He slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs. Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling as he moved down the narrow aisles; a damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, an odor of mould and neglect.
Lewis Stillman paused before a dim, hand-lettered sign: MEDICAL SECTION. It was just as he remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, he struck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved it along the rows of faded titles. Carter... Davidson...
Enright... Erickson. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their gold stamping dust-dulled but legible, stood in tall and perfect order on the shelf.
In the darkness, Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowing it free of dust. At last, all three books were clean and solid in his hands.
Welly you’ve done it. You’ve reached the books and now they belong to you.
He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down at the table with his treasure and linger again over the wondrous pages.
He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the books inside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began his descent to the lower floor.
So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding.
But as Lewis Stillman’s foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out.
The entire lower floor was alive with them!
Rustling like a mass of great insects, gliding toward him, eyes gleaming in the half-light, they converged upon the stairs. They’d been waiting for him.
Now, suddenly the books no longer mattered. Now only his life mattered and nothing else. He moved back against the hard wood of the stair-rail, the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the foot of the stairs; they were silent, looking up at him with hate in their eyes.
If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you’ve still got a chance. That means you’ve got to get through them to the door. All right then, move.
Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic. Two of them fell as Stillman charged into their midst.
He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt, heard the cloth ripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic into them, and three more dropped under his bullets, shrieking in pain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming, from the door.
The pistol was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy Savage free from his shoulder as he reached the street. The night air, crisp and cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope.
I can still make it, thought Stillman, as he leaped the curb and plunged across the pavement. If those shots weren’t heard, then I’ve still got the edge. My legs are strong; I can outdistance them.
Luck, however, had failed him completely on this night. Near the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland, a fresh pack of them swarmed toward him.
He dropped to one knee and fired into their ranks, the Savage jerking in his hands. They scattered to either side.
He began to run steadily down the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, using the butt of the heavy rifle like a battering ram as they came at him. As he neared Highland, three of them darted directly into his path. Stillman fired. One doubled over, lurching crazily into a jagged plate glass store front. Another clawed at him as he swept around the corner to Highland, but he managed to shake free.
The street ahead of him was clear. Now his superior leg power would count heavily in his favor. Two miles. Could he make it before others cut him off?
Running, reloading, firing. Sweat soaking his shirt, rivering down his face, stinging his eyes. A mile covered. Halfway to the drains. They had fallen back behind his swift stride.
But more of them were coming, drawn by the rifle shots, pouring in from side streets, from stores and houses, His heart jarred in his body, his breath was ragged. How many of them around him? A hundred? Two hundred? More coming. God!
He bit down on his lower lip until the salt taste of blood was on his tongue. You can’t make it, a voice inside him shouted. They’ll have you in another block and you know it!
He fitted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusted his aim, and fired. The long rolling crack of the big weapon filled the night. Again and again he fired, the butt jerking into the flesh of his shoulder, the bitter smell of burnt powder in his nostrils.
It was no use. Too many of them. He could not clear a path.
Lewis Stillman knew that he was going to die.
The rifle was empty at last; the final bullet had been fired. He had no place to run because they were all around him, in a slowly closing circle.
He looked at the ring of small cruel faces and thought, the aliens did their job perfectly; they stopped Earth before she could reach the age of the rocket, before she could threaten planets beyond her own moon. What an immensely clever plan it had been! To destroy every human being on Earth above the age of six—and then to leave as quickly as they had come, allowing our civilization to continue on a primitive level, knowing that Earth’s back had been broken, that her survivors would revert to savagery as they grew into adulthood.
Lewis Stillman dropped the empty rifle at his feet and threw out his hands. “Listen,” he pleaded, “I’m really one of you. You’ll all be like me soon. Please, listen to me.”
But the circle tightened relentlessly around him.
Lewis Stillman was screaming when the children closed in.
00:13
SOMETHING NASTY
I had an uncle who really bugged me when I was growing up. Every time he came to our house on a visit he’d tell me to “Hush, boy!” or “Be quiet!” or “Quit jumping around!” I never felt I was being noisy, but he obviously did. As a result of this constant badgering, I began to resent his visits, much to my mother’s distress, since she dearly loved her brother.
Many decades later, in 1982, my fictional “Uncle Gus” was born in the pages of this story. Of course, he’s much nastier than my real uncle, who simply didn’t appreciate noisy little boys.
In the creation of Janey, my main character, I owe a debt to the brilliantly-evil stories of Shirley Jackson. Her world of everyday-gone-wrong (the most famous example of which is “The Lottery”) made a lasting impression on me.
Finally, from an uncle who bugged me and a writer who inspired me:
“Something Nasty.”
SOMETHING NASTY
“Have you had your shower yet, Janey?”
Her mother’s voice from below stairs, drifting smokily up to her, barely audible where she lay in her bed.
Louder now; insistent. “Janey! Will you answer me!”
She got up, cat-stretched, walked into the hall, to the landing, where her mother could hear her. “I’ve been reading.”
“But I told you that Uncle Gus was coming over this afternoon.”
“I hate him,” said Janey softly.
“You’re muttering. I can’t understand you.” Frustration. Anger and frustration. “Come down here at once.”
When Janey reached the bottom of the stairs her mother’s image was rippled. The little girl blinked rapidly, trying to clear her watering eyes.
Janey’s mother stood tall and ample-fleshed and fresh-smelling above her in a satiny summer dress.
Mommy always looks nice when Uncle Gus is coming.
“Why are you crying?” Anger had given way to concern.
“Because,” said Janey.
“Because why?”
“Because I don’t want to talk to Uncle Gus.”
“But he adores you! He comes over especially to see you.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Janey, scrubbing at her cheek with a small fist. “He doesn’t adore me and he doesn’t come specially to see me. He comes to get money from Daddy.”
Her mother was shocked. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”
“But it’s true. Isn’t it true?”
“Your Uncle Gus was hurt in the war. He can’t hold down an ordinary job. We just do what we can to help
him.”
“He never liked me,” said Janey. “He says I make too much noise. And he never lets me play with Whiskers when he’s here.”
“That’s because cats bother him. He’s not used to them. He doesn’t like furry things.” Her mother touched at Janey’s hair. Soft gold. “Remember that mouse you got last Christmas, how nervous it made him... Remember?”
“Pete was smart,” said Janey. “He didn’t like Uncle Gus, same as me.”
“Mice neither like nor dislike people,” Janey’s mother told her. “They’re not intelligent enough for that.”
Janey shook her head stubbornly. “Pete was very intelligent. He could find cheese anywhere in my room, no matter where I hid it.”
“That has to do with a basic sense of smell, not intelligence,” her mother said. “But we’re wasting time here, Janey. You run upstairs, take your shower and then put on your pretty new dress. The one with red polka dots.”
“They’re strawberries. It has little red strawberries on it.”
“Fine. Now just do as I say. Gus will be here soon and I want my brother to be proud of his niece.”
Blonde head down, her small heels dragging at the top of each step, Janey went back upstairs.
“I’m not going to report this to your father.” Janey’s mother was saying, her voice dimming as the little girl continued upward. “I’ll just tell him you overslept.”
“I don’t care what you tell Daddy,” murmured Janey. The words were smothered in hallway distance as she moved toward her room.
Daddy would believe anything Mommy told him. He always did. Sometimes it was true, about oversleeping. It was hard to wake up from her afternoon nap. Because I put off going to sleep. Because I hate it. Along with eating broccoli, and taking colored vitamin pills in little animal shapes and seeing the dentist and going on roller coasters.
Uncle Gus had taken her on a high, scary roller coaster ride last summer at the park, and it had made her vomit. He liked to upset her, frighten her. Mommy didn’t know about all the times Uncle Gus said scary things to her, or played mean tricks on her, or took her places she didn’t want to go.
Mommy would leave her with him while she went shopping, and Janey absolutely hated being there in his dark old house. He knew the dark frightened her. He’d sit there in front of her with all the lights out, telling spooky stories, with sick, awful things in them, his voice oily and horrible. She’d get so scared, listening to him, that sometimes she’d cry.
And that made him smile.
“Gus. Always so good to see you!”
“Hi, Sis.”
“C’mon inside. Jim’s puttering around out back somewhere. I’ve fixed us a nice lunch. Sliced turkey. And I made some cornbread.”
“So where’s my favorite niece?”
“Janey’s due down here any second. She’ll be wearing her new dress—just for you.”
“Well, now, isn’t that nice.”
She was watching from the top of the stairs, lying flat on her stomach so she wouldn’t be seen. It made her sick, watching Mommy hug Uncle Gus that way, each time he came over, as if it had been years between visits. Why couldn’t Mommy see how mean Uncle Gus was? All of her friends in class saw he was a bad person the first day he took her to school. Kids can tell right away about a person. Like that mean ole Mr. Kruger in geography, who made Janey stay after class when she forgot to do her homework. All the kids knew that Mr. Kruger was awful. Why does it take grownups so long to know things?
Janey slid backwards into the hall shadows. Stood up. Time to go downstairs. In her playclothes. Probably meant she’d get a spanking after Uncle Gus left, but it would be worth it not to have to put on her new dress for him. Spankings don’t hurt too much. Worth it.
“Well, here’s my little princess!” Uncle Gus was lifting her hard into the air, to make her dizzy. He knew how much she hated being swung around in the air. He set her down with a thump. Looked at her with his big cruel eyes. “And where’s that pretty new dress your Mommy told me about?”
“It got torn,” Janey said, staring at the carpet. “I can’t wear it today.”
Her mother was angry again. “That is not true, young lady, and you know it! I ironed that dress this morning and it is perfect.” She pointed upward. “You march right back upstairs to your room and put on that dress!”
“No, Maggie.” Gus shook his head. “Let the child stay as she is. She looks fine. Let’s just have lunch.” He prodded Janey in the stomach. “Bet that little tummy of yours is starved for some turkey.”
And Uncle Gus pretended to laugh. Janey was never fooled; she knew real laughs from pretend laughs. But Mommy and Daddy never seemed to know the difference.
Janey’s mother sighed and smiled at Gus. “All right, I’ll let it go this time—but I really think you spoil her.”
“Nonsense. Janey and I understand each other.” He stared down at her. “Don’t we, sweetie?”
Lunch was no fun. Janey couldn’t finish her mashed potatoes, and she’d just nibbled at her turkey. She could never enjoy eating with her uncle there. As usual, her father barely noticed she was at the table. He didn’t care if she wore her new dress or not. Mommy took care of her and Daddy took care of business, whatever that was. Janey could never figure out what he did, but he left every day for some office she’d never seen and he made enough money there so that he always had some to give to Uncle Gus when Mommy asked him for a check.
Today was Sunday so Daddy was home with his big newspaper to read and the car to wax and the grass to trim. He did the same things every Sunday.
Does Daddy love me? I know that Mommy does, even though she spanks me sometimes. But she always hugs me after. Daddy never hugs me. He buys me ice cream, and he takes me to the movies on Saturday afternoon, but I don’t think he loves me.
Which is why she could never tell him the truth about Uncle Gus. He’d never listen.
And Mommy just didn’t understand.
After lunch, Uncle Gus grabbed Janey firmly by the hand and took her into the back yard. Then he sat her down next to him on the big wooden swing.
“I’ll bet your new dress is ugly,” he said in a cold voice.
“Is not. It’s pretty!”
Her discomfort pleased him. He leaned over, close to her right ear. “Want to know a secret?”
Janey shook her head. “I want to go back with Mommy. I don’t like being out here.”
She started away, but he grabbed her, pulling her roughly back onto the swing. “You listen to me when I talk to you.” His eyes glittered. “I’m going to tell you a secret. About yourself.”
“Then tell me.”
He grinned. “You’ve got something inside.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means there’s something deep down inside your rotten little belly. And it’s alive!”
“Huh?” She blinked, beginning to get scared.
“A creature. That lives off what you eat and breathes the air you breathe and can see out of your eyes.” He pulled her face close to his. “Open your mouth, Janey, so I can look in and see what’s living down there!”
“No, I won’t.” She attempted to twist away, but he was too strong. “You’re lying! You’re just telling me an awful lie! You are!”
“Open wide.” And he applied pressure to her jaw with the fingers of his right hand. Her mouth opened. “Ah, that’s better. Let’s have a look...” He peered into her mouth. “Yes, there. I can see it now.”
She drew back, eyes wide, really alarmed. “What’s it like?”
“Nasty! Horrid. With very sharp teeth. A rat, I’d say. Or something like a rat. Long and gray and plump.”
“I don’t have it! I don’t!”
“Oh, but you do, Janey.” His voice was oily. “I saw its red eyes shining and its long snakytail. It’s down there all right. Something nasty.”
And he laughed. Real, this time. No pretend laugh. Uncle Gus was having himself some fun.
Janey
knew he was just trying to scare her again—but she wasn’t absolutely one hundred percent sure about the thing inside. Maybe he had seen something.
“Do... any other people have... creatures... living in them?”
“Depends,” said Uncle Gus. “Bad things live inside bad people. Nice little girls don’t have them.”
“I’m nice!”
“Well now, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” His voice was soft and unpleasant. “If you were nice, you wouldn’t have something nasty living inside.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Janey, breathing fast. “How could it be real?”
“Things are real when people believe in them.” He lit a long black cigarette, drew in the smoke, exhaled it slowly. “Have you ever heard of voodoo, Janey?”
She shook her head.
“The way it works is—this witch doctor puts a curse on someone by making a doll and sticking a needle into the doll’s heart. Then he leaves the doll at the house of the man he’s cursed. When the man sees it he becomes very frightened. He makes the curse real by believing in it.”
“And then what happens?”
“His heart stops and he dies.”
Janey felt her own heart beating very rapidly.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Janey?”
“Maybe... a little.”
“You’re afraid, all right.” He chuckled. “And you should be—with a thing like that inside you!”
“You’re a very bad and wicked man!” she told him, tears misting her eyes.
And she ran swiftly back to the house.
That night, in her room, Janey sat rigid in bed, hugging Whiskers. He liked to come in late after dark and curl up on the coverlet Just under her feet and snooze there until dawn. He was an easy-going, gray-and-black housecat who never complained about anything and always delivered a small “meep” of contentment whenever Janey picked him up for some stroking. Then he would begin to purr.
Tonight Whiskers was not purring. He sensed the harsh vibrations in the room, sensed how upset Janey was. He quivered uneasily in her arms.
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