Conscience

by John Skipp

  I know what I’ve done, and that’s all that matters.

  When the train arrives, I step into the front car, smiling back at the gazes I get. Unencumbered, I lean into the front window.

  The doors close. The train starts.

  The light show begins.

  In reflection, my eyes are black holes. As the train gains momentum, the hypno-wheels spin. Without my bags, I feel weightless, like an electrical impulse.

  A synapse, firing through the mind of God.

  EIGHTEEN

  Reggie sounds confused, when he sees me standing in the front door monitor. He buzzes me in anyway.

  I blow his head off at the neck.

  The rest of him is still in his seat, so I shove the chair up to the desk, jam his dead knee against the inner door buzzer. Simple yet effective.

  My next shot takes out the camera. If no one was watching the monitors in the last thirty seconds, they won’t know I’m coming.

  I will not stake my life on that.

  Gun drawn, I throw the door to the inner sanctum, reenter the corridor of the damned.

  It yawns before me: a straight line down to the light at the end, and Mort’s closed door.

  At this hour, most everyone is gone. No Caspar. No office staff. I am praying to God that Zachariah is gone, too, although I must admit that I would love to see him. I think that he would understand.

  I know he would.

  He’s not here.

  Good.

  In the dubbing room – where the sins of the world are processed and sold – every screen is busy, logging each and every transgression ever captured on video, time-coded to the millisecond.

  This is the same claim that’s long been made for God – only minus the whole video thing – and acted out, right here and now, on Earth: the devil’s playpen.

  And lo, it has been said – many times, in many ways – that God knows all, sees all, etcetera. Very much like Santa Claus. I half-expect to see the two of them – and, what the hell, the Devil, too – standing there, comparing notes. For Christmas, and all eternity.

  What I see are two men in the dubbing room, neither one of whom I recognize. One is doubled over, sobbing. The other one’s trying to comfort him.

  I am unsurprised by the fact that they’re identical.

  It gives me a weird kind of hope.

  If this is happening here, it could happen anywhere. It could happen in the Middle East. It could happen on the White House lawn. It could happen in China, in North Korea, in El Salvador.

  It could, in fact, happen everywhere. I sincerely hope that it does.

  And as I move down the hallway, in subjective slo-mo time, I think about The Kid: on the train, coming in. It seems like a million years ago. His eyes were much like Zachariah’s, now that I think about it. His eyes were also very much like yours. So clear. So wide-open. So full of strange delight.

  And I think about a thing he said – a thing that annoyed me at the time – and I wish I could remember how he said it. But the gist of it was this:

  The funniest thing won’t be the look on his face when he realizes nobody wants to fight his war.

  The funniest thing will be the look on his face when he goes, “Fuck! I don’t want to, either!”

  For the first time, I am really glad I didn’t kill that goddam kid.

  I hope it all works out for him.

  I hope he enjoys the show.

  Because if he’s right, then the Charley Weber I have come to know and loathe is obsolete, and good fucking riddance.

  And if he’s right, then the Liam Pathe I know and loathe is also obsolete.

  And I find myself thinking: just because truth is misrepresented by assholes, that doesn’t mean that there is no truth.

  Just because love is misrepresented by assholes, that doesn’t mean that there is no love.

  Just because God is misrepresented by assholes – for reasons of power, or pussy, or fame – that doesn’t mean that there is no God.

  These seem like worthwhile things to consider.

  Especially now, with this gun still in my hand.

  There are maybe six people in the transcribing room. Twelve, if you count their twins. Since most of them are on their knees – helplessly crying, as they cling to each other – I don’t consider them a security risk.

  As I advance, nothing stirs in the shadows. No one laying in wait. I like that very much.

  And then I see something I did not expect.

  I see twins, melting into each other…

  ...and that is, of course, when you reappear before me: standing squarely in front of Mort’s door...

  ...and you are just as I left you: one eye huge with loving light, the other a blackened and dripping socket...

  ...and if I had a portrait of Dorian Gray – if Oscar Wilde had been writing about me – it could not have been more hideous to behold.

  To see myself, with my face so broken...

  ...to see myself smile, through those bloody stumps of teeth...

  ...to see my nose flattened, battered flush with my cheeks...

  ...is to see myself, at last, the way I’ve seen myself all along: poor Little Self – bloodied but unbowed – now reflected in a larger light.

  And I don’t know why, but you’re far less threatening than you were when you were beautiful.

  I walk toward you now – closing the distance between myself and Mort’s door – with an open embrace. Without malice or fear.

  Welcoming you back.

  Now it’s time to bring it home.

  NINETEEN

  From there, it all goes down very quickly.

  I pause before the door. Hear people shouting behind it, over the opening organ riff to Bob Dylan’s “Positively Fourth Street.” Find myself stunned by Mort’s choice.

  Then kick the fucking door in…

  …and the first thing I hear is, “PUT YOUR GUN DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER…!”

  …and the second thing I hear is, “DON’T AIM YOUR FUCKING GUN AT ME…!”

  …but neither of these messages are aimed in my direction.

  In fact, nobody seems to have noticed I’m here.

  I have walked into utter pandemonium.

  And it looks just like this:

  Trey is pointing a gun at Ralph. And Ralph is pointing a gun at Trey. Both of them are sweaty, freaked out, in kill mode. Both are shouting at the top of their lungs.

  What’s not clear is if they are shouting at each other, or at the other Trey and Ralph, who are standing in between, like God’s referees. Just holding up their hands: not in surrender, but in peace.

  That is crazy enough.

  But the craziest thing is that Mort is all alone : white-faced, behind his desk, completely in the dark.

  So much for my theories on Mort. All he sees is that his goons have gone haywire.

  Until he sees my gun, pointing at him.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” he screams, like I’m the icing on the cake.

  “Well, Mort,” I tell him, “I think it’s time to renegotiate our deal.”

  Now Trey and Ralph are distracted, as well. I am the third gun in the mix, and they’re not sure where to aim.

  For my part, they’re all lined up in front of me – one, two, three – so I could kill them all right now.

  But I don’t. Sending a message right there.

  Mort takes this opportunity to reach for his drawer. “Don’t,” I say, and he freezes appropriately. He’d be dead before the gun was in his hand.

  “Here’s the deal,” I continue. “Because the rules have changed, I want to give you back your money. All I want is the understanding that you will leave the girls alone.”

  “HAVE YOU ALL GONE CRAZY?” is all Mort can think of to say.

  I look at Little Trey and Ralph, their guns now aimed back at each other. They look so fucking insane that I’m amazed they don’t explode.

  The other Trey and Ralph turn toward me and smile, as if grateful for the timely distraction.
I recognize their eyes, see the great light within them.

  “Hate to break this to you, man,” I say, “but we’ve been crazy all along. Right now is the sanest I’ve felt in years. And these guys are about to figure it out. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  Little Trey turns his wide-eyed gaze to me, makes a high-pitched whining sound that reminds me of my elevator ride. He knows, all at once, that I see; and the revelation makes him unload in his pants.

  In any other circumstance, I would laugh; in context, it’s kind of heartbreaking. He looks emotionally six years old, way too small for a moment this huge.

  As for Ralph, I am totally staggered.

  I had no idea he could cry.

  But there he is: pale blue eyes streaming, fighting hard against the torrent from within. His sobs are like enemy depth charges, going off against his will. Blowing holes through his submarine steel. Forcing soul through the breeches. Flooding the emptiness inside.

  I watch him drown in his own emotion, remember clearly how that feels.

  I may yet have to kill him.

  For the very first time, I hope I don’t.

  Which leaves us with Mort, who still doesn’t get it, and quite possibly never will. It’s not like he’s not trying to figure it out. It’s not like he’s stupid.

  He just doesn’t see.

  And I can’t believe how sad this makes me. What a disappointment this is.

  “Come on, man!” I shout at him. “Fucking WAKE UP! You can do it! I swear!”

  He blinks, as if that’s going to help.

  When his soul appears, it is almost blinding.

  TWENTY

  Maybe it’s because he never used it. Maybe there’s some arcane physics involved. Maybe I’m just really crazy.

  But Mort’s spirit is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  It hovers behind him, and I can feel every hair on Mort’s body stand on end. Like a neon tube, under a high-voltage line, his spirit glows so hugely that my own eyes start to hurt.

  In that glow, I see four hundred and seventeen Grateful Dead concerts. I see Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, and the rest. I see John Lennon, before that asshole gunned him down.

  I see all the hope that used to be.

  And I find myself thinking, what the fuck happened?

  But I know all too well.

  So the horror on Mort’s face is far too understandable. I hesitate, as he reaches for the drawer.

  “DON’T!” I holler, though I know that it is useless.

  Mort looks at me blankly, like I’m not even there.

  When he turns, he is already firing: wildly at first, then finally hitting his mark. As its face implodes, his soul still glows. Mort fires again, missing, letting out a terrible scream...

  ...and this is not what I wanted to happen at all, but there it is. I wish I were more surprised.

  As he turns, I plant two bullets in his lungs.

  Mort falls back, still squeezing the trigger.

  The next shot comes perilously close to Ralph, who opens fire instinctively. Trey follows suit in a millisecond. And I’m already there.

  By the time Mort lets off his last shot, we have utterly emptied our clips into him. Chest. Belly. Head. Amazing how fast we all fire. His body is still dancing when his soul leaves the room.

  I watch him go. Flare up. Be gone. I watch his body, vacant, fall. It goes through its final convulsive motions.

  His last shot bores a hole through my throat.

  I try to breathe.

  It doesn’t work.

  And it’s hard to think, when your throat is squirting, and your spinal cord is severed. I stagger back, then start to fall. The pain is immense, but quickly receding.

  I am dying now.

  Good.

  Not a moment too soon.

  My vision goes white as I hit the floor, then drifts back briefly to the world. Trey and Ralph kneel over me: all four of them, staring deep into my eyes. As if hoping for the answer there.

  I wonder what I’d tell them, if I could.

  Maybe later, I think, when all of the hotheads are gone, the human race will finally figure it out. Sift the wheat from the chaff. Do what has to be done.

  Then I think about the lion and the lamb.

  In the presence of miracles.

  And I still have my doubts.

  Doesn’t matter. At this point, I am gargling blood. It’s a lot like solitaire. Only I am not alone.

  When the lights go out, I can feel myself smiling.

  I don’t know where I’m going.

  I hope to God that Rex is there.

  INTRO TO A QUICKEE (1984)

  I wrote this little charmer while waiting:

  a) for THE LIGHT AT THE END to sell; and

  b) for the bus to the Staten Island ferry.

  I had a half an hour to kill before I left for work that morning. This was back when I was still a street messenger in New York City, lonely and broke, with only a handful of short story sales to my credit (mostly to Twilight Zone magazine).

  For a change, I was ready in plenty of time, and went, hmmm. Could I possibly think up, and write, an entire story in twenty minutes?

  On that fine morning, evidently I could.

  Got the idea, quick as a bee sting, and banged it out on my old, loud Smith-Corona electric typewriter – one draft, no rewrites – then raced to catch the bus to the ferry, and got to work on time.

  It was a first-class way to start off the day.

  Will someone please tell me why I never tried it again?

  A QUICKEE

  Bright, wide-open and china-blue, her eyes were the first things they went for. Then she tried to scream, and her mouth parted wide, and a few of the larger ones rifled down her throat.

  In less than a second, they had her name. Barbara.

  She started to flailing, in liquid slow-motion: long hair and long limbs, wafting and waving in what bordered on grace. She choked, and they went up her nose as well.

  They listened to her panic: the only thoughts she had.

  In less than three seconds, the poison began to take effect; her body, and all of its openings, went slack. They had open access to all the doorways in her skull, no restrictions on the tight gaps in her scant bikini bottoms, absolute liberty with all the portals of her flesh.

  Her dying mind was numb and softly sinking, like her body. They listened, while her gentle tongues of memory lapped over them in waves...

  ...and Larry was still looking at her like that, with those fuck-me eyes and that connoisseur smile. And Bob was still back at the cottage, no doubt; suspecting everything, sure of nothing, trying to drag himself through a Mack Bolan novel that was over his head while her first bar room Romeo in fifteen years stripped down to his Speedos on the damp wooden planks...

  The blood was coming now, copious and thick, absorbed and concealed by the blackness that surrounded her.

  They filled her brain. They filled her belly.

  And just as her life began to flicker out entirely, they made her rise up from the depths.

  It was dark, with only the half-moon’s mellow light to shine upon them. The cottage-window gleamings from across the lake might just as well have been sent from the stars.

  Larry wavered at the edge of the pier, looking down. The night was not warm, and the goosebumps that speckled his flesh were not entirely from anticipation. An hour, on the outside, before hubby comes a-hunting, he mused, and she has to jump in the goddam water. I can’t believe it. She must want to get caught!

  It was just stupid enough to be true. He didn’t like it. She was gorgeous, yes. And hot to trot. But she wasn’t worth fighting over.

  None of them were.

  He was thinking back to the bar, and the blonde he’d passed up on, when Barbara’s head broke the surface. Backlit by the moon, her features were indistinguishable. He couldn’t make out her toothy grin, the nipples she exposed to him with softly-kneading hands.

  He couldn’t see that her e
yes were gone.

  NO SWIMMING AFTER DARK read the signs that ran up and down the length of the beach. Larry deferred to the bulge in his Speedos.

  “How’s the water?” he asked.

  And she said it was fine.

  INTRO TO FILM AT ELEVEN (1988)

  This little heartbreaker was written for David J. Schow’s landmark horror anthology, SILVER SCREAM.

  That book remains, in my estimation, one of the finest, most coherently-conceived and executed horror anthologies in the history of the field. It was also a flashpoint for the revo-evolution of the genre, at least in its literary form.

  Davey is the guy who coined the term splatterpunk, as a mere conversational flourish, one night at a party at the World Fantasy Convention. Next thing you knew, it was in the dictionary – with pictures of his head and mine, like wanted posters – under the definition.

  We were the hardcore horror kids.

  And this is hardcore horror.

  That being said, “Film at Eleven” isn’t one of the best in Schow’s book. (I’d start with Joe R. Lansdale, Clive Barker, Mark Arnold, or Karl Edward Wagner, myself.) And if it were a movie, I don’t think I’d want to watch it.

  But it’s ugly, and it’s honest – based on grueling personal observation – and, most horrible of all, it seems to have gotten no less true. If I’d change anything, it would be the legal drugs.

  Cuz they just keep making more of them. And they really seem to be working! Don’cha think?

  (P.S. – This short story, unlike the others, took a full grueling month to write. The reason being that it hurt so fucking bad that I never want to write another thing like it, ever fucking again.)

  FILM AT ELEVEN

  It started out like just another Thursday in Hell.

  She awoke in her bed at eight a.m. The air was thick with heat and sweat. Dale was naked and snoring beside her, his fists unfurled in sleep. She heard the screen door at the front of the house scream open, then slam shut. Tiny footsteps hit the sidewalk, and receded into the world.