Scenes From the Secret History (The Secret History of the World)

by F. Paul Wilson

  I was shocked. He'd always called me "Mac." Even in bed back in our college days he'd never called me "Kathy." Gently, I pulled my hand free, saying.

  "Come on, Jon–"

  He leaned back and stared out the window at the circling gulls.

  "If I do this right, do something really definitive, it may get me back into Miskatonic where I can finish my doctoral thesis."

  I was immediately suspicious.

  "I thought you said you 'left' Miskatonic, Jon. Why can't you get back in without it?"

  "'Irregularities,'" he said, still not looking at me. "The old farts in the antiquities department didn't like where my research was leading me."

  "This 'reality' business?"

  "Yes."

  "They told you that?"

  Now he looked at me.

  "Not in so many words, but I could tell." He leaned forward. His eyes were brighter than ever. "They've got books and manuscripts locked in huge safes there, one-of-a-kind volumes from times most scholars think of as pre-history. I managed to get a pass, a forgery that got me into the vaults. It's incredible what they have there, Mac. Incredible! I've got to get back there. Will you help me?"

  His intensity was startling. And tantalizing.

  "What would I have to do?"

  "Just accompany me into the Pine Barrens. Just for a few trips. If I can use you as a reference, I know they'll talk to me about the Jersey Devil. After that, I can take it on my own. All I need is some straight answers from these people and I'll have my primary sources. I may be able to track a folk myth to its very roots! I'll give you credit in the book, I'll pay you, anything, Mac, just don't leave we twisting in the wind!"

  He was positively frantic by the time he finished speaking.

  "Easy, Jon. Easy. Let me think."

  Tax season was over and I had a loose schedule for the summer. And even if I was looking ahead to a tight schedule, so what? Frankly, the job wasn't anywhere near as satisfying as it once had been. The challenge of overcoming the business community's prejudice and doubts about a woman accountant, the thrill of building a string of clients, that was all over. Everything was mostly routine now. Plus, I no longer had a husband. No children to usher toward adulthood. I had to admit that my life was pretty empty at that moment. And so was I. Why not take a little time to inspect my roots and help Crazy Creighton put his life on track, if such a thing was possible? In the bargain maybe I could gain a little perspective on my own life.

  "All right, Jon," I said. "I'll do it."

  Creighton's eyes lit with true pleasure, a glow distinct from the feverish intensity since he'd sat down. He thrust both his hands toward me.

  "I could kiss you, Mac! I can't tell you how much this means to me! You have no idea how important this is!"

  He was right about that. No idea at all.

  You can find the rest of it here in my second collection, aptly titled: The Barrens and Others

  October

  A Day in the Life

  I resurrected Repairman Jack back in a 1988 novelette that has only Jack as its connection to the Secret History. But since he’s the Heir…

  One of my phone friends, Ed Gorman (with whom I've spent countless hours in conversation but have never met) called to tell me that he and Marty Greenberg were co-editing an anthology called Stalkers. Would I care to contribute? I said I'd been itching to revive Repairman Jack, the lead character from The Tomb, but at less than novel length. How about a Jack story? Ed, a Repairman Jack fan since the git-go, told me I had to do it.

  The Tomb had been published four years earlier. Roger Corman’s New World Pictures had optioned the novel but a combination of low-rent antics by Fred Olen Ray and a lousy screenplay (they moved the action to Pasadena!) had the project dead in the water. I dashed off a spec script in an eleventh-hour attempt to save it, but too late. Maybe just as well. The rakoshi – the Bengali temple demons who provide the horror – would have presented an almost insurmountable challenge in those pre-CGI days. How do you make them look real? The line between horror and hilarity is a couple of nanometers thick. A rakosh is scary; a guy in a rubber suit is dumb.

  As I write this (2014), Beacon Films has had The Tomb in development hell for 18 years.

  But back in the late 80s, the Hollywood connection provided an ulterior motive for writing a new Repairman Jack story. I had created a number of original action sequences for the Repairman Jack screenplay I’d sent to New World, and I wanted to protect them. The best way to do that was to copyright them in a story. They're all in "A Day in the Life."

  And for those who care, the Tram character previously appeared in "Dat-Tay-Vao."

  A Day in the Life

  (sample)

  When the cockroach made a right turn up the wall, Jack flipped another shuriken across the room. The steel points of the throwing star drove into the wallboard just above the bug's long antennae. It backed up and found itself hemmed in on all sides now by four of the stars.

  "Did it!" Jack said from where he lay across the still-made hotel bed.

  He counted the shuriken protruding from the wall. A dozen of them traveled upward in a gentle arc above and behind the barely functioning TV, ending in a tiny square where the roach was trapped.

  Check that. It was free again. Crawled over one of the shuriken and was now continuing on its journey to wherever. Jack let it go and rolled onto his back on the bedspread.

  Bored.

  And hot. He was dressed in jeans and a loose, heavy sweater under an oversized lightweight jacket, both dark blue; a black-and-orange knitted cap was jammed on the top of his head. He'd turned the thermostat all the way down but the room remained an oven. He didn't want to risk taking anything off because, when the buzzer sounded, he had to hit the ground running.

  He glanced over at the dusty end table where the little Walkman-sized box with the antenna sat in silence.

  "Come on, already," he mumbled to it. "Let's do it."

  Reilly and his sleazos were due to make their move tonight. What was taking them so long to get started? Almost one a.m. already – three hours here in this fleabag. He was starting to itch. He could handle only so much TV without getting drowsy. Even without the lulling drone of some host interviewing some actor he'd never heard of, the heat was draining him.

  Fresh air. Maybe that would help.

  Jack got up, stretched, and stepped to the window. A clear almost-Halloween night out there, with a big moon rising over the city. He gripped the handles and pulled. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn't budge. He was checking the edges of the sash when he heard the faint crack of a rifle. The bullet came through the glass two inches to the left of his head, peppering his face with tiny sharp fragments as it whistled past his ear.

  Jack dropped to the floor. He waited. No more shots. Keeping his head below the level of the windowsill, he rose to a crouch, then leapt for the lamp on the end table at the far side of the bed, grabbed it, and rolled to the floor with it. Another shot spat through the glass and whistled through the room as his back thudded against the floor. He turned off the lamp.

  The other lamp, the one next to the TV, was still on – sixty watts of help for the shooter. And whoever was shooting had to know Jack would be going for it next. He'd be ready.

  On his belly, Jack slid along the industrial grade carpet toward the end of the bed until he had an angle where the bulb was visible under the shade. He pulled out his next to last shuriken and spun it toward the bulb. With an electric pop it flared blue-white and left the room dark except for the flickering glow from the TV.

  Immediately Jack popped his head above the bed and looked out the window. Through the spider-webbed glass he caught sight of a bundled figure turning and darting away across the neighboring rooftop. Moonlight glinted off the long barrel of a high-powered rifle, flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight, then he was gone.

  A high-pitched beep made him jump. The red light on the signal box was blinking like mad. Kuropolis wanted help. Which m
eant Reilly had struck.

  "Swell."

  *

  Not a bad night, George Kuropolis thought, wiping down the counter in front of the slim young brunette as she seated herself. Not a great night, but still to have half a dozen customers at this hour was good. And better yet, Reilly and his creeps hadn't shown up.

  Maybe they'd bother somebody else tonight.

  "What'll it be?" he asked the brunette.

  "Tea, please," she said with a smile. A nice smile. She was dressed nice and had decent jewelry on. Not exactly overdressed for the neighborhood, but better than the usual.

  George wished he had more customers of her caliber. And he should have them. Why the hell not? Didn't the chrome inside and out sparkle? Couldn't you eat off the floor? Wasn't everything he served made right here on the premises?

  "Sure. Want some pie?"

  "No, thank you."

  "It's good. Blueberry. Made it myself."

  The smile again. "No, thanks. I'm on a diet."

  "Sure," he mumbled as he turned away to get her some hot water. "Everyone's on a goddamn diet. Diets are gettin' hazardous to my health."

  Just then the front door burst open and a white-haired man in his mid-twenties leaped in with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He pointed it at the ceiling and let loose a round at the fixture over the cash register. The boom of the blast was deafening as glass showered everything.

  Matt Reilly was here.

  Four more of his gang crowded in behind him. George recognized them: Reece was the black with the white fringe leather jacket; Rafe had the blue Mohican, Tony had the white; and Cheeks was the baby-faced skinhead.

  "Awright!" Reilly said, grinning fiercely under his bent nose, mean little eyes, dark brows, and bleached crewcut. "It's ass-kickin' time!"

  George reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the beeper there, then raised his hands and backed up against the wall.

  "Hey, Matt!" he called. "C'mon! What's the problem?"

  "You know the problem, George!" Reilly said.

  He tossed the shotgun to Reece and stepped around the counter. Smiling, he closed with George. The smile only heightened the sick knot of fear coiling in George's belly. He was so fixed on that empty smile that he didn't see the sucker punch coming. It caught him in the gut. He doubled over in agony. His last cup of coffee heaved but stayed down.

  He groaned. "Christ!"

  "You're late again, George!" Reilly said through his teeth. "I told you last time what would happen if you didn't stick to the schedule!"

  George struggled to remember his lines.

  "I can't pay two protections! I can't afford it!"

  "You can't afford not to afford it! And you don't have to pay two. Just pay me!"

  "Sure! That's what the other guy says when he wants his! And where are you then?"

  "Don't worry about the other guy! I'm taking care of him tonight! But you!" Reilly rammed George back against the wall. "I'm gonna hafta make a example outta you, George! People saw what happened to Wolansky when he turned pigeon. Now they're gonna see what happens to a shit who don't pay!"

  Just then came a scream from off to George's right. He looked and saw Reece covering the five male customers in booths two and four, making them empty their pockets onto one of the tables. Further down the counter, Cheeks was waving a big knife with a mean looking curved blade at the girl who'd wanted the tea.

  "The ring, babe," he was saying. "Let's have it."

  "It's my engagement ring!" she said.

  "You wanna look nice at your wedding, you better give it quick."

  He reached for it and she slapped his hand away.

  "No!"

  Cheeks straightened up and slipped the knife into a sheath tucked into the small of his back.

  "Ooooh, you shouldna done that, bitch," said Reece in oily tones.

  George wished he were a twenty-five year old with a Schwartzenegger build instead of a wheezy fifty with pencil arms. He'd wipe the floor with these creeps.

  "Stop him," he said to Reilly. "Please. I'll pay you."

  "Couldn't stop him now if I wanted to," Reilly said, grinning. "Cheeks likes it when they play rough."

  In a single smooth motion, the skinhead's hand snaked out, grabbed the front of the woman's blouse, and ripped. The whole front came away. Her breasts were visible through a semi-transparent bra. She screamed and swatted at him. Cheeks shrugged off the blow and grappled with her, dragging her to the floor.

  One of the men in the booth near Reece leapt to his feet and started toward the pair, yelling, "Hey! Whatta y'think you're doin'?"

  Reece slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Blood spurted from the guy's forehead as he dropped back into his seat.

  "Tony!" Reilly said to the Mohican standing by the cash register. "Where's Rafe?"

  "Inna back."

  George suddenly felt his scalp turn to fire as Reilly grabbed him by the hair and shoved him toward Tony.

  "Take George in the back. You and Rafe give him some memory lessons so he won't be late again."

  George felt his sphincters loosening. Where was Jack?

  "I'll pay! I told you I'll pay!"

  "It's not the same, George," Reilly said with a slow shake of his head. "If I gotta come here and kick ass every month just to get what's mine, well, I got better things to do, y'know?"

  As George watched, Reilly hit the "NO SALE" button on the cash register and started digging into the bills.

  Thick, pincer-like fingers closed on the back of George's neck as he was propelled into the rear of the diner. He saw Rafe off to the side, playing with the electric meat grinder where George mixed his homemade sausage.

  "Rafe!" said Tony. "Matt wants us to teach Mr. Greasyspoon some manners!"

  Rafe didn't look up. He had a raw chicken leg in his hand. He shoved it into the top of the meat grinder. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage being pulverized rose over the whir of the motor, then ground chicken leg began to extrude through the grate at the bottom.

  "Hey, Tone!" Rafe said, looking up and grinning. "I got a great idea!"

  *

  Jack pounded along the second floor hallway. He double-timed down the flight of stairs to the lobby, sprinted across the carpet tiles that spelled out "The Lucky Hotel" in bright yellow on dark blue, and pushed through the smudged glass doors of the entrance. One of the letters on the neon sign above the door was out. The ucky Hotel flashed fitfully in hot red.

  Jack leaped down the three front steps and hit the pavement running. Half a block to the left, then another left down an alley, leaping puddles and dodging garbage cans until he came to the rear of the Highwater Diner. He had his key ready and shoved it into the deadbolt on the delivery door. He paused there long enough to draw his .45 automatic, a Colt Mark IV, and to stretch the knitted cap down over his face. It then became a Halloween decorated ski mask, and he was looking out through a bright orange jack-o-lantern. He pulled the door open and slipped into the storage area at the rear of the kitchen.

  Up ahead he heard the sound of a scuffle, and George's terrified voice crying, "No, don't! Please don't!"

  He rounded the corner of the meat locker and found Tony and Rafe – he'd know those Mohicans anywhere – from Reilly's gang forcing George's hand into a meat grinder and George struggling like all hell to keep it out. But he was losing the battle. His fingers would soon be sausage meat.

  Jack was just reaching for the slide on his automatic when he spotted a meat-tenderizing hammer on a nearby counter. He picked it up and hefted it. Heavy – a good three pounds, most of it in the steel head. Pocketing the pistol, he stepped over to the trio and began a sidearm swing toward Tony's skull.

  "Tony! Trick or treat!"

  Tony looked up just in time to stop the full weight of the waffle-faced hammer head with the center of his face. It made a noise like smoonch! as it buried itself in his nose. He was halfway to the floor before Rafe even noticed.

  "Tone?"

 
Jack didn't wait for him to look up. He used the hammer to crunch a wide part in the center of Rafe's blue Mohican. Rafe joined Tony on the floor.

  "God, am I glad to see you!" George said, gasping and fondling his fingers as if to reassure himself that they were all there. "What took you so long?"

  "Can't've been more than two minutes," Jack said, slipping the handle of the hammer through his belt and pulling the automatic again.

  "Seemed like a year!"

  "The rest of them out front?"

  "Just three – Reilly, the skinhead, and Reece."

  Jack paused. "Where's the rest of them?"

  "Don't know."

  Jack thought he knew. The other three had probably been on that rooftop trying to plug him in his hotel room. But how had they found him? He hadn't even told George about staying at the Lucky.

  One way to find out...

  "Okay. You lock the back door and stay here. I'll take care of the rest."

  "There's a girl out there–" George said.

  Jack nodded. "I'm on my way."

  He turned and almost bumped into Reilly coming through the swinging doors from the front. He was counting the fistful of cash in his hands.

  "How we doin' back–?" Reilly said and then froze when the muzzle of Jack's automatic jammed up under his chin.

  "Happy Halloween," Jack said.

  "Shit! You again!"

  "Right, Matt, old boy. Me again. And I see you've made my collection for me. How thoughtful. You can shove it in my left pocket."

  Reilly's face was white with rage as he glanced over to where Tony writhed on the floor next to the unconscious Rafe.

  "You're a dead man, pal. Worse than dead!"

  Jack smiled through the ski mask and increased the pressure of the barrel on Reilly's throat.

  "Just do as you're told."

  "What's with you and these masks, anyway?" he said as he stuffed the money into Jack's pocket. "You that ugly? Or do you think you're Spiderman or something?"