Wildcards wc-1

by George R. R. Martin

  Gone.

  He raised his hands before his face and saw nothing. He picked up his damp washcloth and held it to his chest. It, too, became transparent, was gone, though he still felt its wet presence.

  He returned himself to pale blond. It seemed the most socially acceptable. Then he squeezed into what had been his loosest jeans and put on a green flannel shirt that he could not button all the way. The pants only reached to his shins now. Silently, he padded down the stairs on bare feet and made his way to the kitchen. He was ravenous. The hall clock told him that it was close to three. He had looked in on his mother, his brother, and his sister, but had not disturbed their slumber.

  There was a half-loaf of bread in the breadbox and he tore it apart, stuffing great chunks into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed. He bit his finger at one point, which slowed him only slightly. He found a piece of meat and a wedge of cheese in the refrigerator and he ate them. He also drank a quart of milk. There were two apples on the countertop and he ate them as he searched the cupboards. A box of crackers. He munched them as he continued his search. Six cookies. He gulped them. A half-jar of peanut butter. He ate it with a spoon.

  Nothing. He could find nothing more, and he was still terribly hungry.

  Then the enormity of his feast struck him. There was no more food in the house. He remembered the mad afternoon of his return from school. What if there were a food shortage?

  What if they were back on rationing? He had just eaten everyone's food.

  He had to get more, for the others as well as for himself! He went to the front room and looked out the window. The street was deserted. He wondered about the martial law he had heard of on the way home from school-how long ago? How long had he slept, anyway? He'd a feeling it had been a long while.

  He unlocked the door and felt the coolness of the night. One of the unbroken streetlights shone through the bare branches of a nearby tree. There had still been a few leaves on the roadside trees on the afternoon of the troubles. He removed the spare key from the table in the hall, stepped outside, and locked the door behind him. The steps, which he knew must be cold, did not feel particularly chill on his bare feet.

  He halted then, retreated into shadow. It was frightening, not knowing what was out there.

  He raised his hands and held them up to the streetlight. "Pale, pale, pale…"

  They faded until the light shone through them. They continued to fade. His body tingled.

  When they were gone, he lowered his eyes. Nothing of him seemed to remain but the tingle.

  Then he hurried up the street, a feeling of enormous energy within him. The odd, treelike being was gone from the next block. The streets were clear for traffic now, though there was considerable debris in the gutters and almost every parked vehicle he saw had sustained some damage. It seemed that every building he passed had at least one window blocked with cardboard or wood. Several roadside trees were now splintered stumps, and the metal signpost at the next corner was bent far to one side. He hurried, surprised at the rapidity of his progress, and when he reached his school he saw that it remained intact, save for a few missing panes of glass. He passed on.

  Three grocery stores he came to were boarded up and displayed CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs. He broke into the third one. The boards offered very little resistance when he pushed against them. He located a light switch and threw it. Seconds later, he flipped it off. The place was a shambles. It had been thoroughly looted.

  He proceeded uptown, passing the shells of several burned-out buildings. He heard voices-one gruff, one high and fluting-from within one of these. Moments later, there came a flash of white light and a scream. Simultaneous with this, a portion of a brick wall collapsed, spilling across the sidewalk at his back. He saw no reason to investigate. It also seemed on occasion that he heard voices from beneath sewer gratings.

  He wandered for miles that night, not becoming aware until he was nearing Times Square that he was being followed. At first he thought that it was simply a large dog moving in the same direction he was headed. But when it drew nearer and he noted the human lines to its features, he halted and faced it. It sat down at a distance of about ten feet and regarded him. "You're one, too," it growled.

  "You can see me?"

  "No. Smell."

  "What do you want?"

  "Food."

  "Me, too."

  "I'll show you where. For a cut."

  "Okay. Show me."

  It led him to a roped-off area where Army trucks were parked. Croyd counted ten of them. Uniformed figures stood or rested among them.

  "What's going on?" Croyd asked.

  "Talk later. Food packages in the four trucks to the left." It was no problem to pass the perimeter, enter the rear of a vehicle, gather an armload of packages, and withdraw in the other direction. He and the dog-man retreated to a doorway two blocks away. Croyd phased back to visibility and they proceeded to gorge themselves.

  Afterward, his new acquaintance-who wished to be called Bentley-told him of the events during the weeks following Jetboy's death, while Croyd had slept. Croyd learned of the rush to Jersey, of the rioting, of the martial law, of the Takisians, and of the ten thousand deaths their virus had caused. And he heard of the transformed survivors-the lucky ones and the unlucky ones.

  "You're a lucky one," Bentley concluded. "I don't feel lucky," Croyd said.

  "At least you stayed human."

  "So, have you been to see that Dr. Tachyon yet?"

  "No. He's been so damn busy. I will, though."

  "I should, too."

  "Maybe."

  "What do you mean, `maybe'?"

  "Why should you want to change? You got it made. You can have whatever you want."

  "You mean stealing?"

  "Times are tough. You get by however you can."

  "Maybe so."

  "I can put you on to some clothes that will fit you."

  "Where?"

  "Just around the corner."

  "Okay. "

  It was not difficult for Croyd to break into the rear of the clothing store to which Bentley led him. He faded again after that and returned for another load of food parcels. Bentley padded beside him as he headed home.

  "Mind if I keep you company?"

  "No. "

  "I want to see where you live. I can put you on to lots of good things."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'd like a friend who can keep me fed. Think we can work something out?"

  "Yes."

  In the days that followed Croyd became his family's provider. His older brother and sister did not ask whence he acquired the food or, finally, the money he obtained with seeming facility during his nightly absences. Neither did his mother, distracted in her grief over his father's death, think to inquire. Bentley-who slept somewhere in the neighborhood-became his guide and mentor in these enterprises, as well as his confidant in other matters.

  "Maybe I should see that doctor you mentioned," Croyd said, lowering the case of canned goods he had removed from a warehouse and perching himself upon it.

  "Tachyon?" Bentley asked, stretching himself in an undoglike fashion.

  "Yeah."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I can't sleep. It's been five days since I woke up this way, and I haven't slept at all since then."

  "So? What's wrong with that? More time to do what you want."

  "But I'm finally starting to get tired and I still can't sleep."

  "It'll catch up with you in time. Not worth bothering Tachyon over. Anyway, if he tries to cure you your chances are only like one in three or four."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I went to see him."

  "Oh?"

  Croyd ate an apple. Then, "You going to try it?" he asked. "If I can get up the nerve," Bentley answered. "Who wants to spend his life as a dog? And not a very good dog, at that. By the way, when we go past a pet shop I want you to break in and get me a flea collar."

  "Sure. I wonde
r… If I do go to sleep, will I sleep a long time like before?"

  Bentley tried to shrug, gave up. "Who knows?"

  "Who'll take care of my family? Who'll take care of you?"

  "I see the point. If you stop coming out nights, I guess I wait awhile and then go and try the cure. For your family, you'd better pick up a bunch of money. Things will loosen up again, and money always talks."

  "You're right."

  "You're damn strong. Think you could tear open a safe?"

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  "Well try one on the way home, too. I know a good place."

  "Okay "

  "… nd some flea powder."

  It was getting on toward morning, as he sat reading and eating, that he began to yawn uncontrollably. When he rose there was a certain heaviness to his limbs that had not been present earlier. He climbed the stairs and entered Carl's room. He shook his brother by the shoulder until he awoke. "Whassamatter, Croyd?" he asked.

  "I'm sleepy."

  "So go to bed."

  "It's been a long time. Maybe I'll sleep a long time again, too."

  "Oh."

  "So here's some money, to take care of everybody in case that's what happens."

  He opened the top drawer of Carl's dresser and stuffed a huge wad of bills in under the socks.

  "Uh, Croyd… Where'd you get all that money?"

  "None of your business. Go back to sleep."

  He made it to his room, undressed, and crawled into bed. He felt very cold.

  When he awoke there was frost on the windowpanes. When he looked outside he saw that there was snow on the ground beneath a leaden sky. His hand on the sill was wide and swarthy, the fingers short and thick.

  Examining himself in the bathroom, he discovered that he was about five and a half feet tall, powerfully built, with dark hair and eyes, and that he possessed hard scarlike ridges on the front of his legs, the outside of his arms, across his shoulders, down his back, and up his neck. It took him another fifteen minutes to learn that he could raise the temperature of his hand to the point where the towel he was holding caught fire. It was only a few more minutes before he discovered that he could generate heat all over, until his entire body glowedthough he felt badly about the footprint that had burned into the linoleum, and the hole his other foot made in the throw rug.

  This time, there was plenty of food in the kitchen, and he ate steadily for over an hour before his hunger pangs were eased. He'd put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, reflecting on the variety of clothing he would have to keep about if he were going to change in form each time that he slept.

  There was no pressure on him this time to forage for food. The enormous number of deaths that had occurred following the release of the virus had resulted in a surplus in local warehouses, and the stores were open again with distribution routines back to normal.

  His mother was spending most of her time in church, and Carl and Claudia were back in school, which had reopened recently. Croyd knew that he would not be returning to school himself. The money supply was still good, but on reflecting that he had slept nine days longer this time than he had on the previous occasion he felt it would be a good idea to have some extra cash on hand. He wondered whether he could heat a hand sufficiently to burn through the metal door of a safe. He had had a very hard time tearing open that one-had almost given up, actually-and Bentley had assured him that it was a "tin can." He went outside and practiced on a piece of galvanized pipe.

  He tried to plan the job carefully, but his judgment was bad. He had to open eight safes that week before he obtained much in the way of money. Most of them just held papers. He knew that he set off alarms also, and this made him nervous; he hoped that his fingerprints changed too when he slept. He worked as quickly as he could and wished that Bentley were back. The dog-man would have known what to do, he felt. He bad hinted on several occasions that his normal occupation had involved something somewhat less than legal.

  The days passed more quickly than he would have wished. He purchased a large, all-purpose wardrobe. Nights, he walked the city, observing the signs of damage that still remained and the progress of repair work. He caught up on the news, of the city, the world. It was not hard to believe in a man from outer space when the results of his virus were all about him. He asked a bullet-domed man with webbed fingers where he might find Dr. Tachyon. The man gave him an address and a phone number. He kept them in his wallet and did not call or visit. What if the doctor examined him, told him there was no problem, and cured him? Nobody else in the family was able to make a living at this point.

  The day came when his appetite peaked again, which he felt might mean that his body was getting ready for another change. This time, he observed his feelings more carefully, for future reference. It took him the rest of that day and night and part of the next day before the chills came and the waves of drowsiness began. He left a note saying good night to the others, for they were out when the feeling began to overwhelm him. And this time he locked his bedroom door, for he had learned that they had observed him regularly as he slept, had even brought in a doctor at one point-a woman who had prudently recommended that they simply let him sleep, once she learned his case history. She had also suggested that he see Dr. Tachyon when he awoke, but his mother had misplaced the paper on which she had written this. Mrs. Crenson's mind seemed to wander often these days.

  He had the dream again-and this time he realized that it was again-and this was the first time that he remembered it: The apprehension was reminiscent of his feelings on the day of his last return home from school. He was walking down what seemed an empty twilit street. Something stirred behind him and he turned and looked back. People were emerging from doorways, windows, automobiles, manholes, and all of them were staring at him, moving toward him. He continued on his way and there came something like a collective sigh at his back. When he looked again they were all hurrying after him in a menacing fashion, expressions of hatred on their faces. He began to run, with a certainty that they intended his destruction. They pursued him…

  When he awoke he was hideous, and he had no special powers. He was hairless, snouted, and covered with graygreen scales; his fingers were elongated and possessed of extra joints, his eyes yellow and slitted; he developed pains in his thighs and lower back if he stood upright for too long. It was far easier to go about his room on all fours. When he exclaimed aloud over his condition there was a pronounced sibilance to his speech.

  It was early evening, and he heard voices from downstairs. He opened the door and called out, and Claudia and Carl both hurried to his room. He opened the door the barest crack and remained behind it.

  "Croyd! Are you all right?" Carl asked.

  "Yes and no," he hissed. "I'll be okay. Right now I'm starving. Bring me food. Lots of it."

  "What's the matter?" Claudia asked. "Why won't you come out?"

  "Later! Talk later. Food nowl"

  He refused to leave his room or to let his family see him. They brought him food, magazines, newspapers. He listened to the radio and paced, quadrupedally. This time, sleep was something to be courted rather than feared. He lay back on the bed, hoping it would come soon. But it was denied him for the better part of a week.

  The next time he woke he found himself slightly over six feet tall, dark-haired, slim, and not unpleasantly featured. He was as strong as he had been on earlier occasions, but after a while he concluded that he possessed no special powers-until he slipped on the stair in his rush to the kitchen and saved himself by levitating.

  Later, he noticed a note in Claudia's handwriting, tacked to his door. It gave a phone number and told him he could reach Bentley there. He put it in his wallet. He'd another call to make first.

  Dr. Tachyon looked up at him and smiled faintly. "It could be worse," he said.

  Croyd was almost amused at the judgment. "How?" he asked.

  "Well, you could have drawn a joker."

  "Just what did I draw, sir?"

 
"Yours is one of the most interesting cases I've seen so far. In all of the others it's simply run its course and either killed the person or changed him-for better or worse. With you well, the nearest analogy is an earth disease called malaria. The virus you harbor seems to reinfect you periodically."

  "I drew a joker once…"

  "Yes, and it could happen again. But unlike anyone else to whom it's happened, all you have to do is wait. You can sleep it off."

  "I don't ever want to be a monster again. Is there some way you could change just that much of it?"

  "I'm afraid not. It's part of your total syndrome. I can only go after the whole thing."

  "And the odds against a cure are three or four to one?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "A joker named Bentley. He looked sort of like a dog."

  "Bentley was one of my successes. He's back to normal now. Just left here fairly recently, in fact."

  "Really! It's good to know that someone made it." Tachyon looked away.

  "Yes, he answered, a moment later. "Tell me something.

  "What?"

  "If I only change when I sleep, then I could put off a change by staying awake right?"

  "I see what you mean. Yes, a stimulant would put it off a bit. If you feel it coming on while you're out somewhere, the caffeine in a couple of cups of coffee would probably hold it off long enough for you to get back home."

  "Isn't there something stronger? Something that would put it off for a longer time?"

  "Yes, there are powerful stimulants-amphetamines, for example. But they can be dangerous if you take too many or take them for too long."

  "In what ways are they dangerous?"

  "Nervousness, irritability, combativeness. Later on" a toxic psychosis, with delusions, hallucinations, paranoia. "Crazy?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, you could just stop them if it gets near that point, couldn't you?"

  "I don't believe it's that easy."