She has just gotten the heavy door partway open when she hears them. Bumpy-voiced Mom, growly Dad, whispering just out of sight in the next aisle.
“You see?” her father is saying. Halfway snarling.
Her mother sobs.
“I told you.”
“You did. It’s true.”
“You dreamed it, Carol. And no wonder. I mean, those nights. When we both really thought we were going to lose him . . .”
“But we didn’t,” Chloe’s mother whispers, her voice seeming to twitch back and forth now. Chloe’s mother/changed-mother/Chloe’s mother.
“Because of you,” her father whispers. “Because of your unshakable hope.”
“Because of him. Because he came. Because he—”
“Because of you. You saved him, Carol. You saved your son. You do see that now. Right?”
Soft sob. Silence.
Then footsteps. Chloe pushes hard at the door, but by the time she gets out and hurries down the candy aisle after them, they are already at the pumps, arms around each other, halfway to the car. Her father goes straight to the driver’s side, dropping his cigarette to the tarmac. It is her mother who waits by the way-back doors and touches Chloe’s hair as she climbs in beside her brother.
“Is it my birthday yet?” Chloe asks, not quite looking at her mother’s eyes. She doesn’t want to see anymore. Doesn’t want to think.
She hears her mother gasp, glance at her watch. “Not yet,” she whispers. “Oh, shit, not yet.”
The door drops down, and the car starts, and up front her parents are snarling and whispering again. Chloe crouches low, curls into a ball with her knees just touching her brother’s back. If he wakes and feels that, he’ll be furious. But if she’s sleeping when he does, he won’t mind. Sleep, she commands herself. Pleads with herself. Sleep.
She dreams cold. Old-cold. Green eyes. Bird-feet hands that aren’t her hands – weren’t – aren’t – reaching for the beating-wing bird. Straw into gold, hillsides of stone. Old stone. Grasshopper-cornstalk squeezing in the window, slithering through it, crouching over her in the empty dark with its antennae brushing her face, and its husks, its dozens of husks hard and bumping against her chest, her legs.Those hands prying into the cage, reaching through the bars. Ribs. Towards the red and beating thing.
Chloe wakes to a silent car, bright sunlight. She is flat on her back, but she can feel the Miracle’s heat against her forearm. He is moving now, stretching. Out the window, there are trees overflowing with green, shading her from the brilliant blue overhead. Minnesota lake trees. Somewhere close, there’s a hum. Motorboat hum. Chloe is halfway sitting up when she hears them.
“You’ll see,” says her father, sounding tired. But only tired. And happy, almost. Sure, in the way he somehow still hasn’t learned not to be, that the worst is behind him.
He pulls open the back door, arms wide, and it’s him, her CatDad with his whisker-face, and she sits all the way up – just to revel in it, just to watch it all land – and he staggers back. Staring.
Revel? That’s what it’s doing, anyway, Chloe knows. The cold one inside her. The one moving her arms, blinking her eyes. Making her watch.
Vaguely, glancing towards her brother, Chloe wonders whether she really did figure it all out, or if the knowledge just came with the intruder. The cold one with the bird-feet hands, practically dancing down her ribs under her skin in his glee. Now she really does know. She knows how this happened. She knows when the cold one first appeared in her mother’s hospital room. Her mother, whose eyes have always been blue, it’s this other’s mother that confused her.
Anyway, she knows what the cold one promised. She knows what he got her mother to offer in exchange.
“Where is she?” Chloe’s father is murmuring, hovering right outside the way-back door and waving his hands as though trying to clear a fogged windshield, while out the side window, her mother stands rooted, hands over her mouth, shuddering and weeping. There is something almost comforting about it, about both her parents’ reaction. At least they can tell. At least she really was her. There really was a something named Chloe.
I’m right here, she wants to scream. Right here. But of course, the cold one won’t let her. He’s having way too much fun.
Her father is on his knees, now, just the way the cold one likes him. Murmuring through his tears. Through his disbelief, which isn’t really disbelief anymore. So delicious when they understand, the cold one tells her, in his inside ice-voice. When they can’t stop denying. Can’t stop pleading. Even when they already know.
So pathetic, her father looks down there. Hands going still. Head flung back in desperation. Or resignation. “Please,” he says. “What have you done with my daughter?”
JOE R. LANSDALE
Deadman’s Road
JOE R. LANSDALE IS THE AUTHOR of thirty novels and many short stories and articles. His latest works include the novels Lost Echoes, Leather Maiden and The Sky Dome Ripped, the collection The Shadows Kith and Kin, the anthology Retro-Pulp Tales and a graphic adaptation of Robert E. Howard’s Pigeons from Hell for Dark Horse Comics.
His story, “Bubba Ho-Tep”, was filmed by Don Coscarelli in 2002 and is considered a cult classic.
Lansdale has received numerous awards and recognition for his work, including the Edgar Award, seven Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards, the World Horror Convention Grand Master Award and the Grinzani Prize for Literature.
“ ‘Deadman’s Road’ was inspired by a trip I took with my wife and daughter,” explains the author. “As we were driving, we passed a sign that said DEADMAN’S ROAD.
“The story jumped almost full-blown into my head, and I knew I wanted to use my Reverend character from Weird Tales although, for some reason, I forgot his last name and gave him another.
“It was a fun story to do, and I saw it as a kind of modern gassed-up version of an old pulp tale.”
THE EVENING SUN had rolled down and blown out in a bloody wad, and the white, full moon had rolled up like an enormous ball of tightly wrapped twine. As he rode, the Reverend Jubil Rains watched it glow above the tall pines. All about it stars were sprinkled white-hot in the dead-black heavens.
The trail he rode on was a thin one, and the trees on either side of it crept towards the path as if they might block the way, and close up behind him. The weary horse on which he was riding moved forward with its head down, and Jubil, too weak to fight it, let his mount droop and take its lead. Jubil was too tired to know much at that moment, but he knew one thing. He was a man of the Lord and he hated God, hated the sonofabitch with all his heart.
And he knew God knew and didn’t care, because he knew Jubil was his messenger. Not one of the New Testament, but one of the Old Testament, harsh and mean and certain, vengeful and without compromise; a man who would have shot a leg out from under Moses and spat in the face of the Holy Ghost and scalped him, tossing his celestial hair to the wild four winds.
It was not a legacy Jubil would have preferred, being the bad man messenger of God, but it was his, and he had earned it through sin, and no matter how hard he tried to lay it down and leave it be, he could not. He knew that to give in and abandon his God-given curse, was to burn in Hell forever, and to continue was to do as the Lord prescribed, no matter what his feelings towards his mean master might be. His Lord was not a forgiving Lord, nor was he one who cared for your love. All he cared for was obedience, servitude and humiliation. It was why God had invented the human race. Amusement.
As he thought on these matters, the trail turned and widened, and off to one side, amongst tree stumps, was a fairly large clearing, and in its centre was a small log house, and out to the side a somewhat larger log barn. In the curtained window of the cabin was a light that burned orange behind the flour-sack curtains. Jubil, feeling tired and hungry and thirsty and weary of soul, made for it.
Stopping a short distance from the cabin, Jubil leaned forward on his horse and called out, “Hello, the cabi
n.”
He waited for a time, called again, and was halfway through calling when the door opened, and a man about five foot two with a large droopy hat, holding a rifle, stuck himself part of the way out of the cabin, said, “Who is it calling? You got a voice like a bullfrog.”
“Reverend Jubil Rains.”
“You ain’t come to preach none, have you?”
“No, sir. I find it does no good. I’m here to beg for a place in your barn, a night under its roof. Something for my horse, something for myself if it’s available. Most anything, as long as water is involved.”
“Well,” said the man, “this seems to be the gathering place tonight. Done got two others, and we just sat asses down to eat. I got enough you want it, some hot beans and some old bread.”
“I would be most obliged, sir,” Jubil said.
“Oblige all you want. In the meantime, climb down from that nag, put it in the barn and come in and chow. They call me Old Timer, but I ain’t that old. It’s ‘cause most of my teeth are gone and I’m crippled in a foot a horse stepped on. There’s a lantern just inside the barn door. Light that up, and put it out when you finish, come on back to the house.”
When Jubil finished grooming and feeding his horse with grain in the barn, watering him, he came into the cabin, made a show of pushing his long black coat back so that it revealed his ivory-handled .44 cartridge-converted revolvers. They were set so that they leaned forward in their holsters, strapped close to the hips, not draped low like punks wore them. Jubil liked to wear them close to the natural swing of his hands. When he pulled them it was a movement quick as the flick of a hummingbird’s wings, the hammers clicking from the cock of his thumb, the guns barking, spewing lead with amazing accuracy. He had practised enough to drive a cork into a bottle at about a hundred paces, and he could do it in bad light. He chose to reveal his guns that way to show he was ready for any attempted ambush. He reached up and pushed his wide-brimmed black hat back on his head, showing black hair gone grey-tipped. He thought having his hat tipped made him look casual. It did not. His eyes always seemed aflame in an angry face.
Inside, the cabin was bright with kerosene lamplight, and the kerosene smelled, and there were curls of black smoke twisting about, mixing with grey smoke from the pipe of Old Timer, and the cigarette of a young man with a badge pinned to his shirt. Beside him, sitting on a chopping log by the fireplace, which was too hot for the time of year, but was being used to heat up a pot of beans, was a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and a face that looked like it attracted thrown objects. He had his hat pushed up a bit, and a shock of wheat-coloured, sweaty hair hung on his forehead. There was a cigarette in his mouth, half of it ash. He twisted on the chopping log, and Jubil saw that his hands were manacled together.
“I heard you say you was a preacher,” said the manacled man, as he tossed the last of his smoke into the fireplace. “This here sure ain’t God’s country.”
“Worse thing is,” said Jubil, “it’s exactly God’s country.”
The manacled man gave out with a snort, and grinned.
“Preacher,” said the younger man, “my name is Jim Taylor. I’m a deputy for Sheriff Spradley, out of Nacogdoches. I’m taking this man there for a trial, and most likely a hanging. He killed a fella for a rifle and a horse. I see you tote guns, old style guns, but good ones. Way you tote them, I’m suspecting you know how to use them.”
“I’ve been known to hit what I aim at,” Jubil said, and sat in a rickety chair at an equally rickety table. Old Timer put some tin plates on the table, scratched his ass with a long wooden spoon, then grabbed a rag and used it as a pot-holder, lifted the hot bean pot to the table. He popped the lid of the pot, used the ass-scratching spoon to scoop a heap of beans onto plates. He brought over some wooden cups and poured them full from a pitcher of water.
“Thing is,” the deputy said, “I could use some help. I don’t know I can get back safe with this fella, havin’ not slept good in a day or two. Was wondering, you and Old Timer here could watch my back till morning? Wouldn’t even mind if you rode along with me tomorrow, as sort of a backup. I could use a gun hand. Sheriff might even give you a dollar for it.”
Old Timer, as if this conversation had not been going on, brought over a bowl with some mouldy biscuits in it, placed them on the table. “Made them a week ago. They’ve gotten a bit ripe, but you can scratch around the mould. I’ll warn you though, they’re tough enough you could toss one hard and kill a chicken on the run. So mind your teeth.”
“That how you lost yours, Old Timer?” the manacled man said.
“Probably part of them,” Old Timer said.
“What you say, preacher?” the deputy said. “You let me get some sleep?”
“My problem lies in the fact that I need sleep,” Jubil said. “I’ve been busy, and I’m what could be referred to as tuckered.”
“Guess I’m the only one that feels spry,” said the manacled man.
“No,” said, Old Timer. “I feel right fresh myself.”
“Then it’s you and me, Old Timer,” the manacled man said, and grinned, as if this meant something.
“You give me cause, fella, I’ll blow a hole in you and tell God you got in a nest of termites.”
The manacled man gave his snort of a laugh again. He seemed to be having a good old time.
“Me and Old Timer can work shifts,” Jubil said. “That okay with you, Old Timer?”
“Peachy,” Old Timer said, and took another plate from the table and filled it with beans. He gave this one to the manacled man, who said, lifting his bound hands to take it, “What do I eat it with?”
“Your mouth. Ain’t got no extra spoons. And I ain’t giving you a knife.”
The manacled man thought on this for a moment, grinned, lifted the plate and put his face close to the edge of it, sort of poured the beans towards his mouth. He lowered the plate and chewed. “Reck-on they taste scorched with or without a spoon.”
Jubil reached inside his coat, took out and opened up a pocket knife, used it to spear one of the biscuits, and to scrape the beans towards him.
“You come to the table, young fella,” Old Timer said to the deputy, “I’ll get my shotgun, he makes a move that ain’t eatin’, I’ll blast him and the beans inside him into that fireplace there.”
Old Timer sat with a double barrel shotgun resting on his leg, pointed in the general direction of the manacled man. The deputy told all that his prisoner had done while he ate. Murdered women and children, shot a dog and a horse, and just for the hell of it, shot a cat off a fence, and set fire to an outhouse with a woman in it. He had also raped women, stuck a stick up a sheriff’s ass, and killed him, and most likely shot other animals that might have been some good to somebody. Overall, he was tough on human beings, and equally as tough on livestock.
“I never did like animals,” the manacled man said. “Carry fleas. And that woman in the outhouse stunk to high heaven. She ought to eat better. She needed burning.”
“Shut up,” the deputy said. “This fella,” and he nodded towards the prisoner, “his name is Bill Barrett, and he’s the worst of the worst. Thing is, well, I’m not just tired, I’m a little wounded. He and I had a tussle. I hadn’t surprised him, wouldn’t be here today. I got a bullet graze in my hip. We had quite a dust up. I finally got him down by putting a gun barrel to his noggin’ half a dozen times or so. I’m not hurt so bad, but I lost blood for a couple days. Weakened me. You’d ride along with me Reverend, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll consider it,” Jubil said. “But I’m about my business.”
“Who you gonna preach to along here, ‘sides us?” the deputy said.
“Don’t even think about it,” Old Timer said. “Just thinking about that Jesus foolishness makes my ass tired. Preaching makes me want to kill the preacher and cut my own throat. Being at a preachin’ is like being tied down in a nest red bitin’ ants.”
“At this point in my life,” Jubil said. “I a
gree.”
There was a moment of silence in response to Jubil, then the deputy turned his attention to Old Timer. “What’s the fastest route to Nacogdoches?”
“Well now,” Old Timer said, “you can keep going like you been going, following the road out front. And in time you’ll run into a road, say thirty miles from here, and it goes left. That should take you right near Nacogdoches, which is another ten miles, though you’ll have to make a turn somewhere up in there near the end of the trip. Ain’t exactly sure where unless I’m looking at it. Whole trip, travelling at an even pace ought to take you two day.”
“You could go with us,” the deputy said. “Make sure I find that road.”
“Could,” said Old Timer, “but I won’t. I don’t ride so good anymore. My balls ache I ride a horse for too long. Last time I rode a pretty good piece, I had to squat over a pan of warm water and salt, soak my taters for an hour or so just so they’d fit back in my pants.”
“My balls ache just listening to you,” the prisoner said. “Thing is, though, them swollen up like that, was probably the first time in your life you had man-sized balls, you old fart. You should have left them swollen.”
Old Timer cocked back the hammers on the double barrel. “This here could go off.”
Bill just grinned, leaned his back against the fireplace, then jumped forward. For a moment, it looked as if Old Timer might cut him in half, but he realized what had happened.
“Oh yeah,” Old Timer said. “That there’s hot, stupid. Why they call it a fireplace.”
Bill readjusted himself, so that his back wasn’t against the stones. He said, “I’m gonna cut this deputy’s pecker off, come back here, make you fry it up and eat it.”
“You’re gonna shit and fall back in it,” Old Timer said. “That’s all you’re gonna do.”
When things had calmed down again, the deputy said to Old Timer, “There’s no faster route?”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 Page 47