Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

tangled, snapping hair.

What happened then happened in a blurring passage of seconds.

The grim-faced man came rushing across the purple-lighted stage; the thing that had been a woman went crashing, twitching, flailing at the rail, doubling over it, the spasmodic hitching flinging up its muscle-knotted legs.

A clawing fall.

Peggy lurched back in her chair and the scream that started in her throat was forced back into a strangled gag as the loopy came crashing down onto the table, its limbs a thrash of naked whiteness.

Barbara screamed, the audience gasped and Peggy saw, on the fringe of vision, Bud jumping up, his face a twist of stunned surprise.

The loopy flopped and twisted on the table like a new-caught fish. The music stopped, grinding into silence; a rush of agitated murmur filled the room and blackness swept in brain-submerging waves across Peggy’s mind.

Then the cold white hand slapped across her mouth, the dark eyes stared at her in purple light and Peggy felt the darkness flooding.

The horror-smoked room went turning on its side.

* * *

Consciousness. It flickered in her brain like gauze-veiled candlelight. A murmuring of sound, a blur of shadow before her eyes.

Breath dripped like syrup from her mouth.

“Here, Peg.”

She heard Bud’s voice and felt the chilly metal of a flask neck pressed against her lips. She swallowed, twisting slightly at the trickle of fire in her throat and stomach, then coughed and pushed away the flask with deadened fingers.

Behind her, a rustling movement. “Hey, she’s back,” Len said. “Ol’ Olive Oyl is back.”

“You feel all right?” asked Barbara.

She felt all right. Her heart was like a drum hanging from piano wire in her chest, slowly, slowly beaten. Her hands and feet were numb, not with cold but with a sultry torpor. Thoughts moved with a tranquil lethargy, her brain a leisurely machine imbedded in swaths of woolly packing.

She felt all right.

Peggy looked across the night with sleepy eyes. They were on a hilltop, the braked convertible crouching on a jutting edge. Far below, the country slept, a carpet of light and shadow beneath the chalky moon.

An arm snake moved around her waist. “Where are we?” she asked him in a languid voice.

“Few miles outside school,” Bud said. “How d’ya feel, honey?”

She stretched, her body a delicious strain of muscles. She sagged back, limp, against his arm.

“Wonderful,” she murmured with a dizzy smile and scratched the tiny itching bump on her left shoulder. Warmth radiated through her flesh; the night was a sabled glow. There seemed somewhere to be a memory, but it crouched in secret behind folds of thick content.

“Woman, you were out,” laughed Bud; and Barbara added and Len added, “Were you!” and “Olive Oyl went plunko!”

“Out?” Her casual murmur went unheard.

The flask went around and Peggy drank again, relaxing further as the liquor needled fire through her veins.

“Man, I never saw a loopy dance like that!” Len said.

A momentary chill across her back, then warmth again. “Oh,” said Peggy, “that’s right. I forgot.”

She smiled

“That was what I calls a grand finale!” Len said, dragging back his willing date, who murmured, “Lenny boy.”

“L.U.P.,” Bud muttered, nuzzling at Peggy’s hair. “Son of a gun.” He reached out idly for the radio knob.

L.U.P. (Lifeless Undead Phenomenon)

This freak of physiological abnormality was discovered during the war when, following certain germ-gas attacks, many of the dead troops were found erect and performing the spasmodic gyrations which, later, became known as the “loopy’s” (L.U.P.’s) dance. The particular germ spray responsible was later distilled and is now used in carefully controlled experiments which are conducted only under the strictest of legal license and supervision.

Music surrounded them, its melancholy fingers touching at their hearts. Peggy leaned against her date and felt no need to curb exploring hands. Somewhere, deep within the jellied layers of her mind, there was something trying to escape. It fluttered like a frantic moth imprisoned in congealing wax, struggling wildly but only growing weaker in attempt as the chrysalis hardened.

Four voices sang softly in the night.

“If the world is here tomorrow
I’ll be waiting, dear, for you
If the stars are there tomorrow
I’ll be wishing on them too.”

Four young voices singing, a murmur in immensity. Four bodies, two by two, slackly warm and drugged. A singing, an embracing-a wordless accepting.

“Star light, star bright
Let there be another night.”

The singing ended but the song went on.

A young girl sighed.

“Isn’t it romantic?” said Olive Oyl.

13 – THE CHILDREN OF NOAH

It was just past three a.m. when Mr Ketchum drove past the sign that read Zachry: pop. 67. He groaned. Another in an endless string of Maine seaside towns. He closed his eyes hard a second, then opened them again and pressed down on the accelerator. The Ford surged forward under him. Maybe, with luck, he’d reach a decent motel soon. It certainly wasn’t likely there’d be one in Zachry: pop. 67.

Mr Ketchum shifted his heavy frame on the seat and stretched his legs. It had been a sour vacation. Motoring through New England’s historic beauty, communing with nature and nostalgia was what he’d planned. Instead, he’d found only boredom, exhaustion and over-expense.

Mr Ketchum was not pleased.

The town seemed fast asleep as he drove along its Main Street. The only sound was that of the car’s engine, the only sight that of his raised head beams splaying out ahead, lighting up another sign. Speed 15 Limit.