Deep rasping breath.
And move that knee.
i scream in defiance
of all that is holy.
OH MY DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN
It is more than human flesh can stand.
i am rooted to the floor
and slowly
my cells must crystallize
and my limbs
must stiffen
and i must become
one of t h e l i v i n g
t o r t u r e d
One hundred and fifty knots.
And out.
Is it somewhere
something
howls in defeat?
In the Deadlands
i lie here on the deadlands floor
gasping for breath.
We are me again
with a cold bright clarity.
Nerve ends tingle
marvelling at unbroken flesh.
Clawed hands scratch futilely at the rock.
Unnecessarily,
for i am out.
We become aware
of my body
here on the deadlands floor.
Deep rasping gasping breaths.
Sweet silence in the soul.
Only the sound of my lungs
sucking in air
and blowing it out again.
After a bit i raise my head.
i stagger to my feet
and
No.
Something is wrong.
We are confused.
We shake my head to clear it.
There.
That’s better.
I am me again.
I am separate from them again.
I am unchanged.
It is time to go,
time to leave the deadlands.
I move out.
Step...
Step...
Step...
Every step sounds hollow.
And more than hollow.
Every step echoes.
I walk on,
leaving the deadlands.
The deadlands floor
is hot and wasted,
spattered with the color of
blood.
The deadlands sky
is empty and unfeeling.
The sun is implacable.
The deadlands floor is pitted and gouged and scarred.
It catches and grabs, but
I am walking out of the deadlands.
Step...
Step...
Step...
The sun
is high and bright and cold.
And there is a presence,
silent,
dark,
tuneless and brooding.
It envelops
hotly.
It throbs
and pulses.
It radiates
a warm sense of...
belonging,
and touches.
a cold taste of lonely...
desire
for that hot throbbing
something.
I stare into the empty east.
Far beyond the horizon
is something
faint and faraway,
softly
crooning,
I wish I could remember what it is.
After a bit,
I turn.
I turn to the west.
I begin walking out.
Out.
Out.
Out of the deadlands.
Out.
I am coming out.
Out.
I am coming out of the deadlands.
Out.
And a distant chorus
Cries ...
Follow the crease in the deadlands floor.
And run
run
run
runas hard as you can
runas fast as you can
runGet as far away as you can.
run
run
From out of the deadlands
runcomes
a softly keening
run
voice of something
runfaint and faraway
something
run
dark and brooding
run
And run.
run
Run.
run
run
run
run
run
run
runOne foot in front of the other.
runThat's all that's important.
runJust keep putting one foot in front of the
other.
run
The deadlands calls
run
run
Come...
run
run
Come...
run
run
Come...
run
run
run
run
runIt calls with ten thousand thou-
sand voices.
run
Too many voices
runthat I know too well.
run
run
C o m e. . .
run
C o m e. . .
run
runIt is not a call
runIt is not a beckoning.
runIt is not even a warning.
run
runThe deadlands is not calling me
to come to it...
run
runNo.
It is saying it will come to me.
run
run
Run.
run
Run for your life,
runfor your soul.
run
run
run
run
run
runBut run.
run
run
run
run
runSomething
run
runlives in the deadlands.
run
runSomething
run
runbig.
run
run
run
runSome day
run
runit’s going to get tired
run
runof all the
run
runlittle sacrifices
run
runthat we keep
run
runmaking
run
runto it.
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
runSome day
run
runthat something
run
runis going
run
runto
run
runcome out of the deadlands.
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
runSome day
run
runsomething
run
runis coming out of the deadlands.
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
runSomething is coming out of the
rundeadlands.
run
run
run
run
run
runRun
run
run
run
run
run
runRun
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
AFTERWORD:
Harlan Ellison had challenged the community of science fiction authors to come up with stories that broke the boundaries, stories that other editors would publish. The result was a literary earthquake, the Dangerous Visions anthology. With that one book, Ellison up-ended the entire field. He inspired every writer within wordshot to reach for higher goals. It was the seed crystal, the catalyst, the moment that science fiction stopped seeing itself as pulp fiction and became a true literary genre.
A year later Harlan Ellison began reading stories for Again, Dangerous Visions.
I submitted “In the Deadlands.”
In my eyes, it was something that could not be published anywhere else.
He rejected it and bought “With a Finger in My I” instead.
I didn’t mind the rejection. I did mind that in his introduction to “With a Finger in My I,” he spent several paragraphs savagely describing the story he hadn’t bought and why.
The story took on a certain notoriety as it made its way across the desks of various editors. I believed in it. They didn’t. They all rejected it—a couple of them vehemently.
So I put it back in the drawer. It was an experiment. It broke the rules. It didn’t fit anywhere. I didn’t care. Most stories are written from the head—this one had been written from the heart and from the gut and from a place that still hasn’t been named.
Eventually, I was living in New York for a while and I put together a collection of stories for Ballantine Books, some published, most not. I don’t remember the title I wanted to give it, but Betty Ballantine renamed it With a Finger in My I. (This book includes all the stories from that collection, plus everything else I wrote around that same time.)
I showed Betty Ballantine “In the Deadlands” and asked her if we should include it. She was adamant that it was the most important piece in the book. She also said, “I won’t make any money off your collection, but I’m buying it to keep you loyal, so I’ll have your next bestseller.” (I gave her two bestsellers and a Hugo and Nebula nominee.)
As we moved toward production Betty Ballantine said we had a design problem. The standard design of a paperback book was to put the author’s name at the top of every even page and the title of the book at the top of every odd page—but this would confuse the layout for “In the Deadlands.” In my youthful naiveté, I suggested that we leave those out and only have the page numbers. It would add to the desolate feeling of the story. She agreed and that was how the story was printed.
With a Finger in My I was published in early 1972 and the following year “In the Deadlands” was nominated for the Best Novelette Nebula award. I didn’t expect it to win, and it didn’t, but I do admit to a small satisfying lump of validation.
A few years after that, Harlan Ellison grudgingly admitted that he probably should have bought “In the Deadlands” for A,DV instead of “With a Finger in My I.” That was another good moment. (For the record, I love Harlan like a brother. Someday soon, I will tell the tale of how he saved my life.)
For a time, I had an idea that there might be more to the deadlands story—that I might follow the unnamed narrator in his flight back toward life. I even started writing what I thought might be the next part. But it wasn’t coming from the same place, and when I got to the point where I had to look and see what might be coming out of the deadlands, I saw how much that story wouldn’t work. It didn’t build on the mood of the original. It diminished it. I threw the pages away.
Horror only terrifies when it’s unknown.
When you stop and look it in the face, it’s no longer unknown. Then it’s only a thing to understand…
And something else as well.
When I left the deadlands, I left my bleak period behind.
Far behind.
—David Gerrold
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