STRANGE SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY OMNIBUS (14 page)

No answer. The man simply sat there, staring fixedly ahead. In case he was deaf, Morrison tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Still no response. Finally in desperation Morrison asked as loudly as he could “Do you have a name?”

The man turned to face him, “Yes, I do,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice without looking at Morrison. Looking closely at this enigmatic figure, Morrison concluded that he was about Morrison’s own age, in his mid forties. He was wearing a three-piece business suit and a striped tie. Morrison had been similarly dressed when he awakened in the boat, but had doffed coat, tie and vest in his hut because of heat.

“What is your name? Morrison asked, wondering if for some reason the man responded only to a direct question.

“John Baxter,” came back the response, uttered in the same toneless voice.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Yes,” came back the answer.

Morrison thought this was a lot like playing some silly party game. “All right,” he asked, “Where are we?”

“In limbo.”

Morrison thought he must have heard something else. How could he be in limbo? As far as he recalled, Limbo was supposedly a place, not Heaven and not Hell, where the souls of babies who had died before they could be baptized went. “Do you mean we are dead? He asked, fearing the answer.

“Yes.”

“Good God,” said aloud, despite himself. How could it be true? Such things couldn’t really happen. But apparently they did, he realized. That would explain a lot of the mystery about how he got here.

“All right,” he said. “If we’re really dead, why are we here? I thought when you died your are supposed to go either to Heaven or to Hell.”

“We’ve come back,” the same monotonous voice he had come to detest “Because when we were alive we never did enough good things to permit us to enter Heaven nor enough bad ones to result in our being sent down to the damned souls in Hell.”

This was the longest utterance Baxter had made to date, but certainly no more welcome than his previous ones.

“How long have you been here?” Morrison inquired.

“Forever.” Obviously Baxter was speaking rhetorically rather than literally. The business suit he was wearing was of a style that could not have possibly been made before the end of the Second World War.

“How long will I be here?” Morrison asked.

“I don’t know, probably forever.”

Is there any way I can get out of here?” Morrison asked desperately. From what he had seen of Limbo, it could hardly be worse than Hell.

“Not that I know of,” from Baxter, still that toneless reply.

It was excruciating trying to have a conversation with Baxter. Morrison could not understand how any person could be so unwilling to engage with a fellow human being, particularly when in a situation such as they shared. He wondered if Baxter was simply in a severely depressed state now or whether he had behaved in the same way, when alive.

He knew he wanted to get away. Even being alone was preferable. He had one final question. “Are there any other people here in Limbo beside the two of us?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

Morrison turned and started to leave. Then he realized he had one question he had to ask. “What is there to eat here?”

“The red fruit on the trees.”

It’s not poisonous>”

“No.”

Without another word, Morrison turned away and headed back to where he believed his hut was located. He was relieved to not have to talk further with Baxter. It was even worse than being alone in this God-forsaken place. On the way back, he stopped to stare at the fruit on the trees. He wondered if Baxter was correct in stating it was not harmful, whether he was telling him the truth or attempting to deceive him for some mysterious motive. He decided it was most unlikely was deliberately lying, his demeanor, his body language all strongly indicating he was speaking the truth, at least as far as he understood it.

Morrison reached up and took a small handful of the red fruit. He tasted a bit and cautiously waited to see if there was any unfavorable reaction. There was none. He took more and ate enough to appease his hunger. He disliked the texture, which was mushy, but in its favor it had a slightly sweet taste, much he supposed you would get if you ate a raw sweet potato. All told; he would have described the food as neither good nor bad, simply acceptable.

After some delay and concern he found his way back to his hut. He could think of nothing further to do. Certainly, attempting to converse with Baxter was so difficult it was better off being alone. He entered his cut, curled up and fell asleep. His last waking thought was that the red fruit was just like everything else in Limbo except for Baxter, neither good nor bad, just adequate.

Morrison fell into the same routine each day. He would get up early, walk to the stream for a drink and then go to one of the trees for his food. While alive he had enjoyed three meals a day and so ate on that same schedule here. After each meal, he would return to his hut and sleep. It was extremely boring, but there was simply nothing else to do. On none of these occasions did he ever encounter a person and he was never once tempted to visit Baxter.

One day while walking to the stream he saw a hut. His first impression was that he had mistakenly taken a path to Baxter. Morrison was about to turn away when he heard the sound of someone weeping. It seemed strange for Baxter to express so much emotion. Then he realized it could not be Baxter. The voice was undoubtedly that of a woman.

Morrison approached the hut and within that there was indeed a woman weeping horribly, interrupted by occasional curses. Without stopping to reflect, he crouched to enter the hut, picked her up and wrapped his arms around her, trying somehow to comfort her. He realized that his sudden appearance might be alarming and so said in as friendly a tone as he could, “Hi, my name is Bill Morrison, is there anything I can do for you?” She stopped weeping, pulled herself away, turned and stared at him, her expression showing her fear.

Morrison smiled and repeated what he had just told her. She relaxed slightly. “Hi,” she said cautiously. My name is Theresa White. My friends call me Terry.” Her voice was very attractive, as was she. Morrison guessed her age as about forty. She had blond hair, eyes that appeared green, and was wearing a stylish suit.

He was about to shake her hand, and then thought better of it. He didn’t want to frighten her.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” he repeated.

“Where are we?” she asked. “How did I get here?”

Trying to sound as confident as he could to reassure her he briefly summarized what Baxter had told him

“That can’t be true,” she said softly. “I’m only forty-three. No one does so young. I wasn’t sick at all. I have a husband and two young children. Why my daughter is just eight years old.”

“I was just forty-six when I apparently died. I was not sick either.” He explained about leaving his office for lunch and awakening to find himself on that mysterious boat.”

“That same thing happened to me,” she said. “I also awakened to find myself on that boat that came up to the shore and then slipped away when I go off. It’s still hard to believe that there’s a real Limbo,” she added. “Could you take me to Baxter and listen for myself to what he says. Isn’t it possible you didn’t properly understand what he told you?”

Morrison thought of attempting to persuade her not to go. Trying to speak with Baxter might throw her back into a funk. Still, she had a right to listen to him herself. And while he thought what Baxter had told him was so absurd it was possible he had somehow misunderstood the man. “By all means,” he said, “It might be better if you listened to him yourself. Let’s go there now.

As he led her in the direction of Baxter’s hut they passed some of the trees and he stopped. “If you are as hungry as I was when I arrived here you probably want something to eat.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I’m famished.”

Morrison picked some of the red fruit and gave her most of it; eating a small quantity of it himself to show her it was safe to do so. “How do you like it?”He asked.

“It’s odd tasting. I never had anything like it before. What kind of fruit is it?”

“I don’t know either,” Morrison replied. “I think it's only found here in Limbo. “

She finished the fruit and said, “I would say it’s OK.”

“That’s the way I feel about it. I always tell myself is adequate. He smiled. “In fact adequate is the word I’d use to describe everything in Limbo. Except you,” headed. “You’re perfect.”

“Good God,” he thought to himself. “Am I flirting with her?” He didn’t want to appear too forward, so he quickly changed the subject, asking her about herself. She didn’t seem to notice his abrupt change in the tenor of his conversation and told him that she had been a high school biology teacher.

“You know, “she added, “I seem to remember being in a car going to my school. Do you think I might have been killed in an auto accident?”

“It’s possible,” he answered, “Or it could just as easily have been a sudden stroke. You can’t tell because it apparently makes no difference about how you look or feel here.”

He thought of warning her again about Baxter’s likely attitude toward her, then reconsidered. He didn’t want to bias her opinion of the man.

After several mistakes, he finally found the correct path to Baxter’s. They found Baxter sitting in his usual place in front of the hut staring fixedly ahead.

“Hi, Baxter,” Morrison called out, attempting sound cheerful. “I’ve brought someone to meet you. Her name is Terry White.”

Terry stepped forward and stuck out her hand to shake Baxter’s. He continued to stare ahead, ignoring her.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” she said.”

Again, no response from Baxter. “You see what I mean,” Morrison whispered to her. To get any answer, you have to ask him a direct question.”

“Is your name Baxter?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we?”

“In Limbo.”

“How did we get here?”

“We died.”

“Am I dead?”

“Yes.”

“How long will I be here?”

“Forever.”

Morrison could sense that Terry was becoming increasingly annoyed and frustrated by Baxter’s behavior. “Don’t you think it might be time for us to leave?” He asked. “It’s about time for us to have something to eat.”

She remained quiet for a few seconds, and then nodded her head in agreement. “Yes,” she said. Then turning to leave, she went down and thanked Baxter for his courteous assistance. Morrison wondered if she was polite or just sarcastic. As she turned to accompany him, he was startled to see out of the corner of his eye Baxter turn his head and stare at her. “So the old boy does have an eye for the ladies,” he told himself, although he said nothing to Terry about it.

On the way back to Terry’s hut, Morrison asked her what her reaction was to Baxter’s comments. “It’s just as you said,” she answered. “I think he’s telling the truth. Any you were perfectly right. He’s insufferable.”

They reached her hut, sat down and chatted in friendly fashion. She told him more about herself, about her students, about how much she enjoyed the year off from teaching when she had been awarded a fellowship to take some advanced courses in biology at the university. He, in turn, talked about himself, about his wife Irene and their two sons, about his work as an economic consultant to firms in the construction industry. He found her a most charming woman, wonderful to talk to and very attractive.

They broke off only to get another meal from the fruit trees, stopped for a drink at the stream and returned to her to resume chatting. Morrison suddenly realized it was getting late, and the sun was close to setting. ”I’d better leave now,” he said. “I want to get back to my hut before it’s too dark for me to find my way.”

As he stood to leave she reached out her arms and grabbed him. “Please don’t leave me she said. I don’t want to alone in this awful place. Please stay here.”

Morrison didn’t have the heart to say no. He sat down again and smiled cheerful at her. He realized all the risks in becoming too involved with Terry, both because of the bizarre conditions in which they were living and because he had known her for less than a day. They continued the friendly conversation until the sun went down. Then they entered Terry’s hut and lay down to sleep.

“Good night, Bill,” she said, turning to sleep on her side. He thought her voice very sweet. In reminded him a lot of his wife. “Good night, Terry,” he answered in reply, adding “Sleep tight,” as he always had told Irene.

During the night, the temperature dropped appreciably; Morrison awakened feeling very cold, his teeth almost chattering. Terry t turned to face him. “I’m freezing,” she said, “Isn’t there something we can do?” He turned over to face her, asked her to turn on her other side and covering the back of her body with his own, put his arms around her and hugged her close. He could feel the increased warmth from the two bodies touching. “Thank you very much,” she whispered. “You feel like a warm furnace. I ‘m much warmer now.” From her quiet breathing, he realized she was back asleep.

He lay there quietly, unable to sleep; his mind troubled my conflicting emotions. Although he had actually done nothing improper so far, he felt guilty as though he had already cheated on Irene. Morrison had had a few affairs before marriage, but in their twenty-two years of marriage, he had never touched another woman. And there was Terry to consider. She gave every indication of being very much in love with her husband.

His common sense told him something different. He was dead. Terry was dead. There was no chance he would ever see Irene again. She was such a warm, caring, unselfish person that she could never end up in Limbo. If anyone deserved a free pass to Heaven, it was his wife. Morrison finally fell asleep, his arms around Terry, smelling the aroma of her hair, feeling the warmth of her body.

When Morrison awakened, the sun was streaming through the hut entrance. He was still embracing Terry. She awakened, turned to face him, and gave him a cheerful good morning. Then she suddenly kissed him, hard and passionately. “Make love to me, Bill, “she said passionately, “Please, please make love to me.”