by Clive Barker
He could barely make out the sign of the store in whose parking lot he’d been hit, far in the distance, lost in the gleaming heat.
But there was no one following him, no police sirens, no screaming women.
Just hot asphalt and a gleaming snake of cars curling away in both directions.
He took a deep breath, let out a sigh, collapsed atop his bike. His legs felt rubbery and he really, really wanted to go home.
He leaned his head against the handlebars, and the cool metal felt good against his pounding skull, his hair sweat-plastered to it.
When he opened his eyes, he saw immediately that he was missing something.
Somethings.
His bags. The one with the candy and the one with his paperback.
Gone.
He’d looped them through the handlebars before he left Village Square, but they must have been knocked loose when the lady hit him.
If he wanted them, he’d have to go back.
Shit!
The curse came from his lips so quickly, so unexpectedly that he actually slapped a hand over his mouth in surprise.
With that, he started to giggle.
He couldn’t go back. If he went back for his stuff, he’d surely be stopped by the lady . . . or even the police.
Or even, he thought, those kids . . .
And that stopped the giggling cold.
No, he couldn’t go back.
He’d simply lost his purchases for the day. He was out about a buck-fifty, but that was that. He’d just have to eat it. He hoped his father wouldn’t ask him what he’d done with the money, because he’d have nothing to show for it.
As he contemplated this, he raised his face to the sun, felt like crying.
He rode it out, though, until it passed.
He simply would not cry. He was too old for Underoos and “Scotty,” and he was far too old for crying.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw it, across the street.
Velvet Freeze.
Orange Sherbet, he thought. At least I can get some orange sherbet, then head home.
Just up ahead was an intersection, so he walked the bike up to the traffic light, pushed the button, feeling a little light headed.
The traffic slowed to a stop, and the Walk sign across the street lit up. Scott still looked both ways, as he’d been taught, rode the bike across the first two lanes, paused to make sure the sign was still illuminated, moved quickly across the remaining two lanes to the other side of the highway.
There, just a few buildings up, was the Velvet Freeze.
They were there, too.
Scott’s foot slipped off the pedal, and the bike skewed to the side, stopped.
All four of them, the flattop kid, the scrawny one, the filthy little girl.
And the small, angry one.
Scott could see them clearly from this distance, could see their eyes, how they followed him.
He reacted instinctively.
The bike was already partially turned back toward the light, so Scott stepped on the pedals, made a hard turn into the intersection.
Just as his bike jumped down off the curb, the Walk sign winked out, and the orange hand lit up.
Don’t Walk.
Scott ignored it, lowered his head, pushed hard on the pedals, launched across the road.
As he did, he heard “Scott! Wait . . . don’t!”
It was the older kid, the flattop, he knew it without looking. The boy’s voice rose above the idling traffic, the sound of the wind in Scott’s ears.
How does he know my name?
But Scott didn’t stop.
He was barely across the second two lanes when the light changed, and the cars nosed forward.
Pulling up on the handlebars, he brought the bike’s front tires up, jumped the curb, gained the shoulder on the side he’d just come from moments ago.
His breath was harsh in his ears, and sweat trickled the length of his back, dripped into his eyes. He swiped a hand absently across his brow, turned to look across the road.
There, through the whirr of the passing cars, he could see them, clustered at the other side, glaring at him fiercely, so anxious to get to him they seemed to vibrate in the seats of their bikes.
Scott didn’t wait, he pushed off down the side of the road, but this time followed the ditch into the drainage culvert, carefully navigating the steep hill with his feet on the ground rather than in the pedals.
“Scott!” he heard the boy cry again, but he didn’t wait, didn’t look back.
At the bottom, a thin trickle of water snaked across the cracked and jumbled surface of the culvert, and he had to dodge all sorts of debris—bricks, tumbled shopping carts, and old tires.
He was fairly sure where this channel went, surfacing in some common ground in a neighborhood just a few blocks away from his own. He’d simply follow it out, then head home.
Forget the book, forget the candy, forget the god-damn orange sherbet, he thought. At least I still have my bike.
As this thought settled over him, he steered the bike through a gentle turn, came around the bend . . .
. . . and saw the four riders, spread out across the ditch there before him.
How? was all he could think, and he jerked the bike hard to the left, went partially up the inclined concrete banks, then turned completely around, back down the wall, and retreated. The clickety-clack of the baseball cards in his spokes echoed across the walls of the ravine.
“Stop! Please!” came the voice, but Scott was operating purely on fear now. It had been a helluva day, with the high of getting his new bike and the low of getting hit by a car.
And in between, this . . . whatever this was.
Being followed around by four kids he didn’t know, yet somehow knew him.
It was too much, so Scott simply fled.
Darting in and out between debris, returned to where the drainage ditch passed under the highway. A wide, angular concrete apron led up to the mouth of the metal pipe that opened there; a mouth filled with shadows and dribbling spilth.
He’d have to go in there, through there to escape them.
Scott slid to a stop.
Somehow, impossibly, the four were there ahead of him, grouped across the apron, blocking him from racing into that terrifying maw.
Not knowing what else to do, where else to go, he simply stood, one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal, the bike leaning.
He breathed heavily, and fear wrapped icy arms around his stomach, squeezed.
“Scott,” said the flattop boy. “Finally.”
“What do you want?” Scott yelled, his voice cracking in exhaustion and dread.
The older boy rode his bike off the lip of the drainage pipe, came to a stop right beside Scott. The other three followed, slowly, forming a semi-circle around him, as much to be near him as to block him from fleeing.
“We’re here to help, Scott,” Flattop said. “We’re here to take you home.”
From this close, Flattop’s face looked smooth and kind, and Scott found some of his fear sloughing away, dissipating.
“Who are you? Did my parents send you?”
“No, your parents didn’t send us,” Flattop smiled. “We just knew to be here. It’s kind of like our job.”
“Our job, yeah,” the angry little one sneered in agreement.
“Shh,” Flattop said, without anger. “He still doesn’t know.”
Scott frowned in confusion. “I don’t know what?”
Flattop’s eyes shaded momentarily.
“That you’re dead, kid.”
Scott stiffened, his fingers tightened on the handlebars. “You mean you’re gonna . . . ”
“No, we’re not gonna do anything to you, Scott,” Flattop said. “You’re already dead. You got hit by a car, remember?”
“Yeah . . . so?” he said. “How can I be dead? I’m right here.”
“No,” Flattop said, and his tone was firm but sad. “You’re back there.”<
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And suddenly, they were.
There was no pop!, no flash of light or gaudy theatrics.
In that instant, they were not in the culvert anymore, but under the bright, hot sun in the parking lot of the store.
The young lady in the short, black skirt was there, too, still screaming.
The car was there, with its crumpled hood.
As was the twisted wreck of his bike. Scott stared at the baseball cards his father had helped him clip to the bike earlier. One was missing altogether, and the other three were crumpled and torn, splashed with red.
And there, laid out in front of them—in front of him—was the twisted wreck of Scott.
His body lay curled on the pavement near the bike, one hand tucked beneath, one hand with bloody knuckles extended over his head. His legs were thrust out, and he noticed one of his shoes was gone, exposing his striped tube sock.
His shirt was rucked up, and his white, white belly was cut and scraped.
A pool of glistening ink spread from beneath his body, as if the asphalt beneath it were melting in the overbearing sun. He saw the glint of dark red, the strange dent in the curve of his head from which it flowed.
All of this was confusing and distressing. He could plainly see the body there—his body!—yet, here he was, standing with his bike, neither of them damaged.
Still the woman screamed and screamed.
“Is that . . . me?” he croaked.
Flattop’s smile was thin and severe. “Yes.”
Tears filled Scott’s eyes. “I don’t believe you. I can’t be dead. I’m right here. That’s not me!”
As if on cue, the small, angry kid moved his bike forward, nearer to Scott. He was smiling, ferocious and determined. He stopped right beside Scott, reached out and touched him, gently, with one finger.
That one, small touch—the boy’s tiny finger tapping against Scott’s chest—exploded through Scott’s consciousness like a detonation. Hundreds of sensations scoured over him, a formication like a million stinging ants crawling over his skin.
A constellation of pain illuminated every nerve in his body. He felt bones within his arms and legs shattering, the pain like supernovas bursting inside him.
He experienced the curious sensation of his skull quite literally splitting, and felt something vital leaking out. Liquid pattered across his shoulders, rained to the ground, spattered the tops of his sneakers.
Scott collapsed, fell to his knees.
As he did so, he looked up, saw that the younger two riders—the girl and the other boy—had dismounted and had come to stand before him.
The boy was emaciated, an articulated skeleton. His hair was wispy, no-colored. His skin was the unhealthy yellow of jaundice, and his eyes were sunken into bruised hollows that fell deeper than his collapsed cheeks.
He reached one bony hand out, touched Scott’s sternum, just where the angry boy had touched him.
Scott’s stomach twisted on itself, and he vomited a slurry of nearly colorless liquid, splashing onto the pavement and mixing with the spreading pool of blood coming from the body.
More disturbingly, he let loose his bladder, his bowels, felt the warmth of this soak into his underwear, trickle down his pants legs. Its smell rose to his nostrils, already clogged with the flat, metallic smell of his own blood, and he was momentarily embarrassed.
The boy stepped back, and his sister, a twin perhaps, stepped forward, reached out with a filthy, scabby hand to also touch him.
As the slight pressure of her finger faded, Scott felt his body swell, his gut expanding, his limbs puffing. He looked at his hand, propping him up against the pavement, and watched it inflate, the fingers splitting like sausages, the flesh beneath rising, then putrefying, bubbling, running like soft butter.
He felt the sudden urge to cough then, as something pushed its way from his stomach, up his esophagus; something with mass, something writhing.
His lips parted almost on their own, and he belched up a great bubble of foul-smelling gas and a cloud of insects—tiny flies that flew out from between his clenched teeth and a squirming tangle of worms and maggots that plopped to the asphalt in a pool of mucilaginous slime.
Scott tried to draw in a breath. He desperately needed to scream. But he couldn’t. Nothing in his body seemed to be under his control anymore, and he remained frozen, bent over the pavement, looking at his body there before him, his other body.
His real body, he knew.
Just then a hand appeared in his field of view, and he looked up.
It was Flattop, reaching to him.
Scott shakily lifted his own hand, clasped the boy’s.
And it was over, as quickly as it had begun.
Scott was standing there, whole again, not leaking any fluids, not feeling any of the overwhelming pain he’d felt moments ago.
He gasped in a breath, felt his knees buckle in overwhelming relief.
And the kids, all of them, rushed to him, kept him on his feet. When they felt sure he was able to stand on his own again, they stepped away, slowly.
Except for Flattop. He kept hold of Scott’s hand, but gently.
“Sorry for that, but you sorta had to know,” he said.
“I’m . . . dead,” Scott said, more to hear it spoken from his own mouth than for any other reason.
The four kids looked at him with a stern sadness in their eyes, even the angry little kid.
“So now what?” Scott said, noticing that things had gone quiet around them. The car, the screaming lady, his own dead body were gone. The road was still there, as were the store and the parking lot, but the rest of it faded the farther away from this little tableau it got, obscured by what looked like a heavy fog.
What was left had the feel of an empty stage, the audience gone, the props put away, the actors taking one last look.
“Now we leave,” Flattop said, gesturing off into the grey void.
“To go . . . where?” Scott asked, suddenly realizing what this all truly meant.
Realizing where he wasn’t going, where he’d never go again.
“To the other side, kid, the other world . . . the larger world.”
Scott panicked for a second.
He wasn’t ready. This wasn’t right.
He needed . . . he needed to go home, his home, if only for a moment.
If only to see . . .
He remembered something, dug into his pockets to find it.
The baseball cards he’d stuffed in there earlier that morning fell from his pocket, scattered across the fading asphalt.
He dug deeper, pulled one out, held it up to Flattop.
If there’s a problem . . .
“My mom gave this to me. I want to see her before I go,” he said, holding one of the two quarters up before Flattop.
The boy eyed the quarter somberly, his eyes narrowing.
“Your mother is wise,” he said, and his voice held a tone, an edge that didn’t sound as if it belonged to any boy, 15 years old or otherwise. It had the weight of ages behind it, and for a moment, Scott was afraid the older boy would simply snatch the coin from his hand, leave him there alone in that dwindling oasis of reality.
Flattop sighed, and did reach out to take the coin, gently, sliding it into the front pocket of his jeans.
He turned to the other children. “Go on ahead and prepare the way. I’ll be along presently.”
The three kids mounted their bikes and sped away without a word, disappearing into the mist like horsemen in a western.
Flattop turned back to Scott. “This will hurt more than the three touches you endured. Do you understand this?”
Scott bit his lip.
“I wanna see my mom.”
“You are here,” Flattop said, and the mist receded, revealing the front lawn of Scott’s house, the porch, the front door. But nothing else emerged from the fog, and the whole scene had a weird, twilight aura about it.
Flattop nodded toward the house, and Scott climbed off th
e bike, let it fall silently to the grey grass. He bounded from it, pushed through the front door, slid into the hallway, his sneakers squeaking on the floor.
“Mom!” he yelled, and his voice seemed to echo through long, invisible corridors, fading slowly. “Mom!”
He found he was breathing hard, could feel the beat of his anxious heart tremble through his body. It seemed so strange to have these feelings in death, but he pushed that aside.
It didn’t matter . . . not right now.
“Scotty?” he heard a small voice. “Is that you?”
“Mom!”
“I’m here, baby.”
Scott dashed down the hallway into the family room. It looked dim here, colorless and unreal. He could see the carpet, the texture of the couch, the pictures on the mantel, on the walls, but they seemed fake, almost like illustrations of the real thing.
And there she was, curled atop the couch—one hand tucked beneath, one hand extended over her head—sleeping.
He went to her, knelt beside her, took her hand in his.
Scott could feel her, feel the muscles of her hand, the bones, feel the warmth of her blood and the beat of her heart and her slow, easy respiration.
“Mom,” he said, burying his head in her shoulder. He could smell her—the clean scent of her shampoo, the familiar cachet of her soap, her perfume. She ran her hands through his hair, and he closed his eyes, felt them well up.
“I was so worried,” she murmured, kissing his head. “You and that bike.”
“I’m here now, Mom,” he said, raising his head. “But I’ve got to go.”
Scott saw her frown, but also noticed that she hadn’t opened her eyes, hadn’t really awakened.
“Go? Where do you need to go, honey?” she asked, and he felt her hands tighten on him.
“I need to go . . . away. Sorry. I’m sorry . . . but I’ve got to go.”
“When will you be back?” she said, her voice sounding small.
Scott opened his mouth to say something . . . but could not find the words.
So, he leaned in and kissed his mother on the cheek, rested his forehead on hers.
“Why do you have to go?” she whispered in his ear.
“It’s time, I guess. My time. But don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just that . . . well . . . it’s okay, I guess.”
“I don’t want you to leave honey.”