The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  A second to register that this person had slaughtered and – apparently – eaten the man, ignoring the food hoard.

  The bloody thing in front of him shot a quick look at the drop on the other side of the wall, then back to Jack.

  Where’s Schiller? Jack thought.

  Letting me handle this by myself?

  Then: “Down on the ground. Now.”

  The thing had already resisted arrest. Jack could shoot him, no questions asked.

  But is that how he wanted to start his first day? Killing someone?

  Even if the ‘someone’ in question seemed to have left humanity far behind.

  “Get down on the fucking ground now—” He almost added the well-practiced ’sir’, the absurdity stopping him.

  Sir. Thing. Madman.

  Whatever the hell you are.

  Another look from the thing to the wall, and Jack thinking…he’s going to jump, going to leap over the side even though a seven story fall would certainly kill him.

  But then – how much calculating intellect did the guy seem to have?

  The thing turned back.

  This near human.

  And with dizzying speed, it leaped towards Jack, those claw hands stretched out, the fingers turned into talons ready to grab.

  The killer flew into the air, one crazy leap, maybe two away. Jack raised his gun; he knew he had no choice.

  Day One.

  And he had to kill this….

  When shots blasted out from behind him. One, two shots, and then the killer’s head nearly disappeared.

  But it kept coming, now stumbling toward Jack. He leveled his own gun, still unfired, at the thing’s chest, mere feet away.

  He fired once, twice, kicking the still-twitching man back, right to the edge of the building.

  Finally, as if considering it, the bloody killer without a head collapsed to the gooey tar covered roof, and finally fell forward.

  For a few moments, Jack didn’t move, didn’t lower his gun, didn’t do a damn thing.

  “I should have shot him,” Jack said as they stood outside the building. The forensics team had already removed the black body bag, but a CSI team was still up on the roof, taking pictures.

  Schiller shook his head.

  “You did fucking shoot him, Jack.”

  “Yeah. After you blew his head off.”

  Schiller moved a bit, and positioned his stubby body right in front of Jack.

  “Well, who the hell was it that gave chase to the guy? You. He probably could have figured a way down if you hadn’t gotten cornered it.”

  Schiller laughed.

  “Those running days are over for me. That’s for damn sure. Glad I have a young partner.”

  Jack nodded. “And I’m glad I have a partner who can shoot.”

  “That? Nothing. Close range. Easy.”

  Then quiet. The afternoon sun still hot, both of them standing there, sweating.

  Another hour and Jack’s first day would be over.

  Then: “Thanks anyway,” he said.

  Another few seconds of quiet.

  “But there’s something I don’t get.”

  Schiller looked up at Jack as if expecting the question.

  “The guy who was killed—”

  “Eaten,” Schiller said.

  “Yeah. He was a food hoarder. Place was filled with food.” Jack shook his head. “Then why—”

  Schiller put up a hand.

  “Why kill the owner, leave all that goddamned food, and eat him?”

  Jack nodded. “That is what he did, right?”

  Schiller took a few steps closer. Most of the onlookers, the curious who lived on the block, had vanished. Still there were a few here waiting until the whole show was over.

  “I dunno, Jacko. I. Don’t. Know.”

  Another step. He lowered his voice. “But, man, I’ll tell you something. And you didn’t hear it from me, you got it?”

  Another nod from Jack. The heat not letting up, sweat rolled off his brow – but he was nowhere as wet as Schiller who looked as if he had just come out of the shower with his clothes on.

  Schiller looked around at the lookers-on. Then to Jack. “This, today…isn’t the first damn time I’ve seen this.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen it before. People attacked, killed…. and no good god-damn question about it…eaten.”

  For a moment, Jack couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. Then:

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Welcome to the fucking club, Jack. Probably lots of us out here on the streets seeing it. Here, there. People killed. And someone chowing the fuck down on them.”

  Suddenly the intense heat…felt like cold.

  “But if someone was hungry, and they had all that food there, then why—”

  “Precisely. Why? That’s the question, Jacko. Oh, hold on. CSI’s down.

  Two men in short sleeves and tie and a woman in crisp business skirt and white blouse walked over.

  “Who’s doing the paperwork on this?” the woman said.

  “I am,” Schiller said.

  The woman nodded. She looked at her two partners. Then: “And your suspected motive?”

  Jack looked at Schiller, wondering how he was going to answer this.

  “Robbery. Shot resisting arrest.”

  “Okay, We’ll let psych services know. Get yourself over there asap.”

  The woman looked at Jack, who stood quietly letting Schiller handle the conversation with the CSI team.

  “And, Officer Murphy, you chased him?”

  “Yes.”

  Another look at her two team members.

  Then a smile. “Good work. One less…. killer.” She took a breath. “Good work by the both of you.”

  The three CSI cops turned and walked away.

  Jack waited until they were out of earshot.

  “So—that’s it? Robbery gone wrong? Straight homicide? Everyone says nothing about what really happened?”

  Schiller nodded. No smile now. He looked deflated, drained by what had happened.

  “You got it, Jack.”

  Then:

  “Welcome to the NYPD.”

  4 ------------------------ Nightime

  When Jack got home, to his just-bought house in a nice, quiet part of Staten Island, he had tried pushing away the thoughts, the images…the questions that today had summoned.

  Instead, he anticipated what Christie might say when he walked in the door.

  And more importantly, what he would say back.

  It all went as he planned. The questions from her…how was your first day, how’d things go…?

  The answers…. reassuring, bland. The odd detail here and there just to cover the fact that he wasn’t saying anything. He described the street fight with the couple.

  “Exciting,” she had said. “So now…. you’re a real cop.”

  He smiled at that, nodded.

  And then, since Kate was running around, and Simon was crying for a feeding, the subject of his Day One was dropped.

  Until both kids were down, Jack having read a story to Kate, flipping the pages of Go, Dog, Go and trying not to let his mind drift back to what had happened.

  Then he came out to the kitchen and grabbed a beer.

  Christie sat at the table, reading a paper, but really – he knew – waiting. “So your partner, he’s—”

  Jack pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Good guy. An old pro.” A slug of the beer. “Not in the best of shape but I guess that’s why they paired us up.”

  A pause as she studied him. Christie was smart, one of the things he really liked about her. Intuitive. She was studying him, still with a smile on her face.

  Then: “You think you’re going to like it?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Being a cop? Yeah. Seems to, y’know, to make sense.”

  “Hm?”

  “Being out there. Trying to help people. Protect them. Makes sense.�
��

  Christie’s smile faded a bit. Perhaps some concern creeping into her mind.

  Then she said: “I hear your Dad in that answer.”

  A nod. Jack made no apologies for believing – like his father – that you had to do something to help people. Cop. Fireman. Soldier.

  No doctors in the family yet. Maybe Kate someday. Maybe Simon.

  And when they went to bed, Jack sensed that Christie wanted to make love. Her choice of nightgown. The way she moved.

  It had been awhile.

  Since Simon arrived…. her body recovering, the fatigue.

  Tonight was different.

  He showered. And then slipped under the cool sheets as Christie turned to him immediately, without waiting.

  And for a few moments, the day did indeed vanish.

  But not later.

  He had drifted off, the fatigue of his running, the tension of the day, the almost rough way he had made love to Christie – and he fell into sleep as if leaping off a cliff.

  But he woke up.

  At first, thinking it was just his nerves on edge.

  What he had seen that day, what he had done, and – he admitted to himself – what Schiller had said.

  That’s what he thought woke him up.

  But then he heard a noise.

  Something outside.

  His eyes wide open now. A glance at the clock: 3:15. Not too many hours before he’d have to get up.

  But he heard something.

  Then a new sound. The small cry of a baby.

  He got up, and slid out of the bed as quietly as he could.

  He went into Simon’s room. In their new house, everyone had their own room.

  He went to the crib. Simon’s eyes wide open. Not really crying but making noises.

  Bottles of breast milk were in the refrigerator.

  “What’s up little fella?” Jack whispered.

  Simon looked at Jack, studying him, the baby’s face still neutral…but then that lower lip bending down, the howl about to begin.

  A cry coming.

  And before that infant tidal wave hit, Jack reached down and scooped up the baby, holding Simon close, his little head resting on Jack’s left shoulder.

  He walked downstairs with his new son.

  Now cradling Simon, he watched as the baby sucked at the bottle. Always hungry. Babies. Hungry, or with dirty diapers.

  Then, when Simon stopped feeding, he let the plastic nipple slip from his mouth. But his eyes hadn’t closed. In the darkness of the kitchen, the baby’s eyes glistened, locked on Jack.

  “You don’t look tired,” Jack whispered.

  And he walked out to the living room, the first floor of the split-level ranch house dark, quiet.

  Then the sound again.

  Outside.

  Jack’s eyes darted right and left as if he could see through the walls of the house.

  He walked to the front door and looked out one of the three small glass panes.

  The street outside – all quiet.

  A glance down. The front door locked.

  Then the sound again, now coming from the right. He walked over to the living room window that faced the driveway and the other house next to theirs.

  Jack pulled aside the curtain.

  Seemed empty and quiet there, too.

  Until he noticed the lid of the neighbor’s garbage plastic bin pop up. Once. Twice.

  A small head popped out. Too dark to really see more than the outline, but the shape was clear.

  A raccoon. The neighbor had left the bin’s top unlatched. Or the clever raccoon had just figured a way to open it because, when you’re hungry, that’s what you do—

  And then…

  And then…

  Holding his baby, it came back to him like a lightning flash.

  When you’re hungry, you figure a way in.

  Like that crazed guy who got into that hoarder’s house, and –

  Yeah, go on.

  It’s what happened.

  Go the fuck on.

  And ate him.

  Another thwack as the raccoon came out of the bin, and leaped to the driveway.

  Things must be tough for the raccoons as well.

  The raccoon started waddling its way out to the street, a hungry nighttime Santa, paying a visit to everyone’s garbage cans.

  Jack looked down at Simon.

  His son was asleep.

  And he walked him back to his bed.

  But Jack didn’t go back to bed himself.

  No, he went downstairs and still, with the lights off, he walked around. He looked at the glass panels of the front door. So easy to kick them in, and get at the lock.

  And one lock? Jack could get through that himself in seconds.

  The windows.

  The building in Red Hook had bars. No bars here.

  That would look strange wouldn’t it? thought Jack.

  Bars on the window.

  He could hear Christie’s voice.

  What would the neighbors say? What are you scared of?

  And in Red Hook, the killer…. the eater…the…

  (What? The cannibal? What the hell was he?)

  …got in through the basement. Need to check that too. All the windows, all the doors, the basement, everywhere – everywhere, because—

  Well, he knew what he felt.

  Not that he understood it.

  But what he saw today – what Schiller said – scared him.

  Like there was something secret happening, and maybe only those cops on the beat saw it.

  Things changing, people changing.

  The world changing

  Jack stood there now, in his silent living room, the house, and the neighborhood totally quiet.

  Nothing he could do now.

  And in a few hours, he’d have to drive to the Red Hook precinct for Day Two. To be followed by a Day Three.

  Four. Five.

  But he knew – as sure as he knew anything – that there were things to be done here, right here in his own house.

  Because when you see something.

  (He felt gooseflesh rise on his arms.)

  When you know something that others don’t.

  You better take advantage of that knowledge while you can.

  Before it’s too late.

  Only then, with that resolve, with that promise, did he turn and start back up the stairs.

  No more sleep came, though it felt good for his body to simply lie quiet and still on the bed.

  In a few hours, the hot sun would rise, the city would again begin to cook, and Jack would again be back on its streets. Day Two, only now he’d be looking for more clues, more signs of what the future would bring.

  End

  Copyright (C) 2011 by Matthew Costello

  Art copyright (C) 2011 by Jason Ramirez

  Books by

  Matthew Costello

  Novels

  Sleep Tight (Zebra Books, 1987)

  Revolt on Majipoor (Tor Books, 1987)

  Fate’s Trick: In the World of Robert Heinlein’s Glory Road (Tor Books, 1988)

  Beneath Still Waters (Berkley Books, 1989)

  Wizard of Tizare (Bantam Books, 1989)

  Midsummer (Berkley Books, 1990)

  Child’s Play 2 (Pocket Books, 1990)

  Time of the Fox (New American Library, 1991)

  Wurm (Berkley Books, 1991)

  Child’s Play 3 (Pocket Books, 1991)

  Hour of the Scorpion (New American Library, 1991)

  Darkborn (Berkley Books, 1992)

  Homecoming (Berkley Books, 1992)

  Caught in Time (New American Library, 1992)

  Day of the Snake (New American Library, 1992)

  Garden (Twilight Publishing, 1993)

  See How She Runs (Berkley Books, 1994)

  SeaQuest DSV: Fire Below (Berkley Books, 1994)

  The 7th Guest (with Craig Shaw Gardner; Prima Publishing, 1995)

  Mirage (with F. Paul Wilson;
Warner Books, 1996)

  Masque (with F. Paul Wilson; Warner Books, 1998)

  Maelstrom (Berkley Books, 2000)

  Unidentified (Berkley Books, 2002)

  Artifact (Tor Books, 2003)

  Missing Monday (Berkley Books, 2004)

  The Kids of Einstein Elementary: The Last Dinosaur (with Len Mlodinow; Scholastic Books, 2004)

  King Kong: The Island of the Skull (Pocket Books, 2005)

  Drowned Night (writing as Chris Blaine; Berkley Books, 2005)

  The Kids of Einstein Elementary: The Titanic Cat (with Len Mlodinow; Scholastic Books, 2005)

  In Dreams (writing as Shane Christopher; Berkley Books, 2006)

  Nowhere (writing as Shane Christopher; Berkley Books, 2007)

  Doom 3: Worlds on Fire (Pocket Books, 2008)

  Doom 3: Maelstrom (Pocket Books, 2009)

  Rage (Random House, 2011)

  Vacation (St. Martin’s Press, 2011)

  Jack Murphy and his family need a vacation.

  This one might just kill them

  After a global crisis causes crops to fail and species to disappear, something Masses around the world suddenly become predators, feeding off their own kind. And after one attack leaves NYPD cop Jack Murphy wounded, he takes his wife and kids on a vacation to the Paterville Family Camp–a fortress-like compound in the mountains, where families can still swim and take boats out on a lake.

  At first, it’s idyllic, until Jack makes a gruesome discovery….

  “Matt Costello’s work has always been impressive, but VACATION is just flat-out amazing.”

  —Bentley Little, Stoker Award-winning author

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM ) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Copyright Notice

  I