Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  Popolac walked and Popolac sang.

  Was there ever a sight in Europe the equal of it?

  They watched, Mick and Judd, as it took another step

  towards them.

  The old man had wet his pants. Blubbering and

  begging, he dragged himself away from the ruined cottage into the surrounding trees, dragging his dead legs after him.

  The Englishmen remained where they stood, watching

  the spectacle as it approached. Neither dread nor horror

  touched them now, just an awe that rooted them to the

  spot. They knew this was a sight they could never hope to

  see again; this was the apex— after this there was only

  common experience. Better to stay then, though every

  step brought death nearer, better to stay and see the sight

  while it was still there to be seen. And if it killed them,

  this monster, then at least they would have glimpsed a

  miracle, known this terrible majesty for a brief moment.

  It seemed a fair exchange.

  Popolac was within two steps of the cottage. They

  could see the complexities of its structure quite clearly.

  The faces of the citizens were becoming detailed: white,

  sweat-wet and content in their weariness. Some hung

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  Clive Barker

  dead from their harnesses, their legs swinging back and

  forth like the hanged. Others, children particularly, had

  ceased to obey their training, and had relaxed their

  positions, so that the form of the body was degenerating,

  beginning to seethe with the boils of rebellious cells.

  Yet it still walked, each step an incalculable effort of

  coordination and strength.

  Boom—

  The step that trod the cottage came sooner than they

  thought.

  Mick saw the leg raised; saw the faces of the people in

  the shin and ankle and foot—they were as big as he was

  now— all huge men chosen to take the full weight of this

  great creation. Many were dead. The bottom of the foot,

  he could see, was^a jigsaw of crushed'and bloody bodies,

  pressed to death under the weight of their fellow citizens.

  The foot descended with a roar.

  In a matter of seconds the cottage was reduced to

  splinters and dust.

  Popolac blotted the sky utterly. It was, for a moment,

  the whole world, heaven and earth, its presence filled the

  senses to overflowing. At this proximity one look could

  not encompass it, the eye had to range backwards and

  forwards over its mass to take it all in, and even then the

  mind refused to accept the whole truth.

  A whirling fragment of stone, flung off from the

  cottage as it collapsed, struck Judd full in the face. In his

  head he heard the killing stroke like a ball hitting a wall:

  a play-yard death. No pain: no remorse. Out like a light,

  a tiny, insignificant light; his death-cry lost in the pandemonium, his body hidden in the smoke and darkness.

  Mick neither saw nor heard Judd die.

  He was too busy staring at the foot as it settled for a

  moment in the ruins of the cottage, while the other leg

  mustered the will to move.

  Mick took his chance. Howling like a banshee, he ran

  towards the leg, longing to embrace the monster. He

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  59

  stumbled in the wreckage, and stood again, bloodied, to

  reach for the foot before it was lifted and he was left

  behind. There was a clamour of agonized breath as the

  message came to the foot that it must move; Mick saw

  the muscles of the shin bunch and marry as the leg began

  to lift. He made one last lunge at the limb as it began to

  leave the ground, snatching a harness or a rope, or

  human hair, or flesh itself—anything to catch this passing miracle and be part of it. Better to go with it wherever it was going, serve it in its purpose, whatever

  that might be; better to die with it than live without it.

  He caught the foot, and found a safe purchase on its

  ankle. Screaming his sheer ecstasy at his success he felt

  the great leg raised, and glanced down through the

  swirling dust to the spot where he had stood, already

  receding as the limb climbed.

  The earth was gone from beneath him. He was a

  hitchhiker with a god: the mere life he had left was

  nothing to him now, or ever. He would live with this

  thing, yes, he would live with it— seeing it and seeing it

  and eating it with his eyes until he died of sheer gluttony.

  He screamed and howled and swung on the ropes,

  drinking up his triumph. Below, far below, he glimpsed

  Judd’s body, curled up pale on the dark ground, irretrievable. Love and life and sanity were gone, gone like the memory of his name, dr his sex, or his ambition.

  It all meant nothing. Nothing at all.

  Boom—

  Boom—

  Popolac walked, the noise of its steps receding to the

  east. Popolac walked, the hum of its voice lost in the

  night.

  After a day, birds came, foxes came, flies, butterflies,

  wasps came. Judd moved, Judd shifted, Judd gave birth.

  In his belly maggots warmed themselves, in a vixen’s den

  the good flesh of his thigh was fought over. After that, it

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  was quick. The bones yellowing, the bones crumbling:

  soon, an empty space which he had once filled with

  breath and onions.

  Darkness, light, darkness, light. He interrupted neither with his name.

  Philip K. Dick (1928-1982)

  Paith o r Our Fathers

  Philip K. Dick was a prolific American science fiction writer

  whose work often strayed into the emotional territory of the

  horror field, though the monsters of his stories are most

  often science-fictional or technological. His reputation has

  grown since his death in 1982 and he is widely regarded as

  the most important science fiction writer of his generation.

  The nature of reality was a consistent theme in his work: a

  recent book on the man and his works is entitled Only

  Apparently Real (1986). There is a vigorous international

  organization devoted to his writings, The Philip K. Dick

  Society, and many of his best novels are now being

  reissued, not in genre but in the prestigious Vintage

  Contemporaries publishing line. Plays, films (including

  Bladerunneri, and an avant garde opera based on his

  works have appeared in the last decade. He is something of

  a cult figure. "Faith of O ur Fathers" was written in the late

  1960s on a commission to produce a novella under the

  influence of LSD, since Dick had a reputation for experimentation with drugs. The result is this politically and philosophically complex horror story of a future in Southeast Asia, a totalitarian and religious nightmare characteristic of Dick at his best.

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  Philip K. Dick

  On the streets of Hanoi he found himself facing a

  legless peddler who rode a little wooden cart and

  called shrilly to every passerby. Chien slowed, listened,

  but did not stop; business at the Ministry of Cultural

  Artifacts cropped into his mind and deflected his attention: it was as if he were alo
ne, and none of those on bicycles and scooters and jet-powered motorcycles remained. And likewise it was as if the legless peddler did not exist.

  “Comrade,” the peddler called however, and pursued

  him on his cart; a helium battery operated the drive and

  sent the car scuttling expertly after Chien. “ I possess a

  wide spectrum of time-tested herbal remedies complete

  with testimonials from thousands of loyal users; advise

  me of your malady and I can assist.”

  Chien, pausing, said, “Yes, but I have no malady.”

  Except, he thought, for the chronic one of those employed by the Central Committee, that of career opportunism testing constantly the gates of each official position. Including mine.

  “ I can cure for example radiation sickness,” the

  peddler chanted, still pursuing him. “Or expand, if

  necessary, the element of sexual prowess. I can reverse

  carcinomatous progressions, even the dreaded melano-

  mae, what you would call black cancers.” Lifting a tray

  of bottles, small aluminum cans and assorted powders in

  plastic jars, the peddler sang, “If a rival persists in trying

  to usurp your gainful bureaucratic position, I can purvey

  an ointment which, appearing as a dermal balm, is in

  actuality a desperately effective toxin. And my prices,

  comrade, are low. And as a special favor to one so

  distinguished in bearing as yourself I will accept the

  postwar inflationary paper dollars reputedly of international exchange But in reality damn near no better than bathroom tissue.”

  “Go to hell,” Chien said, and signaled a passing

  hovercar taxi; he was already three and one-half minutes

  Faith o f Our Fathers

  63

  late for his first appointment of the day, and his various

  fat-assed superiors at the Ministry would be making

  quick mental notations— as would, to an even greater

  degree, his subordinates.'

  The peddler said quietly, “But, comrade; you must

  buy from me.”

  “Why?” Chien demanded. Indignation.

  “Because, comrade, I am a war veteran. I fought in the

  Colossal Final War of National Liberation with the

  People’s Democratic United Front against the Imperialists; I lost my pedal extremities at the battle of San Francisco.” His tone was triumphant, now, and sly. "It is

  the law. If you refuse to buy wares offered by a veteran

  you risk a fine and possible jail sentence— and in

  addition disgrace.”

  Wearily, Chien nodded the hovercab on. “Admittedly,” he said. “Okay, I must buy from you.” He glanced summarily over the meager display of herbal remedies,

  seeking one at random. “That,” he decided, pointing to a

  paper-wrapped parcel in the rear row.

  The peddler laughed. “That, comrade, is a spermato-

  cide, bought by women who for political reasons cannot

  qualify for The Pill. It would be of shallow use to you, in

  fact none at all, since you are a gentleman.”

  “The law,” Chien said bitingly, “does not require me

  to purchase anything useful from you; only that I purchase something. I’ll take that.” He reached into his padded coat for his billfold, huge with the postwar

  inflationary bills in which, four times a week, he as a

  government servant was paid.

  “Tell me your problems,” the peddler said.

  Chien stared at him. Appalled by the invasion of

  privacy— and done by someone outside the government.

  “All right, comrade,” the peddler said, seeing his

  expression. “I will not probe; excuse me. But as a

  doctor— an herbal healer— it is fitting that I know as

  much as possible.” He pondered, his gaunt features

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  Philip K. Dick

  somber. “Do you watch television unusually much?” he

  asked abruptly.

  Taken by surprise, Chien said, “Every evening. Except

  on Friday when I go to my club to practice the esoteric

  imported art from the defeated West of steer-roping.” It

  was his only indulgence; other than that he had totally

  devoted himself to Party activities.

  The peddler reached, selected a gray paper packet.

  “Sixty trade dollars,” he stated. “With a full guarantee:

  if it does not do as promised, return the unused portion

  for a full and cheery refund.”

  “And what,” Chien said cuttingly, “is it guaranteed to

  do?”

  “ It will rest eyes fatigued by the countenance of

  meaningless official monologues,” the peddler said. “A

  soothing preparation; take it as soon as you find yourself

  exposed to the usual dry and lengthy sermons which— ”

  Chien paid the money, accepted the packet, and strode

  off. Balls, he said to himself. It’s a racket, he decided, the

  ordinance setting up war vets as a privileged class. They

  prey off us— we, the younger ones— like raptors.

  Forgotten, the gray packet remained deposited in his

  coat pocket, as he entered the imposing postwar Ministry of Cultural Artifacts building, and his own considerable stately office, to begin his workday.

  A portly, middle-aged Caucasian male, wearing a brown

  Hong Kong silk suit, double-breasted with vest, waited

  in his office. With the unfamiliar Caucasian stood his

  own immediate superior, Ssu-Ma Tso-pin. Tso-pin introduced the two of them in Cantonese, a dialect which he used badly.

  “Mr. Tung Chien, this is Mr. Darius Pethel. Mr. Pethel

  will be headmaster at the new ideological and cultural

  establishment of didactic character soon to open at San

  Fernando, California.” He added, “Mr. Pethel has had a

  rich and full lifetime supporting the people’s struggle to

  Faith o f Our Fathers

  65

  unseat imperialist-bloc countries via pedagogic media;

  therefore this high post.”

  They shook hands.

  “Tea?” Chien asked the two of them; he pressed the

  switch of his infrared hibachi and in an instant the water

  in the highly ornamented ceramic pot— of Japanese

  origin— began to burble. As he seated himself at his

  desk he saw that trustworthy Miss Hsi had laid out

  the information poop-sheet (confidential) on Comrade

  Pethel; he glanced over it, meanwhile pretending to be

  doing nothing in particular.

  “The Absolute Benefactor of the People,” Tso-pin

  said, “has personally met Mr. Pethel and trusts him.

  This is rare. The school in San Fernando will appear to

  teach run-of-the-mill Taoist philosophies but will, of

  course, in actuality maintain for us a channel of communication to the liberal and intellectual youth segment of western U.S. There are many of them still alive, from

  San Diego to Sacramento; we estimate at least ten

  thousand. The school will accept two thousand. Enrollment will be mandatory for those we select. Your relationship to Mr. Pethel’s programing is grave. Ahem; your tea water is boiling.”

  “Thank you,” Chien murmured, dropping in the bag

  of Lipton’s tea.

  Tso-pin continued, “Although Mr. Pethel will supervise the setting up of the courses of instruction presented by the school to its student body, all examination papers

  will oddly enough be relayed here to your office for you
r

  own expert, careful, ideological study. In other words,

  Mr. Chien, you will determine who among the two

  thousand students is reliable, which are truly responding

  to the programing and who is not.”

  “I will now pour my tea,” Chien said, doing so

  ceremoniously.

  “What we have to realize,” Pethel rumbled in Cantonese even worse than that of Tso-pin, “is that, once having

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  Philip K. Dick

  lost the global w,ar to us, the American youth has

  developed a talent for dissembling.” He spoke the last

  word in English; not understanding it, Chien turned

  inquiringly to his superior.

  “Lying,” Tso-pin explained.

  Pethel said, “Mouthing the proper slogans for surface

  appearance, but on the inside believing them false. Test

  papers by this group will closely resemble those of

  genuine— ”

  “You mean that the test papers of two thousand

  students will be passing through my office?” Chien

  demanded. He could not believe it. “That’s a full-time

  job in itself; I don’t have time for anything remotely

  resembling that.” He was appalled. “To give critical,

  official approval or denial of the astute variety which

  you’re envisioning— ” He gestured. “Screw that,” he

  said, in English.

  Blinking at the strong, Western vulgarity, Tso-pin said,

  “You have a staff. Plus also you can requisition several

  more from the pool; the Ministry’s budget, augmented

  this year, will permit it. And remember: the Absolute

  Benefactor of the People has hand-picked Mr. Pethel.”

  His tone, now, had become ominous, but only subtly so.

  Just enough to penetrate Chien’s hysteria, and to wither

  it into submission. At least temporarily. To underline his

  point, Tso-pin walked to the far end of the office; he

  stood before the full-length 3-D portrait of the Absolute

  Benefactor, and after an interval his proximity triggered

  the tape-transport mounted behind the portrait; the face

  of the Benefactor moved, and from it came a familiar

  homily, in more than familiar accents. “Fight for peace,

  my sons,” it intoned gently, firmly.

  “Ha,” Chien said, still perturbed, but concealing it.

  Possibly one of the Ministry’s computers could sort the