by Jack Ketchum
The next time Charlie saw a rat, it was in the most unexpected place. It was on his chair, his special chair with the high back and the red cushion, the chair that he spent long hours sitting upon in his office, the chair which only his backside was allowed to grace, the only piece of furniture that he cherished. Hell, the only possession of any kind he cherished.
He had returned from a tour of the traps. Once again he had found them all empty, not a poisoned rodent in any of them. Charlie hadn't received a call from any of the stations in six days either, not a single report of activity anywhere on his patch.
For the first time, his slight concern had escalated into a worry. What if this went on? Had he done his job too well? Had he driven them all away, out of the tunnels and the dank holes and into another refuge that was someone else's responsibility to patrol? What if the council came this week and there were no bodies for them to take away for burning? Would they be pleased? Once or twice perhaps, Charlie might get a pat on the back and recognition for his talents. But if it carried on, would they decide that he wasn't needed down here anymore, that he might be better assigned to a new post somewhere else, away from the precious office that he now called home? This made his stomach revolt. Charlie loved his life down here, he couldn't return to the surface, couldn't go back to working with other people every day, living among them, talking to them.
He was thinking all this with a furrowed brow when he opened the door to his kingdom and saw the rat on his chair, raised up on its hind legs, its vermin face looking right at Charlie, whiskers twitching and black eyes staring. It didn't scamper when he burst in, didn't become the fast moving blur that rats usually transformed into as soon as they were in the company of humankind.
It simply stared.
It was so bold that Charlie hesitated. He had his mouth open to shout at the little bastard, but then he clamped it shut. It looked at him, Charlie looked back. They shared something for a moment, a brief conjunction between them. Then it slowly climbed down, weaved its way across the floor on tiny claws and passed Charlie, heading away to the dark of the tunnels. Charlie just stood in the doorway, unsure of what had happened.
His relationship with the rats had changed. He wasn't sure yet if he understood what it had changed into.
He didn't have to ponder for long.
Charlie spent a restless night full of fitful dreams. In those dreams he was the rat and the hole he was scurrying down was a long mouth lined with teeth which keep slicing into him, diminishing him one bite-sized chunk at a time. He woke up yelping twice, and on each occasion he was certain there had been the sound of sharp claws scratching at his door as he awoke.
The following day, tired and feverish, he set off on his tour of duty. At the first junction, the first place where his traps were laid and baited, he found a row of perhaps a dozen rats in a line waiting for him.
His heart leapt. Initially, he was overjoyed to see them, to know that they were back and that he could catch them, that he could keep his job down here, that he was still needed. But they didn't run as he approached, they stayed in their line and patiently watched, as if they had been expecting him.
He stood before them, they stared up, and again they shared a moment of union, as if something was passing between them that lay beyond the limitations of language, a communication that Charlie couldn't understand as such, but comprehended on a level deeper than he would have recognised in himself.
He didn't like it. It made him feel sick.
Charlie raised the case he was carrying, the device for taking dead rats back to base, that he had brought with him today more in hope than any expectation that he might fill it. He hurled it at the party of rats and finally they moved, darting back into the gloom, to the dark places where he wouldn't follow.
All of them but one. The same one that Charlie had found on his chair the day before. He didn't know why he was so certain it was the same one. It was a rat; all rats looked the same, the same stupid vermin faces and senseless black eyes. But he knew it was the same one. It stared at him again, looked inside him.
"Just fuck off," he shouted at it. But it didn't. It twitched its head to the side, an almost human gesture.
This way, it was saying. Follow me.
And it trotted away, slowly, keeping a pace that Charlie could easily follow.
And so he did.
The rat led him along darkened tracks, and then to the side, through a maintenance tunnel. Charlie had to use his torch to follow the rat's movements, these tunnels weren't lit, didn't need to be on a regular basis.
The rat stopped occasionally, looked behind to make sure that Charlie was following then continued on its journey.
Eventually, after they had passed through tunnels so low that Charlie had to hunch to get through, old tunnels from forgotten sewer networks and walled-up inlets from the River Fleet, they came to a door. The rat squeezed its way underneath. Weak yellow light peaked out from the frame of the doorway. Charlie turned off his torch, turned the handle and went inside.
He'd seen lots of rats in his time, more than he could probably count. But he'd never seen this many all at once. There were hundreds of them, thousands probably. They lined the floor, covered it like a carpet of wiry flesh and dirty fur, all those sly black eyes looking at him as he stepped inside, not a sound from any of them. They just sat and watched him. They'd been waiting patiently.
The room was an old, old chamber with an arched ceiling made of crumbling stone, a green hue from the moss that had risen over it. It was damp; water ran down the walls in torrents in a number of places.
At the far end of the chamber was a raised alcove, thick metal bars at its furthest edge leading to a dark recess beyond that led to who knew where. It looked like a stage, and standing upon it was the Meat Man, next to something large and bleeding covered in a tarpaulin.
The Meat Man waved fondly. "Hello, my friend! I'm glad you could join us, they insisted that you would come sooner or later."
Charlie didn't understand any of this and the presence of this rodent army made his skin crawl. "What are you talking about?" He wanted to use the Meat Man's name but realised he didn't know it.
The Meat Man gave his familiar smile. "They've been working for such a long time on this Charlie, I wasn't sure they'd persuade you to come but they have."
"Have you gone mad? What is going on here?"
"Oh Charlie, my friend, don't you see? You've spent so much time down here in the dark that your eyes have begun to fail you. You've been out there every day killing these creatures, poisoning them by the hundreds, and all along they have seen in you the thing they have always been looking for, the wisdom they have always sought. You are their god, Charlie. They have come to worship you, to pay homage to your image. They are yours to command! They are your army, your children, yours for ever more."
Charlie wanted to leave, wanted to get out of this room and put the madness behind him, to run through the tunnels and back to the surface, to get away from this. But the rats were looking at him, all of them, and he considered for the first time that what he took to be the vacant look in their eyes, the emptiness he had always seen could indeed be something else.
Were they looking at him with sheer, mindless devotion? They loved him. They did worship him. Why had he never seen it before?
"They came to me in the tunnels, Charlie, they told me all this, that you were a cruel god, that they could not venerate you in the way they desire for fear that you would strike them down. So they asked me to help them, to build a monument to you so that you might understand them, understand the love they have for you."
He pulled the tarpaulin away. Charlie felt his face freeze in a twisted mix of awe and horror.
It was him. They had built a statue of Charlie, a sculpture formed not from stone or marble but from the raw material that the Meat Man had brought them. It was an eight foot high Charlie moulded from the remains of a hundred corpses, slapped together from the gore that had been shove
lled up from the tracks and scraped from the front of trains.
It was a literal Meat Man.
"This is their love for you," the other Meat Man said, and cackled with the insanity he could no longer hold in.
The army of rats bowed their vermin heads as one, and gave honour to their god.
And Charlie felt their love overwhelm him.
—Lee Thomas
Lee Thomas is the Bram Stoker Award and Lambda Literary Award-winning author of Stained, Parish Damned, The Dust of Wonderland, and In the Closet, Under the Bed. Recent releases include the critically acclaimed novel, The German, and the novella, Torn.
—A Man in Shape Alone
By Lee Thomas
From a distance you look like a man of above average size, though you have known only a few days of life. Your features are poorly defined with a flat nose that looks as if someone has attached a spare thumb between the uneven rectangles of your eyes, and your mouth is little more than a hole Deborah gouged in the gob of clay she fashioned for your head. She called you, Golem.
You look at Deborah lying on the floor and experience a collection of sensations you don't understand. Memories of her smile make you think of sunlight, warm and nourishing. You always felt safe with her eyes upon you. Conversely, seeing those eyes cold and blank like bubbles on the surface of a lake, as they are now, crash and cut as if deep within you a shelf holding an array of precious bottles has collapsed, peppering you with brightly-colored shards. This is the only pain you've ever felt, and you want it to end. You stare down at Deborah, the red hole above her ear and those empty bubbles that once looked upon you with wonder, and you know the pain will continue as long as you look at her.
So you turn away, and leave the apartment and your murdered parent behind.
It is night and the streets whisper with mostly unfamiliar noises. There is laughter, which you have heard, and shouting, which you know so well, but amid these recognizable human sounds are hums and buzzes and clangs and grindings. Some draw you and others repel. You wander with no destination, equipped with a past too short and too sheltered to use for reference or direction. You don't know where to go because Deborah can no longer tell you.
After many hours of wandering, you are still in the city. Dawn breaks, filling the sky with blue and casting wedges of gold on the heads of the buildings towering above. You still walk in shadow, but already the day's warmth works into your material. The streets begin to fill with men and women. A little girl, not like Deborah in the least but reminding you of her all the same, skips in circles on the sidewalk ahead. She notices you and cocks her head to the side as if trying to decide if she's familiar with your face. You turn into an alley to avoid her gaze.
You find the towering walls comforting, protective. The sun cannot reach you here, cannot emphasize the imperfections of your face, and you lie amid the filth and trash, where you are determined to remain until night returns. A chocolate-stained candy wrapper affixes to the surface of your back. A chicken bone jabs at your hip until your weight settles and the bone is enveloped in clay, now permanently a part of your composition. The same can be said for the shard of compact disc at your shoulder and the toy car molded of cheap metal now lodged in the back of your head. Other bits of waste ornament you, but even if your vanity demanded their absence, you would be incapable of freeing them. Your hands are flat slabs designed to bludgeon, not fabricated with the detail required for delicate acts of grooming.
As you lie there, looking upward through a tunnel of dirty, chipped bricks and iron ladders at a sky of splendid light, a cat creeps from beneath the dumpster at the alley's end and cautiously approaches. Finding you neither a threat nor a delicacy, the animal pushes into the cradle between your head and shoulder; its tail, soft yet slick with motor oil, lies across your cheek. It is not Deborah's touch but reminiscent of that touch and it comforts you, even when the restless cat paws at your collar, taking bits of you beneath its claws before it settles into sleep.
Though you do not sleep, you dream. Deborah's image moves through you like a possessing spirit, only comforting and welcome—her face the first sight of your life, her voice the first sound.
On the night of your creation, she recounted the murder of her husband at the hands of local villains—men who behaved like cruel lords of the city streets. She called them gangsters. Upon finishing her story, she placed her hand on your cheek. That same hand and its twin had worked hatred and sorrow and the profoundest of love into your material. Its touch awakened these feelings in you, just as the scroll perched in the cave of your mouth first awakened your thoughts. She had sculpted with the intent of revenge, but that simple word encompassed myriad complexities like a greenhouse that sheltered and nurtured a hundred different species of flora.
The following night you left Deborah and walked the streets, drawn to the brutal men she had named. You found them in an apartment, not very unlike the one in which you had recently left. They appeared surprised when you entered the room, splinters of the smashed door jutting from your arms. The two men shouted and fired guns. The bullets passed through you like stones through water. You brought your hand down on the head of the first man. Neck bones snapped as the impact drove his skull low until his jaw shattered against collarbones. His head opened. Blood and bits of gray, not unlike the clay of you, bathed your arm. Teeth poured over his chest amid a wash of crimson. One tooth stuck to the lapel of his coat, and you looked at it, fascinated by its contours and its fine details. Your regard lasted only a moment, and then the brutal man swayed and crashed to the floor. You turned to the other and swung your arm like a club. This second man lifted his arms in defense but they snapped away, bone tearing through muscle and skin and cloth, as you wedged him against the wall with your arm. His mouth was open as it had been during his shouted protests, though blood now spilled in place of words. You pulled your arm from the trench it had made in his chest, and he too collapsed on the floor.
You wanted to remain there for a time so that you could examine the intricacies of the men's anatomies—what skilled hands must have been at work to form such tiny pieces and parts. You speculated on this mystery because you could conceive of no craftsman equal to the task. Your own parent had only managed flat slabs where hands should be and thick blocks of clay for feet. You then reminded yourself that you were a man in shape only, like a shadow cast against a grim wall. Your origin was not their origin.
Returning to Deborah, you saw so many people walking the streets, and you were curious to know more about them. Again, you wished to pause to observe and absorb their behaviors, but Deborah had made her wishes clear, and you obeyed because that is your nature.
On your second night of life, Deborah cried as she picked the bits of wood from your arm and mended the bullet holes, filling the tunnels in your torso with fresh clay before smoothing your chest and belly with her warm palm. She wiped away the men's blood and tissue with a dampened cloth and your body shimmered in the dimly lighted apartment until the fresh moisture evaporated.
All night she spoke to you, her finely wrought hand resting on the blunt arch of your knee. Laughter and tears punctuated her conversation, as she continued to reminisce about the dead man she had loved.
On the third night, Deborah explained that you needed to go away, telling you that your work was done, and though you didn't understand her meaning, you were introduced to an intimate fear. Your time with Deborah was coming to an end, and what might follow was beyond your imagination.
Was there anything before Deborah's face? Could there be anything after?
No answers would be given to those questions on this night. Her thank yous and apologies were interrupted by a knock on the door. She asked you to stay still. Then Deborah left for another part of the apartment, and you remained motionless, even when the sound of thunder rolled through the room.
Several minutes later, you took a step forward and the motion surprised you. Despite Deborah's command for stillness you were able to wa
lk and you did so, feeling excitement and trepidation with each step.
You found Deborah lying by the front door with a red hole above her ear. You thought about thunder and remembered the gunshots that had sounded just before bullets passed through you in that other apartment, and you thought that Deborah, too, had been damaged.
You knelt down and ran your thick hand over the wound, trying to smooth it as Deborah had done for you the night before. But the maladroit and fingerless wedge of your hand only tangled her hair and smeared the blood, making her less beautiful, so you stopped. Looking at your palm, you saw the red of her painting the gray of you. Strands of hair ran like capillaries through the clay.
That was when you stood and gazed down upon her just before you left.
Lying in the alley with the cat pressed against your neck while you watch cottony clouds pass beyond the tunnel of weathered brick and iron, the few memories you have play forward and backward, moving with a disarming rhythm like a tree beside a window bent into view by gusting winds.
When night falls, the cat is gone. You lift yourself from the garbage and walk into the streets. You try to avoid people but it seems impossible in this place. All around you are apartment buildings like immense rectangular hives. Abrasive noises play in never-ending loops. For you, this is the world. You know nothing else, but you sense there might be more, so you walk to the west.
And you keep walking for days and weeks. The city falls behind you, giving way to smaller structures and diminished populations. By day you remain hidden and still, replaying your accumulated memories, wondering at the things you've witnessed: a man sitting in his car by the side of a road, sobbing; two boys fighting over a toy airplane; a woman humming a sad melody to herself as she pecks at her computer's keyboard; a man and a woman embracing in a room as you stand beyond the window to observe their union. All along your route, you've encountered men and women joined, whether in conversation or in physical embrace, and you think of Deborah, speaking with such profound love for the husband she lost. Even the people you see walking alone in yards and on sidewalks and down long roads, even these people you imagine are merely fractured elements, temporarily separated from their companions. And you wonder if you too are fractured. Deborah was not of your kind. Her gentleness and care were more the actions of a parent than a mate, which makes you wonder if any such complement to your being exists. Are you unique? Or merely misplaced and left to search for your own tribe?
