Jimmy got through his breakfast with little real difficulty, except that his mother started in on her routine about why didn’t he call Tommy Melkonian, why didn’t he go swimming or bike riding, he was daydreaming his summer away, it wasn’t natural for him to be by himself all the time, he needed friends, it hurt her and made her feel guilty to see him moping around by himself all the time . . . and so on. He made the appropriate noises in response, but he had no intention of calling Tommy Melkonian today, or of letting her call for him. He had only played with Tommy once or twice before, the last time being when they lived over on Clinton Street (Tommy hadn’t been around before that), but he didn’t even like Tommy all that much, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste the day on him. Sometimes Jimmy had given in to temptation and wasted whole days playing jacks or kick-the-can with other kids, or going swimming, or flipping baseball cards; sometimes he’d frittered away a week like that without once playing the Game. But in the end he always returned dutifully to playing the Game again, however tired of it all he sometimes became. And the Game had to be played alone.
Yes, he was definitely going to play the Game today; there was certainly no incentive to hang around here; and the Game seemed to be easier to play on fine, warm days anyway, for some reason.
So as soon as he could, Jimmy slipped away. For a moment he confused this place with the house they sometimes lived in on Ash Street, which was very similar in layout and where he had a different secret escape route to the outside, but at last he got his memories straightened out. He snuck into the cellar while his mother was busy elsewhere; and through the back cellar window, under which he had placed a chair so that he could reach the cement overhang and climb out onto the lawn. He cut across the neighbors’ yards to Charles Street and then over to Floral Avenue, a steep macadam dead-end road. Beyond was the start of the woods that belonged to the cemetery. Sometimes the mud hills below the woods would be guarded by a mangy black and brown dog that would bark, snarl at him, and chase him. He walked faster, dreading the possibility.
But once in the woods, in the cool brown and green shade of bole and leaf, he knew he was safe, safe from everything, and his pace slowed. The first tombstone appeared, half buried in mulch and stained with green moss, and he patted it fondly, as if it were a dog. He was in the cemetery now, where it had all begun so long ago. Where he had first played the Game.
Moving easily, he climbed up toward the crown of woods, a grassy knoll that poked up above the surrounding trees, the highest point in the cemetery. Even after all he had been through, this was still a magic place for him; never had he feared spooks or ghouls while he was here, even at night, although often as he walked along, as now, he would peer up at the gum-gray sky, through branches that interlocked like the fingers of witches, and pretend that monsters and secret agents and dinosaurs were moving through the woods around him, that the stunted azalea bushes concealed pirates or orcs . . . But these were only small games, mood-setting exercises to prepare him for the playing of the Game itself, and they fell away from him like a shed skin as he came out onto the grassy knoll and the landscape opened up below.
Jimmy stood entranced, feeling the warm hand of the sun on the back of his head, hardly breathing, listening to the chirruping of birds, the scratching of katydids, the long, sighing rush of wind through oak and evergreen. The sky was blue and high and cloudless, and the Susquehanna River gleamed below like a mirror snake, burning silver as it wound through the rolling, hilly country.
Slowly, he began to play the Game. How had it been, that first time that he had played it, inadvertently, not realizing what he was doing, not understanding that he was playing the Game or what Game he was playing until after he had already started playing? How had it been? Had everything looked like this? He decided that the sun had been lower in the sky that day, that the air had been hazier, that there had been a mass of clouds on the eastern horizon, and he flicked through mental pictures of the landscape as if he were rifling through a deck of cards with his thumb, until he found one that seemed to be right. Obediently, the sky grew darker, but the shape and texture of the clouds were not right, and he searched until he found a better match. It had been somewhat colder, and there had been a slight breeze . . .
So far it had been easy, but there were more subtle adjustments to be made. Had there been four smokestacks or five down in Southside? Four, he decided, and took one away. Had that radio tower been on the crest of that particular distant hill? Or on that one? Had the bridge over the Susquehanna been nearer or further away? Had that Exxon sign been there, at the corner of Cedar Road? Or had it been an Esso sign? His blue shirt had changed to a brown shirt by now, and he changed it further, to a red pinstriped shirt, trying to remember. Had that ice cream stand been there? He decided that it had not been. His skin was dark again now, although his hair was still too straight . . . Had the cemetery fence been a wrought iron fence or a hurricane fence? Had there been the sound of a factory whistle blowing? The smell of sulphur in the air? Or the smell of pine . . . ?
He worked at it until dark; and then, drained, he came back down the hill again.
The shopping mall was still there, but the school and schoolyard had vanished this time, to be replaced by the familiar row of stately, dormer-windowed old mansions. That usually meant that he was at least close. The house was on Schubert Street this evening, several blocks over from where it had been this morning, and it was a two-story, not a three-story house, closer to his memories of how things had been before he’d started playing the Game. The car outside the house was a ‘78 Volvo—not what he remembered, but closer than the ‘73 Buick from this morning. The windshield bore an Endicott parking sticker, and there was some Weston Computer literature tucked under the eyeshade, all of which meant that it was probably safe to go in; his father wouldn’t be a murderous drunk this particular evening.
Inside the parlor; Jimmy’s father looked up from his armchair, where he was reading Fuller’s Decisive Battles of the Western World, and winked. “Hi, sport,” he said, and Jimmy replied, “Hi, Dad.” At least his father was a black man this time, as he should be, although he was much fatter than Jimmy ever remembered him being, and still had this morning’s kinky red hair, instead of the kinky black hair he should have. Jimmy’s mother came out of the kitchen, and she was thin enough now, but much too tall, with a tiny upturned nose, blue eyes instead of hazel, hair more blonde than auburn . . .
“Wash up for dinner, Jimmy,” his mother said, and Jimmy turned slowly for the stairs, feeling exhaustion wash through him like a bitter tide. She wasn’t really his mother, they weren’t really his parents. He had come a lot closer than this before, lots of other times . . . But always there was some small detail that was wrong, that proved that this particular probability-world out of the billions of probability-worlds was not the one he had started from, was not home.
Still, he had done much worse than this before, too. At least this wasn’t a world where his father was dead, or an atomic war had happened, or his mother had cancer or was a drug addict, or his father was a brutal drunk, or a Nazi, or a child molester . . . This would do, for the night . . . He would settle for this, for tonight . . . He was so tired . . .
In the morning, he would start searching again.
Someday, he would find them.
Down Among the Dead Men
Introduction to Down Among the Dead Men
Some writers become friends. Reader, you probably know the feeling: that initial buzz when you encounter, perhaps in little more than a few lines or pages, a writer about whom you notice something which intrigues, something which chimes a bell deep within you, something which draws you in. You remember that writer’s name, you look out for them on the shelves and in lists of contents. When your paths brush against each other again, you open their pages with that fragile extra feeling of anticipation. You welcome them eagerly into your mind.
Gardner Dozois the writer has long been that kind of friend to me. I think it
was probably Omni where I first encountered him, or perhaps an edition of Orbit I borrowed from the library. Which story was it? I’m honestly not sure, but what I do remember is the feeling, the sense of aha—here’s someone to look out for. All of that was long ago now, but I can honestly say that Gardner’s never let me down. He’s not that kind of friend, he’s not that kind of writer, and the story you have before you shows many of the reasons why.
Gardner’s often a harsh writer both in mood and choice of subject, but his prose, even in pieces as essentially uncompromising as “Down Among the Dead Men,” always has that extra edge of grace, surprise, wonder. There’s a scary, lovely moment you’ll soon come across when the struggles of a body are compared to the flapping of a kite. Gardner holds the image, develops it, brings the unsaid things home, all in a couple of sentences. Of course, he’s a good writer in the obvious sense of the word, but he’s also a good writer because he cares about goodness. Who else could choose the subject of vampires in a concentration camp, then bring it off with a sense of grace and humanity, and yet still leave you with a genuine shiver of horror? It’s a tricky balancing act to say the least, yet, here along with Jack Dann, Gardner achieves the task, surmounts it, makes the very difficulty of what he’s doing part of the significance and substance of the story. After all, in a world of near-ultimate horror, what could be more horrific than what is already happening? This story probes this question like a tongue at a sore tooth, and then gets close to the truth when, with typical lightness of touch, the world is briefly tilted upside down by the main character’s musings, and real history suddenly (and rightly) seems far more fantastical than the fantasy the story is describing. Gardner often seems surprised at what he’s writing; he never takes wonder or suffering or the characters he’s created or the setting he has made for granted. As I say, he’s a friend—he’s a good writer.
I’ve also known Gardner in his other literary incarnation as an editor for quite a few years. It’s a different kind of thing, friendship with an editor, although with Gardner I’ve always felt that the one relationship was grounded on the other—and he’s certainly been good to me in all the ways you’d expect of someone who writes such fine and honest prose. Then, finally, there’s Gardner Dozois the person. Introductions of these kinds are often full of the kind of the-time-we-got-drunk-in-Hong-Kong sort of tales we all recognize, but Gardner-and I have bumped into each other person-to-person only once, and for then literally no more than 20 seconds in the flurry of a convention hotel. We went our separate ways to our separate appointments, then back home to our separate continents, where we sometimes e-mail or write. But a stronger connection remains. Gardner’s a friend, and he’s a good one. And the friendship you can get from a writer can be long and deep and important—indeed, it can last and enrich a whole life. Reader, I hope Gardner Dozois can do a little of the same for you.
Ian MacLeod
Down Among the Dead Men
by Gardner Dozois and Jack Dann
Bruckman first discovered that Wernecke was a vampire when they went to the quarry that morning.
He was bending down to pick up a large rock when he thought he heard something in the gully nearby. He looked around and saw Wernecke huddled over a Musselmänn, one of the walking dead, a new man who had not been able to wake up to the terrible reality of the camp.
“Do you need any help?” Bruckman asked Wernecke in a low voice. Wernecke looked up, startled, and covered his mouth with his hand, as if he were signing to Bruckman to be quiet . . . .
But Bruckman was certain that he had glimpsed blood smeared on Wernecke’s mouth. “The Musselmänn, is he alive?” Wernecke had often risked his own life to save one or another of the men in his barracks. But to risk one’s life for a Musselmänn? “What’s wrong?”
“Get away.”
All right, Bruckman thought. Best to leave him alone. He looked pale, perhaps it was typhus. The guards were working him hard enough, and Wernecke was older than the rest of the men in the work gang. Let him sit for a moment and rest. But what about that blood . . . ?
“Hey, you, what are you doing?” one of the young SS guards shouted to Bruckman.
Bruckman picked up the rock, and, as if he had not heard the guard, began to walk away from the gully, toward the rusty brown cart on the tracks that led back to the barbed-wire fence of the camp. He would try to draw the guard’s attention away from Wernecke.
But the guard shouted at him to halt. “Were you taking a little rest, is that it?” he asked, and Bruckman tensed, ready for a beating. This guard was new, neatly and cleanly dressed—and an unknown quantity. He walked over to the gully and, seeing Wernecke and the Musselmänn, said, “Aha, so your friend is taking care of the sick.” He motioned Bruckman to follow him into the gully.
Bruckman had done the unpardonable—he had brought it on Wernecke. He swore at himself. He had been in this camp long enough to know to keep his mouth shut.
The guard kicked Wernecke sharply in the ribs. “I want you to put the Musselmänn in the cart. Now!” He kicked Wernecke again, as if as an afterthought. Wernecke groaned, but got to his feet. “Help him put the Musselmänn in the cart,” the guard said to Bruckman; then he smiled and drew a circle in the air—the sign of smoke, the smoke which rose from the tall gray chimneys behind them. This Musselmänn would be in the oven within an hour, his ashes soon to be floating in the hot, stale air, as if they were the very particles of his soul.
Wernecke kicked the Musselmänn, and the guard chuckled, waved to another guard who had been watching, and stepped back a few feet. He stood with his hands on his hips. “Come on, dead man, get up or you’re going to die in the oven,” Wernecke whispered as he tried to pull the man to his feet. Bruckman supported the unsteady Musselmänn, who began to wail softly. Wernecke slapped him hard. “Do you want to live, Musselmänn? Do you want to see your family again, feel the touch of a woman, smell grass after it’s been mowed? Then move.” The Musselmänn shambled forward between Wernecke and Bruckman. “You’re dead, aren’t you, Musselmänn,” goaded Wernecke. “As dead as your father and mother, as dead as your sweet wife, if you ever had one, aren’t you? Dead!”
The Musselmänn groaned, shook his head, and whispered, “Not dead, my wife . . .”
“Ah, it talks,” Wernecke said, loud enough so the guard walking a step behind them could hear. “Do you have a name, corpse?”
“Josef, and I’m not a Musselmänn.”
“The corpse says he’s alive,” Wernecke said, again loud enough for the SS guard to hear. Then in a whisper, he said, “Josef, if you’re not a Musselmänn, then you must work now, do you understand?” Josef tripped, and Bruckman caught him. “Let him be,” said Wernecke. “Let him walk to the cart himself.”
“Not the cart,” Josef mumbled. “Not to die, not—”
“Then get down and pick up stones, show the fart-eating guard you can work.”
“Can’t. I’m sick, I’m . . .”
“Musselmänn!”
Josef bent down, fell to his knees, but took hold of a stone and stood up with it.
“You see,” Wernecke said to the guard, “it’s not dead yet. It can still work.”
“I told you to carry him to the cart, didn’t I,” the guard said petulantly.
“Show him you can work,” Wernecke said to Josef, “or you’ll surely be smoke.”
And Josef stumbled away from Wernecke and Bruckman, leaning forward, as if following the rock he was carrying.
“Bring him back!” shouted the guard, but his attention was distracted from Josef by some other prisoners, who, sensing the trouble, began to mill about. One of the other guards began to shout and kick at the men on the periphery, and the new guard joined him. For the moment, he had forgotten about Josef.
“Let’s get to work, lest they notice us again,” Wernecke said.
“I’m sorry that I—”
Wernecke laughed and made a fluttering gesture with his hand—smoke rising. “It’s all haza
rd, my friend. All luck.” Again the laugh. “It was a venial sin,” and his face seemed to darken. “Never do it again, though, lest I think of you as bad luck.”
“Eduard, are you all right?” Bruckman asked. “I noticed some blood when—”
“Do the sores on your feet bleed in the morning?” Wernecke countered angrily. Bruckman nodded, feeling foolish and embarrassed. “And so it is with my gums, now go away, unlucky one, and let me live.”
They separated, and Bruckman tried to make himself invisible, tried to think himself into the rocks and sand and grit, into the choking air. He used to play this game as a child; he would close his eyes, and since he couldn’t see anybody, he would pretend that nobody could see him. And so it was again. Pretending the guards couldn’t see him was as good a way of staying alive as any.
He owed Wernecke another apology, which could not be made. He shouldn’t have asked about Wernecke’s sickness. It was bad luck to talk about such things. Wernecke had told him that when he, Bruckman, had first come to the barracks. If it weren’t for Wernecke, who had shared his rations with Bruckman, he might well have become a Musselmänn himself. Or dead, which was the same thing.
The day turned blisteringly hot, and guards as well as prisoners were coughing. The air was foul, the sun a smear in the heavy yellow sky. The colors were all wrong: the ash from the ovens changed the light, and they were all slowly choking on the ashes of dead friends, wives, and parents. The guards stood together quietly, talking in low voices, watching the prisoners, and there was the sense of a perverse freedom—as if both guards and prisoners had fallen out of time, as if they were all parts of the same fleshy machine.
Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois Page 47