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    Blue World
    Blue World
    Blue World
    Ebook537 pages8 hours

    Blue World

    By Robert McCammon

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A World Fantasy Award Finalist: Masterful and macabre short fiction from the New York Times–bestselling author of Swan Song.
    Father John has lived his whole life without knowing a woman’s touch. Hard at first, his self-denial grew easier over time, as he learned to master his urges with a regimen of prayer, cold showers, and jigsaw puzzles. That changed the day that Debra Rocks entered his confessional. A rough-talking adult film actress, she has come to ask him to pray for a murdered costar. Her cinnamon perfume infects Father John, and after she departs he becomes obsessed. Around the corner from his church is a neon-lit alley of sin. He goes there hoping to save her life before he damns himself.   That is “Blue World,” the novella that anchors this collection of chilling stories by Robert R. McCammon. Although monsters, demons, and murderers fill these pages, in McCammon’s world the most terrifying landscape of all is the barren wasteland of a lost man’s soul.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateOct 18, 2011
    ISBN9781453231586
    Blue World
    Author

    Robert McCammon

    Robert McCammon (b. 1952) is one of the country’s most accomplished authors of modern horror and historical fiction, and a founder of the Horror Writers Association. Raised by his grandparents in Birmingham, Alabama, Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award–winning McCammon published his first novel, the Revelations-inspired Baal, when he was only twenty-six. His writings continued in a supernatural vein throughout the 1980s, as he produced such bestselling titles as Swan Song, The Wolf’s Hour, and Stinger. In 1991, Boy’s Life won the World Fantasy Award for best novel. After his next novel, Gone South, McCammon took a break from writing to spend more time with his family. He did not publish another novel until 2002’s Speaks the Nightbird. Since then, he has followed “problem-solver” Matthew Corbett through seven sequels, in addition to writing several non-series books, including The Border and The Listener. McCammon still lives in Birmingham.

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    Reviews for Blue World

    4/5

    136 ratings8 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Blue world(the novella),Yellachile's cage and Night calls the green falcon are superb. Unfortunately the rest range from rubbish to good.Overall well worth reading but Mccammon has written a lot that's better.
    • 5/5
      This is one of my Favorite books by Robert McCammon. It's an anthology. It has 12 short stories and a short novella. Every story in this book is good a few of them are great, Some of the best writting he has ever done. They are all creepy and nerve wrecking. The title story Blue World is this really great Horror mystery story that shows his talents for character developement that he uses so well for his later novels specifically Boys Life and Gone South, both superb novels.
    • 4/5
      I'm often hot and cold with short story collections. Various author collections seem to bug me the most, because the quality tends to be all over the place. And with single-author collections such as this one, well, it's often hit or miss. Either the author kicks ass, or they suck.

      Thankfully, I think, for the most part, McCammon kicked some serious ass here.

      This is my introduction to McCammon the short story author. And, to be honest, he should do more of it. There's the odd one that didn't quite stick with me, but for the most part, these were absolutely excellent. Included in this particular edition by Subterranean Press, I got three additional stories, that fit in perfectly with the previously published ones.

      In fact, the weakest link in the collection--and the reason for four stars instead of five--is the title story. It was the unlikely mashing of a psychopathic killer (who, at times, seemed to be forgotten by the author), a Catholic priest and a "porno" actress. For me, the story, at something like 170 pages, was about three times as long as it needed to be, and likely due to that fact, the material often seemed to hit cringe-worthy notes when it came to Debbie's (the porn girl) naivete or downright stupidity at times, as well as priest John's painfully overwrought reactions to her.

      But there's a few stories in here that, even on their own, would be worth the price of admission. Excellent book, overall.
    • 5/5
      This is the first McCammon I read (though I followed it up with Usher's Passing). Blue World is a wide ranging selection of his short fiction work from the 80s and early 90s, plus the titular novella.
      The collection is a pretty broad cross-section of his short fiction; horror (He'll Come Knocking), thriller/slasher (Blue World), science fiction (Red House), fantasy (Nightcrawler), and Twilight Zone-esque (I Scream Man) stories are all represented here. The influence of script writing on McCammon's style is evident across genres, which helps keeps the pacing as reasonably fast a short story tends to demand. It also lends itself to satisfying endings, though ones that do not always explain what we've just experienced (Doom City).
      While I have seen complaints the stories fail to address more timeless themes in favor of what would be more commercially successful at the time, I feel that's definitely an off-base claim. Like Michael Shea, a lot of our main characters to tend be from the working class or poor who are sometimes driven to criminalized behaviors based on that (Makeup), and though the trappings of those experiences may have shifted over the decades, their struggles are as easy to identify with now as then. Though main characters are almost all white, and for the most part men, we do have a number of strong female characters (Yellachile's Cage, Night Calls the Green Falcon, Blue World), and main characters ranging in age (Yellowjacket Summer) from children to the elderly (Night Calls the Green Falcon). McCammon does a masterful job of creating evoking strong relatable emotions and creating sympathetic (though not always easily identified with) characters in the limited space he has for each story.
      I would normally single out strong shorts from the collection, but with the possible exception of Pin they're all standouts.
    • 3/5
      The Basics

      Blue World is a collection of short stories and one novella, all of which seem to be from McCammon’s early career. They’re all mostly horror/thriller and run the gamut on subject matter.

      My Thoughts

      I hate books like this. A story collection is meant to be a balanced read where each story is a cool, little nugget you enjoyed on some level. So that by the end of the journey, you feel that the overall experience was worth it. What it’s not supposed to be is what this collection was. A couple of good stories, a great novella, and then a whole lotta weak stuff. So that by the end, you’re trying to figure out if you even want to keep this thing or not.

      A lot of these stories felt like tales I’d heard before, only done better by someone else (“Nightcrawlers” and “Pin”). They were bleak in ways that weren’t scary or profound, just empty (“He’ll Come Knocking At Your Door” and “I Scream Man!”). Some were grasping for heights they missed by a long shot (“Chico” and “Yellachile’s Cage”). Stories that should’ve been good and all missed the mark by varying margins.

      Were there gems? Of course! Were they worth reading the entire book for? That’s where I’m struggling. “Doom City” was a really unique look at an apocalypse setting, or maybe even a hell setting, and the fact that I can’t figure out which it is promotes the story even more. “Something Passed By” had that apocalypse magic, as well. “Night Calls the Green Falcon” is a strong story, especially if you’re a comic book fan, with emphasis on something like Watchmen.

      Finally, the novella for which the book is named, “Blue World”, was the strongest story of the bunch, in my opinion. The fact that it takes up half the book means that it feels more significant than the rest, and thank all that is good, else this book would’ve been a two star endeavor. It was more about characters than it was about being thrilling, and it gave me what the internet refers to as “feels”. It wasn’t entirely perfect, but after sloughing through the rest of the collection, it felt like a breath of fresh air.

      I can no longer tell if this is a recommendation or not. Which is why, I repeat, I hate books like this.

      Final Rating

      3/5
    • 4/5
      My favorite stories (in order of appearance) were:

      1)Makeup - A real dimwit loser small-time criminal obtains a cursed object through happenstance. Homage is paid to classic horror film archetypes. There is an inappropriate laugh at the end.

      2) He'll Come Knocking At Your Door - Just because I love Halloween themed stories, and this one was fun.

      3)The Red House - I am a redhead. Conformity is an abomination. I related to the main character in this story.

      4) Blue World - I enjoyed this story of suspense and the contrast between the world of the priest and the world of the porn star.

      The rest of the book was pretty good, too.
    • 4/5
      This has set on my shelf for ages....I'm not the biggest fan of short stories, generally speaking. But, alas, it was time to break it open...my favorite time of year is here, my fall reading has began, and this book contains one of my favorite Halloween short stories, " He'll come knocking at your door".I ended up really enjoying this! It is now on my list of fave short story anthologies. I was rather disturbed by 2 of the stories...and let me tell you, thats not an easy feat. I have been reading horror since childhood and often read " shock horror", but McCammon managed to do it here. Each of the stories were unique and interesting and didn't suffer from the vagueness and lack of development that I find with most short stories. A well written, fun and entertaining read.
    • 3/5
      I picked this up, my first McCammon, because it's October and I was looking forward to some ghosties. Really, there are not any spooky stories here besides one, which I'll get to momentarily. I thought that "Blue World" must be a collection of McCammon's earlier works, given the simplicity of style which makes this sentence look daunting; however it was published in 1990. It is to note that most of McCammon's Pocket Books titles are now out of print; and that McCammon himself chose, from a pride which was contemptuous of, and indeed embarrassed of his early success, to pull his first four novels from print—I could forgive this egoism had (maybe they had) sales stopped completely. Then again, not having read them, I don't know—maybe they make Stephenie Meyer look like Henry James. McCammon allegedly went on to whine that he had to learn to write publicly. These foggy revelations have given me pause at contemplating the reading of further works by the author; though really, let the work speak, not the author. That's the good thing about antiquarian authors—they can't ruin your reading of them with their own mouths. I suppose they can though, if you go looking hard enough...About the stories collected in "Blue World": they are clean and simple and straightforward, and Isaac Asimov, who called for simplistic writing, would be proud; except that I keep thinking these stories, I've read someplace else, in a slightly altered and more eloquent form. "Yellowjacket Summer" was a nice little nature story. I enjoyed it because this past summer I had the pleasure of angering some yellowjackets to violence towards my person."Makeup" was a bit juvenile, in that the character was juvenile, though I really liked the idea of the cursed movie monster makeup."Doom City" was post apocalyptic goodness. "Nightcrawlers" was good, in an agent orange ethereal zombies, we're all held up at the diner, sort of way."Pin" was garbage."Yellachile's Cage" was good, very good, and I only thought a few times of prison movies. It spoke to me, "Yellachile's Cage", that is, of what it is to be a writer, a creative person."I Scream Man" was not that great of post apocalyptic short fiction."He'll Come Knocking At Your Door" was the one spooky story fit to read around Halloween time, and it made me feel queasy. It gives me chills and makes me feel a bit nauseated to think about it even now. I think it is because it is a true microcosm to our own postmodern reality. Just look who has power in the world, luck, money, success. It costs too much. I think the main character, because he was good, was doomed here, but should be OK in the afterlife."Chico": creepy malformed mentally disturbed Mexican messiah to cockroaches."Night Calls the Green Falcon" was like a few stories here. It's sort of hell to read, but it's kind of neat, and you carry through because you are a completionist and want to see what the hell happens to the old man."The Red House" I didn't really care for. I think it was actually, as the father feared, communist (interchangeable now with capitalist) propaganda."Something Passed By": the third post apocalyptic story here, which still doesn't beat out "Doom City" but is better than "I Scream Man"."Blue World": this too was hell to read, but I carried through, strung along by a thread of interest until I reached the far away ending, which I actually liked.I may come back and read some of the out of print McCammon which is sitting on my shelf, or I might not. Maybe I'll read some reviews for a change.

    Book preview

    Blue World - Robert McCammon

    Blue World

    Robert R. McCammon

    Contents

    Introduction

    Yellowjacket Summer

    Makeup

    Doom City

    Nightcrawlers

    1

    2

    3

    4

    5

    Pin

    Yellachile’s Cage

    I Scream Man!

    He’ll Come Knocking at Your Door

    1

    2

    3

    Chico

    Night Calls the Green Falcon

    1 Never Say Die

    2 An Old Relic

    3 A Red Matchbook

    4 One-Eyed Skulls

    5 The Star and Question Mark

    6 Handful of Straws

    7 The Watchman

    8 Yours Truly

    9 Hell or High Water

    10 Nightmare Netherworld

    The Red House

    Something Passed By

    1

    2

    3

    Blue World

    1

    2

    3

    4

    5

    6

    7

    8

    9

    10

    11

    12

    13

    14

    15

    16

    17

    18

    19

    20

    21

    22

    23

    24

    25

    About the Author

    Introduction

    FAST CARS, THE SIGN said.

    It was in front of a used-car lot in the neighborhood where I grew up. Fast Cars. My friends and I passed it every day on our way to school. Our bikes were the fast cars of our imagination, our Mustangs and Corvettes and Thunderbirds. We longed for four wheels, but we were confined to two and on them we hurtled into the future.

    I’ve built my own fast cars. They’re in this book, and they’re eager for passengers. They’re not made of metal, glass, nuts, and bolts, but rather of the fabric of wonder. All of them have a starting point, and all of them have a destination. You can sit behind the wheel, but I have to steer. Trust me.

    We will travel, you and I, across a tortured land where hope struggles to grow like seed in a drought. In this land, a place with no boundaries, we’ll run the freeways and back roads and we’ll listen to the song of the wheels and peer into windows at lives that might be our own, if we lived in that land. Sometimes we’ll have the wind at our backs, and sometimes in our faces. We’ll see storms in the distance, whirling closer, and we’ll smell the forest and the sea and the hot concrete of the city. Our road will lead us onward, deeper into the tortured land, and as the speedometer revs and the engine roars, we may find strange visions on that twisting highway.

    A man who awakens one morning to find a skeleton in bed where his wife had been the night before.

    A small-time thief who steals a makeup case, and learns a dead horror star’s secret.

    A roadside diner, where a Vietnam veteran comes seeking shelter from the storm.

    A young man in prison, who finds beauty and hope on the wings of a yellow bird.

    Halloween in a very special residential area, where trick-or-treating is deadly serious.

    A red house on a street of gray houses, and a breath of sweet fire.

    The adventures of a has-been serial hero, who dons his old costume and goes in search of a serial killer.

    A priest obsessed by a porno star, and his realization that both of them are being stalked by a third shadow.

    We will see worlds within worlds from the windows of our fast car. We might even see the end of the world, and we might sit on a front porch for a while and sip a glass of gasoline on a hot December day.

    Some of these roads are tricky. Some of them have sudden curves that want to throw us off into space. Some of them bubble under the blinding sunlight, and some of them freeze beneath the cold white moon. But we have to take them all, if we want to get from here to there. And isn’t journeying what life is all about? The question of what lies beyond the dark hills, beyond the steaming forests, beyond the locked door?

    The key to a fast car can take you there.

    Novels are limousines, stately and smooth. Some of them can ride like tanks, slow and heavy, well-armored. The fast cars of short stories: those are the vehicles that let us zoom close to the ground, with the wind in our hair and the speedometer’s needle vibrating on the dangerous edge. Sometimes they’re hard to handle; they have minds of their own, and they call for close attention. They can crash and burn so easily, but their sleek power yearns for speed. In such a fast car, we can go anywhere. No locked door can keep us out, and if we want to see what lies around the next bend, or the next hill, all we have to do is steer toward it. We’ll be there, roaming through the tortured land, with the lights of other lives and different worlds passing on either side.

    I’d like to thank a number of people who have encouraged me in my building of the fast cars in this book. Thank you to Frank Coffey, who published Makeup, my first short story; to Dave Silva of The Horror Show, and Paul and Erin Olson of Horrorstruck, for their friendship and encouragement; to Stephen King and Peter Straub for setting the pace, and leaving burning treadmarks on the pavement; to Charles L. Grant for his black-and-white visions; to Joe and Karen Lansdale for true grit; to Tappan King of Twilight Zone magazine; to J. N. Williamson and John Maclay for their first publication of Nightcrawlers; to Dean R. Koontz, and he knows why; to those good ol’ boys Tom Monteleone and Al Sarrantonio; to Ray Bradbury, whose short story The Lake made me cry when I was a little boy; to Forrest J. Ackerman, my true father, who raised me on Famous Monsters of Filmland; to Tony Gardner; and to Sally, who always stands beside me.

    The fast cars are waiting. Listen: their engines are starting up. We have a distance to travel, you and I. Buckle your seat belt. I’ll have to steer, because I know the roads. Trust me.

    Ready? Then let’s go out, in our cocoon of speed, and see what finds us.

    ROBERT R. MCCAMMON

    Yellowjacket Summer

    CAR’S COMIN’ MASE,, the boy at the window said. Comin’ lickety-split.

    Ain’t no car comin’, Mase replied from the back of the gas station. Ain’t never no cars comin’.

    Yes there is! Come look! I can see the dust risin’ off the road!

    Mase made a nasty sound with his lips and stayed where he was, sitting in the old cane chair that Miss Nancy had said she wouldn’t befoul her behind to sit on. Mase was kinda sweet on Miss Nancy, the boy knew, and he was always asking her to come over for a cold CoCola but she had a boyfriend in Waycross and so that wouldn’t do. The boy felt a little sorry for Mase sometimes, because nobody in town liked being around him much. Maybe it was because Mase was mean when he got riled, and he drank too much on Saturday nights. He smelled of grease and gasoline too, and his clothes and cap were always dark with stains.

    Come look, Mase! the boy urged, but Mase shook his head and just sat watching the Braves baseball game on the little portable TV.

    Well, there was a car, after all, trailing plumes of dust from its tires. But not exactly a car, the boy saw; it was a van with wood trim on its sides. The van had been white before it had met up with four unpaved miles of Highway 241, but now it was reddened by Georgia clay and there were dead bugs spotting the windshield. The boy wondered if any of them were yellowjackets. It was a yellowjacket summer for sure, he thought. Them things were just everywhere!

    They’re slowin’ down, Mase, the boy told him. I think they’re gonna pull in here.

    Lord A’mighty! He smacked his knee with one hand. There’s three men on base! You go on out and see what they want, hear?

    Okay, he agreed, and he was almost out the screen door when Mase called, All they want’s a roadmap! They gotta be lost to be in this neck o’ nowhere! And tell ’em the gas truck’s not due till tomorrow, Toby!

    The screen door slammed shut behind him, and Toby ran out into the steamy July heat as the van pulled up to the pumps.

    There’s somebody! Carla Emerson said as she saw the boy emerge from the building. She released the breath she’d been holding for what seemed like the last five miles, since they’d passed a road sign pointing them to the town of Capshaw, Georgia. The ancient-looking gas station, its roof covered with kudzu and its bricks bleached yellow by a hundred summer suns, was a beautiful sight, especially since the Voyager’s tank was getting way too low for comfort. Trish had been driving Carla crazy by saying, It’s on the E, Momma! every minute or so, and Joe made her feel like a twerp with his doomy pronouncement of Should’ve pulled over at the rest stop, Mom.

    In the back seat, Joe put aside the Fantastic Four comic he’d been reading. I sure do hope they’ve got a bathroom, he said. If I can’t pee in about five seconds I’m gonna go out in a burst of glory.

    Thanks for the warning, she told him as she stopped the van next to the dusty pumps and cut the engine. Go for it!

    He opened his door and scrambled out, trying to keep his bladder from bouncing around too much. He was twelve years old, skinny, and wore braces on his teeth, but he was as intelligent as he was gawky and he figured that someday God would give him a better chance with girls; right now, though, computer games and superhero comics took most of his attention.

    He almost ran right into the boy who had hair the color of fire.

    Howdy, Toby said, and grinned. What can I do for you?

    Bathroom, Joe told him, and Toby motioned with a finger toward the back side of the gas station. Joe took off at a trot, and Toby called, Ain’t too clean in there, though. Sorry!

    That was the least of Joe Emerson’s worries as he hurried around the small brick building, back to where kudzu and stickers erupted out of the thick forest. There was just one door, and it had no handle on it, but it was mercifully unlocked. He went in.

    Carla had her window rolled down. Could you fill us up, please? With unleaded?

    Toby kept grinning at her. She was a pretty woman, maybe older than Miss Nancy but not too old; her hair was light brown and curly, and she had steady gray eyes set in a high-cheekboned face. Perched in the seat next to her was a little brown-haired girl maybe six or seven. No gas, he told the woman. Not a drop.

    Oh. The nervous clenching sensation returned to her stomach. Oh, no! Well ... is there another station around here?

    Yes, ma’am. He pointed in the direction the van was facing. Halliday’s about eighteen or twenty miles. They’ve got a real nice gas station.

    We’re on E! Trish said.

    Shhhh, honey. Carla touched the little girl’s arm. The boy with red, close-cropped hair was still smiling, waiting for Carla to speak again. Through the station’s screen door Carla could hear the noise of a crowd roaring on a TV set.

    Bet they got a run, the boy said. The Braves. Mase is watchin’ the game.

    Eighteen or twenty miles! Carla thought. She wasn’t sure they had enough gas to make it that far, and she sure would hate to run out on a country road. The sun was shining down hot and bright from the fierce blue sky, and the woods looked like they went on to the edge of eternity. She cursed herself as a fool for not stopping at that rest station on Highway 84, where there was Shell gasoline and a Burger King, but she’d thought they could fill up ahead and she was in a hurry to get to St. Simons Island. Her husband, Ray, was a lawyer and had flown on to Brunswick for a business meeting several days ago; she and the kids had left Atlanta yesterday morning to visit her parents in Valdosta, then were supposed to swing up through Waycross and meet Ray for a vacation. Stay on the main highway, Ray had told her. You get off the highway, you can get lost in some pretty desolate country. But she thought she’d known her own state, particularly the area she’d grown up in! When the pavement had stopped and Highway 241 had turned to dust a ways back, she’d almost stopped and turned around—but then she’d seen the sign to Capshaw, so she’d kept on going and hoped for the best.

    But if this was the best, they were sunk.

    In the bathroom, Joe had learned that you spell relief p-e-e. It was not a clean bathroom, true, and there were dead leaves and pinestraw on the floor and the single window was broken, but he would’ve gone in an outhouse if he’d had to. The toilet hadn’t been flushed for a long time, though, and the smell wasn’t too pleasant. Through the thin wall he could hear a TV set on. The crack of a bat and the roar of a crowd.

    And another sound too. Something that he couldn’t identify at first.

    It was a low, droning noise. Somewhere close, he thought as he stood at the end of an amber river.

    Joe looked up, and his hand abruptly squeezed the river off.

    Above his head, the bathroom’s ceiling crawled with yellowjackets. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. The little winged bodies with their yellow-and-black-striped stingers crawled over and around each other, making a weird droning noise that sounded like a hushed, distant—and dangerous—whisper.

    The river would not be denied. It kept streaming. As Joe stared upward with widened eyes, he saw maybe thirty or forty of the yellowjackets take off, buzz curiously around his head, and then fly away through the broken window. A few of them—ten or fifteen, Joe realized—came in for a closer look. His skin crept as the yellowjackets hummed before his face, and he heard their droning change pitch, become higher and faster—as if they knew they’d found an intruder.

    More left the ceiling. He felt them walking in his hair, and one landed on the edge of his right ear. The river would not stop, and he knew he must not cry out, must not must not, because the noise in this confined place might send the whole colony of them into a stinging frenzy.

    One landed on his left cheek and walked toward his nose. Five or six of them were crawling on his sweaty Conan the Barbarian T-shirt. And then he felt some of them land on his knuckles, and—yes—even there too.

    He fought back a sneeze as a yellowjacket probed his left nostril. A dark, humming cloud of them hung waiting over his scalp.

    Well, Carla said to the red-haired boy, I don’t guess we’ve got much choice, do we?

    But we’re on E, Momma! Trish reminded her.

    You ’bout empty? Toby asked.

    I’m afraid so. We’re on our way to St. Simons Island.

    Long way from here. Toby looked off to the right, where a battered old pickup truck with red plastic dice hanging from the rearview mirror was parked. That’s Mase’s truck. Maybe he’d drive over to Halliday for you and get you some gas.

    Mase? Who’s that?

    Oh, he owns this place. Always has. Want me to ask him if he’ll do it?

    I don’t know. Maybe we could make it ourselves.

    Toby shrugged. Maybe you could, at that. But the way he smiled told Carla that he didn’t believe she would, and she didn’t believe it herself. Lord, Ray was going to pitch a fit about this!

    I’ll ask him, if you like, Toby kicked a stone with the toe of one dirty sneaker.

    All right, Carla agreed. Tell him I’ll pay him five dollars, too.

    Sure thing. Toby walked back to the screen door. Mase? Lady out here needs some gas pretty bad. Says she’ll pay you five dollars to bring her back a few gallons from Halliday.

    Mase didn’t answer. His face was blue from the TV screen’s glow.

    Mase? Did you hear me? Toby prodded.

    I’m not goin’ a damn place until this damn baseball game is over, boy! Mase finally said, with a terrible scowl. Been waitin’ all week for it! Score’s four to two, bottom of the fifth!

    She’s a looker, Mase, Toby said, casting his voice lower. Almost as pretty as Miss Nancy.

    I said leave me be! And for the first time Toby saw that Mase had a bottle of beer on the little table beside his chair. It wouldn’t do to get Mase riled up, not on a hot day like this in the middle of yellowjacket summer.

    But Toby screwed up his courage and tried once more. "Please, Mase. The lady needs help!"

    Oh ... Mase shook his head. All right, if you’ll just let me finish watchin’ this damn game! I’ll drive over there for her. God A’mighty, I thought I was gonna have me a peaceful day!

    Toby thanked him and walked back to the van. He says he’ll go, but he wants to watch the baseball game. I’d drive myself, but I just turned fifteen and Mase would whip my tail if I had a wreck. If you like, you can leave the van here. Café to get sandwiches and stuff is just around the bend, walkin’ distance. That suit you?

    Yes, that’d be fine. Carla wanted to stretch her legs, and something cold to drink would be wonderful. But what had happened to Joe? She honked the horn a couple of times and rolled up her window. Probably fell in, she told Trish.

    The yellowjacket had decided not to enter Joe’s nostril. Still, there were thirty or more of them on his T-shirt, and he could feel the damned things all in his hair. His teeth were clenched, his face pale and sweating, and yellowjackets were crawling over his hands. Chills ran up and down his spine; he’d read somewhere about a farmer who had disturbed a yellowjacket nest, and by the time they got through with him he was a writhing mass of stung flesh and he’d died on the way to the hospital. At any second he expected a dozen stingers to rip through the skin at the back of his neck. His breathing was harsh and forced, and he was afraid that his knees would buckle and his face would fall into that filthy toilet and then the yellowjackets would go to w—

    Don’t move, the red-haired boy said, standing in the bathroom’s doorway. They’re all over you. Don’t move, now.

    Joe didn’t have to be told twice. He stood frozen and sweating, and then he heard a low, trilling whistle that went on for maybe twenty seconds. It was a soothing, calming sound, and the yellowjackets started leaving Joe’s shirt and flying out of his hair. As soon as they were off his hands, he zipped himself up and he got out of the bathroom with yellowjackets buzzing curiously over his head. He ducked and batted at them, and they flew away.

    Yellowjackets! he gasped. Must’ve been a million in here!

    Not that many, Toby told him. It’s yellowjacket summer. But don’t worry about ’em now. You’re safe. He was smiling, and he lifted his right hand.

    The boy’s hand was covered with them, layer upon layer of them, until it looked as if the hand had grown to grotesque proportions, the huge fingers striped with yellow and black.

    Joe stood staring, openmouthed and terrified. The other boy whistled again—this time a short, sharp whistle—and the yellowjackets stirred lazily, humming and buzzing and finally lifting off from his hand in a dark cloud that rose up and flew away into the woods.

    See? Toby slid his hand into his jeans pocket. I said you were safe, didn’t I?

    How ... how ... did you do—

    Joe! It was his mother, calling him. Come on!

    He wanted to run, wanted to leave tornadoes whirling under his sneakers, but he forced himself to walk at a steady pace around the gas station to where his mother and Trish were out of the Voyager and waiting for him. He could hear the crunch of the other boy’s shoes on the gravel, following right behind him. Hey! Joe said, his face tightening as he tried to smile. What’s goin’ on?

    We thought we’d lost you! What took you so long?

    Before Joe could answer, a hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. Got hisself stuck in the bathroom, Toby told her. Old door oughta be fixed. Ain’t that right? The pressure of his hand increased.

    Joe heard a thin buzzing. He looked down, saw that the hand clamped to his shoulder had a yellowjacket lodged between the first and second fingers.

    Mom? Joe said softly. I was— He stopped, because beyond his mother and sister he could see a dark banner— maybe two or three hundred yellowjackets—slowly undulating in the bright sunshine over the road.

    You okay? Carla asked. Joe looked like he was about to upchuck.

    I think he’ll live, ma’am, Toby said, and he laughed. Just scared him a little, I guess.

    Oh. Well ... we’re going to get a bite to eat and something cold to drink, Joe. He says there’s a café right around the bend.

    Joe nodded, but his stomach was churning. He heard the boy give a low, weird whistle, so soft that his mother couldn’t possibly have heard; the yellowjacket flew off from between the boy’s fingers, and the awful waiting cloud of them began to break apart.

    Just ’bout lunchtime! Toby announced. Think I’ll walk thataway with y’all.

    The sun burned down. A layer of yellow dust seemed to hang in the air. It’s hot, Momma! Trish complained before they’d walked ten yards away from the gas station, and Carla felt sweat creeping down her back under her pale blue blouse. Joe followed further behind, with the red-haired boy named Toby right on his heels.

    The road curved through the woods toward the town of Capshaw. It wasn’t much of a town, Carla saw in another couple of minutes; there were a few unkempt-looking wooden houses, a general store with a CLOSED PLEASE COME AGAIN sign in the front window, a small whitewashed church, and a white stone building with a rust-eaten sign that announced it as the CLAYTON CAFÉ. In the gravel parking lot were an old gray Buick, a pickup truck of many colors, and a little red sports car with the convertible top pulled down.

    The town was quiet except for the distant cawing of a crow. It amazed Carla that such a primitive-looking place should exist just seven or eight miles off the main highway. In an age of interstates and rapid travel, it was easy to forget that little hamlets like this still stood on the back roads—and Carla felt like kicking herself in the butt for getting them into this mess. Now they were really going to be late getting to St. Simons Island!

    Afternoon, Mr. Winslow! Toby called, and waved to someone off to the left.

    Carla looked. On the front porch of a rundown old house sat a white-haired man in overalls. He sat without moving, and Carla thought he looked like a wax dummy. But then she saw a swirl of smoke rise from his corncob pipe, and he lifted a hand in greeting.

    Hot day today! Toby said. It’s lunchtime! You comin’?

    Directly, the man answered.

    Best fetch Miss Nancy, then. Got some tourists passin’ through!

    I can see, the white-haired man said.

    Yeah. Toby grinned at him. They’re goin’ to St. Simons Island. Long way from here, huh?

    The man stood up from his chair and went into the house.

    Mom? Joe’s voice was tense. I don’t think we ought to—

    Like your shirt, Toby interrupted, plucking at it. It’s nice and clean.

    And then they were at the Clayton Café, and Carla was going inside, her hand holding Trish’s. A little sign said WE’RE AIR-CONDITIONED! But if that was so, the air-conditioning was not functioning; it was as hot in the café as it was on the road.

    The place was small, with a floor of discolored linoleum and a counter colored mustard yellow. There were a few tables and chairs and a jukebox pushed back against the wall.

    Lunchtime! Toby called merrily as he followed Joe through the door and shut it behind them. Brought some tourists today, Emma!

    Something rattled back in the kitchen. Come say hello, Emma! Toby urged.

    The door to the kitchen opened, and a thin woman with gray hair, a deeply wrinkled face, and somber brown eyes came out. Her gaze went to Carla first, then to Joe, finally lingered on Trish.

    What’s for lunch? Toby asked her. Then he held up a finger. Wait! I bet I know! Uh ... alphabet soup, potato chips, and peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches! Is that right?

    Yes, Emma replied, and now she stared at the boy. That’s right, Toby.

    I knew it! See, folks around here used to say I was special. Used to say I knew things that shouldn’t be known. He tapped the side of his skull. Used to say I had the beckonin’ touch. Ain’t that right, Emma?

    She nodded, her arms limp at her sides.

    Carla didn’t know what the boy was talking about, but his tone of voice gave her the creeps. Suddenly it seemed way too cramped in this place, too hot and bright, and Trish said, Ow, Mommy! because she was squeezing the child’s hand too tightly. Carla loosened her grip. Listen, she said to Toby, maybe I should call my husband. He’s at the Sheraton on St. Simons Island. He’ll be real worried if I don’t check in with him. Is there a phone I can use somewhere?

    Nope, Emma said. Sorry. Her gaze slid toward the wall, and Carla saw an outline there where the pay phone had been removed.

    There’s a phone at the gas station. Toby sat down at one of the stools facing the counter. You can call your husband after lunch. By that time, Mase’ll be back from Halliday. He began to spin himself around and around on the stool. I’m hungry hungry hungry! he said.

    Lunch is comin’ right up. Emma returned to the kitchen.

    Carla herded Trish toward one of the tables, but Joe just stood there staring at Toby, then the red-haired boy got off his stool and joined them at the table, turning his chair around so he rested his elbows on the back. He smiled, watching Carla with steady pale green eyes. Quiet town, she said uneasily.

    Yep.

    How many people live here?

    A few. Not too many. I don’t like crowded places. Like Halliday and Double Pines.

    What does your father do? Does he work around here?

    Naw, Toby replied. Can you cook?

    Uh ... I guess so. The question had taken her by surprise.

    Raisin’ kids, you’d have to cook, wouldn’t you? he asked her, his eyes opaque. Unless you’re rich and you go out to fancy restaurants every night.

    No, I’m not rich.

    Nice van you got, though. Bet it cost a lot of money. He looked over at Joe and said, Why don’t you sit down? There’s a chair for you, right beside me.

    Can I get a hamburger, Momma? Trish asked. And a Pepsi?

    Alphabet soup’s on the menu today, little girl. Gonna get you a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, too. That suit you? Toby reached out to touch the child’s hair.

    But Carla drew Trish closer to her.

    The boy stared at her for a moment, his smile beginning to fade. The silence stretched.

    I don’t like ’phabet soup, Trish said softly.

    You will, Toby promised. And then his smile came back again, only this time it hung lopsided on his mouth. I mean ... Emma makes the best alphabet soup in town.

    Carla could not stand to look into the boy’s eyes any longer. She shifted her gaze, and then the door opened and two people came into the café. One was the old white-haired man in overalls, and the other was a skinny girl with dirty-blond hair and a face that might’ve been pretty if it was clean. She was about twenty or twenty-five, Carla thought, and she wore stained khaki slacks, a pink blouse that had been resewn in many places, and a pair of Top Siders on her feet. She smelled bad, and her blue eyes were sunken and shocked. Winslow helped her to a chair at another table, where she sat muttering to herself and staring at her filthy hands.

    Neither Carla nor Joe could help but notice the swollen bites that pocked her face, the welts going right up into her hairline.

    My God, Carla whispered. "What ... happened to—"

    Mase called on her, Toby said. He’s sweet on Miss Nancy.

    Winslow sat down at a table by himself, lit his pipe, and smoked it in grave silence.

    Emma came out with a tray, carrying bowls of soup, little bags of potato chips, and the sandwiches. She began to serve Toby first. Have to go to the grocery store pretty soon, she said. We’re runnin’ low on near ’bout everythin’.

    Toby started chewing on his sandwich and didn’t reply.

    My bread’s got crust, Trish whispered to her mother; sweat clung to her face, and her eyes were round and frightened.

    It was so hot in the café that Carla could hardly bear it. Her blouse was soaked with sweat, and now the unwashed smell of Miss Nancy almost sickened her. She felt Toby watching her, and suddenly she found herself wanting to scream. Excuse me, she managed to say to Emma, but my little girl doesn’t like to eat the crust on bread. Do you have a knife?

    Emma blinked, did not answer, her hand hesitated as she put a bowl of soup in front of Joe. Winslow laughed quietly, a laugh devoid of mirth.

    Sure thing, Toby said as he reached into his jeans pocket. He brought out a folding knife, got the blade extended. I’ll do it, he offered, and started carving the crust away.

    Ma’am? Here’s your soup. Emma put a bowl in front of her.

    Carla knew she couldn’t take a bite of hot soup, not in this already-steaming place. Can we ... have something cold to drink, please?

    Nothin’ but water here, Emma said. Ice machine’s broke. Hush up and eat your soup. She moved away to serve Miss Nancy.

    And then Carla saw it.

    Right there. Spelled out in letters, floating on the top of her alphabet soup.

    Boys crazy.

    The knife was at work, carving, carving.

    Carla’s throat was dust-dry, but she swallowed anyway. Her eyes watched the moving blade, so terribly close to her little girl’s throat.

    "I said, eat it!" Emma almost shouted.

    Carla understood. She put her spoon into the bowl, churned up the letters so he wouldn’t see, then took a mouthful that all but seared her tongue.

    Like it? Toby asked Trish, holding the blade before her face. Look at it shine! Ain’t it a pretty th—

    He did not finish his sentence, because in that instant hot alphabet soup had been flung into his eyes. But not by Carla. By Joe, who had come out of his daze and now grabbed at the knife as Toby cried out and fell backward from his chair. Even blinded, Toby held off Joe as they fought on the floor, and Carla sat transfixed while precious seconds ticked past.

    Kill him! Emma screamed. Kill the little bastard! She began beating Toby with the tray she held, but in the confusion most of her blows were hitting Joe. Toby flailed out with the knife, snagging Joe’s T-shirt and ripping a hole in it. Then Carla was on her feet too, and Miss Nancy was screaming something unintelligible. Carla tried to grab the boy’s wrist, missed, and tried again. Toby shouted and writhed, his face a twisted and terrible rictus, but Joe was holding on to him with all his dwindling strength. Momma! Momma! Trish was crying—and then Carla put her foot down on Toby’s wrist and pinned the knife hand to the linoleum.

    The fingers opened, and Joe snatched up the knife.

    Both he and his mother stepped back, and Toby sat up with the fury of hell on his face.

    Kill him! Emma shouted, red to the roots of her hair. Put that knife right through his evil heart! She started to grab the blade, but Joe moved away from her.

    Winslow was standing up, still calmly smoking his pipe. Well, he said quietly, now you done it. Now you gone and done it.

    Toby crawled away from them toward the door, wiping his eyes clear with his forearm. He sat up on his knees, then slowly got to his feet.

    He’s crazy as hell! Emma said. He’s killed everybody in this damned town!

    Not everybody, Emma, Toby replied. The smile had returned. Not yet.

    Carla had Trish in her arms, and she was so hot she feared she might pass out. All the air was heavy and stagnant, and now Miss Nancy was grinning into her face and pulling at her with her filthy hands.

    I don’t know what’s going on here, Carla finally said, but we’re getting out. Gas or not, we’re leaving.

    Are you? Really? Toby suddenly inhaled, and let the air out in a long, trilling whistle that made Carla’s skin creep. The whistling went on and on. Emma screamed, Shut him up! Somebody shut him up!

    The whistling abruptly stopped, on an ascending note.

    Get out of our way, Carla said. We’re leaving.

    "Maybe. Maybe not. It’s yellowjacket summer, lady. Them things are just everywhere."

    Something touched the café’s window. A dark cloud began to grow, to spread across the outside of the glass.

    Ever been stung by a yellowjacket, lady? Toby asked. "I mean bad, deep stung? Stung right to the bone? Stung so bad that you’d scream for somebody to cut your throat and end the misery?"

    The windows were darkening. Miss Nancy whimpered, and began to cower under a table.

    It’s yellowjacket summer, Toby repeated. They come when I call ’em. They do what I want ’em to. Oh, I speak their tongue, lady. I’ve got the beckonin’ touch.

    Oh, Jesus. Winslow shook his head. Now you’ve gone and done it.

    The bright sunlight was going away. Darkness was falling fast. Carla heard the high, thin droning noise from the thousands of yellowjackets that were collecting on the windows, and a trickle of sweat ran down her face.

    State trooper come here once. Lookin’ for somebody. I forget who. He says, ‘Boy? Where’re your folks? How come ain’t nobody around here?’ And he was gonna put a call through on his radio, but when he opened his mouth I sent ’em in there. They went right smack down his throat. Oh, you should’ve seen that trooper dance! Toby giggled at the obscene memory. They stung him to death from the inside out. But they won’t sting me, ‘cause I speak their tongue.

    The light was almost gone, just a little shard of red-hot sun breaking through when the mass of yellowjackets shifted.

    Well, go on, then, Toby said, and motioned toward the door. Don’t let me stop you.

    Emma said, Kill him right now! Kill him and they’ll fly off!

    Touch me, Toby warned, and I’ll make ’em squeeze through every damned chink in this place. I’ll make ’em sting your eyeballs out and go up your ears. And I’ll make ’em kill the little girl first.

    "Why? For God’s sake ... why?"

    "Because I can," he answered. Go on. Your van’s just a short walk.

    Carla set Trish down. She looked into the boy’s face for a moment, then took the knife from Joe’s hand.

    Give it here, Toby ordered.

    She hesitated in the twilight, ran her forearm across her face to mop up some of the sweat, and then she walked to Toby and pressed the blade against his throat. His smile faltered.

    You’re going to walk with us, she said, her voice quavering. You’re going to keep them off, or I swear to God that I’ll shove this right through your neck.

    I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

    Then you’ll die here with us. I want to live, and I want my children to live, but we’re not staying in this ... this insane asylum. I don’t know what you had planned for us but I think I’d rather die. So: which is it?

    You won’t kill me, lady.

    Carla had to make him believe she would, though she didn’t know what she’d do if the time came. She tensed, drove her hand forward in a short, sharp jab. Toby winced, and a little drop of blood ran down his throat.

    ‘That’s it! Emma crowed. Do it! Do it!"

    A yellowjacket suddenly landed on Carla’s cheek. Another on her hand. A third buzzed dangerously close to her left eye.

    The one on her cheek stung her, the pain searing and vicious. It seemed to make her entire spine vibrate as if she’d suffered an electric shock, and tears came to her eyes, but she kept the blade against his throat.

    One for one, he said.

    You’re going to walk with us, Carla repeated as her cheek started swelling. If either of my children is hurt, I’ll kill you. And this time her voice was steady, though four yellowjackets crawled over her knuckles.

    Toby paused. Then he shrugged and said, Okay. Sure. Let’s go.

    Joe, hold on to Trish’s hand. Then grab my belt. Don’t let go, and for God’s sake don’t let her go either. She prodded Toby with the knife. Go on. Open the door.

    No! Winslow protested. Don’t go out there! You’re crazy, woman!

    Open it.

    Toby slowly turned, and Carla pressed the blade against the pulsing vein in his neck while she grasped his collar with her other hand. He reached out—slowly, very slowly—and turned the doorknob. He pulled the door open, the harsh sunlight blinding Carla for a few seconds. When her vision had returned, she saw a dark, buzzing cloud waiting in the doorway.

    I can put this in your neck if you try to run, she warned him. You remember that.

    I don’t have to run. You’re the one they want. And he walked into the cloud of yellowjackets with Carla and her children right behind him.

    It was like stepping into a black blizzard, and Carla almost screamed, but she knew that if she did they were all lost; she kept one hand closed around Toby’s collar and the knife digging into his neck, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut because the yellowjackets swarmed at her face. She couldn’t find a breath, felt a sting and then another on the side of her face, heard Trish cry out as she was stung too. Get them away, damn it! she shouted as two more stung her around the mouth. The pain ripped through her face; she could already feel it swelling, distorting, and at that instant panic almost swept her senses away. Get them away! she told him, shaking him by the collar. She heard him laugh, and she wanted to kill him.

    They came out of the vicious cloud. Carla didn’t know how many times she’d been stung, but her eyes were still okay. You all right? she called. Joe? Trish?

    I got stung in the face, Joe said, but I’m okay. So is Trish.

    Hush crying! she told the little girl. Carla’s right eyelid had been hit, and the eye was starting to swell shut. More yellowjackets kept humming around her head, pulling at her hair like little fingers.

    Some of ’em don’t like to listen, Toby said. They do as they please.

    Keep walking. Faster, damn you!

    Someone screamed. Carla looked over her shoulder, saw Miss Nancy running in the opposite direction with a swarm of several hundred yellowjackets enveloping her. The younger woman flailed madly at them, dancing and jerking. She took three more steps and went down, and Carla quickly looked away because she’d seen that the yellowjackets completely covered Miss Nancy’s face and head. The screams were muffled. In another moment they ceased.

    A figure stumbled toward Carla, clutching at her arm. Help me ... help me, Emma moaned. The sockets of her eyes were crawling with yellowjackets. She started to fall, and Carla had no choice but to pull away from her. Emma lay twitching on the ground, feebly crying for help.

    You’ve gone and done it now, woman! Winslow was standing untouched in the doorway as the thousands of yellowjackets flew in a storm around him. Damn, you’ve done it!

    But Carla and the kids were out of the worst of it. Still, whining currents of yellowjackets followed them. Joe dared to look up, and he could no longer see the sun directly overhead.

    They reached the gas station, and Carla said, Oh, my God!

    The van was a solid mass of yellowjackets, and the gas station’s sagging old roof was alive with them.

    The pickup truck was still there. Over

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