Read Online Blue World by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
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himself moan, and he let go of the sheet and staggered back across the room, tripped over a pair of his tennis shoes, and went down hard on the floor. The sheet settled back over the skeleton like a sigh.
Thunder rumbled outside, muffled by the fog. Brad stared at one skeletal foot that protruded from the lower end of the sheet, and he saw flakes of dried, dead flesh float down from it to the Sears deep-pile aqua-blue carpet.
He didn’t know how long he sat there just staring. He thought he might have giggled, or sobbed, or made some combination of both. He almost threw up, and he wanted to curl up into a ball and go back to sleep again; he did close his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them again the skeleton of his wife was still lying in the bed and the sound of thunder was nearer.
And he might have sat there until doomsday if the telephone beside the bed hadn’t started ringing.
Somehow, he was up and had the receiver in his hand. Tried not to look down at the brown-haired skull and remember how beautiful his wife--just twenty-eight years old, for God’s sake!--had been.
“Hello,” he said in a dead voice.
There was no reply. Brad could hear circuits clicking and humming deep in the wires.
“Hello?”
No answer. Except now there might have been--might have been--a soft, silken breathing.
“Hello?”
Brad shrieked into the phone. “Say something, damn you!”
Another series of clicks; then a tinny, disembodied voice: “We’re sorry, but we cannot place your call at this time. All lines are busy. Please hang up and try again later. Thank you. This is a recording…”
He slammed the receiver back into its cradle, and the motion of the air made flakes of skin fly from the skull’s cheekbones.
Brad ran out of the bedroom, barefoot and in only his pajama bottoms; he ran to the stairs, went down them screaming, “Help! Help me! Somebody!” He missed a step, slammed against the wall, and caught the banister before he broke his neck. Still screaming for help, he burst through the front door and out into the yard, where his feet crunched on dead leaves.
He stopped. The sound of his voice went echoing down Baylor Street. The air was still and wet, thick and stifling. He stared down at all the dead leaves around him, covering brown grass that had been green the day before. And then the wind suddenly moved, and more dead leaves swirled around him; he looked up, and saw bare gray branches where living oak trees had stood before he’d closed his eyes to sleep last night.
“Help me!” he screamed.
“Somebody please help me!”
But there was no answer; not from the house where the Pates lived, not from the Walkers’ house, not from the Crawfords’ or the Lehmans‘. Nothing human moved on Baylor Street, and as he stood amid the falling leaves on the seventh day of June, he felt something fall into his hair. He reached up, plucked it out, and looked at what he held in his hand.
The skeleton of a bird, with a few colorless feathers sticking to the bones.
He shook it from his hand and frantically wiped his palm on his pajamas--and then he heard the telephone ringing again in his house.
He ran to the downstairs phone, back in the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and said, “Help me! Please… I’m on Baylor Street! Please help--”
He stopped babbling, because he heard the clicking circuits and a sound like searching wind, and down deep inside the wires there might have been a silken breathing.
He was silent too, and the silence stretched. Finally he could stand it no longer. “Who is this?” he asked in a strained whisper. “Who’s on this phone?”
Click.
Buzzzzzz…
Brad punched the O. Almost at once that same terrible voice came on the line: “We’re sorry, but we cannot place your call at--” He smashed his fist down on the phone’s two prongs, dialed 911. “We’re sorry, but we cannot--” His fist went down again; he dialed the number of the Pates next door, screwed up,
Thunder rumbled outside, muffled by the fog. Brad stared at one skeletal foot that protruded from the lower end of the sheet, and he saw flakes of dried, dead flesh float down from it to the Sears deep-pile aqua-blue carpet.
He didn’t know how long he sat there just staring. He thought he might have giggled, or sobbed, or made some combination of both. He almost threw up, and he wanted to curl up into a ball and go back to sleep again; he did close his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them again the skeleton of his wife was still lying in the bed and the sound of thunder was nearer.
And he might have sat there until doomsday if the telephone beside the bed hadn’t started ringing.
Somehow, he was up and had the receiver in his hand. Tried not to look down at the brown-haired skull and remember how beautiful his wife--just twenty-eight years old, for God’s sake!--had been.
“Hello,” he said in a dead voice.
There was no reply. Brad could hear circuits clicking and humming deep in the wires.
“Hello?”
No answer. Except now there might have been--might have been--a soft, silken breathing.
“Hello?”
Brad shrieked into the phone. “Say something, damn you!”
Another series of clicks; then a tinny, disembodied voice: “We’re sorry, but we cannot place your call at this time. All lines are busy. Please hang up and try again later. Thank you. This is a recording…”
He slammed the receiver back into its cradle, and the motion of the air made flakes of skin fly from the skull’s cheekbones.
Brad ran out of the bedroom, barefoot and in only his pajama bottoms; he ran to the stairs, went down them screaming, “Help! Help me! Somebody!” He missed a step, slammed against the wall, and caught the banister before he broke his neck. Still screaming for help, he burst through the front door and out into the yard, where his feet crunched on dead leaves.
He stopped. The sound of his voice went echoing down Baylor Street. The air was still and wet, thick and stifling. He stared down at all the dead leaves around him, covering brown grass that had been green the day before. And then the wind suddenly moved, and more dead leaves swirled around him; he looked up, and saw bare gray branches where living oak trees had stood before he’d closed his eyes to sleep last night.
“Help me!” he screamed.
“Somebody please help me!”
But there was no answer; not from the house where the Pates lived, not from the Walkers’ house, not from the Crawfords’ or the Lehmans‘. Nothing human moved on Baylor Street, and as he stood amid the falling leaves on the seventh day of June, he felt something fall into his hair. He reached up, plucked it out, and looked at what he held in his hand.
The skeleton of a bird, with a few colorless feathers sticking to the bones.
He shook it from his hand and frantically wiped his palm on his pajamas--and then he heard the telephone ringing again in his house.
He ran to the downstairs phone, back in the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and said, “Help me! Please… I’m on Baylor Street! Please help--”
He stopped babbling, because he heard the clicking circuits and a sound like searching wind, and down deep inside the wires there might have been a silken breathing.
He was silent too, and the silence stretched. Finally he could stand it no longer. “Who is this?” he asked in a strained whisper. “Who’s on this phone?”
Click.
Buzzzzzz…
Brad punched the O. Almost at once that same terrible voice came on the line: “We’re sorry, but we cannot place your call at--” He smashed his fist down on the phone’s two prongs, dialed 911. “We’re sorry, but we cannot--” His fist went down again; he dialed the number of the Pates next door, screwed up,
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