by Otto Penzler
“Duke wanted his scheme to have publicity, because, I imagine, he was about ready to close operations in New York. With Thea Rainey dead, he couldn’t stave off an investigation much longer. And when the investigation started, he’d be out from under. Then he meant to give the horror as much front page space as possible, so that when he started operations elsewhere under the same disguise, people would be afraid of him.
“He meant to use you, Barry, either as a victim or an ally. If you’d been frightened off at the graveyard—if you hadn’t come to the Club—you’d have been his chief character witness at an investigation. But you came, Barry—and you saved all of us who were left to save.”
I had been nodding as she explained, and suddenly I felt that my head wasn’t going to nod any more at my volition. I was really faint. I pulled up to a curb, explained, and let Bonny take the wheel.
“Dearest, what’s the matter?” she asked anxiously.
I said, “That darned clout on the head I took last night. Wonder if I should have it X-rayed.”
“No!” She almost shrieked at me. “Don’t—even—think of that word again!”
I HAD IT X-rayed, nevertheless, but there wasn’t anything wrong except a bump. Bonny doesn’t know about that. Our home life is about as harmonious as things human can be, but—I hope and pray neither of us needs an X-ray again! Because I still remember the look in Bonny’s violet eyes, when I mentioned the word. . . .
RICHARD (BURTON) MATHESON (1926– ) was born in Allendale, New Jersey, then moved to Brooklyn, New York. He joined the army in World War II, serving in the infantry. He received a B.A. in journalism from the University of Missouri and then moved to California, where he became a prolific writer of short stories, novels, and screenplays.
His work has frequently served as the basis for television and theatrically released films, including Duel (1971), Steven Spielberg’s first film, a made-for-TV movie about a sadistic trucker who terrorizes an innocent driver; The Night Stalker (1972), which won an Edgar Award for Best Teleplay; and episodes of numerous series, including The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, Night Gallery, and some of The Twilight Zone’s most memorable programs. Feature films based on his work include his own screenplay for The Shrinking Man (1956, filmed as The Incredible Shrinking Man in 1957), Hell House (1971, filmed as The Legend of Hell House in 1973), and, most famously, I Am Legend (1954, filmed as The Last Man on Earth in 1964, The Omega Man in 1971, I Am Legend in 2007, and which inspired George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead in 1968).
His son, (Richard) Christian Matheson (1953– ), has become one of the stars of the horror genre, producing the novel Created By (1993), the short-story collections Scars and Other Distinguishing Marks (1987) and Dystopia (2000), and a short-story and teleplay collaboration with his father, Pride (2002). Among his numerous credits for television series are as story editor for episodes of Quincy, M.E. and The A-Team, and as writer of scores of episodes for such series as Amazing Stories, The A-Team, Knight Rider, The Incredible Hulk, and Three’s Company.
“Where There’s a Will” was originally published in Dark Forces: New Stories of Suspense and Supernatural Horror, edited by Kirby McCauley (New York: Viking, 1980).
HE AWOKE.
It was dark and cold. Silent.
I’m thirsty, he thought. He yawned and sat up; fell back with a cry of pain. He’d hit his head on something. He rubbed at the pulsing tissue of his brow, feeling the ache spread back to his hairline.
Slowly, he began to sit up again but hit his head once more. He was jammed between the mattress and something overhead. He raised his hands to feel it. It was soft and pliable, its texture yielding beneath the push of his fingers. He felt along its surface. It extended as far as he could reach. He swallowed anxiously and shivered.
What in God’s name was it?
He began to roll to his left and stopped with a gasp. The surface was blocking him there, as well. He reached to his right and his heart beat faster. It was on the other side, as well. He was surrounded on four sides. His heart compressed like a smashed soft-drink can, the blood spurting a hundred times faster.
Within seconds, he sensed that he was dressed. He felt trousers, a coat, a shirt and tie, a belt. There were shoes on his feet.
He slid his right hand to his trouser pocket and reached in. He palmed a cold, metal square and pulled his hand from the pocket, bringing it to his face. Fingers trembling, he hinged the top open and spun the wheel with his thumb. A few sparks glinted but no flame. Another turn and it lit.
He looked down at the orange cast of his body and shivered again. In the light of the flame, he could see all around himself.
He wanted to scream at what he saw.
He was in a casket.
He dropped the lighter and the flame striped the air with a yellow tracer before going out. He was in total darkness, once more. He could see nothing. All he heard was his terrified breathing as it lurched forward, jumping from his throat.
How long had he been here? Minutes? Hours?
Days?
His hopes lunged at the possibility of a nightmare; that he was only dreaming, his sleeping mind caught in some kind of twisted vision. But he knew it wasn’t so. He knew, horribly enough, exactly what had happened.
They had put him in the one place he was terrified of. The one place he had made the fatal mistake of speaking about to them. They couldn’t have selected a better torture. Not if they’d thought about it for a hundred years.
God, did they loathe him that much? To do this to him?
He started shaking helplessly, then caught himself. He wouldn’t let them do it. Take his life and his business all at once? No, goddamn them, no!
He searched hurriedly for the lighter. That was their mistake, he thought. Stupid bastards. They’d probably thought it was a final, fitting irony: A gold-engraved thank you for making the corporation what it was. On the lighter were the words:
TO CHARLIE
WHERE THERE’S A WILL . . .
“Right,” he muttered. He’d beat the lousy sons of bitches. They weren’t going to murder him and steal the business he owned and built. There was a will.
His.
He closed his fingers around the lighter and, holding it with a white-knuckled fist, lifted it above the heaving of his chest. The wheel ground against the flint as he spun it back with his thumb. The flame caught and he quieted his breathing as he surveyed what space he had in the coffin.
Only inches on all four sides.
How much air could there be in so small a space, he wondered? He clicked off the lighter. Don’t burn it up, he told himself. Work in the dark.
Immediately, his hands shot up and he tried to push the lid up. He pressed as hard as he could, his forearms straining. The lid remained fixed. He closed both hands into tightly balled fists and pounded them against the lid until he was coated with perspiration, his hair moist.
He reached down to his left trouser pocket and pulled out a chain with two keys attached. They had placed those with him, too. Stupid bastards. Did they really think he’d be so terrified he couldn’t think? Another amusing joke on their part. A way to lock up his life completely. He wouldn’t need the keys to his car and to the office again so why not put them in the casket with him?
Wrong, he thought. He would use them again.
Bringing the keys above his face, he began to pick at the lining with the sharp edge of one key. He tore through the threads and began to rip apart the lining. He pulled at it with his fingers until it popped free from its fastenings. Working quickly, he pulled the downy stuffing, tugging it free and placing it at his sides. He tried not to breathe too hard. The air had to be preserved.
He flicked on the lighter and looking at the cleared area, above, knocked against it with the knuckles of his free hand. He sighed with relief. It was oak not metal. Another mistake on their part. He smiled with contempt. It was easy to see why he had always been so far ahead of them.
“Stupid bastards,�
�� he muttered, as he stared at the thick wood. Gripping the keys together firmly, he began to dig their serrated edges against the oak. The flame of the lighter shook as he watched small pieces of the lid being chewed off by the gouging of the keys. Fragment after fragment fell. The lighter kept going out and he had to spin the flint over and over, repeating each move, until his hands felt numb. Fearing that he would use up the air, he turned the lighter off again, and continued to chisel at the wood, splinters of it falling on his neck and chin.
His arm began to ache.
He was losing strength. Wood no longer coming off as steadily. He laid the keys on his chest and flicked on the lighter again. He could see only a tattered path of wood where he had dug but it was only inches long. It’s not enough, he thought. It’s not enough.
He slumped and took a deep breath, stopping halfway through. The air was thinning. He reached up and pounded against the lid.
“Open this thing, goddammit,” he shouted, the veins in his neck rising beneath the skin. “Open this thing and let me out!”
I’ll die if I don’t do something more, he thought.
They’ll win.
His face began to tighten. He had never given up before. Never. And they weren’t going to win. There was no way to stop him once he made up his mind.
He’d show those bastards what willpower was.
Quickly, he took the lighter in his right hand and turned the wheel several times. The flame rose like a streamer, fluttering back and forth before his eyes. Steadying his left arm with his right, he held the flame to the casket wood and began to scorch the ripped grain.
He breathed in short, shallow breaths, smelling the butane and wood odor as it filled the casket. The lid started to speckle with tiny sparks as he ran the flame along the gouge. He held it to one spot for several moments then slid it to another spot. The wood made faint crackling sounds.
Suddenly, a flame formed on the surface of the wood. He coughed as the burning oak began to produce grey pulpy smoke. The air in the casket continued to thin and he felt his lungs working harder. What air was available tasted like gummy smoke, as if he were lying in a horizontal smokestack. He felt as though he might faint and his body began to lose feeling.
Desperately, he struggled to remove his shirt, ripping several of the buttons off. He tore away part of the shirt and wrapped it around his right hand and wrist. A section of the lid was beginning to char and had become brittle. He slammed his swathed fist and forearm against the smoking wood and it crumbled down on him, glowing embers falling on his face and neck. His arms scrambled frantically to slap them out. Several burned his chest and palms and he cried out in pain.
Now a portion of the lid had become a glowing skeleton of wood, the heat radiating downward at his face. He squirmed away from it, turning his head to avoid the falling pieces of wood. The casket was filled with smoke and he could breathe only the choking, burning smell of it. He coughed, his throat hot and raw. Fine-powder ash filled his mouth and nose as he pounded at the lid with his wrapped fist. Come on, he thought. Come on.
“Come on!” he screamed.
The section of lid gave suddenly and fell around him. He slapped at his face, neck and chest but the hot particles sizzled on his skin and he had to bear the pain as he tried to smother them.
The embers began to darken, one by one and now he smelled something new and strange. He searched for the lighter at his side, found it, and flicked it on.
He shuddered at what he saw.
Moist, root-laden soil packed firmly overhead.
Reaching up, he ran his fingers across it. In the flickering light, he saw burrowing insects and the whiteness of earthworms, dangling inches from his face. He drew down as far as he could, pulling his face from their wriggling movements.
Unexpectedly, one of the larvae pulled free and dropped. It fell to his face and its jelly-like casing stuck to his upper lip. His mind erupted with revulsion and he thrust both hands upward, digging at the soil. He shook his head wildly as the larva were thrown off. He continued to dig, the dirt falling in on him. It poured into his nose and he could barely breathe. It stuck to his lips and slipped into his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly but could feel it clumping on the lids. He held his breath as he pistoned his hands upward and forward like a maniacal digging machine. He eased his body up, a little at a time, letting the dirt collect under him. His lungs were laboring, hungry for air. He didn’t dare open his eyes. His fingers became raw from digging, nails bent backward on several fingers, breaking off. He couldn’t even feel the pain or the running blood but knew the dirt was being stained by its flow. The pain in his arms and lungs grew worse with each passing second until shearing agony filled his body. He continued to press himself upward, pulling his feet and knees closer to his chest. He began to wrestle himself into a kind of spasmed crouch, hands above his head, upper arms gathered around his face. He clawed fiercely at the dirt which gave way with each shoveling gouge of his fingers. Keep going, he told himself. Keep going. He refused to lose control. Refused to stop and die in the earth. He bit down hard, his teeth nearly breaking from the tension of his jaws. Keep going, he thought. Keep going! He pushed up harder and harder, dirt cascading over his body, gathering in his hair and on his shoulders. Filth surrounded him. His lungs felt ready to burst. It seemed like minutes since he’d taken a breath. He wanted to scream from his need for air but couldn’t. His fingernails began to sting and throb, exposed cuticles and nerves rubbing against the granules of dirt. His mouth opened in pain and was filled with dirt, covering his tongue and gathering in his throat. His gag reflex jumped and he began retching, vomit and dirt mixing as it exploded from his mouth. His head began to empty of life as he felt himself breathing in more dirt, dying of asphyxiation. The clogging dirt began to fill his air passages, the beat of his heart doubled. I’m losing! he thought in anguish.
Suddenly, one finger thrust up through the crust of earth. Unthinkingly, he moved his hand like a trowel and drove it through to the surface. Now, his arms went crazy, pulling and punching at the dirt until an opening expanded. He kept thrashing at the opening, his entire system glutted with dirt. His chest felt as if it would tear down the middle.
Then his arms were poking themselves out of the grave and within several seconds he had managed to pull his upper body from the ground. He kept pulling, hooking his shredded fingers into the earth and sliding his legs from the hole. They yanked out and he lay on the ground completely, trying to fill his lungs with gulps of air. But no air could get through the dirt which had collected in his windpipe and mouth. He writhed on the ground, turning on his back and side until he’d finally raised himself to a forward kneel and began hacking phlegm-covered mud from his air passages. Black saliva ran down his chin as he continued to throw up violently, dirt falling from his mouth to the ground. When most of it was out he began to gasp, as oxygen rushed into his body, cool air filling his body with life.
I’ve won, he thought. I’ve beaten the bastards, beaten them! He began to laugh in victorious rage until his eyes pried open and he looked around, rubbing at his blood-covered lids. He heard the sound of traffic, and blinding lights glared at him. They crisscrossed on his face, rushing at him from left and right. He winced, struck dumb by their glare, then realized where he was.
The cemetery by the highway.
Cars and trucks roared back and forth, tires humming. He breathed a sigh at being near life again; near movement and people. A grunting smile raised his lips.
Looking to his right, he saw a gas-station sign high on a metal pole several hundred yards up the highway.
Struggling to his feet, he ran.
As he did, he made a plan. He would go to the station, wash up in the rest room, then borrow a dime and call for a limo from the company to come and get him. No. Better a cab. That way he could fool those sons of bitches. Catch them by surprise. They undoubtedly assumed he was long gone by now. Well, he had beat them. He knew it as he picked up the pace of his run. Nob
ody could stop you when you really wanted something, he told himself, glancing back in the direction of the grave he had just escaped.
He ran into the station from the back and made his way to the bathroom. He didn’t want anyone to see his dirtied, bloodied state.
There was a pay phone in the bathroom and he locked the door before plowing into his pocket for change. He found two pennies and a quarter and deposited the silver coin. They’d even provided him with money, he thought; the stupid bastards.
He dialed his wife.
She answered and screamed when he told her what had happened. She screamed and screamed. What a hideous joke, she said. Whoever was doing this was making a hideous joke. She hung up before he could stop her. He dropped the phone and turned to face the bathroom mirror.
He couldn’t even scream. He could only stare in silence.
Staring back at him was a face that was missing sections of flesh. Its skin was grey, and withered yellow bone showed through.
Then he remembered what else his wife had said and began to weep. His shock began to turn to hopeless fatalism.
It had been over seven months, she’d said.
Seven months.
He looked at himself in the mirror again, and realized there was nowhere he could go.
And, somehow all he could think about was the engraving on his lighter.
THE POWERFUL PROSE of the fantasy and science fiction by Michael Swanwick (1950– ) has earned the Philadelphia-based author numerous prizes and accolades. After his first two books, In the Drift (1985), a speculation about the results of a greater Three Mile Island meltdown, and Vacuum Flowers (1987), in which people from Earth tour an inhabited solar system, his next five novels have all been honored. Stations of the Tide (1991), in which a planet of magicians and conjurers is threatened both by tidal waves (which recur every two centuries) and an evil genius who wants to control them, won the Nebula and was nominated for John W. Campbell and Arthur C. Clarke awards; The Iron Dragon’s Daughter (1993), a fantasy set in a world in which the laws of magic and technology coexist, was nominated for Arthur C. Clarke, Locus, and World Fantasy awards; Jack Faust (1997), a retelling of Goethe’s Faust legend in which Jack Faust is given the gift of technology, was nominated for British Science Fiction Association, Hugo, and Locus awards; Bones of the Earth (2002), which features time travel and the return of dinosaurs to Earth, was nominated for Nebula, Hugo, Locus, and John W. Campbell awards; and The Dragons of Babel (2008), set in the same milieu as The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, was a Locus nominee. His short stories have won five Hugos (“The Very Pulse of the Machine,” 1998; “Scherzo with Tyrannosaur,” 1999; “The Dog Said Bow-Wow,” 2001; “Slow Life,” 2002; and “Legions in Time,” 2003) as well as two Nebula nominations.