Robert R. McCammon: The Collected Stories Part 14

"I got you, didn't l?" Davy jeered. His voice cracked. "I got you again, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" He strode to the swinging doors, his heart hammering but his mind clear and calm, and he stood there watching as Black Boots fell to the dust on his knees. A woman screamed. Davy saw the kid's mother about twenty feet away. She retreated a drunken step, her face bleached white and her hand pressed to her mouth. Her shocked eyes found Davy and seized on him. Black Boots was trying to get up, trying to aim his gun. "You sonofab.i.t.c.h," Davy said, and fired a shot into Black Boots'

forehead. The woman screamed again, a nettlesome sound. Black Boots pitched over on his side, the back of his head burst open. "I got you," Davy told him. "Serves you right, sneakin' up on me like--" Black Boots was no longer lying in the dust. Where Black Boots had been was a kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen. His face and chest were all b.l.o.o.d.y. The woman made a groaning sound, turned and ran toward the goods store with dust whirling up beneath her shoes. Davy's head was hurting something awful. He looked up at the green sky, and his eyes stung. Then he returned his gaze to the dead boy. What had happened to Black Boots? He was there just a minute ago. Wasn't he? Davy backed away from the corpse. Somebody else was shouting in the distance: "Get off the street! Get off the street!" Davy kept backing away, and he retreated through the swinging doors into the saloon, away from the blinding light and that dead boy somebody had shot.

He heard the click of a trigger being c.o.c.ked.

He spun around, c.o.c.king his Colt at the same time, and that was when Black Boots rose up from behind the bar. Black Boots had a rifle this time, and as its barrel swung upon him, Davy shouted with rage and fired his pistol. The Colt and the rifle spoke at the same instant. Davy was suddenly on the floor, though he had no recollection of how he'd gotten there. His left shoulder was wet and numb. Black Boots was chambering another slug, and behind him the mirror had been shattered to pieces. "Get him!" one of the card players hollered. The rifle took aim, but Davy had already found his mark and he shot Black Boots in the throat before another heartbeat had pa.s.sed. Black Boots slammed back into the shelves of bottles, his throat punctured, and the rifle went off, but the bullet whacked into the wall over Davy's head. With a rush of air through the hole in his throat, Black Boots slid down to the floor behind the bar. Davy got up. He glanced at the old man who'd been over by the piano; the man was hiding under a table, his flesh patterned with gray diamonds like the skin of a sidewinder. Davy walked to the bar, his head pulsing with pain, and he leaned over and shot Black Boots in the face.

Except it was not Black Boots. It was a man with slicked-back black hair, a rifle clenched in his twitching hands. Blood and air bubbled from the ruin of Carl's throat. Davy's legs felt weak. About to pa.s.s out, he thought. I'm shot. Sonofab.i.t.c.hin' Black Boots got me, didn't he? He staggered through the swinging door, leaving a trail of crimson, blue smoke wafting from the Colt's barrel. In the glare of the hard green sky, Davy saw that the horse he'd hitched in front of the saloon no longer had skin. It was a skeleton horse with a saddle and bridle. But it still had four legs, and in its cage of bones its red lungs and heart were still working. Davy pulled the reins free, swung himself up onto the skeleton horse, and turned it toward the way out of Zionville. He dug his heels into the bare ribs. The horse shot forward, but in the next instant Davy realized he was going the wrong way. He was heading back the way he'd come, toward Jalupa again. He tried to get the skeleton horse turned around, but it wheeled and fought him. He heard the noise of a cowbell.

Black Boots had just emerged from the goods store, a pistol in his hand. Davy lost the reins. He saw Black Boots running toward him, and Davy tried to take aim but the horse wheeled again and then Black Boots was right there and the pistol was thrust out at arm's-length. He thought he saw Black Boots smile. The first bullet grazed Davy's cheek. The second hit him in the side, and the third caught him in the stomach and knocked him out of the saddle. He fell into the dust, the horse's bony legs thrashing around him. Davy crawled away from the bucking skeleton, and a shadow fell upon him.

His eyes heavy-lidded and blood in his mouth, he looked up at Black Boots. The man was just standing there, dust swirling around him, the gun hanging at his side. Davy coughed up crimson, and he forced a crooked grin.

"You... never beat me," Davy whispered. "I was always faster. Always." And then he lifted his own gun, aimed it at Black Boots' chest and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Six bullets had been fired: two in the no-man's land, four killing Black Boots. Davy laughed, a broken sound.

Black Boots shot Davy Slaughter twice, once in the belly and once at close range in the skull. Davy twitched a few times. The Colt fell from his fingers, and he lay staring up at the sky. Joey's mother stood there a moment longer. She was shaking, and tears had streaked her face. She dropped the pistol, wiped her palm on her ap.r.o.n, and then she began to walk toward her dead son as the people of Zionville emerged from shelter. Burning down from a fierce blue sky, the sun threw long shadows. Not far away, the roan horse had ceased its bucking and stood in the middle of the street waiting for a guiding hand.

No one knew the gunfighter. He was crazy as h.e.l.l, old Braxton said. Shot Joey down for no reason at all. Crazy as h.e.l.l, he was. Pine boxes cost money, and no one came forward to offer any. The gunfighter was wrapped up in a canvas sack, his pallid face showing through, and somebody leaned him up against a wall while a picture was taken. The new sheriff from El Paso would want to know about this. Then a hole was dug, way over on the edge of the cemetery away from where Zionville's own lay. The reverend said a few words over the gunfighter, but n.o.body was there to hear them. Then the corpse was laid down into the hole, the reverend went away, and the man who threw dirt on the gunfighter's face wore black boots.

Copyright 1989 by Robert R. McCammon. All rights reserved. This story first appeared in the anthology Razored Saddles, edited by Joe R. Lansdale and Pat LoBrutto and published by Dark Harvest in 1989. Reprinted with permission of the author.

BEAUTY.

Welcome, Beauty was what the sign said. It was right up in front of the SeaHarp Hotel, where everybody in the world could see it. What I didn't find out until later was that the sign had said Welcome, Miss Greystone Bay Beauty, but the windstorm the night before had blown the rest of the letters to kingdom come. When my Momma and I saw that sign, she squeezed my hand and I felt like my heart was going to burst open. My Momma always called me Beauty, and now the SeaHarp was calling me Beauty too.

Oh, that was a wonderful day! My Momma used to tell me the story of Cinderella. I could never get enough of it. And when we took the curve in that fancy, long black car they'd sent for us, and I saw the SeaHarp Hotel up on the hill in front of us, I knew how Cinderella felt. If you were to take a dream and put sugar frosting on it, you'd have the SeaHarp. All those windows, that green gra.s.s, the blue sky over us... and that sign. It made my blood thrill, to think the SeaHarp knew my name. 'Course, my little sister Annie had to come along with us, and she was kicking a fuss because it was my day to get all the attention. But I didn't mind. Not much. I missed Daddy being there, but Mr. Teague wouldn't let him off from the mill, not even for a day like this. Momma says things about Mr. Teague that I wouldn't tell a soul.

The driver pulled us on up to the front steps. Another man in a uniform came down and opened the door for us. We got out, and we went up to the porch and we didn't even have to carry our own bags. Then I stood at the open doors looking in at the SeaHarp like a frozen statue while Annie danced and raised Cain all around me. Momma told her to hush and not disgrace us, and the man in the uniform smiled and said, "It's our honor, Mrs. Guthrie," in a voice that let you know you'd gotten to where you were supposed to be. My Momma smiled, but her lips were tight; she was always ashamed of her teeth, the front one broken and all.

Before we went in, I turned toward the Bay. It was full of sunshine. And then I just let my head turn along the crescent of the water, and way off in the distance I saw a smudge of smoke against the sky. It was coming up from a long brown building that hardly had any windows. "My Daddy's there," I told the man at the door, and I pointed. I saw my Momma flinch just a little bit, but the doorman smiled real nice.

I won the contest, see. The Greystone Bay Beauty Contest, for young ladies sixteen to eighteen. The winner got a dozen roses, a hundred dollars and a weekend stay at the SeaHarp. And her picture in the paper too, of course. I'd just turned sixteen, on the second day of May. My Momma always had faith in me. She said I could sing up a storm, and my voice was okay I guess. She said, "Beauty, someday you're gonna go far. Gonna see and do things I never did. I wish I could go with you to those places."

I said, "You can. Momma! You can always go with me!"

She smiled, a little bit. "You're a beauty," she said, and she took my hands and held them. "Beauty outside, beauty inside. Me, I'm just a tired rag."

"No!" I told her. "Don't you say that!" Because my Momma was a pretty woman, and there's n.o.body better say she wasn't. Isn't, I mean.

The manager was waiting to meet us, in that big lobby bathed in light. He was a tall man, in a dark blue suit with pinstripes. He said how happy he was that the SeaHarp could host us for the weekend, but I hardly heard him. I was looking around that lobby, and trying to figure out how many of our house could fit in it. Maybe ten. We only had four rooms; they called where we lived a "shotgun shack," and the walls were gray. Not in the SeaHarp. The walls were white, like clouds. I'd never seen so many chairs, sofas and tables outside of a furniture store, and there were crystal vases full of fresh-cut flowers. I've always loved flowers. I used to pick daffodils in the Spring, where they grew along the creekbed outside our back door.

"h.e.l.lo," the manager said to me, and I said h.e.l.lo back. "Someone's wearing some nice perfume."

"That's violets," Momma said. "She always wears the scent of violets, because that's a right smell for a beauty like her."

"Yes," the manager agreed, "it certainly is." And then he snapped his fingers and you would've thought the carpet has sprouted bellboys like mushrooms.

It's strange, how you notice things. Like the pink dress my Momma and Daddy had bought for me to wear. It looked fine in the gray light of our house, but at the SeaHarp... it looked like the pink was old and faded. It looked like something that had been on a hanger for a long, long time. And the sheets of my bed in that room were so cool and crisp; they embraced you. They didn't want you to leave them. The windows were all so clean, and the sun was so bright, and you had hot water whenever you wanted it. Oh, that was a Cinderella dream come true. Momma said Daddy was going to come visit the SeaHarp when he got off work, even if it was at nine o'clock at night. She said Daddy was so proud of me, just like she was. All Annie did, though, was prance around and make a mighty fool of herself. Momma said she was going to lie down and have a rest, and for me to watch Annie and keep her out of mischief. We went off together, through the white hallways, and we found the stairs. Annie said she could dance better than me, and I said she couldn't. I was sixteen, but there was enough little girl in me to want to show her who was a better dancer. So we danced up and down those stairs, like that scene where Shirley Temple dances on the steps and she goes up three, down two, up four, down two, up five, down... My head hurts.

Sometimes I get tired real easy. Sometimes day seems like night, and night seems like a long day when clocks won't move. I get tired, and I can't think right.

I leave my room, where the crisp cool sheets of that bed are always laid open like a blue wound, and I go to the elevator. I know the elevator man's name: Clancy. He's a black man with gray hair, and he knows me too. He brings the elevator to where I wait, and when he cranks the doors open I step in smooth as pink silk.

"Evenin', Beauty," Clancy says. I say h.e.l.lo to Mr. Clancy. "Mighty quiet in the SeaHarp tonight," he says-this is what he always says. Mr. Clancy only works during the quiet hours. He cranks the doors shut, pulls a lever and the old elevator begins its descent. I listen to the cables and gears turning above our heads. A gear needs oiling; it squeaks too loudly.

"What time is it?" I ask Mr. Clancy.

"Gloria's sister June is gonna have a baby," he answers. Oh, he can be a mean man! Sometimes he acts as if you have no voice at all! "Got the names all picked out. Third baby for her, shouldn't be no big thing."

"Is it springtime, Mr. Clancy?" I ask. "At least tell me that."

"Smithie got a raise. Seems like I oughta get a raise. You know, that Smithie's always complainin' 'bout one thing or another."

I want to scream, but that would be beneath me. To tell the truth, I like hearing Mr. Clancy talk to me. I like the sound of his voice, and the noise of the elevator. I don't care for the stairs.

The elevator arrives at the lobby. The doors open, and I see the lamps glowing and the beautiful walls and furniture; all there, all just the same as the first day. "You sure smell nice tonight. Beauty," Mr. Clancy says as I leave-he always says this-and I turn back and say thank you to his blind-eyed face. Then Mr. Clancy sits on his stool and rests awhile, waiting for me to return. I roam the lobby, between the walls of clouds. There are new, fresh-cut flowers in the crystal vases. I decide it must be springtime, after all. At the SeaHarp, it's always springtime. This is my Cinderella dream. I can sing here, and dance across a carpet the color of sun on the Bay. Once I saw a young man walking here; he was a handsome young man, older than me. Maybe he was twenty. I walked beside him, but he had a newspaper under his arm and no time for beauty. I drift amid the vases, and some of the flowers rustle as I pa.s.s. Sometimes I hear other voices here: fragile voices, drifting in and out. Daddy used to have an old radio he kept in the front room, and Annie and I listened to it. That's what those voices are like: from faraway places, places that aren't nearly so beautiful as this.

I don't like the attic. They don't keep it clean enough, and the voices up there want you to do naughty things. Once I was here, dancing and singing, and I saw the manager. The very same man. I recognized him by his walk, and the way he snapped his fingers at the people behind the front desk. They jumped like whipped dogs. I came up behind him and snapped my fingers at his ear, and he turned around real quick and for a second he looked right straight into my eyes.

Oh, no, I thought. Oh, no. This couldn't be the same man. I was wrong. This was an old man, with white hair and a wrinkled face. Oh, the man I was thinking about was a lot younger than this. But he must've smelled my violets, because he made a gasping sound and stepped back against the counter and his eyes were as big as silver dollars.

"Talk to me," I said. "Somebody talk to me."

But the old man just gasped, and I went on.

What time is it? My head... sometimes it hurts so bad. Momma? I thought I heard- I get tired, real easy.

Mr. Clancy takes me in the elevator, back up to the third floor. "Goodnight, Beauty," he says, and I wish him goodnight too. Momma always said being polite was a sign of good blood.

The door to Room 301 is open. It's always open. I wouldn't have it any other way, because if anyone wants to come in and talk to me, I want them to know they're welcome. I go inside-and there's a woman sitting in a chair, a lamp with a blue shade burning next to her. She looks up as soon as I come in, and her eyes widen. She shakes a little bit, as if she's about to get up and run for the door. But she settles down and sticks, and I drift past her toward the bed with blue sheets.

"You're there, aren't you?" the woman asks. Her voice is strained, but... I know that voice, from somewhere.

"You're there," she says, positive now. "It's Ann, Beauty. It's your sister Ann."

"I know who my sister is!" I say, turning toward the woman. "But you're not her!" This is an old woman sitting in my chair; an old woman with gray in her hair and deep lines on her face. "My sister's a little girl!"

"I... don't know if you can understand this or not." The old woman who's pretending to be my sister stands up, and she grips her hands in front of her as if she's afraid they're going to fly away like wrinkled birds. "I wanted you to know... that Momma died tonight. At the hospital. The cancer got her."

"Liar!" I shout. "You dirty old liar! Get out of my room!"

"Momma asked me to come tell you," the crazy old woman goes on. "I was right there when she died. Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"NO! NO! NO! NO!".

"Jesus, I must be a d.a.m.n fool." The woman shakes her head. "I'm talking to the walls. I'm in a d.a.m.n hotel room, talking to the walls."

"Get out!" I want to knock the stuffing out of the old woman. I want to pick her up like a scarecrow and throw her through the door. I want to drag her by the hair to the stairs and shove her down the... My head. My head hurts. Oh, my head...

"It's better she pa.s.sed on," the woman says. Why did such a crazy old fool think I'd believe she was Annie?

"Momma had some pain. It's better this way." She looks at her hands, and I can see them too, in the lamplight. The fingernails are broken, and her hands are rough and cracked. They're the hands of my Momma. "I... came up the stairs, Beauty," she says. "I was going to take the elevator, but..." She shrugs. "I needed to walk up the stairs." Then she lifts her head, and I watch her look all around the room as if she's searching for a ghost. "Beauty," she says, in a very quiet voice, "I want to ask you something. It's been... tearing at me, for such a long time. Beauty, please tell me... I didn't make you fall down those stairs, did I?"

She's not my sister! My sister's a little girl! "YOU GET OUT!" I shout at her...

"Please tell me. It's been killing me, all these years. I didn't make you fall... did I?" She waits. Annie, what happened to us? What happened, in an instant when balance failed? What time is it, and where is our Momma?

"Please... please," Annie says, and she lowers her head and begins to cry.

"No," I tell her. "Annie? You didn't make me fall. Okay?"

Annie keeps crying. She always did like attention.

"I'm all right now," I say. "See?"

She sobs, and runs a hand over her eyes. I remember something, now: here, in my room, Momma sitting on the bed and crying as she told me Daddy had died. An accident at the mill, she said. An accident... just like yours was an accident.

"Annie!" I say. "I'm all right! Stop crying!"

"I just wanted to tell you about Momma," Annie says. She blows her nose on a tissue and wads it up. An old stranger, she moves toward the door. Then she stops, on the threshold. "Beauty? I don't know why you stayed here. Maybe Momma did, but I didn't. Maybe you're here and maybe you're not, but... if you can, could you go be with Momma? I mean... it seems like it's time for you to leave here, Beauty. It's time for you to go on." And then my sister goes through the door, and I follow her to the staircase. She descends, treading carefully, and I watch her out of sight.

"Annie?" I call down after her. "I love you!"

Momma? Are you here, Momma? Have you come to be with your Beauty?

No, Wherever Momma is, she's not at the SeaHarp. She's gone to a place I should have gone to first. She's already seen things I never have. But we can be together again! Can't we?

If I want to be with her, I have to leave the Cinderella dream. I don't think I'm ready for that yet. I'm afraid. I love the springtime, and I'm so afraid of winter.

But I have my answer now. I know what time it is. Annie told me: it's time to leave here. It's time to go on. Maybe I will. Maybe. But if you were to take a dream and put sugar frosting on it, you'd have the SeaHarp. Do all dreams have to end at midnight? Do they?

My head hurts. I get tired real easy. I want to rest in the blue sheets, and I want to hear the Bay crash against the rocks. I want to dream of pink dresses, a dozen roses, and a sign that said Welcome, Beauty. Maybe my Momma will find me in that dream. Maybe she's waiting for me there, and if I hurry we can go together. But the SeaHarp holds me. It's so full of light and beauty, so full of dreams. Can't I stay here, just a little while longer?

I need to rest. Mr. Clancy will be waiting, at the elevator. He is the master of his little square of the SeaHarp, just as I am the mistress of mine. Tomorrow is the first day of spring. I am sixteen years old, there will be fresh-cut flowers in the crystal vases, and all the world will be beautiful.

Copyright 1990 by Robert R. McCammon. All rights reserved. This story originally appeared in the anthology The SeaHarp Hotel: The Third Chronicle of Greystone Bay , edited by Charles L. Grant and published in 1990. Reprinted with permission of the author.

A PROFILE OF ROBERT M cCAMMON.

"My key word is hope; I think there's hope in any situation."

(Robert McCammon in Fear, Nov/Dec 1988, p.27).

The Kings, the Herberts, the Barkers, the Straubs. It's only been comparatively recently that you could add the surname McCammon to such a formidable lineup of names popularly a.s.sociated with the modern horror genre. After 17 years, 13 books and a lot of adverse opinion regarding his novels, Robert R. McCammon has at last struck gold, not only in terms of critical success (there have been awards: Boy's Life, for instance, won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel in 1992) but also with regard to the richness of his writing. For the novels and short stories of this talented American author are nowadays acclaimed as amongst the best in the field, indeed any field you care to mention.

Robert McCammon began his career as a journalist. In 1978, at the age of 26, he sold his novel Baal at the first attempt; these were followed by a succession of bestselling horror novels including Bethany's Sin (1979), The Night Boat (1980), They Thirst (1981), Mystery Walk (1983) and Swan Song (1987). To date his novels have yet to be filmed although two of his short stories ('Makeup' and 'Nightcrawlers') have been adapted for U.S. television. In 1984, McCammon came up with the idea of The Horror Writers Of America for which he has acted as contributing editor for the a.s.sociation's vampire anthology Under The Fang. He currently lives in Birmingham, Alabama. Perhaps what first brought McCammon to the public's attention was not the originality of his style or plots but instead the comparisons which were made to other name writers of the seventies, in the main one Stephen King. The parallel was undeniable. His first success Baal with its demonic-child-wreaks-havoc-on-mankind scenario was mirrored to a certain extent by King's first effort Carrie, the story of a troubled teenage girl with telekinetic powers. Never mind that the former was a better novel, it soon became fashionable to equate McCammon's books with his revered rival and often with justification. They Thirst, for example, is the author's foray into the much-trod fictional arena of the vampire novel. Though intrinsically different from King's vampire opus Salem's Lot, there were certainly plot similarities thankfully balanced out by McCammon's very different characters and ideas. And then there's Swan Song, post-apocalyptical and long; versus King's The Stand, post-apocalyptical and very long. There's actually some mileage to be had in comparing McCammon to other authors: it sheds light (both favourable and equivocal) on the many varying aspects of his writing and at the same time gives us an overview of his career, presenting his work in a better-understood light. Another writer a.s.sociated with the deep south is Joe R. Lansdale. Could you compare the two and get away with it? Both McCammon's and Lansdale's characters are warm but often enigmatic in the extreme; both mix old-fashioned morality tales with sometimes extremely brutal violence in a mixture that conversely works well. McCammon's stories however tend to be spread across a very broad canva.s.s whereas Lansdale usually restricts his tales to a more personal viewpoint. Or what about the fact that more recent McCammon novels have followed the trend set by Clive Barker, Peter Straub and Dean Koontz in that they have tended to move away from supernatural horror and have merely retained elements of the fantasy genre to supplement their more mainstream works. In McCammon's case, examples of these would include Mine, Boy's Life and Gone South.

Which brings us to the type of books that the author writes. Certainly the horror tag is applicable to a good many of them. Baal, Bethany's Sin, The Night Boat, They Thirst, Mystery Walk, Usher's Pa.s.sing: all cla.s.sifiable as "horror novels". Others range into more diverse territory. The post-apocalyptic terror of Swan Song which follows the plight of several unrelated characters in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust; the out-and-out sci-fi of Stinger (a.s.sorted alien monsters let loose on a small town); the frank and at times spiritual account of a p.o.r.n actress in the novella Blue World; Gone South with its bizarre a.s.sortment of characters including an awful Elvis impersonator called Pelvis Eisley, his partner, a freak with a mean streak and a woman with a disfiguring birthmark, all headed for the Louisiana swamplands. Into all of these books McCammon has thrust enough a.s.sorted ingredients to ensure readability at all times: despite not writing such conspicuously horror-based novels of late, all of his novels have utilised s.e.x, violence, terror, humour and hope. Whether it is a book such as Usher's Pa.s.sing, an intriguing pseudo-historical updating of Poe's legendary story The Fall Of The House Of Usher, which lends a depth (not to mention genuine scares) to the original, or the Bradbury-like nostalgia of a young boy's tale of loss, redemption and innocence in Boy's Life, Robert McCammon has demonstrated his competence several times over. Arguably he hit high gear with the publication of Mystery Walk in 1983. This sensitive and often very eerie tale concerns a young boy and his extraordinary "gift" to help the deceased "pa.s.s on" following an often traumatic and sudden death. Following his path to manhood it sets him against many obstacles including a crackpot preacher determined to prove his powers are less than holy. It's a beautifully paced novel, full of affecting moments and sensitive characterisation with enough ghostly chills to please any cynical horror fan. Following this with another masterly effort, Usher's Pa.s.sing, McCammon soon became a force to be reckoned with. The Wolf's Hour (1989) is the story of a British Secret Agent who is actually a werewolf and what's more, a World War II hero to boot! As unlikely as it sounds, it was probably his best book to date taking an epic plot and weaving it in a way that was more focused than his previous epic, Swan Song.

1990 saw the publication of the psychological thriller Mine. It showed the author at the pinnacle of his ability. Mary Terrell is a former member of a 60s Liberation Army movement who years later, yearning for the "good old days" of violent protests goes underground and eventually, quite mad. She decides to kidnap a baby from a hospital, and the rest of the novel examines the plight of the mother whose baby was stolen, her attempts to locate Mary and reclaim her offspring. Being a current and, as recent cases both in the UK and the U.S. have proved, pertinent issue, the book makes enthralling reading and you literally hold your breath during the scenes involving the extremely unpredictable Mary wondering what on earth she's going to do next.

It's been said before that one of the most important things about McCammon's novels is the element of hope that infiltrates his fictional situations time and time again. True enough there is almost always a positive ending to his books but as in the best horror/fantasy novels, the characters really go through the mix before arriving, shop-soiled but basically intact at the conclusions to their personal journeys. And it is these characters that more than anything else determine the pedigree of a Robert McCammon novel.

McCammon's people are often a strange a.s.sortment: the Elvis impersonator in Gone South; the bag lady-turned-heroine in Swan Song; the sewer-dweller with a heart in They Thirst. All endear themselves to our hearts because we all love an outcast. His players are some of the most rounded and fascinating in horror fiction. Although his narrative moves at a fast pace, he spends a lot of time showing us his major (and minor) characters, characters who are sometimes larger than life but always interesting enough to engage our attention through even his longest novels.

It is probably true that the author has used old plots and stereotypes with great frequency down the years, but it is the interpretation he gives his subject matter that counts. So McCammon has done vampires, he's done werewolves, resurrected zombies, the apocalypse, people with paranormal gifts: yet he's also executed each idea with a certain individuality and an undeniably intelligent finesse. Remove the chills from his novels and you're still left with fine writing and quick-witted observation about the big L, Life.

Combined with the above a.s.sets, Robert McCammon has always demonstrated an astute ear for dialogue. Like several of his contemporaries, he seems to be able to be able to tell you as much about his characters through what they say as through straightforward description.

Note the following naturalistic dialogue, taken from his short story, Yellachile's Cage (Blue World, p.67): I've spent time in juve centres and workhomes and c.r.a.p like that, but you say "Prison" and your talking a different animal. You walk in a prison like the Brickyard and you be twenty-one years old and you better keep a tight a.s.s and your head tucked down real low to the ground or somebody he gone knock it off cause thats his kick... Anyways, I didn't pay a feller no respect and I was in the hospital bout three hours after the Cap'n dropped me down the chute. Important too is the visual aspect inherent in his novels. In one magazine, McCammon comments that he writes his books as a film-maker constructs a film, taking into account sets, costumes, and actors. Bearing this in mind, one wonders why we haven't seen the transition of print into celluloid with any of his longer works. (On the other hand, maybe that's no bad thing considering what has happened to many of our best genre stars when their visions were debased and turned into some really dreadful movies.) So what makes a powerful McCammon story? To answer this, let's take a brief look at a short story and a novel both of which are good examples of why McCammon's fiction has such universal appeal. Firstly, the short story, 'The Deep End' ( Night Fears, 1989). It's the story of Glenn whose son Neil "drowned" in the local public swimming pool. However, the father is suspicious when he discovers that there have been similar deaths for at least the past five summers, and together with the evidence he found on his son's neck (possibly bite wounds), he decides to investigate further in the hope of destroying the creature he suspects inhabits the pool, one which can change its shape and colour to suit its environment. What follows is typically McCammon in terms of style, content and characterisation. Almost Twilight Zone-ish in its story, we are made to feel the father's anguish and self-doubt (Is the creature real? Is the grief driving him mad?) but also his hope, for revenge, for peace of mind. Typical also is the skillfully portrayed pathos and the simple but exciting storyline which sees a confrontation with an alien life-form and a climactic fight for life. Some of McCammon's best stories feature heroism prominently-for example, 'Night Calls The Green Falcon', 'Yellachile's Cage' and 'Wolf's Hour'-and in 'The Deep End' we are once more confronted with a hero, whose deeds not only avenge his son's death but also save a town from further tragedy. Described by its creator as a "fictography"-a mixture of fiction and biography- Boy's Life (1991) is set in an Alabama town in 1964. It portrays a young boy and the adventures he has as a result of what he and his father witness one fateful morning. Here we have one of those nostalgic, often sentimental (though never melodramatic) epics which the likes of Ray Bradbury, Stephen King and Dan Simmons have tackled in the past and whose movie equivalents include Stand By Me, The Lady In White, and Something Wicked This Way Comes. In a letter included at the back of the U.S. edition of Mine, McCammon makes this comment: " Boy's Life is not about lost innocence, because I believe we all maintain the pool of innocence and wonder inside us no matter how far we get away from our childhood."

Whatever the author intended his book be about it's certainly an uplifting experience in every way. Few modern authors possess the a.s.set of such a capable imagination that allows them to depict a grown man's reminiscences of his magical past in quite such a moving, funny and enlightening manner. By means of affecting nostalgia McCammon takes us with his character through episodic accounts of practical realism (the witnessing of a tragedy), sharply etched humour (the "stinging sermon") and fantastic improbability (a huge beast that appears during a flood), introducing us along the way to some of the most memorable characters ever devised. Here are all the elements intact: pathos; tragedy; humour; optimism. There are reminiscences on the golden age of science fiction, creepy moments, sad reflections: all lovingly presented in what is probably McCammon's best book to date. Robert McCammon and his work have been labelled many things over the years, but more and more recently these have included such descriptions as "electric", "blistering" and "enthralling". He has even been cast in the "splatterpunk" mode by some critics, though this is a term obviously ill-suited to a writer of such diverse books. As American as apple pie and with all the best attributes one expects from a talented modern author, it will be fascinating to discover to what heights Robert McCammon has yet to aspire if indeed such a pinnacle has not already been reached.

Version 1.0. Compiled for #bookz by Ted aka BearBear aka TedBear. August 2003.

Visit www.robertmccammon.com for more information about the author and his works.

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