by P. N. Elrod
“You can open your eyes now, I know you’re awake.” My tongue played over teeth which had receded to their normal length. At least I’d be able to talk without lisping. “I said you can open your eyes.” I gave him a hard shake.
They popped wide.
“Name?”
“F-Fred Sanderson.”
“Sure it is. What are you doing in town, Fred?”
“Visiting friends.”
“They got a boat?”
He shut up until shaken again. “Yeah, so what?”
“Why’d you run me down?”
“Wha—”
“You heard me, why did you try to kill me?”
The heavy jaw snapped shut again, his eyes rolled toward the door, and he struggled against his bonds. I lost my patience then, and for the first time took a great deal of pleasure hitting a man. I pulled the punches, though. I wanted to persuade, not kill him, and it took surprisingly few blows to soften him up. Despite his tough looks, he had no tolerance for pain.
“Frank Paco—said—I—just a job—” he burbled through a bloody nose.
“He your boss?”
“Yeah.” Sniff.
“He wanted me dead? Why?”
He coughed messily.
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t talk.”
I got the handkerchief again and wiped his nose. “Neither are you.”
“He wanted the list, you wouldn’t tell him where, so he—” He froze. “How did you—it was right in the heart—”
“I got a bulletproof vest. Come on, keep talking.”
Sanderson looked anything but convinced. “You know all this.” His voice was rising with panic. “Why do you ask, you know all—”
“What’s the boat’s name?”
“Elvira.”
“What’s the list? What’s on it?”
“I dunno—honest, I don’t. You got it, you know what’s—”
“How did I get it?”
“I dunno.”
“Answer.”
“It was Benny Galligar. You got it from him. You got it! I dunno nothing, I swear! Just lemme go!” He was all but screaming, and the panic had him rolling around, trying to break free. I tapped him again, did it too hard, and that ended the questioning for the night. Shoving the exasperation to one side, I went over the car again for prints and found it was registered to International Freshwater Transport, Inc. It might not be of much use, but I filed the name away for future reference.
Outside the car, I wiped the handles clean with the bottom of my coat and repeated the action on the passenger side. Sanderson’s head was lolled over, leaving his neck taut and vulnerable, with the bloodsmell rising from his body like perfume. I stepped back quickly before something regrettable happened, and hurried down the street.
Sooner or later, God help me, I would have to feed.
The hotel night clerk was half-asleep when I asked for my key.
“That’s two-oh-two?” he mumbled, groping for it, but there was no key hanging next to the number. “Hey, you’re not Mr. Ross.”
“No, I’m Jack Fleming and I want my key.”
“Fleming? Oh, yeah, we had to move your things out. Don’t worry, I got them right back here.”
One thing after another. “Why’d you move them out?”
“Well, you only paid for the one night and when you didn’t come back, we couldn’t leave the room go empty. There’s a convention in town an’ we gotta rent the room while there’s business. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know. Can I have my stuff?”
“Sure, no problem.” He hauled out a battered suitcase and a smaller, but no less battered case that held the means of my livelihood, a typewriter. I found my clothes intact, if sloppily folded, and my portable seemed to be in working order. While I checked my things, the clerk had woken up and was checking me.
“Been having some trouble?” he asked cautiously. His eyes trailed with open curiosity from my unshaved face to my damp, grubby clothes.
“Something like that.” I pulled out another coat from the suitcase, turned my back to the clerk, and changed the old for new.
“Jesus Christ, are you all right? There’s a big hole and blood all over your back!”
It was annoying. In sparing the guy the sight of my punctured shirtfront, I’d given him the full benefit of the back, where the bullet that killed me had exited. I buttoned up the fresh coat and tried to bluff it through.
“Hey, you shoulda seen the other guy.”
“No kiddin’, there’s—”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry about it,” I snapped. “The less you know, the better for both of us, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, sure.” He backed off unhappily. Perhaps as a long-time resident of Chicago he knew exactly what I meant.
“Do I owe any on my bill?”
“Just for one more day, that’s all.”
“You could have left things alone for another day, couldn’t you?”
“Huh?”
“Couldn’t you have left my stuff up there for one more day?”
“Mr. Fleming, you were gone—”
The man’s tone alerted me. “Gone for how long?”
He looked in his book. “It was right here, you checked in Monday, then left your key with the day clerk—”
“Did I get any phone calls?”
“I dunno, we don’t keep records of that. The switchboard girl might know. Anyway, when you didn’t come back by checkout time Wednesday, we packed your things up. It’s Friday now and we couldn’t keep the room not knowing if you were coming back or not, not for no three days we couldn’t.”
Friday morning.
I paid up and left the hotel on shaking legs.
I wandered around for a couple hours, unhappy and frustrated by the lapse of memory. Perhaps it was the shock of being killed. Some people could block out horrible experiences in that way, and being murdered had to rank pretty high up on the horrible-experience list.
List. Whatever the hell that was.
Benny Galligar. I might have known him from New York.
It was getting brighter, the added light hurt.
The moon was long gone, the stars were fading, and things were brilliant enough right now that if I were still out when the sun came up, my eyeballs would fry in their sockets. I spotted a hand-painted hotel sign at the end of the block and hurried for it.
At the cost of fifty cents, and that was a severe overcharge, I got a monk’s cell with a single dirty window overlooking a narrow alley. I locked the door, the lock a piece of bent wire that slipped through a metal eyelet screwed into the frame. The door still sagged open, so I shoved a rickety chair under the knob, but it was even money it’d give away the first time someone breathed on it wrong.
Despite the limited view, the sunlight might still find a chink in the dirt and come in. I thought of sleeping under the bed, but one look at the floor changed my mind. I had joined the ranks of the Undead, but still retained firm ideas about basic sanitation A thin blanket hung over the window dimmed things, but not by much.
I dragged my clothes off, poured water into the washbowl, and splashed my face and neck. Shaving would have to wait till tomorrow, there was no time tonight. It was creepy, anyway, not being able to see my face peering out from the mirror. I examined myself without one. Purple and black bruises were all over my stomach and flanks, with many short rows of small crescent marks that had cut the skin. I could guess they had come from brass knuckles. My wrists were encircled with raw-looking weals, indications I’d been tied down. Large crescents overlay the smaller ones, probably the result of some well-placed kicks.
I’d seen bodies like this before, but only in the morgue when I’d been covering a gang killing. The sight was always sickening. Considering the amount of damage I’d taken, the shot in the heart might have been an act of mercy. The bullet mark was still there, but looked less ugly than before. I felt for the exit hole and found a large roug
h depression on my back. Both were painless. The small circles on my left palm were still a puzzle, but they were quickly healing as well, the angry red softening to pink.
The sheer violence that had been directed so personally at me was more than enough to leave me emotionally stunned. Why it had happened was a total blank and overwhelmingly disturbing on every level.
I rubbed down with a wet towel and pulled on clean underwear and threw out the old. Of the bullet Sanderson had fired, there was no sign, except for the holes it left in my clothes. For some reason I thought about what my mom once told me concerning underwear and accidents and smiled, then my limbs went all stiff and sluggish. The sun had just come up.
Pulling the pillow and spread from the bed, I walked into the closet and shut the door. I dropped the linen on the floor to foil any light leaks and to put something between me and the dirt, then I dove headfirst into the pillow and didn’t come up.
Maybe I expected something like sleep or straight black oblivion, but it wasn’t that good. Frozen in place for the day, the body was utterly still, but occasionally it sent a sensory message along to the brain.
Hard floor.
Footsteps somewhere in the building.
Something crawling on the right hand.
The brain noted it all, but wouldn’t or couldn’t respond. It was busy dreaming.
Water, floating, darkness, pressure, blinding light. Cheap birth symbolism, but the midwife had brass knuckles and a gun. She had Sanderson’s grinning face and stood aside so the doctor could aim his own gun and blast me back into the dark forever.
Heat, bad air, clothes soaked with a thousand years of sweat. Voices, yelling, wanting something. Where is it? Where did you put it?
Fighting them, but no control.
Her hair was a dark nest on the pillow, soft and thick in my fingers. Sky blue eyes flushing deep red as I gave her blood and she gave me heaven on earth in return. Where are you? Where—
—did you put it? Just tell us, we’ll let you go.
Liar, I forget. I don’t know. I’m dying.
I’d always bring her flowers. She didn’t eat candy. She never ate. Our private joke.
Leave me alone, I don’t have it, but they kept at me, killing an inch at a time.
Books tumbled open, the words clear and sharp and utterly false. Thousands of books lined up in uneven rows like an army before the uniforms are issued. One thick black book, almost, but not quite true. Her thick dark hair—forget the books, just love her, that’s all she really wants. Give her—
—the list, where did you put it?
Where did you go? Why did you leave me?
A boat, a big one, but the water still closes over us all, pulling us down into the cold—
—and stiff, I’ve got to move. If I can just move I’ll stop dreaming. God, let me sleep or wake, but not this.
No control.
A man screaming.
Falling.
Dying.
No control.
Sunset.
Release.
2
I pushed the pillow away and forced air into the dormant lungs. The dream dance whirled away into nothing, leaving a cold, stiff, frightened man to deal with the memory. Why hadn’t she told me about the dreams? She told me what to do when death-time came, but never mentioned this. Maybe it was just trauma, maybe it would fade eventually, for now there was nothing I could do but try to shrug it off and get dressed.
It was something of a trick to shave without looking, but if I got nicked I never felt it. It’d be interesting when it came time for a haircut, I’d yet to see a barbershop without a mirror.
My other suit was too heavy for the weather, but the heat didn’t seem to be bothering me. In a way it was disturbing not to be sweating. I took down the blanket, tossed it on the bed and cracked the window for the sake of appearance. The spread and pillow joined the blanket, and I shut the door.
My shoes squeaked coming downstairs. The dip in the lake hadn’t done them any good. I dropped the useless room key at the front desk and went outside.
The first trash can I found became home for my bullet-ridden bloodstained clothes. The labels and laundry marks got thrown into a storm drain farther down the street.
A mercenary street kid charged me a nickel for directions to a district full of pawnshops. Most of them were closed by now, the ones still open didn’t have what I needed. I leaned against a doorway, tired and restless. My senses were painfully sharp, matching my teeth. I pushed the canines back in their sockets with shaking fingers. I’d have to feed soon or drop in my tracks.
The last open shop looked no more promising than the rest, but the first thing I saw inside was the big steamer trunk in the middle aisle. It was a good three by five feet and solid looking. Except for some travel stickers and dust, it was almost new. My satisfaction was apparent to the sharp-eyed owner and it took ten minutes to haggle the price down to a reasonable level. Once in agreement, money changed hands and I was hauling the trunk out the door.
No cabs were in sight so I was resigned to walking the six blocks back to the hotel. The trunk was awkward with its bulk, but oddly lightweight because of my new strength. I went as quickly as I dared, hoping other pedestrians would be alert enough to get out of the way in time.
“Hey, buddy, c’mere a minute.”
Startled at being addressed, I paused, then cursed myself. Just like any hick fresh off the farm, I was about to be mugged. The man in the alley was in deep shadow except where his gun poked out, fat lot of good it did him with my night vision.
“Come on, put down the box and get over here. Now.” He waved the gun.
I eased the trunk to the pavement. I was fast enough now to take the guy, but the gun might go off and bring the cops, and I had no desire to risk putting bullet holes in my last suit. Wishing hard I were any place else, I stepped forward.
The man shimmered, went gray, and vanished. So did the alley.
As though from a long distance, I heard his yelp of surprise and the slap of feet as he ran away. That was of minor concern, though; I was having trouble with my senses again. No weight, no form, and just this side of total panic; I could see nothing, but was aware of shapes and sizes close by. I felt the wind pushing me right through the wall of a building, my body oozing between the cracks in the bricks. I shoved away hard and launched myself through the wall of the opposite building, and stumbled to my feet in a ladies’ clothing store.
It was great to have feet again and legs and all the other things that usually come with a solid body. I leaned on a table, delighted to have hands again. Reality was just wonderful....
I looked around and wondered how I was supposed to get out.
All in all, dematerialization was tough on the nerves, but a hell of a great way to avoid a mugging.
My escape from the dress shop was a reluctant undertaking. Going through the doors the usual way required breaking a lock and perhaps setting off an alarm. At least the place was closed. My sudden appearance out of nowhere might spoil business for the owner though it would have made for an easier exit out a door. I wasn’t sure I could repeat the trick. In retrospect it seemed more instinctive than conscious, like trying to swim when thrown into water for the first time. Don’t panic and the body would do all the rest.
The third try was successful.
One second I was in the shop, the next, outside with the trunk and making sure my body was all there. Everything was intact, but I was very tired and my throat ached with thirst.
I turned the room light on out of habit, then squeezed the trunk through the door. Between it, the bed, and my belongings, it was beginning to look like a set from a Marx Brothers movie. I sank onto the creaking chair and miserably considered food. There was no way I could cheat around my condition. The mere thought of going out for even the rarest of steaks made me nauseous, but that in turn led to another thought.
Hurrying downstairs, I whistled up a cab. By the time one arrived I was t
witching with restlessness. I forced myself to move sedately getting in and remembered to sit close to the door to be out of sight of the rearview mirror.
“Where to, mister?”
“The Stockyards,” I lisped around my teeth.
We crossed water twice to get there, the opposing natural force pressing me hard into the seat as the cab lurched forward. The pressure was uncomfortable but bearable. The roaring emptiness inside was far worse.
“You all right, mister?” the driver asked as I paid him.
I nodded without speaking and kept my eyes down, not wanting to frighten him. I felt strange and no doubt looked strange. The last time I was this way a man had fainted, and a repetition of the experience would be inconvenient now.
The air was permeated with the smell of blood. There were other smells, but this was the one that cut through them all and gave me a direction to follow.
The place was full of people and noise, train whistles shrieked, cattle lowed and bellowed, men shouted and cursed—men were everywhere, including where I wanted to go.
I went in, anyway.
At this point I was challenged only once by a large specimen who, from the size of his shoulders, looked like he swung the sledgehammers that sent the animals on their final journey to the dinner tables. I couldn’t understand what he was saying to me, except it was hostile in some way. He was nothing less than an annoying obstacle to walk past, but he stopped me with a slab of a hand.
This kind of behavior irritates me at the best of times, but I was now to the point of physical pain. I swatted his hand away and snarled some threat, a mild enough reaction considering how badly I felt. We locked eyes in anger for an instant and for the first time I became aware of another human mind.
I told him to leave, and from my brief contact with him knew he thought his sudden retreat was his own idea. I wanted to think about this, to examine and test it to make sure it was not just imagination, but something stronger and much more insistent was in charge. All it wanted was to end the desperate, empty agony that was turning me inside out. Clear thought blurred and faded, the body was taking over in order to survive. It needed privacy from the interference of others; sought and found it among the more distant cattle pens. It wanted a quiescent victim and chose the least alarmed animal from the dozen that milled around the enclosure.