Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Strangely, he felt no elation. He felt resentment.

“About bloody time,” he thought.

He hesitated before completing the last stretch, unaccountably reluctant to get to the surface, now that he was almost there. Something about the quality of the light caused him some trepidation; it was eerie, and not quite right.

It was like moonlight, but far too bright.

The world he emerged into was well-lit, but there was no sun shining. There was no moon, either. Above him stretched an empty, cold, silvery sky.

The topography of the landscape around him was recognizable, but was stripped of its familiar features. The shape of Combs Moss loomed unmistakably ahead of him, but the walls and fields along its sides were gone. What remained looked like a hill of lead. Everywhere, as far as he could see, the land was smoothed off into planes of grey that gave an impression of impenetrable solidity.

When he saw the dark line of trees and the porta-cabin where he had expected them to be, he felt a surge of wild hope.

The huge black van was parked between them! Its back was open. It was parked at an angle to his line of vision, so he could only see a little way inside it. He could see nothing there but shadows.

He started to run towards the van. He hurt in every limb, and stumbled like a drunk with a wooden leg, but he had discovered a resource of determination and energy at the sight of the van. It seemed to represent his last, best hope.

When he was about fifty yards from the vehicle a figure jumped to the ground out of the back and disappeared round the side farmost from him. Maurice shouted wordlessly and made frantic efforts to run faster. He thought he heard a door slam. An engine started. The back of the van started to close automatically; a black door descended smoothly, slowly, and silently.

Maurice tried to scream. He was crying, and waving and flapping both his arms to get attention. His feet were getting heavier every step he took.

The van jerked once, then moved away. It accelerated. Maurice continued trying to run to catch it, but gave up when the vehicle vanished over the crest of a hill.

Finally exhausted, he fell to his knees.

He was facing the line of trees. They were almost leafless now, and he could see, perched on the branches, some of the things that he had not seen clearly before. They were busy at some task, flittering about individually and in groups.

Perhaps they had seen him. One of them called out what could have been a chattering, imbecilic greeting.

A number of them ventured forward out of the trees. Moving in fits and starts, they came towards him, spreading out as they did so.

The closer they got, the worse they looked.

Maurice knew he could not move another step. Resigned, he sat and waited for them.

Remembering he was hungry, he pulled one of the eggs from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Keeping his gaze steadily on the creatures, who were almost upon him, he bit down hard on the egg.

Later.

He was lying down, so he stood up.

He opened his eyes, and found he could see round in all directions at once.

But he could not see directly up or down.

He tried to touch himself, to find out what he was, but he had lost the use of his arms, if he still had any.

He was hungry, but there was nothing anywhere that looked like food. Then he realized he had no mouth.

He stretched his many legs experimentally. He discovered he could move easily across the crusted surface of the earth, with almost no effort.

He made a clattering sound by rattling parts of the top of his body.

He waited.

Then, feeling deeply anxious, he scuttled towards the line of trees to join the others of his kind.

“At least,” he thought, “I shan’t be alone.”

But, when he reached the trees, he realized they had been dead for a long time.

The place was deserted.

LISA TUTTLE WAS BORN in Houston, Texas, but has lived in Britain since 1980. She worked as a journalist for five years on a daily newspaper in Austin and was an early member of the Clarion SF Writer’s Workshop. She sold her first story in 1971 and won the John W. Campbell Award in 1974 for best new science fiction writer.

Her first book, Windhaven , was a 1981 collaboration with George R.R. Martin, since when she has written such novels as Familiar Spirit, Gabriel: A Novel of Reincarnation, Lost Futures, The Pillow Friend and The Mysteries. A new novella, My Death , recently appeared from PS Publishing, and her short fiction has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares, A Spaceship Built of Stone and Other Stories, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation and Ghosts & Other Lovers. The latter volume, plus another collection entitled My Pathology, have recently been released as e-books.

Tuttle’s other works include the Young Adult novels Snake Inside, Panther in Argyll and Love On-Line. She is also the author of the non-fiction guides Encyclopedia of Feminism, Heroines: Women Inspired by Women and Mike Harrisons Dreamlands , the erotic fantasy Angela’s Rainbow , and she has edited the acclaimed horror anthology by women, Skin of the Soul , and the anthology of erotic ambiguity, Crossing the Border.

“There’s not a lot I can say about this story,” admits the author. “I’m not myself a cat person, and never set out to write a cat fantasy, but a few years back I realized that three friends of mine, all single women of a certain age who lived in New York City with their cats, had stopped complaining about their unsatisfactory sex-lives and the lack of decent men, and seemed utterly content with their situation.

“As I speculated on possible reasons for the change, this story suggested itself. Of course, it is a total fiction, and you should not think for a moment that any of the characters or events portrayed here have even the slightest basis in fact.

“But I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

PEOPLE CAN CHANGE. People do. But some things remain the same – like my love for you. Once upon a time, when I first fell, I told you what we could have together was not exclusive and would not last forever. I never used the 1-word, and I drew away a little, disbelieving or offended, when you did. I told you, quite honestly, that I had no desire for children, and no use for a husband of my own. I was quite happy to share you with your wife.

It’s not surprising if you never understood how much I loved you when I took such care to disguise my deepest feelings. I was a woman with a past, after all. A woman of a certain age, happiest living on my own (well, with a cat) and with plenty of lovers already notched into my belt.

I was pastforty when I metyou, and the easy-loving days of my youth, when the times between men were measured in days or weeks rather than months or years, were gone. I had been celibate for more than six months when I metyou. I was feeling a little desperate, and I fell for you hard.

You probably won’t believe that, if you remember how hard I made you work to get me. Once I saw I’d caught your attention – the space between us seemed charged, remember? – I became distant, ironic, cool. I treated you with a casualness that bordered on the insulting. I was so desperate to be wanted that I didn’t dare let you suspect. Nothing drives people away more than neediness. And then, after we had become lovers, once you were well and truly caught, I guess it became a sort of habit, the way I was with you, as if you were an irritation to me, as if I suffered you to make love to me now and again as a very great favor.