999

by Al Sarrantonio

  * * *

  298

  And as much as I would like to say everything that happened to us in the town of Crampton (whose deadness and desolation seem an illusion of paradise after having its hidden life revealed to our eyes) … as much as I would like to say how it was that we were conveyed from that region of the country, that nucleus of nowhere, and returned to our distant homes … as much as I would like to say precisely what assistance and treatments we might have received that delivered us from that place and the pain we experienced there, I cannot say anything about it at all. Because when one is saved from such agony, the most difficult thing in the world is to question the means of salvation: the body does not know or care what takes away its pain and is incapable of questioning these things. For that is what we have become, or what we have all but become—bodies without the illusion of minds or imaginations, bodies without the distractions of souls or selves. None of us among our circle questioned this fact, although we have never spoken of it since our … recovery. Nor have we spoken of the absence of Grossvogel from our circle, which does not exist in the way it once did, that is to say, as an assemblage of artists and intellectuals. We became the recipients of what someone designated as the “legacy of Grossvogel,” which was more than a metaphorical expression, since the artist had in fact bequeathed to each of us, on the condition of his “death or disappearance for a stipulated period of time,” a share in the considerable earnings he had amassed from the sales of his works.

  But this strictly monetary inheritance was only the beginning of the success that all of us from that abolished circle of artists and intellectuals began to experience, the seed from which we began to grow out of our existence as failed minds and selves into our new lives as highly successful organisms, each in our own field of endeavor. Of course we could not have failed, even if we tried, in attaining whatever end we pursued, since everything we have experienced and created was a phenomenon of the shadow, the darkness which reached outwards and reached upwards from inside us to claw and poke its way to the heights of a mountainous pile of human and nonhuman bodies. These are all we have and all we are; these are what is used and thrived upon. I can feel my own body being used and cultivated, the desires and impulses that are pulling it to succeed, that are tugging it toward every kind of success. There is no means by which I could ever oppose these desires and impulses, now that I exist solely as a body which seeks only its efficient perpetuation so that it may be thrived upon by what needs it. There is no possibility of my resisting what needs to thrive upon us, no possibility of betraying it in any way. The medications that I and the others now consume in such prodigious quantities serve only to further the process of our cultivation, this growing and pulling and using of our bodies. And even if this little account of mine—my own Tsalal, if you will (nevermind the pronouns)—even if this little chronicle seems to disclose secrets that might undermine the nightmarish order of things, it does nothing but support and promulgate that order. Nothing can resist or betray this nightmare because nothing exists that might do anything, that might be anything that could realize a success in that way. The very idea of such a thing is only nonsense and dreams.

  There could never be anything written about the “conspiracy against the human race,” because the phenomenon of a conspiracy requires a multiplicity of agents, a division of sides, one of which is undermining the other in some way and the other having an existence that is able to be undermined. But this is no such multiplicity or division, no undermining or resistance or betrayal on either side. What exists is only this pulling, this tugging upon all of the bodies of this world. But these bodies have a collective existence only in a taxonomic or perhaps a topographical sense and in no way constitute a collective entity, an agency that might be the object of a conspiracy. And a collective entity called the human race cannot exist where there is only a collection of nonentities, of bodies which are themselves only provisional and will be lost one by one, the whole collection of them always approaching nonsense, always dissolving into dreams. There can be no conspiracy in a void, or rather in a black abyss. There can only be this tugging of all these bodies toward that ultimate success which it seems my large-bodied friend realized when he was finally used to the fullest extent, his body used up, entirely consumed by what needed it to thrive.

  “There is only one true and final success for the shadow that makes things what they would not be,” Grossvogel proclaimed in the very last of his pamphlets. “There is only one true and final success for the all-moving blackness that makes things do what they would not do,” he wrote. And these were the very last lines of that last pamphlet. Grossvogel could not explain himself or anything else beyond these unconcluded statements. He had run out of the words that (to quote someone who shall remain as nameless as only a member of the human race can be) are the ultimate artwork of the shadow, the darkness—its ultimate artistic cover-up. Just as he could not resist it as his body was pulled toward that ultimate success, he could not betray it with his words.

  It was during the winter following the Crampton excursion that I began fully to see where these last words of Grossvogel were leading. Late one night I stood gazing from a window as the first snow of the season began to fall and become increasingly more prolific throughout each dark hour during which I observed its progress with my organs of physical sensation. By that time I could see what was inside the falling flakes of snow, just as I could see what was inside all other things, activating them with its force. And what I saw was a black snow tumbling with an incessant roar from a black sky. There was nothing recognizable in that sky—certainly no familiar visage spread out across the night and implanted into it. There was only this roaring blackness above and this roaring blackness below. There was only this consuming, proliferating, roaring blackness whose only true and final success was in the mere perpetuation of itself as successfully as it could in a world where nothing exists that could ever hope to be anything else except what it needs to thrive upon … until everything is entirely consumed and there is only one thing remaining in all existence and it is an infinite body of roaring blackness activating itself and thriving upon itself with eternal success in the deepest abyss of entity. Grossvogel could not resist or betray it, even if it was an absolute nightmare, the ultimate physical-metaphysical nightmare. He ceased to be a person so that he could remain a successful organism. “Anyone would do the same,” he said.

  And no matter what I say I cannot resist or betray it. No one could do so because there is no one here. There is only this body, this shadow, this darkness.

  Rick Hautala

  KNOCKING

  Rick Hautala’s novel Night Stone was famous for its cover (which sported a hologram, a publishing first) as well as for its contents. Like Ramsey Campbell, he has refused to abandon the field, and has steadfastly kept to the path he laid out years ago with such subsequent horror and thriller novels as Impulse, Dark Silence, and Cold Whisper.

  For 999, Rick came up with a dandy piece, which actually features the millennium, something I wanted to avoid. But somehow in this story I didn’t mind at all, since the millennium is just background—like the Dune-like worms in Star Wars, which made my jaw drop, not because they were so neat but because Lucas had the nerve to just make them background.

  This story is not about the millennium at all. It’s about something much more scary: the human mind.

  The streets were on fire.

  For the last six weeks, once the sun was down, Martin Gordon wouldn’t leave his house.

  He didn’t dare.

  He hadn’t seen any news reports since the television stations had gone off the air last week. It had been even longer since he’d read a current newspaper or magazine. But he didn’t need anyone to tell him that being out after dark was dangerous. From his second-floor bedroom window, he could see marauding bands of young people, their black silhouettes outlined like hot metal against the dancing flames of the burning city as they roved the streets.
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br />   The millennial celebrations had started in early December. At first they had been nothing more than sporadic nightly celebrations; but for the last few weeks, they had continued from dusk until dawn as throngs of people moved from city block to city block. What had started as a spontaneous celebration quickly turned into wanton destruction as people’s frustrations and insecurities took over. It wasn’t long before the burning and looting began.

  Martin had quit his job on Monday of last week. He thought quit might be too strong a word. There was no superior left at the factory for him to give his notice to, so one morning he simply stopped showing up.

  He didn’t mind being out of work all that much. He’d never really liked his job in the first place, and now he had plenty of time to do the things he enjoyed doing, such as working on his model railroad. Of course, with no electricity, he couldn’t run the trains. In the gathering darkness, he could only admire the work he’d done that day and hope that—eventually—once the electricity was restored, he could run them again.

  For the last several days, however, he’d spent most of the daylight hours reinforcing the barricades around his house. He’d sacrificed nearly all of the heavy oak doors from inside the house to cover the downstairs windows. He picked up some heavy-duty screws at the hardware store and, after cutting the doors in half, screwed them securely into the window frames. Someone would have to be damned serious about breaking in to remove one of them.

  Getting food was becoming an increasing problem. Martin had run out of ready cash a while ago. All of the city’s banks had closed their doors by the second week of December, so his paltry savings were locked up where he couldn’t get at them.

  Ultimately it didn’t matter because all of the grocery stores within walking distance of his house had been looted, anyway. Without electricity, all of the perishables had gone bad, but Martin had enough dried and canned food squirreled away to last him at least a month or so, maybe longer if he was careful. As it was, his meals were pretty uninspired—usually nothing more than cold baked beans or vegetables eaten straight from the can. All he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down and the police would restore order so everything could start getting back to normal.

  Whatever normal was in the year 2000.

  Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.

  He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving band of party-goers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on his bed with his loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his lap. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if there was any trouble.

  So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble, and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium noting was still in full swing, but some distance away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.

  “Christ, some celebration,” he muttered.

  He was in the habit of talking out loud to himself, having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother had died. He had never known his father, who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was only one year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he’d gone to the store for cigarettes and never come back.

  There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was heaped high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds as he lay down in the darkness and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.

  He had just drifted off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.

  For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard … something. But what?

  Could there be someone in the house?

  He felt a tingling rush of apprehension.

  It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner.

  Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.

  Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone up and down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled with anticipation until—very faintly—he heard the sound again.

  It was the sound of someone knocking …

  … knocking on the front door.

  Martin’s heart pulsed heavily in his chest as he thumbed the hammer back on the shotgun and took a few cautious steps forward. He was breathing rapidly, trailing his frosty breath like a tangled scarf over his shoulders.

  Before he made it to the now-doorless doorway of his bedroom, the knocking came again, louder this time. It echoed through the cold, dark house, which resonated like the insides of a huge kettledrum.

  Martin was shivering terribly when he stepped out into the hallway and paused to look over the railing. His eyes seemed to be taking too long to adjust to the darkness as he stared at the front door, positive that he could see it push inward with each heavy blow as the knocking sounded again.

  Tightening his grip on the shotgun, he started down the stairs, his gaze focused on the narrow windows on either side of the door. He wanted to catch some indication of who was out there on the doorstep, but all he could see was the deep, black stain of the night, pressing against the glass like a stray cat, wanting to be let in.

  Martin took a deep breath, preparing to call out a challenge or warning, but his voice failed him, caught like a fish hook in his throat.

  He didn’t like this.

  Not one bit.

  But in spite of his rising tension, he kept moving forward. Every step creaked beneath his weight, setting his teeth on edge until he made it down to the foyer.

  The only light in the house came from the single candle burning upstairs in his bedroom. Hardly enough light to see by. The darkness within the house pressed close, squeezing against him like soft, crushed velvet. When he realized that he was holding his breath, he let it out in a long, slow whistle. His hands were shaking as he raised the shotgun and aimed it at the front door.

  Even though he was expecting it and was convinced that he was ready for it, his heart skipped a beat when the knocking came again.