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was pretty. The dead music woman, the woman whose voice caused cancer, whose kisses left damp
mildewed stains, whose...
His heart beat flabbily, his hands were cramped, his fingertips were numb, and his thoughts were a
whining, glowing crack opening in a smoky sky like slow lightning. Feeling a dark red emotion too
contemplative to be anger, he typed a single paragraph and then stopped to read what he had written.
The thing about this music is, it just feels right. It s not art, it s not beauty; it s a meter reading on the
state of the soul, of the world. It s the bottom line of all time, a registering of creepy fundamentals, the
rendering into music of the crummiest truth, the statement of some meager final tolerance, a universal
alpha wave. God s EKG, the least possible music, the absolute minimum of sound, all that s left to say, to
be, for them, for us... maybe that s why it feels so damn right. It creates an option to suicide, a place
where there is no great trouble, only a trickle of blood through stony flesh and the crackle of a base
electric message across the brain.
Well, he thought, now there s a waste of a paragraph. Put that into the column, and he d be looking
for work with a weekly shopping guide.
He essayed a laugh and produced a gulping noise. Damn, he felt lousy.
Not lousy, really, just... just sort of nothing. Like there was nothing in his head except the music.
Music and black dead air. Dead life.
Dead love. He typed a few more lines.
Maybe Dexter was right, maybe this music will change your life. It sure as hell seems to have
changed mine. I feel like shit, my lady s out with some dirtball lowlife, and all I can muster by way of a
reaction is mild pique. I mean, maybe the effect of Afterlife s music is to reduce the emotional volatility of
our kind, to diminish us to the level of the stiffs who play it. That might explain Dexter s peace-and-love
rap. People who feel like I do wouldn t have the energy for war, for polluting, for much of anything.
They d probably sit around most of the time, trying to think something, hoping for food to walk in the
door...
Jesus, what if the music actually did buzz you like that? Tripped some chemical switch and slowly shut
you down, brain cell by brain cell, until you were about three degrees below normal and as lively as a
hibernating bear. What if that were true, and right this second it was being broadcast all over hell on
WBAI? This is crazy, man, he told himself, this is truly whacko.
But what if Dexter s hearing aids had been ear plugs, what if the son of a bitch hadn t listened to the
music himself? What if he knew how the music would affect the audience, what if he was after turning half
of everybody into zombies all in the name of a better world? And what would be so wrong with that?
Not a thing. Cleaner air, less war, more food to go around... just stack the dim bulbs in warehouses
and let them vegetate, while everyone else cleaned up the mess.
Not a thing wrong with it... as long as you weren t in the half that had listened to the music.
The light was beginning to hurt his eyes. He switched off the lamp and sat in the darkness, staring at
the glowing screen. He glanced out the window. Since last he d looked, it appeared that about
three-quarters of the lights in the adjoining buildings had been darkened, making it appear that the
remaining lights were some sort of weird code, spelling out a message of golden squares against a black
page. He had a crawly feeling along his spine, imagining thousands of other Manhattan nighthawks
growing slow and cold and sensitive to light, sitting in their dark rooms, while a whining alto serpent stung
them in the brain.
The idea was ludicrous -- Dexter had just been shooting off his mouth, firing off more white liberal
bullshit. Still, Goodrick didn t feel much like laughing.
Maybe, he thought, he should call the police... call someone.
But then he d have to get up, dial the phone, talk, and it was so much more pleasant just to sit here
and listen to the background static of the universe, to the sad song of a next-to-nothing life.
He remembered how peaceful Afterlife had been, the piano man s pale hands flowing over the keys,
like white animals gliding, making a rippling track, and the horn man s eyes rolled up, showing all white
under the sunglasses, turned inward toward some pacific vision, and the bass man, fingers blurring on the
strings, but his head fallen back, gaping, his eyes on the ceiling, as if keeping track of the stars.
This was really happening, he thought; he believed it, yet he couldn t rouse himself to panic. His hands
flexed on the arms of the chair, and he swallowed, and he listened. More lights were switched off in the
adjoining towers. This was really fucking happening... and he wasn t afraid. As a matter of fact, he was
beginning to enjoy the feeling. Like a little vacation. Just turn down the volume and response, sit back and
let the ol brain start to mellow like aging cheese.
Wonder what Rachel would say?
Why, she d be delighted! She hadn t heard the music, after all, and she d be happy as a goddamn
clam to be one of the quick, to have him sit there and fester while she brought over strangers and let them
pork her on the living room carpet. I mean, he wouldn t have any objection, right? Maybe dead guys
liked to watch. Maybe... His hands started itching, smudged with city dirt. He decided that he had to
wash them.
With a mighty effort, feeling like he weighed five hundred pounds, he heaved up to his feet and
shuffled toward the bathroom. It took him what seemed a couple of minutes to reach it, to fumble for the
wall switch and flick it on. The light almost blinded him, and he reeled back against the wall, shading his
eyes. Glints and gleams shattering off porcelain, chrome fixtures, and tiles, a shrapnel of light blowing
toward his retinas. Aw, Jesus, he said. Jesus! Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Pasty
skin, liverish, too-red lips, bruised-looking circles around his eyes. Mr. Zombie.
He managed to look away.
He turned on the faucet. Music ran out along with the bright water, and when he stuck his hands
under the flow, he couldn t feel the cold water, just the gloomy notation spidering across his skin.
He jerked his hands back and stared at them, watched them dripping glittering bits of alto and drum,
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