The Axman Cometh

by John Farris

  (And then she would take off her lacy, crisp white white bra, all chubby rosiness beneath, beguiling. Liking him to look at her. Doesn't know how he's supposed to feel. Like a thief. Steal glimpses, later touches. Steal what is precious from the father, the crime will be known. The father will kill him.)

  At fourteen thousand feet, circling, half- frozen in the thin blue air, he asks, Will this do?

  The vast, basking body of the mountains; the dark and terrifying thicket. Surely she will not let the father kill him.

  Unbuckles and unlocks the door, but it is held fast by the pressure of the wind. He puts the plane into a yaw against the wind and is able to force the door open. Holding on to the seat, he sets one foot outside on the wing, and the other, surrenders to the slipstream.

  Impact with the tail assembly breaks nearly all of the bones in his lower body. He doesn't lose consciousness, and, at last in free-fall, Robert McLaren has his answer.

  It won't do.

  Face-up in the sun, a trembling in the air; exposed within clouds, she is smiling at him as if at a secret jest.

  There's no God, Robbie. There's just us.

  And still he hears nothing. Not even his own screams.

  What scares you?

  (Dark where she is. But she understands that it's almost time to get up. She's had enough of being a slug-a-bed. And quite enough, thank you, of this place, although it cannot be said they have treated her unkindly here. In a way she will be sad to leave.)

  What scares you?

  (That question again. She has to smile. She has never felt so good. There is no fear.)

  "I'm not afraid of anything, Dr. McLarty."

  Good girl. Then there's no reason for you not to open your eyes.

  "Well—"

  Something's still bothering you.

  (Still smiling, but her breath is caught, she can't squeeze air past her throat.)

  Take your time, Suzy.

  No. I'm Shannon. Suzy's getting married today, remember? And then she's going away and we probably won't see her or hear from her again.

  Oh, yes, I did forget. Well, it's going to be a very important day, isn't it? But before you get up, and have your shower and some breakfast, would you like to tell me what's on your mind?

  "I—I need to know for sure."

  That's understandable. You need to know who it was. You're not afraid of him any more—

  Huh-uh."

  But you want to know, so you'll never have to think about it again.

  "As long as I live."

  As long as you live. Well, Shannon. All you have to do is ask me. You know I've never lied to you.

  "You've never lied to me. Dr. McLarty— it was—Perry. Wasn't it?"

  Of course. Perry did it. Now you can put the tragedy out of your mind forever, Shannon.

  Forever.

  Time to rise and shine. Open your eyes, my dear. There's so much to do before you're ready to leave.

  (Still dark. But some distance from her there is a shaft of light like morning sunshine that hurts, just a little, causing tears. Someone is there, standing just outside the scintillating white light: the familiar, rumpled, potbellied figure of Dr. McLarty. It has been a long time since she wanted or needed the gift of sight, but this vision is totally reassuring. To be free of fear, now and forever—she trembles, ecstatic.)

  Remember, Shannon. Things to do.

  Oh—sure.

  It's important to finish the strip. Can't just leave Suzy dangling. We want to get her married off, good and proper. By the way, who's the lucky guy?

  "You know, her boyfriend. Robbie."

  That's right. We've heard all about him, but we haven't actually seen Robbie yet. So he's going to be in the strip today?

  "Well, he has to be. They're getting married."

  Shannon, I can hardly wait. Oh, there's one thing—call it a favor to me.

  "Sure, Dr. McLarty."

  There's someone I'd like for you to invite to the wedding. A special friend. You don't mind?

  "No. What's his name?"

  Donald Carnes.

  "If you describe him to me, I can draw him."

  I know you can, Shannon. You're so wonderfully talented.

  They are trekking now through the cold darkness of the former Woodrow Lavont department store, on the trail of the elephant that can be heard, from time to time, trumpeting hugely and with a certain note of sorrow; but its whereabouts are still a mystery. There seems to be no end to the floorspace, it expands with their explorations as the savannah of the Masai expanded to the keen senses of the hunter-tracker.

  "Resase modja, the Somali gunbearers called me. This is an honor not easily won in Africa."

  "What does it mean?" Don asks stuffily, raising his handkerchief to his nose to suppress a sneeze.

  '"One bullet.' All I ever needed for a kill."

  "I don't remember reading that in Green Hills of Africa."

  "At the time, I was too modest to mention it."

  "Not that it may be a very useful skill here. Even if you were carrying a gun, I mean."

  "We may wish I had the .450 Express, or even the .303," Papa says, "if we happen to suddenly come across Bwana temba in an unsociable mood."

  "You mean the elephant? We're not getting any closer. We must be going in circles."

  "Don't talk balls. I never lacked for direction."

  Papa stops abruptly, thrusting out the torch to lengthen the limits of his vision.

  They both hear it: a chilly slithering in the air. Liquid. Lubricious. But nothing is visible in the dark beyond the unsteady nimbus of the torch that is slowly eating itself up.

  Don's teeth begin to chatter.

  "It's a school of them," Papa says. "Directly ahead of us. To hell with it. We'll have to find another way."

  "School of what?" Don says worriedly; a little more fright, another creaking notch on the rack.

  "You'll know when you see one. Over here."

  "I'm totally lost! You acted as if you knew where you were going! We've got to find stairs—something—some way to get to—"

  "We could use a rummy guide," Papa admits. "But they're making themselves scarce tonight. I wonder—look out, Carnes!"

  For a fraction of a second Don sees the thing, torpedo-shaped and a rusty-gray color with stupid frog's eyes and a snout like a long tightly twisted vine, slipping down with a luminous spinning motion out of the dark and aimed at his head. Papa reacts, thrusting the torch in the intruder's path, diverting it as fast as the eye can blink. Going by it makes a kind of silly high-pitched brassy sound, like a musical air horn. Only a few sparks are left in the air above Don's head as Papa drags him away with the other hand. The windy slithering sounds diminish with their retreat.

  "My God, that was—"

  "Mais certainement."

  "But they don't exist!"

  "Everything exists, at this time and in this place. Everything that's been in her mind since the massacre. Woodrow and Lavont is teeming again, Carnes, and not just with high- priced budgies in gilded cages. Needle-nosed air sharks. Kittywamps. Forquidders, fetish- foxes and venomous smews."

  "Tuck Tiller's Incredible Best-Ever Surprise Birthday Party. Williwaw Wilkins and the Moonboggle. Jesus, that one looked like—"

  "Wouldn't fit in here, moonboggles are commonly seven-and-a-half stories tall, not counting their topknots. Most of your beauty's creations are harmless, and none of them are good to eat. It's not the children's stories we have to worry about, it's The Strip."

  "The Tafts of Roseboro, Kansas?"

  "Sure. Typical, well-scrubbed, wholesome, mindless niiddle-American family meets Beelzebub. Might have a fighting chance, ordinarily, but not if it's on his turf. Hear that?"

  "Yes. Drums?"

  "Don't think so." They pause, pondering the muffled, measured metallic roar. Then there is a powerful, prolonged, gut-wrenching, nosy-trumpet solo.

  "That is one goddamned pissed-off tembo," Papa says admiringly.

 
"What's going on?"

  "We will make tracks to find out. Not that way!"

  "Why?"

  "Venomous smew country. I can smell the buggers."

  Another detour, Don waxing impatient and evermore frightened, for Shannon's sake. The torchlight is low and red, barely enough light to cover the two of them. Shufflings, low breathing in the dark. A metallic rattling, as if something is trying to get out of a cage. They are all cave dwellers, aware of, uneasy with one another. Papa pauses to light the second torch. After a few moments of slow-curling flame it flares up. Don sees, off to their left, a startled begrimed face, swaddled, rotund figure. Knit cap, shoulder-length gray hair as blunt and shaggy as an old whisk broom. A woman? She is pushing a shopping cart across the concrete floor, possibly the rattling noise he heard, distorted by the vast emptiness of this place and the state of his nerves. The cart is heaped with bags, papers, cartons. Her earthly possessions. She attempts to withdraw, but the wheels of the cart won't go in reverse, and it's too heavy for her to drag.

  Papa holds the torch out, the better for them all to see. She snarls at this intrusion.

  "Where are we off to, daughter?" Papa asks calmly.

  "I have a right to change my place of residence when I get the fidgets."

  "But it's raining out."

  "When it's time to go, it's time to go."

  The elephant sounds off again; she hunches her shoulders until they hide her ears and looks craftily at Papa.

  "You heard that."

  "I believe I did. Where is he?"

  "She. That is to say, whatever it is, it's got no balls. Not like them that I seen at the zoo, when I lived fancier uptown."

  "She. The female of the species. But do you know where—"

  "Upstairs. Where there's all sorts of goings-on."

  "For instance?"

  "Would you have a dollar on you, mister?"

  "No."

  Her mouth turns down vehemently. She rattles her shopping cart at them.

  "You're blocking traffic."

  "I have," Don says, "maybe two dollars." He's looking, by the flickering light, at something that moves in one of the bags in the shopping cart. A nudge here, a nudge there, trying to make room for itself. His skin crawls.

  "We could use a guide, daughter," Papa says. "We need to get to the goings-on. Without delay."

  "Don't look at me. It's not worth my life." She stares suddenly at the black garbage bag wiggling on top of her pile in the cart, then leans over, protectively placing both arms on it. They hear a muted howl. Don's skin crawls faster over his store of ice-cold blood.

  "What's that you've got in the bag, daughter?"

  "Don't 'daughter' me, Mr. Whiskers! To the best of my knowledge I was never conceived of your loins. If you knew who I was, you'd have some respect. I lived thirty years in a triplex at 600 Park Avenue. My husband was Mr. Hamilton. If you haven't heard of him, too bad for you. Oww!"

  She jumps back suddenly as something like a head pops up from the shiny plastic bag. Dark, rugged head, snappy bright eyes. Almost like a hyena pup but the wrong color: a vivacious, electric green.' The woman regroups quickly, wrestles it back down into the bag and holds the bag tight, like the valve of a balloon, in one fist. She sneaks a look at them.

  "You didn't see that."

  "More goings-on?" Papa inquires politely.

  Don draws a heavy breath. "I think," he says, "it was a gadzook."

  "Sure it was a gadzook."

  The woman laughs derisively. "I've had my fill of you two crazy bums," she declares. "Out of my way, I'm going to the zoo! It's finders-keepers in this world. I found it. And they'll pay me for it. Enough to bargain for my late husband's remains. They've got him in the greenhouse, until the railroad bonds mature. Orchids growing on his grave. There are some that will say it's a nice touch. I'm not fooled. I never held Mr. Hamilton's siblings in high regard, that's for sure. If you live long enough, all of your suspicions about human nature are bound to be confirmed. But will the Times print my letters? What's your hunch?"

  "Daughter, I think I am becoming very fond of you."

  She wipes a hand across her nose. "That 'daughter* stuff," she simpers, and shrugs. "Elevator's no good to you. It's not running. You might not want to be on it if it was."

  "There are elevators, and there are elevators."

  "I get your meaning."

  "We have to be on the right one, and in damned short order."

  "Then your best bet's the stairs. All the way to the sixth floor. It's probably left already, though. The doors are closed. No more room."

  "How many in the wedding party?"

  "The what?" Don says.

  "Everybody I know, from the first floor on up. Pup and Smokie Joe and Vashti and The Hook. None of those noddies in the shooting gallery, who can't stand on their own two feet. Speaking of undesirables. Let them come out of it for a couple minutes, they will cut your throat if they think you have a buck in your shoe."

  "What wedding?" Don says.

  "Expect there'll be room for two more," Papa says thoughtfully. "Don? Pony up two dollars."

  The woman ties a knot in the garbage bag and rummages deeper among her possessions.

  "Pony up three, you get this."

  She holds out a child's plastic play- sword—gilt cutlass handle, curved blade— that looks as if the child had teethed on it.

  Don, wallet in hand, hesitates. Papa gives him a sharp look. The woman is miffed.

  She swishes the flexible sword through the air.

  "I wouldn't go where you're going without it," she says ominously.

  "Why?"

  "It's the sword of Damocles. Your ignorance is no reflection on me."

  For a couple of moments Don thinks he is going to start screaming. Then he tears most of the cash from his wallet and thrusts it at the woman. Her muddled but oddly cherubic face lights up; she hands over the sword .and turns her back on them, finding a safe place for the fistful of dollars beneath her shabby outer garments.

  "Now take us to Shannon!" Don demands of her.

  "Hold on, hold on," she mumbles, but at last is satisfied with the disposition of her loot. The gadzook is carrying on inside the garbage bag, threatening to topple it from the cart. She swats the bag with an open hand. "Settle down!" To Papa she says, "Follow me," then glances hard at Don, as if disapproving of the way he is holding the sword, by the raggedly chewed blade instead of the handle.

  "I could give you a hand with the cart, daughter."

  "No help needed, Mr. Whiskers."

  As they trudge along she murmurs and chuckles to herself. In addition to other sounds of the dark—rhythmic swamp-grunts, catcalls, peckings and noodlings—they hear a high, sustained scream. It has power, momentum, but no emotion. Fear, pain, ecstasy, the scream is about none of these basic things. Yet it goes on and on, until Don is grinding the enamel off his back teeth.

  "La-la-la-la," the woman sings breathily. "The noddies are restless tonight. I'm betting you don't make it through noddie country."

  "What's she talking about?" Don says hoarsely to Papa, who, one hand in a side slit of his sou'wester, the other holding the torch to light the way, is into his own steady trudge and unshared thoughts. He shakes off the question somewhat irritably. Don stumbles on the uneven floor and thereafter concentrates on his footing. He has a raging headache. He is half sick from despair. But in a way he's grateful for physical discomfort, otherwise he could not believe his own senses. If there is room for anomalies in mathematics—and anomalies do exist— there is room for them in life. He does not have to rigorously define the world which he is now experiencing, he must only manage to survive it. The scream again. If it is neither a relief nor a necessity to scream, why do it at all? Don. squints in misery and holds his tender head.

  They have come to a series of plywood partitions and walkway tunnels like those put up by construction people around the city so that pedestrians won't fall into awesome holes in the earth or be lobotomize
d by dropped rivets. Smoke from the torch hovers nastily under the low roof, choking Don as he brings " up the rear. Left turn, right turn, a long straightaway, where will this end? Poor Shannon. At least it is not Shannon whose screams he must bear: The anonymous sound might not even be human. Some kind of machine. A computer programed to scream, as a joke, when it loses at chess.

  The squeaky-wheeled grocery cart is on an incline now. They're going down. Torchlight revealing nothing but the narrow plywood tunnel. Someone has spray-painted what look like political slogans in a middle- European language. Why here? Don thinks of men in cloth caps huddled, smoking tobacco harsh enough to kill the tastebuds, plotting firebombings. The woman sings in a wistfully jocular voice, "Ain't misbehavin'." She knows all the words. Tears come to Don's eyes. He

  brushes them away, still holding that fool sword. Their footsteps sound more and more hollow. The tunnel ends.

  A damp place, paint peeling from the walls, more huge bolted-together iron pipes feeding out of it than from the chambers of a heart.

  "That way," she says, and Papa walks around her with the torch to better examine a series of rusted iron steps going from platform to platform up into the dark of a shaft through which rain comes down intermittently, revealed in silvery streams.

  "Why, daughter?"

  "It takes you past noddie country, if you know how to be quick and careful. Otherwise, you're in the thick of them. You'll have a sporting chance, anyhow. Well, I'm on my way! Don't look for me back here any time soon. First it's the zoo, then I plan to be unstinting in my efforts to funeralize the late Mr. Hamilton."

  Papa takes off the slouch hat of his sou'wester and grins widely.

  "Our thanks to you, daughter."

  He lights her way back to the lip of the tunnel. Don is already on the stairs, looking up, quivering, impatient. "Come on!" This time he leads the way, footsteps clanging, as Papa follows with the torch.

  "Look out for surprises," the old hunter says, grunting; they both find it a chore going up, straight up, on the treacherous iron stairs. The light is barely adequate. Rain drips on their heads.