Masters of Horror: Damned if you don't
Page 29
December 17 (again)
I’m in love.
Two entries in one day, Diary. You know it’s got to be good.
Walking home from the park, I saw Melanie. She was going down the street kind of huddled up inside her parka. She was the only other person out. I recognized the little daisy patch on the knee of her blue jeans.
“Hey, Melanie,” I said. Her face was hidden by the ring of fur around the edge of her hood. She kept walking, so I yelled again, louder. We were beside a boarded-up drug store.
She stopped and turned, and I could see her eyes. She looked like she had drunk about a quart of bleach. She had dark wedges under her eyes. She kept jerking her head back and forth, like a lamb in the middle of a pack of wolves.
“Hey,” she finally said.
A person can change a lot in just a short amount of time.
Of course, we kind of measure time differently these days. Doomsday has that effect on people. But Melanie looked like she’d aged about twenty years since the last time I saw her.
“How’s it going?” I asked. My heart was beating like I’d just popped a fistful of speed.
“It’s going.”
I nodded. “Cold as a cop’s heart out here.”
“Yeah.” She licked her pale lips. I wanted to kiss her.
“Uh...” I figured, what did I have to lose? “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Her eyes rolled to look up at the sky. “He offed himself in one of those mass suicides.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
I thought about it for a second. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
She looked past me, up the street. Dead cars and deader doorways. Then she pointed at the book in my hand. “What’s that?”
“Uh, nothing. Just a diary.”
She started laughing. It was a weird laugh, almost like she was crying but her breath was all broken up.
“What?” I said. I didn’t like being laughed at. Even by a wrecked babe, like her.
She said “You’re totally apeshit crazy, you know that?” Maybe that was a good thing, in her eyes. I grinned like a corpse.
We talked for a few minutes, about nothing in particular. That’s really all that’s left to talk about. Then we both started getting cold. I gave her my address and told her to drop by anytime.
We’ll see if anything comes of it.
December 22
Doomsday has a bright side.
They forgot to lock the liquor store. I went there today and stocked up. The city’s starting to stink, even in the cold. I guess there’s probably a lot of rotting bodies behind all those closed doors.
I sat by the window most of the day, watching for Melanie. I saw old lady Benzinger next door slip on some ice and fall flat on her ass. I think she broke her arm. I was going to help her, then I remembered the time she told my dad that I’d been smoking pot behind the garage. By the time she got up and staggered back up the porch, her tears were frozen on her cheeks.
I told you it was cold.
Scotch is pretty good stuff. After a few sips, you can chug it like Kool-Aid.
Melanie didn’t drop by.
December 24
I watched a bunch of Christmas specials on TV today. Phones don’t work anymore. It’s a miracle the power’s still on. Otherwise, I’d be freezing my ass off.
I’m down to my last joint. Dope is getting real hard to score. The thought of sobering up is pretty damned scary. But alcohol works in a pinch. Dad came to the house.
“The family ought to be together for the holidays,” he said. He’d quit shaving, and he had a fuzzy patch of hair on his cheeks. Looked like a Confederate Civil War general. Maybe he was trying to come off as a half-assed Santa or something.
“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a family,” I said.
“We have each other.”
“Wonderful. Merry fucking Christmas.”
“Here. Take some money.”
I stared at the money and shook my head. What a dumb bastard. “Better give it to your little god,” I said. “He needs it worse than I do. He’s going to have a hell of a heating bill.”
Dad almost cried. Almost.
Melanie didn’t come by.
December 25
I had planned on staying holed up all day. Me and two fifths of bourbon. But, it’s Christmas, you know?
I ended up going to see Reneau. His favorite supermarket had closed. I don’t know where he had been getting his food scraps.
We passed the bottle back and forth. I was surprised that Reneau hadn’t frozen to death in that refrigerator box of his. He was wearing the suit I had traded him, and I was pleased to see that it was stained with piss and tomato sauce.
“Reneau, you’re apeshit crazy,” I said. “All these houses around, all these apartments, all these stores with nothing but dead people in them, and you live in a fucking cardboard box. Why don’t you move into some big mansion or something?”
He sucked at the bottle and belched. “I don’t belong there,” he says.
Doesn’t fucking belong? Can you believe it?
But looking at him with that bottle, he was probably one of the happiest people I’d ever seen. The world coming to an end? Big deal. No roof over my head? I don’t give a shit. A full bottle of liquor? Now there’s a fucking future!
When I got back home, I found a note on the door. From Lonnie. And a present, wrapped in shiny green foil.
I went inside. After my fingers warmed up, I opened the present. A bag of grass and ten Quaaludes. What a great guy.
Then I read the note.
“Hi dude: Merry Christmas. Sorry I missed you. Hope we can get together before you-know-what. I love you, Lonnie.”
I love you.
Can you fucking believe it? He must think I’m a fag. I burned the letter and then burned some of the grass. Melanie didn’t drop by.
December 27
Melanie dropped by.
It’s kind of funny.
You want something so bad, you do stupid things to get it. Then when you get it, you wonder why you were such a dumbfuck to want it in the first place.
She knocked on the door sometime in the afternoon. I know it was then because I was just waking up. I opened the door and she was standing there, in a long black dress that was made of some kind of clingy material. She had lost weight, but her figure was still pretty nice. She was holding a gray cat like it was a football.
“I just thought I’d drop by,” she said.
“Yeah.” I stood to one side and she came in. I threw a look at the sky. A smoggy day, the clouds down to the tops of the buildings over in the business district. God or whoever sure knew how to whip up some kick-ass doomsday scenery.
The power had shut off for good a day or two back, so I lit a candle. We sat in the living room, a table cluttered with empty bottles and food wrappers in between us. She was twisted sideways in a chair, staring at the empty fireplace as if something was burning there. She stroked the cat’s head over and over.
“How’s it going?” I finally said. I had a headache.
“You know.” She didn’t look away from the fireplace.
“Yeah.” I was turning into that doll again, the one with the pull string.
“Denita’s dead. And Charlie and Jacques and Johnny D. and that Wendover girl.”
I didn’t say anything.
“They went together. They probably got the guns down at one of those abandoned pawnshops, then sat in a circle on the floor. They all pointed the guns at each other, and I guess they counted to three or something. I went over there to score some acid. I was the first one to find them.”
“Did you get the acid?”
She shook her head. “The place was too messy and was starting to stink.”
“That sucks…that they didn’t invite us.”
“Yeah. Goes to show who your friends are.”
The cat purred, or else Melanie’s stomach was growling. “Want
something to drink?” I asked.
She looked at me for the first time since coming in the house. Her eyes were flat and dry. “What you got?”
We split a fifth of bourbon, then I took her to bed. She was cold, even on the inside. I rolled off her before either of us were satisfied. We smoked a joint in the dark.
She left a few minutes or hours later. She forgot her cat.
December 30
Not much to say.
Two more days, counting today. I’ve been thinking about what Lonnie said. What time is it really?
According to my battery-clock, it’s 12:30.
December 31
Melanie dropped by again. Said she’d forgotten her cat. She had a few hits of acid. I couldn’t think of a better way to meet the end. That fireball’s going to roast us up pretty good. The acid ought to be kicking in any time now, so I wanted to get this written down just in case.
December 31 (Second entry)
I sneaked in here to say good-bye. Lonnie and Melanie are in the living room. Probably still naked.
Melanie saw me earlier, writing by candlelight. She asked, “Is that the diary?”
“No,” I said.
“Can I see?”
“No.” I had closed you before she crossed the room. I held you behind me.
“Did you say anything about me?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “What kind of idiot would waste time writing in a diary when the biggest goddamned fire in the history of the universe is just a few hours away?”
She passed me a joint, then took a slug of tequila. “Yeah.”
“Are you scared?”
She took another drink, straight. “I might be.”
The acid kicked in, and her lips were too wide, her perfect teeth sharp. She had waxy skin and her eyes were the color of shit.
She started dancing, one of those spastic dances that the girls do at techno clubs. I guess she was hearing music in her head. The room was warm. I wondered if the apocalypse was starting on the other side of the world yet, with the blaze racing toward us. But I looked out the window and saw only gritty clouds and gray streets.
The cat came out from wherever it had been hiding the last few days. Then Lonnie entered the house without knocking. I’d been afraid that I’d have to face the fire alone. Now I’ll be going in a crowd.
“Hey,” Lonnie said.
“Hey,” I said back. I introduced him to Melanie, even though they sort of knew each other. Lonnie looked a little hurt that I had a girl with me. But he got over it when she gave him some acid.
We ended up naked, the way people sometimes do when they’re tripping. But we didn’t touch each other. We drank and talked and smoked some dope. Then I sneaked in here to write.
Maybe it would be better if it was just you and me at the end. It would be simpler. Extra people tend to fuck things up. Melanie might start crying. Lonnie might throw a temper tantrum or tell me that he loves me. But, what the hell. They’re just as scared as I am.
It’s nearly midnight. I’d better get ready. I guess this is good-bye, Diary. I love you.
January 1
I woke up.
I actually fucking woke up.
My mouth tasted of rusty metal. Melanie and Lonnie were in bed with me. Melanie’s breath stank when she snored.
The sun was out.
No fire. No bigtime ball-busting trumpet and no pissed-off Jesus with a sword and a scepter.
Actually, I did smell smoke, but it was only where Lonnie had left a cigarette burning on the coffee table. It had scorched a foot-wide circle in the varnish.
They’re still asleep. They don’t know yet that doomsday’s as fucked up as everything else, that it’s a day late and a dollar short. But you can bet your ass, Diary, it’s coming.
I looked out the door. A few people were stumbling around on the sidewalks, looking dazed. Somebody in a pickup drove down the street, playing ditzy pop music on the stereo. We’re all in a state of shock so big you can smell it in the air. Or maybe it’s the smell of expectation, a little human electricity.
I guess every extra minute is a minute not dead. But it’s coming.
In the meantime, I’m going to take a Quaalude to get rid of this headache.
January 2
Melanie left today.
Said that if the end of the world was going to take so damned long, she had things to do. She took her cat this time.
Lonnie’s staying. He’s like me. He knows it’s just a trick, it’s God waiting for all these add-water-and-stir Christians to backslide so He can catch them by surprise. The fire’s going to come any second now.
Staying wasted just in case.
January 3
Waiting’s even worse now than it was before. At least in December the end had an end.
Some people are going back to work. The cops and rescue squad people are carrying out the bodies of all those people who offed themselves. The power came on this morning. No television signal yet.
I went to the liquor store and a jerk with a crewcut was running the register. He wanted money. I spit on the counter and left.
Dumbfucks. They’re just going to pick up where they left off and pretend nothing happened. But anybody with eyes can see that the fire’s there, just behind the dark clouds. It could be any second now.
I almost learned how to pray today. You know why, Diary? I’m afraid Lonnie might move out. I think he’s getting tired of staying drunk all the time.
I don’t want to burn alone.
January 10
What in the hell is God waiting for?
I wish He’d quit diddling himself and get down to business. I guess this is going to be my last entry. Nothing personal, Diary, but it’s getting kind of boring.
What’s the point? I know it’s going to be any second now. A big balls-up blaze of hellfire.
Got some beer and pills, just in case.
Bring it on, Mister God Man. I’m ready for you.
January 11
Any second now.
Got to be.
Damn.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow.
Back to TOC
AFTERWORD by Ken Kupstis
THANK YOU for your patronage! I/We hope you’ve enjoyed MASTERS OF HORROR: DAMNED IF YOU DON’T (And please check out the Original Masters of Horror Anthology that got the ball rolling!). Or, if it made you crawl out of your skin, that’s cool, too.
As we all know, horror fiction is entertainment, but that doesn’t mean it has to be mere entertainment. The SCARE CARE and SMALL BITES anthologies were for good causes, and I was hoping this one could have an impact as well, as a literary ‘scared straight’, if you will.
Believe it or not, I’m not some draconian anti-drug prohibitionist; I actually favor the legalization of drugs, or at least their decriminalization. It costs taxpayers some $50,000 to feed and house a prisoner for one year; if that prisoner was a nonviolent drug user, consider what could be achieved with them doing a year’s community service.
What the Partnership for a Drug-Free America just doesn’t get is: America (and the rest of the world) takes drugs—and will probably continue to—because drugs work. They provide either relief, or pleasure. As a current advertisement continues to drone: “Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help”. I for one say, if you’re one of those people having a good time using stimulant X, Y, or Z—without adversely affecting yourself or anyone else—good on ya. Feel free to close the book now, or give it to a friend.
If you’re one of those people who isn’t having a good time anymore, please read on. This also applies if you think you’re having a good time but your family, remaining friends, doctors, local policemen and court officials say otherwise.
In a forthcoming nonfiction book THE UNBREAKABLE HEART, I shared some ideas for people having trouble with vices, and I’d like to do the same here. Please note that I don’t pretend to be an authority of physical or mental health.