Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  battle. Tomorrow they’d exchange tales of their adventures, but for today they must behave as if they didn’t know each other, not even to exchange a smile. For today

  they had to be utterly partisan, caring only for the

  victory of their own city over the opposition.

  Now the first leg of Popolac was erected, to the mutual

  satisfaction of Metzinger and Vaslav. All the safety

  checks had been meticulously made, and the leg left the

  square, its shadow falling hugely across the face of the

  Town Hall.

  Vaslav sipped his sweet, sweet coffee and allowed

  himself a little grunt of satisfaction. Such days, such

  days. Days filled with glory, with snapping flags and high,

  stomach-turning sights, enough to last a man a lifetime.

  It was a golden foretaste of Heaven.

  Let America have its simple pleasures, its cartoon

  mice, its candy-coated castles, its cults and its technologies, he wanted none of it. The greatest wonder of the world was here, hidden in the hills.

  Ah, such days.

  In the main square of Podujevo the scene was no less

  animated, and no less inspiring. Perhaps there was a

  muted sense of sadness underlying this year’s celebration, but that was understandable. Nita Obrenovic, Podujevo’s loved and respected organizer, was no longer

  living. The previous winter had claimed her at the age of

  ninety-four, leaving the city bereft of her fierce opinions

  and her fiercer proportions. For sixty years Nita had

  worked with the citizens of Podujevo, always planning

  for the next contest and improving on the designs, her

  energies spent on making the next creation more ambitious and more lifelike than the last.

  Now she was dead, and sorely missed. There was no

  disorganization in the streets without her, the people

  were far too disciplined for that, but they were already

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  Clive Barker

  falling behind schedule, and it was almost seven-twenty-

  five. Nita’s daughter had taken over in her mother’s

  stead, but she lacked Nita’s power to galvanize the

  people into action. She was, in a word, too gentle for the

  job in hand. It required a leader who was part prophet

  and part ringmaster, to coax and bully and inspire the

  citizens into their places. Maybe, after two or three

  decades, and with a few' more contests under her belt,

  Nita Obrenovic’s daughter would make the grade. But

  for today Podujevo was behindhand; safety-checks were

  being overlooked; nervous looks replaced the confidence

  of earlier years.

  Nevertheless, at six minutes before eight the first limb

  of Podujevo made its way out of the city to the assembly

  point, to wait for its fellow.

  By that time the flanks were already lashed together in

  Popolac, and armed contingents were awaiting orders in

  the Town Square.

  Mick woke promptly at seven, though there was no alarm

  clock in their simply furnished room at the Hotel

  Beograd. He lay in his bed and listened to Judd’s regular

  breathing from the twin bed across the room. A dull

  morning light whimpered through the thin curtains, not

  encouraging an early departure. After a few minutes’

  staring at the cracked paintwork on the ceiling, and a

  while longer at the crudely carved crucifix on the opposite wall, Mick got up and went to the window. It was a dull day, as he had guessed. The sky was overcast, and

  the roofs of Novi Pazar were grey and featureless in the

  flat morning light. But beyond the roofs, to the east, he

  could see the hills. There was sun there. He could see

  shafts of light catching the blue-green of the forest,

  inviting a visit to their slopes.

  Today maybe they would go south to Kosovska

  Mitrovica. There was a market there, wasn’t there, and a

  museum? And they could drive down the valley of the

  In The Hills, The Cities

  33

  Ibar, following the road beside the river, where the hills

  rose wild and shining on either side. The hills, yes; today

  he decided they would see the hills.

  It was eight-fifteen.

  By nine the main bodies of Popolac and Podujevo were

  substantially assembled. In their allotted districts the

  limbs of both cities were ready and waiting to join their

  expectant torsos.

  Vaslav Jelovsek capped his gloved hands over his eyes

  and surveyed the sky. The cloud-base had risen in the

  last hour, no doubt of it, and there were breaks in the

  clouds to the west; even, on occasion, a few glimpses of

  the sun. It wouldn’t be a perfect day for the contest

  perhaps, but certainly adequate.

  Mick and Judd breakfasted late on hemendeks— roughly

  translated as ham and eggs— and several cups of good

  black coffee. It was brightening up, even in Novi Pazar,

  and their ambitions were set high. Kosovska Mitrovica

  by lunchtime, and maybe a visit to the hill-castle of

  Zvecan in the afternoon.

  About nine-thirty they motored out of Novi Pazar and

  took the Srbovac road south to the Ibar valley. Not a

  good road, but the bumps and potholes couldn’t spoil the

  new day.

  The road was empty, except for the occasional pedestrian; and in place of the maize and com fields they’d passed on the previous day the road was flanked by

  undulating hills, whose sides were thickly and darkly

  forested. Apart from a few birds, they saw no wildlife.

  Even their infrequent travelling companions petered out

  altogether after a few miles, and the occasional farmhouse they drove by appeared locked and shuttered up.

  Black pigs ran unattended in the yard, with no child to

  feed them. Washing snapped and billowed on a sagging

  line, with no washerwoman in sight.

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  Clive Barker

  At first this solitary journey through the hills was

  refreshing in its lack of human contact, but as the

  morning drew on, an uneasiness grew on them.

  “Shouldn’t we have seen a signpost to Mitrovica,

  Mick?”

  He peered at the map.

  “Maybe . . .”

  “— we’ve taken the wrong road.”

  “ If there’d been a sign, I’d have seen it. I think we

  should try and get off this road, bear south a bit

  more— meet the valley closer to Mitrovica than we’d

  planned.”

  “How do we get off this bloody road?”

  “There’ve been a couple of turnings . . . ”

  “Dirt-tracks.”

  “Well it’s either that or going on the way we are.”

  Judd pursed his lips.

  “Cigarette?” he asked.

  “Finished them miles back.”

  In front of them, the hills formed an impenetrable

  line. There was no sign of life ahead; no frail wisp of

  chimney smoke, no sound of voice or vehicle.

  “All right,” said Judd, “we take the next turning.

  Anything’s better than this.”

  They drove on. The road was deteriorating rapidly, the

  potholes becoming craters, the hummocks feeling like

  bodies beneath the wheels.

  Then:

  “There!�
��

  A turning: a palpable turning. Not a major road,

  certainly. In fact barely the dirt-track Judd had described the other roads as being, but it was an escape from the endless perspective of the road they were

  trapped on.

  “This is becoming a bloody safari,” said Judd as the

  VW began to bump and grind its way along the doleful

  little track.

  In The Hills, The Cities

  35

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I forgot to pack it.”

  They were beginning to climb now, as the track wound

  its way up into the hills. The forest closed over them,

  blotting out the sky, so a shifting patchwork of light and

  shadow scooted over the bonnet as they drove. There

  was birdsong suddenly, vacuous and optimistic, and a

  smell of new pine and undug earth. A fox crossed the

  track, up ahead, and watched a long moment as the car

  grumbled up towards it. Then, with the leisurely stride of

  a fearless prince, it sauntered away into the trees.

  Wherever they were going, Mick thought, this was

  better than the road they’d left. Soon maybe they’d stop,

  and walk a while, to find a promontory from which they

  could see the valley, even Novi Pazar, nestled behind

  them.

  The two men were still an hour’s drive from Popolac

  when the head of the contingent at last marched out of

  the Town Square and took up its position with the main

  body.

  This last exit left the city completely deserted. Not

  even the sick or the old were neglected on this day; no

  one was to be denied the spectacle and the triumph of the

  contest. Every single citizen, however young or infirm,

  the blind, the crippled, babes in arms, pregnant women

  — all made their way up from their proud city to the

  stamping ground. It was the law that they should attend:

  but it needed no enforcing. No citizen of either city

  would have missed the chance to see that sight— to

  experience the thrill of that contest.

  The confrontation had to be total, city against city.

  This was the way it had always been.

  So the cities went up into the hills. By noon they were

  gathered, the citizens of Popolac and Podujevo, in the

  secret well of the hills, hidden from civilized eyes, to do

  ancient and ceremonial battle.

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  Clive Barker

  Tens of thousands of hearts beat faster. Tens of

  thousands of bodies stretched and strained and sweated

  as the twin cities took their positions. The shadows of

  the bodies darkened tracts of land the size of small

  towns; the weight of their feet trampled the grass to a

  green milk; their movement killed animals, crushed

  bushes and threw down trees. The earth literally reverberated with their passage, the hills echoing with the booming din of their steps.

  In the towering body of Podujevo, a few technical

  hitches were becoming apparent. A slight flaw in the

  knitting of the left flank had resulted in a weakness there;

  and there were consequent problems in the swivelling

  mechanism of the hips. It was stiffer than it should be,

  and the movements were not smooth. As a result there

  was considerable strain being put upon that region of the

  city. It was being dealt with bravely; after all, the contest

  was intended to press the contestants to their limits. But

  breaking point was closer than anyone would have dared

  to admit. The citizens were not as resilient as they had

  been in previous contests. A bad decade for crops had

  produced bodies less well-nourished, spines less supple,

  wills less resolute. The badly knitted flank might not

  have caused an accident in itself, but further weakened

  by the frailty of the competitors it set a scene for death

  on an unprecedented scale.

  They stopped the car.

  “Hear that?”

  Mick shook his head. His hearing hadn’t been good

  since he was an adolescent. Too many rock shows had

  blown his eardrums to hell.

  Judd got out of the car.

  The birds were quieter now. The noise he’d heard as

  they drove came again. It wasn’t simply a noise: it was

  almost a motion in the earth, a roar that seemed seated

  in the substance of the hills.

  In The Hills, The Cities

  37

  Thunder, was it?

  No, too rhythmical. It came again, through the soles of

  the feet—

  Boom.

  Mick heard it this time. He leaned out of the car

  window.

  “It’s up ahead somewhere. I hear it now.”

  Judd nodded.

  Boom.

  The earth-thunder sounded again.

  “What the hell is it?” said Mick.

  “Whatever it is, I want to see it— ”

  Judd got back into the Volkswagen, smiling.

  “Sounds almost like guns,” he said, starting the car.

  “ Big guns.”

  Through his Russian-made binoculars Vaslav Jelovsek

  watched the starting-official raise his pistol. He saw the

  feather of white smoke rise from the barrel, and a second

  later heard the sound of the shot across the valley.

  The contest had begun.

  He looked up at twin towers of Popolac and Podujevo.

  Heads in the clouds—well almost. They practically

  stretched to touch the sky. It was an awesome sight, a

  breath-stopping, sleep-stabbing sight. Two cities swaying

  and writhing and preparing to take their first steps

  towards each other in this ritual battle.

  Of the two, Podujevo seemed the less stable. There was

  a slight hesitation as the city raised its left leg to begin its

  march. Nothing serious, just a little difficulty in coordinating hip and thigh muscles. A couple of steps and the city would find its rhythm; a couple more and its

  inhabitants would be moving as one creature, one perfect giant set to match its grace and power against its mirror-image.

  The gunshot had sent flurries of birds up from the

  trees that banked the hidden valley. They rose up in

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  Clive Barker

  celebration of the great contest, chattering their excitement as they swooped over the stamping-ground.

  “Did you hear a shot?” asked Judd.

  Mick nodded.

  “Military exercises . . . ?” Judd’s smile had broadened. He could see the headlines already—exclusive reports of secret maneuvers in the depths of the Yugoslavian countryside. Russian tanks perhaps, tactical exercises being held out of the West’s prying sight. With luck, he would be the carrier of this news.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  There were birds in the air. The thunder was louder

  now.

  It did sound like guns.

  “It’s over the next ridge . . .” said Judd.

  “I don’t think we should go any further.”

  “I have to see.”

  “I don’t. We’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I don’t see any signs.”

  “They’ll cart us away; deport us— I don’t know— I

  just think— ”

  Boom.

  “ I’ve got to see.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth
when the

  screaming started.

  Podujevo was screaming: a death-cry. Someone buried

  in the weak flank had died of the strain, and had begun a

  chain of decay in the system. One man loosed his

  neighbor and that neighbor loosed his, spreading a

  cancer of chaos through the body of the city. The

  coherence of the towering structure deteriorated with

  terrifying rapidity as the failure of one part of the

  anatomy put unendurable pressure on the other.

  The masterpiece that the good citizens of Podujevo

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  39

  had constructed of their own flesh and blood tottered

  and then— a dynamited skyscraper, it began to fall.

  The broken flank spewed citizens like a slashed artery

  spitting blood. Then, with a graceful sloth that made the

  agonies of the citizens all the more horrible, it bowed

  towards the earth, all its limbs dissembling as it fell.

  The huge head, that had brushed the clouds so recently, was flung back on its thick neck. Ten thousand mouths spoke a single scream for its vast mouth, a

  wordless, infinitely pitiable appeal to the sky. A howl of

  loss, a howl of anticipation, a howl of puzzlement. How,

  that scream demanded, could the day of days end like

  this, in a welter of falling bodies?

  “Did you hear that?”

  It was unmistakably human, though almost deafening-

  ly loud. Judd’s stomach convulsed. He looked across at

  Mick, who was as white as a sheet.

  Judd stopped the car.

  “No,” said Mick.

  “Listen— for Christ’s sake— ”

  The din of dying moans, appeals and imprecations

  flooded the air. It was very close.

  “We’ve got to go on now,” Mick implored.

  Judd shook his head. He was prepared for some

  military spectacle— all the Russian army massed over

  the next hill— but that noise in his ears was the noise of

  human flesh— too human for words. It reminded him of

  his childhood imaginings of Hell; the endless, unspeakable torments his mother had threatened him with if he failed to embrace Christ. It was a terror he’d forgotten

  for twenty years. But suddenly, here it was again, fresh-

  faced. Maybe the pit itself gaped just over the next

  horizon, with his mother standing at its lip, inviting him

  to taste its punishments.

  “ If you won’t drive, I will.”

  Mick got out of the car and crossed in front of it,