Stephen Jones (ed)

by The Mammoth Book of Zombies (mobi)

  Of course she wasn't there.

  And she couldn't have been, because there was no fire escape. I gazed down at a sheer drop of five floors to the closed and empty courtyard below. It was black down there, black as the Ace of Spades.

  I don't know what I should have done under the circumstances; all I know is what I did do.

  I shoved my head under the cold water faucet, towelled my face dry, dressed, and rushed out of my room in search of a drink.

  And that's when the next nightmare started.

  There was this little joint three blocks south of the hotel. I ran all the way, couldn't stop running until I'd covered that much distance. The street was deserted and it was dark, and only this little joint had a rose light burning in the window. It was the light that drew me, because I was afraid of the dark.

  I opened the door and a blast of smoke and sound hit me in the face but I ploughed through it blindly to the bar.

  "Shot of whiskey!" I said, and meant it.

  The bartender was a tall, thin man and he had a glass eye that almost fell out as he bent his head while pouring my drink. I didn't pay very much attention to it at the time; I was too busy getting the drink down.

  Then it fascinated me. I didn't want to stare at it, so I looked away - looked down the bar, into the seething centre of smoke and sound.

  That was a mistake.

  Sitting on the stool next to me was a little man who was sipping a glass of beer. He had to sip, because he had no arms. He lapped at the glass the way a cat laps at a saucer of cream. Watching him was a blind man. Don't ask me how I knew he could see, but I got the impression of watching from the tilt of the head, the focus of the dark glasses.

  I whirled around and nearly collided with the man on crutches. He was standing there arguing with the man on the floor - the one without legs. Down the bar a way; somebody was banging with a steel hook affixed to his elbow. I could scarcely hear the thumping because the juke box was playing so loudly. Sure enough, there were dancers present; the inevitable two women, both of them engrossed in their movements. They had to watch carefully, because both of them were on crutches.

  There were others present, too - others in the booths. The man with the bandaged head. The man with the hole where his nose should be. The man with the great purple growth bulging over his collar. The lame, the halt, the blind.

  They didn't pay any attention to me. They were having fun. And in a moment I realized what I'd stumbled into. It was a street beggar's tavern. I saw the tin cup set alongside the shot glass, the placard resting against the beer bottle. What was the name of the dump in Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris? "The Court of Miracles" he called it. And this was it.

  They were happy enough, drinking. They forgot their physical ills. Maybe liquor would cure me of my mental ills. It was worth a try. So I had another drink.

  Along about the third drink somebody must have slipped out. Along about the fourth drink somebody must have come back. And in a minute or two, she walked in.

  I didn't see her, at first. The reason I sensed her presence was because the noise cut down. The juke box stopped and didn't start again. The conversation dropped to a hush.

  That's when I looked around and noticed her. She was sitting in a booth, all alone, just watching me.

  She made a little gesture of invitation and I shook my head. That was all. Then she raised her glass and offered me a silent toast.

  I turned, noted my re-filled glass, and toasted her. Then I downed my drink. The bartender with the glass eye had another waiting for me.

  "On the lady," he said.

  "No thanks, chum."

  He looked at me. "Whats a matter? She's a nice lady."

  "Sure she is. Nobody's questioning that."

  "So whyn'cha drink it?"

  "I've had enough, that's why." I had, enough and to spare, I suddenly realized. The room was beginning to spin a little.

  "Come on, drink up. We're all friends here."

  The bartender didn't look friendly. Neither did anyone else. For the first time I grew aware of the fact that everyone was looking at me. Not at her - at me. The legless, the armless, the blind. In fact, the blind man took off his dark glasses in order to see me better, and one of the crowd slapped his crutch on the bar and walked a little closer.

  The Court of Miracles! Where the blind see and the lame walk! Of course it was; and half of these beggars were fakes. They were as sound as I was - sounder, perhaps.

  And there was a whole roomful of them, all looking at me. None of them seemed happy any longer. They were quiet; so quiet I could hear the click of the key in the lock as the armless man locked the door.

  Oh, he had arms now; they'd emerged from beneath a bulky vest. But I wasn't interested in that. I was interested in the fact that the door was locked. And I was here, inside.

  She stared and they stared.

  The bartender said, "How about it, chum?"

  "Not today." I stood up. That is, I tried to stand up. My legs were wobbly. Something was wrong with them. Something was wrong with my eyes, too.

  "What's the trouble?" drawled the bartender. "Afraid of being slipped a Mickey?"

  "No!" It was hard to talk. Only gasps came out. "You already slipped me one the drink before this. When she came in, and gave you the signal."

  "Wise guy, huh?"

  "Yes!" I managed to spin around, fast. Fast enough to grab the whiskey bottle off the bar and hold it cocked. My other hand supported me.

  "Now - open that door or I'll let you have it," I panted. "Come on, move fast."

  The bartender shrugged. There was neither fear nor malice in his glass eye.

  My own eyes were turning to glass. I tried to focus them on the bartender, tried not to look at the creeping, crawling cripples that slithered closer all around me, brandishing canes and crutches and uttering little grunts and whimpers and moans.

  "Open that door!" I wheezed, while they crept closer and closer, stretching out their arms and tensing to spring.

  "All right, chum!"

  That was the signal for them to rush me. Somebody swung a crutch, somebody clawed at my legs. I began to spin and go down.

  I swung the bottle, clearing an arc, and they fell back, but only for a moment. The bartender aimed a punch, so I swung the bottle again.

  Then they came back. It was like fighting underwater, like fighting in a dream. And this was a dream, a nightmare of crawlers, of slithering shapes tearing at me, dragging me down.

  The bartender hit me again, so I raised the bottle and brought it down. It landed on his head with a dull crunch.

  For a moment he stood there, and the glass eye popped out of its socket and rolled along the bar. It stared up at him and watched as he sagged slowly and fell.

  Then it stared at me as the man with the artificial arm hit me across the neck with the hook.

  I felt the blow land and melt my spine.

  The glass eye watched as I collapsed into roaring darkness and when I went down, it winked.

  When I woke up, she was stroking my forehead.

  Not bad. Lots of men would have traded places with me at the moment - lying there in the cool dusk, on a comfortable bed, with a beautiful blonde stroking my forehead.

  Too bad some other guy didn't show up, because I would have traded him in a flash.

  I'd have thrown in a splitting headache, free of charge, and a taste in the mouth like the bottom of the Chicago Drainage Canal.

  But nobody showed up to take my place, so I just stayed there. When she said, "Drink this," I drank. When she said, "Close your eyes and wait for the pain to go away," I closed my eyes and waited.

  Miraculously, the pain went away.

  The headache and the taste vanished. I opened my eyes again, wiggled my fingers and toes.

  I was lying on this bed in a darkened room. The shades were drawn, but enough light filtered through to bring life to the diamond choker and the diamond ring and the diamond eyes. The diamond eyes regarded me c
andidly.

  "Feel better now?"

  "Yes."

  "That's good. Then there's nothing to worry about."

  How right she was. Nothing to worry about except where I was, and why. I suppose a little of my bitterness crept over into my reply.

  "Thanks," I said. "Thanks for everything you've done for me. Including getting me knocked out."

  "That's no way to look at it," answered the blonde. "After all, I saved your life."

  "You mean those beggars would have killed me?"

  "No. But the police might."

  "Police?"

  "Yes." She drew a long breath. "After all, you did murder that bartender."

  "What?"

  "You hit him with the bottle. He's dead."

  I sat up, faster than I would have believed possible. "Come on, let me out of here," I snapped.

  "They'll be on the lookout for you," she told me. "It's not safe for you to go just now. You're among friends here."

  "Friends!"

  "Don't misunderstand. If you'd only listened to me in the first place and come along sensibly, all this would never have happened."

  I had no answer for that one. All I knew was that if she spoke the truth, I was a murderer. And I knew what they did to murderers. They sat them down in a chair and turned on the juice and fried them. A faint odor of singed flesh tainted my nostrils.

  "How do I know you're not lying?" I asked.

  "I can furnish proof if you like, later. Right now, I want you to meet a friend." She put her hand on my shoulder and even through the shirt I could feel the icy coldness of her flesh. She was cold and hard, like a diamond.

  "As long as I'm meeting friends, we might as well establish a few facts," I suggested. "You know my name. Now, what's yours? And where am I?"

  She smiled and stood up. "My name is Vera. Vera LaValle. We are in a home on the South Side. And, although you didn't think to ask me, it's Monday evening. You've been unconscious for almost forty-eight hours."

  I stood up, then. It wasn't a spectacular performance. I glanced down at myself in the dim light and what I saw wasn't pretty.

  "Why don't you go in and bathe, clean up a bit?" Vera suggested. "I'll go out and bring back some food. You can eat it before our meeting."

  Without waiting for my reply, she went out. Went out and locked the door.

  It was getting to be a habit. Everybody that I met locked me in. Of course, that's what you do with murderers. Dangerous people to have around. Always killing bartenders, for instance. And if I was a murderer…

  I doubted it. The whole thing was phoney from start to finish. Things like that just didn't happen to me. I was the original timid soul. Couldn't lick my weight in wild flowers.

  Then, again…

  There was blood on my suit. Blood on my shirt. Blood on the back of my neck, crusted blood from where the steel hook had landed.

  I went into the bathroom, filled the tub, undressed, bathed. There was a nice array of soap and towels, all laid out and waiting for me.

  I even found an electric shaver to plug in. I felt a lot better once I was cleaned up.

  When I dressed, I was surprised to discover a fresh white shirt conveniently placed on top of a clothes hamper. My genial host or hostess thought of everything.

  By the time I stepped out of the bathroom she had returned. She had four sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, a double cardboard cup of coffee, and a wedge of pie. She didn't say anything while I ate. It only took me about six minutes to dispose of the meal and latch onto a cigarette from my pocket. I offered her one.

  "No, thanks. I do not smoke."

  "Funny. I thought all women did nowadays."

  "I tried it once. Many years ago. Of course, it wasn't a cigarette."

  This didn't seem to be getting me anywhere. "About that friend I was going to meet. Where is he?"

  "Waiting outside the door," she said. "Shall I ask him in?"

  "By all means. Don't keep the gentleman waiting." My tone was facetious, but I didn't feel very gay. I don't know what I really expected. Years of reading - and writing - horror fiction had conditioned me to almost everything. A Mad Doctor, perhaps, coming to recommend a certain brand of cigarettes. A Mad Scientist with a beaker-full of monkey glands. A Mad Professor with a driver's license for a flying saucer.

  The last person I expected to see when the door opened was a friend. But it was a friend who walked in. It was Cono.

  Cono Colluri. The man who died in the electric chair.

  He stood there in the twilight and looked at me. He wore a battered trench-coat with the collar turned up, and he had a hat pulled down over his eyes like a movie gangster, but I recognized him. It wasn't a double, or a stooge, or somebody made up to resemble him. It was Cono. Cono in the flesh. The dead flesh -reanimate and alive!

  Changed? Of course he had changed. There was a dreadful facial tic, where the muscles had been pulled and torn by the convulsive spasm of the shock. And he was pale. Pale as death. But he lived. He walked. He talked…

  "Hello, Bob. I've been waiting for you."

  "She - she told me."

  "Too bad you wouldn't come at once. I should have used more sense, let her tell you who wanted to see you. But I figured you wouldn't of believed her."

  "Yes. I guess that's right." I fumbled for words while he stood there, stood there looking at me. "How - how are you?"

  That was a fine thing to ask. But he didn't seem to mind.

  In fact, he smiled. The smile creased the side of his face and got tangled up in the tic, but he made it. "Oh, I'll live," he said. "I'll live forever."

  "What?"

  "That's the pitch, Bob. That's why I had to see you. I'm going to live forever. Varek fixed that."

  Varek? Where had I heard that name before?

  "He's the one who claimed my body. You remember."

  Yes, I remembered. The mysterious cousin. "But how did he know you weren't dead, and how did he revive you?"

  "I was dead, Bob. Deader'n a doornail. And he fixed me up. He can fix anybody up, Bob. Bring them back. Make it so's they never die. And that's where you come in."

  "Me?"

  "I been telling him about you. About how smart you are, all that stuff you write. He needs somebody like you for the outside - to front. Somebody with brains. Young. And alive."

  Alive. I was alive, all right, but I wondered if I was awake and sane. Talking to a dead man…

  "Come here, Bob. I can see you don't believe me."

  I moved closer to Cono.

  "Feel my skin. Go ahead."

  I put my hand on his wrist. It was cold. Cold, but solid. Up close I could see the waxen pallor of Cono's face. Cono's death-mask. The tic rippled across it and he smiled again.

  "Don't be scared. I'm real. It's real. He can do it. He can bring back the dead. Don't you see what it means? What a big thing it is, if it's handled right?"

  "I see. But I still can't understand where I fit in."

  "Varek will tell you all about it. Come on, I want you to talk to him."

  I followed Cono Colluri out of the room. Vera smiled and nodded as we left, but she didn't accompany us as we walked down the long corridor to a stairway. Descending the stairs into the soft, subdued light of the parlours below, I became conscious of a peculiar odor. It smelled like stale air, steam heat and the scent of mingled flowers.

  "Say, just where are we, anyway?" I asked.

  "Funeral home," Cono answered. "Didn't you know?"

  I hadn't known. But I might have guessed. Living quarters upstairs and down here the parlours. The parlours, the soft lights and the scent of flowers.

  We walked across a carpeted hallway, and I glanced around me. It was the way Cono had said; this was a funeral home, and a rather shabby one. Perhaps that's why there were no bodies lying in state, no mourners. Varek had set this up for a front, and I rather suspected that if I made a dash for it and tried the front door I would find it locked.

  But I didn't make a dash fo
r it. I followed Cono into the darkened parlor to the left, to meet Mr Varek.

  I walked in and Cono lumbered over to the corner. He walked stiffly, awkwardly. The muscles in his body were taut with shock. But he did pretty well for a dead man.

  He was turning on a lamp in the corner, he was closing the door behind us. I paid no attention. I was staring down at the coffin on the trestle. Staring down at the body in the coffin. The body of the man with the glass eye.

  It was the bartender I'd killed.

  He lay there on the cheap satin, dressed in a worn black suit. Somebody had put the glass eye back in place and it stared up at me sardonically. The other eye was closed, and the general effect was that of a wink.

  There we were - me and the man I'd killed. I looked at him, and he looked at me.

  He looked at me!

  Yes. It happened. The eyelid rolled back. The eye opened. It focussed on me. And the mouth, the bound mouth, relaxed its smirk. The lips parted.

  And from the corpse came the voice: "Hello, Bob. I'm Nicolo Varek."

  "You - "

  "Oh, I'm not the bartender you killed. He's dead enough, as you can see for yourself. His body isn't breathing."

  It wasn't, either. The corpse was still a corpse, but something was alive, something lived inside it. Lived and looked and talked.

  "I'm just taking temporary residence. So that I can talk to you, without having to travel a great distance. You can appreciate the convenience."

  I couldn't, at that moment. I could only stand and gape and feel the sweat trickling down under my armpits.

  "You've been a long time coming, Bob. But it was inevitable that we should meet. Cono has told me all about you, and of course I have other ways of gaining information. Many ways."

  "I'm sure." It came out before I could stop it, but the corpse chuckled. The sound was a death-rattle.

  "How typical of you to say that. How characteristic! Ah, yes, I've studied your background, your work. You interest me greatly. That is why I have gone to all this trouble to arrange our meeting."

  I nodded, but said nothing. I was waiting.

  "I'm inclined to give Cono credit for finding you. It's quite true, I can use you."

  "Dead or alive?" That remark came out before I could stop it, too.