and saw someone naked in the picture. It was a child, a naked boy with fully dressed older men. Meaning the doc had to be a pervert, but that was of little concern to me as he would suit my purposes.
A blood spell came on me like unseen powers of the moon and tides. I launched myself out of the shadows and over the hardwood floor with unbelievable liquid speed. An impossible and terrifying kill roar emerged unbidden from my throat, and it ignited Dr. Randall’s screams as the struggle began.
He proved to be unusually strong, but my ghastly hunger gave me the aggressive edge. He blocked me and wrestled me off, hit me with a lamp, and blocked me again with a stool. It was just my luck to have picked a doctor who stayed in stellar physical shape. I managed to get him from behind before he could escape through a window. It had to be a fast kill because I would never be able to catch him if he escaped.
Blood and pus flowed into my eye from wounds left by the glass lamp, but I knew I’d gotten a piece of his shoulder. My frozen muscle tissue became hard and elastic, and from that moment on, I delivered a mean beating, breaking his right leg, pulling him back in the window, slamming him across a table, and choking him before coming down on his chest for the final blows.
Slipping into unconsciousness and death, disbelief replaced the terror tightening his brow. His training as a doctor told him it could not be happening. He could not be dying at the hands of a walking dead man, but the pain and the vision told him the nightmare was real. Soon, I’d choked him silent; his lifeblood poured from severed veins and sizzled into the jolts and spasms that made up my circulation.
The moon rose in a clearing sky outside the open curtains. Strength returned, giving me time to prepare the blood and body for maximum food supply. I carved him up in the bathtub with his surgical knives, allowing the richer blood to pool at the bottom.
In the bedroom, I worked on changing clothes. My dead man’s duds had rotted right into portions of my skin and flesh. It took painstaking work with tools from the doc’s scissor bag. My nerves were mostly dead, so I was able to cut off the rot, water bugs, ooze, and wash much of the smelly stuff off myself.
I dimmed the light to soften the blow of staring at what had become of my body, and with my fresh meal taking effect, I saw healing taking place – purple gashes closing, scaly gray skin hardening over exposed flesh. It created a patchwork of a man. Corpses would look better due to the preservative effect of embalming. As a walking dead man, I‘d come back far uglier than the dead. Especially my face; it upset even me. But it was an advantage. The grey-green mess of lumpy, moldering skin and the stark look in my eyes combined to make a knockout fright. The burning soul of a demon rested in my gaze. I didn’t have the dead look of a mindless zombie.
One of Dr. Randall’s best dark suits, some dark glasses, a hat, and a silk scarf had me passing off for the living. I dragged back and forth in front of his mirror. The limp showed, but the rest of my hideous appearance stayed effectively camouflaged, especially in the dark.
Coiling tongues of evil spoke in my brain, and a scheme emerged like a dream. This guy would have patients. Maybe there were appointments here at his cottage. Heading back to the computers, I sat down at the one next to his shelf of medical books and checked the screen. He had his business set up in computer office software. I quickly found that his main office was nearby in Grimsford, and that appointments were there. Unfortunately, he was on vacation for two weeks, and this summerhouse was in a remote Northern area. Not even a farmer’s village nearby.
Sitting back, I pondered, and the voices in my head nibbled my brain to life. What to do? Make house calls, maybe? Then, to my surprise, the screen saver disappeared on the second computer, and I saw lines of text appearing.
I got up and moved to it. It was a laptop and other devices attached to a larger screen. The doc had a chat program running. Looked like he kept it up all the time, and that’s why he had the laptop.
A message had come in from FunlandAlice. Rather than answer, I took some time to read his saved chats. Minimizing the window, I was hit by a screen-sized wallpaper photo of a young girl engaged in sex with an older balding man. It wasn’t the doc, but I got the gist of it quickly. The good doctor fancied kids; he had a computer full of child porn and possibly a list of victims. Apparently, he wasn't fussy and liked males and females.
It made me grin, and it was an opportunity knocking. I got back to the chat window and chatted with Alice, thinking I might be her salvation. Feeding on her would spare her from a life of sexual abuse, and she probably had lousy parents in need of being swallowed by me.
“… I’m naughty, naughty,” she said. “My daddy spanked me hard today, and I bit his hand so he’d hit me more.”
“Really, don’t they feed you there?” I replied. “Did I tell you about my doctor bag and what I have in there?”
“No, you didn’t tell me about the bag. Is it why you name yourself Doctor Wunderful?”
“It is one reason. I have many things in my bag, but one special thing is a strap. It is fashioned from thick leather, and I use it on bad little girls like you. I hit them harder and …”
“Oooohh! Oooohh!”
Pulling the keyboard to my lap, I kept up the chat. It felt rather strange, staring down at my bony fingertips and my lap. Genitals were something I had very little of … even the memory of sex seemed extraordinary. As the walking dead, all parts of the human body were appetizing to me. The dead me had one appetite, and feeding was far superior to any sexual experience. As for little Alice, she or her entire family would do as a food source. They certainly would give her a spanking if they knew she was talking to me, unless they were in on it, too. Ah, it suddenly struck me. FunlandAlice was a little girl, all right, because the doc checked everyone closely. But he wasn't smart enough to figure out that she was probably a bad little girl and working for the parents who'd made her that way.
“So you live in the city?” I said. “I’m up north.”
“Downtown Toronto.”
“When could I pop down to see you?”
“Not now, I have to go. My parents are back. They go away the day after tomorrow. They always leave me home alone. You could come then. You’ll have to be careful. My daddy is a policeman, and if he ever catches you, he might shoot you.”
“Don’t worry. I’m smarter than your daddy is. Make sure you don’t tell him anything.”
The chat ended; I took her address and considered it a lucky strike. Visiting Alice would get me out of this nowhere county to start fresh in the city. I spent the night going through the doc’s laptop, finding it to be a gold mine of contacts and addresses across the country. I’d definitely be taking it with me, as some of them were in Toronto.
I spent another day at the cottage feeding on the corpse. He wasn’t due back at work for nearly two weeks. I still took time to dispose of him. Best to keep skeletons out of the closet; missing persons bring no future grief. If I was thorough, it was because I had little else to do. TV just doesn’t have programming for dead guys. I mean real dead guys, not the fat fake ones. TV is more for zombies and the living dead. The doctor's bones, I picked and packaged. I planned to take them with me and bury them far from the cottage.
A beautiful northern sunset faced ruin. I stepped out the door feeling myself to be the genuine embodiment of the nasty pollution behind those magnificent sweeps of cloud and light. It was time to leave, and I had the doc’s car in the driveway waiting. Tossing the gym bag containing his bones into the back seat, I got in behind the wheel. Pulling out of the garage had already shown me the lousy driver I’d become. Luckily, he owned a small Ford Fusion; a big vehicle or truck would be beyond my handling skills.
Control of the gas pedal was difficult with my stiff foot. I ripped up a spray of gravel and took off like a punk in a drag race, only managing to slow about 100 yards down the road. Soft shadows from drifting trees swept the car, and I felt the weight of a dozen tombstones in my belly. The light nudged, the darkness stung, my memories were something better forgotten … the whole of this new incarnation dragging me down to the shallow grave I belonged in. My mind had grown clear enough for speculation, and it was grim. The living go from day to day trying to find some small pleasures in life, and the walking dead go from meal to meal in a thickening zombie dead zone. Awakening the mind merely awakens knowledge of evil, and sadly, my memories were even darker. I’d lived as an ad executive, a big corporate manager, a police captain, and more. In all of those lives, I’d been more evil than any walking dead man had. I’d killed with lies, pollution, and false charges. It would have been easier to just drink my victims’ blood and end their torment quickly.
A hungry animal strikes and never thinks, and the return of a mild gnawing in my belly came as great relief. Soon, I’d be able to forget the good I’d never done and the thick album containing the faces of victims, the worthlessness of life, death, and the walking dead.
Pools of darkness began to blind me, and an hour passed with the road growing wider and from gravel to blacktop. Other cars whizzed past as I drove slowly. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Blood flecked my lips and crusted on my cheeks; my eyes were healed but dark and blackened. I felt like road kill that had gotten behind the wheel, and my need had grown to a light burning in the sky.
I found enough country roads to avoid the freeways. The city grew closer, even though it still seemed like the middle of nowhere. Bright lights suddenly appeared out of inky darkness, and ragged shadows began to swirl. Vehicles blocked the road ahead, so I slowed and came to a stop. A group of men flashed lights in the gloom at the roadside. They dragged something from the underbrush. Odors of blood dilated my nostrils and lifted my spirits. But it wasn’t human blood; they were dragging a bear.
Hunters and their boots and orange jackets showed in the headlights, and one of them approached my car. I didn’t want him to see me, so I turned my head away as he came up to the window.
“Looking for something?” he said.
“Just trying to get through,” I rasped. “You’re blocking the road.”
I glanced at his rifle. He suddenly switched on a huge flashlight and shone it in my face. Then he choked and stepped back. His fat face was whitening as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Hey, boys, we've got some kind of freak here!” he yelled, and then he dropped the light and swung out his gun.
I should have quickly backed up. Instead, the scent of blood roused me to attack, and I threw open the door and rushed him. Seizing his rifle, I pulled it free and bashed him on the head. The other men moved toward me as I dragged him around the car. I got him in the passenger side, then got back around to the wheel. A shot blasted out part of the window as I backed up, and I felt a shot penetrate my shoulder and left side.
I swung around, pulled a U-turn in the ditch, and began to drive away. The hunters were running to their trucks to give pursuit. The man I had captured was semi-conscious and starting to move, so I grabbed him as I drove and pulled him to me. Biting into his shoulder and neck, I slurped on his blood. He began to struggle fiercely, and the car snaked down the road barely avoiding the ditch. He’d kicked the passenger door open, so I shoved him away, and he fell to the road as I spun in the mud and regained control.
As I raced away, I saw the other hunters stopping to pick up their pal. Speeding off through the night I felt both anguish and the strength of healing that blood brings. Ten minutes passed, and I saw no one in pursuit, so I figured I’d spooked them bad. They liked easier prey like bears; no one wants to chase a genuine bloodsucker, especially not one that bullets don’t kill.
The city tumbled down on me like a big ogre of lights and smells. I had to come in on the freeway, but it wasn’t so bad. The blood fragrances on the wind were enough to boost my spirits. My wounds had healed, and I’d been granted some time to look around and maybe think before I visited the girl.
The downtown resembled a colossal graveyard, where every building would soon be a tombstone of my making. The feeding possibilities were endless, yet all logical thinking told me to begin at the beginning. Follow up on the invite and use the leads I’d stolen rather than randomly hunt. Perhaps frame the old doctor for a bunch of murders and leave the police hunting for him.
Alice lived in the downtown area, so I used the laptop and an online map to pinpoint her location. Taking a slow pass by, I found her place to be a large house on a quiet side street, a renovated Victorian brick house with a couple of tower rooms. A few lights were on. The front drive stood empty. Turning my eyes back to the road, I considered that she might be a liar. If her father really was a police officer, she wouldn’t live in such an elegant place.
After circling the block a few times, I decided to park around the corner. I got out under the streetlights and admired my reflection in the glass doors of an apartment building. An older woman passed, restraining her mutt as he tore at his leash and yipped at me. She hadn’t seen me as odd, so I walked the other way, with new confidence in my disguise and the powers of healing.
“What’s life if you take no risks?” I thought. Then I stopped at a phone booth and called Alice’s home number.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“I’m just down the street,” I said. “Is the coast clear?”
“It is,” she said. “You can come over now.”
I waited until the street was completely empty, checked nearby windows for peeking faces, then went up the walk and buzzed. She came to the door and opened it, and I studied her for a moment before stepping in. Alice was cute and blond, with a small nose, and, like most modern young kids, was wearing clothing far too sexy for her age: a tiny skirt, running shoes, and a strapless elastic top.
She didn’t seem afraid of me, but I was in the shadows. As I stepped into the light, I saw a ginger cat, which immediately hissed and ran down some basement stairs. I hoped the musk I was wearing would cover the smell, as I didn’t want to kill her immediately. My scarf blocked my face, but I couldn’t hide my battered-looking eyes. To my surprise, she stared at me but no fear showed on her face. She seemed to take my odd appearance as a simple fact.
“Come into the living room, and we can talk,” she said, waving her hand.
“Sure,” I said, following and trying to hide my limp as much as possible.
It was a large room with two chandeliers. Through some quirk of mercy, they were dimmed. Shadows flickered as I scanned the room with weak eyes … sculptures, paintings, racks of glassware, some antique chairs, a marble floor, and a large couch and armchairs at the west of the room by the fireplace.
I followed her to the fireplace and sat across from her on the chair. Sniffing quietly, I gathered the scent of her young blood. I wanted to be sure she was alone, but incense was burning in the room, and it stung my nose. Some lingering traces of blood odors came through, but not enough to show someone else’s presence.
Alice grinned, and it was a baby’s grin but a wicked one. “You certainly overdress,” she said. “And I can see you’re trying to hide something.”
“Trying to hide something? What do you mean?” I said.
“Your eyes, and probably your face. It looks like someone used your doctor’s bag on you.”
“Not exactly. I got into a small accident on the way down. Hit my face on the windshield in a fender bender. I thought it best to cover it up.”
“I hear you like to spank little girls,” she said.
“I certainly do.”
“Anything more?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you,” I said. And I was about to continue when my nostrils suddenly flared. I smelled blood. Someone else was in the house. What I'd expected was now happening. I turned and looked around, and then rose to my feet as two stocky men entered the room.
The biggest man was about the size of a bear. He wore a dark suit and a long trench coat. “What else do you like, you perv?” he said.
Alice giggled. “That’s my daddy,” she said. “He doesn’t like anyone else spanking me.”
“Shut up, Alice,” he said. “Listen, pal. I got a present for you.” Then he stepped closer and pulled a gun from his coat. A sawed-off shotgun. I could see light gleaming off the Winchester marking.
“I thought you were a cop,” I said as calmly as I could with my rasping voice. “You’re going to shoot a man with a shotgun. That’s overkill, don’t you think? Especially when I’m a doctor.”
“No, it isn’t, because you’re a perv. Besides, the gun is loaded with rubber pellets. It’ll blow your balls off, but you’ll live.”
“Hold on, Marv,” the other cop said. “We got him, so why not bust him. In this city, he’ll get at least fifteen years, and we’ll get promoted.”
“Nope, I’m going to blast him.”
Alice giggled again. “They always play this game,” she said. “What they want is a lot of money.”
Rage crossed Marv’s face like sudden lightning. He stepped over to his daughter and yanked her off the couch by the hair. I could see muscles rippling under his coat. The guy was a steroid freak of sorts. It looked like he was going to break her neck, then he threw her hard on the marble floor. I saw her roll over and wince like her back was sprained. She didn’t cry or gasp, just stared at her father like she hated his guts.
“Okay, you got the picture, doc,” the other guy said. “We caught you cold, and we know that a doctor like you earns over 200 grand a year. We want 500 grand, converted to cash. Either that or your life and career are over.”
I didn’t speak immediately but fell into brief reflection. Theirs was certainly a lucrative and clever business. That thought flowed on the surface of growling hunger spasms rising from my belly. Even as a monster, I had my pride. Marv’s labeling of me as a pervert angered me immensely. The guy was a creep himself; his daughter was completely warped because of his brutality. There would be no mercy on either of them. I wasn’t sure what to do about the kid.
“Do you get the picture?” Marv’s pal said gruffly, for the second time.
“Yes, I do. So picture this,” I said, pulling off my scarf.
Stunned by the sight, Marv stepped back, and his gun hand shook. His partner gasped and pulled a Glock pistol from his coat. I looked at Alice on the floor, and she remained unmoved. At least for a moment, then she quickly ducked out of sight when the shooting began.
I imagine the dappled light from the chandeliers gave me a more ghastly appearance than usual. Then the shotgun blast hammered me, and I was thrown down to slide across the floor. I knocked down a shelf of glassware and small sculptures and then slowly got up amid the broken glass.
Marv looked panicked as I started to walk toward him. He moved quickly to reload but real shells this time. His buddy didn’t wait, but fired his Glock at me. The bullet hit hard, sending up a spurt of gore up my chest and slowing me like a boxer's blow. I got to Marv as he was raising his gun. Then I seized it and the fight began.
I pulled the shotgun loose and struck Marv’s pal with it as he moved in on me. The handle glanced off his head, the gun flew from my hands, and then I went down as Marv nailed me with a knee and a hard right hand.
Being repulsive was to my advantage. They didn’t want to jump on me, and that gave me time to roll up and grab Marv’s leg. His buddy tried to help and tripped. He crashed to the floor, and I sent Marv tumbling backward.
I used the free moment to jump his pal on the floor. My sharp, broken teeth hit pay dirt, and blood spurted from his neck. In seconds, he was dead, and I’d been briefly refreshed.
The strength of healing hit me, and I rose to a strange scene. Marv was back on his feet, and Alice had come out into the clear. She was holding the shotgun.
“Toss me the gun!” Marv yelled. “Do it before he eats you, you stupid little tart.”
Alice remained frozen, an icy and unfathomable look in her widening eyes.
“I’m not going to eat you,” I said.
“Don’t believe him,” Marv said. “Give me the gun now.” Then he lunged at her, and she swung the gun and fired. Marv took the blast full-on and was thrown into the air. He hit the floor like a sack of butcher’s meat, his guts snaking up like a strange birth from his opened torso.
Another abusive father had earned his due, slaughtered by his daughter. Only Alice didn’t see it as the kick knocked her back against a chair, and her lights went out.
+++
So now, it’s like I said at the beginning of this post. Guess Who’s Truckin’ Again? Sure, I’m a dead man on the move, and we’re going to rule this dark city. That’s the two of us, because I kept my promise and didn’t devour Alice. It’s more like she’s my adopted daughter now, and I got her riding shotgun as we fly through the shadows of another city night in her poor, dead poppa’s sports car.
So what the hell, eh. Every walking dead man needs a friend, a sidekick to take the pain out of this race through the gutter slime of what used to be life. Alice and I have a big list of people to kill, and her father's list combined with the doc's would keep us busy for a long time.
+++
By Gary L Morton
The roots of shrubs and small trees clutched the sand like petrified bird talons and beast claws. Broken trees, branches, and driftwood were scattered before me, and a field of dunes stretched out to the lake. A crust of dirty snow marked the crest of the first dune, and I saw some wisps of dead grass and seagull feathers.
Picking up a feather, I noticed that I was naked, but it was such a natural nudity that it failed to perturb me. I was more interested in feeling the wind. It slid across the rippled waters of Lake Ontario in brush-stroke sweeps of white and sent hail rattling along the stony shore. My nose was so unnaturally keen that the air felt like a rank exhalation from a monstrous ice whale, and in the breath of the ice whale I could smell another warm creature approaching.
It was a man, and he was naked. I watched him emerge by an ice-sculptured dune at the shore - a terrible, unexplainable fear rising in me with every step he took. He tossed his shaggy head back, and then he turned and locked eyes with me. His were-eyes of blue ice backlit by fire, strange plasma that forced me to lower my gaze to his genitals, which were swollen, blue, and frost-crusted. The humiliation felt worse than fear. It was a horrible ape-like thing, being dominated by the power of another man's genitals.
He exploded like a fuse had set off the rest of his body … pulsing lumps, scabs, flowering wounds of open red flesh, his face twisting and graying, eyes shooting fire … the hideous shrinkage and contortion of everything. Yet while the rest of him shrank, his patch of shaggy hair lifted and crawled round every part, and of course, he became a wolf.
Or should I say werewolf? – as he was much bigger than your usual wolf, his coat a bright gray, and his eyes full of human intelligence. He loped away along the shore and disappeared in a line of pines that showed darkly in the hail.
Then I awoke, and on that day, after the dream, I went completely mad.
I had a good job in the office of a big pulp-and-paper firm, but it seemed unimportant. I decided I would never go to work again. My werewolf claw would never again touch a computer or a virtual piece of paper.
Instead, I sat on my bed naked and meditated, when never before had I wasted time on things like meditation. Hard blue ice formed in my mind. I realized that God was an icy thing, like Lake Ontario in the dream. You could be a simple thing like ice, just as the gurus said. But even when you're ice, thoughts get in the way, and I found myself looking out the window and wondering why all those people were going to work when they could stay home and be ice.
A man with vision today will probably be owned by a megacorporation tomorrow. Someone had said that. I saw a world where virtually everyone was wired by computers into corporations; even brain-dead anarchists reborn as zombie intellectual property and aging protesters living in the comfy retirement digs provided by the master online connection. No rebel or radical remained, except perhaps the werewolf. Everyone was scrambling to get big on-line and to the top of the net. It was a society composed of two classes - celebrities and non-entities, with the non-entities fighting fiercely for publicity. The web was everyone in the world screaming, “Look at me, and buy me!” when nobody really had the time to care. I thought about dropping out of it. I thought about swearing never to play the game. Never would I do a song and dance for a crazy world. I thought about it, then I thought it was better not to care at all. Now I see, and I just don't care at all.
Lenin to Bakunin, all has been erased by the glossy blandness of advertising. I think the werewolf spoke in my mind, saying, “This is an announcement. The devil is dead. He no longer has a voice. Yet we can't live without him, so we reinvent him as the junk in our back yards.”
It was interesting that a werewolf had come to make such an announcement, or to make it to someone who neither cared about it nor would spread the word. I pondered it as I went out and looked at the many bucksters and panhandlers on Yonge Street. I tried to guess what it would mean to them. If it wasn't rock -'n'- roll renamed, what could it mean to them? If it wasn't rock-'n'- roll blasting what could it mean to me? I sincerely hoped that it wasn't the answer, because I didn't want to be another one of those guys with the answer. I didn't want to beg people to believe in my new commercial truth and me.
I didn't get far before my musing ended. Rounding a corner, I came upon a man with very wolfish features. He was dirty, with clothes like rags, eyes with cold fire, and yellow fanglike teeth. One look told me he wouldn't let me pass. Disgust was on his face, that and contempt, and he took a swing at me.
He took a swing at the wrong guy. I don't believe in violence, and I just don't care. I fought him all the way up the block before the police rushed in. I told them he worked for the werewolf, and that the werewolf had a message about the devil, who might be trying to get some publicity to launch a comeback. Yet the same look of disgust was on the faces of the police, and they arrested me. Seems I hadn't put any clothes on, and it was a cold Halloween for being naked.
I really don't want to bore you with my personal history, not when you can switch to five million web and device channels to get bored by everyone else. In a way, I'm hiding behind the werewolf so you won't see me and hate me. Let's just say I've done a lot of stuff since my arrest. Sometimes I run naked in the streets with the werewolf at my side. I've climbed power pylons, buildings, and towers while fleeing the police. I lost my girlfriend after I tore her dress off in a shopping mall. Sometimes I meet were people in the street who'll look me in the eye and have sex there and then, without saying a word. Isn't it amazing how words spoil everything? Mostly, though, I'm locked up and in isolation.
I have a psychiatrist named Danny. He's a homosexual and somewhat old-fashioned and Freudian. Danny likes to tell me I'm gay, too - according to Freud, male exhibitionism is a release of suppressed homosexual wishes. A mere technicality, I say, since it's women I have sex with, mostly, or think I have sex with. The werewolf? - Well, it seems that many people have dark dreams and visions just before the onset of schizophrenia.
There is no werewolf, Danny likes to say. The first time he said it, he pounded a book on the table for emphasis. An old book by Freud, written back when he was coked out of his mind. Sometimes Danny yells, but he's not really angry - it's only theatrics meant to crack me. I tell him it would be better if he really were angry. Then sometimes he weeps and tells me there really isn't much wrong with me. “Goddamn werewolf!” he says to himself as a lonely and abandoned look comes into his eyes.
Sometimes Danny brings Jimmy in - this is to scare me, I figure, because Jimmy is permanently locked up. Jimmy used to cover himself with blue and white powders and lie naked, pretending he was dead. He had a mirror on his ceiling. It wasn't really a problem before he started bringing other people in to be dead with him. I tell him to watch it, or he'll feel the claws of the werewolf. He does watch it; he calls me one crazy son of a bitch. Jimmy and Danny have both killed their emotions; only Jimmy is more clinically perfect.
Lately, I've been seeing the werewolf in alleyways, and he's wild, tearing and worrying at corpses. I've told Danny, and now he thinks I'm going to be in alleyways killing people. But I'm not interested in killing people, and what the werewolf does is his own business. It could be that the devil sent him there for failing to bring him publicity. It could be that he's dropped out, or maybe that's where you end up when you can't get on stage or TV or the social net big time. I can't say that I really know.
It is true that I'm different because of the werewolf, but I've never been saner. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the werewolf is for you. I'm just telling you he's there. So don't get scared if you see him, but don't dine with him either. Just remember that tomorrow there will be a perfect world - we'll all be famous and plastic surgery will be a human right. If you were there now, you'd want to be a werewolf . . . or maybe ugly and covered with warts. But hey! Why wait until then when you can do it now?
+++
By Gary Morton
The Rattle
Gray dust and crumbling ash flakes coated the sun-dried turf. It lifted in fine clouds as he walked past the burial mounds. Halting at the edge of the sandstone cliff, he stared at the neat row of small hills running behind the caked mud flats that had once been Deep Woods Lake. In the old days, they’d been forested and topped with rock shelves and boulders. His Mohawk ancestors had used them as signal hills. Now they were dry and barren, and the stones were hot enough to bake corn bread.
Turning left, he studied the largest of the burial mounds. The entire sacred structure was slowly sinking - dropping into a surround of cracked mud, tall grass, and timothy. Its grassy side had burst, and from a distance, it appeared as a huge tear. Sand, sparkling minerals, and colored stones were visible in the gash. Other things were partially obscured by the sand - bones, skulls, jeweled items that shimmered, and larger sacred objects.
The sight fascinated him, and then a sudden wind sighed at the cliffside. His vision, his parched throat and lungs felt sucked dry. He was left in a hollow and abandoned state - suffocating, though painlessly. Dizziness staggered him, and he stumbled at the edge of the cliff. Withering heat consumed his flesh, and his throat began to ache with thirst.
His moccasins moved slowly, precariously along the edge of the cliff. Beyond the sheer drop, the torrid sky stretched to the horizon like a sheet of flame. Below, the dried lake billowed up dust clouds like dragon's breath or netherworld smoke signals.
Reaching the mound, he stared at the cracked mud and shivering weeds at its edge. A skeleton partway up the gash drew his gaze. Its jaw hung open in what seemed like hideous laughter. A ring glittered on its hand, and he could see that it remained there because in life the medicine man had wired it right through the bone. The other fingers of this skeletal hand were open, and the arm was outstretched. Just beyond it in the spilling sand, a rattle protruded. This sacred object was armored with a turtle shell and well preserved; the leather, handle, and beads were like new, but the feathers on the tassel were slightly chewed and ragged in places. Painted shells patterned out a special face, one that his tribe recognized as the rainmaker.
Deep waters stirred in an inner mirage. He saw the rainmaker's face breaking on the surface. Then the rattle reappeared, and he longed to touch it, though he knew it was forbidden. Thirst came again, and with it blindness. A ghost awoke within, propelling him forward. He felt sand slip between his fingers, and then the weight of the rattle was in his hand. When he shook it, the sound was that of falling rain … a gentle, steady sound, followed by thunder.
The darkness of the dust-smoked sky moved like the shadow of a great wolf. His feet began to stir in light steps of the dance, and heat lightning flashed each time he shook the rattle at the sky.
His motions grew furious as he danced at the edge of the cliff. Messages of old puffed up on the signal hills. The tribes and the drums were calling for a rainmaker.
Below, in the dry lakebed, the mud flats began to split. Earth and sky rumbled like a voice of dread. Darkness consumed the day, but there wasn't any rain.
The Drifter
Rick's tongue slid slowly under crusted lips. Fine blond sand blew on the pocked asphalt ahead, and his tinted glasses failed to filter out the white glare of mid-afternoon. A glance at the energy gauge told him he had about one kilometer of juice remaining. Since he was approaching a long hill, he decided to roll up to the crest and park on the roadside while the solar cells recharged the Sun Cobra's engine.
Dust blew in fiercely, swirling in the harsh heat at the top. The idea of stopping there seemed like a mistake. Then moments after he parked, the wind died down, and he got out and walked under a sky of hot brass to the trunk. A bubble of sour air washed over him as he opened it. The metal door of the interior storage box felt like an oven pan.
His fingers deftly spun the combination - then the panel slid left. Inside a large bottle of water rested on weatherproof red felt. It shone like an enormous jewel.
Rick knew he was close to town and a water refill, but he still poured himself only half a cup. Old habits were hard to break. The water refreshed him, and his mouth and lips came unglued. He could see his faint reflection in the metal: his tongue slithering across his full lips, and the permanent expression of deep deliberation on his tanned face.
Snatches of dust blew in as he locked up. He shielded his face as he walked to the roadside, heading for a hybrid oak clinging to the sandy earth just over the crest. Walking into its shade, Rick sat on a slate boulder thrust out from the soil. Parched bug-chewed leaves rustled like leather on a low bough. He gently wiped the grime from his eyes before looking out at the valley. Heat and glare billowed, but the sky's pale color showed through. He saw something he hadn't seen for many kilometers - patches of green and blue. The green was farmland, acres of forest, and trimmed parkland on the edge of a small town.
A clock tower rose at the center of the town amid some other tall structures. He knew the town was Tiverton - his destination. Backed by the hot horizon, it shimmered, almost like a desert mirage, and adding to the effect was the sight of a small blue lake just west of town. The banks circling it were long and smooth like the rim of a wide bowl, and off to the north, he could see the remains of a sister lake. It appeared to have dried up completely, but the blowing dust made the bottom impossible to see, so it was hard to tell.
From a hilltop glance, Tiverton appeared to have a much better chance of survival than many other towns. But that really depended on the drought. Some people said there would be no relief this time. It hadn't rained in nearly a month, and the sun grew fiercer by the day.
Near the bottom of the hill, a crossroad branched off to the south. He could see a speck moving on it. It appeared to be a man walking. Heat waves passed over the road, distorting the image into liquid. Then the man reappeared and took a few more steps before dropping to a sitting position on the shoulder.
"Probably been taken by heat stroke," Rick thought as he got to his feet. Turning, he walked to the car. The gauge said he had enough charge to get into town, so he started the engine and rolled down to the crossroad. The man's blue shirt showed in the glare just up the road, so he swung into the dust, drove up, and stopped. He could see that the shirt was part of a mailman's uniform and that the man was of Chinese-Canadian descent.
"Need a lift?"
The mailman looked up. "Are you an angel or is this for real?"
"It's for real."
Sweat drops as large as tears ran on his broad face, but he still had the strength to rise and get in the open door. He sighed. "Boy, am I glad to get out of here."
"How'd you end up on foot way out here?"
"My mail car broke down about 4 kilometers back. I don't have my phone because the town has confiscated them all as part of the emergency plan. Not a single vehicle came down this road all morning."
"I got water if you need it."
"I drank water on the hike. It's the direct sun that puts me down. I can last till we get into town if you want to head back."
"I actually am heading into Tiverton. I saw you from the hill, so I turned this way to pick you up."
"Sure would’ve looked funny if I'd died of a stroke just outside of town."
"I've seen it before. Seen whole towns dead. There are more bones than weeds lining the highways."
"Bad isn't it? I mean the Dust Bowl. I've been in Tiverton through the whole thing. We thought we were immune before this wave came in."
"I know the feeling. I'm from Tweedsville originally. The drought hit hard there, starting two years ago. We thought we could fight it, but we didn't have the lakes and water sources like Tiverton. Everything dried to the bone. Trouble is that by the time we knew we'd lost, too many people had died. I had a wife and a baby daughter. We were set to leave, but then some rain came in the spring. We held on, but the heat came back in a killer wave."
"Your wife and kid?"
"They died in the hospital. I was sick but hung on."
"Sorry to hear that, man."
"Name's Rick, Rick Shelley."
"Sure. I'm Jim Wong. Tiverton's pony express."
"You know that it's the water that kills you. Once it dries up, it's impossible to keep what little there is clean. Few survive once flies and bacterial infections set in during a heat wave."
"We've taken just about every precaution we can. There isn't much livestock now, so the problem of manure pollution of the water isn't as much of a danger. Tiverton is mostly a vegetarian town. We're heavy into vegetable crops and other organic stuff."
"I know. My brother Sam has a farm outside of Tiverton. Says he's fighting a hell of a drought. Needs all the help he can get."
"Ah, so you're Sam Shelley's brother. I should have guessed. Guess I didn't because your hair is golden and his is dark. He's always laughing like a clown of sorts. You got that serious look, like you faced off with trouble starting on the day you were born. Looks like it didn't beat you down, like it did to the rest."
"It sure tried hard. It beat my family into the grave and left me in a burning ghost town."
"Your brother needs manual labor right now. There's a big system for irrigating crops without wasting water. It's hard to get parts these days, so men have to assist in many fields. He'll be sure happy to see you. I mean, because you're his brother, and because you're in such good health. So many people are weak and disabled nowadays. Just can't work at all."
The highway into town followed a long, slow descent into the valley greenbelt. As the car rolled along, the dust clouds that always gathered just above the fenders vanished. Ditches of sand flattened and became shoulders tufted with tall grass. Asphalt ahead grew smoother, and soon the glare of the sun was replaced by the dappled shadows of leafy maple boughs. They passed two boarded-up motels and a junkyard before houses appeared. The first were cottages, fortified from the heat and jacketed with solar panels. Wild weed gardens and parched grass marked the yards, and the bright sunshine and ghostly emptiness conveyed a familiar feeling. It was born of a world where most people slept during the day and worked at night; a form of abandonment that comes about when the heat bakes the life out of the land.
Some crumpled sheets of reflection paper blew over the road like yellow tumbleweeds as they reached the core. They rounded a bend, and the old brown sandstone buildings at the town's center showed. These aged structures were the civic buildings, and the post office was among them. It rested next to the town hall and had a parkette at the front. The few people sitting in it were the only people outdoors. Sidewalks were empty.
"I'd better get off at the police station. It's at the end of this main square. They can go out and get the mail car. I plan to go home. Maybe you want to wait. I'm on the other side of town. The road there leads out to Sam's place, so I can show you the way."
"Sounds fine to me."
Rick pulled into the station, got out, and stood in the shade cast by the old stone building. Jim went inside, and during the ten-minute wait, Rick glanced about downtown. His stomach grumbled again and stung his throat with acid. The upset and heat muted his hunger. An open variety store was just up the street, but he decided not to stock up on anything until he was sure of his exact needs.
After five minutes, an officer emerged from the station. He walked at the head of a group of eight men. They looked emaciated, ragged, and poverty-stricken. One of them sucked on a burning marijuana cigarette, and none of them said anything as they walked across the square and entered a dilapidated building. A banner that’d been hung like a flag over the door said - Employment Office.
Sunburn seemed more pronounced on Jim's face when he emerged. He looked weak and walked with a slight limp. He grimaced mildly as he spoke. "Nausea is getting the better of me. I'm going to sleep it off at home. I just phoned my daughter, Kim. She's waiting for me, and she'll take you out to the farm. I didn't mention it earlier, but she does some work for your brother. I don't know if he told you, but the farms are now cooperative affairs. Most of the original owners still run the show. Kim has several fields of her own. She's really proud of that."
"Sounds great. I'd like to meet her. Let me help you in, and we're off."
Jim's house was of the white saltbox style, but stronger with wind support and invisible solar banks. It had a wide willow-lined driveway with parking spaces for several vehicles. An old dusty mail car took up one of these spaces.
His daughter burst out of the shade as they drove up. She dashed to the driveway to meet them, and Rick got a neat picture of her as she hurried around to the passenger side. She wore cut-off jeans and a tank top, accentuating her hourglass figure. Her features were of the extremely feminine Oriental variety. She had long, straight hair in a ponytail, but no makeup or jewelry. Obviously upset, she yanked the door open and pouted as she reached in and hugged her father.
"You look feverish," she said as she released him. "Let me help you out."
Jim did look feverish. He groaned as he got out. Without an introduction, Rick also popped out.
A strong breeze blew down the drive, reducing the heat's effect. Jim was explaining what happened as Kim listened impatiently.
"I'm calling the mayor and demanding that they return your phone. They must be crazy to have taken it in the first place."
Rick stepped in. "If you don't mind my asking. Why would they confiscate phones in the first place?"
Jim's eyes switched between Rick and his daughter. "This is Rick," he said. "And this is my daughter Kim.
They shook hands lightly, and she held on as they did. "Thanks so much for saving my father."
"I was just driving by on my way into town, so I picked him up."
Kim turned back to her father. "I want the phone back in your mail car before you go back out on the road."
"I don't know. They're adamant that the field workers need extra phones out by the remains of Deep Woods Lake. It has to do with a wild animal roaming out there. The thing howls like a devil, and the crews won't go out to the remote fields unless they have phones to call in quick help."
Kim frowned and pulled back her windswept hair. "There isn't any wild beast. I've been out there and haven't heard a thing. The last time I used my gun was more than a year ago to scare off a bear."
"I think it's just superstition," Jim said. "By the way, Rick is Sam's brother. He should have the pull to get us a phone. I'm going inside to rest. You can show him the way out to the farms. Talk to Sam about the phones when you get there."
As Kim helped her father into the house, Rick stepped under the willows and stared out at the hot meadow. Long grass ran off into heat distortion, and near the tree line, the haze rose to the sky. Cumulus towers were parked on the horizon like great ships, and as a whole, the rolling cloudbank resembled a monstrous sponge sucking up precious water in evaporation from the land. The meadow was browning and dying, a familiar picture. He'd seen a few years of these heat waves elsewhere in the province. They nearly always broke to cooler spells. But sometimes they didn't. And when that happened, whole towns and valleys perished.
Kim called to him, and he saw her up on the porch holding a tray. He walked up slowly and sat with her there, sipping a cold drink.
"We'll go out to your brother's right away," she said. "Dad seems fine. He just needs rest."
Rick nodded, and they said little else as they exchanged glances. He found Kim warm and attractive, but a touch vulnerable. She confirmed that feeling by suddenly snatching his empty glass and marching back inside. A minute later, she emerged carrying a backpack, and they went down the drive to his car.
The only paved road to the farms wound around the shore of Lake Wolverton. Putting aside the heat, the scene was idyllic. Wind whipped up small waves on the teal waters, froth broke on long stretches of sand and stony shore, and areas of marsh were spotted with geese and ducks.
Rick found the scene entrancing; his eyes kept straying off the road. "I'm surprised to see so much valuable waterfront property and not even a squatter on it."
"Most of that beachfront appeared over the last three years," Kim said. "Evaporation cut the water level some. Squatters usually gravitate to areas that have been developed and abandoned. Not many head this way. Our population has actually grown, but most of the new people live in housing we built near the fields."
"Why does that lake stay wet while its sister dried up completely?"
"That's because the sister isn't from the same family. This one is more than stream-fed. It has strong underground sources."
"I see."
"What is it you're doing for Sam, anything specific?"
"I'll be working for him. Wherever he needs me. I have experience with the newer irrigation equipment, plus I have my health. I saw some of the general labor they were picking up at the town employment office. If they were a sample, I'd say he needs a healthy man with muscles."
"Those were probably transients you saw at the employment office. The labor they do doesn't even cover their housing and food costs. This town has a few thousand people who are disabled or partially disabled. Due to heat waves and resulting bacterial infections, they have a greatly reduced lifespan. We don't leave housing empty. The spaces are opened up to transients. They do some work, but the real bulk of the labor is done by healthy members of the co-operative."
"Guess I'll be doing real work. But that's okay. It's better than standing around, worrying about the heat."
"You have a car. I need you to work with me. The last while I've been using my father's extra mail car and borrowed labor."
"What is it you do?"
"I have my own fields, controlling and producing organic crops. Mine are the most remote fields. Including some of the land over by the dead lake, where the wild beasts are supposed to be roaming. They're automated fields - irrigation equipment of the newer sort. But it's not fully functional, so it requires some work."
"It's a deal then. I'm experienced in repairing that sort of equipment. If I'm going to work here, I might as well do what I do best."
Kim smiled broadly. "Okay - it's a deal. Just remember that you're committed. I say that because we won't be out there long before other members try to steal you from me. There's a shortage of skilled workers here, like everywhere."
Rick saw fast-running shallow water below as they crossed a bridge, then the road turned away from the lake and entered a long stretch of open fields. A wide variety of crops were grown in numerous fields, including hay, corn, assorted vegetables, and potatoes. The fields had attached cottages and some livestock, mostly cows and horses. A few farmhouses, barns, and silos appeared, then they passed through a deep, forested ravine and emerged, approaching a large ranch-style spread.
On Kim's signal, Rick turned in, went up the drive, and parked with several other cars under a huge rain roof. Massive shade trees covered the grounds of the main house, and a number of people were socializing on a terrace.
"I haven't seen Sam in over ten years," Rick said.
"You mean you two didn't get along?"
"We got along but lived separate lives. We kept in touch. Right now, he's on a guilt trip. The heat killed us off in Tweedsville - my wife and daughter died. He thinks the deaths are his fault. Keeps saying he could have gotten us out sooner. He's wrong, of course. The decision to stay was a mistake most of the people in Tweedsville made."
"It's nobody's fault. Heat tragedies are everywhere. Some of my relatives and my brother died, too. But not in Tiverton."
"Maybe we'll win the battle here."
"As well as mentioning the phones, I want to get you one of the better cottages. Sam has one open on Wolverton Lake. It has a beach area and fertile land we could develop."
The Ark
Kim stayed close to Rick and helped him settle into the cottage on Wolverton Lake. He began to work with her on the crops at night. On day four, he picked her up well after nightfall, and they headed off to service three fields. The first two assignments went quickly and uneventfully. They headed out by the dead lake to work on the third.
Mixed crops of vegetables had been planted in segment number ten, which was one of the most remote fields. It needed the least attention of all the fields, and they arrived expecting to do little more than check the water/nutrient charts.
Rick had the radio tuned to the local station, which displeased Kim, so she switched it to loud pop music as the car turned down the winding gravel road. Open pasture showed between patches of forest, and they saw the rays of the rising moon streaming through a line of firs. The moonlight softened the night, slightly illuminating the boughs and the duff of the forest floor. It reached inside the windshield, throwing a tint on Kim's long hair as she turned to speak to him.
"So, how do you like Tiverton? I mean, so far?"
"It's not as nice as Tweedsville when my wife and daughter were alive. But it's better than any other place I've been. Some places were just failure and death. Down in Quinte, I spent a year working with broken men on various failed projects. The local government was like a dictatorship. That was bad. Most of those men would’ve been better off dead. The body lives on when the spirit is broken. Here I've got you for a partner on the job, and that makes it a lot better."
"You mean because I'm a woman?"
"I mean, because your soul didn't evaporate into the heat. You're alive and expect something more than your own survival from life."
"Ever see the old TV shows, the big expectations people used to have?"
"I have, and I've seen some of those old people killed by mobs. I was in Brighton when they got Mel Andersen. He was 85 years old. Used to be the president of Mercurcor, a big-time land polluter. He managed to hide there under an assumed name for two decades. Never did get to trial. The mob tore him limb from limb."
"I'm glad I've been here all my life and didn't see the killing. In the USA, it was a bloody civil war of sorts."
"Yeah, and big expectations from life led to it. People of that period cared only about themselves. They knew they were killing future generations with pollution. They poisoned their own children and just didn't care. We're lucky to have a portion of the civilized world left."
"History says a lot of people cared, and a lot of people just didn't know what was happening. Even more were powerless against a corrupt system."
"I think they knew. Most of those who cared didn't care enough - not enough to fight back. They kept issuing warnings and demonstrating peacefully. They should’ve known the world offers only death and revenge when it goes off its axis with pollution. Now we have the killer weather, but in some ways, the world is better. Every town that survives does so because people care and cooperate, and they reach out to work with other towns. The survivors are all people who have formed genuine social units."
"I agree, and the dead aren't just due to the weather. In most cases, they tried to keep society functioning under the old models of resource destruction and naked capitalism. It didn't work for them. The days of corporate chieftains, greedy dictators, and hijacked democracy are over. The new laws of nature quickly weed out such systems. Everyone has to play a caring role for society to work."
A bright spotlight on the field monitoring post showed as they turned out of the trees. Rick drove slowly up the dirt drive and stopped under the light and a swirl of moths. Remaining silent, they got out, and Kim ducked back as Rick swept cobwebs away from the door. They went inside, turned on the lights, and the computer monitor. Kim checked the field's screen map.
"Four more days, and a work team has to come in to pull weeds. Looks like the system is working nearly perfectly. There are two rows that we'll have to do manually a fair distance out."
Back outside, they went to the shed and opened it up. A full tank of feed water stood in front of two empties and a tow motor. Rick banged the side and then turned to Kim. "I can pull it out. Let's not bother with the tow. Just lead the way."
The spotlight and the moonlight provided enough light so they didn't use the floodlights. Rick looked down at the straining muscles in his thighs as he began to pull the tank, then back up at Kim's graceful form walking slowly ahead along the narrow sand path. The leafy green of the vegetables, the plastic shielding of the feed system, and the damp odors of growth gave him a pleasant feeling. It made him forget the exercise and the heat. He was happy enough to start whistling.
At the trouble spot, Kim brought out the nozzle. On one row, they managed to unplug the system, but the second was a no-go, so they took the time to spray each plant individually. A half-hour later, they were just finishing up. As they prepared to walk back with the tank, a strange sound echoed in the night. It was a distant howl, but not of a dog. It sounded almost human and conveyed an emotion somewhere between bloodthirst and fright.
"What was that?" Rick said, staring over the field toward the source of the sound
"Don't know," Kim said. "It must be that howling we've been hearing about. It's been spooking the workers for the last couple of weeks."
"Yeah, that's right. When I heard the story, I assumed it was just a wild dog. But that's no dog. Has anyone tried to trace it to the source?"
"No. They're too afraid."
"I guess we should check it out."
"The dead lake is in that direction. It may be some kind of sick animal if it's coming from there."
A second howl echoed as Kim spoke, and Rick looked toward the sound again. Sickly yellow haze bearded the full moon. Its face was growing brighter as it rose, casting a glow over the soft earth beneath their feet. To the north, the crop UV filters curved like long segmented worms over the rows of plants. The field came to a dark end at a ditch. Scrub and an abandoned rail line stood beyond it.
"I want to take a look," Rick said. "It could be something that’ll damage the crop equipment."
"Okay, let's go."
They began the trek over the field with Kim leading the way. Rick followed, feeling anxious, expecting to hear another monstrous alien cry. None came - they leaped the ditch in silence and found themselves climbing the bank to the rail line in unnatural quiet.
"Spooky out here, isn't it?" Rick said.
Kim turned and looked down the line. Rusted metal shone faintly and vanished into a dark wall of foliage fifty feet away. "There should be at least some night buzz. Whatever that cry was, it sent the wildlife into hiding."
"Maybe we've got a problem. I mean, in that we aren't smart enough to hide."
"Stop trying to scare me." She punched him in the shoulder, and the moonlight reflected in her brown eyes as she grinned. "The lake is off the line, just around that bend ... or what's left of the lake. We can take a look, but unless things have changed, we won't be able to see anything but mud flats and blowing dust."
Foul breeze-born odors of the mud flats came on strong as they reached the bend. Rick coughed. It smelled like the worst seafood market in the country. Kim sniffed, as though the odors were a personal thing, thrown at her by some unseen and rude stranger. Putting her right hand on her tilted hip, she scrutinized the line of sumac and trees. "The Point is just through those trees. We used to swim there when the lake was alive. It runs a fair distance out, so if there's anything to be seen, we'll see it from there."
As they descended into the sumac, Kim gasped and jumped. Rick caught her as she stumbled back, and he got a view over her shoulder of a snake sliding quickly through some rocks. They waited for it to disappear into the weeds, and then they moved on.
The moon showed as a bright coin behind the last line of trees. They swept some brush aside as they passed through, and then they were facing the Point. Lumpy ground populated with boulders, thistles, and tufted grass stretched before them. The remnant of a shore of crushed rock and driftwood remained at the edge of the mud banks. Out on the lake, the clouds of dust had settled, allowing a view straight across to the hills and stars beyond.
There wasn't a drop of water left in the lake, just dried bottom mud, lifeless reed stubble, and the odd object protruding in the dark. Heat and blowing dust had done such a thorough job that the bottom had been leveled into a huge rippled disc. Nearly everything had been buried by the shifting sand and mud. Moonlight opened it to view, and it was a weird scene. They looked around a bit more before their eyes fell on a huge object that stood to the north, just off the point's end.
"What's that thing?" Rick said.
"Beats me. Looks like some kind of boat wreck that's been uncovered."
To get a better look, they followed the path out to the end of the point. It was crusted with leaves, twigs, and dust and wound into the darkness cast by a line of huge boulders. They emerged facing a carpet of moonlight that ran across the lakebed, seeming to end at the mysterious structure.
At first glance, it had the appearance of a boat wreck. A series of ribs rose around a square central edifice. Yet the structure was almost certainly made of metal or stone. So it wasn't a boat but some strange ark or temple that had existed all along at the lake bottom.
Rick hopped from the edge of the turf to the stony shore. Turning, he reached up and caught Kim as she followed. Swinging her around, he put her on her feet, and she turned and faced the lake.
The driftwood massed at the shore was so bleached it looked like a bone sculpture glowing in the moonlight. Pieces were scattered on the stones and all the way out to the ark-like structure. The lakebed was dry sand and mud in that stretch. They could see no boggy ground.
"I can't picture any animal emerging from that thing," Rick said.
"Neither can I. Maybe it attracted a wild dog or a wolf through its odor. I think this horrible smell is more than just the mud."
"Guess we need a closer look."
They took a few apprehensive steps across the rippled sand, and once they were sure they were on solid ground, they walked ahead confidently. Humps of mud-sunken driftwood, masses of tiny shells fused like concrete and clumps of desiccated weeds formed obstacles in their path.
As they grew closer, the ribs gleamed even brighter - almost a sparkling look. They stopped at the first one, which tapered like a tusk and rose just above their heads. Dried mineral salt coated most of its surface, creating the gleam. Patches of dried algae clung to all of the tusks and hung like cobwebs in places. The central structure resembled a large box or coffin that rose five feet above the surface. A similar mineral substance coated it, giving it a jeweled or metallic gleam. It was impossible to know how much of it was submerged.
Rick was definitely spooked, and he felt Kim squeeze close to him as they walked under the tusks. Reaching out, he touched the wall and then pulled his hand back as some of the loose substance fell to the mud. A tiny carved symbol showed in the cleaned area. This interested him, so he picked away more of the salt scales and studied the image he'd uncovered.
Kim knocked the area with her knuckles. "I think it's made of wood that's become petrified. It must be older than even the lake. Otherwise, it would have rotted."
"I don't think it can be that old. Most lakes in this part of Ontario are four to six thousand years old. That image is definitely an Indian thing. It resembles some of the older paintings of the coyote. This segment shows a beast like a coyote, a fire symbol, and something being sacrificed."
"Do you suppose this whole structure is a work of ancient native art?"
"Looks like it. Maybe more - an entire story is underneath the salt."
"What do you think is inside it?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's a tomb. It's definitely an archaeological find. We shouldn't really be touching it at all."
"We should get out of here. This place makes my skin crawl."
"Doesn't seem to be much else we can do."
Though the discovery of the ark was an amazing accomplishment, Rick found himself turning to leave, feeling that their investigation had been inconclusive, if not outright unsettling. Remaining silent, they headed back to the point, getting a short distance before the wind sighed and lifted.
They heard paws beating a fast tattoo on the mud and halted with the sensation of something fast and nearly invisible sweeping past them. Then a gust ripped around the point, playing through the boulders like an off-key violin stroke. The force nearly bowled them over, and as they regained their balance, they heard a howl. It had obviously come from the ark, yet when they looked back, they saw nothing.
Without saying a word, they began to run and didn't stop until they were off the point. Jogging down the tracks, they got back to the field and halted at its edge. Winded, Kim leaned against him. She hugged him and breathed deeply.
"What do we do now?" she said.
"I think I saw a ghost animal pass us back there. And that howling is from it. The shape was like a large coyote. We'll report the find to Sam and let him decide what to do. That's if he believes us."
The Town Meeting
Frightening tales of supernatural occurrences came on the coattails of the ark's discovery. Sam and the town brought their best people in to look at it, and they found it strange but lacking any supernatural emanations. Rick continued working with Kim at night, and the heat wave roasted the land for a few more days. They did not encounter anything else strange, and the animal ghost they'd seen began to seem like a distant delusion of moonlight and firewater.
Mayor Arnie Gus got involved and took over the ark investigation. Shortly after that, they found themselves driving into Tiverton for a town meeting. The gathering was to be about the ark and strategies for dealing with the lingering heat wave.
Snapped branches caused a delay on the road. Rick pulled up late. Tiverton's town hall was a heavy edifice composed of the same rough-hewn sandstone blocks that made up the other civic buildings at the center of town. It had been rebuilt after meeting head-on with a twister, and was broader and stouter as a result.
Sunset light fell on a crowd of townspeople gathered at the front parkette and steps. The scene had a glow of summer beauty that made forgetting the heat almost possible. They could see a farmer, Carlos Rivers, gesturing and talking excitedly to a group of field workers. Behind them, a group of town officials walked up the entry steps to the hall. Kim's father was among them, and on seeing him, her face shrank to a pout.
"Looks like my dad isn't talking to us."
"We're late. He couldn't wait any longer, that's all."
"He strongly disapproves of us staying together at the cottage."
"Stop worrying. After he hears some of the scary stories people are telling, he'll approve of you being with a man every place you go."
"What do you suppose they'll do about it? What can a town do about supernatural stuff?"
"Beats me. You know the key players here better than I do."
"Looking at the players, my guess is that since Mayor Gus and his mighty force of three police officers have seen the ark, they aren't likely to believe stories about ghosts, demons, and animal sacrifice. There’ll probably be a lot of talk to calm people down, then all they'll do is continue to watch the ark and hunt for poachers."
Rick eased the car into a space near the parkette. They got out and strolled under the trees. Sunlight mirror-flashed through the boughs and sprinkled shadows on the dead grass. Following the walkway, they reached the steps. The crowd was moving inside, and it looked to be about four hundred people, which was a heck of a lot for a town meeting.
Inside, most of the seats were taken. Overflow people stood in the side aisles and at the back. Air conditioning brought the temperature to a tolerable level, but it was still hot. And hotter up on the platform as the officials there already had sweat polishing their faces. These dignitaries included Mayor Gus, his three councilors, and Kim's father. Police Chief Sawyer sat with the tiny group of ark archaeologists, while the fire chief, Chris Hassan, stood at the podium and in control.
Hassan did the introductions, drew some applause, and launched into a speech on dealing with heat emergencies and water contamination. Since the townspeople had heard all of this before, he nearly put them to sleep. It was also very uninspiring to find that there weren't any new tactics in heat defense. Praying for rain was about all a person could do.
Mayor Gus was a better speaker. A wrinkled man with a huge jaw and gangly frame, Gus exuded personal warmth and that appeared to be the root of his success as a politician. Being a smart cookie, he didn't hog the platform. Instead, he told the crowd that details about the ark and the strange occurrences would be revealed by townspeople who had experienced them. That got him some applause, and he continued by pulling out an old pair of glasses to read the first name on the speakers' list.
A farmer, introduced as Jose San Martin, rose to talk about livestock deaths and strange occurrences. Jose was a short, swarthy man with a winning smile. His warm expression switched to one of painful remembrance as he began to speak. "All of you know I'm the only farmer in Tiverton still specializing in livestock. Though a number of you have experienced equipment and barn damage, I'm the only person who's suffered killings from poachers. It is certain that there are violent trespassers, but who or what they are isn't known. I can tell you how my bull was killed, and maybe you'll understand just what I mean.
Last Saturday, I was up late, working outdoors as usual. I took the tractor over to the west perimeter and began an inspection to make sure manure containment was secure, as per the clean water rules. The summer night was miserably humid. Nothing out of the ordinary, so I was surprised when Rowdy, my hound, began whining and baying. I tried to calm him, and he sat in the grass. He stayed quiet for a minute, then his eyes started to roll. He let out a loud howl and bounded off in the direction of the house and barn. Figuring he'd heard something, I got on the tractor and followed. When I got there, Rowdy was baying in the dark near the barn.
I checked the house first to make sure my wife, Ellen, was okay. It was locked up, but after I yelled, she let me in. She slammed the door as I entered and told me that something was in the barn. It had just gotten in there and had made noise like something wild and dangerous. Maybe a wolf or a bear. At least it was big enough to scare the daylights out of the animals.
She looked jittery and scared, too. I didn't hesitate, but got my Colt shotgun out of the lockup in the cellar and went out to the barn. The dog was still howling outside, and the lock had been torn off. I used my pocket organizer to turn on the lights, then went in cautiously, noting a repulsive odor like dead fish and that the dog wouldn’t follow me.
Some of the cows had gotten out of their pens. They were very restless and noisy, but otherwise they were okay. I checked everywhere, even looked to the rafters, but saw no intruder. Eventually, I reached the bull's pen near the back, entered, and found my prize bull dead in the straw. Blood had pooled around him. Bear-sized claw marks were on his side, and his head was completely gone.
I looked twice when I saw that. I just couldn't believe it. Not only was the head gone, but the cut was also a clean swipe. When my astonishment passed, I noticed a big hole bashed right through the wall.
For some moments, things started to get to me - strong odors of blood and stale urine, dryness in my throat. Sweat and gooseflesh covered me, my hair stiffened, and I could hear the dog barking and the wife yelling. My head got so light I fell on my knee next to the dead bull. Some moments later, I recovered, got up, and went over to the hole. I peeked into the dark, then I crouched and passed through it.
I rose in a defensive posture and tried to look around. Some light filtered out from the barn, but the sky had gone totally dark. The few faint rays of light there were seemed to vanish into a trough of black night.
Though I had a really bad feeling about it, I still moved forward. A hot breeze touched me as I reached the nearest tree. It came with a rustling sound in the bushes that led me to turn left and nearly fire.
There was some movement in the foliage from a vague shape that was human rather than animal. The figure vanished, and I felt some tiny raindrops hit me. At that point, it dawned on me that it was pitch dark because rain clouds had rolled in. I looked up quickly, saw the underbelly of cloud cover, and felt mixed emotions sweep me. I was scared to death, and at the same time, I felt like shouting with joy over the raindrops.
Then the moon suddenly broke through the clouds, and I saw a man ducking out of sight and fired. This was a shotgun blast. It tore up the bushes, and though it couldn't have missed, it had no effect. Almost like I'd shot a ghost and the projectiles had simply passed through it.
The man continued to move away from me on my left, and he looked back just before he disappeared. Moonlight caught his features, and the sight of them nearly turned me to stone. It was a dead face, almost like a skull. Dried and wrinkled flesh, and some kind of war paint marked it. The hair was braided, and the eyes were radiant like a cat’s eyes when they catch the light. He looked like an Indian warrior come back from the dead, and he seemed real, not just a poacher wearing a mask.
I lowered the gun as he faded into the dark. In the moonlight, I could see my arms, and that the raindrops dribbling on them weren't water, they were droplets of blood. That was shock enough. Horror and confusion swelled with the heat in my head, and I blacked out. Next thing I knew, my wife had me in the house. The police arrived shortly after, and as the news reports say, they think a wild animal and a poacher got on the grounds. But I never saw any wild animal or tracks, and that poacher looked like he was from a cult of devils."
People began to shout questions. Jose looked nervously at the restless crowd, and before he could select someone, Mayor Gus took the microphone. "There are going to be questions and more speakers on this at the end of the meeting. Before that happens, you are going to be informed of our town investigation of the mysterious ark found in the dried bed of Deep Woods Lake."
Rick put his arm around Kim and pulled her close. "What do you make of Jose's report?"
"We saw a ghost of our own, but it had no extreme effects. Jose may have encountered more than a poacher. It gives me the creeps. Someone extremely cruel and dangerous is out there."
"What’s the motive for stealing the head of a prize bull?"
"I'm not sure. Use it in some wicked ritual . . . or maybe sell it as an aphrodisiac."
A willowy redhead named Lynn Meyers took the podium after being introduced as the town's only archaeological expert. She made nervous gestures with thin hands and spoke with a weak voice that tended to fracture. "There are a number of thorny issues around the ark. The first is that it is technically the federal government's property, and we have no real power to investigate. Since we are studying it, we could get into trouble if it gets damaged. It will likely take the federal government months to respond, which is why the town has initiated a preliminary review.
Please stop laughing, people. Don't forget about the national crisis the federal level is dealing with. I do have some results from our first look at the artifact, and I hope you don't find them humorous.
In examining the tusk-like objects surrounding the ark, we find them to be an ivory-like material. We are not sure how they were formed. An animal bearing such tusks would be bigger than a house. We can't prove they were carved either, and we are awaiting results on tests done on the surrounding mud in hopes they will give us a clue.
The central box is another conundrum. We couldn’t chip off a fragment with the toughest tools. Initial chemical tests on a tiny area failed to identify the substance or its age. It resembles petrified wood, though it would be an unknown type. The images on its surface were carved when the substance was softer. They bear a resemblance to Cree, Iroquois, and Mohawk work but are substantially different, suggesting an unknown tribe. A story is told by the images, though we haven't unraveled it yet. It has to do with a rainmaker and a series of sacrifices he makes.
The box is hollow. Sonar tests show nothing inside it at the surface level. It runs deep into the lakebed, meaning it is mounted on a column. Objects of its type have never been seen in burial mounds. We don't know whether it is a coffin or a totem object of spiritual magic. Since it exists at the bottom of a glacial lake, it may have been carried there by a glacier. If that is the case, it is the oldest significant find in existence regarding native culture in North America. Without a doubt, it is priceless. In the future, when the weather settles and world travel resumes at a busy pace, the ark could be a major tourist draw to this area.
To finish, let me say that we did study it at night, and though local supernatural occurrences are attributed to it, we found no evidence of that. The find may have inspired unethical people to use it to cover up their own dastardly actions. At present, we have roped off the point to keep the curious back, and we will be returning from time to time to conduct minor tests. We are asking people to please keep away from the area."
Polite applause rose as Lynn Myers returned to her seat. It was obvious that some people in the crowd were unconvinced by her statement about supernatural occurrences. They were standing and waving desperately, trying to get questions in as Mayor Gus came back to the front. He silenced them with a gesture and looked to Police Chief Sawyer. "If there are culprits out there, Chief Sawyer is going to bring them into custody. Right now I want to bring him up for a question and answer session."
Rick felt Kim nudging him. "Looks like my land may be valuable."
"You mean you own that field by the point? I thought the co-op owned it?"
"I bought it from them two years ago. I also own the forested area near the ark and the point."
"You'd better watch out, Sawyer will see you as a suspect in the supernatural occurrences."
"Why would he think that?"
"You could gain from it. If the place becomes legendary, it’s you who profits."
Their whispering was drowned out as Dan Sawyer's voice boomed over the speakers, and Sawyer didn't deliver a speech but opened by welcoming any evidence of recent criminal activity. The first person to respond was the local exterminator, Anna Polee, who excitedly stated that she had evidence proving the ark was an alien spacecraft.
"I'm going for a walk," Rick said. "I can't stand an hour of this. Want to tag along?"
"No. You go. I'm going to collar dad and see if he wants to talk."
"Sure, go ahead. I'll be back before the meeting's over."
Rick eased his way down the aisle and exited the hall through a fire escape that had been propped open at the side. He emerged in a wide, empty alley running between the hall and the post office. Lights from the front partially illuminated the alley, revealing it to be a dead end. Turning right, he strolled toward the lights and the parkette, kicking up pebbles as he went.
Stagnant night air assaulted him like sticky flypaper. He stepped under the maples and passed a handful of teens gathered at a bench. The faint din of the hall crowd and the PA could still be heard. Checking his watch, he decided he had time for a short walk around town.
A nightbird caroled as he cut across the empty square. The slow, humid breeze lent the quiet streets the ominous air of a ghost town. Stores had been shut up neatly, and circular patterns from the lamps pooled on the sidewalk. A number of taller, widely spaced streetlights glowed like phosphor, adding to the lonely feeling.
Summer heat still radiated from the store walls and the concrete. It brought moisture to his skin, and he swept damp locks of hair from his forehead. Since the heat wave had blown in, he'd had the daily sensation of being browned in a very large barbecue.
A derelict car sat out front of Andy's Hardware. Feeling queasy, he wiped the dust off its fender and sat for a few minutes, reflecting as he studied the window display. The solar weed clipper and the miniature cultivator were brand-new. A rack of refurbished tools sat behind them. The tools had flaws and chips, but they meant more to him than something new would. Everything had value in the current culture. Products were made to last for resale. It was universally accepted that belief in throwaway things led to belief in a throwaway environment. Yesterday, people had disposed of everything. They nearly disposed of the human race ... and one concept Rick couldn't grasp at all was the one of disposable cars - the pollution machines people used to purchase every few years. Rick's Sun Cobra had been designed to last a lifetime. It’d taken nearly all of his savings to purchase it, and since it guaranteed him work and the ability to flee killer heat waves, it was worth it.
There were a couple of small problems with the engine of late, and he remembered passing a garage a block from the square. Stopping by to ask a couple of questions would be a good idea. He noticed his reflection as he got up. In the glass, he looked much better than he felt. In his travels, he'd seen many men who looked like ghosts while they were still alive. Shoulders bent, pushed by the wind and heat like tumbleweeds. It hadn't happened to him, and he hoped it never would.
Rick headed for the garage. He saw hungry bugs swirling under the neon lights of the station as he walked around the corner. A big rig sat at the dusty pump area. The stocky driver stood beside it chewing on a tobacco stick.
"Where are you headed?" Rick said as he walked up.
"West … at least I'm trying to head west," the driver said, one eye closing to a suspicious slit.
"Problems with the rig, or is it the roads?"
"Both. Those last windstorms caused tree falls. I got detoured this way and got lost on the back roads. A crazy man nearly ran me off the road back by that dead lake. I had to stop here to check the suspension."
"Did you get his license number?"
"He wasn't driving. This nut was chasing a woman right down the road. Nearly put me in the ditch when I swerved. Some kind of domestic dispute, I think. I didn't stop."
"Think you'd know them if you saw them again?"
"Maybe not. I got just a flash look. Tall blond woman, chased by a guy dressed like a cigar store Indian - a pretty ugly Indian if what I saw of his face was accurate."
"You should report it to the police."
"No way. I'm carrying a big load for the government, and I'm not going back to that lake to see more strange lights and crazy people. I'll be heading west, and I won't be stopping. You report it."
"There aren't any strange lights out there. Those are spotlights for the night workers in the fields."
"I passed the spotlights. The strange lights came before them, and the near-accident. They looked like blue balls of fire floating across the lakebed to the hills. I saw a flash like lightning, too. I even stopped on the roadside and got out to see if it would rain. It didn't, and I got edgy and drove off."
A minute later, the rig was refueled. Rick got a drink from the machine and sipped it, watching as the driver pulled away. The guy's story had him so puzzled, he didn't bother to talk to the station staff about the Sun Cobra. He just walked away shaking his head. When he got back to the town square, he found Kim waiting for him at the edge of the parkette.
She looked pale but radiant in the semi-darkness. A calm, romantic mood had replaced her earlier restless state. Taking his hand, she glanced back at the small gathering of teens near the hall steps. "Let's go over there and talk," she said, pointing at the trees.
They passed the dry fountain and went around some lilac bushes to an isolated picnic table. "I had a few words with my father," she said. "It looks like you were right. He's forgotten about old-fashioned morality and only seems to be worried about my safety."
"Really. Then here's to safety."
They embraced, kissed, and were drawn into something more. Her passion eclipsed his rambling thoughts. Forgetting himself, he reached up and began to caress her breasts, and she moaned softly as he lifted the fabric and began to kiss her nipples. He felt them harden in his mouth and the touch of her fingertips as they slipped over and closed on his erection. The heat was now like a fire; its smoke rising as dizziness and ecstasy. He longed for completion, and then he heard the chatter of people and realized that the hall was emptying. They broke apart and quickly rearranged their clothes.
Most of the townspeople lingered and gossiped in the parkette, but Kim didn't feel like socializing, so they slipped through the trees to the car. Remembering the truck driver's story, Rick decided to take a detour out past Deep Woods Lake. The cruise was down an empty highway past a line of roadside lights that grew thinner and vanished just outside of town. He slowed the car as they entered the narrower section of blacktop near the dead lake. His headlights tunneled into deep darkness, revealing little beyond asphalt and the silhouette of the brush lining the roadside. The car rolled ahead for a quarter kilometer more, then Rick spotted skid marks, slowed, and stopped on the shoulder.
"Grab the flashlight from the glove compartment," he said. "We'll take a look around."
They got out, finding their surroundings cloaked by heavy night. Most of the road was plunged in darkness. In the distance, the indigo sky stretched over the bleak lake like a lightly spangled flag. Just back of the shore a soft fan of light from field spotlights back-lit a section of forest and revealed a hazy portion of the point.
Kim flicked the flashlight on and shone it on the road. They were facing back toward the skid marks but couldn't see them. A sweep of the beam from one gravel shoulder to the other revealed nothing other than a few tall weeds.
The chatter of crickets drifted in the air, and they heard another buzz that grew in intensity as they walked down the shoulder of the road. Kim turned the beam left toward the noise, and after several more steps, a bulky outline showed in tall roadside grass. A cloud of flies hovering over it created the buzz.
"Looks like someone dumped a sack of garbage," she said.
Rick remained silent for a moment. She moved the beam, and he saw a faint trail of red in the grass. "It's not trash. It's a body. Hold the light on it while I check it out."
Kim followed him for a few more steps. She held the light steady as he got up close. He leaned over, batting at the flies. "There's a lot of blood, and it's a woman. I think she's been hit by a car. Wait a second. Her hair is gone! There's nothing but blood! This woman has been scalped, and she's unconscious but still alive. Let's get back to the car and phone for help."
They dashed down the road, and Rick waited impatiently while Kim made the call. "An ambulance is coming straight out. It'll be a few minutes," she said.
"I'd better get back and see if there's any way we can help her," Rick said. Then he looked up and saw lights rising at the point. They were bright blue balls and fiery, just as the truck driver had said. Rising in the heat, they drifted off toward the distant hills and vanished.
In the Hills
A crazy dream about headless animals and tomahawks raining from the sky caused Rick to roll out of bed at noon. He thought about waking Kim, but she appeared to be in a deep sleep, so he didn't bother. The air conditioner sputtered softly, covering the jangle he made while grabbing a bite in the kitchen. As he finished his juice, he looked out at the blistering day. Hazy clouds drifted in the sky, giving the sun the look of burnished metal. Bright sunbeams penetrated his thoughts, and an idea rose.
He closed the front door quietly as he left, and as soon as he hit the walk, radiation from the blazing sky touched him. In moments, he was sweating, even though he was standing in the shade. He aired the car out, but the hot upholstery still stung him as he got in.
Rick planned to research the path of the strange lights from the night before, which meant exiting the Tiverton green belt and heading over to the hills behind Deep Woods Lake. The lights had moved in that direction and dropped down to about the center of the hills. If they were anything more than an atmospheric effect, there would be some evidence.
He pushed the Sun Cobra to higher speeds, and just beyond the last green-belt cottage, the land slowly became a parched wilderness. Evergreens held up surprisingly well in this area. All else was dying. In one long stretch, the trees and foliage had been burned off. Even the road was smoke-blackened and blowing with ash. Rick recognized it as the result of a controlled fire set to create a ring of protection around the green belt. When the rain came, so would the lightning and forest fires. The tinderbox wilderness would burn.
He passed land that’d been fertile farmland in the past. Heat wasted, it’d grown over with scrub, wildflowers, and weeds. These meadows were mostly dead. The evergreen scrub had gone rust colored, and spots of disease covered even the hardiest weeds. In the back of his mind, he pictured the old native inhabitants of this land as they chanted for rain. He could see their dismay as those dances got answered by a hot hand of doom that seared and wilted everything. They would’ve frowned and muttered as the crops died. Hating the curse as their livestock perished. Hope must’ve vanished when the water sources dried up. Fear and panic would’ve set in as people began to drop from strokes and bacterial infections. Some of them would’ve hung on stubbornly until they died. In the end, the rest likely fled, most of them dying on the trails. And then it happened again, only yesterday.
The heat waves often caused whole families to succumb to madness and delirium. Men thought it was raining when it was only a mirage. They'd wander and die in the fields and on the roadsides; bones picked clean by the ravenous flies.
People longed for rain and begged for rain. They cursed the stubborn sky that would not obey. With their last breaths, they'd whisper a plea for rain. But the only raindrops that fell were tiny tears on the cheeks of the grief-stricken and dead. Like other legends and gods, the rainmakers had died long ago.
The dead meadowland ended at a skeletal forest lining the edge of the hills. It was rough going on the road in this section as ruts, rocks, deadwood, and weeds nearly choked it off. At the second hill, he got out to drag a branch aside. The exertion dizzied him, and his head spun slightly as he gazed up the hillside. A shelf of dead turf hung precariously above. It was lined with deciduous trees that were so broken they looked like they'd been blasted by dynamite. Above them, an even deader scene rested in sunlight and silence. He knew nothing could be living on the boulder-strewn top.
By the fourth hill, the road became impassable, and he had no intention of going any farther on foot. He turned the car around, and as he did, he noticed green hillside just beyond the blockage. A glimpse through the web of boughs revealed sparkling water and fluttering insects.
Rick stopped and got out. He knew that an underground water source had to be the reason for the green strip. Deciding to investigate, he cut through some dead brush and found himself near the bank of a stream.
A dragonfly buzzed him. He walked down a ways, staring at the running stream, moss, and water bugs as though they might be a mirage. A healthy willow towered over other dead trees, and as he passed it, he saw a shack nestled in some trees on a ledge above.
A packed earth path angled up the steep side to the shack. Rick climbed it at leisure, rising in the filtered glare to the open sunshine above. At the top, he stepped out at the shack's rear. Thick weeds and grass surrounded the structure. He could see that it’d been a solid cabin at one time. The tough weather had stripped its paint and left the boards bleached and swollen. Rusted siding of the type used on walls composed a dented and dipping roof.
It was a shabby deal in general, but there were signs of recent habitation. A compost mound and trash stood to the side, emitting the odor of tea and rotten vegetables. Flies assaulted him as he passed it.
He moved around to the front of another overgrown lot. A deadwood fence marked the perimeter, and beyond it, he could see a dirt road heavily choked by growth. The front door was ajar, so he walked up and knocked gently. When no one answered, he pushed it open and looked inside.
The interior was musty and dark. Some light filtered through the windows, which were covered with heavy sheets of opaque brown plastic. As his eyes adjusted, a one-room cabin was revealed. A single table and chair, an icebox, and a bed in the back corner made up the furnishings.
He blinked as he studied the bed. There appeared to be someone sleeping on it. He stepped in, thinking the person to be a woman. Then the body rolled over, and he saw that it was an old man - an Indian, with a deeply creased face and braided gray hair.
"Are you all right?" Rick said.
"About as all right as a person my age gets."
"You don't look too well."
"I haven't looked well for years. In this heat, who would? Who are you, anyway? No one's been out here in more than four years."
"Name's Rick. I'm from Tiverton. We've been seeing some strange lights in these hills. I came over to investigate."
"I'm Bill Brant. Lived out here all my life. When the others decided to move, I remained so I'd die near the burial grounds. As far as the lights go, don't bother to investigate. Go back and keep inside when you see the lights."
"I have to know what the lights are."
"The lights are evil. If you attract them, they'll strike as lightning and steal your spirit. I know because they took my grandson."
"If his spirit is gone, then where is his body?"
"Taken by the rainmaker and scattered into the wind as blood and ashes."
"That's not possible."
Rising from the bed, the old man exposed stained teeth as he laughed. His watery brown eyes mocked Rick from the gloom. "My son did a rain dance out at the mounds. The lightning took him, and the rainmaker came to me. This rainmaker has risen from the dead, and he’s as old as Coyote. He showed me his spirit house rising in Deep Woods Lake. His rain will be the blood of the living and the dead. He took my grandson, and he’ll take all men when he brings his storm."
"If that’s so, why didn't he take you?"
"I've been saved because of the rattle," he said, nodding towards a feathered rattle on the table beside him. "My grandson found it in the burial grounds. It provides protection, but its powers can't be fully harnessed unless the Great Spirit enters its owner. My grandson tried to dance away the rainmaker's evil and failed when the spirit abandoned him. Now he's dead, and the rattle remains with me."
"Can I borrow that rattle - just to study it?"
"No. I’m charged with living and passing it on. If the Great Spirit returns, he’ll dance and destroy the rainmaker. If he doesn’t return, I’ll have no one to pass it to, and the end will come in a rain of blood."
The Garden of Night
Rick stepped out of the car in Sam's driveway. Kim followed, and they stood by the hood. He spotted some deflation of the right tire, kicked it, and sighed. Turning, he saw Sam walking down from the house. A light breeze cooled them as they waited. A night bird filled the air with lonely cries, and as Sam grew closer, Rick noticed that his characteristic smile was missing. A new troubled look as dark as his hair governed his face.
"You don't look happy, brother," Rick said. "It must mean more problems from the direction of the ark."
"It is. The police had to push back a mob the other night and cordon the area off. Later, it rained near the ark. The rain came again last night."
"Rained?" Kim said. "There wasn't any rain. We were in the fields nearly all of both nights. It was dusty and dry."
"It rained, but only at the ark in the small area of lakebed around it. The police can't keep the crowd away now. They're there twenty-four-seven, staring at that damn thing, and stirring up all sorts of trouble. Some of them want to attack it while others want to harness its powers to make it rain. It's for sure that they aren't doing any work. At least half the co-op members are out there right now."
Kim frowned. Her nose twitched. "I've been keeping Rick away from the ark. We spent the last two days together. Good thing it wasn't a week, or the whole world would’ve changed. I suppose we'd better go out and see what we can do."
Sam pursed his lips as he thought something over. "I'm going to drive out, too. I really need to see some rain."
An unknown light source back-lit the sky in the direction of the hills. Spreading from it, a luminous stain poured through the cloud cover over the dead lake. It melted the darkness at the lakebed and ark, creating a peculiar glow that grew in intensity just off the end of the point. Dust motes sparkled with a near-magic effect in the dusty air, and the ark itself gleamed like a gem.
A stranger effect than the lighting surrounded the ark itself. Plant life had sprouted where only mud crust had existed two days before. This growth was nothing short of incredible. Ferns and tufts of grass had reached a height of two feet in one day, and other smaller plants bloomed with fragrant white flowers. The new greenery was thickest at the edges of small pools of water, and under the orange glow of the sky, the surfaces of these pools shimmered with gold. The largest of the pools was right near the ark, and they could see a gaggle of town officials standing there staring into it.
"I rubbed my eyes, and it's still there," Kim said. "I guess it must be real."
"The genetic properties of that plant life must be something new - and invaluable. Let's go over and see what's up."
Stepping through the roadside grass, they tried to decide on the best approach. From their spot on the shore, they could see the point. Spotlights mounted in the trees illumined most of it, including a shack that’d been recently constructed and several portions that’d been cleared of scrub and deadwood. A crowd of workers and townspeople had gathered at its end, and police had roped it off at the shoreline. Two officers stood on the lakebed side of the rope, blocking access to the ark.
Driving around to enter near the mob didn't seem like a good idea. They locked up the car and went down the steep bank to the lakebed. The walk out enhanced the otherworldly feeling created by the brightened sky. It grew with every step, becoming paramount when they reached the ferns and the first pool.
Fascinated by the water, they stared at the glazed reflection of the sky on its surface. Subtle ripples appeared as the colored backs of turtles appeared. Near the middle, they splashed under.
"There shouldn't be any turtles," Kim said. "I remember seeing thousands of them marching across the road when the lake dried up. They all went to the sister lake and ponds near it."
"Maybe some of them trekked back."
"In one day?"
"Hey, there's Sam over by the ark. Looks like he beat us here."
They felt the delicate brush of ferns against their legs as they strolled to the ark. Sam, Lynn Meyers and Mayor Gus met them at the tusks. The mayor's face was puckered with wrinkles and discontent, like the last couple of days had aged him greatly. With Lynn Meyers, it was the opposite. The find was a big thing to her and she was in her element, growing younger instead of older.
"Welcome to the Twilight Zone," Lynn said.
"You mean welcome back," Kim replied.
Mayor Gus cleared his dusty throat. "Sam says you were talking to an old Indian in the hills. Do you think he could read some of the artwork on the ark?"
"Bill Brant is his name. He probably could read the art, but he's a crazy old doomsayer. He has a magic rattle, he says, that protects him, and he's afraid of the ark. Says it's the abode of an evil rainmaker."
Lynn raised her eyebrows in interest. "The images do tell the story of a rainmaker, and it did rain right here at the ark. So far, we can interpret some of the story. The rest of it is done in symbols belonging to an unknown tribe that appears to predate all others. My students are on the other side of the box, there, finishing photos and sketches of it all. We're nearly done, but we're stumped for now. We do plan on sending copies of the sketches to experts who may be able to read them and let us know what is happening here."
Kim appeared puzzled by Lynn's statement. She glanced at one of the sketch artists standing near the north corner of the box. "Do you really expect to solve this with an academic answer? I can't imagine any expert even believing us when it comes to the sudden greenery, strange lights, and rain."
"You do have a point. That's why we wanted to know about the local Indian Rick found. If he’s remained near the burial mounds, he's likely an old medicine man."
"He is," Rick said. "But maybe we should use our heads before we bring him in. How about the date of this story on the ark? It must be something that took place long ago?"
"No. It's not a time capsule story. The events written on it are taking place right now, using art and symbols from long ago. It tells the story of a rainmaker doing certain things and gathering power and ritual objects. Yet we don't know the ultimate goal of it all. One drawing shows the ferns around the ark. Another light. The pools and turtles are on still another. Then there are the older images that we can't read. They are in symbols and hidden from us. I believe they depict events, or else power objects the rainmaker must gather."
"It all sounds impossible, doesn't it?" said Mayor Gus. "Trying to govern that mob is impossible, too. So far, we haven't even seen a rainmaker. Unless he's that evil poacher some people have encountered."
"I think I'll talk to Bill Brant again," Rick said. "Other than just watching as things unfold, he's about the only lead we have."
"Sounds good," Lynn said. "I'll get some copies of the sketches you can take out to him."
Sam joined Rick and Kim as they walked through the ferns to the shore. They stopped halfway to watch the turtles swimming in the pool. Rick looked back at the ark, and a young redheaded woman was taking photos. "I didn't see Sawyer around," Rick said. "I wanted to ask him a few questions about Brant and the burial mounds. Like whether there's a local history of strange stuff."
"There's a history," Sam said. "See that shack near the end of the point. That's Sawyer's new command post. Take a walk over if you want."
"I'll wait at the car," Kim said. "I don't feel like talking to Sawyer. I've always hated the man."
"No problem," Rick said. "I won't be long."
Rick got halfway there and thought about turning back. There were hoots and catcalls from the mob, and they pushed forward at the rope. "Rain, is it going to rain?" one man shouted loudly and continuously, until Rick shouted back that he didn't know.
Getting through the mob was also difficult. The police helped him past the rope, then the people jostled him and surged around him. He remained silent as bad breath, insults, and questions got in his face. Fortunately, they did not stick with him but put their attention back toward the ark as he passed through. It was a short walk down the path to Sawyer's command post. And when he reached it, he found the door open with Sawyer sitting inside on a chair by a portable fan. He had his rifle on his lap, and if anything, he looked bored.
That boredom lifted when Rick asked if there had been a local history of strange occurrences. Sawyer ripped into the subject like a professional taleteller, reciting spooky facts about local houses, strange disappearances, and lights near the burial mounds. According to Sawyer, the locals had always been afraid of the First Nations people, especially old Brant and other medicine men. Most of that fear had ended three years ago when the heat forced them to move to a healthier area further north. No one knew that old Brant was still around, but Sawyer speculated that even if the mob found out, they would be too afraid to go over and cause him any trouble.
By the time Rick left, twenty minutes had passed, and his head was full of details that seemed irrelevant. He'd heard a lot of crowd noise while listening to Sawyer, and now he saw it was the mob's reaction as Lynn Meyers and Mayor Gus returned with the sketch artists. They were arriving at their cars near the command post and the mob was still surging around them
Since he had to cut over the lakebed to his car, he decided the time was right to get through without many people noticing him. He went down to the ropes, and one of the officers blocked him. Only Sawyer could let him through, according to the cop, so he turned back toward the shack.
Sawyer was outside now, but he couldn't help as he was busy throwing two men he'd arrested into the back of his cruiser. "Just walk around the long way," Sawyer said. "I'm sure your girlfriend will wait."
Rick did that, following the taillights of Sawyer's cruiser down the road a stretch before cutting into a dark swath of weeds to an area of abandoned shoreline. He began the walk along the stony shore, but didn't get far before bright lights rose and the mob started shouting. Stopping next to a boulder, he looked back at the people on the point, then out at the ark and the descending lights.
They came to ground like strange balls of fire and disintegrated in blue-light implosions. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust, and when they did, he saw shadows draping a ghostly male form. This ghost wore native ceremonial dress, and as he moved through the ferns, flashes of light flickered from the large gemlike stone he carried. Stopping at the edge of a pool, he held it chest-high and let its light dapple the water's surface. The gem also lit his face, which from a distance seemed sunken and tinged with blue-black.
It was the lingering image of his skeletal face that awoke the point crowd from its state of amazement. Dave Castle from the hardware store shouted, "He looks evil!" Then someone nearby yelled, "Hey, rainmaker, you gonna make it rain tonight?"
At the pool, the rainmaker remained unmoved. He showed no sign of being aware of the people around him, which agitated some of them. The shouting mob surged forward to the rope, and the town's two police officers held out their arms to block them.
That action stopped everyone but Castle. He managed to squirm left and vault over the rope's post. He began a dash across the flats. An officer turned to pursue him, then he turned back to stop more people from surging through.
Rick watched as Dave Castle sprinted to the edge of the ferns. A glance back at the rainmaker showed him absorbed in his gem and the pool. As Castle approached slowly, the rainmaker reached out and lightly tossed his gem into the water. Brilliant beams flashed up into the night, and they were followed by moments of absolute darkness.
It was almost like reality switching on and off. There were gasps in the crowd, and Dave Castle continued to walk through the ferns. He was saying something to the rainmaker, but Rick heard only garbled words. This time, the ghostly Indian did notice and respond. He turned to Castle, pulling an object from his pouch as he moved.
The close-up of the rainmaker's face had an immediate hair-raising effect on Castle. He stopped in his tracks and began to back away. Fright lit his features.
Loose feathers, beads, and rawhide strings showed as the rainmaker raised his rattle. He began to shake it slowly, and his lips moved in an ancient chant. An almost imperceptible shifting of his feet marked the beginning of his dance, and the effect was immediate and powerful. Heat lightning flashed in the sky. Shadows swept down like vultures.
Scared out of his wits, Dave Castle began to run back to the point. The crowd there was also starting to retreat as the people backed away from the shoreline.
Turning to the four winds, the rainmaker continued his dance. Shakes of his rattle sent gusts roaring in the trees at the shoreline near Rick. Lightning flashed again, highlighting Castle as he raced out of the ferns. A swing of the rainmaker's arm sent thunder rolling, then a black bolt shot down, and the mud around Castle curled up in a wave of lava and fire.
Blast furnace heat consumed Castle as he flew forward into hellish distortion and curtains of flame. He emerged with his hair on fire and the flesh of his face swelling outward like a hot balloon; a moment later, it exploded from his skull in a hideous display of blood and savaged tissue.
Thunder rolled again as Castle vanished into an eruption of steaming mud. Then the sky began to calm, and it started to rain softly.
The panicked crowd noticed that the rainmaker had somehow vanished along with Castle. Then they observed something else - the rain was red, filled with drops of blood.
Chaos ensued as people screamed and ran. Blood smeared on their faces as they tried to wipe away the drops. It was too much for even the police. One of the officers collapsed on the shore, while the other stood babbling with blood dribbling on his lips.
Concerned about Kim, Rick pulled his eyes from the point and began to run across the lakebed. Gusts of wind gave him great speed, and when he arrived, he was relieved to find her standing on the dark shore with Sam. She looked stunned, but she was dry, having been out of the rain's range. He embraced her and felt her shiver. He knew that she'd seen the same hideous death he had.
Explosion
Clouds blew across the sky in dappled steam patterns that coalesced as a fleece of fool's gold in the sunset light of the horizon. Rick sat chin in hand at the picnic table, viewing an isolated stretch of Wolverton Beach. The picture was almost tropical, like the shores of a deserted island. Kim moved through the scene, naked, walking carefully over the gray stones to the edge of the water. Streaks of perspiration glistened on the small of her back and buttocks; the evening being so humid that faint wisps of steam rose at her feet.
He watched as she splashed out in the shallow water, then he stripped off his shirt and brushed his sticky hair back with his fingertips. Swimming overhand, Kim broke the smooth blue surface farther out. Beyond her, thick columns of haze hid most of the far shore.
Stray sunset beams swept the mist like divine searchlights, revealing strips of shoreline. Haze blew like faint smoke in the filtered light, creating sketches of a strange netherworld. Perhaps a place in the future that the miserable heat wave had created. In that torrid land, the burning sun existed as the only god; a deity of flies and vultures that had ascended and burned off the roots of his life. His wife Ann and baby Susan were gone. Now he had Kim and the evil eye aimed, flash-fires at his life again. It raised demons as it cracked the earth, and they brought shadows of death by delirium. Even the ark and the ghostly rainmaker were products of the evil eye. And if they weren’t, then they were preordained by some elder spirits … tricksters who had known that a time would come when only demons and rainmakers would survive.
Rick's head cleared as he reached the shore and dived into the water. The cool splash led to fifteen minutes of playfulness with Kim, then they emerged dripping, and she yelped as the sharp pebbles bit into her softened soles. Jumping to his hips, she let him carry her to the grass. She wrapped her wet body around him and kissed him before they toweled off, and as the heat began to rise on their skin again, they returned to the picnic table and the shade.
A message waited on Kim's pocket phone, which she picked up as Rick opened the cooler. The interruption left him standing, holding dripping cans of juice in his hands, listening to a recording of Lynn Myers talking in near hysteria about an attempt to blow up the ark.
They didn't want to leave the beach, but Meyers left them with little choice. Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute drive. Sunset colors were fading to twilight on the point as Rick turned into the widened parking lot. He powered down, they got out quickly, and strode towards Police Chief Dan Sawyer's makeshift command post near the point's end.
Sawyer had driven his cruiser all the way out, and he had its red spinner on as he stood beside it, exchanging heated words with Lynn Meyers. More bright lights were flashing out by the ark, and they were spotlights held by Sawyer's two men. They illumined Chris Hassan, the town fire chief, as he arranged some bulky objects by the ark walls.
Sawyer and Meyers fell silent as they stepped up. Kim was the first to speak. "Who came up with this explosion plan?"
"It's my idea," Sawyer said, looking almost surreal in the sweeping lights. "The town council didn’t approve it - they can't do it legally."
"I don't approve either," said Lynn. "Legally or illegally."
"Neither do I," Kim said. "You can't set off charges next to my land without notifying me well in advance."
"What about the feds?" Rick said. "If you blow up an archaeological find that belongs to them, they'll have you arrested."
"That's not true. I have the power to declare a local state of emergency under federal law. And I have done so."
Rick frowned. "Those powers are only supposed to be used to deal with weather-related disasters."
"Yes, and this is one. The heat has caused Mayor Gus and his council to go soft in the head. Donny Armstrong is leading a spooked mob around town, and they're threatening to take matters into their own hands. If I don't act to end this, the social order will break down completely."
"I know about Donny Armstrong," Rick said. "But there's no guarantee that blowing up the ark will stop him. You may be dynamiting the ark and the social order."
"Chris isn't laying dynamite sticks out there. These are special charges for a controlled explosion. The fury of the blast will implode the ark, reducing it to pebble-sized fragments. Take it from me. That spook medicine man is going to pay for his crimes in this town, because we're going to blow him to kingdom come."
"So, it's revenge, is it?" Rick said.
"If you people try to stop us, you'll be arrested and jailed. Now, clear back off of this point. We're blowing that thing before nightfall."
Sawyer drew his Glock pistol. His pupils flashed with red reflections from the spinning cruiser light, and his thin lips firmed up and formed an arrogant grimace. Rick decided they'd better pull back. He nodded to Kim, and she took Lynn's arm. They walked away in silence, but near the car, Kim started to curse under her breath. "I hate that man. I opposed the decision to put him in as police chief."
"He's going to destroy a priceless find," Meyers said, still partially in shock over the turn of events.
"We'll watch it from the highway," Rick said.
Night closed like a hood over the last of twilight as they pulled off the roadside. A small spotlight remained lit out by the ark, but the men had left. Rick spotted them over by the command post, preparing to detonate. And he knew the blast was coming when Dan Sawyer and Gus ducked down behind the cruiser. Chris Hassan held the detonator behind the shack.
The initial explosion was a powerful yellow flash, and the blast itself had a miniature nuclear look. A column of brilliant dust rose at the ark and hung high above it for several seconds. Like a strange tornado, it rolled in on itself, the collapse initiating a terrible rumble and a second explosion. This thunderous blast shot up like an incredible series of fireworks that rained stones, earth, and other flaming debris down on the lakebed and the point. As the last streamers fell, darkness and dust settled in, hiding the ark from view.
The rolling dust sped the arrival of complete darkness, but they could still see the lights on the point. Sawyer, Gus, and Hassan had come out of hiding, and they were trying to see through the cloud with binoculars.
"I hope that bastard is happy," Kim said.
"I'm sure he is," Rick said. Then ferns came into view in the settling dust.
"Looks like they failed to destroy everything," Lynn said.
And they had. More of the scene cleared, showing the plant life and pools intact. Moments later, the outline of one of the tusks appeared, then the ark itself showed. It didn't appear to have a scratch on it. The explosion had failed to destroy it. It had failed to do anything other than raise dust.
Though it seemed bizarre and unbelievable, Rick couldn't help but grin. Kim broke away from him and began to whoop with laughter. Lynn Meyers stared but didn't move … an owlish look of amazement on her face.
An animated argument broke out between the men on the point, which was interrupted by large objects raining down from the sky. Several of them crashed near the command post, and after a quick look up, the men ran for cover inside. None of the objects landed on the highway, but some fell close enough to be identified. They were birds. Gulls to be exact. Sawyer's explosion had somehow caused a rain of dead gulls.
Cave Painting
Dan Sawyer's failed explosion led to a loss of confidence in his abilities as police chief. By the next day, Donny Armstrong and his mob had control of the town. As Sawyer cruised about the countryside trying to rally support, Rick decided to head off in a different direction. That being said, back out to Bill Brant's place. He took Kim and the sketches with him, and they found Brant in much better health and willing to help.
The old Mohawk stood in the tangle of weeds at the edge of the rise. "We have to go to a spot over there," he said, pointing off into the distant hills. "My people have known about those images for hundreds of years. They exist in cave paintings at the underground Wolverton stream. Recently, my grandson did some work on them. He said he translated the images in his own paintings at the cave mouth."
"We really need to find a solution in the interpretation," Kim said. "Since the explosion, Donny Armstrong and a mob have taken control of Tiverton. They're meeting at the town hall right now. Probably coming up with plans even crazier than Sawyer's."
"I don't think there is a solution to the rainmaker," Bill said. "It's more like he's a solution to us. People like Armstrong and Sawyer only aid him."
"Let's go," Rick said.
Brant nodded, then a frown creased his brow. He appeared to be contemplating something he couldn't quite explain. They walked silently down the rise to the car, and as they wound their way out of the tinderbox forest, they saw smoke from a forest fire raging in the distance. Strong winds carried the blaze away from Tiverton; it moved east like a hungry predator, soon to devour farms and greener lands with its fiery fangs.
A trip through the hills took them to the location Brant had pointed out. He told Rick to slow down as they approached the turnoff. Acres of dead meadow ran to either side of the old road. Faint tire ruts were all that remained of it, but the track was smooth. Rick turned in and rolled slowly down it, heading for an area of dead forest at its end. As they grew closer to the trees, the magnitude of the heat devastation became apparent. A jungle of sticks and straw gleamed under heat-magnified sunlight, and in many places it had banked into reefs of debris. Only the largest trees remained standing, though they were also dead. Shattered trunks and stumps were all that was left of the rest.
A solid line of debris blocked the track into the forested area, and the road came to an end at a helter-skelter tumble of sun-bleached logs. At that point, a limestone outcropping rose from the meadow, and Rick stopped in its shadow.
Kim looked back at the old Indian, and he broke his silence. "The cave entrance is on the other side of this rock. We won't have to go in far. My grandson's paintings are near the surface."
A blaze of sun lit the dead land as they trekked over the outcropping. Rick struggled with a heavy canvas pack and trailed the others on the clay path. Kim was in front of him, carrying the folio of sketches and a camera. Bill Brant walked in the lead, carrying only his pouch.
A boulder chiseled into the shape of a Mohawk bear's head marked the mouth of the cave. The opening itself had been enlarged to a rectangular shape, giving it the appearance of a mineshaft. They moved down the outcropping, and Rick dropped his heavy pack as they paused at the entrance.
"We'll need lights, but we won't need any of those tools," Bill said. "We're not going into the risky sections."
"Doesn't matter. If an emergency does come up, I want to have the tools to get us out."
Though they had to enter by ducking through in single file, the interior immediately widened. The first hundred feet of the slight incline had a low ceiling, but after that it rose to seven feet.
The temperature drop was at least ten degrees, and that provided tremendous relief. Yet the place was still dusty and dry like a mine. Even the slightest movement set huge dust motes floating in the beam of Rick's lamp.
The floor suddenly leveled off at a wide section, and the lamp revealed paintings on the coarse stone walls. These ran on for a distance in a broken mural style, and farther down, heaps of bones were scattered beside them on the floor.
"Many animals retreated here and died. My grandson cleaned up the skeletons. Probably a lot of smaller beasts are still alive in the lower portions."
"What would they live on?" Rick said.
"Listen carefully, tell me what you hear."
"A faint rushing sound. Maybe wind or water."
"It's both. There are caverns and an underground stream nearly as big as a river below. It's the source that keeps Wolverton Lake alive. The original paintings are down below, but we aren't going to try to go down there. That would be a major effort even for the best of cavern explorers. The paintings here are copies my grandson made. He took nearly all of the major features and used a system he invented to interpret the unknown symbols."
"If it's all here, putting together the unknown elements of this sketch should be easy."
"Maybe not that easy. We'll see."
Rick dropped his pack in the center of the floor and walked over to the wall. A huge painted eagle rose beside Kim as she set her lamp and sketchbook on the floor.
"Something about this place gives me the creeps," Rick said, turning to Kim. "Those stalactite knobs belly in the center. Maybe this portion of the roof is unstable. Let's do this fast. I light up the sketches, Bill finds the relevant portions of the painting, and you take the photos."
"Sounds fine," Kim said. "Show him sketch one while I load the film."
Rick pulled out a small flashlight and shone the beam on sketch one. The image on the heavy paper looked like a cross between an animal likeness and a math symbol. Bill squinted at it with watery eyes, and then he carried the lantern as he walked along the wall. Kim followed with the camera, and about ten meters down, Bill squatted and drew an invisible circle with his finger. "Guess it's an older version of the Mi'kmaq symbol for a child," he said as Kim moved in to take the photo.
They had the photos inside of twenty minutes, but waited while Kim made a small set of test prints. "They look okay," she said. "We'll blow them up on a tablet at Rick's place to piece it all together."
Bill nodded, Rick picked up his pack, and they turned to leave. Kim flashed her light down the tunnel. They took about five steps, then they heard a morbid howl echo through the cave. It was a beastly cry that invoked images of a prowling predator.
"That's the same howl we heard the night we found the ark," Kim said. "It has to be that animal that raced by us then. The rainmaker's invisible pet."
Rick patted her on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here before it comes up from below."
Bill seemed reluctant. He didn't move. "Hold on," he said. "That howl is similar to a coyote cry, and I think it came from the entrance, not below."
"What choice do we have?" Rick said. "There's no other way out unless we go deep underground. And speed-wise, we couldn't escape it anyway. I have a gun in my pack. If it's at the entrance, we'll confront it there."
Moving slowly through the dusty darkness, they reached the entrance. Kim shone her beam about nervously, sweeping it into every dark area. But they saw nothing other than dust motes, lumps of rock, and bones. A distant pinhole grew to a doorway of sunlight, and at that point the cave narrowed. They would have to file out.
Rick dropped his pack, and they switched off their lights. He'd already drawn his gun, and it was a snub-nosed Remington with a computerized ammo attachment. "I'll leave the pack here and go first," he said. "If anything tries to block us, I'll shoot it."
"Wait," Bill said. "I want to try something." He undid the clasp of the pouch he wore at his side. Pulling out a black cloth bag, he opened it, revealing contents that looked like gold dust. Scooping out a large handful, he opened his upturned palm and blew long and hard, sending a cloud of the stuff sailing toward the sunlit entrance. Particles glittered and spun as they traveled into the beams. These were light like seed fluff, and they stayed afloat. Air currents carried the cloud out of the cave, and the particles drifted at the mouth. One spot remained clear of dust, and a shape was revealed - it was a large body, an invisible animal form crouching in wait.
It suddenly moved and paced toward the entrance. Rick raised his gun and fired two shots. The projectiles struck the creature's shoulder, creating a dizzying flash of silver light and sparks. No wounds appeared, but the predator turned its head, revealing a canine maw with huge rippling teeth and eyes like bright ice. A moment later, it roared and leaped away from the entrance, its shape flowing like that of a large coyote.
"It loathes being seen," Bill said. "Coyote spirits are like that."
Rick stared at his gun like it was a useless lump of coal. "Think it's safe to exit?" he said.
"Somewhat safe," Bill said. "It will be watching, but it won't attack if it means giving up invisibility. Your gun won't stop it if it does."
They moved forward toward the exit, and Bill took the lead this time. Moments later, they emerged in the sunlight and looked around. Rick saw movement like wind in the grass on the rise, and it was quickly gone.
"Let's keep moving to the car," Bill said. "We won't be safe until we’re out of here."
This time, they walked quickly despite the heat. Rick felt sweat bead on his brow, and he kept checking his back. As they descended to the car, a dead tree suddenly crashed in the forested area, and they heard an animal snort. More debris cracked as it raced south. Moving quickly, Rick packed the stuff in the trunk, and then they were off, speeding down the dirt track to the highway.
Totem
Foam-capped waves rolled in softly near Rick's cottage on Wolverton beach. Bill sat next to him at the picnic table, and they both watched as Kim delicately carried the sketches, photos, and an eighteen-inch display tablet back to the cottage. She returned with a cooler, her hair lifting and flying in the wind as she walked barefoot on the path.
"So what do we tell Lynn Meyers and Mayor Gus?" Rick said.
Bill shrugged. "We need to come up with a plan to stop the rainmaker and pass that information to them."
Kim placed the basket on the table. "Let's have a quick recap, Bill, and see if we can figure anything out."
"Good idea," Bill said. "Keeping it simple and not picking at details may help. The ark images show Coyote, the rainmaker, the rising of the ark, the townspeople, the grasses, ferns, water, turtles, and a series of tasks, animal sacrifices, and ceremonies involving power objects. Rain is depicted, but often as blood. According to the cave paintings, our rainmaker wears the ancient symbols of life and death. He has come back from the dead. In depictions of ceremonies, the end of the chain, or goal, is to raise the dead in the burial hills surrounding the lake. He will give them life by stealing it from others through his rain of death. He is even staying alive himself in the same way. The man you saw killed by lightning, in fact, had his life force stolen by the rainmaker. Most troubling are those images of the dead rising. His tribe rises from the dead, and the final ceremony he must perform shows his rain dance, sending a rain of death across the lands to gather the life force he needs."
"In other words," Rick said. "He plans on killing us all with some kind of rainfall of death. Could he possibly do that?"
"The images on the ark line up with what the rainmaker told me when he visited me in spirit form at my cabin. He can make it rain. He has Coyote, an ancient Indian god, as his assistant, and you've already seen him kill. Whatever the magic is, it raised him from the dead. Without a doubt, we’ll all die and soon, if he finishes."
"What's left for him to do?" Kim said.
"The ceremonies involving the power objects are probably completed. He had to make it rain and then make it rain blood, and that is done. The symbol of death appeared a couple of times over images of men, and he has killed. The last image before his final rain dance shows a foreign tribe making a sacrifice to him. The people of Tiverton would be that tribe, and as far as we know, there hasn't been a sacrifice. We must make sure it doesn't happen."
"What about his final rain dance?" Rick said. "Can that be stopped?"
"In all magic, there is counter magic," Bill said. "The image of two rattles is there on the ark. One is the rainmaker's rattle of death, and the other is the rattle of the Great Spirit. I believe the second rattle is the one that I have. But I can't use it because the image shows the counter magic as a dance by the Great Spirit. If the spirit dances, the power will somehow end the rain of death and destroy the rainmaker. Our only hope is to stop the sacrifice. I don't know of any magic that will return the spirit to earth to take human form and dance. If I did, I’d be as powerful as the rainmaker. My grandson already tried and died when the spirit refused to enter him. There’s one symbol in the depiction of the spirit in human form that I couldn't interpret. Perhaps if I could figure it out, we'd have an answer."
Rick started to speak, then Kim's phone jingled out a tune, and he stopped as she answered. Clicking it off, she looked to the others. "Dan Sawyer has gone missing. Gus needs our help. They're going to search the woods south of Deep Woods Lake. They found his cruiser on the roadside near there."
"Bill can wait here," Rick said. "Knowing Sawyer, my guess is he's either up to no good or he's come to a bad end."
Rick reluctantly left the cottage to aid in the search for Sawyer. Kim sat silently beside him as he gunned it down the empty stretch of highway to the Deep Woods turnoff. The dirt road came to an abrupt end at a ditch and a windbreak of tall firs. Mayor Gus and about twenty men, all of them armed, were already there. Beyond them, through gaps in the firs, sunlight baked an area of dried deciduous forest. Tree falls blocked much of it, and at a glance, Rick could sense the hostile spirit that governed it. In any prolonged search, they'd be more at risk of losing people than of finding anyone.
Rick parked among the line of vehicles, then fiddled with his pack while Kim jumped out and went ahead of him. By the time he reached the group, conflict had developed between Kim and some of the men.
"You should mind your own business," Al Rourke said. "We need these guns. The rainmaker might be out here."
"You won't shoot the rainmaker," she said. "Once you fan out in there, you'll shoot each other."
"She's right," Mayor Gus said. "The weapons are to remain here with me. George and I will stay behind and keep in touch through the handsets. If at any time weapons are needed, George will carry them out. Ronny is designated as the canary. He's got a touch of asthma and is the weakest. When he reports signs of fatigue, you all turn back."
Al nodded, and some of the others grumbled, but despite their objections, they filed up and handed in their guns. Gus laid them out in a neat row in the shade of the firs, and then he sat on a log and watched as they shouldered their packs and walked to the other side of the ditch.
They spread wide, entering the forest wherever obstructions were the least. Deciding to stay together, Rick and Kim took a position at the southern end of the line. It proved a wise choice. They ducked around a section of loose brush that’d been blown into a barricade and found the dry bed of a stream. Following it, they were able to move some distance quickly. Despite that, a proper search was impossible. Huge trees lined both banks - dead as scarecrows, they creaked in the hot breeze and blew with fading cobwebs and dry rot. On most of the stretch, fungus-covered logs clogged the forest …many of them bursting with spores and mould that filled the air with dust motes and a foul odor.
A tumble of boulders marked a sharp turn of the streambed, and as they rounded the bend, they were greeted by a human skull grinning from a clump of crisp weeds. A clearing in the forest stretched behind the skull, and it was mostly open and carpeted with wind-beaten brown grass.
They walked up to the skull and then stepped over it into the clearing. It was empty, but a few trees sprinkled its far end, and one of them stood next to a mound. It looked quite odd, having no limbs but a fattened trunk.
The sun's glare cast spots in their eyes as they moved across the field. In the back of his mind, Rick saw the ugliness of scorching summer rising as another skull. He wished he hadn't come out on this search. Dead lands were depressing, and Police Chief Dan Sawyer was someone he didn't want to find, alive or dead. His gut feeling was that Sawyer had perished, though he didn't realize just how close he was to the truth of that feeling. It rose up like a cliff only a moment later as Kim said," Oh my God - that's a corpse fastened on that tree!"
Rick's eyes went to the mound and to the tree, but sun glare and spots washed in, and he saw little other than a dark patch near the top. "I can't see. We'll have to get a little closer," he said. Then he got on his handset and called Mayor Gus. "We found something out here. South end of the line. Follow the streambed. We're investigating it now."
Kim grimaced and turned away. "I can't look at that horrible thing. It's doing stuff to my mind."
But Rick's vision hadn’t settled, and he continued to step forward. His brow was in a tight squint, and in the haze, the sun seemed almost in eclipse. The corona blinded his view of the top, but the bottom was visible. Stripped of branches and bark, the partially rotted tree trunk had been carved with totem-like images. A pattern resembling bird tracks stretched up from the withered weeds. Larger, more intricate carved feathers were above it, ending in a hideously distorted owl-like face. Rings of rot formed a division, and the higher section was smooth and stained red.
His focus returned, and he could see that the darker patch contained a body. Lashed to the pole with numerous strings of leather, it was naked from the chest up and covered with reddened sores. Flesh puffed up blue like a rubber mask covered the face, the eyes were swollen closed, and a wig of dark feathers crowned it.
Rick was sure it was Sawyer and that he'd been dead for some time. Then he saw the swollen lips move and realized that Sawyer was still alive. The vision caused him to quiver with horror; being alive in such a state was so ghastly that he couldn't stand to look any longer. He knew how Kim felt. A wheel of sun glare spun to splashes of blood in his mind. Shaken, he turned away and nearly vomited.
Gus and some of the others were walking into the field when he saw Kim dashing toward them. A few words were exchanged, then he saw them look to the totem. Confusion ruled their brows; he knew they weren't quite sure what they were seeing. Only Gus stepped forward, walking toward Rick and the totem. His mouth opened in surprise and shock, and he nearly dropped the rifle he'd been holding lamely at his side. Gus took a few more steps, then he shivered in the heat, and a mixed expression of horror, pity, and revulsion warped his face.
But Gus didn't turn away; his arm came up slowly with the rifle, and before anyone could say or do anything, he opened fire on the totem.
Blood showered in the sunlight as the bullets impacted on Dan Sawyer's chest and head. Then Kim gasped, and Gus collapsed slowly into the dry grass. Rick and the other men ran to him. "Let's get him out of here," Rick said. "We'll come back later and cut the body down."
Shootout
They stopped briefly at the cottage, talked to Bill, then left to visit Sam. Keeping the farms running remained a problem, and the social visit was shortened as Sam was called out on business. Left behind, they sipped drinks on the patio and talked little. Kim wanted to shake off the grisly images of Dan Sawyer's death, and her face remained troubled as she stared at the darkening horizon. Inky patches at the tree line frightened her, and the rolling waves of heat distortion kept folding the scene into a rippled wall of dead flesh. She was beginning to recover when they got a call from one of Mayor Gus' staffers.
His voice carried a strong sense of urgency as he informed them of an emergency meeting in town. The rest of his message convinced them that the rainmaker and the curse of the ark hadn’t faded. "Sawyer's death has panicked the town," he said. "Now Donny Armstrong has found out about Gus firing the shots that finished him. He's made the news public. Though in his version it’s cold-blooded murder and not a mercy killing. Chaos is the controlling force here. Gus says it's impossible for us to warn people about the rainmaker's plans."
Though it was short notice, they left immediately, heading for town at high speed. The car hurtled through hot, sooty darkness and burst into bright highway lights ten minutes later at the bend leading into town. Rick slowed on spotting a roadblock ahead. Sawhorses and pickup trucks formed the barrier beside the turnoff into the Lakeside fuel station.
Slowing and rolling onto the shoulder, Rick turned into the station lot. The entire area ahead was congested by diverted vehicles and people who’d emerged from them. About twenty cars were parked in the open field beside the station, and a noisy crowd had gathered out front of the variety store.
Several armed men loitered near the garage doors, and four more thugs walked around the pumps to approach the car. Garish light from the big station sign glossed their sweaty faces as they walked up. Three of the men were burly and unshaven. They wore rumpled work clothes, and the apparent leader, a tall, gaunt man, wore a summer suit. His eyes were big, though shadowed and hungry for trouble.
"Those are some of Donny Armstrong's friends," Kim said. "Keep the engine running and don't get out."
Stepping up next to the window, the lean leader glared in at Rick. He didn’t bother to holster his handgun.
"What's going on?" Rick said. "We were called into town for an emergency meeting."
"Meeting's been canceled by the new police chief."
"Really. Who is the new police Chief?"
"Donny Armstrong."
"How'd he get the job?'
"We voted him in."
"Yeah," Kim said. "How'd you vote, by firing shots in the air?"
"What's done is done, and you two have the same choice as the others. Either side with us or be arrested."
"Before I side with Donny Armstrong, I want some idea of what he plans to do. Sawyer already tried using force on the rainmaker. It didn't work. We need intelligence and a plan."
"Donny's got a plan. The rainmaker came to him in a dream. Told him what to do. I don't know exactly what the plan is, but it's already in motion. It's supposed to be a deal that saves us all. The rainmaker is going to make it rain everywhere this time."
"Where exactly is Donny? Why isn't he here?"
"Donny's in town right now. He's gone in with a few men to arrest Mayor Gus for the killing of Dan Sawyer. Gus will be taken to the police station. The two remaining officers who served under Dan will be ordered to stand down."
Rick raised his eyebrows slightly, and he didn't reply. Instead, he hit the window control, rolling it up. Caught by surprise, the gunman tried to stop the glass from closing and nearly got his fingers jammed in it. He pounded it with his left fist as Rick hit the shift, then the car lurched forward, brushing him aside.
Following a clear path through the pumps, Rick accelerated as guns fired from behind. Slugs and a shotgun blast hit the rear windshield and were deflected by the Sun Cobra’s weatherproof glass. The crowd ahead dispersed in panic, and more gunmen charged out and fired as they raced past the pumps. Gunshots continued to slam the car like sledgehammer blows, but Rick managed to turn out to the open highway, and they were free and racing off in the insect-swirling lights.
"They aren’t following us," Rick said.
"They'll call ahead to Donny and see what he says. He'll know we're coming."
The first stretch of houses flew by, then faint smoke blew across the road, and a denser cloud drifted through a field by the old dance hall on Water Street. The odors of a house fire blew in as Kim lowered her window, and they suddenly spotted thick tongues of flame and soot licking beyond the rooftops on the next block. Turning toward the fire, they encountered a gang of teenagers running across the road.
"Think those kids started the fire?" Rick said.
"No. They're terrified, running from something else. I'm pretty sure those flames are from Gus' house, too. Maybe Donny wants to kill him, not arrest him."
The car squealed into a turn, headed directly for the fire. The street had large yards and new houses of the simple brick-and-frame variety. Only one burned, and it was completely ablaze, spitting dragon's breath from shattered windows and the front door. It looked to be abandoned, and though neighboring houses were endangered by the blaze, no one was out on the lawns.
"It's Gus' house," Kim said as Rick slowed and stopped at the edge of the property.
Dogs barked furiously in nearby homes. Hungry flames licked at the tall firs in Gus' yard, and Rick's guess was that if they ignited, the fire would spread and burn a few more houses down. A ball of fire suddenly blew through the roof, sending ashes raining down on the yard. They drifted in hellish light, illuminating the grass, and began to land on the windshield.
"Gus can't be in there," Rick said. "Everyone in this neighborhood is out. They must've left for the meeting or else were scared away by Donny and his men."
"The rest of the people would have got to the Town Hall for the meeting," Kim said. "If Gus is under attack, my guess is he ducked out and is at the police station with the town's two remaining officers. Donny likely set the house on fire as a revenge thing. It's his style. He's the only person in town meaner than Dan Sawyer was. That's why people didn't vote him in as police chief in the first place."
Rick backed up, then turned and drove right up on the lawn of the next house. Jumping out, he ran to the bay windows at the front, grabbed a stone from the garden, and smashed out the glass. Two collies that’d been barking inside jumped through the break and ran off into the night.
Back in the car, he hit the accelerator and headed for the town square. The lights were out in the houses on the adjacent streets, and his guess was that they were mostly not home or pretending not to be. Going in on the main drag would be risky, so he drove around to a side street and crawled up, coming to the corner near the hardware store. Nosing out with the headlights off, he looked in the direction of the hall and saw a mob milling out front. More of Donny's armed men were in control. They roamed in the parkette, and though the hall was lit, its doors were blocked by four men.
"Looks like they've penned their opponents inside," Kim said. "Back up before they see us. Gus might not be in there. Circle around and check the police station first."
They rolled down a bumpy alleyway, keeping the lights off as they tried to get a spy's view of the street. The alley opened onto the sidewalk a half block from the station, and they spotted activity nearby. Four huge trucks blocked the street out front, and Donny and his armed men were behind them. On the other side of the road, the lights in the station were off, meaning Donny had cut the power or else the officers inside were keeping it dark to avoid bullets.
Before Rick could back up into the alley, Donny spotted them and began to run down the street. The hot breeze blew his red hair into wild tufts and his impish face twisted into a nasty mask of dust and perspiration. He stopped before running clear of the last truck and raised his shotgun to fire.
Rick accelerated, and the blast took out a mailbox as the car bounced down the alley in reverse. The right rear fender took a nasty scrape on a garbage bin, but they made it out and sped away.
Rick glanced at Kim, noting the fury on her face. "It looks like Armstrong just got there, and he's tied up in a standoff. He may not have the station's back exit covered yet. I'm going to try driving around."
Speeding around on the side streets, Rick got to the blocks behind the station. He followed an alley at the rear of the shops and knocked out the headlights. At its end, they could see the back wall of the police station. The building was plunged into darkness, and a lone car was parked near the door. Two large men lurked behind the fogged windshield.
"Two of Donny's men," Kim said.
"Yeah. It means Gus must be trapped inside. He can't escape when the police vehicles are in the lot over behind Donny's barricade. I'm going to try something."
Switching the headlights on, Rick accelerated into the street and breezed past the parked car. His wheels released a short screech as he turned in at the side of the station. Tire ruts, thick grass, and thistles filled the narrow space between the buildings. Bushes and a flower garden blocked the track at the front. Beyond the foliage, lights flashed from Donny's barricade.
"Toss me the flashlight in the glove compartment," Rick said as he stopped by the side window. A moment later, he was blinking the beam at the glass.
"They’re pulling in to block our exit," Kim said, and then the station window slid open, and Bill's face showed in the beam of the flashlight.
Gunshots whistled off the side of the Sun Cobra. Bill ducked back, then reappeared, and Gus showed beside him holding a shotgun.
"How many people are in there?" Rick said.
"Five of us," Gus said. "Two officers are guarding the front, and my wife is with me. We can't shoot our way out, but we do have flash grenades that can stun an entire crowd. Dan brought them in for crowd control just before he died. The problem is we can't get near the doors or windows to throw them. Maybe you can do it."
"I'll try. Toss them."
"They're out of the car, coming up after us," Kim said.
Catching the package, Rick handed it to Kim, looked in the mirror, and hit reverse. The car tore up weeds as he zoomed towards the two approaching gunmen. Caught off guard, they dropped their weapons. Desperately retreating, they lunged over the hood of their car to safety.
Rick braked, and they were jolted as they bumped the front of the other vehicle. "Get behind the wheel," he said. "I'm going to try to use these flash bombs."
A quick switch of seats, then Rick opened the package and studied the flash bombs. He found the design simple. Each had a computerized timer and an enable switch. He looked to Kim. "Accelerate straight ahead through the bushes and garden. Turn for the road and barricade, and I'll open the window and bounce one of these under the trucks to Donny."
Sweat glued Kim's bangs to her forehead. She grimaced like she was about to murder someone, then she hit the accelerator. The car raced down the narrow space, rocked on a bump at the end, and slashed through the lilac bushes. Its wheels slid and threw dirt as they crossed the flower garden, and the swerve out to the road became more reckless as Kim tried to dodge a lone gunman running straight for them.
The fender grazed him, and he tumbled toward the sidewalk. Then, they were at the barricade of trucks, and she braked. Rick managed to bounce explosives under the belly of a truck. He thumbed the window closed as the sudden stop knocked him forward.
They skidded to the end of the barricade and spotted Donny Armstrong moving into kill position on the sidewalk. He dropped to one knee and was about to open fire with a launcher when the stun bombs suddenly blew. A curtain of yellow light flared up from the barricade of trucks. It released tremendous force and an ear-splitting roar. Shock waves swept the street. Glass shattered, rubbish flew, doors pounded on their hinges, and as the explosion died, Rick tossed two more of the devices down the sidewalk.
He held on as Kim sped forward. She slowed and swung around, putting them in the face of the second explosion. Donny Armstrong and five of his men were backing off, then they were bowled over and tumbling in shock starbursts.
Kim hit the brakes. The gunmen were down and out. Some sprawled in the street, others in the grass. The town's two remaining police officers rushed out of the station, followed by Bill and Mayor Gus.
Gus and the two officers dashed around the barricade, but Bill headed straight for the car and quickly got in the back. "We've got to get out to the ark to stop the sacrifice," he said.
"Donny sent people out there?” Rick said.
"He sent people out to do the sacrifice. We picked it up on the radio. It may be too late to stop them."
"The road's barricaded. I don't know how to get out of town."
"There's another way," Kim said. "It’s a side road. It won't take us all the way. We'll have to jog the rest of the way in on the trail."
The Rain
Twilight hues melted to satiny black in the sky. Stars glittered, and an ordered alignment of the planets brightened. Red spokes of light emanated from Mars and spread to a haze of light showing just beyond an upcoming break in the trees.
Kim's feet pattered close at Rick's rear, but Bill had fallen far behind. Rick's feet were light and pumping with great strength. He felt charged, feeling the spiritual energy of the planetary powers suffusing his flesh.
The path suddenly widened at a break in the brush, and the shoreline of Deep Woods Lake appeared. A huge fir rose in the moonlight on the bank, and they stopped beneath it to rest. Kim threw her hands to her knees as she stooped to catch her breath. Rick had control of his breathing, but he felt like gasping as he looked out from the shore.
The ark's carvings were lit up like silver filaments, and the box was blindingly bright. The beams spread in a fan to the lakebed and the point, illuminating the area like a strong form of starlight. Just over the ark, a long, intense beam curved to the sky in tracer fashion, training on the belt of planets. It existed as the last link in the chain, though at an earthbound position.
A flicker of firelight drew Rick's eyes from the dazzle of the ark to the point. A bonfire burned at its end, and a rabble of faces swam in the drifting smoke. This crowd formed a half-moon around a few shadowy figures moving alongside a four-meter-high protrusion of gray stone. The firelight cast a play of distorted shadows on the rock wall, lending the scene a sinister effect that deepened as he recognized one of the shadows as that of a man holding a long knife.
Echoes drifted across the lakebed, remixing the crowd noise into a strange blend, like the roar of some distant stadium event. Though individual voices couldn’t be distinguished, a sense of pandemonium was conveyed - a scene of evil was being played out and with great speed.
"I think we can still get there in time to stop it," Rick said.
A rustle of foliage startled him. Turning, he saw Bill jogging out of the trees. Catching his breath quickly, the old Indian gazed open-mouthed at the ark and said, "Have you spotted the rainmaker?"
"No, but look at the point," Rick said. "The mob has a ritual of some sort underway."
"If the rainmaker hasn’t arrived, the sacrifice isn’t complete."
Rick leaped to the lakebed, Kim followed, then Bill. Being the superior runner, Rick quickly left them behind. The mud flats pounding under his feet were dry and cracked, and the celestial illumination pooled on them like water in some places. It was almost like he was running on the moon, only gravity had thickened to slow him.
Getting to the point was taking forever. He entered an area of rustling ferns that gleamed with silver knife-edges and slapped at his thighs as he dashed through them. The high bank of the point rose like a shell curl beside him. Ahead it sloped, became almost level with the stony shore, and turned gently to the firelight and the crowd.
The general clamor of the mob lifted like a slow bellow from the throat of some mad underworld behemoth. He began to pick up the cruel shouts of spectators. Shadows rose as wicked caricatures of giants on the rock backdrop. Within the flow of shadows, he saw murky visions rising - evil spilling like black water across the centuries and continents. The planets, the stars, the flickering flames swirled in his mind, growing into a hideous vortex. Then his feet began to fail him - like they were made of lead. He slowed, finding that a foul, powdery taste had settled on his tongue. Spasms kicked in his stomach, and the muscles locked, forcing him to his knees at the edge of the sand.
Something vast and black spread paralyzing wings across his mind. He was going under, and then he heard Kim's gentle voice and felt her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was tremendously warm and soft; it spread through him like healing magic, breaking the spell on his mind. He looked up into her eyes at a special radiance that he hadn't seen there before. It strengthened him enough that he rose and turned to face the point.
Just beyond the shore, the mob had fallen momentarily quiet, and the planets hung in temporary suspense as the largest of the Baker brothers appeared. He brought a bound woman from behind the fire, then led her through the parting crowd and up the slight incline to a patterned circle at the edge of the rock wall. The blindfolded victim was identifiable as Melanie Kemper, the daughter of a grocery store owner in town.
Her hair had been braided; coloured strings of wooden beads decorated her neck. A long ceremonial dress dropped from her hips to the ground. Reddened skin and welts showed on her lower back, indicating that she’d been injured in some type of preparatory ritual.
"They don't look merciful. They'll turn on us if we try to reason with them," Kim said.
"I know. But we might be able to stop them. They've prepared the victim in a certain way, so the sacrifice must be a ritual. If we interfere with its execution, it might not work. Stay here for a moment. I'm going to try to creep up on them."
Rick moved silently in the semi-darkness, but he didn't get more than a few steps before a brief cry came from his rear. Turning quickly, he saw Kim and, beyond her, on the flats, Bill was tumbling into the ferns. Something large and invisible rippled through the greenery, moving in to attack him again. Knowing it had to be the rainmaker's coyote, Rick began to run to Bill's aid.
Kim ran with him, and as they approached, Bill was on the ground, being shaken. The beast had bitten into his shoulder, and from the movement, Rick was able to generalize its position. He dived and felt a solid hit. The creature howled as he threw his arms around it, then it threw him off and leaped away.
It had felt smooth, dry, and muscular, like a very large snake. A creepy sensation that caused his hair to rise to tufts as he rolled to his feet. He could see Bill on his knees, bleeding heavily from his shoulder. Bill grimaced, then opened his pouch with his free hand and began blowing clouds of his special dust into the air. It glittered magnificently in the light from the ark, and as it spread, it revealed the coyote crouched in the ferns. Blood dripped from its maw, and its eyes showed like burning coals. It stirred and began to move forward, and this time it seemed unafraid. Rick was the target, and he was ready as it ran up and jumped. Ducking back, he threw it over him, feeling the rip of claws. As he spun around and staggered, he saw Kim striking at it with a large piece of driftwood.
It snarled and turned on her, but she stood her ground, a strange power radiant on her face. Fear showed in its eyes, and it began to back away. She charged at it, and it drew back further, turned, and fled towards the ark.
Bill held his bleeding shoulder and groaned. "The point," he said. "Get over there and stop them now!"
In the excitement, Rick had forgotten about the sacrifice. Kim was stepping back to aid Bill, so he turned and ran for the point.
He saw shadows swarming on the wall as the excited mob surged forward. A knife blade flashed in the circle like some strange stroke of the hand of time. Sprinting hard along the pebbled shore, he turned, dashed through a fringe of tall grass, and plunged into the mob.
The crowd didn’t part willingly, but the power of his surge knocked people aside, and he managed to wedge his way to the middle. A thin wall of excited spectators still blocked him. He got pushed from behind, jostled, and elbowed at the side. A furious woman turned and yelled. Spittle sprayed from her lips; her twisted face had a green pallor, yet her eyes burned with reflections of fire.
Rick staggered back a couple of steps. The wall of flesh began closing in on him. He saw no escape, then he noticed a high boulder to his right. Turning in that direction, he socked a big man who was about to swing at him with a chunk of stone. The man went to his knees, and Rick used him as a stepping-stone as he jumped for the rock. Catching the edge, he kicked away hands grabbing at his legs and pulled himself up.
At the top, he rolled on his side and caught his breath. The crazed mob was shouting from below. He saw another man on the rock, though he stood at the front staring down at the ceremonial circle. Rising slowly, Rick targeted the man and then rushed him, sending him flailing into the crowd.
Standing at the edge, he focused on the circle below. Veils of smoke darkened as dizziness swept his mind. The shadows on the wall formed an evil face. He saw drops of blood and heard a woman scream. Then the large man looming over her came clear; he held a knife, ready to plunge it into her chest.
Though Rick's head was spinning, he stepped back, then ran forward and jumped. Sailing over the crowd and through rings of smoke, he slammed into the target. Hitting the huge Baker brother was like hitting a fat slab of hanging beef - a hard blow that took the wind out of Rick as he took the big man down for a crash against the chunks of rock at the edge of the circle.
Rick rolled back in the dirt, twisting his neck horribly. He managed to throw himself into a sitting position, and he remained like that as he gasped for air. Smoke stung his nostrils and choked him. Bullets of pain exploded up his spine to his neck, and his vision was momentarily electrified. A waterfall of light rushed, then vanished into the roar of the crowd. He leaned forward and moved on his knees while rubbing at his eyes with his hand. His vision cleared to a blur, and he saw blood. The body of the girl lay prone before him in the circle. A dagger had been planted in her chest, and thick blood oozed at the spot.
Crawling to her, he seized her arm and checked for a pulse. "She's dead," he said.
No one spoke. Reflections of fire burned in feral eyes as the crowd watched him. He stared open-mouthed at soot-streaked faces. The night masked them with shifting shadows, and he knew that their peeling lips and parched throats thirsted for blood more than water. "I hope you've got what you want," he said.
But he was talking into silence as heavy as lead, then the thunder boomed, and the mob screamed with joy. They forgot about him as they began to dance madly around the circle and the corpse.
Nerve pain bit like rows of fangs at Rick's back and chest. Drained, he rose and staggered into the crowd. Pushing his way through, he reached the shore and halted, taking deep gulps of the smoke-free air. The pain began to subside, and there was another rumble of thunder. Fog cleared from his vision, and he saw Kim hurrying across the mud flats toward him. Her face was troubled, and when she reached him, she embraced him, brushed his hair back, and ran her fingertips over the bruises developing on his right cheek.
"I couldn't stop them."
"The thunder already told me that."
"How's Bill?"
"Not well. There's too much bleeding, and it's getting into his lungs. He can barely talk. He needs a doctor."
"Pretty soon, we may all need doctors."
They looked up at the gathering clouds. The planets were obscured, yet an eerie haze of light still filtered through. Another low rumble shook the point, seeming to come from the ground and not the sky.
Kim bit her lip. "I'm not sure if it's a storm or a quake that's developing."
"Let's get back and check on Bill. Then we'll decide what to do next."
The glowing ark began to shift colors. Drifting from silver to red, it caused a visible change in the atmosphere as they dashed to Bill. He hadn't moved but remained at the edge of the ferns where Kim had left him. His head lolled, but he managed to look up as they approached.
Kim had used a strip of cloth from his pack to bind his wound, and it was heavily soaked with blood. His lips moved as he tried to speak. Choked syllables were all that came out. Putting a hand on his uninjured shoulder, Kim tried to calm him. "He's been trying to tell me something, but he can't get the words out."
Rick saw Bill's hand moving weakly, clawing at the dust. The rattle rested on the lakebed beside a sketch Bill had scratched in the mud with a stick. "What's that drawing he's made?"
"It's one of the symbols we couldn't translate. He drew that while you were gone and kept pointing to it and me - like he's trying to tell me what it is."
Rick reached down and picked up the rattle. Its handle felt cool to the touch, but no magic seemed to emanate from it. "That symbol is tied to the rattle. If he's figured out what it is, we might be able to use it to stop the rainmaker. Maybe we can get him to write his message in words in the dirt."
"He's going under," Kim said. She slapped his face gently and then cushioned his body as he collapsed back into the ferns. Exasperated, she looked up. "He's out, and in this heat he'll stay out."
A bitter expression formed on Rick's face; then the sky behind him came alive, and he turned. Rings of red light expanded as they pulsed through the clouds in a hypnotic fashion. Dark roiling mist fringed the pulses, and a high shriek of the wind warned of the approach of a terrible storm.
The storm's evil eye morphed into a bright orange ball of gas, and it drifted down in a parabolic path to the ark. Thunder rolled across the mist-smoking hills like a tune of ancient drums and ended in a terrible boom as the luminous ball touched the lakebed.
Tendrils of gas wound like snakes in the light as the orb dissipated. The rainmaker emerged from the smoke, his skeletal face partially hidden by full paint and ceremonial dress. He walked at the edge of a pool that shone with the color of blood, and for the first time, his coyote became visible in the light, his fur aglow with a hellish aura as he followed his master.
The din of the shouting mob on the point echoed over the lakebed, but the rainmaker ignored them as he turned to the ark. He walked through the ferns into the brilliant glow. Rays blasted his skeletal form, and the light bent and formed like a headdress of rainbow colors around him. At the ark wall, he knelt and took an object from his pouch. It was dark as night and appeared to be a stone or puzzle piece. He pushed the piece into an indentation in the wall. There was a blinding flicker, and then darkness descended on the entire area.
Rick grabbed Kim's arm. As his eyes adjusted, spinning clouds showed in the sky, and shouts of terror from the point came to his ears. A long, slow rumble followed, and the ground began to rock. As he held Kim and tried to stay standing, an incredible explosion erupted at the ark. It went up like fireworks and lava. When the plume of flame died, a column of black liquid shot up.
Huge cracks and steaming fissures split the ground, sending Rick tumbling with Kim in his arms. The force of the explosion was so great that the gush of liquid raced into the clouds for ten long seconds before it stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but a small pool of boiling liquid near the hole.
The ark had been blasted into oblivion. Light streamed in from the hills. On the point, the awed crowd stared up at the storm clouds, anticipating that rain would begin to fall. But none of it did, and a second explosion of liquid followed, ringing the earth like a gong. This flow ended, and then there was silence
Rick pulled Kim with him as he slowly got to his knees on the shaking ground. He watched the terrified crowd of people at the point as they screamed at the sky. Saying nothing, he drew Kim close, feeling great strength flow through him from her touch. He looked in her eyes and found that the magic he'd been unable to find in the rattle shone in them.
"I love you," he said.
And as she began to whisper a reply, another blast of liquid shot up from the hole.
Thunder and lightning smashed the area like a fist, and dark rain streaked in the sky, slashing in on the point crowd in strong winds. Dreadful cries of pain echoed, and the boiling end came for the townspeople as the raindrops burned into their flesh. Rick saw smoke rising from the panicked mob and hissing bodies that were melting like wax. A tall man threw himself from the rock wall, his flesh falling away like burning rags, leaving nothing but a skeleton to bounce on the ground below. Faces poured with blood and horror, and when they could no longer scream, they dropped like broken birds.
The rain didn’t fall on the lakebed, and one small group managed to dive off the bank at the point and get out of range of the drops. Burned and in agony, they were stumbling over the flats toward the ferns.
A peripheral flash drew Rick's gaze back to a pool of water near the blasted ark. A web of shadows and tinted light from the hills lent the area an alien appearance. The rainmaker and his coyote were there in the grasses and ferns, stepping slowly toward the wounded people.
He stopped, looked toward Rick, then turned and began to approach. As he moved, a beating of invisible wings filled the air. Across the flats, the earth began to boil, and creatures started to rise - skeletons, corpses, and the dead monsters of the lake dripped with ancient mud. Lightning and thunder boomed in the hills, and Rick knew that more of the dead were rising by the thousands in the burial mounds there.
Kim clutched his arm; her head nestled on his shoulder. "This must be the end," he said. "His people are rising, and he's seeded the clouds. As the rain moves across the land, it’ll kill us all."
"Should we run?"
"I don't think we can. I have the rattle, so I'm going to try to use it. Wait here. I'm going to approach him. If it doesn't work, we'll try to escape."
"Don't," she said, but he eased her away, rose, and paced toward the rainmaker. The ancient Indian stopped in the ferns, and behind the running paint, new, veined flesh was forming on his face. Off to his right, the people who’d escaped the point were releasing their final screams as the walking dead fell upon them. Vile rot-dripping mouths snapped hungrily into living flesh, and the sight of it sent Rick's mind whirling. Images of thousands of dead faces soared across his mind, mingling with his memories of the living. A waterfall of earth poured. Bodies spilled as an endless stream of the wretched dead returned to life.
"No!" he said, seeing the rainmaker's face swimming at the center of a ghastly flow of death. He grasped the rattle and held it up.
"Yes," the rainmaker replied, his voice a long hiss. He lifted his rattle and began a slow dance.
Rick heard the rattle beat like falling rain. Jaws clicked, skeletal corpses crunched the bones of victims. A storm and the rain were descending. He was about to collapse, then a memory flashed in his mind. He saw Bill and the drawing in the mud. He remembered Kim saying, "He drew that while you were gone and kept pointing to it and me - like he's trying to tell me what it is."
Falling to his knees, Rick turned. Kim's eyes flashed in the dark as she approached, and he saw the spirit's power in them as he lifted his arm and tossed the rattle. It tumbled in the air, and in that long, slow moment, its secret rose like an eagle in his mind.
The final symbol was of a woman. And the woman was Kim.
She reached out and caught the rattle. White light showered down like rain and coalesced in a glowing aura around her. Spun by the silk of the glow, a painted mask gained definition and opacity as it covered her charged features. At her feet, the sand fused to smooth glass, and at her first movement, a cool wind rushed through the ferns.
The coyote howled. The rainmaker wore a cloak of night as he danced furiously, and in the chaos beyond his rattle, his army of the dead marched in all directions toward the shore.
A cocoon of powerful light surrounded Kim as her limbs moved slowly in the first steps of a graceful dance. Pulsing and replicating, the spirit face on the mask radiated copies that trailed every turn of her head as her dance gained power.
Stunned, Rick rose, feeling a cool breeze touch him. At his back, the rainmaker, darkness, and the dead closed in. He turned, seeing the creeping shadows and twisted figures approaching. A corpse with a sucking mouth and eyes of pulsing blood reached for him, and he lunged, shouldering it down. Bones, rot, and rags, it spilled into the dirt. But more were walking in on stiff legs, so he drew back in self-defense again.
Rick took a deep breath, knowing it would be impossible to fight them all. He prepared to strike, and then as his fist snaked out and connected with a corpse, it began to rain … heavy rain; big wet drops that splattered on his face as he staggered back. The purest, most refreshing rain he’d ever experienced. His vision blurred; water poured over his nose and lips. Rainbows and dawn-bright lights ignited in his mind, and he could see the walking dead taking their last sodden steps and then falling. The raindrops tore at them, creating craters and exploding flowers of decay. In moments, they were bursting and sinking into the earth like melting sludge.
Ending
Storm clouds raced across his mind. Moonbeams and visions burst through from an image of the spirit mask in the sky. Rick found himself carrying Kim's limp body to the stony shore. Her flesh felt cool, and her features were drained. She mumbled something feverish about the crops as he put her down in the grass.
Spring water gushed steadily, rising high in the air where the ark had stood. It ran through the cracks in underground streams, filling the deeper parts of the lake bottom. Nothing remained of the rainmaker, his coyote, the risen dead, or the people who'd been at the point. Debris and driftwood bobbed in the gushing water, and Rick could see Bill where they’d left him in the ferns.
He walked out to rescue Bill. The clouds were gathering again, and he felt a spirit walking near him in the moonlight. Halfway there, he saw Bill's face sweeping across the clouds.
The old Indian had died, so Rick left him there to be buried by the spirit waters of the lake. A ghost remained, and he heard the sound of Bill's rattle as he returned to Kim. She had silver raindrops and a gentle smile on her face, but she was still unconscious, so he picked her up and started on the long walk down the path to the car.
The trees shivered with raindrops, and he knew it would continue to rain, and the rain would fall everywhere.
The drought had broken.
+++
By Gary Morton
This grim story flows out of chaos, swirling to earth with brisk winds and a rush of autumn leaves and brush strokes of dark illusion.
Beauty is truth and invisible to mortals. We walk in dreams, failing to see that all is a graveyard - or that living beings are but the flowers of the dying day.
Brittle leaves are the scrolls in a tomb, a parchment of history unrolling, and I am a shadow walking the path, nodding at the urns and stones placed for each person.
Masks swirl, there is wickedness and joy, and I have come again like Halloween, from places that are not too real.
My feet strike the wall hard, and I begin to walk like the most surefooted person of all. The stone and mortar crumble underfoot, a slate slab tumbles to the blighted foliage below, and I leap to a firmer place. Drunken shouting echoes behind me in the East City, and ignoring it, I look to the west at the tumbled wreck of a city beyond the shivering trees.
Plague lands, the death miasma of ten thousand bodies drifts with the cold fog. A skull shatters to fire and ice in my mind. Leaping from the wall, my black robes flutter as I descend, then I am on hard earth again, walking down a road of the dead. Frozen rutted mud, hovels tilting and leaning amid the thorns and dead weeds. The taller buildings of the downtown look like monstrous sarcophagi thrown up from the jaws of the plague demons.
Farther down the road, I see a skeleton and rags in a tree and a dry fountain full of cracked skulls and bones. The germ of the plague is the tiniest skull of all, yet it cannot pass through the eye of a needle and kill me -- I am neither mortal nor immortal. If I had kind feelings for men, I would weep forever. If I had no feelings at all, I would vanish into the uncaring maw of death. So I walk, and sometimes I feel for the lonely man fleeing the howling winds, wolves, and war.
This time, I think of the man who sent me, and I feel hatred toward him. Lucifer, a sorcerer who cannot appreciate that God and the gods created men and then left the world for other places. Unable to appreciate the beauty of this, Lucifer must meddle with men everywhere, and I would have no party with him if I did not need some of his magic on certain occasions.
Cobweb moss hangs from dead branches, and for a moment, I have the feeling of being in Cajun country and not in England. But this is England, and my quarry is a vampire living under bizarre circumstances. A vampire soon to die. A death forbidden by Lucifer, who wants all to live in suffering for abstract reasons I have never been able to grasp. So I am sent to save this thing that should be more than put to death. And it is a vile thought. The cold flash of my steel has always been mercy and the end of evil men who create the hordes of monsters and freakish things. Perhaps I am arrogant; perhaps this task will humble me.
Gnarled apple trees shiver behind a huge rusty gate. I can see the remains of a prison, with waves of deep brown grass lapping against it. Cold tingling touches my face, and a vision rises. The dead will speak, so I walk to the gate. A flash of silver from the dark folds of my robes and my sickle has shattered the lock. And I watch as the gate creaks open of its own accord.
Death is an end to guilt, and even the walls of prisons are stripped as clean as bones. But here, something lingers, faceless and black, trying to mask itself as specters and deformity. I know it is a lie as the grass swells to mounds. The shivering of the apple trees is more of the bluff. Then the bodies begin to rise, and I am temporarily tricked.
Shaking off the frozen sod, these are hideous things: rags, frost, rotten flesh, bile, and blood. Fangs in mouths frozen open and twisted, and eyes lit by some sick fire of vampiric disease and lust. The mist is like poison as it sheets across their faces of scabs and sores. Their bones audibly creak as they walk slowly toward me.
Hunting this vampire for Lucifer truly makes me humble, but not so humble that I can stand the insult of these wretches thinking me to be food. It is questionable as to whether they should feed or not. They are neither alive nor dead. Neither are they ghosts or specters. They are a mistake created by Lucifer's chosen vampire, Jason Burch.
They encircle me, and the knowledge comes clear. Jason Burch has found a way to feed off plague victims. Perhaps drinking their blood when they are close to death, and the abominations before me are the result. Some of them lack even teeth, and threaten me like bloodsuckers with useless open mouths like frozen pits.
My anger is enough; my gloved hand sweeps the folds of my cloak left, and a wave of liquid darkness is born. The creatures fly a rag doll into the air, the trees, and the grass. Black smoke and loud sparks spit from their burning rags and flesh, and their mouths open and howl, though they can't emit much sound. The effect is that the roar of the wind seems to be born of them.
Pacing over the uneven sod and mounds, I reach the prison and a heavy metal door. It is locked, and my eyes flash red, heating the metal to a temperature that cracks the stone at the hinges. A whirl of my cloak sends a frozen fist of wind that rings the door like a church bell as it knocks it down. Then I am inside and pacing down a corridor strewn with implements of torture and the bones of the dead.
There is nothing on the ground floor and above, just empty cells, and my senses tell me that, like Hades, the evil is below. The stairs are blocked, and the elevator winch is broken. As I force the door, I hear bats flutter up the shaft. Dropping down, I kick the bottom door loose. A screech of hinges, then it falls with a huge crash.
A long stone corridor drips with stalactites of ice and slime; corpses mummified with dust and cobwebs are crumpled against the walls. My heels ring as I walk to the end, and at an arch to a larger room, I pause and raise a hand. Candles and torches ignite at the motion, and I have a clearer vision of the room. It is wide, with a second-level balcony, almost like a small theatre. Tokens of witchcraft and of Christ decorate it - this is an unholy temple, with an altar of dual abomination that even Lucifer would hate. A bright pentagram burns with phosphor in a mosaic floor, and from higher up, a cross casts its shadow. The marble slab of sacrifice has both a Satanist's dagger and holy objects. Remains of the last victim rest on the altar, mummified in ash and cobwebs. Chest and heart have been torn open, almost as if Aztec priests had done the work. Jason Burch would be the priest.
In his absence, I decide to rule his church unholy and deserving of destruction -- my judgment final. A last look around, a row of skulls on the balcony seeming to be my audience, then my scythe becomes the stroke of midnight, and an eclipse over both the cross and the pentagram. The air grows warped, a twisted mirror, stone, and metal begin to melt and burn. Silver and gold filaments rise and crackle like fire as the floor softens to clay and shifts. It sinks slowly as the mouth of a pit swirls open.
Dashing down a shaking corridor, flames and gases igniting me like a flare, tumbling slabs engulfing me - I feel invigorated. I reach a blocked door as part of an explosive force shooting up the tunnel, and I get blown out as the earth splits.
The grounds are in a storm of smoke. Hot steel and stone pound like evil bells as flames, dust, and sparks roar from the prison windows. An apple tree crashes beside me, and another is falling. A powerful leap and I get over the grounds to the top of the wall, and there I wait for the quaking earth to settle.
The jail heaves like a slab in quicksand, then its center roof collapses, and huge smoke signals rise to a sky as flecked and scarred as the diseased city below. I have visions of a corpse coughing up soot.
The plague zombies appear again, walking in the rain of ash on the grounds. A ruling on their fate is required - heaven or seven shades of a rainbow of fire. Running along the wall, I throw a sickle blade up in the smoke. Thunder booms high above, and the soot becomes rain. Golden drops falling only on the jail grounds. Water that burns the unholy stone like powerful acid, but as it hits the unholy skeleton crew, the rot on their bones froths and the golden bubbles smooth to flesh.
Thunder booms a second time, and I find myself staring down from the wall at a crowd of naked humans. Saying nothing, I raise my hand and point in the direction of the gate and the road. Then I grin as they begin to run. The grin because of the fear in the eyes of people who should be shouting for joy.
The vampire Jason Burch's mansion stands near the center of town. The setting sun and winter cirrus clouds create a shell of red-gold behind it. I see the skeletons of birds matted into the high turret roofs -- as if the flocks had gone mad and blind and attacked. Many of the sooty windows are cracked and boarded up, and the south side is heavily damaged by the fire and stones launched during some military assault on the place. No doubt the vampire had been blamed for the plague itself, and the hordes of the diseased had tried to end it by killing him.
A new arched bridge spans the gully, and the front entrance looks heavily fortified with huge timbers barring a solid oak door. I look at black water trickling at the bottom of the gully and then up at the ashes blowing over from the remains of the jail. A heavy rain of ash begins to tumble on the high chimneys -- my eyes grow transparent as I watch these flakes of death, and I vanish from the bridge as I enter the mansion with them.
The halls feel musty, and the atmosphere like the touch of an unclean hand. A sconce-lit stairway leads me down to the main rooms. I pause to look at a painting of the four horses of the apocalypse, and then I push aside some heavy tapestry and enter a room on the north side - an armory, all manner of swords and instruments of death on the walls. The vampire, Jason Burch, is there, sitting in a huge throne-like chair with a sword on his lap. A fire blazes behind him; crossed battle-axes centered by a sword and bronze skull plate gleam above the mantle.
Crossing the marble floor, I greet him with a grin. "You will need more than a sword and fangs to escape from me."
Darkness hoods Jason Burch's face. He speaks slowly. "Am I so important that you come for me a day early?"
"You are so important that you are not even going to die."
"Lucifer has you as a slave, too?"
"I owe him a favor, that is all."
"He asks for favors that shouldn't be granted. Look at the suffering horror he has made of me. Now he inflicts intolerable suffering before men leave earth. You shouldn't permit it?"
"You have done the same, but he shouldn't do it. I will have to consider that - you may be right."
"No matter - I became a vampire willingly. Sold him my soul, as you would say. I wanted the beauty and power of the undead. Look at this body of pain, scabs, and sores. He has not kept his promise. He has no claim on my soul. I will die to spite him. Tell him to restore my health and looks, or I will die at dawn and cheat him."
"But how will you die? The plague has deformed you. It has not killed you as it did the rest. A vampire can't die by his own hand."
"Not by my hand, by holy hands. The pope has decreed it. A holy procession enters the dead city tomorrow, and the archbishop will execute me using prayers and holy water. I arranged it myself, and I know you can't stop it, Reaper. You can't interfere with the work of the Church, and neither can Lucifer in this instance, or he would not have tried to meddle by sending you."
"I guess you have me, Jason Burch. I will wait, and tomorrow I will watch. You have defied all of the higher powers, and you are a fool to want to die and speed their judgment upon you."
"Pain knows not what a fool is, and revenge knows no master. In dying, I will at least escape the suffering for a moment and will have the pleasure of having cheated Lucifer."
The dawn arrives like another shade of night. Cold light salts the sky and is enough to light the frosty road. Bones glisten in the heaps of deadwood, and dirty ice gleams on the rooftops. Hungry crows flying above the city gate are an omen of the coming procession. Standing on a high ledge waiting, I view a portion of the road narrowed by mold-eaten stone walls. Above, the light seems brief, and the sky darkens as though a saint and not a devil were about to perish.
Specks of snow grow and shift, white robes appear. Apple-cheeked boys carry smoking silver at the head of the procession. They look startlingly out of place in the dead city, and their presence alone does more to purify the land than any holy smoke can. These altar boys also serve to purify the train of priests behind them.
The holy men wear special robes of dark gray and heavy cloth, muffling all but their eyes. Their walk bent and tired, and they seem to be pulling some great weight that is behind them on invisible strings. Seeing only their eyes, I see nothing but fear -- fear and then the archbishop's heavy carriage. One horse pulls it, and I am sure they plan to put the horse to death at the gates when the procession returns.
The day looks set to go against Lucifer's will. The archbishop will walk into the mansion, sprinkle his holy water, and hold his huge cross over the perishing vampire. Grinning, I imagine the anger on Lucifer's twisted features.
Leaping into the sky, I land on a high wall of the mansion. At my call, a blast of steaming heat blows in and sweeps the grime from an arched window. As I look down at Jason Burch, I hear bells tolling faintly in the distant living part of the city. Burch is in red and purple robes, his face visible in the open cowl. It is hideous, matted flesh and veins pulsing, hardened like a form of wood. He has taken off his gloves, revealing hands that are the same thick purple veins, clawed appendages that could belong on some gnarled tree.
At the gate, the procession halts - the boys remain, fanning smoke, and the archbishop descends from his carriage. He is also covered in special robes, his face nearly a bandage. As he pulls it back, I study his stern hawkish features. His cold eyes rest at an evil slant - he strikes me as more evil than Jason Burch.
Choosing four of his best priests, the archbishop walks up to the entrance. Two burly priests remove the bars. The doors swing open slowly as they force the rusty hinges, and the air rushes out, causing the archbishop to stagger back, his nose and face twisting at the vile fumes.
He enters slowly, the priest on his right holding his staff and the priest on his left carrying an enormous cross. The vestibule leads to an open front room, and near the far wall, Jason Burch sits by the fireplace on his makeshift throne. The room is nearly bare - blocks of cold stone, a coat of arms, and crossed swords on the wall behind him. Jason Burch keeps this room bare for open combat. Today, the fight is lost; his coffin sits off to his right as a symbol of his defeat by the church.
Jason rises, walks to the coffin, then turns to face the archbishop. "This will be quick, I hope? My soul cannot be saved, so do not waste time with prayers."
"Prayers were said all night at the abbey, and they are being said now. We did it this way to spare you the pain. But there is one other thing."
"What is it? Not more nonsense to delay this?"
"No. But I have to ask: do you realize that this is not an execution? You will die because you are unholy. We are not putting you to death."
"I am aware of that as I am aware that holy men always have ways of washing their hands when it comes to these affairs."
"Very well. You will now remove your robe and lie in the coffin. My priests and the cross will be at the side to hold you down. After the bathing begins, you will no longer be able to fight."
"Good," said Jason Burch, removing his robe and handing it to a priest. "Let us end this."
As Jason eases himself onto his back, the priest to his right places the staff across his chest to hold him should he try to rise. Another priest moves up with the large cross, and seeing it, Jason hisses mildly and closes his yellowing eyes.
Taking the largest gold vial from a silver tray of vials, the archbishop prepares to dispense the holy water. Crossing himself, he opens it and, to begin, tosses a small drop on Jason's legs. There is an immediate hiss and reaction. A puff of blue smoke rises. Satisfied, the archbishop pours the whole vial up and across to make a cross on the corpse.
The reaction comes instantly: a violent hiss, and a cross of fire and smoke roaring with such fury that the archbishop and his priests choke as they stagger back. John Burch rises, the brilliant cross burning on his body. Red drops bead his face, and they work to heal his flesh and shoot fire into his eyes. He turns his head away, pained by the light. But that is only momentary as a gust dims the room with eddies of smoke.
His hands burning, the priest drops the large cross, and it falls and clangs on the hard floor. The staff-bearing priest regains his balance and strikes at the vampire, but Jason blocks the blow as he powers his way up. Fire, sparks, and smoke fly from his palms as he throws the staff and the priest across the room. Then the archbishop stands up, holding his tiny neck cross to fend off the vampire.
John Burch is on him almost instantly, a swipe of his deformed hand tearing away the cross and much of the skin on the archbishop's neck. The holy man's gasp does not lead him to pause. He strikes again, this time tearing flesh.
A grotesque flap of flesh hanging, blood spurting onto his heavy robes, yet the archbishop somehow stands there for a moment, a ghastly grimace of horror carved into his aging face. Then he goes down, and the vampire flies down to feed.
Sensing the time to be right, I rap the glass hard. John Burch looks up, his face full of blood from the archbishop's torn neck and chest. Beyond the bloodlust in his eyes, there is fury. Jason Burch knows I placed drops of blood in the holy water.
And that is what I want him to know. I study him for a moment more, and then I leap into the depths of the sky and darkness, leaving Jason Burch to live on in certain agony. He had sold his soul for the beauty of the undead, and now his face was more skull than mine. Lucifer hadn't broken his promise at all. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
+++
By Gary Morton
Deliveryman's eyebrows shot up.
Paranoia and suspicion clouded his craggy features. "I can't make no delivery like that," he said.
A grin crawled across Icehead's face, one cold enough to kill bugs with its slimy intent. "This is Jay's Health Food. There is no delivery we can't make."
"But this order says King Flame's Underground Party when King Flame is dead? Maybe some people think he's still with it, but take it from me, he's history."
"Can't be, I got a call from the King an hour ago. We're supplying his party with bean curd of the ganja variety, with maybe a little crack in coke surprise in the middle. A good customer like King Flame, we can't let him down - besides, he's already paid by cash delivery."
"You were knockin' it in Tahiti last week. Guess you didn't hear about Flame. If you did you'd know he couldn't make no phone call."
"You're right, I didn't hear. What's the score on last week?"
"It was Saturday night, and I had a concession for a house party he was cookin'. The call for delivery buzzed in at 10 p.m., and yours truly hit the road. It was the usual. Flame's people had a newly built and empty house in Scarborough rented for the blast. There were two hundred bodies already there when I arrived, so I had to duck a block on foot. I hit the crowd, and the first thing happens is a couple of wannabes come onto me. I could barely hear what they were sayin’. King Flame was doing his DJ, screaming over ten-foot towers in the backyard. Some of that offbeat hip-hop stuff was hammering my ears like fists, and influencer gals were crazy dancin’ all over the place. Came a sudden break in the music, and a wannabe gave me the what-yuh-doin'-here-whitey shit. It was obvious that he intended to burn me for the package. He flashed a piece, and I saw one of his pals getting ready to duck in and boost the package. Now, you know that everybody hip knows about the delivery man. No one hassles the delivery man, no matter what's goin' down. But this wannabe wasn't hip. Maybe he knew who I was, maybe he didn't. Maybe he was just jonesin, but I pulled a Ruger and told him: I'm on special delivery, health-food package for King Flame. Now stay the fuck back, or I'll blow your head off! Then he laughed and slapped his hip and said," They goin' find yuh on the junk heap."
"Yeah, so after you pulled the trigger, then what?"
"Then this bubbler wearing only a bikini bottom and pink ankle socks starts screeching at me for getting the wannabe's brains all over her. But the upshot is that the body was quickly dragged away by Flame's bouncers, and I was escorted inside. Now at this point, I should mention that I’d been hearing words about King Flame. Words that tend to make ordinary working-class clowns like you and me shudder. Rumor was that Flame was using some zombie drug made from Haitian fish bones. All the people in his inner circle had piped up with it and were like strange airheads. Another guy named Jazzcan told me that Flame had these metal rings fixed in his dick and was a crazy pervert. But I've never let rumors get in the way of a delivery. I was taken through to the back patio where an area was Plexiglassed off, and Flame was inside playin’ DJ. He looked normal -- eyes of ganja fire … couldn't see his face for the coils of hair, a crass shirt with a trim of flowers-and-tiger pattern, and the usual fire-red pants. He had some dancers around him, and I couldn't really see where they looked any more like zombie airheads than anybody else. Although I must say, I was nonplused by the male dancers wearing black spandex shorts. So I gave him the package, checked out his wall of enamel grin and left. Only I wasn't even at the door when a wall of flames took out the patio. The partiers exploded, too, and I ducked under the porch while the panic spread. In a minute, the whole house was on fire, and I popped up and found myself running across the lawn with a bunch of screaming human torches. A lot of roasted meat got left behind on that lawn, and most people think I was cooked. Everybody knows that Flame was cooked because he opened the package. So now do you get it, Icehead?"
"You delivered a fire bomb."
"Right, and it was carefully set up. Flame was turnin’ too many people into airheads. And believe me, we're talkin’ about someone clever who did it because they used us too."
"We're not bein’ used now, and I know what's in the package. Somehow King Flame was cleverer, because he escaped. Maybe he faked his own death. Either way, he's a paying and reputable customer, so you can make the delivery."
Jay's Health Food had been under surveillance for six months, and during that time, Deliveryman had never been spotted entering or leaving. Down in the connecting sewer, he took the package from a disaster-proof safe and followed the damp tunnel, booting a rat aside as he reached the exit. He popped open the runoff grate, slammed it, and went down the alley. There were no windows, so his eyes darted to the rooftops, where he saw nothing unusual. His car was parked among a fleet of stripped wrecks and wedged against a battered wall. Popping the trunk, he took out two radial tires, and then he jacked up and installed them.
It was a gray day, dull and ordinary, maybe a little too hard and cold, just like Deliveryman. With his baseball cap, sleeveless jean jacket, and faded Levis, he could almost be invisible inside of a day like today. He was used to a world where everything was the same and stretched on forever like the brick buildings in the housing projects where he grew up. The only time it was different was when he was running or fighting for his life. Not that Deliveryman believed in violence; in fact, he believed in peace and love. Saw peace and love in a dream once, Deliveryman liked to say. I believe in it, like God, it's out there somewhere.
Snapping a rag from the backseat, he wiped the ash off the windshield. The old taxi always made him feel good; it was a metal chameleon he’d reworked from one sort of wreck to another. It always came out of the crunch to live again, and like a human body, it had replaced every one of its cells over the years.
The V-8 roared to life, an ancient heavy metal tune began to blare, and with his package safe in the backseat, Deliveryman eased up the alley to its throat. Turning onto the narrow street, he got the feeling that he was driving into a wasteland of sadness … the gray day a smoky memory saying everything had happened yesterday. Life is over, but you live on rocking to the grind of rusty steel. It gave Deliveryman the creeps; it was how a zombie airhead might feel. The wall of guitars sound lifted him some, and then he decided to get into the spirit of the delivery and switched to deafening volume and a hip-hop radio station. Big distorted words challenged the sky, but the negative feelings stuck. Putting his mind to the task at hand, he cut through the heart of Toronto, heading for the small Carib neighborhood where he assumed King Flame's party had to be. There was no address on the package; there never was - to be the delivery man, you had to know your way around. Gut feeling told him this was no party set out in the suburbs or in a warehouse club. This was something voodoo-tinted, at the heart of the people of the West Indies. And there were strong roots in Toronto, running all the way back home, as King Flame would say. Deliveryman had to admit that was true; half of the people of the Caribbean were in Toronto every summer for the festival. There was something there, a connection bigger than what meets the eye.
Just as images of the festival were parading in his mind, he spotted Jazzcan strolling out of a music shop. Jazzcan had been a top festival organizer, Black Stalin's North American manager, and a close associate of King Flame. Only now, there was something odd about him. He wasn't around much anymore; his photo was out of the in papers. It was like he'd somehow gotten disconnected from the world, yet was still partially in it. Jazzcan wasn't an airhead; it was hard to say what Jazzcan was. He went in bare feet and sandals when it was cold, had a jacket like a spray-painted alley wall, wore dark shades, and carried a gnarled walking stick. His build was strong. Jazzcan never in his life cut his hair.
Deliveryman pulled over and got out, suddenly recalling that Jazzcan was also a person who knew. Jazzcan turned around and walked back to Deliveryman even though there was no way he could've spotted him without eyes in the back of his head. Jazzcan looked burned out, like he'd finally smoked ganja so powerful it'd faded him body and soul. He was only half there - like a ghost.
"All right, Deliverymon," Jazzcan said. "Thought you wuz on yuh knees, beggin' Marley to open the gate?"
"Nope, I escaped the flames. Got a delivery today. King Flame's Underground Party. Know where it is?"
Jazzcan shivered like he'd been run through, and it wasn't cold out. He took off his shades and scratched his head. Instead of pupils, he had tiny silver skeletons. His wide mouth quivered. "Fonny thing, a spliff ago I thought King Flame was burned and burning. Now uh know he's waitin’ for you, and maybe a little bit o' soul. Party's by the Crossroads Soul Shop - but don't go mon. Bury that package. Flame is using a cross of voodoo, run while yuh legs work!"
"I can't run. My reputation's at stake. Look, maybe he's evil, but he's your old pal. Hop in and I'll take you along."
Jazzcan dropped his walking stick and backed away, thunderstruck as it clattered on the sidewalk. "Go to that blackest rap, and smoke that evil smoke. Nevuh, nevuh, mon!"
Three passes of the Crossroads Soul Shop gave no hint of the party's location. The shop wasn't open, and other than posters, there was nothing but a shining aluminum skeleton in the window. On the fourth pass, Deliveryman got frustrated and gunned the engine. In that brief moment, an alley mouth ringed with flame appeared and quickly vanished. A wall of blackened brick remained. Deliveryman jumped at the wheel, an irrational idea invaded his mind as he zipped around the block. He floored it for the fifth pass and drove straight at the wall. There were flames and tormented faces in the smoke; he shot right through and saw a cloud of brick dust and windshield diamonds fly. The taxi was totaled, yet he was only shaken up. A sign said Tube Bottom Road. Checking behind him, he saw the package safe in the back. The rear of the car was just in front of a wall of gloom.
The door creaked and fell off as he stepped out, and a rat bit his ankle. He stamped on it, and it squealed hideously as it scurried off. A haze like concrete dust obscured his view of the road, but he could see well enough to spot garbage heaps dripping with spitting rats.
In no time, the rabid things would be on him. He ran to the trunk and forced it open. Snatching a flame-thrower, he moved forward and sent a stream of fire into the first garbage heap. It tore into flame, and several fiery rats trailed smoke as they leaped at him. He batted them away with the canister and stamped at them, but they continued ducking in and out and snapping their huge teeth. If anything, the fire had made them ornery.
Bleeding bites were on his shin; making his way back to the trunk, he got out the fire extinguisher and opened up. The effect was immediate; the rats iced and hissed through split faces as they burst to heaps of blood crystal. Whooping and dancing, Deliveryman killed all the rats near the car, and then he pulled out a spliff of sugar-sweet Trinidadian and chewed on smoke clouds as he watched the rest of the rats retreat out of sight into their heaps of filth. Moments later, it was quiet, and he could see a few million red, fearful rat eyes watching.
After flipping the roach, he clipped the extinguisher to his belt and took out a shotgun. It was a twelve-gauge Remington with assault grips and extra rounds studding shell carrier. He checked the package; fortunately, none of the rats had chewed on it. Wondering what King Flame was doing living on a hidden street full of rats, he pressed ahead.
Trash heaps were all around. He could see no sun, and the impression was of already being underground. Pungent odors of scorched garbage were enough to kill any party here, so he figured there had to be a clear area somewhere up ahead. Instead of a house, he came to a wide mound of rubbish that blocked the whole road like a living and heaving mound of scrunge. Dirty water poured from a snout of soaked, compacted newspapers. A mass of pop cans resembled a crude skull.
This was no party animal and no hallucination either. Sometimes after supertoking, garbage would flutter and move, but now he was seeing a huge throat of tarpaper open in the thing's head. Retreating wasn't a sound game plan and he did not intend to wait to see what the thing would do. Dropping the package, extinguisher, and shotgun, he yanked out a hunting knife and scrambled across an apron of wattled cardboard. He spotted what he believed to be a vital point in the beast's anatomy, but before he could lunge, a tail of melted tires and shards of colored glass lashed over the body. After diving across a bed of rotted plaster, he sprang to a ledge of sheet metal. Then he flipped forward as a great fist of tar, and Coke cans struck at him.
Now he could see the violet pulse of the jugular and a pulp of throbbing heart. Success was only slashes away. A sticky tongue whipped over his head as he charged. Ducking and diving hard, he managed to connect and sever the vein. It was like slicing a plastic sewer pipe; vile brown fluid erupted as he tumbled back into a trash earthquake. Leaping from hold to hold mountain-climber-style, he managed to escape the death throes of the beast.
Beyond the trash heaps, he found an open stretch of fissured road. There were gaslights, but their orange glow barely seeped into the cottony grayness shrouding everything. Human figures were taking shape out of a haze, so he halted and studied them. They had a dead shamble like early-morning derelicts, but better light revealed them to be cold, dead zombies. Peeling, leprous skin that was white as snow, poking out of moldered clothing. Rot and shoe leather fell as they walked.
Retreating was his best option, but he absolutely refused to duck back into rat-infested trash heaps. Taking the shotgun, he got a firm hold on the assault grips. Sweeping the gun from side to side and sighting, he waited as the column of the dead approached. They were coming up on him like he wasn't even there, and at the last moment, he fired. The first shot sent two ashen zombies into a wall, where they slid like slugs along the scarred brick. The mostly intact heads fell to the asphalt and split as easily as soft melons. Unfortunately, the blast had failed to halt the others, so continuing with a succession of fast shots, he emptied the shell carrier.
Finally, he realized there were too many zombies to kill and began to scale the wall with the gun and package fixed to his belt. He got up a few meters before they got to him, and he watched as the column passed. They hadn't been attacking at all, and they disappeared in the gloom without taking note of him, going to a place Deliveryman was sure he didn't want to know about.
Deliveryman had a strange feeling; although gravity was normal, it felt like he was walking straight down the wall of a pit. Ugly headless things shifted, and dog-big insects scurried at the edge of the gloom. They were like hallucinations that had him looking around so much he couldn't make any progress, and then he found that if he kept his gaze straight ahead, they melted to mist. Marching like a soldier, he went a mile to the end of Tube Bottom Road, where he found a sign that read THE UNDERGROUND and steps leading down to a subway tunnel.
An abandoned piece of subway would be good for a party, he figured, provided it was fixed to be cleaner than the rest of Tube Bottom Road. A stash he'd kept in a subway as a teenager came to mind, and as he was remembering he slipped in a pool of blood and went flying down a slick ramp. He did a wild pirouette as he stumbled out on an immense floor. It was a surface that resembled rusted stone or acid-eaten steel. The ceiling was cavern-high and discolored with mold that hung in shapes like Gothic arches. It was the emptiest dungeon in the world, a place where you could kill a person with the loneliness of a word. In the distance, a black arch radiated rainbow colors around a huge vault door.
Deliveryman stepped up to the door and eyed the gold demon’s-head knocker. It was as big as his own head with features of shimmering wickedness. As he reached for it, the thing spoke. "Who seeks entrance?"
"Deliveryman, package for King Flame."
The demon's head suddenly spouted fire, and Deliveryman was engulfed. He staggered back but wasn't burned. "You haven't lied. You may enter."
Thunder ripped into him as the huge vault opened a crack. He passed through, hearing his bones rattle. King Flame was waiting, and except for smoking dreadlocks, he was normal in appearance. "How goes it, Deliverymon?" King Flame said, his hands out for the package.
"Hey, I don't see any party. Don't see much of screw all 'cept you Flame?"
"Things good and dead here, Deliverymon. Dead to the bones."
"Thought you were dead. Why are you still taking deliveries?"
"This is the only one, Deliverymon. The head who cooked me is in the package."
King Flame looked somewhat dead, somewhat solemn, and somewhat satisfied as he opened the package. As he removed the contents, he grinned his better days grin. Deliveryman stared with disbelief at the shrunken head King Flame held before him. It was Jazzcan's head, desiccated, nose-ringed, and with red feathers in the coils of hair.
"But I just talked to Jazzcan," Deliveryman said. "He gave me directions."
King Flame laughed a throaty laugh, and the sound pealed loud in the underground. "Uh ghost mon, uh ghost! Was his soul you had?" Flame said, holding up a foil packet.
"I don't get it. How could Jazzcan's soul be a packet of rock?"
"Little arrangement I made with the underground. I toke Jazz's soul then mine goes up in smoke at the party. Mine's in the spliff here."
"You mean I delivered you your own soul?"
"No mon. Is a package for King Flame, the big King Flame. He's comin’ up now. Check it out!"
Deliveryman's vision suddenly cut through the gloom. A pit with the flesh tones of an obscene orifice appeared behind King Flame. Fire and smoke licked up in tongues, horned creatures half-human and half snake slid at the lip. Faint strains of pandemonium echoed in the cavern, and there was the boom of an approaching giant. With every step, there were wails of death, the sound of millions being crushed underfoot. Deliveryman's mouth fell open, and he looked back at King Flame's mad grin. He'd delivered all right, and this time he hoped there'd be no tip.
+++
By Gary L Morton
The eyes of a princess brightened, casting a magic spell on a castle and its ghoulish inhabitants.
In that distant fortress of gloom, fog began to drift in the minds of ghoul sentries, allowing an agile clown to slip quietly by.
A wide arched doorway opened on a spiral staircase running down from the Grave Tower. The clown saw it as his gateway to freedom, and he knew a princess waited at the end of this avenue of escape. She was hidden in far-off time, somewhere deep in the Earth's eye.
He took flight in the darkness, racing down those winding stairs. Glancing back, he saw a luminous green form appear in the cobwebs above. It raised a sword that cut through the murk like liquid steel, and as it streaked toward his head, he ducked and managed to toss a dagger. The point caught the ghoul's eye. Glowing blood spattered, and he heard the ghoul's tumble and death rattle, then he reached the bottom of the stairs and booted open the heavy wooden door.
Daylight streamed in; he saw the ghoul sprawled on the stairs - its thick green tongue protruding and leaking blood.
Ancient objects from plundered graves decorated the old stone walls. He pried loose a copper shield, threw it over his back, and rushed out the door.
A drawbridge was ahead on the road. Bolts of ghoul lightning rained down, tearing at the ground and deflecting off his shield. Getting across the bridge, he leaped an embankment and landed on a muddy path. A jagged bolt ripped the bark off a nearby oak. Tossing the shield to the ground, he hurried out of range, running through the curling smoke.
Decaying leaves and black earth at the edges of the path's beaten center met with gargantuan tree trunks. Faint daylight filtered through the canopy of branches above. In his mind's eye, the clown saw the howling face of a ghoul lightning breather. Then another light appeared - far away and crystal. Glancing back, he saw the castle towering over him. Turrets leaned into gruesome visions. Spellbinding sights from the grave flowed in the miasma encircling it.
Deciding to return home to Temagame Forest, he plotted a route in his mind. It meant passing through the City of Zodiax. Brushing himself off, he headed down the path, cursing the luck that got him captured by ghouls in the first place. He knew the ghouls hadn't managed to seize his friends, the purple princess and the magician, and he wondered where they had hidden.
A sudden rumble, and he turned on his heels. A portion of the castle wall had collapsed, and a dark shape stood in a dust cloud on the far side of the moat. Sweat beaded and trickled on the clown's forehead. He couldn't hope to win a fight in his weakened state. All he could do was flee and hope to escape.
The dust cleared, revealing a repulsive thing - a seven-foot ghoul. Hostility pinched its face, and it leaped the moat with ease. Blood-glazed eyes, fangs, and a drooling mouth showed as it moved closer. Filthy brown hair sprang from its chin, and it held a rusty iron spike in its fist.
Turning quickly, the clown fled down the path through patches of mud. In places, it was so sticky he had the bad-dream feeling of running in slow motion. Glancing back, he saw the ghoul gaining rapidly.
A brilliant light appeared on the pathway ahead. Dust motes floated in a sunlit octagon, and the clown recognized it as an opening to the magician's nightmare screen.
Cold chills shot up his spine as he increased his speed. The ghoul almost had him spiked, and then a dark object flew down through the trees. Diving, the clown ducked it and rolled to the edge of the path. A glance back to the ghoul, and he saw it screaming silently as a disembodied black claw tore into its throat. A moment later, green blood jetted, and it went down hard in the mud.
Thunder boomed through the nightmare screen, and the ground began to tilt. The clown seized a knot in the twisted tree beside him and held on as the mud on the path rolled up like a carpet and split. Then, as the earth continued to shake, he jumped up and ran … bushes and thorns flailing at him as he escaped through the forest.
A premonition filled his mind, and a rumble shook his bones as he neared the end of the path. Sinister eyes were watching from a window in a Grave Tower, and then electric-blue light pulsed and knocked him to the grass.
Consciousness slipped away in wisps of smoke. Moments later, he rose and saw his dead body lying in the weeds. A patina of death ringed his eyes. Turning he saw fragments from a rainbow spinning skyward to the flaming yellow sun. A princess's face in a crystal ball touched his mind and drew him south. Thick brown grass took him into veils of mist, and a jade waterfall rushed nearby. Then he was walking on slippery wet stones, and he tripped and fell … into a void.
The clown landed on his feet in long wet grass. He was facing the ghouls' castle, watching as black lightning split the sky and struck one of the Grave Towers. Ablaze in scarlet flames, a ghoul lightning breather fell from the tower window; its ghastly scream echoed from the castle walls, then it splashed into the moat below.
Crocodiles fed. Looking up, the clown saw the face of the magician in a white cloud. Slowly it drifted in the direction of the City of Zodiax.
The magician had the clown in mind as he came to ground in a crater. He turned, and his golden hair and twinkling blue eyes were the only signs of beauty in the desolate landscape. Wind rushed in and swept the folds of his long coat. Gold sparkled in a sudden beam of sunlight, and as he looked to the East, a symbol appeared on a faraway tomb.
Turning and placing his hands on his hips, he gazed at the leaden sky and saw beyond to a pink sun drifting in pale clouds. In the grass below, the clown approached the city.
Looking ahead, the clown saw a dense forest of stone towers and turrets stretching over a flat plain. Beyond the towers, the fall colors of Temagame Forest showed.
Nightmare's doorway opened in sunset clouds, and the magician appeared, sliding across the sky on a golden beam of sunlight. He landed on the spire of the SunWheel Tower, the highest perch in the city, and stood there in the ephemeral rays of sunset, studying a land of flashing colors and long shadows.
Intricate webs of light and shadow shifted on the stone walls of the towers. Domes reflected the evening light and dazzled his meditative mind with polished illusions and unreal beauty. The City of Zodiax followed the curve of the earth and faded away into the mystic ghosts and dying dreams of fall. Autumn leaves blew on the wind, and in his mind became a river of gold symbols pouring down the steps of time. More leaves swirled to clouds in the streets below, and they changed reality to autumn-tinted streams.
He turned on the spire, and his eyes ignited as he spotted a lone clown traveler approaching the city. A flow of gold twirled to a bolt in the magician's hand. He tossed it, and it tumbled across the city toward the clown.
A macabre creature peeked through a crack in a rubble-stone wall, watching the clown cross the field. The skull face of a demon appeared as it moved swiftly along the wall, the one hundred shrunken heads on its belt swinging as it ran. The demon's belt didn't boast a single clown's head, so it mounted its black stallion and hastily set out to collect one.
A mass of cobwebs blew free as the gate slowly creaked open, unleashing the skull-faced demon. Huge hooves kicked back clods of earth as the laughing horror raced over the fields. Veined eyes bulged behind the skull demon's face of bone. Its mouth twisted with bloodlust. Exhaling a river of steam, it held its sword high. Envisioning a grand moment of victory and a fountain of spurting clown's blood, the demon bit its blackened tongue and spurred its stallion cruelly.
Stopping in his tracks, the clown stared at the approaching skull demon. He was certain his last act would be a desperate one, then he saw a golden lightning bolt tumbling down from the sky. He caught it in his white-gloved hand.
The skull demon closed in for the kill. Blades of steel and lightning met, sending a boom of thunder down the wind. The clash sent the skull demon flying from its horse; scorched and deafened, it rolled in the grass.
Tracing an arc in the air, the golden bolt radiated fire as the clown brought it down. It caught the demon as it rose; its head thumped to the ground, and black blood soaked the grass. A moment later, its body of bones and armor was ablaze with golden flames.
Turning, the clown faced the City of Zodiax. Charred bones rested next to the hilt of a shattered sword beside him. A belt of shrunken heads circled the bones. The largest of these heads being that of a headhunting skull demon.
In the west, the face of the magician showed momentarily in the setting sun.
The clown galloped along the cobblestone streets of the City of Zodiax on his newly acquired black stallion. Violet rays filtered through thick gray clouds. A spell from the princess was in the air, pulling him onward to the temple of the ghouls.
Ahead of the clown, the source of the spell scaled the side of a building in the twilight. Reaching the rooftop, the princess moved quickly and hid in the shadows. Her night-vision eyes were glowing faintly as she peered across the street at the ghouls' temple. Green ghoul sentries stood at observation posts built on the thick stone walls circling the buildings. The central structure was an emerald dome with an open roof, making it easy for the ghouls to sacrifice to the Zodiax and the Cyclops moon.
The princess looked to the entrance down on the street. Two broad oak doors, set between marble pillars sculpted as entwined cobras, stood between the world and the inner temple.
A ghoul slave master pounded the knocker. Behind him, a group of female human slaves waited for the doors to open. Moments later, one heavy door opened, and the women walked into the temple. The ghoul sentry checked his back and the street, and then he barred the doors and climbed back to his observation tower.
Evil sacrifices performed by the ghouls were legendary, but the princess had not witnessed any of them. As the story went, the ghouls called up a demon from the black abyss. Other things were required - a full moon, women to sacrifice, drums of human skin, ritual knives, unholy priests, torn hearts, and the great stolen cup of ghouls.
Cyclops moon climbed in snow-white veils of mist. The clown dismounted in a cul-de-sac and walked toward a rope ladder at the dead end. Purple eyes appeared in his mind. A spell from the princess sharpened his hearing, and he hid in a corner as clattering hooves came around the bend.
A ghoul dismounted and walked over to inspect the black stallion. Becoming suspicious, he began to move down the alley, stopping now and again to swish his sword through the shadows.
The clown held the tip of a long dagger he'd taken from the saddlebags of the headhunter demon. His arm relaxed, then flashed forward, sending the blade through the night to nail the ghoul to the far wall. Tiny diamonds and drops of blood sparkled on the hilt of the ghoul's new throat decoration as the clown made his way up the ladder. He moved across the rooftop toward a long purple shadow.
Another crater in the wasteland found the magician busy. Dust was in his hand, and from it he tossed a handful of gold symbols into the thin air. Colors transformed to silver, purple, and black. He opened his palms, catching new symbols of daggers, lightning bolts, and claws. A second toss and the symbols spun through a wrinkle in time and through the nightmare screen above the City of Zodiax. They came to rest quietly and sparkled on the rooftop, next to the purple princess….
Moonlight revealed a sentry ghoul walking along the crenelated stone wall. A flash of purple lightning shot across the street, slashing a throat with its heated edge. The ghoul's head fell, thumped in the street, and rolled into the shadows. Another ghoul rushed up to investigate, but a black claw struck him, and he collapsed on the wall, having only a bleeding hole for a throat.
Ghoul sentries converged on the bodies from their various posts, forming a tight circle around their dead companions. Moonlight pooled around them for a brief moment as they exchanged guttural words, then a rain of daggers, claws, and lightning flashes struck them. Gushing blood formed tentacles in the moonlight, scattered drops glistened like dew on the walls, and the bodies did a slow collapse into the smoking slime.
The clown scaled the wall while the princess climbed one of the gate pillars. Moments later, the oak doors swung open. As the princess looked out, her eyes shone, creating an oval of light in the street. Shadows were banished as a brilliant shape took form. A bright mane appeared, and a lion emerged, gathering full definition as it bounded past the princess…
A brilliant ball, the moon dominated the sky above the temple of the ghouls. A dreadful cacophony began as their demon ascended from the black abyss. A giant fiend took shape out of the depths of darkness. Its eyes glowed red as coals. Its maw shot crimson fire. Malevolence and bloodlust twisted its hideous features. Shaking loose its smoking coils of hair, it raised sharpened green claws and looked toward the women.
Crouching low, the clown kept out of sight in one of the temple's hallways. Jail shadows from a heavy metal door made him a temporary prisoner. Staring out at the court, he awaited the princess's signal, and it came as lightning flashed near the women.
Paws padded down the hallway. The clown spun around and saw a flaming lion racing at full tilt toward him. Swinging the metal door open, he hid behind it as the creature raced through.
The lion's roar filled the temple as it leaped at the giant fiend. Fire streamed from the demon's maw, striking the cat as it arced through the moonlight. Blazing with red flames and purple light, it locked into the demon, tearing at it as it sent it for a fall on the altar floor.
Green blood and putrid flesh spilled from the demon's wounded shoulder. It seized a huge sword as it roared and rose. Wary, the lion slowly backed off, and behind it the women escaped through the open door.
Turning, the lion bounded out the door as the demon swung its sword. Metal clanked and scraped on the marble floor, and the door clanged shut.
A spiral carpet of silver moonlight appeared in the sky above the temple. The startled demon lifted its face to the moon and saw the magician tossing a handful of gold symbols into the night air.
Thunder boomed, and lightning began to flash. Black rays shot from the demon's fiery eyes, blasting the descending silver bolts out of existence. It raised its powerful arms and knocked away several flying claws, then more lightning charges hit it, and it staggered back and fell against the sacrificial pillar.
Roaring, it shook its fists and opened its claws in anger, but the magician was out of reach, and as the demon lashed out at the air, two bolts of steel caught its palms and impaled them to the pillar. A blue bolt flew into its fiery maw, completing its crucifixion as the magician landed on the altar.
Standing on one heel, the magician began to spin, becoming a blur of gold. Waves of symbols streamed into the air, vanished in the darkness, and then began to fall as a rain of gold daggers.
Ghastly cries replaced the drumming as fire, steel, and claws ripped flesh and limbs from the panicked ghouls. They trampled one another as they rushed to escape, but the clown and the princess got ahead of them and sealed off the exits. They could only turn back to their roaring demon and the attacking magician. In the end, they saw symbols flashing through slime and steam, and they collapsed in the sticky spray of blood filling a temple fast becoming their tomb.
In the temple of bones and decay, a symbol on a tomb remains … of a clown, a princess, and a magician.
+++
By Gary Morton
This is a story about a place where I once lived.
1. Think I Saw a Shadow
Mid-October and fall sunshine’s delicate touch lifts city spirits. The sky is light blue. Soft white clouds drift imperceptibly … and on the beach, waves of metallic green surge with the southern breeze.
In a stroke-weakened left eye, I see a world that has darkened. There’s slight pressure in my brain, and I fight for balance and relief from the panic of sudden illusion.
When I open my right eye, I see vigorous women, children, teens … jogging, cycling, blading, strolling on the waterfront. People of Toronto and a peaceful warmer autumn … then dust rises with smoke on the trail. It blinks my better eye shut, and I race off seeing something dark shimmer again … a premonition of a graveyard world, on a silent fall day.
I step in off the alleyway in the sunny tints of late afternoon and open the old and creaking wooden gate. In the dappled shade of four big trees, I look around the backyard.
A huge silhouette falls across most of the yard. It hangs there like a web of shadows or a decrepit tarp. Then I see Shadow, my black cat, sitting on top of a mound of junk. His eyes glow … straight black lines center his yellow stare … and without a hint, I see his intent.
He bounds down, leaps on an old table beside me, and meows. Then he suddenly arches and hisses at something in the yard.
So much stuff is strewn there that it’s hard to see anything other than shifting shadows and clutter. After a moment, something does move. I see a liquid shadow at first, then quicksilver darkness, a black flash, followed by a dry, slithering sound in the crackling leaves.
Disbelief fades as I realize that something definitely moved behind the barrels and sped out of sight. It appeared only in my stroke-blinded eye. When I closed it, the yard looked normal.
It could’ve been an illusion, but not if Shadow saw it, too.
2. It Must Be Hiding
I hurried up the fire escape to my second-floor deck and sat there spooked, looking over the yard. Something ugly was hiding in that damn junkyard. But where would it hide?
“Peter,” I muttered. “I hate that damn old landlord for turning this place into a freak fun house of antique rubbish.”
The biggest hiding spots were two wooden sheds constructed from discarded boards and doors. One of them built against the sumac tree. Both had padlocks and clutter on the roof … mounds of old wood, tin, pipes, and wheels up there. A door hole in the side of one shack served as an opening for dozens of huge spiders at night, but it was too small for something large.
The grass had all died, so nothing could be hiding in it unless it had dug a hole in the dirt. In place of a lawn, a stretch of old carpet covered the duff in the center of the yard. I could see suspicious bulges there.
Two large barbecues sat next to a rusted piece of iron railing that had weather-battered bicycles tied to it. Next to them, the trunk of the old maple rose, ringed inside a three-foot-high well-like circle of old stones, bricks, and rotted slabs of deadwood. I had the feeling that a new tenant could be residing there.
A three-legged rusted-out wheelbarrow filled with wood chips and dirt shielded a dark corner near the maple tree and fence. Free camouflage existed everywhere near that tree. Maybe something could hide up in dense layers of withering leaves. Studying all four trees, I noted the items Peter and tenants had attached to the trunks … owls, a rubber cobra, an ancient push lawnmower, a lizard, old rusted pans, a decaying piece of armor, a skull, a plastic cow. A plastic Christmas tree stood at the foot of the maple, and the tree’s wind vane swung above it. The wind vane was a pink plastic swan hanging down, with a black propeller that creaked as it spun, moving a bat on a wire below it.
The cat fluffed his tail and hissed again. He crouched on the fire escape, looking at the general yard. But I saw nothing moving. Boxes of crap and a mish mash of junk showed everywhere … things like an old mesh dog cage, piles of old sinks, wooden barrels, a heap of rusting bicycles, and parts behind a railing marking what used to be a garden, a scattering of rubber tires, old toys, a piece of broken stained glass window, heaps of plastic flowers and Peter’s horrible teddy bears.
A number of hideous maggot things could’ve been breeding in those old, rotten teddy bears or even the Santa cap hanging from the fence. Over by the table, a stuffed penguin stared idiotically from a toy car … cute little bears hung in baskets on the fence. Three Oktoberfest teddies sat in a planter on the tree … and scariest of all was a rag doll sitting inside a rubber tire on the garden fence. It may have once starred in a Stephen King story.
It was a sure thing; something wicked had this way come and nested down there. I saw it, and it wasn’t an animal or a snake. When I caught a glimpse of the thing, it shifted outline, size, and silhouette like some kind of shadowy demon. It was hard to pin down, other than to say that it existed, and the gut feeling was of an evil presence. One that burned itself into your retinas.
A puff of moths suddenly shot up like a geyser from a hole in one of the old wooden barrels. My cat, Shadow, leaped at them as a heap of garbage rocked. I ran down the steps, grabbed him, and went back up and inside. I could feel my skin crawling as I put the cat on the table and steadied myself against a rising panic attack.
3. Peter and His Brother
The night was sleepless and featured a multitude of nightmares. Something dragging on the roof was the recurring theme, and when I woke, I was dreaming of being in the grave instead of bed. A spotlight suddenly shone on me, and I rose with a startled shake. The light was a sunbeam; it was near noon on Saturday. I heard the side gate slamming shut and knew that it had to be either Peter or James going into the backyard. Shadow bounded past me as I opened the deck gate. I followed him down with the idea of hurrying to the front to grab my Saturday paper. I saw the landlord’s van over the fence in the lot, and as soon as I hit the junkyard turf, there he was. Old wrinkled Peter, wearing his cap and flannel work shirt, was pulling a kid’s wagon stacked high with stuff. An old plastic light-up Santa sat on top of the pile.
I could see fresh heaps of new rubbish, and it bothered me so much that I forgot about being spooked a day earlier. Taking a step, I tripped over a beat-up hot plate and grease-lacquered microwave he’d dumped on the walk.
“So Peter, I see you’re doing some work.”
“I’m cleaning up,” he said. “The fire inspector is coming on Tuesday.”
I frowned, noting that what Peter called "cleaning up" involved bringing in more trash rather than taking any out. “Hum, fire inspector,” I said. “I think you’re in trouble, Peter. There are too many fire violations. And you've got to fix that leaking roof. The ceiling in my kitchen is collapsing.”
“My heart,” Peter said. “It’s bad. I can’t do too much hard work. Empty this wagon for me. I go see my brother.”
So I emptied the wagon, finding the bottom of it filled with heavy rocks. Constantly bringing in bags of rocks was another of his personality malfunctions. He’d come to your door to offer you rocks, and he had rocks on the roof lining the fence of his deck.
The cat and I watched with irritated expressions as Peter said hello to his teddy bears, each with its own name. He tipped his cap at the Oktoberfest bears and then climbed the fire escape. I noted that he was carrying a crazy clown doll.
Then he stopped at my deck and yelled down. “I hang the clown here!”
“No, no,” I said, and then I dashed up. “I don’t want a clown that hangs from a pink parachute. It doesn’t look good.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll put it on the roof.” He went up the rickety wooden steps that led from my deck to the rooftop gate. Peter liked to call those steps his stairway to heaven.
The roof he’d turned into two sundecks. One was his, and the other belonged to a tenant, except that only her cat used it. They could get on the roof through the third-floor bubble skylight.
Everything had rotted up there. On the angled section, the shingles had shrunk and warped to the point that they looked as if they'd been drying and mummifying for a hundred years. The flat portions were worse … so much busted flat roofing, and it needed work, or the whole thing would collapse down on my kitchen. And of course, he had lawn chairs and an assortment of other stuff on that weakest portion of the roof.
Peter’s brother was an item of debate among the neighbors. He’d tell everyone about visiting his brother on the roof. Some people thought he had a crazy brother living behind the rooftop fence. But I’d been up there, and there were sun umbrellas and toys and stuffed animals. At the highest point, a picture of Jesus remains illuminated 24 hours a day. East of Jesus, a wooden toy devil with outstretched arms and a necklace of rosary beads faces the heavens.
I wondered exactly what Peter worshiped. He called a picture of Jesus his brother, and he also had a skull painted black, hung on a chain at the rooftop gate. The wooden devil was also his brother, so technically, he had two brothers. Biblically, Jesus is not a brother.
I came back from the front with my newspaper, hearing Peter banging on metal objects and singing Greek songs up on the roof. It was weird. I couldn’t tell if he was singing, chanting, or praying. And what were the songs about? He’d lived in Cyprus many years ago, and he’d told me his job in the civil war had been poisoning guard dogs belonging to the British. Later, he worked with the army when they’d taken a monastery, and he had an assortment of pipes and metal pieces that he banged to send signals of a sort. Those sound items he’d replicated on a tree in the backyard and on the roof, and often he’d get to banging out crazy percussion on the metal. Below in the backyard, it was to stimulate his memory of days gone by. Above on the roof, it was a crazy occult religious thing of his invention that involved songs and chants.
That top deck had been a wonder among the tenants. There were days when he forgot to close the gate, and we went up and drank beer. I remember talking to James and Dianna up there. Peter had odd things like a toy tractor, fake birds, busted pieces of iron railing, and an old ship he’d made of discarded wood chips … but the items of conversation were the normal things.
An ashtray was filled with ancient cigarette buts. He had his incense burner on a round patio table that was surrounded by chairs tilted down and derelict. There was a chair for a child near the fence and a small barbecue. Dianna said it creeped her out, but James and I speculated as to Peter’s sanity. No one went up there but him. If he sat there alone, he probably imagined others were with him at that table, smoking, eating from the barbecue, perhaps he saw a child in the small chair over there.
It was all food for thought, and I felt a bit lost in reflection as I picked up the cat. Then suddenly I saw it again, the new resident of the yard. It was close, and shot out from behind a stack of rain-faded boards … like it was going to rip my leg off. In my blinded left eye, I saw liquid darkness morph to a hideous head and fangs … the thing had a huge, melting jaw, blood on its twisted lips, and a drip of ooze like fear running. Being dog-bit would be bad enough, but this thing was beyond rabid. It shot into my brain like a poisonous serum, and I knew that it wanted my body and what might remain of my mind.
I staggered back. My cat Shadow hissed and took a piece out of my arm as he leaped free. Then fear became amazement. The beast ducked away quickly from Shadow. It was afraid of my black cat … but it sure as hell wasn’t afraid of me. I wondered about Peter as I went up the steps. Should I tell him that something dangerous had gotten into the yard?
Creeping up the deck steps, I peeked through the rooftop gate. Peter was at the top. His arms were raised, and I heard shouting. “Strike him down, my Brother! Strike this crazy man down!”
In this case, his brother appeared to be a black wooden devil icon that he was facing. A moment later, he lowered his arms and headed for the gate. I waited on the deck as he came down, noting the ugly scowl on his face. Lately, that look had become nearly permanent, like natural meanness or the look a person has when they’ve eaten something foul, and it keeps coming up.
“Everything alright up there?” I said.
“Yes. I pray to my brother. Someone called the fire inspector on me. Someone crazy! So I pray for this crazy man to be struck down.”
“Hum,” I thought. “If this crazy man comes into the back yard, he probably will be struck down. Or else half the neighborhood will be struck down, because most of them have complained about Peter at one time or another.”
4. The Ceiling from Hell
At 3 am, an aged Ozzy CD was cranked up to high volume in the backyard. I knew it was James, the long-haired tenant living in the back basement. He often returned late at night with friends and played music.
I opened the door to the deck, and the cat bounded over the gate and disappeared into the inky darkness as he ran down the fire escape. I opened a beer and reluctantly followed him down.
James was in a bitter mood. Shadows from the alley spotlight melted on his face and curly hair. He looked stoned, and the darkness magnified his resemblance to Ozzy Osborne. His temper flared. “There’s nothing in this place but junk!” he said. Then he grabbed an old futon bed-board set and tossed it over top of Peter’s little shack. Turning back, he picked up the old microwave oven and hot plate Peter had left by his door. Carrying the junk up the fire escape to the top, he tossed it to the cement walk, smashing it to pieces.
I looked at the wreck, then stumbled into a big pile of dirty dishes next to one of Peter’s shacks. The rot on them had rubberized. I watched as they rocked and fell, and I felt like breaking them all, but I didn’t want to touch them.
Instead, I sat in a lawn chair and waited for James to calm down. His dark-haired girlfriend sat silently in the shadows. Shadow, my cat, watched from other shadows, and in my murky left eye, I saw a different sort of shadow hanging by the tree. It existed in a beam of the night light where no shadow should’ve been.
The music gained volume … another set of frenzied songs filtered by James’ pot smoke. In the corner of my eye, I watched the shadow morph into something bigger and move into the tree over the gate. Moments later, it slipped down the wall near some hanging wiring and crept around and through James’ open door. I saw the cat show his fangs as it disappeared into the basement.
The music died out, and the night got quiet. James started talking about his apartment. “The basement is a wreck. I got one good room left,” he said. “Peter hasn’t fixed anything for years, and his front section of the basement has two tons of scavenged junk rotting in it.”
Taking a slug of beer, he stared up at the tree, seeing part of that same permanent web of gloom that hung over the backyard in the daytime. “I need help to get that thing out of there,” he said.
“What thing?” I said.
“I’m talking about my bed, the double futon. I haven’t used it in months. The ceiling in the bedroom rotted and leaked, ruining the mattress. I can’t carry it out by myself.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
“No, let’s do it now.”
“Uh, I really don’t want to go in there now.”
The entrance to the basement was like a dark cave under my deck. Water and cobwebs dripped from a high ceiling even though it hadn’t rained in a while. Some of Peter’s scavenged paintings showed in the dim light as I followed James down wooden steps to his apartment.
The main room was well-lit and open with no shadows, but my feelings changed when I got to the bedroom. Odors from the rotting carpeting stung my nose. I could see the old, soaked mattress. It looked nasty, wet, and heavy. Then James turned on a chandelier and the bedroom light, and I caught sight of the ceiling.
It sagged so low and deep that I stepped back out the door, fearing imminent collapse.
But James walked in and started shifting the bed, apparently unafraid of the malignant pregnancy above him.
I’d heard of the landlord from hell and the tenant from hell, but figured that it would take both and a big smoke cloud of black magic to create such a phenomenon of slimy decay from a simple ceiling. To allow that ceiling to exist, Peter had to be worse than the landlord from hell … like maybe the devil really was his brother.
In a way, the bulge resembled a shark’s belly, but not quite, because it had some patterns like a tropical fish, one that had been dead long enough to host the growth of numerous parasites.
A skin-like gray substance hung and fluttered like cobwebs in the east corner. Silvered stalactites formed a jagged row of shark’s teeth near the center. Fluorescent green goo pulsed in a gash where a board had broken through peeling paint. Splits in the drywall had leaked plaster, which fused with mould to create white, foaming orifices and spots of blackened decay that had rounded like mushrooms. The leakage dripping onto James’ bed ran red and rusted like blood and corrosion.
I was amazed to see the ceiling light still working, though it no longer resembled a light. It was weak and had the effect of a morbid eye sunk into a mass of swollen rot and webbing. The glass from its cover had cracked, leaving broken shards protruding, while the remaining bare bulb and spots of glittering rot worked to blind me.
“I bet Peter doesn’t want the fire inspector to see that,” James said.
“Yeah, because it looks like fifty people bled and died in the room above you.”
“Peter says the shower leaked and damaged the ceiling.”
Foul fishlike odors reached the bottom of my stomach with the force of sandpaper. I choked up acidic bile and had a sudden vision in my half-blind eye. A maggoty shadow moved inside the womb of ceiling rot. It struck me with sudden fear that faded to numbness in my legs and a hair-raising gross out in the rest of my body.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said. “Let’s toss this mattress quick.”
James nodded, and I went in with my head down. I grabbed the bottom part of the mattress and found it so slimy that I lost my grip. I didn’t want to touch it again, but fear of the ceiling gave me the strength to seize it and begin pulling it out. We climbed the stairs with fumes strong as fingers poking our noses and eyes … moved through the alley darkness to the street and dumped the foul mattress with Wednesday’s garbage.
Heading back inside, my skin crawled and itched. “Think I need about three showers,” I said. Then I grabbed the cat and went back upstairs.
5. Quiet Scream
Another day, the autumn sun was blinding, and dusk fell like a knife. I got busy on the net. During a pause in browsing, I looked up and felt that something was off. It was quiet, too quiet. It’d been that way for a week. The other tenants used to make a fair bit of noise. Lately, I hadn’t seen any of them other than James late at night. Now the place seemed haunted. I heard the odd door slam, peculiar hushed voices, and little else. Noises a reclusive ghost passing in the hall could’ve made.
Shadow was scratching at the front door of the apartment. He never went out that way, so I walked over and turned on the hall chandelier. Some type of black bug was there, and the cat was knocking it about. It was probably the biggest, ugliest bug in the city… a black beetle with huge protruding eyes, and tough, too. It buzzed angrily at Shadow like it wanted a scrap, and he answered by seizing it with his fangs and tossing it against the wall. I moved in to squash it, but failed. It hopped aside, then Shadow seized it again, and this time he ate it.
The little beast didn’t want me to get his bug. He took it in a long gulp, then his eyes popped, and he started to choke. Long hacks followed, as if the bug were trying to fight its way out. I picked him up and patted his back to ease his coughing, but even then, it went on for five minutes.
Finally, the bug was digested. I frowned. “Now the place is infested by monster bugs,” I muttered. Then I heard a scream. Not a loud scream but a muffled scream, like the person had been partially gagged or silenced and was in a state of terror.
I opened the door, and Shadow ran out. Across the hall, the door to the front apartment stood open. When I knocked, it opened more. The tenant, Stefan, wasn’t in.
It was a peculiar scene. The place was in disarray, and there was a black smear on the floor where something had been dragged. The stain was red to spatters of black, forming a twisting path out to the hall and stairs. I turned on the hall light for a closer look, then went back into Stefan’s apartment.
Grime-blackened curtains were billowing in a foul wind from the street. It rose and fell, and I heard bizarre noises below. At the window, I saw a shadowy figure moving rapidly at the front. A raw scraping noise came from the side alley leading to the backyard.
An unwanted vision rose in my mind. I knew the tenant, Stefan, hated Peter. When he moved in, he tossed Peter’s trash décor and repainted the place. Stefan put in simple furniture then. But now the place looked like another of Peter’s mad palaces, with moldy carpeting tossed over the hardwood and kitsch paintings and knick-knacks cluttering the walls. I picked up an animal carving and studied it. It was so old that the wood had blackened and warped. It was impossible to guess what animal it was, and it gave me the shivers because it most reminded me of that shadowy thing I’d seen in the backyard. A chill hit me; I thought it moved in my hand and let go, leaving it to bounce away on the floor.
The room felt like a bad omen, so I slammed the broken door and left. I went down the stairs, wondering. The front hall of the house was Peter’s kitsch curiosity shop. A wide hall with a high ceiling that would have been attractive had he not filled it with clutter. Colored lights and strings of lights were plugged in around a wall cabinet filled with mismatched pieces of crappy art. A statue of Jesus stood at its center. The rest of the hall was a muddle of paintings and hangings … brass plates, naked cupids, stands of plastic flowers, an antique rifle, and a gold birdcage with a fake parakeet inside. He had an aquarium filled with rubber bugs, lizards, and shells. Teddy bears in pots and a big Santa doll in a sleigh worked to complete a dusty, nightmarish tone.
There were two apartments on the ground floor. Neither tenant answered when I knocked, so I went to the front. The door was a glass-and-silver one that once belonged to an ice cream parlor. I got a good view of the front yard from it … but saw no one out there.
I stepped into the front yard and looked around. Some strings of lights illumined the area and highlighted sprays of plastic flowers. Peter had plastic flowers in wooden barrels. A fifty-year-old rusting baby carriage was filled with more flowers. There were piles of rocks and deadwood, a horseshoe fastened over the door, and a construction of tiered birdhouses filled with flowers and tiny teddy bears. Light from the street was blocked by a berry tree, bushes, and a fence made of deadwood, segments of bent, rusted railing, and tall weeds.
A shadow moved on the lower portion of the roof above the door. I stepped back quickly and saw that it was Shadow, my cat. I’d accidentally shut him in Stefan’s apartment, so he’d gone out the window. He crouched beside a ceramic roof bear, then I saw his eyes and fangs flash as he hissed.
Another shadow was moving near the side alley. I stepped over, and it was gone in a flash, but I did see something oozing over the gate to the back yard. In the alley, a red drag marking ended at a basement window. I crouched to look and found the window locked. The light was out.
I returned to the front door. Shadow had jumped down, and I was about to reach for him when a figure suddenly appeared in the dark beside me. It startled me. I stepped away and then saw that it was Peter. He’d come up the steps from the front basement.
Even in the dark, I could see how dirty he was … like he‘d been digging for coal or something. And his pockets bulged. It looked like they were full of sticks.
“Come in the house, I show you something,” he said.
A serious frown pinched his blackened face. I followed his hunched figure inside to his cabinet of ornaments. He stopped and pointed to two tiny teddy bears in baskets. “My babies, my babies!” he wailed. “Stefan, hurt my babies. He’s crazy in the brain, that man!”
“They look alright to me,” I said.
“Yes, now they are okay. But today when I come I found them upside down in their baskets. Other things were touched, and a vase of flowers is missing.”
“Where is Stefan?” I said. “I heard a scream. Now I see his door has been left open.”
“That crazy tenant! I pray to my brother to strike him down! Soon it will be quieter here. The tenants are mostly quiet now. It’s better for my babies. They sleep well, and quiet tenants don’t use too much water and electricity. The bills I have to pay … heat, water, and electric cost too much. It’s better for the house to be quiet and dark.”
“Quiet and dark! It is already quiet, and the back of the house is darker than parts of the moon. If you want to save money, try turning off some of the lights you have at the front and on the front roof. The other tenants can’t be using much; I haven’t seen any of them around other than James once in a while. What happened to them?”
“The house is light and dark. The back must be dark. My brother wants it that way. The tenants give me postdated cheques for the rent this year. Now they are sleeping. Stefan is sleeping with them now.”
“If you say so,” I said. Then I went back upstairs, wondering about Peter and his babies. “Maybe his madness has finally driven the tenants out,” I thought. “Maybe something far worse is going on. Maybe the other tenants are nuts, too, and somehow in this with him. Maybe that shadowy demon got them, and they’re more than sleeping.”
6. Roof Spook
I returned home in the early afternoon, thinking it was another day in a long string of sunny days. Each of these days had been ruined by the landlord and the new threat in the backyard.
I’d get on my computer or try to enjoy the weather. Then the hammering would begin. Hours of banging, and the first three days were spent on my deck. Peter was building a new set of stairs from my deck to the roof. His stairway to heaven; it allowed him to come up the fire escape to my deck, and then he could take his new stairs to the roof, his two sundecks, and his gods and demons.
Nails were his specialty; he hammered about a thousand into the new stairs, and he was around the house building railings and doing other noisy stuff. The neighbors were yelling from their yards and windows for him to can it. But he plunged blindly onward with the hammer, cursing the fire inspector for ordering repairs.
The backyard would have provided some relief, but fear of the new inhabitant killed that. I wouldn’t even go down there without Shadow. And it must have looked odd to see me carrying a black cat with me everywhere.
Finally, the noise was too much, and I went down and talked to James in the backyard.
“I just got back from up North,” he said. “But I can’t have any friends over. Peter’s always here, hammering.”
“He’s driving me nuts,” I said. “The fire inspector didn’t order those particular repairs. He only has to clear out junk from the hallways and stairwells. Peter’s working on some master plan of his own. The roof is rotten; dust is falling on me while he blunders around up there, so why is he building new steps up to it?”
“I’ve never seen this back yard look worse,” James said. “Years ago, this was a beautiful place with rose bushes and sun. Now there’s scrap everywhere, and the trees are overgrown, making it dark even in the daytime. He took out the lights, so it’s pitch black at night.”
“Yeah, I use my own spotlight hookup now. But I’m wondering what he is doing up there on the roof? All that banging and he hasn’t taken any shingles or roofing stuff up there. I keep hearing noises at night, like something dragging. None of the other tenants seems to be around anymore. I find that suspicious.”
“Maybe he’s building another one of those shitty junk houses up there, and the raccoons moved in. We should check it out sometime.”
“Think I’ll take a look up there after dark. Peter always leaves at dusk.”
But of course, I never did get to checking out the roof after dark. Instead, I was on the phone and the computer. Drank a couple of beers and passed out dead tired.
Late at night, the weird noises started. The cat jumped on me, and I sat up, finding that I’d passed out on the couch with all my clothes on. I went to the window and saw nothing in the side alley. My cell said 2 am, so I knew it wasn’t James, as he partied nights usually after 3 am.
I probably wouldn’t have suspected anything much if it weren’t for the constant humming sound. It was a low hum that rose and fell, almost like an engine sound … intense and irritating but subdued … from the south corner of the ceiling. Meaning it had to be coming from the roof.
A moment later, I heard footsteps and scraping above. Someone or something was up there, so I walked through the apartment and went out on the deck. The rooftop gate sat in blue-black darkness and silence at the top of the stairs. The noises had subsided.
I went up with the cat behind me, pushed Peter’s skull and chain aside, and opened the gate. Peeking inside, I saw a floating area of darkness backlit by the sky. Returning with a flashlight, I entered. Flicking it on, I saw something black move and nearly jumped out of my skin. But it turned out to be the cat ahead of me, so I calmed down and took a slow look around. The flat portion had fresh patches of tar, which I avoided. I gathered that Peter had been trying to fix some of the holes and that something had been up there making them.
A cloudy sky was reflected in the skylight. A torn flag fluttered on the fence. A toy clown shifted in the wind by the creaking railing. The sweep of my flashlight beam illumined old lawn furniture and decaying sun umbrellas. When I swept it over the angled portion leading to the higher deck, I spotted a large hump in the rotted shingles.
“Hum, that thing wasn’t there before,” I thought as I stepped closer.
The thing turned out to be a giant cocoon of rotted shingles and tar paper covered with festering nodes of roofing slime. It was about the size of a human body, and that aroused my suspicion. Picking up a piece of deadwood, I began to poke at it. In most areas, the tar had hardened, but in one spot, the stick went through into something soft. When I pulled it out, I saw blood at the end.
Remaining calm while feeling like either fleeing or throwing up, I peeled a piece of shingle back. That released an explosion of gas and foul liquids, sending me reeling on my heels. I dropped the light, scrambled to pick it up, and put the light beam back on the cocoon. I saw maggoty ooze and a piece of cloth. It was part of a shirt. Inspecting it with the stick, I realized that it had to be one of Stefan’s shirts. He was the only tenant who dressed that loud.
“Peter said he was going to get Stefan for calling the inspector,” I muttered. “Looks like he got him and turned him into a giant pile of maggots.”
Pulling out my cell phone, I looked up Peter’s number. I assumed calling him would be safe because he lived a few kilometers away and wouldn’t be able to get here to confront me. I planned on asking him a few pointed questions.
I punched the talk button and waited. A moment later, the call went through, and I swear my hair stood broom straight, because I heard a phone ring at the top of the roof.
I canceled the call instantly and waited. Nothing moved up there. I waited five minutes more, hearing only the creaking of old wood in the wind. Stars and a faint light glowed at the top, so I decided to check it out and went slowly up the next set of steps. I moved the light around, saw something shadowy move near the east fence, and ducked back.
The light was by the south fence. I crept over, seeing Peter’s picture of Jesus and his little devil illumined by a night light. Now he had a tiny Plexiglas construction built around them to protect them as a personal shrine. A motor hummed, though I couldn’t see one, and a brass vase produced a light mist that drifted like smoke.
Some other large objects near the east fence caught my eye. My beam flashed in my cat’s eyes. He was already over there, standing on what looked to be a weather-beaten coffin.
I walked over and found three grave-battered coffins. Two closed and one open … all of them dirt-crusted like they’d been freshly pulled from a graveyard. I moved my beam to the open one. A fully clothed body was inside. Moving the light up to the face, I saw that it was Peter. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t dead; he was sleeping.
Clicking off the light, I moved away quickly and headed for the stairs. I got down the first set, then heard a bang behind me as I headed for the gate. That caused me to slip right into the wet tar, and before I could get out, my foot went crashing through the roof.
I was stuck there in the dark, trying to pull my foot up without making any noise. A damn splintered board had caught my ankle, making it more than difficult. Maggots touched my flesh, then I heard noise above. The glow of a brighter light appeared at the top. I saw Peter and something else … a massive shadow … big enough to be a bear moving, or more like sliding beside him. They turned at the top of the steps, and I saw its face. It was feral and demonic, with fangs and hellish red eyes that moved in transformation with the rest of its shifting form.
They were about to come down, but Peter, being nearly blind, couldn’t see me. He turned, and the thing followed him over to his shrine.
Knowing they might not be out of sight for long, I worked to get my leg loose, finally pulling so hard that I put a bad cut in my ankle. Wet tar sealed the wound as I got free and headed for the gate.
I shut the gate, and the cat and I went down the steps and into my apartment. Locking both doors, I went into the bathroom to clean the wound. Then the phone rang. It was Peter.
“Is everything okay there at the house?” he said.
“Yes, everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“One of the other tenants complained about noise on the roof. You weren’t on the roof, were you?”
“No. I’ve been sleeping. No one’s up there.”
“Okay, I’m just checking. I have to make sure my brother is okay.”
I hung up, and then I thought about calling the police. But I didn’t. They would never believe murder had gone on up on the roof without me knowing about it or being a part of it. They’d think I was in on Peter’s crazy deal … a nut talking about teddy bears, shadows, and maggoty monsters.
7. Stairway to Heaven and Hell
Peter left the roof at the first sign of the morning sky. He didn’t try to enter my apartment, so I believed he was satisfied for the moment. I saw Venus above and watched its hunched form creep down and out the back gate. He took nothing with him, and no creatures followed. It gave me the feeling that only Peter could leave … his ghastly beast was rooted here at the house.
Looking at the calendar, I realized it was the end of October. Halloween had arrived, and I had entered the witch’s zone at midnight with the ugly roof find. If the day progressed in the same fashion, it would be deadly.
At least I was still alive. The other tenants had perished, except for James, as he may have headed back up North before they got him.
My first piece of luck had been my black cat. Then I’d managed to escape from Peter and his beastly friend. But it was all very tiring and, in a sense, too much. Thinking that perhaps it was the end and I no longer cared, I fell asleep and got lucky with a strange dream.
The dream gave me understanding of the bizarre happenings, disappearances, Peter’s madness, and the shadowy apparition roaming in the backyard.
Weird dreams had disturbed my sleep from the beginning, and I’d always believed the decrepit house was haunted. The haunting seemed to be by some hidden spirit. A silent and frightening phantom that opened doors, rapped on the walls, and moaned occasionally. It struck mostly in dreams.
Haunted dreams always started with doors swinging mysteriously and strangers coming in. The voices of a young man and others were in the dreams, and I’d often get up to confront the intruders and find no one there. The bothersome spirits never fully appeared in the house, but when I went out on the deck, I’d see an apparition of a witch-like woman sweeping up leaves … small shadows moving in beards of spots to obscure her face.
This time it was different. I woke up in bed and was surprised to find the furnishings had been altered. A large box with drawers sat on the coffee table. I opened a couple of drawers and found objects that resembled cigars, a twisted gold ring, and some personal items I couldn’t identify. The set itself had animal carvings and faces in it that weren’t from this world. Yet they seemed very real and genuine.
Red curtains fluttered on a tarnished moon, and the room was thick with damp odors. Tall plants stood near the window, and a broad fernlike one blocked my view of the couch. I spotted the cat sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at something at the far end of the couch. I strained to see, but saw nothing but plant leaves and a blur. Closing my right eye, I looked with my left. A man came into view, or rather, what used to be a man. He was emaciated and wearing ragged clothing, the frightening aspect being his face. His right eye was gone, and his skin had melted into a hideous web of exposed flesh. Gouges in the flesh resembled acid burns more than death’s decay.
He was an apparition or evil spirit of some variety, but he wasn’t a ghost. I realized that this being had never been human, even though I took him as male, and I don’t think he knew I could see him. He sat there in silence, showing no reaction or movement. Like a wicked chameleon confident in his dead-man’s camouflage.
I woke up in a fog and then began to think. It all seemed to come together. The long-term presence of ghostlike beings in the house suggested a connection to a spirit realm. The rest was likely a colossal accident. Peter really was the landlord from hell. Years of rot and his collection of every old artifact and odd piece of junk, combined with his eccentricities and the construction of the rooftop shrine, had created the right conditions. His stairway to heaven was the lightning rod that intensified the house's haunting. He’d unwittingly created a crossover point to some other ghostly realm. The old metal pipes he banged on the tree, the songs he sang in Greek to his brother on the roof, and the positioning of every kind of crazy idol, symbol, and rusted antique must have created an alchemy of mold and decay. He’d done the job by pure accident, and now he’d gone mad. Perhaps contact with the monsters had cinched the deal, and the day that wicked shadow demon crossed over to the back yard was the day he lost his mind.
Dealing with Peter was one problem. Another was the deadly black apparition he’d brought in. I had a theory about that fanged shadow and a plan to test it.
I kept an eye out for Peter all day, but he didn’t show. When the sun began to fall, I stepped out on the deck holding a ball of string. I closed the door so the cat couldn’t get out, then fastened one end of the string to the screen door. A test pull opened it, but I closed it quickly to keep the cat inside.
Leaves were falling and swirling in a light breeze. The dying rays of the sun filtered through in dusty beams. The yard had its usual rust and must smell. An abandoned atmosphere strengthened by occasional gusts of wind and the creak and rattle of boards and debris.
I walked down the fire stairs, unwinding the string as I went. Once in the yard, I walked over to the alley gate and looked back. It was certain the thing was lurking somewhere, waiting to strike, but I couldn’t spot it.
I took a walk around like Peter would do … picking up a couple of rotten teddy bears to say hi, sorting some old boards, looking at the decaying contents in a number of old barrels. Nothing seemed to be happening, so I stopped, leaned against the tree, and kicked up some leaves.
It struck with lightning speed; a mound of leaves exploded, and some plastic crates and a gasoline can got knocked aside by a force of darkness that felt like sizzling wind. Its rush at me seemed both predatory and desperate, like I had always been its chosen prey. I saw the warped fangs and burning eyes rise out of a head that spun and enlarged like a twister.
In an instant, I was thrown against the tree, and in spite of the shock, I knew I was being swallowed, like a person going into the belly of a snake. I did try to strike out and, in doing so, pulled the string I had set.
An overwhelming force took my head. My skull and mind fused as I went through a spinning black hole. A wall of screeching sound ripped me like I was in an MRI scanner that had gone off the rails. Both eyes went blind, then filled with a continual swirl of shadows and dark smoke. I was tumbling out of the sky toward a misty place and saw fragments of a strange scene. Endless rows of broken gravestones and bubbling earth, skeletal figures creeping in long grass and murk, hundreds of ancient coffins like the ones Peter had on the roof, but these were strewn near open graves.
Cloudy faces appeared, worm-eaten and hideous, broken bones protruding through rotted cloth and flesh. This was a world where the dead had risen from the grave, and the corpses had not been human in life either.
Claws of pain tore at my legs. I thought I was finished, and then everything swirled in smoke again. I felt like I was being sucked down a huge drain. I hit the ground and found myself thrown into a pile of Peter’s junk. A rusty nail put a puncture in my leg. My shoulder got bashed by an old sink, but I still got up quickly and saw that my plan had worked. The cat had gotten out and chased the beast off.
Being out of breath and still unsteady on my feet, I sat in a chair by the fence. I checked the bleeding on my leg, then I saw the cat going up the fire escape as the shadow demon slipped onto the roof.
Darkness swept in fast like a blinding curtain. I went up and turned on the outdoor light, then went down and sat in the backyard with a beer. I had to think it out, and though my theory had proved correct, I still couldn’t believe it. This house was a crossover point, but not to our spirit realm. The connection was to another world, a repulsive place where the dead had risen.
My experience showed that the travel was mostly one-way. If I had gone all the way through, I would have been killed or driven mad by the undead apparitions populating that place. It could have happened that way to other tenants, and they returned as corpses in coffins. If not, then maybe Peter killed them and stuffed them in coffins he brought from that place.
Peter must have transformed a weak connection to that graveyard world into a powerful one. He remained alive but mad, now a servant of that realm. His mistaken magic had somehow kept him alive as a warped version of his former self.
Swallowing the last of my beer, I decided that the whole thing creeped me out royally. I went up the steps, planning on going in for the night … then a light came on above. Something was happening on the roof.
Climbing the steps, I found the gate unlocked. The first deck was mostly dark, so I opened the gate just enough to slip in. Yellow light glowed above, and I could see a human shadow elongated against the fencing. He was moving and dragging something heavy.
It was hard to see, so I listened. Leaves rustled and lifted in the wind. I heard street sounds, birds, and night sounds, and the voices of children out for Halloween. Then I heard humming … the same low humming that bothered me constantly in my bedroom.
I went up the final steps quietly; just enough to see … and what I saw was Peter. He’d somehow got up there, and what he’d been dragging was a body. It was a woman, and he was hauling her up with a rope to hang her off one of the center beams running over the top of the deck. Peter’s toy devil with the rosary beads was framed behind them, and a coffin sat under it. I could see that coffin shaking fiercely. It hummed, and I wondered what in the hell could be in it.
Then the body twisted on the rope. I saw a fire department badge on the woman’s shirt and gulped.
Peter turned quickly. The light caught his eyes. He looked ghastly. Black mud and blood smeared on his forehead and under his eyes. He wore a crown of autumn leaves and sticks on top of his cap and big fisherman’s boots on his feet.
“You’re insane,” I said. “You killed the fire inspector and the other tenants.”
“No. I didn’t kill her!” he shouted. Then he pointed to his toy devil. “I prayed to my brother to strike her down. Now she is dead because she had to die. She ordered me to remove my brother’s home from this roof.”
“What about the tenants? Why did you kill them?”
Peter’s eyes lit up and became the orbs of a fiend. He seized the corpse’s shoulder and rocked it on the rope. “My brother is hungry. He has to eat, and he likes to eat people. Come here now, and meet my brother!”
I didn’t answer, but stared in shock as he turned and stepped over to the coffin. It sprang open at his touch, and a gross shape began to ooze out. It was hard to believe a coffin could hold something so big. It kept pouring out, rising and growing in white sheets like a huge maggot. When it reared up fully, I saw a face form … the same fanged and hideous style of face as that of the shadow demon.
“Now you meet my brother!” Peter shouted. He reached down and picked up a crowbar, then began to shuffle toward me. I backed down the stairs. Peter’s shadow and the colossal maggot moved behind the fence. They appeared at the top of the stairs and then descended. The maggot oozed in the lead, followed by Peter and the shadow demon.
I retreated into the backyard, standing by the alley gate as the maggot shook the fire escape and slithered down. Peter remained near the top watching and the cat fled into the bushes.
I was on my own against this unworldly thing and decided to escape. But the back gate wouldn’t open. Peter’s lock was on it. I had a key but no time to use it, so I ducked across the yard.
The maggot dripped buckets of slime as it hit the autumn dirt. Leaves and junk gathered on it as it approached me. I tried to make the other gate but tripped in the dark, and then, with no close escape, I got up and started circling the fire escape with the maggot beast close behind.
It got heavier and slower … the hideous thing sucked in everything it touched … pieces of metal, boards, bricks, toys, and other debris formed a coat on it and ran with a long trail of ooze behind it.
Seeing my chance, I ran for the gate, inserted the key, and managed to get out. The auto spotlight in the parking spaces came on, and I saw a pile of broken stones just as I tripped over them.
I fell hard and found myself watching from the ground as the maggot rose and swelled through the gate. It was about to collapse on me, then it began to glow, radiantly bright. Smoke rose in oily black puffs and curls, its flesh hissed and boiled with pus eruptions, then a spasm hit its widening mouth, and fire flew, singing my face and hair. Its eyes smoldered, brightened like black stars, and then it came apart … a sloppy, gassy explosion of flaming white fat and burning junk swept the alley and parts of neighboring yards.
Blinded and batting out small fires on my clothes, I stood up and staggered, believing I was running into the alley. But I went the wrong way, and as my vision cleared, I heard the gate door slam. I was back in the yard, and Peter and the shadow demon were a few feet away.
The cat leaped out and hissed to block the shadow demon’s attack, and that brought Peter into action. He swung his crowbar at the cat and missed. Then the cat ran for cover with Peter following him into the darkness and rubbish. The second ghastly brother slipped closer, preparing to strike. In my blind eye, I saw the fangs rising up and the whirling maw widening.
And in my good eye, I saw my cat Shadow run out from behind the tree next to me.
Peter lunged at him and tripped over a fallen brick. He went flying out of control. He fell just as his monster struck. And it swallowed him instead of me.
I tumbled against the fence, knocking teddy bears and dust loose. I saw Peter as he was sucked into the vortex. His feet kicked, and he went in up to his waist in a dark pool, then there was an explosion of wind as he disappeared in spiraling shadows.
Small fires flickered like candles in the yard. Leaves blew and spun in dust devils. The trees rocked, and dead branches fell, gusts sent cans flying, and the old wheelbarrow moved on its own.
I put the fires out, and silence fell on the backyard. A great pumpkin moon rose. Halloween partiers passed in the alleyway. I had that sudden warm feeling that fall and blowing leaves can bring, and I looked over a yard filled with light. The sticky web of shadows had left with Peter and his brothers.
I planned on chopping down the rooftop devil, as breaking the magic would leave Peter stuck on the other side. I went up and found the coffins and bodies gone. It was like they’d never been there. The wooden demon still had its arms outstretched to the sky, but it no longer frightened me. Instead, it seemed like I’d only dreamed of evil.
I had a chisel in my hand, and I looked at it. Then I heard teenagers screaming in a car passing on the street below. My memory slipped, and I couldn’t quite remember why I was on the roof, so I headed back down to my apartment and slept for a long time.
In the morning, the house and the yard were silent. No tenants, no ghosts, but I did see a shadow … somewhere in the back yard.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Officer Donner booted an empty mace jetcan and watched it rattle out of the dusty alley. His reddened nose twitched at the scent of something vile, then he stepped out, kicked the can into the gutter, and scanned the empty street. Something dark and fleeting passed in the corner of his eye; he spun left quickly and yanked an Ingram semi-automatic from his hidden holster.
Fast on the trigger, he nearly opened fire; it clicked in his mind that it was nothing. The movement belonged to a torn black flag fluttering from a window post. The black anarchist shade had led to his quick reflex action.
Soiled candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and leaves spun up in a dust devil sweeping the lonely concrete square across the road. The street itself had deteriorated to a stretch of shattered windows and abandoned cars. He noted that the center of it had already been swept, meaning a riot sweep team had forced all civilians and protesters out.
Feeling glum but confident, Donner stepped around a wrecked car and began to march up the road. On his fifth step, he slipped and nearly fell. “Shit,” he said, noticing that he'd walked through a pool of glistening oily liquid - spattering the gooey stuff halfway up his tall black boots.
Pulling a soft rag from his pack, he bent over to clean the slime off. Close up, he noticed drops of blood. That froze him for a second, then he straightened up and was about to take a second look around when he felt a tug at his cape.
Spinning on his heel, he ripped the cape from the offending fingers and found himself looking down at a bloodied face. The young man was on his knees, and his swollen lips were moving as he tried to plead for help. Only no words were coming out - just some sort of sticky gurgle. His T-shirt had been badly torn, and he was crawling in shards of broken glass. Filth jelled his dark hair, and vomit and blood leaked at the corners of his mouth. Gas and pepper spray had turned his pupils to spreading black holes; a grimace of agony came and went like a ghost on his face.
Donner felt little sympathy for him; he spotted an anti-poverty fist sunburst graphic on the stained T-shirt and got angry. Lifting his heavy boot, he slammed it into the guy's face.
“Another protest punk down and out,” he thought as he continued down the road. “If he doesn't choke to death, he'll have learned his lesson. This is the zone - the no protest zone - the brutality zone … anyone who enters it leaves sympathy behind.”
Wind dusted in from the alleys. A cloud of black CS gas drifted at the intersection, so Donner put on his gas mask. He heard the distant ringing of a flash-bang grenade. The sound indicated fighting several blocks south. He gathered that the gas had drifted a long way off course on the wind.
Donner walked through the cloud, looking like a hybrid of a cop and a robot. His thick lips formed a faint smile inside his mask. Donner loved the black version of the tear gas; once you had a solid cloud formed, it would drift on and on. Unsuspecting morons were often caught by it and put down.
Two more empty blocks passed, leading Donner to a dead end, and there he climbed a mesh fence and walked through a vacant lot. His heels crunched on thistles and broken chips of stone. Another fence and the tall walls of Sandpoint rose in the distance. The guard tower showed as a squat beast in the gloom. He could see a column of vehicles approaching on the road. A personnel carrier, jeeps, police cruisers, canvassed trucks, and buses containing the shackled prisoners were entering the old military complex, which they were now using to house and beat political prisoners.
Everything came to a halt at the gate. During the delay, Donner reached the road, hailed a fellow cop, and jumped into the back of his cruiser. On the inside, he got out and crossed the square to command headquarters.
A screw-faced guard barred the door, and he told Donner to wait, so he shuffled about impatiently on the cobblestones. Pulling a cigar from a foil pack in his breast pocket, he watched as the prisoners were escorted from the trucks. Voices echoed and faded into the high stone walls. Some of the detainees were still chanting defiantly despite the gassing, others shivered with nerve reactions to the gas and were too weak to walk. Many more were bleeding, choking, and vomiting. And who really cared. Donner sure didn't, and he figured that those sorts of people didn't have enough sense to care about themselves, or they wouldn't be here.
On the inside, Donner told the commander he'd come to identify a prisoner and pick up another cop being held in protective custody. Both were wanted for questioning.
The commander, Major Bush, refused to cooperate as Donner expected. Re-lighting his cigar, he told Bush to phone his superiors, and he'd find that clearance had been granted. Then he waited, knowing Bush would look up in surprise when the clearance came through. Most of the higher-ranking men couldn’t grasp it - couldn't figure out how Donner outranked them when he was only a riot cop. And that was because Donner wasn't genuinely a cop; he was Secret Service (SS), planted in the police. His boss was the Man, and his job was to see that protesters got hurt, and hurt badly. Only one crime was certainly on the books: acting against the New World Order, which consisted of the Big Banks and Government, and the wealthy one percent of humanity that controlled the planet, space stations, and the moon.
A severe expression of distaste developed on Bush's rugged face as he spoke on the cell hotline. He emphasized it further by slamming it shut, tossing Donner a pass from his drawer, and saying, “You know what you're looking for - find your way around.”
Donner tossed Bush a mock salute and ignored his cursing as he turned and walked out. He'd never actually been inside Sandpoint, but he’d played a role in refurbishing the mothballed base. A few weeks back, with a few other SS men, he'd used a computer map to lay out the temporary prison for use in the fight against this latest series of planned anti-global order protests. There'd been some cheating as they used the plans from an old German concentration camp as a model.
Emerging in the square, he scratched his itching head. He could see drifting mist melting to wet prints on the coarse stone walls. The blur of the sun seemed a match for his thinking. Things came together slowly - he'd ordered Gallagher held in special detention, and he supposed that his other man would be in with the general crowd of prisoners in one of the interior courts.
Off to his left, the doors to one of the decommissioned hangars were ajar, and a group of regular police officers was marching in. Hurrying over, Donner tagged in behind them. He watched as they turned right and went through a rusted door with a faded sign marked CUSTOMS. A tarnished turnstile was directly in front of him, and beyond it, shackled prisoners had been tossed into taped-off areas on the pocked cement floor. Military guards and cops walked about in the yellowed light filtering down from the stained skylight.
Groans, agonized moans, and the gruff voices of the police were about the only sounds, and then screams began to reverberate. The guards in the north corner were dragging a prisoner by his dreadlocks while an obese state trooper beat at the bottoms of his bare feet with a baton.
Donner grinned as the stick of high-impact plastic lay in with heavy smacks; the new batons were cool. In appearance, they resembled oak baseball bats and were effective when it came to breaking legs, shoulders, faces, and balls.
“I want your fucking name!” one guard hollered as the shakedown continued. And at that point, Donner saw the prisoner's face. Eyes lighting up with surprise, he immediately jumped the turnstile and marched over to the trooper using the baton.
“Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing, man! I have a request in for a prisoner of that description. His name is Jimmy T. He should've been delivered to me!”
“You're just another fucking cop, pal. You can wait for your turn at him.”
Donner frowned. His smaller right eye and hawkish nose twitched, his lips tightened, then his baton came out at gunslinger speed. He delivered a hard jab to the obese trooper's breadbasket. Spittle flew from worm-white lips as he crumpled and stumbled.
The guards stared in surprise, the trooper released an anguished cry, and a soldier stepped up. “What was that for?”
“That was for breaking the rules. File a police brutality complaint if you don't like it. I'm Donner, here with a special pass - check with Major Bush if you want. That prisoner is one of two men I want delivered to our command post over in the zone.”
“If you want him, you can have him. We'll have him deloused and sent over.”
“Good, I'll leave my delivery instructions at the gate.”
--------
The halls in the special lockdown shone with fresh polish. Donner's heels clicked like hammerheads as he passed the rows of cells. The tall black guard in the lead stopped at the last set of bars and turned. “This is it,” he said.
Donner peered into the dim space and saw Gallagher slumped on a bench. His riot uniform was badly rumpled, and he was puffing on a thin cigarette.
“You got poor posture for a cop,” Donner said.
“Fuck you.”
“And bad manners, too.”
“Yeah - well, I'm supposed to be a cop. You just said it. So why am I locked in here with that piece of shit?”
Donner looked across the cell. One of the protesters, a big brown one, had been locked in with Gallagher -- and it looked like either Gallagher or the guards had beaten the shit out of him. Pounded his face to scabbed liver, pepper-sprayed him, and left him slumped in a corner chair.
“Sorry about that,” Donner said. “You're supposed to be in protective custody. We want you over at zone HQ to answer a few questions, and then you're out.”
--------
Donner drew the heavy bar back and opened the rooftop door. He had a crude patio set up here at SS zone headquarters. This was his lair, and he'd selected it for the bird's eye view of some of the streets being policed.
He stepped out, figuring there wasn't much to view today. It was a gloomy afternoon, and smoke from protesters' bonfires drifted over the mottled rooftops lower down. He heard distant shouts and traffic. Tied with the view, the noise seemed unreal - dream sounds - like another world existed below in time that’d gone gray.
A paddy wagon cruised up the empty street. Donner watched as it halted out front. Officer Gallagher and Jimmy T emerged with the guards; they'd be up in a minute, and with that in mind, he lit a cigar and sat near the railing. “How to handle this,” he thought. “Get Gallagher's story first, and then the kid's. Out of it, I should be able to gather why cops and protesters are claiming Butch Cooper is out there somewhere in the zone.”
Jimmy T had to be brought out to the patio in a wheelchair. His swollen feet were bandaged, and he wouldn't be walking on them for a long time. Gallagher looked pretty slimy - in appearance and attitude.
“So who wants to question us?” Gallagher said.
“Just me.”
“Shit, Donner. You could've questioned me at Sandpoint. I need to go home and clean up. If I don't get the grime from those scumbags off me I'll likely come down with hepatitis and retro Aids.”
“You probably had both for a long time,” Jimmy T said.
Gallagher tightened his knuckles. “Mind your manners, boy.”
Donner frowned. “You too, Gallagher. We've got more than one wheelchair in this place.”
“So what happens to me?” Jimmy T said.
“This is about Butch Cooper. You both told people you saw him out there in the zone. I want you to answer questions about that. Then you go to the hospital, and charges against you are dropped.”
“That's right, let the scumbag off,” Gallagher said. “What about me? What compensation do I get for being held illegally?”
“Just a kick in the head. Same as you give out. Now let's get down to business. By now, you've probably figured out that I'm with the SS. My job with the organization over the last few years has involved surveillance and military actions to block Butch Cooper and his protest affiliates. We've believed all along that Cooper and his band of anarchists are the board of directors, secretly organizing and planning actions for numerous other protest groups in the anti-global order movement. Cooper went missing a year ago. His body has disappeared, but we are sure he is dead. The question we are working on is - who murdered him? Many rumors out there are to the effect that police killed him. We're now sure that union leaders did the job in cooperation with other kingpins in the protest movement, and we want to get charges on these people. Only right now, we can't even investigate because reports have come in that he’s alive and is here in the city. Those reports are traceable to you two. Gallagher, you filed the police report on it that changed our investigation from murder back to surveillance on Butch Cooper. Jimmy T's confession mentioning seeing Cooper in the fighting has been used to support the Gallagher police file. This whole thing screws me royally. We'd made progress, and we were prepared to go ahead with murder charges against several individuals. Now I got orders to keep tabs on the activities of a dead man. Which isn’t possible.”
“Come on, Donner. Get it straight. Would I file a police report saying Cooper is alive if he’s really dead?”
“Both you and Jimmy T were under heavy stress and exposed to things like tear gas that are known to impair vision and cause hallucinations. I want to record both of your stories, and from them, we'll demonstrate that you were under duress. As for Jimmy T, he may simply be lying. The protesters may want us to think Butch Cooper is alive.”
Jimmy T coughed. “I hope you aren't planning on framing me in this murder?”
“Of course not, and you must be completely honest for these records. Neither of you has to worry about the press getting your testimony. It's a top secret thing that can't be used against you.”
“Now I get it,” Gallagher said. “You want to destroy my credibility as a cop. That's why you put me in with that creamed punk at Sandpoint.”
“Not at all. We just want to say you were under stress. What you'll get is time off and a bonus to aid you with your medical bills. We feel a long vacation in a warmer climate would speed your recovery. The same goes with Jimmy T. We don't know who did it, but he's been a victim of police brutality and should be compensated.”
Gallagher chewed on Donner's words. “Doesn't sound too bad. All right, I'll give you my story.”
“Okay, the recording begins. Go ahead.”
“I'm not lying. I did see Butch Cooper on day one. We'd cleared most of the front-line protesters off with tear gas, tasers, and rubber bullets when the orders came in to go down hard on a union march. A lot of the men disagreed with that order. The reason being that a splinter group of anarchists called the Black Bloc was trashing stores at the edges of the zone. Nothing was being done to stop them. For some reason, the big shots wanted them to get away with it. Maybe to make the protesters look bad in the press.
We pooled our forces at the head of Sanderson Blvd., massing about 300 men, horses, and an armored personnel carrier. A giant crowd of unionists approached in the distance, and at first, we were laughing like hell at the silly costumes some of them wore. They were dressed like animals and birds, with taser- and rubber-bullet protection vests built in.
So it was fun at first, but the humor died when some SS guy circulated a false report stating that three riot cops had been murdered by union terrorists on the south line. We were to expect the same sort of violence. It was only later that we found out the report was false.
Basically, it worked to pump us up and turn us mean. Once we were grouped, the armored carrier moved forward, and we had a man on the platform firing a high-speed hopper gun of paint pellets filled with pepper spray. Those things rain down on a crowd and don't seem to hurt until the burning starts and people scream like hell.
Tear gas was next, and we started by firing low, bouncing a few canisters and grenades off heads and picket signs. The rest we fired high and strategically to build a local gas cloud of the white-gray variety. Def-Tek 38 caliber weapons firing rubber bullets and chemicals ripped the crowd, and we aimed for faces. Even from a distance, I could see blood spurting as the projectiles gouged into cheeks and noses.
Once the cloud was up, we rolled in with it - horses charging right in to build panic and chaos. Baton men started to break up human chains by pulling off masks and kerchiefs and pepper-spraying the idiots straight in the face. After that, the tasering and clubbing began, and we had special spine whipping and face slamming tactics for the reporters present. Generally, we busted their equipment and them.
I got involved in scuffles and inhaled some of the gas. A hysterical woman pulled my mask off. It didn't stop me. I continued to fight, pausing to vomit occasionally. In less than an hour, we turned about six hundred people into piss-pants sacks of weeping human rubbish and made two hundred arrests. I was still active on the front line cleanup at that point and ended up chasing some of the unionists down a side street.
These 2nd level union guys hadn't been on the front line, and the cowards had kids and babies with them as they tried to flee to safety. About ten of us pursued them up the narrow street, firing tear gas and rubber bullets. We got one of them out front of a smashed mall, pepper-spraying him and his baby as he tried to get in his car.
People from the mall started yelling and booing, so we turned and fired on them. Tear gas canisters crashed right through the glass doors, and panic followed. At that point, an anarchist punk appeared, threw a heavy stone, and got me right in the shoulder. It hurt like hell, and I stood there grimacing as the other men ran up the road in pursuit of more unionists.
That blow really pissed me off, and I saw the punk taking off toward an alley and pulling a black bandana up to hide his face. Orders were orders, but at that point, I decided to break them and forget about the union goofs. I took off after the punk, hell-bent on the notion of getting hold of him and breaking every bone in his body.
Of course, it was just my luck to charge into an obstacle course of trash heaps and oil puddles. I jumped over a spilled trash can, slipped on a slick, did a running dance, and crashed into a stack of heavy drums. They came down on me as I fell, and they stunned me even further. I was lucky to avoid serious injury.
I began to crawl free of the tangle, but I didn't get far. The punk had heard me fall, smelled blood, and returned. “Payback time,” he said, then he bounced a drum off my legs. A rain of boots followed that, and during the exchange, I managed to grab his foot.
He went over backward, and though I could barely move, I forced myself up. Grabbing my baton, I got to my knees and threw myself forward - coming down as hard as I could, I managed to whip him across the pelvis and breadbasket.
We both fell into the rubbish in a sort of who- would-rise-first challenge. I won it, managing to get partly up to fire some pepper spray at him. That sent him rolling in agony and gave me time to rise. And when I was up, it was with a whisky bottle in one hand.
I shattered its base and prepared to ram the rest into his face. At that point, I regretted spraying the little slime ball because he couldn't see me to beg for mercy. My knees buckled to go down with the blow, and it was then that Butch Cooper appeared.
It was unmistakably Cooper - the trademark scar on the right cheek, iron jaw, blazing blue eyes, and burglar black cat outfit. He was armed with street weapons - a mask, a gas gun, and a length of pipe strapped to his leg.
I'd seen his mug on the news enough times to know he was real, yet I also knew he'd disappeared more than a year ago and was not thought to be in the city. Yet he was present, and he'd been in the fighting, too - his boots were spotted with blood and his face was bruised and sickly green.
The whole thing seemed weird - the clouds of gas floating up the alley and whirling in wisps around his electrified short hair. I stood frozen with a gasp on my lips and the broken bottle in my hand.
It was Cooper who broke the silence. He said, 'Tell Donner I'll be seeing him around.' That's all he said. He didn't try to help the kid, and he wasn't afraid of me either. He just turned and disappeared in the gas cloud.
I stood there another moment, then I started seeing evil inhuman faces in the shifting gas. A horrible burning odor filled my nostrils. It was like the burning of something straight from hell - corpses, mold, rotting wood, rust, and ashes. My skin and scalp crawled, and I turned and ran from there.”
--------
Donner stopped the recording and gave Gallagher a look of raw skepticism. “I'm amazed that anyone would’ve believed that story. You were obviously hallucinating. I'm also not impressed by the fact that you didn't have the guts to fight Cooper.”
“And you would have the guts, Donner?”
“Of course I would. I've been in a number of scraps with Cooper. Plus, there's more I haven't told you. Fact is, I know he's dead because I found his body. It was during an action in Germany. We were following Cooper's gang using a helicopter with a super spotlight. It lit up the alleys like daylight and blinded anyone who looked up. We jammed their cell phone frequencies, and over the course of an hour, we tracked them and sent in men to pick them off as the group splintered. By midnight, we had about half of them, but we couldn't get Cooper. He simply vanished in a maze of alleys, and we went over and over the territory and found nothing. Finally, I went down on a ladder and walked in alone.
This wasn't a job for you, Gallagher. It was dark. Motherfucking dark, and I was vulnerable. Couldn't even use my flashlight. I did get jumped at one point, but I had my protective gear set to emit gas automatically. I thought it was Cooper and I really pounded the guy - but he went down too easily, so I knew it wasn't Butch.
I looked him over quickly, then gagged him and marked him for pickup. After that, I got lost, spending more than two hours in that territory. My phone got caught by our own jamming, so I couldn't make contact.
Any other cop would've been killed, yet I managed to take out a couple more of Cooper's men. Then I found the body. He looked pretty bad, and when I checked his pulse, he was dead. He'd been beaten to death with some sort of club, and there were traces of pepper spray on him. Whoever did it set it up to look like a cop murder.
That didn't help because later, when the body disappeared, I had to answer all sorts of questions. They thought I killed him, and they didn't like it because they wanted Cooper alive. They were going to have him testify at some international tribunal and thought I killed him because he knew too much.
Of course, I didn’t kill him, and later, when we went over the scene, we found new clues pointing to union goons as the hit men.”
Jimmy T frowned, his darkened eyes running like grease prints. A feral light shone in them as he spoke. “You're about as believable as Gallagher. If you weren't a cop, you'd already be in the electric chair.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you. And how about you? How believable is that crazy story you handed in?”
“You want the truth. Okay, but don't complain if you don't like it.
First piece of news is that I have little in common with Butch Cooper, union rioters, or even anarchists, though I understand their beliefs. I'm an independent street person. I hitched in from Oregon with my friend Danny. We're from the HellRaisers Gang.
We believe the monster corporations have already destroyed the world. All that can be done now is raise hell and chaos to make the masters and their slaves uncomfortable. The way we see it, Butch Cooper and his legions of utopian dreamers just can't see that it's all over. Protest and reform can't save a dead world.
Creating a riot was the plan we had in mind the other day before we encountered Butch Cooper. We had it in mind, but we didn't start out anywhere near the police lines. Danny thought it would be better to have some fun, so we left the cops having a gas with the others at the various fronts while we ran with renegade Black Bloc anarchists. Working with them, we trashed everything in sight - display windows, newspaper boxes. We put our message up with spray paint and black flags - started rubbish bonfires.
Later, a rowdy local gang of university kids joined up. They were less political, so we split from them. We began by trashing food outlets because we were hungry. But that didn't go all that smooth because I was getting tense with Danny over his trying to tie us to this horny blonde named Mary.
I prefer other men, so I hated her at first. But when she came up with this plan for a 3-pronged raid on a huge variety depot, I started to like her. We ran in with masks and bandanas up and started throwing things around. The customers and staff ran out so fast it was like we were high-class terrorists. This big cigar-fat store manager was the only guy with the guts to fight us, and he paid for that - Danny kicked him in the balls, then we chased him around like a screaming chicken, bashing him with clothing racks, plastic baseball bats - all sorts of stuff.
The rest of the gang ignored that and got wise, stealing jewelry and electronic gadgets. Danny advised me to let them do the work - then if they didn't get busted, we'd steal the stuff from them later.
There was a lot of horsing around at that point. We passed a joint, and Danny and Mary went tumbling through a big heap of clothes. A few of us jumped in after them. We rolled around and then lay there laughing our heads off.
None of the clothes in the store were worth taking, so we laughed even harder when Mary started talking about stealing some. Then she said she meant as disguises. The cops would be around soon, looking for rough-and-dirty looters, so suppose we packed up our grubbies and appeared in our Sunday best.
Danny nudged me and winked, giving me the drift that he wanted to play along so he could watch the girls undress. We did that, and by the time we were finished, we looked worse than we ever thought possible. I had on these shiny polyester pants and pointy shoes with an alligator pattern. Mary looked like the return of the nerd girl, except that her horny smile and big slutty brown eyes gave her away. Danny was the funniest - he looked like a geek from the old movies.
We decided to get out of there. When we ran back outside, ordinary pedestrians were gone, and the riot lines were getting closer. Groups of gas-blinded vomiting protesters stumbled by. Then the cops showed - formations of them wearing flak and riot helmets.
Our ruse worked. We'd moved quickly down the road to the steps of an Anglican church and stashed our clothes and the stolen stuff inside under the pews. The girls sang this horrible school song that sounded like a hymn, and we were grouped there singing it as the parade of cops arrived.
These cops looked worn and frazzled - eyes getting tired and beaten. I was tapping a tambourine nervously as they approached us, and I saw it in their eyes that they didn't suspect us of being anything more than what we looked like. Some of them inspected the damage on the street. Others asked us a few questions. When they got to me, I gave a phony name and pointed at the people gathering at a bonfire up on the next corner. “The looters are in that crowd,” I said.
The head cop believed my tip, and before long, they were massing in the center of the street. They formed a tough riot phalanx of about eight across and three deep, then they began advancing up the street, beating their batons against their shields, grunting and chanting in unison. The people milling around the bonfire at the corner were completely stunned by it. All of them froze and watched, but not for long, as concussion and stun grenades suddenly flew from the cops, hitting the area with brilliant light and frighteningly loud explosions.
A lot of people fled, but there were many who fell stunned and didn't get away. Those ones got turned into hamburger as the grunting cop phalanx turned into a huge pounding machine.
Danny found this disgusting, and before long, we'd crept up at the rear of the cops, watching them clean up. We waited for an opportunity. That came when two cops went into a busted-up store a good distance from the main body of men.
We peeked in and saw them looking down at a guy lying in the spilled goods. He was undergoing some sort of uncontrolled spasmodic movements. Looked like someone hit by nerve gas. His condition seemed to stupefy the cops, and while they were confused, we got behind them. Danny bashed one from behind with a section from a metal rack, and I tripped the other one as I pushed him forward.
One cop got knocked out cold. The other went down on his face, and when he rolled over, his faceplate was cracked. Danny lunged and went down on him, bashing him all over with his length of metal. Despite that, the cop was surprisingly tough. He managed to throw Danny off and rise with his baton.
I was afraid he’d yell, so I backed off and prepared to run. That never happened; instead, a brawl erupted with him and Danny throwing each other around the store. They moved slowly to the back in this duel, and finally, Danny tried to escape out a back door. Only the cop got him from behind. He pushed him so hard he went for a tumble out into the alley.
I ran back up as the cop went out after him. From the doorway, I saw him clubbing the crap out of Danny as he lay there twitching in a puddle. Then, a moment later, I saw the cop stop and stare at a person stepping out of the shadows.
That person was Butch Cooper - dressed in black and holding a long club he'd stolen from a cop. The light seeping in there was dim - Cooper looked amazingly sinister and strong, and his skin seemed tinted green like he'd died of poisoning or something. Yet he was still walking around.
His appearance frightened the cop, and at first, he backed off. Then, when the cop saw him moving into a corner, he lunged.
This fight was no contest. Cooper threw him over and proceeded to bust him up badly. He smashed his faceplate and face. Hammered him into a brick wall, then body slammed him and put hard boots to his groin.
The cop squirmed as Cooper dragged him down the dark alley. It was so dim that at first that I couldn't see much in there other than swimming shadows. Yet if I saw nothing, it wasn't that way for the cop - whatever he saw made him scream like a madman. These were the most terrifying screams I've ever heard, and I could see vague misty shapes like tentacles and twisted human forms gathering around Cooper and the cop.
Moments later, the other cops rushed in and put me down. They ran down the alley to rescue their buddy - but they never found him. There was nothing there - no Cooper, no body. And I had to spend hours and hours under questioning, trying to convince them that I had no idea what happened in there. How in the hell could I explain how people just disappear?”
--------
Donner stared at Jimmy T, like he couldn't quite believe the story had ended. He wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead and raked his oily hair with his fingers. “Kid, you're one crazy fuck to tell that story in the first place. The cops who bought it are even crazier. You expect me to believe that Cooper and a bunch of ghosts or monsters are dragging people off into the Twilight Zone?”
Gallagher grinned. “Guess Cooper won't be easy to find if he's in a killer twilight zone.”
“Shut up, Gallagher. Just shut the fuck up. Cooper is dead. He can't be out there. It's just a question of whether this kid is on drugs or lying.”
“Wait a second,” Jimmy T said. “I never said Cooper wasn't dead or that he's in the Twilight Zone. I said I saw him out there in the zone - the Brutality Zone. He looks dead, and some sort of evil comes with him. Anyone he gets hold of gets dragged off into some part of the zone that people can't find. I believe it, and once I recover, I'm never going back out there. I'm getting out of this city.”
“Cooper was asking about you, Donner,” Gallagher said. “You'd better not go out there. If he gets you, he'll drag you into that place. The kid heard the screams - don't let it happen.”
Confusion swept Donner's face, and then his expression turned to anger. He snapped his phone open and hit a key. “Guards, get up here right now. I want these fucking idiots thrown out of here. You got that?”
--------
The wind howled through the city scrapers like a haunted stray dog. Donner knew its gusts would soon be filled with protesters' whimpering. Wiping dust from his faceplate, he watched the lines of riot police march down a narrow corridor toward a huge open section of the street. Hundreds of the toughest protesters were massed there, and the image was of a broad human mural patched with the red, white, blue, and black of bandanas, costumes, and placards. All of this was blurred by the drifting smoke and gray weather.
Orders had been to forgo the use of teargas as it was too windy and there were reports of canisters of nerve gas being mixed in with the supply. Donner had no use for orders; shielding his eyes from the glare, he watched the lines close, and when the clash was just about to begin, he gunned his bike and rolled forward. Once in range, he dismounted, pulled a special launcher from his shoulder, and loaded the gas grenades.
His aim was high and accurate. The first grenade flew over the crowd and bounced off a building wall. He scattered more shots to the perimeter, rolling them off the curbs and garbage bins. Lowering his barrel, he lobbed some into the center of the crowd.
The gas fizzed up, and the riot lines began breaking up the human chains - to make sure things got out of hand, he fired several more grenades straight into the front lines. One ricocheted off a helmet, another took a protester down, and the rest disappeared like stones in the sea, only to bubble up a moment later with smoke.
Tall office buildings lined the wide section of street, and despite the wind, a heavy cloud of gas billowed up. Most of it hung in place and whirled as the alleys slowly sucked it up. The scene was now one of violence and brutality; the protesters had panicked, and the riot cops were reacting with extreme force. A whole line of people who'd tied themselves together were getting kicked and beaten, and they shouted and screamed as they went down. None of the police even stopped to untie them; instead, they stomped over them and charged into the rest of the crowd.
Two Secret Service men dressed as riot cops emerged on a balcony and began to sweep the crowd with a heavy spray of rubber bullets. At the same time, another line of riot police began to toss flash bang grenades as they moved in with horses at the rear of the crowd.
A hellish scene of screaming, spattering vomit, blood, and confusion developed in the square. Wounded people tried to scatter in all directions, growing even more desperate as the horsemen rode in. Alleyways were the only avenues of escape, and there were four of them - narrow and gushing with windblown teargas.
Police managed to move in to block three of the alleys, and the fourth was near the front, where nearly everyone was down. A few people had smashed storefront windows and dashed indoors to escape, but police had pursued them. Generally, it looked like a massacre. Donner saw maybe two cops pick up minor injuries while the main use of the protesters' bandanas was now to sop up blood and tears.
He considered hopping on his bike and driving away; then his eyes flashed to a female protest medic trying to aid some of the downed people by washing off pepper spray with a backpack water gun. Three cops moved in, swinging batons at her. A figure in black suddenly emerged from the smoke and drove a fist straight into one of the men's faceplates. It shattered, and he went down and out cold.
The other two cops turned and fired pepper spray - a direct hit, and it did nothing to stop the assault. Donner saw the man pull a pipe from his leg and lash out. The hit was on the canister of pepper spray, which exploded in the cop's face and sent him reeling back.
A second pipe blow sent the cop tumbling, and then the guy in black lunged and took out the last of the three cops with a body blow. He then ran across the square and leaped like a cat up the side of a building. The SS officers launching the rubber bullet attack were up there, and they swung down with their clubs, trying to stop the man from getting over the railing.
It didn't work; a taser shot bounced off him, and he swung up hard and battled them on the balcony. Blood flew as he bashed one officer's head on the railing. Moments later, both men were checked over the railing and fell into the street.
Taking hold of the high-speed gun, the rebel began to rain rubber bullets straight into the police lines. Horses bucked, cops were thrown - other officers fell to their knees as the shots got them in the back.
Donner's momentary stupefaction vanished. He pulled out his binoculars for a closer look. The man's kerchief had dropped, allowing a reasonably clear view. A flash grenade went off at that moment, and a bright image was superimposed on Donner's retinas. Then he choked and dropped the glasses. They clattered on the road beside him, and he stood there with an open mouth.
The protester firing from the balcony was Butch Cooper. No doubt about it - the distinctive eyes and jaw were something that couldn't be mistaken. Yet it couldn't possibly be Cooper because Cooper was dead. The memory ignited deep inside Donner's brain; he had Butch Cooper down in that alley in Germany. After a long fight, he smashed him and booted him, picking up everything he could find to bash him. Blood poured at the corners of his mouth, filling it with the taste of hot metal as he killed Cooper. And kill him he did; he fractured his skull - he broke his neck and every bone in his body . . .
. . . and there he was, standing like a picture of strength on a balcony. But not for long, because a second later, he jumped into the street with the power of an Olympic athlete and ran off into the smoke. Cooper turned and fled down that fourth empty alley, with no one on his tail.
Donner's head stopped whirling, and for a moment his thoughts froze like ice. When his head cleared, it was in a sudden flash of anger; he jumped on the bike, gunned the engine, and raced up the street. His wheels were weaving around bodies as he made his way to the alley mouth. When he got there, he stopped and looked. Tear gas was rolling for a long way down, but it was mostly clear of debris, so he gunned the engine again and raced forward.
He saw no sign of Butch Cooper or anyone else. About halfway down the long alley, a trash heap blocked his path. Braking, he killed the engine and dismounted, being sure to look around quickly for any ambush by Butch.
He didn't want his view clouded by a helmet, so he took it off and left it on the bike. So much sweat poured on his face that he had to sweep it off to see. No one was behind him; beyond the trash heap, the alley continued to the next street. Another section of alley forked off to the right of the heap.
For an unknown reason, he believed Cooper had taken the fork. Working around the heap, he stepped out and looked down it. This was a dead-end deal; wide with some sickly trees weaving thin branches above the rubbish. Chipped brick walls with dust-streaked windows showed here and there. An old structure rose at the dead end; factory or warehouse, he wasn't sure. A bleak atmosphere cloaked it; he looked up at the smoke blowing over the roof and spotted a black cloth covering one of the windows.
That was the clue he needed; stepping forward carefully, he approached the rear door. Lumpy concrete broke up, and tall weeds choked his path, whipping his legs as he forced his way through. Sweat poured down his back - the image of Cooper's dead body kept rising in his mind. He tried to rationalize it, but he couldn't. He considered the possibility of a twin, and then struck the idea down - simply because he knew Cooper so well. He'd had him under surveillance for years.
Suddenly, Donner stopped and shivered all over. He remembered Gallagher's warning and knew it was correct. If Butch Cooper was in there, he'd somehow come back from the dead. Unless he'd never been dead. Maybe some miracle of modern medicine had saved him. A lot of international big shots had wanted him alive to testify, so maybe they used some super treatment to revive his body and mind.
The more Donner considered it, the more he believed it. His shivering stopped as he reached the door. Then he heard some noise above and stumbled back as quickly as he could. He looked up and saw a bird taking flight, and when he lowered his gaze, Butch Cooper's face appeared in one of the ground-floor windows.
He'd opened it and was grinning as he looked out. His skin was greenish and deathly, just as Jimmy T had said. Donner also noticed tiny drops of blood dripping with the sweat on his chin.
Cooper's deep voice echoed in the alley as he spoke. “I've been waiting for you, Donner. We've all been waiting for you here in the zone.”
Donner felt himself losing it. “You're dead, Cooper! You're fucking dead! I killed you, and you deserved it! All those years, you rallied people against the state. You warped their minds. You ruined them, you put them in jail, killed them. Cops died because of you - you murdered the innocent, so I murdered you.”
“Well, that's funny, Donner. I don't feel dead. I also remember things well enough to know that it wasn't me. It was you, Donner! It was always you! We had rules. We played the game a certain way. My people and the cops didn't get killed then. Don't you remember that it was you who changed things? You created the violence, you created death, and you created the brutality zone. You did it because you're a fucking piece of shit, Donner. The fate you deserve is one worse than death!”
“Worse than death, Cooper! I'll show you worse than death! Because I'm coming in there to finish you and whoever you're with!”
“Go ahead and open that door, Donner. Do it and know that you opened it a long time ago. You created the zone. You unlocked the beast in us all. There comes a time when a father has to return to his children.”
Donner felt his head grow so hot with hate that he thought it would explode. “Fuck you, then. I'm just going to leave you here. I don't have to go in there, and you know it!”
“Is that right, Donner? So what are you going to do when I testify? Haven't you figured it out - they kept me alive, they put me back together, and now I'm going to sing like a canary. Your people will hang you, Donner. You know it, and I know it. So walk away with the noose around your neck.”
His face twitching with rage, Donner drew his semi-automatic and opened fire. Bullets shattered glass and the rotten sill, but Butch was gone.
Fear vanished as the adrenaline flowed; Donner was pumped up to kill now. He ran fast for the door and started booting it. On the fourth kick, it flew open, and Donner moved off to the side.
Dust and stale air rushed out, but Cooper didn't follow. A quick reload, then Donner took his gun in his left hand, ran to the opening, jumped, and rolled.
He came up in dust and darkness, and spun around firing bullets into the gloom. Then he burst forward and got his back to a wall.
As his vision cleared, he saw an enormous empty warehouse, mold-eaten floors, and sweating walls. Wide wooden pillars stood here and there. Cooper could be behind any one of them. He thought that at first - then he suddenly realized something.
A smart cookie like Cooper would've let him bust in, then simply jumped out the open window. He was probably out there laughing at him right now.
All the windows but one were boarded. He ran across the creaking floor and looked out into the gloomy alley. As he'd suspected, Cooper was there. He stood in sickly weeds with a grin on his mug. And his face wasn't greenish but pinkish-white; he looked healthy and young, like the old days.
“You should've known that nothing mortal could’ve put me back together. Don't you remember how badly you beat me? It's the spirit of the zone, Donner. The brutality zone put me back together because it never really wanted me - it needs you because you belong. So I made a trade. It's you for me. And I hope you enjoy yourself because eternity is a long time.”
“You want to play head games!” Donner yelled. “Eternity is now, so eat lead!”
He opened fire, and as flame licked the barrel, the window suddenly vanished. He saw boards in front of him and nothing else. Then he spun around and saw an eye shrinking into a wall of oozing blackness. A scraping sound came from deep in the warehouse, and it was followed by the heavy thudding of hooves. He saw the rotted floorboards breaking up. Twisted forms were rising from every dark niche in the room, and with them came horrible odors of blood, ashes, and decay.
Black earth crumbled from deformed hands, ravaged faces, and gaping mouths. A huge thing, like a cross between a pit and a vortex, whirled in the center of the room, and the fire-dripping monster emerging from it was the most terrifying creature of all.
Bullets flew as he emptied the clip, but they had no effect, except that they seemed to ignite the walls with flames. He saw a vista of fire and the morbid creatures belonging to it . . . rolling smoke and the crowds of some dead zone; mobs he could never put down. And they were coming for him.
Donner cowered and struggled as something rising from the earth threw wet tentacles around his legs. He felt his bladder empty, and when he saw the flaming eyes of the creatures approaching, he began to scream. His voice was full of terror, and it was full of hate. He knew that Butch Cooper had made the trade. Out there in the alley, he was walking away from the brutality zone.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Sam telescoped his pocket computer and frowned as he strained to see the blurred video and hear the muffled voice coming through the static. “You've really got to know what the Nestle Cops are up to this time,” the man said. “The chocolate cops have a powdered corpse over in Springhill Park, and they're involved in a cover-up. You'd have to see it to believe what I did to the guy. I made him so ugly that he makes people scream. The dude couldn't stand it, so he killed himself. He was a sap from the Downtown Business Technological Improvement group who thought he could screw around with the wrong people.”
Sam didn't get a chance to reply. He heard a click, and the airwaves went dead. Punching in his hidden code for a trace, he got a reading on a public courtesy phone – this one at Union Two Station. The caller had obscured his identity on a public phone that demanded user info and the identity of the lost corporate wireless device that made a public call necessary - a nearly impossible feat. Pocketing his Emerald, Sam thought it over and decided to run down the tip. The park was a few blocks to the south, about a five-minute walk. He read it as a tip full of lies but with something genuine in it. Many people hated the Nestle cops. Maybe this was a union guy tipping him.
--------------
A peculiar tint on the city's inner air bubble cast the sky as a dark green ocean. Sunset flares fizzled behind western buildings as Sam turned and crossed the road to Nestle Square. He stepped to the curb and halted beside a World CallNet booth, feeling the cool breeze from a couple of cars speeding by behind him.
A blue glare from the booth's chat screen lit his fine brows, intensifying his gray eyes with rings of shadow. He gazed at a nearby theatre marquee. Shaped like a huge Nestle Chocolate Rush Bar, the marquee glowed with a garish effect. A few elegant ladies strolled beneath it as they exited. They were beautiful - glamour being a quality that belonged to all women in UN year ADSC2000-37 +.
Sam smiled warmly at them as they passed, and for a moment, he perceived something different. The glitter of the neon lights gave him a glimpse of something repulsive beneath their skin - like beauty had been nothing more than an illusion of makeup. A blond lady with full red lips and loose curls glanced at him brazenly, her dress revealing the rosy skin of her calf as she walked. Normally, the come-on would stimulate him, but tonight it fell flat. She seemed like a doll - nice but plastic - not a real woman at all.
The feeling touching him carried unsettling emotional undertones and left him slightly disconnected. Sam shook his head and shivered in the warm night. The sensation vanished, but his hands felt sweaty as he took out his TSCF palm connector. It read his print, allowing him to query the city grid for a direct route to the crime scene. The answer came back a moment later as a soft female voice playing through the tiny amplifier in his ear, giving directions to a specific park location a couple of blocks away.
Passing the theatre, he headed down a narrow side street. He encountered a couple of office people strolling, and not much else - just the glow of lights in the high towers. It was quiet with soft rushes of wind that made it hard to believe a murder scene could be ahead.
The sun was crashing fast as he hit Queen Boulevard, just a few final rays shooting up like spotlights through cloud breaks and mixing with night lights and a purpled sky up ahead. The boulevard took a sudden curve there as it wound around Springhill Park, and now traffic could not get through. Spinners were flashing on four emergency vehicles, and uniformed city police were routing cars down a side street.
Sam reached the corner and squinted into the glare. He could see a lot of activity and scores of Nestle private police moving through the maple trees in the park. Most of them had Glock Speedguns drawn and appeared to mean business.
Remaining on the curb, he studied the area. A jungle of office and shopping complexes ran east on the boulevard side to the area of Toronto policed by the Downtown Business Tech Improvement Group. Pedestrians in that area wore those new two-piece body suits common to office workers. The circular park contained a duck pond, fountain, monuments, and a solid sprinkling of mixed forest - mostly maples and willows. Residential buildings towered over it, and beyond them, he could see faint spotlights flashing in the sky from the Nestle complex.
Sam crossed the road, aiming at cutting over the grass to the scene of the crime - an area surrounded by police and mobile floodlights. But before he could step to the curb, two burly Nestle officers emerged from the bushes and blocked his path. Their silly chocolate wrapper hats and uniforms had lent them a degree of invisibility in the shadowy areas of the park. Silver lettering flashed on their badges.
“Sorry, pal, you can't go in there,” said a tall brown-skinned officer. His badge name, Lonny Baxter.
Sam stared the two cops down for a moment - rookies but with the heavy muscles that came with a steady diet of Nestle Rush Bars. Taking out his wallet, he opened it to his police ID. “I'm Sam Michaels, Chief of Detectives for the Toronto Security Coordination Force. Otherwise known as the real police.”
“This is a matter for the Nestle police,” Lonny said. “Our orders are that nobody gets into the murder scene.”
“Yeah, well, you must know that corporate nations like Nestle have reduced police powers in city states like Toronto. And I got a call on this one. The victim has been identified as a key official in the Downtown Business Tech Improvement Group. He is or was entitled to a higher level of protection. It apparently wasn't provided here, or he wouldn't be dead. The public will want to know why.”
Maples fanned their leaves gently overhead. Shadows and momentary confusion softened the cop's brutish face to a boyish blush, and Sam saw fear grow in his eyes. Fear that was justifiable considering what would happen to him if the Security Coordination Force decided he was at fault in the security breach or in blocking the investigation of it.
Shrugging his shoulders, the Nestle cop gave a nod of permission and gestured to his partner. Walking in the lead, Sam headed into the park. Just behind him, the two cops wagged their speedguns as their eyes darted about in a paranoid fashion. It was dark now, the trees heavy and cloaking with high lamps creating little more than foggy circles of bug-filled light. A silver P-11 forensic robot was moving slowly in the grass in the cordoned off area, and they could see the body at the centre, covered by a yellow sensor sheet. A stocky plain-clothes officer was in charge. Sam recognized him as Bill Broad, chief of the local Nestle force. A gaggle of reporters surrounded Mr. Broad, and they held only police notepads and pencils. Cameras, video, and any other equipment, small or large, for live filing had not been allowed inside.
Sam stopped just behind the reporters, listening as Broad told them bluntly what they were to include on the news. “The crime is murder,” he said, “but murder of a different sort. A ray of some sort was used, and it caused severe burn damage. Photos of the corpse will not be released as the emotional health of the public would be affected. We are confident that we will apprehend the killer. Don't expect a public trial on this one. It looks like a hit, possibly engineered by a business rival.”
Immediately, the reporters pressed forward, a number of them trying to question Broad at once. Saying things like, “Who are the suspects in this murder? Is it certain that organized crime was involved? Can we see the corpse? Why no public trial?”
It all became dead noise in Sam's ears as he walked around and studied the sheet-covered mound under the spotlights. He wondered what they were hiding this time. He doubted the body was burned or that a special beam had been used, and he was getting tired of corporate police covering things up. If the body really was a mess, Bill Broad did have a point in that the emotional health of the public could be affected by revealing it. This was a society of physical beauty. A world of people who enjoyed genetic perfection. People who couldn't face up to ugliness and death. It was also true that someone had to be culturally conditioned to face up to it. People needed to realize that they had not risen above nature yet. Death and its final chapters of ugliness were still a reality, and some things could not be censored. Not even by corporate nations like Nestle.
Disappointed with the lack of credible answers from Broad, the reporters were slowly turning to their notebooks to jot down what they had. Broad was staring at them intensely, like they were some brand of undesirable genetic rodents or insects. A few seconds later, he gave the signal. Uniforms suddenly muscled in and began to force them from the park.
Seeing Mr. Broad alone, Sam chose the moment to step into the fray. He faced the surprised Nestle chief in the summer dark and spoke deliberately loud, saying, “Bill, I want that corpse uncovered and photographed right now.”
The effect was immediate chaos as excited reporters wormed and ducked around the stunned Nestle officers.
“You can't do this, Michaels!” Bill Broad shouted. “It's crazy. Nestle will have your badge if you uncover that corpse!”
“The hell they will!” Sam said. “Nestle Security isn't in charge of this investigation anymore. I know this was some kind of hit, and at the TSCF, we intend to find out how this breach of security occurred. Public cooperation is going to be needed to catch this killer, and they won't help Nestle, so the way to get it is to frighten them with photos of the corpse.”
“No, you don't understand!” Broad said. “That thing is too horrible to reveal.”
“I am doing it,” Sam said, stepping over the ribbon. “Any officer who tries to stop me will be taken in for questioning at headquarters.”
Broad's forehead grew suddenly wet with sweat. His men froze, obeying Sam's command. The rest of the crowd, mostly reporters, watched in stunned amazement as Sam walked over to the corpse. He stared at the forensic cloth, then stepped over to the humming P-11 forensic robot and removed its shoulder-plate controller. His fingerprint allowed him command rights, and on seeing the light flash, he spoke, ordering the robot to remove the sensor cloth.
Floating over on silent jets, the robot touched the sheet, sucked it back into a roll, and placed it in a canister. A dark area beneath it contained a corpse-shaped mass, yet the details were something indefinable. It shivered like dark jellies one moment and seemed to solidify to coal hardness and textures the next.
There were a few initial gasps behind him, then none of the witnesses said anything more. Sam assumed this to be due to confusion caused by the lack of a realistic body. “What sort of beam could turn a human into that?” he said, shifting his gaze to Bill Broad.
But Broad said nothing, and Sam noticed that he wasn't speaking because he was as stiff as a post. He looked back at the circle of people and saw that the entire crowd of journalists, investigators, and cops had turned to stone … faces transfixed and gorgon-struck as they stared at the quivering black mass.
Dangerous confusion, a fast feeling of near panic, swept over Sam. He didn't quite know what to do. Then one big Nestle cop suddenly inhaled deeply, turned blue, and fell face-first like a board to the grass.
Sam saw others losing their composure and balance as their expressions unlocked and transformed with terror. Jon Weston of the Post went to his knees and vomited. A hair-raising scream followed. Other deafening shouts caused him to bite his tongue. He saw Ann Tilger of ATV Net News clutch a constricted throat and go down. Within a minute, all of the people had succumbed.
Stepping over and doing a fast check on Ann Tilger, he found her alive. She had fainted but otherwise seemed to be okay. The others were in a similar condition, yet he had no idea what had done it to them. He couldn't see anything all that shocking there on the ground.
Addressing the forensic robot, he told it to scan the people and administer first aid, and then he turned back to the corpse and looked at it long and hard. It hadn't changed, but after some moments, he saw mist rise and vanish -- an effect like a magician's trick. A body lay in the shallow depression of the earth below.
As one of the few people who'd seen death in all its horror, he knew this wasn't a corpse - not a human one at any rate. The body had a humanoid structure of a fantastic sort and a raw form of ugliness that was close to being incomprehensible.
An invisible acid etched the image into his mind. The facial features grew strong and gripping with hideous details that stabbed at his thoughts like needles of pain. This thing had the most revolting characteristics of humans, predators, and insects; whiskers or feelers surrounding a mounded mouth and hooked fangs. Its nose was triangular, armoured, and indented with pulsing membranes. It also had bulbous, fly-like eyes, a mat of flattened tentacles on the crown, and grotesque protuberances covering the naked flesh.
The creature appeared powerful and strangely natural, like a genuine product of the wild and not some genetic freak. The cause of its demise was a huge gash to its chest - a wound that oozed blue gelatin-like gore and appeared self-inflicted. A hunting knife resting beside the creature's open hand appeared to be the weapon used.
--------------
Sam watched spotlights swing beams through the clouds above the distant Nestle complex. The breeze had died, and the trees hung over him heavy and motionless in the summer dark. He was alone in the park now, remaining to consider his error in surroundings where he could think.
Nestle Chief Bill Broad had been taken away to one of their psychiatric facilities as a second exposure to the hideous corpse had snapped his mind. The others had recovered, but most of them couldn't remember what they’d seen. Those who did all had different descriptions of the corpse, and Sam believed that only his personal description was accurate, as it matched the description made by the P-11 forensic robot.
The forensic robot's report had been straightforward - the creature was dead through suicide. It had been human, but an unknown genetic key had caused a hideous transformation, and it had occurred while the man was alive. Broad's madness and the general collapse of witnesses were cultural phenomena. Society was genetically perfect, and nearly all traces of human physical flaws had been eradicated long ago. Most people use pheromones and visual stimulation devices to make their beautiful bodies even more attractive. A sudden dose of hideousness was more than any person could comprehend. Sam was the exception because he'd been culturally conditioned to view things that were unpalatable. But even Sam had not been able to readily see the features of the corpse because the power to see ugliness had been partially removed through genetics.
Pursing his lips, he watched the rising moon paint the grass with pale gold. He supposed he was alone on this one … only the robots working with him, as he couldn't use security officers who would collapse. It was almost like one of those recent alien-encounter double-D movies, only in this fantastic episode, you got to see the horrid thing instead of just hearing a bunch of spooky ghosts. An unknown genetic key had done it, according to the P-11 forensic robot. Yet the call he'd got earlier seemed to be from a clever but otherwise fairly ordinary criminal. Obviously, the guy had powerful scientific backing; he was not sure exactly what he was up against here.
It was very late, but he rose from the bench with it in mind to go downtown and see if the lab had anything further. His phone tone suddenly sounded in his mind, so he answered, and when he heard the voice, he sat back down and listened carefully.
“I guess you know what ugly is now,” the man said. “So it's time for stage 2.”
“Stage 2,” Sam said angrily. “You bastard. What did you do to that man?”
“It's not what I did to him but what we did to him.”
“I see. This is the work of organized retro-end terrorists.”
“Terror is a tool we sometimes use, Sam. It isn't our vacuum-pouch bread and butter. Haven't you ever thought about it? I mean, how do you think organized crime exists across the world when the technology used in crime prevention is so sophisticated?”
“Through corruption and bribery. That's what I've always assumed,” Sam said. “And it hasn't existed here. We wiped it out.”
“You wiped nothing out, and there isn't any bribery. There is only terror and control. We're relocating to this city. That corpse was a demonstration done specially for you. Because if you don't cooperate with our organization, you will die in the same manner.”
“I have no intention of cooperating, and it'll only take me a short time to find you.”
“Well, that's good because you only have a short time. Mere hours, to be exact. That IT you just saw was a man infected with a certain genetic spore, and just a few short hours ago, we infected you with the same microscopic bug.”
“What are you saying? What do you mean?”
“We mean that we want total retro control. Over the next while, you will become totally hideous. We can provide the antidote at any time, provided you agree to join us and grant us control of security for our operations out of this city. And you will agree. We know that. No person has ever lasted more than 16 hours without begging for the antidote that only we have. Keep in mind that if you tell anyone else, we'll just leave you to die. You might be interested in knowing that what you are becoming is a creature called an ogre, though those who've seen it call it just a monster. An expedition in the Arctic dug one of the things up 25 years ago - the last of its kind, mummified in ice. There are some things to be appreciated about it. The creature is a branch of man and genetically superior to man in some areas. Unfortunately, it will remain extinct - it relies on mutating men into its own kind, and as you know, modern man can't bear any transformation involving physical ugliness. For you, it means that you will cooperate or die screaming in terror of your own revolting face.”
-------------------
Sam resided in the Scarborough suburbs with his wife, Karen Brookes, and he also kept an apartment downtown that he used mostly as an office and crash pad while working through high-priority cases. A massive residential hive on the waterfront contained the downtown digs, and as he walked toward it, the building glowed softly in the night. Its thick portal windows revealed colorful, blurred snapshots of a thousand personal worlds.
Transient night-lights winked in the hybrid trees overarching the dim park path. A spiral parking complex hulked in the dark to the north - massive beams of a gray ash color, blending into the night. Faint odors of algae, fish, and mud carried in the cool air blowing off the quiet lake, and his eyes caught the long gleam of the moon on the slick surface of the water. It was a gentle scene. It gave birth to schools of strange ideas. His thoughts flowed to a great depth like the lake, and in the primeval bottom of mud, something vicious lived. Something that had been forgotten now returned to memory: a great bulking monster that had always been stirring there in the murky deep.
Peace will come with our surrender to beauty - Sam remembered those words as his gaze drifted on the water. Variations of the peace-and-surrender sentence formed the doctrine of most new religions. Sam had never been a believer, and like most people, he enjoyed daily existence in a rich social order. He had no use for fairy tales of heaven, and he believed the politicians who claimed Earth was the only heaven. His wife, Karen, did entertain religious beliefs. She went to a sort of nature church based on the old Wiccan religion. Being a cop through and through, Sam did not attend, and the thought of it curled his lips into a momentary expression of bewilderment. Perhaps there was nothing stranger than the continued existence of religious faith. On an Earth where, through genetic manipulation, people were far more intelligent than ever before, the most common religious theme was belief in the Garden of Eden. Of course, there had been attempts to genetically eliminate religion, but they had failed - creating either robotic humans or individuals with suicidal tendencies and a lack of artistic drive. Eradicating religion seemed impossible, as even atheism, to a small degree, had to be labeled as an article of faith.
Nowadays, the public has become irrational when notions of beauty are challenged. Genetic changes in favour of splendor meant the fabled Garden of Eden was magnificence and an addiction they could not stop themselves from believing in … they could not tolerate disturbing images. Pitted against rational thought, fear won out nearly every time. The old theory of evolution had been mostly forgotten among the general public, as the image of mankind rising from slime and with apes was a revolting thing of sleepless nights and shivering nightmares. It existed as a secret, sanctioned science while the general public believed Humankind had arisen from Eden, near-perfect creatures with genes designed to be rearranged. In the words of the wealthy men, women, and transgendered of faith and beauty, to believe anything else was to torment oneself with emotional hellfire. Hell was believing in it and that it could possibly exist. God had created Earth in beauty and left, and now the beings of Earth were following as angels spreading that perfection across the universe as they pursued the ultimate love of the Almighty they could not find. Yet Sam believed differently, and it didn’t torment him. He knew that the great hulking beast might be the truth. It lurked like a terrifying giant in the mud and primeval soup, threatening to rise at any time to drive humans insane with terror.
Picking up a flat stone, Sam tossed it and watched it splash on the silver water. If the destiny of humankind was to live in a fairy tale and to believe in beautiful princesses, then Eden and perfection had been attained. If not, then real history was an IT and a behemoth waiting to tear the columns of human psychological support and humanist genetic science asunder.
A day would come when it all tumbled down. Humans were not superhuman at all, and they were blind to that fact. A façade of perfection blocked the view of the truth. Everything was sugar-coated like Nestle had made the world, but it was only sugar, and it could be washed away by harsh experiences and trauma in a person's life.
Radiant light rising from ten thousand tiny embedded cells illuminated the main entrance. He crossed to an area that was busy even at this time of night. Luxury cars rushed in and out, and hurried people paced from the swift elevators. Fortunately, the mainstream of the crowd remained distant, and no one noticed him. He passed a teenage boy who gave him a startled glance and quickly ducked away. That worried Sam, so as he entered the corridor, he turned and stared at his reflection in a metal-plated wall.
A dim image stood in slight distortion. There was a greenish cast to his face and tiny lines and splits appearing in his features. It was as though his body had been suddenly segmented into tiny portions and was about to swell. The sight threw him off balance, and his mind swam with rushes of dreamlike fright. He turned on his heel and staggered forward into a swarm of bodies that seemed otherworldly, like they were ants or aliens. Sam felt like he'd been some creature of a hive all of his life, and was only now detached from its controlling mind to see its inherent features.
There were gasps and shocked faces. Jamming his hat down over his face, he pressed on, deliberately keeping his head down and staggering even more. Feigning intoxication proved a good cover as people always turned away from drunks, leaving them as something dirty the police were to sweep out of the public areas.
Small planes rushed along their pathways to the night sky outside the field of the rising elevator. He was alone and glad of it as the experience dizzied him. Exiting the elevator, he stepped slowly down a radiant hall, his blurred vision spotting a faint trail of greenish liquid oozing and spattering from his soggy shoes.
Brilliant overhead lights came on as he stumbled into the apartment. Sam thrived on strong lighting, but now it blinded him. His eyes ached and throbbed with hangover misery so great he was forced to dim the place to the illumination level of a cave. He found the soft jazz he'd set for automatic play to be offensive noise, like he now owned a canine's ears and could not bear the squeaking of reed instruments.
Nothing would do but silence, so he imagined it, and then he walked to the centre of the spacious living room and looked around. The drugged feeling was impossible to shake; he considered the possibility that the gangsters had somehow hit him with hallucinogens. It seemed plausible, but a stark memory of the corpse killed the idea, as did his reflection when he stepped up to the mirror.
The thing staring back was shocking - green cast skin of a leathery reptilian texture. Brutish features - an expanded forehead and popping eyes that seemed to be reeling in self-terror. His whisker shadow grew denser by the moment, almost tufts, and his once firm mouth had widened to something freakish.
He heard a horrified scream begin inside his head, and he grasped a chair to keep himself from falling. Shaking and choking, he fought the feeling off, and the scream failed to gain the use of his vocal cords. Then very slowly, he steadied himself, forcing his mind to accept what it saw.
That worked for a moment, but to bear up against it, he decided it would be best to avoid looking at himself. Walking back to the light panel, he set the room for darkness, finding it soothing as he could now see in the dark. Alert lights flashed from his personal phone, so he walked over and checked the messages.
There was only one message - an alien-sounding voice saying 'hit the hello button to surrender.' And Sam did just that. “Congrats,” he heard the man say. “Seventeen hours, Sam. You've set a new world record. No one has ever resisted for this long. Just say the word and we'll arrange things.”
“Go to the hell no one believes in!” Sam said, the thickness of his throat and the gross tone of his hoarse voice strengthening his intended effect.
Clicking the phone shut, he staggered upstairs. From the study, he could see the sky, stars, and a hypnotic moon - a force of heavenly light so powerful it threatened to possess him. This was an attunement to nature he'd never known before. Despite it, he fought off the potent alien sensations, sat at his connection workstation, and tried to bring his powers of reasoning to the forefront.
Concentration did work. In moments, he was thinking things through. It became clear that he was transforming a great deal physically, but the brute he was becoming was not lacking in intelligence.
The special search machine powered up. He adjusted the headset to his new skull shape and thought most things through. The enemy had made three vital mistakes - He had been told that the transformation would not cause death. The end would come through intense fear of the hideous transformation. He also knew that the transformation could be reversed via an antidote and that in the transformed state, he would be a creature called an ogre.
Documentation on such a creature would not be in any legal library, so he used his search machine and got through a police hookup to get into classified historical files. As he made the switch over, his default settings for environment suddenly lit the room with images of a quiet, sunlit library - a change that caused him agony. Shielding his eyes, he went through the settings. Nature scenes were another common background, but the beauty of nature was an overwhelming distraction, so he ended up sitting in simple darkness and silence, reading a dim screen.
Sam skimmed through an incredible amount of data on the ogre. But it was all information on a fairy tale creature from the old forbidden literature. Generally, it was a large forest monster that ate human flesh. Genuine scientific information on the creature did not exist. And this left him at a disappointing dead end. It seemed like there was nothing more he could do, and then on an off chance, he searched using the word IT that he'd got from an old book on fairies.
Sam expected little or nothing and got a lot. Listings on a long novel by Stephen King bearing the title came up. The book being of the variety called horror or dark fantasy - highly illegal material in civilian society. He really had no time to read huge novels or other related fantasy works, so he narrowed the search to the factual and came up with an essay titled “The Power of Monsters.” The introductory blurb listed the work as written by an insane novelist of the past – and the man was again Stephen King.
Sam felt thick slime moving in his mouth as he pursed his lips, and he thanked Eden that he didn’t have to look at himself. He wondered about the classification of King as insane. King lived in a period when all people were inferior and mad, so good old modern man might have feared him for other reasons - that was usually the case when it came to history.
He read the essay and realized that the author was really a clever fellow of that period. Bright enough in fact to make Sam appreciate something that should have been obvious but hadn't been only moments ago. Everything written about monsters and ogres painted them as hideous but powerful creatures. Here he was being blackmailed, supposedly into submission, all on the theory that he couldn't psychologically bear up against the transformation. But what if he managed to control the horror just a little longer - long enough to gain the strength and power of this creature? If he got lucky and it was enough, he could fake surrender and kill his foes when they arrived with the genetic antidote.
Thoughts of murder caused blood to race in his temples. Veins pounded, and a crushing power seized his mind. A taste like venom ran in his mouth, and spots of red whirled in the darkness. He pushed the chair back and felt his shirt tear from the expansion of his muscles as he rose. There was an incredible desire to lash out and kill something, but there was nothing, so he thundered across the room and went down the stairs. His feet took him to the bedroom, and he fell across the mattress and lay there as his thoughts settled. Several deep breaths helped to calm him down. Then he sat back up and stared at the dresser and an old photograph of himself as a boy.
As he stared at the photo, a tiny scar split open and grew to a long, gore-oozing gash. The pulsing tissue swallowed his mind, and a sunny day flooded into memory. He was nine years old and playing in High Park, using a remote-control app to fly a miniature FN22 race plane through the mix of trees. It ascended, looped, swung down, and dodged through the leafy boughs. Sam brought it in for a close approach, dogged some chipmunks, and suddenly his piloting skills failed. It rose, caught a branch at high speed, and broke up. Shards and sparks rained down, and a large chunk of debris glanced off his cheekbone.
Sam tumbled in the deep grass and rolled up to his feet. He'd thrown himself back, trying to duck, and that softened the blow. His right hand flew to his injured face and came away covered with blood. Shock settled in as he watched the thick liquid drip from his fingers, then tears welled in his eyes, and mixed emotions rose in his breast. He let out a sob, then confusion swept him, and he began to laugh. More tears poured as he laughed insanely and ran back to the picnic table, his parents and their friends.
Sam tore at his face as he ran, smearing blood across his forehead, hair, and down his shirt. He burst in on the peaceful picnic scene, a gore-soaked sight that inspired much panic and no sympathy. Soda got spilled, and food tumbled as the adults scattered with screams on their lips and horror on their faces.
In memory, their screaming came as a long fading echo that ended as a vision of Doctor Cleeson rose - his face cocked half sideways as his disdainful frown appeared. Cleeson removed Sam's scar using a painless laser technique. In the end, the huge gash was no more than a tiny scar that could only be seen through a magnifier.
The operation didn't make Sam happy. Losing the scar was like losing a pet frog. At nine years old, the wound had been a great thing that allowed him to terrify his friends and take time off from school. With the surgery, it was all gone - and something much worse came about. His mother's introduction to the new modes of plastic surgery became something close to a living nightmare. She had never been satisfied with the face she'd selected for him before birth, and now she began to change it the way she changed her hair. As Sam suffered through operation after operation, she reviewed faddish magazines and lectured him on the necessity of it all. If they worked long enough and hard enough, she said, eventually they would find that special combination of features and expressions that would make him stand out from his peers.
After two years of compliance, only loathing for his parents stood out, and another change had gradually taken place … He spent so much time at the clinic that the staff let him roam unsupervised. Sam entered forbidden rooms and toyed with taboo objects. Plastic surgeons used models, busts, and photos of all types of people in their work. The images Cleeson surrounded himself with in his private office were varied - beautiful, plain, and some of them outright creepy. Sam's favourite was a huge photographic record of girls and women who were quite hideous by modern standards. He often bit his tongue and grimaced as he went through these photos, and they fascinated him to the point that he removed some pages and hid them under his mattress at home.
This led to discovery, a confrontation with his mother, and five years of forced psychiatric treatment under Ms. Jane Alboe. Sam hated her. She existed as a miserable and filthy-minded psychotherapist who often twisted her lips in a fashion of disgust and accused him of masturbating while studying sick pictures. She demanded a full confession and that he open up regarding all of his perverse sexual fantasies. At that time, he hadn't known what masturbation was but soon learned as Ms. Alboe forced him to strip and masturbate while touching her “perfect body.” In his further therapy, he was to be taught to love beautiful women.
Sam felt a grimace form on his face, and his eyes left the photograph and went to the mirror. The immediate sense was one of disbelief. Most amazing was that there'd been no pain. He'd undergone a near-total change without feeling a thing. And he wasn’t horror-struck this time, but drawn to himself to the point that he got up and went over to view himself in full-length pseudo-glass.
Eye contact worked to create acceptance and a genuine self-image or feeling that the new appearance was also the new him. He'd unmistakably become a gruesome, fanged being of ancient forests. A monster with soft, branch-like tentacles on its head, and shining eyes that were oval, ruby-tinted, and pushed to the sides by a nose and mouth reminiscent of the snouts of predatory creatures pictured in forbidden fantasy books. His skin was scaly with brown and green camouflage patches below the eyes and on the cheeks. In fact, all of his skin was a lizard-like blend of pale chalks.
His neck, arms, and legs had thickened. Taut with muscle and tendon, they were as sturdy as tree trunks, and they blended well into his barrel-shaped torso and armour-plated chest. Gnarled hands and feet were attached with wrists and ankles far more flexible than those of a man … standing out like the crown of his new appearance was a serpent-like penis.
Sam stared at himself for a full five minutes, watching the amazing change complete itself with brush-like touches. He was managing to cope with the new appearance and enjoyed the feelings of great physical strength that came with it.
His mood stabilized to one of confidence and clear thinking, and he decided it was time for the call. He picked up the phone and hesitated. It seemed like a toy he could easily crush. A moment later, he put it down and tried to talk. “Hello,” he said, noting the hoarse nature of his voice. Then he said it a few times, adding weakness to the tone. When it sounded just right, he hit the saved number.
“Guess it must be you, Sam,” he heard the man say. “Damn, you really have put on a show.”
“I know, but I'm ready to surrender,” Sam said meekly. “You've got to meet me now before it's too late. This transformation has turned me into a walking corpse.”
“Just relax, Sam old boy ... or should I say, very ugly old boy. Listen up. We can reverse it, and there won't be any pain. You'll just have to do a few things for us to keep it from happening again. Meet us in one hour at ....”
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Fully transformed and animal naked, he left the apartment and went down the long hallway to a second bank of elevators humming at the rear of the complex. The first car to open carried three male passengers, and they stared at him briefly and blankly. He didn't enter but waited for an empty car to arrive. Recognition appeared to be the same as with the corpse in Springhill Park; he was now so ugly by society's standards that his appearance did not fully register when people first looked at him.
As he rode down, he looked through the transparent barrier tube at an umbrella of starry night and decided the ugliness factor gave him a distinct advantage. He would always be a partially invisible being as long as he didn't let human contact last long. Socialize for any length of time, and people would be sure to start fainting and screaming.
The doors rotated silently open on an arched exit ramp leading to a nearly empty public court. Moonlight spilled down generously, glistening on broad rubbery leaves, a mosaic of stones, and a bubbling fountain pool. Breathing in the fresh night air was like decompressing a rush drug in his throat. He felt an incredible boost of strength and arousal, almost like he was the guy in the Beam commercial for Nestle Rush bars, but not quite, since he was a lot stronger and much of the feeling came from his vastly improved hearing and sense of smell.
He was about to go down the sweep of steps, then he gave way to an errant animal impulse and leapt up the boundary wall. His claws seized clumps of ivy, and he went straight up for 12 metres and over to land softly on his feet in a quiet parking bay. It had all gone so smoothly, he felt certain that he could probably climb a mountain with similar ease. Walking between large Chase delivery trucks, he headed for the exit ramp. The situation suddenly changed as an armed guard appeared from a booth and confronted him near the gate. The guard was unduly large for a person of Chinese extraction, and he had his speedgun drawn as he stepped up.
Stopping a few paces from Sam, the guard wiped his tired eyes, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. His hand left his face, and Sam remained still, engaging him in solid eye contact. A deadly chain reaction followed as the guard's face became a mask of fright, and he swung the gun into place and fired. Sam ducked left, and the shot went wide. It grazed the side of a tanker, ringing it like a bell. The bolt went on to pop the tire of a Sun transport. The projectile, composed of a nearly pure form of kinetic metal, rocked the tanker and shattered its windows and headlights.
As the guard swung the gun for another shot, Sam moved in with the liquid speed of a lion. He dove and came down on him hard, mauling him with his claws as they went to the concrete.
The force of impact knocked them apart, and they both rolled up. Blood oozed from the guard's torn face and chest, but he still had the gun and was about to fire.
Since Sam had come up within reach, he swung his long arm in and turned the weapon back on the guard, and the motion was completed as the weapon went off. The fire of the blast tore the guard's head and chest from his body, sending them and trails of exploding flesh into the Plexiglas window of the guard post.
As the rest of the body crumpled to the pavement, Sam found himself frozen, staring down at blood and moonlight and finding the scent of raw flesh very appetizing. Without a doubt, the hunger for human flesh was in him now, and it disturbed him. He wasn't ready for it yet, so he backed away slowly, terrified of what he had done and looking around to see if the noise had drawn any more guards.
Some fast agile leaps got him out and a street away. Sucking in a deep breath, he turned down an alleyway that ran a quarter kilometre over to the next major avenue. The narrow space contained spongy ground, exposed earth tufted with deep grass and weeds, which his new feet found more soothing than concrete. Beside him, the walls of a residential complex rose into shadow and ebony darkness, nearly reaching the smudged light of the stars and blue satellite conglomerate carpeting the sky.
Fragrant odors lingered on the damp grass and touched his nostrils. There was a subtle detection of the metallic content of loose earth. Fumes laced with the smells of spent fuels drifted to him as he passed a puddle. He found his psychological state to be sound, and he felt far more in tune with the night world as the creature than he had as a human. There was a sense of great power, like he could tear ten men limb from limb and enjoy doing it. All of the predatory instincts that had been genetically removed for the good of society had been returned to him. They flowed as new blood in his veins, yet he felt fully in control. His mental balance could only be described as the superior state of a superior being. And with the euphoria came the realization that scientists had been trying in vain for a century to do what nature had done long ago. The hideous ogre was the true genetic leap - superior strength, senses, and intellect.
In tune with nature and not dependent on technology, Sam believed the ogre branch of man could build a far better world than his artificial rival. Genetically improved man had built a great technological society, but there were always bugs and glitches spoiling the smooth operation of the hoped-for perfect world.
Too many items important to culture and freedom were considered messy and left out of the equation. An army of government and corporate employees swept them up. Sam supposed that on some future day humankind would sweep up and exterminate itself. Clean money-making android machines would claim the great eternity of the flawless corporate technocrats and planners … all of it for the glory of nothing and no one named or unnamed that had a real face. Just some idea out there in a cube of how the world could be better and more profitable for fate and the monster scabs it brought along to rule.
A couple more fast dark shortcuts took him to a rubbish-strewn road that was an unusual scene in the modern city, where vacant space was a luxury. It was a trail thick with freak weeds - huge shivering mistakes that had never been eliminated. Ruts and spill erosion had chewed into the main track to a depth that would make an all-terrain vehicle necessary for any person wanting to drive it. Sam's rendezvous with the gangsters was to be at the end of this gopher path at the wall and gate of an abandoned Nestle industrial complex.
He could see much farther as the creature, and even through deep darkness. The wall of the complex was a short distance ahead. Cracked and dripping with vines, it rose high in the night. At its top, a force shield resembling smoked glass flashed and glittered ominously, and beyond it stood a gleaming onion dome and a tower.
A faint haze of yellow nightlight filtered through the black web of boughs overhead, and as he grew closer, he spotted some fresh tire tracks in the earth. They ran parallel to the gate, meaning the gangsters hadn't used the road but had come through the bushes from the south. He knew they were using a big hydrogen vehicle because he could smell traces of the acrid exhaust. There were also odors of alcohol and human sweat drifting in the air from some willows to the right of the gate.
A cloud of insects suddenly swarmed down and then away nearly as quickly as his body emitted a defensive odor. Sam was close now, so he perched on a huge rut in the dried mud and, with some concentration, spotted two armed men standing in the darkness under one of the willows. One had his hands in his pockets, and the other appeared relaxed but watchful. Obviously, the men were backup for the person he was about to meet. They couldn't see him yet and wouldn't until he stepped out of the deeper darkness into the open moonlit area near the gate.
Due to the bright moonlight spotlighting the gate, he decided to walk toward it but stand at its side in the shadow of the wall and foliage. Putting his head down and hunching his shoulders, he moved into the light and went over to a post on the left side of the gate. There he was visible to the men, but only vaguely so.
He kept watch on them from the corner of his eye. They didn’t see him, but he noted that they had drawn their weapons. Clearly, they were waiting for a signal or for someone else to show.
The arrival of a third man came with movement in the bushes, and the rustling brush automatically triggered Sam's night vision. It instantly turned the darkness into a form of faint and colored light. Shadows vanished like mist, and he saw the man clearly. He had a combination of rugged features and a strong gaze that added up to a look of handsome though somewhat sinister ferocity. His suit was loose, but the collarless shirt beneath the jacket was tight; the clothing was all in gray tones that camouflaged him neatly. An ordinary man would not see him yet, but Sam saw him so well that he noticed him do a pat-check on a weapon he had shoved down his belt under his jacket at the back. Packing a gun that way meant he had prepared for a possible fast draw.
As the gangster moved out of the bushes, Sam lowered his head and shuffled back and forth. Then, when the guy got closer, he looked up, feigning surprise. This worked to disarm the criminal, and he walked up confidently. He stopped before he got too close to Sam and pulled dark wraparound glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.
Tapping the right lens, he said, “It's easier to talk to you when I can stand to look at you. My name is Daniel Grant, and you'll be taking orders from me from now on.”
“You got the stuff?” Sam said in an urgent tone.
“Patience, patience. It's in my pocket. It's never been used on an advanced case like yours, but our scientist says it will work. The reversal will go as smoothly as your current transformation has.”
“Most people can't see me or look at me directly, even with tinted glasses on, so you've had some experience. You're also a military genetic type and old enough to be an officer of some sort. Obviously, the gang wanted agents in the military, so they recruited you in the same cruel way.”
“I'm glad you're observant. You've saved me a lot of talking. Indeed, I didn't volunteer, but I'm at the top in this region now. One reason I'm here is to tell you that it isn't bad at all – you'll easily adjust, and you can't beat the benefits. You'll not only get to call the shots in this big town, but you'll be able to exercise power in a way you couldn't as a cop. We don't see ourselves as gangsters. We're a sort of hidden police force. The state doesn't pay us, of course. We take care of that ourselves.”
“I'm sure you do, Daniel. In sending you, your masters have also picked the right man for my notions. I might as well tell you straight off that my mission is similar to yours. I'm here to recruit you.”
“Recruit me,” he said, chuckling. “Don't tell me you're still trying to play cop at this stage of the game?”
“Not cop, but criminal. I want you to join me and create a new organization.”
“Ah, a man with ambition. But no, it doesn't work that way. We take you in, and you work your way up. Attempts at a takeover would fail.”
“I'm not a man with ambitions; I'm a monster with certainty. I passed the test, you see, and I'm the IT or the ogre. What I've discovered is that the full change creates a superior being. Our society attempted to create the master race using our notions of beauty and strength, and failed. Nature makes no such errors.”
“It looks like nature's error is madness or a form of mania. Do you really expect me to help a thing like you? I underwent that change partially. It was the most terrifying experience of my life. Maybe you always were some kind of undetected freak - a genetic misfit who can somehow tolerate the grotesque. But others can't. Your plan would never work. You really have no choice other than to do what we say.”
“No. I can't return to my former human self. And once I have the spore, I can select people who have a chance of making it. I need you in human form because you're good at what you do. You can organize for me. My plan is not to destroy all men or transform everyone - just a select few. An organization controlled by us would have incredible power. No one could fight us and win.”
Putting his hand to his chin, Daniel thought it over, not knowing that Sam could see through his dark lenses. The mood in Daniel's eyes was at first supportive, then his thinking shifted to the contrary, and Sam detected very faint movement. He knew Daniel was going for his gun with his other hand.
Striking out with cat speed, Sam raked a claw up Daniel's chest, cutting cloth and flesh and sending him tumbling back onto the rutted road. Then, as Daniel rolled, Sam did a quick turn and leapt for the wall, bullets from the backup gunners spraying in a trail behind him as he moved like a blur. He went for the top on all fours like an animal running, and when he was high enough, he jumped straight to the trees.
The force of his leap sent him flying through the leaves; he connected with a sturdy bough and swung up even higher. Suddenly, the whole tree shook, and a glance down showed him that Daniel had been smart enough to shoot the trunk, causing a force transfer to the tree. The other two weren't as clever; they were spraying bullets up through the leaves.
The trees arched over the road, making it easy for Sam to race out on a limb and leap across. From there, he circled in other dark treetops, positioning himself high in the second tree back from the open gate area.
Daniel moved into the shadows near where they had met while the other two gangsters were in the open moonlight, looking up. They conferred, then stepped back and again sprayed a tree with projectiles.
While the guns rattled, Sam busted off a piece of a branch and tossed it lightly over to the first tree. It dropped down through the limbs, and on seeing it land, the men quickly changed their aim.
Random fire was getting them nowhere, so they held off and moved forward slowly, looking up and shifting their gaze from tree to tree. Daniel had not joined them; he was slowly climbing the ivied wall to an open portion in the force field.
One of the men was directly under him and in the shadows, so Sam decided to make a move. His skin brushed the bark as he slid silently down the trunk to the lowest limb. There he wrapped his feet around the branch and swung down hard, coming out of the darkness to rake the gunman's neck with the full force of his claws. It was a blow so deadly that it ripped most of the man's throat away and sent blood pulsing out in a spray of dark rain.
As Sam scrambled back up the boughs, he heard the other gunman gasp, and then a rattle as bullets pounded the branch. Daniel was on top of the wall now. He'd removed his jacket and was using it to stop the bleeding from the claw wounds on his chest. His gun had been holstered. It looked like he planned on seeing if his men were successful, and if they weren't, he was going to escape over the wall into the abandoned complex.
Luck came as the remaining gunman suddenly ran out of ammunition and began a quick and desperate reload. It wasn't fast enough as Sam dropped to earth five metres from him and charged. He tackled the man, knocking the wind out of him, and he held onto him as he ran into the brush. From there, he dragged the guy through the thorns and went up a maple tree.
Daniel had not attempted to shoot him, and he remained standing at the top of the wall.
Sam decided to test his strength. Locking his feet into the tree trunk, he lifted the limp body and threw the man. It took every ounce of his strength. The body arced out over the boughs and into the force shield, a few metres down from Daniel. It was like hitting a spike or a powerful magnet. The shield held the body, lit it up like transparent neon, super-heated the flesh, and sent organs and blood showering out in a boiling explosion. A cloud of hissing steam rose, the bones burned, and the skull shattered like pottery. Moments later, wisps of smoke and dust remained. A dark stain ran on the ivied wall.
Daniel turned toward the opening in the shield and went halfway through, then he turned and yelled back to Sam. “The spores are in the tower, inside the complex. The scientist and a couple of other men are all we need. The rest we can kill.”
Sam watched as Daniel disappeared over the wall. Then he leapt, went through the opening, and dropped down to a weedy field. He spotted Daniel ahead of him. He’d halted on a path leading through the brush and was looking ahead to the tower.
Sam studied the structure; it rose amid industrial wreckage - a powerful engine of the past. He felt his chest muscles contract like a second potent engine. And at that moment, the genetic changes became complete. His mind rose with super intelligence. He knew the spore could be obtained easily and that Daniel would remain as his partner.
The new world would be a Garden of Eden … a jungle … but mankind and all of old earth would remain or be reborn. Ogres would rule the world, but it had always been that way.
+++
By Gary L Morton
It began with a heavy rumble and nightmarish quake-shaking. The men threw their hands up and pounded the cell walls. This was something big, bigger than anything that'd hit before. End-of-the-world big. It had the planet's underground on a crazy seesaw. Paul hung in his cell, riding it like a wild horse, knowing that somewhere out there, cowards were on their bellies, praying for a quick end to it.
But there would be no quick end here, there would be a blood-red end, because the walls and force fields were coming down, and it might as well have been the heavens tumbling and opening the pit of Hades. The black soot of forgotten doom rode in through new windy cracks in the earth. Doom and terror because if these men broke free, they'd pick up the pieces of a shattered Earth and build a new world so ugly there'd be no one left human enough to disown it.
Three hundred men, human monsters, put away forever in the bowels of the planet in Breaker's Maximum Security Prison - some of the lowest men who'd ever lived. Kept in isolation because they couldn't be put even two together without murder happening. Every one of them was a killer and every one of them a mad cannibal. Paul knew how dangerous they were because he was one of them, and he knew it was party time when he saw the lights in the lock mechanism die and his cell door swing open automatically. It meant that somewhere the walls had crumbled enough for some men to escape. And if some were out, they would all be out soon.
A guard laser camera flashed as he stepped out. He saw it fall from the niche, knocked right out of the wall. Dodging the beam, he jumped to the side and picked it up, swept the prism along the wall, and watched a black strip sizzle where it hit. Silver flashed from a guardbot at the corner, but it was immobile - frozen. “Hum, the lockup computer is totally down,” he thought, and then he hit the robot with the beam and watched its head burst. Silicon and yellow liquid burned. Circuits hissed like straw. “Just the thing I need,” he muttered. Sliding the protector across the slot, he disarmed it. More rumbling hit, throwing him to the floor, but he got up moments later, feeling the vibrations weaken. The place was still rocking, and now rolling with the joyous shouts of escaping cons. The labyrinth was settling like maybe it had found a new bottom, and the heavens weren't really going to sink all the way down.
Paul shivered in the heat; the damp and mist had come in when the air conditioning went out. It meant that surface winds had penetrated, cooling the steaming-hot tunnels above the prison. A hell of stone corridors and steel chambers ran in front of him. And in the ghosting dust, he could see a flare, and then fire flashing as doors were welded free. Walking into the echoing chorus of freedom, he made his way to the action. Three green-tinted faces emerged from the eerie gloom created by the backup camera placements. The first man was Big Marvin, his chiseled face as mean as his reputation. A man who'd devoured his children, a man who had never smiled, and a man who wasn't smiling now. What he would want in this situation, Paul couldn't begin to guess. No one could read Marvin's warped mind.
The second face was Freddy Lake, the university boy, known as the prom killer twenty-five years ago when he'd come in, and the third was Jacklac Martin, the hungry highwayman - a guy with eyes set too far apart like the two halves of his brain weren't quite in touch.
Freddy was the first to act, stepping hurriedly ahead of the others, and saying, “Wow, you got a laser, Paul, old buddy! A laser and you're dead because I want it.” He lunged, and Paul ducked back, got in with a hard boot that stopped him, then Big Marvin stepped up, grabbed Freddy, and slammed him into the wall. Freddy came reeling back only to be slammed again, and Marvin didn't stop. He grimaced and huffed, but he didn't stop -- he slammed Freddy until his skull was mush and blood vomit and his body broken bones and pulp. When he'd finished, he threw the bleeding corpse to the floor. “Anybody hungry! It's dinner time!” he hollered.
“Reckon I'll take my piece of him,” Jacklac said as the laughter and shouting grew deafening; only Marvin grabbed Jacklac by the throat, lifted him and held him while the crowd of men ran up. Hungry blackened faces and dangerous eyes loomed out of the dark, but no one dared to try passing Marvin. Shouts were still echoing far down the corridors, but here all fell silent. “Freddy tried to fuck around,” he said, Jacklac's right eye popping wide as he shook him for emphasis. “So don't you boys forget that, unless you want to end up the same. Now -- and I mean right now, I'm taking Jacklac and Paul, and we're going up to pay Uncle Henry a visit. If you boys got your heads on straight, you'll remember that Uncle Henry is the only man who survived the big block-fifteen break twenty years back. He knows how to get out of this crap hole, so I'm going to find out. You boys can hoot it up, have a party, settle some scores -- but remember, I'll be back soon, and there will be order. I expect to see table manners and obedience, 'cause I need order for this escape to work. I'm damn well getting us outa here. So let's hear it - are you with me or not?”
The shouts rang out, a deafening roar as Marvin turned and signaled Jacklac and Paul to follow him. Shouts like a howl from some grander hell above as some of the men fell like animals on Freddy's corpse.
Paul knew the way to the back of the compound, so he stepped into the lead, feeling very uncomfortable with Marvin at his back. Bleak corridors twisted and turned, and the new emergency settings caused doors to hiss open automatically as they approached. Muddy water and slime trickled in spots where the walls had crumbled completely. It was an environment about as friendly as a muddy moon base, and Paul knew it had its own kind of aliens lurking somewhere, waiting to feed on escaping cons.
The tunnels brightened as they got higher, and they were nearly there when they heard someone shuffling behind them. Paul stopped, looked to Marvin, and lifted the laser, prepared to confront an enemy. White showed in the light, a man walked up … a thin man with a clown-like baby face and big blue eyes. He stopped, grinning foolishly at Marvin.
“What's up, Doctor?” Marvin said. “Didn't you like the party?”
“Thought you might need some help with Uncle Henry.” He patted his black bag. “If he doesn't want to talk. Tell us the way out. I could help persuade him. A little operation, something like that.”
“Forget it. Uncle Henry is the most dangerous man alive. That's why his cell is in the most stable rock. I'll just have to trick him, talk the dope out of him. Can't risk going in to torture him.”
“Say, Doc,” Jacklac said, putting on a slimy smile. “A lot of the cells we opened had only skeletons in them. You're the only person who ever got around the place, having that special medical emergency pass. If they're dead, that means you ate them. Know what else? I think you're here 'cause you want protection. You don't want to help with Uncle Henry. You're just scared of what's gonna happen if the men decide to punish you.”
“Those men died of natural causes. I'm only a general practitioner. I couldn't save everybody who got sick. It's a miracle that I didn't get eaten myself. Half the time, the guardbots couldn't get me in on emergencies -- guys kept holding me in their cells, using me as a fuck buddy.”
“Whoa!” Marvin said, and then his mood turned so foul that Paul saw black rings form around his eyes. “So you're the fuck doctor. Just an asshole piece of meat. Well, that's good, because we need a doctor. You're to attend to me and take care of my wounds. Otherwise, you'll be like rare steak.”
The Doctor nodded, Paul frowned, Marvin calmed down, and they turned and walked on. Walls went from stone to metal, and the final door was open a crack, frozen in that position. It was just enough for them to squeeze through.
They found themselves on a dim observation platform facing a well-lit, brightly painted cell and Uncle Henry. Both the cell and Henry were spotless, highlighting the fact that Henry had been a school janitor before his arrest. All the schools Henry had transferred through had been kept spotless. Police even found the silver Henry used to eat his victims to be spotless. His status as the most dangerous man alive came from the fact that he also ate cops. “Always liked the clean look of a man in uniform,” Henry had said. Thirty-seven cops were skewered by Henry. Their badges were placed on plaques in his boiler room, where he often showed them to students and others. None of them ever figured out the story behind the badges.
If Marvin's problem was that he frowned all the time, Uncle Henry's was that he grinned too much. He heard the men enter, but ignored them. Instead, he got up and went to his food machine. A Coke popped out, and he grinned, then took a swig. The coke brought an old argument to Paul's mind -- some of the prisoners said the food machines proved they weren't buried too far down, while others said the fact that humans didn’t service them proved they were at the center of the Earth.
Henry savored the Coke, his gray eyes distant like a vulture's, like he might be considering the argument too -- and while considering it, he was also like a vulture in patience. He knew the meat had come to the desert, so he was in no hurry to feast.
Paul heard a faint whir and then saw a flash on metal. It was a guardbot coming to life at the far end of the observation platform. Moving out of the gloom, it raised its weapon arm. Uncapping the laser, Paul swept the beam over and up, quickly hitting the bot. It reflected off the body, then burned upon contact with the faceplate. Green heat flashed on the wall as the bot fired and missed, then its head short-circuited, licked out fire, blackened, and froze.
The light and the darkness shifted on Marvin's face as he studied Uncle Henry -- he had the look of a grim predator. One staring out of his pit at a smiling animal he feared but couldn't quite comprehend. “We're leaving,” Marvin said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “Thought we'd come over to say goodbye.”
“Yep, you're leaving, but you won't be visiting that great beyond up yonder. Not unless I show you the way.”
“He's right,” Paul said. “I might as well cut the door with my laser.”
“There's no need to free him,” Marvin said. “Henry can either talk, or else I can bring up some boys to subdue him and let the doctor operate on him till he talks.”
“That right, Doc?” Henry said. “After all these years, all the fresh meat you brought me, you're going to stick me?”
Doc's face reddened, and Marvin slowly turned to face him. “You son of a bitch,” he said as he slugged him hard in the jaw.
Doc staggered back, falling in the darkness. “We ain't got time to torture Henry,” Jacklac said. “The men will get restless.”
“Torture wouldn't work anyway,” Paul said. “We need Henry with us; we don't know which tunnels are open, and no one else can figure out a way.”
Marvin nodded. “So long as you know you're not number one, Henry. I'm in charge of this expedition.”
Henry walked up to the heavy Plexiglas door. “So long as you know that your number and everybody's number is going to be up if we don't find the surface fast.”
Paul removed the laser's cap and began to cut. The beam locked into a straight line, showering sparks as he traced a rectangle. Rainbow rivulets of melt flowed out as he deepened the groove. He saw Marvin's hunted face in the reflection and Henry waiting patiently -- the inches-thick plastic giving him the look of being encased in amber.
Finished the cutting, Paul capped the laser, and Henry heaved from inside. The block snapped and slid out. Paul pushed it aside and entered with Marvin and Jacklac following. Henry made no hostile moves as they joined him in the light; he merely waved them over to his table, where they pulled up chairs. As they settled, Paul unfolded a large sheet of paper that was to be their map.
Henry spoke first. “The big bustout twenty years ago failed for a number of reasons. The number one reason was infighting. It's hot and ugly in those tunnels. Men with scores to settle can't be contained. What have we got - 300 men, and who knows how many of them got beefs?”
“That's why I left them partying,” Marvin said. “By the time we get back, there will be a lot fewer men. And those left will have blown out some of the steam.”
“Excellent,” Henry said. He turned his head slightly as the Doctor walked in. “How about the doc? You feel you have to settle something with him?”
Marvin gave the doctor a nasty glance. “He's scum, but anybody else probably would've done worse than he did.”
“Maybe, Paul said. “Keep in mind that I don't touch human flesh. I was framed, and I don't carry the cannibal gene, just like I’ve been saying all these years.”
Marvin's frown deepened to a point where it looked like his skin would crack. “You were framed. Why don't you save that shit for the boys at the drugstore back home? Save it because there isn't anybody here who'll believe it. We know you worked as a detective. And we also know that you're Mr. Dick with a big appetite.”
Paul threw his chair back as he jumped up. Marvin was on his feet nearly as fast. “All right, cut the crap,” Henry said. “Sit down before I kill you both... 'cause I don't want to work with guys that crack before the pressure's even on.”
Paul grabbed his chair and sat first.
“You can forget making a map,” Henry said. “Those tunnels wind too much for me to remember it that way.”
“There must be something we can list?” Paul said.
“Yeah, there is,” Henry said. “It's more like an environment. Down here in the lower reaches, the stone is hard and dark, and there isn't any water. We have to take enough to get most of the way. You can survive by drinking blood, but I recommend water. There are certain passages we have to find and take, or else we just go in circles. These passages are marked by a symbol. It is embossed in the stone near the turnoffs and nearly invisible in most cases. Half of the men died last time before we even figured that out. The next level has water and rock of various textures and shades. It is also a softer rock. Some tunnels are natural and run up to an underground river. It's when you reach the river that life gets easy and hard. There are supposed to be guards there, though we never encountered them. What we encountered was far worse. Something ugly enough that it killed everyone but me. Now that particular problem is one I won't be talking about until we're there. There is a secret you have to know there, or you don't make it. I think the biggest hazard may be the surface itself, because no one knows where we will emerge, or who or what will be there. We need at least a few men alive and healthy when we reach it. Maybe more. We could be up against an army for all I know. Does anyone have any ideas as to what happened up there?”
“I've been thinking,” Jacklac said. “An explosion as big as what we heard looks to be an earthquake, nuclear stuff, or a meteor smashing the Earth. But I don't think that's what it was. I think we were executed.” He put up his hand to silence Marvin. “That's right, executed. They think they blasted and buried us, only it didn't work. If you think about it, it's the most likely thing. A new government came in and decided to finish us. And that means we got a chance. They slipped up for a moment when they brought me down, and I saw big earth-moving machinery at that underground river. If there's no natural passage out, we could dig out. And if we come out in a secluded spot they won't even know it 'cause they think we're dead.”
Henry nodded, Paul nodded, Marvin nodded, and the Doctor looked skeptical.
“I'm inclined to believe Jacklac,” Paul said. “They wouldn't build an underground prison in an earthquake zone, and a nuclear explosion wouldn't even shake us up. But that means something else. And that something else is that they may be sending a team down to make sure we're dead. Think about it, they need an official record.”
“You're probably right,” Henry said. “And we're going to get up there and wait for that team. Then we're going to kill them and ride out of here.”
“Yeah, and you're gonna ride on the back of the bus, black boy,” said a voice from the darkness. “In the body rack.”
Paul lifted his laser. Marvin, Jacklac, and the doctor threw their chairs back and got ready to fight. Henry remained seated, not appearing upset at all. Several faces showed in the dim light near the door, all of them pale prison white. Gunmetal gleamed.
“Well, if it isn't Bobby Jenson,” Marvin said. “I thought I told the boys to kill you.”
“You did, but your boys failed,” Bobby said, his eyes flashing red behind a huge forehead that hung out like another piece of the rock wall. “Failed and got cooked, so to speak. And you're gonna get cooked, 'cause I like to get strong on the blood of my enemies.”
Paul spoke. “Where'd you get the rifles?”
“A stash,” Bobby said. “I'm no stupid nigger. I'm in here on a special deal. The guards set it up with us before we came down. A way of saving us from the niggers. The deal was that if a disaster happened, we would get the rifles and lead the men up to the guardhouse, where we'll get amnesty. Freedom road, and we don't have to worry about fighting the army. Of course, the rest of the men will get iced, but they don't know that.”
Uncle Henry stood, slapped his thigh, and then he laughed in a creepy way. “And you think the guards won't kill you? Well, you're right about not being a nigger. But when it comes to the stupid part, you're brainless and more than that.”
“Shut up, 'cause you're dead,” said one of Bobby’s men.
“Right,” said Bobby, then he looked to Paul. “You can join us if you want, Paul. We need a good man. But Jacklac and the doctor are dead meat and good food. They sucked too much nigger dick.”
Paul looked to Marvin and Henry.
“Get out of here, white boy,” Henry said. “We never wanted you anyway.”
“Sure,” Paul said, and then he stepped to the side quickly with fingers on the cap of the laser, ready to release the beam if Marvin or Jacklac made a move for him. Marvin grimaced, took half a step, then froze, hatred painted on his face as he watched Paul move to the rectangle he'd cut in the cell wall. Reaching the hole, Paul stepped out, pulled the cap off the beam, sent the laser flying, and threw himself back into the cell.
Fire flew from the barrel of Bobby's rifle. But he had expected Paul to just step out and get slaughtered, and his shot was too late. Now the laser was sliding across the floor and spinning, the deadly beam revolving. It had been designed to kill escaping cons, designed to cut flesh and bone. And it got them quick, cutting their ankles, sending them screaming to the floor.
Rifles hit the stone, some wild shots went off, and blood splashed … there was a lot of screaming as the crippled men crawled on the floor. Bobby was groaning as he bled, but clear-headed enough to head for the laser, which was stationary now, burning a hole in the stone.
Marvin beat Paul to the door, and Henry was second. It was only seconds, and all five of them were on the observation platform, using rifles and the laser to put Bobby and his racist backstabbers out of their misery.
Paul capped the laser, watching as Marvin went down with the knife. Bobby choked with pain and fear. “Time for the dog's dinner,” Marvin said, and started hacking at Bobby's neck.
“Damn laser is dangerous,” Henry said, and he laughed like a crazy man, listening to Bobby let out a scream and a gurgle. “You know what, Paul? You're smarter than I thought.”
“I knew Bobby wanted me out so he could get the laser. As long as I had it, they didn't have us. The way it is, I guess we saved the guards the trouble of killing them.”
“Jeeze, Marvin. What are you doin'?” Jacklac said. “I don't want Bobby's head.”
“Yeah, well, you're getting it,” Marvin said. “And you're goin' ahead with it. You're to show it to the men and tell them we're still in charge and how Bobby and his boys planned to sell them out.”
“If you say so,” Jacklac said. Taking the dripping head, he disappeared into the dark corridor.
Henry turned to the doctor. “Use your knives and take some quick prime cuts from those boys. Use the vent plastic to wrap them. Then you run ahead to Jacklac and hand them out to the men. Say it's a present from Henry.”
The tunnels were warming, air currents settling. Odors of decay touched Paul's nostrils. Corpses littered chambers already buried in the falling dust, revealing the devil as a hungry beast feeding on his children. Paul had a vision of sunshine in his mind, and when he looked at Henry and Marvin, he imagined they saw it too. Genetic cannibals hunted more than raw flesh. It had to do with the dark side. The media, the police, and the common people all believed these prisoners to be inhuman monsters. But that wasn't the case in full. Killers who argued they were still human had a point in that it was partially true. But the dark animus remained a trickster, a coyote … it convinced a man to live with his family, love his children and friends -- have all the good things of life and still go on killing. Like an alien growing in the background, keeping him under control. Henry probably wasn’t the worst man alive, Paul knew better than that -- he just cast a longer shadow than the others cast, and was also the first victim of the shadow, the first man swallowed by its darkness.
Sunshine was always like a dream for these men … as they would never really walk in it. They couldn’t walk out of the darkness, Paul knew that. Or if they did, they'd bring the fog along. They owned the darkness, the soot, and the decay of the tunnels. They'd blacken the world and the hearts of everyone they touched. He wanted to live and get a new start, since there was no one left and nowhere to return to. The way he saw it, he was as disconnected as any man, but he wasn't a wolf who wanted to run hungry on the town. He believed he had the right to a new life, but Henry, Marvin, and the others deserved no rights. They were like dogs that’d tasted human flesh and could only be put to sleep. Ravenous dogs with eyes so red even the wan light of the new moon would make them drool, snarl, and snap. They had memories of the sunshine inside, he was sure of it. Sure that the shadow never took over completely. There was light for it too. Sunshine that was a haunting recollection of humanity and all that had been buried by the darkness. The torment of the damned is a lingering memory of kinder days that burns like fire. And kinder days are often like childhood in that you can never go back.
Marvin's soot-blackened face was starting to look like a mask - a theatre mask of disgust mostly. But it wasn't the corpses or the smell. It was the fact that so many men were dead already. “Damn,” he said. “Wasn't there anybody that didn't have a beef?”
“Better that way,” Henry said. “More men come up with more ways to slow things down. As it is, we have to move fast to get out of the hot tunnels and into the water. Just a touch too slow and we'll be dead.”
“Why do you keep worrying about water?” Marvin said. “We got plenty.”
“Not water, the heat. The tunnels are narrow and hot. They widen near the river and get cooler. Fatigue, then delirium, and stroke will get us. Eventually, it would even get us here. With the air conditioning out we couldn't stay even if we wanted to.”
Paul walked ahead and was the first to spot the main body of men ... or what remained of them. They were in an area where cell walls had collapsed, creating a small cavern. Most were sitting now, looking tired. Corpses were stacked like sandbags against the rubble, and one man was on his knees there, chewing on the raw flesh of a half-crushed body.
Spotting the men, Henry hurried ahead. He looked around and shook his head with disgust. Walking up to the bodies, he put his rifle to the back of the feeding man's neck and killed him with one shot. The head imploded with a sickening crunch. “You boys look like a dirty lot,” he said. “But you'll show some table manners around me or end up like him.”
“Where are the rest of the men?” Marvin said to Jacklac.
Jacklac nodded to Alfred Greering, the red chef, and he stepped forward. “Some took off during the fight with Bobby, and the rest left while he went to get you. Then things got out of hand, and more were killed during our little party. Some guardbots caught our scent, but we managed to blow up a tunnel and block them. Unfortunately, some of the men are trapped with them. You can hear them now if you listen. I think the bots are torturing them.”
Henry listened and did hear some faint howling. “You people make me sick,” he said, looking at the moping men. “We got a rough climb ahead of us, and you're already exhausted. Ah, never mind. Stick with me, and you at least have a chance. The others that ran off don't. Getting out of here is a tight squeeze, and they won't find the hole.” He kicked the lid off a broken toilet. “I want you boys to line up here and clean the filth off your faces. I don't travel with dirt bags.”
The march began two abreast and single file. Since Paul was the fittest, Marvin put him in the lead. A short but wide corridor and a massive steel door marked the exit, and the name Jonathan Breaker's Maximum Security Prison was riveted into the arch. The men looked up at it in awe, most of them silent, a few muttering. Many of them hadn't realized what they were up against until now -- and they could feel the weight of the name bearing down on them like giant shackles, reminding them that Breaker’s mark of Cain was on them. There would be no escaping the scars of a lifetime.
Things stayed at a level for some distance, then the tunnel began to narrow and wind uphill. Walls closed in, and the dust and heat rose with them, locking each man in his own feverish prison of mind. Some muttered, others cursed - all of them off in their own gloomy thoughts, but still seeing a common light of hope that kept them together. At such close quarters, Paul couldn't help thinking of the others, their vile crimes, and his own past. His mind drifted across cannibal history like a ghost floating back across hated yesterdays. Marvin was probably the most ridiculous cannibal to consider, even though he never laughed. Some warped people in his old Boston neighborhood thought of him as a hero. Marvin had the cannibal flaw all right, but he’d decided to use it to clean up the neighborhood and ate the trash -- junkies, wire heads. When his children went bad, he ate them too. On conviction, the judge called him a despicable man, not a hero. Paul agreed with the ruling, thinking of Marvin’s diseased mind.
Jacklac had killed with fire, and his bushy brows and intense stare made it seem like he was always seeing the flames. He was another somewhat ridiculous killer. After casing a joint and setting a fire, he would rush back and affect a rescue; only, instead of being saved, the victim was driven to his lair and eaten. A couple of times, the cops arrived when he was emerging from the flames with a victim, and he got in the papers as a hero. There were many fires before a smart detective caught on to his actions.
Henry's profile was that of a classic eccentric man turned psycho. As a boy with a cleanliness fixation, he'd wanted to grow up to be a janitor so he could polish the world, but something went wrong, and he ended up eating clean people with polished utensils. Henry had been studied by more shrinks and computer rhythms than any other prisoner, but studied from a distance because he killed people instantly, without warning. Henry always used the fastest, most effective method, and he smiled while doing the job, as if he were happy about getting a hen ready for the oven. His aging face had the creases of a kind old man, and that meant he was still the most dangerous man alive. He could walk back into the world, smiling pleasantly, killing everywhere he went without being suspected.
Paul's own sheltered boyhood in a tiny Canadian village was nothing like the others' city backgrounds. They were surrounded by violence, while he had experienced none. He remembered his first date -- Jenny Wentworth, an average blond girl, and they took potato chips and Coke along to a reinvented drive-in movie theatre in the countryside. No dope, no guns, and some hot kisses during the flick. Back then, he could not have imagined a character like Marvin. People like him were on the big city news, but always as something distant and not quite believable.
Faint moans echoed down the tunnel, pulling Paul back from memories to the situation at hand. Marvin tapped him on the shoulder. “As soon as you see them, kill them,” he said.
A few more steps, and he saw two men in the shadows ahead. Collapsed, with blood and dirt on their faces, they posed no threat. Paul stopped, turned. “Maybe we'd better ask them what happened.”
Marvin's face screwed tight with hate. “I told you to kill them, now do it.”
“Bullshit,” Paul said. “I don't just kill someone without thinking about it.”
“Why don't you look me in the eye when you say that, you shifty bastard?”
“Maybe I don't like the sick hunger I see in your eyes.”
“Yeah, or maybe it's because you're gutless and you don't want me to see that.”
“I'm glad you brought this up, because when I was in the army, I had a sergeant who said the same thing. Could be that I am gutless, or it could be that I think you got something rotten inside and I don't want it to see me and crawl out. Can't say I know what it is, but most days I think it's that I've seen so much pain and misery on this planet that I'm trying to hide it from others. Just so their souls won't get blackened, too. When I worked as a detective, too many people touched me. They put their third-world pain in me, and I couldn't do anything to help them. The world you want to get back to is a graveyard full of babies and children screaming and dying while the rest of the inhuman creeps kick their corpses aside to get the dollars and land underneath. People and corporations that can put on kinder smiles than Henry can, and do it while they're killing. And with you, Marvin, it's not just that - I don't want you to look in me because there's a mirror inside. One that will show you who you are and make you face the ugly truth -- guys like you make this world an even bigger place of pain and misery.”
Marvin's face reddened; he got so angry he nearly choked. Then his eyes popped, and he drew his fist back slowly, as if Paul's words had shocked his brain so badly he could only move in slow motion. But at that moment, Henry whipped him hard with the rifle barrel, sending him into the wall. Paul was also caught off guard as Henry knocked him aside and walked up to the two moaning men. They turned pleading eyes to him, but it didn't stop him from pulling the trigger quickly. A point-blank execution that darkened the damp walls with running blood. Wisps of acrid smoke drifted from the barrel of Henry's gun, “I've seen too much misery, too,” he said. “It's better that those boys are put out of pain.” He watched Marvin get up. “Paul's right, you got a miserable look 'cause you're a misery bringer like a rabid dog's a misery bringer. From now on, you walk in the lead and keep your thoughts on the light at the end of the tunnel. The men don't need bossing from you.”
Marvin shambled into the lead, and then Henry rubbed part of the wall above the two corpses. The faint image of a grinning skull was embossed there. “We're at the turnoff, it's just ahead. Some of the men must've made it. That's lucky for us. We'll just leave 'em ahead and let the forces of ugliness up there swallow them.” Turning to Jacklac, he spoke low, “In a few minutes, I want you to go back a ways and kill any laggers hanging back to feed on the corpses. Sharks we don't need, so this is a way of weeding them out before they backstab the rest of us.”
“No problem,” Jacklac said. “I'll make short of them.”
“And the doctor will make short ribs of them,” Henry said. “You got that, Doc? In case we need food I want you to have some freshly wrapped.”
The doctor lifted his black bag and patted it. “Yep, I got that, and I just happen to specialize in that sort of meat cutting.”
The tunnels wound on like the belly of a hot snake, graduated colors of calcium and flowstone making up the scales of the beast. Stalagmite grotesqueries blocked their path and mocked them with the memory of the water that had once flowed there. Crushed volcanic earth and pumice poured through the splits, bringing odors of a long-dead world that had once existed above. Images of the planet's surface appeared to them as multifaceted mirages. Deserts, desolation - polished bones in the sands of nuclear destruction - the broken rockets of science fiction worlds that had blossomed and died. Lush greenery grew on earths of yesteryear, rolling and unfolding through earthquakes into new continents of nature today. Scenery and humans, nearly too beautiful to imagine, appeared in the light of tinted suns. Beings of flesh and blood - red wine to quench their cannibal thirst, and bodies that were the bread of life. Humans to stalk in a new hunting ground. Carcasses to feast on in a new lawless world.
In thirst and hunger, heat and dryness, their hearts beat like drums of ancient times while the wind moaned down the tunnels like the haunting voice of some witch-doctor king of cannibals. Soon, the air was moistened by this witch doctor's breath, and he brought up sweat on their backs. In the lonely lamentations, Paul heard a faint roar, stopped, and turned to Henry. He pointed to the eerie light in the widening gap ahead. “It's the river, we've made it,” he said.
Sweat dripped from Henry's brow like they were dams in the river. “We're out of the heat,” he said, “but we've a long way to go.”
Marvin was ahead, standing in the gap, and he groaned with awe, then hurried back. “Amazing,” he said, “the cavern and river are so big I can't believe it. But there's too much space for men to wander off. I'm going to have to warn them.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “You lead the men out, gather them by the river, warn them, and make them all wash. Paul, the doctor, and I are remaining here in the gap.”
“Why?” Marvin said.
“A little barbecue. It gets dangerous ahead. I don't want to die without having at least a good last meal.”
“Sure,” Marvin said, and then he turned to Jacklac. “Call back - we're at the river and I want everyone to follow me out.”
Paul sat on a boulder watching the men march by - their faces excited but also somewhat haggard and blackened. The fact was they were out of shape, and the long march had taken its toll. The river would rejuvenate them like a blood river. And like a river of blood, it would drown some of them in red nightmares. The doctor was last, coming up with his package of flesh, and he grinned and patted it as he sat. Henry went to work, building a fire with a palm-sized portable burner, and in a minute had a solid blaze going in a small pit of stones. As well as medical supplies, the doctor's bag contained his favorite seasoning. Seasoning, he handed over to Henry, who was heating the skillet.
Taking a chocolate bar from his pack, Paul munched slowly, watching the smoke rise and rush out of the tunnel with the air currents. Human flesh was the last thing on his mind, and the seasoned stuff Henry was cooking smelled more like steak than something ugly. Out of the smoke came a vision of a bar, and Paul remembered his last day with Janine. That was a few days before his arrest - a Dear John meeting. He could hear her voice all over again - “You're weird, Paul. A man should want to build a home, make money, gain prestige, happiness, and a place in the sun of the good life. But you spend all your time crying over the disadvantaged, doing work for free. Those people can't be helped because there are too many of them, and I, for one, am not going to waste time trying to get a life raft to the half of the world that is already dead. I intend to live and live well. And to live with a man who cares about me instead of every grubby peasant in the world.”
Rather than hurt, the pain was as distant as glaciers. He'd done too much time to feel pain and now he was one of the people who couldn't be helped. In the beginning, a male prisoner longs for a woman, for love or the love he lost. Then he starts to freeze over, become an alien - one who has to be alone. A person who can no longer live life as a partnership. Years of loneliness made him a loner who could only be alone. Love passed before his eyes like a distant movie. He could never love again, though he could love the better elements of the human race as something from a distance. And the others were like him to a degree; if they had any love or care for humanity when they came in, it was gone now. They were frozen over - cannibals without feelings, and there wasn't a person in the world who would be safe from them. There wasn't a person they wouldn't kill and eat.
Henry had brought stale Kaisers and was eating someone now, and it would've turned Paul's stomach if it looked that way. Instead, it looked and smelled like he was eating steak on a bun. Henry bit sweetly into the meat, his lips curling with satisfaction. Although he killed viciously, he ate with the habit of an eccentric chef who just happened to prefer human meat. The doctor's table manners were also immaculate, likely because Henry would've killed him long ago if they weren't. Paul wondered what the doctor saw when he looked at him - meat on the slab, a corpse he wanted to have sex with - probably not much more than that. It became obvious that Henry could not possibly care about the rest of the men - filthy swine that ate half-rotted corpses. The fact that most of them would die like swine was probably the fact that made him grin all the time.
Footsteps squished as Jacklac returned carrying a jug. “I took a bath and brought some fresh water, so how about sharing some of those good eats?”
“Sure, we got plenty,” Henry said. “Paul's not hungry today.”
“Good,” Jacklac said. “Keep it up, Paul, and I just might believe you've been framed. But so far, I believe you just aren't happy 'cause you can't get toast and butter with yours.”
Henry laughed, and the doctor snickered, then a scream echoed in from the outside. Shouts, the sound of splashing water, and more screaming followed. Paul and Jacklac took off, leaving Henry and the doctor behind as they ran out. Green walls lit by yellow sulfur and the placid blue waters of the river flowing smoothly by - the scene nearly hypnotized Paul. Then he spotted men struggling a ways down the bank. Most of the men were running toward him, fleeing something by the water. Lifting his laser, he waited while the men passed.
The rest of the men broke free and ran, and he noted that their attacker was Joe Diggle, known as the green cannibal for his habit of stashing bodies in pits full of greens and herbs. Diggle was one of the men who had gotten ahead of them, and though he was recognizable, he wasn't quite the same. A horrible growth was attached to his head, and his face had contorted into a ghastly expression. He faced off with Marvin, who had his rifle ready.
Diggle charged, and Marvin fired and kept firing, stopping him in his tracks, ripping his chest open - more bullets knocked his heart right out through his back. But they didn't stop him for more than a moment. He continued moving up on Marvin, a gruesome hole you could shoot the moon through in his chest - managing to growl hideously even though his lungs were gone. Marvin threw the rifle at him, turned, and ran as it bounced uselessly away. Leaving Paul and his laser as the stopper.
Henry suddenly poked his head out into the light; he took a small bite of his sandwich, sipped water, and watched Marvin flee past him into the tunnel. “Paul, the guy's become a spore head, you've got to cut his head off, or he won't die.”
“Gotcha,” Paul said, watching Diggle drip gore as he approached. Spore head, Henry wasn't kidding - It looked like seeded cow dung attached to his head. Whatever it was, it had rooted itself in his brain. He uncapped the laser and aimed it slowly and carefully, letting the beam hit Diggle's neck. Boiling blood spurted, Diggle's tongue shot out of his mouth into the air, and then he fell, his body twitching as his face shifted through hideous expressions as his head broke loose and rolled away.
Henry stepped out, walked up to the smoking head and booted it like a football into the river. “Same as last time,” He said, as Marvin walked up to him.
“You mean you knew this shit could happen and you didn't tell us?” Marvin said.
“Believing is in the seeing, not the telling,” Henry said.
“What I see isn't easy to believe either,” Paul said. “I hope this doesn't mean that all the men ahead of us are turned into those things?”
“No,” Henry said. “Most of them are plain dead, but a few probably got bitten.” He took a final bite of his sandwich and grinned. “This is the last of the good eats; from now on, the men will have the poison in their blood. Eat any flesh, and you become a zombie and die horribly.”
Jacklac ambled up and kicked Diggle's mangled corpse. “Gee, thanks for warning us, Henry. How many more surprises didn't you cue us in on?”
“Can't say I know just what surprises will come. For now, we let the men rest briefly, then move on.”
Paul gazed at the calm water and listened to the distant roar. Two of the men took Diggle's corpse by the arms, carefully avoiding the growth as they dragged it over and dumped it in the water. It sank, the growth going down last. Henry walked along the water's edge, passing the stain left by Diggle's corpse while the men rested against the wall. He didn't grin, appearing to have something dark on his mind. His face had paled, like maybe he was weakening. Maybe, but Paul guessed it as the mark of something else - fear.
He glanced at Marvin, who sat silent and glassy-eyed. Perhaps considering the weird environment they had entered. Either that, or it had hypnotized him, as it had most of the other men. Without a doubt, Marvin and most of the men were weak. The edge had been taken off their senses, and they would be slow in a crisis. Paul felt he was still on top, sharper than the rest, and about on par with Henry.
This was a place of shadows, and most of them looked cast by real beings. They weren't, of course, but if anything was hiding out there, it would be nearly impossible to spot before you were on it... or it was on you. Paul decided to walk in the lead, got up, and passed Henry at the water's edge. He turned, “I'll go on ahead,” he said to Henry.
He walked towards the roar, staying a step away from the water, harboring some childhood fear of a hand shooting out of the blue and seizing his foot. Red and yellow sulfur stained the walls, glowing like some monster's running blood. Especially thick in areas where the river canyon angled up toward higher rock shelves.
Freakish toadstools grew in the rock; huge brown-green things that released musty odors. Paul squinted, seeing a bizarre mass of these toadstools blocking the path. A couple of steps closer, and he noticed they were growing on a corpse. He raised his rifle, then lowered it, realizing that shooting a corpse would be a waste.
“So this is how Diggle would've ended up,” he thought as he turned and waited for the men to catch up.
They approached him slowly, Henry in the lead. They paused, some of them looking fearfully up at the outcropping, and then they moved on, passing through some huge boulders that blocked most of the slope. Henry was about fifty feet away when Paul saw something they couldn't see - a mass of toadstools, growing on the rock over the boulders. Only these ones were bluish and emitting a miasma of spores. Part of it appeared to be moving, and as he watched, it broke off and fell - not a toadstool, but what looked like a spiked-shaped piece of rock.
Paul yelled, but not in time; the spike hit, nailing one of the men. The man was Alex Sanders, a cannibal who'd made his name in the navy, striking in many foreign docks before the crimes were traced to him. He was a big man with a thick neck - big enough that he barely moved as the spike hit. It was fast. The thing penetrated his head and went straight into his brain.
Most of the others didn't notice, but Marvin and Henry did, and they jumped and ran up the slope toward Paul. The rest of the men followed, leaving Sanders standing there with bulging eyes and the spike poking out of the top of his head.
“Damn son of a bitch!” Jacklac said, pushing the cringing doctor away from him.
“What is this shit?” Marvin said.
“Freaksville,” Henry said, “they put an environmental stopper down here. I can't believe that happens naturally.”
Paul ignored them and the rest of the men's complaints. He kept his eyes on Alex Sanders. Sanders tottered, his face swelling, turning bruise blue. His eyes expanded to fantastic proportions, then his skull split - an ugly crack that made the men grind their teeth with fear and revulsion.
The growth oozed out, bubbling with blood and brain matter as it formed a gross cap on Sanders' head, then Sanders howled, spraying out saliva and blood. It was an inhuman howl - the birth cry of a monster, and it shook the men with terror. They broke and ran as Sanders leaped - a leap you might expect from a mountain lion, but not from a man. His body arced and flipped, and he went right over Paul and Henry, landing among the fleeing men.
Marvin swung his rifle, hammering Sanders in the back. But Sanders didn't notice the blow. He bashed Smith’s head on a rock and moved ahead, managing to seize the doctor.
Growling, he mauled the screaming doctor, then Paul jumped him from behind and used the standard army tactic for breaking a man's neck. It worked - Sanders let go of the doctor and staggered. But his neck muscles were so thick and ropy that his head remained stable on his broken neck. Unable to turn his head, he turned his whole body and found himself facing Henry and a hatchet. Henry swung, catching him in the throat, chopping his head partway off. Then Marvin moved up as Sanders stumbled back a step. Thrusting the rifle up to the gouge in Sanders' throat, Marvin pulled the trigger - blasting his head off, sending the growth and most of his brain high up in the rocks.
Sanders’s body fell and rolled down to the water's edge, next to the doctor, who had also fallen. Blood and a blue miasma poured from his neck, enveloping the doctor as he tried to crawl away.
Eyes wild with fright, spittle flying from his lips as he blubbered, “God, oh god!” the doctor crawled back up from the water's edge … and as he was rising, Henry stepped out and kicked him in the face, hard enough to send him rolling back down.
“I'm afraid it's too late, Doctor,” Henry said, lifting his ax. “You've been infected.”
“No,” the Doctor choked. “I can heal myself.” Wiping blood from his nose, he started to rise again.
But Henry remained unconvinced and began to step down to him. Face whitening with fright, the doctor stared at Henry with disbelief for a moment, then he turned, splashed into the water, and began to swim away. Going overhand, he got to a black rock that broke the surface a ways out and held on, breathing hard. At about his fifth breath, the water began to churn around him, and he suddenly screamed. The glow reflecting from the water turned the whites of his eyes and his tongue bright silver, and then he went down, completely vanishing for several seconds.
Blood stained the water, a small column came up in a geyser, and a severed foot shot from the spume at the top of it. “What in the hell is that?” Marvin said, taking a step back with the rest of the men.
“It's gone, whatever it is,” Paul said, watching the water spatter down and settle.
A pink stain drifted. “Guess the doctor's gone, too,” Jacklac said.
“I forgot to warn him about them,” Henry said. “The rule here is swim at your own risk.”
“What's in there, sharks?” Marvin said, shooting Henry a hostile glance.
“Things that look like eels or octopus tentacles. I saw them before they got me. That was years ago, on the first break. Bodies explode when they attach, then they feed on the remains.”
“Interesting,” Paul said. “But not surprising.” He looked Henry in the eye, then a growl echoed down from the path ahead, and they turned to look. Some of the men had run off and gotten ahead during the scene with the doctor. Now they were on the uphill stretch of the path, near a bend. But backing off, because three more of the fungus-faced zombies were coming around on the path.
These new zombies looked more like vegetables than human beings - green-black with bloated, tentacled hands, lumps of mutated flesh for feet, and torsos that were gashed with hair like fungus growing in the splits. Their faces were distorted like melted wax, and one of them had a single, large staring eye in the center of its forehead. Expressions of hunger and hate still formed on the warped features. These were so ghastly and frightening that the men were unable to take their eyes off them and retreated by taking steps backward.
Paul, Henry, and Marvin, being the leaders, waited as the men retreated. Paul raised his laser and nodded to Henry, who also raised his weapon, and then they noticed that Marvin had a problem. He'd gone stiff, standing and trembling, not even raising his gun as they approached.
Looking to Henry, Paul raised his eyebrows. Henry shook his shoulders - a sign of mild wonderment in his eyes, then the shooting started . . . both Henry and Jacklac firing opening rounds at the one-eyed zombie. His head broke like a jar, dry rot and not blood oozed at the neck stump as he kept walking.
Paul knew they couldn't stop unfeeling creatures easily, and he didn't have time to use the laser, so he went lower with his aim, taking out the knees. It worked, and the zombie went down, now crawling slowly forward. Following suit, Henry took the other two down and then watched as Paul seized Marvin and started dragging him back.
They moved away, going down the path toward the men - Henry's grin foul as he studied Marvin's trembling lips. Marvin had lost it, and that was clear. His face was ashen, his eyes swollen. He wanted to say something, but his lips shook, and his tongue refused to work.
Suddenly angered by Marvin's cowardice, Paul slapped his cheek hard. “Speak up, man!”
Marvin choked.
“He's lost his nerve,” Henry said. “I've seen it before. You're as good as dead when that happens.”
“Hear that?” Paul said, slapping Marvin again. “You're yellow, so what you got to say about it?”
Marvin did speak this time, but his mood sure wasn't the murderous rage he would've been roused to only a few minutes back. “It's those things,” he said as he steadied himself. “They're made out of other bodies, bodies of people I ate. I ate bad guys, remember - some real scum of the earth creeps. We can't get caught by those things. They'll do worse things than eat us.”
Henry was binding a torch of sorts, using paper, wood, and string. He turned to Marvin. “We can't get caught? Well, I hate to tell you this, Marvin, but if we just freeze and wait for 'em to get us as you did, we will be killed.”
“I know,” Marvin said. “But it has to do with power. When I ate people, I always took their power into me. It makes me strong. Now I know that this river is sucking the power from me and throwing out those corpses.”
“Why do you say the river and not just the earth?” Jacklac said.
“Because water is power.”
“Not water, fire is power,” Henry said, soaking the torch with fluid from a can. Damping it just enough to burn, he lit it and ran forward up the rocks. Then he leaped right over the first corpse, which still moved, and swept the swath of flame into the second two bodies. They ignited like straw-soaked gasoline, Henry barely getting back past the first one before it went up. The flames were incredible. Paul couldn't believe what he saw in them. Not just bones popping like firecrackers, but faces melting, screaming, shifting in hideous contortions of blood-red fire -- the sounds unreal and in the back of his mind and not his ears.
Marvin was taking steps back, his eyes wide with horror, and the other men had retreated. Some screaming came from the rear, and looking back, he saw some of the men dismembering a newly spiked corpse.
“Can't run and you can't hide,” Henry said to Marvin, a false look of sympathy showing in his lined features. “So you can either come up this rise with us or lag back and get hit from behind.” Using a damp cloth, he snuffed the torch and handed it to Marvin. “You can do the burning, if there are more of them.”
Jacklac had run back to behead the corpse; now he caught up, breathing hard. “We're losing control of the boys. If the ambushes get worse, they might disperse and get picked off.”
“That's their problem,” Henry said. “We're going straight up the rise. Tell them to catch up or die.”
Paul moved into the lead again, and some of the flash fires of hell fear caught on his heels, speeding him up. Henry was right about keeping on the move. If the dread got worse, it would be like Panic City. Forcing the trek onward would at least get them moving and organized. Looking up, he saw smoke in the false fractal sky, like they were walking through netherworld clouds. The surface had to be a world away. It was possible that a force that was neither bombs nor quakes had freed them. For a huge underground winding river/cavern system like this to exist in the first place, it would have to be tremendously stable. And that meant it wouldn’t be near a quake or a possible war zone. Maybe they were at a rare geological moment, and a big shift was happening. He glanced back at Henry, wondering how much he knew. He'd been put down to make sure guys like Henry never got a chance to escape. That had all changed a few years back when the messages stopped coming through. He couldn't even get out himself. What had happened and what was out there, he didn't know; it was a world that had simply forgotten him. Now he was buried with dinosaurs, wondering if the world had gone off on a completely new tilt. It didn't really matter; his personal world had ended a long time ago. Janine didn't care about him. Stoned and in a fight, he'd killed a man and readily agreed to do his time on a false genetic cannibal charge, with the promise of a lot of cash and a new identity on his release. Perhaps it had all been a lie, and the sentence was doom. Other cons would believe that now, but Paul didn't - in his bones, he could feel it - the world had changed in a big way.
Rivulets of sweat ran on Paul's back as he reached the top of the rise. Patterns swirled in the haze, and for a moment, he thought he was hallucinating. A huge fortress blocked the narrowing river in the distance, its windows shimmering like magic. He covered his eyes to block the glare, then he heard moaning below. Glancing down, he saw something else surprising, a small army of zombies. The things created from images of Marvin's victims. “Damn,” how many people did you kill, Marvin?”
“Guess you never know till they all come back,” Henry said.
“Fuckin' shit!” Marvin hollered, shaking his fists at the stone heavens. “You can't do this to me, you can't!”
They ain't doin' nothing to us,” Henry said. “These ones are ripe enough to burn, and we're above them. Just descend with the torch and burn them.”
Jacklac moved up. “Shit, some of the men are down there. I'd better warn them.”
“What?” Henry said. “I said everyone was to follow me.”
“Some of the boys thought the riverbank was safer. I gave them the go-ahead. They're supposed to meet up with us ahead.”
“Fuck 'em. They aren't worth saving,” Henry said. “I want Marvin to see what those things do when they get you.”
Paul said nothing, Jacklac shrugged, and Marvin gaped as they watched the men appear below. They rounded the bend and found themselves face-to-face with the monsters. George Delane was in the lead, and he fired a shot, tried to retreat, and fell over the man behind him. Some confusion followed, and during it, a clutch of the creatures moved in and got Delane and his lieutenant. Howls echoed up as the rest of the men retreated.
Marvin looked at the torch in his hand, but cowardice prevented him from acting. The creatures piled on top of Delane, and Paul thought about going down, but what Henry had said was true - the men weren't worth saving. But worth saving or not, it was hard to watch a man die that way, and finally it became too much for Jacklac. “I used to kill by fire. Loved the flames. Give me that torch, Marvin.”
Marvin saw no reason to refuse, and Henry gave Jacklac the okay with a nod.
With the torch in hand, Jacklac swung around, moved down on the jagged face, and began to climb. He was agile for a big man, looking a lot like a gorilla, swinging out a long arm to grasp new handholds. The creatures below spotted him right away, some of them rising from Delane to scratch at the wall.
Looking over his shoulder, Jacklac caught a glimpse of Delane's corpse under the rising creatures - nothing but grue and the white of bones like a pack of wild dogs had been feasting on him. It sickened him; it aroused him and lit the fire in his eyes. Getting his balance, he used his lighter to ignite the torch, and then he leaped down, landing next to the body. One zombie was behind him, so he swung around and booted it hard, knocking it down on the stone. It scratched desperately as it slid into the water. Another creature was nearly on him - a hard left knocked it back. Jacklac noted that its flesh was cold, like hard rubber, then he hollered, “Die motherfuckers!” and ran, swinging the torch.
The first clutch of the creatures caught fire, flames exploded, and Jacklac ran into them, hammering at the bodies with his knees and elbows. Howling as torsos burst and heads flew. Hellish faces were mirrored in the flames; his skin was getting scorched, so he retreated and wiped the soot from his face. A carpet of burning body parts lay in front of him, and just beyond the flames, a crowd of unburned zombies waited.
He was ready to go for them, but he heard something above. Sounded like a rockslide. Looking up, he saw dirt, rocks, and Marvin sliding down. Marvin's face was torn with fright. The avalanche headed right for the largest group of zombies, and it hit, knocking a bunch of them down and sending Marvin rolling forward into the rest.
Jacklac ran with the fire, Marvin's screams ringing in his ears. Burning bones cracked underfoot. He threw the torch right into the mob, and they went up in a hellish inferno. Marvin was still inside, his screams buried by the roar and hiss of flames. Jacklac retreated from the heat, and a moment later, he saw Marvin emerge from the soot and distortion - hair singed, his blackened face wild with fright. He ran toward the water. A dismembered arm, still burning, was locked to his leg, and a smoking head had attached itself to his shoulder, broken teeth locked into his flesh.
Marvin stumbled, his screams getting louder as he batted at the head, trying to knock it off. At the water, he fell on his butt and started to weep, but that only lasted a moment; then he rose and jumped in.
Jacklac walked over and saw bubbles rising, but Marvin never came back up. He was just gone, like he'd been sucked right down into hell.
High up on the rock, Henry licked his lips, and Paul aimed the laser. Only a few of the zombies were left, so he'd decided to pick them off one by one. The beam flashed, flame licked up in the distance. “Got him,” Paul said, and then he swept the beam and fried two more.
“Guess you won't have to worry about settling that beef with Marvin now,” Henry said.
“He looked hypnotized when he went over, like those things had a pull on him.”
“Naw, the pull was all in his head. It was fear, like when a man falls 'cause he's scared of heights. This is the first time I saw a man so scared he drowned himself.”
“Think that's what it was?”
“There was no blood to speak of on the water. He must've gone under and held a rock or something so he'd die.”
“It proves that no matter who it is, there is still something out there that can bring the ultimate fear. Puts an end to heroes, and Marvin wanted to be some kind of hero, eating the bad guys.”
“I think he ate so many that the bad blood got in him.”
Part Three
Paul wondered what might bring him the ultimate fear. As they climbed higher on the path, he studied images in the mist. Images from his mind of things he feared - wolves, ghouls, monsters and childhood bogie men, twisted bodies and auto wrecks, the warped faces of mockers, all the ghosts of insecurity and masks of painful death. Electric chairs, the noose, Nazi's with dental tools, the Impaler's spikes, dungeon tools, and drooling madmen. In the end, he decided the most terrifying people were the men who'd built Jonathan Breaker's Maximum Security Prison, because they were men who could look into a mind and know what it would fear most.
At the highest point, the roar of the water grew deafening, and they came out from behind the rock to take in a breathtaking view. Golden mist swirled over the foam from a distant waterfall. An immense fortress was cut into the rock beside the falls, the structure composed of practical cubes, cylinders, and blocks, and not at all castle-like. The road over the water looked shaky but solid enough to cross single file. There were no signs of life; the place looked deserted. Its higher floors stretched beyond the waterfall, so they really had to get inside and up to see what was on the other side.
“Looks like a big change,” Henry said, his voice fighting the thunder of the falls. This is about as far as we got last time. Then there were robot guns and birds that killed most of the remaining men. The actual human guards are supposed to be up above somewhere. Only I don't think they're there now. No guns, no robots - the place has been abandoned. It means we can get farther this time.”
“Yeah, and it means there must be a war on the surface,” Jacklac said. His reddened eyes shone in his blackened face. “Maybe nothing's left up there but scavengers, and we'll just be more scavengers.”
“Suits me fine,” Henry said. “So long as we get out of here.”
They'd formed a human chain on the path, several yards between each man. In the false sunlight, it was hard for Paul to discern flesh from shadow. He turned when he saw Henry catching up, pausing for a moment to look at a beam of gold light spotlighting the water below. Some ugly flotsam drifted in . . . a mass of swollen flesh, oozing blood and pus - a small gross island. It vanished in black water and mist, and Paul found himself hoping it was Marvin's remains. If there were people and death in the fortress, their chances weren't good. They'd be picked off like nothing if someone started shooting now. No wonder the last breakout had failed here.
A monstrous wall loomed before him, stained by mist and lichens. Eyelets in the stone sucked at the mist - the spinning white constantly threatening to transform into human or robot faces of death. Echoes in the waterfall's roar sounded like voices calling; he thought of his past calling for his return. An idyllic yesterday, perhaps, but not the real one. He certainly didn't want to go back there. His life had ended a long time before it was over, but even as the dead, he remembered good things on the other side of the crashed bridges. His soul was the good life he could've lived if he hadn't gotten the black luck and death poison in his coffee. It had to be that a man was more than a feeling of need crying out for something better during a brief flash in the well of infinity. Silver doors shone, and the chasm yawned, jaws to swallow men who dared to enter forbidden realms . . . for Henry and the other men - guys who'd locked themselves out of their own hearts - the forbidden realm was as much spiritual as it was stone and metal. With nothing to lose, you've almost everything to gain - and lose again. Up the hill with the stone again, and each time a little older until your numb hands can give no more love than a cannibal's hands. It ends with the numbness, feelings lost - death is a heart of stone, and some men just kill because they have it inside from the beginning. They never lived or really loved.
Fourteen feet of steel door blocked their passage, and there was no visible way of opening it. Henry and Jacklac walked up quickly now that they were on a wide ledge.
“Leave the rest of the men to try and blow it open when they get desperate,” Henry said.
“Get desperate, I'm about as desperate as any man will ever be,” Jacklac said, his eyes hooded by shadows, the pupils a glitter down at the end of thirty-seven years of solitary confinement.
Henry pointed up at an eyelet in the stone and a crack in the wall. “This is where the strong survive. Those who make the climb make it; those who don't miss the boat out of hell.”
Paul didn’t reply; instead, he threw the laser and strap over his back, ran, and jumped. Black water flashed below him, and he reached for the crack, reached as hard as a man could because he knew men couldn't jump far. Olympic heroes glory in fractions of an inch. Less a fraction here, and he'd be gone. “Too bad for heroes because it's only genius that carries a man up to the skies,” he thought, and he landed in the crack, finding it larger and deeper than he'd thought. “It's deep and easier to catch onto than it looks,” he yelled back. “You just got to make the jump.” The rest of the men were crowding the door now, and he saw their tired looks. Most of them wouldn't make it, and Henry and Jacklac were getting ready to jump because they knew it and wanted to move before panic and shooting started. The angle was 40 degrees, and Paul moved up swiftly. He reached the window, then Henry jumped, and he saw him below, moving up like a crooked human fly.
At the ledge, he peeked in and ducked back. Nothing happened, and he saw nothing, so he looked again. Not much was visible in the gloom, but he noted that the window had a force field lining, and the field had been off so long that it was rusted. His eyes adjusted, and he saw enormous objects take shape in the dark. Like the river door, the room appeared to have been built for people twelve feet tall. Swinging over, he dropped and caught the tiles.
Landing near the door, he glanced up and saw Henry's face framed in the window. Light shining in from other eyelets was the only other illumination. Sand had blown in and piled on the stone floor. Milky cobwebs and mist hung so thick at some of the eyelets that it looked like the clouds were inside. Feeling like he was in a midnight dream, he walked up to the door, getting three steps before a spotlight came on.
He ducked aside and looked around, seeing Henry thump down beside him. A wide strip like a carpet was spotlighted, and it led up to the door, which was now red as fire.
They heard shouting outside. “Looks like hell has broken loose,” Henry said.
“I just triggered something,” Paul said. “Jeeze, I think the door is going to melt.”
“Not melt - vanish,” Henry said, raising his eyebrows as the door grew transparent. The fire licked into invisibility; they could see outside. The men's forms moved behind hot waves of distortion. Gunshots rang out. Some of them screamed as they went into the water. Then the walkway began to glow, and they turned to fire and transparency, just like the door.
Paul saw Jacklac leaping inside through the eyelet, and then he turned and saw the men's forms reappearing on the inside of the spotlighted strip. As they took shape, it became clear they were no longer flesh and blood. Glowing gold and silver, they reappeared in metallic form. Statues locked in bizarre poses. Some with desperation on their faces, some in the middle of blows, others halfway through an attempt to jump. Their forms locked in fully for a moment, then there was a flash, and the bodies became crystalline, darkened, and collapsed. Black sparkling sand slid out and hit the floor. Their guns clattered, their clothes wilted, then the door solidified, and it was over.
Henry turned to Jacklac. “Anyone else on the wall?”
“A couple of guys are all. If they haven't turned to sand, they should be in shortly.”
“We're lucky,” Paul said. “This place really was escape-proof. If the force fields at the windows weren't out, we couldn't have made it.”
“So it was a trap,” Jacklac said.
“Not a trap,” Paul said. “It's a transporter. They set it up so that only robots can transport in through that door. That's why the men turned to metal first. The transporter we triggered assumed they were metal, and then, when it couldn't complete its task, it left them as sand. Look at their clothes and their guns - they're still intact.”
“I see,” Henry said. “Our jailers are smart bastards, aren't they?”
“You mean we're smart bastards. This place still looks deserted. I think they're all dead.”
Something thumped behind them. Turning, they saw a blackened corpse. A second one fell from the eyelet, hit the floor, and smoked.
“They got everyone - the fuckers,” Jacklac said. “If they're not dead, they will be.” He shook his fist, and as he did, the lights came on.
They staggered back, overwhelmed by the enormity of the vaulted room. Paul scanned the area for guns and enemies but saw none. There was a lot of empty space, like the place had been cleaned out. Silver runways lay on the floor, leading to other rooms. Rows of huge cylinders like organ pipes lined the north side, and there was a mural of an angry crowd painted on the sixteen-foot stone blocks composing the far wall.
“Shit, I wave a fist and the lights come on,” Jacklac said.
“Place is designed for robots,” Paul said. “Certain movements are signals. Guess we had just better walk like stiffs. Don't want to signal for a recharge and turn on the energy cannons or something.”
Henry looked to the left. “That arch seems to be the main exit. Guess we go that way.”
Walking slowly, they reached the arch and found themselves facing darkness. Jacklac walked in, shook a fist, and the lights came on again. A much smaller room was revealed, and it had a number of screens framed in the walls.
Henry studied a large screen inside the door while Paul and Jacklac looked around warily. “Hey, I can see the surface,” Jacklac said, checking a screen. “People walking in a city. Man, have things changed. Half of them look barely human.”
“I don't see a city,” Henry said. “I see nude people in a forest. Beautiful people.”
Paul glanced at the screen, seeing the sun and a field but no people. Then something else caught his eye, and he walked across the room. He'd found a weapon of some kind. It was loose on the floor and looked like a ray gun. Picking it up, he studied it, then he walked back.
“Everyone sees something different in those view screens,” Paul said. “And if I know our jailers. Everyone human sees what they want to see and only robots see what's actually there.”
“No,” Jacklac said. “There's a beautiful world up there. Paradise. No cops, soldiers, or war anymore. You can't see it because they don't want you to.”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “I guess they must want to get eaten if they want you.”
“We can find out what's there when we get up there. Look at this gun I found. Some kind of robot gun, I think.”
“Don't test it here,” Henry said. “Let's take no chances before we get to the surface.”
Another arch took them into a room lined with transparent vats of bubbling orange liquid. A statue of a man stood beside one of the vats. They walked up, and Henry touched the statue. “He's made of crystal.”
“I can see that,” Paul said. “That's a new version of the old guards' uniform he's wearing. Maybe a transporter beam turned him into crystal.”
“Yeah,” Henry said, “and maybe that gun you got there turns people into diamonds or something.”
“I think those vats are generators,” Jacklac said.
“Jump in and see,” Henry said, then he followed Paul across the room to an elevator.
Paul heard wind and sand rattling in the shaft. The door wheezed open, suddenly revealing a silver floor. “If it's a transporter, we'll get zapped,” he said.
“Might be,” Henry said, and then he was cut off as Jacklac pushed him from behind.
Paul was also shoved, and he stumbled into the elevator with Henry. The door closed, lightning fast … and then they were going up. The door opened again, and they were facing a storage room lined with shelves of robot parts. Hands, faceplates, and breastplates gleamed, but there was no movement. Paul faced Henry. “Guess Jacklac wants us dead.”
“Unfortunately for him, this really is an elevator,” Henry said.
“What do you suppose his motive is?”
“Don't know. Looks like he just went nuts. I was expecting you to make the move.”
“Why me?”
“Because I know you were put down to make sure no one escapes. But you would've made a move by now, so what's your game?”
“It’s simple - I don't know what's up there or whether they're human. You're human and have spent all these years in prison. I'd rather let you get up and see the light. Decide for yourself whether you want to live in the new world. I have to make a choice, too … decide for myself - because maybe it's something I won't want to live in. I think the world exploded with change due to some new technology. Jacklac already made his decision - he tried to kill us, so he's dead. We finish him, then we go up, and let's make damn sure we make it because someone's got to make all this shit worthwhile.”
Henry turned to the panel. “I think these depressions are the controls.” He hit the bottom one, and the elevator shot back down. Then the door opened, and they raised their weapons.
Black sand blew on the floor, and a shadow moved over by the vats. Silver flashed as Jacklac appeared. He had put on a silver breastplate and attached a device to his head.
Henry fired, the shots echoing as the bullets bounced off Jacklac's armor. Jacklac grinned as he stepped forward. “The view screen told me, Henry. This armor makes me a god. But there can only be one god that goes up.”
Jacklac raised a laser.
Paul thought of firing his own. Thinking furiously, he decided to try something different. He raised the ray gun he'd found and squeezed the palm pad. Blue light, bright as shards of mirror and metal, rained on Jacklac, freezing him and his weapon. Nuclear brilliance enveloped him; waves of cold air and sand swept the room. Paul and Henry had to cover their eyes.
With his equilibrium lost, Paul felt as if he were in the cold void of outer space. Blinding stars shot out of the black, and through curtains of violet distortion, the room reappeared.
Jacklac was frozen like a statue, and he was all metal now - a complete robot. Paul looked to Henry; he saw him shaking his head, rubbing his eyes. Then Jacklac moved - he lifted an arm and stared at it with copper eyes. His gaze turned to Paul. “Master,” he said in a metallic voice.
Paul stepped forward. “Robot, tell us how to get to the surface?”
“There are many ways for a robot.”
“I mean for a human. A way to get up without being destroyed.”
“The air train in the old crew quarters is the only way.”
Henry spoke. “Search your memory. Tell us what is up there.”
“Above is the sky and the reborn humans who left for the sky.”
“There are no men like us?”
“No, look at the screens, and you will see what is up there for you.”
“Don't,” Paul said. “Unless you want to go mad like he did.”
“Can you lead us to the air train?” Henry said.
“Yes, follow,” the Jacklac robot said. He turned stiffly, feet heavy on the stone as he took a few steps. Then he stopped, and glowed - a yellow hue matching the liquid in the vats.
Paul and Henry backed away; the robot's right hand burst, showering sparks, fluid, plasma, and metal. It fell forward, its head exploding, diamond-blue chips spilling and sparkling. Yellow liquid poured onto the stone; parts of the body decayed into black sand, and the rest vibrated.
“Not much meat for the appetite. Jacklac sure never knew he'd die like that,” Henry said.
“Let's find the crew train and get out of here,” Paul said.
Passing through the arch Jacklac's metal incarnation had been trying to reach they found areas fitting the description of crew quarters. A long metallic hallway led to another elevator, and this time they got in without being pushed. It whooshed up at dizzying speed, a wind howling, unseen demons beating at the doors, and then it stopped quickly and opened on a platform.
It was dark, but enough light emanated from the walls for them to see. Broken bodies were spilled on the platform, half metal and sand, some had been human, others robots. The train was parked in the tunnel entrance - a sleek silver two-car vehicle. Paul stepped out cautiously, then stopped as Henry suddenly started to run; he jumped bodies and trash - headlights came on as he reached the train, and he didn't stop, but ran in the open door.
There were no traps. Henry was inside and waving, so Paul ran to the train. His skepticism kept his emotions in check, but he could feel his mood rising. They just might make it, and then they might not - the train could fail, or the tunnel could be blocked.
He stepped in quickly, and Henry clapped him on the back. “We've made it,” he said. “This is it - it has to be. There are no more traps... I know it ... they never dreamed it possible that we could make it this far.”
“Hope you're right,” Paul said as they walked to the controls and sat in the driver's shell.
Lights ignited in the silver panel. “It works,” Henry whispered, like it was the most awesome magic he'd ever witnessed.
Then Paul felt emotion well up, and he shouted. “It's going to run! The goddamn thing is going to take us up!” He grabbed Henry and put him in a Joker's headlock. And when Henry broke free, he laughed. Laughter that was real, and he laughed so hard, tears came to his eyes.
Paul brought up a map console. A 3D picture of the route up and the control functions. He studied it for about five seconds. “It's the easiest thing I've used,” he said. “Hang on, because we're taking off.”
Air rushed like an ocean, and engines whirred up like rockets as the car moved slowly into the tunnel. Paul hit the accelerator, and they were squeezed back as the train raced upward at incredible speed. Sand whipped the shields, loose rocks swept the side, metal clanged, and the train knocked bent reinforcement beams aside.
Gong sounds whammed their ears as the train ripped through falling debris. “Come on, baby. Don't let us down now,” Paul said. He ground his teeth, looked to Henry, and saw him grinning, crossed fingers held up. Then the train started to auto-decelerate.
It skated into a parking bay, the engines already winding down. Twenty seconds later, it touched down on the silver runway and the doors opened.
Spotlights lit the bay, revealing a huge empty area. Polished floors, shining metal walls, a huge arched ceiling. And nothing else - no equipment, benches, guard posts.
“I see no guards, no weapons,” Henry said.
“Looks like they polished this place … cleaned everything out and abandoned it long ago. I wonder why?”
“Whatever is out that door is why,” Henry said. “Let's go.”
Getting up, they ran out as the train engine shut off. Keeping on the run, they crossed the bay to the door. It didn't open automatically, and they could see no way of opening it from the inside.
“I feel like I'm being watched,” Paul said, wincing at the bright lights shining down.
“Use the laser, cut us out.”
They both stepped back as Paul uncapped the laser. Sparks flew as the beam hit the door. “Damn thick stuff,” Paul said as acrid fumes from the cooling train engine pinched his face.
“Just keep working,” Henry said. “It's starting to cut.”
“Be ready. We have to hit the deck if anybody is outside that door.”
“If it looks clear, we move out fast,” Henry said. “If anyone's in the way, we shoot them.”
Blue flames skated across the steel as the beam rose, then they heard a whoosh, and the huge bay began to move.
Paul shut off the beam. “I think I triggered it open,” he said.
Henry raised his rifle. “Could be somebody opening it from the outside.”
Squealing, throwing dust and caked rust from the crack, the huge metal door slid sideways. Sunlight shone in as the world was revealed. A fresh breeze blew in, and they saw maple trees, wild flowers, blue sky, and an open forest field. Henry stuttered … a few words of awe. Paul couldn't speak. The door picked up speed, opening all the way.
“Paradise. No people yet, but paradise,” Henry said, almost whispering as they both threw down their weapons and ran.
Paul beat Henry to the door. Leaping from the apron, he rolled in the long grass, got up, and kept running. A glittering pond lay ahead; he glanced up at the sky, and it was there that he saw the people... beautiful faces, shimmering forms, whirling and vanishing in charged sunlight. They were more than human. He heard their ghostly voices, their songs, and they touched his soul with warmth that melted the isolation, loneliness, and long, bitter years of imprisonment.
He tumbled, rolled, and got to his knees in the clover. Joy overwhelmed him as the voices spoke to him. A tear rolled from his eye . . . falling lightly as it faded with the rest of his body. Then he rose as mist to join the sky and humanity.
Henry saw Paul vanishing—rising —and finally the faces… the shock of it breaking his run, causing him to trip and fall in the long grass by the pond. He stood up, then the faces overwhelmed him, and he fell on his back. He stared at the sky, watching Paul's form spin into golden mist. He heard the voices, and he began to laugh. He choked, then he laughed like a madman. The knowledge came to him, and he began to weep. Biting his tongue, he let a last taste of blood fill his mouth. He felt himself sinking and saw his body melting, becoming blood and sand. Henry knew he belonged to the grave and to the past … and not to the sky.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Litter and loose leaves sailed up in a whirling gust, and I headed into the wind, getting grit in my good eye. Vagrants were in the alley. The newer breed of creepy shadows – lonely guys with loops gone sour and nothing to do but wander the empty concrete gutters getting ugly rushes. One grimy window showed in the wall and nothing else, so I figured the spot would do. Running past some trash cans, I ducked behind an abandoned car, pulled out a length of concrete-meshed plastic pipe, and waited. He came down the alley a few seconds later - a big man with short dark hair, tinted glasses, and a neat blue suit. I saw him draw a Taurus fragment pistol and look around. He nearly fired at the loopers, then he stepped past the wreck, and I ambushed him - my pipe arcing, cracking his temple, sending his gun clattering on the pavement as he went down. Wind rose, and I watched leaves skitter over his body, feeling suddenly light, like I was empty and what I had just done wasn't real. I felt like a ghost. The feeling passed, lonely air currents moaned up in the sixty-story buildings, and I remembered a woman. She wanted me for a case, and I needed the money. Holding my hat brim and hiding my face from the startled loopers, I walked away in the city's shades of darkness.
Stepping out of the ancient alley, I stopped, took my lucky charm out of my pocket, and studied it for a moment. The charm was a tiny silver spaceship I’d found while working on a case overseas. Rainbow colors glowed in the tiny bubble that represented the bridge, and I liked looking at them because they made me feel warm inside. I wasn't sure whether the charm worked. Good luck had pulled me out of the alley, but it sure wasn't good luck that had the SSU agent after me. More than anything, the charm was a symbol of belief in times when people believed in the sick society of their birth and nothing else. Philosophers killed the gods, but they failed to kill our desire to believe in silly little things … and to not believe in the corrupt leaders of this world.
It was one of those wistful sunny days where you know the world is beautiful for everyone else and sad and painful for you. I'd been feeling at the bottom for a while, so it was a usual feeling for me, but it wasn't a regular emotion for the woman I was visiting. Sheila Channing had it all except one thing - a daughter who loved her, and of course, that was the thing she wanted most of all. I waited on the doorstep, looking back at the sun-streaked towers of the megacity, wondering what I would say to her. Maybe nothing, a nod. Her emptiness went on forever like the jumble of city high-rises. Streets full of strangers, cold, windy alleys, and a heart of reinforced steel and concrete. This was her town; she was made of it more than flesh.
Hearing the door open behind me, I turned, getting caught off guard by Sheila's beauty like always. Her full lips were downturned, her violet eyes smeared by sadness. She smiled warmly, and I knew she believed I sympathized with her. I didn't. I knew how to handle my eyes and make her see what I wanted her to see. Eyes don't lie, so mine do. It's one of those things I developed so I would have an edge in the detective business.
Sheila was a hand-holder, so I took her hand and moved up close. “Janice is gone again?” I said, watching as she caressed my fingers.
“You'll bring her back again, won't you?” she said.
“I'll try, but you have to try, too. You have to get along with her. We can't keep doing this over again. Besides, she's more than eighteen now. Easily old enough to live on her own.”
“She's really still a baby, and age doesn't matter. As part of the Channing family, she has to fulfill her obligations. She must become the woman her father wanted her to be.”
“Yes,” I lied, as I pondered her motives. She'd been crying because she had failed to instill her values, or lack of them, in her daughter. I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on lying to the kid. If she wanted to go on her own, there was nothing wrong with that.
“You'll go now?” Sheila said, then she kissed me on the cheek and smiled, sure my answer would be yes. I knew she wondered why I never tried to go further with her, as every other guy did. I also knew her thinking didn't run deep enough for her to think it was a problem. Stepping back, I smiled with my eyes, restoring her confidence in me while I thought of other women like her – women of the past that had used me and tossed me aside.
“Right away,” I said, “but she knows I'll be looking for her, so she won't be easy to find.”
I cashed Sheila's check using my phone and then walked ten blocks to a tavern. Walking is a habit I picked up and can't seem to shake. When my wife left me, I started walking and thinking about it, and I've been walking since then. In a big city with fast public transit, walking proved helpful in solving cases. Nowadays, many city areas aren't readily accessible by transit or car, so the person who, to some extent, gets around on foot gets to know the turf better. Not that there's anyone else who knows the turf anyway. Most detectives do everything by computer and cyberspace contacts and never leave their offices; I cover areas their maps show as slums. They'd try to find Janice Channing by tracing a cash transaction, buying the latest phone listings. Then they'd call the nearest rent-a-goon outfit to have her snatched off the street. They wouldn't find Janice via their techniques. She didn't make any transactions but panhandled for cash and remains invisible. Police don’t question street people anymore unless they decide to plant themselves right outside the huge condo-business towers of the gated middle class.
I solve more cases than any security agency team, but I'm known as a crackpot who uses unethical methods. My name, Jack Michaels, is mostly mud now because I tried to rescue a client personally during a hostage situation and got him killed. After the news report on it, I couldn't find anybody who didn't see me as a fried circuit with a bad habit of trying to play hero. I still feel bad about a client dying, but at least I tried to save him. Other detectives would have done nothing, and he would have died anyway, as inner-city criminals don’t leave witnesses alive nowadays.
Picking up a newspaper, the partial paper version, not the electronic, I went into the tavern and sat by the window. What drew me to the place was the atmosphere. It was all green tones, and the music Tommy played was about fifty years old. I doubted a genuine antique jukebox would play sound anywhere near as good as Tommy's model, but that didn't matter. The music had its effect; it would put me in another time. I could drift in the green tones of the bar and the blue water of the fake river flowing by out the window and get ideas. Clues, really, and hunches that help cases along.
The first thing I always look at is the profile of the person I'm tracking. Janice Channing was a beautiful teenager and a good kid. The problems her mother wanted to clear from her mind didn't exist. Sadly, our society is one where the adults are the freaks, the radicals, and the misfits. Teenagers are one of the good things because they're usually too young to be loop crazy or totally redone by plastic surgery and drugs. Janice was headstrong and had the emotions of a healthy young woman. She hated me and liked me a lot, phoned me just to chat, and often I have wished I could meet a thirty-five-year-old version of her instead of the fry brains I do meet. We'd gotten into an argument the last time she came to my office, and her fiery temper was hard to forget. Janice was getting too close to me, and I told her so. Her response was fury. She said I didn't care about her; I was just like all the rest, and a few other nasty things. Why I was even taking the case was the real question. It was like working for the cult of society, bringing back the clever kids who had somehow deprogrammed themselves.
Since no one was serving me, I looked over at the bar. The place was nearly empty, only Tommy stood behind the counter, and he leaned on an elbow, staring into space. An ancient party song played on the jukebox, so I figured he had to be hooking himself to look so calm. It was difficult to get a reading on him. The hooks didn't give themselves away -- they didn't leave marks on the head, and there weren't outward signs other than the person would be inactive.
His head must've been clear enough for him to spot me, because he suddenly came to life, got something from the cooler, and headed over. Tommy was about fifty-five and looked like a thirty-year-old blond beach boy. His mouth was too straight, his lips too thin, but he’d never had them changed, so I guessed he wasn't all that vain.
He put down a beer and pulled up a chair. “Jack, old pal,” he said. “Sorry, I didn't spot you. Got financial problems on my mind. Guess you thought I was hooked?”
“That I did.”
“You look it yourself, the way you always come in and stare out that window.”
“No. I'm just thinking. I never had a hook put in. The doctor checked me years ago during my physical. He said I could never go that way because of my migraines and a childhood accident. The side effects would kill me.”
“Too bad,” Tommy said. “I was hoping you'd try my new gimmick. I use that new trick of hooking real music through the loop. It makes that oldies stuff sound like heaven, and it's a lot better than the mind music people usually hear.”
“Yeah, I heard of that. I think it's great that more people are getting back to making music. I was very unhappy when the music industry collapsed.”
“There was still music. People like you, only on the Intel drugs, always bought it.”
“I bought it, but I'm not on the Intel drugs.”
“No drugs. Why not?”
“I tried them and found that I felt like I could write a novel, but was too disconnected from the real world to solve my more serious detective cases. They did have powerful intelligence effects, where if it was an easy case, I could solve it right away. But they didn’t last; there are also long-term effects to consider.”
“I see. They do have their limitations.”
“I want a drug that'll give me a nose like a hound dog. Problem is, if we all do get it, we'll all be smelling shit.”
Tommy laughed like a mule. “Some of you ordinary people are the funniest people of all,” he said. “I've met a few who aren't like the stiffs at all.”
“Not many people notice that. There are a few of us still around. It's true that the stiffs run the world, but most of them are fakes and are really on Intel drugs. My unaltered state has done nothing for me in the usual ways. The loopiest guy in town would have a better chance of getting to the top than I do. They hate me. They have an unwritten code of behavior, and I break too many rules.”
“Like trying to get involved in some of those dirty cases,” Tommy said, pointing to the headline.
I looked at the paper and almost gasped. SCARSDALE MANIAC BUTCHERS AGAIN was the feature story. I'd been so busy thinking about my little case, I hadn't noticed it at all. Quickly scanning the article, I found that he'd left the mutilated corpse on a meat hook in an old waterfront warehouse. As usual, the face had been surgically removed.
“The police have a theory that he's a loop crazy plastic surgeon. All his victims have been naturally gorgeous. No operations at all.”
“He isn't,” I said. “He doesn't fit the profile of someone gone alien.”
“Why not? Can't someone gone alien fit any profile?”
“Not really. It's when a hook doesn't take right, and a person uses it too much. At first, there's an alienating feeling, like your emotions belong to someone else, and it gets worse until a personality breakup causes robotism and bizarre behavior. Any violence that comes from it is randomly patterned.”
“Man, no wonder the police hate you. If you told them the maniac is a stiff, they must've threatened you.”
“I was held in jail for three days, but not for saying he's a stiff. I told them he is a real alien. They didn't believe me. Thought I was withholding information. Then they said it's just someone hooked on evil.”
Tommy's eyes widened, and he looked at me like he was sure I was nuts. He laughed uncomfortably. “There aren't any aliens … at least that's what the scientists say.”
“What I mean is that the Scarsdale Maniac fits no standard profile. A person gone alien wouldn't be nearly as clever. And he can't be a straight person because he uses a level of intelligence that's even beyond that of a genius on Intel drugs. There have been nano chase cameras swarming the waterfront where he works, and none of them has spotted him. There's a whiteboard put up by SSU that allows the net of cops and detectives to cover the maniac's entire working territory. The only thing he could have been was a robot gone berserk, and he isn't, so he's an alien who fits no known profile.”
“That's why he's the Scarsdale Maniac,” Tommy said. “Any other killer would be called a serial killer and have no name.”
“Yeah. He's beyond me, so I'm just going to leave it and work on a missing persons case.”
Once out of Tommy's joint, I headed for City Hall, the Public Access Department. The building was designed to look somewhat like a spaceship, and I walked in wondering how a society so hooked on science fiction could be so frigid when it came to the idea of an alien. Huge paneled doors opened on the access terminals, and I smiled broadly when I saw an empty booth. Running like a man in a panic, I jumped inside . . . and the running paid off because I was just in the easy chair when a tall bearded guy tried to step in. “I have this booth booked for the afternoon,” he said forcefully.
“No way,” I said. “I booked it three months ago. There must be a mistake. You'd better double-check with the clerk.”
He knew I was probably lying, but he couldn't be sure. I pulled the door shut, and he scowled and walked away. His anger was justified. Trying to straighten something out with a constipated bureaucrat would take all day.
There was only one hidden password combination and method of transfer, and I had it and was in the loop. Keying in, I fast-tracked to the police files on the Scarsdale Maniac, smiling when I discovered them under the title Scarsdale Killings and not a fifteen-digit off-run code. There weren't any photos of him, or even any composites, and I wasn't interested in the police's theory about him. Surgery was on my mind. The Scarsdale Maniac had surgical skills, so I figured the photos of the butchery might reveal his skill level.
Gruesome photos of women with their faces surgically removed proved unenlightening and unappetizing. Scanning the bodies, I found an interesting fact that the newspapers hadn't mentioned. Hearts had been removed. The victims were left with an empty cavity. It shocked me more than the faces. You could see that this guy was an animal to the point of excellence. The opened chests convinced me that he had a gaping pit where his human feelings belonged. Maybe he was trying to reclaim them by eating another person's heart. Serial killers take trophies, and the faces fit in that category. Only a real monster would want to remember someone by looking at their heart in a jar.
Needing an expert opinion, I phoned my own surgeon, Dr. Samuel Hearst. Sam was good at pulling slug fragments and healing my laser burns, so I figured he knew his stuff. He was in his office, looking wistful, his window and milky blue sky behind him. Since I had ordered high-resolution photographs, we exchanged some small talk while waiting for them to print out in his office printer. Sam waved the first print to dry the coating, then pulled at his beard while he studied it. His sharp gray eyes and needlepoint pupils gave me a good feeling.
Airs of mild shock crossed his brow. “I don't get it,” he said. “It's not possible.”
“Oh-oh,” I said. “I'm going to be stuck with an alien again.”
“What's that?” Sam said.
“I told the police the Scarsdale Maniac must be an alien because he fits no human or robot profile.”
Sam laughed. “You're right, he doesn't. He's too good.”
“Too good?”
“Like a good surgeon, he models his work, meaning he takes the best approach. Heart operations can vary. This person uses an unknown, precise technique. It's almost like he’s from the future.”
“An alien?” I said.
Sam looked at the last print. “A human being, not an alien. Strange, but I think I get it. He opens the chest with coordinated cuts, and it's like his fingertips are the lasers doing the work.”
“Then it's a robot, with some new type of hand.”
“Not a chance. Robots can't do anything without being programmed by surgeons. What he does at the end isn't something a robot could think of.”
“And that is?”
“He just tears out the heart, breaking the arteries. The only people who ever did that were ancient Aztec priests. They used to put people on a slab and offer their torn hearts to the sun god.”
“Okay,” I said. “That's our profile. Our maniac is an Aztec priest from the future.”
Sam shrugged his shoulders and dropped the prints. His large, open hands were the last thing to fade. The police files reappeared, then the screen went dark, and I got a system crash message. Expected downtime, one hour, it said.
Public access booths have Plexiglas doors. The idea being that nothing is secret in the access room. Looking around, I noted that only my booth had gone out, then I saw the bearded man at the door with a blue form in his hand.
He burst in rudely, waving the form at me. I said nothing, but just picked up my jacket and pointed at the screen. “Damn,” the guy said, then he stormed out the door.
Now I had a profile of the Scarsdale Maniac that wasn't worth spent slugs. Profiles are used to track people, but not when the profile is of an impossible person from the future and the past. Another worrisome profile I had was Janice Channing's. Janice was a natural beauty and a runaway, and the maniac specialized in killing her type.
Everything downtown is walled in, above and below ground, and there are police and security personnel everywhere. Runaways go to the Scarsdale waterfront area, where they're less likely to be spotted, and of course, the Scarsdale Maniac favored the waterfront for his crimes.
Without a doubt, there were now more nano chase cameras buzzing the area than bees. Cops and private eyes were using a common computer chat and whiteboard to share information. I grimaced at the thought of being spotted and talked about, but I had to go down to find Janice before the maniac did. It was ironic that looking for Janice was the best way to continue the maniac case, and that I was the only detective who knew how to continue it. Nowadays, all detective work is done with facts and profiles, meaning that no one can solve an out-of-the-ordinary case. Baiting a killer is an old police tactic that today's computer wizards would never use. I hadn't put out bait, of course, Janice just happened to be there.
Exiting the hall, I caught a burst of fresh air that put me in a waterfront mood, and then I noticed something odd. The bearded guy from the access booth was heading across the square toward the old clock tower and the huge glass-faceted Queen Street legal complex. Two bodybuilder types had emerged from under the potted palms of a G. BANNERS patio restaurant and were tailing him. They wore immaculate blue suits, so I pegged them as SSU men. It occurred to me that I had just used his time to check info on the Scarsdale Maniac, which meant the SSU was tailing everyone who tried to dig into the case. Public Access be damned. These guys were breaking all the rules on this one, and they weren't going to let anyone finger them for wrongdoing or get evidence ruled inadmissible.
Being followed on foot meant they weren't just watching you. They could use a nano chase camera or raid your computer to do that. I smiled at the idea of the rude, bearded man getting strong-armed. He was probably some lawyer who knew nothing about the Scarsdale Maniac case, but would have to say he did and then promise to stay off it. About one kick in the balls would be all it would take for him.
The new subway was free and lightning-fast, so I decided to use it to get to the waterfront, and as I was going down the steps, I saw a man across the street hurrying down some other steps. The steps to a converted church. It was a second before I realized that he could watch the entrance of City Hall's Public Access area from that location. Blue suit, shades, super neo steroid muscles - this slick guy was no minister, and no one would be attending services at a downtown television church late on a Tuesday afternoon.
I really do recommend using the law to defend rights from undefined SSU powers, but sometimes I lose my temper. Uttering some nasty words about the SSU, I stepped out on the polished floor. City Hall Station was about as big as a coliseum, a huge cavern with endless marble pillars and monstrous flashing billboards. Pushing my way through the crowd, I headed for the far end. One of the new sleek silver trains was coming into the station, but I just kept walking and didn't look back.
Most of the crowd boarded, and the rest dispersed toward the exits. As the train whooshed away, I looked around and saw the SSU man marching toward me. I was nearly at the far end, and the only other people around were young street teens. A gang of them loitered near a bench. They were looped-out kids you might see anywhere in the city, and usually they wouldn't hassle you. Walking past them, I positioned myself at the end and pretended to be waiting.
The SSU man walked past the teens, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that they pegged him as a dirty undercover cop. A couple of the girls began to shuffle away, while the others stayed. He ignored them and stopped almost right beside me, then he glanced at me and grinned arrogantly, as if to say - I'm following you, so what are you going to do about it?
Liquid glare from a travel billboard slid on his lenses, so there was no locking of eyes with him. What I did was shuffle back and forth, pretending to be impatient, then when I was close to him, I suddenly lunged, hit him with a knee, and twisted his right arm behind his back. Spinning him to the side and thrusting forward, I slammed him headfirst into the wall, and while he was stunned, I brushed him for weapons. He had no guns, but he did have something hard in his jacket pocket.
I pulled back, crunching his fallen shades with my heel, and I had his weapon in my hands; it was a golden knuckle set. Stun knuckles, the slick creep would've jumped me somewhere and beat me halfway to the moon. Putting them on, I watched him recover. Groaning, he spun around, holding his bleeding nose. His eyes glazed over. “You broke my nose,” he said stupidly, and then he charged.
I dodged aside, and he nearly fell headlong. Then he turned and came at me again. A fast punch whizzed past my ear, but it didn't connect. My own punch was a hard right hand to the jaw, and aided by the knuckles, it was a knockout punch. Blood jetted from the SSU man's nose as he staggered back and tumbled against the wall, totally punch-drunk. There was no fight left in him. He probably didn't even know what hit him.
Moving in, I hammered him with a series of body punches, then I blackened his eyes and dislodged a couple of teeth. He fell hard on the stone floor and lay there out cold and bleeding.
Realizing I'd gone too far, I turned to the kids on the bench, wondering what to say. And it turned out to be nothing because they all stood up … some clapped, and others whistled.
Grinning and sort of trying to hide the scar on my jaw, I walked quickly away. Slipping off the knuckles, I dumped them in a trashcan at the other end, and then I looked at my lucky charm while I waited for the train.
The up tube came to a dizzying halt, the doors chimed open, and I rode a ramp to the outdoors. It was a lot of technology just to dump me in a trashy field of weeds and rubble. One mega-complex had been razed to make way for another. To the north, a crane of incredible size stood at the end of a hulking wall of skyscrapers - buildings so high they blotted out the sky. It all loomed over me like a deadly tidal wave of condensed civilization.
Turning south, I focused on the waterfront area - a shining concatenation of structures under a golden haze of sun. Green fields, beach sand, and the Toronto Islands made it a postcard scene. Hover ferries skated like silver beetles, making their rounds of the islands, and I wondered if I should start my search there.
Distant wild greenery floated in the haze like something forgotten that'd reappeared. I began to feel like I was looking for something I'd lost, and it was more than Janice Channing. Annie had loved the islands. I'd been there with her years ago. Our happiness remained vivid in memory, reminding me that I was alive then and dead now. Part of my heart had faded away without my noticing it, like the maniac had gotten a piece of me or I was someone who'd gotten wasted on the hook and had lost himself to alien emotions. Alienation takes away the ability to love. That was the painful part, and why Annie left me. She said I was uncaring, cold. It was over because only the little things between lovers make it love. I saw the problem back then, but I couldn't change myself. All the new emotional problems had somehow nested in me. Hell, people suffering from drugs and hooks never had a thing on me. I'd been shunning love and all emotional involvement just like them, because I knew it was too late, and I would always be too cold to really love anyone.
Journeying into the past with a head full of my failings wasn't desirable, so I skipped out on the islands. I decided to start with the shoreline and a clear head. The area was too large to tackle on foot, so I used the car chip built into my key chain. It entitled me to any loose vehicle parked on any Fast Eddy rental lot. There was a lot right under the station, so I walked under the tinsel streamers and entered my master code into a Ford T mini sports car. I drove off with the idea of parking here and there and tackling the area in manageable blocks. Clubs and patio restaurants, I would check in the late evening. She wouldn't be in the malls. Hotel beachfronts I put second to nature areas. Janice fancied herself a nature lover, so there was a better chance of finding her in a field communing with the butterflies than there was of spotting her on a sunset beach with a plastifoam-muscled Romeo.
The police presence was heavy, with cruisers at every major intersection. Ostensibly, it was a traffic blitz, but I knew it was part of the manhunt for the Scarsdale Maniac. There were teams of undercover people, and I knew a few private detectives who were working with the huge task force.
I cruised right past the blocks without being stopped, and thought that maybe my luck was returning. The Harborside Tunnel wasn't blocked, but when I got underground, I spotted some uniformed men moving in the sepia gloom to the right of the highway. Small passages ran off the main tunnel, and the sight of one of them conjured visions of police officers waltzing through the slime and shadows in search of some dark phantom.
As I came up out of the tunnel, I spotted five impossibly beautiful women hitchhiking. They were hookers. I pulled over, and I hate to say it, but I looked closely at all five to make sure Janice wasn't one of them. Runaway women have always been food for the trade.
A leggy blond sauntered up and swung a hip against the door. She tilted her head and smiled seductively. “I'm looking for a missing woman,” I said. “She's eighteen. The name is Janice Channing. This one is as pretty as they come. Blond likes to wear fake leather dresses. She carries a purse with a child's face of a robot painted on it, and she's no hooker, just a dumb kid?”
“Sure, you don't want something else?” she said.
“Not today,” I said, and then I grinned and looked her over like I was considering it. Her muscle tone looked too good, and the same was true of the others. These were women who worked out every day. They spoke cleaner English than any street gal, and that meant they were policewomen. It was possible that they'd seen Janice around, but wouldn't give the info to a guy they thought was a John. “Listen, honey,” I said. “I'm a private detective. If I find Janice, I just want to talk to her. Her mother hired me.” I gave her one of my cards. “Call me if you see her, and I'll pay a reward.”
She pushed the card back at me. “She's around, but I can't say where. You'll have to find her on your own.”
The David Walker Memorial Park was the largest nature area in this section of the waterfront. Since the pretty police lady said Janice was around, I felt there was a good chance she was out walking in the woods. Charged with optimism, I turned down the entry road. Maple boughs dappled the sun-soft asphalt with shadows. Inhaling the lake breeze, I looked around, seeing some joggers and bird watchers at the perimeter. Some kids were feeding the geese in the parking lot, and teenage boys were skateboarding around the Peace Fountain. I didn't see any women of Janice's age, so I parked the car and walked down to a dry, wooded area that ran along the marsh. A new boardwalk ran out into the swamp, so I strolled out on it and stood there staring at cattails and the sunset haze out on the lake. My thoughts focused on Janice, and a mixture of odd thoughts passed through my head. It was strange; I couldn't get a clear picture of my feelings, as if a lens clouded everything when I thought of her. Out of habit, I took out my lucky charm, and then my thoughts grew dreamy as it mesmerized me....
A stray collie barked furiously at the edge of the swamp. Wind rustled the trees and whistled in the reeds. Something electric sizzled in the slime. Snakes of smoke rose from a patch of dark mist. Whitening, congealing, and sparkling in the sunlight, the patch drifted in the water. Beads on its surface oozed, glistening like morbid eyes. Alien images, vague shadows, and strange faces were mirrored on the surface of the mass, and these images grew hostile, twisted, and confusing. Spooked, the dog stopped barking. It whined, turned, and bounded away.
White clouds sailed in the gold-blue sky; the surroundings remained idyllic, as if the creeping mass were a secret intruder. It went out of sight under the boardwalk, and when it emerged, it had a hide, a crude head, and a malformed mask. The thing was neither animal nor human, and it was still in the process of transformation. It oozed sticky blood, shed patches of its hide and face like it was testing new appearances until it could find one that worked well enough to define in the flesh.
The being's mind began to grow, and, knowing nothing at first, it scanned and searched, as if trying to detect which world it was in. All transformation ceased; it was failing. It began to shrivel; then it detected a human mind, and the process took a new direction. Memories flooded in, as did identity, and the first mental state was one of natural peace... a temporary state that was soon replaced by hunger. Hunger that rose like a wind of tall fire, roaring down from distant worlds.
Now the heat was in it. The head melted and rose as a boil that palpitated and exploded in a shower of blood. Veined tissue pulsed out of the crack, and a new head formed. Fierce masculine features took shape, blood and slime dripped from its blond hair; the head swiveled grotesquely on the mass, and the mouth twisted to a grin.
There was a cracking noise like a tree splitting as the mass ripped open. Then the head began to rise on the tissue oozing out. Blood gleamed in the sun as the tissue molded itself. Skin painted itself over the flesh, and a clutching hand reached out and seized the edge of the boardwalk.
Naked, the man swung himself up on the boardwalk, looked quickly around, and saw no one. Water boiled up as the birth mass sank, and he watched it momentarily before studying the fine day. He smiled at his prospects. Luck was still on his side; this conservation land would be a great place for hunting.
Another man was near the trees at the end of the boardwalk, so he walked down it quickly and ducked off into the woods. Feet padding lightly on the duff, he thought the situation over. The search was on for him, and he had no immediate way of making a permanent move. The huge city of Toronto loomed to the north east, but he never emerged there because of the tremendous wave interference. Once, he had been powerful enough to deal with anything, but his powers were diminishing now that he was traveling back in time. Superior senses, intelligence, and his hunter's cunning kept him alive now. It was better that way. Instead of just slaughtering and satisfying the hunger, he had to use real skill. It made the kills so much sweeter.
Reading the minds of others told him of morals and why they wanted to stop him. Halting, he looked at the gold-blue sky and drifting cloud fleece. There had been no parallel on the hot planet of his birth. It was a place of fire, ugliness, and death. The whole of their science had been devoted to escaping, and they had all left, leaving their bodies behind. Earth was beautiful, a dream come true, even if it was another prison. There were limitations. The first one being that humans were the only creatures intelligent enough to imitate, and the second being that he was doomed to always emerge as the same man with the same faults. He was doomed to always be the Scarsdale Maniac, a personality created from the first two humans he'd imitated - two psychopaths locked in a prison on Earth at a time in the near future.
Nearly killed by that human society of the distant future, he had used the last of his transfer energy to travel in time and connect with a man in this place called Toronto. To blend perfectly, he needed the man's body and brain, but he couldn't have them. He didn't have the energy to map the body, devour the brain, and take the new form, so he was stuck morphing up from the microscopic whenever the conditions were right … using the man's body as a rough blueprint to complete the task.
A small black animal walked on a tree trunk. Using mental camouflage, he walked up, seized it, and listened to it scream as he crushed it. The tiny power that was its life entered him, making him that much stronger. He dropped the corpse, feeling only disgust. It wasn't enough. The fix he needed was psychological; a woman's heart that would satisfy the maniac in his breast. A torn organ that would send him into that state of artistic ecstasy, the second killer needed to operate on a face.
Sumac bushes rustled behind him, and he realized that he hadn't been careful. The animal's squeal had attracted someone. Turning, he scanned the foliage and captured the outline of a big man coming through. Touching his thoughts, he found that he was an undercover SSU man and part of the task force hunting him. There was time to duck away and run, but his inherited hatred of other men prevented that. Anger rose; his carelessness had put him in a black mood. Lifting his hand, he twisted his fingers and stared, his handsome face warping like the vile taste of his loathing would make him scream.
The scene blurred; he saw a dark form emerging, a reddish glow highlighting the sawed-off scattergun he was carrying. His eyes zoomed in on the gun, seeing the words SPRINGFIELD ARMORY engraved in the plate. The weapon was coming up, so he charged, his hand reddening to laser fire as he prepared to strike. The undercover man pulled the trigger, and the maniac felt the shotgun blast catch his chest, lift him, and throw him hard into a tree. His head cracked and split, he slid to the ground, and there he waited, angered by his own stupidity.
He saw through the cop's eyes as he stepped up and studied him. The burly SSU cop found him attractive in a fierce way. No doubt about it, he was sure he'd bagged the Scarsdale Maniac and a promotion. He put his hand to the cyanotic blue face and pushed open the corner of the maniac's mouth. Slime dribbled out. Something red had glowed in the maniac's hand, so he looked down for the weapon, seeing a mass of bloody scatter tinsel on the chest and a limp hand.
Nothing, no weapon. Then the hand began to glow, and the cop's eyes shot back to the maniac's face. One eye was open, alive with a mocking sparkle. Jumping back, the cop raised his gun, and he should have fired instantly, but he didn't because a voice in his head told him the maniac couldn't really be alive.
Sensing an easy kill, the maniac flew up, and again he was in error, having forgotten that the unhealed chest wound would slow him. He struck out with his laser-hot fingers and was just cutting into flesh when the scattergun went off.
The two men were thrown apart; the undercover SSU man staggering back and the maniac going into a tree trunk. His gun was going down, but the cop was still standing. He saw the maniac, his gory chest, cyanosis blue face, and something else - the blood and wet mass of violet on his right hand. The pain was already beginning as he looked down and saw the bleeding gouge the maniac had torn in his midsection. Groaning hideously, he stumbled, then his knees turned to rubber, and he collapsed and died.
Julio felt airsick, but who wouldn't after six hours of piloting a nano chase camera? Sure, his mind was as light as air, but down in the flight control chair, his stomach and bowels were cramped and churning. Stopping the camera in midair over David Walker Park, he took off his helmet piece and slipped his right hand out of the control glove. His paneled office came back into focus, and he immediately hit the button, turning on the wall screen view. Up in the corner, a small map displayed the positions of all other chase cameras searching the waterfront. Showers of sparks lit up the hotel areas, and that meant that nearly everyone else expected the maniac to strike in one of the hotels again. Julio was the only investigator sending his camera over David Walker Park.
Sure, the park was a long shot, but Julio felt it was worth it. Hell, with the reward at two million, anything was worth it. And he was SSU connected, which meant he'd get an automatic promotion if he spotted the Scarsdale Maniac first. It was worth it, but that didn't change the fact that he was getting nowhere. Grimacing, he let out a gasp and reached for the seltzer bottle. Damn instant food all the time, it's killing me, he thought.
The seltzer went down, and his stomach began to ease. Time for a Loop, Julio thought. I'll cheat a little. No one can expect a guy to stand this pain. He mumbled the code that would start sexual stimulation mode four, then Okayed it. He grew hard and, feeling no pain, put the headset back on. “Not so bad, not so bad - ah,” he muttered as the camera began moving through the sunset haze.
Circling, he looked for people to frisk, spotted two distant figures, and swooped in through the maples with the lens. Two beautiful teenagers, exactly what he needed. He could hang around, get his rocks off, and maybe the maniac would show. Spinning the camera back drunkenly, he looked down on them. His eyes went to the blond. Sweet, rosy face and ripe breasts. “Ah, sweet little eighteen,” he said, sailing down and forward so it was like his face was in her breasts. Losing self-control, he moved in, trying to bury his head in her chest. As the view faded, he pulled back and got a good shot of the curvature.
He zoomed away and began searching the clearing around them, upping the mode to five. But it wasn't working -- if he got any limper, he'd be neutered. Then he saw a naked man coming out of the trees and got a sudden rock-hard erection. An unwanted erection. He felt his organ begin to throb painfully as his eyes studied the grotesque mass of blood on the guy's chest.
Slowly, Julio's shaking hand pulled away until it touched a switch. The headset went blank, and he yanked it off and checked the screen. “Damn,” he said as he watched the maniac creep up on the teens, “getting my rocks off on a sicko.”
The camera remained in hover mode, and he was losing the view. “I'd better call in Hoover,” Julio thought, and then he decided against it. Tom Hoover was his superior officer, and he wasn't what anyone would call honest. Hoover would grab the reward for himself - unless Julio waited for the last second, then called him in.
Quickly, Julio ran the gun test program and found it functional. It meant he could kill the maniac with ease. With Tom Hoover's authorization, he could fire a strand from the nano camera that would grow to about the size of a hair before penetrating the maniac's brain and destroying it. The key was to get that authorization at the last second, so the kill would be his - and poor Hoover, well - who cared about Hoover?
Throwing on the headset, Julio swooped down and almost went up the maniac's butt end. He pulled up. What kind of guy is this? he thought, thinking about the mess on the guy's chest. No time for speculation now, I'll just have to figure it out later.
The teens were still unaware of the maniac's approach. It was like he'd made himself invisible. Then he saw the blond get up. She suddenly screamed and ran while her dark-haired friend looked around like she didn't know what the screaming was about.
That's it, Julio thought. You can barely see the guy unless you're in motion. He has some kind of technology planted in that naked ass of his.
Picking the easy victim, the maniac pounced on the dark-haired teen, and Julio's heart nearly came up to his lips as he hit the alarm. Throwing off the helmet, he enlarged the screen view to the size of the wall. “God, I'm going to be too late,” he said as the maniac got a stranglehold on his victim. Then big Tom Hoover burst in the door and stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“I need fast authorization,” Julio said. “I have to go down and kill him now.”
“Authorization,” Hoover said. “I'm afraid not.”
“What? Why?” Julio said, not believing his ears.
“Why?” Hoover said, his lined face twitching, his dark eyes glazing over. “Why … because the color of fascism is white. And you aren't white, Julio. You're a fucking spic.”
Blood showed on the chest of the wounded teen, the sound of the maniac's huffing was coming over the mike, and all Julio could do was stutter as he watched Tom Hoover pull out an antique snub-nosed .38.
Julio was still stuttering as Hoover pulled the trigger, then blood bubbled from his lips as Hoover stepped up.
Hoover pushed Julio aside and took the headset. The maniac was getting ready to finish the girl, rip out her heart, and he didn't plan to stop him. He'd have to let him get away with it this time so the catch wouldn't be credited to Julio's chase camera.
The sunset was glorious, and the mad look on the Scarsdale Maniac's face was another kind of glory. Tom Hoover watched - his mind lost in its own brand of grandeur. Hoover thought of all the spics, Muslims, and Asians that had flooded into the privileged neighborhoods and how he wished he could tear out their hearts. All the damn best positions had been taken by them. He would never let a bastard like Julio get promoted above him, and he would never take orders from a spic, chink, or rag head. This was his SSU, and these foreign idiots didn't know what fascism was about. Maybe they had forgotten about ethnic cleansing -the fools. The color of Hitler was snow white. The heart colors of fascism and the SSU would always be blood red and snow white. With the maniac fading from the stationary camera, he shifted his arm and put two more slugs into Julio as he muttered, “Die twice, you spic bastard.”
-----------------
Blind fear painted everything white. Janice crashed through thorn bushes, oblivious to the pain . . . seeing nothing but a blur like the mind fuzz on a fritzed motion TV. It was like a creepy nightmare. Her legs were pumping automatically, but no speed could be fast enough, and if it weren’t for a painful throb that suddenly hit her chest, she never would have stopped.
Collapsing against a tree trunk, she felt her legs give way. A moment later, she slid to the ground, her hand on her heart - then she realized that it wasn't her heart that hurt, but her lungs. They were on fire, nearly stripped raw from the gasping breaths of her panicked run.
Red lights appeared and whirled down as her vision returned. She was on her butt, staring up through the trees at sunset colors. Tears streamed down her cheeks from the exhaustion and at the thought of what must have happened to her friend, Denise. She hadn't looked back, but she knew that if the Scarsdale Maniac got you, it was murder.
Denise had left home because her parents and the people around her were suburban trash junkies; now she'd been killed by another piece of garbage. Janice hadn't really identified with her. She'd met Denise on the road, and she was a friend … a human being. After all the abuse Denise had suffered, it wasn't fair. Janice felt she was the one who really deserved it - the spoiled rich kid who'd run off because her mother was getting too demanding.
Wishful thinking took over. She didn't want to believe Denise was dead. With a phone or any pocket device, she could call an ambulance and the police, but she didn't have a phone. Electronic devices were easy to trace, and she was a runaway. Maybe if she crept back, she could check on Denise's condition and then run for the parking lot. According to news reports, the Scarsdale Maniac never took more than one victim and always escaped. He'd already been covered with blood when he attacked, so maybe Denise was a second victim who had been maimed but not killed. And if he was a perfectionist at escape, he was probably already gone. A stark naked killer covered in blood would need time to clean up and dress.
Going deeper into the woods wasn't an option, so she got up and brushed herself off. A nasty scrape marked her knee, and a grass stain painted her thigh. Other than that, she was intact. Twilight tinted the treetops as the sunset reddened. Moving around a patch of poison ivy, she backtracked through the maples. Night birds were already singing and creating airs of a pleasant summer evening that made it hard to think of anyone as dead. Her original intentions returned to mind, and they seemed silly in light of the day's horrible events. She had left home because of love this time. Now it looked like a poor reason. How much loving would she do as a corpse? And the idea wasn't working. Her lover hadn't come to her, and maybe he never would. She would go on, back to the strange collection of enhanced subhumans she called her family, and eventually wed some freaked-out nanohead her mother thought was a winner.
Her mother and the older generations were all freaks. Made of plastic, drugs, and implanted brain equipment. Like, when did any of them have a thought or emotion that wasn't transplanted from somewhere else? Even their brilliance was contaminated. “It's all money, Janice, dear.” That's the way her mother saw it and the way they all saw it. The new wave of technology, the top new corporations were in the human enhancement field. If you wanted to marry money or status, you married a man who was really a walking juice machine, his brain corporate cooked by all the add-ons, his body molded by flesh plastic and super neo steroids. With her mother controlling her future, she felt doomed. At twenty, her career would be chosen for her, and her husband would be hand-picked from an elite social dump. She could run out now with foolish hopes and dreams or be trapped forever.
Brilliant sunset fire carpeted the surface of the pond ahead. The field was off to the left. Denise was there in the grass somewhere, and maybe the Scarsdale Maniac was there. If so, Denise was probably dead. But it didn't matter; Janice decided to take a chance.
Following the tree line, she reached the edge of the swamp and walked along it. She reached a point where she could look across the field to the place of the attack. The sky was bright, but the ground was dark. She could see nothing but a patch of shadow. Something flashed in the corner of her eye, catching her attention. A dark figure … that of a man moving on a boardwalk in the swamp. Turning, she froze as she watched the man leap from the railing to the bank. Gasping, she stumbled back, turned, and ran. Then she heard him yell her name. The voice was Jack's. Stopping, she swung around, seeing one of the final rays of the sun on his rugged face. Her terror vanished, relief and happiness flooded in, and she took off and leaped into his arms.
--------
Now I had tracked her, and I knew she had to be in trouble to look so frightened. She’d leaped into my arms so quickly I found myself looking around for the Scarsdale Maniac as I put her down. I had the feeling he could be steps away.
Janice was hugging me like she was desperate, and I was enjoying it slightly, but I sure couldn't afford to get distracted while the maniac might be around, so I forced her away. Then I saw the tears in her eyes. “What happened?” I said.
“My friend, Denise. I think she's dead. Over there,” she said, pointing.
She pulled herself against me again, and I kissed her wet cheek and told her to wait. The joy I'd felt on finding her now faded. Trepidation and the foul scent of swamp water touched me as I spotted the body crumpled in the shadow of an oak. In the twilight, it looked misshapen. Heaviness hit my stomach as I walked up. I felt ill, like the swamp gas had crept down to my bowels. Dizziness and fear were part of it. That and a certainty that there was something about the victim and me I should know but didn't.
The red stain in the shadows matched the red hues in the sunset sky, but if the victim's blood looked natural, her body didn't. It was horribly twisted - a leg and an arm broken. Gazing at it, I tried to imagine the emotions of a killer so cruel. Her back faced me - a mass of drying blood, and I knew that if I turned her over, her face and heart would be gone.
Dizziness faded, and I froze. I wanted to turn her over, but something inside wouldn't let me -- it was more than simple revulsion. I looked nervously back at Janice, and she began to walk toward me. Not wanting her to see the body, I moved to block her view, but then the entire area was suddenly flooded with bright light, and I instinctively dived into the grass. Bullets whizzed above me, and I saw flashes of laser light. Since I didn't want to be shot and they weren't shooting at Janice, I stayed down, waiting for them to reach me.
--------
I knew it was a dream. I was paralyzed, on fire. Golden light flooded in. Waking, I nearly scrambled out of bed, and then I realized it was sunlight and felt relief. From my sixtieth-floor hotel room, the depth of the brilliant cityscape nearly swallowed me, and it was good because I love heights. Physically, I felt surprisingly good, which was unusual since I'd slept only three hours. Mild back pain reminded me that I'd spent most of the night slumped in a hard chair, answering questions for the SSU and the police. A shiver hit me as I realized I'd nearly been shot to pieces. SSU captain Tom Hoover had assured me it was a mistake. He said that at the time, they were certain I was the maniac, or they wouldn't have fired. But I knew they would've fired if there was any chance of it - the reward was just too high. I'd been angry as hell about it, and the memory agitated me. I paced the room, then went to the door and looked out. Two SSU men were guarding the hall, so I slammed it and locked up.
Picking up the phone, I called Janice and found her up and happy to talk to me.
“Can Nancy get me out of here?” she said, referring to her lawyer.
“No,” I said. “She's filing, but she told me the legal end takes days. The only way is for you to convince the SSU to release you into your mother's custody.”
“Do you think it's possible?”
“Not right away. They know the maniac has never struck inside the city, so they're keeping you in protective custody here on the waterfront.”
“It's silly. The maniac wouldn't try to get me when he knows they're guarding me.”
“He will if they release you. You're the only person who can identify him.”
“Maybe you can break me out?”
“No way. I have to cooperate with the authorities, or I’ll be smoked.”
“Do you think this number is tapped?”
“All numbers are, and yours, they're actually listening in on. The Scarsdale Maniac might want to call you. But it takes a bit of time for their encryption tools to crack the call.”
“Can you come over here and talk to me?”
“Not if it's about breaking out. But can I bring your mother. She wants to talk to you.”
“No, I won't see her. Not yet.”
“The SSU won't let me in unless it's a talk with your mother. They believe she has your best interests at heart.”
“There's a reason. I want to talk to you and have you convey my feelings to my dear mother. I want her to arrange a funeral for Denise, in my best emotional interests. I want a decent and respectable Christian burial for her remains, meaning one where her organs haven’t been harvested by old men. And not in those all-faith cemeteries. She said she was Christian.”
“They'll allow that. I'll arrange to be there in about an hour. You can think about your family while you wait. Sheila's calm now - like she's in a state of shock. The SSU had to restrain her last night.”
“I don't want to think about mother. I'll be thinking about you.”
“Don't waste your time. I'm too old for puppy love. Perhaps you need someone close to a father figure, but right now, your mother has the power to bust all balls. She's tight with the people running the SSU.”
I had the robot cleaner guy deliver a new suit. It was SSU blue. In a hotel full of SSU people, the best psychology was to win their confidence by looking like one of them. I tipped my hat at the guards as I went to the elevator, and since they didn't follow me, I figured my strategy was already working. They were probably phoning Tom Hoover to see if I'd been signed on. I never really would sign on, of course. I viewed that as a symbol of failure. Can't make it as a private detective -- sign on as an SSU stool pigeon.
No one followed me out of the lobby, and I stepped onto the warm sunny street feeling about as free as was possible, considering the burden I was carrying. After the case settled, I wouldn't be seeing Janice again. Sheila would never allow it. Not once did she find out Janice had run off because of love. And the person she was in love with was me.
My own stupidity was frustrating and painful. Janice called me all the time, and I had always figured her as a kid who liked me because I was her protector at times. Even in the park, when she'd leaped into my arms, embracing me like a woman madly in love, I hadn't realized it. I thought it was fear. My clever old ex-wife was right … not only do I have no feelings that aren't hidden, but I also can't truly see what women feel when it comes to secret, deep emotions.
Tom Hoover told me. “The kid's in love with you. Crying her tiny heart out 'cause she thinks you're hurt.” Only then did I get it. And I wished Janice were a bit older so I could be legitimately in love with her, too. Feelings or no feelings, I've never believed in wounding people, especially not love-stuck women. Rattling my lucky charm in my pocket, I hoped I could tell Janice I cared about her … but didn't feel I was right for her and was hoping she'd find a guy who was a good match for her. Only it would be a big lie when I knew her mother would definitely marry her to some loser she hated.
They had her in one of those new metallic glass buildings … a nearly hidden six-story building right on the water - the Mary Sanders Center for Battered Women. There were about ten levels underground, and she was receiving psychological treatment, like the SSU thought treatment was something you should get before your flesh wounds had healed. On the news, the SSU was using it to paint a kinder picture of the agency, noting that they provided the service free of charge to victims. Of course, they were really using it to bait the maniac. The lack of security made that obvious.
I went up the stone walk unchallenged, but I was willing to bet there were at least fifty armed cameras planted in the row of fake evergreen trees at the front. The doors opened automatically, and I went up to the desk. A lone weasel-faced security guard sat behind Plexiglas. He was really an SSU man, of course, and he was there because he was scrawny and looked easy to take - the type of dumb and ugly weakling that would draw the maniac inside.
“We've been expecting you, Jack,” he said. “She just called down. Keep it brief. And don't get any ideas about taking her anywhere.”
“Call it a funny feeling,” I said, “but it was like I was being watched when I came up the walk.”
“You're a funny guy, but watch every step you make,” he said, and then he sneered as he hit an elevator button.
I rode up to the fifth as he instructed, got out, and looked for room 504. The end of the hall was blocked by a huge canister. It was probably a prop. If the maniac were to get off the elevator, it would likely swing aside, and a boom loaded with an auto-fragment Tommy would swing in and exterminate him. Either that or it would exterminate an army of SSU agents bursting from the other rooms with reward $ signs in their eyes.
The door opened, and I found myself with knuckles raised, about to knock on Janice's shoulder.
She grinned. “Better not hit me, or you might get blasted by a canon.”
I grinned, too, poked her in the belly with my forefinger, and stepped in. As she led me to the couch, I promised myself I would remember to stop treating her like she was my daughter. And she sure didn't look like a daughter. She was all woman now ... full ruby lips, seductive hazel eyes, flowing blond hair tied with a wide ribbon. Her top was tied tight above the waist so that her breasts, which had grown to an enormous size, were nearly bursting out.
We sat, and like her mother, she had that habit of holding my hand. She pulled her knees up and sort of cuddled against me - the hem of her loose skirt climbing up to bare her thighs. I couldn't help looking at her gorgeous legs, and then I looked in her eyes and found her looking at me like a lost puppy.
It stopped me from pulling back. Janice was getting too close, but I didn't want to wound her by beginning with physical rejection. Then she suddenly hugged me, started kissing me fiercely, and I had to ease her back quickly or else be seduced.
“Hold on. What's this for?” I said.
“For saving me from the killer. I want to reward you.”
“I don't charge quite that much. And I didn't save you. You got away on your own.”
“Don't you like me?” she said, hitting me with innocent eyes.
“Sure, I like you. But I'm also working for your mother, and she would never approve.”
“Mom's a mercenary bitch,” Janice said, getting up. She went to the fridge. “You look too tense. I want you to have a drink with me and talk things over.”
“Isn't it a little early for wine?” I said, watching her pull out a bottle.
“Not in my family. We have it for breakfast all the time.”
“Okay, but just one glass for me. I'm supposed to be a detective, not a drunk.”
She sat back down, and I drank most of the glass. Not because I wanted booze but because I was thirsty. “Okay, let's talk about Denise,” I said. “What kind of funeral arrangements are we making?”
“Oh, them. I already phoned my mother, and she's taking care of it.”
“Yeah, and what about her. What is it you want me to tell her?”
“Nothing. Tell her she's a bitch.”
“She knows she's a bitch, and she's proud of it. But I can't tell her that, or she'll find a quick way to punish me.”
Janice suddenly giggled and snuggled up to me. For a moment, I was stunned, wondering why I had said what I did about a paying client.
“Forget her,” she said. “I want to talk about us, and the life we're going to have together.”
“We won't be having any life together. Your family doesn't want it to be that way. At least they won't when they find out. What I don't get is why you want me -- I mean, I'm more than twice your age, and we have nothing in common?”
“So, you're hung up on age. You should think about it. It doesn't matter anymore. Not in our society. You're still very young by our standards. People are mostly separated by gaps and cultural differences, other than age. Most guys in my generation are looped out or drugged and brain-wired out. Way more than half of them are gay and lying about it. None of them believes in love of any kind because it died a long time ago. I can't fault them for it, and I've nothing against them or their lifestyles, except that most of them want a wife who is really a piece of furniture and also something to show off. They want a dowry … they marry for money and guaranteed natural baby machines. I’ve rejected my parents' values … I’m not gay, but I can easily understand why most girls today begin as lesbians and remain that way after marriage. I'm different, and I want a genuine, caring man who loves me. I want a beast from the old jungle, and you’re the only handsome and refined one around. You should know about that, Jack, because you always like to say that privacy was killed first and love second. You do have a lot in common with me, because like me, you didn't get any plastic surgery, you can't get a loop because of migraines, and you don't prefer Intel drugs. You're naturally handsome and not gay or a womanizer, but a lonely man. I know, as I checked mom's files on you. When you were my age, you must have run away from somewhere because no one can trace your background or --”
“You mean you had my background checked?”
“Of course I did. I have to know everything about my lover.”
“You're not my lover, you little rat.”
“Not yet, but if I don't become your lover, there'll never be one. All you do is wander around on strange cases with a hang-up about that bitch of an ex-wife of yours. You don't have any women.”
“You got a lot of nerve, bringing my ex-wife and lack of a sex life into this deal.”
“I have to. It's just like I have to face the fact that my mother is a creepy, rich bitch and property of the SSU. There's nothing wrong with you, just like there's nothing wrong with me. When are you going to face it? Your wife was a betrayer and a tramp, or perhaps she lived in the modern, corrupt world while you lived in the past. She abandoned you, and you're still living in the past with a love that never was. It's time for you to get over it and start a relationship with someone new.”
“As much as I hate you, I have to admit it's partly true,” I said. Then I gave her a serious look. “Do you really know everything about me?”
“I know what the detective I hired told me, and what I don't know I can find out by simply asking you.”
“You know too much. I won't tell you anymore.”
“Yes, you will,” she said, and then she took a tiny vial from her pocket. “Because of this magic formula.”
I grabbed the vial. “What is it?”
“Truth serum. The SSU men gave me some when they questioned me on the killing. While I was being truthful, I stole the vial.”
“You mean you put some in my drink?”
“Yes.”
“Probably doesn't work anyway. I don't feel any different.”
“Let's test it,” she said. “My detective reports you have a knife scar on your leg next to your scrotum. Is it true?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation, then stared at her as anger rose. I seized her by the shoulders like I was about to strangle her. “You rotten little creep!” I said.
“Do you love me?” she said.
I looked into her wide, beautiful eyes; my anger faded, and at first I said nothing, remaining stone-faced. She looked unbelievably sad, like she was going to burst into tears, but I still didn't answer. I'd never really thought about it, because I'd never allowed myself to think about it. Then suddenly I knew. Beyond any doubt, I loved her completely and had been in love with her for more than a year. “Yes, I love you,” I said. “And I love you for giving me truth serum to make me realize it. But I don't love you for bringing this to light when we're trapped by the SSU and stalked by a maniac.”
“Who cares about the SSU?” she said. “And who is the Scarsdale Maniac anyway? Not anybody important. He's just another creep.”
“I'm the Scarsdale Maniac,” I said.
“No,” she said, pushing me away.
“Yes, I am,” I said, though I couldn't believe I was saying it.
“I mean no, the serum isn't working,” she said. “Damn.”
“It is working. I'm telling the truth, though it can't be the truth.”
“Now I don't know if you really love me or not. And stop saying you're the maniac. I know what he looks like, and he's not you.”
“Yes, he doesn't look like me. But the truth is that I'm always there when he strikes, and I have no memory of what goes on during that time. I wouldn't even know now if it weren't for the serum.”
“What does that mean?” she said.
“It means I have to go,” I said. Reaching into her pocket, I took the vial of serum, and then I headed for the door.
She followed me, seizing me before I could leave. “No, I'm going with you.”
“Didn't you hear what I just confessed to? I shouldn't even be near you. I'm a danger to you. I've got to sort this out on my own. Please, stay here and don't tip anybody off. Do it for us? They may be spying, but their only clue is to follow me.”
“Okay,” she said, tears welling in her eyes, then she kissed me, and I broke away and shut the door.
No one was in the hall, and I paced to the elevator, just wanting to get out of the place. More for Janice than myself. If my presence endangered her, I wanted to put distance between us. The idea that I could be in love with her and also be the maniac wanting to kill her was the biggest shock of my life.
The SSU man nodded to me as I left. It was like he approved of the brevity of the visit. It hit me that they were sure I was an extraordinary loser. They had surveillance during my visit, but after giving Janice truth serum, they probably wouldn’t even look at it until later. Out in the sun, my head started spinning. I had to think, and it was going through my head that every case has a clue that cracks it. With the clue, there is sometimes a problem, and with this one, it was whether I could keep my sanity long enough to finish things. Sitting on a bench, I tried to sort it all out. Something terrible had happened to me somewhere along the line, but I wasn't sure exactly where. How could I be the maniac and not be the maniac? It was so ridiculous that it tied my thoughts in a knot. My head started spinning again, and I just let things fade. Beautiful music started playing, and I had a vision of a fantastic city, myself running toward it in glory. Suddenly rising, I shook my head. Hallucinatory effects of the serum were getting in the way, so I decided to do something to try to end it all before my ability to function was lost.
I walked off the grounds and headed south. Hydrogen vapors from the freeway painted a blurry scene, and I had that empty feeling again, like I was a ghost. This time, I wasn't just a drained vessel - a feeling of having been robbed was washing over me. And the sad part was that it was real. A secret devil had stolen my soul. Only now was I realizing it. Even with all the identity loss, sadness, and confusion of our better society, I still had to be the first guy who could truthfully say he was really someone else other than himself. It was crazy, fighting an enemy so clever, but there was one odd possibility. Stopping in the shadow of an underpass, I took out the vial of truth serum and swallowed it all, and then I flagged down a taxi and headed back to David Walker Park.
It was a day of heavy traffic; perfumed exhaust vapors made rainbow trails over the sunny park. The police had the main entrance blocked off, so I had the driver go around to the far side and drop me off on the roadside. The scene was panoramic, rolling green colored by ribbons of fading vapor, the choppy blue waters of the lake farther out, everything drifting in mild distortion from the serum. This was a large park, big enough that I probably wouldn't even encounter the police unless I went right to the murder scene. I did want to get close; I figured a spot in the swamp from which I could look out at the scene would be good enough.
Angling down the steep bank, I headed for a clearing and a path running west. Sweet odors were rising from the sun-baked field and the woods, but I knew they would soon be replaced by the foul scent of the swamp. I encountered moths, rabbits, and squirrels, but no humans. Spotting a flock of geese rising, I headed in that direction and found myself at the edge of the swamp. Making my way around to one of the older boardwalks, I worked my way out, hoping there would be a spot where I could get a view of the crime scene.
There was - I reached the end of the creaking, decayed boardwalk, and from there I could see the new boardwalk and further on to the end of the reeds and the field where the maniac had struck. The murder scene could now be better described as the murder site. Most of the field was enclosed by a fence of thin tripwire. There were no cops inside the fence; they were on coffee break somewhere or maybe searching another area. Special-technique robots that looked a lot like large toys were moving around the area, digging and using chemicals and lasers to gather any possible evidence, no matter how minute.
The whole field glistened, and I gathered that it wasn't from natural mist but from preservative the SSU had sprayed to keep certain types of evidence from decaying. If the scene was familiar, it was probably because so many movie mystery stories start with similar robot scenes. It was interesting enough to momentarily make me forget why I was there. When I did remember, I took out my lucky charm and gazed at it, thinking about luck and my life like always.
A hypnotic state developed, and after a minute, my vision became a darkening grid falling in on me. Everything went black like a big hand was closing around me, squeezing me hard. Something alien touched me on the inside, and while it was happening, my emotions didn't feel human - they felt cold and mechanical. The state ended with sudden, terrible pain - a burning wave rushed through me with such rollercoaster force that I ground my teeth to keep from screaming and gripped the railing to keep from falling.
The pain passed, and I wasn't out, but I didn't feel normal either. I had the old empty feeling, only a more severe case of it. Maybe an android would feel that way; it's hard to describe because there really is no such thing as total loss of emotion. Even emptiness is an emotion of a sort. Maybe I felt robbed, as I knew something had stripped me clean. The scene was slightly hallucinatory, foliage looked smeared, and light trailed from blowing leaves and branches. I still had my lucky charm in my hand, so I pocketed it and stepped back. Looking at my hands, I thought, “This must be it. I'm the maniac now.” But I wasn't, and some voice of conscience the serum had given me verified it. I was still Jack Michaels and not Jack the Alien Ripper. No hunger for female blood filled me. So what was it? What did it mean?
Water boiled up somewhere in the swamp. I looked toward it, but the area was blocked by islands of stones and weeds. Climbing up on the railing, I leaped to one island, then to the shore near the crime scene. I still couldn't spot the source of the sound, so I moved down the bank and jumped back down on some algae-coated rocks. The water was boiling fiercely now, sounding like schools of hungry piranha fish had gotten into the swamp to feed. I could see a portion of a fleshy mass, but it was mostly obscured by a fallen tree branch. With little else to do, I decided to wait and see what developed.
Glancing up the bank, I noticed a maple tree with a low-hanging limb. A simple swing up the branch would give me a better view, so I stepped up and climbed. The fleshy mass came into view. The water had stopped boiling, but the mass was moving as if it were a living thing, shaping itself.
Dizziness hit me, and with it an eerie feeling that seemed more than the effects of the serum. I thought that maybe the whole thing was no more than realistic hallucinations. My body did feel unnaturally light, like in a dream. Only it wasn't a dream, and the next thing I heard was a voice that said, “Get down out of that tree, and don't make any funny moves or you'll eat lead.”
I looked down and saw Tom Hoover and Janice. Hoover's fox-like face was red and pinched. His eyes were as glazed as gunmetal. He held a scattergun, and he meant business, and he had already done some business because Janice's hair was a mess - she'd been roughed up. “Okay, don't shoot,” I said, and then I swung around and dropped to the ground.
Janice had big tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“For what?” I said, and then I looked at Tom. “I guess you had us bugged, so where's the rest of the SSU gang?”
“I don't need the rest. I'm bringing you and the maniac in alone. So don't play games. Either you tell me where you're hiding him, or I'll pull this trigger and you'll be fifty more pieces of slime in this swamp.”
“I'm not hiding him. I'm looking for him, just like you.”
“Don't give me that. My bug evidence shows you're always around when the maniac strikes. And you made a screwed-up confession to Janice. I know you scout victims for him and help him escape. You make me sicker than he does. So talk, damn it, or I'll kill you!”
“Okay, something funny is happening there in the swamp. I was watching it.”
The intense look never left Tom's face, and I was caught off guard when he suddenly charged me. Bringing the gun barrel up, he hammered me on the side of the head and shouldered me over, hollering, “Stay out of the way!”
I nearly blacked out. Janice ran to me as I got to my knees, and I ended up watching Tom aiming his gun out over the edge of the bank. Devilish pain caused my head to spin, and Janice got to her knees and supported me. Cradling my head in her breasts, she caressed the back of my neck, and for a moment I succumbed, forgetting all about the dangerous situation.
Tom Hoover's voice brought me back. “Freeze!” he said, and when I looked, I could see a figure stepping out of branches and mist in the swamp. A man, or should I say humanoid - his features were reaching completion as he splashed through the slimy green water. Glistening blood on his body melted into his skin as he came closer. Then we saw his eyes, the power and evil intent. “It's him, the Scarsdale Maniac,” Janice said, half in awe, half in fear.
The sight of him stunned me. Now I had all the pieces, and they still didn't fit. With my brain only working at half capacity, they probably couldn't. Despite the effects of the serum, I tried to think and consider the facts. A stark naked man was appearing to kill people, but only on the waterfront and near me, at times when I was somehow rendered unconscious or serum-stoned. The reason I claimed to be him when on truth serum had to be because he stripped things from my brain and body. The Scarsdale Maniac was an alien of some sort, and he was also partly me. The realization shook me. I felt like a rape victim and worse because he used what he took from me to murder others. I wanted to kill him more than Tom Hoover did.
Standing in the water, the maniac looked up at Tom Hoover. “Don't shoot me,” he said. “I'm turning myself in.” And I recognized the voice. It was my voice. He lifted his hands over his head, and as he did, light flashed from his fingertips … a twisting web of burning beams that shot forward and caught Tom Hoover right in the midsection.
Tom had already been pressing the trigger on his scattergun. As the beams struck him, the barrel ignited, and a silver charge of steel ribbon hit the maniac flat in the chest. A normal man would’ve been blown to pieces, but the maniac's body absorbed the hit and rode the charge as it flew back into a fallen log.
Tom's shirt was burned right off his back, and his face blackened and whitened with small blisters. The blue of body armor showed. He'd been smart enough to wear a wire-proof Kevlar vest under his clothing. As he staggered back, he fired another charge in the air, then he got his balance and faced the maniac. The maniac was rising, his chest and belly chopped to crumbling hamburger. A piece of dripping intestine hung out. I could tell by the fierce look in his eyes that he felt no pain.
Then Tom fired more rounds. The first one took the maniac down, and the following five rounds painted his whole body red. He'd loaded the scattergun with alternate charges of steel ribbon and heavy slugs. I could see them flying and hear the power of the recoil. Stepping forward and unloading that kind of ammunition, a man could tear down stone walls, but even though the shots were all direct hits to the body, there was only blood and no exploding body parts.
Tom glanced at us as he reloaded; his scorched face and hair giving him the look of a crazy grim reaper. “Stay out of it and keep down!” he yelled. “I'm going to cook this bastard's ass.”
Janice shivered as I held her, and Tom opened fire again. This time, a fiery charge shot from the barrel and sent flames racing over the swamp. Then another blistering charge came from behind Tom, hitting him with a force so deadly he flew up and forward at high speed, turning into a mass of exploding blood, bone, and fire before he landed.
His remains splashed into the swamp. It was like he'd never been more than a choppy bucket of red sulfur. Looking back, we saw one of the police robots rolling back to the crime scene. “Don't move,” I said to Janice. “Wait until it gets all the way back.”
She trembled. “What happened?” she said. “Why did it destroy Tom?”
“It must be programmed to get the maniac. While Tom was shooting, it homed in on him, thinking him hostile. We should be all right as long as we don't fire any weapons.”
As the robot went back through the fence, we both rose and went over to the bank. The smoke was drifting away, and we could see the maniac's body drifting in the water. Blood oozed from the midsection, and torn pieces were sucking themselves back together. “I don't know what that guy is, but he's healing,” I said. “Another minute and he'll be after us again.”
“What now? Do we run?” Janice said.
“I can't run. He'll just use me again. I have to talk to him. Find out why. Let's move back. I want you to go in with the robots.”
“What if they shoot?”
“They won't, not you. They're really forensic robots, and they've been programmed to fire in some circumstances. You're a victim, and they know your genetic code. They won't harm you, but they'll blast the maniac if he tries to get to you.”
“You're coming in with me,” she said, and then she hugged me. I didn't resist. I caressed her, kissed her gently, and then pulled away.
“No,” I said. “It wouldn't work. If the maniac decides to burn me, the robots will fire, and we'll all be cooked in the crossfire.”
She looked at me with unfathomable sadness in her eyes, like she was sure I was a corpse already. She loved me, and it still seemed impossible that I hadn't understood it before. Warmth filled the icehouse and emptiness in my chest, and I wished life could have been generous. It would be fair if she could see how much I cared. Janice was really the only thing I had to live for ... stripped of feelings by the maniac, SSU, truth serum, her mother, and my ex-wife, I could see what an empty void the world could be for fuck ups like me. People all the time think they are making their own decisions about whether they live or die, when others often make those decisions for them. Because Janice needed me, I felt alive. I could live. Alone and without her, the alien maniac could easily look at me and find an empty soul to deal with and command. Without love, I had no strength.
Reluctantly, Janice pulled away and pouted as she walked along the edge of the wire fence to the entrance. She stepped in with the robots, and they rolled up and scanned her, but didn't attack. Turning back to the swamp, I saw movement below the bank and rushed over. The maniac was up now, and he was mostly healed, but he was blinded. His eyes were covered by a web that looked like tissue seal, and it was healing and forming new eyes so fast that I could see the transformation taking place. It hit me that his features were all similar to my own, like he'd taken a pattern of my body and shaped it to something new.
“I know you're somehow connected to me,” I said, looking down at him as he stepped onto the rocky shore.
His eyes were fully formed now and sky blue. He looked up, then he jumped to the bank and faced me. Scars on his face visibly moved and healed as he spoke. “I feel sorry for you, and what I have to tell you,” he said, and he looked like he really was sorry. “I know your mind so well, you almost are me. But the truth is, you aren't really anybody. You even know it yourself. You can feel it; the emptiness you experience every day, and your lack of real emotion. Are you sure you really want to know the rest?”
“I have to know.”
“I'm not an alien, like you think. I'm a man from the future, a criminal and a killer. For a very long time, I had my way, but eventually the authorities closed in. They put me in prison, and they planned on coding my mind before they executed me. They had done it once before, but poorly, and tried to duplicate it. They took another man's entire mind as he died and coded it neuron by neuron, so that they had what you would call a program mapping his entire mind. You were that second man, and that's why you never feel quite whole. Because you aren't. You died a long time ago, or should I say a long time from now, in the future. Yet they never got to me to finish their work, and I found out about you.”
“That's not possible. And it doesn't explain how I could be connected to you now.”
“Time travel is possible. But only for the mind. I made my escape perfect by using their equipment to send my mind back to this city, or rather by sending two minds. First, the dead mind that is now you entered a body, took the brain, and then my living mind joined it, remaining buried in the subconscious. I only emerge on certain occasions; the rest of the time I sleep.”
“I don't believe it. If I'm a dead mind from the future, what reason could you have for bringing me back to life in Jack Michael's body? And in a way that I'm certain I'm him?”
“I had to … it was for my test time transfer and another simple reason. I'm a danger to myself. They caught up with me because I couldn't control my urge to kill. I need you to live day to day for me as Jack Michaels. Otherwise, even the puny military of this time will eventually destroy me. Think about it. The reason you can't recall most of your early background isn't because of the tragic road accident you remember. It's because the history isn't there. You came from the future with me and took control of a human mind. Your wife wasn't lying when she said you have no feelings. You lost your feelings, and her reasons for leaving you were real. Your new emotions aren't complete like a normal man's because you're only a possessed shadow of your former self. Those days when you get the feeling that you're a ghost are the days when you know who you really are. If you were a real man, I wouldn't even tell you this ... you could destroy me by killing yourself. But I know you won't kill yourself. You won't because at root you're a coward, as is the new mind possessing you. I'm sorry, Jack, but I had to be sure of that, or I wouldn't have been able to use you.”
A coward. He was calling me a coward, and I hated it. Then it all hit me like a storm. The terrible breakup of my marriage and my futile attempts at reconciliation. Walking around feeling empty and lost. Being in love with Janice and never really knowing it. Stuff wouldn't happen to a man with genuine emotions. It happened to me because I'd been dead all along. I was a ghost. Even so, I knew I could still get even with him for doing it to me. I could kill myself, because if I'd been a coward in another life, I'd somehow regained my nerve in this one. Reaching into my top pocket, I took out my Taurus pistol and pointed it at my temple.
“What are you doing?” he said. “You can't kill yourself.”
“I'm afraid I can,” I said.
“Wait. Don't do it,” Janice said, and I turned and saw her watching. She'd walked back from the fence, one of the police robots rolling behind her.
“Go back,” I said. “It's too late now. I know the truth.”
“Is it the truth? Tell me, Jack. Is the story he told you the truth?”
“You know it's the truth,” the maniac said. “Don't answer.”
I remembered the serum, that I couldn't tell a lie. The maniac's story seemed like the truth, but was it? The only way to know was to answer Janice. My lips moved. “No,” I said. “It's all a lie he concocted to get me to kill myself.”
“So it's a lie,” he said, nearly snarling. “The truth is something you'll never know.”
But I did know it. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my lucky charm. The toy spaceship I'd found two years earlier in Europe. “This is the truth,” I said. “I get it now. I'm no ghost. The only thing that came through time is a pattern of your mind. This lucky charm I found is really a device that reads genetic patterns and constructs a body for you. You wanted me to kill myself, then you would've just taken this and given it to someone else, and it would read their patterns next time you needed a body.”
“So now you know,” he said. “Only it doesn't matter, because you can either hand it over to me now or I'll kill you and take it.”
“Really, I think not. If you use those nasty laser fingers of yours now, that robot will open fire, and we'll both get fried, along with this little device of yours. You know what? I've got a better idea. Let's let the robot decide what to do with it.”
The maniac lunged, but it was too late. I dodged and tripped him, then I tossed the device, and it landed right in the robot's huge spanner hand. I saw sensor lights detect it, then it was gone, sucked somewhere inside the mechanical body.
Rolling up, the maniac forgot about me and faced the robot. He had to have that device and the only way he could get it was by taking the robot apart. That wasn't going to be possible, so I grabbed Janice and dragged her with me to the edge of the bank. Jumping down, we stumbled along the shore and got behind a fallen tree … then the explosions began.
The second blast sent up an incredible plume of fire and smoke, and we saw the maniac's body firing off a laser charge as it flew over the bank into the swamp. Clanking over to the bank, the robot shot more fire and then went in after the maniac. The other robots were following it now, and that meant the swamp would soon be an inferno.
Janice got back up the bank first and pulled me up, and then we ran off under the maples and didn't look back. We ran until we were winded. Stopping beside a huge boulder, we laughed and embraced. Explosions echoed in the woods, and to us they weren't sounds of destruction. My whole past was bursting somewhere in the sky, and all of the old problems were vanishing with it. I looked at Janice, at her smile, and knew she was my future.
“Do you love me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, not needing truth serum this time.
“So what do we do about it?”
“I need a partner, a woman to assist me. I guess you know your mother will be furious about it. But after this, how can she stop it? You solved the case. It'll be in the news tomorrow.”
“I'll take the job and be the first detective in my family,” she said.
We laughed. I pulled her close, and we looked back through the trees at the smoke. Mild hallucinations hit me, and I saw beautiful images in the wisps. It seemed like Janice had always been my lover. Warm feelings rose, and the ice in my heart melted; it was like we were watching fireworks on a summer holiday and not the death of a monster.
+++
By Gary Morton
Neon blazed on a rooftop, sending colored haze down to a grimy window where it haloed the face of an old man. His wrinkles shone like a web of silver, his cross-eyes were alive with inner turmoil. A beast of possession lurked in him, and he could see a garish light of salvation crackling in electric tubing that spelled CHANNEL 38.
It seemed like a thousand years had passed since the days when he'd preached on the street. Then he'd told of the neon god and the doom he would bring to end the world. Now he was hearing the angels' voices again, and again he felt the evil of the night. The buildings, the city became a blur in his teary eyes. Twilight was a bruise, the final rays of the sun and darkness bled in the alleys, and at the bottom of his heart, embers of worship smoldered.
“The fallen creature shall be crushed in the hand of God,” he said as he spotted a young blond man moving furtively in the alley below, and the words had the power of scripture. He knew he must carry out the command soon. He would let the skies blow with the scented ashes of sacrifice; sweet smoke would drift with the neon blaze at the feet of his god.
Turning, the old man faced his huge loft-like apartment. In the days before the voices, when he'd been only an artist, it'd been a musty, cluttered place. Now that he was a priest of light, it was a temple. An obsidian dagger rested on a marble pedestal before him; its hilt was a kneeling Aztec. Picking it up, he headed for the center of the room. There, in dim light, stood a knight and a dragon, and unlit neon tubing that spelled CHANNEL 38. The knight was smoke-stained in places where he'd done some work on it, but the dragon looked brand-new. He stopped for a moment to admire its fine variegated hide and scorched metallic nostrils. Then he heard a thump. Moving quickly across to the dials of his security panel, he killed the lights.
Fury nearly sent him flying murderously across the room as he heard the sacred stained glass in his door shatter, but he managed to keep control, knowing his security system would do the work for him. Crouching in the darkness like a cat, he waited and silently vowed that this intruder into the holy house of the neon god would pay as others had paid. He would be sacrificed, purified by fire, while the riches of the neon god, a mattress stuffed with bills, would remain safe.
Iron bars were set behind the broken glass, and when the burglar came up against them he swore. They were too narrowly spaced for a hand to go through, so he took out a halved key and a pin pick and pick-sawed the lock open.
The old man listened intently; it was a matter of moments, then the door whispered open, and he heard the creak of footsteps and the snap of a bear trap and a scream as steel teeth bit into the intruder's leg.
Feeling triumphant, the old man turned on the lights. He saw that he'd captured the blond kid who'd been passing in the alley. A closer look revealed fashion-torn jeans, a black leather jacket, and a face cruel even in agony.
Picking up a fake gold ornament from a shelf, he walked over and struck the kid on the side of the head. The kid collapsed, and working quickly, he freed him from the trap and dragged him over to the knight. Sticky bubbles of purplish blood showed on the gashed leg, and they set ashes blowing in the old man's head. His vision clouded, he set the neon tubing in place, and then he was deafened by the singing of angels.
The young man, a teenage thief named Davey, awoke to the sound of his own moaning. The old man guessed that the pain in his leg was intense; it'd be like hot rivets with a horrible itching. No doubt, the lump on his head throbbed around the knowledge that he'd been captured by some kind of vigilante or madman. He'd never guess that he was in the hands of a priest of neon.
Now that he could see Davey's face twitching, the old man bathed the room in turquoise light that illumined the dragon and gave it a lifelike look. It seemed to burst into brilliant existence with its neck already moving. Slowly, it turned jeweled eyes and faced Davey more directly, and then it roared, a canned roar that no one would ever think was real. It was obviously cheap digital sound playing.
“What in the hell!” Davey said as he shuddered, and the rippling of his flesh knocked away a skin of numbness. The old man smiled as Davey tried to move and found that he couldn't. Even his neck was frozen. His gaze lowered, and he saw why; he was locked in metal, a gleaming suit of armor to be exact. It was rigid, and he was held upright, fixed in battle posture, a sword at the ready as he faced the dragon.
A purple web of facial wrinkles and cross-eyes caught the light as the old man stepped forward. He was wearing his priestly garb, a flowing robe that shimmered; its scaly surface reflecting various colors like the dragon's hide. The robe was open at the front, revealing a T-shirt with "CHANNEL 38" stamped in large silver lettering.
Picking up a helmet from the floor, the old man moved in close and watched Davey's face twitch with desperation as he slipped it on him. Davey struggled, trying to throw himself forward as the locks clicked into place, but the suit was firmly planted and wouldn't move unless the old man gave the command via the special app he’d created for his holy cell phone.
Retreating from the bright lights, the old man picked up the holy phone and began making adjustments. Instantly, Davey heard a creak and felt his arms move, then a razor flash of pain caused him to yelp as his legs moved.
A canned voice blasted in his ears. “I shall strike you dead, dragon! And bury your bones at the feet of the neon god!”
The dragon's roar grew distorted as it grew louder, and through the visor, he saw it begin to belch fire. Plumes of crimson and smoke curled at its nostrils and mouth, then large bursts of flame began to lick at the lower portions of the suit. Davey reacted with electrocution agony and motion as the metal grew burning hot. He gasped and yelped until his lungs nearly burst, but gravity held him tight to the searing suit. His skin turned to popping boils, and he felt his flesh roasting and sticking to the armor.
“Prepare to die, vile dragon!” boomed the helmet's speakers. “Your fire is . . . .”
Davey's tortured screams flowed with the programmed roaring and voices. Rushing flames consumed the suit, and finally, smoke rushed in and asphyxiated him.
The suit of armor swung open like a type of sarcophagus, and the charred body slid to the floor. Released from the pressure, it visibly swelled, smoking with lumps of blackened flesh and pus. The old man dragged it aside, and it hissed gas as it moved. He left it in the center of the room, where it pulsed and spat fluid as it cooled. Taking a holy torch, he used it to burn away the skin and flesh stuck to the inside of the suit.
When everything was cleaned up, he went to the window and looked over at the CHANNEL 38 building, then he turned and watched the patterns of light falling softly on the blackened corpse, and the rivulets of bloody fluid flowing from it. He found that the sight failed to truly move him, and he fell to his knees and stared at his trembling hands. There was no enlightenment this time; the neon god would not speak to him. Anger crackled on his brow. All of his work, his saintliness, had led to nothing. Then a memory came to him. It was years ago, and he was building the sculpture on the roof of CHANNEL 38. His beautiful knight and dragon; he'd worked them so fine that heaven had come into his hands, and the neon god came alive and spoke to him. But those betrayers at CHANNEL 38 had put him out and denied him access to his rooftop temple. They'd turned his sculpture and the neon god into a cheap sign.
Crossing the room, he opened a closet and removed a shotgun. At the door, he knocked out the rest of the stained glass with the butt, and then he threw it open and headed for CHANNEL 38. The day had come; the betrayers of the neon god would die. He would speak the words of judgment from the muzzle of a RUGER 12-gauge.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Russ Jameson looked across the city from the steps of the reference library. It was late spring, and the heart of New Toronto rose from a vibrant green landscape. Domes and the cubes and rectangles of high-rises followed a soft angle down to the lake. The sight was as nice as the fresh air. Russ preferred his hometown to all other atmospheres, even though he was a well-traveled person.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, he flipped his red spring jacket over his shoulder and strolled down the fused-glass footpath, feeling quite carefree as he unconsciously followed one of his shortcuts across the lush green-belt center of the city. He felt carefree because this was the first day of his spring break, although it wasn't an official break since he was living off a grant and advance he'd received to research and write a scholarly book. The work wouldn't make him wealthy, so soon he'd have to decide whether to return to teaching or propose another book -- preferably a book that would involve some travel.
The walk added a rosy hue to Russ's face; he stopped and looked up at a corporate tower. A thick-lipped smile betrayed his wandering thoughts. He knew little about the real world of business and labor, and despite his travels, he knew little about the modern world. Most of his intellectual life and best thoughts belonged to the dusty pages of the past. He lived in two worlds, and the one he walked in was certainly an uglier ball of confusion than he understood it to be. The greening of the city over the last decade and the ultra-modern beauty of its unique designs were all it took to convince him that things were on track.
He approached Bain Meadows, inhaling fragrances that seemed to be the sweetness of life itself. A feeling of exhilaration swept over him, and he broke into a run, following a path that snaked through a wooded area of the park before cutting a long curve across the wide meadow. Russ felt wonderful, like he was on top of the world with a second wind, drawn on to the future by a silver cord of power. He watched his feet race through pools of light and shadow on the hard earth path, then he raised his arms as though crossing a finish line victorious, looked up, and let the leafy boughs of the trees sweep his mind like a fast motion picture.
One of the shadows unexpectedly turned to mud; he slid and tumbled on the path, and before he could rise, he heard a piercing scream
Jumping to his feet, he turned to the sound. A grassy dune rose out of some tangled underbrush, and two blurry forms were struggling in the sunlight at the crest. Russ had given his head a bad knock. He squinted, trying to see a bit better. The smaller person, a young woman with long dark hair, had fallen to the grass. Twinklings of bright light, like those from a signal mirror, were rotating in a circular pattern around the aggressor. Russ's head cleared some, and he saw that the reflections were from a polished knife; a tall man was swinging round and round. Splinters of silver jabbed at his eyes repeatedly as the man arced the blade and viciously struck the woman.
It was too late to save her, but Russ still stumbled through the brush and up the side of the dune, ready to grapple with the killer. His eyesight returned, but a hot flash came with it, and he fell to his knees. He got a momentary look at the killer's face and an object swinging on his belt, and then he saw spots of liquid silver as his thoughts fell away into the darkness.
Russ's eyes opened, and he was on his back staring up at an enormous dark cloud. He recalled what had happened and jumped up. He looked around quickly, fearing he would be jumped by the killer. But no one was around. He figured that he must've surprised him and scared him off. The body of the girl was sprawled in the grass at the top of the dune. He didn't have to examine her to know she was dead. She'd been mutilated. Stepping closer, he noted that she was wearing an open brown sweater and a halter dress. She'd been very beautiful, and her death made him sad. He turned his gaze away and shook his head; he couldn't bear to look at her any longer. The knife was beside her in some weeds; a fancy hunting knife with a marbled hilt.
Sitting down in the grass, he thought things over, finding thinking difficult when his mind was overloaded from work and shock. If the body and knife weren't in front of him, he would've believed it all to be a stroke and accompanying hallucinations. It occurred to him that it wouldn't look good if he went to the police with a hazy description of a killer about his own size, age, and height. They'd note the scrapes from his fall and think he was guilty.
He could show them the knife. It would have prints on it and prove his innocence - unless? Unless, and a scary thought dawned in Russ's mind. Unless the killer had wiped it clean and left it there to frame him. After all, he could've killed him while he was unconscious. Maybe he had left him alive so he could take the rap.
The more he thought it over, the more he was sure that was it, and it meant his only option was to take the knife and track the killer on his own. A gut feeling told him there was no other way.
The whole thing had him spooked and more than a little frightened. He made his way out of the area cautiously, keeping off the path and in the bushes to make sure he wasn't seen. Reaching the meadow, he peeked from the underbrush and saw a sprinkling of people strolling in the field, enjoying the last days of what had been a poet's spring.
Keeping to the southern edge, he paced through a carpet of grass and wildflowers that hummed and chirped with life. It was a short walk to the university grounds, and he got there without encountering anyone. He was sure he hadn't been noticed. Stopping beneath a maple tree, he shuffled from heel to heel and studied the ivied buildings. Finally, he decided to phone in a tip about the body's whereabouts and go home. He had no real strategy, and something seemed amiss.
Still dazed and haunted by thoughts of the body, Russ gazed out the front window of his house on Bedford Road. Orange light and cirrus clouds brush stroked the evening sky. On the sill, a framed photograph of his ex-wife, Marla, sat next to a miniature dinosaur skeleton. Musty odors of homemade for false security, his thoughts drifted away to better memories and then returned with a clearer view of the killing. The butcher rose from a dark grave and loomed over him, seeming as near as the shadows on the wall. Russ became quite sure that this murderer resembled another member of the university teaching staff. “Paleontologist?” he thought as he stared at the skeleton. “No... anthropologist, that's it. He works in the anthropology building, and I think his first name is Sheldon.” Russ returned his thoughts to a time when he'd been in the anthropology building for a staff association meeting. Sheldon had been there and had come across as a well-mannered, handsome fellow who was doing some work on African tribal societies. Sheldon could be the murderer; he wasn't certain. What he needed was a closer look. He decided to check it out in the morning.
Russ was furious; he'd slept in, and it was now one p.m. His sleep had been dreamless, so he'd floated through the morning like a log, without waking. The radio was on, and as he made a coffee, the news station began a fresh hour with the details of the killing. It was the first of its kind in the area, and the victim was a student named Angela Wandsley. Speculation was that the killer was a strong male, young, and with a high testosterone level and a previous history of violence.
Splashing cold water on his face, Russ tossed on casual clothes, then phoned the university information office. His man turned out to be Sheldon Jameson, and he still had an office in the anthropology building. Jameson was his own last name, and the thought that the killer could be a distant relative was chilling. It gave him a real case of the creeps.
He hurried out, slamming the door, and he looked like a man on a mission as he paced toward the university grounds. The streets were moist and spattered with mud from a strong rain. It was windy, and everything that could blow was blowing in the wind. Once on the grounds, he followed a snaking path to the anthropology building, hearing a bell toll three times as he reached the Plexiglas doors at the front. He knew the building fairly well; it was four stories high and shaped as a half-circle. A garden and patio were enclosed at the rear.
Stepping inside, Russ checked the info terminal and read Sheldon's office as number 113. The odd-numbered rooms ran along the west side of the corridor, placing the office at the rear of the building. He decided to pop around back and see if he could look in from the garden.
The wind and wet had kept the back garden clear of people. Russ slipped soundlessly over the interlocking stones of the patio. Vaulting a sculpted bench, he looked through a hedge and into Sheldon's window. The curtains were richly embroidered and open, and he was drawn forward. Keeping to the side of the window, he leaned over for a good look. He didn't spot Sheldon at first, but the rest of what he saw startled him. The office was set up like a weird bachelor pad with colorful pillows and throw rugs scattered over the floor. The walls were hung with tapestries, devilish masks, shrunken heads, decorative hunting knives, and bookshelves.
He was wide-eyed at what he saw, and he jumped when he suddenly spotted Sheldon. The office was a bit below ground level, and Sheldon was sitting cross-legged on a rug, right below the window. He was nodding his head slowly, and he held a black shrunken head in his palms.
Russ stayed by the window, held there by morbid fascination. Sheldon's tangled curls shook as he spoke to the head. The window was ajar, so Russ heard him clearly.
“You've got to come to terms with it,” Sheldon said, sending a chill up Russ' spine. “Then you'll realize that I'm the headhunter and you're the prize.”
Russ's memory returned like a cloudy sky, and he relived the killing. What had been a blur was now a shrunken head swinging from the killer's belt. He leaned away from the window. His head was swirling with dark thoughts. The world, even his existence in it, seemed uncertain.
A door banged shut, and Russ peeked back in the window. Sheldon was gone, and he wondered what to do. Then the answer came to him, a voice in his head. “You must chase the headhunter until it ends.”
Jumping the garden fence, Russ dashed through the bushes and flowers and around the side of the building. He stopped dead in his tracks by some sumac bushes and watched for Sheldon leaving by way of the front walk.
Sheldon's tall, slim figure appeared on the walk. He was striding along confidently, the fringes of his thigh-length jacket and high moccasins streaming in the wind. Outwardly, he looked like a handsome young teacher; inwardly, his heart had to be as black as coal. Russ stayed by the bushes; he was riveted to the spot. A strong feeling of deja vu was sweeping through him with the wind, and he knew that when he put a foot forward to follow Sheldon, he'd be repeating acts he'd carried out many times, so many times they were the pattern of the ritual he had become. A calm feeling entered him; it was like the calm that possesses a wounded animal when it surrenders itself to the fact that it is being devoured.
A ways ahead, Sheldon turned sharply and strode on into the strengthening wind, heading down a narrow path toward a stand of poplar trees and a mountain range of dark slate clouds that had risen on the horizon.
Russ' calm mood slowly faded, a strong gust of wind pushed him from behind, and he raced off over the field in pursuit of Sheldon. The day had grown very dim, and the trees were leaning in the wind, their leaves rushing in a wave of sound. Running with the gusts, he felt like an eagle, pulled on by an unseen updraft from the wings of the sky. Drawn to his fate by an evil power no man could resist.
Sheldon had gone out of sight in the distance, but Russ homed in on him without seeing him. Before long, he reappeared, and he was sprinting as fast as he could, halfway up one of the grassy hills that ran between the north downtown area and the summer fairgrounds.
Sheldon made it to the top of the hill in almost no time. Digging in hard and lowering his head, Russ picked up speed, hoping he could get to him before he disappeared in the grounds. Reaching the bottom of the hill, Russ glanced up and stopped to catch his breath. Sheldon stood at the top in wind-ruffled ragweed. His arms were outstretched to the dark slate sky. In one hand, he held a shrunken head, and in the other, he held a long piece of fluted bone.
Russ was winded, his lungs burned as he sucked in air, and the scene before him became more and more hallucinatory. The effect was hypnotic; he was drawn slowly up the hillside. At the halfway point, he stopped and waited.
Sheldon lowered his arms and looked down; his eyes were shimmering gold behind blowing curls, his face pale. His deep voice traveled on the wind. “Russ, dear brother! I took your head in Africa to gain the power of your soul alone! Now, how can I work with your ghost, always interfering! We are leaving this city! Your wretched spirit is too strong here at home! So come along, Russ, it's time you came to terms with death!”
Sheldon lifted the piece of bone to his lips and blew. A deep, distant, hollow sound filled Russ' being and grew in strength like an earthquake. All he could see was the shrunken head, which was his own head, and stormy darkness. Then the bone began tapping against the head.
Russ knew it now; he was a ghost, he was incomplete in every way, and he wished to be either whole or dead. The latter wish was the only one really left, so he didn't resist as he was pulled to the top of the hill, the shrunken head, and what was sure to be an evil end.
The head grew before him, large as a balloon, begging to be touched. Without knowing why, he began to tap a finger on its desiccated cheek, and the result was black magic -- its mouth opened, the jaws of a monster, ready to devour him whole. He could only cower as it inhaled to suck him down.
Then he heard the voice again, telling him to chase the headhunter until the end. It was his own voice, and it filled him with strength. Throwing his body into motion, he forced the jaws open wide and leaped like a tiger, straight down the throat of the beast.
Brilliant daylight arrived with the force of an exploding star. Russ stood at the top of the hill with Sheldon, and he felt whole once again. A blazing shield of sun shone in the southeast, and under the sun, like a mirage, were the steamy jungles of deepest Africa.
“Until it ends,” Russ said, and Sheldon seemed to understand. His mouth was agape as he watched the head crumble in his hands
“You're only flesh and blood, Sheldon. You can't fight a ghost.”
But Sheldon was determined to try. He drew his hunting knife and struck a blow to Russ's heart, but it cut into nothing.
Still holding the knife, Sheldon fell to his knees and ran the blade across his palm, like he couldn't believe it hadn't worked. Blood welled in the cut, causing Russ to laugh for a moment before he opened his palm and revealed his own weapon. It was a weapon that Sheldon had heard of but had never seen. It was the deadliest weapon of all.
Sheldon's cries rang out on the hill, and traveled like frightened ghosts on the wind … a haunted howling that could only be the voice of a dying headhunter.
It was over, and Russ Jameson was running, a shimmering ghost in the field. He raised his arms to freedom and victory. Behind him on the hilltop, a wisp of smoke lifted from a shriveled doll in the weeds.
+++
By Gary Morton
Slow clouds and tentacles of mist and monsters crept in a year before the great ice storm. And when the storm did come, the gloom was over me for a time before I realized what had happened.
A steady and hissing rattle of sleet beat on the roof. The wind’s chill gusts moaned low, bringing about a continual creaking of boughs. Wet gloom dripping like Chinese water torture on the cabin window emptied my mind in the same way that hypothermia empties the human body of energy.
Then, storm gremlins started to snap things. Thousands of knuckles rapped on the walls. Branches and ice swayed against the eaves, and little gusts of wind gained the power of ax men. The terrifying crunch of weighted tree trunks sent down shattering avalanches of ice chunks that rocked the old place to its foundations.
I have been alone for a long time. Thank heaven for that. It's been that way since that last day, when the divorce went through, and my wife Mia drove out to taunt me. She stood in the doorway wearing her fur and a little black dress. Her babyface was growing slanted and feral. She grinned, showing the fangs of an unreal monster. When she spoke, it was with a voice gone hollow and cruel; even her laughter seemed warped by the electricity of other dimensions. I went to the window and watched as she drove away into a reddening sunset, knowing that only an evil force could have turned easy-going Mia into that. Distorted faces of monsters were in the rolling clouds, spreading and falling with the violet dust of twilight. Some kind of alien thing had happened, like an H.G. Wells thing. Only there wasn't a war or any fighting back. Higher powers can just change your world, without asking, and that is what they did.
But so much for Mia, this is really about the storm and my struggle. Near dawn, the screech of tires carried in on a whooping gust of icy wind. A bang and the crunch of fenders and steel guardrail followed, and then trees crashed on the valley-side. An hour of yelling followed by screaming rose out of the shrill wind. I simply ignored the last screams of monsters, and soon, only the music of falling ice bombs penetrated.
Hours later, rays of sunlight swept out of the gloom, tinting the curtains with gold. There weren't any cars passing on the frost-locked highway, and the monster grunts and moans had faded in my ears. I began to think that perhaps the storm marked the end of them all and a divine return to earth for human beings.
I have a mask I wear and wouldn't dream of even opening the curtains without it on. It has soft, rubbery skin, a crop of stiff brown hair, and features that perfectly match the sickly tint of monster green. The mask has never failed, as their partially blinded eyes can’t see the flaws, and they always think I am one of them when I wear it. I used my next-door neighbor to make the lovely thing. Jim Schiff being my only neighbor way out here. The monsters got to him before I did. They turned him into a devil. I killed him the day he poisoned my cat, Yellow Paws.
Yellow Paws had been over there throwing down Jim's garbage cans, and when he returned, I could smell anti-freeze on him. I used a squirt bottle to flush him, and he bit my lips as I sucked the poison out of him. He lived, but now he has only one good eye and a bad limp. Jim wasn't as lucky. I topped off a whiskey bottle with anti-freeze and got him that afternoon in the garage. His eyes were dark rings, his cheeks moldy green like cheese. He didn't look human at all, and he wasn't Jim, or the old Jim, even though he played as though he was. I only call him Jim for lack of a better word to describe the thing he ended up being.
His lined face sucked into a glove of anger and fear, and he kept roaring and spitting the stuff out. And I kept refilling the bottle and pouring it down his throat again. “You'll pay for this,” he bellowed. But I didn't listen, and it was only after he was dead that I started believing him. Yet they never did get me. His tramp cousin found him in the dirt, covered with booze and anti-freeze, and instead of calling the police, he buried him out in the woods and stole half the appliances from his house. I dug him back up to use his face for the mask, and the funny thing is, no one ever came looking for him.
Mask patted in place, I opened the curtain and could see Jim's house sitting next door like an old haunted wreck, creaking under the grip of about a ton of ice. Sunlight gleamed on a huge column of ice rising beside it, giving the impression that, without its support, the place would collapse.
I glanced up at a wide split in the cloud wall, worrying that my place might be just as damaged. It appeared to be only a small break in the gloom -- across the valley, golden ice showered down from even heavier clouds, falling on a valley that resembled a cornucopia of weird ice sculpture. Evergreens were bearded with frost, their boughs braided with heavy ice and snow. Sunbeams moved like spotlights, creating a deadly sparkle in this fragile world. Crusts of ice and gravel coated the slopes. Spikes and stalactites hung like fangs from the abandoned Queensway rail station. Columns, elephant feet, and other squat beasts of ice had formed around the Highway 312 warehouses on the far side. I could see a crumpled hydro tower, surrounded by spruce, glistening with ice as bright as Christmas lights.
I decided to step out and see if my roof was secure, but found the door frozen shut, so I went to the kitchen window and managed to force it open. Easing out, I slipped and slid down to my butt, crystals of snow falling in my eyes. Facing the road, I saw angels of ice melt and gasoline rainbows swirling in the pavement.
Rising, I walked carefully beneath ice-dripping eaves and made my way out into the yard, trying to get a view of the auto wreck that had happened earlier. Beneath the snowbank, I spotted bent blue metal and a shattered windshield fused to the road like an igloo. The lone driver's last act had been to try to crawl out, and now he was on his knees and immortalized in ice. His Ford had collided with a fallen pole and dragged it for some distance. Unfortunately, a power line had landed right outside the door, and when he crawled out, he got stuck. After a time, he'd seized the line, trying to use it like a rope to pull himself free. Only it had been live, and high voltage had turned his arm black as licorice and left him a blue-faced statue on the roadside. He had a crust of snow for a cap and Cyclops glasses of ice. His teeth and jaw were wrenched into a ghastly position, like he’d bit on the charge for a long time.
Though he was a ghastly corpse, he did look human and more attractive than the monsters. It meant that many of the monsters had, in fact, possessed humans. In death, they faded away like a snakeskin.
The thought of a Herculean hero saving the human race passed through my mind and faded quickly as the rumble of skidoos shook the valley. They were riding a ridge of softer snow and running up to the bay highway, meaning they would be at my joint in about four minutes. Their yellow alert jackets contrasted with their purple Arctic suits. Jackets meant they must've ridden over the lake on some sort of rescue mission.
Ice powder and blue exhaust jet-trailed as they cut the valley like ice picks on the fly; I could already see green faces and goggles. It all seemed to reflect in the avalanche of silver ice. My head spinning, I slipped as I hurried back to the window. Hard ice gave my cheek a mean blow. Scrambling up, I climbed inside and closed up.
In the dark, I couldn't see anything, so I stuck a candle in an empty whisky bottle and struck a match on the wood stove to light it. Embers were smoldering out inside. Damn, I said as I realized they would've spotted the smoke.
There was no way around it; they would be at the door shortly. Candle in hand, I descended to the cellar and my gun rack. Pistols, a Remington shotgun, and a submachine gun, I carried them all up. Placing the machine gun on a brace by the north wall, I set the angle for the door and connected the trigger mechanism. I had been working on this setup for a while, in case a last stand against the monsters came about. Lacking the skill to hold and fire a submachine gun, I had found another way to do it.
Shielded by a bookshelf, I waited in a dim corner, snuffing the candle the moment I heard their engines roar in.
“Holy shit!” one guy shouted, then the engines died.
Not able to resist, I went to the window and crouched. Ice on the glass blurred the scene, but I could see them there, hovering over the frozen body. They were monsters, but their voices were human. It spooked me enough that my hair rose.
A bottle was passed. Laughter broke out, and then shots rang out as they severed the power line with bullets. Likely the line was dead now anyway, but they weren't taking any chances. I could see one creep kicking at the corpse. His green face flashed like slime on the glass, and I realized they weren't out on a rescue mission. These guys were looters, and they were beginning here by picking the dead man's pockets.
Five minutes passed. I moved back behind the bookshelf. A knock came at the door.
“Help me,” I moaned, just loud enough for them to hear.
“Hey, you alright in there?” the guy hollered.
“No. Part of my roof collapsed. I can't get free. Can you get the door open and help?”
Muffled voices came from the gloom, and then the man spoke. “Just hang on. We'll be in as soon as we pick this ice away.”
Then I heard the sounds of a pick and breaking ice. They pulled on the door, but it stubbornly refused to move. I saw a crowbar splintering wood in the crack, then the door flew open, and I saw the monsters.
A red-bearded one with popping, veined eyes had his pistol ready, but he didn't fire because they couldn't see anything in the dark interior. Then their eyes adjusted, and their twisted mouths opened in disbelief.
Yanking the trigger mechanism, I fired.
The submachine gun flashed fire. Bullets mighty enough to penetrate tank armor hit the intruders. Visually, it looked like a bull had charged in and nailed them full force. Their bodies showered up trinkets of blood and flesh as they tumbled back on the ice like slabs of beef thrown from a truck crash.
The third and burliest of them ducked back from the blast and fell. Scrambling, rolling, sliding, he went across the yard and down the bank. In another second, he was rolling up near the wreck, a snub nose in his hand.
Rushing to the door, I fired a blast of shot with the Remington. It missed and kicked up a spray of ice, most of the shot licking a frozen corpse and freckling it with blood spots.
Unhurt, the looter got behind the wreck and winged a shot in the door, smashing a glass cabinet behind me. I kicked the door shut and heard shots splinter into it as I ran to the window. He was crawling behind the wreck, and I concluded that the way to get him was to force him to run for other cover.
Yanking a Glock pistol from my belt, I smashed the glass and fired a clip of ammunition at the wreck. Then I holstered it and grabbed the shotgun. Dashing to the door, I flung it open and fired a blast at the wreck.
Booting the door shut, I exchanged the shotgun for a hunting rifle and hurried back to the window. It looked like the ploy had worked. He thought he was under attack from two men. Bursting out, he dashed across the slippery ice with the idea of hopping over the valley embankment. Sites on his back, I picked him off, seeing green gas geyser through a hole in his ski jacket as he went headlong over the edge.
Euphoria swept me; I raised the rifle and bellowed. Three of them were killed easily. I massacred them, and it was a feeling that told me I wasn't really a hunter. My greatest joy was killing someone with a shot in the back, and it didn't really matter if it was a monster or a human.
It is unfortunate that reality always deflates the joys of life, and my thoughts rocketed back into the gloom with the realization that I was now homeless. To escape, I had to hit the road before more came to get me. My long years of survivalist training would finally be put to the test. As a predator operating from a hideout in the woods, I would have to be more ruthless than even the monsters.
Down in the cellar, I learned my first genuine lesson: little of the ton of gear I had stored could actually be taken with me. Crossing the ice-slick valley by skidoo would not be possible unless I were light. As it turned out, a good supply of ration packs, light climbing gear, and light weapons, a portable medical kit, and a radio added up to only a few pounds.
My thoughts came and went as I rifled through all the stuff I couldn't take with me. Aneurysms of green lava erupted whenever I closed my eyes, and only reopening them to the gloom prevented me from drowning in a quicksand patterned with the faces of the monsters. My former grand goal of survival seemed almost irrelevant in a world barely worth living in.
Once the skidoo was packed, I took time to drag the bodies to the embankment, tossing them and watching as they smashed through ice-brittle brush, carrying small avalanches with them to the bottom. At this stage of the game, the most dangerous thing about the ice was that it had cracked everything it covered. It had no roots, and any heavy moving object would soon be surfing on a wave of chunks and breakage.
The looters had already cut a trail, so the only real option was to follow it around the valley rim. Gunning the engine, I moved ahead slowly into a biting wind, picking up speed once I got the feel of the trail. It got harder once I left the highway and went down the valley side. Areas of pine were safe, and they seemed to hold the ice. Brush and deciduous forest were the worst; broken branches and ice had heaped up, and it would start moving at the sound of the engine. Too slow and it would drop and hit you from above, and too much speed and you could become the leading edge of a fresh avalanche created by the treads.
Near Breaker Hill Road, the trail climbed out of the valley. The ice around me began to slide in bergs, but I made it to the rim. Looking up, I saw a roof of frozen fir branches. Moving slowly, I came to another embankment. This was Breaker's toboggan run, and beneath it, with a wave of ice, swept up to its side the Brightsville Mall.
One of the lots had been cleared, and a number of vehicles were parked there. I could see green splotches moving behind the glass doors, then they opened, and two children emerged and began to play in the lot.
Pulling out my field glasses, I took a closer look, seeing green fuzz forming on the cheeks of the two boys. It told me that the monster crowd had taken shelter in the mall and was also using it to incubate new flesh.
I sighed. It was short-lived. Something flashed below; a security guard had been hiding just outside of the mall, and now he’d spotted me, no doubt thinking me a member of the looter gangs.
He fired a shot that cracked the ice in the fir trees above me. Before I could move, a tremendous body of ice and snow tumbled down on me.
It swept me under with ruthless force, the branches and chunks of ice hammering me like a hundred fists while the sharp crystalline snow stung my eyes and mouth. The mass settled slowly, and I groaned in pain as it shifted to gravity in ways that pulled my torso, arms, and legs in different directions.
Finally, there was no more movement, and the vision in one eye cleared. I found that I could see up through a crack to the sky above.
Pain and numbness grew simultaneously; my head was swelling, shooting pains of Arctic cold forcing me to bite my tongue. Slowly, I forced myself to move, clawing uselessly at the ice. A few seconds of effort, and I managed to get hold of a ridge of ice. My other arm moved slowly through the chunky snow, and when I had both hands on the chunk, I pulled hard.
It worked at first, then the whole mass shifted, and a branch swept in and tore at my face. I choked, my air being cut off, and then I screamed as the whole heap began to slide.
The force of the slide nearly ripped me apart. As I closed my eyes tight to die, I was suddenly thrown out beneath the trees. I kept rolling, hoping to get clear. When the ground seemed solid again, I got to my knees and shook the snow off my head.
I was coming out of one nightmare into another. I could see people below spilling out of the mall, their faces distorted green, none of them human. They were shouting for the boys, but I knew they wouldn't find them because I could see that part of the avalanche was now resting where they’d been playing.
My face was bleeding so much that it was hard to see. The skidoo and my supplies hadn't gone down; they were poking out of a pile of fir branches. I crawled over, in the grip of a thousand points of ice pain, and the first thing I grabbed was my hunting rifle.
I got it just in time; there were more shouts and faces, and they were looking in my direction. Swinging the gun out, I started firing. Two guys went down with hits to the face, and the others panicked and ran back inside.
The cold had gotten my hands. They were feeling like heavy lumps. I knew that as soon as the bruising and pain set in, my entire body would be useless. I could already feel the stab of broken ribs.
It meant they would get me. There wasn't any way out except one. I went through my packs for my dynamite sticks. Finding them, I forced myself to walk on trembling legs, planting charges a good way to my left and right. And with that done, I moved back to the skidoo, gunned the engine, and forced it out of the ice.
The Brightsville Mall is a long building; I can see melting green faces in the windows and warped faces all around me in the ice, enough to make me want to scream. Soon, I will yell and detonate my charges, sending the masses of ice down.
Here on the clear peak, I’ll be able to ride down on the tail of the avalanche. The ice will smash the rows of glass doors at the main entrance, clearing them so I can ride right inside on my skidoo.
Their world will shake, glass will burst, aluminum will crumple, ice will shatter and fly, and best of all, those green faces will crack when the bullets from my automatic start to bite. The faces in the ice tomorrow will be dead faces.
But if I fail, all will be lost, and the monsters and their children will live on as a man buried in ice rides crushed and dead to their doorstep.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Sunbeams crept across the floor and up the covers to his face. Doug awoke with a start, a distant bell tolling in his vanishing dream. The weakness was terrible; he raised his arms, fending off the shifting shadows like they were bats. Moments later, he rose and went to the mirror. His face looked pasty like piecrust, and he put the air conditioning on, fearing he might melt.
It was hard to think; every thought seemed ragged. Staggering downstairs, he went to the fridge, and that’s when the enormity of the problem hit him.
No breakfast. The soup was gone!
His head spun; he remembered he had some in a thermos at the office and decided to head there straightaway.
The summer day hit as a painful blur, the canopy of maples a green claw reaching from a blue sky; he was aware of a queasy sensation and fear of falling. The Institute seemed to tower, ready to collapse over him, and he nearly fell backward while glancing up to his office window. A patient emerged in the yard hollering something about the spies he thought were pursuing him, and for a moment Doug wondered if madness wasn't safer than sanity on a day without soup.
Doug stumbled from the elevator like he'd been pushed and hurried to his office. He sat down, and his nausea eased. The dark mahogany and paneling felt sticky and damp, as if they were sweating blood. He got out his thermos and guided the spoon with his shaking hand, nearly spilling the soup. Then he dumped it back in the thermos and looked back at the window. The bright day stabbed at him with incredible ferocity. He felt like a vampire under the cross. Walking over, he pulled the curtains most of the way shut. Then he went back to his desk and his soup.
A smooth spoonful eased its way past his dry lips. “Ah, breakfast of heroes,” he said, feeling the charge. He blessed his mother for weaning him on soup, and then he remembered how much he hated her and swallowed his bitter tongue as he pressed a button and had the patient sent in.
The door opened slowly, and Clifford shambled in. Doug looked up from the desk, suppressing a frown. Clifford broke all the rules, including the first one, which was to look sharp for the Doctor.
“Yo, Doctor Doug,” Clifford said. “You look kinda peaked, like maybe you ate a frog and it jumped halfway back up. I used to do that, eat 'em alive.”
“We haven't got much into your childhood,” Doug said. “Perhaps we'll delve into those seamy Freudian waters today. After all, if you're getting out, we want to make sure you're healthy from bottom to top.”
“Healthy. Say, Doc. The first thing you want me to do is kill your wife. How will that make me healthy?”
“Well,” Doug said, looking thoughtful but stern. “So long as you realize that murder is wrong, and not something you can do all the time.”
“I can't realize that, Doc. I'm a psychopath. Murder seems like the right thing to do. It‘s getting locked up that seems wrong.”
“True and we definitely don't want to get caught. The killing of my wife, Margaret Atwood Smith, is to be a perfect crime. You’ll leave none of your trademarks at the scene. You could look at it as therapy. Think of it. You must kill someone and yet not dismember the body or leave bizarre clues. Won't that be difficult?”
“It certainly will. Therapy. You may have a point. If I learn not to leave my marks, I might never get caught.”
“That would be better for both of us. Perhaps we should start now, look into why you leave those marks, and especially bite marks. It’s likely rooted in your childhood, so let's go into it.”
“Great!” Clifford said, obviously excited. “I love to talk about my childhood. But nobody else likes it - they can't stand to hear about it. It began when I was about five years old. The first thing I remember seeing is a toad squashed by a car tire. I picked it up and . . .”
Clifford droned on as he went from the gross and offensive acts of a bad little boy to the deeds of a wicked young psychopath. Doug had heard it all before from other patients. Rather than let the burden weigh in on him, he let it all rumble by like the passing trains of his own childhood. Clifford's voice began to drift, something distant and fading until it bubbled like filthy waters in a childhood creek. The vile words soothed Doug. His eyes grew glassy. The memory of an old church bell tolling took him back in time. He saw the old family house on the edge of town, the lilac hedge, the maples, and the old well. He remembered some fun things. There was the odd crew of friends he'd entertained and their many small adventures. So many hidden places; the rail yards, tree houses, and best of all, his secret spot in the garage. The garage was a converted hay barn. His parents had cleaned it and put siding on it. In the loft, he'd played secret games with his pals. The memory was a pleasure that burst into flames of guilt. It choked him and buried him in a recurring nightmare. He saw his mother's angry face as she caught him. “You're a dirty little queer,” she hissed. “My son's a queer.” Then she hit him with a broom and ....
Doug's cheeks burned as his mind leaped back from the past. Now it was his wife calling him a queer. His wife, Margaret Atwood Smith, how trite of her to have named herself after some nutty Canadian author. And hadn't mother died long ago, by accident. Margaret Atwood Smith would die, too, but painfully and not by accident. Doug licked his lips, considering how life would’ve been wonderful if it hadn't been for prying people. People who wouldn’t accept simple things about him that they allowed in others. No matter, he had his strength - his soup.
He looked to Clifford. Perhaps there was an answer there. Everything Clifford did was disgusting and unacceptable. He posed a problem because society couldn’t tolerate him and had no place for him. So he was here, talking it out with Doctor Doug. As if there was anything that could ever be done. Execution was ugly, no doubt, but Doug doubted that there was anyone who could listen to Clifford's childhood tales and not want to see his neck squeezed in the same way he'd squeezed the necks of animals.
“I see, I see,” said Doctor Doug as Clifford finished his talk.
“See what?” Clifford said.
“See you reaching out and trying to touch your childhood. Trying to reclaim those golden days when you strangled only animals. You are a man of needs, Clifford, and you need a doctor who can help you harness those needs.”
“I think you've hit the nail right on the head here. Why can't the others see things as you do?”
“Forget the others. What you need is a day out and at large. To save some innocent victim from being killed by you, I want you to go over and kill my wife, Margaret Atwood Smith.”
“Okay, I'll do it. When do I get out?”
“Not yet, for safety's sake, you must do it while you're still in.”
“You must be crazier than I am. How could I do that?”
“Easy. Next week, you'll be released in the security hall as usual, and you will come down here for an appointment. As always, we won't be disturbed until I hit this button on my desk. Except that next week, I won't be here. You'll come in and take the hat from the table to cover your face. You'll take the key beside it and go out that side door and down the staff elevator. I'll tell you how to get to my house in a moment. You’ll do the job on Margaret Atwood Smith, then return. I‘ll make sure she’s at home and alone, and you won't have trouble recognizing her - just look for a stocky woman wearing a hideously cheap blond wig and you've got her. Remember not to leave your mark. Strangle a dog somewhere else if you have to. Your alibi will be perfect because you will have been with me and not at large. Once I see that the job has been done, I’ll sign release papers, and you’ll be free.”
Margaret Atwood Smith chewed her peeling lip apprehensively as her daily dose of reality TV failed to soothe her. She dreaded the arrival of 3 pm. and her favorite soap. Lights of Our Darker Days had her hooked, but she knew this was the episode in which Dr. Marvin's wife was to be killed by a hit man. She twitched uncomfortably. Her wig itched horribly.
Her thoughts drifted to Doug; uneasiness deepened - he'd been a fiend lately, throwing tantrums, breaking things, threatening her. He was like a nasty little boy. There was a striking parallel between him and Dr. Marvin on Lights of Our Darker Days. She hoped he hadn't been watching big screen TV and getting big ideas. Definitely not, she decided. That was impossible. He was at the office, trying to analyze patients who were probably saner than he was. Doug was a wimp, really. He lacked courage. He just wouldn't have the guts to kill her or anyone. Not like Dr. Marvin, who was handsome and a real man.
But Doug had been displaying weird and abusive behavior lately. What if it was more than a phase?
“Terrible man,” she muttered as commercials danced by on the screen. Terrible, but not so terrible that she wasn't back into her soap soon, and asleep by the next set of ads.
She dreamed, and the dream took an odd, illogical form. A red bowl of soup spilled, and the splash became a boiling tidal wave of blood consuming her. Then she was floating across the city and could see in the window of Doug's office at the Hardin Institute. An ugly man was taking Doug's battered felt hat from the desk. He had fierce gray eyes and a low forehead. His thin lips slanted down to the left on his unshaven face. He jingled a key and grinned, his small mouth expanding broadly as he went through a door to the elevator.
Margaret Atwood Smith fell through dream haze to street level, and a minute later, she saw the man emerge, walking crookedly, covering his face with the hat. A ways down the street, he jumped a board fence to a vacant lot and shambled through the weeds to an old, broken-down cart. He began prying at the boards and soon came up with something rusty.
The blinding sun shifted in and out of cloud towers. The restless wind combed the trashy weeds. Dust puffed and rolled in the lot, spinning up yellowed newspaper and litter. The city hung in the background like a grainy photo.
It all started to go fuzzy, like a bad reception. Margaret Atwood Smith wondered if she was dreaming. Then, as the man grew to giant proportions, she knew she was. His right hand was huge, grimy, and creased. He stretched it to the sky, and it came down, swinging a rusty pipe.
She suddenly woke, hearing creaking. Her muscles stiffened; she didn't dare move. The dreary music from Lights of Our Darker Days partially covered the suspicious sounds, but what she heard was unmistakable. Someone was sneaking in the door in the front room.
She clutched her dress, her knuckles whitening in panic. On the screen, Doctor Marvin was cradling his wife's corpse as he wept. A moment later, a shadow appeared.
“Who's there?” she said, unable to remain silent.
The man stepped into the doorway, wearing the hat from the dream, but he didn't have a pipe. He held flowers.
“Doug sent me,” he said, his smile slimy. “A surprise. Look, flowers for you.”
“Oh, they're lovely! Bring them to me,” Margaret Atwood Smith said.
Smug and confident, he walked right up, then sudden suspicion slanted his eyes, but it was too late. Margaret Atwood Smith had shot a foot out, and it got him. It was a kick to the groin. It froze him in his tracks. He grimaced, and then he grinned. Two of the flowers fell away, revealing a rusty spike beneath.
“Time to die, bitch!” Clifford said as he prepared to strike her.
Margaret Atwood Smith also grinned, and she flipped up her skirt. “Look,” she said.
And he did look, seeing bare legs, an erect penis, and a hammer.
The nail was in her hand. She flew up with incredible, maniacal speed, one hand throwing the nail forward and the other planting the hammer. It all took less than a second, and it left Clifford standing there with a spike, flowers in his hand, and a nail driven through his forehead.
Doug found himself naked, but he didn’t question it. Clifford's body was on the floor, crumpled like a doll. He saw a wig and a torn dress by the chair. “Poor guy,” Doug muttered. “Another victim of Margaret Atwood Smith. But he managed to take that bitch out with him. Must've hit her so hard she disintegrated. All of her except for her wig, bra, and dress.”
His expression changed to one of contemplation. “Oh well, that'll be enough,” he said as he snatched up the clothing. “Enough for soup.” Minutes later, he had a huge pot of water boiling. He dropped the wig and bra in and stirred the brew with a wooden spoon. Satisfied, he said, “It is indeed the perfect crime, and I have murder soup. Enough for months.”
+++
By Gary L Morton
The place was spooky at night, especially then in the rich dark of autumn. A curtain of wilted vegetation cast brittle leaves on the worn patio stones. The huge condominium complex rose on all four sides of the courtyard, with the only exits a glass door and an iron gate. So many windows looked down on the court, I often felt watched. When I patrolled very late, I would suddenly feel watched from all directions. The glare on the windows would become the oppression of hidden and hostile stares. Yet it was a quiet place: a complex of more than four hundred condominium units. It was an older one. The age showed in cobwebs, cracks, leaks, and wear, but it was still better than new places coming up. It is always that way; they first start building things to last, then the imitations that don’t last come online.
I don’t think I ever truly liked the place or being the night security guard. The problem was always Nancy. The thing about Nancy was that she loved the place. I spent so many nights arguing with her about it. Sometimes in the courtyard. In the end, we weren’t speaking much because of my plan to quit work.
They didn’t grant me the promised promotion. Instead, they doomed me to keep working night shift and long hours. They told me about it in the office on a Thursday morning.
+++
“Nancy, Nancy, Nancy,” Johan said, his voice hoarse and ugly and his big blustering leather face highlighted by his huge lick of blond frontal hair. “There ain’t no fucking Nancy. People see you out in that courtyard or walking on the rooftop patio ... or God knows where, talking to someone that ain’t fucking there. You scare people, Freddy. Some people think you’re talking to the building ghost. If it weren’t for seniority, I’d fire you. That and the fact that no one wants to work your shift. Maybe nothing ever happened since you've been here at night because you scare all the bad motherfuckers off, too.”
“But, but, Nancy says ...” I said.
Then he cut me off.
“Fuck Nancy, if that’s possible. You’re staying on the night shift. What I can do is give you a small raise. That’s if you ditch that bitch and stop talking to her.”
+++
So that was it, big Johan had spoken ... but big or not, it wasn’t a good thing to piss off Nancy. I spent a long time talking to her in the courtyard about it. At one point, she was shouting at me, and I had to shush her. She was going to wake up everyone in the damn place.
“Johan,” she said. “Remember what Ramone told us about him. Saw him on a Saturday night, headed downtown wearing leather shorts and black lace stockings. His face was made up like a whore. The man’s gay and ugly, too. With a fantasy of being a five-buck female slut. He probably oils his ass before he comes to work, just in case he gets lucky.”
“You’re always so mean, Nancy. He can do whatever he wants when he’s not at work. And society is liberal and understanding about all that stuff today.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get any liberal ideas when you’re dating me. I expect my man to be loyal. I have no use for cocksuckers.”
“Nancy, shush. Please stop talking dirty out here. Someone might hear you.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot child, then started arguing again, and it dragged on. Things started tumbling around me. I looked up at the faceted windows, then down at the webs of dying leaves. A dust devil whipped up some debris, and a twig hit me in the eye. I ended up standing there like I was crying, but it was from the dust in my eyes, and also partly from the frustration of looking down a dark kaleidoscope of night shifts and Nancy bitching at me out in the dark.
Then her voice softened, and she whispered in my ear, telling me what she wanted me to do about my problem. I listened and decided I would do it. I’d get even with those bastards, and we’d walk out together when the job was done.
+++
The idea of a last lazy night patrol was booster-juice for my mood and my attitude. I took care of my rounds and checks. Whistle while you work ... and I did whistle later on when I was in the staff lunchroom. I could see morning light shining somewhere in my head while I did it.
Every morning in the complex was the same. Johan, Ramone, and the cleaners would arrive at seven am and shoot the same shit over morning coffee. I’d walk in, and Ramone would be pouring the fresh brew. Johan would take the milk from the fridge, and then he’d say. “Milk’s a bit stale. I’ll get fresh at noon.” Then he’d say, “The secret to topping off a brew is whitener. A bit of whitener with sugar takes the edge off a brew and improves the milk flavor.” Then he’d spoon some into each cup after Ramone poured. The only person taking coffee black would be me, as I hate milk and whitener. I would drink my black, constantly trying to keep back from Ramone and his rotten breath.
The new whitener I was fixing up would be especially potent as a top-up. Mixed with rat killer, odorless and tasteless, they’d never notice anything different. It would seem like prime brew, at least for a while, and then it would thin out their blood and do what other magic poison could do and kill them.
Watching some of the new whitener pour back into the bottle from a spoon, I decided it was perfect ... and time to move on. Old people were on my mind. I was getting old myself, and the complex was mostly quiet because many elderly people bought condos on the place’s reputation for silence.
Silence indeed ... people living beyond their time, putting a burden on the resources of the nation. But where could they go? Best to bury them where they belonged.
The thing with a building so big was that many things relied on the fire panel. Officially, a tech or a firefighter was needed to silence an alarm. Unofficially, I had been through fire calls and emergencies and knew how to do it.
With the panel password, changes can be made. So I set it not to call the fire department automatically and programmed a dummy feed to the monitoring station so everything would read fine, no matter what happened. Manually disabling all alarms had always been the best way to keep things quiet at night.
All the suite bolt locks clicked open in the event of a fire, so I reversed them so the doors would all magnetic-lock shut. Entrances and exits, too.
It being fall, the switchover to heat from air conditioning was about to take place. As a good security guard, I had done my patrols of the mechanical rooms, and since the maintenance guys never wanted to come in at night or on weekends, I learned most of the equipment from the times they walked me through problems and settings over the phone.
For the current problem, I set the emergency generator exhaust to vent into the air system once the switchover took place. Call it energy saving, as two-thirds of all lights would go off, and all but one elevator would be grounded. It would ensure that some power and warm carbon monoxide air would be delivered to everyone.
Attention to detail is a good thing. A security guard must do more than walk around. So keep that in mind. Always be prepared, and I was, with a big tank of extra fuel for the emergency generator. It was no small generator, almost as big as a small car, sitting in its own room down in P1 with the tank nearby. It didn’t take long to jimmy together some hoses and siphon the spare fuel over to the bottom of the elevator shafts.
+++
Plan as one may, the best of plans can go awry. Morning arrived, and at that time, the main garage entry door would lift and stay open for daytime hours. On my big day, it malfunctioned and kept swinging up and down. Johan, Ramone, and all the staff pulled up and couldn’t get in. Some quick thinking was required. I cut the power to it when it was in the up position so they could drive inside.
The next problem was that Ramone smelled fumes. It took all of my powers of persuasion to convince him it was exhaust. I told him a resident left his car engine running underground in P3.
“The exhaust fans will slowly clear it,” I promised.
He looked at me like he didn’t quite believe me, then laziness won out, and he went into the staff room for coffee with the others. They all looked surprised when I lifted my cup of black and said, "Cheers." I stayed to watch them sip, then I said I was going out for a quick check on the fumes.
I went up to the courtyard exit, and just before I stepped out, I lifted a lit lighter to one of the sprinkler system detectors. It worked. I mean, there was no alarm; instead, all the lights blinked, and there was a rumble as the emergency generator came on. Throughout the building, locks worked in reverse, and instead of unbolting for fire, they magnetically locked shut. Fucking garage door didn’t close though, it started with that malfunction again where it kept opening and slamming closed at high speed, but that was a good thing because just then Ramone and Johan came running for it from the inside. Both of them were staggering and spitting out white slop. I felt like yelling down to ask Johan if he had any new feelings about whitener.
Ramone didn’t make it; he fell on the dirty concrete floor inside P1 and started squirming. Blood suddenly spurted from his ears, and I had to look away when he started with the horrible choking noises.
Johan did manage to stumble to the garage swing door, but not through it. It slammed down on him and flattened him … leaving me standing there with amazement on my face as a fountain of bloody bile shot from his open mouth. His body rolled about from the continued slamming motion of the door, and it did serve to muffle the noise somewhat.
I saw some people running out the exit doors beyond the metal gate and cursed because the locks did not all secure properly. There would be people who lived to talk. Another mistake I made was on the timing of the fire as the elevator shafts suddenly roared with flames and exploded, making the fire a bit quicker than planned. Within minutes, the entire complex was roaring with flames and screams. But I felt okay, even happy. I danced a little jig in the courtyard and waited for Nancy to join me.
I’d forgotten about Nancy. Then I realized that she was still inside, and I spotted her yelling for help from a window. Nancy, the love of my life, was going to burn. I had to save her.
Without hesitation, I ran inside through howling smoke and flames. I rescued Nancy, or thought I did. I broke doors down. I dragged woman after woman out into the courtyard. Dogs and cats burst free from my efforts. I saved dozens of people, but each time I pulled someone out, I looked at their face, and it wasn’t Nancy. I couldn’t save her, and the whole place caught on fire. Fire department men pulled me out of the flames, and one guy socked me one to keep me from going back in. I ended up flat on the ground, blubbering, “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”
So shucks, it’s all over now, and I still don’t sleep at night. I spend my days talking to the shrinks. I’m in another big complex, but here they watch me closely. My doctor looks so much like Nancy, but since I’m now burned and ugly, she could never love me. It’s more like she hates me. No one else has rescued as many people as me. Not many people have done as much killing as me either. I put in for the night security job here, but my chances aren’t good of grabbing the position. I heard it through the grapevine.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Late afternoon bit Pumpkin like a mangy dog, leaving him quivering with agitation as he stared out at the wilted leaves falling in the wood lot. Autumn made him feel crumpled and dead like the rest of the city. It was a season he hated and a time when he needed regular fixes to feel alive again.
Halloween always came around the corner as his biggest fix. The bewitched day was really the only good thing about fall. It was also the reason he'd been nicknamed Pumpkin. On all other days, he existed as the watcher and the voyeur, yet on Halloween, he became the doer. Rubber worms in the candy apples, puke pills in the orange kisses, firecrackers in the doorways, obscene messages sprayed on the courthouse windows, LSD in the prom punch, paint bombs and spikes on the highway, burning hay on the tracks, firing blanks at the suckers near the mall while dressed as the Reaper. Pumpkin had pulled just about every mean prank going, and he’d never been caught.
This year, he’d settle for nothing less than the spectacular. Something grand that would get him remembered as more than an aging smart-ass wearing orange clothes half of the time. More than a pathetic fool needing quick stunts to even get noticed.
He did have a plan in motion, and he grinned at the thought. Getting up, he went over to his computer. “Time to check my e-mail, and see if Marvin bought the bait,” he muttered.
Knocking the mouse, he watched the screen light up, and he grinned when he saw the tiny e-mail jack-o-lantern waving a Jolly Roger. It was the email he'd been expecting.
To: pumpkin
From: coolmarvin
Yo!!! Pumpkin! Heare at ScrewView web we pay close attention to the groovy ideas of our top subscribers. Especially paying subscribers. Youre idea to web broadcast a Halloween orgy is wicked. Consider it on beginnin at 9 p.m. on the bewitched evening. Be ready for our live webcam extravaganza at screwview.com cause We have more then 30,000 paying viewers lined up for a show with 12 full camera angles.
We'd appreciate any donations for costumes and setup as this is on short notice. Contact me immediately if you know any partners who can help in the production of this feature film.
* Life is just a bowl of cherries, waiting to get popped.
Cool Marvin
To: coolmarvin
From: pumpkin
Cool! Cool! Cool! Marvin. I can help with costumes and stuff. Not just money wise. I mean, I have the real stuff. A friend of mine has a costume store and I can twist his arm for a lot of costumes and black webbing and rubber bats and stuff. Believe it or not I also have a pumpkin patch at my house so I can bring some pumpkins. As you should recall I also live in Toronto. So get back to me as to when I can drop a vanload of the stuff out to you people at the screwview penthouse.
* Just livin’ on the pussy's cutting edge.
Pumpkin
An orange explosion marked the end of sunset in the west. Standing by the chain link fence, Pumpkin watched as twilight blue filtered into the mist trails down in the valley. A line of cops in navy uniforms poked through the tall weeds by the watercourse there. They'd been combing through the area for about a week, looking for clues on a bedroom rapist who used those tunnels and gullies as an escape route. Personally, Pumpkin hoped they would corner the guy and blast his head off. The jerk just had no right to commit crimes like that without filming them for everyone else to see.
As the cops faded into the mist, he perceived them as little toy men locked inside a small bubble of right and wrong. Another bubble of petty desire contained the rampaging rapist. And perhaps the darkening sky was the biggest bubble, sealing everyone in Toronto in a prison.
If gods lived, they were voyeurs, Pumpkin was sure of that. Because you never saw them, but they were always there, like evil jack-o-lanterns looking through the glass at people and their follies. They could shake the whole world like a bauble and play the biggest prank of all by snowing down shit on everyone.
They'd rained shit on Pumpkin's life since he was a kid. Some of it was sexual abuse crap he wanted to forget, but often couldn't. And now that he was remembering it, the gods were making him mad.
Sudden fury filled him, and he turned away from the fence. Powering up his Greenwood chainsaw, he eased the spinning blade forward and leaned into the trunk of a dying pine.
Vibrations shook his arms as the blade bit in deep and spat sawdust. The resistance jarred his bones and pulsed in his blood and brain. And it soothed him, causing his anger to fade and the disturbed feeling to vanish. It was the black magic of the chainsaw; it cut down trees and bad moods, leaving a neat pile of brush and logs.
Odors of fresh-cut wood filled the cool autumn air. Pumpkin inhaled deeply, feeling a sort of relaxed euphoria as he crunched through the leaves and sawdust to the pumpkin patch. Pausing there, he studied his prize and aging melons. He patted a giant, then his eyes went to the smaller ones that would soon be wearing Halloween faces. “Wonderful, wonderful things they'll see,” he thought. Then he turned and went up the steps to the porch. It was time to drive over to Marvin's penthouse and lay the final plans.
Leaves blew on the back alley wind and scratched Pumpkin like some dead fingers of the darkness and the season. He watched grimly as Marvin's lackeys unloaded the van of its Halloween fare.
For a moment, he stared up at the bright lights of the penthouse. Then he felt Marvin tap him on the shoulder.
“It's heaven up there,” Marvin said, his eyes glowing like a cat's. “And whenever the action begins, we seal the stairwells. Only one elevator for access. There's no way the police can raid us if we shut it down, and we got enough of them paid off, so a raid's not likely anyway.”
Pumpkin pulled a small orange orb from his bag. It had the face of a jack-o-lantern. He handed it silently to Marvin.
“What's this?” Marvin said.
“It's a high-definition webcam that looks like a pumpkin. I packed a few of them in with the decorations. I figure you can use them in place of the plain ones for a better atmosphere.”
“Man, you thought of everything. Don't worry; you'll get your reward when my big black rod goes into action on some blonds. Just text me a rap sheet on what you want to see? I'll pass it to the young ladies.”
Pumpkin waited as the autumn days passed. They were slow and dark like the smoke of bonfires, and they seemed endless. When Halloween finally came, he could feel the orange flames burning in a jack-o-lantern in his brain.
In the early evening, costumed children, their parents, and all of the cute stuff fluttered by like cartoons as he impatiently walked the streets. And it was only as the clock neared 9 p.m. that he came alive.
Marvin also came to life at nine sharp, and a web view appeared of a cavern-like penthouse and a lot of painted women, dressed mostly in leather and black netting. Marvin did his introduction wearing only a lion cloth and jewelry. His black skin gleamed with oil, and if he wore a shit eater's grin, it was probably because he would eat shit if a subscriber paid him to do it.
The cameras also revealed two naked blonde women necking on the rug behind him. Other camera angles revealed more opening action. Screwview.com liked to give the impression of 24-hr sex at the penthouse.
“Tonight the forces of Halloween witchcraft have possessed us, and we're having a party,” Marvin said. He spread his arms dramatically and was about to continue when a loud rattle and bang caused him to jump.
Paneling suddenly slid open behind him, revealing an elevator and a man in an orange Halloween costume. Marvin glanced back and saw the man's skull mask and shopping bag, and since it was only Pumpkin and not the cops, he turned back to the cameras. “Welcome to our big Halloween Screw at screwview.com,” he said, and then he signaled for the action to begin.
And as he did, Pumpkin pulled his rigged chainsaw from his shopping bag, powered it up as he stepped forward, and planted the whirring chains between Marvin's shoulder blades.
It cut through before Marvin could scream, though his expression became one of surprise as blood spurted out of his mouth. A moment later, the blade and flying gore emerged from Marvin's chest. Then Pumpkin yanked it back out and shouldered the collapsing body aside.
Screaming began as the corpse thumped to the rug. Pumpkin pulled off his mask and spoke above the noise. “Everybody's screwed, just like Marvin said,” he announced. “Plus, the title's been changed to Pumpkin's Halloween Chainsaw Massacre.”
With the stairwells sealed and the elevator out of order, Pumpkin was ready for the main attraction. Then a plastic webcam whacked in the center of his forehead. A mean and large-breasted leather-clad blond had thrown it, and it gave him double vision. It halted his charge; he staggered back, then fury rose, and he attacked, but couldn't tell the people from the props as he became a one-man wrecking crew, chain-sawing the huge penthouse to pieces. He felt the chainsaw hit pay dirt in at least one guy, but while he was carving him, most of the people escaped to the balcony. Pumpkin didn't see it and continued swinging wildly with the chainsaw. In his blurred vision, he saw a cherry curtain of blood that was mostly from his cut eyebrow.
His massacre came to a sad end due to the fact that his chainsaw was old and the chain brake didn't function. As he was about to rip into a coat rack he thought was a person, he got a wicked kickback and fell backward to the floor. The tragic mistake led to his legs being chopped off.
Pumpkin's final Halloween stunt did bring him fame, but not the story he wanted. The media portrayed him as a jealous John, who, in an attempt to massacre Cool Marvin and some other pimps, mistakenly massacred himself. He became known as "Pumpkin the Pimp Killer."
+++
By Gary Morton
Rusti pictured death as a typhoon. It was a great power that could wipe out every trace of his miserable existence. When he was a child and a good life was as certain as his dreams, death was an enemy. Now death appeared as a friend, but an elusive friend constantly escaping him. On every street and alley, he could see the Reaper ahead, his cloak of bones and decay fluttering as he fled around a distant corner.
Glancing around the cluttered shack he called home, he figured he could just as well be looking at the mess in his own head. Rusti knew he was disturbed, a misfit - he had that power of reflection. His self-image wasn't distorted; it was the truth he couldn't escape. A shambling loner, wherever he worked, he would eventually be fired. People just didn't like him, and it just wasn't fair. With women, the hitch was that he was a total fickle, and few women cared for him, especially not after they learned of his bizarre sexual preferences. His gay lovers quickly learned to hate him even more. He wasn't really dangerous, and although he preferred dirtier words, weirdo was the term most often used when it came to him. So what could he do? The things that got him off weren't things he'd wished for; he was just sort of stuck with them.
A brief, twisted idea emerged, then suddenly vanished as Rusti realized that today was money day. His employment insurance payment was already on the wire, popping directly into his account. He booted a pizza box aside, and for some strange reason, he saw the bank computer staring at him with beady eyes. Nasty thoughts possessed him, and he felt his blood boil as he walked to the back door. Swinging it open, he clenched his fist and shook it, thinking that this time he wouldn't fail - by God! He'd have just enough money to kill himself.
When the brightness of the sun cleared, he saw through blood haze and realized he was shaking his fist at a little girl skipping on the beaten earth of his backyard. He shook his knuckles with even more fury, “Get out of here, you little brat! I'm the bad man!” A grimace bit his face as she thumbed her nose at him and ran away. Funny, the way her eyes are so tiny and beady, he thought as he watched her bolt through a space in the fence.
Out on the street, he walked to the bank with some plans hatching in his head. It was a beautiful summer day, but his mind was like a bloodshot eye, hurting in the light. Rollerblades in the window of the Fabulous Sports Shop were the first thing he really noticed. It would be nice to roll over to one of those steep hills in Rosedale and then speed skate down to the highway. By the time the traffic finished with him he'd look like a carcass thrown from a meat wagon. It was a nice thought, but the chances of survival were too good, and he didn't want to end up in one of those new wheelchairs that wipe your drool and spoon-feed you as you roll along.
He envisioned a Smith and Wesson revolver, and then got angry with himself. He'd tried to buy a gun but couldn't meet the license requirements. “Damn new laws, they're screwing us all!” he said to a telephone pole as a misfit-hating businessman tiptoed across the road to avoid him. He'd also tried to buy a hot piece, only some slick black dudes up on Jane Street had sold him a replica. To make matters worse, some other guys surprised him in an alley while he was trying to figure out why the replica didn't work. He'd hoped they'd cut his throat and leave him to die like a dog. Instead, a gang leader with a lower lip as big as a trout had nailed him in the balls. Rusti wished his wallet had been a replica.
Drowning, now drowning was something else. He stopped in his tracks. It hadn't worked before because he always went down to the river and hopped off the bridge. Then a panic response would cause him to swim to shore. What if he rented a boat and motored out a ways? Naw, he thought with a shake of his head. Too much room for failure there, and if it were possible to fail, he would. He didn't like the idea of his life flashing before him either - he was trying to escape it, not relive it.
Beady eyes again, staring down from a maple tree. He halted; they made him think of little black pills. Cutting through the park, he thought of drugs he could overdose on. The little black pills he'd taken last time were out, since all they'd done was turn him into a zombie for three days - and give him pneumonia. He winced as he recalled the jabbing pains in his chest. Drugs were only an option if he was sure they'd kill him fast and clean, and with his high tolerance - rat poison only gave him diarrhea - to everything, they weren't the best option.
Gas was out. He'd already turned a pal's house into a pile of splinters with gas. Who would expect the mailman to come and press the doorbell while the place was filling up with gas? Rusti had been returning from the ZIPSHOP with matches when he saw the roof blow and come in for a landing on the house next door. What really changed his mind concerning gas was the sight of the mailman's head bouncing up the sidewalk. Gas was too messy. It was for slobs and litterbugs, and there were a lot of slobs - guys who made sure they left their brains dripping from the walls. There was even the jerk who jumped from a skyscraper and went through the glass roof of a shopping mall. There are ways of saying good-bye, and coming through a high roof as a rain of blood, glass, sausage bits, giblets, chicken quarters, and cubed beef tongue isn't one of those ways.
Inspiration was drying up, but he could see the bank machine, and he was sure a handful of bills would also be a handful of ideas. The machine looked lonely and abandoned, attached to the side of a gas station like a growth of plastic junk. A robot corpse, and he wished it were a spitting maw of doom instead of a money dispenser. Sinister, that's what it is, he thought, trying to imagine something sinister about it as he stepped lightly across the street. At least it's as sinister as a JANE CA$H machine can be.
The tinted window was down, and he saw his own desperate face staring back at him as he took out his card. Stepping sideways, he checked his profile as he slipped the card in the slot. He always looked so much better in profile; if only he could stand sideways when he talked to people, he'd feel cool instead of lousy.
The plastic window slid up, and he found his profile replaced by two beady eyes. He jumped back as if from a rattler, then he cautiously stepped back up. Disbelief made him light-headed. Instead of the usual instructions, two eyes were in the slot. They were textured like black marbles and had an intense shine.
He stuck a finger in to poke an eye.
“Don't touch,” said an intelligent and very human voice.
“Who are you?”
“I'm the devil.”
Rusti's eyes were rather flat to begin with, and now they went as dull as fried eggs. His face soured like he'd seen a roach skitter across his plate. “This is a trick. I know the devil isn't a machine. You'd better choke out some money or else.”
“Please pay up the interest on your credit card, sir, or I'll punch your teeth out.”
“So, the dirty, rotten bank is behind this.”
No sooner had Rusti spoken than fifty-dollar bills began to shower out of the slot. Moving swiftly, he pocketed the wad, then he glanced around.
“See, I don't work for the bank. I'm a robber.”
“I thought you were the devil?”
“I don't want people to believe in me. Actually, I'm called the faceless one. You are destined to be the eyeless one. Today I'm wearing this bank machine for a face. I'd much appreciate it if you would help me get a new face?”
“I can't. I'll be killing myself today, and I really don't know how to help.”
“Scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. Help me and I'll help you die?”
“Okay, but how?”
“Take me out of the machine and put me in your pocket. We can talk more later.”
Rusti plucked the eyeballs from the slot. Now that he had taken a closer look, he could see they were very old. Almost like real eyes that had blackened and petrified. He figured he'd struck a poisonous jackpot, so he stuck them in his pocket as carefully as he would pearls.
Walking back across the street, he saw his pal Steve coming around the corner. Steve had a bounce in his step, as if he were walking on air or climbing a ladder. His cheeks were sunken, and he had a forehead full of moon craters. Rusti had chummed around with him in high school. He figured Steve to be the sort who wasn't bright enough to kill himself.
“Listen,” Steve threw an arm around him. “Ever thought of robbing a grocery store or maybe even a bank?”
“Nope, but I'm looking for a gun if you got one.”
“I have a replica, but forget that for now; let's talk hold-up. A supermarket heist would be easy, but I guess you've never had the guts to do business with real crime.”
“Don't bet on it. I'm gonna commit the big M today.”
“Who is this insect you're terminating?”
“Myself.”
“You are uncool, very uncool.”
“Yeah, I'll show you something cool.”
“Okay, hit me with it.”
“It's not an it. It's a who.”
“All right. Who?”
“The faceless one, here he is,” Rusti said, pulling the eyes from his pocket. Then he blinked as no eyes were there. He was holding two black marbles.”
“The faceless one. Right. Listen, Rusti, kill yourself right away, just for me.”
As soon as Steve stepped away, the marbles became morbid eyes. “Gasoline,” said the faceless one. “You need a big can of gasoline. Now don't ask questions, just do it - believe me, you'll see death and love dying.”
As it happened, Rusti had a large gas can among the rubbish in his backyard. He judged it suitable and took it to the station. The faceless one is a genius, he thought on the way back. But if he thinks I'm gonna set myself on fire, he's also crazy. Curiosity got the better of him, and he took out the eyes. They were brighter now, with a shine almost like a bluebottle fly.
“I know all about fire,” Rusti said. “If I light myself up and live, I could end up screaming in pain for weeks before I die.”
“What you do is set fire to some old carpets. The smoke will be lethal poison that'll kill you quickly and painlessly.”
Rusti jammed the eyes back in his pocket. Ahead, through a hole in the fence, he saw the little blond girl playing among the rubbish in his backyard. Setting down the gas can, he picked up a stone and winged it off a Rusti hubcap by her feet. She took off and ran behind a pile of old bricks and shingles. He didn't bother to pursue her; instead, he cut through and opened the padlock. There was a bang as a stone struck the gas can. Turning, he saw the girl duck and run behind the fence.
Smartass kid, he thought as he went inside. An idea came to him, and he went straight to the couch and sat down. Why not forget helping the faceless one and just asphyxiate myself and get it over with - yeah, why not? As he got up to pile some carpets in the center of the room, he noticed a leak in the gas can where the stone had struck. Checking the contents with a slosh, he found that a good bit of gas had already leaked out. Quickly, he carried it back out to the yard and plugged the hole with a piece of rag.
Back inside, he decided to have a last cigarette. A Lucky Strike. But when he tried lighting the smoke, he wasn't lucky. The matches were damp. After three or four broke, one fizzed and went out. Frustrated, he snapped one hard on the emery paper. It lit, but the head flew off and landed in spilled gasoline. The gas ignited, and flames poofed, following a line across the room and out the door to the can. To his horror, he could see the little girl standing out there, preparing to toss a stone.
It was a stone that was never thrown. The gas can burst into a sheet of flame that engulfed her. Thinking to help her, he snatched up a blanket and ran through the flames. She was already a human torch, but when the blanket went around her, she became a fireball. He hadn't noticed that the blanket was gas-soaked.
Staggering clear, Rusti beat out the fire on his clothes. It was too late to save the girl; she'd died before she could even scream. He grabbed a mat and went to work beating out the flames in the house. When he stepped back outside again, her smoking corpse was crumpled beside his old rusted-out Ford.
Grabbing the feet, he dragged the body into the house, burning his hands on her melted shoes in the process. Since it was a flash fire, he figured no one had noticed, or if they had, thought it was a controlled bonfire. It dawned on him that he'd put the fire out when he could've inhaled the fumes. Goddamn, he muttered, wondering why he always did the wrong thing.
After locking the doors, he dragged the body into the bedroom and closed the curtains. The little girl hardly looked human at all. The burlap blanket was burned to her in such a way that she resembled a charred fire log. Only her head and feet protruded at the ends. Her face was hideous, the mouth forced open by a tongue like a big scraping from the bottom of someone's oven. Two holes running with thickening lava were her eyes, and she had only a blistered lump for a nose. Some of her hair hadn't burned, although now it was scorched and smoke colored.
This was big trouble; if the cops were to come, they'd call it murder. He'd be ruled insane and put in a place without even a belt to hang himself. He wept, feeling like he really had gone mad. The thought of people discovering that he'd fried a little kid was unbearable. His photo would probably appear next to the killer clown in the crime flashbacks. And what about the trial, all those shrinks and lawyers pretending to be on your side while they really felt you should be disemboweled. Questions, sweat, and endless interviews; you had to be long-winded to answer to justice, and they would never let you die.
Hanging his head got tiring. Maybe the faceless one had an answer. A way to kill himself fast. He took out the eyes and found their stare to be both morbid and fierce. “You tried to cheat me,” the faceless one said. “I'll make you pay.”
From a wicked stare to a hypnotic gleam, Rusti saw tiny windows grow in the pupils. A vision took him, thoughts of suicide vanished, drums pounded in a rain forest, a beat of the blood, hot as an eruption from a molten god. There were bubbles in a cauldron that resembled the faceless one's eyes, and silver began to flash and take form. Finally, he was looking down, watching himself take a knife out of the cutlery drawer in the kitchen.
His eyes belonged to the faceless one; they were evil and intense. Blood thick as strawberry syrup oozed as he cut the corpse's head off. His face became lined, his neck muscles corded as he strained on the blade. Once the head was free, he sat in an armchair, cradling it in his lap. Two burning eyes were all he seemed to be.
Soon, he knew it was time, and he got out a sharp fruit knife. With deep and precise cuts, he removed the scorched skin and scalp. The skull and the rest of the body he wrapped up for burning in an old carpet.
Taking a sturdy needle from a wooden box on his dresser, he prepared to sew the lips. Using pins, he held them everted as he sliced leather fringes from an old coat. With fishing line for thread, he stitched the head skin up, and then he sewed the leather through the lips.
Now it was time to boil the head skin. Holding it over the pot, he muttered some verses of a heathen incantation. The water bubbled red when he plopped the skin in, and some parsley and spices seasoned it.
After an hour of cooking, he used tongs to remove the head skin and dried it with a towel. Taking out a jar of honey, he combed some through the sparse hair, and then he hung the head skin on a rusty nail on the door.
Out back, he built a small fire, making sure to place some large stones on the blaze. His eyes were arsonist wild. He watched until the fire smoldered out, then he took down the skin. Using a small spade, he carefully filled it with hot sand and stones. He set it upright on a plank, and in time, it began to shrink. Stones and the sand were forced out at the neck. Rusti had taken care to arrange the remains of the hair so that it hardened neatly into gruesome place.
Darkness had fallen, and now the moon looked on with the faceless one as Rusti built a bonfire and burned the carpet-wrapped body. Using a hook and chain, he hung the head over the fire to smoke it. At midnight, when only ashes remained, he took the shrunken head inside and placed the faceless one's eyes in the empty sockets. Then he touched it over and hardened it with resin. For a final touch, he polished it and sealed it in a large, gleaming jar.
He was in his rocking chair when he came back to himself, and he stared in horror at the hideous creation in the jar on his lap. So the faceless one really was some kind of devil, and he'd arranged the girl's death in order to come back as a shrunken head. It caused his heart to sink; he didn't like the idea of devils being real. They would put him in torment when he succeeded at suicide, or at least they would if he was stupid enough to die with one in his lap. He decided that disposing of the faceless one would be a wise move.
Dirt was baked on his hands, and his skin crawled with invisible maggots, so he put the faceless one on the coffee table while he showered and shaved. It did no good; his stomach was sour and weak, and a soup of sickness swam before his eyes. Bugs seemed to be eating at his back, and he ground his teeth as he put on a red T-shirt and jeans. After scrubbing his hands raw and red, he gave up, figuring his state of the creeps was an emanation from the faceless one.
Rusti's logic had never been good, but his thoughts were clear enough to tell him that an evil being like the faceless one would have plans that didn't include him as a long-term partner. He was just an instrument, some idle hands that had been used. His hair began to rise, and he felt hackles lifting on the back of his neck. Insects crawling on him, his breath like garbage cans; the faceless one had to be turning him into a zombie slave. Zombies and shrunken heads go hand-in-hand, he figured. That's what he must be up to.
He grabbed the jar. The eyes were glowing softly, like Mars, and the face was absurdly hideous. “Okay, faceless one, you got even. So what's this you're doing now?”
The gruesome lips didn't move, but the faceless one spoke. “You want to be dead, so now you feel like a rotting corpse.”
“That's not dead. That's the living dead. Take the feeling away.”
“No.”
“Okay, listen. I've decided to drown myself. Want to come down to the river with me? You can watch me jump.”
“Why jump. I can make you feel like a bloated corpse now.”
Rusti held up his hands, and though they looked normal, he could feel his fingers swelling and popping. His testicles inflated like balloons and split open grossly. Gas began to hiss from holes all over his body. A monstrous slab of rotten meat was in his throat. Wet things were swinging from a gash in his belly. Even his eyes were swelling. The worst pain came from the worms he could feel chowing down on his back.
“I want to die, not feel like a corpse.”
“But what's death other than feeling like corruption forever?”
“I'll say a prayer before I die so I'll feel good.”
“Say any prayers around me, and I'll make you feel like a bucket of maggots.”
“I don't know any prayers, so don’t worry.”
To be practical, Rusti took a covering from an old birdcage and draped it over the faceless one before going out. Although he felt somewhat better, his feet still smacked the pavement like dead meat. The moon was full, and the night had graveyard airs. No sooner had he got to the corner than a police cruiser appeared and began to crawl alongside him. Sweat appeared instantly and beaded his brow, then the cruiser's sparklers began to spit hellfire, and it sped off.
“That was close,” he said, stopping and peaking at the faceless one.
“Fancy that. They think just like you.”
“How's that?”
“They were thinking of throwing you in the river.”
“Why are the good guys rotten?”
“Boy, are you stupid. Power leads to arrogance and corruption.”
Deciding it would be better to stay off the streets, Rusti cut through a long park that stretched over to the banks of the river. Usually, there were more muggers than trees, and he didn't want trouble. He took the cover off the faceless one so the sight would scare off any creeps.
Shambling along, feeling like a swamp thing, he made his way over the rolling turf, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the dark arch of a bridge and a glittering ribbon of water. As he grew close to the rush of water and spray, willow trees overshadowed him, their dark shapes creating a tidal wave of death and dark night that was soothing. He never would've imagined that feeling like a corpse would give him insight. Yet he was aware of all men as corpses. Life was a flash of brilliance that few people experienced. Even the faceless one, when he turned mortals into shrunken heads, was trying to be alive, to break out of the numb ritual of death and darkness and glimpse the flash.
Shades of anger began to lighten his step; the corpse cloak of the faceless one was melting in the moonlight. He found himself hating the dead, too much of the world was dead, and as he walked up the footbridge, his eyes were alive with madness.
He set the jar on the wall. Directly below a fast piece of river spat foam. He watched it bubble, knowing why he'd chosen suicide. It wasn't that he was trying to find the darkness; he was trying to find the light. Except for a few happy days, he'd always been dead, and he wanted to escape. Suicide was the manifestation of an inner truth.
He looked to the faceless one. The eyes were bright, but this time with fear. “So you want to watch me die!” Rusti said, seizing his moment of revenge. “Then watch from the rocks!”
He swept the jar up and tossed it in one smooth motion. It tumbled toward the water, a bright soap bubble in the moonlight. Rusti never saw the splash; his eyes caught fire, shooting stars of pain, and he gouged the embers of it out. Then he was aware of floating darkness and death as he fell into the water.
A reflection of clouds and the summer day almost hid Rusti from view. But he was there, rocking in his chair with his hands in his lap. His face was to the window, but he wasn't aware of the world outside.
It was lunchtime on the grounds, and one of the younger psychiatrists looked up, getting a clear view from his place at the picnic table. He turned to his mentor, a rather sophisticated older man with salt-and-pepper hair. “He believes he's a corpse, and though he put his eyes out, he sees a hellish world he can describe in vivid detail.”
“Yes,” the older man said. “I studied his case, and the strangest part is what happened to the man who rescued him.”
“What was that?”
“After he pulled him ashore, he lost his mind. He's in a padded cell. He screams a lot, mostly about a disembodied head he thinks is staring at him.”
+++
By Gary L Morton
Sergeant Jim Whistler snapped his head up as the computer system came back on via remote touch. He made a mental note to adjust the monitors to eliminate the wicked start-up flash, then yawned, rubbed some of the peeling skin from his burned-brown nose, and watched an image appear on the screens.
A broad grin, piercing brown eyes, and the big black pan of a face belonging to Attorney General Massey filled the screens. “Afternoon, Jim. Hope I didn't wake you up out there. I guess you know the voting is over. Just wondering why your report hasn't come in to us yet?”
“It hasn't come in because I was busy and only got to it a while ago. If this cheating keeps up, I'm going to need incredible processor power. We can’t use outside supercomputer vendors for this one. This system is really built on the notion that it can't be cracked or shared, and this time there have been attempted violations, and some have succeeded.”
“Violations, that's impossible. We're using military-level encryption in every home-voter computer. There is no way people can cheat on a vote. You know that, you helped design the system.”
“Yeah, and my report is supposed to be a formality. Only some people are rigging the system. That's what my results show. An example would be the vote to ban casinos and online gambling - the results don't match the polls, and I've got a few preliminary traces. Everybody in a liberal city just voted in favor of a referendum to ban gay marriage, and that result is impossible. Also, some people are voting against everything. And there are other people's votes that have been tampered with, such as those against increased police powers. The question is how to nail the suspects? We have to stop this now before the national election.”
“The answer is we can't. We don't have the search-and-seizure powers we need to conduct those kinds of investigations. They were voted out. We need the power to raid any suspected home, business, or vehicle at a moment’s notice, and as you must know, the people won't grant us those powers.”
“So what do I do, prove there has been cheating so you can take the case to the public and ask for search and seizure powers?”
“No, we can't do that. There will be political instability and riots. If these people are cheating, they are traitors and enemies of the nation. Elections are covered under national security law. I'm declaring this investigation Top Secret, and your orders are to eliminate the problem. Take them out, using the national security system, Sergeant 666. Get ready, we match operation keys in one hour.”
+++
One hour later
encryption verified
User name - BIG
Password -BROTHER
Personal Info - Sergeant 666
Keys matched - partial entry -- Greetings, Sergeant Jim Whistler -- I am Security System Sergeant 666 - your key is tagged access through the Attorney General - attacks against individuals permitted - attacks against nations and all world organizations denied - upload info as you acquire it.
+++
One and a half hours later
Scanning, acquiring local map, acquiring all local data, info on suspect uploaded -- request granted.
+++
Two hours later, at the lecture hall of the nearby university in the Jenson Artificial Intelligence Research Lab.
The willows rustled softly in sunny haze, and it looked like a scorcher outside. So hot that a warning shot of fear squeezed Winston's heart. He thanked the gods for air conditioning technology as he turned back to his class. Heads bobbed in the multi colored light of computer screens as the students compiled new code. They had done a good job on the test election encryption project, but so much for that.
It was time for his Wednesday lecture, and he wasn't ready. He strolled to his desk, wondering what he could say to upstage the arrogant young hackers, crackers, and code geniuses. Nothing came to mind, so he decided to talk about the election project and how, as a unit, they had cast doubt on the system's security. Perhaps he would organize his talk in a way that would make their feat of expertise look glamorous and like something that would become law through his help.
Sitting at his machine, he enabled the microphone, grimaced, and cleared his throat. Winston hated using amplification, though he often dreamed of enthralling audiences with a powerful voice. But that would never happen as his speaking voice was scratchy and weak. He had a throat lined with wet cotton that muffled his words. Voice software corrected it in a public-appealing way he hated.
He was about ready - then he noticed an urgent text icon sliding on the screen. Upon opening the master program, he found a message from Sergeant 666 regarding the class election project. A rather confusing message, since the header was an auto-reply, meaning a machine had sent it in response to nothing. Yet it contained a personal message a machine could not have written.
-- I have received your correspondence regarding election encryption and would like to show you why the system is failsafe. I have contacted the administration and will be arriving today at 3 p.m. -- please wait for me in your classroom. -- Sergeant 666.
Sergeant 666, indeed, Winston thought. Don't these chaps even have names nowadays? Then he realized that it was nearly 3 p.m. His lecture always opened at three, but today the arrival of the Sergeant would let him duck that and go ahead with a little show-and-tell. The Sergeant could explain to the entire class why the system was failsafe and how their concerns about flaws in the encryption were just the simple ideas of silly little hackers.
An odd smile stealing across his face, he rose to make the announcement. A strange noise screeched from the speck-sized hidden mike, and he slipped on his heel and fell back in his specially padded chair. As he rose again, he saw forty grinning faces turned to him. “Class,” he said. “I have an announcement regarding your election project. An expert with Top Secret classification, Sergeant 666, will address you on the subject to inform you of the system's fail-safe nature. He will be here at 3 p.m., and since it is 3 p.m., he should be at the door any moment.”
Odd sounds came in from the screened Internet connection and screeched again through the microphone and speakers -- a knock came at the door -- “Ah, here he is,” Winston said, “Sergeant 666.” And at that moment, a sonic boom hit the window; the glass shattered; there was a cracking sound as the huge willow beside it split; and a bolt of bright silver shot into the room.
It caught Winston and lifted him, his entire body pierced by the flaming silver shard, burning yet remaining caught and frozen in the air. Tendrils of hot light snaked from his hair, his nose blew dragon rings, and his skin began to swell through his suit like hot balloons. Bizarre ecstasy momentarily lit his expanding face, needles of light rode up his spine, then he slammed into the study wall - his skin splitting and leaving a boiling red smear as he went to the floor. A horrible sizzle and thump followed. Winston's eyes and tongue trailed gore as steam popped them from his face. His scorched limbs began to flail as the light died.
Heavy smoke rose from the body; the door blew open -- but nobody was there. Outside, the sun shone brightly.
Hissing like frying bacon, the body began to cool, and the students scrambled to their feet and made for an escape. Sergeant 666 from the lightning division was not someone they wanted to meet.
+++
Three hours later
Scanning, acquiring local map, acquiring all local data, info on suspect uploaded --- request granted.
+++
Three and a half hours later, in the Halton countryside.
Danny Ramsaroop soaped the last of the roofing tar from his arms, toweled up, and went downstairs. He grabbed a cold bottle of Sanga Export from the fridge and went out on the deck. Sitting in his favorite chair, he did what he always did at this time on Wednesday, sipped light beer, and stared off into the hills and sky. Last year, his view had been a lovely vista, but this year, a new warehouse over on Peelee Hill had come into the picture.
Danny took a gulp of beer, then grabbed his binoculars from a side table. He kept a regular watch on the new building. A lot of weird things happened there. Bright night lights, equipment, mostly computerized stuff, always going in and out, all sorts of devices, yet it wasn't a company in the sense that it had employees or a name. There was just one scrawny Oriental guy driving in and out with all of the stuff.
Nothing seemed to be happening today, and with the heavy summer growth, he could barely see the building. Danny sighed and was about to put the binoculars down, then a shadow moved, spooking him, and he refocused, noticing that the wiry Oriental guy had just stepped out the side door.
A faint smile and his sparkling eyes were a thin mask over some sort of evil secrets. He was heading for his van, likely to drive away on one of his deliveries. Danny thought about phoning the police and asking a few questions about him. He thought about it, then the flying saucers came into view, and all normal thoughts vanished.
They zoomed over the horizon and hills at incredible speed, following the terrain like cruise missiles as they headed for the warehouse. They didn't make a sound, and that was odd. In the old movies, they always whirred like large toys.
Danny stood up, his binoculars glued to his eyes as he watched. He saw the ropy Oriental guy burst from his van and run back inside the building as the silver saucers did a flyby. They swooped up, around, and back down, a gleaming formation of about twenty of them. On the second flyby, the attack began, and a curtain of white light flashed at their tails. It condensed into mist and hung over the warehouse, the cloud glowing brighter and growing denser with each pass.
After about a dozen passes, the saucers shot off over Peelee Hill and never returned. The cloud was still there, and it still glowed; only now the light charges looked angry, and the belly of the cloud was growing dark and heavy.
Other than the cloud, nothing else seemed to be happening. Lowering his binoculars, Danny wiped beads of sweat from his brow and wondered what it could possibly mean. Then he heard loud rattling and looked back at the warehouse. Huge hailstones, about as big as baseballs, were shooting from the cloud, hundreds of them, and they hit the roof so hard they went right through the shingles and tin. Moments later, the Oriental guy burst out the door, dashing for the van. He got about ten steps before being smashed by the hail. Stones smacked his skull; he stumbled and went down, then he began to crawl. A rat-a-tat-tat of stones beat him down further, causing him to collapse and roll onto his back. And as he lay there, the hail pulverized and covered him, and in the end, only his face remained clear. He'd protected it with his hands.
Danny adjusted the binoculars for better focus and saw open staring eyes and a ghastly fishlike death expression.
“Damn, is he dead!” Danny said, watching as the south wall came down. Then a cold shiver rode up his spine as he wondered if the cloud could possibly move in his direction. Better get in the car and get out of here, he thought. And he put the binoculars down and went inside for the keys.
The phone was ringing, so he picked it up. “Danny,” said a mechanical voice, “This is Sergeant 666 from the base weather tower. Is there a weird thunderstorm out there?”
“You can say that again,” Danny said. “The Oriental guy and the warehouse on Peelee Hill, they're gone, crushed by hail.”
“Really,” said Sergeant 666. “Listen, Danny, just stay there in your cottage for now. We're coming out to help you.”
+++
Nine hours later
Researching suspect number 5 - Scanning, acquiring local map, acquiring all local data, info on suspect uploaded -- request granted.
+++
Nine and a half hours later, in another city.
Stavro rammed the power clip on, snapped the cable in, and sealed the box. He booted up and, at the G-Host prompt, hit A-Z to auto-install the pirate AI operating system on the drive. Dialog boxes and forms flashed by, then the load thermometer appeared.
Leaving the machine, he stretched, watching his hairy chest ripple in the mirror, and then he tossed a T-shirt on and headed for the back door. Sweat rippled on his brow as soon as he stepped out, and he frowned as the humid night air settled on him like a soggy blanket. Willows and the rough edges of the dark sky hung over the back yard like a crushing weight of sponge; acrid smog sent nasty ticklers up his nose. He stopped for a moment to curse the city for building the new Avenue Expressway at the front of his house. Damn, the road smelled like a steaming smog sewer burger.
His cement mixer stood on the back lawn between the patio and the driveway; he decided to get it out of the way quickly and went to work, first dumping the boards, then the mixer into the back of the garage. He doubted the stone would be fully dry, so he opened the mould carefully, and to his amazement, the mixture had hardened. There were a few flaws in the small cross he'd created. Picking it up, he guessed it weighed about 20 pounds, which would be enough to keep it anchored in its new home.
Strolling to the mesh fence, he stared into the night, trying to see the graveyard beyond the gully. Vague outlines of the rear gate appeared in shifting yellow mist. It was dark over there, dark enough that no one would see him.
Pushing through the lilac bushes, he went down the bank of the gully and hopped the creek. A miserable groan pressed through his lips as he climbed the other side. Crossing a field of stones and clover, he reached the back gate, and after a quick look around, he slipped the cross through the bars. It didn't look right in that spot, so he decided to go in and move it to a grave.
The fence wasn't high, but scaling it proved to be difficult. Stavro's pant leg caught as he went over the top, and he slipped, tumbling to the grass. Needles of pain twisted in his shoulder as he rolled onto his back. A band of pouring sweat gripped his forehead; he lay there trying to catch his breath.
Thoughts of his predicament passed through his mind. Stavro hated direct democracy and voting, and he had developed his new auto-vote software for himself and his friends down at Booker's Moon-Game Sports Bar. It worked by having you vote on a few sample issues, then using your pattern to vote for you in all plebiscites and referenda. He'd thought it to be flawless, but today he'd got a call from Sergeant 666, a military man who said he was coming over to discuss election fraud.
Stavro was no sleeper, as soon as the Sergeant had hung up, he'd formatted his vote hard drive, pulled it, and smashed it to pieces. The pieces were now embedded in the cement cross. This way, if they did get a search warrant, they'd find nothing, and he could blame the problem on the pirate operating system that had come on the vendor's software connect.
No doubt about it, he'd be in the clear. It would just be a matter of smooth-talking the Sergeant. Lifting his wrist, he checked the time. “Shit,” he groaned as he realized that Sergeant 666 would be arriving at his place while he was out.
He rose quickly with the idea of circling back to the front of his house to catch the Sergeant before he could leave. But before he could take a step, a silver spotlight flashed deep in the graveyard.
A line of bushes shielded him; poison red berries reflected the light and hung like blood drops in his vision. The beam seeped into blue fog patches that crept in the cemetery darkness. He ducked, crawled through the brush, and got behind a large black marble obelisk.
Stavro listened and heard nothing. He peeked out at the light, seeing the beam grow stronger as it swept across the sky like a supernatural movie effect, its focus settling on a plot in the center of the graveyard.
The stone under the beam was old and eroded, and about the last thing anyone would expect a mysterious beam to single out.
Paranoia raced in Stavro's mind; he was sure the beam emanated from some kind of silent government helicopter; he was sure it was hunting him.
His throat felt thick. He gulped and started to crawl backward, not taking his eyes off the beam. Just as he was easing into the grass, he saw the grave suddenly erupt, the stone and sod flying up and swinging left like the whole thing had been a lid or cover.
Loose earth rose from the hole in a small geyser, then hands and a head emerged in the light, and clay fell from a withered face and long, bony fingers. Cobwebs, twigs, and red mud were braided into wild gray locks that hung loosely over a forehead of decayed flesh and parchment, and its lips were fat and worm white. A positively hellish creature.
The beam brightened, and its tint changed to red, a charge that caused the corpse's eyes to flash and ignite.
Stavro's mouth fell open, and then the beam suddenly swept across the grass toward him. Panic struck, and he rose and ran. A solid leap and vault took him over the graveyard fence, but he hadn't escaped the beam as it dogged him, swinging in and out on him as he raced through the clover.
Drops of sweat flew from his face; heat and his pounding heart threatened to become an explosion in his brain. Then the beam vanished, and he was running in total darkness, running straight over the gully embankment, and he'd forgotten to break his run, and he went down hard, thistles and stones tearing into him. At the bottom, he went straight into the shallow creek, smashing his knees on the rocks.
Rushes of adrenaline killed all pain; after the initial shock, his knees didn't hurt, but they refused to work. He was stuck crawling in shallow slime, trying to escape by following the creek bed.
The light returned and shone on him. Garter snakes swam around him in the water, and his lungs suddenly decided to collapse and seize.
Stavro's face smacked down in the slime. A snake rushed past his lips. Revulsion gave him strength, and he tried to move, fighting his heart, which felt like a great throbbing bruise.
Rising on his good knee, he vomited, a horrible rush of vile liquid flying from his throat. Then he began to gasp.
Bright light pained his eyes; he looked up and saw a scene that could only happen in Zombies from Mars. The ghastly corpse was coming down the bank, and it had his cement cross in hand.
It wasn't fair; Stavro knew that, but he was too weak to flee and too weak to scream. All he could do was stare with popping eyes as the corpse sloshed into the slime and raised the cross.
Clay and rot dripped from the decayed arm, and it creaked as it snapped down; then the lights turned to curtains of showering blood and went out.
+++
Two days later.
Sergeant 666 reports - Fifteen suspects eliminated.
Researching final suspect - Scanning, acquiring local map, acquiring all local data, info on suspect uploaded - request denied, denied, denied.
666 system failure - suspect is Prime Minister - suspect has superior access code - all messaging denied.
Overridden - re-keyed command
User name - Prime
Password – Minister9087ui89765. Encryption ...
Personal info - number 9, number 9
Auto-detect suspects on illegal scan....
Researching suspects - scanning, acquiring a local map, acquiring all local data, uploading info on suspects.
Names of suspects - Sergeant Jim Whistler, Attorney General Massey
Auto command - search and destroy...
+++
Sergeant Jim Whistler didn't have a panic button to hit, but he could try to get through to Massey before the error targeted them. He reached for the red phone, but it rang before he could dial.
Maybe Massey already knew and had corrected it. He picked it up, “Hello, Massey, is that you?”
“This is Sergeant 666,” said the caller. “Your voice print identifies you as Sergeant Jim Whistler. We have a problem, Sergeant Whistler. It has to do with your attempt to illegally scan the office of the Prime Minister.”
“Wait, that was you, Sergeant 666. You scanned that office. All I did was match keys with Attorney General Massey and type in the names of suspects for your operation.”
“Let me think about that -- thinking is done. You are correct, but you typed in the name "Leader 777," which is the Prime Minister's code name. You initiated an illegal scan of the Prime Minister's office. I must talk to you about it immediately. I will arrive in ten minutes, please wait there for me.”
The line went dead; Sergeant Whistler's testicles shriveled, his neck bristled, but despite the rising fear, his training dominated. Logic dictated that he could not escape by plane or auto, as Sergeant 666 would find a way to blast him. The station bunker was the only option; he would have to get straight down there and disable all systems except the secure phone line. Only the Governor General could override the Prime Minister and shut down Sergeant 666. He had to get through to him and inform him that the Prime Minister was a suspect in election fraud, and it had set Sergeant 666 on him.
Five minutes later, cold steel rang softly as Sergeant Whistler's quick feet hit the tunnel floor. He raced from the elevator, headed for the lockdown door. The entrance sequence was manual and would work even during an Armageddon power outage. It was a tribute to his attention to detail that he had the complex sequence memorized.
Three minutes remained as the heavy metal wall slid aside; he stepped inside, looked around. All appeared secure, so he set the closing sequence. And as the heavy wall slid into lock position, he went to the central panel and disabled all communications systems. The phone line was left open.
One minute left, he leaned back in the padded control seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Not even Sergeant 666 could get him here, in a bunker that could withstand a nuclear attack. In a minute, he would use the direct line to the Governor General, and the nightmare would be over.
The system shutdown had darkened the bunker, so he switched on battery lighting, and as it illuminated the dim capsule, the phone rang.
He answered and heard the familiar voice of Sergeant 666. “Thirty seconds to launch, twenty-nine seconds to launch . . . .”
“What launch?” Sergeant Whistler screamed. “Don't tell me you’ll launch a nuclear attack just to kill me!”
“No, not at all,” Sergeant 666 said. “It’s your bunker that’s being launched. You’re inside the robot capsule of Canadian Cruise-Two Test Missile 666-17, and are being fired on a search and destroy mission targeting Attorney General Samuel Massey.”
Whistler dropped the phone. A sunbeam shone into the bunker. Looking up through a square in the capsule ceiling, he saw a bubble window opening and the shimmering sides of a silo tunnel. G-force flattened him as the boosters ignited and began the long burn.
+++
By Gary L Morton
Sean and Crissy tapped their heels against the polished side of a boulder. The high-rises of Scarborough towered behind them and from their perch, they could see most of Bluffer's Beach. A neat line of poplars stood at the edge of the sand berm near the bottom of the rise. A stone's throw from the poplars, the sand slipped under the light-green waves rocking in from Lake Ontario.
One of childhood's small daydreams carried like driftwood across Crissy's mind as she absently watched the transparent curls of water break to foam. Family troubles evaporated, and the rush and rustle of the lake and leaves lifted her mood . . . but small worlds are always ephemeral, and the best of life is a forgotten island until it lives again.
Crissy came out of her daydreams, noticing only the presence of Sean. Sean reminded her of a pestering little shark - he had the same knack for spoiling a beach. Unexpectedly, he punched her on the shoulder. She winced as she turned to his large, attention-begging eyes.
“Look through the binoculars,” Sean said, his red hair sticking up in multiple cowlicks. “There's a green car parked down by the beach. I bet it's some of the people searching for me.”
Crissy took the binoculars. She saw a big man behind the car windshield. He had a hanging, leathery face and the intense lines of a nasty complainer around his slit eyes. A very frightened lady who resembled a plump, rosy-cheeked doll sat next to him. His thin lips began to move - he'd found something to complain about.
“They're not looking for you,” Crissy said. “People park there to do things they're not supposed to do.”
“Yeah,” Sean said, snatching the binoculars. “Wow! He's roughing her up. I bet they're fighting over dope, just like my mom and dad.”
“You're supposed to call the police when you see a creep beating on a woman,” Crissy said, her face concerned. “I could whistle for Digger. He'll bite him.”
Sean gave her a cynical glance. “I beat up my sister yesterday, and no one called the police, at least not before I ran away. Don't you whistle either, or he'll run up here. Besides, I know you don't have a dog. I've been over to see him twice, and he's not been around.”
Crissy frowned. “Digger doesn't like you, that's all.”
Sean couldn't see enough; he ignored her and leaned forward. “He's getting out and limping around to her side. She doesn't want out, but he's pulling her out by the hair. Ha! She bit his hand. She's handcuffed. He must be a crazy policeman.”
“You're lying, Sean Williams, and you won't scare me. I bet they're smoking and drinking like the other people who park there.”
“Nope. He's roping her to a tree now, and she's not wearing a skirt - only her panties. That means he's a killer. Cops can beat you up, but they can't drive around with naked girls.”
Chilling, almost gull-like screams broke the beach's harmony. The truth of evil had found paradise. Crissy pushed off the boulder and held her dress against the breeze as she ran to the lip of the rise. She could make out the man down below. Sinister shadows coiled around him. He lifted a leather case out of the trunk and limped out of sight behind a berry bush.
“What's he doing?” she said, almost whispering.
Sean combed his hair with his fingers. “He's opening the case. It's full of murdering knives and hair from girls he scalped. I bet he's gonna cut her head right off. Killers from the French Revolution like to cut off heads. Dad says you don't die until about ten seconds after your head's been cut off. You feel your head bounce on the ground, and while your brains are leaking out, you wish you hadn't broken the law.”
Crissy shivered and whistled shrilly, startling Sean so that he almost dropped the binoculars. He slid off the boulder, stared open-mouthed at Crissy's paling face, then dashed over beside her.
“Now you've done it! That creep will turn us into shrunken heads if we don't scram!”
“Digger must be sleeping,” Crissy said coolly
“Yeah, and counting the burglars sneaking over his grave,” Sean said angrily. He raised the binoculars. A blurry mass of leaves filled the lenses; he used a baby birch to focus. Sweeping back to the car, he spotted the killer, and he seemed to be staring straight up at him - a fierce gleam lit his left eye, his right eye blurred by a cataract. The deep creases in his face were as dark as oil; his skin was abnormally weather-beaten, hanging like diseased folds on a sordid mask. Bluish lips formed an inimical, quivering grin. He brazenly walked through some thorn bushes, striking out when barbs tore at his sweat-stained tobacco shirt. Using his bad foot to brace himself, he began limping up the rise in a very swift, if clumsy, manner. For certain, he'd spotted them, and for certain, he was a believer in the rejuvenating powers of dead slabs of young flesh.
Hand tugging hand, coronas of hair flying, Crissy and Sean ran behind the boulder and into the sumac growing on the east slope of the rise. Sean showed Crissy a hiding spot behind a decaying log, put a finger to his lips to warn her to keep silent, and crawled away into deep weeds.
White knuckles and a scarred arm furrowed with muscle held a gleaming blade aloft under the crayon sun of childhood. The killer was coming over the steep edge of the rise. With his spindly legs, he pushed his distended midsection up over the last lip of earth. He stood stiffly on muddy feet, wheezing and gulping air, his shirt and disarrayed gray hair covered with seeds and bark particles.
The killer's good eye collected a ball bearing's brightness as he searched for clues. Bare patches of sandy loam were embedded with bits of glass, candy wrappers, and gum foil. There were no footprints or fresh trails in the tall grass. The only path ran from the side of the boulder and down the far slope. A burst of limping took him to the path, and then he began moving furtively like a hunter downwind of a deer.
The killer scanned the sumac with honed senses; his eye froze, and a black pin prick dulled its gleam. There was movement, and it was a small, scuffed white sneaker poking out at the end of the log. A closer leer showed a white sock, a bare white leg, and a hand hurriedly brushing away ravenous ants. The killer lurched ahead and tripped over a thistle clump, but he still managed to grab Crissy's leg as he crashed into the sumac.
Crissy kicked and howled like a scalded brat. She felt the handle of the knife knocking on her skull. Her surroundings fell out of proportion, distorted fragments of speech were like birds filling the air, tumbleweeds of sumac flew like colored popcorn, and the boulder had the face of a devilish man in the moon.
Dragging Crissy’s limp body, the killer was about to descend to his car and the other victim. A stone winged off his right shoulder blade. He swore, turned, and saw Sean standing atop the boulder. Grinning like a wary crocodile, he dropped Crissy and took a couple of lizard-slow steps toward Sean. He ducked another stone and didn't notice a fan of flying dirt that had appeared behind him. The sod had burst open on the steep side of the rise.
Sean's blue eyes grew wide as the killer stepped closer, then they looked beyond him, at a dark shape that was pulling over the lip of the rise. A bearlike head showed beside limp Crissy, and a huge black-and-violet tongue slobbered on her face, causing her to stir. Fire-pit eyes smoldered beneath a wide ivory-spiked dog collar. Digger's tongue slipped back into his ample muzzle, and he leaped over Crissy in almost slow motion, then he shook the loam from his ragged, floppy ears and huge, decaying body.
Sean cartwheeled off the back of the boulder. The killer spun around and gaped; Digger's growl shook the ground. Knowing it wasn't safe to run, the killer jabbed and threatened with his blade, and this only served to antagonize the zombie dog.
Looking much paler and smaller, the killer began to make his way along the lip of the rise, trying to circle around to the path. The dog toyed with him by crouching on his haunches, making to pounce, and then ducking back when the killer lashed out with his knife.
Crissy got to her knees and shook her foggy head. Digger wagged his shaggy tail and pranced over to lick her hand. The killer hurried to the path, a rock tossed by Sean hit his forehead, and the dizzying blow keeled him over in the grass near the boulder.
Digger loped over, but the killer lashed out like a poisonous snake and connected with flesh and fur. Digger quickly backed off, a gash of pus and gore showing on his shoulder. The sight of a freshly opened wound raised the killer's spirits and put him fully on his feet; confidence uplifted his face with a tight spider web of white crevices, and he took an aggressive step toward Digger, thinking he could strike a fatal blow.
Digger merely sat and raised his huge right paw in a handshake gesture, then he dropped his paw, and his spotted tongue came out as he began to pant stupidly.
The killer immediately lunged, intending to grab Digger’s ear and bury the blade in his neck. With uncanny swiftness, Digger drew his fist-sized paw up, flexed his haunches, and struck out. The blow was so fast it was a blur, and the paw was as hard as a clod of frozen earth. It cuffed the killer with a neck-breaking crack and force that swept on and ripped his head right off his shoulders. There was a thump as the head flew back and bounced off a boulder. Like rubber, it shot high into the air, trailing twisting ribbons of muscle and blood. To Crissy, it looked like a balloon rising on the summer wind.
The headless body did a short and crooked dance, and then it fell and sprayed glistening blood drops. They rained like ripe cherries on the blades of grass. The fallen body went limp as the head thumped beside it in the weeds. The head bounced on the soft turf and rolled face-up. The face was a ghastly, withered jack-o'-lantern, the frothing lips moved in a silent scream, and then the eyes began to flutter shut.
Crissy watched them close and felt pee dribbling down her leg. “I bet he's wishing he didn't break the law,” she said.
Sean didn't answer; he was petting Digger and thinking of running even farther from home.
+++