Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #10

by Apex Authors

  I also knew that if he wasn't going to bother tying me up or incapacitating me—hell, a blow from one of the golf clubs under the table would quiet me down—then that must mean the Knackerman was close, and would arrive very soon.

  I had just minutes to live. And then my ghost had just seconds to live. Well, afterlive.

  My mind whirled in panic as I struggled to concentrate. What was procedure? Talk to the gunman. Communicate. Negotiate. While he's talking, he ain't shooting. Yet those barely-remembered slogans felt stale and weak. Blood-soaked images filled my head, urging me to kill the bastard. I wanted to hit him, burn him, slash him—

  But he had the gun, and mine as well. I looked around for a weapon. Nothing. You'd think a killer would at least keep an axe on the wall. He only had an Escher print, the one with the white swans turning into black and the black swans into white.

  I'd have to charge with my bare hands. That would be futile without a distraction. I looked at the phone and willed it to ring. I longed for someone to knock on the door. Why's there never a Jehovah's Witness when you need one?

  Tension crackled. The pause was so pregnant it had quintuplets. I glared at him. He glared at me. He had a better glare because he had three eyes. That unblinking third eye was a port in his head. Only people who deal with ghosts all the time have that op. I prefer my shades—at least I can take them off and not see spooks, pretend that life's as simple as it used to be when it stopped at the end.

  The killer nudged the gun from side to side, an inch either way, just to draw attention to it and remind me who had the upper hand. I thought about trying the old “Behind you!” trick, but he'd hardly fall for that in his own house.

  I could only wait for the Knackerman and hope his arrival would be the distraction I needed. I wondered what he looked like. They say no-one knows, because when he breaks up a ghost, he sells every scrap and memory except the victim's sight of him.

  There's a Ghost Town myth that says he's the Devil, that once the Knackerman takes you, you can't ever get to Heaven. It's amazing how many ghosts still try to believe in Heaven.

  Another story says the Knackerman delves into the victim's mind and appears as their worst nightmare. Maybe he'd already arrived, because this was my nightmare. Cop caught by the criminal. Becoming the slasher's latest victim. Going to the bottles in the Knacker's Yard.

  I wondered who'd buy me and how much they'd pay. Whoever buys this memory—I hope you fucking choke on it, you pathetic voyeur.

  Then I remembered that not all my mind was in my head. Maybe—

  I heard excited barking, growing louder. The Knackerman was coming. I shifted in my seat, turning slightly to one side. The dog burst through the wall, followed by a short guy with greying hair. He didn't look like a bogeyman; he looked like a civil servant on dress-down Friday. Well, it's always the quiet ones.

  He said, “What the hell is this? You think because I'm dead, I don't have a social life? You can't just send your superdog to fetch me whenever you get the urge to do some slashing. I've told you to keep it down to one a week.” While the Knackerman spoke, my hand drifted toward my pocket.

  The killer looked at him and said, “But this guy knows—"

  That was as far as he got. As soon as his gaze shifted, I grabbed a bottle from my pocket and threw it at his middle eye. It smashed on the metal socket.

  I wasn't sure which bottle I'd thrown. But I charged anyway. Before I reached him, his face went slack. I seized the gun from his limp hand, then backed away.

  The Knackerman shook his head and said, “Stupid fucker.” I didn't know which of us he meant.

  Oscar went into a frenzy and tried to bite chunks out of my body. My scrotum iced over as the dog's phantom teeth closed on my testicles. Reflexively I kicked back, but we couldn't touch each other.

  The killer looked worn out. “So this is what it's like being a cop.... It's even worse than I thought."

  "Yeah,” I said. “It's a lot more fun this way round."

  I ached to blow him away. All the murders in my mind, all my anger and disgust, said Kill! Kill! My grip tightened on the gun, my fingers grasping the trigger.

  The killer said, “You can't shoot me in cold blood. That's murder."

  "That never stopped you,” I said.

  "Look, you're making a big mistake. Don't be hasty about this. We can work out a deal—"

  I laughed. “I never realised just how weaselly all that crap sounds."

  The Knackerman said, “You want me to bag him up? He'll fetch a decent amount at the Yard. I'll cut you in for half."

  He floated across the room, toward the killer. Then his hands started growing. They sprouted more and more fingers, which swelled and lengthened and curled. The Knackerman cupped his huge, hideous claws around the killer's skull, ready to trap the emerging ghost.

  The killer said, “Oscar—get him!"

  Oscar leapt into the air, pounced on the Knackerman, and bit his leg. The Knackerman grunted. But the dog didn't get a second bite. He couldn't loosen his grip. The dog's teeth locked onto the Knackerman's leg as if it were made of ultra-sticky toffee.

  The Knackerman twisted like a champion contortionist, bending his leg upward. I heard a muffled whine as Oscar scrabbled frantically, clawing the Knackerman's torso. But the Knackerman's whole form was as sticky as flypaper, and soon the dog was just a twitching blob of fur, even his tail immobile.

  As the Knackerman's leg reached his face, he opened his mouth wide, dislocating his jaw like a snake. Then he bit the dog's head off.

  Oscar's ghostly body shrivelled and evaporated. The Knackerman barked twice. “Nice appetiser,” he said.

  I had kept watch on the killer throughout, careful not to get distracted, and all the while the Knackerman's hands had stayed wrapped round the guy's head. Now, between the pale fingers, eyes widened in panic. I knew the killer was about to make a last desperate move.

  All the rage in my head boiled over. Vengeance for the victims, my own festering hatred, the blood and death in the murder memories—all the violence erupted like lightning. And I held the lightning conductor. My hand clenched on the gun. There was no way in the world I couldn't shoot.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The silencer went phut, like a champagne cork popping. My arm sprang back, my wrist aching from the recoil. The gun was a real elephant stopper compared to my own street-rat shooter.

  The killer slumped to the floor, blood dripping onto the carpet. Another cleaning bill, I thought.

  The Knackerman looked at me and said, “You got his leg, you idiot."

  "I know,” I said. At the last moment I'd jerked my aim downward.

  "So finish him off!"

  I shook my head. “I don't want to send him to the Knacker's Yard. I don't even want to kill him. Well, I do. But I don't want to want to kill him."

  "Hell, he'll get the death penalty anyway."

  I smiled. “And afterlife imprisonment for the ghost."

  "What a waste,” he said.

  I pointed the gun at the Knackerman and said, “You're even worse than him. Right now I can't touch you, but if this racket starts up again, I won't only get the breather, I'll recruit some ghosts and go after you. Just because you're dead, that doesn't mean you're beyond the law."

  The Knackerman gave me the finger with his hideous claw. Then he vanished through the ceiling.

  I sighed. I grabbed the whisky bottle and swigged three shots in three gulps. Then I poured the rest of the bottle over the killer's ragged wound. That was all the first aid I could be bothered with. He screamed most satisfyingly.

  "Can I use your phone?” I said.

  "Fuck you!” he whispered.

  "Thanks."

  I called the station and asked them to send a holding van. “I have a murderer for you,” I said. “Bring the scoop as well; he's got some memories I want back."

  With considerable relief, I decanted the killer's murder reminiscences into the remaining bottle. Yet I knew
their residue of gleeful violence would taint my dreams for months to come.

  Did I really want my police memories back? They were hardly any more pleasant. Perhaps I should return to the Knacker's Yard and buy myself a new personality, build up a history from the endless shelves....

  My fingers twitched. I decided that I would go back, if only to recover my piano lessons. After a day surrounded by death and ghosts, I had a sudden longing to play the piano while I still had flesh and bone to touch the keys.

  While I waited for the van to arrive, I sat and listened to my slowly calming heartbeat. Grateful for every blood-pounding thump, I vowed to make the most of those I had left.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Interview with William F. Nolan

  William F. Nolan has been widely published in a dozen fields, including science fiction, mystery, dark fantasy, and mainstream fiction, and has achieved some 1,500 sales (including three to Apex Digest!) since his first short story was printed in 1954.

  Jodi Lee: Over the years, a Logan's Run remake has been planned, shelved, planned and reshelved. As of February 21st of this year, Silver Pictures and Warner Brothers (producers) were stating that the remake is of high priority, but it sounded like Bryan Singer (X2, Superman) has been pulled from the project. Given this situation, and the right set of circumstances, who would be your favorite to direct the remake?

  William F. Nolan: Indeed, it seems that Bryan Singer has (alas!) pulled away from Logan's Run after almost two years of development. However, he may return as a producer when he completes his next film assignment (another Superman?) and may even resume plans to direct the picture. He's very high on the novel. He would be my number one choice as director. I have, at present, no connection with Joel Silver or Warner Bro.—though I hope to be on hand for the shoot as a consultant, allowing me to write a book on the production, Running With Logan.

  JL: Will you have any input on casting?

  WFN: I have no hand in casting. MGM moved up the compulsory death age from 21 in my book to 30 (for casting reasons). I've been told that Warner's will bring the age down again (to ???) but I have no say in the matter.

  JL: For someone that has never read the series (shocking!), but has seen the movie can you explain the idea behind calling the Sandmen, Sandmen?

  WFN: In fairy tales the Sandman comes to put you to sleep. In Logan's world the future cops are DS men (Deep Sleep) and their job is to track down runners and terminate them (put them to sleep). Thus, the title fits.

  JL: If you were so inclined to classify, how would you view the Domed City—utopian or dystopian?

  WFN: I classify the Domed City as stupid. Since the air outside is breathable, why should anyone live under a dome? (There are no domes in the novel.)

  JL: Is the Logan series at an end, or is it possible there could be more stories you'll be telling?

  WFN: Why should the Logan series end? There are countless books about Star Wars and Star Trek, so why not Logan? When the movie is released I'll have new editions out for Logan's Run, Logan's World, and Logan's Search. And right now I'm working on a new Logan book, Logan's Journey. Believe me, Mr. Logan will continue to run. Why shoot a derby-winning horse?

  JL: Have you seen The Island, and what did you think of the somewhat poorly concealed similarities to Logan's Run?

  WFN: The Island was heavily influenced by Logan, but it wasn't a total rip off like Wild in the Streets in ‘68. You can't control this sort of thing. Any successful film will end up being copied in some form or another. I don't worry about it.

  JL: In your opinion, have the advances in technology been a boon to science fiction movies, or has the flashiness taken away from the stories being told?

  WFN: I think special effects are great, and what they are able to do now will enhance the new Logan film. Back in ‘75, when MGM did Logan they didn't have the effects available today. So long as you create real three-dimensional characters based on genuine human emotion, then special effects are fine. But they must never replace the human story. If they do then the film is a failure.

  JL: You spent the early years as an artist. What made you switch from art to writer?

  WFN: I won several awards in art during my high school period. Went on to attend the Kansas City Art Institute and worked as an artist for Hallmark Cards. Had my own art studio in San Diego, selling watercolor and outdoor murals. The reason I switched to writing is simple. I knew I could make a career out of my writing but doubted I could do the same with art. Oh, I've kept my artistic hand in, illustrating the covers (and interior art) on several of my books. Very recently, I got an offer to illustrate a children's book, and may do that. Time will tell.

  JL: You're a very diversely read writer, from science fiction to mystery to westerns. Do you feel this has helped with your own creativity?

  WFN: As a working pro, I've functioned in a dozen fields over the past decades: science fiction, mystery, dark fantasy, horror, auto racing, biography, showbiz, tech writing, hard-boiled, aviation, westerns, and “mainstream.” Plus scripts for TV and films. I write whatever excites me at a given time. That way, I'm never bored, so I don't bore my readers. It's all creative, no matter the genre.

  JL: What were the inspirations behind “Mommy, Daddy, and Mollie” and “At the 24-Hour” in issues eight and nine of Apex Digest?

  WFN: “Mommy, Daddy, and Mollie” was my attempt to write an offbeat ghost story from a child's point of view. “At the 24-Hour” was based on my longtime habit of writing in all-night coffee shops and listening to some very odd conversations. Since giving up coffee I now write days, in my den.

  JL: Do you find you prefer to write short stories over novel-length material?

  WFN: Yes, I prefer short stories to novels—as clearly established by my pro credits: 166 short stories to 12 novels. But both forms are very rewarding, and each has its place. I waited a long time to do my first novel. I was 37 when I wrote Logan's Run. For a first novel it has exceeded my wildest hopes.

  JL: Since you have done biographies of Ray Bradbury, what do you think of the national read-in program centered around Fahrenheit 451?

  WFN: Ray deserves any honor bestowed upon him. We've been close pals for 57 years! He's worked hard every day of his adult life at writing, and taught me to do the same. Most people are unaware of his vast output: 600 stories and over 130 books, plus uncounted poems, essays, plays, etc. Talent only counts when coupled with constant work.

  JL: You've led a very interesting life; besides being a writer of amazing fiction, you're a noted screenwriter, you've raced cars, been an illustrator, and the biographer of famous people. Is there any part of your life that stands out as the most enjoyable?

  WFN: It's all been a joy. People tell me that, after 50 years at the keys and over 1500 sales, that I should take a vacation. I tell them that my whole life is a vacation. I love to write. It's the oxygen I breathe. Of course, it can't go on forever—so I intend to retire on my 100th birthday.

  For more information visit www.williamfnolan.com

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  PIGS AND FEACHES by Patrice E. Sarath

  Patrice E. Sarath is a popular short fiction writer whose work has appeared in several magazines and anthologies, including Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Black Gate, Realms of Fantasy, and Year's Best Fantasy 3.

  So, have you girls seen Terri yet?” the old woman called, popping out of the kitchen.

  Rachel and Ellie froze, Ellie with her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl to hide the handgun.

  "You know,” Rachel said, “we haven't yet. We're, uh, looking forward to seeing Terri."

  Ellie nodded vigorously.

  "She had a boy, did you hear? Nine pounds, two ounces. After you have dinner here, you can go visit her in the hospital."

  The old lady popped back out of sight behind the door, and Rachel and Ellie looked at each other, Ellie's face full of exaggerated alarm.

  "Shit,” Ellie said, laughing.

&n
bsp; "Shh,” said Rachel. She wanted to get out of there. It didn't help that Ellie was in one of her moods, deceptively amiable. Her eyes were too bright, her fingers twitching.

  "Okay, okay. Don't freak."

  Ellie set the gun down on the roll-top desk and started leafing through papers, muttering with disgust. Dividing her nervous attention between Ellie and the kitchen, Rachel tugged at the knob on the glass-fronted china hutch. The door stuck. Dim figures lurked behind the glass, porcelain clowns and cloisonné boxes. She tugged harder, her fingers numb and clumsy.

  "This sucks,” Ellie said. She dropped a pile of papers back on the desk, and the whole stack tilted and cascaded to the floor. Ellie kicked it, sending papers flying across the carpet.

  "Ellie,” Rachel said, rising exasperation in her voice.

  "What?” Ellie said, all innocence. She held out her hands. “It slipped.” She made a face at Rachel and went back to ransacking the desk. Without looking at Rachel, she said acidly, “Feel free to help."

  Screw you, Rachel thought. She tugged again at the glass door to the cabinet and it flew open with a rattle. A china dog fell over with a loud clatter.

  Behind her, Ellie said, “Hey, Rachel, I have news for you. They're not going to put their ration cards in with the little clownsies and puppy dogs."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not looking for ration cards."

  She turned back to the cabinet. Her mother's china hutch had been dark stained walnut like this one, with the treasures of a lifetime tucked away in the dark and dust. Her grandfather's ring. Her mother's pearls. A diamond stick pin. Lost twice, once in the tangled plaques caking her mother's brain, and again when the house and its contents were sold after her mother's death.

  She reached back into the farthest corners, grimacing as she encountered nothing but dust balls. Ellie was right—she wasn't going to find anything in there.

  "Have you girls seen Terri yet?"

  Startled, Rachel bumped her head on the shelf before she could get out of the hutch. She turned around, rubbing her head. The old woman had come out again, a cold casserole dish held in kitchen mitts. This time a crease of worry marked her forehead between her gray brows, but her voice trundled on. “Did you hear—?"