“I want out of here!” Lennox screamed.
It was instantly quiet. It was very dark. Dank walls still compressed them.
“Just up these stairs, I think,” said Kane, holding his gun at alert. Cover our back, Klesst. Move along, Cody.”
“Where are we?” Lennox cursed as he stumbled and bashed his knee against the unseen steps. Klesst powerfully grasped his arm and kept him from falling into uncertain darkness.
“Not on the Russell Square station staircase, as I’d hoped,” Kane answered. “That’s where we began to follow you. At a guess, we’re coming up from beneath Queen Square.”
Lennox stumbled again, but Klesst held him upright.
“Can you both see in the dark?” Lennox asked her.
“Yes.” Klesst squeezed his arm comfortingly.
“I want out of here.”
“Good one, Cody!” Kane congratulated him. “Here’s a door that should open onto the cellars beneath the Queen’s Larder. We’re going to make an awesome team.”
Kane snapped the bolt and pushed open the trap door.
“Or, maybe not,” said Kane.
Kane shoved away the debris, and they emerged.
The Queen’s Larder was a blackened ruin, as were all of the buildings in sight, save for the Church of St. George the Martyr across the way. The sky was a sodium-flame yellow and outlined an endless horizon of blackened heaps of fused stone and glass. There was no clear evidence of sun or moon through the glowing haze. Occasional and distant shapes seemed to sail on black wings across the dead skies; otherwise there was no sign of life. No sign of any sort of life whatsover.
“Shit,” said Kane.
“You sure threw one hell of a party,” Lennox managed. He sat down on a seared heap of wall. “Look, my sanity reserve has been running on empty for too long. Where does one get a drink here?”
“You bastard!” Klesst yelled at him. “You brought us through the wrong way!”
“Whoa! I was only following your dad. You’re the ones who can see in the dark—remember?”
“This is worse than it looks,” Kane told them.
“Well, it looks really bad, Kane,” Lennox agreed. “Whatever happened to time-time, and where’s the party?”
Kane suddenly turned the full power of his eyes upon Lennox, and for the first time Lennox was irrevocably convinced that all of this was really happening to him. And then Cody Lennox knew real fear.
“I’ve tried to bring you along by stages,” Kane said. “The problem is that I need you, and I need you now. What you’re looking at right now is a near-time reality—for your entire world.”
“Global nuclear holocaust?”
“Worse than that, Cody. It’s more like Armageddon or the Day of Judgement. The Harmonic Convergence gave them the power. They’ll open the Gates of Hell and raise the dead. Only no one’s flying up to Heaven. It won’t be a pretty sight. Look about you.”
“Straight answers this time, Kane. Was that really Satan?”
“To the best that your theology can comprehend: yes. Disregarding Judeo-Christian myth, that was the Demonlord. What you saw was a physical embodiment of a hostile and predatory force alien to this world.”
“And are you also a Judeo-Christian myth?”
“Very possibly. But don’t believe everything you read. There are at least two sides to every story.”
“And are you human?”
“Yes, and no.”
“I was just wondering,” said Lennox. “Except for all the muscles, I’m having a very difficult time telling you and Satan apart.”
“I am a physical entity,” Kane promised him. “Just as is Klesst. Just as are you. Satan, as you saw him, is a physical embodiment of a trans-dimensional force.”
“And Cathy?”
“What you saw was a succubus. Another demon, as your theology interprets such matters. Don’t blame yourself for summoning her. You’ve been set up all along.”
“Why?”
“Because you can control synchronicity, Cody. It was a latent power, unconsciously used. The Harmonic Convergence has intensified your powers. You haven’t attained real control yet, but I can teach you.”
“Why should I trust you?”
Kane waved his arms. “Just look at what will happen. At what has happened. This is reality, Cody.”
“I thought you could control time, Kane.”
“Time-time, Cody. And real-time within limits. We followed you into near-time to find their center of power. They shunted us future-forward on the way back to real-time. I have only physical power here. I need you, Cody, to get back, to keep all this from happening.”
“Do it, Cody,” Klesst encouraged him. “This place is really boring.”
“So. What do I do? I forgot my ruby slippers.”
“If you break open the way,” Kane said, “I can draw through the power. Think of it this way: you unlock the door, and I come through with the shotgun.”
“Kane, I think we’d best just call a tow-truck.”
“I really do admire a sense of humor in a man who’s facing an unpleasant end.” Kane stepped closer, and Lennox was suddenly uncertain as to where the immediate danger might lie.
“It’s all random patterns, Cody. It’s like a gigantic interlocking puzzle with infinite and equal solutions. When the pieces come together and form a final pattern, it’s real-time. Near-time is still in flux. Synchronicity can determine the way the patterns come together. You can control synchronicity. Do it, and get it right this time.”
“Do what? Is this where I make an expressionless face and unfocus my eyes?”
“The monster’s from the id, Cody. All you have to do is to want something to happen. I’ll see that it does.”
“I don’t begin to understand any of this.”
“You don’t have to.” Klesst put her arm around him. “Hey, don’t you wish we were all back at the party and having a good time? Like, here’s the three of us together in the bedroom, talking away. Then Dad leaves you and me alone, while he goes to check on the champagne. Our eyes meet, and then our lips crush together.”
“Let’s party!” Cody shouted.
This time there were no blasts of weaponsfire to mask the shock of ripping apart the space-time pattern . . .
“Sorry, but there’s always business,” Kane apologized to his guests. “Blacklight, how are we doing on the champagne?”
“Cool,” said Blacklight. “Ordered up two more cases. Had some gate-crashers. Bad-looking dude in a tux and a comely Gibson girl in a black formal. Said they were old friends of yours, so I let them in. Don’t see them now. Anyway, they said they’d be back.”
“I’m sure they will. Carry on.”
“Hey, Kane!” Kent Allard lurched toward him. “Did you find Cody?”
“We did.”
“We were worried about him. You know . . .”
“Cody is fine.”
Lennox and Klesst chose this moment to emerge from the bedroom. They were arm in arm and talking together furiously.
“Well, well,” observed Allard. “Fast mover, our Cody.”
“Champagne, Cody?” Kane invited.
“Maybe just one,” Lennox said. “Please excuse us for a moment, Kent.”
“Of course. Go for it, guy.”
Lennox snagged a tray of champagne as he guided Klesst into a corner beside Kane. Each took a glass.
He said: “Kane, I’m not sure I really believe any of this, but I’m throwing in on your side.”
“Good decision, Cody.”
“Only one thing still bothers me, Kane. Granted, I’ve met the forces of Evil . . .”
“Only inimical forces, Cody. It’s all so relative.”
“We’ll argue this later. So, when do I meet the forces of Good?”
“Already told you, Cody. There are none. I’m the only hope this world has.”
Kane and Klesst touched glasses with Lennox.
“To us,” said Kane.
R
ICHARD LAYMON
Bad News
RICHARD LAYMON is the author of fifteen horror novels, including The Cellar, Resurrection Dreams, Funland, The Stake and Alarms. Born in Chicago, Illinois, he currently lives in Los Angeles with his wife Ann and daughter Kelly.
His novel Flesh was named the best horror novel of 1989 by Science Fiction Chronicle and nominated for a Horror Writers of America Bram Stoker Award.
Laymon’s short stories have appeared in such magazines and anthologies as Ellery Queen, Mike Shayne, Cavalier, Gallery, The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Book of the Dead, Stalkers, Night Visions 7, Slashers and Hot Blood, to name only a few.
“Bad News” is a powerful example of his mastery of unrelenting horror.
THE MORNING WAS SUNNY and quiet. Leaving the door ajar, Paul crossed the flagstones to his driveway. He sidestepped alongside his Granada, being careful neither to tread on the dewy grass nor to let his robe rub against the grimy side of the car.
As he cleared the rear bumper, he spotted the Messenger.
Good. Nobody had beaten him to it.
Every so often, especially on weekends, somebody swiped the thing. Not this morning, though. Getting up early had paid off. The newspaper, rolled into a thick bundle and bound by a rubber band, lay on the grass just beyond the edge of Paul’s driveway.
On Joe Applegate’s lawn.
Crouching to pick it up, Paul glanced at his neighbor’s driveway and yard and front stoop.
There was no sign of Applegate’s paper.
Probably already took it inside, Paul thought. Unless somebody snatched it.
Hope the damn redneck doesn’t think this is his.
Paul straightened up, tucked the paper under one arm, and made his way up the narrow strip of pavement between his car and the grass.
Inside the house, he locked the front door. He tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, started away, and thought he saw the paper wobble.
He looked down at it.
The Messenger lay motionless on the glass top of the coffee table.
It was rolled into the shape of a rather thick, lopsided tube. The wobble he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye must’ve been the paper settling from the toss he’d given it.
It shimmied.
Paul flinched.
A rat-like, snouted face poked out of the middle of the folds. Furless, with white skin that looked oily. It gazed up at him with pink eyes. It bared its teeth.
“Jesus!” Paul gasped as the thing scurried out, rocking the paper, and rushed straight toward him claws clicking on the table top, teeth snapping at the air.
Paul staggered backward.
What the fuck is it!
The creature left a slime trail on the glass. It didn’t stop at the edge of the table. It tumbled off, hit the carpeted floor with a soft thump, and sped toward Paul’s feet.
He leaped out of its path. The thing abruptly changed course and kept coming.
Paul hurled himself sideways, lurched a few steps to his easy chair and jumped up onto the seat. His feet sank into the springy cushion. He teetered up there, prancing for balance as he turned around, then dropped a knee onto the chair’s padded arm.
He watched the thing rush toward him.
Not a rat, at all. It had a rodent-like head, all right, but beyond its thin neck was a body shaped like a bullet: a fleshy, glistening white cylinder about five inches long, rounded at the shoulders, ending just beyond its hind legs without tapering at all as if its rear was a flat disk. It had no tail.
At the foot of the chair, it dug its claws into the fabric and started to climb.
Paul tore a moccasin off his foot. A flimsy weapon, but better than nothing. He swept it down at the beast. The limp leather sole slapped against the thing’s flank, but didn’t dislodge it. It kept coming up the front of the chair, eyes on Paul, its small teeth clicking.
He stuffed his hand into the moccasin and shoved at the thing. Its snout burst through the bottom, a patch of leather gripped in its teeth. He jerked his hand free, losing the moccasin, and sprang from the chair. Glancing back as he rushed away, he saw the creature and moccasin drop to the floor.
At the fireplace, he grabbed a pointed, wrought-iron poker. He whirled to face the beast. It worked the rest of its body through the hole in the slipper and charged him. He raised the poker.
Something brushed against Paul’s ankle. A furry blur shot by.
Jack the cat.
Jack slept in Timmy’s room, curled on its special rug beside the boy’s bed. The commotion out here must’ve caught its attention.
“Don’t!” Paul blurted.
The tabby leaped like a miniature lion and pounced on the creature.
Stupid cat! It’s not a mouse!
Paul’s view was blocked by Jack. He bent sideways, trying for a better angle, and saw the blunt rear and tiny legs of the thing hanging out the side of Jack’s mouth.
“Nail the bastard!” he gasped.
Jack worked his jaw, biting down. His tail switched.
“Paul? What’s going on out there?” Joan’s groggy, distant voice.
Before he could answer, the cat squawled and leaped straight up, back hunching.
“PAUL!” Now alarmed.
Jack went silent. All four paws hit the floor at once. The cat stood motionless for a moment, then keeled over onto its side. Its anus bulged. The bloody head of the beast squeezed out.
Paul stared, numb with shock, as the thing slid free of Jack’s body. It came at him, a tube of red-brown mush flowing out its stubby rear.
“Christ!” he gasped, stumbling backward. “Joan! Don’t come in here! Get Timmy! Get the hell out of the house!”
“What’s going . . .?” The next word died in Joan’s throat as she stepped past the dining room table. She saw Paul in his robe dropping to a crouch and whacking the floor with the fireplace poker. The hooked end of the rod nearly hit a yucky thing that she thought for a moment was a rat. It scooted out of the way.
It wasn’t like any rat that Joan had ever seen.
She saw the cat, the carpet dark with gore near its rump.
“Oh dear God,” she murmured.
Paul gasped and leaped aside as the creature darted toward his foot. It chased him across the carpet.
Joan took a step forward, wanting to rush in and help him. But she stopped abruptly. She had no weapon. She was barefoot, wearing only her nightgown.
“Shit!” Paul jumped onto the sofa, twisted around and back-stepped, the poker raised overhead. The thing scurried up the upholstery. “Do like I said! Get Timmy out of here. Get help, for Godsake! Call the cops!”
The little beast suddenly halted.
It looked back at Joan.
Ice flowed up her back.
She whirled around and ran. Straight to Timmy’s room. The boy woke up as she scooped him out of bed. “Mommy?” He sounded frightened.
“It’s okay,” she said, rushing out of the room with Timmy clutched to her chest. Hanging onto him with one arm, she snatched her purse off the dining room table. She raced into the kitchen, put him down while she opened the back door, then hoisted him again and ran outside.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” he asked. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Everything’s fine,” she said, easing him down beside the Granada. “A little problem in the house. Daddy’s taking care of it.” She fumbled inside her purse, found the car keys, unlocked the driver’s door and opened it. “You just wait here,” she said, lifting Timmy onto the seat. “Don’t come out. I’ll be back pretty soon.” She slammed the door.
And stood there at the edge of the driveway.
What’ll I do?
Go back inside and help him?
He’s got the poker. What am I gonna do, go after the thing with a carving knife?
She cut off its tail with a carving knife.
That was no damn mouse.
He said to call the cops. Oh, right. Tell them a thing is chasing my husband around the
house. And then when they get here in ten or fifteen minutes . . .
Joan snapped her head toward Applegate’s house.
Applegate, the red-neck gun nut.
She crouched and looked through the car window at Timmy. The boy wasn’t stupid. He knew that, somewhere in the house, shit was hitting the fan in a big way. His eyes looked huge and scared and lonely. Joan felt her throat go tight.
At least you’re safe, honey, she thought.
She managed a smile for him, then whirled around and rammed herself into the thick hedge beside the driveway. Applegate’s bushes raked her skin, snagged her nightgown. But she plunged straight through and dashed across his yard.
She leaped onto his front stoop.
The plastic sign on Applegate’s door read: THIS HOUSE INSURED BY SMITH & WESSON.
What an asshole, she thought.
Hoping he was home, she thumbed the doorbell button.
From inside came the faint sound of ringing chimes.
Joan looked down at herself and shook her head. The nightie had been a Valentine’s Day present from Paul. There wasn’t much of it, and you could see through what there was.
Applegate’s gonna love this, she thought. Shit!
Where is he?
“Come on, come on,” she muttered. She jabbed the doorbell a few more times, then pounded the door with her fist. “Joe!” she yelled.
No answer came. She heard no footsteps from inside the house.
“Damn it all,” she muttered. Being careful not to slip again, she hurried to the edge of the concrete slab. She stepped down, took a few strides across the dewy grass, then made her way into the flower bed at the front of Applegate’s house. He must be home and up, she thought; his curtains are open. He always kept them shut at night and whenever he was away.
Joan pushed between a couple of camelias, leaned close to his picture window and cupped her hands around her eyes.
She peered into the sunlit living room.
Applegate was home, all right. But not up. He lay sprawled on the floor in his robe and a swamp of blood.
Paul leaped off the end of the couch. He landed beside the front door.
Get the hell out! he thought.
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