The Barrens & Others

  Something caught him across the chin and his feet went out from under him. He landed flat on his back and felt a sharp, searing pain in his right thigh. He looked down and saw he had jabbed himself in the leg with his own knife during the fall.

  Gil leapt to his feet, the pain a distant cry amid the blood rage that hammered though his brain. He roared and slashed at the rope that had damn near taken his head off and charged into the big room. There he saw not one but two of the little bastards. A chant filled the air:

  "Leave him alone and leave our home! Leave him alone and leave our home!"

  Over and over, from a good deal more than two voices. He couldn't see any others. How many of the little runts were there? No matter. He'd deal with these two first, then hunt down the others and get to the bottom of this.

  The pair split, one darting to the left, the other to the right. Gil wasn't going to let them both escape. He took a single step and launched himself through the air at the one fleeing leftward. He landed with a bone-jarring crash on the floor but his outstretched free hand caught the leg of the fleeing creature. It was hairier than he had realized – furry, really – and it struggled in his grasp, screeching and thrashing like a wild animal as he pulled it toward him. He squeezed it harder and it bit his thumb. Hard. He howled with the pain, hauled the thing back, and flung it against the nearest wall.

  Its screeching stopped as it landed against the wall with an audible crunch and fell to the floor, but the chant went on:

  "...our home! Leave him alone, and leave our home! Leave him..."

  "God damn it!" Gil said, sucking on his bleeding thumb. It hurt like hell.

  Then he saw the thing start to move. Mewling in pain, it had begun a slow crawl toward one of the piles of junk in the corner.

  "No, you don't!" Gil shouted.

  The pain, the rage, that goddamn chant, they all came together in a black cloud of fury that engulfed him. No way he was going to let that little shit get away and set more booby traps for him. Through that cloud, he charged across the room, lifted the thing up with his left hand, and raised the knife in his right. Dimly he heard a voice shouting somewhere behind him but he ignored it.

  He rammed the knife through the damned thing, pinning it to the wall.

  The chant stopped abruptly, cut off in mid verse. All he could hear was George's wail.

  *

  "Oh, no! Oh, Lord, no!"

  George stood in the hall and stared at the tiny figure impaled on the wall, watched it squirm as dark fluid flowed down the peeling wallpaper. Then it went slack. He didn't know the little guy's name – they all looked pretty much the same through his cataracts – but he felt like he'd lost an old friend. His anguish was a knife lodged in his own chest.

  "You've killed him! Oh, God!"

  Gil glared at him, his eyes wild, his breathing ragged. Saliva dripped from a corner of his mouth. He was far over the edge.

  "Right, old man. And I'm gonna get the other one and do the same to him!"

  George couldn't let that happen. The little guys were his responsibility. He was their protector. He couldn't just stand here like a useless scarecrow.

  He launched himself at Gil, his long, nicotine-stained fingernails extended like claws, raking for the younger man's eyes. But Gil pushed him aside easily, knocking him to the floor with a casual swipe if his arm. Pain blazed through George's left hip as he landed, shooting down his leg like a bolt of white hot lightning.

  "You're next, you worthless old shit!" Gil screamed. "Soon as I finish with the other little squirt!"

  George sobbed as he lay on the floor. If only he were younger, stronger. Even ten years ago he probably could have kicked this punk out on his ass. Now all he could do was lie here on the floor like the worthless old half-blind cripple he was. He pounded the floor helplessly. Might as well be dead!

  Suddenly he saw another of the little guys dash across the floor toward the couch, saw the punk spot him and leap after him.

  "Run!" George screamed. "Run!"

  *

  Gil rammed his shoulder against the back of the couch as he shoved his arm far beneath it, slashing back and forth with the knife, trying to get a piece of the second runt. But the blade cut only air and dust bunnies.

  As he began to withdraw his arm, he felt something snake over his hand and tighten on his wrist. He tried to yank away but the cord – he was sure it was a cord like the one he had used to truss George – tightened viciously.

  A slip knot!

  The other end must have been tied to one of the couch legs. He tried to slash at the cord with the knife but he couldn't get the right angle. He reached under with his free left hand to get the knife and realized too late that they must have been waiting for him to do that very thing. He felt another noose tighten over that wrist–

  –and still another over his right ankle.

  The first cold trickles of fear ran down Gil's spine.

  In desperation he tried to tip the couch over to give him some room to maneuver but it wouldn't budge. Just then something bit deeply into his right hand. He tried to shake it off and in doing so he loosened his grip on the knife. It was immediately snatched from his grasp.

  At that moment the fourth noose tightened around his left ankle, and he knew he was in deep shit.

  They let him lay there for what must have been an hour. He strained at the ropes, trying to break them, trying to untie the knots. All he accomplished was to sink their coils more deeply into his flesh. He wanted to scream out his rage – and his fear – but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He heard George moving around somewhere behind him, groaning with pain, heard little voices – How many of the little fuckers were there, anyway? – talking in high-pitched whispers. There seemed to be an argument going on. Finally, it was resolved.

  Then came a tugging on the cords as new ones were tied around his wrists and ankles and old ones released. Suddenly he was flipped over onto his back.

  He saw George sitting in the rocker holding an ice pack to his left hip. And on the floor there were ten – Jesus, ten of them! – foot-and-a-half tall furry little men standing in a semi-circle, staring at him.

  One of them stepped forward. He was dressed in doll clothes: a dark blue pullover – it even had an Izod alligator on the left breast – and tan slacks. He had the face of a sixty-year old man with a barrel chest and furry arms and legs. He pointed at Gil's face and spoke in a high pitched voice:

  "C'ham is dead and it's on your head."

  Gil started to laugh. It was like landing in Munchkinland, but then he saw the look in the little man's eyes and knew this was not one of the Lollipop Kids. The laugh died in his throat.

  He glanced up at the wall where he'd pinned the first little runt like a bug on a board and saw only a dark stain.

  The talking runt gestured two others forward and they approached Gil, dragging his knife. He tried the squirm away from them but the ropes didn't allow for much movement.

  "Hey, now, wait a minute! What're you–?"

  "The decision's made: You'll make the trade."

  Gill was beginning to know terror. "Forget the goddamn rhymes! What's going on here?"

  "Hold your nose," the talking runt said to the pair with the knife, "and cut off his clothes. Best be cautious lest he make you nauseous."

  Gil winced as the blade began to slice along the seams of his shirt, waiting for the sharp edge to cut him. But it never touched him.

  *

  George watched as the little guys stripped Connors. He had no idea what they were up to and he didn't care. He felt like more of a failure than ever. He'd never done much with his life, but at least since the end of the Sixties he had been able to tell himself that he had provided a safe harbor for the last of the world's Little People.

  When had it been – Sixty-nine, maybe – when all eleven of them had first shown up at his door looking for shelter. They'd said they were waiting for "when time is unfurled and we're called by the world." He hadn't t
he vaguest notion what that meant but he'd experienced an immediate rapport with them. They were Outsiders, just like he was. And when they offered to pay rent, the deal was sealed.

  He smiled. That rhymed. If you listened to them enough, you began to sound like them. Since they spoke in rhyme all the time – there was another one – it was nothing for them to crank out verse for the greeting card companies. Some of the stuff was pretty sappy, but it paid the taxes.

  But what next? One of the little guys had been murdered by this psycho who now knew their secret. Soon all the world would know about these Little People. George had doubly failed at his job: He hadn't protected them and hadn't kept their secret. He was just what the punk had called him: a worthless old shit.

  He heard Connors groan and looked up. He was nude as a jaybird and the little guys had tied him with new ropes looped through rings fastened high on the walls at each end of the room. They were hauling him off the floor, stringing him across the room like laundry hung out to dry.

  George suddenly realized that although he wasn't too pleased with being George Haskins, at this particular moment he preferred it by far to being Gilroy Connors.

  *

  Gil felt as if his arms and legs were going to come out of their sockets as the runts hauled him off the floor and stretched him out in the air. For a moment he feared that might be their plan, but when he got half way between the floor and the ceiling, they stopped pulling on the ropes.

  He couldn't ever remember feeling so damn helpless in all his life.

  The lights went out and he heard a lot of shuffling below him but he couldn't see what they were doing. Then came the sound, a new chant, high-pitched and stacatto in a language he had never heard before, a language that didn't seem at home on the human tongue.

  A soft glow began to rise from below him. He wished he could see what they were doing. All he could do was watch their weird shadows on the ceiling. So far they hadn't caused him too much pain, but he was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. His back got warm while his front grew cold and numb, like there was a cool wind coming from the ceiling and passing right through him, carrying his energy with it. All of his juice seemed to be flowing downward and collecting in his back.

  So tired...and his back felt so heavy. What were they doing below him?

  *

  They were glowing.

  George had watched them carry C'ham, their dead member, to a spot directly below Connor's suspended body. They had placed one of George's coffee mugs at C'ham's feet, then they stripped off their clothes and gathered in a circle around him. They had started to chant. After a while, a faint yellow light began to shimmer around their furry little bodies.

  George found the ceremony fascinating in a weird sort of way – until the glow brightened and flowed up to illuminate the suspended punk. Then even George's lousy eyes could see the horror of what was happening to Gilroy Connors.

  His legs, arms, and belly were a cold dead white, but his back was a deep red-purple color, like a gigantic bruise, and it bulged like the belly of a mother-to-be carrying triplets. George could not imagine how the skin was holding together, it was stretched so tight. Looked like it would rupture any minute. George shielded his face, waiting for the splatter. But when it didn't come, he chanced another peek.

  It was raining on the Little People.

  The skin hadn't ruptured as George had feared. No, a fine red mist was falling from Connors' body. Red microdroplets were slipping from the pores in the purpled swelling on his back and falling through the yellow glow, turning it orange. The scene was as beautiful as it was horrifying.

  The bloody dew fell for something like half an hour, then the glow faded and one of the little guys boosted another up to the wall switch and the lights came on. George did not have to strain his eyes to know that Gilroy Connors was dead.

  As the circle dissolved, he noticed that the dead little guy was gone. Only the mug remained under Conners.

  George found his mouth dry when he tried to speak.

  "What happened to... to the one he stabbed?"

  "C'ham?" said the leader. George knew this one; his name was Kob. "He's over there."

  Sure enough. There were ten little guys standing over by the couch, one of them looking weak and being supported by the others.

  "But I thought–"

  "Yes. C'ham was dead, but now he's back because of the Crimson Dew."

  "And the other one?"

  Kob glanced over his shoulder at Connors. "I understand there's a reward for his capture. You should have it. And there's something else you should have."

  The little man stepped under Connors' suspended body and returned with the coffee mug.

  "This is for you," he said, holding it up.

  George took the mug and saw that it was half-filled with a thin reddish liquid.

  "What am I supposed to do with this?"

  "Drink it."

  George's stomach turned. "But it's... from him."

  "Of course. From him to you." Kob gave George's calf a gentle slap. "We need you George. You're our shield from the world–"

  "Some shield!" George said.

  "It's true. You've protected us from prying eyes and we need you to go on doing that for some time to come."

  "I don't think I've got much time left."

  "That's why you should drain that cup."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think of it as extending your lease," Kob said.

  George looked over at C'ham who'd surely been dead half an hour ago and now was up and walking about. He looked down into the cup again.

  ...extending your lease.

  Well, after what he'd just seen, he guessed anything might be possible.

  Tightening his throat against an incipient gag, George raised the cup to his lips and sipped. The fluid was lukewarm and salty – like a bouillon that had been allowed to cool too long. Not good, but not awful, either. He squeezed his eyes shut and chugged the rest. It went down and stayed down, thank the Lord.

  "Good!" Kob shouted, and the ten other Little People applauded.

  "Now you can help us cut him down and carry him outside."

  *

  "So what're you going to do with all that money, George?" Bill said as he handed George the day's mail.

  "I ain't got it yet."

  George leaned against the roof of the mail truck and dragged on his cigarette. He felt good. His morning backache was pretty much a thing of the past, and he could pee with the best of them – hit a wall from six feet away, he bet. His breathing was better than it had been in thirty years. And best off all, he could stand here and see all the way south along the length of the harbor to downtown Monroe. He didn't like to think about what had been in that mug Kob had handed him, but in the ten days since he had swallowed it down he had come to feel decades younger.

  He wished he had some more of it.

  "Still can't get over how lucky you were to find him laying in the grass over there," Bill said, glancing across the road. "Especially lucky he wasn't alive from what I heard about him."

  "Guess so," George said.

  "I understand they still can't explain how he died or why he was all dried up like a mummy."

  "Yeah, it's a mystery, all right."

  "So when you do get the fifty thou – what are you going to spend it on?"

  "Make a few improvements on the old place, I guess. Get me some legal help to see if somehow I can get this area declared off-limits to developers. But mostly set up some sort of fund to keep paying the taxes until that comes to pass."

  Bill laughed and let up on the mail truck's brake. "Not ready for the old folks' home yet?" he said as he lurched away.

  "Not by a long shot!"

  I've got responsibilities, he thought. And tenants to keep happy.

  He shuddered.

  Yes, he certainly wanted to keep those little fellows happy.

  foreword to "Faces"

  I'd planned on writing three 10,000 word nove
lettes for Night Visions 6. I wound up doing four.

  Sometime in November I sent Paul Mikol the 30,000 words of new fiction I'd promised. He called back a few weeks later to say that the third story, "Ethics," was a little too lighthearted and too much like "Feelings." Could I do another in its place? My immediate reaction was, He's nuts. But I said I'd think about it. I went back to the two stories in question and reread them back to back.

  He was right. I'd written "Feelings" and the other piece months apart and hadn't seen the similarities.

  So here it was almost December and I needed 10K words of new fiction. I'd been perking a story about a serial killer (this was 1987, before The Silence of the Lambs and the serial killer glut) but one with a difference. This one would be female (they're almost always male), hideously deformed, and sympathetic. I felt if I could tell you about the forces driving Carly to these murderous acts – her childhood, her needs, her emotional hungers – you might understand her. You might even find some sort of love for her.

  Years later I happened to reread Richard Matheson's "Born of Man and Woman" and realized what a signicant – though unconscious – influence it had on my story. I believe Carly is Matheson's little girl all gown up.

  To date "Faces" is my most reprinted story and remains one of my favorites. And it has a tenuous link to the Adversary Cycle. You see, Carly was conceived just about the same time Carol Stevens conceived her child in Reborn.

  Faces

  Bite her face off.

  No pain. Her dead already. Kill her quick like others. Not want make pain. Not her fault.

  The boyfriend groan but not move. Face way on ground now. Got from behind. Got quick. Never see. He can live.

  Girl look me after the boyfriend go down. Gasp first. When see face start scream. Two claws not cut short rip her throat before sound get loud.

  Her sick-scared look just like all others. Hate that look. Hate it terrible.

  Sorry, girl. Not your fault.

  Chew her face skin. Chew all. Chew hard and swallow. Warm wet redness make sickish but chew and chew. Must eat face. Must get all down. Keep down.