The Best New Horror 1

by Stephen Jones

He hit the side of the basket again. The message was clear.

  John and Julie stood quite still.

  The screech of a Parade Day whistle rang round the building. Everybody froze where they stood. The air filled with whispers and urgent hushes. Even the peak cap forgot his bullying and looked upwards. A synthesised Trumpet Voluntary stabbed the air, followed by an excited female voice:

  “Brought to you by the Tomorrow chain of stores, it’s—HURRY UP TIME!”

  The sound of a drum roll flowed into a bouncing disco beat.

  There were cheers.

  Above this, the voice continued its frenzied announcement.

  “Even now, at this very minute, our friendly store staff at the Tomorrow chain are marking the star reduction of the hour. What will it be, folks—”

  The crowd began its soft murmur, a swell of excitement surged within the mall.

  “The Akoni, fully digital, talking towel rail.”

  A cry of awe and wonder escaped from every mouth like the release of a pressure valve.

  “And—the first dozen sold, I repeat, the first dozen only, will have the rail personalised to speak their name.”

  The buzz of approval broke into pockets of discussion.

  “The offer is only available in Tomorrow stores on levels 5, 7 and 12. Remember “Every Hour on the Hour with Hurry Up”. Now off you go and—quiiiickkkkly now!”

  The electronic twang of a synthesised note bounced through with perfect timing, a low bass riff bringing the melody to a conclusion. An elderly woman further down the balcony cried out in an ecstatic wail:

  “I MUST have one! I MUST have one!”

  The shoppers broke into a mad directionless swarm.

  The peaked cap man disappeared, swept away like a bad dream. Mrs Anderson put her arms protectively around John and Julie as people hurried by. A burst of bongos and a chorus of silver tongues sang to a bossa nova beat:

  Can you live without your creature comforts,

  Can you afford to let good buys pass by,

  If you’ve a sharp eye for a bargain,

  Keep on shopping and let time drift by.

  Come on let’s Hurry on Up.

  Quiiiickkkkkllly now!

  The crowd around her responded with a cry of “Keep on shopping!” as an army of fists shot into the air in time with the jingle.

  Mrs Anderson trembled. She couldn’t move, frozen with the fear of having to mingle with these people. This was evil. Pure undiluted greed.

  Down on the ground floor a small group of blue-shirted men, wearing shades and peaked caps, were talking. It was obvious that they had some sort of security role. One of them looked up at her. She shivered.

  They had to get out.

  Julie had begun to cry. John, it seemed, had been struck dumb. He didn’t know whether to laugh or not. Deep down he was fascinated.

  “Now listen kids,” Mrs Anderson spoke slowly but firmly as she walked them towards the exits. “This place isn’t for us. It’s too busy. Just do as Mummy says, we’re going to go back to the car.”

  The first throb of the crowd had moved on. It was now much easier to get through to the other side of the balcony. They moved amongst the anxious empty faces.

  From a doorway next to the car-park doors stepped the security guard bully.

  “Damn, damn,” said Mrs Anderson.

  She manoeuvred John on to Julie’s arm and grabbed an abandoned trolley. They changed direction, wheeling the trolley slowly towards another pair of doors set back between the first cluster of shops. Occasionally the wheels would stick in small cracks and crevices between the paving slabs. Mrs Anderson would stop and casually ease the trolley up and out of the fissure, but with eyes locked firmly on the swing doors.

  Just as they passed Antrobus Electronics a large cardboard box suddenly fell into her basket. Behind the box had been a small balding man with a round pink face. He wore an outsize scruffy raincoat and his tie had been pulled up round his collar. Sweat trickled down his face as he drew breath in heavy laboured pants.

  “I . . . I . . . I’m so sorry.” He struggled to regain his speech. “I just didn’t see you. I’ve got . . . to get this to Level 8 to deposit .. got to. We’ve bought three.”

  He took out a crumpled grey handkerchief from his raincoat pocket and dabbed his face. His eyes bulged, nervously trying to take in everything about him.

  “It was very . . . cheap. They’ve still got some left I think . . . Electro-land, just over there. We might even . . . be able to get a couple more with a credit disc.”

  Mrs Anderson’s nails dug into the red grip of the trolley. The neon shop signs began to blur and dance. She clenched her teeth, and a voice inside her head told her to hold on and act like one of them. With a blink she opened her eyes wide, becoming a talking doll.

  “That’s all right. I wasn’t looking where I was going. What is it you’ve bought? It is nice, I must get one too.”

  The man pushed his handkerchief deep inside his pocket and embraced the box.

  “Thank you, thank you. Shopping is so good, so good. It’s a CBC Television. Super “Voice Activated” in seductive ebony and pink.”

  The word “pink” was muffled by the box as it fell towards his face. He scuttled away mumbling, “It’s mine,” as he went.

  Mrs Anderson wondered why he had bought three televisions and what he would do with five.

  The shops on this side of the balcony all seemed to be concerned with electrical goods. Mountains of food processors, toasters, home computers and the like were neatly stacked in blocks which poured out on to the walkway. Inside the brightly lit shops eager salesmen took plastic cards, credit discs, and asked for signatures in a continual loop of:

  “Certainly, sir. Top of the range. Special this week. Certainly, sir. Please sign here.”

  The Andersons soon found themselves before an alcove which led to yet another large pair of oval-eyed doors. Just as Mrs Anderson pushed the door inwards, a tall blonde woman with half-frame spectacles charged through from the other side. She stopped and looked directly down her nose and into the trolley. She wore a bright blue badge bearing the message “Keep on Shopping”. She made a clicking sound with her tongue.

  Piercing blue eyes held Mrs Anderson, pinning her to the spot.

  “That will never do. You must do better than that. How do you expect to keep the country on its feet, eh? Tell me that. If you’ve run out of money it’s simple, go to Level 8, two hundred credit ranges to choose from. You’re privileged to be here, you know! We all have to do our bit when we first arrive. Off you go now. Keep on shopping.”

  She did not have a trolley, but held a clipboard and a wedge of credit-card coupons. She vanished into the crowd.

  That was it! Enough was enough.

  Mrs Anderson grabbed the children by the hands and rushed through the swing doors.

  They stopped dead in their tracks.

  They had entered a short brightly lit corridor. There was only one way out and that was into the open mouth of a steel grey lift.

  She thought quickly. They were on the bottom floor, the lift could only go up. To hell with it, they had to get out. The car could be collected later, Bob could do it. They would go straight to the exit on Level 8 and leave.

  Mrs Anderson pushed the children into the lift, the doors closed politely behind them. She saw only one illuminated square: 8. She pressed it. They could not be certain at first that the lift was moving. It shuddered, then an increasing whine could be heard.

  They were startled by a loud hiss which came from the ceiling. A tape had started which was obviously worn and ran at varying speeds.

  “Hiiii therrr, since you’rrrre visiting Level 8 call in on the Credit Forever counselling centrrrrre. Unit 199. Remember, Unit 199. Keeeep orrrrn shopping.”

  A fuzz of hard guitar chords and erratically crashing cymbals provided a background to another jingle:

  Credit Forever is fast and quick,

  Credit Forever will do
the trick,

  Buying things is kinda’ fun,

  Brings life’s essentials to everyone!

  At this point the cymbals wowed for several seconds and the hiss stopped.

  A light above the door flashed 8.

  When the lift yawned open a short corridor which mirrored the one on Level 12 greeted them. Mrs Anderson pulled the children down the passage and through the now familiar double doors. They stepped out on to another balcony.

  The layout was frighteningly familiar too, but here the balcony did not overlook a central arena. Instead there was a vast space. Mrs Anderson rushed to the balcony rail and looked over.

  She immediately pulled her head away.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “it’s not possible, do they go on for ever?”

  She looked up.

  Everything swam.

  Above her she counted seven huge concrete bands, each bustling with noise and activity. These were Levels 7 to 1, capped by a huge dark blue dome which seemed to sit above the last balcony. Again she looked down. She could make out other balconies and shopping chains. Lights flashed from the shops and various jingles spilled over into the abyss. Shafts of light crossed from one level to another. Many projected down and down and down.

  It had to be an optical effect.

  A blue-sleeved arm pulled her from the rail. She cried out as she caught her reflection in a large pair of drop shades.

  “Are you all right? We don’t want any “leapers”. Ruins the shopping for some,” he said.

  He grinned, revealing a pattern of brilliant white and gold teeth (a Government perk). They alternated perfectly.

  “Do you want credit?”

  He nodded towards the long row of counters. The Andersons had stopped where the electrical shops had been on Level 12.

  Mrs Anderson swallowed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  “No, no thank you. Where is the exit, please?”

  The grin vanished. The face said nothing for a moment.

  “The exit?”

  “Yes! Yes.”

  He did not seem to understand the question. Then the teeth appeared again.

  “Oh, you mean the exit to the levels. To and from.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, nodding furiously, “the exits!”

  She would nod at anything. She just wanted to get away.

  “Well, that’s easy. Through those doors. That’ll get you through to the lanes.”

  He pointed to a pair of yellow doors set back from the front of a Consumer Comfort Bank. Through the oval eyes she could make out the dim glow of the carpark lighting.

  She mouthed a word of thanks and pulled the children. John’s arm resisted the tug. She looked round. He was looking up at the guard. A smile glowed from his face.

  “Keep on shopping,” he said.

  The guard smiled back.

  They were the first words that John had spoken.

  Julie laughed and repeated the words.

  “Yes! Keep on shopping!” Then she giggled coyly.

  “Nice kids,” said the guard.

  Mrs Anderson’s heart leapt into her mouth. She almost gagged. She pulled harder, dragging the children towards the oval eyes of the doors. A voice called out behind her.

  “Hey! The lift is easier, you know!”

  Once through the double swing doors she fell back against the wall and closed her eyes. She shook with sobs as the sound echoed mockingly back across the car park.

  Through the tears came distorted shapes and colours. The sign she had noticed when they had first arrived was still there.

  But there was something wrong with it.

  YOUR PIECE OF MIND IS OUR PIECE OF MIND.

  There were signs that indicated DOWN to Level 9, or UP to Level 7. Signs that indicated which EXIT lane to which level. Signs that told you where the lift or EXIT to the balcony was. But there was nothing which read WAY OUT, or just plain EXIT.

  She began to take the EXIT lane to Level 9.

  The children walked behind her, perfectly in step.

  Their eyes were glazed and they smiled, quietly humming “Credit Forever”.

  Twenty minutes later they were all sitting in the car. Mrs Anderson crouched over the steering wheel. The air was hot and sticky. Had the storm finished? She was trying to remain calm, but it was difficult. She had driven back up to Level 8, but everything looked different and she had been unable to find a way out. The car had somehow got into the wrong lane.

  They were now at Level 10 having already been to the top and back. There must be another route out. Level 12 had to lead to a special exit lane, she had heard of something similar in the south-western multi-storeys. You had to drive through all the floors to get out. That must be it, mustn’t it?

  She pushed the accelerator down to the floor. The engine screamed.

  She bit down hard on her tongue, her eyes fixed on the LEVEL 11 arrow.

  With a roar the car catapulted down the ramp to Level 11.

  Tyres tore as the white estate sought Level 12.

  Almost unconsciously the car discovered EXIT TO LEVEL 13.

  “Level 13?” she gasped.

  Then she laughed.

  And the children laughed.

  Radio Mall One was really quite good after a while. It was the only radio station which the car’s receiver would pick up, but that was perfectly understandable, being in a huge concrete car park.

  There would be lots of “give-away” prizes with the hologram photograph demonstration at 7 p.m. on Level 2. She thought that sounded like fun.

  There would also be free Radio Mall One T-shirts. Her hands were dry, her eyes bright and shining.

  After an hour they had all learnt the words to the Hurry Up Song:

  “Can you live without your creature comforts?”

  A pretty tune. All three had sung it together, Julie had even made up a new verse. They would send that in.

  They also knew the salute to “Keep on shopping”. Might as well carry on until the petrol ran out. Curiosity really. A shopping Mall could be so welcoming. So warm.

  After they left the EXIT lane from Level 50, the car slipped on to Level 1 again.

  And again . . .

  STEVE RASNIC TEM

  Carnal House

  STEVE RASNIC TEM was born in Pennington Gap, Virginia, in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. He currently lives with his wife, the writer Melanie Tem, and children in a supposedly haunted Victorian house in Denver, Colorado.

  He has contributed literally hundreds of stories and poems to small press magazines and anthologies, and forthcoming fiction includes tales in Tim Sullivan’s Cold Shocks, Robert Bloch’s Psycho Paths, Charles L. Grant’s Greystone Bay 3 and 4, Bill Pronzini’s western anthology New Frontiers 2 and Fantasy Tales. In 1991, Rosemary Pardoe’s Haunted Library will be publishing a booklet of five new traditional ghost stories entitled Absences: Charlie Goode’s Ghosts.

  The title of the story which follows aptly sums up its theme.

  GENE’S phone rang again, the third time that evening. “Yes?” he asked again, as if the very ring were his name.

  “Are you coming over, Gene? Could you come over?”

  He held back any immediate reaction. He didn’t want her to hear him sigh, or groan. He didn’t want her to hear the catch he knew was waiting in his throat.

  “Ruth,” he said.

  “Who else would it be?” she said, as if in accusation.

  For just a second he felt like defying her, telling her about Jennie. The impulse chilled him. She couldn’t know about Jennie. Not ever. “No other woman,” he finally said.

  She was silent for a time, but he knew she was still there. He could hear the wind worrying at the yellowed windowshade in her bedroom. Her window would be closed, he knew, but it would leak badly. There would be a draft that went right through the skin. But none of that would bother her.

  “Come over, Gene,” she finally said.

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

&nbs
p; “I’ll wait,” she said, as if there were a choice. He hung up the phone.

  The house was at the end of a long back street on the west end of town. It was one of the oldest in the area, its lines ornate, archaic, and free of the various remodeling fads that had passed through this neighborhood over the years. Gene had always appreciated the dignity of the Victorian style.

  But he also knew that Victorians could be extraordinarily ugly, and this house was a perfect representative of that type. The exterior color seemed to be a mix of dark blue, dark green, and gray, which resulted in a burnt stew of a shade, a rotting vegetable porridge. The paint had been thickly applied, splatters and drips of it so complicating the porch lines and filigreed braces under the roof that they looked like dark, coated spiderwebs. The windows and doors were shadowed rectangles; he couldn’t make out their details from the street.

  All but a few of the houses along this tree-shadowed lane were abandoned. Some were boarded up, some burned out, some so overgrown with wild bushes and vines and weeds they were virtually impenetrable. Here and there a few houses had been torn down, the lots given over to bramble gardens or refuse heaps. And in the occasional house a light burned behind a yellowed shade, its tenders hidden.

  Gene stood on the porch of her house for a very long time. He could feel Ruth inside that dark place, perhaps lying quietly on stiff white sheets, perhaps sitting up, motionless, listening. He imagined her listening a great deal these days, her entire body focused on the heartbeats of the mice in the corners, the night birds outside in the crooked trees. He imagined that focus broadening to include the systemic pulse of the moths beating against the dim bulb of the lone streetlight on the corner, the roaches crawling over the linoleum next door, his own nervous tics as he stood on this porch, hesitant to go in.

  He imagined Jennie in a dark house like this, at the end of some other god-forsaken street, waiting, her eyes forced open, waiting for him. And he hated himself for imagining it.

  At first he had been so pleased that Jennie had kicked the habit. He’d seen it as a cleansing when she’d gone through the house in a rage, looking for needles, spoons, all that other paraphernalia she’d always carefully kept hidden. But now she’d been ill for months. She wouldn’t tell him what it was; she didn’t have to. She would no longer make love to him. Last night she had refused to kiss him. And cleanliness to the point of sterility had become an obsession. They didn’t talk about it.