American Nightmare

by George Cotronis

  The day that his mother told him that he could get on his bike and spend a little time away from the house was a glorious one. He was concerned that she might need something, but she had simply smiled to him and brushed the side of his face with her good hand.

  ”No good for a boy to always be cooped up in the house with his mother on a summer day.” She opened her purse and gave him a couple dollars from the last allowance she’d received. ”Can’t give you much, but you can have a little fun. Just don’t be out too long.”

  He needed little more encouragement and went to the phone to see if Ronnie was available before hopping on his bike.

  The two of them went down to the soda fountain at the drug store. Ronnie—like many people in town—knew that something was up, but he didn’t ask any questions. His mother had given him a little more money than usual, and he paid for both milkshakes and a few extra comic books and baseball card packs to split between them. His father would have been affronted by such charity, but Kenneth was just grateful, even if neither boy said anything out loud.

  They spent a fine late morning and early afternoon, trading through the packs for their favorite players and reading the latest issues of Detective Comics, Our Army at War, Strange Tales, and all their other favorites. Kenneth had almost started to forget these little joys, that there was a life outside the oppressive air of the house. After a while, he even got some relief from the noise at the back of his head.

  Ronnie asked if Kenneth might be able to come to play a pick-up game afterwards; some of the guys were already planning to head to the field and see who came out. Looking at his watch, Kenneth shook his head.

  “I really gotta get back. My mom said she’d be okay, but she probably needs help with something by now.”

  Ronnie only nodded. Among a group of the other guys, he might have been ribbed for being a “mama’s boy” or some other jibe, but there was something unspoken between the two of them. This was one of those things, one of those times you just didn’t make fun. “Yeah, I know how it is. See ya later, alligator.”

  “After a while, crocodile.”

  Ronnie left to find some other summer adventures while Kenneth looked with his last bit of money for something his mother might want to read. Maybe some kind of magazine or a girl’s book or something.

  He rode home with his parcel, already hearing the sound trying to increase in his head again the closer he got. If possible, it was even worse than before.

  Before he even walked into the front door, he knew something was wrong. That cloud of his father’s anger was pressing at the house, feeling the way it had on the Terrible Night. No, not that way. Worse.

  Kenneth didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to push through that invisible fog of rage and hate that already made him feel sick to his stomach. But his mother was in there. Had to be, there was no way she’d wander far from home yet.

  Screwing up every inch of courage he had, he walked through the doorway. He tried to think of what Bruce Wayne or Oliver Queen would do. Tried to think of how Mickey Mantle would probably be brave enough to see what was going on. Tried to ignore the voice that kept reminding him that he wasn’t one of these heroes or giants, but just a powerless kid.

  He let the door close behind him. The sound in his head was squealing and there was an external sound, almost counterpointing it. A high, echoing shrieking mingled with a dull thudding. When he looked into the dining room the door to the basement was open.

  Each step was an effort in bravery, working against every impulse that told him to run, to get to someone else’s house and call the sheriff's office like he’d always been told. But he had to know. Had to have some idea what to tell them.

  In his head now, he was hearing snatches of that parody of his father’s voice amidst the piping, mixing what he knew with strange foreign sounds.

  Interrupted! Zlghax! Work must complete! Fhtagn!

  As he reached the door, he saw something shining on the first step down. One of the aluminum trays from the frozen meals, peas and mashed potatoes scattered around it. The thumping and screeching continued and as he took a couple steps, he saw the cause of the thuds by the dim single bulb that lit the wooden staircase.

  His mother’s body slammed repeatedly against the bare cement wall. Her face was a bloody, bruised, swollen mess under the black hair that been completely tousled. Her dress was torn in various spots and stained red as she dangled limp in the grip of something. Where she was slamming against the wall, there was already a red smear.

  A hideous, fleshy appendage, like a tentacle without suckers, wrapped around her neck, battering her against the wall again and again. His feet involuntarily took another couple steps down, trying to make sense and see what was holding her. His mind not allowing him to register the full weight of her condition, Kenneth’s eyes followed the strange, pale, wriggling flesh to the thing that squatted in the center of the basement.

  A tall stalk of body in flesh tones with bulbous gray protrusions here and there sat atop a writhing mass of short, thick tentacles like an octopus might have. Tatters of cloth hung from it in places. Four of the same flailing limbs he’d seen jutted from the center of the stalk, two on either side. While the one continued to batter his mother, the others whipped around the basement, working at a few strange devices littering the workbench downstairs. Surrounding the thing were four pillars at about half its height that had been put together from sheets of thin wood that his father had kept for general projects. Burned into each one were strange symbols that did not match any alphabet Kenneth had ever seen.

  Work must complete! Must complete!

  Kenneth clutched his head, and a little groan escaped him. With another shriek, the thing in the basement turned to regard him. At the top of the stalk, where a head might have been, was simply a slightly wider section with tufts of short dark hair poking out. Where a mouth and nose might have been, there was a pulsating circle lined with sharp, pointed teeth. Above that sat a pair of pale, blue eyes looking completely out of place in the monstrosity.

  No more INTERRUPTIONS! Ygnaiih!

  As the thought came, a hideous, high shriek erupted from the thing’s circular mouth, and Kenneth bolted back up the stairs. He heard one of the limbs slam through the stairs just behind him as he raced out of the door and around to his father’s den. He knew about the pistol that was kept in his father’s desk, the one he’d been given safety lessons with at the shooting range.

  The thing was on its way up behind him. Kenneth tore open the desk drawer and pulled out the weapon. In an automatic gesture that had been drilled into him, the boy checked the magazine and the safety. His father had wanted him to be prepared if he ever had to defend their home for any reason. Knowing the gun was loaded and ready, Kenneth took a few steps back, his eyes on the doorway.

  His back hit the corner of the room, bumping one of his father’s bookcases. He could hear the thing coming, its strange octopus limbs propelling it along the floor outside with a sickening squelching sound. As it appeared in the doorway of the den, it stared at Kenneth, emitting another of those high-pitched squeals from the round, tooth-lined hole of a mouth. He raised his father’s gun as he had before at the shooting range, his arm shaking.

  One of the long tentacle appendages began to whip towards him, and suddenly everything slowed down in the same way it did when a pitch came to him and he had to decide exactly where to put the ball. His arm steadied; his entire body became still; and his mind became one focused point on the task at hand. The windy sound in the back of his head was no longer a distraction swirling inside him, but a rhythm joining all his movements into the goal of victory and survival.

  Kenneth fired, sending the bullet straight between those pale, blue eyes. A perfect circle of a hole appeared, splattering the wall behind and leaking a mixture of red blood and black ichor as the eyes rolled up. The thing collapsed into a heap, the grasping limb falling to the floor less than an inch from the boy.

  The mo
ment was over, and the shaking returned to his limbs. His mind graciously didn’t allow him to put together all the pieces at once consciously. He just knew he had to find a phone number and make a call.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Remarkable. Just remarkable. I cannot tell where Sergeant Anderson ends and the corruption begins.”

  Kenneth sat by the vent once more, his whole body shivering.

  “Your academic interest is noted, Doctor, but we have some very pressing concerns right now.” It was Colonel Ericson’s voice. “How did it get this bad under our noses? Where did these changes really come from? Does this represent a threat to national security? How many more could wind up like Anderson? The list goes on.”

  “It’s impossible to say. Whatever this condition is, it’s incubated for so long. It’s possible it’s been growing all this time within the sergeant and only recently took hold completely.”

  “Shouldn’t we have noticed something before now?”

  “None of our research ever indicated this potential; we would never have gone forward in good conscience if it did. The sergeant could be a single fluke, or could simply be the first. The implications...There won’t be any comfort until we can round up several more of the soldiers and see if there have been any other changes.”

  “How many of our boys underwent these initial tests, Doctor?”

  “Hundreds,” the doctor responded. “Maybe tens of hundreds. I would need my files to know the exact numbers. Everyone in the country likely has some measure of the Old blood in them, and we found plenty of possible candidates for whom the serum might produce results. We could narrow it down to those cases in which enhancements were noted, but that might not make a difference.”

  The colonel snorted. “So what you’re telling me is that there could be thousands of ticking time-bombs out there, thousands of potential Kevin Andersons getting ready to change into...that?”

  “No.” The doctor’s voice was somber now. “It’s even worse than that. Consider the boy.”

  Kenneth tensed at that.

  Colonel Ericson sounded impatient. “Yes, yes, we also have the potential for a lot of kids to wind up orphaned like that poor kid up there. That’s not the most important—”

  “You misunderstand me. Our experiments activated or attempted to activate the Old blood for military applications, fundamentally altering the DNA. We know that nearly every American has some of that Old blood. And we know that the boy was conceived upon Sergeant Anderson’s return home. Traits are passed down through the blood, Colonel. How many of those soldiers came home and started families? How many visited houses of ill repute or took solace during the war from willing locals?”

  “Are...Are you suggesting that we may have not only veterans, but a whole slew of kids with this possible condition?”

  “It’s why I’ve kept us here. How many twelve-year-olds do you know that could properly handle a semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol?”

  “His father taught him to shoot...”

  “With pinpoint accuracy and complete compensation for the recoil effect under extreme stress?” the doctor continued.

  “Oh my holy God...”

  There was a pause before the doctor spoke up again. “That boy is the one sure offspring of activated Old blood that produced this condition. He cannot enter the local system. We need to take him to Arkham and perform some tests. We need to know what potential traits...”

  Kenneth stopped listening and left the vent. He’d heard enough. He grabbed his school book bag, dumped out whatever supplies were still inside, and began to toss whatever clothes he could carry into it. He’d have to hurry before they finished and came to collect him.

  The sound tried to rise in his head again, and Kenneth didn’t have the energy to fight it off or distract himself. Yet it was different now, somehow. He stopped and listened, and instead of pain, the noise resolved itself into collections of images and words.

  Someone or something was reaching out to him, giving him information. It was something that had been trying to reach him for a long time, but there had always been some interference in the way. Like when he couldn’t quite tune in on the radio because of two different competing stations at just the right distance from each other. Something had been blocking this great connection that was broadcasting such clear ideas and images, that he was amazed he’d ever shut it out or tried to drown it with music. But of course, it hadn’t been coming through clearly then.

  He understood now. Now that he could focus and receive the full signal. Without the interference from his father, he was tapped into a vast well of communication and understanding. His father had only ever received bits and pieces before the changes came and could not fully understand. But Kenneth had been born to the legacy. He could control his entire body, including how the changes would or would not impact him, better now with this new knowledge than ever before.

  And there were others out there. Some had slipped quietly far enough away from the interference of others, some had been freed by earlier accidents, some had even freed themselves from their interference when the horrible sounds became too much and they were forced to destroy the source of the static. They were waiting for him, grateful that they could finally reach him now and count him among their number. He’d lost the family he’d always known, but he would be part of a new, grander family. His father had understood a few things from the vast array of minds to which he now had access.

  There was indeed work to be done; the man had simply garbled the message. For the way had to be prepared, and doorways had to be opened, before the entire family could gather.

  Tossing his book bag onto the bed, Kenneth Anderson opened the window to his bedroom and leapt out. He landed safely on the ground and began running through his back yard towards the vast open world where his brothers and sisters awaited him.

  THE BLACK PHARAOH OF HOLLYWOOD

  IAN WELKE

  It’s hard to tell how much trouble I’m in. The director has been peering at the pages for twenty minutes. He mutters. It’s not clear if he’s commenting or just clearing his throat. Hopefully he likes these rewrites more than the last set. I finished this last batch when the sun came up this morning. My back still aches from hunching over the typewriter making sure that each key was correct before I hit it. It sounds bleak, but The Black Pharaoh’s Return is my last shot in this town. Since Sputnik, aliens have been the rage, but my future’s hitched to this monster flick.

  “Better, Thomas,” he finally says. His English accent makes even praise sound like I’ve submitted something beneath him. Roy W. Fisher. Director. Executive-Producer. I still don’t know what the “W” stands for. “I do believe we need to work on the lead’s goals, however. What must Bernie do to accomplish his goals?” He hands me the pages. “Don’t look so downtrodden. We can film the scenes scheduled for today. You have kept your job another day. See to it that we can keep shooting tomorrow. Perhaps you can even strive to get ahead of schedule.” I’ll never get used to hearing “schedule” without the hard “c”.

  He looks me in the eye. “I like the bit about the ruins of the DeMille film. It adds authenticity, I believe.”

  I take the pages and head off to my corner at the back of the set. Well behind the cameras, near the craft services, I have a chair where I can hear the actors read the lines, but far enough away that the mics won’t pick up noise I might make shuffling through the script.

  Fisher has underlined the parts he likes and scribbled where he wants more on the lead’s goals. The thing is, rereading the parts he’s underlined, I don’t remember writing any of it. Certainly not this part about the silent version of Ten Commandments. DeMille died earlier this year, failing to recover from a heart attack he suffered filming the Ten Commandments remake. I was obsessed with the news. I spent months going through every scrap of his writing I could find, eventually hearing stories about ruins of his original Ten Commandments set being buried in the Nipomo Sand Dunes outside Santa Barbara, but I don
’t remember writing anything like that into the script.

  Wet lips press on my cheek, startling me into a coughing, heart-pounding fit that lasts well after I realize that Alicia is standing next to me and that she’s given me the same kiss she always gives me before shooting a scene.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She’s got that look on her face that’s half concern and half amusement. Great. I’m having a heart attack and she thinks it’s funny. Still, I gaze into her baby blues and I’m not angry. I put up a finger for her to give me a moment to steady myself.

  “I’ll be all right,” I finally manage. She leans in so I can return the kiss. Even as I press my lips to her cheek I can’t help but wonder what the crew think. She’s way too good for me. That’s got to be the start of their thoughts. A twenty-five-year-old going out with a man who’s thirty-five going on eighty. She’s a beautiful blonde, my hair is in a race between graying and falling out in clumps. She’s got a figure to give Mansfield and Van Doren a run for their money, I’ve got the thinning wear and tear of a man that lives on coffee, cigarettes, and the odd bennies jag.

  “Are we going out tonight?”

  Speaking of bennies. “I don’t know that I can. More rewrites. More pages that I should’ve had ready today, some that you’re shooting tomorrow.”

  “I see the mummy, I scream. How long does that take to type?” She shoots me her widest smile.

  “The thing is, I have to type it a lot. Act One didn’t have a whole lot of it. But there’s not a scene in Acts Two or Three that doesn’t go by without a pretty girl screaming at the mummy.” This is what passes for levity for me these days. With Alicia I don’t want to dwell on the dour. I don’t mention that the ending doesn’t work.

  “Yeah. And what about the Black Pharaoh speaking to us in our dreams?”

  “What? Let me see that.” I take her pages, flipping through them and comparing them with the ones on my desk. “Huh.”