Ellen Datlow - After - Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

But I swear I didn’t rekkernize it, it ain’t anyone I ever met. And even if it knows about Morris, how could it know about Maddalena?

I didn’t hear that. I didn’t. I didn’t hear it.

But I know I did.

Every coupla turns, daylight peeks through a little window covered with thick glass and barred like a prison. I push on—slowing, toiling, gasping—but I keep going, and after I don’t know how many turns, the stairs end in a narrow stone passage, no more than elbow wide. I dive along it and come to another flight, straight this time, a glimmer of daylight at the top. I struggle up and tumble out and grab at the wall.

I’m out on the ledge where Billy was. It rims the bottom of the dome, hugging what looks like about a circular mile of space. Windows march ’round the walls above me. There are huge shadowy paintings up there. Way, way up, higher than I like to look, there’s another gallery hanging right in the middle of the roof. Dusty rays of light slant down.

I peer into the gloom. “Billy?”

Well, he ain’t here, a’course he ain’t, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? He’s wandered off again. And the Hairy’s on the stairs and we gotta get out—I’m wild with Billy but I’m furious with myself. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I shoot when I got the chance? Next time I’ll pull the trigger for sure.

I try Billy’s cell, which is switched off, and I call for him again, not very loud coz it echoes, and the place spooks me, and then I set off marching around the circle.

A heavy iron railing fences off the drop. Once it musta run all the way around, but now there’s big gaps, places where it’s torn down and twisted. I peer over, careful. A helluva long way down there’s a pattern in the middle of the floor, a starburst so big I never spotted it when I was down there. It’s like a target. If you’re gonna jump, aim right here. I pull back, shuddering, and press close against the wall.

Billy whispers at my shoulder, right in my ear, “Hey, Charlie!” I spin around. And he’s not there .

Christ, the voice—the voice was so weird. All hoarse and hollow. Not like Billy alive. Like Billy’s ghost.

It’s too much—the dome hanging over me like a thundercloud, the Hairy on the stairs, them bloody pigeons what never stop cooing…and Billy’s voice coming outta nowhere. My knees go weak. I croak, “Where are you?” an’ there’s a pause, and his voice whispers, “Here”—still sounding like a ghost—and I go, “Where?” and there’s another pause and he says, “By the door.”

Well, there’s no door anywhere near, and then I look far out across the open space and see the doorway I come in through, more than half the circle away. Next to it I can just make out the shape of Billy, standing there waiting. Relief soaks through me, but I’m exasperated too, chasing each other around like a game of ring-a-roses. I shout, “Stay put! Stay there an’ wait for me!” There’s the pause, and he answers, “All right,” still in that dragged-out hollow whisper, like it’s traveled right up into the cup of the dome. So it’s got to be some kind of echo.

From where I am, it’s quicker to go on than turn back. I’m picking my way careful-like over slippery piles of fallen plaster and pigeon droppings, when I suddenly know I’ve just made the most terrible fucking mistake.

I told Billy to wait where he is—and the Hairy’s on the stairs.

It’s like a fist in my stomach. I start to run, past gaps in the rail where there’s nothing to stop me going all the way to the bottom, and then I come to a place where the rail’s all twisted over the ledge and I hafta stop and clamber over it, and watch where I put my hands and feet in case I break an ankle or fall, and I can’t even look to see what’s happening—if it’s already there, and Billy’s all alone. It gives me the horrors. I gotta get there first, before it reaches the top.

I vault the last tangle of metal, and run on. All of the circle looks the same, like I’m getting nowhere, like the building’s revolving and I’m staying still. I’ve lost sight of Billy, don’t know how far I’ve come, I’m dreading to hear him scream. I grip the gun in my hand. I’ll use it this time, I really will. I’ll kill it if touches him….

I come around the last curve and close the circle. And Billy’s waiting for me like I told him, his face all pleased—and there’s the Hairy clambering outta the black oblong of the doorway behind him.

I slide to a stop, pointing the gun. My hand’s shaking so bad, I daren’t fire. “Billy, get behind me quick, there’s a Hairy, gimme some room to shoot.”

But Billy turns. He sees this thing—this thing what rips pigeons apart and eats ’em raw—and he smiles, all kindly and superior, like he knows best, and, “Don’t worry, Charlie,” he says. “Hairies ain’t scary.” An’ he reaches out and pats it on the head .

It grabs him. It tugs his arms, gibbering, but this time I can’t hear proper words, just a sorta mad moaning like it’s pleading for something and I can guess what. It stinks of salty piss like an old tomcat, it’s covered with filthy tangled hair; who knows what diseases it’s got? The gun’s no use; I drop it and try yanking Billy away, but the Hairy holds on tight and I yell, “Get off! Get off of him! He ain’t got nothing for you!” An’ I grab its wrist— touching it, skin and bone and harsh hair under my fingers—and twist till it lets go. I land a kick to its kneecap, and it screams and collapses. Billy wails something, and I turn on him. “Outta the way ! Let me deal with it—”

He shoves me hard in the chest. He’s beetroot red, scowling, really angry. “Charlie hurt it!” He crouches over it, muttering, “Poor thing, poor thing.” He pulls a crumpled foil packet outta his pocket and offers it to the Hairy like a kid sharing candy. “Here, this is nice.”

I go berserk .

I rip the packet outta Billy’s fingers and jiggle the foil open. A pinch of golden-brown powder lays there, with that dry sweet smell. Nirv. Precious, precious nirv, precious as gold dust. I empty it on the floor. The Hairy dives for it, but I don’t care. I grab Billy by the shirtfront with both fists and heave him toward me, and I shake him, the way Morris shook me—and I rage into his face, “Who give you that? Who give you that? Who give it you?”

Billy tries to turn his face away. “Stop it, Charlie, bad Charlie, stop, stop, stop!” His voice rises to a shriek. He flails his arms and punches me; it don’t hurt, but it shocks me rigid. I let go. He’s sobbing. He staggers back and crouches down and wraps his arms over his head. When I move to comfort him he cries out and bunches up tighter.

He’s scared of me. He wasn’t scared of the Hairy, but he’s scared of me .

And I’m sick at myself. I didn’t hafta do that. Only one person coulda give him that packet.

The Hairy’s down on the floor, sweeping and scraping up every trace of the brown powder with its dirty fingers, licking and licking them. Shudders of ecstasy run through its skinny body.

Oh, I remember how that feels. Like the sun bursting outta your skin. Like you know everything ….It looks up an’ its eyes burn mad and bright and satisfied. I feel its mind slipping cold into my thoughts like a pickpocket’s fingers.

“ Moh -riss,” it whispers, and yawns.

And after a moment I croak, “Morris. Yeah.”

And it lays down and curls up, ribby as a starved dog under the hair, and another big shudder runs through it from top to toe, and it lays still.

Billy always says he ain’t scared of Hairies, but I never listened. I shoulda known he don’t say things he don’t mean. Maybe he’s right. Maybe they’re harmless. But I hate them coz I helped to make ’em, and they’re horrible. I think of Maddalena. I’ve never stopped thinking of her. If Hairies read minds, no wonder this one saw her. She’s always hiding like a spider in the darkness at the back of my head.