American Science Fiction Four Classic Novels 1953-56
Page 75
“The kid says he’s goin’ home,” said the boy.
“Izzat wot the kid says?” said another.
“Yeah,” said the third. “Ain’t that somethin’?”
Scott tried to push by them, but the boy in the cap drew him back into their surrounding circle.
“Kid, you shouldn’t do that,” he said. “We don’t like kids that do that, do we, fellas?”
“Naw, naw. He’s a fresh kid. We don’t like fresh kids.”
“Let go of me,” Scott said, shocked at the tremble of his voice.
The boy released his arm, but he was still penned in.
“I wantcha t’meet my pals,” said the boy. No face. Just the flash of a pale cheek, the glitter of an eye in the tiny flaring glow of the cigarette. A black, shadowy figure leaning over him.
“This is Tony,” he said. “Say hello to ’im.”
“I have to go home,” Scott said, moving forward.
The boy pushed him back. “Hey, kid, you don’t understand. Fellas, this kid don’t understand.” He tried to sound gentle and reasonable.
“Kid, don’t you unnerstand?” said one of the other boys. “That’s funny, y’know? The kid should unnerstand.”
“You’re very funny,” Scott said. “Now will you—”
“Hey. The kid thinks we’re funny,” said the boy with the baseball cap on. “D’ya hear that, fellas? He thinks we’re funny.” His voice lost its banter. “Maybe we oughta show ’im how funny we are,” he said.
Scott felt a crawling sensation in his groin and lower stomach. He looked around at the boys, unable to keep down the fear.
“Listen, my mother expects me home,” he heard himself saying.
“Awwwww,” said the boy with the cap. “His mother’s waitin’. Jesus, ain’t that sad? Ain’t that sad, fellas?”
“That makes me cry,” said one of the others. “Boo-hoo-hoo. I’m cryin’.” A vicious chuckle emptied from his throat. The third boy snickered and punched his friend playfully on the arm.
“Live around here, kid?” asked the boy with the cap. He blew smoke into Scott’s face and Scott coughed. “Hey, the kid’s croakin’,” said the boy, with mock concern. “He’s chokin’ ’n croakin’. Ain’t that sad?”
Scott tried to push past them again, but he was shoved back, more violently this time.
“Don’t do that again,” warned the boy in the cap. His voice was friendly and amiable. “We wouldn’t wanna hurt a kid. Would we, fellas?”
“Naw, we wouldn’t wanna do that,” said another.
“Hey, let’s see if he has any dough on ’im,” said the third.
Scott felt himself tightening with a weird mixture of adult fury and childlike dread. It was even worse than it had been with that man. He was smaller now, much weaker. There was no strength in him to match his man’s anger.
“Yeah,” said the boy in the cap. “Hey, ya got any dough on ya, kid?”
“No, I haven’t,” he said angrily.
He gasped as the boy in the cap hit him on the arm.
“Don’t talk t’me like that, kid,” said the boy. “I don’t like fresh kids.”
Dread overwhelmed anger again. He knew he’d have to play it different to get out of this.
“I don’t have any money,” he said. His neck was beginning to arch from looking up at them. “My mother doesn’t give me any.”
The boy in the cap turned to his friends. “The kid says his mother don’t give him none.”
“Cheap bitch!” said another.
“I’ll give her a good cheap—” said the third, breaking off with a convulsive forward jerk of his lower frame.
The boys laughed loudly. “Ya hear that, kid?” said the boy in the cap. “Tell yer old lady that Tony’ll give ’er a good cheap one.”
“Cheap? I’ll do it fer nothin’,” Tony said, humor submerged in a sudden surge of angry desire. “Hey, kid, has she got a big pair on ’er?”
Their raucous laughter broke off as Scott lunged between two of them. The boy in the cap grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. The heel of his palm slammed across Scott’s cheek.
“I told ya not t’do that,” snarled the boy.
“Son-of-a—!” Scott raged, spitting blood. The last word was swallowed in a grunt as he drove his small fist into the boy’s stomach.
“Bitch!” snapped the boy in a fury. He shot a fist into Scott’s face. Scott cried out as the blow drove a wedge of pain into his skull. He fell back against one of the other boys, blood streaming darkly from his nose.
“Hold ’im!” snarled the boy, and the two other boys grabbed Scott’s arm.
“Hit me in the belly, will ya, ya little son-of-a-bitch?” the boy said. “I’ll . . .” He seemed undecided as to what revenge to take. Then he made a sound of angry decision and pulled out a book of matches from his trouser pocket.
“Maybe I’ll give ya a coupla brands, kiddo,” he said. “How d’ya like that? ”
“Let me go!” Scott struggled wildly in the boys’ grip. He kept on sniffing to keep the blood from running across his lips. “Please!” His voice cracked badly.
The match flared in the darkness and Scott saw the boy’s face as he’d imagined it.
The boy leaned in close.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly fascinated. “Hey!” a crooked smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “This ain’t no kid.” He stared into Scott’s twisted face. “Ya know who this is? ”
“Whattaya talkin’ about?” asked one of the boys.
“It’s that guy! That shrinkin’ guy!”
“What?” they said.
“Look at ’im, look at ’im, for God’s sake!”
“Damn it, let me go or I’ll have you all in jail!” Scott stormed at them to hide the burst of agony in him.
“Shut up!” ordered the boy in the cap. His grin returned. “Yeah, don’t ya see? It’s—”
The match sputtered out and he lit another one. He held it so close to Scott’s face that Scott could feel the heat of it.
“Ya see now? Ya see? ”
“Yeah.” The two other boys stared, open-mouthed, into Scott’s face. “Yeah, it’s him. I seen his picture on TV.”
“And he tried t’make us think he was a kid,” the boy said. “The freakin’ son-of-a-bitch.”
Scott couldn’t speak. Despair had toppled anger. They knew him, they could betray him. He stood drained, his chest rising and falling with convulsive breath. The second match was thrown on the ground.
“Uh!” His head snapped over as the boy in the cap backhanded him.
“That’s fuh lyin’, Freako,” the boy said. His laugh was thin and strained. “Freako, that’s ya name. What d’ya say, freako? What d’ya say?”
“What do you want of me?” Scott gasped.
“What d’we want?” mimicked the boy. “Freako wants t’know what we want.” The boys laughed.
“Hey,” said the third boy, “let’s pull down his pants and see if all of him shrunk!”
Scott surged forward in their grip like a berserk midget. The boy in the cap drove a palm stingingly across his face. The night was a spiraling blur before Scott’s eyes.
“Freako don’t understand,” said the boy. “He’s a dumb freako.” He was breathing quickly through clenched teeth.
Dread was the knife in Scott now. He knew there was no reasoning with these boys. They were hating angry with their world and could express it only through violence.
“If you want my money, take it,” he said quickly, buying desperate time.
“Bet ya shrinkin’ butt we’ll take it,” sneered the boy. He laughed at his own joke. “Hey, that’s pretty good.” The humor left again. “Hold ’im,” he said coldly. “I’ll get his wallet.”
Scott tensed himself in the darkness as the boy in the cap started around one of his friends.
“Ow!” One of the boys howled as Scott’s shoe tip flashed up against his shin. The restraining hands on Scott’s left arm were dropped.
“Get ’im!” cried the boy in the cap. Scott’s short legs pumped faster as he darted up the broken incline. “Bastard!” the boy shouted, and then he started after him.
Scott was gasping for breath before he reached the sidewalk. He almost tripped across its edge, went flailing forward, palms out, legs racing, then, finally, caught his balance and ran on. A stitch jabbed hotly at his side. Behind him, rapid shoe falls spattered onto the cement. “Lou,” he whimpered, and ran on, open-mouthed.
Fifty yards up, he saw his house. Then, suddenly he realized he couldn’t go there, because they’d know then where he lived, where the shrinking man lived.
His teeth jammed together and he turned impulsively into a dark alley.
He reached out, thinking he might open a side screen door and, still running, slam it shut so they’d think he’d gone in there. But that house was too close to his own. He ran on, gasping. Behind him the boys swept into the alley, their shoes crunching on the gravel.
Scott dashed around the back edge of the darkened house and raced across the yard.
There was a fence. Panic leaped in him. He knew he couldn’t stop. Running at top speed, he jumped at it, clutching wildly for the top. He began scrambling up, slipped, started up again.
“Gotcha!”
A fist of dread pounded at his temples as he felt rough hands clutching at his right foot. His head snapped around and he saw the boy in the cap dragging him down.
A half-mad sound filled his throat. His other foot flailed out and drove into the boy’s face. With a cry the boy let go and went staggering back, clutching at his face. Scott dragged himself over the fence, shoe tips scraping at the wood. He dropped down on the other side.
Jagged lances of pain shot up his ankle. He couldn’t stop. Pushing up with a groan, he ran on, limping. Behind, he heard the two boys join their friend.
He scuttled painfully across the uneven ground until he came to the next street. There, finding a cellar door open, he half slipped, half jumped down the high steps, turned, and pulled the heavy door shut. It landed on his head and knocked him sideways against the cold concrete wall. He clutched out for a handhold as he rolled down two steps and landed on the dirt floor of the cellar.
He sat hunched over on the first step, trying to catch his breath. The step was cold and damp. He could feel it through his trousers. But he was too dizzy and weak to get up.
Breath wouldn’t come. His thin chest kept jerking spasmodically as his lungs labored for air. There was a hot burning in his throat. The stitch was razor-tipped, a knife stabbing at his side. His head throbbed and ached. The inside of his mouth felt raw and smarting, and there was blood still running across his lips. The muscles of his legs were cramping in the coldness of the cellar. He was sweaty and shivering.
He began to cry.
It was not a man’s crying, not a man’s despairing sobs. It was a little boy sitting there in the cold, wet darkness, hurt and frightened and crying because there was no hope for him in the world; he was beaten and lost in a strange, unloving place.
Later, when it was safe, he limped home, chilled to the bone.
A frightened, wretched Lou put him to bed. She kept asking him what had happened, but he wouldn’t answer. He just kept shaking his head, face expressionless, his small head rustling slowly on the pillow, back and forth, endlessly back and forth.
Chapter Ten
Waking was a gradual itemization of pains.
His throat felt scraped and dry, feeling like a raw, juiceless wound. His face contorted as he swallowed. Whimpering softly, he twisted on his side. The pain of rubbing his lacerated temple against the screw head stabbed him into wakefulness.
He started to sit up, then sank back with a gasp, hot barbs ripping across the muscles of his back. He lay staring up at the dust-coated insides of the water heater. He thought: It’s Thursday; there are three days left.
His right leg was throbbing. The knee felt swollen. He flexed the leg experimentally and winced when the dull ache flared into needling pain. He lay there quietly a moment, letting the pain ebb. He felt his face, his fingers stroking over the blood-caked scratches and tears.
Finally, with a groan, he shoved himself up and stood shakily, holding on to the black wall for support. How could he have got so mauled in such a few days? He’d been in the cellar for almost three months and it had never been like this before. Was it his size? Was it because the smaller he got, the more perilous life became for him?
He climbed over the wall slowly and he walked along the metal shelf to the leg. He kicked aside the few tiny scraps of crackers left there, then climbed down the leg with slow, careful movements until he stood dizzily on top of the cement block. Thursday. Thursday. His tongue stirred like a piece of thick, dry cloth in his mouth. He needed water.
He climbed down the block and looked into the thimble. Empty. And all the water on the floor had dried up or flowed into the small holes drilled in the cement. He stood there staring dully into the thimble cave. That meant he’d have to climb down the endless thread to the other thimble under the water tank. He sighed drearily and shuffled over to the ruler.
Three-sevenths of an inch.
Stolidly, as if it were something he had planned and not sudden disgust, he pushed the ruler over, and it clattered onto its side. He was sick of measuring himself.
He started walking toward the cavern in which the water pump clanked and chugged. Then he stopped, remembering the pin. His gaze moved slowly over the floor, searching. It was not in sight. He went over to the sponge and looked under it. He looked under the box top. There was no pin. The giant must have kicked it away, or else the head of it had become embedded in the sole of those gargantuan shoes.
His gaze moved over to the house-high carton under the fuel tank. It looked miles away. He turned from it. He wasn’t going to get another one. I don’t care, he thought. It doesn’t matter; let it go. He started again for the water pump.
There was another point, he decided, a point below that at which a man either laughed or broke. There was one more step down to the level of absolute negation. He was there now. He didn’t care about anything. Beyond the simple plane of bodily function, there was nothing.
As he moved from beneath the mammoth legs of the clothes tree, his gaze slid up the cliff wall. He wondered if the spider were up there. Probably it was, crouching seven-legged and silent in its web, perhaps sleeping, perhaps chewing up some bug it had killed.
It might have been himself.
Shuddering, he looked back at the floor. He’d never resign himself to the spider, no matter how depleted his spirit became. It was too alien a form to adjust to. Horror and revulsion toward it were too deeply engrained in him. It was better not to think of it at all. Better not to think that today the spider was as tall as he was, its body three times the volume of his, its long, black legs the thickness of his legs.
He reached the edge of the cliff and looked down into the vast canyon. Was it really worth it? Maybe it would be better just to forget about water altogether.
His throat labored dryly. No, water was not something you could forget about. Shaking his head like a sorrowing old man, he got on his knees and lowered himself over the edge of the step, then began easing himself down the thread. Fifty feet, two days before. Seventy-five today, probably. Tomorrow?
What if the spider is waiting down there? he thought. It frightened him to think it, but he kept descending, too weak to stop himself. He tried not to think about climbing back up. Why hadn’t he had the foresight to make knots at regular intervals in the thread? It would have made ascent so much easier.
His sandals finally touched bottom and he let go of the thread-rope. At least his fingers had not been scraped as badly, now that they were so small.
The thimble loomed over him like a giant vat, the lip of it a
good six feet above his head. If it had been overflowing, he might have caught water in his palms. As it was, he would have to climb to the top.
But how? The side, even with its indentations, was smooth and slightly overhanging. He pushed at the thimble, thinking he might knock it over, but it was too heavy, filled with water. He stood staring at it.
The thread. He limped back to the wall and picked up the heavy end of it, lugging it as far as it would go. It didn’t reach. He let go of it and it slid back to the wall.
He shoved at the thimble again. His arms fell. It was too heavy. No use. He started back for the thread. It’s no use, he thought. I’ll just forget about it. His face was martyred. I’m going to die anyway, what’s the difference? I’ll die. Who cares?
He stopped, biting his lip savagely. No, that was the old way. It was the childish way, the “I’ll punish the world by dying” attitude. He needed water. The thimble had the only water available. Either he got it or he would die, and no one the wiser or the stupider or the worse for it.
Gritting his teeth, he walked around, looking for pebbles. Why do I go on? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Why do I try so hard? Instinct? Will? In many ways it was the most infuriating thing of all, this constant bewilderment at his own motivations.
At first he found nothing. He moved in the shadows, muttering to himself. What if there are other spiders here? What if there are . .
It would have been so much better if his brain had lost its toxic introspections long before. Much better if he could have concluded life as a true bug instead of being fully conscious each hideous, downward step of the way. Awareness of the shrinking was the curse, not the shrinking.
Even thirsty, hungry, the thought stopped him. He stood in the cold shadows, turning it over in his mind.
It was true. He had realized it once, fleetingly, then forgotten it again, sinking into the physical. But it was true. So long as he had his mind, he was unique. Even though spiders were larger than he, even though flies and gnats could shade him with their wings, he still had his mind. His mind could be his salvation, as it had been his damnation.