“I’m not your little boy,” Tosher said. “Something— something’s happened. Try and understand. Let me take care of you.”
“Don’t argue, Mickie,” she said sharply. “Get undressed quickly. It’s nearly time for Daddy to come home.”
“Mickie isn’t here!” Tosher explained desperately. “I’ve come to get you out of this, old pet.”
“You must have your bath first,” she shouted. There was a bruise on her temple like mud under the skin where she had clouted herself against the airing-cupboard door. “It’s getting late,” she said.
“Can’t you see—” Tosher began, gesturing to the little yacht lying on its side in the bath. But he knew she could not understand; the poor creature was not rational.
If he could get her upstairs, the helicart would take her to hospital for treatment. Advancing he laid a hand on the woman’s wrist. With unexpected force, she flung herself onto him. She pounced like a wild cat and began to rip the clothes off his back.
“Get undressed! Get undressed!” she yelled. “You must have your bath, you dirty little scamp!”
Tosher staggered back, putting his hand up to her throat to push her off him. With a quick movement, she bit his fingers till the blood came.
“Into the bath!” she screamed. “Quick! Quickly! Your ducks and boats are waiting for you!”
Under the prod of pain, Tosher acted instinctively. He chopped her under the nose with the edge of his palm and then, when her head was still jerked backward, pushed hard against her chest. She came away from him.
“Your bath . . .” she began surprisedly.
Just for a moment she was balanced on the brink of the drop. Tosher stepped forward to grab her. Their fingers touched. Then she was falling backward, outward, her mouth fixed in an astonished, silent, “Oh!”
Helplessly, Tosher just stood there and watched her fall. Her round mouth and her puzzled expression—as if this were some problem she could solve, given another five minutes—were vividly clear to him. And in that instant he recognized her.
“Judy!” he called. Just that one call.
And the round mouth of her, fixed, dwindling in the center of his vision, changed suddenly into an expanding hole, growing rounder, bigger, bigger yet. It was swallowing, vaporizing away the barrier that stood between Tosher and his past. The sight of Judy had finally vanquished his nine-year amnesia.
Standing there on the edge of nothing, Tosher could at last see back into his lost life. A figure was standing there. It was Norton Sykes, The Man Who Started It All, the man who had vanished when the first load of enemy suitcases fell on his hideout. Tosher recognized Norton’s figure: it was himself.
“Me . . . Norton . . .” he muttered and then, aloud in an oddly conversational tone, “but I don’t want to be Norton.”
And he took a pace forward into thin air.
* * * *
Most of this I saw with my own two eyes. Directly I heard Tosher breaking the mirror, I guessed something was wrong. In rocky jigsaws, we scrap chaps are always as silent as mice.
All I had to do was drop the helicart down one story and angle it round one corner. I did it in a hurry, and the pulley system snagged me. In my haste, I had forgotten it still connected me with the attic.
Rather than flip the crate up again to disconnect, I snatched up my welder and jumped back onto the platform to burn the steel pulley cable through and thus release the helicart. It took a hell of a time. The welder wouldn’t function properly and my hands were shaking as if I had palsy.
I was stuck half round the corner, helpless. I could see Tosher and the woman from where I was, but couldn’t get to them. I shouted, but they didn’t look. When the cable finally gave, I was just too late to catch Tosher as he fell.
The terrible thing was, that woman wasn’t Judy any more than I am. I checked afterward. It was just a delusion of poor old Tosher’s. But of course he was—or had been— Norton Sykes. I’d found that out years ago. All the boys in the yard knew, but they never let on. Nor did they ever hold it against him, although as Norton Sykes, Tosher had been a virtual dictator.
It’s an odd world. A dictator can make a damn good scrap man. And vice versa, unfortunately.
<
* * * *
FRESH GUY
by E. C. Tubb
Another Britisher presents what you might call a double-doom story—set in a graveyard, around the tombstone that marks the underground retreat of the war-torn remnants of humanity. Mankind dug under long ago; but the scent of fresh-turned dirt is present still—appetizingly, for some.
* * * *
Sammy was playing knucklebones on The Tombstone when the vampire arrived. As a vampire he obviously had a lot to learn. Sammy had heard him, recognized him for what he was and had dismissed him as a possible danger long before the stranger stumbled into the light of the tiny fire which Sammy tended. Even when he finally arrived Sammy paid him no attention, concentrating instead on his game, rolling the five scraps of bone with easy familiarity.
He was good at the game, having had much time in which to practice, and he took a quiet pride in the skillful manner he tossed and snatched, flipped and caught, spun and held the knucklebones. He ended the game by throwing them high into the air, catching them on the back of his hand. It was a broad, shovel-like hand with stubby fingers, thick, strong nails and well-developed muscles.
“Not bad, eh?” Sammy flipped the bones again, letting them bounce down the back of his hand and trapping them neatly between his fingers. He looked up, grinning at the stranger.
“What?” The vampire, a pale, distraught young character was obviously out of his depth. He wore a faded khaki shirt and pants, a pair of cracked and mildewed boots and a baffled expression. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘Not bad, eh?’ “ Sammy rolled the bones lovingly between his palms. “I bet that you couldn’t handle them like that.”
“I don’t suppose I could,” admitted the stranger. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Help yourself.” Sammy waved to a spot opposite him across the fire. “Glad of company.” He rolled his bones again and stared moodily into the fire.
The stranger stared too. He seemed to be struggling with some private burden for twice he attempted to speak and changed his mind at the last moment. He squinted towards Sammy but the fire was low and the light was bad and all he could make out was a formless blur. Finally he coughed and got to the heart of what was worrying him.
“Look,” he said. “My name is Smith, Edward Smith, and I seem to be in some sort of trouble. I wonder if you could help me?”
“Everyone’s in some sort of trouble,” said Sammy feelingly. “What’s your particular brand?”
“Well,” said Smith urgently, “something seems to have happened to me.” He passed a wavering hand across his forehead. “This may sound crazy to you but I seem to be living in some weird kind of dream.”
“Do tell,” said Sammy, he was interested. Casually he flipped the knucklebones into a pocket of the tattered old jacket he wore. “What makes you think that?”
“Everything.” Smith frowned as he tried to collect his thoughts. “I was sick, I remember that well enough what with Uncle screaming about doctor’s bills and the price of medicine and how he was having trouble getting in the harvest because I couldn’t help him and how he’d have to hire a man and who was going to pay for it?” Smith took a deep breath.
Sammy nodded, picking idly at his teeth. “I follow.”
“I was as sick as a dog,” corrected Smith feelingly. “I guess I would have died if it hadn’t been for some queer old coot of a doctor Uncle dug up from somewhere or other. He was cheap, I guess, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him but he had a smell like he’d been out in the rain and hadn’t dried off properly.”
“And he only came after dark,” said Sammy. “Right?”
“How did you know?” Smith blinked in surprise. �
�Maybe you know him, is that it?”
“I could take a guess,” said Sammy. He picked at his teeth again. “Then what happened?”
“I don’t know.” Smith was genuinely baffled. “I must have passed out, I guess, because the next thing I know I was in a hole in the ground on the side of a hill. I had a cramp something cruel so I yelled for help but no one could have heard me because no one came to see what was wrong.” He frowned again. “And that’s another queer thing. When I finally managed to get out of the hole and take a look round I couldn’t find a thing. The farm was gone, the road all grown over, everything had changed.” He shook his head and stared bleakly into the fire. “So I’m either dreaming or crazy.”
“You might be crazy,” said Sammy. “I wouldn’t argue about that, not knowing you well enough to form an opinion, but you’re not dreaming, that’s for sure.”
“I must be,” said Smith; he didn’t seem to like the idea that he was crazy. “All this is a stupid mixed-up nightmare. It must be.”
Sammy didn’t bother to argue. He merely reached out and gently pinched Smith on the thigh. Smith screamed and rolled beside the fire, nursing his leg and whimpering with pain.
“Still think that you’re dreaming?” asked Sammy pleasantly.
“No,” said Smith wildly. “But if I’m not dreaming then I’m crazy. I’m just a poor, crazy madman, that’s what.”
“Crazy you might be but a man you are not,” said Sammy. Smith jerked up his head.
“Not a man?” His voice rose a little. “Then what am I?”
“A vampire.”
“A what!”
“A vampire.”
“Now I know who is crazy.” Smith forgot about his leg. “All that guff is for the birds. Superstitious rubbish! Old wives’ tales! Nonsense, all of it!”
Sammy shrugged.
“Well, it is,” insisted Smith weakly. He brooded for a long time. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll ride along with what you say. So I’m a vampire.” He leaned forward, triumph glinting in his eyes. “But if I’m a vampire what does that make you?”
“A ghoul,” said Sammy. He threw some dried twigs on the fire, blinking in the sudden flare of light.
“Satisfied?” Sammy sucked reflectively at a tooth as the light died.
“I don’t know.” Smith had been shaken by the sight. “You’re either the most deformed human I’ve ever seen or you aren’t human at all.”
“I’m not human,” admitted Sammy patiently. “I told you that. I’m a ghoul.”
“Incredible!” Smith shook his head. “I simply can’t believe it.”
Sammy grunted and rolled over on to his back. His ears twitched a little, he was listening to the sounds of something moving in the woods.
“It’s not that I’m calling you a liar,” said Smith. “I wouldn’t want you to think that, but the whole thing’s so crazy!” He shook his head as if it hurt a little. “And another thing. I must have walked for miles; if I hadn’t seen your fire I’d have stumbled around all night, and in all that time I haven’t seen or heard a soul. Not even a dog. Where is everyone?”
“Around,” said Sammy vaguely. He suddenly caught on to what Smith meant. “Oh, you mean humans!” He stabbed a finger downward toward the overgrown concrete slab of The Tombstone. “At a guess I’d say they are about half a mile down.”
“All of them?”
“All that are left. In this part of the world anyway, I wouldn’t know about over the oceans.” He stared at the young man’s expression. “Didn’t you know?”
“No.” Smith was breathing fast from the top of his chest. “What happened?”
“The Big Bang.” Sammy grimaced. “The thing everyone knew would happen, said they didn’t want to happen, yet made happen anyway.” Speculation narrowed his eyes. “Say, just when were you buried, anyway?”
“I fell sick in 1960,” said Smith, dodging the leading question. Sammy pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
“That accounts for it The Big Bang came a couple of years later and they certainly made a good job of it. A better job than the embalmer did on you or you wouldn’t be sitting there now.”
“Embalmer?” Smith looked blank. “I don’t get it. Are you sure that you know what you’re talking about?”
“Listen,” snapped Sammy, he was getting annoyed. “I may look a little odd, to you at least, but I’m no dumbbell. I can read fifteen languages and speak twenty more and once I went to school; spent most of a year there before I had to leave.”
“Why?”
“It was a medical school,” said Sammy shortly. “What I’m getting at is that I know what happened to you. If the embalmer had done a better job you would have died for real. And even then you were lucky; your folks must have cut corners when they planted you. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been washed out at the right time.”
“Uncle Silas was always a tight-wad,” admitted Smith. “He fancied himself at carpentry too.” He fell silent, thinking. “I guess that all this must be real then.” He chuckled. “Me, a vampire! Well, what do you know?” A thought suddenly wiped the smile from his face. “Say! If you’re a ghoul—” He swallowed. “What I mean is that ghouls are supposed to—well, aren’t they?”
“Forget it,” said Sammy. “We’ve a Gentleman’s Agreement, neither touches the other.”
“Well!” Smith dabbed at his forehead. “That’s a relief. You had me worried for a while about that.”
Sammy didn’t answer; he was busy listening to the stealthy approach of a visitor. Smith, now that the sounds were loud enough for even his dull hearing to catch, stiffened in sudden alarm.
“Say, what’s that?”
“Relax,” said Sammy, setting an example. “It’s just one of the boys.”
“Who?” Smith seemed anxious.
“Who?” Sammy gave a grin. “Well, now,” he said deliberately. “At a guess I’d say that it was your pappy.” He was always one for a joke.
Boris was of the old school, a tall, thin, cadaverous vampire who believed that the old traditions should be maintained. He came striding out of the woods, his cloak swirling around him, his monocle gleaming red in the reflected light. He sat beside the fire, warming his thin, almost transparent hands, then nodded to Smith.
“Who’s the new one?”
Sammy chuckled. He had seen the expression on Smith’s face and now awaited the denouement.
“I know you,” suddenly blurted Smith. “You’re the doctor who attended me when I was sick.”
“That’s right,” said Sammy. “Boris, meet your son. Smith, meet your Pop.”
“He’s not my father,” denied Smith. “Anyway, my old man died way back in a car crash.”
“Your new father for your new rebirth,” explained Sammy. “Boris infected you when he snitched your blood. If it hadn’t been for him you wouldn’t be here now so, in a way, he’s your Pop.” He became serious. “It’s the only way vampires can breed, you know, they depend on their victims to perpetuate their race.”
“And ghouls?” said Smith shrewdly. “What about them?”
“Like humans,” said Sammy shortly. He didn’t want to talk about it. Neither, it appeared, did Boris want to discuss his new offspring.
“Lupe here yet?” He shivered a little and drew closer to the fire. Sammy shook his head.
“He’ll be along.”
“I hope we have better luck this time.” Boris sucked at his bloodless lips. “Seven years now we’ve been waiting and still no sign of them coming out.” He looked suddenly panic-stricken. “Could they be all dead?”
“Lupe said that he could hear sounds the last time,” reminded Sammy. “And we know they took care to stock up well on supplies.”
“But something could have happened.” Boris was a natural pessimist. “Maybe something went wrong with their water supply, or they took a bug down there with them and it wiped them out.” He began to chew at his nails as he thought about it. “And they’re the only ones we
know of.”
“Take it easy,” said Sammy; he was becoming infected with the other’s doubts. “They’ll be all right, I know they will.” He changed the subject. “Anything new?”
“Nothing.” Boris hunched closer to the fire, his evening dress, dirt-stained but still retaining a traditional dignity, giving him the appearance of an old and slightly moth-eaten aristocrat. “I’ve covered a pretty wide area and haven’t seen a thing. I guess that we’re the last, Sammy, you and me and Lupe, and we’re not going to last much longer unless they come out from under The Tombstone pretty soon.”
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 4 - [Anthology] Page 16
