by Unknown
He dressed quickly, stopping now and then to breathe deeply when the pain became too great.
Then he went to the window. From the angle he was at, Obermann could see only the walkway below and the building directly behind it. He could not see the front courtyard, could not see the back alley.
He had to move carefully. It was imperative that he get out of this building without being seen and find a phone. If the police were to pick him up, wounded and wandering through an unfamiliar neighborhood, he might be questioned, his past dug into, his Nazi affiliations discovered, and that could endanger the lives of many others.
As for the woman, she no longer existed. But someone might have seen them enter the building together. Where is she now, the police might ask. Whose blood is on the sheets? What went on up there? What did you do with the body?
No. No. He could never afford such interrogations. He had to reach Klarsfeld.
Moving away from the window, he went to the door, opening it enough to stick his head out into the hallway. All was quiet, still. He had reason to believe that the building was deserted, but he couldn’t be sure. There might still be a few tenants left, playing out their lonely lives in these wretched, cramped cubbyholes. He had to watch himself.
With his left arm cradled against his stomach, he stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him. Stepping lightly down the hall, he passed by several doors, all of which were closed, with no lights showing beneath them.
So far so good.
After a moment he arrived at the top of the stairs which led down to the ground floor. Slowly he descended, occasionally glancing back to make sure that no one had seen him. When he reached the bottom of the stairs the final step cracked loudly under his foot, breaking off. Startled, Obermann virtually flung himself against the wall, away from the wall, windows that looked out onto the courtyard. The impact jogged his wound, causing him to cry out. But he quickly bit back the pain, silencing himself. He had to take several deep breaths before the pain became manageable again.
Then he looked about, searching for the light switch. After a moment he located it, on the other side of the foyer. Ducking down below the level of the windows, he crouch-walked across the floor, flattening himself against the opposite wall. He reached up and flipped the switch. The light went off.
In the darkness of the foyer he moved to peer out the window. The courtyard was a desolate expanse of purest white. Nothing moved. All was still. Looking up, Obermann saw that it had stopped snowing and widening patches of starlit sky showed through the marblish clouds scudding past.
Obermann was delighted. He felt his pulse quickening, felt his confidence grow with each breath he took.
He clasped the door handle and gently turned it. A muffled click, and the door creaked open. He stepped out onto the landing, again surveying his surroundings. All was motionless, serene.
Obermann smiled.
Inhaling the frosty, invigorating air, he pulled his coat snugly about aim and descended the steps to the footpath. The old derelict woman who had been sleeping in the bushes was gone. Obermann decided that she must have roused herself and hobbled off. A survivor: like him.
Obermann limped forward, feeling the snow crunching pleasantly under his shoes, until coming to a stop before the small fountain. The child’s ball emblazoned with the swastika was still there, lodged in the ice. He leaned over, wincing from the burning pain in his stomach, and jerked the ball out of the ice.
Then he looked up, to the brilliant starry firmament. Smiling, he hurled the ball into the sky: it went up, up, disappearing among the stars.
Then Obermann turned and walked on, a happy man. Until the first sound came.
Obermann halted. He looked around.
Silence.
He took another step.
Again came the sound: like wood crashing into wood. Obermann was suddenly confused, afraid. He didn’t know what the sound was or where it was coming from.
He didn’t know whether to run or to stand stock-still.
He decided to run—
But the sounds stopped him. Not one this time, but many. A staccato arrhythmic cacophony of sounds, hammering at him, hammering at his mind like machine-gun fire, forcing him to put his hands to his ears in an effort to blot out the sound—and then he looked up and saw the windows, windows from the twin buildings overlooking the courtyard, windows being flung open—they were the source of the sound—and the glass shattering, shattering like a trillion coruscating shards filling the night, a night of broken glass—and the lights suddenly blazing in the windows, all of the windows, blazing with a solar intensity, illuminating the snowy courtyard below with a clear implacable radiance—
And then silence.
Sudden. Abrupt. Silence.
Obermann crouched there in the snow, quaking, terrified, shielding his eyes from the merciless light. Peering fearfully between his fingers, he looked up to see people standing at each of the broken-out windows—sick, ashen-looking people—behind rows and rows of windows, an impossible succession of windows extending to infinity …
They were watching him. All of them Men, women, and children.
Watching, witnessing, judging.
Obermann felt exposed, revealed. Naked to the world.
Then the people began to mutilate themselves. They tore off hunks of their own bodies—arms, legs, hands—and began tossing them down at him. Obermann was horrified. He tried to run, but he slipped on the moist gray body parts. He tried to get up, but the parts kept failing, driving him to the ground, weighing him down.
Then Obermann watched in disbelief as the buildings flanking the courtyard appeared in grow upward, to extend themselves into the sky. But then he realized that it was not the buildings that were thrusting up, but he who was sinking down.
He was in the trench again, trapped in a tangle of body parts, inhaling the fetid stink of putrefying flesh, of urine, feces, vomit. His skin began to bum, terribly, his face and eyes and mouth scorched by the acidic quicklime shoveled down on him from above.
Obermann cried out in horror as the trench sank down into the darkness of the earth. And the last thing he saw, looking up, was the skull-faced Jew with the hole in his head, looking down.
Looking down at Obermann. And laughing triumphantly.
PEACEMAKER
Charles L. Grant
Speaking of traditionalist (we were, weren’t we?), perhaps the most popular of my generation is Charles L. Grant. A prolific author with more stories and novels than I can keep up with, Charlie was also the editor of the venerable anthology series—Shadows, which served as the launching pad for many new writers in the Eighties. To say he has been a serious influence upon the literature of dark fantasy over the last twenty years is a cruel understatement. Some would say he has sustained an entire sub-genre which he has termed “quiet horror.” I’ve known Charlie during the majority of his career and we’ve had more than one barroom discussion about style and substance and the direction of the HDF genre, and we often disagree on what is good and what is not (and we’ve rejected plenty of each other’s stories—just in case you were starting to think this is some nepotistic club we’ve got here), but I think Charlie has stepped out of his usual mode with his latest Borderlands story. For me, it resonates with a lot of Shirley Jackson’s best short fiction. But enough already. Check out “Peacemaker” for yourself.
In the darklight; a moment in late October between dusk and night, when the birds aren’t quite sleeping and the wind has stopped blowing and the edges of the shadows don’t blend with the black: when the houses are caves and the windows reflect nothing and the street-lamps are hazed by a colorless mist; when perspective is missing and all roads lead to nothing, when the silence is complete and nothing breathes, nothing moves.
In the darklight, before midnight, the air touched with ice.
And he sat on the porch, in an old wooden rocker, his hands resting lightly on the flat of his thighs. The old sheepskin j
acket granted protection from the chill, and on his head an old western hat, its brim and crown time-worn to a shape that would have seemed ludicrous on another, rain-stained and snow-pocked and darker than its color; on his feet, western boots that a shine would only ruin.
Behind him, in the house, he could hear the furnace kicking on. The foyer clock chiming. A board creaking.
In the yard a nightbird chirped, a rustling, and nothing.
Immediately to his left, on the corner, the streetlamp dropped a stage of faded white onto the pavement, and he watched it for signs of shadow, for signs of shape, and his left hand drummed his leg while his right hand curled as if lightly gripping the air.
He knew what it was, had known it was coming, had been waiting for it ever since the sun had gone down—it was excitement. The faraway and getting closer kind that didn’t prod action, only prodded the senses. The sound of unseen horsemen, the chuff of a tired locomotive slowing for a mountain curve, the lazy crack of a harmless whip over the heads of buckboard horses.
He puffed his cheeks, he blew a breath, he glanced at a dark form beneath the yard’s black oak branches.
One more time, he thought then, less a prayer than a command; one more time before I get too old to count.
He shifted. With a tightening of his lips to anticipate pain, and cursing the twinge that stiffened his calves, he lifted his legs until his boots were on the railing and he could see between his feet across the street to Grandy’s house. The downstairs lights were on, and a spotlight hidden in the grass that was aimed at the front door, pinning a cob of dried maize to the white-curtained pane. On either side of the steps were jack-o-lanterns Grandy carved himself every year, and in each of the windows were cardboard witches and black cats and full orange moons with comic scowling faces.
The air drifted, wind coming.
Still watching the house, he allowed himself a brief smile for the nights when Grandy would grumble about the kids roving the street, about their vandalism, their lack of respect, their general cussed attitude for things that ought not to be mocked, ought to be remembered, ought to be revered. Yet every year, every holiday, the window invitations were dragged out of his closet, taped up, and accepted.
But he never asked Rusty for the once-a-year favor. Unlike the others, Grandy still had a hope.
Far down the street the brittle sound of voices—young voices laughing and giggling and calling. A door slamming. A car starting. Tires slowly crunching dead leaves and acorns. He glanced down at the floor to be sure the canvas sack was still there, let his left hand swing down to touch it, to be sure his eyes hadn’t lied.
Shadows then on the sidewalk, and low voices, one wondering about the dark house, the other saying, “Hush!”
He shifted his attention to a hunched shape paused at the gate, and to another running up the street, ghost-sheet flapping, a large shopping bag slapping at its legs.
“Evening, Rusty,” a man’s voice said.
“Evening, Mr. Paretti. Having a good time?”
The man laughed and lifted one hand in a you-know-how-it-is. “The kid’s going to wear me out if he keeps up like this.”
Rusty nodded.
“Maybe I’m just getting too old, you know? The kid’s got more energy than Oklahoma.”
Rusty nodded again. “Know what you mean.”
A car backfired in the distance, several times then just once.
In a sudden rise of wind the man sighed loudly. “And would you believe that just yesterday afternoon I was going to ground him forever because he busted a cellar window and didn’t tell me about it? Softball right through it, damn near knocked it off the hinges. I tell you, I don’t know how he does it, Rusty. He always picks the days he knows I’m going to be soft, you know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“It’s like he reads my mind or something.”
Rusty said nothing.
The moon lay silver patterns.
“Well,” Paretti said with a half-hearted chuckle. “1 suppose I ought to catch up. I’m going to freeze before too long, I think.”
“You keep moving, you keep warm.”
“Right,” the man agreed, and followed his ghost. “You moving tonight yourself?” he called back, voice oddly high.
“Soon enough,” Rusty answered softly, knowing he would be heard, and watched the man reach the corner and grab hold of the ghost’s shoulders, pull it close for a moment, and shake a gentle warning finger before shooing it onward, across the street to the next well-lit house.
The rocking chair creaked as he smiled and shook his head, creaked again when he brought one of his boots to the floor, then the other, before he put his hands on the railing and pulled himself up in a single heave. A deep breath. A swallow. A slight tug at his hat to pull the brim down.
He stepped away from the rocker, damning the cramp he felt stirring in his left calf. He kicked out and it was gone, but he didn’t feel much better. He was getting old. Every year a little older, every year a little slower. The fingers of his right hand brushed over his palm. Again. And again, harder. Until a faint burning cautioned him to stop and he slipped the hand into his pocket and moved to the top of the steps, leaned against the post, and watched the night.
Under the oak perhaps a plume of fog.
Not acknowledging the woman and four youngsters who hurried past the peeling white fence. Not breathing when one of them tugged at her coat and asked in a shrill voice why they didn’t stop at Mr. Long’s. She didn’t answer. But he could see the fearful white of her cheek when she glanced in his direction before rushing on.
Not yet, he told her without moving his lips; not yet, ma’am, not yet. Maybe sometime we’ll talk, but it’s not your time yet. Have a good evening. We’ll meet another year.
The wind steadied as he waited, just enough to ruffle the fall of white over his collar, just enough to tease the weakest leaves off their branches, into the gutter.
A station wagon, lights glaring, radio thumping, parked in front of a house three doors down. He couldn’t count how many costumes piled out and raced up the walk, and turned away from them when he saw they were only demons and comic book characters and one in a box painted silver, a robot.
He didn’t know them.
He waited.
Someone would come, the evening wasn’t done. There was plenty of time. There had always been time, it seemed, and patience a damning virtue.
Too old.
I’m getting too old, he thought, nearly bitter, not quite resigned, and for the first time that night wondered why he bothered. Nobody cared but those he served, nobody thanked him, nobody gave him gifts or shook his hand. And sooner or later someone was going to take his place. He knew it. As sure as he knew the sun would rise in the morning and he’d have another year to wait, and watch, and listen, and think, someone was going to come along and try to take bib place
Why the hell didn’t he just take Grandy’s advice? Just a few weeks ago, Vell had said, “Tell you something, Rusty, this damned house is getting too damned big, and I’m getting too damned old for this stuff. I got half a mind to sell it and live in one of them condo things. They got guards there, you know, and elevators. The one I saw, I took a ride over to Harley the other day, it’s got a swimming pool I could sit by and watch the ladies go around half naked.” He’d shaken his bald head and pulled out his pipe to stare unseeing at the bowl. “Trouble is. I leave it now and those kids’ll tear it apart.”
Rusty had said nothing, and Grandy Vell reached for the pouch that held his tobacco.
“Maybe,” Vell Said without looking at him, “someday we’ll talk.”
“You know where I live.”
Grandy only lit a match, and blinked when it blew out.
The wind a bit stronger, the sounds of children more fragile, and he took the steps down slowly, letting his heels crack, letting the spurs sound their warning. His arms were easy at his sides, his fingers slightly curled, and by the time he reached the gate
the rhythm was set, senses alert, and it was a smooth and silent motion when he slapped at his leg and whirled, snapping up his hand to point a gun-finger at the porch.
“Bang,” he said. And laughed. And made a slight sideways bow to the shape beneath the tree. “Don’t lose many, do I?” he said, and laughed again and wondered if maybe he wasn’t going crazy.
Someone giggled behind him.
He whirled again effortlessly and said, “Bang!” to Wendy Chambers, easily recognizable behind her burnt-cork hobo’s face by the thick glasses she had to wear, and the gleaming braces on her teeth, and the stub of her nose that invited fingers to touch.
“You’re funny,” she said, one tiny hand clamped to a battered fedora the wind tried to take.
“Just doing my job, little lady,” he told her with a grin. “Gotta keep this street safe from the bad guys, y’know. Don’t want ‘em bothering good folks like you.”
“Then shoot my brother,” she said, a hateful look over her shoulder. “He won’t let me walk with him. He says I’m too little.”
Rusty pushed back his hat and leaned on the gate. “What about your momma?”
“She yells a lot, but he still won’t listen. She said I should to talk to you. You going to spank him, Mr. Long? “My daddy used to before he died.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, finally nodded, and touched her shoulder. “He ever hit you? Your big brother, I mean, not your daddy.”
“Teddy always hits me,” she grumbled, one finger pushing her glasses back up her nose. “I don’t like him.”
He stared at her for a long time, watching the anger in her eyes, and the hurt, and the hope. Then he reached out and touched the tip of a finger to the tip of her nose.
She giggled again, and shivered, but she didn’t back away.
“All right,” he said. “You tell him I say he has to watch for you tonight, okay? You tell him I said that, or there’ll be trouble at the OK Corral.”