“Nope,” said David. “I’ve got it all figured out. Wherever there were people inside last night—and that was just about everybody—they were wasted. Wiped out. Nuked. Ghostified. Whatever you want to call it. We were safe, see, ‘cos we were sleeping outside.” He nodded, obviously pleased with himself.
Julia leant closer to the window and pressed her swollen belly against it. The ghosts froze for a moment, their phantom eyes stretched improbably wide, then renewed their assault on the glass, moving so fast they turned into a blur. David and Corey simultaneously yelled and pulled her away, one on each arm. The blur slowly resolved back into distinct shapes.
“For fuck’s sake, Julia!” said David. “You don’t know what effect those things might have on the baby.” Julia pouted and looked away. Her gaze stopped on a small stuffed toy left lying in the gutter, and she wandered over to retrieve it, David’s reprimand already forgotten. David and Corey looked at each other and sighed. Julia’s baby might have been Corey’s, or it might have been David’s, or for all they knew its father might be floating behind glass somewhere. But they had taken responsibility for her. Julia was special, a genuine, free-spirited innocent, or at least that was how Corey saw her. The way her mind was wired up, she alone needed full-time attention. He didn’t want to think about how they would cope with her baby as well. The boys trailed after her. It had started to rain again, and they scuttled between shop awnings.
“Look!” said Julia. “There’s somebody else! A live person!”
David looked up, swore, and pulled her into a doorway.
“Sssh!” he whispered, clamping his hand over her mouth. “It’s a cop!”
“Yeah, but it’s a live cop,” Corey whispered back. “He’s the first real human being we’ve seen all day. Maybe we should all stick together—you know, safety in numbers and all that.”
David gave him a withering look. “If you really believe that, then how come you’re not rushing out there to greet him with open arms? Betchya it was some government conspiracy or fucked-up military experiment that did this, anyway.”
Corey peeped around the doorway at the cop, silently conceding that David had a point. The cop crept down the street away from them, holding his gun outstretched in shaking hands. As he turned the corner, Corey caught a glimpse of his wide, manic eyes. He ducked back into the doorway until they could no longer hear the cop’s footsteps. They stepped out of hiding and headed off in the opposite direction.
“So if we’re not going to look for other survivors, what do you suggest we do instead?”
“Maybe we could hotwire a car and head out to the coast,” David said. “There’s bound to be plenty of those million dollar beach houses sitting empty in the off season.”
“And if they’re empty, fuckwit,” said Corey, “their pantries will be empty as well.”
David scowled and kicked viciously at an empty Coke can.
“Or we could go to my folks’ place,” said Julia. Corey started; he hadn’t thought she was listening.
“They went on holiday in Europe three weeks ago,” she continued. She cradled a small purple teddy bear in her arms and stroked it as if it were alive. “They were supposed to be coming home on Sunday…anyway, Mum had a Natural Disaster kit, so there’ll be plenty of tinned food in that.”
David gaped at her. “I thought you said your parents were dead.”
“They probably are now,” she said, shrugging. “Every now and again they used to track me down. Give me some money, ask me to come home, tell me what’s been going on with the family, shit like that.” Corey nodded. Now that she mentioned it, he had seen her a few times talking to a well-dressed middle-aged couple, and once or twice seen money change hands, but he’d dismissed them as a couple of Christian do-gooders.
“So let me get this straight,” said David. He had wedged his jar between his feet and stood leaning slightly toward Julia, his hands gripped together behind his back as if to stop himself from forming them into fists. “You had parents. Parents who were alive, and who loved you, and who wanted you to come home. And you’re eight months pregnant, and living on the streets with a pair of losers like us. Why, Julia? Why didn’t you go home?” He spoke gently, but he trembled with the effort. Corey groaned and tensed in readiness, just in case David’s volatile temper flared.
Julia smiled sadly. Her hair had gone mousy and lank from the rain, and for a moment all her innocence seemed to drain away from her. She caressed her stomach, and muttered, almost too low for them to hear—
“Daddy’s not getting his hands on this one.”
* * *
The emergency kit at Julia’s house proved to be more than amply provisioned, with the added bonus of a well-stocked freezer and a full gas canister on the barbeque. Corey and David finished off their meal with a generous slosh of cognac from the liquor cabinet. Even with the warmth of the alcohol suffusing his body, Corey felt weird sitting there with pictures of Julia as a child gazing down on him from the photos on the wall. It felt equally weird retiring to separate bedrooms to sleep instead of huddling together for warmth like they usually did. Corey sprawled on the bed and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. At some point he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, David was shaking him awake.
“It’s Julia,” David said. “I think the baby’s coming.”
Julia’s labour matched none of Corey’s preconceptions. He had expected it to happen very quickly, and for there to be a lot of screaming. Julia was on her hands and knees on her parents’ queen-sized bed, which was soaked with amniotic fluid. She reminded Corey of a cat he’d had as a kid who’d had kittens in his wardrobe. She stared blankly ahead, panting a little, and every now and again she would let out a quiet moan. Corey and David sat with her as the night melded into day. Sometime after noon she got off the bed and began to pace the room. Suddenly she stiffened, grabbed David by the shoulder, gritted her teeth, and yowled like a wounded animal. Blood trickled down her left leg. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and yowled again.
“Do something!” yelled David, wild-eyed with panic.
“What, what?” Corey yelled back. “What should I do?”
“I don’t know—go get some towels, or boil some water, or something. Do whatever the fuck they do in the movies.”
Corey fled the room. He huddled uselessly in the corner of the lounge and tried to block out the inhuman sounds coming from the bedroom. After one particularly long, loud, heartrending cry, the house fell silent. He crept back to the bedroom, afraid of what he might see.
Julia sat on the floor in the corner of the room with her arms wrapped around her knees. An umbilical cord snaked from between her feet, out across the blood-streaked floor to where it was attached to a tiny naked baby girl. The baby curled unmoving on her side as if still in the womb, her eyes screwed shut tight against the world. David stood with his back against the wall, clutching his jar in front of him like a shield. Before Corey’s horrified eyes, the infant seemed to deflate. Its skin stretched tight over its frame, then disintegrated altogether, leaving only a mound of bones. Its rate of decay increased exponentially, until there was nothing left but a pile of fine, pale dust. A small, white cloud rose from the remains and coalesced into the shape of a newborn baby. Corey heard the squeak of metal against glass, and turned his head to see David remove the lid from his jar and launch himself across the room to scoop up the tiny ghost and slam the lid on. Momentarily the specter hovered in the jar, still curled in its fetal position. It raised its head and opened its eyes, glaring at them all through the wall of its glass prison with a malevolent expression of awareness. Julia crept toward David and took the jar from his outstretched arms.
“My baby,” she crooned, rocking the jar in her arms. The ghost drew back its lips in a gummy snarl and hissed silently.
Corey smacked David across the ear with his palm. “What did you do that for, dickhead?”
“I couldn’t leave it just flying around in here,” David retort
ed. “Who knows what it might have done? Anyway, it’s all Julia has. Surely it’s better than nothing.” He glanced at the dust pile.
Corey looked at Julia, still sitting in the muck of afterbirth, cuddling her macabre offspring.
“No,” said Corey, “I think nothing would have been much better than this.”
* * *
Between them, Corey and David managed to coax Julia into a bath and settle her into bed. She fell asleep almost instantly, still clutching the jar. Sleep came more slowly for Corey, and when it did, it was filled with disjointed dreams. He woke abruptly at 2 a.m. Someone was moving about in the kitchen. He got up and padded down the hallway.
Julia stood at the breakfast table, eating from a can of peaches by candlelight and humming snippets of “Rock-a-Bye Baby” between mouthfuls. The flickering light on her calm, composed face made her look like an angel. And there sits the devil, Corey thought, glancing uneasily at the ghost baby in her jar on the table.
“You know, Julia,” he said, “maybe it’s not such a good idea to keep your baby in a jar like that. It’s a bit…creepy. Maybe you should bury her. It’ll make it easier for you to let go.”
Julia looked at him with wide, demented eyes. “What are you talking about? What kind of sicko would want to bury a baby alive?” She snatched up the jar and hugged it to her chest. “But you’re right about one thing. I shouldn’t keep her locked in like this.” She put a hand on top of the jar and twisted the lid a quarter turn.
“No!” Corey lunged toward her and made a grab for the jar. For a moment they held it between them, Corey’s large tanned hands over Julia’s small pale ones, and then the jar slipped and fell, shattering on the kitchen floor.
“My baby!” Julia gasped. She stepped forward, slicing her foot open on a shard of glass, and bent over to pick up the infant ghost that now lay on the floor. A wave of nausea overwhelmed Corey, and he dropped, retching, to his knees. David came rushing through the kitchen door, clad only in grimy boxer shorts.
“What’s going on? I heard a crash…” He skidded to a halt. The ghost baby slowly rose from its bed of glass until it hovered in the air a few inches above their heads. It turned in a circle, examining each of them, its little face oddly intent. Seeming to come to a decision, it flashed a predatory grin.
Then, the screaming began.
Sporting the Waters of the Bermuda Triangle
by Greggard Penance
Speculative Zone 28.499 N / 67.583 W
There is no sense of time or locale, just the sway of the boat to the ocean’s violent fit. The water swells, pushes the craft up and bursts over the port side, then recedes, pulling it back. The shipmates keep their feet apart for balance, grab hold of rails, poles or equipment until it passes. Between these bursts, they move around, pause, anticipating the next jolt.
The midday sun washes the deck, but clouds tower in the distance to the front and port side. They stretch up from the horizon in deep streaks of charcoal and grey that split the day like the shadowed ridges of a canyon.
Blue light flickers across that blackness and charges the water, leaving a dome-shaped glow. Momentarily it is washed out by an outline of brilliant orange, which is followed by lime green. This bizarre electric storm has been brewing and becoming more pronounced as our boat approaches.
I have a full view of the port side and most of the bow. The captain’s helm stands tall atop the bow, obscured from my sight by the edges of the rectangular slit that I’ve been given to see through. Across the deck stands another crate, I think the same size as mine.
A surge explodes over the rails. Mist roils the breeze and brushes across my viewing hole. My eyes should sting, but there is nothing. In fact, no sensation at all in my entire body, not even a tingle in my arms or legs. Perhaps the blood has constricted and my limbs have gone to sleep. Or worse, they might be dead. I’m confined so tight, it is as though I’ve been set in concrete to my nose. I’m also deaf. I can pick up their vibrations as the men shout at one another, but cannot hear them. Nor can I hear the storm.
The boat crew, burly men in rubber boots and raincoats, pace, industriously preparing. These are experienced seamen, who move with the boat as it responds to the swells that pound its port side.
During a calm moment, I study the other crate. Many rectangular holes in the side of it, and they are organized in precisely spaced columns and rows. These slits look to be the same as the one I view through, though I can’t see what’s behind them. The way the sun is positioned, shadows cover whatever might be looking out.
Flashes of blue, green and orange light trade off overhead, spider webs etching the ridges of the storm and the fierce sea. A skirt of shade overtakes the boat, and stars abruptly pepper the sky. We have passed through a gateway from day to night in an instant. Clouds do not exist inside, yet the electrical storm tears through the heavy air, making for the only light to see by, and the swells grow heavier, rocking the boat still harder.
The ship hands scramble, hurried by the deteriorating conditions. It is unclear what they are setting up, or what for. A powerful wave breaks over the side and one man is knocked down. The crewman gets up quickly and grabs onto a rail to brace for the next surge.
The boat changes direction, heads on into the swells. The men open cases, pull out equipment. It is somewhat recognizable, but I just can’t place it. Memory of my own life is not only gone, but any education that would otherwise spur recognition of objects and activities seems to be damaged as well.
A violent flash of orange casts blinding light on the ship and illuminates the other crate. As the boat veers toward the center of the storm, the holes in the crate are angled to catch the light.
A massive swell appears ahead. The nose of the boat rises upward, and the hull rocks from side to side from the force. The men keep their legs apart, each bracing their stance as the surge of sea moves under. My box slides on the deck with the roll of the boat, changing my viewpoint. I can no longer see the bow, but instead the stern, though the other crate remains in my sightline.
The ship glows as orange lightning strikes nearby, and brightness washes over me. Consciousness flutters and something smothers my vision—I swoon.
Open eyes, vision gone. Brief blackness, then outlines appear. The hazy image like a Polaroid photo developing…
…through a window—no—a rearview mirror, a windshield. Night. Streetlights illuminate parked cars. Coming up on the lot, a building behind it, fluorescent with artificial light beaming up from below; a church with a tall steeple. Recognize the bell tower, the windows, the entrance. Come to an intersection, cannot read the cross-street sign but can recall what will be next. Cross the intersection, no more street lights. Narrowing road lined only by trees. The curves wind around in the blackness; can only see two lanes, the broken yellow dashes, and the thick line of trees along the shoulder. A charm dangles from the rearview mirror. It swings along as the car leans one way, then the next. Just enough light from the dash. Can see what’s on the charm.
A woman and a young boy. Her name, Mindy, his, Stephen.
A pickup truck turns out in front, leaves no time to brake. The driver swerves to avoid being rear-ended, but too late. Brakes squeal. Smash into the right fender, bounce off toward the trees. Will hit the trees. A thought burbles up—“too fast.” See Mindy and Stephen alone, devastated. Feel the loss, the wrenching…
…back. I leave wife and son with no warning; they are alone.
Bright blue light flickers from all around. I wonder if Mindy has any idea what has happened to me. Where I am.
The electrical storm has engulfed the boat. The water lights up and unnatural splashes ensue. Giant fish surging along the surface; sea foam burbling in brilliant colors, reflecting the lightning that etches the sky. Soon I see that it is not just in the sky, but the water itself has become charged.
The crate in front of me catches a beam of blue light, and I see what’s behind the first slit. Big, frightened eyes. They bulge in th
e darkness and light up with the storm, and they do not blink. The sky casts a new flash with an orange glow, and the lumen brightens, stretching across a few more slits, then the rest of the crate. Dozens of them, all pairs of eyes, all darting around, a pair for each viewing hole. Something’s wrong. There are way too many slits, way too many pairs of eyes. There is no room for the bodies!
While the lightning charges the sky and branches across the sea, the water turns calm, churned only by the swarming fish or whatever sea life moves around just beneath its surface. The swells dissipate, and the boat settles. We are in the eye of the storm.
The deck hatch opens again, and two more men climb up from below, both wearing strange suits. They are covered head to toe with metallic material, and their heads have bubble-shaped helmets. The other men hand them the equipment and climb down through the same hatch.
One of the men picks up a stick. It is a fishing rod, but a massive one, thick and long. Constrained by the stiffness of the suit, he waddles to the stern, and carefully sits in a chair. The chair is bolted to the deck and it swivels as he straps himself in.
The metallic man works his way over to the crate. He shifts funny. It stirs in my memory images from TV of men walking on the moon. He pulls up a lid from the top of the box, and reaches in. Just below him a set of eyes turn up. He pulls something out of the crate and lightning flashes, enlightening a glass container that hangs from under his clenched palm and fingers. It looks like a two-gallon pickle jar. Inside it are the eyes, and behind them, the unmistakable contours and clefts of a human brain. The three parts float in a liquid, the eyes attached to the cerebral cortex with hundreds of strands of muscles and nerves. The man in the space suit holds the bottom of the jar with one silver-gloved hand, and the eyes stare up to watch as he twists the cap with the other.
A violent blast of orange light washes to yellow, and again my vision fails. I wait as the profile of a new scene takes shape.
The Best of Horror Library: Volumes 1-5 Page 21