Tar: An apocalyptic horror novella

by Iain Rob Wright

  As she passed, the girl sneered at him. “Fuck you lookin’ at?” she demanded. Eddie turned to watch her stalk away, and she shot over her shoulder, “Take a goddamn picture, why don’tcha? Asshole.”

  Eddie looked around. No one else was paying the slightest attention to the spectacle. He didn’t understand. How could people not notice her? What the hell was going on? He realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

  Then it occurred to him that the girl’s outlandish getup must have been a Halloween costume. She was headed to a party. Sure, that had to be it. Still, he’d seen nothing like her before. Also, Eddie had never heard a woman talk like that, and he’d spent time with some pretty crazy dames. Bewildered, he turned and continued on his way.

  And damned if he didn’t feel eyes on him again. He tried to ignore it; if he lost his head, he’d never get out of this in one piece.

  As he passed the bus stop, he noticed a newsboy hawking his wares there in the middle of the busy sidewalk. The kid clasped a few papers in one hand while waving a single copy in the air with the other.

  “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” the boy announced to anyone who would listen. “Italian troops invade Greece! Greeks launch strong counter-offensive!”

  Eddie scanned the street for a cab. No luck.

  The newsie shouted. “Forty-seven German aircraft shot down above England!”

  A guy in a gray suit stopped for a paper. He flipped the boy a nickel, and there was a brief flash of silver before the kid snatched it out of the air.

  Nothing Eddie could do. He’d just have to hoof it for now. At least every step he took was taking him farther away from Mercer Street, and the dead girl.

  Margaret, his mind spoke up. If you’re gonna run a little girl down, you should have the decency to remember her name.

  Yeah, well, he argued, it’s not like I meant to do it. So why turn myself in now? Me going to the big house isn’t gonna bring her back.

  He remembered the little pirate calling him a bad man. But he wasn’t. Sure, he was no saint. He’d pulled a few jobs in his time. But he never bumped anybody off.

  Until now.

  I didn’t do it on purpose, goddamn it, he countered.

  The newsboy yelled, “Airliners bring down twin towers in New York City in terrorist attack!”

  Eddie halted and cast a side-long glance at the kid. What the hell was he talking about? Had the Krauts attacked the city? What twin towers?

  Then the boy cried, “Petty thief, Eddie Merrick, wanted for the hit-and-run murder of Margaret May Dowling!”

  Eddie felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest. Now the newsie looked straight at him. Holding the stack of newspapers straight out in front of him like a billboard, the kid flashed a sinister grin and tipped Eddie a wink. Eddie couldn’t breathe. He was pictured on the front page next to the girl. Eddie’s picture was a mug shot from two years ago, a bit he did for a burglary rap. Margaret’s image was from tonight. It showed her splayed out on the street, broken and bloody, her eyes staring at nothing. The angle of the shot was from Eddie’s perspective as he had stood looking down at her. As if he’d taken the picture.

  A moan rose from deep in his throat as Eddie backed away from the newsboy. He stumbled at the curb and nearly toppled into the path of an oncoming car. Regained his balance at the last second, but overcompensated, and pitched forward onto his hands and knees. But he was up again in an instant, reeling down the street, thinking that this was it, this was what it felt like to flip your wig. But another part of him—the Eddie Fucking Merrick part—fought to silence his gibbering mind. There’s a reasonable explanation. I’m just paranoid, that’s all. I’m tense and my mind’s playing tricks on me.

  But he needed to get the hell out of this town right now. He searched the street again for a cab, but several outlandish-looking cars in the midst of the regular traffic drove him to distraction.

  What is this?

  He didn’t have too long to dwell on the question, though, because from the corner of his eye, Eddie swore he saw someone in a red hood and cape across the street a little farther down. Just as he focused on them, however, they disappeared down an alley. Eddie limp-skipped along his side of the street until he drew even with the alley’s entrance, and saw it was not an alley at all, just a brick wall set back between two buildings. There was nowhere the owner of the red hood could have disappeared to.

  You’re off your rocker.

  Shut up, he told himself.

  He craned his neck looking for a cab, but saw none. Where the hell were they? They should be out in droves tonight. There must be a million Halloween bashes. He cursed under his breath and turned to go—and ran smack into Snow White carrying an assortment of liquor bottles in a paper bag. The bag tipped and threatened to dump its contents, and she and Eddie did an awkward dance together there on the sidewalk under the streetlights, trying to prevent disaster. After a moment during which things might have gone either way, fortune won out.

  “Well, excuse you,” she said, and snickered.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Eddie said. “I’m in a hurry and wasn’t—”

  “Aw”—she waved it away—“don’t give it a second thought.”

  Eddie offered her a polite smile.

  The girl gave him the once-over. “Say, fella. Are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m swell,” Eddie said. “Listen, I gotta—”

  “You’re white as a sheet. Look like you seen a ghost, or somethin’”

  Eddie gaped at her.

  “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, and Eddie jumped. “I can’t believe I said that—that you look like you seen a ghost. On Halloween!” She brayed with laughter.

  Eddie gave an embarrassed glance around at the passersby.

  Snow White thrust out her free hand. “I’m Edna.”

  He shook with her. “E-Eddie.”

  “Hey! Eddie and Edna!”

  She was a dish. Just not too bright. Or maybe she’d already been hitting the hooch.

  “Well, it’s nice t’ meet you, Eddie. I think we—”

  She stopped dead. She stood there, frozen.

  “Um… Edna?” Eddie mumbled.

  Edna’s frozen smile became a rictus. Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and her eyes rolled away from his as she observed her surroundings as if for the first time. The bag slipped from her grasp and the booze smashed on the concrete after all, filling the air with the sharp smell of whiskey. Edna’s face transformed into a mask of abject misery. Her eyes were filled with tears when they fell on Eddie’s face again. The tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared at him with a horrifying, mournful expression. And in a voice that made Eddie’s blood run cold, she said, “Where am I?” She reached out and seized Eddie’s arms in a claw-like grip. “What is this place?”

  Eddie cried out and tore himself away. He fled, leaving her standing there in the middle of the sidewalk.

  She screamed after him, “WHERE AM I?”

  He said a prayer under his breath, one of many they had taught him to recite as a kid, between beatings from his old man. He could only remember the first part, so he kept repeating it over and over. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…”

  He had gone a block when he stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering in his chest. Heading toward him was a clown, a guy dressed as Dracula, a hula dancer in a grass skirt and a coconut bra. And a cop. They were all laughing and shooting the breeze and hadn’t yet noticed Eddie. Eddie didn’t know if the copper’s uniform was a Halloween costume, or the real deal. But he wasn’t taking any chances. Beads of sweat popping up on his brow, he looked around for a place to duck into and spotted a bar across the street, with the name Angelo’s above the door.

  Eddie crossed Newark Avenue against the flow of traffic, which had become a little backed up. Upon closer inspection, he decided that some of the odd-l
ooking automobiles were in fact quite sleek, if a little unimaginative. As he crossed, there came from somewhere among the vehicles music the likes of which Eddie had never heard or even imagined. You couldn’t even call it music, he thought. What were those hellish instruments? And the “singer” was screaming like he was in pain. Eddie continued across the street, relieved to reached the other side. With a casual glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being hounded by the cop, Eddie slipped into Angelo’s.

  The first thing to catch his eye in the low light was the glowing television. At least, that’s what he assumed it must be. He didn’t own one himself, never saw much use in them, though he had seen them around, even nabbed one in a burglary once. But he had never seen a television anywhere like this one. Something inside him cried out in denial because he knew it didn't belong here. Mounted near the ceiling in one corner behind the bar, its huge picture tube (must have been four feet wide!) was alive with color and motion. A football game was on, the picture so vivid that Eddie half expected a player to run out of the box and into the room.

  There was a guy at one of the tables who had his own personal television, a slim, flat thing that looked like it was part typewriter. He sat hunched over it, watching what looked to Eddie like a politician giving a speech. And then, to Eddie’s surprise, the guy closed the thing up like a briefcase.

  But the sight that bowled him over were the handheld gadgets that a couple of people seemed to use as both tiny televisions and some kind of walkie-talkies.

  This is all wrong, Eddie thought. And it’s been wrong since that spooky kid with the newspapers. Maybe even before that. Maybe…

  You know when everything went wrong.

  Yeah, he admitted. When I hit the girl. When I hit Margaret.

  Think again.

  At first, Eddie didn’t understand. And it pissed him off. Then, he got it. And the answer was so simple.

  He sighed. When I ran, Eddie told himself. It all came to pieces when I ran.

  Give that man a cigar!

  But what Eddie wanted was a belt.

  He approached the bar, behind which worked a heavyset man with slicked-back black hair that was going gray around the temples. The guy wore an orange t-shirt with black letters that said WHY CAN’T WITCHES GET PREGNANT? THEIR HUSBANDS HAVE HOLLOW-WEENIES!

  “Who’s winning?” Eddie nodded at the television.

  “This is a recording. Giants beat the Rams, thirty-one to ten.” He shook his head. “L.A. sucks this season.”

  In as steady a voice as he was able, Eddie said, “I thought the Rams played in Cleveland.”

  The barkeep looked at Eddie in thoughtful consideration. Then he roared laughter. Two geezers at the other end of the bar glanced their way and then returned to their beer and conversation.

  “Maybe they should,” the barkeep said.

  Eddie showed him a wooden smile.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch, neat.”

  “Five bucks.”

  With trembling fingers, Eddie fished a fin out of his wallet and slid it across the bar.

  The guy set him up and then strolled down the bar to chat with the two geezers. Eddie picked up his drink, swirled it around twice, anticipating the taste, then tossed it back.

  Except the liquor didn’t touch his lips. As Eddie looked on, the scotch drained from the glass backward. It receded into the upturned bottom and disappeared. It was as if the glass itself had drunk it.

  His hand shaking badly now, Eddie set the glass back down on the bar—and watched it fill from nowhere to its original level again. He shook his head vigorously and lifted the glass again. He raised it to his lips.

  The same thing happened as before; the scotch emptied into the glass.

  With a frustrated cry, Eddie hurled the glass at the wall behind the bar where it exploded with the sound of a gunshot.

  The barkeep yelled, “Hey, what the hell!” He dug one of those handheld gadgets out of his front pocket.

  Eddie wasn’t paying attention; he stared up at the television, where the picture had changed. On the screen a Ford Coupe—his Ford Coupe—turned onto Mercer Street. Eddie could just hear Glenn Miller’s “In The Mood” drifting through the open driver’s side window. The camera pulled back, offering a wide view, just as a tiny figure in a red hood and cape stepped off the curb and into the street. The car struck the child’s body like a giant steel fist, sending it flying through the air like a rag doll and—

  Eddie turned his back. He’d seen enough. More than enough.

  The patrons at the tables were all watching him.

  The bartender poked Eddie hard between the shoulder blades. “Hey, you! Get the fuck out of here now! I called the cops.”

  Eddie didn't need to hear it twice. He stumbled to the door.

  Outside, Margaret Dowling lay in the gutter.

  Eddie’s body stiffened in fear so suddenly that his spine popped.

  She raised her head, and a ropy length of half-coagulated blood stretched between her crushed skull and the ground. She grinned, and Eddie saw that half her teeth were broken.

  “How did it feel?” she asked him. It didn’t sound like a little girl's voice. It sounded old.

  A croaking noise rose from Eddie’s throat.

  “How did it feel to kill me?” A bit of brain dropped from the hole in her head and plopped onto the curb.

  No, Eddie thought. Her voice doesn’t just sound old. It sounds ancient. Wherever she went after dying, she was there for ages.

  “How did it feel to stand there? To stand over my dead body and look down at it?”

  Eddie tried to reply, tried to say he was sorry, that he’d take it back if he could. But he could only shake his head and stammer.

  “HOW DID IT FEEL?” screamed the thing in the gutter.

  Eddie bolted. Behind him, the ghost let loose a hideous wail, one that would have turned the bravest man into a coward, and it turned Eddie’s guts to water. He barely noticed the piss running down his leg as he limp-skipped down the sidewalk, shoving people out of his way. His terror was mindless, and he may have gone on that way forever, or until his leg gave out or his heart burst. But then he saw the priest.

  The old man was standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street, the shock of hair on his head as white as his collar. When he saw Eddie coming, his burning blue eyes seemed to get even more intense, as if a flame flared up behind them. A smile played on his lips.

  Eddie skidded to a halt in front of the priest, clasping his hands together in supplication. But he dare not quite touch the man, because though Eddie had forsaken religion, years spent having it crammed down his throat had instilled in him a grudging respect for it, and in his heart he felt unworthy. Unclean. “Please, father,” he begged. “Help me.”

  “Help you with what, Eddie?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her, father I swear, I mean, I know I did wrong and all, heisting that Coupe, but I never… I never…”

  Eddie trailed off. He looked at the priest. Then he said, “How do you know my name?”

  The priest smiled, and Eddie saw the devil it. He still felt petrified of the thing that had once been Margaret Dowling, and yet it was dawning on him that he could run, but he couldn’t hide.

  “Oh, I know all about you, Eddie.”

  Eddie deflated. “So you’re part of…” he shook his head and shrugged, “this… whatever’s happening?”

  “Indeed.” The old man’s blue eyes twinkled with that inner light.

  Cars whooshed by on the street. On the sidewalk, people flowed past Eddie and the priest like they were two islands in a stream. Eddie barely noticed.

  “Am I in hell?”

  The priest gave no answer, but there was a knowing gleam in his eyes.

  Eddie sighed. “Are you even a real priest?”

  “Ha! God, no.” He struck a pose. “This is my Halloween costume, worn especially for the occasion. Not bad, eh?”

  Eddie just looked a
t him.

  “Truth be told,” the old man said, “I wear it to draw you to me. Despite your occupation, your catholic upbringing still has a lot of power over you, Eddie. I could approach you, but it’s not as…sporting.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Eddie shouted.

  The old man smiled, unruffled. “James and Katherine Dowling were the parents of young Margaret. They were quite well off. Filthy rich, you might say.

  “On the night you killed Margaret, the police came close to capturing you. A couple of the residents of Mercer Street got a good look at you and described you. You weren’t hard to track down. They spotted you here on Newark Avenue, and they gave chase. It would have been better for you had they caught you, Eddie. As it was, you ran into the street—and smack in front of a moving bus. It killed you instantly.”

  “You’re crazy,” Eddie whispered.

  The old man smiled. “Am I?”

  Eddie said nothing.

  “As I said, the Dowlings were wealthy. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that, over the years, James invested in several companies, leveraging his assets into a powerful empire. Where I’m from, Eddie, the Dowling family are giants.

  “One company engaged in DNA research. I know you don’t understand what I mean—not being a scientist, I don’t understand it all, myself—but I’ll explain things as best I can.”

  “I don’t want to hear anymore of this,” Eddie said.

  “Oh, Eddie,” said the old man, “don’t you know, you have no choice?”

  Eddie fell silent. A passing car honked its horn, and he cringed.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. DNA—deoxyribonucleic acid. The carrier of genetic information and the building blocks of life.

  “Again, it would have been better for you had the police captured you that night. You'd have done time, and that probably would have been the end of it. But you escaped punishment when you stepped in front of that bus. Some thought it was poetic justice, since you died in the same manner as Margaret. But James and Katherine Dowling disagreed. As did I.