D

by George Right

  Meanwhile, from the fog, dark silhouettes of houses appeared, continuing to change. Here, they were of different height and architecture and were not arranged in monolithic rows along the sides of the street, but stuck out separately. Here, this one jutted forward to the very edge of the street, there, that one receded deep into the dark. Their locations resembled the curve of decayed teeth of a mutant from a horror movie. The blank walls with no windows occurred more and more often, and buildings with windows looked even worse. Tony doubted that such shabby ruins could exist even in the poorest and the most remote parts of New York, let alone the business area of Manhattan. Municipal services were simply obliged to demolish all this very long time ago before it crashed on somebody's head... It seemed the majority of these buildings, though obviously multifamily, were not stone; in the cold air, the heavy, damp and musty smell of decaying wood was clearly present. Moreover, outlines of either some dilapidated villas or farm houses loomed ahead; but while such buildings usually stand in rural open space, here they were literally piled up, leaning against each other in terrible narrowness, interlocking by lopsided walls and fallen-in roofs and, probably, only for that reason had not yet collapsed completely.

  Looking around, Logan almost stumbled against some object lying directly in the middle of the street and merging with the blackness of the asphalt. For a terrible instant it seemed to him that it was a swollen corpse–more precisely, a trunk without legs, arms or head. But it was only a very full black plastic garbage bag. All the same, looking at it was unpleasant. It seemed that it was just about to burst and spew out its fetid contents. How long had it been lying right in the middle of the road?

  At this moment a quickly approaching noise–some rhythmical scratch and gnashing rustle–came from behind Tony. He turned back–and saw just few feet from himself the rapidly approaching blunt muzzle of a radiator, a heavy rectangular bumper, the blind cataracts of extinguished headlights, the dark glass of a windshield... He hardly had time to jump aside. The long vehicle rushed past without reducing speed, with a filthy sound–skwashhh!–squelching the garbage bag. Tony opened his mouth to shout out his opinion of the driver (certainly, Logan was guilty himself of walking in the street, but...)–but the abuse stuck in his throat. It was not the fact that the driver didn't honk or even try to brake that amazed Tony most of all, but what kind of vehicle it was. A school bus. An ordinary yellow school bus that can be found on plenty of New York streets, as well as in any other American city... But not in the deadest hours of night.

  Although, of course, anything could make a school bus driver go out at night. Perhaps, the bus urgently needed repair... or the driver simply used municipal transport for personal purposes... Yes, all these hypotheses were possible if there were no passengers in the bus. Those passengers for whom it was intended–children.

  But, though there was no interior light, Tony had clearly discerned the white spots of faces pressed to windows from within. Yes, exactly–not simply half-turned somewhere inside, but pressed, flattened out against the glass faces and palms, as if children desperately and hopelessly tried to escape outside from a glass captivity of the bus, from the dark and narrow closed space in which they have been confined long, oh, very long already... so long that they had no more strength to struggle or even simply to move, and could only press their faces in mute despair against cold windows... The bus had already passed, but Tony still saw in his mind their flattened noses turned on one side, black holes of open mouths, dark stains shading their sunken eye sockets...

  "Nonsense," he told himself. "Just something I glimpsed in the dark. I saw it for no more than a second! It is simply some late excursion. Or the bus got delayed somewhere by a traffic jam... or a power failure..."

  But why at night, moreover in a fog, had the headlights been switched off? And why, by the way, had he heard only a metal scratch and a garbage rustle from under the wheels–but not the sound of a working engine?

  He looked after the departing bus. The tail lights did not burn, either. And in the back window a stiffened, warped face shone whitely. There was something especially wrong with it, and, an instant later, Tony understood, what exactly.

  In this face there were no eyes at all.

  A disgusting musty smell which had spread in the air distracted Logan's attention. He looked askance at the squashed bag–something whitish and lumpy had been squeezed out of it, and Tony had not the slightest desire to examine, what exactly. When he raised his eyes again, the bus was not visible anymore. Either it had turned somewhere–meaning that there finally was a crossroads ahead–or it had completely sunk into darkness and fog.

  After returning to the sidewalk–no more adventures in the street, however deserted it looked–Tony hastily walked in his former direction. Though he felt less and less desire to go farther, at the same time, having gone so far already in this direction, he did not want to turn back. When you do not know where to go, the silliest idea is to beat about. And besides, in the depth of his heart, he was not sure at all that the place where this bus came from was any better than where it was heading.

  Soon his decisions were rewarded: ahead in the fog a crosswise sign loomed–a crossroads at last... Tony, hurried already by cold and fear, still quickened his pace; probably, he would even have run, but he did not like at all the idea of his noise echoing all through the empty street.

  And then he understood that he did not have much desire to approach the sign.

  Something hung from it. Just from that part which designated the cross street. For an instant, Logan had a wild thought that it was a monkey which had seized the sign with its tail. But, after stepping closer, he realized that it was a cat. A cat which had been hung by its own tail... Dead cats and dogs always caused insuperable disgust in Tony, but he still needed to read the sign, and so he came even closer.

  Now he saw that the situation was even worse. It was not a tail. The unfortunate animal hung by its own gut, stretched from the ripped up belly and, apparently, nailed to the sign. And, judging by the look and smell of the corpse, it had hung here for many days already...

  How had anyone gotten the cat up there on the sign–by a fire ladder? Tony had heard about firemen rescuing cats, but not...

  He painfully swallowed a lump which had risen in his throat and forced himself, straining his eyes in the dark, to read the sign. Amazingly, the street along which he had come, appeared to be Broadway. However... despite all Tony's efforts, he could not discern the first letter. It was either erased or splotched by dirt, resulting in "ROADWAY". A senseless tautology, if taken literally... On the sign for the cross street, there was no name at all. Only a black arrow with the inscription "ONE WAY." The usual road sign designating one way traffic. But Tony could not stop thinking about the literal meaning of the words. "The only way"... Logan completely disliked persistence of this instruction and turned in the opposite direction as a matter of principle.

  Especially since the cat hung closer to the sharp end of the arrow.

  Shortly afterwards, he praised himself for making the correct choice: though the new street was just the same–deserted and dirtied (perhaps, there was even more litter on it) without a single working street lamp or a lit window–but, seemingly, from a kingdom of wooden ruins, Logan was returning to a stone civilization. Houses on both sides of the street were becoming higher and more modern, and ahead a bus stop with a billboard appeared. Tony had seen this poster many times: at the left, the face of a little girl, and on the right, the face of an old woman–both, of course, smiling. Apparently, it was something about medical insurance, along the lines "we care for your health at any age..." The billboard, naturally, did not interest Logan at all–he wanted to see a listing of the numbers of routes stopping here. He, now, with great pleasure would take any route if only it would take him away from this terrible place.

  M13, the sign said. M13? Tony could not remember such a bus. In Brooklyn, yes, there is a thirteenth route; it passes through the cemetery ar
ea of Cypress Hills–but in Manhattan? Alas, where there should be a route diagram, Tony found only an empty frame.

  And then he almost physically felt someone's glare. A glare full of hatred and rage.

  Tony involuntarily held his breath, afraid to turn back. There was no sound behind him. Tony stood dead still for several seconds, and then, having realized that to stand with his back to danger was even worse, turned sharply back.

  Behind him there was nobody. Only this stupid poster.

  Nerves, Tony told to himself. Some hell on wheels had plagued him this whole damned night... And then he looked at the advertising more closely.

  The faces were the same he had seen many times before, but their expressions were absolutely different. The girl stared into nowhere with the vacant look of a mentally retarded child; her face was wreathed in a senseless smile, her tongue hung out, and saliva flowed down her dropped chin. The face of the old woman was completely mad, too–and much more terrible. It was deformed by a grimace of fierce hatred; the muddy running eyes glared with a fury as stunning as a blow to the solar plexus, and the smile was actually a spasmodic grin which had bared rare teeth and naked gums where teeth were missing.

  "It's impossible to feel a picture's gaze," Tony told himself. Oh yes, and the gaze of a living person–is it really possible? Science, anyway, does not know about beams or anything else that eyes could emit and influence another person...

  But anyway–who could order and place such a poster? Even if the mentally retarded girl could be explained as a paroxysm of political correctness, that mad old woman...

  Tony tried to dismiss his uneasiness and to appeal again to his common sense. Certainly, there can not be such a poster, as well as there can not be such a Broadway and such a business area of Manhattan... But since they do exist, and since a bus does go here–probably, after all it is more reasonable to wait for the bus and ask the driver about the route...

  If only this bus would not be even worse than that school bus.

  He stepped under the bus stop roof where the darkness was even more dense, and shivered in fright. It seemed to him that in a corner someone was squatting–someone thickset and twisted, with broad shoulders... and with no head.

  In the following instant Tony, who already felt arrows of icy horror piercing his stomach, understood that he was looking at a wheelchair. A simple one, without a motor. Empty.

  Well, a wheelchair abandoned at a bus stop is probably not the most usual object... but also not the most frightening, is it? There could be plenty of reasons why it had been left here... however, none of them came to Tony's mind. Anyway, he did not believe that a miracle of healing had happened here. Anywhere, but not here.

  He moved closer to the wheelchair. In the darkness he could discern only its black silhouette, and hardly even that. Tony extended a hand and touched the back. His fingers immediately came across some slits... long vertical cuts. The wheelchair's back was not simply cut–it was slashed to pieces. And.. the torn matter was sticky.

  Tony hastily jerked his hand back. His fingers came unstuck with an unpleasant sound, as if the mutilated wheelchair did not want to release them. He reflexively tried to wipe them against the seat... But there it was even worse.

  A whole pool, yes.

  Cold, thickening, but still not dried up completely.

  Tony looked around in panic–and his eyes again found the billboard.

  The faces had changed again.

  The girl's face now expressed a spitefully malicious triumph. The triumph of a very bad, very spoiled child who for a very long time, probably weeks and months, had thought over and prepared a delightfully vile dirty trick–and who had succeeded with it at last. And the old woman... on her face an expression of incomparable horror stiffened. A horror from which even young and healthy people lose control over their intestines and bladder–and old people usually just do not survive such horror. Actually, Tony was not sure at all that he was looking at a picture of a living person, instead of a posthumous grimace disfigured by an agony.

  And at this moment he felt almost the same horror. Horror at the sight of faces on paper, which live–and die...

  But from the depth of his consciousnesses came a saving thought–"What if it was not paper at all? Modern technologies, a superflat display–OLED or electronic ink... But no"–he pushed his face up to the billboard–"It's not any kind of display, it's the most ordinary poster..."

  "Rotten hell!" he thought. What an idiot he is! He was simply looking at the other side of the billboard from within the bus stop! Obviously, different posters were placed on different sides!

  Yes, of course. Everything has a reasonable explanation. And we will ignore questions about who needs such advertising–either one, or another variant of it...

  And now go and look at other side of the billboard.

  "What for?" Tony objected to himself. He knew, yes, knew already that it was the same picture which he had seen approaching the stop. Because anything else is simply impossible. So, there is no need, absolutely no need to look there. Only he will not wait for the bus at this stop. (Tony once again looked askance at the wheelchair.) No, he will not.

  He wiped his hand against a glass wall. Despite the darkness, long traces of bloodstained fingers appeared quite distinctly. And now he noticed that they were not the first on this wall. And it was unlikely that all his predecessors simply wiped soiled hands. Some, seemingly, limply fell with bloody palms against the bus stop wall, and some vainly tried to catch hold of smooth glass when they were dragged...

  "Perhaps, it is just ordinary paint," Tony told himself. "Local guys having fun..." Nevertheless, he quickly walked farther along the street without looking back. The bus still could come from ahead–if indeed there was one-way traffic and if the M13 bus operated at night...

  "That's the wrong question," a malicious internal voice noted. "Certainly it operates at night. The question is whether this bus operates in the daytime..."

  Ahead in the gloom two shining eyes appeared. Yellow. Round. Unblinking.

  "Headlights," Tony told himself. "This must be the bus. But it stops only at bus stops."

  But one could not say that Logan regretted it. To tell the truth, with each second he desired even less to meet this bus, whether it intended to stop or not. Partly because again he did not hear any engine noise. And also because he could not even discern a silhouette. The headlights–if they were headlights–were approaching absolutely silently.

  Tony understood that if he turned back and ran, this thing would overtake him somewhere right near the stop. But ahead one more crossroads loomed. If he managed to get there first, he would have a chance to turn...

  But he still did not run. He yet remained too sane a person to run away from a bus. He just quickened his pace. Even so, the headlights neared not as quickly as could be expected of a bus. But also not so slowly as he would like.

  As he walked closer, he felt he wouldn't be in time to reach the crossroads.

  "What nonsense," he told himself, "this just a bus, or, well, maybe, some other vehicle... And even if there are any nasty guys inside, they hardly have any business with me..." But at the same time, another voice in his brain named an absolutely different reason not to run: he should not show that thing that he is afraid.

  Now he discerned a vague silhouette in the darkness and fog. It really seemed to be the bus. Without any light, except the headlights–without even a route indicator in front. And still approaching completely silently, without even a garbage rustle under its wheels.

  Only several yards remained to the crossroads. And only a few more–to the bus. Tony broke down and ran.

  They reached the crossroads simultaneously. Logan jerkily darted round the corner, quickly moving to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the long dark frame (unlike usual New York buses, this one obviously was not white), square holes of black windows, dimly glowing symbols "M13" on one side, and lower–an inscription along the side: "ARE
YOU FREE FROM SIN?" The bus was so close that Tony felt a wave of warm air coming from it. For a moment Logan was certain that the irreparable had happened, he had given himself away, and now this thing would turn and pick up his trail...

  No. It just passed by. Of course, it is simply a bus following its route, and it is silly to addle his brain with any nonsense... Curiously enough, the stern inscription on the side of the bus convinced him more than anything else: it was simply an advertising of some religious organization. Tony had seen it several times in the daylight, in a normal city. And, unlike other posters in this weird night, it looked the same then as now.

  But had he just imagined it or had he really seen at the last moment vertical pupils inside the headlights? Pupils which turned in his direction?

  And that warm wave that had poured over him... in it there was no smell of gasoline and oil which could be expected from a working machine. It resembled much more the hot stinking breath from the chops of a big animal. And more likely a scavenger than a predator.

  Tony ran for about hundred yards, then slowed to a walk, panting and telling himself that there were no grounds for panic. Everything has an explanation, even in this crazy place. Perhaps, after sunrise, he'll even laugh at his fears. (The thought that he would have to stay here until morning did not pain him as much as earlier–not because Tony began to like this place any better, but because he had started to get used to the inevitability... or to that which more and more seemed inevitable.) He darted a glance along the street stretching into fog–as empty and dark as as previously, then listened–it was absolutely silent. However, this silence was not calming. It seemed deliberate, unnatural–he realized that he was not hearing even his own footsteps, as if fog, like cotton wool, absorbed sounds. Tony stopped and forcefully stamped his right foot, wishing to overcome this oppressive silence. Old asphalt under his foot cracked, crumbling to pieces, and Tony fell knee deep in the wide open hole.