Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
He saw a woman fall from a building across the street and up ahead, and he looked away before she hit. The smell of smoke was still in the air, but there were yet no signs of fire in the vicinity. Ahead, he saw the crowd halt and draw back as a person—man or woman, he could not tell—burst into flames in its midst. He slid to the road between two cars and waited till his friend came up.
“Joe, I'm scared shitless,” he said. “Maybe we should just crawl under a car and wait till it's all over.”
“I've been thinking of that,” the other boy replied. “But what if part of that burning building falls on a car and it catches fire?”
“What of it?”
“If it gets to the gas tank and it blows up they'll all go, this close together, like a string of firecrackers.”
“Jesus!”
“We've got to keep going. You can come to my place if it seems easier.”
Croyd saw a man perform a series of dancelike movements, tearing at his clothing. Then he began to change shape. Someone back up the road started howling. There came sounds of breaking glass.
During the next half-hour the sidewalk traffic thinned to what might, under other circumstances, be called normal. The people seemed either to have achieved their destinations or to have advanced their congestion to some other part of town. Those who passed now picked their way among corpses. Faces had vanished from behind windows. No one was in sight atop the buildings. The sounds of auto horns had diminished to sporadic outbursts. The boys stood on a corner. They had covered three blocks and crossed the street since they had left school.
“I turn here,” Joe said. “You want to come with me or you going ahead?”
Croyd looked down the street.
“It looks better now. I think I can make it okay,” he said.
“I'll see you.”
“Okay.”
Joe hurried off to the left. Croyd watched him for a moment, then moved ahead. Far up the street, a man raced from a doorway screaming. He seemed to grow larger and his movements more erratic as he moved to the center of the street. Then he exploded. Croyd pressed his back against the brick wall to his left and stared, heart pounding, but there was no new disturbance. He heard the bullhorn again, from somewhere to the west, and this time its words were more clear: “. . . The bridges are closed to both auto and foot traffic. Do not attempt to use the bridges. Return to your homes. The bridges are closed. . . .”
He moved ahead again. A single siren wailed somewhere to the east. A low-flying airplane passed overhead. There was a crumpled body in a doorway to his left; he looked away and quickened his pace. He saw smoke across the street, and he looked for the flames and saw then that it rose from the body of a woman seated on a doorstep, her head in her hands. She seemed to shrink as he watched, then fell to her left with a rattling sound. He clenched his fists and kept going.
An Army truck rolled from the side street at the corner ahead of him. He ran to it. A helmeted face turned toward him from the passenger side.
“Why are you out, son?” the man asked.
“I'm going home,” he answered.
“Where's that?”
He pointed ahead.
“Two blocks,” he said.
“Go straight home,” the man told him.
“What's happening?”
“We're under martial law. Everybody's got to get indoors. Good idea to keep your windows closed, too.”
“Why?”
“It seems that was some kind of germ bomb that went off. Nobody knows for sure.”
“Was it Jetboy that . . . ?”
“Jetboy's dead. He tried to stop them.”
Croyd's eyes were suddenly brimming.
“Go straight home.”
The truck crossed the street and continued on to the west. Croyd ran across and slowed when he reached the sidewalk. He began to shake. He was suddenly aware of the pain in his knees, where he had scraped them in crawling over vehicles. He wiped his eyes. He felt terribly cold. He halted near the middle of the block and yawned several times. Tired. He was incredibly tired. He began moving. His feet felt heavier than he ever remembered. He halted again beneath a tree. There came a moaning from overhead.
When he looked up he realized that it was not a tree. It was tall and brown, rooted and spindly, but there was an enormously elongated human face near its top and it was from there that the moaning came. As he moved away one of the limbs plucked at his shoulder, but it was a weak thing and a few more steps bore him out of its reach. He whimpered. The corner seemed miles away, and then there was another block. . . .
He had long yawning spells now, and the remade world had lost its ability to surprise him. So what if a man flew through the skies unaided? Or if a human-faced puddle lay in the gutter to his right? More bodies. . . An overturned car. . . A pile of ashes. . . Hanging telephone lines. . .
He trudged on to the corner. He leaned against the lamppost, then slowly slid down and sat with his back to it.
He wanted to close his eyes. But that was silly. He lived right over there. Just a bit more and he could sleep in his own bed.
He caught hold of the lamppost and dragged himself to his feet. One more crossing. . .
He made it onto his block, his vision swimming. Just a little farther. He could see the door. . . .
He heard the sliding, grating sound of a window opening, heard his name called from overhead. He looked up. It was Ellen, the neighbors' little girl, looking down at him.
“I'm sorry your daddy's dead,” she called.
He wanted to cry but he couldn't. The yawning took all of his strength. He leaned upon his door and rang the bell. The pocket with his key in it seemed so far away. . . .
When his brother Carl opened the door, he fell at his feet and found that he could not rise.
“I'm so tired,” he told him, and he closed his eyes.
II. The Killer at the Heart of the Dream
Croyd's childhood vanished while he slept, that first Wild Card Day. Nearly four weeks passed before he awoke, and he was changed, as was the world about him. It was not just that he was a half-foot taller, stronger than he had thought anyone could be, and covered with fine red hair. He quickly discovered, also, as he regarded himself in the bathroom mirror, that the hair possessed peculiar properties. Repelled by its appearance, he wished that it were not red. Immediately, it began to fade until it was pale blond in color, and he felt a not-unpleasant tingling over the entire surface of his body.
Intrigued, he wished for it to turn green and it did. Again, the tingling, this time more like a wave of vibration sweeping over him. He willed himself black and he blackened. Then pale once more. Only this time he did not halt at light blond. Paler, paler; chalky, albino. Paler still. . . . What was the limit? He began to fade from sight. He could see the tiled wall behind him now, through his faint outline in the mirror. Paler. . . .
Gone.
He raised his hands before his face and saw nothing. He picked up his damp washcloth and held it to his chest. It, too, became transparent, was gone, though he still felt its wet presence.
He returned himself to pale blond. It seemed the most socially acceptable. Then he squeezed into what had been his loosest jeans and put on a green flannel shirt that he could not button all the way. The pants only reached to his shins now. Silently, he padded down the stairs on bare feet and made his way to the kitchen. He was ravenous. The hall clock told him that it was close to three. He had looked in on his mother, his brother, and his sister, but had not disturbed their slumber.
There was a half-loaf of bread in the breadbox and he tore it apart, stuffing great chunks into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed. He bit his finger at one point, which slowed him only slightly. He found a piece of meat and a wedge of cheese in the refrigerator and he ate them. He also drank a quart of milk. There were two apples on the countertop and he ate them as he searched the cupboards. A box of crackers. He munched them as he continued his search. Six cookies. He gulpe
Nothing. He could find nothing more, and he was still terribly hungry.
Then the enormity of his feast struck him. There was no more food in the house. He remembered the mad afternoon of his return from school. What if there were a food shortage? What if they were back on rationing? He had just eaten everyone's food.
He had to get more, for the others as well as for himself. He went to the front room and looked out the window. The street was deserted. He wondered about the martial law he had heard of on the way home from school—how long ago? How long had he slept, anyway? He'd a feeling it had been a long while.
He unlocked the door and felt the coolness of the night. One of the unbroken streetlights shone through the bare branches of a nearby tree. There had still been a few leaves on the roadside trees on the afternoon of the troubles. He removed the spare key from the table in the hall, stepped outside, and locked the door behind him. The steps, which he knew must be cold, did not feel particularly chill on his bare feet.
He halted then, retreated into shadow. It was frightening, not knowing what was out there.
He raised his hands and held them up to the streetlight.
“Pale, pale, pale. . . .”
They faded until the light shone through them. They continued to fade. His body tingled.
When they were gone, he lowered his eyes. Nothing of him seemed to remain but the tingle.
Then he hurried up the street, a feeling of enormous energy within him. The odd, treelike being was gone from the next block. The streets were clear for traffic now, though there was considerable debris in the gutters and almost every parked vehicle he saw had sustained some damage. It seemed that every building he passed had at least one window blocked with cardboard or wood. Several roadside trees were now splintered stumps, and the metal signpost at the next corner was bent far to one side. He hurried, surprised at the rapidity of his progress, and when he reached his school he saw that it remained intact, save for a few missing panes of glass. He passed on.
Three grocery stores he came to were boarded up and displayed CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs. He broke into the third one. The boards offered very little resistance when he pushed against them. He located a light switch and threw it. Seconds later, he flipped it off. The place was a shambles. It had been thoroughly looted.
He proceeded uptown, passing the shells of several burned-out buildings. He heard voices—one gruff, one high and fluting—from within one of these. Moments later, there came a flash of white light and a scream. Simultaneous with this, a portion of a brick wall collapsed, spilling across the sidewalk at his back. He saw no reason to investigate. It also seemed on occasion that he heard voices from beneath sewer gratings.
He wandered for miles that night, not becoming aware until he was nearing Times Square that he was being followed. At first he thought that it was simply a large dog moving in the same direction he was headed. But when it drew nearer and he noted the human lines to its features, he halted and faced it. It sat down at a distance of about ten feet and regarded him.
“You're one, too,” it growled.
“You can see me?”
“No. Smell.”
“What do you want?”
“Food.”
“Me, too.”
“I'll show you where. For a cut.”
“Okay. Show me.”
It led him to a roped-off area where Army trucks were parked. Croyd counted ten of them. Uniformed figures stood or rested among them.
“What's going on?” Croyd asked.
“Talk later. Food packages in the four trucks to the left.”
It was no problem to pass the perimeter, enter the rear of a vehicle, gather an armload of packages, and withdraw in the other direction. He and the dog-man retreated to a doorway two blocks away. Croyd phased back to visibility and they proceeded to gorge themselves.
Afterward, his new acquaintance—who wished to be called Bentley—told him of the events during the weeks following Jetboy's death, while Croyd had slept. Croyd learned of the rush to Jersey, of the rioting, of the martial law, of the Takisians, and of the ten thousand deaths their virus had caused. And he heard of the transformed survivors—the lucky ones and the unlucky ones.
“You're a lucky one,” Bentley concluded.
“I don't feel lucky,” Croyd said.
“At least you stayed human.”
“So, have you been to see that Dr. Tachyon yet?”
“No. He's been so damn busy. I will, though.”
“I should, too.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, 'maybe'?”
“Why should you want to change? You got it made. You can have whatever you want.”
“You mean stealing?”
“Times are tough. You get by however you can.”
“Maybe so.”
“I can put you on to some clothes that will fit you.”
“Where?”
“Just around the corner.”
“Okay.”
It was not difficult for Croyd to break into the rear of the clothing store to which Bentley led him. He faded again after that and returned for another load of food parcels. Bentley padded beside him as he headed home.
“Mind if I keep you company?”
“No.”
“I want to see where you live. I can put you on to lots of good things.”
“Yeah?”
“I'd like a friend who can keep me fed. Think we can work something out?”
“Yes.”
In the days that followed Croyd became his family's provider. His older brother and sister did not ask whence he acquired the food or, finally, the money he obtained with seeming facility during his nightly absences. Neither did his mother, distracted in her grief over his father's death, think to inquire. Bentley—who slept somewhere in the neighborhood—became his guide and mentor in these enterprises, as well as his confidant in other matters.
“Maybe I should see that doctor you mentioned,” Croyd said, lowering the case of canned goods he had removed from a warehouse and perching himself upon it.
“Tachyon?” Bentley asked, stretching himself in an undoglike fashion.
“Yeah.”
“What's wrong?”
“I can't sleep. It's been five days since I woke up this way, and I haven't slept at all since then.”
“So? What's wrong with that? More time to do what you want.”
“But I'm finally starting to get tired and I still can't sleep.”
“It'll catch up with you in time. Not worth bothering Tachyon over. Anyway, if he tries to cure you your chances are only like one in three or four.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went to see him.”
“Oh?”
Croyd ate an apple. Then, “You going to try it?” he asked.
“If I can get up the nerve,” Bentley answered. “Who wants to spend his life as a dog? And not a very good dog, at that. By the way, when we go past a pet shop I want you to break in and get me a flea collar.”
“Sure. I wonder. . . . If I do go to sleep, will I sleep a long time like before?”
Bentley tried to shrug, gave up.
“Who knows?”
“Who'll take care of my family? Who'll take care of you?”
“I see the point. If you stop coming out nights, I guess I wait awhile and then go and try the cure. For your family, you'd better pick up a bunch of money. Things will loosen up again, and money always talks.”
“You're right.”
“You're damn strong. Think you could tear open a safe?”
“Maybe. I don't know.”
“We'll try one on the way home, too. I know a good place.”
“Okay.”
“. . . And some flea powder.”
It was getting on toward morning, as he sat reading and eating, that he began to yawn uncontrollably. When he rose there was a certain heaviness to
“Whassamatter, Croyd?” he asked.
“I'm sleepy.”
“So go to bed.”
“It's been a long time. Maybe I'll sleep a long time again, too.”
“Oh.”
“So here's some money, to take care of everybody in case that's what happens.”
He opened the top drawer of Carl's dresser and stuffed a huge wad of bills in under the socks.
“Uh, Croyd . . . Where'd you get all that money?”
“None of your business. Go back to sleep.”
He made it to his room, undressed, and crawled into bed. He felt very cold.
When he awoke there was frost on the windowpanes. When he looked outside he saw that there was snow on the ground beneath a leaden sky. His hand on the sill was wide and swarthy, the fingers short and thick.
Examining himself in the bathroom, he discovered that he was about five and a half feet tall, powerfully built, with dark hair and eyes, and that he possessed hard scarlike ridges on the front of his legs, the outside of his arms, across his shoulders, down his back, and up his neck. It took him another fifteen minutes to learn that he could raise the temperature of his hand to the point where the towel he was holding caught fire. It was only a few more minutes before he discovered that he could generate heat all over, until his entire body glowed—though he felt badly about the footprint that had burned into the linoleum, and the hole his other foot made in the throw rug.
This time, there was plenty of food in the kitchen, and he ate steadily for over an hour before his hunger pangs were eased. He'd put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, reflecting on the variety of clothing he would have to keep about if he were going to change in form each time that he slept.