Read Online Usher's Passing by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
Tags: Fiction, General, Horror, Weapons industry, Military weapons, Military supplies, Arms transfers, Defense industries
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his face like sunlight off metal. "Where do Katt and Boone go, now that you've moved in up here?"
"Boone's built his own Quiet Room, a chamber next to his bedroom. Katt's cut a hole in the wall behind her closet. They don't have many attacks. They don't understand what I'm going through in here, Rix. They've always lived at Usherland, where it's safe. But you — you understand what hell can be like, don't you?"
"I don't have that many attacks."
"No? What would you call that experience you endured yesterday in New York?"
"Boone told you?"
"I heard him telling Margaret, down in the living room last night. You forget how much I can hear, Rix. I heard you talking downstairs with them. I heard you climbing the stairs. I can hear your heartbeat right now. It's racing. Sometimes my senses are more acute than at other times; it comes in waves. But you understand what I mean, don't you? Ushers can't survive for very long beyond the gates of Usherland; it's a fact I'm sure you're beginning to appreciate."
Rix's eyes were getting used to the darkness. Lying on the bed before him, beneath the folds of the oxygen tent, was something that looked like a brown stick-figure, horribly emaciated. It lay motionless—but when one bony, shriveled arm reached out to draw the silk sheet closer, a shiver rippled up Rix's spine. A little more than a year ago, Walen Usher had stood over six feet and weighed one hundred eighty-five pounds. The shape on the bed couldn't possibly weigh more than half that.
"Don't stare at me," Walen rasped. "Your time'll come."
A knot clogged Rix's throat. When he could find his voice, he said, "It doesn't appear that living at Usherland all your life has made a difference for you, one way or the other."
"You're wrong. I'm sixty-four years old. My time is almost up. Look at yourself! You could be my brother instead of my son. Every year you live outside the gates of Usherland, your health will continue to erode. Your attacks will get worse. Soon that little womb won't be enough. You'll try to hide in there one day, and you'll realize too late you've overlooked a chink of light. You'll go blind and mad in there, with no one to help you. Before this"—his voice dripped with disgust—"I hadn't suffered an attack for five years. Hudson Usher knew that the air, here, the peace and solitude, would be a balm to the Malady. He built this estate so his ancestors could live long, full lives. We have our own world here. You're insane to want to live anywhere else—or you're intent on committing slow suicide."
"I left because I wanted to make my own way."
"Of course." There was a liquid rush and gurgle from beneath the bed. Bodily waste, Rix realized. Walen was hooked up to tubes that carried his fluids away. "Yes, you've certainly 'made your way.' You wrote advertising copy in some Atlanta department store for a while. Then you took a job selling books And after that you were a copy editor on some local tabloid. Magnificent occupations, one and all. And let's not forget the. progress of your personal life. Shall we discuss your misbegotten marriage and its aftermath?"
Rix's jaw clenched. He felt as if he were a child again, and being whipped by the Peacemaker.
"I'll spare you that, then. Let's talk about your literary achievements.
Three pieces of jibbering nonsense. I understand that last book of yours was on the best-seller lists for a short time. As they say, if you put a monkey in a room with a typewriter long enough, he'll eventually produce Shakespearean sonnets." He paused, letting the pain of the lashings sink in. As a child, Rix had fought against crying when the Peacemaker was in use, but the pain ultimately won. Had enough? Walen would ask, and when Rix remained stubbornly silent the belt would whistle again. Walen said offhandedly, "Those books of yours probably drove your wife to suicide, you know."
Rix felt his control snap like a splintering bone. His mouth twisted under the mask, and the blood
"Boone's built his own Quiet Room, a chamber next to his bedroom. Katt's cut a hole in the wall behind her closet. They don't have many attacks. They don't understand what I'm going through in here, Rix. They've always lived at Usherland, where it's safe. But you — you understand what hell can be like, don't you?"
"I don't have that many attacks."
"No? What would you call that experience you endured yesterday in New York?"
"Boone told you?"
"I heard him telling Margaret, down in the living room last night. You forget how much I can hear, Rix. I heard you talking downstairs with them. I heard you climbing the stairs. I can hear your heartbeat right now. It's racing. Sometimes my senses are more acute than at other times; it comes in waves. But you understand what I mean, don't you? Ushers can't survive for very long beyond the gates of Usherland; it's a fact I'm sure you're beginning to appreciate."
Rix's eyes were getting used to the darkness. Lying on the bed before him, beneath the folds of the oxygen tent, was something that looked like a brown stick-figure, horribly emaciated. It lay motionless—but when one bony, shriveled arm reached out to draw the silk sheet closer, a shiver rippled up Rix's spine. A little more than a year ago, Walen Usher had stood over six feet and weighed one hundred eighty-five pounds. The shape on the bed couldn't possibly weigh more than half that.
"Don't stare at me," Walen rasped. "Your time'll come."
A knot clogged Rix's throat. When he could find his voice, he said, "It doesn't appear that living at Usherland all your life has made a difference for you, one way or the other."
"You're wrong. I'm sixty-four years old. My time is almost up. Look at yourself! You could be my brother instead of my son. Every year you live outside the gates of Usherland, your health will continue to erode. Your attacks will get worse. Soon that little womb won't be enough. You'll try to hide in there one day, and you'll realize too late you've overlooked a chink of light. You'll go blind and mad in there, with no one to help you. Before this"—his voice dripped with disgust—"I hadn't suffered an attack for five years. Hudson Usher knew that the air, here, the peace and solitude, would be a balm to the Malady. He built this estate so his ancestors could live long, full lives. We have our own world here. You're insane to want to live anywhere else—or you're intent on committing slow suicide."
"I left because I wanted to make my own way."
"Of course." There was a liquid rush and gurgle from beneath the bed. Bodily waste, Rix realized. Walen was hooked up to tubes that carried his fluids away. "Yes, you've certainly 'made your way.' You wrote advertising copy in some Atlanta department store for a while. Then you took a job selling books And after that you were a copy editor on some local tabloid. Magnificent occupations, one and all. And let's not forget the. progress of your personal life. Shall we discuss your misbegotten marriage and its aftermath?"
Rix's jaw clenched. He felt as if he were a child again, and being whipped by the Peacemaker.
"I'll spare you that, then. Let's talk about your literary achievements.
Three pieces of jibbering nonsense. I understand that last book of yours was on the best-seller lists for a short time. As they say, if you put a monkey in a room with a typewriter long enough, he'll eventually produce Shakespearean sonnets." He paused, letting the pain of the lashings sink in. As a child, Rix had fought against crying when the Peacemaker was in use, but the pain ultimately won. Had enough? Walen would ask, and when Rix remained stubbornly silent the belt would whistle again. Walen said offhandedly, "Those books of yours probably drove your wife to suicide, you know."
Rix felt his control snap like a splintering bone. His mouth twisted under the mask, and the blood
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