A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  He heard Connors groan and looked up. He was nude as a jaybird and the little guys had tied him with new ropes looped through rings fastened high on the walls at each end of the room. They were hauling him off the floor, stringing him across the room like laundry hung out to dry.

  George suddenly realized that although he wasn’t too pleased with being George Haskins, at this particular moment he preferred it by far to being Gilroy Connors.

  Gil felt as if his arms and legs were going to come out of their sockets as the runts hauled him off the floor and stretched him out in the air. For a moment he feared that might be their plan, but when he got halfway between the floor and the ceiling, they stopped pulling on the ropes.

  He couldn’t ever remember feeling so damn helpless in all his life.

  The lights went out and he heard a lot of shuffling below him but he couldn’t see what they were doing. Then came the sound, a new chant, high-pitched and staccato in a language he had never heard before, a language that didn’t seem at home on the human tongue.

  A soft glow began to rise from below him. He wished he could see what they were doing. All he could do was watch their weird shadows on the ceiling. So far they hadn’t caused him too much pain, but he was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. His back got warm while his front grew cold and numb, like there was a cool wind coming from the ceiling and passing right through him, carrying his energy with it. All of his juice seemed to be flowing downward and collecting in his back.

  So tired . . . and his back felt so heavy. What were they doing below him?

  They were glowing.

  George had watched them carry Cham, their dead member, to a spot directly below Connor’s suspended body. They had placed one of George’s coffee mugs at C’ham’s feet, then they stripped off their clothes and gathered in a circle around him. They had started to chant. After a while, a faint yellow light began to shimmer around their furry little bodies.

  George found the ceremony fascinating in a weird sort of way—until the glow brightened and flowed up to illuminate the suspended punk. Then even George’s lousy eyes could see the horror of what was happening to Gilroy Connors.

  His legs, arms, and belly were a cold dead white, but his back was a deep red-purple color, like a gigantic bruise, and it bulged like the belly of a mother-to-be carrying triplets. George could not imagine how the skin was holding together, it was stretched so tight. Looked like it would rupture any minute. George shielded his face, waiting for the splatter. But when it didn’t come, he chanced another peek.

  It was raining on the Little People.

  The skin hadn’t ruptured as George had feared. No, a fine red mist was falling from Connors’ body. Red micro-droplets were slipping from the pores in the purpled swelling on his back and falling through the yellow glow, turning it orange. The scene was as beautiful as it was horrifying.

  The bloody dew fell for something like half an hour, then the glow faded and one of the little guys boosted another up to the wall switch and the lights came on. George did not have to strain his eyes to know that Gilroy Connors was dead.

  As the circle dissolved, he noticed that the dead little guy was gone. Only the mug remained under Connors.

  George found his mouth dry when he tried to speak.

  “What happened to . . . to the one he stabbed?”

  “Cham?” said the leader. George knew this one; his name was Kob. “He’s over there.” He wasn’t rhyming now.

  Sure enough. There were ten little guys standing over by the couch, one of them looking weak and being supported by the others.

  “But I thought—”

  “Yes. C’ham was dead, but now he’s back because of the Crimson Dew.”

  “And the other one?”

  Kob glanced over his shoulder at Connors. “I understand there’s a reward for his capture. You should have it. And there’s something else you should have.”

  The little man stepped under Connors’ suspended body and returned with the coffee mug.

  “This is for you,” he said, holding it up.

  George took the mug and saw that it was half-filled with a thin reddish liquid.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Drink it.”

  George’s stomach turned. “But it’s . . . from him.”

  “Of course. From him to you.” Kob gave George’s calf a gentle slap. “We need you George. You’re our shield from the world—”

  “Some shield!” George said.

  “It’s true. You’ve protected us from prying eyes and we need you to go on doing that for some time to come.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got much time left.”

  “That’s why you should drain that cup.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think of it as extending your lease,” Kob said.

  George looked over at C’ham, who’d surely been dead half an hour ago and now was up and walking about. He looked down into the cup again.

  . . . extending your lease.

  Well, after what he’d just seen, he guessed anything might be possible.

  Tightening his throat against an incipient gag, George raised the cup to his lips and sipped. The fluid was lukewarm and salty—like a bouillon that had been allowed to cool too long. Not good, but not awful, either. He squeezed his eyes shut and chugged the rest. It went down and stayed down, thank the Lord.

  “Good!” Kob shouted, and the ten other Little People applauded.

  “Now you can help us cut him down and carry him outside.”

  “So what’re you going to do with all that money, George?” Bill said as he handed George the day’s mail.

  “I ain’t got it yet.”

  „ George leaned against the roof of the mail truck and dragged on his cigarette. He felt good. His morning backache was pretty much a thing of the past, and he could pee with the best of them—hit a wall from six feet away, he bet. His breathing was better than it had been in thirty years. And best of all, he could stand here and see all the way south along the length of the harbor to downtown Monroe. He didn’t like to think about what had been in that mug Kob had handed him, but in the ten days since he had swallowed it down he had come to feel decades younger.

  He wished he had some more of it.

  “Still can’t get over how lucky you were to find him laying in the grass over there,” Bill said, glancing across the road. “Especially lucky he wasn’t alive from what I heard about him.”

  “Guess so,” George said.

  “I understand they still can’t explain how he died or why he was all dried up like a mummy.”

  “Yeah, it’s a mystery, all right.”

  “So when you do get the fifty thou—what are you going to spend it on?

  “Make a few improvements on the old place, I guess. Get me some legal help to see if somehow I can get this area declared off-limits to developers. But mostly set up some sort of fund to keep paying the taxes until that comes to pass.”

  Bill laughed and let up on the mail truck’s brake. “Not ready for the old folks’ home yet?” he said as he lurched away.

  “Not by a long shot!”

  I’ve got responsibilities, he thought. And tenants to keep happy.

  He shuddered.

  Yes, he certainly wanted to keep those little fellows happy.

  FEELINGS

  “Five million dollars, Mr. Weinstein? Five million? Where did you come up with such an outrageous figure?”

  Howard Weinstein studied his prey across the table in his office conference room. Until today, Dr. Walter Johnson had been little more than a name on a subpoena and interrogatories. His C.V. put his age at fifty-one but he looked a tired old sixty as he sat next to the natty attorney the insurance company had assigned him. His face was lined, haggard, and pale, his movements slow, his voice soft, weak, his shoulders slumped inside a gray suit that looked too big for him. Maybe the strain of the malpractice suit was getting to him. Good. That might spur him to pu
sh his insurance company for an early settlement.

  “Five million?” Dr. Johnson repeated.

  Howard hesitated. I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, he thought. This is my show. But he had asked his last question and so the deposition was essentially over. He wanted to say, It’s my favorite number, but this was a legal proceeding and Lydia’s fingers were poised over her steno machine’s keyboard, awaiting his reply. So he looked Dr. Walter Johnson straight in his watery blue eyes and said, “That’s the compensation my client deserves for the permanent injuries he suffered at your hands due to your gross negligence. He will suffer lifelong impairment—”

  “I saved his life!”

  “That is hardly clear, Dr. Johnson. It’s up to a jury to decide.”

  “When you sue me within my coverage,” Dr. Johnson said, staring at his folded hands where they rested on the table before him, “I can say to myself, ‘He’s doing business.’ But five million dollars? My malpractice coverage doesn’t go that high. That will ruin me. That will take everything I own—my house, all the investments I’ve made over the years, all the money I’ve put away for my children and future grandchildren—and still leave me millions in debt. You’re not just threatening me, you’re threatening my family.” He looked up at Howard. “Do you have a family, Mr. Weinstein?”

  “Is that a threat, Dr. Johnson?” Howard knew the doctor was making no threat, but he reacted instinctively to keep the defendant off balance. He had no children and had divorced his wife three years ago. And anyway, he wouldn’t have cared if the doc had been threatening her.

  “Oh, no. I was simply wondering if you might have any conception of what this sort of threat does to someone and to his family. My home life is a shambles. I’ve had constant stomachaches for months, I’m losing weight, my daughters are worried about me, my wife is a wreck. Do you have any idea what kind of misery you cause?”

  “I am more concerned with the misery you caused my client, Dr. Johnson.”

  The doctor looked him square in the eyes. Howard felt as if the older man’s gaze were penetrating to the back of his skull.

  “I don’t think you feel anything for anyone, Mr. Weinstein. You need a real lesson in empathy. Do you even know what empathy is?”

  “I have empathy for my clients, Dr. Johnson.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. I think the only empathy you know is for your bank account.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” Howard said, nodding to Lydia at the steno machine as he closed his case folder and rose from his seat. He had let this go on too long already. “The deposition’s over. Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Johnson. We’ll see you in court.”

  He ushered out the defendant and his attorney, then stepped over to where Lydia was packing up her gear. “Let me see the end of that tape,” he said.

  “Howie—!”

  Ignoring her mild protest, he opened the tape compartment and pulled out the long strip of steno paper. As he scanned through it, looking for where Dr. Johnson had begun running off at the mouth, Lydia said:

  “You’re really not going to ruin him, are you? You’re really not going to take everything he owns?” She was thin, dark-haired, attractive in a brittle sort of way.

  Howard laughed. “Nah! Too much trouble. It’s S.O.P.: Ask for an exorbitant amount, then settle for somewhere near the limit of his coverage. Taking all his assets—which I could probably get if we go to court—and going through a long liquidation process would be a big hassle. Best thing to do is get that big check from the insurance company, take my forty percent, then move on to the next pigeon.”

  “Is that all he is? A pigeon?”

  “Waiting to be plucked.”

  He knew there was something wrong with the metaphor there, but he didn’t bother to figure out what. He had found the spot he had been searching for on the tape. He marked it with a pen.

  “Stop the transcription here.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s where the doc made his closing sob story about threatening his family and—”

  “—your empathy for your bank account?” She smiled up at him.

  “Yeah. I don’t want that part in the deposition.”

  Her smile took a mischievous twist. “I sort of liked that part.”

  “Ditch it.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can, Sis.”

  Her smile was gone now. “I won’t. It’s illegal.”

  In a sudden surge of anger, Howard ripped the offending section from the tape and tore it into tiny pieces. He never would have dared this with any other licensed court stenographer, but Lydia was his sister, and big brothers could take certain liberties with little sisters. Which was the main reason he used her. Her name had been Chambers since her wedding four years ago, so no one was the wiser.

  He tossed the remains in the air and they fluttered to the floor in a confetti flurry.

  Lydia’s lips trembled. “I hate you! You’re just like Dad!”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true! You’re just a ‘Daddy Shoog’ with a law degree!”

  “Shut up!” Howard quickly closed the door to the outer office. “I told you never to mention him around here!”

  He prayed none of the secretaries had heard. One of them might get to thinking and might make the connection. She might find out that Lenny Winter, the fifties d-j known as “Daddy Shoog,” was really Leonard Weinstein, Howard’s father. And then it wouldn’t be long before it was all over Manhattan: Howard Weinstein was the son of that fat balding guy doing the twist and shilling his “One Mo’ Once Golden Oldies” albums like Ginsu knives (“But wait! There’s more!”) on late night TV commercials.

  God! He’d never be able to maintain credibility at another deposition, let alone conduct a court case.

  He had made every effort to avoid even a faint resemblance to his father: He’d grown a thick, black mustache, he took care of his hair, combing in a style his father had never used when he had a full head of it, and he kept his body trim and hard. No one would ever guess he was the son of Daddy Shoog.

  Had to hand it to the old jerk, though. He was really cleaning up on those doo-wop retreads, especially since he was forgoing the inconvenience of paying royalties to the original artists.

  “Too bad you inherited Dad’s ethics instead of his personality. The only reason I come around is because I’m family. You’ve got no friends. Your wife dumped you, you’ve—”

  “Your marriage didn’t last too long either, Miss Holier Than Thou.”

  “True, but I’m the one who ended it, not Hal. You got dumped.”

  “Elise didn’t dump me! I dumped her!”

  And did a damn fine job of it, too. Left her without a pot to pee in. God, had he been glad to be rid of her! Three endless years of her nagging, “You’re never home! I feel like a widow!” Blah-blah-blah. He’d taught her the folly of suing a lawyer for divorce.

  “So what have you got, Howie? You’ve got your big law practice and that’s it!”

  “And that’s plenty!” She pulled this shit on him every time they argued. Really liked to twist the knife. “I’m just thirty-two and already I’m a legend in this town! A fucking legend!”

  “And what are you doing after lunch, Mr. Legend? Going down to St. Vincent’s to scrape up another client?”

  “Hey! My clients are shit-bums. You think I don’t know that? I know it. Damn, do I know it! But they’ve been injured and they’ve got a legal right to maximum recovery under the law! It’s my duty—”

  “Save it for the jury or the newspapers, Howie,” Lydia said. Her voice sounded tired, disgusted. She picked up her steno gear and headed for the door. “You and Dad—you make me ashamed.”

  And then she was gone.

  Howard left the files on the desk and went into his private office. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair as he gazed out at Manhattan’s midtown spires. What was wrong with Lydia? Didn’t she understan
d? The malpractice field was a gold mine. There were million-dollar clients out there who hadn’t the vaguest inkling what they were worth. And if he didn’t find them, somebody else would.

  He’d come a long way. Started out in general practice, then sniffed the possibilities in liability law. Advertising on TV had brought him a horde of new clients, but all of them combined hadn’t equaled the take from his first medical malpractice settlement. He had known then that malpractice was the only way to go.

  Especially when you had a method.

  It was simple, really. All it took was a few well-compensated contacts in the city’s hospitals to let him know when a certain type of patient was being discharged. One of Howard’s assistants—Howard used to go himself but he was above that now—would arrange to be there when the potential client left the hospital. He’d take him to lunch and subtly make his pitch.

  You couldn’t be too subtle, though. The prospective client was usually a neurosurgical patient, preferably an indigent sleazo who had shown up in the hospital emergency room with his head bashed in from a mugging or a fight over a bottle or a fix, or who’d fallen down a stairway or stumbled in front of a car during a stupor. Didn’t matter what the cause as long as he’d wound up in the ER in bad enough shape for the neurosurgeon on call to be dragged in to put his skull and its contents back in order again.

  “But you’re not right since the surgery, are you?”

  That was the magic question. The answer was almost invariably negative. Of course, the prospect hadn’t been “right” before the surgery, either, but that was hard to prove. Nigh on impossible to prove. And even if the potential said he felt pretty good, he usually could find some major complaint when pressed, especially after it was explained to him that a permanent postsurgical deficit could be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of seven figures to him if things went his way.

  Yeah, they were druggies and winos and all-purpose sleazos and it was an ordeal to be in conference with one of them for more than just a few minutes, but they were Howard’s ticket to the Good Life. They were the perfect malpractice clients. He loved to stick them in front of a jury. Their shambling gaits, vacant stares, and disordered thought patterns wrung the hearts of even the most objective jurors. And since they were transients with no steady jobs, friends, or acquaintances, the defense could never prove convincingly that they had been just as shambling, vacant, and disordered before the surgery.