Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  Then, his arms were poking themselves out of the grave and, within several seconds, he had managed to pull his upper body from the ground. He kept pulling, hooking his shredded fingers into the earth and sliding his legs from the hole. They yanked out and he lay on the ground completely, trying to fill his lungs with gulps of air. But no air could get through the dirt which had collected in his windpipe and mouth.

  He writhed on the ground, turning on his back and side, until he'd finally raised himself to a forward kneel and began hacking phlegm-covered mud from his air passages. Black saliva ran down his chin as he continued to throw up violently, dirt falling from his mouth to the ground. When most of it was out, he began to gasp, as oxygen rushed into his body, cool air filling him with life.

  I've won, he thought.

  I've beaten the bastards, beaten them! He began to laugh in victorious rage, until his eyes pried open and he looked around, rubbing at his blood-covered lids. He heard the sound of traffic and blinding lights glared at him. They crisscrossed on his face, rushing at him from left and right. He winced, struck dumb by their glare, then realized where he was.

  The cemetery by the highway.

  Cars and trucks roared back and forth, tires humming. He breathed a sigh at being near life again; near movement and people. A grunting smile raised his lips.

  Looking to his right, he saw a gas station sign high on a metal pole, several hundred yards up the highway.

  Struggling to his feet, he ran.

  As he did, he made a plan.

  He would go to the station, wash up in the rest room, then borrow a dime and call for a limo from the company to come and get him.

  No.

  Better a cab.

  That way he could fool those sons of bitches. Catch them by surprise. They undoubtedly assumed he was long gone by now. Well, he had beaten them. He knew it as he picked up the pace of his run. Nobody could stop you when you really wanted something, he told himself, glancing back in the direction of the grave he had just escaped.

  He ran into the station from the back and made his way to the bathroom. He didn't want anyone to see his dirtied, bloodied state.

  There was a pay phone in the bathroom and he locked the door before plowing into his pocket for change. He found two pennies and a quarter and deposited the silver coin. They'd even provided him with money, he thought; the stupid bastards.

  He dialed his wife.

  She answered and screamed when he told her what had happened. She screamed and screamed. What a hideous joke, she said. Whoever was doing this was making a hideous joke. She hung up before he could stop her. He dropped the phone and turned to face the bathroom mirror.

  He couldn't even scream.

  He could only stare in silence.

  Staring back at him, was a face that was missing sections of flesh. Its skin was gray, and withered yellow bone showed through.

  Then, he remembered what else his wife had said and began to weep. His shock began to turn to hopeless fatalism.

  It had been over seven months, she'd said.

  Seven months.

  He looked at himself in the mirror again, and realized there was nowhere he could go.

  And somehow all he could think about was the engraving on his lighter.

  Bleed

  Big moon. Loud wind.

  Pumpkins growl. Flames for brains.

  Mommy said trick-or-treaters will be here. I'm too sick to go out. Mommy says it's the flu. My tummy is mad at me and wants to throw everything out.

  My Daddy is dead. One year.

  They put him in the ground and sent him away. Mommy said God has a subway down there. He waits till all the people in black leave.

  Then, the box revs like a car and leaves and keeps going until it gets to heaven.

  When the children came tonight, I saw them from my window. They all had on costumes and I liked the astronaut best with silver skin and glass head. Then, I started to throw up. And the big tree outside scraped the house like it wanted it to bleed.

  I fell asleep.

  When I wake up, Mommy is next to me. Sitting on my bed. My tummy aches and burns. She smiles. Dabs blood from my mouth. "How was your first Halloween?" she asks.

  I smile and she strokes my forehead, tucks me in more.

  She is happier now. She was sad until she met the new man. I like when Mommy is happy.

  "Good boy," she says, turning off the light.

  My room is dark. It starts to rain and I close my eyes. I think about Daddy. I miss him. My stomach hurts more. I hear Mommy in the kitchen. She sings softly, making sure not to wake me. She is on the phone with the new man. They whisper.

  The apple Mommy gave me is on my plate. I could only eat half. Mommy says apples are good for me. Says candy wrecks my teeth. Says Daddy always ate apples. But it feels like something is cutting me inside.

  I try to call Mommy but can't make words. I feel cold, like I'm snowing inside. All I hear is my breathing. Blood soaks my pillow.

  I imagine Daddy sitting in his big car, grinning up at me, in my room. He beeps the horn and I run down and we drive away into big white clouds that turn apple-red.

  And the sky starts to bleed.

  Conversation Piece

  When my editor first handed me the assignment, I said I wouldn't take it. Things like that had always turned my stomach. But I hadn't done a decent article in months and finally agreed to it.

  I had expected the worst of grotesqueries when I pulled my car in front of the house. After sitting for minutes, trying to fight the impulse to drive away, I went in.

  The two of us sat in a small den and I was given coffee by the man's wife. As I sipped at the mug, I turned on the tape recorder and began the interview.

  Q. When did you first take a job offer?

  A. After I graduated from college. I caught wind of the need from one of my professors.

  Q. You received your degree in physical sciences, didn't you?

  A. No. Anatomy. I was good at it. All it took was memorization.

  Q. So, you spoke to one of your professors and he mentioned the need for volunteers. What did he say?

  A. Not much. Only that the graduate medical program was doing a project and would I like to make some money?

  Q. I would imagine that aspect of it sounded very appealing.

  A. Extremely.

  Q. Did they interview you? I mean I assume they had to be somewhat selective.

  A. Oh, sure. Mainly they check for physical health. In the majority of their experiments, they're checking for the impact of viral introduction on healthy tissue.

  Q. And you checked out?

  A. Perfectly. Which is amazing. Between the hours I was keeping and the lousy food I was eating, you'd think I would have been anemic or something.

  Q. You must have a strong constitution.

  A. Guess so. Damned if I can figure it.

  Q. So, what was your first assignment?

  A. It's been a long time. But I can still remember it.

  Q. How many years back was that?

  A. Nineteen.

  Q. You look younger than that.

  A. (laughs) Thank you.

  Q. You were saying...

  A. Well, what they wanted from me was just a little blood. They were doing leukemia research. So, I gave a couple pints and they made out a check.

  Q. What'd they pay you?

  A. I don't even remember. Back in those days it wasn't much, of course. But I do remember cashing that first check and taking my girl out

  Q. Did it bother this girl? The way you were making your money?

  A. Not at first.

  Q. I don't understand that answer.

  A. Well, for the first year it was pretty innocent. You know, blood, sleep deprivation, alcohol studies. Temporary stuff.

  Q. That changed?

  A. Absolutely.

  Q. How soon after you'd started?

  A. The third year.

  Q. Why then?

  A. Thi
s girl I mentioned, she wanted to get married. That's what started the problem.

  Q. How so?

  A. Well, her folks didn't approve of me, so I had to pick up the tab for everything.

  Q. What did you do?

  A. Well, I was stuck. So, I went to this clinic and let a doctor take a skin biopsy from underneath my chin. I only got paid fifty dollars but it paid for the minister and it got my foot in the door.

  Q. Got your foot in the door?

  A. Sure. This doctor, he spread the word that I was available and that I was good.

  Q. What determines how good you are?

  A. Well, like we were saying before, health counts for everything. But after that, attitude is what separates the fringe elements from the professionals.

  Q. What's different about your attitude?

  A. Well, I try and get involved in the experiment. Some guys, they just come in and do what they're told without putting out any effort. To me, the experiment is something to be taken seriously. Believe me, that outlook was appreciated and it got me a lot of work.

  Q. What did you do after the wedding? Did you continue to use your body to make money?

  A. I tried not to. I tried different jobs. I worked as a printer's assistant, as a librarian, a liquor store delivery boy. But none of them really appealed to me. I never liked work much. Maybe that's why selling parts of my body was so easy for me. There was no work involved.

  Q. Just pain?

  A. A little. I learned to accept it.

  Q. It seems that would have discouraged you.

  A. In some odd way, it seemed to add to it. As if I needed punishment for my laziness. Or maybe for my lack of happiness with my wife.

  Q. There were marital problems?

  A. We argued constantly. She hated my work.

  Q. You told her about it?

  A. No, but she caught on. It showed. I couldn't very well hide the scars and stitches. My body betrayed me.

  Q. What was her reaction?

  A. She was disgusted. Revolted by my gradual deterioration. Yet she admitted we needed the money.

  Q. (checking notes) Iread here that you were nearly divorced. What happened? Was there a breaking point?

  A. Yes. It's funny, she could allow herself to deal with my selling certain parts of my body. But not others. To sell a vial of my bone marrow was tolerable. To let them buy a lung, or a finger, or an ear was tolerable. But when we were expecting a child, we needed money again, and I sold my hands.

  Q. What in particular about that bothered her?

  A. She said the stumps of my arms on her back, with only the cauterized wrists touching her, gave her nightmares. But our baby had the best. I did whatever I had to do. I was taking care of my family. What man wouldn't do the same?

  Q. After you had your hands taken off,did she leave you?

  A. Mentally, yes. She wouldn't have much to do with me. We slept in separate beds, practically didn't talk. Occasionally, she'd hand me my baby daughter and expect me to rock her. I loved that. I'd rock her to sleep in my arms. I really felt like a father.

  Q. I guess every parent reacts that way.

  A. I'm sure. But it didn't last long. The baby got sick and needed special medicine. I had to go to work again. I had to sell my arms and some fluid from my nervous system. I made a lot that time.

  Q. (Waiting for a moment) You were going to talk about the marriage.

  A. Yes. I got off the track. When our daughter entered grade school, she needed clothes, so I went to work again. The bills were coming in fast and steady. I was forced to sell some of my internal organs and a large skin-patch from my scalp.

  Q. What about your hair?

  A. I'd sold that months before. It gave me a down payment on a washer.

  Q. Didn't you ever want to just stop and get into some other profession?

  A. No. Like I said, I really enjoy this type of work. Besides it was getting to the point where I couldn't have done anything else.

  Q. How so?

  A. Well, by that time, I'd sold my legs to a clinic doing research in limb restoration, and wasn't able to get around without help.

  Q. Did your wife help you to go to your jobs?

  A. Yes, she became better about it over time. I guess every marriage has a period of adjustment.

  Q. And your daughter?

  A. Such a beautiful little girl. She's in the second grade now.

  Q. So, how have you been getting along lately?

  A. Pretty well. I've got a few things lined up.

  Q. You think you can keep going?

  A. Oh, sure. I've got lots of good years ahead of me. The marriage is getting better and I'm very satisfied with my work.

  Q. But you have so little left.

  A. (laughs a little) You'd be surprised how much there still is. My chin is healing. I'll be able to start selling biopsy plugs from there soon. And I hear of this doctor who is doing work in dental nerve responses. Hell that could give me thirty-two jobs if I played it right.

  Q. You're not worried?

  A. Not at all. I can still sell my brain tissue, or my eyelids.

  Q. But what will you do when . . . everything's gone?

  A. Oh, that won't be for a long, long time. And besides, as far as money goes, I've got some tucked away . . . and I've been getting my wife a few jobs. For instance, day before yesterday, she did some muscle exertion experiments. Got paid fifty dollars.

  Q. You don't think she might. . .

  A. Can't tell yet. It's too early. But she'd be good, and the money's very good.

  Q. Keep it in the family.

  A. Sort of. I could show her a lot. Who knows, maybe even my daughter. I understand there's a big need for certain brain fluids that can only be gotten from a child.

  Q. That wouldn't bother your conscience?

  A. A little.

  Q. I'd like to ask you one last question.

  A. Sure.

  Q. What do you think of what you're doing? Morally, I mean.

  A. Morally? Well, that's a good question. I've never really thought about it. But I suppose it's kind of like this: the world has lots of progress to make and it's people like myself, and now maybe my wife and daughter, who make it possible. We are the people of tomorrow, in a romantic sense. Without us, others would have no chance.

  One year after my article about him came out, I heard from his wife that he'd died. Except it wasn't really like a death; there was just nothing left.

  Even now, at times, I play that interview tape late at night and remember how happy he looked as he spoke. With no body, and patches of raw skin covering his face, scalp and neck. For something as horrible as he was, he seemed to have no regrets. Perhaps in some way, the more he gave up the more he felt he had.

  Sometimes, with all my pressures, I can't help but feel that I'm losing parts of myself. A little at a time. A conviction here, an honesty there. It adds up.

  And you know, I really can't be sure anymore if I'm less crazy than he was.

  Barking Sands

  On vacation.

  Hawaii. Where fat, brown people treat flowers like Jesus.

  All us.

  Mommy. Daddy. Grampa Don.

  My brother who came out of Mommy with less brain than a cat.

  He smiles at everything. I call him Kitty. Daddy thinks it's funny.

  Kitty can only open his mouth and stare and shake. Like there's a maraca inside him.

  We rented a Toyota Tercel.

  "Cheapest car worth dog-fuck."

  That's Grampa Don talking. Mommy hates it when he says dirty stuff. But he's always drinking beer. Loses track of where his tongue is pointing and just says it. Grampa Don's always making trouble.

  We're on our way to Barking Sands.

  It's a beach on the southern tip of Kauai. The sand barks there. Big, bald-headed dunes of it chirping and growling like someone is poking it while it sleeps. The wind does it; like a ventriloquist using the grains of sand as its dummy. It's a very sacred pla
ce. They say the ancient tribes are still living on the cliffs way above Barking Sands. I say that inside the Tercel while it bounces over the muddy road. The mud is red and splashes the car so it looks like it has scrapes that are bleeding. Like when Kitty falls down and cries and I just stand and watch him and hope he bleeds to death.

  "There's no tribes still living," says Mommy, eating an ice cream cone I couldn't finish, making sure it doesn't drip on the upholstery.

  Her tongue moves around it like a red bus going up a twisty road. Daddy breathes in the air and says it hasn't smelled like this in Los Angeles since cave men went to work in three-piece fur suits.