A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Oz searched the members of his troupe for a raised hand. There were none.

  “Excellent. And to give you some idea of the nature of the Pieces you’ll be searching for, I’ve brought a few along to show you . . .”

  Oz withdrew the four objects that had been waiting in the pockets of his coat and handed them to the nearest members of the troupe.

  “Here. Pass these around. Don’t worry about damaging them—you can’t. Just don’t lose them.”

  George felt something very much like a cold shock when the first Piece was passed to him. The sensation ran through his boneless forearm up to the left side of his face; from there it seemed to penetrate his skull and shoot across his brain. Vertigo spun the tent and for that instant he thought he saw another place full of weird angles superimposed on the tent space—coexisting with the tent space—then it steadied again. He looked down at the thing in his hand, blinked, then looked again. Dull yellow metal, but strangely shaped. A couple of the sides met at an angle that didn’t seem possible—shouldn’t have been possible. He passed it on and reached for another. This one looked hard and glossy but felt soft and fuzzy, almost alive; he thought he sensed it breathing. He quickly dumped that one off and reached for the next—a flat ceramic oval. But there was something wrong with this one, too. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first, then he noticed it didn’t cast a shadow; it was solid, opaque, but no matter which way he turned it there was no shadow. The last object was a tennis-ball-size sphere and this one did cast a shadow—but one with sharp angles.

  George cradled the last Piece in his coiled left arm and stared at Oz where he stood in the center of the tent. One strange dude. Aloof and yet paternalistic; even the freaks who’d been with him for years knew little about him, but they mentioned that no one had ever seen him eat. Full trays were delivered to his trailer and removed empty, but he always ate alone. His only close contact seemed to be with Petergello, another one who never ate—never even got trays. The freaks kidded about taking “a walk with Petergello.” George didn’t know what that meant but decided from the timbre of their voices that he’d rather not find out.

  And now these Pieces. Strange little things to say the least. Almost . . . otherworldly.

  One could only imagine the sort of Device their aggregate would produce. An instrument like that might be capable of almost anything.

  Even Justice. Understanding. Acceptance. Compensation.

  Oz stood with Petergello and watched the tent empty. As he pocketed the Pieces he had displayed, he glanced right and saw George Swenson standing beside him. George offered the end of his tentaclelike right arm. Oz shook it.

  “Very moving,” George said. “I want you to know you can count on my help if you need it.”

  “That’s good to know, George.”

  “Of course, your Device will be more important to the others.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m sure once I get enough money together to finish my education I’ll be able to get by on my own. But I’d like to help the others. So just let me know what I can do.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  “Is our first-of-May also the eternal optimist?” Petergello whispered through a tight smile as George walked away.

  “He still thinks he’s one of them,” Oz said, looking after him.

  “You going to tell him the whole story?”

  Oz shook his head. “George isn’t ready for it.”

  “Want me to think of a way to make him ready for it?” Petergello said, his smile widening.

  “Yes. Do that. Come up with a way to convince him that he will never be accepted by them, that we are his real family. And his only hope.”

  “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Tom Shuman said as he stood at the door of the office trailer and stared at the cluster of new trailers and campers parked across the field. “Joe Peabody touring with a freak show. Who’d believe it?”

  Peabody looked up at his general manager. Tom had an angular body and a reedy voice. He handled the circus’s performers and Peabody had known there’d be a ruckus when he found out about the freak show. He’d been dreading this moment.

  “It’s all a question of dollars and cents, Tom. We had all winter to raise the operating capital we needed for this year’s tour. We couldn’t get it. Not in this economy. So it’s a choice: tour with them or disband the show. Which do you prefer?”

  Shuman tossed his cigarette butt outside and turned toward the desk.

  “You know the answer to that. But mark my words, there’s gonna be trouble. ”

  “There’s already trouble,” said Dan Nolan, a burly, muscular hulk in the chair near the inner comer of Peabody’s desk. “A buncha my roustabouts blew the show this morning after seeing those freaks. ”

  “Get some more,” Peabody said. Nolan was his other manager, in charge of the workers.

  “I combed every mission, homeless shelter, and Salvation Army office in the county to come up with these bums. Nobody wants to work.”

  “I have workers, Mr. Nolan.”

  Peabody started at the voice echoing through the office. Oz loomed in the doorway. Peabody introduced him to Tom and Dan. No one shook hands.

  “I don’t want your workers, mister,” said Dan.

  “How do you know that if you’ve never met them?” Oz said. “I’ll call them.”

  He turned, raised a silver whistle to his lips, and blew. Peabody heard nothing, but a moment later, five burly figures were crowded around the door. They were identical, all stamped out from the same cookie cutter—neckless, deep-set eyes, pug noses.

  “The Beagle Boys, Mr. Nolan. They follow instructions and don’t talk back. And they’re very strong. They’re yours when you need them. Give them a tryout.”

  Grumbling that he didn’t have much choice, Dan slipped past Oz and confronted his new roustabouts.

  “Go with Mr. Nolan, boys,” Oz said. “And do what he tells you.” Then he stepped inside next to Tom Shuman and looked down at Peabody. “What’s the route so far?” Peabody reached into his desk and pulled out the route card.

  “Let’s see. So far we’ve got fifteen dates across the Deep South and Southwest in late May-June. A dozen stops on the Left Coast in July, ten across the Midwest and into the Northeast in August, then we’ll make the home run down the East Coast in September. Hopefully, we’ll pick up more as we go.”

  Oz handed him a sheet of paper. “Here are some extra stops I wish to add.”

  Peabody studied the list of locations. Some they were already booked into or near, but others were pretty far out of the way. But rather than get into it now, Peabody temporized.

  “I’ll see what we can work out.”

  “Excellent,” Oz said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a foil sack. “And here’s something for you.”

  Peabody took the proffered bag and unrolled the top. An exotic aroma wafted up from within. For an instant he felt almost giddy.

  “Tobacco?”

  “A gift. A special mix from India. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Why . . . thanks.” The unexpected gesture took Peabody completely by surprise. “Very kind of you.”

  “Enjoy.” Oz waved and was gone.

  “Trouble,” Tom Shuman said, staring after him. “Nothing but trouble.”

  Joseph Peabody lit a bowlful of the new tobacco and drew a few tentative puffs. He felt light-headed again for a moment, then it passed. Strong, but smooth. An unusual flavor. He had a feeling he was going to like this blend.

  “You worry too much, Tom,” he told his general manager. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have the tour of our lives.” He drew another mouthful of rich, sweet smoke from his pipe. “My, this tobacco is good.”

  The show rolled.

  Up through the northern Florida counties, breaking in the firsts-of-May, getting the kinks out of the acts in the tiny towns, playing big in Jacksonville, then sliding across the Georgia line into Charlton Count
y. When the show stopped in Moniac on the edge of the great swamp, Oz called Claude Bledsoe into his trailer. Claude, known as Gator to the troupe and Alligator Boy to the public, did not speak so Oz asked Herbert Brooks along to sign for him. Herbert—“Mitts” to his friends—had seventeen fingers of varying length and extraordinary dexterity. He was one of the few members of the troupe with whom Claude communicated. Through the patterns woven by Herbert’s spidery fingers, Oz told Claude where he wanted him to go, and what he wanted him to find.

  WHEN HE WAS FAB

  Floor drains.

  Sheesh. Doug hated them.

  Being super of this old rattrap building wasn’t a bad job. The hours could play hell with you sometimes, but he got a free room, he got his utilities, and he got a salary—if you wanted to call that piddly amount in his weekly check a salary. But you couldn’t knock the deal too hard. Long as he stayed on the job, he had shelter, warmth, and enough money for food, enough time to work out with his weights. Wasn’t glamorous, but a guy with his education—like, none to speak of besides seventh grade and postgrad courses in the school of hard knocks—couldn’t ask for a whole helluva lot more.

  ’Cept maybe for drains that worked.

  The basement floor drain was a royal pain. He hovered over it now in his rubber boots, squatting ankle deep in the big stinky puddle that covered it. Around him the tenants’ junk was stacked up on the high ground against the walls like a silent crowd around a drowning victim. Third time this month the damn thing had clogged up. Course there’d been a lot of rain lately, and that was part of the problem, but still the drain shoulda been working better than this.

  Now or never, he thought, unfolding his rubber gloves. He wished he had more light than that naked sixty-watter hanging from the beam overhead.

  Would’ve loved one of those big babies they used at night games up at Yankee Stadium.

  Jeez but he hated this part of the job. Last week the drain had clogged and he’d reached down like he was about to do now and had come up with a dead rat.

  He shuddered with just the memory of it. A monster Brooklyn brown rat. Big, tough mother that could’ve easily held its own with the ones down on the docks. Didn’t know how it had got in this drain, but the grate had been pushed aside, and when he’d reached down, there it was, wedged into the pipe. So soft, at first he’d thought it was a plastic bag or something. Then he’d felt the tail. And the feet. He’d worked it loose and pulled it free.

  Just about blew lunch when he’d looked at it, all soft, puffy, pulpy, and drippy, the eyes milk white, the sharp yellow buck teeth bared, the matted hair falling off in clumps. And God, it stunk. He’d dumped it in his plastic bucket, scooped up enough of the rapidly draining water to cover it, then run like hell for the Dumpster.

  “Whatta y’got for me this week, you sonuvabitch?” he said aloud.

  He didn’t usually talk to floor drains, but his skin was crawling with the thought of what might’ve got stuck down there this time. And if he ever grabbed something that was still moving . . . forget about it.

  He pulled the heavy rubber gloves up to his elbows, took a deep breath, and plunged his right hand into the water.

  “What the hell?”

  The grate was still in place. So what was blocking it?

  Underwater, he poked his fingers through the slots and pulled the grate free, then worked his hand down the funnel and into the pipe.

  “What now, you mother? What now?”

  Nothing. The water felt kind of thick down there, almost like Jell-O, but the pipe was empty as far as his fingers could reach. Probably something caught in the trap. Which meant he’d have to use the snake. And dammit to hell, he’d left it upstairs.

  Maybe if he squeezed his fingers down just a little farther he’d find something. Just a little—

  Doug reached down too far. Water sloshed over the top of his glove and ran down the inside to his fingers. It had a strange, warm, thick feel to it.

  “Damn it all!”

  But when he went to pull back, his hand wouldn’t come. It was stuck in the hole and all his twisting and pulling only served to let more of the cloudy water run into his glove.

  And then Doug noticed that the water was no longer running down his arm—it was running up.

  He stared, sick dread twisting in his gut, as the thick, warm fluid moved up past his elbow—crawled was more like it. After a frozen moment he attacked it with his free hand, batting at it, wiping it off. But it wouldn’t wipe. It seemed to be traveling in his skin, becoming part of it, seeping up his arm like water spreading through blotter paper.

  And it was hot where it moved. The heat spread up under the half sleeve of his work shirt. He tore at the buttons but before he could get them undone the heat had spread across his chest and up his shoulder to his neck.

  Doug lost it then. He began whimpering and crying, clawing at himself as he splashed and scrambled and flopped about like an animal caught in a trap, trying to yank his right hand free. He felt the heat on his face now, moving toward his mouth. He clamped his lips shut but it ran into his nostrils and through his nose to his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would come. A film covered his eyes, and against his will his muscles began to relax, lowering him into the water, letting it soak into him, all through him. He felt as if he were melting, dissolving into the puddle . . .

  Marc hopped out of the cab in front of the Graf Spee’s entrance, paid the driver with his patented flourish, and strolled past the velvet cords that roped off the waiting dorks.

  Bruno was on the door tonight. A burly lump of muscle with feet; at thirty-five he was maybe ten years older than Marc; his hair was a similar brown but there the resemblance stopped. As Marc approached the canopied entrance he wondered what Bruno had looked like as an infant, or if the doorman’s mother had been prescient. Because Bruno had grown up to be the epitome of Brunoness.

  “Ay, Mista Chevignon,” Bruno said with a wide grin and a little bow. “How ya doon tanight?”

  “Fine, Bruno. Just fine.”

  Keeping his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his Geoffrey Beene tweed slacks, and trapping his open, ankle-length Moschino black leather coat behind his elbows while exposing his collarless white Armani shirt, buttoned to the throat, Marc swiveled and surveyed the line of hopefuls awaiting the privilege of admission to the Spee.

  “Real buncha loooosuhs tanight, Mista C.”

  Marc let his eyes roam the queue, taking in all the well-off and the trying-to-look-it, some natives, some tunnel rats and bridge trolls, all dressed in their absolute best or their most fashionably tacky ensembles, trying to look so cool, so with-it, so very-very, but unable to hide the avid look in their eyes, that hunger to be where it was most in to be, to dance on the rotating floor of the Spee and search for the famous faces that would be on the “Star Tracks” page of next week’s People.

  “Have they been good little aspirants, Bruno?”

  “Yeah. No wise guys so far.”

  “Then let’s make someone’s day, shall we?”

  “Whatever you say, Mista C.”

  He sauntered along outside the cords, watching them stare his way and whisper without taking their eyes off him. Who’s he? . . . You ever seen him before? . . . Looks like Johnny Depp . . . Nah, his shoulders is too big . . . Gawd, he’s gawgeous! . . . Well, if he ain’t somebody, how come he’s getting in ahead of us? . . . I dunno, but I seen him around here before.

  Indeed you have, sweetheart, he thought.

  The last speaker was a bony, brittle, bottle blonde with a white hemline up to here and a black neckline down to there. Knobby knees knocking in the breeze, spiky hair, a mouth full of gum, three different shades of eye shadow going halfway up her forehead, and wearing so many studs and dangles her ears had to be Swiss cheese when her jewelry was off.

  Perfect.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  She batted her lashes. “Darlene.”

  “Who you with?
”

  “My sister Marlene.” She reached back and pulled forward an identically dressed clone. “Who wants t’know?”

  He smiled. “Twins. More than perfect.” He lifted the velvet cord. “Come on, girls. You don’t have to wait any longer.”

  After exchanging wide-eyed glances, they ducked the velvet and followed him to the canopy. Some of the dorks grumbled but a few of them clapped. Soon they were all clapping.

  He ushered them to the door where Bruno stepped aside and passed the giggling twins through into the hallowed inner spaces of the Graf Spee.

  “You’re a prince, Mista C,” Bruno said, grinning.

  “How true.”

  He slowed, almost tripped. What a lame remark. Surely he could have come up with something better than that.

  Bruno stepped into the dark passageway and touched his arm.

  “You feelin’ okay, Mista C?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “You look a little pale, is all. Need anyting?”

  “No, Bruno. Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “Okay. But you need anyting, you lemme know an’ it’s done. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  Marc clapped Bruno on the shoulder and nodded. As he walked down the narrow black corridor that led past the coat checkroom he wondered what Bruno had meant. Did he look pale? He didn’t feel pale. He felt fine.

  The twins were hovering near the coat check window, looking lost. They’d finally achieved their dream: They’d made it to the swirling innards of the Spee, and they weren’t sure what to do about it. So they stood and numbly watched the peristalsis. One of them turned to Marc as he approached.

  “Thanks a million, mister. It was, like, really great of you to get us in and like if, you know, you, like, want to get together later, you know, we’d, like, really be glad to show our appreciation, know what I mean?”

  The second twin batted her eyes over the other’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. We really would. But do you mind if I, like, ask, uh . . . are you someone?”