Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

The Beast stood still, framed against the stars and no moon at all. The night seemed part of him, like something from the dawn of time. He was a caveman out bravely in the night, looking for meat. But this was no strong, brave man of pre-dawn. This was a filthy, butchering bastard who had killed an innocent girl.

“You haven’t said a thing yet, Santoro,” the Beast said. “The only thing you’re saying is you don’t know nothing.”

Rusty found himself marveling. “You ain’t a dummy at all. You ain’t stupid. You been pretendin’.”

The Beast’s face crinkled in a hideous grin, a travesty of a grin. “Oh,” he said sarcastically, “you finally figured it out, huh?”

“You been two people all along,” Rusty said in amazement.

“You was sayin’—” The Beast took a step forward.

Rusty moved back an equal step, toward the edge of the roof. “Th-the only thing I knew about Morlan was what you told me. That he was down here, in a camel’s hair coat. You knew I’d finally get to Boy-O and find out who was pushing through him and then check back. You were hoping I’d kill him, weren’t you, you sonofabitch? You were hoping I’d kill off your competition—then that would put me away, too. Then you’d have the whole turf for your own dust.”

“I saved your life,” the Beast said. He moved forward. Rusty saw the step. But he could move no further and still be on the roof. It was seven floors to the street.

“Sure you saved—saved me,” nervousness ticked in Rusty’s words. “I hadn’t done the job for you yet.”

The Beast jumped. He grabbed for Rusty and caught him by the jacket. Rusty struggled and struck out blindly, feeling himself falling. The Beast dragged him back and held him in a crushing bear-hug. Rusty gasped, and ooophed as every rib in his body was crushed inward. He spread both hands and tried to shove the huge chest away from him, but it was no good. The Beast gasped deeply, sucking in more air for the job, and bent Rusty backwards, till the boy felt the night breeze blowing his hair. His head was over the side of the building. He could barely feel his legs. There was no strength from his waist down. He had to get away.

He—had—to—get—away—

Rusty’s legs brushed the brick of the roof ledge. It was a bare reflex, but he planted what he thought must be his heels against the brick, and shoved. The Beast stumbled a step backward, and his grip loosened just a fraction. Rusty brought both hands up from his waist, and dug the crooked fingers into the two small, evil eyes before him. He dug and felt wetness.

The Beast screamed. His voice let out across the canyon of the tenements and rattled down to the street. Rusty dug in deeper, feeling something under his left hand go soft and moist and start to run down the Beast’s cheek. He gagged at the thought, but shoved harder. His fingers broke into the clear and the screams continued. The Beast retched down across Rusty’s jacket and the smell was terrible. But the screams were worse. He let go, then, and Rusty fell on his back.

The Beast clutched at his streaming face, at the black pits that had been eyes, and as he stumbled he tripped across the shank of the TV antenna. His arms flailed out and he started to fall, holding tight to the antenna.

The shaft of the antenna bent and creaked and the bolts held, but the length of it swayed and gave. The Beast tumbled over the side of the apartment building, still holding tight to the antenna. He hung there, on the end of the bent aluminum, like a fish on a line. He swayed and bumped the building, and his great weight put a strain on the aluminum. It started to crack and the metal bent even more, rubbing against the brick.

The Beast’s screams had not ceased for a moment and now the street was again dotted with a crowd. People stared and pointed up at the great hulk who was suspended on a spiderweb from nowhere.

“Aaah! Help me! Help me!” The Beast screamed and Rusty stared down at him. A dazedness had come over the boy when he had been released. He had risen to his feet only with the greatest difficulty. Pain thrashed about in him, dying and pulling his nerves along with it.

He looked down at the blind hulk that had killed his sister. “Why’d you do it?” he asked, leaning over, hardly realizing the Beast was on the edge of oblivion. He had to know. It was a compulsion in there somewhere. He had to know why this thing had started.

He knew when it had started, back when he was born, but why.

The Beast screamed again and more windows flew up. Heads popped out and the entire neighborhood watched—and listened. A woman yelled, “Call a cop!” But no one moved. They watched, immobile. The Beast swayed some more. The bolts creaked. Rusty asked him again, “Why’d you kill my sister?”

“I din’t, I din’t mean to do it! Help me! Help me!”

“Why, tell me why!”

“I saw’r, that was all. I saw’r and she was all alone—she left the dance—an’ I asked her for a kiss and she laughed at me, an’ I—I—ya gotta help me, ya gotta…”

A cop rounded the corner and looked up and dashed for the building.

The bolts creaked and one snapped loose and the aluminum straightened a little as its length was pulled over the edge. Rusty turned away and started walking.

He passed the cop on the stairs.

The cop was too late. Rusty heard the crash in the street below as he opened the door to the apartment. Then, when he closed the door, he heard nothing more from the street—except one high-pitched woman’s wail—for Mrs. Givens had done as he had asked. Moms was asleep.

All the windows were closed.

rusty santoro

insubstantials

Days came, and days went. None of them paused in their relentless march to nowhere.

Everything straightened out, as straight as death could make it. Morlan was not heard from again. He was said to have left town when the police—after questioning Rusty—heard about his business ventures. Mirsky was gone, too. It was perhaps the safest thing he could do, for his life was worthless in Cherokee turf. The lot with the poppies was thoroughly excavated and the flowers destroyed. So good a job of plowing was done that the dry cleaning establishment purchased the lot for expansion purposes.

Rusty was asked a great many questions.

No one came to claim the Beast’s body. It went to Potter’s Field and no one took flowers for the hole. But it all straightened out, finally. With finality.

Moms got better, because she could not get worse. No one ever dies of a broken heart. Not really. At least, not on the outside. Life moves and time moves and people must move.

There were no charges that could be brought against Rusty. Over a hundred people had seen and heard what had transpired between the boy and the Beast that night, on the roof. It was clearly self-defense. And when Rusty had finished explaining how he had tracked down the Beast, the fuzz were more than happy to give him a clean turn-loose so they could spend their time breaking the dope chain that had supplied the kids.

The kids. The Cougars were another world, another time, another life. He found no hope in that direction. There was no hope at school, either. Pancoast came around, trying to find the Rusty Santoro he had taught, but like the fog that Rusty was also gone. Now there was only a quiet, dark-eyed boy who wanted peace. Too much peace.

Then one day he left.

He took a few things with him and he kissed Moms in the night, late in the night when the city was almost asleep—for the city never completely sleeps, but spins its web by night and by day—and he left. He went silently down to the street, and he stood staring at the wet-shine the water trucks had left behind when they tried vainly to clean the gutters. He looked up and saw the night of deep blue and the stars of white, and he walked away.