Blue World

by Robert R. McCammon

  I dont show Yellachile so much as he did cause my hands aint as quick. Well, Im learnin. Gonna take time, and Ive sure enough got a lot of that.

  I never said I was a voodoo man, but the word gets round. Whitey left Yellachile to me when he passed on, and people want to believe and so thats all right too. Ive had to get glasses, and readin’s easier. Still a lot to learn, though, but I feel alive in a way I aint never known before. Feel like I used to be a dead man just walkin around in skin.

  Oh, them faces when they see Yellachile! They want to know where Yellachile went last night. They want to hear did Yellachile fly over the turrets and drop a spot on the stones for good measure? Did Yellachile go south, or north, or east, or west? Did he see mountains, rivers, orchards, fields, and hometowns? Did he fly over baseball fields and jukejoints, and did he hear hot jazz music and the silver laughter of women? I say yes, all of those and more. And then I tell them. Not so good as Whitey, but Yellachile’s cage is in me now, and I do the best I can.

  Somethin in me has been set free from a cage I never knew was there. It flies with Yellachile at night, and we go together on the wind. Sometimes we pass over Masonville, over that park with the golden lamps, on and on and into the world of many worlds that lies before us. It is a mighty big land, and it makes the Brickyard’s walls seem like little threads of nothin.

  Im gone stop writin now. Gone put these papers away in a safe place. Like I say, Mister Wheeler’s helpin me to read and write better, and Im curious bout that old typewriter over there. Maybe I ought to write down some of where Yellachile flies to. Maybe I will.

  I aint no voodoo man. Im Yellachile’s cage, and thats plenty magic enough.

  I Scream Man!

  CHIMES RING LIKE CHURCH BELLS in the still, hot August night, down at the end of Briarwood Street. I know that sound. I Scream Man! I Scream Man’s on his way!

  Saturday night. “The Love Boat” is on television, and in the living room the lamps are low. On the floor is the game of Scrabble we’ve been playing. As usual, I’m losing—which is ridiculous, since I’m an English teacher at the high school and if I know anything, it’s how to spell! But the kids always beat me at Scrabble, and Sandra’s pretty good at coming up with words that nobody’s ever heard of before. It’s a good game for a hot summer night.

  “Malengine,” Sandra says, placing her tiles down on the board. She smiles up at me.

  “That’s not a word!” Jeff says. “Challenge her, Dad!”

  “Challenge her, Dad!” Bonnie echoes.

  “Nope. Sorry. It’s a word,” I tell them. “It means ‘something created for the purpose of destruction.’ Like a bad engine or something. Sorry, gang.” I mentally total up Sandra’s points, and I see she’s almost got enough to win the game. “We’ve got to stop her!” I tell my kids. “She’s gonna beat us again! Bonnie, you’re next! Think hard!”

  The screen door is open, and over the noise of the television’s laugh track I hear those chimes approaching from along the block. I Scream Man’s coming!

  Bonnie’s small hand plucks up a tile. She considers the word she’s trying to put together in her head, but it won’t tell. I can always tell when she’s thinking hard, because two small parallel lines surface between her eyes. She has eyes like her mother’s—dark green. Jeff has my brown eyes.

  I sit down on the floor and wait. “Come on, slowpoke!” Jeff says. “I’ve got a good word!”

  Bonnie says, “Don’t rush me! I’m thinkin’!”

  “Lord, it’s a hot night.” Sandra rubs her hand across her forehead. “We’ve got to get that air conditioner fixed.”

  “We will. Next week. I promise.”

  “Uh-huh. You said that last week. I don’t think we can make it the rest of the summer like this. It must be ninety degrees in here!”

  “More like a hundred and ninety,” Jeff says glumly. “My shirt’s stickin’ to my back.”

  I cock my head and listen to the still-distant chimes: ding ding ding! When I was a kid, I loved that sound. Now it retains a powerful image of summer, of trees thick and green with summer leaves, of lightning bugs flashing in the dark, of hot dogs turning black over charcoal, and marshmallows charring, charring, char…

  I Scream Man’s on his way!

  That’s what Bonnie calls him: the I Scream Man. We all call him that now. When I think of him, I think of summer evenings—long, hot nights with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I think of my childhood, and running out into the purple twilight to hand over a quarter for a taste of cool heaven on a stick. Oh, the colors of those frozen ices: robin’s-egg blue, banana yellow, grape as deep as a bruise, red the color of fire. I sure do love the I Scream Man!

  It is hot in the house. “Next week I’ll fix the air conditioner,” I tell Sandra and she nods. “I promise, okay?”

  Something stirs over in the corner, where the stack of newspapers lies. I sit very still, listening, but the sound doesn’t repeat. I hear the ding ding ding!

  “My word,” Bonnie announces gravely, “is R…A…T.” And she puts her tiles down on the yellowed board.

  “Some word! Anybody can come up with a dumb word like that!” Jeff says with a hint of annoyance.

  “Hey, be a sport. Okay, that’s a good word, Bonnie. Your turn, Jeff.”

  He hunkers down on his stomach, his palms cradling his chin. He’s a handsome boy. I like to think that he looks like me when I was twelve years old.

  Ding ding ding! Getting closer.

  “Oh, it’s hot!” Sandra fans herself with her hand. “I feel like I’m running a fever!”

  Again, something rustles in the newspapers. I watch, very carefully. I have good eyes for a man my age. As Jeff ponders his tiles, I see the glint of small, greedy eyes in the corner. “He’s coming out again,” I tell them in a whisper, and I pick up the pistol on the floor at my side.

  I’ve been waiting for him to make his move. I feel like Gary Cooper in High Noon. He pokes his head out, and that’s all the target I need. The noise of the pistol seems to shake the house, and more blood splatters the wall in the corner. “Fixed you, you bastard!” I shout gleefully.

  As the echo of the gunshot dies, I realize the room is very quiet. Too quiet, I think. They’ve stopped playing, and they’re looking at me as if I’m a stranger. “Hey!” I tell them. “What we need is louder laughter!” So I get up and turn the volume control way up high. The house is full of laughter now, it sounds like a three-ring circus. Sandra said she’d like to take a cruise someday.

  “Bermuda,” I say, and I put my hand on her shoulder. “That’d be a great place to take a cruise to, wouldn’t it? I hear it’s always nice and cool in Bermuda.”

  She doesn’t speak for a while. She’s having trouble making her mouth work. Then she smiles again and says, “Sssssure! Bermuda would be a great place to visit!”

  “Where are you gonna send us?” Jeff asks. “East Podunk? I’ve got a word.” He spells it out as he puts the little tiles down like tombstones: “D…I…E…D. That’s a neat word, isn’t it?”

  I’m not sure about that one. It doesn’t seem like a very good word to me. I have an L in my group of letters, and I replace the first D with the L to make LIED. “There,” I say. “Now. That’s better.”

  Ding ding ding! The I Scream Man is almost in front of our house, and I can hear him calling, “Vanilla! Chocolate! Double-dip strawberry red!”

  It’s my turn now. I look at my tiles, and they remind me of teeth. I’m afraid they’re going to snap at my fingers when I try to pick them up.

  Ding ding ding! “Vanilla! Chocolate! Double-dip strawberry red!”

  “Daddy?” Bonnie says in a small, whispery voice. Her eyes are very large in her pale, fragile face. “The I Scream Man is almost here.”

  “No he’s not. He’s a long way off. Let’s see, now.” I’m sweating. Jesus, it’s hot!

  “Yes he is almost here,” Bonnie continues. She always was a willful child. It’s very hard sometimes to control willfu
l children. But I love her so much. Oh, God, so very very much. And I love Jeff, and I love Sandra with all the life left in my body. I want to take her on a cruise to Bermuda. It’s not hot there; the air is always fresh and cool. “He’s almost outside, Daddy.”

  “He is not!” I shout, and my voice cracks. I see Bonnie’s face distort, and I hug her close to me before she has a chance to cry. I swore that I would never make my children cry. I’m a good father. I’m so very very proud of my family.

  Something touches my shoulder, and my whole body jerks. I look around, and Sandra’s face is very close to mine. She says, “Honey? You know the right word, don’t you?”

  “The right word? What right word?”

  “You know,” she says, and the sounds of that damned I Scream Man’s chimes are about to drive me crazy. She reaches down to my letters; her thin fingers select what she’s looking for, and she slowly spells the word out on the board. “There,” she says, satisfied. “That’s the right word.”

  The word my wife has spelled out is “radiation.”

  I stare. My eyes feel like eggs boiling in my skull, and shut up shut up shut up!

  “Vanilla! Chocolate! Double-dip strawberry red!”

  “No,” I say. “No way! That’s not a good word at all!”

  The chimes stop. The I Scream Man is outside my front door, and now his call has changed. He says, “Attention! Attention! Bring out your dead!”

  “Bring out your dead,” Sandra tells me.

  “Bring out your dead,” Jeff whispers.

  And Bonnie leans over and kisses my cheek, and she says in a soft little voice like the mewling of a kitten, “It’s time to take us out, Daddy.”

  “No.” I put my arm around her and hold her tight. She feels like a bundle of dry sticks. “No. We’ve made it together this long. We’re going to stay here together. Right here. Right in our own house. There’s no radiation here! The bombs fell a long way from here! No! We’re alive and safe, and we’ll be okay if we stay right—”

  “Watch him,” somebody says. “He’s lost it.”

  I look toward the screen door. Two men in white uniforms stand there; they wear white gloves and gas masks on their faces. They look like monsters, and I reach for my pistol. “Go away!” I warn them, standing up and holding Bonnie under one arm. “Get the hell away from here!”

  They back away into the darkness, but I know they’re not gone. Oh, no; they’re crafty, just like the rats. “Sir?” one of them calls. “It’s not safe, sir. You’ve got to bring out your dead.”

  They’re crazy! After those damned bombs fell on New York, Chicago, Dallas, Atlanta, Miami, Houston, and on and on and on, everybody went crazy! Even on my own street, in my hometown where I grew up a child of summer and chased the I Scream Man down the block through the darkness with a quarter in my hand! Oh, God, what’s happened to people?

  “They smell, sir,” the crazy voice continues. “The heat’s…about to make them…” He hesitates, unsure of how to finish the lie. “Please, sir,” he says. “Let us bring them out. We’ll put them in the refrigerated truck, and we’ll carry them to the—”

  “I swear to God I’ll blow your head off!” I warn them. And I mean it, too!

  But they won’t go away, they won’t they won’t they won’t! “Sir, you look pretty dosed up yourself. We can get you to the radiation center. Just put down the gun and let’s talk, okay? That smell is drawing rats. They’re crawling all over the yard and—”

  I shoot at him. Once, twice, three times. Bastard! Dirty, lying, crazy bastard! I hope I killed him, because nobody’s going to take my wife and children away from me! This is still America, by God!

  Something shifts wetly under my arm. Something makes a noise, like gas escaping. I look down. Bonnie. Bonnie. Oh, darling…my sweet little dar…

  For a second, I think I’m losing my mind. Two things that…don’t look human anymore are arranged around the Scrabble board. There are dead rats everywhere. Static crackles and flickers across the white TV screen—but I can still hear the canned laughter in my head. Laugh louder! I think. Louder! Louder still! Pump your head full of canned laughter and LAUGH!

  Under my arm is… I don’t know. What is it? It’s wearing a dress. But it’s…leaking…

  The two monsters in white crash through the door. They rip Bonnie out of my arms, but I’ve still got my pistol. I’ll kill them, but one of them shoves me back. I think I step on something that cracks, and then…

  Oh, I went to sleep. My head’s bleeding. I went to sleep, and I dreamed of summer like it used to be, when you could look up and see the moon and there were lights in all the houses, and in the mornings birds sang in the trees and crickets thrummed like harpstrings.

  I stand up. There’s blood on the corner of the TV set. I hit my head. But the picture’s better than ever, and the laughter is deafening.

  My wife and kids are gone. Yes. I see that clearly now. The monsters in white took my family. But I’ve still got my pistol, clamped in my hand. I’ll bet they couldn’t pry it loose. I’ve got a strong grip for a man my age.

  I run out into the street, out into the hot darkness where steam lies close to the ground and the houses look like mausoleums. Things chatter and scurry around my shoes, and I kick them away before they can crawl up my legs.

  I still have bullets in my pistol, but I’m not going to waste them on the rats. Oh, no. I’m not a wasteful person.

  I listen. I cock my head and try to hear above the laughter.

  And there it is, a long way off—maybe on the curve of Windsor Street, or Vernon Circle, or climbing the hill up Hightower Lane.

  Ding ding ding!

  I Scream Man’s on his way!

  I know that sound. I know it very, very well.

  My wife and children belong with me, at home. Watching television and playing Scrabble. Talking about the trips we’re going to take. Dreaming about the future. Having fun like families are supposed to. I won’t let my family be taken away from me—oh, no.

  I call, “I Scream Man!” and listen to the reply of the chimes, like church bells in the night.

  I know the way they’re going. I can catch them between Lynn and Douglas streets, over where the dark high school stands. But I have to hurry. I have to run very fast.

  “I Scream Man!” I call as I take the first step. “Wait for me!” I run faster, with longer strides. I have to catch them, to get my family back.

  “Hey, I Scream Man!” I shout, and I hold the pistol like a shiny new coin.

  He answers back: Ding ding ding!

  I am the only child on the street tonight, and I know I’ll catch up. I know I will.

  He’ll Come Knocking at Your Door

  1

  IN THE DEEP SOUTH, Halloween Day is usually shirtsleeve weather. But when the sun begins to sink, there’s a foretaste of winter in the air. Pools of shadow deepen and lengthen, and the Alabama hills are transformed into moody tapestries of orange and black.

  When Dan Burgess got home from the cement plant in Barrimore Crossing, he found Karen and Jaime working over a tray of homemade candies in the shape of pumpkins. Jaime, three years old and as curious as a chipmunk, was in a hurry to try out the candy. “Those are for the trick-or-treaters, hon,” Karen explained patiently, for the third or fourth time. Both mother and daughter were blond, though Jaime had inherited Dan’s dark brown eyes. Karen’s eyes were as blue as an Alabama lake on a sunny day.

  As Dan hugged his wife from behind and peered over her shoulder at the candies, he felt a sense of satisfaction that made life seem deliciously complete. He was a tall man, his face lean and rugged from a life of hard, outdoor labor. He had curly dark brown hair and a beard in need of trimming. “Looks pretty Halloweeny around here, folks!” he drawled, and lifted Jaime into his arms when she reached up for him.

  “Punkins!” Jaime said gleefully.

  “Hope we get some trick-or-treaters tonight,” Dan said. “Hard to tell if we will or not, this far fro
m town.” Their home, a rented two-bedroom farmhouse set off the main highway on a couple of acres of rolling woodland, was part of a subdivision of Barrimore Crossing called Essex. The business district of Barrimore Crossing was four miles to the east, and the thirty-five or so inhabitants of the Essex community lived in houses similar to Dan’s, comfortable places surrounded by woods where deer, quail, possum, and fox were common sights. At night, Dan could sit on his front porch and see the distant porch lights of other Essex houses up in the hills. It was a quiet, peaceful place. And lucky too, Dan knew. All sorts of good things had happened to them since they’d moved here from Birmingham, after the steel mill shut down in February.

  “Might have a few.” Karen began to make eyes in the pumpkins with little silver dots of candy. “Mrs. Crosley said they always have a group of kids from town. If we didn’t have treats for them, they’d probably egg our house!”

  “Hallo’een!” Jaime pointed excitedly toward the pumpkins, wriggling to be set down.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Karen licked a silver dot from her finger and walked across the kitchen to the cork bulletin board next to the telephone. She took off one of the pieces of paper stuck there by a blue plastic pin. “Mr. Hathaway called at four.” She gave him the note, and he set Jaime down. “He wants you to go over to his place for some kind of meeting.”

  “Meeting?” Dan looked at the note. It said: Roy Hathaway. His house, 6:30. Hathaway was the real-estate agent who’d rented them this house. He lived across the highway, up where the valley curved into the hills. “On Halloween? Did he say what for?”

  “Nope. He did say it was important, though. He said you were expected, and it was something that couldn’t be explained over the phone.”

  Dan grunted softly. He liked Roy Hathaway, who’d bent over backwards to find them this place. Dan glanced at his new Bulova wristwatch, which he’d won by being the thousandth-person to buy a pickup truck from a dealership in Birmingham. It was almost five-thirty. Time enough for a shower and a ham sandwich, and then he’d go see what was so important. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll find out what he wants.”