Garden of Evil

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You should talk to him, then,’ Joe Chang nodded. ‘It don’t seem like none of us can think what to do. Well – we could go round to my cousin Gao’s place and pick up his niner and then go after the Reverend Silence and blow his head off. That might work.’

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes,’ said Jim.

  He went through to his bedroom and closed the door. The ceiling had been scrubbed since Ricky and all of those cats had been nailed to it, but there were still dozens of small craters in the plaster. He sat on the end of the bed so that he could see himself in the mirror on his closet door.

  ‘Father Michael,’ he said. ‘This is Jim, Father Michael – Jim Rook. I need to talk to you, Father Michael.’

  There was no response. Even if a spirit didn’t want to speak to him, he could usually sense rustling and whispering in the spirit world, almost like party guests playing hide-and-go-seek behind the drapes. Now, though – nothing at all.

  ‘Father Michael, I’m begging you here. I really need your help. I’ve made a terrible mistake and I don’t know how to put it right.’

  For a few seconds, there was silence. Then he heard a sound like a knife being scraped on a plate, one of those screeching sounds that sets your teeth on edge, and a haggard, bearded face appeared in the mirror, superimposed on his own face. He was sure that it was Father Michael, but before he had a chance to speak to him, the face disappeared, and all he could see was himself, sitting on the end of the bed.

  He sat there for a while, wondering if he ought to try calling Father Michael again. But it seemed as the resurrection of Lilith’s millions had not only interfered with radio and telephone and television, it had jammed all contact with the spirit world, too. Eve’s children were cut off, unable to communicate with each other, or even with their dead friends and relatives. They could no longer call for help, either from this world, or the next.

  He was still sitting there when there was a timid knocking at the bedroom door.

  ‘Daddy? It’s Bethany.’

  He went over to the door and opened it. ‘Any luck?’ she asked him, but she could see by the expression on his face that he hadn’t been successful.

  ‘Ricky’s here, from downstairs, with—’

  ‘Nadine,’ said Nadine, who was standing in the hallway right behind her. Nadine had tied up her hair now, and fixed her make-up, with purple eyeshadow and purple lip gloss to match. Ricky had changed into a black cowboy shirt with red piping, and skinny-legged jeans.

  ‘Is Summer here?’ asked Nadine.

  ‘No. Why? I rang her doorbell a couple of times but she wasn’t in.’

  ‘Well, that really worries me, now that Ricky’s told me what’s going on. Round about one o’clock I asked Summer if she’d like to come downstairs and join me for a glass of wine – you know, so that I didn’t have to drown my sorrows on my own. She said she’d love to. She had a hair appointment at Floyd’s to have her highlights done, but she said that she’d be back before three thirty, easy. But look at it now, it’s way past five.’

  Jim said, ‘Floyd’s? Where’s that?’

  ‘Corner of Selma and North Cahuenga.’

  ‘I should go look for her.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Ricky, ‘I’ll come with.’

  ‘Daddy—’ said Bethany.

  ‘I have to, sweetheart. She’s my neighbor and my friend.’

  ‘Ricky, you don’t have to,’ said Nadine. ‘Please, baby. I don’t want to lose you again.’

  Ricky took hold of both of Nadine’s wrists and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll be fine, Nadine. If there’s one thing that being dead has taught me, it’s not to be afraid of dying.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s go.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  They drove slowly along Hollywood Boulevard, keeping their eyes open for Summer. It was only 5.35 p.m. but already it was beginning to grow dark, not because the sun was going down, but because of the dense black smoke that was drifting across the street from all of the burning buildings.

  Traffic had been unusually sparse when they drove back to Hollywood from West Grove College, but now the streets were almost empty. Now and then an SUV came rolling in the opposite direction, but nobody stopped and nobody put down their tinted windows. A few people were running along the sidewalks, and Jim slowed down as they came to Hollywood and Vine, because a young African-American man with green-dyed hair and a shiny green shell-suit had hesitated at the curb.

  Jim called out to him, ‘Sir!’

  ‘What, man? What you want?’

  ‘Are you running from something or are you just running?’

  The young man looked anxiously over his shoulder and then started running again. Jim caught up with him and drove along beside him, keeping pace with him.

  ‘Ain’t you seen them?’ the young man panted. ‘You must of seen them! Like ghosts! Like a army of ghosts!’

  ‘Ghosts?’

  ‘Like, thousands of them! All dressed in sheets! But there’s no way they ghosts! I seen them killing people! Pulling off their arms and their legs! Tossing them up in the air! Ghosts can’t do that! And setting fire to everything!’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘All over, man! And they run so fast you can’t get away from them!’

  ‘You want a ride?’ Jim asked him.

  ‘Thanks – but no thanks! My friend – he has this music studio – just along here! Skream Records? I’m going to hide there! Shut myself up inside of the recording booth and not come out! Not until those ghosts . . . not until those ghosts is gone!’

  He turned down Cosmo Street, a narrow alley lined with flat-fronted office buildings, and that was the last they saw of him.

  Ricky said, ‘Shit. Let’s hope that Summer’s found herself someplace to hide.’

  Ahead of them, Hollywood Boulevard was miraculously clear of traffic, so Jim put his foot down until they reached North Cahuenga. He swerved left, and sped down the next block, until he saw Floyd’s Barbershop on the opposite corner of Selma Avenue – a single-story building with a black-and-white mock-marble frontage. Apart from parked cars, North Cahuenga and Selma were completely deserted, although smoke and whirling black ash was blowing across both of them.

  Jim pulled up outside Floyd’s and both he and Ricky climbed out of his car. The sharp smell of burning made their eyes water, and Ricky sneezed twice and had to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his cowboy shirt.

  Jim said, ‘Listen!’

  Not far away, they could hear sirens, but they could also hear people screaming.

  Ricky said, ‘Shit, man.’ But that was all.

  Jim approached the barbershop window and peered inside. The lights were on, but there was no sign of any customers or staff.

  He tried to push open the front door, but it was locked. He rattled the handle, and then he banged on the glass and shouted out, ‘Anybody there? I’m looking for a girl called Summer!’

  There was no response, so he banged on the door again. ‘Summer, are you in there! It’s Jim!’

  Again, nothing.

  Ricky said, ‘Might as well go back, Jim. If she’s not here she could be anyplace at all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jim, reluctantly. ‘You’re right.’ He backed away from the barbershop and looked up and down the street. It was then that he caught sight of Summer’s powder-blue Honda Civic, parked about two hundred feet away, half-hidden by a giant Land Cruiser. ‘But her car’s still here, look – so she couldn’t have gone far. Not unless somebody gave her a ride.’

  He went back up to the barbershop door and banged on it again. ‘Summer! It’s Jim Rook! Summer!’

  Suddenly, a frightened-looking young man in a tight pink T-shirt and red velvet pants appeared on the other side of the door. Summer was close behind him, with her hair still folded up in silver-paper foils. The young man unlocked the door, top and bottom, and opened it.

  ‘Summer!’ said Jim. ‘Jesus! We were just about to go off and leave you here!’

>   Summer came tripping out and hugged him and kissed him, and then hugged Ricky, too. ‘We’ve all been hiding in the restroom! We heard you knocking on the door and we thought those terrible people had come back!’

  ‘I don’t know how they missed us!’ said the young man, almost in a scream. ‘There were hundreds of them! They came running down the street and they were tearing people to pieces!’

  Jim took Summer’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe, sweetheart. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘They broke into Umami Burger,’ the young man continued. ‘They broke into Coffee Etc right across the street, they broke into Big Wang’s, they even broke into the Hookah Lounge. They smashed all the windows and they were tearing the customers to pieces!’

  ‘Well, try to keep safe,’ Jim told him. ‘And thanks for taking care of Summer. I mean it.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome. Summer’s our favorite-favorite customer, aren’t you, Summer? More than a customer, she’s a dear-dear friend!’

  Jim and Summer and Ricky climbed into Jim’s car, while the young man closed the barbershop door and locked it and retreated into the back. Jim U-turned and then headed back up North Cahuenga. He could see now that most of the windows of the coffee shop on the opposite side of the street from Floyd’s had no glass in them, and although it was too dark for him to be able to see very much inside, he could make out broken chairs and tipped-over tables and lumpy shapes that could have been dismembered bodies.

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, you don’t know how scared I was,’ said Summer, lifting the armrest between them so that she could tuck her feet up underneath her and snuggle up close to him. ‘When I saw those terrible people running past the window, I nearly wet myself. You’re my knight in shining armor, you really are. Well, both of you are. You and Ricky. My knight in shining armors, plural.’

  The black smoke that was billowing through the streets was becoming thicker and more acrid. Even though Jim’s car was air-conditioned, the smell of burning made their eyes water and seared their sinuses. Ricky sneezed again, and again, and every time Summer said, ‘Bless you, Ricks!’

  Jim was already taking a right, back into Hollywood Boulevard, when Ricky said, ‘Uh-oh! Shit! Looky there, Jim!’

  About a half mile up ahead of them, another tidal wave of white-robed figures was heading toward them, completely filling the street from one side to the other. It was just passing Pantage’s Theater, and it was surging in their direction, and fast – even faster than a real tidal wave.

  Jim spun the wheel and steered the car back on to North Cahuenga. If they were lucky, the white-robed figures wouldn’t have spotted them.

  ‘It’s them!’ shrilled Summer, peering short-sightedly down Hollywood Boulevard. ‘It’s those terrible people! Like – who are they? Like – where are they, like, from?’

  Jim didn’t answer that. He was too busy speeding as fast as he could up North Cahuenga to Franklin Avenue. He could hang a right underneath the Hollywood Freeway and hopefully they wouldn’t be confronted with another tidal wave of white-robed figures.

  But as they sped past Yucca Street, with five hundred feet left to go before they reached Franklin, Ricky said, ‘They’ve turned the corner already, man! They’re coming after us!’

  Jim glanced at his rear-view mirror. He could see the white-robed figures and there was no doubt that they were gaining on them. There must have been at least a thousand of them, pouring around the corner and running after them with grim determination. Jim wondered if they knew who he was, and that was why they were after him. Maybe the Reverend Silence had sent them to find him and tear him to pieces before he found a way to send them back to the spirit world.

  In a way, he almost hoped that he had, because that would mean that there was a way.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Summer. ‘How can they run so fast? Nobody can run that fast!’

  ‘These jokers can,’ Ricky told her. ‘Good thing they weren’t around when we were holding the LA Olympics.’

  ‘You think that’s funny?’ said Jim.

  ‘Not at all. It scares the living crap out me, if you must know.’

  Jim turned into Franklin Avenue without braking, and the Mercury spun through three hundred and sixty degrees, with Summer screaming all the way around. Even Ricky said, ‘Jesus, man! You’re going to kill us before they do!’

  But Jim gunned the engine again and headed east, underneath the freeway. The only other vehicles on the road were a few abandoned cars with their doors left hanging open. All kinds of debris was scattered across the road, some of it groceries, some of it luggage and baby buggies, some of it bits of people. Jim made a point of not looking at it too closely, and steering around it whenever he could. He ran over one end of a woman’s severed leg, and, grotesquely, it kicked up into the air, like a cancan dancer’s.

  They turned at last into Briarcliff Road, roaring up its steep, tight curve, and sliding to a halt in the parking space in front of Briar Cliff Apartments.

  Jim said, ‘Out! And inside! They’ll be here any minute!’

  They ran up the two flights of steps to Jim’s apartment. As they reached the front door, Jim looked back down from the landing and saw the first of the white-robed figures running up the slope toward them.

  Most of them were young black-bearded men, but there were wild-haired women and children, too. Their shrouds and robes were even filthier than they had been when they had first appeared – smudged with smoke and spattered with fresh blood, as well as the centuries-old blood and fluids with which they had been stained when they were first interred.

  They were still completely silent, and they were still blurred and out of focus, so that their eyes looked like shadowy hollows. Santana had described them exactly: they were the ‘dead-alive’.

  ‘Inside! Quick! They’re here!’ Jim shouted. He pushed Summer into the hallway in front of him and then slammed the door behind him, locking it and bolting it and sliding on the safety chain.

  ‘Think that’s going to keep them out?’ asked Ricky.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s hope so.’ Jim looked around and saw the heavy little oak bureau at the end of the hallway, which he used for storing receipts and screwdrivers and dead batteries and out-of-date credit cards and string. ‘Here, give me a hand.’

  Together, grunting, they pushed the bureau until it was up against the front door. DaJon Johnson came out of the living room and said, ‘Wha’s goin’ down, man? That cholo just told me those scary dead dudes are right outside.’

  ‘They are, yes,’ said Jim, and as if to prove that he wasn’t scaremongering, there was a deafening crash against the outside of the door, and then another, and then they heard fists beating against the kitchen windows.

  Jim went through to the kitchen. The landing outside the windows was crowded with white-robed figures, and they were pummeling at the glass in a frenzy. Their mouths were stretched wide open, as if they were howling, but they made no sound. The left-hand window cracked, and then smashed, and then the right-hand window splintered.

  DaJon Johnson and Ricky followed Jim into the kitchen. Joe Chang and Al Alvarez and Kyle Baxter joined them from the living room. Jim looked around and saw the girls all clustered together, and his father standing in the far corner, looking helpless.

  ‘They’re getting in!’ said Al Alvarez. ‘They’re trying to pull out the whole goddamned window!’ Six or seven white-robed arms came waving in through the left-hand window, like octopus tentacles. Almost all of their hands were sliced and cut by the broken shards of glass that remained in the frame, and blood sprayed all over the yellow-tiled window sill, but that didn’t deter them. They seized the frame and started to wrench it violently outward.

  Jim dragged the cutlery drawer out from under the worktop and crashed it down on to the kitchen table. He took out his ten-inch carving knife and said to Ricky and his students, ‘Here! Grab what you like!’

  They all picked up knives, except for Rudy Cascarelli, wh
o chose Jim’s double-pronged carving fork, and Kyle Baxter, who went for his Chinese cleaver. Jim went up to the sink, leaned over it, and started stabbing at the hands that were gripping the window frame. DaJon Johnson had picked up two knives, one in each hand, and he attacked the white-robed figures as if he were berserk, chopping furiously and relentlessly into fingers and knuckles and forearms and elbows.

  But it was Kyle Baxter who inflicted the most spectacular damage. He lifted the Chinese cleaver high up behind his head, paused, and then swung it down so hard that it severed the hand of one of the white-robed figures at the wrist. The hand tumbled into the sink, and even though the white-robed figure didn’t scream, he pulled his arm immediately out of the window and disappeared into the crowd, showering their shrouds and their djellabas with blood.

  Kyle Baxter swung the cleaver again and again, hacking off at least five more hands and more fingers than Jim could count. Jim wouldn’t have guessed that he could be so bloodthirsty, but he kept on cutting, and under his breath he kept repeating a whole thesaurus of killing and mutilation. ‘Massacre! Execution! Cut to pieces! Decimate! Annihilate! Assassinate! Put to the sword!’

  After less than ten minutes, without a sound, the white-robed figures suddenly withdrew their arms from the window, and disappeared back along the landing. Jim heard their feet pattering down the steps, and then there was silence.

  He looked around the kitchen. The windows were all broken, but the draining board was dripping with blood and the sink was filled with hairy-backed hands, like a nest of dead tarantulas. Maybe the white-robed figures had simply decided that they had had enough, and that they were getting noplace.

  ‘Think that’s it?’ asked Ricky. ‘Think they got the message?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, Ricky. I thought they might be coming for me, personally, but I may be wrong.’