The Collective

by The Collective [lit]

Old enough to slaughter

  The old farmer said

  And grinned at the white

  Haystack sky

  With sweaty teeth

  (radiation radiation

  your grandchildren will be monsters)

  I remember a skeleton

  In Death Valley

  A cow in the sunbleached throes of antiseptic death

  and someone said:

  - Someday there will be skeletons

  on the median strip of the Hollywood Freeway

  staring up at exhaust-sooty pigeons

  amidst the flapping ruins of

  Botany 500

  call me Ishmael.

  I am a semen.

  - Can you do it?

  She asked shrewdly

  When the worms begin

  their midnight creep

  and the dew has sunk white to

  milk the grass...

  And the bitter tears

  Have no ducts

  The eyes have fleshed in.

  Only the nose knows that

  A loser is always the same.

  There is a sharp report.

  It slices the night cleanly

  And thumps home with a tincan spannnng!

  Against the Speed Limit sign down the road.

  Laughter

  The clean clear sound of a bolt levered back...

  Silence...

  Spannng!

  "Aileen, if poachers poached peaches, would the

  poachers peel the peaches to eat with poached eggs

  poached before peaches?"

  oh don't

  don't

  please touch me

  but don't

  don't

  and I reach for your hand

  but touch only the radiating live pencils

  of your bones:

  -- Can you do it?

  IN A HALF WORLD

  OF TERROR

  Stephen King

  First appeared in

  Stories Of Suspense, a.k.a.

  I Was A Teenage Graverobber 1966

  It was like a nightmare. Like some unreal dream that you wake up

  from the next morning. Only this nightmare was happening. Ahead

  of me I could see Rankin's flashlight; a large yellow eye in the

  sultry summer darkness. I tripped over a gravestone and almost

  went sprawling. Rankin whirled on me with a hissed oath.

  "Do you want to wake up the caretaker, you fool?"

  I muttered a reply and we crept forward. Finally, Rankin stopped

  and shone the flashlight's beam on a freshly chiseled gravestone.

  On it, it read:

  DANILE WHEATHERBY

  1899 1962

  He has joined his beloved wife in a better land.

  I felt a shovel thrust into my hands and suddenly I was sure that I

  couldn't go through with it. But I remembered the bursar shaking

  his head and saying, "I'm afraid we can't give you any more time,

  Dan. You'll have to leave today. If I could help in any way, I

  would, believe me ..."

  I dug into the still soft earth and lifted it over my shoulder. Perhaps

  fifteen minutes later my shovel came in contact with wood. The

  two of us quickly excavated the hole until the coffin stood revealed

  under Rankin's flashlight. We jumped down and heaved the coffin

  up.

  Numbed, I watched Rankin swing the spade at the locks and seals.

  After a few blows it gave and we lifted the lid. The body of Daniel

  Wheatherby looked up at us with glazed eyes. I felt horror gently

  wash over me. I had always thought that the eyes closed when one

  died.

  "Don't just stand there," Rankin whispered, "it's almost four.

  We've got to get out of here!"

  We wrapped the body in a sheet and lowered the coffin back into

  the earth. We shoveled rapidly and carefully replaced the sod. The

  dirt we had missed was scattered.

  By the time we picked up the white-sheeted body, the first traces

  of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky in the east. We went

  through the hedge that skirted the cemetery and entered the woods

  that fronted it on the west. Rankin expertly picked his way through

  it for a quarter of a mile until we came to the car, parked where we

  had left it on an overgrown and unused wagon track that had once

  been a road. The body was put into the trunk. Shortly thereafter,

  we joined the stream of commuters hurrying for the 6.00 train.

  I looked at my hands as if I had never seen them before. The dirt

  under my fingernails had been piled up on top of a man's final

  resting place not twenty-four hours ago. It felt unclean.

  Rankin's attention was directed entirely on his driving. I looked at

  him and realized that he didn't mind the repulsive act that we had

  just performed. To him it was just another job. We turned off the

  main road and began to climb the twisting, narrow dirt road. And

  then we came out into the open and I could see it, the huge

  rambling Victorian mansion that sat on the summit of the steep

  grade. Rankin drove around back and wordlessly up to the steep

  rock face of a bluff that rose another forty feet upward, slightly to

  the right of the house.

  There was a hideous grinding noise and a portion of the hill large

  enough to carve an entrance for the car slid open. Rankin drove in

  and killed the engine. We were in a small, cube-like room that

  served as a hidden garage. Just then, a door at the far end slid open

  and a tall, rigid man approached us.

  Steffen Weinbaum's face was much like a skull; his eyes were

  deep-set and the skin was stretched so tautly over his cheekbones

  that his flesh was almost transparent.

  "Where is it?" His voice was deep, ominous.

  Wordlessly, Rankin got out and I followed his lead. Rankin opened

  the trunk and we pulled the sheet-swaddled figure out.

  Weinbaum nodded slowly.

  "Good, very good. Bring him into the lab."

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I was thirteen, my parents were killed in an automobile

  crash. It left me an orphan and should have landed me in an

  orphan's home. But my father's will disclosed the fact that he had

  left me a substantial sum of money and I was self-reliant. The

  welfare people never came around and I was left in the somewhat

  bizarre role as the sole tenant of my own house at thirteen. I paid

  the mortgage out of the bank account and tried to stretch a dollar as

  far as possible.

  By the time I was eighteen and was out of school, the money was

  low, but I wanted to go to college. I sold the house for $10,000.00

  through a real estate buyer. In early September, the roof fell in. I

  received a very nice letter from Erwin, Erwin and Bradstreet,

  attorneys at law. To put it in layman's language, it said that the

  department store at which my father had been employed had just

  got around to a general audit of their books. It seemed that there

  was $15,000.00 missing and that they had proof that my father had

  stolen it. The rest of the letter merely stated that if I didn't pay up

  the $15,000.00 we'd got to court and they would try to get double

  the amount.

  It shook me up and a few questions that should have stood out in

  my mind just didn't register as a result. Why didn't they uncover

  the error earlier? Why were they offering to settle out of court?

&nb
sp; I went down to the office of Erwin, Erwin, & Bradstreet and talked

  the matter over. To make a long story short, I paid the sum there

  were asking, I had no more money.

  The next day I looked up the firm of Erwin, Erwin & Bradstreet in

  the phone book. It wasn't listed. I went down to their office and

  found a For Rent sign on the door. It was then that I realized that I

  had been conned like gullible kid which, I reflected miserably

  was what I was.

  I bluffed my way through the first for months of college but finally

  they discovered that I hadn't been properly registered.

  That same day I met Rankin at a bar. It was my first experience in

  a tavern. I had a forged driver's license and I bough enough

  whiskey to get drunk. I figured that it would take about two

  straight whiskeys since I had never had anything but a bottle of

  beer now and then prior to that night.

  One felt good, two made my trouble seem rather inconsequential. I

  was nursing my third when Rankin entered the bar.

  He sat on the stool next to me and looked attentively at me.

  "You got troubles?" I asked rudely.

  Rankin smiled. "Yes, I'm out to find a helper."

  "Oh, yeah?" I asked, becoming interested. "You mean you want to

  hire somebody?"

  "Yes."

  ""Well, I'm your man."

  He started to say something and then changed his mind.

  "Let's go over to a booth and talk it over, shall we?"

  We walked over to a booth and I realized that I was listing slightly.

  Rankin pulled the curtain.

  "That's better. Now, you want a job?"

  I nodded.

  "Do you care what it is?"

  "No. Just how much does it pay?"

  "Five hundred a job."

  I lost a little bit of the rosy fog that encased me. Something was

  wrong here. I didn't like the way he used the word "job".

  "Who do I have to kill?" I asked with a humorless smile.

  "You don't'. But before I can tell you what it is, you'll have to talk

  with Mister Weinbaum."

  "Who's he?"

  "A scientist."

  More fog evaporated. I got up.

  "Uh-uh. No making a human guinea pig out of yours truly. Get

  yourself another boy."

  "Don't be silly," he said, "No harm will come to you."

  Against my better judgement, I said, "Okay, let's go."

  CHAPTER 3

  Weinbaum approached the subject of my duties after a tour of the

  house, including the laboratory. He wore a white smock and there

  was something about him that made me crawl inside. He sat down

  in the living room and motioned me into a seat. Rankin had

  disappeared. Weinbaum stared at me with fixed eyes and once

  again I felt a blast of icy coldness sweep over me.

  "I'll put it to you bluntly," he said, "my experiments are too

  complicated to explain in any detail, but they concern human flesh.

  Dead human flesh."

  I was becoming intensely aware that his eyes burnt with flickering

  fires. He looked like a spider ready to engulf a fly, and this whole

  house was his web. The sun was striking fire to the west and deep

  pools of shadows were spreading across the room, hiding his face,

  but leaving the glittering eyes as they shifted in the creeping

  darkness.

  He was still speaking. "Often, people bequeath their bodies to

  scientific institutes for study. Unfortunately, I'm only one man, so

  I have to resort to other methods."

  Horror leapt grinning from the shadows and across my mind there

  flitted the black picture of two men digging by the light of an

  uncertain moon. A shovel struck wood the noise chilled my soul.

  I rose quickly.

  "I think I can find my own way out, Mr. Weinbaum."

  He laughed softly. "Did Rankin tell you how much this job pays?"

  "I'm not interested."

  "Too bad. I was hoping you could see it my way. It wouldn't take a

  year before you would make enough money to return to college."

  I started, and got the uncanny feeling that this man was searching

  my soul.

  "How much do you know about me? How did you find out?"

  "I have my ways." He chuckled again. "Will you reconsider?"

  I hesitated.

  "Shall we put it on a trial basis?" he asked softly. "I'm quite sure

  that we can both reach a mutual satisfaction."

  I got the eerie feeling that I was talking to the devil himself, that

  somehow I had been tricked into selling my soul.

  "Be here at 8.00 sharp, the night after next," he said.

  That was how it started.

  As Rankin and I laid the sheeted body of Daniel Whetherby on the

  lab table, lights flashed on behind sheeted oblongs that looked like

  glass tanks.

  "Weinbaum " I had dropped the title, Mister, without thinking, "I

  think "

  "Did you say something?" he asked, his eyes boring into mine. The

  laboratory seemed far away. There were only the two of us, sliding

  through a half-world peopled with horrors beyond the imagination.

  Rankin entered in a white smock coat and broke the spell by

  saying, "All ready, professor."

  At the door, Rankin stopped me. "Friday, at eight."

  A shudder, cold and terrible raced up my spine as I looked back.

  Weinbaum had produced a scalpel and the body was unsheeted.

  They looked at me strangely and I hurried out.

  I took the car and quickly drove down the narrow dirt road. I didn't

  look back. The air was fresh and warm with a promise of budding

  summer. The sky was blue with fluffy white clouds fleeting along

  in the warm summer breeze. The night before seemed like a

  nightmare, a vague dream, that, as all nightmares, is unreal and

  transparent when the bright light of day shines upon it. But as I

  drove past the wrought iron gates of the Crestwood Cemetery I

  realized that this was no dream. Four hours ago my shovel had

  removed the dirt that covered the grave of Daniel Wheatherby.

  For the first time a new thought occurred to me. What was the

  body of Daniel Wheatherby being used for at that moment? I

  shoved the thought into a deep corner of my mind and let out onto

  the go-pedal. The care screamed ahead I put my thoughts into

  driving, glad to put the terrible thing I had done out of my mind,

  for a short time, anyway.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The California countryside blurred by as I tried for the maximum

  speed. The tyres sang on the curve and, as I came out of it, several

  things happened in rapid succession.

  I saw a panel truck crazily parked right on the broken white line, a

  girl of about eighteen running right toward my car, an older man

  running after her. I slammed on the brakes and they exploded like

  bombs. I jockeyed the wheel and the California sky was suddenly

  under me. Then everything was right-side up and I realized that I

  had flipped right over and up. For a moment I was dazed, then a

  scream, shrill and high, piercing, slit my head.

  I opened the door and sprinted toward the road. The man had the

  girl and was yanking her toward the panel truck. He was stronger

  than her and winning, but she was taking an inch of skin for ever
y

  foot he made.

  He saw me.

  "You stay out of this, buddy. I'm her legal guardian."

  I halted and shook the cobwebs out of my brain. It was exactly

  what he had been waiting for. He let go with a haymaker that got

  me on the corner of the chin and knocked me sprawling. He

  grabbed the girl and practically threw her into the cab.

  By the time that I was on me feet he was around to the driver's

  side and peeling out. I took a flying leap and made the roof just as

  he took off. I was almost thrown off, but I clawed through about

  five layers of paint to stay on. Then I reached through the open

  window and got him by the neck. He cursed and grabbed my hand.

  He yanked, the truck spun crazily off the ledge of a steep

  embankment.

  The last thing I remember is the nose of the truck pointing straight

  down. Then my enemy saved my life by viciously yanking my

  arm. I tumbled off just as the truck plunged over the cliff.

  I landed hard, but the rock I landed on was harder. Everything slid

  away.

  Something cool touched my brow as I cam to. The first thing I saw

  was the flashing red light on top of the official looking car parked

  by the embankment. I sat bolt upright and soft hands pushed me

  down. Nice hands, the hands of the girl who had landed me into

  this mess.

  Then there was a Highway Patrolman over me and an official

  voice said, "The ambulance is coming. How do you feel?"

  "Bruised," I said and sat up again. "But tell the ambulance to go

  away. I'm all right."

  I tried to sound flippant. The last thing I needed after last nights

  `job' was the police.

  "How about telling me about it?" the policeman said, producing a

  notebook. Before I answered, I walked over to the embankment.

  My stomach flipped over backwards. The panel truck was nose-

  deep in California dirt and my sparring partner was turning that

  good California soil into a reddish mud with his own blood. He lay

  grotesquely, sprawled half in, half out of the cab. The

  photographers were getting their pictures. He was dead.

  I turned back. The patrolman looked at me as if he expected me to

  throw up, but, after my new job, my stomach was admirably

  strong.

  "I was driving out of the Belwood district,"I said, "I came around

  that curve ..."

  I told the rest of the story with the girl's help. Just as I finished the

  ambulance came to a halt. Despite my protestations and those of

  my still-unnamed girl friend, we were hustled into the back.