Even while sipping his latte, various versions of himself continued to draw people into the hereafter: the forest ranger in the Poconos, the Benedictine nun in Argenteuil, the Taliban insurgent bleeding out on the streets of Kandahar (I wonder if 72 virgins will give him welcome in Paradise) and countless others.
Conversation turned to art and literature. And more. Sharon admitted her fascination with Death.
“I see.”
“All that power — not flashy or anything. Quiet-like.”
Symeon drank in Sharon’s steady gaze, and despite a mounting giddiness somewhere within him, he decided to be the veritable eye of the storm. Quiet-like. He nodded sagely and smiled. Not that he had faith in anything providential, but all this — the Tate, the Baldung, the latte — seemed to suggest that “Osman” and Sharon were meant to be.
“And something sexy about it, even,” she whispered, with a sly smile.
Nodding. “And fear?”
“Some of that too. I mean, I’m not fearless. I reckon I’m as fucked up as anyone else.” And here she let loose another hearty laugh.
Symeon had wanted to wed and bed her on the spot in Starbucks, but he composed himself and took the gentlemanly route. He walked her home, and at the door he sweetly kissed her on the cheek. Ol’ dog me, learning new tricks and becoming a young pup again — halleluiah!
He was mildly surprised when Sharon tugged him into her flat and planted a not-so-sweet kiss on his lips. There and then, he had vowed to withhold all his services. He shook a mental fist at the heavens— Do your own dirty work for a change, Shit-Head. Symeon felt the insistent press of her tongue and allowed it to penetrate and squirm inside his mouth. Reciprocating, he made a further spontaneous vow — a change of vocation; no longer would he reap grimness, but L-O-V-E. He savored Sharon’s life force, the fullness of it, and imagined his darkness being dissolved by her glow. The two of them…
Glowing.
In her bedroom, they strip-teased themselves into a state of nakedness. He was right pleased when her eyes flicked below his waist and widened.
“Quite the os, man.”
They bellowed joyfully and leapt at one another, in a ravaging kiss. Her full breasts cushioned against him, his raging erection pressed against her belly. They fell upon the bed, glued to one another. Leap-frogging any foreplay, Symeon snaked inside her to the root. He heard her moan and joined her in a sensual duet, as love was superseded by S-E-X.
And before he knew it, he started to pour all his longing, needing, withholding into her. Her groan intensified and became a cry in pain.
Am I too much for her?
Not just pain. All the diseases and afflictions — all that had brought humankind to the brink of death; Symeon’s act of shuffling them off their mortal coil and cleansing them to become spiritually whole again for their voyage to … somewhere, while absorbing all their infirmities — had now filled Sharon up. Symeon quickly withdrew from inside her. Too late.
Her eyes widened in wild panic as she lifted a palsied hand to her face. Her once-creamy complexion mottled with open lesions. She attempted to speak through cankered lips, but could only emit a high-pitched wheeze and glottal clicks. Some portions of her flesh blistered; others encrusted and reddened from a frenzied bout of scratching. His bride-to-be reached out to him with a necrotic claw.
She’s turning into a lobster.
Indecision was entirely foreign to Symeon. He wanted to help — no, to sob — no, to run. He was at once repulsed and entranced. Symeon simply watched.
Sharon began puking up blood as she slowly slid to the floor and started convulsing. Gripped with fever, she threw her head from side to side.
She’s burning up.
A smell of feces filled the air. Sharon mouthed an apology.
I have done this to her.
Lowering his gaze, Symeon focused on her genitalia. Minutes earlier, it had been aesthetically perfect and gifted in the way it tightly wrapped about his bloated cock. Now, it appeared a labial maw, puffed out and inflamed. The lips gaped open. Symeon wasn’t sure, but her insides seemed to be melting from the heat.
He might not have had a heart, but he discovered he wasn’t entirely heartless, and it was breaking at the sight and sound and smell of his lover — the whole suppurating, scabbing, hemorrhaging, rotting hell of her.
Is that smoke?
Her mouth dropped open and let loose a deafening scream as flame ignited all her hairy bits.
Glowing.
Nothing to be done, Symeon backed off and, letting his ascetic, monkish, lanky aspect fall away, he rose upwards in a slow swirl of dusky smog.
Sharon — or this monstrous vessel she had become — could no longer withhold all the disease that riddled her body from within. Flaring in a blinding burst, Symeon’s new-found love blew apart. Far-flung clumps were but blackened husks, which disintegrated into nothingness before his eyeless vigil.
Symeon wafted from that initial conflagration to his council flat in the Isle of Dogs. Congealing into a sludgy form, he hid beneath the bed he had never slept in and shook for days. Throughout the world tremors were felt — low-Richter quakes — which drew concern from scientists. This began to amuse Symeon, as the horror of what had taken place in Sharon’s flat abated. Amusement was soon replaced with a growing anger, an anger that stewed for almost a year.
Thou Arseholiness! You must’ve foreseen what would happen. And You allowed it. Do You get some insane pleasure, testing my allegiance with Your divine brand of irony? It’s tearing me apart. Like the beauteous Sharon. Well, my allegiance is fucked. So the hell with visiting only those “whose time has come.” I’ll choose the time, whether it’s theirs or not. Two can play this godly game.
And so in weeks following, Symeon chose a mad hybrid means of revenge.
Am I now mad?
Thus did he impregnate pick-ups of every shade and gender with his combustive jism — from gym bunnies in South Beach to Russian hookers in Istanbul. The authorities and media began to take notice of these sudden infernos popping up in almost every nation.
Symeon read and listened to their comments. There were two camps of thought: the obvious bugaboo of terrorism… Hey, I’m Os-man bin Laden! …and of course that great old standby — an approaching Apocalypse. Nary a horseman in sight — just l’il ol’ me.
And li’l ol’ he took pleasure in humanity’s paranoia and fear and — he hoped — his silent Employer’s irritation.
Symeon continued on his way back to his El Hovel in Reno. He much preferred walking in human form to floating in a vaporous state. It made him feel closer to … something. Don’t know what I feel anymore. Something… Nothing.
He now regretted his earlier retreat from sating his incendiary lust at the El Condor. He took a hard left from his usual route and turned down a dark side street he had heard about. Cars slid slowly along in dim light and lingered as teen-aged males sauntered over and leaned through open windows for a chat. Symeon’s next conquest — and victim — was propped against a wall, with hands squeezed into tight white denim. A boy, all gangly, but fit and perhaps all of sixteen, his face was pale and smooth beyond belief. Perfectamundo. Crowned by a ragged mop of blondness, he was like an angelic beacon to Symeon. Glowing.
Now appearing broad-shouldered and middle-aged in a smart Armani suit, Symeon nodded in his direction. The lad nodded back, but then almost-shyly cast his eyes down at the pavement. How quaint. Symeon mentally licked his chops as he approached the boy. The kid looked up again, and for a moment it was as if another face was superimposed on his — rounder, with high cheek bones and a curly fringe of dark hair flopped over one eye. A face vaguely familiar to Symeon, yet not. Mysterious lips parted and mouthed a silent help me. And then — gone.
The blond boy’s eyes were suddenly filled with fear. He skittered away fro
m Symeon and huddled with a couple of his young comrades. Had Symeon’s guise as a wealthy john dropped for a moment in the confusion and scared the be-jesus out of his young prey?
Now mad?
But not gone for long. Everywhere Symeon looked, every face was superimposed with that of … whom? It was like a dream one cannot quite remember — not that Symeon ever dreamt, but now all the human flotsam and jetsam on this side street of sex and commerce seemed to lacerate his senses: the john in the rusty Toyota, the pimpled male prostitute smoking weed in a doorway, the gold-jangling drug dealer, they all wore the same androgynous visage that seemed to be haunting him.
And that plea for help — what’s that all about? Never happened before — yet it drew Symeon, tugged at him like some gravitational force, pulling him to … somewhere in the 20th arrondissement in Paris…
Off the early morning hustle-and-bustle of the Boulevard de Ménilmontant, Symeon found the epicenter of his inexplicable hallucination. The Cimetière du Père Lachaise was just a hop-skip-and-a-float from where he stood. He could still smell the subtle odor of decay in the air as he approached a small house along Passage de la Folie-Regnault. He peeked through the window and could make out the silhouette of someone sitting on a sofa. Symeon tried to sense what role he should assume this time, but his facility in this regard seemed to get mired in the multifold layers of the occupant’s psyche. What the hell … he decided to appear in a classic gendarme’s uniform, replete with kepi and half-cape. The front door was unlocked, and he quietly entered the house.
Classical music was playing and the room was filled with the heavy aroma of incense. Several candles, burning low, surrounded the sofa and the person sitting there. A number of pill bottles were lying about, one whose contents had spilled out on a pedestal table beside her. Or him. It was hard to tell in the flickering candlelight, but Symeon recognized the high cheekbones, the dark curly fringe of hair — the face of the one playing peek-a-boo with him for the last several months. A face he might have known so, so long ago. And loved. Could this be? He tried to speak, but no words would come out.
“Are you meant to be my hero, monsieur?”
Symeon found his voice at last. “Are you in need of one?” he ventured. Mademoiselle, monsieur?
He/she giggled weakly. “A woman is always in need. This woman, at least.”
Ah, mademoiselle, then.
“A few minutes later, and…” Her hand gestured to the pile of pills. “But I am such a coward.”
“In this case, cowardice was the right choice, mademoiselle.” Symeon did not sense that her time had come — this was not why he was here. Then why? His powers seemed to have gone totally askew.
“My life…” and here the woman hesitated. Nothing followed. There was such a sadness in her eyes.
Symeon supposed her personal history was likely an overwhelming parade of emotional disaster. A torrent of disappointment and grief. Mahler was playing in the background. He watched, as one candle, not much more than a pool of lumpy wax, guttered and died out.
“Have we met before, monsieur?”
Symeon found her looking at him intently.
Part of him was massively confused by all this. Part of him wanted to shout a joyous “Yes!” Could this be the one? The lost love of his human youth? Maybe she was a descendant. Maybe he was just imagining it all. Maybe it was all a tsunami of coincidence. Too many maybes by far.
“You seem so familiar to me, and … kind.”
“I … don’t know, mademoiselle.”
“Well, perhaps in another life.” Another weak and endearing giggle.
How could this be? Only the Big Guy and his minions could effect such abracadabra.
“You must think I am a lunatic, my heroic friend.”
“I have known lunatics.” He didn’t know why he said that.
The young woman found this funny and began to laugh. Symeon joined in the laughter. He wanted to keep her laughing, keep her from harm’s way, from others and from herself. He had several millennia’s worth of jokes he could regale her with and extend her life — her time with him — not extinguish it. He told her a few from his repertoire, and it was clear that her mood was lifting. She swept the pills off the table; they scattered across the parquet floor. A Viennese waltz was now playing. She stood up with a radiant smile and began to sway to the music.
Symeon did not know what to do. What the fuck — he took her hand and placed it on his waist, his hand grasping hers. She smiled shyly as they began, absurdly, to waltz. The pills crunched as they danced, which brought further gales of laughter. When the jollity finally subsided, they stood still, staring unblinking into each other’s eyes as Strauss came to a stirring finish.
Symeon felt humbled in her presence; he wasn’t worthy. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. Waves of guilt crashed against him for his recent murder spree. Yes, murder …What have I done? His cheeks were wet with tears, and he touched his face, uncomprehending. Tears were streaming down his dance partner’s face as well. She dabbed at them with her fingers and touched Symeon’s lips with her wetness.
He yearned to plant her with mad kisses and make love to her for days on end, pour his whole being… NO! Of course, he could not. He could never pass along the contagion seething within him. The fire. To her, or anyone anymore. He could never have her — whether she was his lost lover, now regained, or just the object of his ardent longing. And the pain of knowing this was crushing him.
She cupped her hands around his cheeks. Perhaps, he thought, one kiss, and then goodbye. Their lips sought each other out, and … Symeon could no longer tell where he was — or when. The insistent press of human flesh held them together face-to-face for seconds, minutes, hours — he knew not how long, as the rest of him lost, or seemed to lose shape and integrity. He was a viscous member of the gendarmerie. He was a monkish papi in Armani. He was a raging stew of infection and disorder.
Puccini was now blaring through the speakers. So close to her, he stared through crossed eyes, took in doubly her beauty, the depth of her, and like a veil that had just been lifted — or a shroud — Symeon felt he was truly seeing her for the first time.
He could now hear her thoughts — or thought he did. A calm echoing voice resounded within him, saying, “Know that you are loved,” and “I am your replacement.” Her visage clouded over and dissolved.
Symeon could no longer hear the music — or anything, for that matter — as he was enveloped by a familiar silence. A silence that spiralled outwards, like a final twist of irony, through all time zones, engulfing all the reflections, all the Symeons. It felt like a warm embrace — no, a caustic penetration — no, a peaceful sleep. A slap in the face.
No.
It is all and none of that, he mused, as he was absorbed into a great and final Everything and Nothingness.
* * * * *
Bill Zaget is an actor and writer. His very first story, “Renfield or, Dining at the Bughouse”, was published in the Ace Science Fiction anthology, Dracula in London, 2001. “Zombies on the Down-Low” was published in 2009 by Ravenous Romance in the anthology Beach Boys. “Symeon” gave him the opportunity to work through his trenchant fear of death and irony — to no avail, but it did result in an ironic tale about Death. Bill has a couple of novels on the back burner and says one of these days he’s “gotta fix that stove.”
Old Man with a Blade
By Brian Lumley
It was Edinburgh in the summer but could as easily have been any city or place anywhere at any time, in any season since time began.
The old man with the blade, that long, curving ever sharp blade, was on the lookout, as usual, for fresh — or maybe not so fresh — victims. They had it coming eventually; but the way he looked at it they had done it and were doing it to themselves! Victims of their own stupidity … but in an equal numb
er of cases victims of their genes; for as often as not, that was where it started.
Take for instance the old boy in the wheelchair pushed by his haggard-looking wife. A classic case of who would go first: him with his Alzheimer’s — prompting him to stick his fingers in electric sockets, because he couldn’t remember what they were — or her worn down by the weight of caring for him, whose problem was in his genes, inherited from his father who in turn had got it from his father … and so on. But both of them eventually, if not just yet.
The old man’s curved blade tingled with a life of its own; its owner sensed it lusting after the lives of others — even of this harmless pair — but not yet. He leaned toward them anyway as they passed him by on the pavement, sniffing at them to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. He wasn’t, which in its way was disappointing; better them than some young couple. But then again it wasn’t his lot to discriminate.
The street was as good as empty; on this early Sunday morning most folks were still abed or only just stirring. But there were, of course, those who were driven to be up and about. Like that middle-aged man who had just come out of the tobacconist’s shop, already tearing the film from his pack of cigarettes, and then the silver foil, his hand trembling where it groped in his pocket for his lighter.
The old man with the shining blade stepped closer, smelled the smoke from that first long drag, heard the addict’s sigh of relief … and also the cough welling up from the diseased lung of which, for the moment, the smoker wasn’t aware. But he would be, oh he would be! As the curved blade tingled again, a little more determinedly now, the old man nodded to himself, thinking, “We’ll give him a year, my faithful friend, or perhaps a little less.” And he patted the long handle of his blade.
A little farther down the street, a bearded derelict wrapped in a torn blanket mumbled to himself where he lay in a shop doorway. Sucking the last few drops of wine from a brown bottle in a paper bag, he flopped back into a shady corner and waved a fluttery greeting to no one in particular. Gray vomit had hardened to crusts on his blue-veined naked feet.
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 28
