Scenes from the Secret History

by F. Paul Wilson

  To Sandy’s shock she lifted her head and laughed. He’d made a funny and she laughed. What a wonderful sound, even if he could barely hear it over the blasting music.

  And then the name of the group behind the song came to him: the Chambers Brothers.

  Suddenly – other sounds. Shouts, cries, screams, and people stumbling, scrambling past him in a mad rush toward the rear end of the car.

  “It’s time now!” cried a voice. “Yes, it’s time.”

  Sandy turned and saw the Asian in the fatigue jacket standing before the door at the front end of the car. His black eyes were mad, endlessly, vacantly mad, and he clutched in each hand a black pistol that seemed too long and too thick in the barrel. Then Sandy realized they were equipped with silencers.

  Oh, Christ, he thought, shock launching him to his feet, he’s going to start shooting.

  And then he saw the bodies and the blood and knew that the shooting had already begun. Images flashed through his instantly adrenalized brain as he turned to run – not everyone from the front of the car had made it to the rear; the first to be shot lay where they’d fallen…

  …like the Korean guy, maybe Sandy’s age, with rust-colored hair and a Nike swoosh on his cap, sprawled on the red-splattered floor, facing Sandy with his headphones still on his ears, blood leaking from his nose, and black eyes staring into the beyond…

  …like the heavy black woman in the two-piece sleeveless gray suit over a black polka dotted white blouse with starched pristine cuffs, lying face down, still twitching as the last of her life ran out from under her wig and stained the copy of “Rolie Polie Olie” that had spilled from her Barnes and Noble bag…

  …or the others who’d hit the deck and now huddled and crouched and cringed between seats, holding up their hands palm out as if to stop the bullets, and pleading for mercy…

  But they were asking the wrong guy, because the man with the guns was tuned to some other frequency as he shuffled along the aisle, swinging his pistols left and right and pumping bullets through the silencers. Phut!.. phut!… phut! The sounds barely audible through the music as slugs tore into heads and tear-stained faces, sometimes right through the supplicating hands. He moved without the slightest hint of urgency, looking for all the world like a suburban homeowner on a sunny Saturday morning strolling his lawn with a can of herbicide and casually spraying the weeds he passed.

  And somewhere up there, up front, someone’s bowels had let loose and the stink was filling the car.

  Brain screaming in panic, Sandy ducked and swung around and saw the GPM crouched behind his seat, facing the rear of the car, and he must have lost it because he was shouting something that sounded like, “Doesn’t anyone have a goddamn gun?”

  Yeah, asshole! Sandy wanted to say. The guy standing in the aisle has two, and he’s coming your way!

  Turning further Sandy came face to face with Lina or whoever she was and knew the naked fear in her blanched face must have mirrored his own. He looked past her at the rest of the screaming, panicked riders crammed like a mass of worms into the rear of the car, the nearer ones wriggling, kicking, biting, clawing to get further to the rear and the ones at the very back battling with all they had to stay where they were, and suddenly Sandy knew what the others had already discovered – that once you got back there you had nowhere to go unless you could find a way to open the rear door and jump onto the tracks at who-knew-how-many-miles an hour and hope that if you were lucky enough not to break your neck when you hit, you wouldn’t land on the third rail and get fried to a cinder.

  He saw a brown hand snake upward at the rear of the press, grip the red emergency handle, and yank down…

  Yes!

  Saw the handle come free as the cord snapped.

  And just then the Fifty-ninth Street / Columbus Circle station lit up around the train but it didn’t slow because oh shit this was the express damn it and it was going to skip Sixty-sixth Street as well and not stop until Seventy-second.

  Seventy-second! No wonder the gunman was in no hurry. He had his prey cornered like cattle in a stockyard pen and could slaughter them at will – kill just about everyone before the train reached its next stop.

  Sandy saw only one chance to save his life. If he could get to the rear there, worm his way through the massed crowd, even if he had to do it on hands and knees – he was thin, he could do it – and get as far back as he could and crawl under a seat, maybe he could survive until Seventy-second Street. That would be the end of it. When the doors opened the gunman would take off or blow his own brains out, and Sandy would be safe. All he had to do was survive until then.

  Another glance at the gunman showed him pointing one of his pistols down at someone Sandy couldn’t see. The only visible part of the next victim was a pair of hands raised above the back of a seat, a woman’s hands, mocha colored, nails painted bright red, fingers interlocked as if in prayer.

  Even more frightening was the realization that this faceless woman and the GPM appeared to be the last living people between Sandy and the killer. Panic took a choke hold on his throat as he turned and lunged toward the rear of the car – oh sweet Jesus he didn’t want to die he was too young and he hadn’t really begun to live so he couldn’t die now oh please not now not now – but the film student was there, half in, half out of a crouch and he slammed against her, knocking her over, and they both went down, Sandy landing on top as they hit the floor.

  He was losing it now, ready to scream at the bitch for getting in his way, but more important than screaming was knowing right now, right this instant where the gunman was, so he looked back, praying he wouldn’t see that impassive bearded face looming behind the muzzle of a silencer. Instead he saw the GPM, whose face was set into grim lines of fury and whose eyes now were anything but mild, and he was muttering, “Shit-shit-shit!” and pulling up the cuff of his jeans where something leather was strapped and then he was yanking a metallic object from the leather and Sandy saw it was a tiny pistol. At first he thought it was one of those old-fashioned Derringers women and gamblers carried in westerns but when he saw the dude work the little slide back and forth he realized it was a miniature automatic.

  And now the GPM – Sandy was finding it hard to think of him as generic anymore but didn’t have any other handle for the guy – was on his feet and moving toward the killer and Sandy wondered, What’s he think he’s going to do with that little pop gun? and then it went off and after the dainty little phuts of the killer’s guns the sound was like a cannon in the confines of the subway car and the bullet must have caught the killer in the shoulder because that was where his fatigue jacket exploded in red, knocking him back and spinning him half around. He screamed in pain and stared with eyes full of shock and wonder and fear at this guy coming at him from out of nowhere. Sandy couldn’t see the GPM’s face as he worked the slide to his pistol again, just the back of his head and not much of that thanks to the knit cap, but he did see the woman who’d been the next intended victim crawl out from where she’d been cowering on the floor and scrabble past the dude on her belly, her teary eyes showing white all around, her lipsticked mouth a scarlet O of terror.

  Then the killer started to raise the gun in his good hand but the GPM was still moving toward him like an eagle swooping in on a field mouse, had that little pistol raised and it boomed again, the recoil jerking his hand high in the air, the second bullet detonating another explosion of red, this time in the killer’s other shoulder, knocking him back against one of the chrome hang-on poles in the center of the aisle where he sagged, both arms limp and useless at his sides, and gaped at the relentless man moving ever closer. He roared and lunged forward, whether to head-butt or bite the GPM no one would ever know, because without pausing, without the slightest hint of hesitation the GPM leveled that toy pistol at the killer’s left eye and let it boom again. Sandy saw the killer’s head snap back and the impact swing him halfway around the pole before he lurche
d free to do a loose-kneed pirouette and collapse half-sitting, half sprawled against one of the doors, very, very, very dead.

  And then the GPM was working the little slide on his little gun again, and a fourth boom, this into the tape player, reducing it to a thousand flying black fragments and stopping its incessant cries about time having come today.

  Stunned silence in the car after that final report – only the rattle of the wheels and the whistle of the wind racing past.

  Saved!

  The word batted around the inside of Sandy’s head, bouncing off the walls, looking for purchase on the disbelieving, rejecting surfaces. Finally it landed and took root as Sandy accepted the glorious possibility that he would see tomorrow.

  And he wasn’t alone. Cheers and cries of joy arose from the multitude packed like sardines at the rear of the car. Some were on their knees, tears on their faces and hands raised to heaven, thanking whoever or whatever they called god for deliverance; others were laughing and crying and hugging each other.

  “We’re alive!” the film student under him said. “What–?”

  Abashed, Sandy rolled off of her. “Sorry.”

  She sat up and stared at him. “God, I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Please,” he said, looking away to hide his shame. He saw the GPM in a crouch, picking up something from the floor, but couldn’t focus on what he was doing. Sandy had to frame an answer. How could he explain the terror that had taken control of him? “I don’t know what came over me. I–”

  “You shielded me with your own body!”

  What? He turned and found her staring at him, her chocolate-brown eyes wide and wonder-filled.

  “I’ve heard of it and, you know, seen it in films, but I never believed – I mean, you were like some Secret Service Agent!”

  And then her face screwed up and she started to cry… huge racking sobs that shook her fragile body.

  Sandy’s befuddled brain finally registered that she thought he’d knocked her down and landed on her to protect her. What did he say to that?

  But before he could respond he heard a voice call out behind him.

  “We’ve got a lady who’s still alive here! Somebody get up here and help her!”

  Sandy turned and saw that the GPM had turned to face the rest of the car, but he’d first stretched his knit cap down to his chin. The effect might have been comical but for that deadly little pistol still clutched in his hand. What was going on here? A few moments ago he’d had his face out in the open for everyone to see. Why hide it now?

  “Come on!” he shouted through the weave. “Someone move their ass up here, goddamn it!”

  A young black woman with cornrowed hair, wearing white pants and a blue sweater stepped forward.

  “I’m an OR tech. I know a little–”

  “Well, come on then! Maybe you can save one of your fellow ewes!”

  She edged forward, giving Sandy an uneasy look as she slipped past him and hurried to a woman who was moaning and clutching her bloody head. He understood her uncertainty. What he didn’t understand was the anger in the GPM’s voice.

  “Why me?” the man shouted. “Why do I have to save your sorry asses? I don’t know you, I don’t care about you, I want nothing to do with you, so why me? Why did I get stuck with it?”

  “Hey, mister,” said a tall lean black fellow who could have been a minister, “why you so riled at us? We didn’t do nothing.”

  “Exactly! That’s the problem! Why didn’t one of you put him down?”

  “We didn’t have no gun!” someone else said.

  “And this creep knew that. He knew he’d be dealing with a herd of human sheep. Losers! You make me sick – all of you!”

  This was scary. The dude seemed almost as crazy now as the mass murderer he’d just killed. Sandy was beginning to wonder whether they’d traded one maniac for another when the train roared into the Seventy-second Street station. He saw the GPM pocket his pistol and turn toward the door. As soon as the panels parted he leaped through and dashed across the platform. In a flash he was lost among the crowd.

  Find the rest here… Hosts

  August

  The Haunted Air

  (Harry Morris’s mind-blowing endpaper

  from the limited edition)

  With The Haunted Air I got to do a haunted-house/ghost story. I also got to reference The Keep and foretell Reprisal. (Menalaus Manor is the same house where Danny was found.)

  My working title was Spirits (I have a thing for plural nouns as titles) but then I came across a passage from Lamia by Keats that nailed the story:

  Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,

  Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

  Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine…

  Have you noticed what’s been going on in the series? I’ve done a techy thriller, a conspiracy novel, a medical thriller, an SF novel, and now a pure horror story. But they’re all Repairman Jack tales. I’m genre hopping within my series. So. Much. Fun.

  I decided to throw Jack a curve ball with Gia’s pregnancy. I had no idea how he (or I) would deal with it, but I saw great story potential there. (Well, I hoped.)

  The Curio Shoppe is a tip of the hat to Theodore Sturgeon’s wonderful fantasy short, “Shottle Bop”… about a store that sells bottles… “with things in them.”

  I think I succeeded in making the haunted parts, well, haunted. Here’s one…

  The Haunted Air

  (sample)

  Lyle awoke to the sound of running water. His room was dark, the windows open to the night, and somewhere…

  The shower.

  “Now what?” he muttered as he pulled the sheet aside and hung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  He blinked and brought the display of his clock radio into focus: 1:21. He stared dully at the red LED digits. He felt drugged. He’d been way down in deep, deep sleep and his brain and body were still fumbling back to alertness. As he watched the display, the last digit changed to a zero.

  1:20?

  But just a few seconds ago it had been… or at least he’d thought it had been…

  Never mind. The shower was running. He jumped off the bed and hurried to the adjoining bathroom.

  Lyle felt the steam before he saw it. He fumbled along the wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on. Billows of moisture filled the bathroom, so thick he could barely find his way. He made it to the shower and reached out toward the curtain…

  And hesitated. Something told him not to pull it open. Maybe one of those premonitions he didn’t believe in, maybe the result of seeing too many horror movies, but he sensed something besides running water behind the curtain.

  Feeling suddenly cold despite the enveloping hot mist, Lyle backed away, one step… two…

  No. He wasn’t giving into this. With a strangled cry that anticipated the terror of what he might see, Lyle leaped forward and slashed the curtain aside.

  He stood there in the steam, gasping, heart pounding, staring at a shower running full blast at max heat. But the spray wasn’t running straight into the tub. It was bouncing against something… something that wasn’t there and yet was. And after the spray struck whatever it was, the water turned red and ran down into the tub to swirl away into the drain.

  Lyle closed his eyes, shook his head, then looked again.

  The shower continued to run and billow up steam, but the spray now flowed uninterrupted into the tub, and remained clear all the way down to the drain.

  What’s happening to me? he thought as he reached in and turned the knob.

  And then he sensed someone behind him in the steam.

  “Wha–?”

  He spun and found no one. But movement to his left caught Lyle’s eye. Something on the big mirror over the sink… dripping lines forming on the moisture-laden glass… connecting into letters… then…

  Words.

&nbs
p; Who are you?

  Lyle could only stare, could only think that this wasn’t happening, he was dreaming again, and pretty soon–

  Three more question marks, bigger than the last, added themselves to the end of the question.

  Who are you? ? ? ?

  “I…I’m Lyle,” he croaked, thinking, It’s a dream, so play along. “Who are you?”

  I dont know

  “Why are you here?”

  The same words were rewritten below.

  I dont know. Im scared.

  I want to go home

  “Where’s home?”

  I DONT KNOW

  Then something slammed against the mirror with wall-rattling force to create a spider-web shatter the size of a basketball. The lights went out and a blast of cold tore through the bathroom, plunging the climate from rain forest to Arctic Circle. Lyle leaped for the light switch but his bare foot hit a puddle; he slipped and went down just as he heard another booming impact break more of the mirror. Glass confetti peppered him with the third impact. He crouched on his knees with his forehead against the floor, hands clasped over the back of his head as whatever was in the room with him pounded the mirror again and again in a fit of mindless rage.

  And then as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

  Slowly, cautiously, Lyle raised his head in the echoing darkness. Somewhere in the house – down the hall – he heard running footsteps, and then his brother’s voice.

  “Lyle! Lyle, you all right?” The bedroom light came on. “Dear God, Lyle, where are you?”

  “In here.”

  He rose to his knees but could find neither the strength nor the will to regain his feet. Not yet.

  He heard Charlie’s approach and called out, “Don’t come in. There’s glass on the floor. Just reach in and hit the light.”

  Lyle was facing away from the doorway. When the light came on he looked over his shoulder and saw a wide-eyed and slack-jawed Charlie staring at him.

  “What the fuck–" Charlie began, then caught himself. “Dear Lord, Lyle, what you done?”