by Ellen Datlow
Time stood still and the beginning of each thing grew frightfully near to its end. Augustus’ throne, just erected, crumbled down, and the void was already in the place of the throne and of Augustus. Noiselessly did Rome crumble down, and a new city stood on its site and it too was swallowed by the void. Like fantastic giants, cities, states, and countries fell down and vanished in the void darkness, and with uttermost indifference did the insatiable black womb of the Infinite swallow them.
“Halt!” ordered the emperor.
In his voice sounded already a note of indifference, his hands dropped in languor, and in the vain struggle with the onrushing darkness his fiery eyes now blazed up, and now went out.
“My life you have taken from me, Lazarus,” said he in a spiritless, feeble voice.
And these words of hopelessness saved him. He remembered his people, whose shield he was destined to be, and keen salutary pain pierced his deadened heart. “They are doomed to death,” he thought wearily. “Serene shadows in the darkness of the Infinite,” thought he, and horror grew upon him. “Frail vessels with living, seething blood, with a heart that knows sorrow and also great joy,” said he in his heart, and tenderness pervaded it.
Thus pondering and oscillating between the poles of Life and Death, he slowly came back to life, to find in its suffering and in its joys a shield against the darkness of the void and the horror of the Infinite.
“No, you have not murdered me, Lazarus,” said he firmly, “but I will take your life. Begone.”
That evening the deified Augustus partook of his meats and drinks with particular joy. Now and then his lifted hand remained suspended in the air, and a dull glimmer replaced the bright sheen of his fiery eye. It was the cold wave of Horror that surged at his feet. Defeated, but not undone, ever awaiting its hour, that Horror stood at the emperor’s bedside, like a black shadow all through his life, it swayed his nights but yielded the days to the sorrows and joys of life.
The following day, the hangman with a hot iron burned out Lazarus’ eyes. Then he was sent home. The deified Augustus dared not kill him.
Lazarus returned to the desert, and the wilderness met him with hissing gusts of wind and the heat of the blazing sun. Again he was sitting on a stone, his rough, bushy beard lifted up; and the two black holes in place of his eyes looked at the sky with an expression of dull terror. Afar off the holy city stirred noisily and restlessly, but around him everything was deserted and dumb. No one approached the place where lived he who had miraculously risen from the dead, and long since his neighbors had forsaken their houses. Driven by the hot iron into the depth of his skull, his cursed knowledge hid there in an ambush. As if leaping out from an ambush it plunged its thousand invisible eyes into the man, and no one dared look at Lazarus.
And in the evening, when the sun, reddening and growing wider, would come nearer and nearer the western horizon, the blind Lazarus would slowly follow it. He would stumble against stones and fall, stout and weak as he was; would rise heavily to his feet and walk on again; and on the red screen of the sunset his black body and outspread hands would form a monstrous likeness of a cross.
And it came to pass that once he went out and did not come back. Thus seemingly ended the second life of him who for three days had been under the enigmatical sway of death, and rose miraculously from the dead.
L’CHAIM!
Harvey Jacobs
A short, deft tale that came about as a result of a lunch I had with Harvey. I mentioned the anthology and he was inspired… he says it’s about yuppies.
Delmore Grobit, who looked like a sponge with his cratered face and yellow suntan, came early to the Tentacle Club. He settled into his favorite chair, a leather throne near the window, found a National Geographic, examined photographs of round Polynesian women, and waited for James Guard. He looked up from time to time, observing other members of the club who congregated around the fireplace under the hanging gold symbol of the fraternity, a huge octopus. The same octopus symbol appeared on drinking glasses, match book covers, napkins and on the blazers of more dedicated souls. Delmore Grobit thought the octopus icon pretentious, ugly, and bizarre.
Today was his birthday. The Tentacles would expect him to host a dinner party later in the evening. The tradition bothered Delmore, not because of the expense, which would come back to him in useless gifts, but because the idea of marking the day one came wriggling and screaming into the world made no sense. It was an occasion to forget, not sanctify.
Delmore looked forward to seeing James Guard. He didn’t know if James really liked him or if his young friend’s affection over the years was feigned. It could be merely gratitude. James had much to be grateful for. Still, he did send thoughtful presents at Christmas and he surely would bring some token tonight. He never forgot his benefactor’s birthday.
The Tentacles’ reading room seemed claustrophobic, a sure sign of impending spring. It was a winter room without question, ideal sanctuary on nights when the wind was a scream from a toothless mouth. In warmer months that room became oppressive.
As always, James Guard arrived on time and brought his own special energy. He radiated health and optimism. His assurance stopped just short of arrogance. Delmore appreciated his entrances. He saw a lot of himself in the young man.
“Happy birthday, Delmore,” James said. “I brought you this small token.”
“You shouldn’t have, Jim. But thank you.” Delmore’s arthritic fingers had trouble but he managed to undo the green ribbon. He tore silver paper off a simple white box. Inside, lying on a bed of cotton, was a pair of cufflinks made from ancient Greek coins.
“Do you like them? They’re authentic.”
“They are very fine, Jim. Splendid.”
“The least I could do.”
“Ours has been a satisfying association,” Delmore said. “I hope you feel the same.”
“How else could I feel? You’ve given me everything. You’ve allowed me the best kind of life. I owe you more than I could ever think to repay.”
“I’ll never forget your face when I made you my offer.”
“What could you expect? I was at rock bottom, miserable. I fit nowhere. Nobody wanted my paintings. I couldn’t hold a job. I couldn’t even afford the razor for suicide.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Well, what’s true is true. You found a loser and turned up a winner. Does that sound immodest?” “Why be modest?”
“All that faith. All that money. Delmore, I’ve asked you many times. Why me?”
“Why indeed?”
“How did you find me? I know you said you’d heard about me. But looking back, I know that’s impossible. My talent hadn’t even begun to show. I was painting like a schoolboy. It had to be something else.”
“Questions, questions. You could never just accept your luck.”
“Do you know what I used to think? That you were my father. That my nun of a mother had one lapse.” “That’s terrible.”
“Why so terrible? At least it explained you.” “Nothing like that, Jim.” “What, then?”
Zachary, the perennial maître de of the Tentacles Club, shuffled to where they sat. He attempted a smile. “Yes, Zachary?”
“I want to wish you felicitations, Mr. Grobit. Happy birthday and many, many more.” “Thank you.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a small dinner party.”
“Of course. Take care of the details.”
“And the midnight toast?”
“Ah, yes. We must have the midnight toast.”
“Certainly. As you know, it is expected …”
“I know the rules,” Delmore said.
“I will bring the glasses, the Waterford crystal. As for the wine …” “Zachary, we have time. I’m in conversation.” “Excuse me, sir. Forgive me.” “Excused. Forgiven.”
Zachary turned slowly and walked toward the fireplace.
“Jim, I want to tell you a story. Many, many long years go, when I wa
s your age, strange as it seems, my life was full of futures. I had begun my business career and I was about to marry a lovely girl of some means.”
“I didn’t even know you had a wife, Delmore.”
“I did. A wife, a daughter, a house. And plans, dreams, goals. Like you, Jim. I bought a bottle of champagne on the day of my wedding. LaTouer ’09, the finest wine I could find. I had planned to drink it on my wedding night, sharing the glorious vintage with my bride. But I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I decided to save it for an even more special occasion. The birth of a child. Some triumph. I had nothing specific in mind, you see. A future special occasion. Well, there was a child and there were triumphs. But I saved the wine. Each time I decided to save the wine for future celebration. Even when my daughter gave birth to her first son I postponed opening that wine.”
“I can understand. That bottle of wine was a guarantee for you, Del-more. As long as it remained unopened there would be a future.”
“Exactly. Do you know when I finally opened it? On impulse. On a rainy night in the autumn of the year. I felt thirst. I uncorked the champagne. No special occasion. None were left. My wife was taken by the plague. My daughter and her child were random victims of some war. Do you know what I discovered when I opened the bottle? The wine had turned. It was syrupy and sour. The lovely bubbles were sludge. And I began to laugh. I laughed at the cosmic joke, Jim. I had the last laugh.”
“The last laugh?”
“They found me dead in the morning.” “Beg pardon, Delmore?”
“It’s rather complicated. A mere technicality. Besides, I had made provision.”
“Provision for what?”
“Always questions, Jim. You have such a rapid mind. Provision for an ongoing. Lord knows, it didn’t come cheap. They took the better part of my fortune.”
“Who did?”
“The Tentacles, of course. They called it my initiation fee.” “I’m afraid I’m lost, Delmore.”
“Wine has always interested me. I’m sure it’s because of that cursed bottle of champagne. I’m quite an expert on the fruits of the grape, as they say. In fact, most of the Tentacles share that passion, or obsession. It’s one of the few blessings of membership here. We spend countless hours talking of years, months, days, splendid crops, ecstatic harvests, orgasmic testings. I know it is an indulgence but I haven’t many.”
“Delmore, you don’t need to apologize to me. If you enjoy a good wine, so be it. What harm done?”
“Which brings us to the toast. On midnight of one’s birthday, it is customary that the birthday boy to provide a decanter of the finest wine for all the Tentacles to share. Tonight is my night.”
“And I am very pleased that you asked me to join you here.”
“I thought about my choice, Jim. And don’t you know, I found myself thinking of a future special occasion. That is, I had a wine in mind but I decided to save it. Do we ever change? I realized that I’d already learned my lesson. No more waiting.”
“Good. Live for the moment, Delmore.”
“It’s not only that. I was displaying selfishness. Frankly, Jim, I don’t much enjoy this club. But it has become my family. It would be wrong to hold back on the membership. They demand the best one can offer.”
“Then give it to them. There’s always another bottle of wine. Think positively, Delmore. At this very moment, somewhere, new grapes are maturing. Maybe this will be a vintage year.”
“I’m glad you share my feelings. Jim, you’ve had ten marvelous years.”
“Because of you, Delmore. More than I could have expected of a lifetime.”
“Yes. And the best thing is, you know it. You appreciate. So many of the youth are indifferent.” “I do appreciate.”
Delmore reached over to embrace James Guard. The young man hugged him. They had never touched like that. Delmore felt a delicious warmth that reminded him of other embraces. He began to weep even as he cut the young man’s throat with a quick slash of his silver pocket knife. Blood erupted from the violated neck. Delmore clapped his hands sharply. Zachary came toward them with the decanter but the waiter took forever. Delmore could not abide waste on such a scale.
“Hurry, hurry, for God’s sake,” Delmore yelled. “It is a minute to midnight. And what we have here is vintage 1955. December of 1955.”
“Did you actually find a ’55?” said one of the Tentacles. “A December?”
“I did,” Delmore said. “I’ve kept it for a decade.”
“This must be a very special occasion,” the member said.
Zachary filled the decanter and corked the wound in James Guard’s quivering corpse. Glasses were passed to the Tentacles who came to surround Delmore’s chair.
“Actually,” Delmore said, “it is just another birthday. Not a thousandth or ten thousandth. Just a birthday.”
“Cheers,” said Zachary, pouring fresh blood. “To Mr. Grobit.”
“Drink hearty,” Delmore said.
“I have a March, 1962,” said another member. “I’ve kept her practically from birth. She’s a social worker. Charming. I was going to save her for a while longer. But why? You’ve taught me something, Delmore. An occasion is made special if it is specially recognized.”
Delmore had another sip. He felt better than he had in ages. The right wine is full of mystery. He could taste elusive ghosts. Tomorrow he would look for another bottle. And he would find it.
Ellen Datlow and I were lunching at a trendy bistro, and we began to speculate on the possibility of a new breed—the Yuppie Vampire. This upscale American vampire would need a whole new life-style (if that is the word) and a new literature to celebrate new standards of taste. To expect such a creature to be satisfied with old, established blood types was obviously wrong. You eat what you are. Or, in this case, drink. This insight caused a vessel to throb in Ms. Datlow’s tempting neck and she said, “Write it, writer.” Hence, “L’Chaim!,” a toast to the nouvelle cuisine of the dark.
Harvey Jacobs
RETURN OF THE DUST VAMPIRES
S. N. Dyer
Dyer’s story is one of several she’s written that use her experiences as a medical doctor to great effect. The patient in the story is suffering from a mysterious, wasting disease. Written in 1980, “Return of the Dust Vampires” is a chillingly unintentional harbinger of the AIDS epidemic.
The man and woman ran across the burning sands, their faces surprisingly blank and unconcerned considering that they were being pursued by shambling, dust-colored monsters.
“I can’t go on,” the blonde cried.
Dr. Insomnia, leaning on the doorjamb, suggested, “Leave her.” But the tall man paid no attention. He picked up the woman and stumbled onward, the creatures coming closer …
“Turkey,” Dr. Todd remarked. “I’d’ve left her.”
Dr. Insomnia looked in the newspaper. “‘Channel 16: Desert Vampires, 1955,’” she read. “‘One star’—I’d say they were being charitable.”
“The actor there. Room 418.”
She peered at the running man framed in long shot heading toward electric towers. “My guinea pig?” She left the call room and went to the nurses’ station, skimmed 418’s chart, then knocked on his door and entered without waiting. The patient lay in the patchy light from the neighboring research building. Dr. Insomnia woke him gently and introduced herself.
“Dr. Todd is watching one of your films.”
“I’d heard interns suffered,” he answered softly.
“Why should the patients be the only ones? We’re going to switch your shots tonight—no more morphine. You’ll get intravenous enkephalins for the pain.”
“Enkeph … Do they work?”
“They’re the body’s own natural painkiller. But as one of my profs used to say, ‘If enkephalins were any good, you could buy them on Delmar Street.’ If you have any discomfort, make sure you tell me before we begin treatment tomorrow.” She twirled her stethosc
ope. The man sighed and obligingly pulled himself into a seated position and unlaced his gown.
She compared the strong young figure on the TV to the frail dying man on the bed, thinking that neither could be the true him. The man had wasted away until he was sallow skin delineating bones. Despite his height, a single nurse could lift him. His body was consuming itself, cannibalizing the muscles. His cheeks and temples were hollowed, and even the essential fat in the eye sockets was going, making the dark eyes recede into the skull.
“Breathe, Mr. Dutcher.”
“Call me Rich.”
Dr. Insomnia removed the earpieces and stared into the shadowed eyes.“Rich Dutcher—wait. ‘Time Seekers’?”
The man nodded.
“Well, all right! You were Commander Stone. I had a crush on you that was unbelievable.” She smiled with one side of her mouth. “It’s taken twenty years, but I’ve finally got Commander Stone naked and in my clutches.”
He said weakly, “Cue up diabolical laughter and fade to cut.”
I enter my office and Jason is in the comfortable chair, light glinting from his wedding band. Hugging him, I don’t let go while he empties a bag of take-out food. Tousling his hair while he steals all the water chestnuts and I say, “It’s nice of you to visit. It can’t be very convenient, since you’re dead,” and he says, “Did you return my library books?”
Dr. Insomnia poured a cup of departmental coffee, then went to her own cubbyhole where she looked about the stacked journals, offprints, and half-full mugs, expecting to see Chinese food packets. The dream’s afterglow, she thought. Slowly she drifted into full wakefulness, to alternate this state with one of zombielike exhaustion for sixteen more hours until her daily three or four hours of sleep.
She ripped yesterday from the desk calendar, half smiling as she remembered the luncheon date with Sean. Only lunchtime affairs for the weary. The phone rang.
