The Best New Horror 7

by Stephen Jones

  I almost laughed, softly. “No. Not . . . not now.” I thought back to what I’d seen a few nights before in my alley, how it had seemed so out of place, and yet . . . so right. It may even have been Miguel himself, thinking to come bring me a bloody gift the way a housecat will deliver a torn mouse. “Miguel? Do you . . . the rest of you . . . do you kill?”

  “Some try killing us,” he said solemnly. “Some pay, and some, they look for us. Not wrong, fighting back, okay?”

  “No,” I whispered. “You have to protect yourself, and . . . and the ones you love.” I closed my eyes against the threatening tears summoned by my own failures. And I knew where these candles had come from, which shopkeeper no longer had need of them, had no need of anything, not even the policías he reportedly paid to rid himself of pests. Oh, I believed rumor; Pedro’s word was gospel.

  From beyond the makeshift walls came the soft sounds of movement, of careful feet shifting with more stealth than tender years should be forced to acquire. I heard muttering throats and clicking teeth, and breath in hot feral sighs; for a moment I wondered if they’d come to silence me, a witness to their camp.

  Miguel sat at rapt attention, head tilting up as he sharply sniffed the air, a movement so unchildlike it was like seeing the instinctive animal within ripple beneath his brown skin.

  “They want in,” he said. “For Rafael they feel sad.”

  I shrank against the wall as Miguel drew the burlap curtain aside. The smelly den could accommodate no more than two at a time, but they were patient, waiting their turn. I just watched them, saying nothing as ragged boys and girls and majestic beasts came in to nuzzle the sleeping Rafael. Among those I didn’t already know, their interest in me was minimal, some looking me over with flat eyes, some smiling shyly, others seemingly unaware of my presence. They curled next to Rafael, to warm him with their body heat; they tugged the bandages away to lick his wound. Rafael’s ribs rose and fell with a smooth new rhythm. Two by two they came, as if they all could give of themselves to restore the life which had almost been taken from him, taken because he was . . . what? A scavenger?

  They must have numbered close to thirty.

  After they left, drawing back to their own junkyard dens, and even Miguel fell prey to exhaustion, I cradled the wounded boy in my arms. In his preteen body I tried to feel the bones a younger child might have grown into, a son I’d not held for three years, a son who, for me, would forever remain five. I wondered if he had a sister somewhere, and if she still loved him, or if she, too, lay buried somewhere, like that five-year-old’s big sister, nothing but unfulfilled potentials and precious memories.

  They kill children here. But I suspect it’s the same all over.

  I held Rafael until late the next morning, long after I had looked at his legs and seen that he was only a kid again, just a bruised and wounded kid who needed so many things, but of those, had only time.

  My hair is grey, but sometimes I want to be older still, very very old, so old that nothing new can surprise me, because I’ll recognize that it really isn’t new at all. If I live that long, I will welcome it, but until then I’ll have to content myself with friends like Pedro Javier.

  I told him about Miguel and Rafael and the others, told him in a Plaza del Oro flooded with the light of a sun that struggled in and out of clouds. Pedro’s face was luminous one moment, mysterious and thoughtful the next. I told him not because I really expected him to believe, but because I had to tell someone, and he was the only one I knew who might not laugh at me.

  “The world,” he said, “it forces children to become terrible things sometimes, so that they may live. Makes new things of their nature. For every loss, a gain, I think, but not every gain is worth its cost.”

  He seemed very sad. Pedro has never married, never fathered children, and at times like this I wonder if he’s glad, or regrets it all the more. He’d have made a wonderful father.

  I have him to thank for suggesting a way to get closer to the kids when I first began to notice them, take an interest in their plight – surrogates, I’m sure, for the ones I couldn’t save at home, “Give them pictures of themselves and their friends,” Pedro suggested. He has done so himself for many years. They like this not only because it makes them feel more like a family – see, they have proof – but because when one of them dies, or disappears after the shadow of the policía is seen, then the rest have something by which to remember the lost one. They have no marker and no grave, but at least they have images preserved for all time, and in pictures some believe there lives a sprinkle of magic.

  From my pocket I pulled one such picture. I’d done a terrible thing, taking this from the wall of Rafael’s shack, stealing from someone who has less than nothing, but I planned to give it back.

  I showed it to Pedro, positive he would recognize it.

  The picture showed the fountain in the centre of the Plaza del Oro, from the same vantage point that Pedro had photographed a hundred thousand times. The Plaza was deserted, glowing with soft light that can only come at dawn. A half-dozen gangly-limbed kids were crowded together, Rafael among them, and at their waists rose the hackled head of some lupine animal, at play, with happily lolling tongue. But at their side was someone of adult stature, a blur of grey lost to motion the moment the shutter had clicked, a sweep of dark hair covering most of her face. She knew what they were – I had convinced myself of this in the days since stealing the picture. Where might they have been in the hours before dawn?

  “Do you know who she is, Pedro?”

  He calmly looked at the picture with soft eyes that betrayed nothing more than, perhaps, what he wanted me to see. It compelled me to wonder how much Pedro, having spent nearly every day out here for forty years, had really seen.

  “Some, they call her a bruja.” A witch. He handed the picture back. “But me, I think she is just lonely.”

  Over the next weeks I paid special attention to the strange and brutal deaths one always hears about in a city of millions. People live, people die, and neither can always be peaceful. On a few I dwelled longer: another shopkeeper, with his throat torn out; a policía, disemboweled in an alley. A few more.

  I recognize survival and I recognize vengeance, and sometimes the two exist like fist in glove. Whenever I encounter Miguel and his friends, or seek them out to make sure they’re well, I’m aware of these things inside their hearts, but we never speak of them.

  I am new to this city, still, but it wasn’t always this way down here. Even Pedro admits that. And I wonder what process has been wrought, what set it into motion. If it was a deliberate act, or something just waiting to happen, inevitably, that finally came to pass.

  The woman in the picture was known as Doña Mariana; after I had summoned enough nerve, I went to see her. She lived on a quiet street in one of those areas that most cities have, that reek of history rather than age, and seem further removed from the city’s chaos than the few blocks between. Her apartment was on the third floor of a building steeped in subtle European flavors, bracketed top to bottom by balconies and lattices of dark wrought iron.

  Doña Mariana was about my age, but she wore it with more dignity. Her dark hair was gathered at the back of her neck, long wisps curling free, and the fine lines at her mouth and eyes were cut as if by a loving sculptor who had no choice but to season her with an air of tragedy that would make her beauty all the more poignant. She stood as tall as I and was elegantly big-boned, with a robust underlying sensuality that immediately set me to wondering how she would feel lying with me – how powerful her body must be, and how exquisite her touch.

  Bruja, some said, according to Pedro. Witch. It would’ve been easier to expect a hag.

  I showed her a picture I’d recently taken of some of the kids, Miguel and Rafael and others. “I believe we have some young friends in common,” I said.

  She stared at me, so bold, so direct, her eyes so deeply brown. “Monjito?” she said, and I nodded. “If they trust you, then so will I.
You . . . do not judge them?”

  I knew what she meant, but “judge” seemed so inappropriate a term. It wasn’t my place to judge. They were children and they were something more, something bloody they’d been forced to become. They frightened me and they fascinated me, and I suppose that’s an accurate description of the beginnings of love.

  “I just want to understand,” I told her.

  Doña Mariana took me into her home, full of polished wood and crystal and lush green ferns. We spent hours drinking sangria and talking about children, what a terrible place the world can be for them, how they can only heal from so much before something else sets in and takes them over. You have to wonder sometimes if the survivors are lucky after all.

  We shared our losses, Mariana and I. I told her of the family I’d failed to bring through the fire, and as I did, I had to wonder if that’s why I’d not done anything more for street kids beyond giving to the few needy ones I knew by name. Certainly I was in a position to help; back in the States I knew editors all over the country who would run whatever I wrote, should I decide to emerge from retirement. Americans love a good cause, as long as it comes with plenty of pictures. So why hadn’t I done more? Could it be that I feared my best wouldn’t be enough?

  And then where would I be, losing not two kids, but hundreds?

  Mariana knew my heart, I think, knew it as only one can who has lost her own children after already losing a husband. All three of hers – a daughter and two sons, none older than fourteen – had been killed last year in the massacre that had left the eleven dead in the street. I didn’t ask if they were delinquents or had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surprisingly, I didn’t even wonder until much later. Not that it mattered.

  We grieved for ourselves, mourned for each other, long after the afternoon sun had gone to evening moon, long after Pedro would have packed up his camera and bid another day farewell. We held each other against the night, and soon she took me to her bed and we loved each other in the sad passion of tears, loved each other as only two who intimately share some mutual anguish can love. I knew the powerful rapture of her body, and it exhausted mine; I groped for her soul, and it left mine feeling a little less alone.

  We slept some, but late in the night she awoke with a start, trembling, and when I tried to hold her, Doña Mariana gently pushed my hands aside. Her beauty became ethereal by moonlight, a silvery flood that came through the open door to her balcony. Her hair was now unbound, a lush tangle across the pillow, deeply black with grey threads that glimmered under the moon.

  “No touching,” she said, “not now. Please?”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, no,” and she shook her head. “You came to understand.”

  I smiled, a moment’s self-derision in realizing how little time we’d actually spent talking about Miguel and the others. The smile faded when I realized that she sounded as if I now might be learning something new.

  “I do not understand what gets into me some nights,” she said. “But I let it in anyway.”

  From beneath the balcony came small sounds of scramble, of feet and hands bracing on wrought iron and pulling themselves up, up. Higher. Closer. Doña Mariana showed no fear, so I, naked and defenseless though I was, promised myself I’d feel none either.

  Finally, she looked toward the balcony, where small shadows were beginning to fall. Kids. Just kids. Four of them, with bright feral eyes, climbing over the railing, clambering onto the balcony and hesitantly entering the bedroom. Even in the night I could see they needed baths.

  “I dream them to me in the night, sometimes,” she said. “I wake, and here they are. Is it not a miracle? I choose to believe it is. I choose to let it work through me.”

  Doña Mariana left my side, left the bed, and went to them. She displayed not the slightest shame in appearing to them naked, her body tall and proud and magnificent in the moonlight. Before them, she lowered to the floor, lying on her side with her heavy breasts exposed in subtle invitation. In permission.

  The children knelt, crowding in with eager faces, and as I watched, no longer any part of this, they suckled. For a long time they suckled, taking turns, snapping irritably when one monopolized a thick brown nipple for too long.

  When the first of them bounded away, leaping from the balcony in a blur of child-skin and fledgling fur, it became clear to me.

  I thought of Argentina of the late 1970s, when the army was in charge and routinely rounded up innocents who were never seen again. The generals often took orphaned children, to raise them as their own, trying to poison their hearts and minds at tender ages. But the grandmothers and other women fought back the only way they could, a few at first, but more every day: marching with signs in Buenos Aires Plaza de Mayo, across from the seat of government, demanding the return of their missing loved ones. The Mothers of the Disappeared, they were called, and they won. They were the first true resisters, who took back their country.

  A mother’s grief can be such a potent form of magic.

  I sat in the bed of Doña Mariana, and thought of the policía, and tried not to believe the rumors I’d heard of wolf pelts hung wet and dripping from alley walls, a new blow struck in the coming struggle. I tried to believe that the chorus of howls I heard late last night sounded something other than mournful.

  Don’t let it happen, I prayed. Again, the resurrection of an act I couldn’t believe in any more. Don’t let it happen.

  But I tried to have faith, faith that the children will not allow it, that they will fight until they need fight no more to keep themselves from becoming the worst of all possible things:

  The last of a dying breed.

  LISA TUTTLE

  Food Man

  LISA TUTTLE WAS born in Houston, Texas, but has lived in Britain since 1980. She worked as a journalist for five years on a daily newspaper in Austin and was an early member of the Clarion SF Writers’ Workshop. She sold her first story in 1971 and won the John W. Campbell Award in 1974 for best new science fiction writer.

  Her first book, Windhaven (1981), was a collaboration with George R.R. Martin, since when she has published such fine novels as Familiar Spirit, Gabriel: A Novel of Reincarnation, Lost Futures and The Pillow Friend, and the collections A Nest of Nightmares, A Spaceship Built of Stone and Other Stories and Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation. Her other works include the children’s books Catwitch, and Children’s Literary Houses; the non-fiction guides Encyclopedia of Feminism, Heroines: Women Inspired By Women and Mike Harrison’s Dreamlands; the erotic fantasy Angela’s Rainbow, and the Young Adult novels Horrorscopes: Virgo, Snake Inside (under the house pseudonym “Maria Palmer”) and Panther in Argyll. In 1990 she also edited the acclaimed horror anthology by women, Skin of the Soul.

  “ ‘Food Man’ had its origin in something I read over twenty years ago,” explains Tuttle, “when I was studying anthropology. It was an article on the differing cultural interpretations of psychosis which focused on a particular delusional syndrome suffered by members of native peoples in northern North America which was triggered by malnutrition and semi-starvation during the cold winter months.

  “The end result was often murder and cannibalism, as the person afflicted by the ‘windigo’ would suddenly notice that all the members of their household had turned into giant beavers. Instead of running out of the house screaming, as you or I might do if we discovered we were sharing a bed with a gigantic, toothy rodent, the windigo-sufferer would think: ‘Yum, here’s dinner, and start digging in . . .!’ ”

  DINNER WAS THE real problem.

  Mornings, it was easy to rush out of the house without eating, but when it wasn’t, when her mother made an issue of it, she could eat an orange or half a grapefruit. At lunchtime she was usually either at school or out so there was no one to pressure her into eating anything she didn’t want. But dinner was a problem. She had to sit there, surrounded by her family, and eat whatever her mother had prepared, and n
o matter how she pushed it around her plate it was obvious how little she was eating. She experimented with dropping bits on the floor and secreting other bits up her sleeves or in her pockets, but it wasn’t easy, her mother’s eyes were so sharp, and she’d rather eat than suffer through a big embarrassing scene.

  Her brother, the creep, provided the solution. He was always looking at her, staring at her, mimicking her, teasing, and while she didn’t like it at any time, at mealtimes it was truly unbearable. She honestly could not bear to put a bite in her mouth with him staring at her in that disgusting way. Her parents warned him to leave her alone, and shifted their places so they weren’t directly facing each other, but still it wasn’t enough. He said she was paranoid. She knew that even paranoids have enemies. Even if he wasn’t staring at her right now he had stared before and the prospect that he might stare again clogged her throat with fear. How could she be expected to eat under such circumstances? How could anyone? If she could have dinner on a tray in her room alone, she would be fine.

  Her mother, relieved by the prospect of solving two family problems at once, agreed to this suggestion. “But only for as long as you eat. If I don’t see a clean plate coming out of your room you’ll have to come back and sit with the rest of us.”

  It was easy to send clean plates out of her room. After she’d eaten what she could stomach she simply shoved the rest of the food under her bed. Suspecting that the sound of a toilet flushing immediately after a meal would arouse her mother’s suspicions, she planned to get rid of the food in the morning. Only by morning she’d forgotten, and by the time she remembered it was dinnertime again.

  It went on like that. Of course the food began to smell, rotting away down there under her bed, but no one else was allowed into her bedroom, and she knew the smell didn’t carry beyond her closed door. It was kind of disgusting, when she was lying in bed, because then there was no avoiding it, the odor simply rose up, pushed its way through the mattress and forced itself upon her. Yet even that had its good side; she thought of it as her penance for being so fat, and was grateful for the bad smell because it made her even more adamantly opposed to the whole idea of food. How could other people bear the constant, living stink of it? The cooking, the eating, the excreting, the rotting?