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In his mind, Merrick heard the same voice screaming, No don’t leave me, please. …

But I did leave him.

Merrick saw the cell in his mind, as he had forced himself to do each day: Zane, hunched over on his cot, pressed down by the endless, dark sameness, trapped there with no future, only his memories, all the hunts, the spraying blood. Had he seen them there in the dark— ghosts with torn throats and crimson chests, their lips mouthing silent rebukes?

Had he prayed? Let me out and I’ll never kill again.

And then a faint tremor combs the soles of his feet. Pressing his palms to the floor, he holds his breath, waiting for another, fearing delusion. The earth heaves, its dull rumble drowned out by a deafening crack as the concrete tears open from ceding to floor, showering him with grit. Heart pounding into his throat, he leaps to the wall and presses an eye to the fracture, blinking against the cascade of dirt, yelling in relief as he finds the jagged line of daylight, two inches, all he needs. …

Merrick felt the shine of deliverance bathe his own eyes. A miracle. Was that you, God? Or the devil? Whoever caused that earthquake, I thank you. Another chance, for both of us.

Jagged gears of longing twisted in his throat. He pictured Zane using the transfusion packs, taking just a little, leaving them their lives—or deaths?

Had the woman in the apartment tonight chosen for herself?

Maybe.

Suicide. A slow clotter, that was all.

Yes.

He put his palm against the glass.

Beyond it, the green gaze softened.

For a moment, Merrick could see his son again, and then Zane faded back into the red shadows of the empty room.

Michael Marshall Smith

THE BOOK OF IRRATIONAL NUMBERS

Michael Marshall Smith has quickly established himself as both a horror writer and the author of future-thrillers such as One of Us and Spares. The movie people are after him (watch out!), but hopefully they wont take him away from us, or from the production of his singularly weird and chilling fiction.

Watch this guy: he may he one of those writers who gets real big real fast.

If so, like I said, I hope it doesn’t stop him from turning out work like “The Book of Irrational Numbers.” You’ll recognize the story type pretty quickly—but it’s the execution, and the unique study of the protagonist’s mind-set, that make this tale so effective.

A nice Cean page. Page three. 3 × 3 = 9. hence 0. The beginning. When I start a new notebook I never use the first piece of paper, because you know it’s going to get scuffed up. I always leave both sides of that one blank, and start writing on the second piece of paper, where it will be protected from dirt. It’s usually hobbies that I use notebooks for. I feel like writing a different type of thing now. Don’t really know how to go about it. Blah blah blah words words words. Letters must add up to something, but I’m not sure what. Writing something down makes it feel like yesterday’s news. Almost nothing actually is yesterday’s news, though. Most of it is still going on. Today was a reasonable day like most others. I was due to paint a house just on the other side of town and I got most of the prepping done in the morning but then it started to rain, so I had to leave it be.

142 = 196. 8.562 = 73.2736.

Roanoke is a funny place to live. Not quite in the middle of nowhere, close by the Blue Ridge Mountains. Of Virginia. Never seen a lonesome pine around here: there’s billions of them. I quite like it though. There’s plenty of work. People always need things done to their houses. There’s not much else to do, and you’ve got a hell of a job finding anywhere to eat or drink in the evening, especially on Sundays. The only place is Macados, a burger bar in the center of town. Lots of high schoolers, though that’s okay. They’re not so rich that they’re obnoxious. Most of them are pretty good kids. Basically it’s a town with a couple of malls, a small airport. In winter you can go driving up in the mountains, find secret places. I drove back from Richmond once along the Ridge and passed