The night I saw him followed a very frightening and embarrassing time for me. I let an employee—a friend—die.
I'd rented some dingy cinderblock office space on the second floor of an old two-story strip mall, just off 270 northeast of St. Louis. I couldn't have picked a more remote place, neatly above a lawyer and next to a private investigator.
I'd stayed late doing the books. I hadn't yet hired anybody but the two salespeople, Steve and Amy, and for the moment, I was CEO, CFO and COO all rolled into one.
The summer of '80 was a hot one, and that night was no exception. Despite the two fans near my desk, great drops of sweat rolled off my nose and plopped, leaving dark splotches on my papers. I'd noticed, I guess, on some level the rising temperature as the evening wore on, but when I do the books, I block out everything but the radio and the calculator. So when Steve came running back screaming, "Fire! Mother Mary, the whole building's on fire!" I just stared at him.
Then the smoke, hanging thick in the air finally sank into my lungs and I coughed, realized I'd been coughing on and off for some time. I closed my eyes during the fit and when it subsided, I opened them and saw only jungle and the smoke of an approaching firefight. Blood pounded in my ears like artillery and choppers, and I stood up and ran. It felt like I covered a lot of ground, but I wasn't getting anywhere, just running through wet, burning jungle that all looked the same and smelled like smoldering wood.
I ran without a weapon, without a pack, without a plan, without so much as boots to soften another bamboo spike. I passed pockets of gunfire and explosions, feeling the breeze of shrapnel and bullets over my head and past my cheeks.
And all so hot, so very hot. So difficult to breathe. Everything began to float, like I was seeing it underwater. So hard. So easy just to lie down.
When I came to, I was on a gurney in an ambulance, and a paramedic told me, "You're lucky to be alive, pal."
I managed to mumble the universal "Where am I?" at him, and he said, "You're on your way to County General. You inhaled a lot of smoke running around like that."
They'd found me on the first floor. I asked for Steve, but apparently he hadn't made it. He'd died on the second floor, in my office. I'd run right past him.
Right past him.
I woke again in the hospital, still in relative darkness, and had a quick memory of my bed in Okinawa. I heard the beep and buzz of machines, and felt the oxygen mask around my face and the dull ache where they'd put the IV in my hand.
"Yo. You finally awake now." The voice was warm, reassuring. And familiar.
I looked up. "Poet?" My voice sounded muffled through the oxygen equipment.
"The same, man. I ask how you been, but I can see for myself."
"Smoke inhalation." My throat felt like someone had scrubbed it with steel wool.
"I see that. Did everybody get out?" His tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"No."
"No. Steve stayed behind, didn't he?"
I looked away, but could still see him from the corner of my eye, gleaming in the dark. The moment stretched into awkwardness. Finally, I asked. I had to know. "Am I coming with you this time, Poet?"
The warm half-smile. "Not this time. Not ready yet. Maybe next time."
"How do you know that, man?"
"Just do. Got to go now."
After he disappeared, I slept.
***
In the spring of 1992, I visited New York with a friend named Helena. Her smile lingered in my head like her perfume lingered in my room and on my skin, and I wanted this thing with her to be permanent. I could see her growing old with me, making sons with me, sons who would take over my budding business.
Helena and I, we'd just come out of a Broadway matinee of "Phantom," and we were discussing a late afternoon snack.
After we'd walked for a bit amid mixed smells of bakeries, restaurants, garbage and hydrocarbons, something caught my attention. Under the taxi horns and street crowds came the sound of squealing tires.
An ordinary sound, but something was wrong with this particular squeal. The years I'd spent in the jungles of Vietnam had left me with a sixth sense for trouble. A heaviness hung in the air, a vague impression of wrongness that preceded a disaster.
In my mind's eye, I vividly saw the barrel of that AK levitating from its hiding place among the dripping leaves. I looked around, but couldn't find the source of the noise. Other people must have sensed it too, because they looked around, ready for something. All but one, a young boy of 12 or 13 on the sidewalk ahead of me, earphones plugged in, grooving to a sound only he could hear.
He couldn't hear the oncoming danger.
And I could do nothing. My feet were paralyzed. I felt helpless, just like that day many years ago when Poet had stepped in front of me. Run, my mind and heart shouted. Go get him. Help him.
The instant my feet finally moved, a car rounded the corner too fast, jumping up on the sidewalk to avoid hitting the press of traffic. I shoved Helena toward a storefront, shouting "Please, get inside!" Then I ran hard, but the car must have been doing fifty or more around that turn. As it mounted the curb, the boy finally noticed something wrong and leaned to his right, preparing to jump out of the way. The bumper caught him and pulled him up and over it, spinning him off in a flailing half-gainer.
Too late.
The vehicle sped down the sidewalk and back into a break in traffic as the boy landed with a sound that made my stomach lurch. As the car brushed past me, I lost my balance and grabbed a lamppost to steady myself.
And it was gone. People all around me stared, stunned.
That night, I lay in my hotel room. Helena had fallen asleep after our lovemaking, and her head rested against my shoulder. She'd called me a hero for trying to save the boy, but I knew what had really happened: I'd frozen.
"Good try, my man."
I looked up and saw him, dressed in his stained but clean jungle fatigues in his usual spot at the foot of my bed, there in the dark.
"Poet."
"As always." He grinned. "Still watching."
"Watching me? What on earth for?"
"Surprise." He raised a finger to his lips and smiled that old smile that made me feel so at ease. Then he spread his hands. "Big plans for you, white boy, but you ain't quite there yet." He paused and looked off into the distance. "Getting close, though. Getting close. Go to sleep. Pretty lady you got there. She love you, make no mistake."
***
Helena did love me. For all of three years. After that, she decided she needed her "space" and left me for a dental surgeon. But not before taking a good share of me with her in an ugly divorce proceeding that lasted nearly as long as the marriage.
I was back in New York, on business this time, in a very large, very nice hotel room. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought any kind of aspirin or pain reliever with me. My foot had started bothering me again, and only one kind of analgesic would work for me. Plain, regular old aspirin, which, of course, the hotel store didn't carry. So I limped down the street in search of some.
Cursing the developers that always put the best hotels alongside some of the most dangerous districts, I went in the first convenience store I found, one with bars on the door and windows, and grabbed what I needed.
And then, aspirin in hand, I felt it again. That sense of wrongness.
Unfortunately, my sixth sense was a little late. I saw a man in a jean jacket and a ski mask pointing a Glock 19 at an aging Asian cashier, probably the owner. Though much older, he reminded me of Vietnamese men who'd fought on both sides in that jungle I wanted so badly to forget.
I put the bottle back and dropped to a crouch behind one of the long racks.
"Empty the drawer, Chinaman!"
I shook my head. The guy was clearly from Southeast Asia, not China, as any vet could have told.
I moved as quietly as I could along the shelves. In my mind, I heard the suckthwock sounds of the Vietnam jungle. It seemed to me that I made enough noise to
bring Andy Tyler back to tell me to shut the hell up. I got to the end of the row and peered around.
Just the one guy. Me, I would have brought a partner to watch the door. The old man rummaged in the drawer for his cash, piling the crumpled notes on the counter. The gunman couldn't see me.
Gathering myself, I leapt for the assailant, chopping down at his gun hand. He must have heard me, because he turned and squeezed off several shots as he spun. He shot wildly, holding his weapon in a sideways grip. The counter exploded, spraying glass everywhere, and I heard several displays behind me crumble to the floor.
We went down together.
He dropped the gun when we hit the floor, and rolled to get his hands under him. That was his mistake. I pounded the back of his neck hard, and he collapsed, motionless.
I picked up the gun and looked back toward the counter, but I could see no sign of the old man. Had he been hit? Damn. I pushed myself to my feet, but pain stopped me cold, and I sat back down hard on the floor.
I hadn't felt the wound until I moved.
I looked down at my stomach and saw a red stain on my clean white shirt, and it was spreading like spilled wine. I tried to collect my thoughts when I saw a bright flash of light from the corner of my eye.
Poet Williams stood by the door.
"Don't worry about the owner, man. He just fainted."
I said nothing. Just looked at him in awe. He was beautiful. He smiled his one-sided self-deprecating smile, and said, "Upon his shield came the warrior home/His face transformed by Death's unholy grasp/Become a mask of calm serenity. . ." He took a few steps until he stood directly in front of me, and whispered, "This is it, man."
A long silence fell between us. My breath became a bit tight. This wound was more serious than I'd at first thought.
"Are you Death, Poet?" My voice came like a file on rusty metal.
"No, Jared, I'm not. But I can be life, if you want it. Do you want to live?"
I looked at the glass pane of the storefront with its bars. I hadn't noticed the name when I walked in.
Nguyen's Corner Convenience.
I looked back at Poet and felt my eyes start to well.
I nodded.
"You did a good thing today." He held his hand out to me. "Come on, friend. You ready."
Mark W. Worthen is a creature of the night. Whether he's undead or not remains to be seen, but his midnight hikes earned him the internet handle "nitewanderer," derived from an old Robert Frost poem. Naturally, his writings lean toward darkness and things that go bump in the night.
Mark's fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Washed By A Wave Of Wind: Stories From The Corridor from Signature Books, Vicious Shivers, from Undaunted Press, Thicker Than Water from Tigress Press, and Beneath The Stones, for which he also served as editor, from Bones and Caskets Press. Additional stories can be found at www.wilywriters.com.
Worthen has been a big fan of science fiction ever since he was young. He cut his teeth on the commercial pulp stories of Edgar Rice Burroughs and Isaac Asimov, and later, the more thoughtful novels of Orson Scott Card and heroic novels of Stephen King. But he's also always enjoyed the more literary novels and stories of Ray Bradbury, and perhaps his favorite writer of all time, Roger Zelazny.
—I AM VISION, I AM DEATH
by Erik Williams
On the East side of Dallas, Elijah pulled into a Motel 6 and bought a single for the night. He paid in cash. He'd wanted to make Shreveport before stopping, but the caffeine and speed had lost their effectiveness. He needed to crash for a few hours.
The room was small but adequate. Elijah brought in his backpack and locked the door. He slid the curtains closed and flicked the A/C on full. After a quick shower, he crawled into bed and set the alarm for five in the morning.
He checked the date on his watch. Two days, he thought. Two days since he'd gotten the call that Mom was on death's door. She'd only last a few days, according to the doctor. A week, tops. Elijah frowned. It would be another whole day of driving to get to Jacksonville.
Elijah looked around the room at the sparse walls and small TV and plain art in faded frames. "I am Loneliness."
Then he took a few pulls off his flask and went to sleep.
***
Again, he dreamed he was the stranger, trapped inside his skin and seeing through his eyes.
The dreams were always different. The settings and atmosphere changed each time. The stranger, though, always remained constant. The same cadence in his speech. The same controlled anger pulsing through his veins. He had never seen the man's face, since he was always looking out through it, nor had he heard his name, but Elijah knew him and knew what he was capable of.
This time he was lying naked on a motel bed, watching the local news, KROU-Channel 9, Baton Rouge, he recognized, but he was humming some song Elijah had never heard. The previous time he was in Houston, smoking a cigarette and drinking vodka out of a plastic motel room cup. He knew it was Houston because of the 214 area code stamped on the phone set. Other places, he could only guess at.
Always somewhere different, a nomad like Elijah, though the similarities ended there.
After a few minutes, he stood and stubbed out the cigarette. He kept humming as he walked into the bathroom. Inside, a woman lay in an empty tub. She was gagged and bound, her eyes wide, her skin pale except for bruises on her breasts and thighs.
The stranger knelt next to the tub, then stroked her cheek with the back of his left hand. She didn't blink. "I am Death," Elijah heard himself say through the stranger's voice.
***
Elijah opened his eyes and breathed deep. Sitting up, he glanced at the clock. He'd only slept forty-five minutes.
Another woman. In every dream the guy killed women. Not always the same way, but always women.
Elijah sipped from the flask and rubbed his face. The dreams varied in length from time to time, just as his visions did. He thought about how long he'd been having the dreams and wondered if it counted as living two lives. It sure felt as if it should.
A few more sips and Elijah lay back down.
***
The alarm woke Elijah at five. His head ached and his eyeballs burned. He wanted to sleep for another day but forced himself out of bed. After he dressed, he grabbed his bag, headed to the main lobby and checked out.
As he walked to the car, he heard a woman whimper. He turned and looked around the parking lot. It was dead quiet with the exception of the buzz of streetlights. For a minute, he thought he had imagined the sobs, when he heard another.
Elijah slinked toward the side of the motel's main lobby. The whimpers grew louder and more frequent. Then he saw the movement of shadows on the asphalt. Elijah pressed his back against the wall and peeked around the corner.
A large man, well over six feet, had a young girl pinned against the wall, and both had their pants around their ankles. The man rammed her from behind holding the side of her face against the brick wall. Her hands were duct-taped together behind her back and a strip covered her mouth. Blood trickled from her nose and tears soaked her cheeks.
Elijah looked away. He peeked again and they were gone.
I am Vision, he thought.
His eyes scanned the parking lot, looking for the large man. Then he found him, leaning against the front bumper of a semi-truck, picking his teeth with his nails.
Elijah pushed off the wall and walked toward the trucker. As he did, the bell rang above the motel's entrance. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl walking out wearing a maid's uniform.
He turned back to the trucker. The man had stopped picking his teeth and was moving toward the girl.
Elijah walked faster and pulled a knife from his back pocket. He flipped out the four-inch blade and held it at his side. His pulse remained steady as he maneuvered around several cars and flanked the trucker from the right.
Crouching between two cars, Elijah lunged forward as soon as the trucker walked by, slicing the knife
across the right Achilles tendon. The guy crumpled to the ground and started to scream but Elijah pounced on his chest and covered his mouth with his left hand.
Wide eyes stared at Elijah, saying more than words. Elijah swiftly slit the man's throat, and blood poured from the wound. The trucker gagged and choked.
Elijah wiped the blade on the man's shirt and put it away. Searching through pockets, he found a wad of tens and twenties. He stashed them in his jacket and stood.
The girl was in the maintenance room a few doors down from the lobby and was pulling out her cleaning cart. Elijah breathed easy and moved away from the dying man at his feet, careful not to step in the pooling blood.
He reached his car and took a quick glance around the parking lot. Quiet. The buzzing of the lights. Cicadas singing out in the brush. Elijah climbed in, started the engine and headed back toward the highway.
***
A light mist blanketed the highway just after sunset east of Pensacola. Elijah slowed, careful not to overdrive his headlights, travelling through a gray cocoon. Thankfully, hardly any cars were on the road.
Elijah saw the silhouette of a person emerging out of the mist. As he closed, the headlights illuminated a man with a thick beard standing on the shoulder, his right hand balled into a fist and stretched out toward Elijah, thumb up.
Elijah hesitated for a moment, not wanting to be bogged down with a tag along. Time was his enemy right now and the fog had already slowed him. But he didn't feel right leaving someone out in this weather where a passing semi might just as easily hit the man as stop for him. He contemplated a moment longer, then pulled over a few feet past the stranger.
The man walked up and Elijah lowered the passenger window.
"Thanks for stopping."
"No problem," Elijah said. "I can take you as far as Jacksonville. After that, you're on your own again."
Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 22
