The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection
- Автор: Датлоу Эллен, Виндлинг Терри
- Год: 1992
- Язык: английский
- Год: St.Martin’s Press
- Жанр: Ужасы
Электронная книга - «The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection». Краткое содержание книги:
“I’ll see what I can do. I know some Italian boys over on the Strip. I’ll give them a call, tell them a fellow spaghetti-bender is in trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Gotta go.”
“Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get all weepy on me. I need you strong, pal. I’m counting on you to protect my investment.”
I started to curse him, but Rosie screamed, and I dropped the phone and headed into the dark hallway.
Bleached-out halogen light spilled through the open door, silhouetting Rosie and the zombie. A man came over the threshold, his moccasined feet silent on the Italian marble. He grabbed a handful of the zombie’s hair and kicked his legs out from under him. The zombie went down hard.
“I told you not to come back,” the man said, kicking the zombie’s stiletto across the floor.
The knife hit the wall and snicked open.
You don t know nothing about blades, ” the man said. “You don’t know nothing about my family, either.” He drove the zombie’s face against the cold Italian marble, shattering his front teeth. “You get out now, or I’m gonna teach you about blades.”
Whimpering, the zombie crawled outside. The man slammed the door and scooped up the stiletto. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, frowning at Rosie. “I met a guy named Willie down the road, and I had to straighten him out on a few things.” He stared at me then, and my chest tightened.
“Rosie,” he whispered, “is this the man you told me about?”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. She looked at me. “I ... I didn’t tell.”
“Just because you didn’t say anything doesn’t mean that you didn’t tell.” He closed the blade and pocketed it. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, then?” “Richie, this is Toro’s father.”
I looked into the old man’s eyes, and something exploded in my chest.
I came to in a chair in Torito’s bedroom. At first I thought the old man had shoved the stiletto into my heart. But the pain was familiar, something I’d felt before, and I tried to sneak careful breaths around it, tried to keep alive.
The old man bent over me. His hair was as white as the marble floor downstairs and his eyes were a polished, sparkling brown. “I think you’re gonna make it,” he pronounced, the cool scent of pinon on his breath. “I think you’re gonna be fine.” He sat down on the foot of the bed, a carving knife in one hand, a fist-shaped piece of mesquite in the other. Torito watched him from behind, saying nothing. The old man whittled away, his blade whispering over the wood. Every now and then he looked up at me or stared over at the big Mitsubishi, which was still showing Torito’s fight with Iran Barkley.
Its a funny thing, the old man said as Barkley trapped Torito against the ropes. “When wood is alive, it’s strong. You can drive a nail into it . . . doesn’t matter, it 11 keep growing. But dead wood, wood that’s seen too many seasons, that’s different. Drive a nail too hard, dead wood splinters on you.” He flicked shavings over my lap. “After a while, you don’t even have to use a nail. You just put that wood out under the sun, the sun that it’s seen a million times before, and it rots and falls apart.” He glanced at Torito, and then at me. “You understand.” The bell rang. Torito dropped onto his stool, his eyes closed, his cuts swelling.
I watched myself working with adrenaline chloride 1-1000, with Vaseline, blood smeared on my fingers.
“You understand.”
I looked at the TV. Torito taking punches. I glanced at Torito, helpless in bed. A line of stitches split open on his brow and his cheek turned the color of a rotten plum.
The old man smiled. “You understand. The TV, it’s like the sun.”
The fist was taking shape. Thick at one end. Almost pointed at the other. The old man worked the knife like a gouge, carving a network of veins over the top.
The bell rang again. Torito rose from his stool. His face was lumpy, smooth, slick with Vaseline. ’ ’
In bed, Torito grunted and spat blood.
“You did good work,” the old man said. “You know, you could have learned to carve.”
I sucked a shallow breath. “Torito says that you’re the devil.”
Flick flick flick. The old man worked the knife like a sixth finger.
“Rosie says that you want to hurt your son.”
He grinned. “She’s wrong. She doesn’t want me to help her ... she doesn’t want me to help my boy. She doesn’t even know what he is.”
The veins were finished now. The old man started on the fingers. But they were bent and arthritic, turning back on the hand, and they ended at the first joint.
The crowd screamed, “BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY!”
“Rosie just wants the drugs,” the old man said. “She’s afraid of the things I can do for her . . . and for Torito.” He looked at his son and smiled proudly. “Torito’s not afraid, though. He’s brave. He wants me here.”
“BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY!” A left hook from Torito. “BARKLEY, BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY!” Barkley’s punch already on the way. . . “BARKLEY, BARK-LEY, BARK-LEY!” Torito’s blood geysering through the air . . .
Blood spattered the padded leather headboard.
Torito screamed.
A bitter metallic taste washed over my tongue. I clenched my teeth against the sour pain.
The old man watched his son go down. “He was beautiful when he was young. One day I took a burro and a cart, went up into the mountains. I found a big old tree up there with roots that ran so deep you wouldn’t believe it. I burned it down, dug a trench around the stump, peeled it back and hauled the green core down the mountain. Let it season for five summers.” He smiled, “Then I went to work. In another year I had my son.”
I doubled over. My face came near the mesquite fist, and I saw that it wasn’t a fist at all. It was covered with veins, but what I had taken for fingers were actually arteries.
The old man patted my shoulder. “You’re lucky that I found this piece today. I don’t think that anything else I have would’ve worked.”
He passed a strong hand over the smooth wood, and the mesquite heart began to beat.
I awoke in another room. The old man stood over Rosie, who lay unconscious on a low couch. Soft light filtered through a heavy green lampshade to her right, bathing her sharp features in a liquid glow.
He moved away, wiping his bloody blade on a white handkerchief. Rosie’s right arm was laid open to the bone. Blood dripped from what remained of her fingers and splattered on the heavy carpet, the Caesars Tahoe carpet, and on the smooth wooden arm that lay in the green shadows.
The old man saw that I was awake. “She’ll be fine,” he said. “I had to cut the poison out first, but soon she’ll be ready to be whole again.”
I looked away.
He ignored my disgust. “Feeling better now?” he asked.
I glared at him.
“Good. You can help me with Torito.
I climbed the stairs on my own. My chest still ached, but the pain had reduced to a dull throbbing and my heartbeat felt even and strong. I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. I hoped it had been a very long time, because I figured the longer I’d been out, the sooner Gus’s Vegas buddies would come to my rescue.
I didn't know what kind of trick the old man had pulled with the mesquite heart, but I was certain that what he’d done to Rosie wasn’t an illusion. I followed him down the hall, my left hand sweaty on the grip of my snakeskin bag. Inside was a straight razor. It was too late to help Rosie, but I was going to make damn sure that the old man didn’t try the same thing on Torito. I dipped into the bag with my right hand and came out with the razor. One quick slice across the jugular and it would be over. I followed the old man into the bedroom.