400 Boys and 50 More

by Marc Laidlaw

  The door at last opened wide, revealing a very lovely Miss Avander dressed in a beautiful blue gown. Needless to say, there were electric lights burning within the house, too.

  (And here I must make a very unpleasant statement—for it appears I have, most scandalously, lied to you. Miss Avander had not really burnt out a fuse—and I, you see, had not truly believed her story quite as much as I had hinted earlier. Indeed, I had not even brought fuses with me, for the thumping box in my pocket turned out to contain chocolate bon-bons, and these I duly presented to Miss Avander.)

  “Ah, Mr. Leandro,” she smiled, “do come in. Did you have a pleasant journey through the Ruins?”

  “Thank you, Miss Avander. As a matter of fact, my journey was very unsettling, for I discovered the corpse of a paper carrier, and have aggravated the spawning hordes without. Even now, I fear, they march upon your home—hoping to destroy us both.”

  “Oh, do sit down, Mr. Leandro. What an awful tale. Care for a mint? And what do you suggest we do?”

  “Thank you. I suggest that we flee from here, immediately, and return to my house, where I am properly prepared for such an attack. Unless, of course, you happen to have a cache of weapons hidden somewhere?”

  “Here, let me help you loosen your coat. No, I fear I have no weapons aside from the letter-opener you gave me last year. But will you not stay?”

  “Well, er, now that you bring it up, perhaps I could do with a short rest. We can certainly leave in a few moments, just as easily.”

  “I’m glad. . . that you see it in such. . . a manner. . . Mr. Leandro.”

  “Yes, I believe a few moments. . . will not hurt. . . Miss. . . Miss. . .”

  “Avander.”

  But then, just as we had begun an evening of fascinating, intelligent discussion, Miss Avander’s front door—the bright red one, you may recall—splintered into pieces. A six-taloned claw smashed through without any regard to the high cost of finely-crafted doors, and withdrew again.

  “Well,” said I, “perhaps we would be just as well off to depart immediately. Miss Avander, have you a fresh candle?”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Avander admitted, “I have naught but a flashlight.”

  “Well, all right, but you must carry it. And now, out the back exit!”

  We hurried through Miss Avander’s home, and she opened wide that narrow door in her kitchen which led—by means of a secret tunnel—through some of the Ruins, and onto the avenue a short distance from Miss Avander’s house. For various reasons, this exit had proved indispensible on certain occasions when Miss Avander had still been “Mrs.” Avander.

  We emerged, minutes later, onto the avenue, to see a mob of hooting Lymmpospophae and shrieking Zhodes overwhelming Miss Avander’s tiny home. To our dismay, we were spotted immediately by one member of the crowd, who hooted and drew us to the attention of the others.

  “Now, Miss Avander,” I recommended, “we must run—and don’t trip on the newspaper carrier.”

  We dashed off down the avenue, while behind us the actions of the spawning things were rechanneled to pursuing us. In a few minutes we came to the blocky, younger Ruins, and though we ran through these as quickly as we could, the sounds of pursuit grew ever louder behind us.

  Moments later, we were out of the Ruins, and I saw, in the distance, the lights of my house. We raced up the walkway, flung open the front door, and locked ourselves within. I went immediately to a panel set in the wall beside the door, and flipped on all the outside flood lights—as the Zhodes and Lymmpospophae dislike light of any sort. Through the window I saw figures gathering in the shadows; hoots and cries of “Da-li! Da-li!” came repeatedly to my ears. The lights wouldn’t hold them off for very much longer, and now only my ingenuity—and preparation—would save us.

  I found another button-dotted panel, hidden behind one of my more sensitive Leandro originals, and this proved the key to our salvation.

  “Miss Avander,” I said, “what I might do is a very ungentlemanly thing, and utterly immoral besides. So I would appreciate it if you would press these buttons in my stead.”

  Miss Avander graciously acquiesced, and placed her dainty finger one by one on each of the buttons, and pushed them. And one by one, coincident with the pressing of the respective buttons, there were unpleasant explosions outside in the shadows all around my house.

  These were followed by utterly awful thumps on the roof as the hordes without were demolished by my carefully placed explosives, and flung every which way; it took us three days to clean up the resultant, widespread mess. As Miss Avander’s house had been destroyed by the enraged beasts, she remained as a guest in my house—and thus was able to assist with repairs, as well as provide engaging conversation.

  We have not since been bothered by Zhodes or Lymmpospophae, and you people inform me that this is because both of these rare species are now extinct.

  Certainly, I could not have foreseen that during that particular part of the season, the mass-migration that you call the Influx had begun, thus bringing all members of both species into the Ruins. And I certainly could not have guessed that they would all attack my home simultaneously, and hence be destroyed by my defenses.

  Yes, I am sorry that they are extinct—for such an occurrence is always a tragic thing—but how can you blame me for their extinction? After all, it was Miss Avander who pushed the buttons!

  * * *

  “Spawn of the Ruins” copyright 1977 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared in Shayol #1 (November 1977), edited by Patricia Cadigan and Arnie Fenner.

  TISSUE

  “Here,” Daniel said, handing Paula the photograph. “Take a look at this, then tell me you still want to meet my father.”

  Paula hefted it in one hand; it was framed in dark wood, covered with a heavy rectangle of glass. A fringe of dust clung to the glass’s edges, under the frame, blurring the borders of the photograph into a spidery haze.

  “What is it? Who is it?”

  “Us. My family.”

  “But there’s only . . .”

  Paula’s words faded away as she stared at the photograph, trying to understand. Squinting her eyes, polishing the glass—nothing seemed to resolve it. It was merely a simple figure, a person, but as blotched and mottled as an old wall, with sharply ragged edges that unsettled Paula: she couldn’t focus, it was like looking through a prism. There was a disturbing disparity within it, too; abrupt internal changes of tone and texture.

  “Your family?” she repeated.

  Daniel nodded, looking straight ahead at the road as he drove. The shadows were lengthening, the gloom descending. Through the endless stand of trees along the roadside, fields and hills were visible.

  “It’s a composite,” he said. “You know, like a collage.” He glanced down at the photograph and pointed at the figure’s left hand. “That’s my hand. The right one’s my mother’s.”

  “What?”

  “And the chin, there, is my sister’s. That’s my brother’s . . forehead, I think, yeah—and that’s his nose, too. The clothes, I—I’m not sure.”

  “And the eyes?”

  “My father’s.”

  “Daniel, what is this? I mean, why?”

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Paula found herself staring at his left hand. The one from the picture.

  “Daniel, why?”

  He shook his head. “My father’s a madman, that’s why. No reason for it, he’s just. . . Well, yeah, to him there’s a reason. This, to him, shows us as a group—close-knit. “One optimally functioning individual organism,” he used to say.

  Paula looked at the picture with distaste, then slid it back into the briefcase from which Daniel had taken it.

  “It’s grotesque,” she said, rubbing dust from her hands.

  “He sent that to me three years ago, when I had just moved away from home. Made it out of old photographs, begging me to come back. God, he must have worked on that thing for weeks—the joins are almost invisible.”
>
  He fell silent, perhaps watching the road for their turn-off, perhaps just thinking. After a while he sighed, shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why I”m doing this—why I’m giving in and going back after all this time.”

  Paula moved closer and put her hand on his arm. “He’s human—he’s alone. Your mother just died. You didn’t even go to the funeral, Daniel—I think this is the least you can do. It’s only for a few days.”

  Daniel looked resentfully thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that started the whole thing.”

  “What?”

  “Loneliness. He must be awfully lonely, though, to have come up with his obsessions. He used to play with a jigsaw puzzle, Paula, made entirely out of a shattered pane of glass. For hours. And then that . . thing.” He gestured towards the briefcase, but Paula knew he meant what was in it.

  “You’ll survive,” she said.

  “Yeah. To survive. That’s the whole thing.”

  There was another silence as he considered this.

  “Funny,” he said presently. “That’s exactly what my father was always saying.”

  * * *

  The shadows had swallowed the old farmhouse by the time they found it, trapped in ancient trees at the end of a rough dirt road. The sun was gone, only a pale wash of orange light marking the direction in which it had sunk. Paula looked for a sign of light or life around the weathered building, but found only flooding blackness, shining where it was a window, splintered and peeling where it was the front door.

  Daniel stopped the car and stretched back in his seat, yawning. “I feel like I’ve been driving for a month.”

  “You look it, too,” said Paula. “I offered to drive . . .”

  He shrugged. “I”ll get to sleep early tonight,” he said, pushing open the door. They got out of the car, into the quiet grey evening.

  “Is anyone home?” Paula asked as Daniel came around the car.

  “With my luck, yes. Come on.”

  They walked through a fringe of dead grass, then carefully up the rotten steps. Daniel paused at the top, stepping back on the step beneath him. It creaked and thumped. Creaked and thumped. Daniel smiled nostalgically. Paula reminded herself that he had grown up in this house, out here in the middle of nowhere, far from the city and the campus where she had met him, where they were now living together. Daniel never spoke of his childhood or family, for reasons Paula was unsure of. He seemed bothered by his past, and perhaps somewhat afraid of it.

  Across the porch, the door was a panel of emptiness, suddenly creaking as it opened. Paula tried to look through the widening gap; she jerked back as something pale came into view.

  “Dad?”

  The voice that replied was as worn and weathered as the house: “Daniel, son, you’ve come. I knew you would.” The dim pale head bobbed and nodded in the darkness, coarse grey hair stirring. Something white fluttered into view, lower in the frame of darkness: a hand. Daniel’s father was coming out.

  “Um, I’m sorry I didn’t make the funeral, Dad. I was really busy with school and my job . . uh . . .”

  And here he came, swimming through the gloom, both white hands coming forward like fish, grasping Daniel. Paula saw the hunched dark figure of the old man only dimly; her eyes were fastened on those hands. They clutched, grabbed, prodded Daniel, exploring as if hungry. It was vaguely revolting. Daniel stood motionless; he had determined to be firm with his father, now he was faltering.

  “Dad . . .”

  Daniel pushed away one flabby hand but it was clever; it twisted, writhed, locked around his own. Paula gasped. The sluggish white fingers intertwined with Daniel’s. He looked up at her, aghast, silently crying for help.

  “Uh, hello,” Paula blurted, stepping towards them.

  The hands jerked, stopped. The old man came around.

  “Who are you? Daniel, who is this?”

  “Dad, this is Paula, I told you about her. We’re living together.”

  Paula started to extend her hand. She remembered what might meet it, and drew away. “Hello.”

  “Living together?” Daniel’s father said, watching him. “Not married?”

  “Uh, no, Dad. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Good . . good. Good. It would weaken the bond, break the bond between us.” He did not even look at Paula again. His hands returned to Daniel, though not so frantically this time. They guided him forward into the house. Paula followed, shutting the door behind her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. When her vision had cleared, she could see Daniel and his father vaguely limned against a distant doorway; there was light beyond.

  When she caught up, they were seating themselves on an antique sofa. It had been poorly kept; springs and padding spilled through in places. The room around them had been equally neglected; darkness lay upon it like soot. A single dull lamp glowed beside the sofa.

  Daniel caught Paula’s eye when she entered, warning her away from them. She sat in a nearby chair. Daniel was shrugging away the proddings of his father, fighting off the creeping fingers. But they kept coming, peering around the long shadows, then hurrying across Daniel while he sat at last unmoving, silent.

  “We . . we were terribly sorry to hear about your wife,” said Paula. The sound of her words muffled the rustling noises.

  “Hm?” The old man sat up, leaving Daniel for a moment. His eyes were sharp, intense. “Yes, it’s bad . . bad. She and I, we were—close, towards the end. Locked. Like this.” He clasped his two puffy hands together before his face, staring at them.

  Daniel took this opportunity to move to a chair beside Paula, where his father could not follow. The old man hunched after him, hands straining, but didn’t rise.

  “Daniel, come back here. Sit beside me.”

  “Uh, I think I’d better stay right here, Dad.”

  “Ah.” The old man hissed like a serpent. “Stubborn. You were always stubborn—all of you. Your sister, your brother, they both resisted. Look what happened to them.”

  Daniel looked nervously away from the old man’s black stare. “Don’t talk about Louise like that, dad. It’s all over now. And it had nothing to do with stubbornness.”

  “Nothing? She ran away, Daniel, as you all did. She could not function, Daniel, she could not maintain herself. No more than the liver, the heart, the lungs, can function outside of the body. No more than the individual cells can function outside of the tissue that maintains them; even as this tissue is dependent on the organ it contributes to; as this organ in turn is dependent on all other organs to keep the whole intact.”

  Paula had gone rigid in her chair, watching the old man speak. Suddenly that hanging black gaze turned to her.

  “You,” he said. “Do you know how an organism survives?”

  “Pardon me?” she said weakly.

  “It survives because its components work together, each one specialized towards its specific contribution to the organism. Specialization, yes. Louise was specialized; she did not survive.”

  Daniel sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Dad, it wasn’t specialization. It was drugs. She made some mistakes.”

  “And your brother?”

  “What about him? He’s doing fine. He has his own business now, he seems to be happy.”

  “But he deserted us! He threatened the existence of us all. Your sister deteriorated. Your mother crumbled. And then you . . .”

  “What about me?”

  The old man shrugged. “You returned. We still have a chance.”

  Paula, through all this, said nothing. But she was thinking: My God. My God.

  “I’m going to be going home, Dad. I’m not staying very long.”

  The old man snapped, “What?”

  “I told you that in my letter. I’m only staying for a day or two.”

  “But you can’t go back! You—you can’t! Otherwise I have no chance—not alone. Nor you either, Daniel.”

  “Look, Dad—”

 
“Together we can survive, perhaps recover. And . . and maybe your brother will return.”

  “He’s raising a family.”

  “Ah, see?” He raised one pallid finger. “He has learned!”

  “Maybe we’d better not stay at all,” said Daniel, rising. His features had gone hard, faced with all this. Easier to run than worry about it.

  “No!” This was a bleat, a plea, escaping from the old man as if he had been punctured. His expression, too, was wounded. “Daniel, you can’t . . .”

  Paula rose and touched Daniel gently on the arm until he turned to her. Thank God he hadn’t pulled away from her touch.

  “Daniel,” she said, “it’s really getting late. I don’t think you should do any more driving tonight.”

  Daniel searched her expression, saw only concern. He nodded.

  “We’ll stay the night then, Dad. But we’re leaving in the morning.”

  The old man started forward, then sank back in apparent despair. His breath was loud and labored, wheezing; his hands crouched upon his knees, waiting for Daniel to stray near.

  “You can’t leave me, Daniel. I need you to survive, I need you!” His eyes glimmered, turning to Paula. “You know, don’t you? That’s why you’re taking him from me . . to strengthen yourself. Well you’ll never have him. He’s mine. Only mine.”

  The words slid into Paula like a blade of ice, malevolent in their cold precision. She felt weak.

  “I—” she began. “Honestly, it’s nothing like that. I don’t want Daniel that way.”

  The worm-white head rotated. “Then you are a fool.”

  “Paula,” Daniel repeated, “maybe we’d better leave right I now.”

  “Haven’t you heard what I’ve said? You mustn’t leave!” Again, pain had replaced malicious insanity on the old man’s pale features. Paula felt sorry for him.

  “Daniel,” she said, “just the night. It’s really too late to leave.”

  Daniel looked once at the poised hands of his father. Then he sighed, tensely, and nodded. “But I don’t want to hear any more of this, Dad. One more word of it and we’re going for sure.”