Résumé With Monsters
Page 16
"Excuse me," the man said. "I believe a historic moment is at hand. We'll continue this lesson in a bit. I just want to take a peek in the Welcoming room. Back in a jiffy—"
What happens next? Why couldn't he remember? Obviously, he had come through MicroMeg. How? There was a rending sound overhead. The voices continued to grow in volume, and it seemed that one voice, suddenly joining the others, was not human at all, was the strange, articulated speech of stone rubbing against stone. A scraping, scrabbling sound came from the ceiling, as though a plague army of rats were clawing their way through the plasterboard.
#
"Philip?"
"What?"
"Philip, this is Lily. Wake up."
"I can't. They are coining through. I think..." "Philip?"
"I think we lost this time."
"No, Philip. All you have to do is wake up."
"Well, I can't."
"I can help you. Tell me where you are?"
"I am beneath the basement of MicroMeg. I am electronically glued to a computer and the Old Ones are coming through."
"A computer."
"Yes."
"Perhaps—"
"Got to go."
#
The voices grew louder. Amelia! Amelia was in the hall, lying at the bottom of a mail cart and covered by a tarp. He remembered that, remembered how she had refused to let the incident go, how she had insisted that being bound and stuffed into a mail cart was symptomatic of a relationship on the skids. She had moved out—moved, indeed, all the way to Austin.
But the point was she had survived the incident. She had not been killed by Cthulhu or enslaved by Yog-Sothoth. Somehow, she had lived.
I rescued her, he thought. But how? And perhaps what happened then was not relevant to this returning. Perhaps this time the doom was final, and the black shroud of destruction would enfold the earth. "Philip."
"Lily?"
"Philip, listen. MicroMeg was destroyed. You told me MicroMeg was destroyed."
"I can't remember."
"The kid in the mail room. He was going to destroy MicroMeg."
"And Hal Ketch blew his head off."
"How was he going to do it?"
"What?"
"How was he going to destroy MicroMeg?"
"Bombs. He had planted bombs throughout the building. But they killed him and removed the bombs."
"Maybe they didn't get them all. Maybe they didn't get all the bombs."
Above Philip, the rumbling intensified. His vision shifted, and he saw his coworkers, saw that their eyes were fixed on the computer screens, their fingers jiggling. Business as usual during Armageddon.
He heard Lily's voice again, but it was far away, faint, and he could not make out what she was saying. Something about the computer.
Any computer in MicroMeg.
F.F. had said, "It's all linked through the mainframes. I can go to any computer in this joint, execute the command, and Kablam! the Philistines are dust again, and Jesus is hugging Himself for joy."
What if they hadn't gotten every single bomb? Flatulent Freddie had been busy, busy as a beaver. He had that smirky, something-up-the-sleeve look, a trickster, a clever crazy. What if they hadn't cleaned out his stash?
If that were the case, Philip could just execute the command, and... and Kablam!
And what was the command? F.F. had not volunteered that information. It would be hidden, of course. It wouldn't be brazenly sitting on any directory. It might move around, might—
I know what the command is. Was he remembering it or had he really figured it out? Well, if he was remembering it now, he had had to figure it out before, right? Again, reflections on the loop of time threatened to paralyze him. No time for that.
Voices roared. Silver shapes pressed against the ceiling. A large eye glared malevolently from a nest of bright, wirelike filaments.
"The Philistines are dust," Flatulent Freddie had said.
Samson. The command was Samson. And Philip was powerless to execute it. He was a ghost inside his own mind.
SAMSON!
"Philip, can you hear me?"
Not right now, Lily.
Philip screamed at his frozen hands. Move! Dammit, move!
Nothing. "Philip. Philip."
Not right now. Not— Wait.
"Lily. Take my hands. Hold my hands."
"Philip. Wake up."
"Lily. I need you to hold my hands. Squeeze them as hard as you can."
"Philip—"
"Right now!"
Nothing. Wait. Philip saw the fingers of his hands contract.
"Yes. That's right. Now Lily, you need to do exactly as I tell you."
"All right, Philip."
"Take the ring finger of my left hand and push it down, hard, don't worry about hurting me, press it down h—"
The finger moved. On the screen a green "S" appeared behind the glowing cursor.
Yes.
"Now the little finger of that same hand."
An "A" appeared. Philip continued to speak rapidly. Lily followed his instructions. The caps marched across the screen, bright warriors: "M. S. O. M."
Jesus. Not "M," "N." The backspace/delete key was up from the right hand, about two inches to the right.
"Lily. We hit the wrong key. Lift my right hand up and move it about two inches forward and to my right. Stop. Maybe a half inch more to the right. Okay. Press down the little finger. Okay! Great. Now back. I need an 'N' now. That's the first finger of the right hand down and a little to the left. All right. Now shift my right hand over. We need to execute the command. That's the little f—"
"Well, well. What are you up to, Philip?"
Ronald Bickwithers' smiling face loomed into view. His eyes were almost luminous with excitement.
"One of the techs paged me. Said we had some unauthorized movement. I really hated leaving the Welcoming, but I'm a manager, and
I have a manager's obligations. So I thought I'd take a look. I'm disappointed. This is not what we are paying you for, Philip."
Bickwithers reached toward the keyboard.
Philip watched his own finger press the "execute" key. Blip.
Bickwithers' hands stopped moving toward the keyboard.
PRAISE JESUS PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS !
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS !
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS ! PRAISE JESUS !
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS !
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS !
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
PRAISE JESUS! PRAISE JESUS!
The computer screen glowed with green rejoicing, filling completely and then beginning to scroll. Then it went blank.
Overhead, the ceiling was ballooning. Large, mercury-silver globules the size of basketballs detached and fell, slowly as though almost weightless. They hit the floor and exploded softly—pock! pock! pock!—and some living thing began to reassemble itself. As a work in progress, it was grotesque beyond description, and Philip knew somehow that the finished product would be yet more hideous.
He saw his hands in front of him, pushing the computer terminal over. It toppled with a crash. The program had released him from his electronic thralldom. Around him, other employees were tumbling or attempting to stand or clawing the air with their hands. One man was screaming as he staggered to his feet, his mouth spewing shattered teeth and blood.
A muffled thud sounded overhead. Then two sharp cracks. Yes. F.F. had managed to hide a few of them. But would it be enough?
Philip's vision lurched as Bickwithers enfolded him.
"You rotten malcontent!" Bickwithers screamed. "Slacker. Bum. Lazy welfare parasite scum!"
They rolled on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Philip could see a monster rebuilding itself. For the first time in his life, Philip prayed. Sweet Jesus, he prayed. We need more bombs.
And, perhaps because he had not overused prayer, had not used it for trivial petitions, an explosion answered his plea. The room turned into deafening noise and a welter of flying objects. The ceiling was snapped open. A scream of rage echoed across six hundred million years, and the thing on the floor vibrated and jerked like a snake in the jaws of an invisible bird of prey. It rose in the air, twisting, and disappeared in the roiling dust that poured down from the ruined ceiling.
Philip staggered to his feet. Bickwithers did not rise. He lay amid large shards of cinderblock, his bald head gushing blood. His wig lay just out of the reach of his outstretched hand, as though he had meant to retrieve it and so restore order.
Too late, Philip thought.
I QUIT.
Philip turned and fled. MicroMeg rained down. The vast pistons were stilled in the room of giant machinery.
The world was reduced to snapshots of falling concrete and plaster and dangling cables and hissing ducts.
He found the mail cart in the hall, tore the tarp away and felt his heart leap with thanksgiving. Amelia was alive, her eyes bright with that clear intelligence and fire that had so attracted him to begin with.
I'LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.
#
Whup. "Philip, thank God." Lily was looking down on him. Her features were a map of concern and compassion. Philip lay smiling up at her. He forgot, momentarily, that the use of his body was returned to him, so he did not respond or try to move until his therapist asked him if, in fact, he could move.
"Well yes, I think I can," Philip said, pushing himself into a sitting position.
"This hypnosis was not such a hot idea after all," Lily said, once she had helped him into a chair. She was shaking. He realized it had been an ordeal for her too.
"On the contrary," Philip said. "Hypnosis was a great idea. Without it I think the world as we know it would have ceased to exist."
Later that day when Philip went to Group, Olivia asked how he was doing.
"I think I have had a breakthrough," Philip said. "I'm beginning to see Amelia's side of things."
"Amelia?"
"My ex-girlfriend. I'm beginning to understand why we broke up."
"Yes?"
"I think she wanted someone a little more solid. I mean, what kind of life can a woman have with a novelist?"
part three
the perils of pelidyne
1.
Four months after the publication of the first volume of The Despicable Quest (entitled The Blight), Philip received his first fan letter, forwarded by his publisher without comment. The envelope was purple and the letter was handwritten on purple stationery in a large, exuberant script:
Dear Philip—
I stayed up all night reading this book, and all I can say is Wow! and Wow! again. It was sooooo good.
I can't wait to find out what happens next. Does Daphne escape from Bleakham? Don't tell me.
Dirk, my boyfriend, doesn't like you. He is jealous. Ha Ha. He wanted some action last night, and I said, "No thank you. Get that thing away from me. I am reading this great book, and I can't be bothered."
Naturally, we had a fight. When he passed out I took my picture out of his wallet.
I am sending you this picture to serve him right. I think you are a great writer, and I hope the next book comes out soon.
Love, Sissy Deal
PS I liked your picture, but I think you should get a new one made for the next book. You look too sad, I think. I also think the mustache should go. My guess is it was just an experiment, and maybe your friends have already voted and you have shaved it off. I can tell by your eyes that you are a very sweet and caring person, so the mustache doesn't fool me, but it is kind of shifty and some people might find it a definite turn-off.
Philip studied Sissy's photo and rubbed his upper lip; the mustache had been a mistake, deleted soon after the book's publication, and he was impressed by this stranger's insight. He was equally impressed by the photo which showed a young woman wearing a Panama hat and nothing else. The photo was taken outside, next to a bright yellow plastic wading pool. She had obviously been persuaded to remove her bathing suit—the blue bikini top lay in the grass at her feet—and the whiteness of her breasts and hips indicated that she was not in the habit of going nude outdoors. She rested her hands on her hips, leaning slightly forward, her lithe body easily dispensing with any artistic cavils regarding composition and lighting. She was laughing, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders in a shining tangle. Philip couldn't see her eyes, which were lost in the shadow of the hat's brim, but he knew they were full of high-spirited mischief, and he suspected they were blue.
If he were only going to get one fan letter, Philip thought, this wasn't a bad one to get. He wrote her back—to an address in Tallahassee.
"Dear Sissy," he began, "Your Letter arrived at a low point for me, professionally and personally, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kind words and the charming photo you enclosed. I fear I have bad news for the both of us. My publisher has just informed me that the dismal performance of my first book makes continuing the series untenable. I have also learned that my ex-girlfriend is getting married, which destroys my dream of a reconciliation."
When Philip had gotten out of the psychiatric hospital, he had hoped to persuade Amelia to come and live with him. "I'm a changed man," he told her. "I had some major revelations in treatment. I see your side of things, now. And I'm on very effective medication. No more Cthulhu. No more Yog-Sothoth."
Amelia had been skeptical, of course, but that was just to be expected. He hoped to win her back with patience and love.
But he made no progress toward the harbor of her heart. Although she agreed to see him for an occasional Saturday lunch date, she remained skittish, as though he might at any moment tie her up and deposit her in another mail cart.
Philip was worried about Amelia's employment at Pelidyne, and when he saw her, he was often dismayed by the extent to which the workplace ruled her conversation. He saw no signs of domination by malevolent creatures from outer space—this medication really did work— but her world seemed narrow and airless and unhealthy. She seemed paler than usual— although this might be a new cosmetic experiment—and her mouth had lost some of its lively delight in the words it formed.
He loved her. He was worried about her. He felt that she was moving away from him.