Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  The day his father walked through the door of the diner, Sweet barely recognised the man. He had the long hair and the beard as the trucker had described, and not only that, his father had a smile.

  “Something Sweet,” his father said, sitting at the counter, and this man, this stranger who Sweet knew to be his father, told him how he’d met a truck driver who had said he’d met a fellow by the same name who bore a striking resemblance. “Only not like you could be brothers,” his father said, recounting the trucker’s words, “he’s a ‘good deal younger’. How do you like that? ‘A good deal younger’! So I just had to see this ‘good deal younger’ fella for myself.” His father might as well have just said his own son was nothing more than a curiosity, like he’d taken a road trip to Kansas to see the world’s largest ball of twine.

  Sweet’s father then went on to tell him how, little over a year ago, he’d managed to get on to the radio and tell everybody that ever since he was a little boy he’d been snatched from his bed by tall men who wore diving suits and took him to what he thought to be some kind of submarine in the sky, with rectangle portholes and that, though his experiences were only minutes long, he’d be gone for hours at a time. Soon enough his father found himself talking to countless other abductees who hadn’t spoken up before but had crawled out of the woodwork now that Sweet’s father come forward. “You should hear some of ’em,” his father said, “wild stories—way more imagination than me. Human zoos on Saturn, crazy stuff like that.” It wasn’t long after that he had a book deal, telling the world about his own ‘experience’ and the experiences of others.

  Sweet’s father placed a copy of the aforementioned book on the counter. It was a paperback. On the cover was a depiction of one of the tall men he’d talked about, wearing an otherworldly diving suit, holding a sleeping child, set against a white background with planets in the sky. They Come at Night, read the title, by L. Sweet.

  “New York Times bestseller,” his father smiled pushing the book towards him.

  Sweet could see an all too familiar gleam in his father’s eyes, as he’d seen many times before; explaining to the landlord why the rent was late, or pretending they’d been robbed right after Sweet’s birthday or Christmas, only for Sweet to find the pawnbroker receipts days later. It was the gleam of a lie. His father spoke like a liar too; fast so the person listening didn’t have a hope of picking up on any of the inconsistencies or remembering any of the details.

  “Why?” Sweet asked. “Why did you do this?”

  What followed was a moment of silence between them in which it was quite clear Sweet’s father contemplated whether to just come out with it or keep up the charade. Again he smiled, and tapped the counter. Some proverbial coin had been tossed in Sweet’s father’s mind and had landed ‘tails’ and he winced a ‘shot of bourbon’ wince because the truth was hard to swallow.

  “I remember you telling me how the world was cruel but you had to make your own luck in it,” his father said softly so as only Sweet could hear him. “I remember thinking how smart you were, how right you were.” His father was buttering him up with flattery—the truth was coming. “Orson Welles made his luck that night when he convinced people the Martians had landed in Grover’s Mill. That stunt alone made him the most talked-about man in America. I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same and make some of my own.”

  Sweet shook his head. “You’re a confidence man, a scam artist.”

  “Just making my own luck, son.” And there it was. “Son.”

  This man wasn’t his father, he told himself, just some grifter, some wiseass, talking about luck like it was moonshine and how you could get drunk on success.

  “I brought you a little something,” his father said, fishing a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. “You always knew how to fix the radio…”

  Sweet took the paper and unfolded it. It was a technical drawing in white lines on a blue background—a contact print on light sensitive paper.

  “What is this?” Sweet asked.

  “It’s a blueprint,” his father said.

  “Yeah, I know it’s blueprint, but for what?” Sweet asked.

  “I have a friend at the patent office,” his father said, “a fellow abductee. I’ve made a lot of strange friends in high places, and a lot of high friends in strange places. What you have there is a British vacuum cleaner using Martian technology. I’m sure a smart kid like you can find a way of making these things for a quarter of the price.”

  “And then what?” Sweet asked.

  “And then you sell ’em,” his father said, like it was as simple as picking apples off a tree.

  “I’m not a salesman,” Sweet said.

  “Oh believe me, it’s in the blood,” his father said with a wave of his hand.

  “Salesmen are honest men,” Sweet said, looking his father dead in the eye.

  His father smiled and took a moment.

  “There’s zero difference between conmen and salesmen, son,” his father said, tapping the counter again, “conmen have their Mark, salesmen have their Prospect, it’s just a matter of convincing that Mark or that Prospect to part with their money is all. And you can do that. I mean, look at you. You sell lousy coffee all day long, why, you’re practically a pro!”

  “Oh, really? And how does someone find a sucker to buy a knock-off?”

  “There’s a sucker born every minute, and a sucker dies every minute too, leaving their money to lots of other suckers. Start reading the obituaries. You wanna head to Sun City, Arizona. The place is full of people at death’s door with money to burn, kid.”

  “You can’t do something like this. It’s not legal.”

  “Was it legal to close down the factories?” his father said, puffing up his chest. “Was it legal to lay off all the workers because one mechanical could do the job of a hundred good honest men? They broke their backs, kid, and what did they get? Nothing. Because all the moneymen do is take, take, take until there’s nothing left and then they take that too. They set the bad example. You’ve gotta follow by their example.” The bluster went out of his voice and he sat forward again, elbows on the counter, and in a much softer tone he said, “You take a little something and you give it back, am I right?”

  “Oh, so you’re a regular Robin Hood now?” Sweet said. “Why are you doing this? I mean, why are you really doing this? Why have you come here, and why are you giving this to me?”

  And the man he knew to be his father got up from his seat and said, “Because you’re my son.” And with that he turned around and walked out of the diner and Sweet would never set eyes on his father again.

  Sweet looked at the blueprint. Damn ugly looking thing. Reminded him of a tick.

  They Come at Night remained on the counter. His father had left it there for him. He picked it up. On the inside of the cover his father had written, “Sometimes you just need something big to shake things up a little.”

  Sweet threw the paperback in the trash.

  But he kept the blueprint.

  SOMETHING SWEET.

  WANTED FOR FRAUD.

  He could see it now. Posted on every wall and in every window in every town. The Widow Mann’s words plagued his thoughts, tugged at his attention. He couldn’t simply tell himself he was over reacting, or that there was nothing to worry about. He knew full well there was everything to worry about now. Oh, how much simpler his life had been before his father walked back into it with that damn blueprint.

  He’d stopped at The Fine Dine for supper, down the road from the El Rancho motel where he had a regular room on 66. He pushed the plate of burger and fries to one side; he thought he’d have the stomach for it, but the worry had put a knot in that.

  As he walked back to the El Rancho, he noticed the car. A Belvedere Blue Jenson Interceptor, popular with government agencies on account of the fact that it had legs instead of wheels and could cover any terrain.

  The Interceptor was empty.

  He checked over his sho
ulder. Were they onto him? As he rounded into the carpark at the El Rancho, he could see there was a broad figure in a dark suit, knocking on his motel room door.

  Then something seemed to take over Sweet; an impulse that suggested he should start running. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his car keys, and made a sprint for his car.

  He jumped into the Studebaker and slammed the door shut. Less than subtle. Glancing at the rear view mirror, he could see that this had alerted the figure at the door, who wheeled around. The guy’s face was obscured by a pillar. He could just see him turn at the shoulders, and that was all the information Sweet needed. He fired up the car, watching as the figure dashed in his direction. In that moment, all Sweet knew was that they,whoever the hell they were, were onto him.

  He slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The engine roared and the car shot forward and screeched out of the car park, pulling out into the evening traffic and a chorus of squealing breaks, barking tires and blaring horns. As he weaved through the traffic, Sweet could see through the rearview mirror that the man rushed to the Interceptor. Sweet cut in line at the intersection and ran the stop light, taking a hard right and forcing oncoming vehicles to brake. Foot down, eyes front, shoulders tight, knuckles white, he leaned on the gas and pressed on.

  It wasn’t until he had lost sight of the Interceptor in his rear view for a good hour that he slowed down. For the rest of that evening, he drove aimlessly; trying figure out what to do, whether to double back and collect his things or just keep driving till sunrise. Having lost him, the Interceptor probably returned to the motel thinking he’d be back for his belongings. Sweet kept driving.

  Soon enough he found himself drifting north-east on 88. It was night and he was tired; the adrenaline rush had left him beat. He slowed the car down, nosed into a space off the road, cut the engine and killed the lights. The traffic on this stretch was minimal; a car every two minutes, maybe five. He placed his wallet in the glove box, set his seat back and closed his eyes.

  There was an abrupt knock at the window. He opened his eyes to bright light, but it wasn’t a flashlight. It was daylight. He’d slept. The car was oven-hot. He had kept the windows closed and now he could barely breathe. His brow and the back of his neck were soaked with sweat and as his eyes adjusted, he saw, parked in front of his car: the Interceptor. As he turned his head he could see that the dark-suited man was now stood beside his car, and somewhere deep inside him a starter pistol fired and he was gone, the Studebaker’s tires kicking up a huge cloud of dust as he tore off down 88.

  Quick check in the rearview and he could see the Interceptor was on him. Quick check of the dash and he could see his time spent idling around Phoenix the night before had cost him plenty of gas and he was almost out. Coming up fast on his right he could see a dirt road leading to the Superstition Mountains. He cranked the steering wheel and turned onto the dirt road without slowing down and almost lost control, the rear of the car skidding out behind him. The Interceptor was close.

  He kept on the dirt road ’til he was out of road altogether, and that was when he abandoned the car.

  He came out running, fast as he could, and that was when he lost his hat.

  He ran through a forest of saguaro cacti and found a rock to hide behind, and that was when he lost his mind.

  “SOMETHING SWEET,” SAID Hunnicut, puzzling over the name, “beginning with L.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Two syllables?”

  “Just the two.”

  “Six letters?”

  “Six.”

  “That’s a tough one, son,” said Hunnicut, “a real tough one. And you’re all relaxed now and you still can’t remember?”

  Hunnicut was right. Sweet was a good deal more relaxed now. Even though the muscles in his calves were still cramping, the pain in his feet was gone and he was just about all talked out.

  “Maybe it’s something unusual, like… Lennox,” said Hunnicut, “from Macbeth.”

  Sweet had never read any Macbeth, and he was pretty certain his father hadn’t neither. So, no not Lennox.

  “Or Lennie, from Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men?”

  No Steinbeck neither.

  “What about Lamont? Like Lamont Cranston, aka The Shadow.”

  Yeah, he knew about The Shadow, that was another of Orson Welles’ shows, but no, not a chance.

  “Logan? Lucas? Lazlo?”

  “No,” said Sweet, “it was Lee… Lee-something Sweet.”

  Sitting with Bill Hunnicut, telling him about the whole damn mess and putting the pieces together, had been almost like how he imagined a confessional to work, except he didn’t imagine Hunnicut would tell him he could fix the whole thing with a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Also, he rather liked how Hunnicut called him “son”.

  “What was that book your father wrote?” Hunnicut asked.

  “They Come At Night,” Sweet said. “New York Times Bestseller apparently.”

  “Hmmm,” Hunnicut puzzled. “Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of it, but then it’s not the type of thing I’d read.”

  A silence followed.

  “We all make mistakes, son,” Hunnicut said, “and the mistake ain’t nearly as important as what we do to put things right.”

  Sweet let out a sigh. If he could find a way to put it right, then he would. There were at least a couple of dozen old ladies in Sun City he’d sold his stupid vacuum cleaners to. If he could just show he was sorry in some way.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Right on time,” Hunnicut said, “that’ll be Mrs Gibson and her son. I need to get cleaned up here. Would you mind answering the door for me, let her know I’ll be there in a minute. She’ll have a book with her, by way of payment.”

  “A book?” Sweet said.

  “Knowledge, son, is a valuable thing.”

  Sweet took a deep breath, leaned forward—placing his hands on his knees—and got up. He felt light-headed and heavy-footed but was able to coordinate his way into the house and along a corridor with dark varnished boards, at the end of which was the front door. On his right was an opened archway into a lounge full of bookcases, a grandfather clock, and a long topaz Chesterfield couch. Knowledge, it appeared, was indeed a very valuable thing to Bill Hunnicut.

  Sweet opened the front door.

  The desert air hit his face like a warm breath. Standing before him in a pair white flats was a woman in a canary-yellow cheesecloth dress, and in one white gloved hand she was holding a matching yellow clutch purse. In her other white gloved hand she was holding a copy of Swan’s Way by Marcel Proust. Beside her was a young boy dressed in a blue and green striped t-shirt and grey shorts, but all of that seemed hardly relevant because on both their shoulders sat large, bulbous eyed ant-heads with twitching antennae.

  Sweet reeled, his head swimming, and he stepped back from the door. His legs felt like they might buckle at any moment.

  “Oh, my,” the ant-headed woman said, as if her appearance had been nothing out of the ordinary, but this man covered in dirt and torn suit and no shoes was out of the ordinary. “Er, is Mr Hunnicut home? Only, he said three o’clock, and—”

  But it was no use. Fear had washed over Sweet, and he could barely stand.

  “Are you all right?” the ant-headed woman asked, with inquisitive compound eyes—her mandibles chewing every word.

  Sweet backed away from the door. His knees were about to give out. Propping himself against the wall, he slid down the corridor. He could barely breathe.

  “Hunni…cut,” he mouthed, “Bill?” and his words came out in a slur, like… like his drunken father.

  A framed picture fell from its hook as he slipped past it. The noise as it hit the floor was like a muffled gunshot to Sweet’s ears and he fell to his knees.

  “Hunnn…”

  He felt his muscles grow rigid, his jaw clench.

  “Hhhhhuuu…”

  He was now on all fours, trying desperately to get back to the
garage, when he saw Hunnicut’s black shoes. He could just about make out Hunnicut’s voice but he couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. He reached out and grabbed at the bottom of Hunnicut’s trouser leg. Sweet sat back on his heels and looked up and saw the pleat-fronted trousers, the dark blue shirt tucked in at the waist and rolled up at the sleeves as he wiped his hands on an old rag, and finally, on Hunnicut’s shoulders—the head of an ant.

  “LELAND SWEET,” SAID a voice in the darkness. “His name is Leland Sweet,” and then a moment later, “Leland Sweet Jr.”

  That was it! The ‘something’.

  It was Leland.

  Beginning with L.

  Ending with D.

  Six letters.

  Two syllables.

  Leland.

  Of course it was.

  “Can you hear me, Leland?” asked the voice. It wasn’t Hunnicut’s voice and it certainly wasn’t Mrs Gibson’s. It was a British accent.

  Leland Sweet opened his eyes.

  He was laying on the couch in Bill Hunnicut’s lounge. He had a bag of ice on his head. The man leaning over him, looking into his eyes, was wearing the same suit the ant-headed man had been wearing, only this man had an ordinary head. He looked about the same age as Sweet’s father. Bald. Emerald eyes. Behind him was a much older looking man with a cockatoo plume of white hair on the top of his head, dressed in a baggy brown sack suit. There was a third man, dressed in the same clothes Hunnicut had been wearing. His head was also quite ordinary too. The years had made his cheeks shallow, and gaunt. A pair of spectacles rested on his nose. He was stood with his shoulders hunched and smiled a kind smile.

  “My name is Montgomery Brown,” said the man with the emerald eyes, “but you can call me Monty.”

  “And this is Doctor Caldecott,” said the man who had been dressed like Hunnicut, in a voice that was unmistakably Hunnicut’s voice, and he pointed to the cockatoo plumed gentleman.