Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  "Shhhhh."

  There were moans and muted screams, as if a woman were being brought to gagged orgasm, perhaps suffocated. Marc rose from the motel bed, moved to the wall between the two rooms. Placed a glass to it, after prying-off the paper scalp.

  "Can you hear any. . ."

  Marc gestured for her not to talk and squeezed his ear tighter against the glass; as if his head were trying to drink the wall.

  ". . . what the hell are they doing in there?" he whispered, eyes roaming as he stethascoped the wall. "Bet they're making a porno movie. They use crappy motels."

  He listened harder, jaw half-parted, nose crunching in aghast reaction. Heard groans. Slaps. A woman's sweltering breath. "Must be five or six people." he whispered, doing the vulgar math in his mind, imagining body parts weaving; docking.

  Susie yawned. "Maybe it's a coven, like in Rosemary's Baby."

  ". . . insane," was all he said, closing eyes, not wanting to miss a detail.

  His appalled face finally lured her from the sheets, and she walked to him, caped in thin blanket. She gestured to his glass and he pointed to another, beside the TV. She tossed the lid, joined him on the wall, her ear pressed to the glass's solid bottom, awaiting lewd exhaust from the other room.

  She pulled back as a body slammed up against the wall, in #309, and moans got louder; male, female, accompanied by what sounded like fingernails clawing wallpaper.

  ". . . my god," she mouthed, trying to suppress laughter, lost in the irresistible clamor.

  "Insane," Mark mouthed back.

  They said nothing more, as the carnality pounded on, using the wall like a bass drum. Suddenly, they heard something heavy fall to the floor.

  "Sounds like the TV got knocked over," she said quietly. "Someone is getting it while sitting on the TV?"

  "Keep your voice down. They'll hear you."

  He glanced ominous theory at her. "Maybe they're listening to us, too."

  Her fears suddenly gathered at the thought.

  Then, weeping began.

  Shrieks, begging. Wanton, controlling laughter.

  "Was that . . . ?"

  "A whip," Susie finished for him, as they heard its slender bite gouge into skin, and a young woman's voice tremble, through the wall, as if from inside a casket.

  ". . . please," the young woman could barely speak, voice shaking; inexact, helpless. "Please, God, no!"

  ". . . this is getting sick," Marc whispered.

  "Maybe we should call the front desk," Susie sounded scared. "It sounds like someone is really being hurt. What if there's. . ."

  But she didn't finish, as the young woman's pleas rose into cruel, lilting laughter; semi-hysterical, grateful. A shower started and the radio came on making it harder to hear.

  "Intermission," said Marc, shaken.

  They were unable to sleep for the rest of the night, kept awake by the sordid chorale of stricken voices, random climax. The room sounded full of demons and Susie laid beside Marc, in their bed, holding onto him.

  "People are crazy . . ." she said.

  He stroked her and tried to not listen to a woman's voice in #309; the struggling, ecstatic sounds a horrid opera.

  At dawn, they peered through curtains as a middle-aged man, in dark suit and tie, exited #309. He carried nothing with him.

  "Must be their lawyer," said Marc, watching the man, who descended stairs to the sleepy coffee shop that adjoined the motel.

  "Maybe they're all sleeping it off," he said maybe they're all dead."

  Marc seriously considered it for a moment.

  They waited for an hour, until the maid knocked on the door of #309 and entered with her vacuum cleaner. They dressed, opened their own door. Walked casually past #309's open door.

  The TV was where it should be. Everything in the room was in its place, except for the bed, slightly unmade.

  "There's no one in there," said Susie, looking at Marc.

  "Maybe they went out the bathroom window."

  She looked inside. "There isn't one."

  "Maybe this room opens to another."

  She pointed; it didn't.

  They turned, could see the man eating breakfast, all by himself, down in the coffee shop.

  "He's alone," said Susie.

  They stood there and the man looked up at them with a rested glance.

  Red

  He kept walking.

  The day was hot and miserable and he wiped his forehead. Up another twenty feet, he could make out more. Thank God. Maybe he'd find it all. He picked up the pace and his breathing got thick. He struggled on, remembering his vow to himself to go through with this, not stopping until he was done. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask this favor. But it was the only way he could think of to work it out. Still, maybe it had been a mistake.

  He felt an edge in his stomach as he stopped and leaned down to what was at his feet. He grimaced, lifted it into the large canvas bag he carried, wiped his hands and moved on. The added weight in the bag promised of more and he felt somehow better. He had found most of what he was looking for in the first mile. Only a half more to go, to convince himself, to be sure.

  To not go insane.

  It was a nightmare for him to realize how far he'd gone this morning with no suspicion, no clue. He held the bag more tightly and walked on. Ahead, the forms who waited got bigger; closer. They stood with arms crossed, people gathered, complaining, behind them.

  They would have to wait.

  He saw something a few yards up, swallowed and walked closer. It was everywhere and he shut his eyes, trying not to see how it must have been. But he saw it all. Heard it in his head. The sounds were horrible and he couldn't make them go away. Nothing would go away, until he had everything; he was certain of that. Then, his mind would at least have some chance to find a place of comfort.

  To go on.

  He bent down and picked up what he could, then walked on, scanning ahead. The sun was beating down and he felt his shirt soaking with sweat under the arms and on his back. He was nearing the forms who waited, when he stopped, seeing something halfway between himself and them. It had lost its shape, but he knew what it was and couldn't step any closer. He placed the bag down and slowly sat cross-legged on the baking ground, staring. His body began to shake.

  A somber looking man walked to him and carefully picked up the object, placing it in the canvas bag and cinching the top. He gently coaxed the weeping man to stand, and the man nodded through tears. Together, they walked toward the others, who were glancing at watches and losing patience.

  "But I'm not finished," the man cried. His voice broke and his eyes grew hot and puffy. "Please . . . I'll go crazy . . . just a little longer?"

  The somber looking man hated what was happening and made the decision. "I'm sorry, sir. Headquarters said I could only give you the half-hour you asked for. That's all I can do. It's a very busy road."

  The man tried to struggle away but was held more tightly. He began to scream and plead and two middle-aged women, who were waiting, watched uncomfortably.

  "Whoever allowed this should be reported," said one, shaking her head critically. "The poor man is ready to have a nervous breakdown. It's cruel."

  The other said she'd heard they felt awful for the man, whose little girl had grabbed on when he'd left for work that morning. The girl had gotten caught and he'd never known.

  They watched the officer approaching with the crying man, who he helped into the hot squad car. Then, the officer grabbed the canvas bag and, as it began to drip red onto the blacktop, he gently placed it into the trunk beside the mangled tricycle.

  The backed-up cars began to honk and traffic was waved on as the man was driven away.

  Arousal

  She stared.

  Trying to be sure. Trying to hide it.

  He was somehow perfect, somehow virulent; handsome in a way that slit her restraint open. Drew her in. He was about thirty. By himself in the bar. The town, asleep ten stories below, was flat an
d black. Streetlights stared up, inspecting the hotel bar with orange eyes, and occasionally a sleepy police car would pass, roving pointlessly.

  She stared more, wiping long nails with napkin.

  She was becoming sure. It was in his eyes.

  The thing.

  Maybe even more than the ones before.

  She ordered another kamikaze, walked to the pay phone, passing him. He stared out the window, chewing on a match, and she noticed the way his index finger traced the edge of his beer as if touching a woman's body.

  The look.

  Every location, she found it.

  When the company was done filming and she'd finished going over the next day's set-ups, with whichever director she was currently working, she'd grab the location van back to the hotel the studio booked the production team into, pick up messages at the front desk, and go to her room. Always exhausted, always hating being an assistant director. Hating not being the one to set the vision. Run the set.

  Be in control.

  Then she'd strip; shower. Let the water scratch fingernails down her body as she closed tired eyes. Try to let the sensations take over. Try to feel something. But she never did; couldn't.

  The sensual voyage her girlfriends felt when they were alone and naked, touching their bodies, allowing their skin to respond, no longer interested her. Her body searched for greater responses. Searched for the one who could hold her the right way, touch her with the exact touch. Make her respond; transcend. Stare into her eyes when she came.

  Stare with that look.

  She stood at the phone, called collect. Her husband was asleep and, when he answered, told her he loved her. She said it back but kept watching the man. He was pressing his lips against the matchstick, gently sucking it in and out, as she stared in unprotected fascination.

  Her husband offered to wake the kids so they could tell her good-night.

  "They miss Mommy," he told her, in a sweet voice she hated.

  He told her again, asking if she were all right; she sounded tired, distracted. She laughed a little, making him go away, calming him. He told her again he loved her and wanted to be with her. To make love. She was silent, watching the man across the barroom, catching his glance as he tried to get the waitress's attention.

  "Do you miss me?" her husband asked.

  The man was looking at her. Her husband asked her if she were looking forward to making love when she got back into town. She kept staring at the man. Her husband asked again.

  "Of course I am. . ."

  But it was a lie. It never stopped being one. He did nothing for her. She wanted something that would make her forget who she was, what her life was. Something real.

  Something unreal.

  Her husband had gone to get the kids though she told him not to. He wouldn't listen, and when she lifted cold fingers from her closed eyes, head bowed in private irritation, the man was standing next to her, buying cigarettes from a machine.

  "Say hello to Mommy."

  The kids spoke sleepily over the phone while the man stared at her, lighting his cigarette, eyes unblinking. She told them to go to sleep, and that she loved them. But she was watching the man's eyes moving down her face, slowly to her neck, her breasts. He looked back at her and she allowed the look to do whatever it wanted.

  They went to his room.

  Nothing was said. They made love all night and she clutched at the sheets on either side of her sweating stomach with both hands, bunching up the starched cotton, screaming. He touched her so faintly, at one point, it felt like nothing more than a thought; a wish. Her body arched and tensed, the pillow beneath her head soaked.

  He tied her to the bedposts with silk scarves, and blew softly onto her salty mouth, gently kissed her eyelids, circled his tongue around her ears and whispered rapist demands that made her come. He massaged her until her skin effervesced, until her fingers pulled wildly at the scarves that held her wrists to the bed. Until she moaned with such pleasure, she thought she was in someone else's body.

  Or had left her own.

  Everything he did aroused her and when he finally untied her, she slept against his chest, held in his soothing arms. She murmured how incredible it had been, stunned by what he'd made her feel; was still making her feel.

  He said the only thing he would.

  "You won't forget tonight."

  When she awakened at dawn, he was gone. No note, no sign. There was a knock on the door and she answered, wrapping a towel around herself. Room Service rolled in a large breakfast, complete with omelet, café au lait, a newspaper.

  He'd taken care of everything.

  She sat in bed and ate, untying the newspaper, aching sweetly from the evening, covered with tender welts. The food tasted delicious and the flavors on her tongue made her want to make love. She smiled, listened to the birds outside her window. Their soft opera gave her goosebumps, and as she opened the newspaper, the sound of its crisp folds made her nipples tingle. She laughed a little, remembering the incredible way he'd licked and sucked them last night. They were still sensitive.

  As she read, she sipped at her coffee and the creamy heat of it made her part her legs slightly as it spread over her tongue and ran down her throat, warm like sperm.

  She began to breathe harder, sipping more, twisting her shoulders as a tingle ran delicate voltage through her. She read the front page, allowed fingers to roam on the inky surface, could feel the words; their shape and length. The curve of the individual letters. The sound the sentences created in her mind.

  She felt herself getting wet.

  It was fantastic; her body responsive to every detail of the morning; its sounds, colors. Even the feel of the blanket, the scraping texture of the wool making her think about him, the hair on his chest and face. God, why hadn't she asked his name? He was the greatest lover she'd probably ever have and she knew it. She laughed out loud, feeling a strange woman emerging.

  The ice in the orange juice was melting and when it rubbed against the glass, the sound made her softly, involuntarily moan. She smiled and lit a cigarette, sensing an unfamiliar fulfillment in her cells and nerves. A happiness.

  Control subsiding; vanishing in weightless increments.

  The cigarette flame gave off a heat she could actually feel and she began to perspire. She shook a bit, grinning, and blew the match out, watching the tiny curls of smoke that peeled from its blackened tip and smelled like the man's scent. She couldn't stop herself from sliding a trembling hand onto a breast. Her skin was hot, and as the sounds of the birds got louder outside her window, and the hotel began to wake up below her, making faraway morning sounds, she listened and began to groan pleasurably from the noise.

  The smell of the unfinished food and the warm air from the heating vent felt like a caress, and her nipples got harder, her pubic hair more damp. Her eyes wandered lazily, sexually, around the room and noticed the furniture; the way the fabric on the couch fit its plaid shapes together so perfectly, each cushion like the next. It made her shut her eyes in exquisite torture. She opened them and caught a glimpse of the ballpoint pen, which the hotel provided on the bedside table. Its red color pleased her and she groaned happily, imagining the languages and secret text within it, hidden in its ruby ink. Her eyes drifted to the ashtray filled with crippled cigarettes, its glassy roundness exciting her, its smells and patterns making her think of making love, of the man entering her and . . .

  She suddenly realized what was happening and noticed an article on the front page section of the paper about a murder that had occurred the night before. A family had been gunned-down by two men in ski-masks and, as she imagined it, her fingers moved over her body, searching wildly, uncontrollably. Scratching, squeezing. Shivering. She didn't understand the sexual storm her body felt as her mind filled with images of bullets shredding skin, faces twisting in horror, bodies slumping.

  The tensing percussion.

  The shudder.

  She couldn't stop the orgasm and it drenched her
like a toxic wave that rose high and fainted; collapsing, rising again.

  Her body was wet and her teeth bit into her bottom lip, making it bleed. She squeezed herself so hard she began to bruise, bluish ponds spreading under her skin. Her arms drew back to the bedposts and grabbed tightly to either, as if crucified, fingers white; desperate. She screamed louder, flailing, coming again and again, not able to stop the flood of sights, sounds.

  She saw her children and began to cry.

  Then, in her mind, she could see the man's face. His easy smile. The way he touched her.

  The look.

  She passed out, until aroused by maids cleaning the next room; their hungry vacuums like starved creatures detecting her scent under the door.

  And though she fought it, her exhausted body began to respond in delicate, helpless seizure, imagining the vacuum's path; random things it licked up, swallowed; its lewd, meticulous wake.

  She suddenly froze, seeing herself in the dresser mirror; eyes wild, expression a lurid painting. She wanted to cry, flee, vanish.

  But it was already too late, and she felt her back arch as a fly landed on the wall.

  Intruder

  At six-fifteen, Relling broke in.

  He glanced around the front hall nervously. He had to work fast; cash, jewelry, stereo, something. His arm was hungry and he ached. Everybody he knew did. Lately it seemed like the whole world needed the shit. You did what you had to. Pain had him half in its mouth and he groaned. Too many fucking hours. He had to hurry.

  The beam of his glove light scanned the dimness.

  Then, from behind, a deep male voice froze him.

  It said. "You're intruding," and he whirled, dropping the crowbar.

  The man was seven feet tall and dressed in black. Scooped cheeks, dead eyes. A fast-charge Air-Mailer was strapped to his right leg; .55, bore eleven with a hot point. Bad enough to burn a tunnel in the wall and melt three blocks if it was up high. The huge man stared without blinking and Relling felt his nerves twist.