Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #10

by Apex Authors

  And took hold of himself.

  He stepped toward the purple man, his hands reaching forward. It will end here, and now, he thought.

  And woke up.

  * * * *

  Michal!"

  "What?"

  "Why did you wake me?"

  "Don't shout,” Michal said.

  "I'm not shouting,” Raphael said.

  "You're shouting."

  "I'm not shouting!"

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's fine."

  He sat up in bed. The emergency equipment, he thought. That was the danger of using it. Raphael unhooked himself and stood up.

  "He's here,” he said.

  "Where?” Michal asked, and waved her gun again.

  "I don't know,” Raphael said. “But he's close."

  He thought again about the dreamer. Unlike the Gunslinger of Chelem, whom he'd once fought, the current dreamer did not change reality. He acted within the dreams themselves, under a localized field. Apart from in Varda Talit's case...

  "Did you check the neighbours?"

  "Yes,” Michal said. “But there's nobody home. Most of them work in Haifa, as it turns out."

  "Is that close to here?"

  Michal sighed.

  Raphael stretched. “Where's Varda?"

  "Inside,” Michal said. “She said she wasn't feeling too well."

  "And you let her go?"

  "Don't shout!” Michal said.

  Raphael stepped towards the house. The door had stayed open and he went inside.

  A large, gloomy house. Messy. An old boot was leaning against the wall. Moth-eaten slippers left footsteps in the dust. Posters depicting strange alien creatures were hanging on the walls.

  He wandered between the rooms. Piles of bound magazines in one. Silver, rusting machinery in another. Dream machines, he thought. In the third room he found the editor.

  She was slumped against the wall. Sleeping pills were scattered around her. Her body shook, changed in small unpleasant ways. Feelers suddenly emerged from the front of her head.

  "She's turning into a bug,” Michal said, behind him, and made him jump.

  "You shouldn't have let her go,” Raphael said.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry,” Michal said in a sarcastic voice, “but I don't exactly have the authority to arrest her for being tired."

  "She wasn't tired,” Raphael said, gesturing at the pills. “She wanted to see the battle between us. Or maybe...” he sank into thought.

  "You don't think...” Michal said.

  "What?"

  "That she did this to herself?"

  Raphael looked at Varda Talit. Thick black hair began to form around her legs, and a solid, opaque armour appeared over her stomach. “No."

  Stockholm Syndrome, he thought. “Prisoners sometimes develop an emotional dependency on their jailers."

  "You think she cooperated with the dreamer?” Michal said.

  "I think she didn't have a choice,” Raphael said. “He used her to bring me here. Michal, does this house have a basement?"

  "I don't know,” Michal said, and a second, earthly gun appeared as if by magic in her hand, “but I'm going to find out."

  Raphael remained alone with Varda Talit's sleeping body. He knew Michal wouldn't find a basement. He knew the dreamer. Knew him well. Were he the dreamer, he would have dreamed himself a hiding place. He'd sleep inside the dream, in a place safe from reality. That was the problem with dreams, he thought. Like stories, they represented an escape from reality. A refusal to acknowledge the real world. The problem with stories, he thought, was that they had to obey something called a plot. They must have a beginning, a middle and an end, a clear arc, and the hero needed to walk the streets of the dream with a map in his hands, joining the dots until reaching the ending that had been written for him.

  What was the third story? He still held the journal. War in Zero-G, by Vladimir Teva. What a name, he thought.

  The rule of three. Three books in a trilogy, three acts in a play, three parts to a story. The dreamer, he knew, waited for him in the dream. And the dream would be the third story. Something in space, with laser guns, death rays, monstrous aliens that would lie in wait in the corridors of a ship that looked like a gothic cathedral.

  Time to change the dream, he thought. Time to raise the screen on the third act. Time to reach the end.

  He was, after all, the hero.

  Trouble was, he was also the villain.

  * * * *

  Raphael sat on the floor and leaned with his back to the wall. Opposite him, Varda Talit continued to change. Bug eyes appeared in her head. Her feelers shook.

  Raphael closed his eyes. Reality disappeared. He fell asleep...

  And woke up.

  He stood. Varda Talit remained in the corner of the room. The sun, as it does, streamed in through the window.

  He turned to the open door.

  "You changed the dream,” Raphael said.

  "Yes,” Raphael said. He looked at himself. I know you, he thought. But you're old.

  "Pity,” Raphael said, and coughed. He had a heavy, sickly cough. “I hoped to kill you like a hero. In a suitable place. Not here, in the middle of nowhere."

  "Ramat Yishai,” Raphael said, and nodded. “It's not nowhere."

  "Really?” Raphael said. “So where is it?"

  "Here,” he answered himself. “Here and now, and that's all that matters."

  Raphael attacked him then. Anger twisted his old face. His fists turned into metal hammers, but Raphael raised his hands and a shield appeared and blocked the attack.

  "Enough,” he said. He concentrated. In the corner, the bug turned gradually into a human-looking Varda Talit. The scars disappeared, and with them the feelers, the helmet, the pipes. She had a pleasant face, and purple hair that shone in the sunlight. Her eyes opened, and she looked at them. At Raphael. At Raphael.

  "You?” she said.

  Raphael looked at her, his old face filled with pain. “Me,” he said. “Because of you."

  "But what did I do?” Varda said.

  "That dream,” Raphael said, remembering. “It was your dream, not mine."

  "What dream?” Varda Talit said.

  "In a world where dreams are out of control, one man is known as the protector of the waking world. A man whose name is a government secret, as is the exact location of his bedroom. He is known only by his code-name: Raphael. That was you. You brought him—me—into the waking world."

  "I don't remember,” Varda said, and her eyes filled with wonder.

  "I remember,” the old Raphael said, with hate. “I was already retired. Finally, I had some peace. I slept, and when I didn't sleep, I napped. And when I didn't nap, I daydreamed."

  "Daydreams,” Raphael said, and for some reason giggled.

  "Exactly,” said the old Raphael. His shoulders were stooped. The look in his eyes said the fight was already over. “And then she brought me back. Because of her magazine. In her dream. There was only one way out of here."

  "Me,” Raphael said.

  "Yes,” Raphael said. “You. I could have replaced you, taken your place. Returned to reality."

  "And what would have happened to me?” Raphael asked. But he already knew the answer.

  "You?” the old Raphael said. And then he sighed. “Who can say I was the dream and you the reality? Am I an old man dreaming he was young, or a young man dreaming he is old?"

  "Chuang Tzu,” Raphael said, and nodded.

  "Who would have been able to tell?” the old Raphael said, and shrugged.

  "Me,” said a new, familiar voice, and there was a gunshot. Raphael fell to the floor. His body became a cloud of smoke and dissipated.

  Michal entered the room. The silver gun was held tightly in her hand. “Are we done here?"

  Raphael looked at her and felt sad, and a little scared. “How could you?” he said. “You killed me."

  "Raphael,” Michal said.

  "What
?"

  "Raphael,” Michal said.

  "What?"

  "Raphael!” Michal said.

  Raphael woke up.

  * * * *

  Before they left, Raphael granted Grotesqa an exclusive interview. Varda Talit was ecstatic. Raphael wished her well, and then they left.

  On their way back, he and Michal drove without speaking. From time to time Raphael looked at her, sideways, and immediately turned his head back to the window.

  She shot me, he thought. She killed him. How could she?

  Equally, he knew it was his fault. He had shaped the last dream, and he had put Michal into it. He knew what she would do. REM teams always had two partners, but only one dreamer.

  Somebody had to do the dirty work.

  Somebody had to live in the real world.

  He sat back in his seat and sighed. He looked at the journal open in his lap and turned to the first story. Lior Tirosh. Varda had recommended him. He shrugged and began to read.

  It would be interesting, he thought, if it turns out at the end that everything was just a dream.

  In the sky above them a dragon passed, blew pink fire, and turned towards the sea. White clouds wore night caps. Raphael smiled to himself and turned the page.

  And so on.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Memories of the Knacker's Yard by Ian Creasey

  Ian Creasey lives in Yorkshire, England, and so far has sold thirty-odd stories to various magazines and anthologies. His recent work includes four short stories published in Asimov's in 2006, of which “Silence in Florence” was picked up for Year's Best Science Fiction #12 edited by David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer, and a fantasy novella entitled “Strawberry Thief” in an upcoming issue of Weird Tales.

  Another day, another corpse. This guy had been good-looking before someone worked him over. Now he had big, livid bruises on his head and upper body, cigarette burns on the cheeks and eyelids, and the usual wide slash across the throat.

  "How long have we had this one?” I asked, shivering in the morgue's chill.

  "Two days,” the white-coat guy said. I didn't know his name. I try to remember the lab people and support staff, but turnover's too high. This line of work burns people out faster than a crematorium on overtime.

  "Why did you leave it that long?” I said, annoyed. “Waiting for the killer to turn himself in?"

  "We were waiting for the ghost to show up,” he said.

  I shook my head in disgust. “Look, when someone's been murdered, they want us on the case. If their ghost doesn't turn up in twenty-four hours, that's because it can't."

  That was the problem. If a ghost complains that it's just been murdered, it can help us by describing the killer, or at least telling us about its enemies. Investigating a murder without a ghost is much harder. The slashing was the third this month, all without ghosts, and the eighth this year. Or was it the ninth?

  Hell, when you lose count of the corpses, you know you're losing.

  Back upstairs, I took a swig of stale coffee to warm myself up. Then I grabbed an ancient black raincoat that looked as if a tramp had slept in it for a month, and I rifled through my pockets to remove any police identification. Malcolm Chenier, Detective-Inspector. The old ID photo mocked me with its full head of hair and blue optimistic eyes. When I posed for that picture, I'd never fired a weapon except on the shooting range. I hefted my gun now, wondering whether I'd need the firepower, and decided to play it safe and bring it along. I didn't debate for more than a second, remembering the corpse in the morgue. Two days was too long—I had to rush.

  It was a windy afternoon; the plastic bags snagged in the courtyard's dead trees rustled and billowed like fledgling kites. The overcast sky promised rain. I put my shades on and started walking.

  I could have taken a car, but not all the way. Past the wasteland of ‘For Sale’ and ‘To Let’ signs, the road became cratered with potholes and choked with rubble. The spooks keep Ghost Town unfit for the living. The buildings are all wrecked, burnt-out shells; the streets are full of festering garbage. Ahead I saw dense black smoke, and I coughed as fumes caught in my throat. The ghosts were burning toxic waste again.

  Not themselves, of course. They hired people to do that. Ghosts don't have much, but they do have money. Nowadays you can take it with you.

  If you ever had it in the first place.

  Through my shades I saw spooks hanging around like bored teenagers. Some of them had brought their grave markers here, now that cemeteries were obsolete, and they sat on their gravestones, sizing me up with hungry, jaded eyes. As I walked down the road nicknamed Death Row, a haunt of young ghosts heard the click, click of living footsteps and swarmed me. My breath frosted, white vapour in the air, and my skin chilled in the ectoplasmic embrace. I stopped, trying not to flinch as the haunt writhed around me. Two of them wore sharp suits and expensive shoes; another was naked. The others were translucent wisps, fading ghosts who would soon be eaten by the stronger.

  "Wooh!” The naked spook thrust his arm into my skull, as if scooping out my brain. The crawling sensation made me shudder, but the ghost couldn't hurt me.

  Well, probably not.

  The other spooks danced and gibbered, trying to get a rise out of me. They knew I could see them, because I wore ghost-glasses. Shades to see shades. Ain't technology grand?

  "Very scary, boys,” I said. “You should be in showbiz."

  "I was in showbiz,” said one of the sharp-dressed ghosts.

  A lot of them say things like that. Death's a great opportunity to reinvent yourself. Before the others could spin me their obits, I cut in.

  "Anyone new around? Just been murdered, last couple of days?"

  The victim's ghost might have been too traumatised to report its murder at the station. If, instead, it had gravitated to Ghost Town, these boys would know about it. Word gets around, especially about slashings—fresh pickings.

  The showbiz guy shrugged: a boneless ripple in pale wisps of aura. “Friend of yours?"

  I nodded. It's best not to admit being a cop in Ghost Town. Even dead people are criminals nowadays.

  The haunt all giggled, an unearthly cackling that raised goose-pimples along my arms. “You won't see him again,” said Mr Showbiz. “Not whole, anyway."

  "You might find some pieces,” said the naked ghost.

  They thought this would horrify me. It did, the first time, but I've seen a lot since then. More than these fresh young ghosts, anyway. I could scare them, if I wanted.

  "In the Yard, is he?” I asked in a bored voice.

  "Yeah,” said the showbiz ghost, sullenly.

  I'd expected that, but the confirmation helped. I started walking again, heading for the Knacker's Yard. The haunt, desperate for distraction, drifted along with me.

  "Got any thrills?"

  "Talents?"

  "Love?"

  I ignored the spooks and kept going. I felt sorry for them, but I didn't want to get drawn in. I was in a hurry, and they had all the time in the world. Sometimes to end a conversation you just have to walk away.

  And even that doesn't always work. I had to step carefully in the ruined road, and the writhing ghosts kept blocking my view. They whirled around me, faster and faster, a carousel of restless death.

  "Give us your mind—"

  "Your memories—"

  "Your soul—"

  Annoyed, I took the shades off. The spooks disappeared. I still felt the chill of their presence, and I heard a faint whisper, “You'll be back...."

  No, I won't, I thought as I walked on. When I die, I won't end up in Ghost Town. I hate coming here for an afternoon, never mind eternity.

  Trouble is, the alternatives are all worse.

  * * * *

  I picked my way along the streets, avoiding broken glass, oil slicks, and rusty barbed wire. After a while I reached a ruined hotel. Skeletal walls embraced the sky, their once-white paint flaking in the wind, stained with the soot of trash fires. I
n the old lobby, two bouncers—living, looming, muscle-bound specimens—stood by the stairway to the basement. I was surprised to see only breathers, until I remembered I'd taken off my shades. I put them back on, and saw another figure, the senior doorman. His face was the dusty grey of cold ashes.

  Ghosts run the Knacker's Yard.

  "Toll,” said the doorman.

  You have to pay with a piece of yourself—or someone else—just to get in.

  When I was a kid, my parents made me take piano lessons. I stuck at it for five years, until I discovered girls and under-age drinking. Even then, not knowing what I was going to be when I grew up, I knew that pianist was about as likely as astronaut. I figured the lessons were pointless.

  I was wrong. Although I've never touched a piano since, the lessons come in useful, occasionally.

  The doorman held out a smoke-grey, almost transparent hand. I tapped the left earpiece of my shades, concentrated on those long-ago piano lessons, and wrenched them out of my head. The doorman's withered fingers snatched at the morsel. He popped it in his mouth and swallowed.

  "Tinkle fucking tinkle,” he sneered. “I hate musicians."

  Piano lessons aren't much good to a ghost who can't touch the keys. But plenty of breathers prefer to buy someone else's lessons rather than put in the hard work themselves. That way you can practise for five years in an afternoon.

  The bouncers stood aside for me. “Is Charley around?” I asked.

  The doorman shrugged. “I haven't seen him lately. Maybe he's faded.” He grinned like a skull. “Why don't you look for him on the racks?"

  I turned away, trying to look unfazed by the blow. I was sad to hear that Charley had disappeared, yet I could do nothing for him. There's little anyone can do for the dead.

  Charley and I used to go running together; I gave it up when he died from a heart attack after a personal best in the half-marathon. He was my contact at the Yard. Without him, I'd have to make like a customer. Hell, I'd have to buy my piano lessons back if I wanted to keep them. Charley normally slipped me the toll when it turned up downstairs. He let me riffle through the racks, too. Without his help, this was going to be a whole lot trickier.

  I walked down towards the basement, careful not to slip on the frayed, slimy carpet. Before I reached the bottom I stopped, then glanced around to make sure no-one saw me hold a small glass bottle to my left ear. I touched my shades.