Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  When he finally heard it in front of him, its horrid tinkle like faraway sleigh bells, he would shock the dust by thumbing on the flashlight and blinding it. Then, he would start the vacuum cleaner, and stare in hunter's fixation as the dust screamed, sucked into a long nozzle he held in his hand.

  Smiling at the agonized shrieks, he would move slowly through the apartment, passing the nozzle back and forth, its fat throat swallowing the helpless dust, until the slaughter was total; the room safe for sleep.

  But he didn't sleep well.

  He knew the dust would be back by morning. Sneaking in through cracks and vents, as he twisted with nightmares.

  It couldn't be stopped.

  It was falling everywhere, twenty-four hours a day; an endless, smothering, swirling horror. No matter where he went to escape it, to fool it and hide, it would always be there, drifting to the ground like invading parachutists; fearless, secret.

  He watched the sunbeam that had moved to the side of the menu.

  Its yellow straightness was a perfect landing strip for the dust, which floated closer to the ground, making noises he'd come to hate. The amusement of the dust; laughing, ridiculing.

  The arrogant sounds it made as it fell closer, ready to land, ready to join the billions of its own kind.

  The plans it had; he heard those, too.

  He'd heard them from the start; when there had been only advance parties descending from the sky. Nobody else seemed to question it. But he'd always known more would come. That time only made it worse, offering the perfect means to chart the inevitable suffocation.

  He left the table, positioned goggles, placed a handkerchief over his mouth, and walked out onto the city street, past a store window.

  He glanced up.

  Dust coated the window and its weightless eyes watched him.

  He hurried on and approached a pedestrian crossing, where he waited. He looked down to see dust on the tips of his shoes, and bent quickly to wipe it off with the handkerchief, feeling the dust's sticky voltage on the cotton. He threw the white square onto the sidewalk, then lit it on fire with matches from his pocket.

  As flames rose, he moved closer to hear the dust burning to death.

  That night, he decided to fight the dust using different methods, knowing it must be deceived so it couldn't predict his strategy; his advantage.

  At just past eleven, he rose in darkness. He had been waiting, feigning sleep, listening since sundown to the dust's hidden murmurings. It was secreted in the weave of the curtain fabric, and he heard it scheming, watching for his unguarded sleep.

  He moved in silence to the tattered curtains, a thick board raised over his shoulder. The sound of the board striking the drab material, over and over, was mixed with the panicked screams of the dust; stunned clumps which clouded helplessly.

  When he'd forced it all out, he grabbed his vacuum and started it, holding the nozzle in sweaty hands, sweeping it through the air. The sounds of tiny death filled the apartment, screaming and pleading until nothing could be heard.

  He figured several hundred thousand had died.

  Finally, he slept, relaxed snores drawing him through what little night remained.

  By morning, the city stared at a murky sun which had turned almost brown, and he rose to fight the dust. He pulled open his curtains and drained white at what he saw. Moving in, from the west, was a mile-wide wall of dust, a bronze wave that curled closer.

  He dressed in silence, knowing what he must do.

  The air-tight jumpsuit was zipped, heavy boots pulled on. The portable, battery-pack vacuum was harnessed to his back. Goggles positioned. He pulled on gloves, clutched the vacuum nozzle, went downstairs, kicked open the front door.

  As he walked through the silent city, which had been dead for half a century, his mind flooded with images of his children and wife. Friends and parents. Dogs. Christmas. Laughter.

  The viral clouds which swept the Mars settlement had destroyed them; taken everything. Fighting the dust was the only thing that kept him sane.

  He turned on his portable vacuum, walked slowly toward the brown storm, which howled closer, killing everything it touched. He had survived.

  He would survive.

  He would win.

  Abused

  Moans.

  Echoed; helpless.

  "He's begging me to stop."

  No response.

  "Can you hear alright?"

  "I'm going for the eyes. He's calling out your name. Can you hear it?"

  She drew breath. Heard the screaming. Pulled the phone from her ear. Shuddered. Made herself listen again.

  "He's begging for you to help him. He wants you to make me stop." Amused. "Can you hear it? Tell me."

  "1 can hear it. . ." She could hear him screaming out how much he loved her. Could hear him shrieking her name.

  "Good connection?"

  She didn't answer.

  "I thought so." Informing sadism. "I'm going to really hurt him now."

  ". . . what do you mean?"

  "Listen."

  She closed eyes. Could imagine him, naked, tied down. Fingers clutching. Eyes bloody; blinded.

  ". . . what are you. . ."

  "Listen."

  "Please. . ."

  "I'm going to cut him up."

  She imagined the shiny blade. His unguarded veins. Him carved. Squirming, pleading. She felt faint, heard clothing ripped open, flesh slashed. His screaming made the earpiece distort. She saw herself in the hall mirror. Fearful, gaunt. Bowing her head in revulsion.

  "He's bleeding now. You should see it."

  "I want you to stop. . ."

  "No, you don't." A merciless pause. "I'm peeling him."

  Sounds of sharp steel on skin. "Can you hear?"

  Her soft weeping drew her to the floor.

  "I said can you hear?" The man's voice was low; hypnotic and cruel. "Can you hear the skin being curled back over muscle?" He waited. Breath steady. "Press the phone closer to your ear. You'll like this."

  She was sweating, mouth dry. Her hand trembled as she heard what was being done.

  "Are you enjoying this?"

  "No," she answered.

  "I asked you if you were enjoying it?"

  "NO!"

  "Liar!"

  She could hear the skin being slashed apart; the tortured screams. Her eyes widened.

  "Tell me you love it. . .

  ''I . . ."

  "Tell me you love it."

  ''I . . ."

  "Tell me how much you hate his fucking guts! How much you've waited for this. Waited to hear him tortured like he's tortured you. .

  "Please stop . . ."

  "TELL ME YOU LOVE IT!! GET EVEN WITH THIS PRICK!!"

  She felt like throwing-up as the man began to chuckle in his deep voice.

  "I'm going to cut his throat. Wanna hear?"

  She could hear hideous, trapped screams in the background.

  "Listen closely. . . "

  She couldn't put the phone down and just as the man was about to cut, all sound stopped.

  A woman's calm voice came on the line.

  "Your ten minutes have expired. The cost of your Fantasy Abuse call will be discreetly billed to your monthly phone statement as Pleasure-Comm, LTD. Please call again."

  The dial tone blocked anything further; a slammed door.

  She hung up. Lay on the couch in exhaustion. Relaxed for the first time in days.

  Until the phone rang.

  She watched it, finally picked up on the sixth ring. Waited. Fear gathered in unblinking eyes.

  "I've been trying you for ten minutes, bitch." The voice was ready to hurt her. "Who the fuck were you talking to?"

  She said she'd accidentally left the phone off the hook but he wasn't convinced. Said he'd be home soon and was in a bad mood.

  She knew what it meant; last week's bruises still a sick lapis.

  She stared at the phone, as he hung up. Trembled helplessly. Dialed Fantasy Abu
se for the third time today and asked for him to be gutted, hung upside down, bled to death.

  She listened carefully and fixed coffee, waiting for her husband to get home.

  Beholder

  Carrie stared at the faded art gallery as if seeing something strange in a mirror for the first time.

  The front window was soaped, and a high banner draped where Greene's sign had hung only one week back. In perfectly painted letters, it read: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT.

  She shook her head. The gallery had been doing well enough last time she'd been in. Why hadn't Greene said something about leaving?

  Switching off the car radio, she got out, walked to the gallery's door and tried the locked knob. Glancing for the buzzer, she located a button and pressed.

  Footsteps approached within and the door was noisily unsecured. Carrie tried again and, as the hinges squeaked, she entered, grasping her purse.

  As she walked in, the door slammed and she spun toward it. She was startled by a voice from the gallery's rear.

  "Sorry," said the voice, "it's only the wind."

  She slowly approached the counter. To either side of the musty gallery were frames, paintings, etchings and prints. The same stuff which hadn't sold since she'd moved in three months back. Odd that Greene hadn't taken anything with him, she thought.

  "It's why I keep the door locked. The breezes knock it open and shut all day."

  He stood behind the counter in a vanilla-colored, silk shirt, hair long and black. His face was classically handsome and easily more than fifty.

  "Are you the new owner?" she asked, nerves still shaken.

  He extended a friendly hand and Carrie noticed the heavy rings. Too thick to be a woman's, too delicate to be a man's.

  "As a matter-of-fact, I only took it over recently." He looked at her carefully. "My name is Christian."

  Carrie met his hand and was reassured by its warmth. He shared a look with her and they both smiled.

  "Carrie," she offered. "What happened to Mr. Greene?"

  "Decided to travel through Europe. We made the exchange of the shop through the mail." He watched her. "He left rather quickly, I take it."

  "Yes," said Carrie. "Didn't say a word."

  They regarded each other in covert fascination.

  "Are you an artist?" he finally asked, searching her face. She smiled.

  "No. But I've been wanting to do a painting. It struck me last night to do something about it. Isn't that odd?"

  He acknowledged this with a small smile.

  "Do you need supplies?"

  "Everything," laughed Carrie. "1 just moved here recently and left most of my things behind."

  She looked off.

  Getting a place in a small town was the best thing she'd done since everything had fallen apart. Broken marriages and a new place to start; her mother had been right.

  He observed her, intently. "Well, I'm sure I'll have everything you'll need."

  She brightened as he withdrew a large canvas from beneath the counter.

  "About the right size?"

  "Perfect."

  Christian smiled and placed the canvas into a bag with other supplies he added to it. As he did, Carrie didn't notice him looking at her.

  Watching.

  She peeked into the bag, took inventory and nodded in delight. "Well," she began, "all that leaves is . . ."

  ". . . paint," he finished for her, causing them to both laugh. "If I might suggest something," he said, "I was never able to find colors I wanted, when I painted, so I began to create my own. I have them here in the shop."

  She looked into his eyes and felt her stomach tighten.

  "How wonderful," she heard herself say. "I'd love to see them."

  At that, Christian disappeared into the back of the gallery and reappeared with a jeweled box. Large enough to fit into her cupped hands, it was dull gold, with gems on sides and top.

  "Please," he said, indicating the box, "I want you to see."

  Carrie looked at him and hinged up the top without a word. Inside, a dozen, tear-shaped vials shone lustrous colors, the paints inside like heavenly syrups.

  Carrie held each vial to the light of the soaped window, causing each to brand regal prisms upon her face.

  "They're like pieces of a rainbow," she whispered.

  "These paints are very special," he said. "You couldn't find others like them, anywhere in the world."

  Carrie gently returned the vials to the box, carefully arranging them as they'd been. She looked at Christian and shook her head slightly.

  "They're beautiful."

  "Then you must have them."

  "I . . . couldn't," she said, suddenly afraid. Something about the paints disturbed her. The tightening in her stomach returned. Christian saw her confusion and took her hand.

  "By knowing you'll create something with my paints, I gain something." He held her hand, imploringly. "It's a kind of circular intimacy; a continuation."

  Carrie looked at him, feeling haunted and drawn into something she could neither understand, nor resist. She could only watch without protest as Christian placed the paints in her bag, smiling.

  Waiting for her to begin.

  It was past midnight when Carrie set up the easel and canvas. A white moon had lifted itself over a bank of clouds, and its light brought shapes to the fields outside her bedroom window.

  She sipped tea and sat on a stool, in her nightgown, before the canvas. The house was silent and cooperatively tranquil; wishing to aid in her creation.

  She'd set the vials Christian gave her on a small tray beside the canvas, and poised the brush in her hand, eyes searching outside for an idea; an inspiration.

  The meadows and trees, outside the window, and beyond, into open country, were in slumber, darkness hiding their trunks and leaves.

  Carrie took a sip of tea.

  What to paint, she wondered, staring at the taut canvas? She sipped again, until the view outside drew her eye. The window was covered by French doors, the swaying fields beyond a restive bay of green. The room, itself, with windows prominent and fields as background, could make something nice, she thought. Worth a try.

  She dipped the brush into a vial of jewel-brown paint, and began.

  With its shimmering milkiness, she outlined the room, the French doors, the balcony outside, and several of the trees which napped in distant meadows.

  She rinsed the brush and, with the vial of twinkling, sapphire blue, finished the sky outside, and colored the panes of the French doors.

  She shivered and took another drink of tea. It was getting cold outside and she took a sweater from her closet. Pulling it on, she began to study the painting. It needed something in the foreground. She closed her eyes, trying to visualize what would look right. They opened, quickly.

  Of course!

  Immediately, the brush was dipped into the pearl-black paint and Carrie began to outline a bed. First the headboard and baseboard, finally the coverlet, yet to be colored in.

  As she watched her hand moving, she looked beyond it to the forming painting.

  It was starting to come alive and she could feel its rhythms. Its pulse.

  As she painted the branches of the trees shifting and straining in the imaginary winds of the painting, she heard the wind outside begin to stir. It rose as she painted in the detail of each branch. Leaves rustled against the French windows, in tangled flight.

  She painted a moon leaning casually in the black sky of the painting, and the blowing leaves, outside her own window, began to faintly glimmer. But she paid little attention to these curiosities, her hands and eyes not drifting much from the painting.

  As if knowing each movement, she rinsed her brush, immersed it into the proper vial and painted in something further, rushing the work to its completion.

  She repeated this over and over, painting the room in richer detail: an antique dresser, an arched doorway, a blazing fireplace.

  With the completion of the painted fireplace, her
own bedroom filled with the sound of crackling logs, the odor of burning pine.

  She continued to paint, unaware; possessed by urges which had long since taken over. Disconnected from the room, she was linked only to the painting, now.

  Her hands moved rapidly over the canvas, as if conducting some mad symphony, and she began to paint someone in the bed, under the silk comforter.

  The vials were quickly emptying as Carrie painted faster, giving the form in the bed more detail. There were long, tapered arms. Hair like her own.

  Her favorite gown.

  Her breathing stumbled as she looked at the face.

  It was her.

  There was no question.

  Without reacting, she began to paint with renewed focus. More detail, ever more detail. She added a blue taper. Then, another. Both in beautiful sconces on the painting's bedside tables, flames slithering.

  As she did this, the electric lights in her own room suddenly went off. Yet, a strange glow remained, mysteriously filling the room.

  Several of the bewitching paints were now emptied from their vials, and few remained. In the vial of translucent blood-red, a single drop rest at the bottom.

  The painting was nearly done, and the room Carrie had rendered was stunning. It was lit by tapers and firelight, and its opened French windows bid entry to midnight breezes.

  She could feel her own hair blowing and, as she looked over at the window in her room, she shuddered.

  It was still closed.

  She felt herself react in fear but kept painting. As she did, noticing almost nothing of what she drew, she trembled, feeling a warm hand touch her face.

  She looked at the painting and nearly screamed.

  She had painted a man's hand gently resting, in the painting, on her face.

  In captivation, her brush began anew, more slowly, as if caressing the remaining portions of canvas.

  Without her conscious guidance, the brush painted-in the man's legs, and she felt warm legs pressing against her own.

  As she painted shoulders and strong forearms, she breathed a male scent, and could feel the beginnings of an embrace.

  And though she fought the painting's seductions, afraid of what was coming, her brush continued emptying vial after vial.