Adam Frost

"And why dost thou not pardon my transgression, and take away mine iniquity? for now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be." -- Job 7:21

Frost Smiled in the Darkness. His lips moved.

" 'Light breaks where no sun shines;Where no sea runs, the waters of the heartPush in their tides;And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,The things of lightFile through the flesh where no fleshdecks the bones ...' "

"You shut up, Frost."

"Shut up good."

Frost lifted his eyes and gazed at the two men who served as his companions.

"I'll shut up sometime -- maybe never."

They stared at him in the moonlight. His face was sunned nut-brown; his eyes were flecked with green gold; his hair was the color of water. He had once been a teacher -- now he was something else.

" 'A candle in the thighsWarms youth and seed and burns theseeds of age;Where no seed stirs,The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,Bright as a fig;Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.' "

"You shut up," said the one-armed man. "I want to think."

"About what?" asked Frost.

"About the coming of Our Lord. About ..."

Frost did not listen; instead, he continued to read -- silently now, forming the words upon his lips without uttering them. The pages in his hands were silvered by (continued on page 134) Adam Frost (continued from page 97) the thread of moonlight that stretched, impeccably taut, from a broken window to the floor. His hands -- they were silvered, too, silvered forever, silvered with clusters of shiny sores.

"I can't stand it," said Frost's other companion, a nondescript man who spoke very quietly. "Every day, we grow weaker. Every day, something goes putrid. One day, it's an eye. The next, it's a foot. The following morning, perhaps a mind. We are all very weak."

"We always were," said Frost. He did not smile.

"Weak and sinful," hissed the one-armed man. "The Day of Judgment is upon us. Armageddon has come." He shivered in an ecstasy of madness, tapping his stump against the blackboard.

"No," said the nondescript man. "Only one thing has come. Hunger."

"I'll go to the library," said Frost, "and see if any food is left." He arose, leaving the small puddle of ghostly light that the moon provided; he wandered among the broken, burnt desks, through the classroom door, and down the black hall.

In a few moments, he came to the school library, a room lost in utter darkness. He felt his way along the shelves, until he reached the cranny where he had hidden three precious tins of beef. They were gone. Frost searched for half an hour. Then, in a moment of perverse disgust, he grasped a book and threw it into the darkness. When he heard it strike a bookshelf, Frost shivered with exultant triumph, as though he had thrown away death itself. Then he sank into depression, like a man who is pulled into the black ocean by a gentle but powerful tide. He sat down on the floor and rubbed his face, savoring bitterly the sadness that threatened to drown him. He could feel the soft sores that covered his hands and wrists, the sores that glimmered silver.

Why do we suffer so? Why did we choose to burn ourselves to death? Why did we kill Marcia? Why can't we just exist, like the amoral grass and the thoughtless wind ...?

Frost's sorrow was interrupted by a gentle, insistent pounding that came echoing down from the ceiling above. It could mean only one thing: an intruder had come to the school. He had undoubtedly discovered and stolen Frost's beef.

Beset with a fiery desire for revenge, he crept from the darkened library and ascended the stairs with catlike care. There, on the fourth floor, the rhythmic pounding was incessant and clear. It came from behind a door. Where the door met the floor, a thin crack allowed candlelight to slither out, flickering across the floor with a pulse as terrifying and patterned as the throbbing noise within. Frost moved forward slowly, momentarily caught in the web of sound and light. He grasped the cold doorknob, paused for a second, and then threw the door open.

"Who are you?" asked a man, a smiling man, a man who was waiting for Frost, waiting in the middle of the room, surrounded by four burning candles. At his feet was an empty tin of beef and a set of African drums. He stood strongly erect, his eyes wide and bright, his teeth glittering.

"My name is Frost. Who are you?"

"Does it matter? I could have killed you -- that matters. Doesn't it?"

"Could have killed me?"

"I still can, if I want to. You're very stupid not to carry a weapon."

"I expect violence from the dogs. So far, I haven't worried about other human beings."

"Stupid as hell."

"Probably. What is your name? Why did you take my food?"

"Your food!" The tall man laughed abruptly -- not harshly, but with a certainn terrifying suddenness. "Your food! You don't have any food. You don't have anything."

Frost grimaced. "Neither do you."

"I have my drums." The tall man glanced sharply at Frost. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

Frost was afraid to answer. The tall man settled to the floor, where he sat cross-legged.

"The others were afraid of me. They called me Crazy Allan. They never gave me any of the meat. That's why I left them -- I was hungry."

"The other ones? How many? Where?"

"Don't be so anxious. You wouldn't want to meet them."

"I've lived here for three months and the only faces I've seen belong to a madman and a one-armed fanatic! Where are the others? Are there women?"

The tall man arose again, glaring at Frost; when he spoke, his voice was soft and mellifluous.

"I've known about you and your friends since I came here, two days ago. I could have killed you then. I still can. Perhaps I will. At any rate, I will tell you what I please, and you will do what I please. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," said Frost.

"Then sit down."

They both sat. The tall man began to play his drums, softly at first, then with more and more force, until the room was filled with a swelling torrent of rhythm. He swayed above the source of this magic, playing upon it with the tips of his fingers, lost in a wild passion. Then, as abruptly as he had begun, he stopped. He stared at Frost, smiling gently.

"I ate all three cans of beef. I was very hungry. I may eat you."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? I may. The others -- the people I lived with -- wanted to eat me. At least, I think they did."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Those damn supermarkets lasted about two months. Then everything went rotten. After that, we got hungry. They all hated me, so why not? Of course, they didn't tell me, but I could see it in their eyes. It was going to be a big surprise, just for me. I left when they were asleep. They can eat a dog -- if they're smart enough to catch one."

Frost smiled. "They might be smart enough to catch you."

"I don't think about it."

"In the meantime, what are we going to eat?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll eat you."

"You mean that. You really do."

"Oh, shut up! Go back to your friends! Get out of here! I don't give a damn. I just want to play my drums ..."

Frost arose quietly, fear flooding through his body like cold water; he walked numbly from the room, then burst into perspiration as he stumbled down the stairs. There, in the dark hall of the third floor, he stood and thought.

How does one fight an insane animal? I have to find a weapon. I have to walk with care. That's all. That must be all ...

He walked slowly down the hall, until he reached the black classroom which held his companions.

"Frost?" asked the one-armed man. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Do you have the food?" asked the other.

"No."

"Damnit! You said you had food in the library!"

"You sinful fool ..." The one-armed man hissed in the darkness. "Forget your stomach. Other things are upon us; the Lord's vengeance is upon us ..."

Frost's other companion laughed.

"You're a sinner," cried the one-armed man. "You'll burn!"

Frost stood like marble against the wall, listening to the ugly dissonance of their voices; he stood there, frozen, staring blankly into the darkness, frantically trying to think.

"Burn?" The other man laughed again. "Burn? In Hell?"

"Yes," said the one-armed man. "Hell! Believe it!"

"I don't need Hell! I'm in Hell now! We're all in Hell, burning up, rotting away, disintegrating into meaningless elements. You don't think so? Can't you feel it? Every day we decompose. First it's a finger; then an eye; perhaps ..."

"Yes! And when you die, your soul will live on in eternal pain!"

"Hogwash! I don't have a soul, and I won't live forever. But you -- you want to live forever, so you believe in it. That's the purpose of your religion. But it won't work: the laws of the universe will cut us down -- I promise you that."

"Can't you even feel the guilt of sin?"

"Yes, sometimes. I don't know why ..."

"We need food," said Frost, whispering softly into the darkness.

We need food, but we need more than that. We need the courage to crawl out of this mud-pit existence. Our minds are going blind in this place of devastated learning.

"Damnit, then, go get it!" shouted the atheist.

"You're afraid," said the one-armed man. "You're alone and afraid ..."

"I'm not afraid!" cried the other man.

"Why should I be afraid? I understand life, and I understand death! You're afraid! You're confused!"

Frost could barely keep from screaming as he listened to them snarl and hiss at each other. He ran from the room, followed by the one-armed man's voice.

"God is watching you ..."

As their voices faded in the distance, Frost slowed to a confident and almost luxuriant walk; he became pleased with his own sanity. But then, when he reached the stairs, he could hear the soft drumming of the tall man's self-contained ecstasy, echoing through the school like nightmares in a depraved mind.

Frost went downstairs, his head buzzing crazily. He stood in the main hall, thoughtlessly watching the moonlight slide through glass doors and slither about the crumbling statues of long-dead educators. Then he remembered.

I have to get a weapon.

He ran down the halls, searching through the inescapable darkness for a weapon, hoping for the appearance of some fiery blade, the brilliant revelation of some unknown strength. As he crept through the rubble that once had been a gym, he remembered again.

There's a basement around here, where the janitors stayed. There must be something there.

After many minutes of search, Frost found a steep and narrow stairway; he descended it into the bowels of the school, where dust and ashes had already collected to a depth of six inches. He shuffled blindly, until a plank tripped him; as he groped in the darkness, his hand fell upon a heavy hammer.

Grasping the tool, Frost arose, full of confidence; he now had a weapon. Suddenly, though, a new terror arose: he was lost.

The basement was large; it contained a boiler room, storage rooms, and a book room, all of which were connected by an intricate pattern of halls and stairs and connecting tunnels. Frost scuttled frantically up and down these passages. Once he had to crawl on his hands and knees; once he discovered an obstruction in his way and had to turn back. As his terror grew, he saw eyes in the darkness -- green eyes and red; he heard the soft padding of paws 20 feet behind him; he smelled the hot odor of decaying flesh. His head struck something hard; he turned and ran.

Suddenly, a spot of moonlight came into sight, like a beacon of safety. He crept up to it, followed it to its source, and found himself in the boiler room. Half of the ceiling had fallen in, and the huge black boilers that towered above him were clearly illuminated in the moonlight. They seemed to glower; there was neither safety nor escape here. Frost turned again and ran from the room. Then, inexplicably, he was ascending the stairs he had sought, rushing heavenward step by step. When he reached the first floor, he collapsed in the exhaustion that follows hideous fright.

So now I have a weapon. So now I can crush skulls. So now what?

He lay on his back, panting softly, running his hands over each other, touching the sores that covered his palms and wrists. Each day, the silvery swellings had been crawling farther up his arms. Now they had nearly reached his elbows. He gently touched his upper arms, fingering the strong curve of his shoulders.

These next? Then my chest, my face, my belly, my legs, my back, my whole body? What weapon do I use to fight this? A hammer?

Frost jumped to his feet. Clutching the hammer tightly, he ran down the hall to the shattered glass doors.

There was a grocery store three blocks away; he had gone there four times in the past -- always during the day. The night frightened him, but perhaps it would be better; at least, he wouldn't see the terrible carcasses, half-bone and half-rot, that lay everywhere in the endless postures of death. He would only smell them.

Filled with apprehension, Frost jumped through an empty door frame and ran to the protective shadow of a dead tree. Nothing moved on the school's grounds; beyond, nothing could be seen but the crazy silhouettes of half-toppled buildings and crushed houses, looking like a vast army of grotesque monsters.

Afraid to wait any longer, he began to run across the gravel, cursing at every crunching step. Almost instantly, he found himself crouching at the corner of a house, listening in hushed horror for the footsteps of an enemy. There was only silence.

He began to creep from house to house, scuttling through the darkness. Nothing else moved. Only one thing frightened him during his journey: as he passed a car, his face brushed against a glittering, moonlit tibia that hung, clawlike with its footbones, from the window. He fell back on the cement groaning with fear until he saw that it was only a bone; then he arose, with a tremulous shiver, and ran into the night.

The grocery store was an odorous hell. As Frost reached its open doorway, he was met by the thick fog of a thousand sickly-sweet smells. He wanted to vomit. Even so, he entered, leaped over two rails, and began to stalk up and down the littered aisles.

The meat counter was the worst. Most of the meat had been stolen when it was still edible; what was left had rotted together into a gelatinous mass of hams and pork chops, salami and hamburger. The vegetables were equally foul in appearance, heaped into piles like green and yellow cancers. Strange molds, orange and blue, stretched from pile to pile like the mantle of death.

Frost rushed to the section where cans had once been kept. Shelf after shelf was empty, spotlessly and completely empty. He fell to his hands and knees and searched the floor; he hunted behind counters and shelves; he dipped his hands into a freezer and found only a mucky pool of ice cream. Nowhere could he find a can. Then, beset with a terrible fear, he began to lick the sour ice cream from his fingers, to eat the stale potato chips and crushed cookies that covered the floor.

In this moment of madness, he was interrupted by a sound, a whining sound, the sound of hunger ...

Now where's the damn hammer? It's in your belt, idiot! Get it out, get it out, get it out!

He fumbled desperately for the hammer. Then, holding it in both hands, he scuttled toward the door.

Crouched in the moonlight, their eyes glowing like embers, were three bonethin, snarling dogs. One of them leaped at him; he knocked its shriveled body aside with a single swing of the hammer. Lying on its side, it howled once and died. The other two jumped at their dead companion and began to tear wildly at the hairless, sore-infested skin that stretched over its bones. Frost ran from the store, lost in a wave of revulsion and fear.

When he stopped running, he found himself farther from the school. One block away was a larger store, a supermarket. After catching his breath, he trotted across the street, down the sidewalk and into the store.

The supermarket proved to be a gargantuan replica of the little grocery store. Finally, after half an hour of searching, Frost found a crate of cans in a storage room. They contained condensed milk: this was good; water was becoming as scarce as food, and condensed milk was better than water.

He left the store and began the return journey, using both hands to carry the heavy crate.

Now I have food ... if only I had Marcia, all would be well ... but all you have are these damn sores ... Marcia is rotting somewhere and I'm in Hell ... covered with sores ... you'll be one vast sore in a year ... one vast blister of poison and evil and nothingness ...

A dog howled somewhere in the darkness. Frost fell mindlessly into the shelter of a bush, clutching the milk crate like a shield. As he huddled there, an incessant pounding noise suddenly burst through the chill silence. It seemed to come from the direction of the school. Frost cringed in abject terror: the noise was approaching. It sounded like the throbbing pulse of a giant's blood.

Somehow, Frost knew that the sound was the sound of drums -- the tall man's drums.

Steadily, like drifting sand, like the wind itself, the pounding noise moved closer. Frost could see the crimson flickering of torches now; he could hear the sound of many voices, chattering a flurry of monkey-talk. Suddenly, a mob of half-naked people came into sight, led by a little man wearing a huge trench coat, which dragged behind him like some vast and majestic robe, fluttering occasionally in a wisp of wind. He was beating upon the tall man's drums.

Behind the drummer came an old man, his white beard glowing with the luster of perspiration, and an old woman, who seemed to be his shadow. They wore filthy, dirt-stained robes, the debased vestments of some priest; about their scrawny necks and arms were twisted great strands of pearls and beads; bands of gold hung from their wrists and ankles in grotesque profusion.

These people were followed by six young men, bony parodies of manhood, who, walking in pairs, bore on their shoulders three poles. Hanging from two of the poles were the bodies of Frost's companions, the fanatic and the atheist. The tall man, still alive, was tied to the third.

Frost shuddered with fear and drew back, rustling the leaves of a bush. Instantly, a middle-aged man lifted his spear and moved toward the sound; the others turned and watched. For a moment, Frost remained poised and motionless; then, gasping what might be his last breath, he bolted from the shrubbery and ran desperately into the night. He was followed by a terrible silence -- a nothingness, as though he were running from a nightmare of his own imagination. This silence was broken once by the thin whistle of a passing spear. Frost stumbled, then continued into the darkness.

A sudden exultation filled him: he was running, running far ahead of their pounding feet, far ahead of their spears, outdistancing even their shouts, running easily away from them, away from the past itself. He burst into laughter as he ran -- a gay, frothy laughter, a laughter of joy. Then his foot caught in a fallen fence and his own momentum threw him to the ground. As he began to arise, he was struck down by a great mass of flesh.

When Frost awoke, he found himself tied to a telephone pole. The tall man, breathing deeply, was tied to the other side of the pole. Lying a few feet away were the bodies of Frost's former friends. Seated 100 yards away, in the middle of a street, were the marauders -- nearly 30 of them. They seemed to be singing a song.

"Crazy Allan! Wake up! Wake up!"

"Stop struggling. They'll just kill you sooner." The tall man spoke quietly.

"We can get free," said Frost. He breathed rapidly; there was a flicker in his eyes.

"Unless you keep quiet, we'll be just as free as they are." The tall man nodded at the two bodies.

"Why are you so damn calm and cool?" Frost licked his lips and glanced backward at his fellow prisoner.

"I'm not calm and cool," said the tall man, speaking softly. "I'm mad. They took my drums."

"So what?"

"I love my drums."

"You're crazy."

"Not as crazy as you."

"And what about them?" Frost spat at the two bodies. "A few hours ago they were arguing about life and death. Now they know."

"Do they?"

"Oh, I think so. I don't think they've ceased to exist. Not completely. I don't think that at all ..."

"Shut up!"

"OK! I'll shut up, just for you!"

Frost struggled with the rope that bound his hands together; the tall man glared silently at the cement, his face straining with some hidden exertion; the marauders continued to sing.

To the east, a thin line of yellow light outlined the roofs of shattered houses and then grew upward until the entire sky was fringed with turquoise. A vast fleet of clouds was suddenly gilded with light: almost instantly, the gilt was stained blood red, and the clouds were like death ships sailing through a sea of gold. Tenuous rays crept over a thousand roofs and turned the world gray. For one brief moment of trembling expectation, nothing happened; and then, with a burst of brazen light, the sun rose.

I remember a poem about the rising sun ... a poem of my childhood? ... a poem for Marcia? ... a poem then, or a poem now? ... a poem when? ... was it last night, in the school? ... you think perhaps it was, don't you? ...

" 'Dawn breaks behind the eyes;

From the poles of skull and toe the windy blood

Slides like a sea;

Nor fenced, nor slaked, the gushersof the sky

Spout to the rod

Divining in a smile the well oftears.' "

"Shut up, Frost! I'm almost loose! Just shut up and don't move!"

"Crazy Allan ... do you know that poem?"

"Just shut up, or I'll leave you here!" The tall man hissed with the desperation of hope. Suddenly, his hands were fumbling against the small of Frost's back; a moment later, the ropes fell loosely about their legs.

"How did you do that?" asked Frost. Then, receiving no answer, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the tall man's hands were torn and bloody.

"Frost, listen carefully. I have a gun in the school. If we can get it, they'll leave us alone. We'll try to sneak away. If they see us, we'll have to outrun them to the school."

"How far?"

"It's about one mile to the west. Can you run that far?"

"I don't know ... I don't think so ..."

"Listen to them sing," said the tall man, ignoring Frost's fear. Turning his head slightly to one side, Frost strained to hear the words that the marauders were chanting in the light of the new dawn.

"They're singing ... a cigarette commercial ..."

"They're enjoying it, too," said the tall man. "Let's go, quietly."

They lifted their feet from the tangle of ropes and began to tiptoe away from the telephone pole, keeping their eyes on the band of singers. They had gone no farther than 20 feet when one of the marauders shouted hoarsely and pointed at them. The tall man and Frost ran desperately down the street.

Frost knew that he could not escape. This time, his captors would probably kill him immediately. The tall man was already ahead of him; every step increased the distance. A few stones clattered at Frost's feet, and behind him the sound of angry voices grew nearer. Then, 40 feet ahead, the tall man stumbled and went sprawling into a gutter. Frost passed him in a moment, barely aware of what had happened. As he turned at the intersection, he caught one glimpse of the tall man, surrounded by his enemies like a bear surrounded by dogs, stalling the marauders while Frost escaped. With a sob, Frost ran through a yard, down an alley, through another yard, and across a street. He came to a gasping halt at the porch of a fallen house, then crawled weakly through the debris, burrowing into a pile of ashes until he was hidden.

He saved my life and I didn't even have the guts to stop and help him ... you just would have been killed yourself ... you couldn't have helped him ... and now he lies there, food for beasts, while I solace myself because I am tired and hungry ... I am a coward who even lacks the strength to hide his cowardice behind the final, unnecessary sacrifice ... light breaks not on me ...

Exhausted, Frost fell into a deep sleep.

Light broke on Frost: he stretched awake in the luxuriant warmth of midmorning; the sunbeams had crept through the ashes. He lifted his hands to his neck and massaged it gently. Then his fingers slipped over his hairy jaw, across his lips, along the bridge of his nose, and onto his forehead. He opened his eyes suddenly and studied the darkly silver interiors of his palms. Rolling over, he half-kissed the hot ashes. Then, arising and stretching, he surveyed his surroundings.

He was near the edge of the city. In the distance, down a long street, a tiny patch of scorched prairie could be seen; beyond the prairie, peacefully blue, were the mountains. Without a backward glance, without a thought of the terrors he had just undergone, Frost began walking toward the peaks, leaving the blackened metropolis behind him. He continued until noon, mindlessly brave, without seeing another living thing. Hunger beset him then, and he began to ransack the occasional cafés and stores that were scattered along the highway. Within half an hour he had found a can of soup and two cans of figs. He took them to a place at the side of the road, where the grass still grew and a tree still had leaves.

One hundred feet away was a junk heap of old cars and garbage cans; Frost went there to find a piece of metal with which to open the three cans. Instead, behind a huge stack of ruined tires, he found a girl.

"Don't hurt me!"

She was an ordinary thing, tangle-haired and unwashed. She hadn't been touched by radiation. Hunger, however, was written on her narrow, sallow face.

A girl ... beautiful as a gray mist ... delicate as a reed in the wind ... her eyes are like moons ...

"Marcia ..." whispered Frost, licking his lips. "It's little Marcia ..."

"Who are you? Please don't hurt me."

"Hurt you? How could I hurt my little Marcia?"

The girl began to move away from Frost. He followed her, step by step.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Frost--your Frost. Look at me. Look at my face, my body--I'm your Frost."

"Your arms!" The girl shuddered. Frost looked downward.

Clusters of sores had almost reached his shoulders. The skin on his hands was peeling away; it hung in greenish-gray ribbons about his wrists. His fingernails had fallen out. One of his fingers was gone ...

My silver hands are the hands of a god -- of a creator ... I am the regenerator of my race ... Adam Frost I, and this is little sweet Marcia Eve ... it is so nice in the sunlight ...

He chased her wildly over the junk pile, caught her from behind, and threw her onto the garbage and filth. She screamed. He pushed at her face with his hands until she was quiet.

Then, sprawling on a heap of refuse, Frost madly gave life to mankind's first new child ...