To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  Alicia had kept her composure by making constant small talk and by avoiding this part of the house. As for himself, despite a strong constitution, he knew that if he opened that door and saw the model spaceships dangling from the ceiling, the nature posters and charts on the walls, and the small but carefully labeled rock collection that filled its own bookcase, he’d lose control. So he didn’t slow down until he’d reached his office.

  His desk was spotless, surrounded by work. Piles of paper and magazine articles were neatly arrayed on the carpet. Frank had a perverse fondness for using his desk as a place to rest his feet and the floor as a desk.

  Slumping gratefully into the high-backed leather executive chair, he hit the first button on the telephone, waited impatiently for the autodialer to connect him to his company vice president’s private receiver. There was a click. The familiar, lightly accented voice that spoke sounded bored.

  "Yes."

  "'Morning, Carlos."

  The voice turned instantly attentive. "Frank? Where the hell are you, man?"

  "Home." He sighed deeply, aware that the speakerphone would pick it up as clearly as any word.

  "What do you mean, home? I thought you’d be spread out by the pool by now, with a cool drink in one hand and some dark shades so you could watch the muchachas parading by without Alicia noticing."

  "It just didn’t work out. Comprende? Anyway, I’m home."

  "Not much of a vacation, boss."

  No, it wasn’t, Frank thought to himself. You’ll never know the half of it, my friend. Aloud he said, "How’s business?"

  "You haven’t been gone long enough for any crises to develop. Everything’s under control."

  "I know that. You run the outfit better than I do, anyway."

  Carlos voiced a polite protest while Frank continued to praise him. It was an old game the two men played, and a comforting one. They’d been friends for nearly two decades. Carlos was one of the first men Frank had ever hired. Together they’d filled the back of a rented truck and gone door-to-door peddling aluminum baseball bats and used mitts and uniforms to city parks, Lions Clubs, and Little Leagues.

  "Gimme a quick rundown anyway."

  Carlos proceeded to do so, efficiently and without hesitation. As Frank suspected, there was nothing requiring his attention. He thought a moment, then straightened in the chair.

  "I’m comin' in for an hour or two anyway."

  "Bien. Should I warn people?"

  "Naw. Surprise inspections ain’t my style. I’m not looking to catch anybody out."

  "I know. Hey, I may not be around when you arrive. I’ve got an appointment with a Voit rep downtown. Some problems with restocking. You remember? They want to double a few prices."

  "Yeah, I remember. Go ahead."

  "We’re doing lunch." Carlos sounded uncertain. "I can cancel out if you need me."

  "No sweat. See you tomorrow."

  "Yeah, sure. Hey, Frank, you sure everything’s okay?"

  "You bet. We just decided to skip Vegas this year."

  "Your choice, not mine."

  The phone clicked and the speakerphone whined over the loss of signal. Frank silenced it, then leaned back in the chair. The surroundings didn’t prevent him from thinking of his son. Maybe Mouse would come across him in her journeying and send him home, or maybe he’d return on his own. From wherever it was he’d got to.

  Feeling almost human again he returned to the kitchen. Burnfingers and Mouse still drifted in the pool. The insistent chirp of an electronic keyboard emanated from behind the door to his daughter’s room.

  Alicia and Flucca were filling the kitchen counter with dishes, utensils, and spice bottles. Flucca stood on a step, mincing vegetables. Oil simmered in a pan on the stove. His wife was hacking at a huge block of frozen hamburger.

  "Just called the office."

  "That’s good, dear. Everything okay?" There was just the slightest edge in her voice.

  "A-okay. I’m gonna drive in for a bit."

  That made her turn, putting the meat aside. "Oh, Frank, we just got back."

  "It’s something I want to do. Maybe I’m not sure we’re back yet. I just want to check in, look around." He smiled. "Won’t be gone long. You’ll be all right." His arms went around her waist. "Burnfingers Begay is still here, and Mouse."

  She finally managed a nod. "Niccolo, too. I guess I’ll be okay. Why shouldn’t I be? We’re home."

  He made a show of inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm. Guarantee you I’ll be back in time for supper."

  "You better be, Mr. Sonderberg, or I’ll be damnably disappointed." Flucca waved a butcher knife at him.

  As he left the kitchen for the garage, Frank was humming to himself. The Jaguar started cleanly and he didn’t give it much time to warm up, pulling straight out onto the driveway past the motor home. Habit made sure he shut the electric gate behind him.

  There was little traffic on the Peninsula drive. At the base of the palisades he could see surfers and tanners intersecting at the waterline. Not much surf today but plenty of sun. Like everyone else in Southern California he’d dreamed of riding the waves. Never tried it, though. As a kid he’d considered roller skates an invention of the devil. He was not now nor had he ever been built for any kind of athletics. Maybe that was what had driven him to enter the sporting goods business. Ironic, like so much of his life.

  He cut away from the beach, taking a main surface street and avoiding the freeway. Today the parade of fast food restaurants, discount stores, gas stations, and shopping centers was anything but boring. His company leased the top third of a twelve-story glass-sided office building in downtown Long Beach. More impressive offices were to be had in West Los Angeles or along Wilshire, but the tax situation was better in Long Beach, it was closer to where he wanted to live, and this way he could personally inspect every shipment that arrived from overseas. Besides, he liked the smell of the sea. From his top-floor office he could just see the big container ships entering and leaving the harbor.

  A card raised the gate that barred entrance to the underground parking garage. He found his space and backed in. The elevator lifted him to twelve and he exited onto thick carpet. The receptionist greeted him in surprise. Everyone knew the big boss was off on vacation. All she could manage was a startled, "Welcome back, Mr. Sonderberg."

  "Thanks, Ellen." He prided himself on knowing the first names of as many of his employees as possible, from executive on down to the boys in the mailroom.

  He strode past her into the administrative offices, drawing a few startled glances from behind computers and desks. No one said anything. If the president of the company wanted conversation he’d let them know.

  His own office was situated in the back of the building, with a fine view of city and harbor. His long-time secretary wasn’t at her desk, though it showed signs of recent occupation. In the ladies' room or on afternoon break, he told himself. No matter.

  His office was as he’d left it a few days earlier. Once seated behind the big desk, he flicked his own terminal on, calling up facts and figures and spreadsheets to review what had taken place in his absence. There was very little, just as Carlos had told him. He was relieved to see that nothing untoward had occurred in this reality while he’d been racing wildly through several others. Figures were constants everywhere. They never panicked the way people did.

  The refrigerator beneath the bar yielded a cold seltzer. As he sipped straight from the bottle the intercom buzzed for attention.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Sonderberg? What are you doing back?"

  "It’s okay, Nina. We cut it a little short."

  "I’m sorry, sir." His secretary’s voice sounded slightly hollow over the intercom’s speakerphone. "You were so looking forward to it."

  "We just decided we’d be better off taking it easy at home. Is there anything I should look at while I’m here? I’m going back home in a few minutes."

  "Well — there are some papers…" She rattled off a string
of comfortingly familiar names.

  "Bring 'em in." As long as he was in the office he might as well do some work. Alicia often told him it was impossible for him to relax anymore, that he’d forgotten how to take it easy. Her scolding troubled him because he knew she was right, but when you’re running a business with thousands of employees and millions in daily transactions you just can’t write it out of your thoughts.

  Another ten years and he’d retire, quit with more money that he’d ever be able to spend. Then maybe they’d take that round-the-world cruise Alicia was always talking about. He’d show her how to relax!

  Nina entered, a sheaf of paper in one hand. She was every inch the model executive secretary, confident enough in her ability to let her hair turn gray where the auburn was beginning to age. She wore a brown business suit, a white ruffled blouse, and another of those antique brooches she collected.

  "I can’t say that I’m sorry to see you back, sir."

  "Don’t give it another thought, Nina. We just cut everything short."

  "I’m sure I don’t know why, but that’s your business, of course." She laid the papers on the table before him.

  He was still studying the readout on the amber screen. Not wanting her to think he was ignoring her, he looked up to give her a parting smile.

  And froze.

  Every drop of blood in his body went as cold as the ice piled inside the executive bar. His secretary of nine years smiled back at him. Nina, Mrs. Defly, his efficient intermediary between this office and the cacophony of the outside world, smiled back at him.

  Her eyes were lizardlike slits set against light red pupils.

  "I have to go downstairs for a minute, Mr. Sonderberg. I’ll be back soon if you need me." She hissed distinctly and a long, thin tongue emerged briefly from between her lips. It was at least eight inches long and forked at the tip.

  Frank stared at the door after she’d exited, unable to move, cold sweat gluing his shirt to his back. He’d seen it, no doubt about it. By now he was an expert on the difference between what was real and what imaginary. He told himself it was a freak moment, a tiny final nick in the fabric of existence and nothing more.

  Slowly, very slowly, he swiveled his chair and stared out the tall glass windows. Had it grown darker outside since last he’d looked? Difficult to say since the tinted glass deliberately muted the sometimes harsh Southern California sun. Was it muting reality, as well?

  It still looked abnormally dark outside. The sky was cloudless. He turned resolutely back to the computer screen.

  Gone were the neat rows of words and figures, the reports from cities with difficult diphthongs in their names, the charts and graphs. The amber screen was filled with crawling things. They looked like little green bugs and they were cannibalizing themselves.

  He did not think of madness. He did not think of insects. Chaos, he thought.

  With both hands on the edge of the desk he shoved his chair away. Tiny yellow squirmy shapes were emerging from the screen, which flowed like amber gelatin. They humped and twisted around the edges of the plastic. Handfuls of them spilled onto his desk, began gnawing at the wood and plastic. Bright yellow worms burrowed rapidly into the structure.

  The bottom of the computer cracked open and the machine fell on its side. Smoke began to rise from the jump cables in back. Frank threw up his hands to shield his face as the electronic innards blew.

  When he looked back there was only a plastic box with a gaping hole where the screen had been. Black smoke and yellow worms poured out of the opening. Keeping a wary eye on the ravenous burrowers, he abandoned the chair and moved to the far wall where the auxiliary phone was mounted. It was definitely too dark outside now. He punched in the number for building security.

  Laughter instead of the musical acknowledgment of Touch-Tone dialing filled his ear. It was inhuman and insane. Then a click followed by a recording of a female voice:

  "When you hear the tone, the world will have come to an end."

  More laughter. He dropped the receiver, letting it bounce against the wall. Red worms began oozing from the handset and smoke from the housing.

  "It’s here," he mumbled dazedly to himself. "In Los Angeles. The Anarchis."

  Maybe not. Maybe it was just the turn of this reality to come apart as the threads of its existence started to unravel. His reality was twisting, snapping all around him. He fancied he could hear it groan. Screams and shouts and other less pleasant, less human voices were coming from the outer offices. He ran to the door and flung it wide.

  Madness had advanced further and faster here. High-pitched yowls and inhuman gruntings rose above the noise of broken terminals and whining phones. Overwhelmed ceiling sprinklers deluged the whole floor with tepid water.

  The inhabitants of the building were no longer recognizable. Some had grown enormous chests or bellies and had split their clothing. Others sported horns or long curving fangs protruding from prognathous jaws. Very few looked passably human.

  They were doing battle with one another and with the machines. Guts and intestines exploded from computer terminals. Wires and conduits flailed wildly, searching for something soft to grasp, suckers pimpling their formerly smooth surfaces. Blood and black slime covered the floor, making footing uncertain as he stumbled blankly toward the hallway.

  Two abominations that had once been human crashed past him, locked in each other’s grasp, tearing and ripping. They snapped at each other with sharp teeth an inch long.

  Frank had to duck behind a still-intact desk as they tumbled by, torn by their own frantic, demonic energy. He didn’t see the ugly yellow eye staring at him. Once it had been the innocuous faceplate of a calculator readout. Now it turned with a malevolent sentience. Black, rubbery conduits rose and reached for him. He sensed movement and threw himself aside as they smashed the desk to splinters in a violent, spasmodic attempt to clutch and rend.

  He crawled the rest of the way, trying to hug the wall, barely thinking but knowing that he had to get out, get away. There was no sign of Nina Defly, or anyone else he might recognize. They were taken, transformed, damned.

  He rose to his feet and staggered out into the hallway. It was a little quieter beyond the offices. The nightmarish conflagration had not yet spilled this far. The receptionist’s desk was a shambles. Gasping for air he leaned on the wood for support.

  "Ellen? Ellen, you back there?" He looked toward the overturned chair.

  A blue-green snake as big around as a man’s thigh looked out from its coils and prepared to strike. He screamed and stumbled backward. The head rose on its muscular neck to stare back at him. It was of undeniably feminine cast. One hiss, a single flick of the long tongue, and it struck.

  He threw himself toward the elevator and the gaping jaws missed. A hand slapped wildly at the call button set in the wall. Again the monster struck. Frank rolled and the fangs bounced off the steel doors. He could hear the cables rattling in the elevator shaft and prayed the cab was only a floor or two away.

  He nearly threw himself inside when the doors parted and just barely caught himself in time. If it hadn’t been for the soft, chuckling growl he wouldn’t have hesitated.

  In place of the empty elevator cab was a huge, rectangular mouth, all soft and pulsing wet. Scimitarlike teeth lined a dark narrow throat leading to unimaginable death. The elevator roared and reached for him. As he turned, a tooth the size of a gallon bucket caught his sleeve. He felt himself being dragged downward. Fear lent strength to his legs as he fought for purchase on the slick hall carpet. As his shirt tore free, the sliding jaws of the elevator slammed shut like a couple of compact cars meeting head on.

  At the same time, the snake-thing was striking anew. It shot past Frank’s head and turned, only to shriek once as the elevator jaws caught it behind the skull and bit through. Headless coils lashed the walls with frightening energy.

  Frank flung aside the door that led to the emergency stairwell and paused at the top of the steps. Below lay only c
oncrete stairs and an iron railing painted bright yellow. He plunged down, taking two steps at a stride. Once he stumbled badly, feared he might have broken an ankle. It was only a cramp. Struggling erect, he braced himself against the railing as he continued his mad descent, checking each new level carefully before hurrying on.

  When he reached the fire door that opened onto the second floor, he stopped. Horrible noises came from the other side and blood began to ooze beneath the barrier. It poured across the landing and down the stairs in a crimson flood. Taking a deep breath, he cleared the landing in a single bound. Nothing burst in upon him.

  He reached the bottom, ripped open the door that led to the main lobby. Blood flew from the soles of his shoes as he stumbled out into the well-lit atrium. The security guard wasn’t at his circular station. In his place was a writhing silicon hydra. Each head consisted of a dislodged security video terminal. They wove hypnotically at the ends of heavy-duty cables like parts of some berserk alien anemone.

  Every one of the decorative plants, which had adorned the lobby, had sprouted teeth and claws. Roots erupted from constraining pots and planters as palms and ferns dragged themselves across the floor to rip and rend their neighbors. Two of the security-terminal hydra’s cable-tentacles clutched pistols, which had belonged to building security. Frank winced as he heard one go off, saw the bullet score the marble pavement off to his right. He expected more shots, but none were forthcoming. Evidently the monstrosity had emptied the magazines of both guns prior to his arrival.

  Frustrated, it threw the empty guns at him. One struck him in the ribs, making him ache in pain. The movement carried him close to a palm with bladelike leaves. It swiped at his neck, just missing the jugular.

  He ran the feral floral gauntlet all the way to the main exit and reached for the gleaming brass handle. Tendrils clutched at his legs. They lined a glistening green-black maw that made sucking movements in his direction like some perverted flesh-eating gourami. Before they could reach him, he yanked the door open and stumbled out into the dim, unwholesome daylight.

  It was worse outside the building. Smoke and flame billowed unrestrained from several structures across the street. Living things leaped or were thrown from shattered windows. A confusing metallic pileup jammed the center of Beach Boulevard. Some of the broken, crumpled vehicles had undergone the same hellish change as his employees. Steel and aluminum hulks crawled about on flexible tires or rubbery, uncertain legs, chewing and tearing at anything within reach. Gasoline and diesel mixed with blood in the gutters.