‘What do you want?’ Peretti was annoyed. ‘You looking for a bruise?’
Gazing unhappily down, his fists clenched, Charles explained what had happened in short, mumbled words.
When he had finished, Peretti let out a low whistle. ‘No kidding.’
‘It’s true.’ He nodded quickly. ‘I’ll show you. Come on and I’ll show you.’
Peretti got slowly to his feet. ‘Yeah, show me. I want to see.’
He got his b.b. gun from his room, and the two of them walked silently up the dark street, toward Charles’ house. Neither of them said much. Peretti was deep in thought, serious and solemn-faced. Charles was still dazed; his mind was completely blank.
They turned down the Anderson driveway, cut through the back yard, climbed the fence, and lowered themselves cautiously into Charles’ back yard. There was no movement. The yard was silent. The front door of the house was closed.
They peered through the living room window. The shades were down, but a narrow crack of yellow streamed out. Sitting on the couch was Mrs Walton, sewing a cotton T-shirt. There was a sad, troubled look on her large face. She worked listlessly, without interest. Opposite her was the father-thing. Leaning back in his father’s easy chair, its shoes off, reading the evening newspaper. The TV was on, playing to itself in the corner. A can of beer rested on the arm of the easy chair. The father-thing sat exactly as his own father had sat; it had learned a lot.
‘Looks just like him,’ Peretti whispered suspiciously. ‘You sure you’re not bulling me?’
Charles led him to the garage and showed him the trash barrel. Peretti reached his long tanned arms down and carefully pulled up the dry, flaking remains. They spread out, unfolded, until the whole figure of his father was outlined. Peretti laid the remains on the floor and pieced broken parts back into place. The remains were colorless. Almost transparent. An amber yellow, thin as paper. Dry and utterly lifeless.
‘That’s all,’ Charles said. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘That’s all that’s left of him. The thing has the insides.’
Peretti had turned pale. Shakily, he crammed the remains back in the trash barrel. ‘This is really something,’ he muttered. ‘You say you saw the two of them together?’
‘Talking. They looked exactly alike. I ran inside.’ Charles wiped the tears away and sniveled; he couldn’t hold it back any longer. ‘It ate him while I was inside. Then it came in the house. It pretended it was him. But it isn’t. It killed him and ate his insides.’
For a moment Peretti was silent. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ve heard about this sort of thing. It’s a bad business. You have to use your head and not get scared. You’re not scared, are you?’
‘No,’ Charles managed to mutter.
‘The first thing we have to do is figure out how to kill it.’ He rattled his b.b. gun. ‘I don’t know if this’ll work. It must be plenty tough to get hold of your father. He was a big man.’ Peretti considered. ‘Let’s get out of here. It might come back. They say that’s what a murderer does.’
They left the garage. Peretti crouched down and peeked through the window again. Mrs Walton had got to her feet. She was talking anxiously. Vague sounds filtered out. The father-thing threw down its newspaper. They were arguing.
‘For God’s sake!’ the father-thing shouted. ‘Don’t do anything stupid like that.’
‘Something’s wrong,’ Mrs Walton moaned. ‘Something terrible. Just let me call the hospital and see.’
‘Don’t call anybody. He’s all right. Probably up the street playing.’
‘He’s never out this late. He never disobeys. He was terribly upset—afraid of you! I don’t blame him.’ Her voice broke with misery. ‘What’s wrong with you? You’re so strange.’ She moved out of the room, into the hall. ‘I’m going to call some of the neighbors.’ The father-thing glared after her until she had disappeared. Then a terrifying thing happened. Charles gasped; even Peretti grunted under his breath.
‘Look,’ Charles muttered. ‘What—’
‘Golly,’ Peretti said, black eyes wide.
As soon as Mrs Walton was gone from the room, the father-thing sagged in its chair. It became limp. Its mouth fell open. Its eyes peered vacantly. Its head fell forward, like a discarded rag doll.
Peretti moved away from the window. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered. ‘That’s the whole thing.’
‘What is it?’ Charles demanded. He was shocked and bewildered. ‘It looked like somebody turned off its power.’
‘Exactly.’ Peretti nodded slowly, grim and shaken. ‘It’s controlled from outside.’
Horror settled over Charles. ‘You mean, something outside our world?’
Peretti shook his head with disgust. ‘Outside the house! In the yard. You know how to find?’
‘Not very well.’ Charles pulled his mind together. ‘But I know somebody who’s good at finding.’ He forced his mind to summon the name. ‘Bobby Daniels.’
‘That little black kid? Is he good at finding?’
‘The best.’
‘All right,’ Peretti said. ‘Let’s go get him. We have to find the thing that’s outside. That made it in there, and keeps it going . . .’
‘It’s near the garage,’ Peretti said to the small, thin-faced Negro boy who crouched beside them in the darkness. ‘When it got him, he was in the garage. So look there.’
‘In the garage?’ Daniels asked.
‘Around the garage. Walton’s already gone over the garage, inside. Look around outside. Nearby.’
There was a small bed of flowers growing by the garage, and a great tangle of bamboo and discarded debris between the garage and the back of the house. The moon had come out; a cold, misty light filtered down over everything. ‘If we don’t find it pretty soon,’ Daniels said, ‘I got to go back home. I can’t stay up much later.’ He wasn’t any older than Charles. Perhaps nine.
‘All right,’ Peretti agreed. ‘Then get looking.’
The three of them spread out and began to go over the ground with care. Daniels worked with incredible speed; his thin little body moved in a blur of motion as he crawled among the flowers, turned over rocks, peered under the house, separated stalks of plants, ran his expert hands over leaves and stems, in tangles of compost and weeds. No inch was missed.
Peretti halted after a short time. ‘I’ll guard. It might be dangerous. The father-thing might come and try to stop us.’ He posted himself on the back step with his b.b. gun while Charles and Bobby Daniels searched. Charles worked slowly. He was tired, and his body was cold and numb. It seemed impossible, the father-thing and what had happened to his own father, his real father. But terror spurred him on; what if it happened to his mother, or to him? Or to everyone? Maybe the whole world.
‘I found it!’ Daniels called in a thin, high voice. ‘You all come around here quick!’
Peretti raised his gun and got up cautiously. Charles hurried over; he turned the flickering yellow beam of his flashlight where Daniels stood.
The Negro boy had raised a concrete stone. In the moist, rotting soil the light gleamed on a metallic body. A thin, jointed thing with endless crooked legs was digging frantically. Plated, like an ant; a red-brown bug that rapidly disappeared before their eyes. Its rows of legs scabbed and clutched. The ground gave rapidly under it. Its wicked-looking tail twisted furiously as it struggled down the tunnel it had made.
Peretti ran into the garage and grabbed up the rake. He pinned down the tail of the bug with it. ‘Quick! Shoot it with the b.b. gun!’
Daniels snatched the gun and took aim. The first shot tore the tail of the bug loose. It writhed and twisted frantically; its tail dragged uselessly and some of its legs broke off. It was a foot long, like a great millipede. It struggled desperately to escape down its hole.
‘Shoot again,’ Peretti ordered.
Daniels fumbled with the gun. The bug slithered and hissed. Its head jerked back and forth; it twisted and bit at the rake holding it down
. Its wicked specks of eyes gleamed with hatred. For a moment it struck futilely at the rake; then abruptly, without warning, it thrashed in a frantic convulsion that made them all draw away in fear.
Something buzzed through Charles’ brain. A loud humming, metallic and harsh, a billion metal wires dancing and vibrating at once. He was tossed about violently by the force; the banging crash of metal made him deaf and confused. He stumbled to his feet and backed off; the others were doing the same, white-faced and shaken.
‘If we can’t kill it with the gun,’ Peretti gasped, ‘we can drown it. Or burn it. Or stick a pin through its brain.’ He fought to hold onto the rake, to keep the bug pinned down.
‘I have a jar of formaldehyde,’ Daniels muttered. His fingers fumbled nervously with the b.b. gun. ‘How do this thing work? I can’t seem to—’ Charles grabbed the gun from him. ‘I’ll kill it.’ He squatted down, one eye to the sight, and gripped the trigger. The bug lashed and struggled. Its force-field hammered in his ears, but he hung onto the gun. His finger tightened . . .
‘All right, Charles,’ the father-thing said. Powerful fingers gripped him, a paralyzing pressure around his wrists. The gun fell to the ground as he struggled futilely. The father-thing shoved against Peretti. The boy leaped away and the bug, free of the rake, slithered triumphantly down its tunnel.
‘You have a spanking coming, Charles,’ the father-thing droned on. ‘What got into you? Your poor mother’s out of her mind with worry.’
It had been there, hiding in the shadows. Crouched in the darkness watching them. Its calm, emotionless voice, a dreadful parody of his father’s, rumbled close to his ear as it pulled him relentlessly toward the garage. Its cold breath blew in his face, an icy-sweet odor, like decaying soil. Its strength was immense; there was nothing he could do.
‘Don’t fight me,’ it said calmly. ‘Come along, into the garage. This is for your own good. I know best, Charles.’
‘Did you find him?’ his mother called anxiously, opening the back door.
‘Yes, I found him.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘A little spanking.’ The father-thing pushed up the garage door. ‘In the garage.’ In the half-light a faint smile, humorless and utterly without emotion, touched its lips. ‘You go back in the living room, June. I’ll take care of this. It’s more in my line. You never did like punishing him.’
The back door reluctantly closed. As the light cut off, Peretti bent down and groped for the b.b. gun. The father-thing instantly froze.
‘Go on home, boys,’ it rasped.
Peretti stood undecided, gripping the b.b. gun.
‘Get going,’ the father-thing repeated. ‘Put down that toy and get out of here.’ It moved slowly toward Peretti, gripping Charles with one hand, reaching toward Peretti with the other. ‘No b.b. guns allowed in town, sonny. Your father know you have that? There’s a city ordinance. I think you better give me that before—’
Peretti shot it in the eye.
The father-thing grunted and pawed at its ruined eye. Abruptly it slashed out at Peretti. Peretti moved down the driveway, trying to cock the gun. The father-thing lunged. Its powerful fingers snatched the gun from Peretti’s hands. Silently, the father-thing mashed the gun against the wall of the house.
Charles broke away and ran numbly off. Where could he hide? It was between him and the house. Already, it was coming back toward him, a black shape creeping carefully, peering into the darkness, trying to make him out. Charles retreated. If there were only some place he could hide . . .
The bamboo.
He crept quickly into the bamboo. The stalks were huge and old. They closed after him with a faint rustle. The father-thing was fumbling in its pocket; it lit a match, then the whole pack flared up. ‘Charles,’ it said. ‘I know you’re here, someplace. There’s no use hiding. You’re only making it more difficult.’
His heart hammering, Charles crouched among the bamboo. Here, debris and filth rotted. Weeds, garbage, papers, boxes, old clothing, boards, tin cans, bottles. Spiders and salamanders squirmed around him. The bamboo swayed with the night wind. Insects and filth.
And something else.
A shape, a silent, unmoving shape that grew up from the mound of filth like some nocturnal mushroom. A white column, a pulpy mass that glistened moistly in the moonlight. Webs covered it, a moldy cocoon. It had vague arms and legs. An indistinct half-shaped head. As yet, the features hadn’t formed. But he could tell what it was.
A mother-thing. Growing here in the filth and dampness, between the garage and the house. Behind the towering bamboo.
It was almost ready. Another few days and it would reach maturity. It was still a larva, white and soft and pulpy. But the sun would dry and warm it. Harden its shell. Turn it dark and strong. It would emerge from its cocoon, and one day when his mother came by the garage . . . Behind the mother-thing were other pulpy white larvae, recently laid by the bug. Small. Just coming into existence. He could see where the father-thing had broken off; the place where it had grown. It had matured here. And in the garage, his father had met it.
Charles began to move numbly away, past the rotting boards, the filth and debris, the pulpy mushroom larvae. Weakly, he reached out to take hold of the fence—and scrambled back.
Another one. Another larvae. He hadn’t seen this one, at first. It wasn’t white. It had already turned dark. The web, the pulpy softness, the moistness, were gone. It was ready. It stirred a little, moved its arm feebly.
The Charles-thing.
The bamboo separated, and the father-thing’s hand clamped firmly around the boy’s wrist. ‘You stay right here,’ it said. ‘This is exactly the place for you. Don’t move.’ With its other hand it tore at the remains of the cocoon binding the Charles-thing. ‘I’ll help it out—it’s still a little weak.’
The last shred of moist gray was stripped back, and the Charles-thing tottered out. It floundered uncertainly, as the father-thing cleared a path for it toward Charles.
‘This way,’ the father-thing grunted. ‘I’ll hold him for you. When you’ve fed you’ll be stronger.’
The Charles-thing’s mouth opened and closed. It reached greedily toward Charles. The boy struggled wildly, but the father-thing’s immense hand held him down.
‘Stop that, young man,’ the father-thing commanded. ‘It’ll be a lot easier for you if you—’
It screamed and convulsed. It let go of Charles and staggered back. Its body twitched violently. It crashed against the garage, limbs jerking. For a time it rolled and flopped in a dance of agony. It whimpered, moaned, tried to crawl away. Gradually it became quiet. The Charles-thing settled down in a silent heap. It lay stupidly among the bamboo and rotting debris, body slack, face empty and blank.
At last the father-thing ceased to stir. There was only the faint rustle of the bamboo in the night wind.
Charles got up awkwardly. He stepped down onto the cement driveway. Peretti and Daniels approached, wide-eyed and cautious. ‘Don’t go near it,’ Daniels ordered sharply. ‘It ain’t dead yet. Takes a little while.’
‘What did you do?’ Charles muttered.
Daniels set down the drum of kerosene with a gasp of relief. ‘Found this in the garage. We Daniels, always used kerosene on our mosquitoes, back in Virginia.’
‘Daniels poured the kerosene down the bug’s tunnel,’ Peretti explained, still awed. ‘It was his idea.’
Daniels kicked cautiously at the contorted body of the father-thing. ‘It’s dead, now. Died as soon as the bug died.’
‘I guess the other’ll die, too,’ Peretti said. He pushed aside the bamboo to examine the larvae growing here and there among the debris. The Charles-thing didn’t move at all, as Peretti jabbed the end of a stick into its chest. ‘This one’s dead.’
‘We better make sure,’ Daniels said grimly. He picked up the heavy drum of kerosene and lugged it to the edge of the bamboo. ‘It dropped some matches in the driveway. You get them, Peretti.’
/>
They looked at each other.
‘Sure,’ Peretti said softly.
‘We better turn on the hose,’ Charles said. ‘To make sure it doesn’t spread.’
‘Let’s get going,’ Peretti said impatiently. He was already moving off. Charles quickly followed him and they began searching for the matches, in the moonlit darkness.
Introduction by Matthew Graham
Story Title: The Hood Maker
Script Title: The F Maker
Matthew Graham is a television writer and producer known for creating and writing the television series Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes. Graham wrote and executive produced the television mini-series Childhood’s End, based on the novel by Arthur C. Clarke.
In my formative reading years, from 10 until 18, I devoured as much of the SF oeuvre as I could get my hands on. Which, considering my local library allowed me 5 books every fortnight, was a considerable amount. Asimov, Herbert, Heinlein, Bradbury, Clarke all had a big influence on my imagination. Philip K. Dick was undoubtedly the most challenging and the most thrilling.
PKD drops you from a great height into his world, without explanation or apology. Here in his mind the normal rules do not apply and it’s nought to sixty in a millisecond, so keep your wits about you. An opening sentence could easily be something along the lines of ‘Catoran Malovich used his echo-scooter to escape through the city. But the Green Brain was close behind.’
OK, I made that one up. But you get my point. We’re in and we’re running. There was an energy to his prose, at once dense and economical, that propelled me forward and set my pulse keening. PKD knew how to paint a picture in the mind but he also knew that despite the inherent cinematic quality of his work this was Literature, not a smuggled-in screenplay pitch to the movie studios (as so many novelists do today). How ironic, then, that filmmakers line up to adapt his work.
Reading his anthology of short stories, I tended to read too fast. I missed stuff because I was hungry to race through it and start the next. Getting through his stories was like collecting Pokemon. Gotta get ’em all! So I got excited and missed stuff, I was a kid, so sue me. As a consequence, when I read The Hood Maker, I missed the point made on the first page that the ‘hood’ in question, worn by a man named Franklin and designed to protect him from mind-reading, was not in fact an actual hood but a concealed metal headband.
Electric Dreams Page 10
