Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 17

The sound gave him a weird feeling, like the knocking on the door in... what play was that?

A heavy fist crashed into his door.

He put down his half-eaten sandwich and walked to the door, his heart pounding. Why was he so nervous? He wished suddenly that he had a heavy stick behind the door, or a chain on it...

He forced himself to open the door a crack.

The man at the door was tall, beefy, in blue police uniform. He had a friendly smile.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Sergeant Donnelly, Indianapolis Police Department. Just want to see if you could tell me something about your neighbor."

"Mr. Arnold?"

"Yeah. Mind if I come in?"

"No, sure." David backed into the room. Donnelly seemed not to look around, in that way a good policeman has of taking in everything.

"I was wondering if you could give us a lead on Mr. Arnold's next-of-kin?"

"Next-of-kin? I don't know. Did something happen to him?"

"Yeah," said Donnelly, taking out a notebook. "He died this afternoon. You know that windstorm we had?"

"Yes."

"Well, he must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of the big windows at the Federal Building shattered. Piece of gla.s.s nearly cut his head off."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah. Know any of his relations?"

"No, but the landlord might." David gave Donnelly his landlord's name and phone number. "Sorry, I really didn't know him all that well. He seemed nice enough."

Donnelly shrugged. "Yeah, it's too bad. Wrong place at the wrong time."

He nodded and left the room.

A little stunned, David walked back and sat down in the chair by the window. The purplish light of early Spring dusk was coloring the pane of gla.s.s. He could just see the distorted edge of his reflection.

He idly reached down by the chair and picked up the sketchpad that Jennifer must have left behind. He riffled through it. It mostly contained studies of buildings. And the windows... In several of them she'd roughed in reflections, sometimes with what seemed to be a dimly perceived, grotesque face. The sketches had a neat kind of off-center mood to them. They were almost a parody of his own commercial sketches, and he wondered if she'd left them there deliberately for him to find. He suddenly wanted to hear her voice very badly. He went to the low walnut table where the phone rested, brought it back to the chair, dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.

"Jennifer?"

"Yes! David! Terrific! Boy, it's been a weird day. How did you like that storm?"

"I like it," he said, visualizing the broad window shattering, the piece of gla.s.s slicing into Arnold's neck. Should he tell her about it? No. "I had a great view from my office."

"I bet. And the sheer power of the thing! And something strange happened to me coming home. I was walking by the Federal Building. They'd just put in a new pane of gla.s.s, like maybe the storm busted one out. But in the window beside it, there was this neat man's face in a reflection. He was balding, with pale bushy eyebrows, and a little mustache. And this great big arched nose."

"No!" He couldn't help blurting it out. She'd described Arnold perfectly.

"Yes! I stopped and made some sketches. I think I'll use the face in a painting."

"No, I mean... Jennifer, things have gotten a little strange...." He couldn't go on. He didn't know how to explain the sudden rush of fear -- fear for her -- that gripped him.

"What? How strange?"

"Nothing. I'm just a little burnt out. Coming over tonight?"

"For sure. But first I'm going to walk around a little, see what kind of reflections the windows might have. Maybe I'll see that man's face again."

"Like, I'm sure," said David in his best California accent. "Like really."

Jennifer laughed.

"I'm bound to get some good angles, anyway. It's humid out, and that might change the shapes a little."

"Sounds neat. Look forward to seeing you, as in, intensely."

"Me too. Gotta go! See you later. Bye." And she hung up.

He slowly put down the phone. Jennifer was coming back tonight. It almost made him relax.

He tried to work, but it was hard to concentrate. He had a beer, made a sandwich. His eyes kept returning to Jennifer's sketchpad. Windows and reflections. He looked at the painting on the easel, the Sine of red brick buildings.

He had an idea.

He knew the part of town she was sketching in. He'd go walking there and surprise her. And if he missed her, she could just let herself in.

He quickly wrote her a note, grabbed a jacket, and slipped down the stairs, out into the night.

The evening air felt cool and clean. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his old field jacket and began to walk quickly through the hybrid neighborhood, heading roughly northeast.

As he walked, he noticed by subtle changes whether or not the mixture of old manufacturing buildings in a certain block had been chosen by the developers.

Here and there a limestone facing showed up paler in the golden-pink sodium vapor light -- a sign of sandblasting. Some of the buildings had new railings at the front. In one mixed block he noticed a tall old house, the door, windows, fanlight obviously restored. He hurried on.

He was entering the neighborhood where he thought Jennifer had set her painting. Houses of red brick, two and three stories, began to line the street, now under an occasional pale streetlight of the old white electric globe variety. A few people of mixed races sat on the steps, chatting in the cool evening. From one open doorway came the sound of restored rock: "Got a bad case of lovin' you!"

Fewer people were on the street now. He was entering the eastern edge of the district, near where the city had torn out a swath of older houses to extend one of the interstates across town. Now many of the places he pa.s.sed were vacant, some with windows boarded up. Someone with the look of a wino beckoned him from a shadowy doorway, but it was too dark to see the man clearly.

And he found himself getting nervous, more nervous than just being in this section of town would account for. n.o.body bothered him when he was wearing his field jacket -- it was a very non-affluent look. No, it wasn't himself he was worried about.

Then, just ahead, he saw Jennifer.

She was sitting cross-legged under a streetlight on a corner, sketchpad on her knees, drawing the old store building in front of her. A broad angled window faced the corner. It would probably have a good reflection.

He almost yelled as soon as he saw her. But no, no need. Barely half a block separated them now. He'd just slip up on her.

As he walked slowly forward, watching her, she stood suddenly, the sketchpad falling awkwardly to the sidewalk. As if in some weird, slow motion dance she took one step toward the window, two, her arms spread wide as if to embrace the cool gla.s.s surface.

"Jennifer!" he called, beginning to run. "Jennifer!" She didn't seem to hear him. She glided toward the window.

"Jennifer!"

He was very close to her now. She half turned her head, as if with painful effort. He thought he saw her lips form his name.

Then she stepped into the window.

He skidded to a halt. The window was intact, but she was gone. He couldn't believe it. He stood back from the window, and the angle of the streetlight caught a reflection.

And in the reflection, he saw her face, her eyes wide and sightless, her mouth jerked open in a scream of utter terror.

He had to do something. She was in the window. She had to be alive, somehow, somewhere. Got to do something, anything! Got to help her!

He saw a piece of steel pipe laying in the doorway of the old store. He picked it up. It was about two feet long, heavy. He turned back to face the window at the angle of the reflection.

And he saw her face, grotesquely distorted, mouth the words: "Help me!

Heelp mee!"

Only one thing he could think of to do. He smashed the pipe into the side of the window, near the frame.

A crack appeared. And in the instant that steel met gla.s.s, it was as if a horde of small, soft creatures like moths swarmed over his face, and he seemed to hear tiny voices, repeating, echoing: "Help me help me help me help me!"

He smashed the bar into the gla.s.s again, and again, and again....

The police, summoned by a terrified neighbor, found two situations in one block: a man, running down the street, frantically smas.h.i.+ng in every window he came to with a steel pipe, and a lovely young woman, who'd apparently had her throat cut, lying in the ruins of the shattered storefront window.

The first two officers on the scene were unsure if the two situations were related, but they called for backup anyway.

The street was soon filled with the blood-red reflections of the police cars'

revolving lights. Armed officers cautiously approached the wild-eyed man. But he was already wearing down.

There were simply too many windows.

Zombies For Jesus.

by Nina Kiriki Hoffman.

Nina Kiriki Hoffman is another of the fast-rising new stars who have suddenly and prolifically burst onto the scene. Some new writers sneak up on you: been around for quite a few years, writing quietly, publis.h.i.+ng something memorable every other year or so, until suddenly you know they're out there.

They're snipers. Other new writers just kick in the door and open up with a pump shotgun. Hoffman is one of those. Horror, fantasy, and science fiction -- she seems content with blowing them all away.

Born in Los Angeles on March 20, 1955, Hoffman grew up in southern California, lived in Idaho seven years, and has made Oregon her home these past half dozen years. Her most recent sales include stories picked up by Borderlands, Obsessions, Weird Tales, Pulphouse, Women of Darkness II, Amazing Stories, and Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine. Oh, also Grue and 2AM. Her stories are unpredictable and sometimes off-the-wall. Witness "Zombies for Jesus" -- wherein Hoffman gives us angst and zombies stirred together in one strange brew.

I was thinking about women, live ones, dead ones, and in between.

"Ante is one finger joint," said Slim. "Any finger joint."

I put my hands in my lap, ready to sit this one out. I'd already lost a finger this game and didn't feel like playing anymore. There were a few clicks and some mushy thuds as the others anted up.

The flies was loud in the afternoon stillness, drifting here and there, feasting, lazy in the hot amber light coming through the canvas tent. I brushed one off my nose. Most of the boys didn't bother, as their nerves was mostly dead and they had no interest in personal hygiene any longer.

Prettyboy Pritchard stood looking out the tent flap. He was the newest revival, the most whole-looking besides me, and he refused to join us at the poker table; didn't want to lose anything and spoil his pretty wholeness; hadn't settled into the bit-part business of the afterlife yet.

Brownie, down to one finger and one thumb, both of which he needed to hold his cards, said, "Can I use a toe? I got extras. I gotta stay in, Slim. I gotta win some parts back, I really gotta." "Aw, n.o.body wants toes," Slim said. "I got thirteen already. You got anything else?"

"Zeke," Brownie said to me, "can you loan me a finger or two?"

"Nope," I said. Last time I loaned him something he lost three of my toes, and it took me six games to get them back, and some pinching in the night, because one of the other guys didn't want to give his up. My body parts were different from most of the others'. I was one of the Reverend Thomas's first Born Agains, before he got the Elixir of Rebirth refined. I figured I got some secret ingredients none of the other zombies had, because most of my body parts had a life of their own, and when the Rev punished us by withholding our zombie pickles, I never got so weak and wobbly as the others did.

I went over to join Prettyboy at the tent flap. Only one thing about him interested me, his still-alive wife. Prettyboy was staring toward the main tent. Faint on the heavy afternoon air, the "Amens!" and "Praise Jesus!" of the meeting sounded like a distant game show.

"It's almost time, isn't it, Zeke?" Prettyboy asked.

"You know one of the angels will be over to fetch you when it's time, Prettyboy."

"But it's almost time, isn't it?"

"Settle down and play some poker, will you?" Slim yelled from over to the table. "We're sick and tired of your whining. All of us what has ears, anyway."

Except me, maybe. Prettyboy's noise didn't bother me. He was the fifth or sixth whiner I'd seen since achieving the Hereafter. Like a constant drip in a sink, he'd drive you nuts if you paid attention to him, didn't bother you none if you just ignored him.

"Will Caroline be there?" Prettyboy asked, pulling on my s.h.i.+rttail. "Will she be there, Zeke?"

I was hoping she would be. She was the most devoted wife I'd ever seen, hung on far longer than most. Most spouses stopped coming to meeting when things went to pieces, figuring death had them parted and they wasn't required to stay by and watch the aftermath.

"She'll be happy to see me, won't she?" I glanced at him and doubted it. Any live woman with the sense G.o.d gave her would run the other direction, with how Prettyboy looked and smelled now -- not that I could smell him; my senses had changed after death -- but so many flies couldn't be wrong. If the Rev didn't hold a revival meeting right soon and find himself a new Prettyboy, business was going to fall off something wicked.

Edging away from Prettyboy, I settled on the ground and made my silent whistle. The finger I had lost to Artie crept off the table and wriggled back to me. I held out my hand and it hooked right up with its own stump, not needing glue at all. I hauled my way up to my feet again by gripping the canvas, and thought about Final Death. The Rev had threatened to chop me up and burn me a couple times, but I threatened right back -- said I'd left some facts about his activities with somebody living and if I died again somebody would see the news got to a reporter. I knew the Rev when he was still a prison doctor doing secret research on his own, and if his Reverend-ness came from G.o.d, then I had never been on Death Row for murder.

Lately, though, I'd been brooding more and more about Finals. What good was life, or even half-life, anyway, if you couldn't get near a woman? Might as well see if the Big Nothing was better than what I had now.

The Rev had some Born Again women, but he kept them locked up except for services, when they acted as angels or sang in the choir so long as they weren't too obviously fallen-apart women. The Rev didn't rightly know how the Elixir of Rebirth worked, and he didn't want to find out if those of us who still had the equipment could breed. He tried to keep us quiet by telling us there was no s.e.x in Heaven.

One of the angels, all blonde hair and white robe, came over from the meeting tent. She was pretty recent, looked pale but not too unhealthy except for the big dark circles under her eyes. Just as I was wondering what she died of, she held out a hand to Prettyboy and I saw the slash across her wrist. It was puckered and ugly. Somebody must've loved her, though, to bring her to one of the Rev's revival meetings.