Ellen Datlow - After - Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

That’s all. But a shudder runs right down my spine. I know this is the place even before I spell out the golden letters on the platform: horatio visc nelson. I never knew the rest of his name before.

Nelson’s here .

I breathe in, slow and deep and careful.

It ain’t like them palaces up on the Heath that Morris goes on about, all silk carpets and pictures and shandyleers. Maybe it useta be that way upstairs, when Nelson was alive. But when he died they put him down here in the dark, with a black bed to lie on and quiet white walls. An’ a golden crown like a king.

The ripples I’ve made go slopping against the pillars. The beam of my light jumps off the surface: a lake of black water and bright ripples surrounding a black marble coffin on a white stone island.

I’m glad I came. I’ll always remember this. I don’t reckon I’ll ever see it again. Coz I’m leaving .

Morris don’t know what I’m planning, at least I hope he don’t, I ain’t stupid enough to tell him, though he might guess. He’s sharp, is Morris, and he likes to be in control. “Nobody leaves the Krew,” he says. “Family sticks together.” Yeah, but what does that mean? It means selling nirv for Morris in a half-drowned, half-ruined city crawling with Hairies, where the cholera comes back every coupla summers. What sorta life is that? Ma died. What if Billy dies?

Oh, I guess the old bastard’s fond of me and Billy, in his way. But he don’t own me, I don’t need his permission . I’m leaving, all right, and there’s only two ways, upriver or down. Upriver’s too dangerous, patrols and checkpoints and electric fences. Downriver’s dangerous too—you gotta get past the Barrage and right out to sea. I reckon I could do it, though, and find my way north up the coast. It’s worth it. Up in the north there’s a proper government, not like what we got here. Proper jobs—doctors— rights . Up north I can get to be something. Make something outta my life. And Billy’s.

But that’s it—Billy. No way can I take him with me, I’ll hafta leave him behind, at least for a while. (Forever if I get killed—but I won’t get killed.) When I get a job, and a permit and all, I’ll come back for him or send for him, an’ it’ll be better for both of us in the end. How can I tell him, though? I don’t know how to tell him; he’ll never understand. And will he be all right when I’m gone? What’ll Morris do when I skip out, taking the boat and stuff? He’ll be as mad as hell with me (nobody leaves the Krew), but not with Billy, right? Billy’s still family. Will Morris look after Billy if I’m not there? I think so, but I don’t know.

I don’t know .

So I ask Nelson. I square up and speak into the dark. “What d’ya think? Will Billy be okay with Morris? Shall I go?”

I listen, listen for the least bit of sound, listen inside my head as well as outside. In the cold silence, my heart thuds against my ribs. A little bit of me says I’m fooling myself—telling lies to myself—but I gotta believe in something or I ain’t got nothing.

There’s a tiny tickling noise like a cat lapping. My neck prickles, my breath hisses. I flash the light down and see fresh ripples crossing the surface. Toward me. Next there’s a sloshing, regular sound: splash—splash—splash. Someone’s wading out of the deep darkness on the other side of Nelson’s tomb.

My blood turns to acid. My heart comes choking up into my throat. It’s Nelson—I’ve woken Nelson! I swing the cell up. A face appears in the light beam, screwed up an’ blinking—a face buried in long straggles of gray-black hair. My hand dives for my gun, but my pocket’s all wet and tight and I can’t get my fingers in. I start backing away, the water grabbing at my thighs.

The thing whines like a dog, and my hair stands on end. It works its jaw up and down. Around its mouth is draggled and sticky, with feathers stuck to it…. Feathers? It’s gripping something—a dead pigeon, all tore open, I can see the dark blood and white bones. It’s been sitting in the dark behind Nelson’s tomb, chewing on a dead pigeon. I’m almost sick. I scream at it, “I’ve got a gun!” and I run.

But the water’s so deep. I hafta force my legs along, elbows pumping, thrashing up stinking spray, nearly falling every stride, and I glance back to see if it’s coming and can’t see nothing in the dark, so it could be right behind me….Then I’m in the shallows, splashing along ankle deep, and now I can really run—so fast I almost miss the steps, but here they are—and I hurl myself up and slip and my knee slams into the stone—hell that hurts!—and I scramble up on all fours, and I’m coming into gray daylight, shouting, “Hairies, Billy, run…”

And he’s not here.

He’s not here!

“Billy!” My voice explodes into the space above me. All the birds hurtle up again and go whirling around. Where the hell is he, he never goes wandering off—and there are Hairies in here, I shoulda guessed a place like this would be crawling with ’em—I took too long, I should never a-left him— “Billy?”

Faint and thin, his voice floats back. “Hi, Charlie…”

I look up. Shit! Overhead, way overhead where the ledge clings to the underside of the dome, I see the tiny white blob of his face looking down. “Hi, Charlie,” he calls again. Or maybe he means, “High!”

He sounds really pleased with himself.

Shit! Shit! I know he’s not gonna come down on his own, I’ll hafta fetch him. Just as I start for the doors leading to the spiral staircase, there’s a noise behind me, a sorta tuneless singing, “Doh-de-doh-de-dum. Dum, dum, dum.”

The Hairy’s coming, limping up outta the cellar like a walking corpse, naked, dripping wet, the hair plastered to its thin shanks and knobby knees. As it comes it hums, jiggles, twitches, scratches itself. I struggle to push my hand into my wet pocket, shove and wriggle my fingers till they curl around the handle of Morris’s little gun, and I drag it out. It musta got well soaked—will it work when it’s wet?

The Hairy sees me. It stops in the archway just under the death’s heads. It’s still got the pigeon dangling from one hand. It tips its head sideways like it’s trying to figure me out. Through the hair its eyes gleam like a dog’s. Then it drops the pigeon and shambles right at me.

“Get back!” I point the gun. It’s as light as a toy, but it ain’t a toy. Any real person would know that, any real person would back off, but this is a Hairy, it don’t understand. I can kill it, but I can’t scare it. I shriek, “Get away from me or I’ll shoot!” and it lets out a yell of its own and waves its arms. I jump about a mile in the air, I nearly pull the trigger, but I don’t, I’ve never killed anyone, and it burbles, “Mad, mad, mad-a, mad-a,” and I’m almost sobbing, I know it’s mad, I back some more and I say, “I’ll shoot, I’ll shoot!” and it says, “Madd-a- lena .”

I almost drop the gun.

And it says, this time I swear it says, “ Moh -riss.”

All the skin prickles up all over my body.

I don’t wait to hear no more. I yank open that door in the wall and leap through and go racing two at a time up shallow treads that lead around and around in a never-ending spiral. The Hairy’s hooting in the shaft below. It’s coming after me.

Maybe it’s seen me with Morris on the street, it knows we’re dealers, it thinks I’ve got…When Hairies get to that state, their brains is wrecked, scrambled. Nobody sells it to ’em anymore, they can’t pay and anyway another dose or two’d prob’ly kill them, but they still want the stuff. They still crave for nirv.