Sure. And leave the thing in here? You come back and can’t even find it.
I’ve gotta kill the bastard.
He lurched sideways as the creature sprang off the arm of the couch. He was almost fast enough. But he felt a sudden small tug on his robe, and yelped. The thing was hanging by its claws near the bottom of the robe, starting to climb. Paul threw open his cloth belt. He twirled to swing the beast away from his body, and jerked the robe off his shoulders. It dropped down his arms.
He let go of the poker so his sleeve wouldn’t hang up on it. The poker thumped against the carpet. With one hand, he gave the robe a small fling. It fell to a heap, covering the beast.
He snatched up the poker. For just an instant, he considered beating the robe with the iron bar. But the rod was so thin, he’d be lucky to hit the beast.
Squealing “SHIT!” he sprang onto the cloth bundle with both feet. He jumped up and down on it. Shivers scurried up his legs. He felt as if cold fingers were tickling his scrotum. The skin on his back prickled. He thought he could feel the hair rising on the nape of his neck. But he stayed on the robe, dancing on it, driving his heels at the floor.
Until his right heel struck a bulge.
He screeched, “Yaaaah!” and leaped off.
He whirled around, poker high, and bent down ready to strike.
The robe was too thick, too rumbled, for Paul to locate the lump he’d just stomped.
Gotta be dead, he thought. I smashed it. Smashed it good.
Then he realized he hadn’t actually felt it squish.
He whacked the robe with his poker. Stared at it. The rod had left a long, straight dent across the heap. Nothing moved. He struck again. The second blow puffed up the old dent and pounded a new one close to where it’d been. He struck a few more times, but never felt the rod hit anything except the robe and the floor.
Paul stepped a little farther away, then leaned forward and stretched out his arm. He slipped the tip of the poker under a lapel, jostled it until a heavy flap of the rob was hooked, then slowly lifted.
The blanketed area of carpet shrank as he raised the robe higher.
No creature.
Then the end of the robe was swaying above the carpet, covering nothing at all.
Still no creature.
It came scurrying down the slim rod of the poker toward his hand.
Paul screamed.
He hurled the weapon and ran.
Racing up the Applegate’s driveway toward the rear of his house, Joan wondered if she should try next door. An older couple lived there. She didn’t actually know them. Besides, they might be dead, same as Applegate.
And what if they didn’t have a gun?
Applegate had plenty. That, she knew. She and Paul had been in his house just once—enough to find out that he was not their kind of person. A Republican, for godsake! A beer-swilling reactionary with the mean, narrow mind of his ilk. Anti-abortion, anti-women’s rights, big on capital punishment and the nuclear deterrent. Everything that she and Paul despised.
But he did have guns. His home was an arsenal.
Dashing around the corner of his house, Joan spotted a rake on the back lawn. It had been left carelessly on the grass, tines upward. She ran into the yard and grabbed it up, then swung around and rushed across the concrete patio.
She skidded to a halt at the sliding glass door. With the handle of the rake, she punched through the glass. Shards burst inward, fell and clinked to the floor, leaving a sharp-edged hole the size of a fist. Reaching through the hole, she unlatched the door. When she pulled her hand out, a fang of glass ripped the back of it.
She muttered, “Fuck.”
Not much more than a scratch, really. But blood started welling out.
I’m ruining myself, she thought. But then she remembered how Applegate had looked, remembered Paul scampering over the couch with that little monster on his heels.
He could end up like Joe if I don’t hurry, she told herself.
Why doesn’t he get the fuck out of the house?
Deciding to ignore her bleeding hand, Joan wrenched open the door. It rumbled on its runners. She swept it wide, and entered Applegate’s den to the left of the broken glass.
There was the gun rack on the other side of the room. She hurried toward it, holding the rake ready and watching the floor.
What if Applegate hadn’t been killed by one of those horrible things? Just because we’ve got one . . . Maybe he was murdered and the killer’s still . . .
One of those horrible things scurried out from under a chair and darted straight for Joan’s feet.
She whipped the rake down.
Got it!
The tines didn’t pierce its slimy flesh, but the monster seemed to be trapped between two of the iron teeth.
Joan dropped the rake.
She rushed to the gun rack. A ghastly thing with the weapons resting on what appeared to be the hooves of deer or stags. Wrinkling her nose, she grabbed the bottom weapon. A double-barreled shot-gun?
She whirled around with it just as the monster slithered free of the rake tines.
Clamping the stock against her side, she swung the muzzle toward the thing, thumbed back one of the hammers, and pulled the front trigger.
The blast crashed in her ears.
The shotgun lurched as if it wanted to rip her hands off.
The middle of the rake handle exploded.
So did the monster. It blew apart in a gust of red and splashed across the hardwood floor.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Joan muttered.
Then, she smiled.
Paul slammed the bathroom door. He thumbed in the lock button.
An instant later, he flinched as the thing struck the other side of the door.
Just let it try and get me now, he thought.
Then came quiet, crunching sounds. Splintering sounds.
“Bastard!” he yelled, and kicked the bottom of the door.
He pictured the beast on the other side, its tiny teeth ripping out slivers of wood.
If only he hadn’t lost the poker, he could crush its head when it came through.
Rushing to the cabinet, he searched for a weapon. His Schick took injector blades. They’d be no use at all. He grabbed a pair of toenail scissors. Better than nothing. But he knew he couldn’t bring himself to kneel down and ambush the thing. Not with scissors four inches long.
If only he had a gun.
If only the cops would show up.
He wondered whether Joan had managed to call them yet. She’d had plenty of time to reach a neighbor’s phone. Applegate himself might come charging over with one of his guns, if she went to his place.
The door rattled quietly in its frame as the creature continued to burrow through.
There must be something useful in here!
The waste basket! Trap the thing under it!
Paul crouched for the waste basket. Wicker. Shit! They’d had a heavy plastic one until a couple of weeks ago when Joan saw this at Pier One. The bastard would chomp its way out in about a second.
He looked at the bottom of the door, and two tiny splits appeared. A bit of wood the width of a Popsicle stick bulged, cracked at the top, and started to rise.
He heard a faint boom like a car backfiring in the distance.
The flap of wood broke and fell off. The snout of the beast poked out.
Paul whirled. He rushed to the bathtub and climbed over the ledge. The bathmat draped the side of the tub. He flipped it to the floor.
The shower curtain was bunched at the far end, hanging inside.
With no rug or shower curtain to climb, the thing couldn’t get at him.
He hoped.
I don’t care how good it is, he thought, it can’t climb the outside of the tub.
“Just try,” he muttered as the thing scurried across the tile floor. It stopped on the bathmat and looked up at him. It seemed to grin. It sprang and Paul yelped. But the leap was short. The beast thumped against
the side inches from the top. Its forelegs raced, claws clittering against the enamel for a moment. Then it dropped. Its rump thumped the mat. As it keeled backward, it flipped over and landed on its feet.
Paul bit down on the scissors. He crouched. With both hands, he twisted the faucets. Water gushed from the spout. As it splashed around his feet, he stoppered the drain. He took the scissors from his mouth, stood up straight and looked at the floor beside the tub.
The beast was gone.
Where . . .?
The waste basket tipped over, spilling out wads of pink tissue. It began rolling toward the tub.
“Think you’re smart, huh?” Paul said. He let out a laugh. He pumped his legs, splashing water up around his shins and calves. “BUT CAN YOU SWIM? HUH? HOW’S YOUR BACKSTROKE, YOU LITTLE SHIT?”
The waste basket was a foot from the tub when the beast darted up from the far side. It landed atop the rolling wicker. Paul threw the scissors at it. They missed. The creature leaped.
He staggered backward as it flew at the tub. It landed on the ledge, slid across on its belly, and flopped into the water. It splashed. Then it sank.
“GOTCHA!” Paul yelled.
He jumped out of the tub. Bending over, he gazed at the beast. It was still on the bottom, walking along slowly under a few inches of water.
He jerked the shower curtain over the ledge so it hung outside.
The beast came to the surface, glanced this way and that, then spotted Paul and started swimming toward him.
“Come on and drown,” he muttered.
It reached the wall of the tub. Its forepaws scampered against the enamel. Though it couldn’t climb the smooth wall, it didn’t seem ready to drown, either.
Paul backed away from the tub.
On the counter beside the sink was Timmy’s Smurf toothbrush standing upright in its plastic holder. He rushed over to it and snatched it from the Smurf’s hand.
He knelt beside the tub.
The beast was still trying to climb up.
Paul poked at it. The end of the toothbrush jabbed the top of its head and submerged it. But the thing squirmed free. It started to come up. Before its snout could break the surface, Paul prodded it down again.
“How long can you hold your breath, asshole?”
It started to rise. He poked it down again and laughed.
“Gotcha now.”
Again, the beast escaped from under the toothbrush and headed for the surface.
Paul jabbed down at it. His fist struck the water, throwing a splash into his face. As he blinked his eyes clear, something stung his knuckles.
He jerked his hand up.
He brought the creature with it.
Screaming, he lurched away from the tub and shook his arm as the thing scampered over his wrist. It held fast, claws digging in.
He swiped at it with his other hand. It came loose, ripping flesh from his forearm, and raced up that hand.
Raced up his left arm, leaving a trail of pinpoint tracks.
Swinging around, he bashed his arm against a wall. But the beast merely scampered to it underside. Upside-down, it scooted toward his armpit.
“PAUL!”
Joan twisted the knob. The bathroom door was locked. From beyond it came a horrible scream.
She aimed at the knob and pulled the trigger.
As the explosion roared in her ears and the shotgun jumped, a hole the size of a fist appeared beside the knob. The door flew open.
Paul, in his underpants, stood beside the bathtub shrieking. His left arm was sheathed with blood. In what remained of his right hand, he held the monster.
He saw her. A wild look came to his eyes.
“Shoot it!” he yelled, and thrust his fist toward the ceiling. Blood streamed down his arm.
“Your hand!”
“I don’t care!”
She thumbed back one of the twin hammers, took a bead on her husband’s upraised bleeding hand, and pulled a trigger. The hammer clanked.
“My God! Shoot it!”
She cocked the other hammer, aimed, jerked the other trigger. The hammer snapped down. The shotgun didn’t fire.
“RELOAD. FOR GODSAKE RELOAD!”
“With what?” she shrieked back at him.
“IDIOT!” He jammed the monster into his mouth, chomped down on it, yanked, then threw the decapitated body at her. It left a streamer of blood in the air. It slapped against Joan’s shoulder and bounced off, leaving a red smear on her skin.
Paul spat out the thing’s head. Then he dropped to his knees and buried it in vomit.
In the living room, he put on his robe. They hurried outside together.
Timmy was still in the car, his face pressed to the passenger window, staring at the woman in curlers and a pink nightgown who was sprawled on the sidewalk, writhing and screaming.
From all around the neighborhood came the muffled sounds of shouts, shrieks and gunshots. Paul heard sirens. A great many sirens. They all seemed far away.
“My God,” he muttered.
He scanned the ground while Joan opened the car door and lifted Timmy out. She kneed the door shut. She carried the boy around the rear of the car.
“Where’re you going?” Paul asked.
“Applegate’s. Come on. We’ll be safer there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.” And he followed her toward the home of their neighbor.
STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN
Necrology: 1989
IN 1989, DEATH TOOK no holiday. We said goodbye to many writers, artists, performers and film-makers, yet they left their work behind to remind us of the important contributions they made to the horror, fantasy, and science fiction genres throughout their lifetimes.
AUTHORS/ARTISTS
Aeron Clement, author of the surprise UK bestseller The Cold Moons, died in early January after heart bypass surgery. He was 52.
French writer Pierre Boileau died January 16th, aged 87. Half of the Boileau-Narcejac team that wrote the novels filmed as Les Diaboliques and Vertigo, he also co-scripted Les Yeaux Sans Visage (1959).
Author and film historian Leslie Halliwell died January 21st from abdominal cancer. He was 59. Compiler of the annual Filmgoer’s Companion and Film Guides, his other books included The Dead That Walk (film criticism), The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes (short stories) and Return to Shangri-La (novel).
Major surrealist artist Salvador Dali died January 23rd from heart failure brought on by pneumonia. He was 84, and designed sequences for such movies as L’Age d’Or, Un Chien Andalou and Hitchcock’s Spellbound.
Screenwriter T.E.B. Clarke died February 11th, aged 81. His numerous credits for Ealing Studios include The Halfway House and the classic Dead of Night (1945).
John W. Hall, a British diplomat who wrote fantasies as “Sarban”, died April 11th. He was 78. The name Sarban comes from the Arabic word for travelling storyteller, and his most famous work is the alternative-world novel The Sound of His Horn (1952).
Dame Daphne Du Maurier died April 19th, aged 81. Films based on her novels and stories include Rebecca, The Birds and Don’t Look Now.
Calvin Thomas Beck, the editor/publisher of the 1960s SF/fantasy film magazine Castle of Frankenstein, died on May 14th after a long illness. He was 56.
Cartoonist Dik Browne died on June 4th from cancer, aged 71. He created the strip Hägar the Horrible, which is currently published in more than 1,800 newspapers in 58 countries.
Author, old-time SF fan, and founder member of the British Interplanetary Society, William F. Temple died on July 15th, aged 75. First published in the horror anthology Thrills in 1935, he went on to write approximately 100 short stories and nine novels, including The Four-Sided Triangle, which was filmed by Hammer in 1953.
Cartoon creator Jay Ward died of cancer on October 12th, aged 69. With the late Bill Scott he created the characters Rocky and Bullwinkle, along with villains Boris and Natasha. His other cartoon series include Fractured Fairy Tales and Dudley-Do-Right.
&n
bsp; Author and songwriter Barry Sadler died on November 5th from wounds received while training Contra rebels in Guatamala. He was 49. Best known for his song, “Ballad of the Green Berets” (1966), he also wrote twenty volumes in the “Casca” series of military fantasies, beginning in 1979 with Casca: The Eternal Mercenary.
Author Jean Paiva died of lung cancer on November 13th. She was 45. Her first novel, The Lilith Factor, was published in 1989, while a second, The Fortean Gamble, was completed shortly before her death.
Comic strip artist C.C. Beck died on November 22nd after a long illness. He was 79. Beck created Captain Marvel, which ran from 1940 until 1953, when National Periodical Publications claimed that it was copied from Superman and successfully sued. The Adventures of Captain Marvel was made into a serial in 1941.
Major fantasist and pioneer of the “theatre of the absurd”, Samuel Beckett died in Paris on December 22nd, aged 83. His plays include Waiting for Godot, Endgame, Krapp’s Last Tape, Not I, Footfalls, and Catastrophe. In 1969, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature.
ACTORS/ACTRESSES
Kenneth McMillan died January 8th from liver disease. His best-known genre role was as the evil Baron Vladmir Harkonnen in Dune, and his other credits include The Stepford Wives, Salem’s Lot, Heartbeeps and Cat’s Eye.
Sleazy character actor Joe Spinell died on January 13th of a heart attack, having been despondent following the death of his mother. He was 51 and appeared in Maniac, The Last Horror Film, Starcrash Forbidden Zone and Vampire (TV).
Actor/director John Cassavetes died from cirrhosis of the liver on February 3rd, aged 59. His numerous credits include Rosemary’s Baby, The Fury, Incubus, and on TV, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.
Actor Joe Silver died on February 27th from cancer. He was 66, and appeared in Rhinoceros, Death Trap, and two early David Cronenberg movies, Rabid and Shivers (aka They Came from Within). He was also the voice of The Creep in Creepshow 2.
British character actor Harry Andrews died on March 6th from viral infection-asthma, aged 77. His numerous film credits include Moby Dick scripted by Ray Bradbury, Burke and Hare, Night Hair Child, Theatre of Blood, The Final Programme, The Medusa Touch, Superman and Hawk the Slayer.
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