could.
Blake reasserted its contention that it never left a debt
outstanding, though it might take a generation to repay.
Frog’s original will left Moira more than anyone had
anticipated. It set up a trust that assured her a place in
Edgeward’s life.
And life went on.
----
----
Twenty: 3052 AD
We were not a cuddly, loving family, but we had our moments.
Most of them were a little bizarre.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
----
----
Twenty-One: 3031 AD
The Faceless Man smiled and reached out to Benjamin. He wore
nothing. He had no hair, no sex. Benjamin cowered, whimpering. The
Faceless Man came toward him with a steady, confident step.
Benjamin whirled with a weak wail, ran. The gooey street grabbed
at his feet. He pumped his legs with everything he had, yet they
barely moved, pistoning in slowed motion.
The streets and walls of the city were a uniform, blinding
white. The buildings had no windows. The doors were almost
imperceptible. He flitted from one to another, pounding, crying,
“Help me!”
No one answered.
He looked back. The Faceless Man followed him with that smile
and confident stride, hand outreaching, his pace no greater than
before.
Benjamin fled again, along the molasses street.
Now they opened their little peepholes when he pounded. They
looked out and laughed. He flung himself from door to door. The
laughter built into a chorus.
His tears flowed. Sweat poured off him. He shuddered constantly.
His body ached with his exertion.
He looked back. The Faceless Man was at exactly the same
distance, walking steadily, hand outstretched.
He ran in a straight line, trying to gain ground. They laughed
at him from the rooftops. They called his name, “Benjamin!
Benjamin!” in a feral chant. “Run, little Benjamin,
run.”
He gasped around a corner into a cul-de-sac. He moaned in
terror, whirled, and . . . The Faceless Man was
corning to him, reaching.
He threw himself against the walls. He tried to find a foothold,
a way to scale their ivory slickness. “Please! Please
don’t!”
A hand touched his shoulder. The palm and fingers were icy.
Thumb and forefinger squeezed together. Fire lanced through his
muscles.
He spun and flung himself at the Faceless Man, clamping his
fingers around the throat beneath the unyielding smile.
An unseen hand slapped his face, back and forth, back and forth.
He did not relax his grip. A tiny fist began pounding his nose and
cheeks.
The real pain reached through his terror. He shook all over,
like an epileptic in the first second of seizure.
His eyelids rose. He stared into Pollyanna’s terrified
face. His hands were at her throat. Her bed was a sweat-soaked
disaster. She had scratches on her face and marks on her throat
that would become bruises. She kept punching weakly.
He yanked the offending hands away. “Oh, Christ!” he
murmured. “Oh, Holy Christ!” He slithered back out of
the bed, stood over her for a moment. The shaking would not stop.
The layer of sweat covering him was chilling him. He seized a robe.
It did nothing to warm him.
“Polly, Honey. Polly. I’m sorry. Are you all right?
It was the nightmare . . . It was worse than I
ever had it. He caught me this time. I’m sorry. I thought I
was fighting him. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”
He could not stop talking.
His heart hammered. The fear would not go away. He almost
expected the Faceless Man to step into the apartment.
Pollyanna nodded. “Water,” she croaked.
He crossed to her bathroom, found a glass, tried to fill it. He
dropped it twice before getting it to her half full.
She had hitched herself up in bed. She was rubbing her throat
with one hand while staring at him timorously. She accepted the
glass. “You need help,” she whispered. “No! Stay
away.”
“That’s the dream . . . I run
through these streets yelling for help and they all laugh at me.
And he keeps on coming . . . He caught me this
time. Polly, I don’t know what it means.
Blake reasserted its contention that it never left a debt
outstanding, though it might take a generation to repay.
Frog’s original will left Moira more than anyone had
anticipated. It set up a trust that assured her a place in
Edgeward’s life.
And life went on.
----
----
Twenty: 3052 AD
We were not a cuddly, loving family, but we had our moments.
Most of them were a little bizarre.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
----
----
Twenty-One: 3031 AD
The Faceless Man smiled and reached out to Benjamin. He wore
nothing. He had no hair, no sex. Benjamin cowered, whimpering. The
Faceless Man came toward him with a steady, confident step.
Benjamin whirled with a weak wail, ran. The gooey street grabbed
at his feet. He pumped his legs with everything he had, yet they
barely moved, pistoning in slowed motion.
The streets and walls of the city were a uniform, blinding
white. The buildings had no windows. The doors were almost
imperceptible. He flitted from one to another, pounding, crying,
“Help me!”
No one answered.
He looked back. The Faceless Man followed him with that smile
and confident stride, hand outreaching, his pace no greater than
before.
Benjamin fled again, along the molasses street.
Now they opened their little peepholes when he pounded. They
looked out and laughed. He flung himself from door to door. The
laughter built into a chorus.
His tears flowed. Sweat poured off him. He shuddered constantly.
His body ached with his exertion.
He looked back. The Faceless Man was at exactly the same
distance, walking steadily, hand outstretched.
He ran in a straight line, trying to gain ground. They laughed
at him from the rooftops. They called his name, “Benjamin!
Benjamin!” in a feral chant. “Run, little Benjamin,
run.”
He gasped around a corner into a cul-de-sac. He moaned in
terror, whirled, and . . . The Faceless Man was
corning to him, reaching.
He threw himself against the walls. He tried to find a foothold,
a way to scale their ivory slickness. “Please! Please
don’t!”
A hand touched his shoulder. The palm and fingers were icy.
Thumb and forefinger squeezed together. Fire lanced through his
muscles.
He spun and flung himself at the Faceless Man, clamping his
fingers around the throat beneath the unyielding smile.
An unseen hand slapped his face, back and forth, back and forth.
He did not relax his grip. A tiny fist began pounding his nose and
cheeks.
The real pain reached through his terror. He shook all over,
like an epileptic in the first second of seizure.
His eyelids rose. He stared into Pollyanna’s terrified
face. His hands were at her throat. Her bed was a sweat-soaked
disaster. She had scratches on her face and marks on her throat
that would become bruises. She kept punching weakly.
He yanked the offending hands away. “Oh, Christ!” he
murmured. “Oh, Holy Christ!” He slithered back out of
the bed, stood over her for a moment. The shaking would not stop.
The layer of sweat covering him was chilling him. He seized a robe.
It did nothing to warm him.
“Polly, Honey. Polly. I’m sorry. Are you all right?
It was the nightmare . . . It was worse than I
ever had it. He caught me this time. I’m sorry. I thought I
was fighting him. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”
He could not stop talking.
His heart hammered. The fear would not go away. He almost
expected the Faceless Man to step into the apartment.
Pollyanna nodded. “Water,” she croaked.
He crossed to her bathroom, found a glass, tried to fill it. He
dropped it twice before getting it to her half full.
She had hitched herself up in bed. She was rubbing her throat
with one hand while staring at him timorously. She accepted the
glass. “You need help,” she whispered. “No! Stay
away.”
“That’s the dream . . . I run
through these streets yelling for help and they all laugh at me.
And he keeps on coming . . . He caught me this
time. Polly, I don’t know what it means.
Similar Books
