Thursday, September 16, 2010

Untitled Story Written When I Was 13

I

Slowly he crawled back, back from the flashlights, back from the approaching voices that could seal his doom. His eyes were large and staring with stark fear as he got to his feet and scrambled head-on into the alley. They were after him; he must run, and fast.

He ran, stumbling as he went, into the alley. He tripped over something and fell to his knees, only rising to race into the foggy darkness ahead. There was a way out; he knew it.

Again he fell, over what he knew not, but this time he heard a cracking noise and felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his right arm that didn't cease. Again, with his good arm, he pushed himself to his feet and ran on, forgetting the pain.

He staggered on wildly, until, panting, with sweat covering his forehead and pouring into his eyes and blinding him, he came to the end of the alley. A wall, one of flimsy boards, blocked his way; that was all.

With all his might, he crashed through the barrier, and, as he lay on the other side, in relative safety, he felt the taste of blood and the heavier weight of the life-liquid unite with that of the sweat covering his throbbing head. but, despite the pain, he smiled.

"Where the hell did he go?" he heard a deep, gravelly voice ask.

"Dunno," replied one of higher pitch. "Seen him around here someplace. Must've gone somewheres else. He ain't 'round here nowhere.

"Coulda gone down one of them side streets, though. I think I seen someone down Lenin Road."

"Let's go then."

The leisurely pace of the gendarmes uneased the escapee. If he made any kind of a sound...

The shuffling steps disappeared gradually in the darkness. The pain had stopped in his head, but he still grimaced with the wild throbbing of his arm.

So he lay there awhile, thinking when the pain began to decline or his arm began to numb... he couldn't tell which. His orders: report on the riots in Statstown, discover ringleader, discover reason.

And now, his task was again to discover, to discover how to get out of this hotbed of social and political rebellion.

His arm, for which he had made a splint out of his jacket and boards from the fence, felt better now; it pained him less. And now, with sleep, his mind began to go back, back to the beginning of his assignment and his arrival here.



II

Joe Johnson departed from the train. Here it was; Statstown was just as they had said it would be.

It was a rural community, with wooden sidewalks and a little red schoolhouse up on the hill. A grizzled old-timer sat in front of the general store gossiping with his friends and passers-by. A younger man sat by the window below a sign painted: STATSTOWN RAILROAD - TICKET OFFICE. He was wearing a dark handlebar mustache and rimless metal glasses, with a vest over his white shirt and a blue cap covering most of his hair.

But the women surprised him most. None of them looked like they belonged in this century. Floor-length skirts scattered dust as their wearers traveled, and none of the women wore any kind of make-up. And all of them wore the same kind of sun-bonnet, and the same color, a dark gray.

He chuckled and nearly laughed aloud as he stepped onto the boardwalk and what he had been informed was the only boarding-house in town, the Grand Hotel. How could one complain of riots in a town like this? An orderly town like this couldn't have a riot; it was just too orderly.

Upon entering the hotel, Johnson couldn't help noticing that he was the center of attention of the hangers-on. Strangely, all of the men had handlebar mustaches, wore white shirts and dark vests, and had some kind of headgear covering their heads. The women all wore the long skirts and bonnets of the last century. But they all stared at him; that's what struck him. All with the same type of vacant stare.

A short, slim man strutted up to Joe. He was dressed the same as the others, but he displayed more life than the rest of them.

"A room, sir?" he smiled.

Joe nodded.

"Just one left," grinned his host, "Number 13. You aren't superstitious, are you? Few are."

"No," replied Johnson, "I'm not. Where's your sheriff?"

"Off on vacation," beamed the innkeeper. "I'm the law around here now."

"When will he be back?"

"Dunno," replied the short native, his features now growing darker. "Didn't tell me. Didn't tell anybody."

"Oh," the visiter said. "Could you guys direct me to my room?"

"Yeh," smiled the little innkeeper, who motioned to a couple of uniformed brutes in the crowded lobby, and to a flight of stairs.

"It's up here. We use the police here for bellboys," he chuckled. "Nothing else for 'em to do around here."

They had reached the top of the stairs by this time, and one of the uniformed brutes, overloaded with three suitcases, not all Johnson's, tripped over the top step, and Joe jumped back as the gendarme's hat fell off.

Instead of hair on his head, his entire skull was an inward-curved disc. Joe looked up into two guns aimed at his head.

"So now you know," growled the keeper. "This is my kingdom. Only I am independent All the others do only what I dictate. I fixed it that way.

"You are one of Them. That's why I'm imprisoning you. But if you want to become -"

"Never," yelled Johnson, who was now surrounded by robots.

"Very well, then," spoke the innkeeper. "Throw him in with the others!"

Four of the largest stooges threw Johnson through an open door and everything went black.



III

"You okay, mister?" came a light, high, musical voice out of the dark.

It was a small room, or so it seemed, and it was crowded with dozens or more-or-less human shapes. About twenty feet above them blazed a frame of light, like that around a door to a lighted room as seen from the dark.

"Ya took one hell of a fall, mack," added a huskier voice.

"I'm okay," stuttered Johnson. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"I'm Marie," began the female voice. "Marie Smith. We're imprisoned in the cellar. That," she added, meaning the door,"is the second floor. Who are you?"

"Joe Johnson. Just call me Joe. How do I get out of here?"

"You surrender," spoke an ancient voice from the back of the room. "You surrender or starve. You'll never get out alive."

"There must be a guard..." began Joe.

"And a brutal one," interrupted Marie. "He stands in the doorway and taunts us."

"I'll get out of here," growled Joe, drawing a pistol from his jacket. "I've got one shot left. He gets it."

"You'll never get out alive," mumbled the old voice.

As the minutes rolled by, he listened to the soft voice of Marie telling him why they were there. They were the non-conformists, the defiant ones. She had been there for less than a week; she, too, had been a traveler.

Just as she had begun her story, the door opened and one of the uniformed brutes stood there, and yelled.

"You'll never get out of here," he laughed. "You'll all die here. Who wants to be put out of his misery?"

He then drew a pistol and fired half a dozen shots across the room. Joe pulled down on a mass of dark brown hair, and pushed its owner, Marie, into the corner as the monster re-loaded his pistol and started shooting again.

Slowly, Joe took dead aim at the beast's head, just between the eyes. He fired. The brute crumpled and fell to the cellar.

"He's mine!" yelled Joe, as he took the guard's weapon and a rope from around the corpse's waist. There was a noose on the end of it.

Above, just beyond the door, there was a stub for the purpose of holding the guard's rope if he fell into the cellar. Taking careful aim he threw the noose-end of the rope for the stub. He missed. He threw again and missed. The third time, however, he hit his mark, and the rope held.

"I'll get 'em all for you, Marie," he vowed as he climbed up the wall to freedom. "I'll kill all of 'em!"



IV

"You okay, Joe?" He heard Marie's voice.

Slowly he opened his eyes and liked what he saw. She was a short girl, thinned by nearly a week of imprisonment. The life and love of life still blazed in those brown eyes, however. And a smile nearly split her face.

"Oh, Joe," she shrieked as she fell into his arms.

Beyond, the innkeeper staggered forward, muttering, "Master! Master!"

The keeper then bowed what was left of his head. The top of his head was gone. Instead, there was a curved disc of metal. That was all.

Marie smiled. "Now you are master here," she said.



-- 1963