Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  Lying in that hole, he had remembered his trainer's words, and he'd imagined that the thick smoke was the door of the Darkroom. Then he'd heard the screams of the medics, and they'd actually trampled him in their rush to get at Bearchild.

  He couldn't remember the rest of it. Not now. He didn't want to remember the rest of it, because somehow the memory was fresher, starker and riper than it had been before.

  The creak of a car door opening brought Joe around. Someone climbed into a Buick that was parked against the Caddy's nose. The door slammed. Joe sat up, startled, suddenly wondering where he was. He was happy when the Buick's owner keyed the ignition and turned on the headlights. The piercing bright lights cleaned the images of the bomb hole and the iron-gray cloud from his mind.

  The Buick just sat there and idled. Joe squinted into the lights. He didn't have to squint too much because one of his eyes was already swollen shut. He imagined the other driver lighting a cig and looking up, then coughing the smoke right out of his mouth when he saw the battered face behind the Caddy's spotless windshield.

  The Buick's engine revved a few times. The driver hadn't noticed a thing. Joe got back to work, thankful for the glowing headlights. They made his job easier. He fumbled open the penknife that he'd borrowed from his cut man, stripped the ignition wires, twisted them as best he could, and started the Caddy.

  The engine coughed and rumbled.

  Joe grinned, his lips numb, his gums aching.

  He flipped on the headlights and looked at the glowing dashboard.

  The gas gauge needle hung a rat's whisker above empty.

  Joe slammed the steering wheel and pain jolted through his bruised hand.

  Just my luck, he thought.

  That's what it was. That's the way things had been going for years. Just his luck to lose a sure thing fight against a kid who wasn't even supposed to have a punch, a fight on which he'd bet his entire purse because he hadn't known that it was going to be the fight that he finished in the Darkroom. And then, flat broke, he'd picked a Caddy to steal, because everyone knew that high rollers drove Caddies, and everyone knew that high rollers could afford to live free and easy. They were the guys who told waiters to "bring the whole bottle." They told desk clerks to "make it a suite," and they told gas monkeys to "fill her up."

  Joe watched the gas gauge, but it didn't budge.

  Just my luck. A mortar blows up in my face, and I don't get much more than a scratch, minus the bruises from a gangly medic’s size fourteens. But that was the end of my luck. That was my share. And now only the bad stuff is left. Trips to the Darkroom. Empty gas tanks. Busted up hands....

  Nothing to be done about it now. There were other cars, and Joe still had half a roll of tape, and he still wanted out of this town. And if the next car blew a tire or busted down on him, as he figured it would, why then he always had his thumb. With the way his eye looked, he figured he could claim that he'd been in an accident and get a hitch on the strength of some tourist's pity. That might be better, anyway, because Joe still felt woozy from the beating and wasn't sure that he should be driving at all.

  Maybe he could get a lift with the guy in the Buick. It was worth a try.

  Joe licked his teeth, tasting the blood from a dozen tiny cuts inside his mouth. He worked up a good one and spit at the gas gauge, then looked up from the dash.

  The Buick was gone. In its place hung an iron-gray cloud of exhaust fumes.

  Joe stared at the cloud.

  He saw the bomb crater in Korea.

  He saw the door to the Darkroom.

  He shrank back against the seat.

  Get a grip, Ryan, he told himself. Jesus Christ, get a grip.

  He'd gone all sweaty. His foot was pressing hard on the clutch and his calf muscle was starting to cramp. He let out the clutch and the Caddy jumped forward and died. Joe bit his lip, hard, because the jerking motion made him feel like he'd taken another punch.

  He knew it was just crazy fear. Punch-drunk looniness. But he also knew — deep down knew — that he was looking at the door to the Darkroom, and he didn't want that door to open for him, not again, because he knew very suddenly where that room was located. It was somewhere under a bomb crater in Korea, and there was always mortar fire above it and fresh dirt sluicing into it as if it were a grave for him and Cash McGrath and the guy they just called Bearchild.

  On this very night a young kid's fist had hammered him through space and time and sent him to that hunk of dark Korean countryside.

  He didn't want to make a second trip.

  Joe's swollen fingers found the door release.

  He opened the door and stepped out of the car and into the hot, dry darkness.

  Before him, hinges made of smoke whispered his name.

  Just ahead, weightless iron swirled and parted.

  The door opened, and Joe Ryan recognized the man who stepped out of the Darkroom.

  Chapter Three

  The beat-up guy said, "For a second, I thought that you were Cash."

  "Yeah. We're identical twins, you know." Reno shifted from third to second and pulled up short at a stoplight. "Well, we were identical, at least until Cash got his face blown to hell over there in Korea. We don't look much alike anymore."

  The boxer looked shocked. Reno had to grin at that. It felt good to get a rise out of a tough guy, even better to get in a dig at the brother he'd never dared to criticize before tonight. Suddenly, Reno felt like a new man, like a guy who had nothing to lose. Maybe the freak was right. Maybe things would be different now, because a guy who had nothing to lose didn't have to be afraid. He could say anything that he wanted and never worry about the consequences.

  The desert breeze toyed with the hanging stoplight. Reno watched it swing back and forth on the wire, as smooth and even a movement as that of a pendulum.

  It was stupid, putting a stoplight in the middle of all this neon and expecting people to notice it. Reno shook his head. It was almost as stupid as being the way he was and still paying attention to stoplights. The last thing he had to worry about now was getting killed in a smash-up.

  "It's not that I hate my brother," Reno said, watching the red light. "But he did get all the breaks. He was the firstborn son, if only by a handful of minutes. And then he became the big war hero and everything. Our daddy —Big Jake everybody calls him—just loved that war hero stuff. Cash practically got the old man reelected, single-handedly."

  The boxer didn't say anything.

  Reno tapped his chest. "It wasn't my fault that I missed out on Korea. Bad ticker. It doesn't make much sense to me, though. I mean, Cash and I are twins, right? And Cash's heart is okay, right? So it just doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense."

  "That's tough," the boxer said, then added, "Light's green."

  Reno hit the gas, hard. "Jeez, I wouldn't think you could see it. That black bastard had one hell of a right hook, didn't he? He swelled up your eye real good. Fact is, you look almost as squinty as a gook." He stepped on the clutch and shifted, feeling good, not the least bit worried that the big bum would cuff him for his smart remark.

  A couple of days ago, Reno would have cringed if a guy like Joe Ryan had even raised a hand to smooth his hair. He certainly wouldn't have given a pro boxer any lip, no matter how torn up the guy was. But now things were different. Really different. He wasn't sure exactly how different, but the part that he could understand felt good in his gut. The rest, the questions, he'd have to save for later.

  There were many questions, some more pressing than others. For instance, Reno wondered if he could still feel pain. The freak hadn't said anything about that. Maybe he didn't know. He couldn't know as much as Cash did, because no way could the freak have had as much practice at this game as Reno's own brother.

  Then Reno realized that the gunshot wound in his chest wasn't hurting him at all.

  One answer down, boyo.

  Reno grinned. There were other questions, but he'd worry about them later. Right now he felt like
talking, and this Joe Ryan character — beat up as he was — couldn't do much besides listen.

  "Anyway, Cash got all the breaks," Reno said. "After the plastic surgeons got done with his face. Big Jake put him in charge of the farm. They set up a pretty nice operation, made big plans. Then they got hold of the freak —your old buddy, Bearchild. Cash said that Bearchild had figured out a thing or two — I guess he's a little smarter than you are — and that we had to keep a tight rein on him so he wouldn't go pissin' in our pot, so to speak. Anyway, I got stuck with the job. They shipped us out to the desert—Cash said he wanted us to be somewhere where we couldn't get into trouble. He definitely wanted the freak off in the boonies, away from other people, knowing the stuff that he could do." He sighed. "Believe me, babysitting a freak isn't my idea of fun. I'm glad that we saw you on the TV tonight, because the freak is really hot for a reunion. That's fine with me. I don't like being around that thing alone, even now, even after—"

  "Look," the boxer said softly, "Bearchild saved my ass a couple of times. I really wish that you wouldn't talk about him like that."

  "Huh?"

  "Calling him a freak and all. He's no freak. He's a man."

  Reno smirked. What a feeb, this guy, all polite and nice. About as tough as a baby's butt. Not tough like Cash, and not tough like the freak.

  No, Ryan wasn't tough like that. He was a loser. Reno had seen that as plain as plain could be, in black and white, on television. The guy lying flat on his back, not even moving, blood trickling out of his nose. Like he was dead or something. Knocked out by a nigger. A nigger. A guy who'd killed all those gooks for Uncle Sam, and he comes home and starts getting all soft about freaks and niggers and everything else, and the next things he knows he gets knocked flat on his back because he's stopped looking out for himself and started in on the worry beads with prayers for stray kitties and gimpy orphans and all manner of happy horseshit.

  Reno edged the next light, hitting the gas just as it turned from yellow to red. This guy Ryan was starting to bug him. But Ryan didn't say a word. The guy was quiet as a martyr who'd had his tongue carved out of his head. The Jeep sped onto the highway, and soon the dry wind was whipping through the cab and they couldn't have talked anymore without shouting, anyway.

  Reno switched to brights and headed for the adobe. This deal wasn't going to be so bad, after all. Sure, he'd have to follow the freak's orders, but hadn't he spent his entire life following orders in a vain attempt to please his father? At least things would be different with the freak. At least now he could speak his mind. No one could keep him from doing that, ever again. Not even the freak.

  The warm wind gusted through the cab, spitting grains of sand into Reno's eyes, but the sand didn't even make him blink. He held the wheel steady with one knee while he zipped up his coat. He didn't want it to blow open and expose his wound.

  He didn't want Joe Ryan to see the bloodstains on his shirt or the big hole in his chest.

  Not yet. The freak had told him to save the surprise, and that was just what he'd do.

  Reno glanced over at Ryan. The big boxer hugged himself, shivering despite the warm evening breeze, cringing every time the Jeep hit a bump. He looked bad, all bruised and swollen, and Reno couldn't understand why people looked up to bums like this guy just because they laced on gloves and climbed into a boxing ring. They got beat up, just like anyone else. They felt pain, and they paid for that pain, too.

  They weren't supermen.

  "You know, you look a lot bigger on television," Reno yelled, and then he laughed.

  Joe Ryan shivered again, not even bothering to look up. Reno kept on laughing, running his hand over his coat so he could feel the big bullet wound in his chest. He fingered red fabric into the hole and wiggled his busted ribs back and forth, all without a whimper. Then his fingers dug deeper, found the ruined hunk of flesh that had once been his biggest liability.

  Pitty-pat! Pitty-pat! he thought, squeezing hard.

  There wasn't any pain. Not a whisper.

  If Hector and Coley could see him now....

  Reno glanced at the boxer. Ryan was rocking back and forth, fighting an army of aches and pains. The guy was pathetic. A weakling, crying over a few bumps and bruises.

  Not like Reno, who didn't whimper even though he had a hole in his chest that had been dug by a .45 slug.

  Yes, indeed. This had to be the way a superman felt.

  Reno hit the gas and passed three cars, and then he stuck to the left lane just for grins. Bright lights hung heavy before him from a long way off, but he didn't budge. Not when he heard the blast of an air-horn. Not when he saw the grille of the truck.

  Not until he heard the scream of airbrakes, the whine of a downshifting engine.

  He veered back into the proper lane just as the big rig jackknifed before him. It went over in the dirt at the side of the road and Reno didn't even look back. His hands didn't shake, and his gut didn't squirm, and he didn't sweat a drop.

  Reno sucked a breath of night air, heard it hiss out of the hole in his left lung.

  It wasn't going to be so bad after all, this being dead stuff.

  A Few Recommendations

  Not much commentary on this one, since it's not a story. This piece is a chapter I contributed for an HWA book on writing horror, entitled (surprisingly enough) Writing Horror, which was edited by Mort Castle.

  There are several good essays in that book, and I'd heartily recommend it to any writer looking to get a start in the horror genre. While I'm at it, I'll mention a few other books that are definitely worth a look: Stephen King's On Writing and David Morrell's Lessons from a Lifetime of Writing: a Novelist Looks at his Craft. Also worth your time (but of a little older vintage) are How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction edited by J. N. Williamson, and How to Write Horror Fiction by William F. Nolan. And if you'd like to get some opinions from a talented writer who's definitely served his time in the trenches, seek out Tom Piccirilli's Welcome to Hell: a Working Guide for the Beginning Writer. Piccirilli's book is short and concise, and it will give you a no-bullshit approach to getting started in the business.

  You might also want to check out the work of Stanley Wiater, who has edited several books that focus on horror writers and the genre itself. Stan's especially noted for his fine interviews, and I've learned quite a bit reading them over the years.

  Now I'll upset all the folks I just mentioned by suggesting that you try borrowing these books from your local public library before you run out and buy them. As far as I'm concerned, a library card is every aspiring writer's best friend...and the friend of his checkbook, too.

  DR. FRANKENSTEIN’S SECRETS OF STYLE

  Okay. Since you're a prospective horror writer, I'm sure you're familiar with our old buddy Dr. Frankenstein. You've read Mary Shelley's classic novel, maybe a few anthologies chock full of Frankensteinian stories, and you've seen those old movies, too.

  There's a scene in most of those movies. One that I love. Where the good doctor's son, or grandson, or granddaughter, or (better yet) some conniving interloper invades the doc's dusty old castle and finds a big thick book entitled Dr. Victor Frankenstein's Secrets of Life and Death, which naturally spares the prospective mad scientist a whole bunch of hair-tearing, grief, and anguish when it comes to learning the fine art of monster-making.

  When it comes to developing a writing style, I doubt that I can be as helpful as the good doc was with his dusty tome. But I'll try.

  First off, let's make like Victor Frankenstein and conduct an experiment. Here's what you do: get yourself down to the local book emporium. Ignore the cappuccino bar and the dessert counter and all those celebrity "autobiographies" penned by ghostwriters. What you're looking for is the horror section. You've been there before, haven't you? Sure...I'll bet a big wad of green money that you have. Otherwise you wouldn't be reading this book.

  Okay. Mission accomplished. You're standing in front of several rows of books with black spines dr
ipping bloody red lettering. I know you've read many of these titles already, so here's what I want you to do: select several you've missed, but make sure they're written by authors you've read before. Some of those "big names" we're all familiar with.

  Buy those books. Take them home.

  Lock the doors. Close the drapes. Just like Dr. Frankenstein getting down to the business of serious experimentation, you don't want anyone to know what you're about to do.

  Place the books on a table in front of you. Now comes the hard part. But remember —you're doing it the way Dr. Frankenstein did. In the name of science and knowledge. Remember, too, that if nothing else the good doctor was certainly adept at dissection.

  One by one, snatch up those books. Rip off the covers.

  Title pages too. Peel the spine. Then find a thick black felt-tip pen (I recommend Marks-A-Lot). Cross out any further mention of the author's name —page headers, bio section, whatever.

  Now...sit down and start reading. Maybe the first chapter of each book, maybe less. Again, I'll pull out my wad of green money, and I'll bet that you can tell the Stephen King books from those written by Dean R. Koontz just as easily as you can identify an Anne Rice or Peter Straub novel.

  You want to know why?

  King, Koontz, Rice, and Straub all have discernible styles, that's why.