After: Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia by Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling [Editors] Page A
Authors: Ellen Datlow, Terri Windling [Editors]
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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.
I’m shaking so hard, my teeth are chattering. I look at the Hairy laying there. How
gently Billy touched it, the way he pets Bunny’s fur. But Billy could get to be like
that, growing hair all over
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.
I’m shaking so hard, my teeth are chattering. I look at the Hairy laying there. How
gently Billy touched it, the way he pets Bunny’s fur. But Billy could get to be like
that, growing hair all over
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