by Robert Bloch
God is dead, Miss Abby decided, and long before the theologians of the Now Generation arrived at a similar conclusion.
God was dead, Fred was dead, thirty million others were dead by the time the war ended. But Miss Abby was alive.
The Bomb fell and Miss Abby, frightened, signed a few protest petitions. Nobody read them.
The Korean War ignited, and Miss Abby sparked several anti-war letters to the Times. Again, no one read them—or if they did, it was without visible reaction or result.
Miss Abby gave up politics and devoted herself to public service on the individual level. Through some of the women at the store—a group automatically and erroneously referred to as “the girls”—she became involved in volunteer hospital work. Two nights a week and all day Saturday she donated herself to an occupation she’d learned while helping to care for her own mother. Reading to patients and giving them alcohol-rubs seemed simple enough, but hardly a proper challenge.
So as Korea gave way to Vietnam and Miss Abby drifted past her forties and into her fifties, she switched her efforts to a rehabilitation center working with mental patients. This proved much more rewarding.
At least it was better than sitting at home watching the world fall apart on the news, only to congeal again into a sticky mass of make-believe on The Beverly Hillbillies. And through the hallucinations of her patients, Miss Abby made contact with reality.
It was a reality this somewhat prim and proper, now actually gray-haired and elderly maiden lady had never contemplated, let alone complicated by her own involvement. But slowly, through the medium of the addled adolescents she worked with, Miss Abby learned about life. God was dead, and so were many other things. The Harlem of her girlhood was long gone; the Harlem of the Savoy Ballroom, of Cab Calloway and his hi-de-ho, of rent-parties and zoot-suiters was banished and vanished. So was its counterpoint, the Old South; the Deep South of Old Man River, melanism and melancholy in the melon-patch. The grinning, shuffling old family butler and Rhett Butler were both gone with the wind.
In their place Miss Abby met the Black Militant (Are you listening, Amos ’n’ Andy?) with his natural hairdo and his unnatural voodoo of incantation and exhortation—groovy, funky, with it baby, black is beautiful and tell it like it is. And behind the stylized obscenity and the paranoid hostility she caught glimpses of a reality far more obscene and paranoid; a world where rats gnawed at the unprotected faces of babies, a world where the black cat crossing your path and bringing bad luck was apt to prowl on two feet instead of four.
Sometimes they cooled it with this old chick and sometimes they rapped flat out, but gradually Miss Abby began to dig. After ten years of work with mentally-disturbed youth, she—almost unknowingly—was hip. Not with the hysterical hipness of a Mailer or the commercial campiness of the Andy Warholier-than-thou crowd: hers was an awareness in no way involved with swinging, rimming, doing anyone or anything. Miss Abby knew where it was at.
During the Sixties she listened while the kids laid it on her and she grooved with them from Beatles to acid rock, from draft-protests to peace marches, from demonstrations to riots. Even when hippies became yippies she hung in, while they let it all hang out.
Her own personal hang-up came with the drug scene. Somehow she could always relate to the rejected, the children of broken homes and rootless restlessness—the runaways, the dropouts, the cop-outs. She had empathy for the emotionally-disturbed, the loners, the loveless seekers of love-ins. And at first she accepted their quest for a place where the grass was always greener, understood their need to take pot-luck where they found it. Flower-children, with an affinity for weed.
But they spoke of Love and Peace and Miss Abby understood. In their rejection of the material she sensed an acceptance of the spiritual. Perhaps God wasn’t dead after all; this Children’s Crusade might discover him anew. And the odor of marijuana could be as pleasing in His nostrils as any other incense.
So Miss Abby listened to the scam and for a time she was hopeful, even though certain things did trouble her. The way in which the concept of sharing quickly became equated with a facile and indiscriminate promiscuity. The interest in dressing like Indians and identifying with them. Sometimes she wondered why the kids who imitated Indians never became involved in the plight of the real Indians who starved and suffered largely unheeded by the Now Generation, whose peace-pipe was a roach.
The psychedelic flourished, then the psychindelicate: nudies, hardcore pornography, groupies and group-gropes. It became increasingly difficult for Miss Abby to accept love-beads as the new rosary, but she persevered. They’re searching for truth, she told herself, for meaning and identity and real values.
But the art grew more and more like the squiggles produced by psychotic patients, the music was louder and drastically distorted, the costumes freakier, the ugliness of dress and speech obviously calculated to shock and offend the straights. And the kids kept turning on. Pre-teens, now, without pretense.
Hippies were out, heads were in. They began to blow their minds on H and LSD, and Miss Abby blew her cool. She couldn’t talk to the new youngsters, and they wouldn’t talk to her. They reported to the clinic as outpatients, but they were too far out to communicate; they sat and stared. Whatever they had, they couldn’t share and didn’t want to share. There was no longer any attempt to bridge the gulf between them; the Generation Gap had become a yawning abyss.
“Establishment pig.” The phrase, uttered by a twelve-year-old girl, echoed in Miss Abby’s ears as she finally fled from the rehabilitation center and took refuge in her apartment.
There was nowhere else to go. At sixty-two she accepted voluntary retirement from the store; between her pension and social security she was making out. Making out. Even that phrase, so popular only a few years ago, was now utterly obsolete. Things moved so fast nowadays.
Things moved so fast. Motorcycles and stolen cars. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but you needn’t wait for them if you have a set of wheels. Go, man! And go, child. Where was that twelve-year-old girl going? Was she marching to a different drum or just freaking-out to the mindless, electronically-amplified din of a fender guitar. Those who dance must pay the piper. But that was an old Establishment phrase. Establishment pig.
Miss Abby sat in her little apartment and tried to understand. Down below the kids roared through the streets, high on speed. Speed Kills. Didn’t they know that? Or was there a methedrine in their madness?
It wasn’t safe to venture out alone these days. Even the fuzz moved in pairs, and the teachers were afraid to go to their classes unattended. How quickly things changed! Miss Abby realized she was growing old, but people thirty years younger than she were just as concerned, just as confused. And just as frightened.
Hippies were out, and communes were in. Communes and “families”. Stoned out of their skulls on uppers and downers, they perpetrated senseless atrocities, murders. The family that preys together slays together.
Murders. Speed Kills. Time to lock the door, bar the windows, buy a gun. Never park on a side street. Never go for a walk after dark. Keep out of public parks entirely. Law and Order. Dirty words for a dirty business. If you want to survive, don’t suffer little children to come unto ye. Was God an Establishment pig too?
Every day, in the paper, a new horror story. Like, wow! And the sneering, snarling faces on the television newscasts. It must be terrible to be a parent in a day when mother has become a dirty word. And God is dead.
The Serpent tempted Eve with forbidden fruit and the pushers tempted with hard drugs. Eat of the Tree of Knowledge and blow your mind . . .
Cain slew his brother Abel, and on the late news came the report of the nine-year-old, high on bennies, who crushed the skull of his twin with a rock . . .
And in the Land of Shinar they built the Tower of Babel, and here in Radioland, folks, we bring you the Top Forty—twenty-four hours a day, Fugs and Animals around the clock . . .
Hard-rock of Ages, cleft for me.
Miss Abby found it all in the Bible.
Strange, she hadn’t read the Bible for forty years, not since the Crash, when the money-lenders were driven from the temple, not since the hand of God was laid heavily upon the land. But it was the hand of God, she recognized it now. He was not dead, and He had sent the plagues and the visitations.
She read it now, from Genesis to Revelations—a little old lady, huddling alone by night as she searched for truth and meaning. God’s word shall make ye hip.
And she found what she was seeking, found it in parable and parallel and prophecy. Her first impulse was to bring tidings to the heathen, but after she tried to explain to the delicatessen clerk and the meter-reader, she realized it was hopeless. They couldn’t understand that the world’s woes were due to worshiping false singing idols and golden mooncalves, that pollution of air and water was really the pestilence foretold in Scriptures, that the Day of Judgement was near. So she sat alone and waited.
At first Miss Abby didn’t realize what she was waiting for, not until she had read and reread carefully, and made precise calculations, the figures clearly executed in her neat clerical hand. But it all became quite evident. God was not dead, and His only begotten son had risen.
There would be a Second Coming now.
Signs and portents foretold the day. Jesus would walk the earth again. He would come to her soon.
Let us pray . . .
Night after night, Miss Abby sank to her knees and let it all hang out.
“Dear God,” she murmured. “You know I’m innocent. I’m not an Establishment pig. These kids—can’t they realize it’s not my fault? I came from a broken home too. I’ve been without bread in the Depression. I’ve always hated war. I believe in brotherhood and sharing. All my life I tried to help others. I’ve never harmed anyone. My generation has suffered too. Why do they hate us so?”
There was no answer from on high. Only the roar and rumble from the streets below—the sullen, smoggy streets where weirdos on wheels roamed the night. Miss Abby closed her windows and petitioned her Saviour.
“Come,” she whispered. “Come now. Deliver us from evil.”
The milk bottles stood untouched outside the apartment door. Miss Abby didn’t bother to go out and pick up the mail or the paper. She didn’t eat. Fasting fostered prayer.
“I am the Bride,” she wailed. “The Bride of Christ. Save me—save me—”
One night there came a rapping on the door. Faint and tentative and far away, but Miss Abby heard it. She knew her prayers were answered at last.
Miss Abby rose from her knees and tottered to open the way for her Deliverer.
He stood there in the darkened hall, his eyes shining with a glorious inner light.
She bade him enter, and he stepped over the threshold as she closed the door behind him. In his robe, his hair, his beard, she recognized her Lord.
Jesus Christ, with a knife in his hand . . .
After it was all over, he knew he must be flaking out, taking a risk like that, and for what? The only thing the old pig had was a pair of earrings and he had to rip them off because her ears were pierced. He got thirty bucks for them at the pawnshop, just enough for one good fix.
Maybe he could have gotten more, but no sense attracting attention. Better play it cool. Hell, man, if they ever found out what he’d done, they’d crucify him.
CHAPTER 8
The world was a woman’s face. It was as small as a pinpoint, it was so huge it blotted out the sky; it wavered and receded, then came forward again only to fade once more.
Graham blinked and gradually the face came into focus and assumed normal proportions. It stared down at him with grave and questioning eyes, and he suddenly became conscious of the fact that he was flat on his back, lying very quietly on something that rocked back and forth, back and forth. The face began to bob again, then steadied once more. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak the woman anticipated.
“It’s all right,” she told him. “You’re on a boat, you know. We pulled you out of the water.”
“But—”
“You came down from a Jet, didn’t, you? In a seat-chute? We saw the flare.”
“What flare?”
“Don’t you know every seat-chute has a flare attachment?”
Graham shook his head. “I didn’t know. This was my first trip.”
“What happened? Did something go wrong, was there some emergency? You’re Brass, aren’t you? I recognized the uniform. If you want me to report—”
“Please don’t. I can’t talk now.” Graham closed his eyes. Before he did so he caught the woman staring at him. It was an oddly guarded stare, but he seemed to sense surprise in her gaze, and puzzlement. Her voice, when she spoke, was oddly guarded, too.
“Don’t try to exert yourself,” she said. “Just rest, now. I’ll give you a booster.” She bent forward and her hand moved towards him. He felt a sudden sting, followed by a tingling, in his left arm. Then he went back into the darkness, but it was a rocking, gentle darkness that soothed his senses.
He slept for a long time. When he awoke he was instantly alert to broad daylight and a brisk breeze. He knew that he was lying on the deck of the small vessel—a primitive craft powered by an ancient petroleum motor. Out of the corner of his eye he stared down into a cabin where two men in nondescript uniforms piloted the boat.
Graham shifted his gaze and blinked. The woman was still seated beside him. Her face was immobile, though the wind had unloosed the auburn torrent of her hair. She too wore the bulky and non descript uniform of her male companions; there was no trace of makeup on her countenance and she didn’t have glasses. Her face, as she bent forward, bore traces of small blemishes. Graham racked his memory to identify the discolorations. What did they call them? Freckles. That was it, freckles. People used to suffer from such dermatological afflictions in the days when they lived outside the Domes.
Outside the Domes. But he was outside, himself, now. Outside, on the rolling waters, in a small boat—
Graham sat up swiftly. The woman smiled at him.
“Don’t be alarmed. You’re quite safe, Graham.”
He stared at her. “You know my name?”
“Of course. It’s our job to keep contact with the Jets. Krug relayed an alert to us. We were looking for you.” She paused. “My name is Clare.”
Graham nodded at her. You’re quite safe, Graham. It was an ironic self-contradiction. If she knew his name, then he wasn’t safe. She had captured him, Krug knew where he was, and they both knew who he was. They had found out all about Mellot, now, and Sigmond, too. There was no escape. Or was there? He glanced out at the blue emptiness of the surrounding sea. No escape.
“Don’t worry,” Clare said. “We’ll be reaching the Keys soon.”
“The Keys?”
“We’re based there, of course. This is only a small part of our duties—when a Jet consignment comes over, we’re on hand to patrol the area. Sometimes, when a cargo is—dumped—there are accidents.”
Graham raised his eyebrows. Clare glanced away as she continued.
“Every so often there’s a slip-up. One of the Socially Secured may revive upon reaching the water. That’s where we function. We, and the crews of a dozen similar boats, comb the area for such survivors—”
“And kill them?” Graham muttered.
Clare said nothing. She continued to stare out at the water.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked. “You said yourself that Krug gave you a report.”
“That’s the reason,” she answered. “He told us to bring you back and await further orders.”
Graham shook his head. “But the report must have come in while I was asleep. I seem to recall that when you spoke to me last night, the first time, you said you didn’t know
who I was.”
“Correct.”
“Why didn’t you kill me then? In fact, why did you bother to fish me out of the water at all?” There was something both incongruous and unconvincing in her statements, and he tried to formulate it as he spoke. “You say you search for survivors and finish them off. I should think the sea would do the job quite efficiently—or the sharks.”
Clare sighed. “Yes,” she murmured. “There are sharks, everywhere.”
“You haven’t answered my questions.”
“I don’t intend to. You can ask Doc, when we arrive.”
“Doc? Who’s he?”
“He’s in charge.”
“Brass?”
“Psycho.”
Graham stood up. If there were puzzling elements in the situation, her last word resolved it. He was being taken back into custody by the psychos, and that could mean only one thing. He’d be better off taking his chances with the sharks.
He glanced covertly at the water. Land loomed off on the southern horizon—it was probably one of the Keys. Maybe it was a Psycho center, maybe not. Would it be possible to make a break, swim for it, attempt to hide there? It was worth the risk, in any case. Anything was better than falling into the hands of the Psychos again.
He gazed down into the cabin. The two men seemed entirely preoccupied. No one was watching him except the woman, and she was unarmed. Now was the time. If he could knock her out—
Graham stretched, flexing his arms as if yawning. He felt rested, refreshed, ready for anything. Yes, he could do it. He knew he could. And he had to. Now.