Dead Lines
Page 31
“Jack figured it out pretty quick.
“And then all hell broke loose.”
Go on, he thought. Tell me all about it. He wasn’t going to say a word. He was letting it build.
He was letting it burn.
“I told him I didn’t want to keep it. I told him I wanted an abortion. You know what he did? He went fucking berserk. He told me I had to keep the baby. He told me I had no right to do it.
“And that was where it ended for me. That was where my heart drew the line. He had no right to tell me what I could or could not do with my own body. I told him so.
“So you know what he did? You know what that sweet, sensitive, understanding man did? He beat the living shit out of me.”
Oh god, Meryl thought.
“That’s a lie,” he said.
“Does this look like a lie to you?” Katie asked, pointing to the semicircular scar near her eye. “He did this to me.”
Oh god. Meryl could see it clearly. “No…”
“Yes. He hit me, Meryl: he hit me with a goddamned broomhandle…”
… and she was there, in his memory: two minds wielding one piece of wood, swinging a short vicious jab at Katie’s face, feeling the smack of impact as hard wood hit soft skin and tore through on its way to the bone, blood and terror and self-righteous rage spinning round and round and…
“Shut up.”
“No, I won’t. You need to hear this, Meryl. You need to know the truth. Because Jack got his wish: I didn’t have an abortion, after all. I would have, and felt just fine about it.
“But I never even got the chance, because John Haul Rowan beat the shit out of me and I had a miscarriage instead!” “SHUT UP!!”
“Which just goes to show that you can’t judge a goddam book by its cover, girl! The simple fact of the matter Is that Jack Rowan had a gift, and in a lot of ways his stories were the absolute best part of him, but then he twisted out, and his stories twisted right out with him! He went over the edge, and everything he wrote past that point was a lie! ‘Shells’ is a lie! ‘Gentlemen’ is a lie! ‘Deadlines’ is a lie! And ‘The Difference’… hell, honey, ‘The Difference’ was such a lie he couldn’t even finish it! He couldn’t even tell that one without killin’ himself in the process!”
Jack was losing control. Meryl could feel it in her bones. She could feel it in the way they clenched as her right, hand reached out, feeling for the nearest blunt object…
… and she could feel the Pull, alive at her back, alive and growing stronger by the second…
“You hear what I’m saying to you? His stories were lies! His father is fine! He was sick, yeah, but he got better! He got better ‘cause he had the one thing that Jack came to hate more than anything on this earth! He had hope! And Jack hated hope, ‘cause as long as you had it you had to keep trying, and all he wanted was an easy way out… !”
And then he was upon her.
“BITCH!” he roared. “YOU LYING BITCH!” He backhanded her across the face. “YOU NEVER FUCKING UNDERSTOOD! YOU NEVER UNDERSTOOD ANYTHING!”
Another blow, on the backswing. Katie was too stunned and shocked to stop it. The force of impact slammed her into the bureau; her head cracked hard against the wall. Potted plants and perfume bottles fell crashing to the floor. Jack’s stolen breath blew hot in her face.
“I LOVED YOU!” he bellowed. No slap, this time. A punch. A glistening fissure opened up above Katie’s right eye; Meryl felt the fine bones of her right hand snap under the brute force plowing them forward. She screamed; he screamed; they all screamed together. He gave up on the useless fist and used Meryl’s forearm to shatter Katie’s nose.
“I LOVED YOU SO GODDAM MUCH,” he shrieked, “AND YOU LEFT ME TO FUCKING DIE!” His tears coursed down her cheeks, his voice her voice homicidal careening straight over the edge and straight into Katie’s face, his hands her hands coming up to Katie’s throat, the right balking as the pain went white, the left hand more than compensating.
“WHY COULDN’T YOU LISTEN TO ME!” he howled, pressing down, mashing into Katie’s esophagus. “WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST FUCKING LISTEN TO ME!”
Katie’s eyes were fogging over, pain and terror and oncoming death taking over. Her gaze groped for purchase, for recognition. Found it. Latched desperate hold. For one moment, the three of them met, eye to eye.… . . and Meryl stared into the blackness of those death-dilating irises, saw the void opening up beyond, felt the Pull at the back of them as surely as she felt it gnawing at her own back, tearing at her, eager for her, ready to snatch her away from this life already stolen, stolen by the bastard she harbored within…
… and she had been weak, yes, she had been hiding, she had spent her whole life hiding from life, building walls to protect her from life, great stone walls to convince her that she was strong and sane and invulnerable even as she ran, ran from everything, ran from who she was and what it meant and what it stood a chance of meaning if she could only stop running long enough to face herself…
… and Katie was dying now, really dying, eyes and thick tongue bulging out, and it was her hand that was bringing it about, it was her hand that she had abdicated control of, handed over without a fight to a sick pathetic man who had thrown away his own life and only now had figured it out, figured out that life is precious, that life is all there is, just as she was only now deducing the brute simplicity of the equation…
. . and she did not want to die… … and she did not want Katie to die… … and in that moment, she attacked him. I HATE YOU! Meryl tore at Jack from the back of Ins soul, screaming IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU as she threw herself at him, tearing and thrashing and howling. It pulled at the tendons he had claimed as his own, yanked at the root of his claim to her being. He let go of Katie, lei her slump to the floor, and reached up to eluleli his temples, screaming “BITCH! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” IHATEYOUHATEYOU GET OUT OF MY BODY! Her hands dug into her hair. GET OUT OF MY BODY!
She tore a small handful out by the roots. He bellowed in pain.
“GET OUT OF MY BODY!” she screamed, and the words were out before she grasped the meaning, grasped at the hope it implied. She could feel her body, could feel herself a part of it, the battle now raging in every cell…
… while the Pull yawned wider, behind them both…
… and she saw herself in the cheval—a crazy woman, locked in the lunatic throes of epileptic seizure—and she knew that she couldn’t live like that, couldn’t spend her life in a body at war, it was her fucking body and she would decide, not him, no way, she would rather die than bend another second to his will…
The moment was crystal clarity.
She went into the mirror.
The mirror disintegrated in an explosion of glass and kaleidoscope light and slicing pain. The wooden frame and backing splintered and collapsed beneath her; she collapsed upon the floor. The pieces of glass were everywhere. She picked one up.
She brought it down.
There was a tiny scar at the small of her wrist where she’d tried this once before. Hesitation cuts were all she’d managed; the attempt had not been entirely sincere.
The tiny scar now disappeared into a deep red flowing gash. Another slash, and the wound redoubled. She heard him shriek, and slashed again.
“YOU WANTED TO BE DEAD? YOU’RE DEAD!” she bellowed. The red glass rose and fell. “GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT OF MY BODY!”
She opened up her arm.
“YOU HEAR ME, JACK? YOU CAN’T HAVE ME! YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!”
The blood was hot…
… and it seemed the blood was everywhere, an amazing amount of it, coating the floor, coating her limbs as she slumped among the wreckage, her strength decreasing…
… and she could still feel the Pull, but it wasn’t pulling on her anymore. There was something else moving over her now: a gentle thing. A rolling fog. It started to surround her, cool and gray and comforting. She tried to smile. It didn’t work.
But at least her face was still her own.
She was dimly aware of a couple of things as the fog billowed in to take her away. She saw Jack’s face. It was going away now, too, like a coin down a deep dark well.
And she also heard a distant voice. A beautiful voice.
I’m going to get help, it said.
Get help? But why?
Everything was fine . .
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.........DECEMBER
—December 3
Dear Katie,
How do you like the photo? Hee hee. Unbelievable, huh? Never before has such an expensive and extensive collection of tacky floral displays been assembled in one place. As you can see, the deeply sympathetic citizens of Beacon Hill and Back Bay are nothing if not generous, at least in their public displays of condolence, not to mention their prurient response to scandal. (Can you spot me in the picture? Hint: I’m the only thing not being pollinated.) By the time I get back, at least, I should be the Sachet Queen of Lower Manhattan.
By the way, thank Lee for the roses. They meant more to me than the rest put together. Except for yours, that is.
But you already knew that.
Things are not nearly so bad up here as I might have expected, although they’ll be tons better when you come up for Christmas; the physical therapy is going well, and even though my right hand is little more than a claw on the end of a stick, they tell me I’ll get back maybe eighty percent dexterity. Ah, well. No regrets. I may never play the violin again, but I’m hell at one-handed typing, and I’ll be back in time for spring registration.
As for my return, what can I say? The Beast, in particular, did not respond as I would have thought. No I-told-you-so’s, no pontificating or putting down of the great Daly foot. In fact, just the opposite: he’s been very attentive, and—dare I say it?—tender, even. I think this whole thing, particularly the publicity— COED FIGHTS OFF SLASHER, SAVES FRIEND —made him see me through new eyes. (Of course, I also think it scared the shit out of him, but he’ll never ‘fess up to that.) I’m not sure, but I think he respects me more, in the face of all this. And you know what? I think it’s kind of mutual.
Maybe he’s not such a bad guy, after all, as Beasts go. Maybe we’ve both changed in the face of this, maybe we can learn to respect each other’s differences, and grow closer as we grow older. Yes, and maybe one day we’ll build a world where men and women can live in love, and dignity, and mutual trust…
Nahhhh. Forget I mentioned it.
Onward. I trust the new apartment is just fine and dandy. From my end, I have been assured of that. Let me know if there are any problems.
Which leaves us with the one who shall remain nameless.
So what is there, really, left to say?
I’m glad you got rid of the stories. If somebody picks them up off the street, then fine. I hope they have a good time. Burning them really would have felt wrong, I know; on the other hand, I sure as hell don’t feel any enormous responsibility for their imminent welfare. If they never get seen again, is this our problem? I don’t think so.
As for where he went: who knows? Who can s‘ II we owe him any thanks for anything, I think lie ) ul them well in advance. All I’ve got to say is: Sayonara, sucker! Better luck next life! Don’t let the doorway of perception hit you in the ass on the way out!
See you on the flip-side, girl.
Love,
Meryl
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Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SERIOUS AUTHOR NOTES
.......JULY
1
JACK IN THE BOX
..........AUGUST
2
BAYAMO BLOODBATH
3
THE LOFT
4
COLIN’S WORLD
.........SEPTEMBER
5
SLAVE OF NEW YORK
6
CARDBOARD CATHEDRAL
THE LONG RIDE
GO TO SLEEP
7
AWAKENING
NOT WITH A WHIMPER
...............OCTOBER
8
SECRETS
MEATMARKET
9
DRESS FOR EXCESS
10
EXTREMITIES
THE SPIRIT OF THINGS
11
SPEAK OF THE DEVIL
SHELLS
12
VOLITION
GENTLEMEN
13
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
DEADLINES
THE DIFFERENCE
..........NOVEMBER
14
IN THE FLESH
15
NIGHTLIFE
16
THE PULL
17
A SLIVER OF DOUBT
18
THE DRIVER’S SEAT
19
HERE’S TO GOOD FRIENDS
20
A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION
21
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
.........DECEMBER