Steam

STEAM

by Jay B. Laws

Lambda Literary Finalist - 1992

Best Gay Science Fiction/Fantasy

Foreword by Gary D. Laws

Introduction by Hal L. Bodner

ReQueered Tales

Los Angeles  •  Toronto

2019

Steam

by Jay B. Laws

Copyright © 1991 by Jay B. Laws.

Foreword: copyright © 2019 by Gary D. Laws

Introduction: copyright © 2019 by Hal L. Bodner

Cover design: Dawné Dominique, DusktilDawn Designs

Disco Inferno by Leroy Green and Ron Have Mercy Kersey.

Copyright © 1977 by Six Strings Music and Golden Fleece Music; assigned to Six Strings Music © 1979. Used by permission.

First American edition: May 1991

This edition: ReQueered Tales, May 2019

ReQueered Tales version 1.56

Kindle edition ASIN: B07RJL2SPM

Epub edition ISBN-13: 978-1-951092-03-0

Print edition ISBN-13: 978-1-951092-00-9

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JAY B. LAWS

Jay B. Laws was a San Francisco playwright and writer. His work has appeared in the New York Native, the Castro Times, Advocate Men, and Torso, and he won the 1986 Actors Alley Repertory grand prize for his play A Night for Colored Glass. In 1993, his second novel, The Unfinished, was published posthumously.

Steam was his first novel. It was nominated as Best Gay Science Fiction/Fantasy at the 4th Annual Lambda Literary Awards in 1992.

Praise for STEAM

This gripping novel of supernatural menace grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. Frightening, suspenseful, and erotic.

—Eric Garber, co-editor of Worlds Apart and Uranian Worlds

Steam is the perfect horror tale: too scary to pick up, too gripping to put down. Jay Laws has taken the genre of psychological chiller and twisted it into a truly queer adventure.

—Richard Labonté

Steam resembles a Stephen King novel, but a very good one.

—Locus

With its mix of sex and supernatural, psychological chills and horror-movie thrills, Steam is a potboiler.

—Bay Area Reporter

Fantastic. As he blurs the boundaries between reality, horror, and dementia, Laws concocts a tale that will hold you spellbound.

—Baltimore Alternative

Stephen King would blush with appreciation.

—Lambda Book Report

One of the finest works of fiction and suspense by a gay author ever to be penned at any time or any place.

—This Week in Texas

This horrific, stomach-turning and sometimes very sexy book is impossible to put down.

—London Gay Times

STEAM

by Jay B. Laws

FOREWORD

When the ordinary is invaded by the extraordinary and terrible, horror happens.

Jay B. Laws, 1991

In his short career, my brother Jay B. Laws was able to experience the rare writer’s thrill of having his work both produced and published. His short stories, drama and film reviews and one-act plays have appeared in a variety of local and national magazines and theater stages.

He always knew he wanted to write, and relocated to San Francisco in 1982 armed with a degree in Screenwriting from the University of Texas. His southwestern roots with a Tennessee Williams flavor would continue to show up in his work, most notably in his award-winning play, A Night for Colored Glass, produced by Actor’s Alley Repertory Theater in Los Angeles in 1986. It was the tale of an adult Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz haunted by her past and searching for a way back to the fantasyland of her childhood.

With the loss of friends and his own AIDS diagnosis, his work took a darker turn. He once joked that he was becoming known as the gay Stephen King.

His first novel, Steam, is an AIDS allegory that chronicles the early days of the epidemic. Originally published in 1991 and featuring the glittery discos of the seventies and an ominous abandoned gay bathhouse, it is somewhat of a time capsule now.

For a younger audience for which AIDS has always existed, I’ll let Jay B. explain the pandemic in his own words, from 1991:

"One day I walked past the building that used to house the old Jaguar Bookstore in San Francisco, which had a very notorious upstairs during its heyday. Now it had been turned into apartments. I looked up at it, and thought, the ghosts that must walk those hallways. And it made me think of the bathhouses, closed down and abandoned now.

"The extraordinary had invaded my ordinary life. Remember, horror happens when the amazing and the terrible step in to change your character’s lives.

"With my book Steam I wanted to write an AIDS allegory, a parallel to what I saw happening within the gay community. I wanted to write a story that somehow conveyed what it felt like psychologically to be a gay man surrounded by and confronted with AIDS. It’s a story that operates on nightmare logic, even though the setting is grounded in reality. I combined an ancient evil with our modern concerns. This was the only way I could approach it.

"What’s more frightening than the idea of a seemingly invisible enemy striking people down and you can’t get help because no one will even take you seriously? What could be more frightening, I thought, than having an invisible enemy snatching away friends in the middle of the night? Or watching friends turn into scarecrow creatures that I could barely recognize? How could my gay audience not sympathize with my hero as he realizes that his looks are changing, as if some kind of an alien has taken over his body, and as he desperately tries to get outside help, he is rebuffed and laughed at, as though his plight meant nothing? And what’s more horrifying than the idea that something as wonderful as sex can be the route to your death?

"For the first time, AIDS had begun to penetrate my closest inner circle. With alarming regularity I was recognizing acquaintances looking up at me from the obituary columns. I became fearful, and for my own health as well. It seemed immunity had disappeared. No one was safe.

"I found out I was HIV-positive in 1986, and it damn near killed me. There was nothing to be done at that time beyond a pat on the back from doctors. My immune system was shot to hell and I’d been on AZT for over a year. I thought I would be dead in two years. I mean, admitting I’m HIV-positive is one thing. Realizing that I am slowly moving toward full-blown AIDS is something else entirely. I currently have ten—that’s right, TEN—t-cells.

"One of the themes emerging for me now is writing about the betrayal of the body—health worries, feeling the pressure of time slipping away, watching a lover die at home and experimenting with drugs to keep my health and energy up …

"I write gay horror because I’m scared. After losing over 40 friends—as if a person could even have 40 friends to lose in the first place—I turned more and more to suspense writing to purge myself of my own fears. Fear, I decided, can also be useful. Fear, just like secrets, is incredibly destructive, and I figured if I could get it all out of me and onto paper—I could turn this straw into creative gold.

Horror writing is the perfect metaphor for writing about these spooky times. People love the journey into the dark forest, a forest of our modern concerns and fears—they just want to make sure they come out on the other side, stronger for having conquered their terrors and proud to have made the journey.

Jay B.’s screenwriting training and a striking visual sense served him well in some of the novel’s more cinematic moments, such as the eventual confrontation inside the bathhouse. He took all that was familiar to visiting a bathhouse, played upon what people remembered, and gave it a scary virtuoso twist for his finale.

I may have characterized my brother as a morose, terminally depressed personality, and that is decidedly misleading—be assured that Jay B. was handsome, funny, charming, and a champion schmoozer when it came to promoting his own work—exhibiting none of the dark, haunting traits that might characterize a writer who specializes in this genre.

He had a psychic friend named Dennis who once told him that we choose to come into our lives. We choose whom our parents are going to be, and the tasks and skills we want to master in that lifetime. He told Jay B., "You chose to come into this lifetime as a gay man at a point in history when it was dangerous to be a gay man. Why? What do you want to learn … need to learn, from the experience?"

As he immersed himself with a new novel, Jay B. was still trying to figure that one out, using his writing as a sounding board.

His second novel, The Unfinished, continues to chronicle the epidemic—encapsulating his feelings about loss, saying goodbye and letting go, and finally, the acceptance of a fate he could not have chosen. It was published posthumously, after his death in 1992.

He was only 34.

Gary D. Laws

San Francisco

May 2019

INTRODUCTION

By Hal L. Bodner

Six men crowd into a small apartment in Manhattan. One of them has a pack of playing cards but gambling is the farthest thing from their minds.

The man laying on the bed, in fact, will never play cards again. Ugly purple blotches compete with bed sores for space on his sallow skin. Even if he could sit up, it would be agony to do so as his skeletal body lacks the fat reserves to cushion his bones from scraping against the chair. He is completely blind and only a few wisps of grey hair cling to his skull. For several weeks, he has been incapable of speech; only incoherent mumbling clothed in drool escapes his lips. He is months past bladder or bowel control; no matter how dutifully his caretakers sponge-bathe him, the stench of mingled piss, shit, vomit and stale sweat refuses to be banished.

Is he in pain? At one point, he was clearly in agony. Now? No one knows. The lesions eating away at his brain sometimes delude him into believing he is a small child again, playing with a favorite pet now long dead. Those mercies are brief but, perhaps, they may also extend to blocking his nerves from feeling. He struggles to breathe, each gasp sounds like it might be his last. But he was strong once, not so very long ago, and his body instinctively battles on.

He looks like he is in his nineties.

He is twenty-two.

Each of his five friends solemnly draws a card from the deck. Four of them will spend the remainder of the evening at a disco, dancing and drinking and pretending to have a good time. Later, in the unlikely event that anyone cares enough to become suspicious, they will swear that the man who drew the lowest card had been with them. They will not be lying, at least not completely, as he will join them once he has finished easing their dying friend into eternity with a hypodermic full of air or an overdose of morphine.

* * *

Now that AIDS has become a manageable illness, scenarios like these are veritable dinosaurs, and it is difficult for people today to understand the overwhelming sense of doom that pervaded the Gay community at the beginning of the epidemic. Young, healthy men were suddenly stricken with bizarre infections and rare forms of cancer. Within months, they were dead. No one was immune, and there was no way to predict who would be next. How it happened was a mystery. Theories ranged from an accumulated toxin resulting from the use of amyl nitrate or poppers (a popular club drug of the day), to a secret government conspiracy to create a deadly virus designed to target and eliminate homosexuals.

We knew the symptoms, of course, even if we were baffled about the cause. We spent hours in front of bathroom mirrors searching our bodies for the tiny purple blemishes which were the harbingers of a lingering death. In 1981, gay New Yorkers eagerly looked forward to June and the start of beach season, when a stampede of beautiful men would vacate the city and make a beeline for Fire Island. By 1983, the approach of summer was a thing to dread. Men who had been paragons of beauty scant months before, the sexual 10s that everyone else had always desired, were now loathe to bare their bodies in public for fear that the lesions and the telltale look of gauntness would brand them as pariahs. Even for the lucky men who showed no outward signs of infection, the simple act of perspiring on a hot night was enough to bring on a panic attack. Night sweats were a well-known early symptom of the disease. It was impossible to know whether you had It, or whether the air conditioner was merely on the blink.

Our favorite bartender vanished. The hot blond guy with the incredible pecs suddenly stopped coming to the gym. The sassy waiter who flirted with us at brunch, and slipped us free Mimosa refills, was gone. A For Sale signed appeared at the home of a delightful old queen we all adored; we knew he would host no more fabulous cocktail parties. The local florist retired without warning, and the best gay lawyer in town simply disappeared.

Funerals began to fill our social calendars, though we euphemistically called them Celebrations of Life.

Smiling faces of men we had known, and perhaps loved, beamed at us from photographs placed on easels on either side of the coffin. The caskets were rarely open as seeing the ravages of the disease would have been too upsetting for the mourners, many of whom were not so very far removed from their own funerals. Besides, in the early years of the epidemic, most funeral homes (and many crematoriums, and even some cemeteries) flatly refused to handle the bodies of AIDS victims. Of necessity, many men who died of AIDS went into their graves un-embalmed; for the mourners to have viewed the early stages of decomposition atop the ravages of the disease would have been far too gruesome to endure.

This was the environment in which Jay B. Laws was writing.

Himself a victim of AIDS, he passed away only a week after turning in the final edits on his second novel, The Unfinished. Laws had previously published a single short story in the anthology Embracing the Dark, and a single Wizard-of-Oz-themed play entitled A Night for Colored Glass. These three pieces, along with the novel you are about to read, constitute the entirety of Laws’ life’s work.

On the surface, Steam is simply a unique variation on the classic haunted house story. It doesn’t take much, however, to realize that just underneath lies a powerful and disturbing metaphor for the early years of the epidemic. The novel’s creeping sense of unease and pervasively ominous atmosphere uncannily mimic the encroaching dread that invaded San Francisco’s gay community in the 1980s at the onset of the epidemic.

The demon in Steam (if it is indeed a demon at all) hides itself within a gay bathhouse. Once again, modern readers may have difficulty understanding the significance of Laws choosing such a place as the book’s setting. In the 1980s, gay bathhouses were not merely places to go for anonymous sexual encounters–though that was clearly part of their allure. But bathhouses were also havens where gay men could come together and unashamedly be themselves. Perhaps even more than the bars, the Tubs as we called them, were one of the most vibrant hubs of gay social life.

Very few gay bathhouses resembled the dank and filthy dungeons depicted in Hollywood films like Cruising. While the focus was certainly on sex, and almost all venues had the standard saunas, steam rooms, pools and private rooms, many bathhouses also boasted coffee shops, gift counters, and gymnasiums. The better places even contained small nightclubs. Both Bette Midler and Barry Manilow started their careers at the Continental Baths in Manhattan, and the roster of other celebrities who headlined there is an impressive one.

More importantly, the bathhouses also served as vital conduits for information about the Plague, especially during the early years when rumor and urban legends were rampant. Though it is ludicrous to think that the ubiquitous unprotected sex that took place at the baths did not contribute to the spread of the virus, once we were aware that AIDS existed, many bathhouse owners took immediate, and often unpopular, steps to help protect their clientele including banning unsafe sex, distributing free condoms, and providing spermicidal lubricants. Bathhouses were also at the forefront of spreading accurate information about AIDS at a time when rumors and urban legends were rampant.

Clearly the evil entity in Steam is the embodiment of AIDS, an all-powerful presence that seems impossible to defeat. Insidiously, it reaches out from its lair to claim the lives of gay man who are powerless to resist its seductive embrace. Just like the disease, the creature threatens our safety, makes a mockery of our previous sanctuaries, and consumes our lives. The claustrophobia of the novel uncannily evokes the darkest emotions of the early Plague years. The characters fear, not without reason, that no matter how bravely they battle, doom inevitably approaches. Even the idea of rescue becomes naught but a pipe dream.

Yet, even as he labored under a death sentence of his own, Laws does not preach. He does not allow his novel to descend into moralizing, nor does he permit it to become just another outlet for despair. He uses it, instead, to send a very simple and unequivocal message to his gay brothers.

We must have hope, Steam tells us; we cannot afford not to. In spite of everything, Laws never ceased believing that, somehow, we would survive.

Sadly, Laws himself did not.

On November 9, 1992, he lost his battle with AIDS.

He was 34 years old.

— Hal L. Bodner

April, 2019

Hal L. Bodner, a multiple Bram Stoker Award nominee, is the author of the vampire novel The Byte Club and its werewolf sequel The Trouble with Hairy. He lives in West Hollywood with his husband and some very pampered dogs.

To Alan, first and always,

And in memory of Danny and Mark,

Two of many, now sorely missed. Hold the elevator, boys ...

Acknowledgments

Many friends contributed time, energy, and support while I worked on this book. First and always, my partner, Alan, who pulled me from the quicksand more than a few times and set me back upon the proper path. A big thank-you to Larry G., who insisted I join the computer age and put up with all my questions and constant need for printed-out drafts. To Dennis B., the most psychically gifted individual I’ve ever been privileged to know, for his uncanny suggestions and tips. To the gang at San Francisco Suites – Robert, Isabel, Pete, among others – for providing a work environment that nurtured friendship as well as my writing; quite a bonus. Lastly, one more thank-you to Richard Labonté at A Different Light Bookstore in San Francisco and Sasha Alyson for sponsoring the contest that made my dream come true.

BEFORE

IIIII... love to love you, baaaby...

—Donna Summer

The Fall From Grace

1

LIFE A WINDING PARADE DOWN MAIN STREET, music blasting off grandly colored floats, men and women dancing, baton twirlers twirling: a huge multicolored family.

How brightly the sunshine lit upon our faces.

But the darkness, you see, had already crept in on cat feet. Crouched in the corner. Waiting.

2

Before: New York City, June 1982, 2:30 a.m.

For David Walker, the first horror began here, in this other city in an earlier time.

David inserted the key to his apartment and threw open the door with an unexpected bang. Three or four vodka tonics sloshed in his belly. Two joints. A line of coke at the party before he and the gang went out dancing. He was weaving as he stood at the door.

Nothing prepared him for catching the young burglar inside his apartment.

A startled moment spun out between them. Each eyed the other with eyes huge as saucers.

David took in the rifled drawers, the smashed mirrors, and winking broken glass. Overturned furniture. And most of all: the long serrated edge of the knife in the thief’s hand—David’s knife, taken from its resting place beside the stove—as the teenager swiveled in shocked surprise and stabbed the air in his direction.

He launched himself out of the doorjamb, arms pinwheeling. He ran. His drunken mind flipped into panic as he ran heedlessly down the carpeted hallway, flying toward the stairwell as he heard the thief scramble after him.

Hey! the punk shouted. Get back here!

David burst through the stairwell door and made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life: He ran up the one flight of stairs to the rooftop, not down to the lobby and street below, where he might have found help. Too late. He knew it even as he took the stairs two at a time. Screams undulated out of him.

Forty seconds had passed since he had slipped the key into his apartment door and startled the burglar.

Reflex drove him forward. All that mattered were the footfalls banging up the stairs behind him in chase. A machine gun sound. A killing sound.

He burst upon the rooftop, lungs hitching for air, his screams unabated. Moments before he had been an ordinary young man coming home from a night of dancing and overindulging with his friends. Now, he screamed for his life. Would no one hear him on this hot summer night? Wasn’t there anyone with windows flung wide for a breeze to catch his cries?

He stumbled across the gravel-and-tar roof until he stood by a ledge. Cautiously, he peered over. Four stories up. The nearest building too far to jump. Wait! The fire escape! He spun around.

His heart caught in his throat. The burglar was advancing.

Shut up! the kid screamed. The knife slashed a jagged path across the air. He was scared by this man in front of him who would not be quiet. Shut up! I’m warning you! He stole two steps.

In this world that had been irrevocably reduced to confrontation, there was no room for grays. And David, spinning, saw two choices: Stand there and get hacked to pieces—or jump.

Up over the edge he scrambled. Still railing against a night silent and unforgiving. No conscious thought about what would happen next. His life distilled into a single-impulse: Get away.

Hey! the punk cried. Where the fuck you going?

David slid over the edge, buttons on his shirt popping against the rough ridge, his feet swinging. He kicked at the building for a ledge to rest upon, a foothold. Suddenly he imagined that knife plunging into the back of one of his hands.

And let go.

Air rushed out of him.

The universe sank.

Dimly aware of his body striking ground.

Darkness engulfed him. And darkness was enough.

1

Devil’s Gun

We did not dream it

We had no warning

That one day all too soon, across the land:

A fog

Sun paled to autumn shadow

And we: at war.

1

Alas, Flint

1

THE RAZOR BIT A CLEAR RED LINE across his wrist.

Flesh parted. Candy-red blood, a surprising quantity of it, trickled down between the fingers of his left hand and splashed into the swirling water of the hot tub.

And it don’t hurt one bit—ain’t that a killer?

Flint switched the razor to his left hand and laid bare his right wrist. He tried to focus on an appropriate vein, but hey, who was he kidding here: A vein is a vein. Slash the goddamn thing and get this over with. The razor’s edge gleamed in the dim light before arching downward across the exposed dark flesh. Again, the candy blood.

And Flint thought, None of this is real.

2

Of course, in the hours preceding this momentous event, Flint had made damn sure he would feel no pain. He had started the day with a full bottle of Johnny Walker Red, tooted a line for courage, and then puffed a joint to calm his nerves. Ralph and Will had come by his flat about eight that night, threatening to tear down the door or call the police. Flint had sat in his easy chair, lights out, listening to their pounding and demands. He knew what they wanted to tell him. His answering machine was jammed with their frantic messages.

Flint what’s wrong why aren’t you answering was it bad news huh Flint what did the doctor say—

After about twenty minutes, they gave up and left. Maybe they figured he was down at the Eagle, or the Powertool. The usual hangout.

Not tonight, buddy boys. He was checking out, toot-a-loo, arrivederci, catch you next time.

He packed a gym bag. A towel. The last of the Johnny Walker Red. Two joints. Half a gram of coke. Razor blades.

He swept the apartment with a final appraisal. He hadn’t done so bad. A black leather sofa. Two original Nigels on the wall. Stocked bar. Waterbed big enough to sleep six comfortably, and, oh baby, how it had slept six, a dozen nights’ worth. Monogrammed towels, big as a door, fluffy the way he remembered being dried off as a kid with his momma, the initials L.F.S., Larry Frank Stone, Flint Stone to his friends, har har. A record selection four shelves high, every Donna Summer Diana Ross Barbra Streisand Aretha Franklin Gloria Gaynor ever printed, including the cream of the disco hits, new wave, you name it, he owned it. His customers had to have something to listen to while they sucked cock.

Yeah, he thought, for an old black fart he could have done a lot worse.

He was thirty-eight, light-skinned for a black man originally from Atlanta, hair flecked with gray. Six foot two. A baseball player in his youth, perhaps a sports career if he’d really wanted it. But no. He had hightailed it to San Francisco, a horny young man with two hundred dollars in his pocket, and he had built himself an empire.

He’d had a good time. He couldn’t ask for better than that.

Flint scooped up the gym bag, threw on his Calvin Klein leather jacket, and left his apartment without a backward glance. He navigated two narrow flights of stairs, hanging onto the railing for dear life. He wasn’t about to end his life as a twisted heap at the bottom of a staircase, no way. He opened the front door and walked out into the night.

Low clouds pregnant with rain floated soggily across the sky. A storm on the horizon. As if on cue, a fine mist cooled his face as he locked the front door to his apartment building on Folsom Street. He welcomed it. A dozen memories of himself as a young man, running zigzag trails through flash storms and sudden showers as he loped toward protective awnings and trees—a lifetime of memories shifted through his mind. For just a moment, anger at his predicament welled. He tasted it in the back of his throat. It was unfair: to be so completely reminded of life as his task lay before him…

But in the end he smiled and lifted his eyes to the heavens. That such a small pleasure as this could be given to him now was enormously comforting.

You takes what you can in life, and right now the treasure chest, she emmmpty.

Flint walked down a block to Harrison and turned left. A few men were out on this Saturday night, but not many. Streets unnaturally quiet, as though everyone had elected to stay inside and wait out the storm. Even traffic was light. The low clouds seemed to sag against his shoulders.

He rounded the corner at Roberts Alley and headed down the block. Completely deserted. Just a handful of years ago Roberts Alley was one hoppin’ street. The few straight families who lived there used to regularly complain about all the cruising in the street, the quick sex between parked cars and on unlit front porches. Flint had complained, too—he didn’t want guys out on the streets.

He wanted them in his bathhouse.

That’s what the Caverns was all about: convenient hot sex. If they got it out on the street for free, he’d have no business.

Of course, he had no business anyway, now. The city shut him down in 1987. Unsafe sexual practices, and all that bullshit. He still bristled when he thought about it. Wasn’t he the one who had single-handedly taped AIDS-awareness posters on the walls? Given away rubbers in a basket beside the lockers? Laid out stacks of literature at the snack bar in the rec room? He’d bent over backwards, Yah-suh-ing the city at every new demand until he was up to his eyeballs in regulations. And still they shut him down, along with all the other clubs.

He’d fought it, you bet. The other club owners banded together and took it to court, but meanwhile the doors stayed shut and daily Flint watched his tiny fortune get eaten away. Then—

Then he’d gotten sick, and now he was here. You live by the cock, you go out by the cock. Something like that.

Out of his reverie Flint looked up to find himself standing directly in front of the Caverns. It was a big brick building three stories high. Its upper-floor windows were boarded up, blind to the surrounding bland neighborhood. Up three steps, the shiny black doors with a sign beside it, in neat printed letters: CAVERNS.

End of the road.

He pulled out his set of keys and swept up the steps. He steadied the door with one hand and was about to insert the key when

What the fuck?

the door popped open.

Flint whirled drunkenly, as if expecting an intruder to be standing at a distance, watching and laughing at his distress.

Somebody got inside somebody got hold of the key who could have done this?

And as he stepped inside, closing the front door behind him and sealing out the last night he would ever know, he was right about one thing.

He was not alone.

3

A sudden cloudburst let go its treasure chest of rain right as Flint locked the door behind him.

Just made it, he thought. He chuckled as the absurdity struck him. Made it from—what? To—what?

Home sweet home.

He lit a reefer and punched up lights for the basement. This front entryway was dark, but, shit, he could walk this stretch blindfolded. Lots of guys had gotten lost within these winding halls and twisting staircases. This building wasn’t called the Caverns for nothing. The whole interior had been specifically designed to create the look and feel of an underground cave. Flint had seen a Hercules movie once about an underground maze and a Minotaur, and he’d decided that was some cool shit, that spooky place where the Minotaur could ravish you if you were caught. He had recreated such a world here. A thousand miles from the glass and chrome of his competitors, it had been an instant hit going strong for over ten years.

He went into his office and popped one of his favorite disco tapes into the cassette player. Cranked up the speakers. Soon he heard the familiar croon of Donna Summer’s Love to Love You over the speakers. He smiled. Just like the old days.

Flint crossed the length of hallway, swaying, one hand outstretched as if to touch the dark, the joint squeezed between two fingers. He did not want to grace these rooms and hallways with even one sweet parting glance, so he walked right past the snack bar and TV room, the rows upon rows of cubicles where men used to play. He felt as neglected and outdated as a dinosaur, and about as pretty.

The music began to lift his spirits. This place had been too quiet, echoey the way a gymnasium never knows true quiet, with a hum of activity just this side of hearing.

The ghosts that must walk these halls, Flint thought as he tossed away the reefer. All the hundreds of men who had come here to suck and fuck and play. All that male energy. Where did it go? Right into the walls, probably. Storing up all that energy like a great big battery.

Of course, he soberly reminded himself, a few ghosts did walk these very halls, yes indeedy. Let us not forget the five (or was it six?) men who said hasta la bye-bye in here. Two by sleeping pills. One heart attack. The others, speed or heroin overdose—he couldn’t remember all the details. At the time he hadn’t understood why they chose the Caverns as the place to off themselves. Why didn’t they just fucking stay home? Leave a tidy note and be done with it.

Now, as Flint stumbled down the spiral staircase to the basement, he understood their motive, because tonight, he embraced it as well.

They liked it here. They had a good time here. Fun. Why not come to a place that served you well, that made you remember happier times? Shoot, isn’t that why I’m here?

He walked into the shower area. The air was heavy, vaporous in the low light. He knelt beside the jacuzzi and flipped the switch. Jet streams churned the water. To his left were the showers, a row of seven nozzles. Directly in front of him, the steamroom. Oh, the fun he’d had in there. On his right, a hallway that led to rooms with chains and a sling, for men who had a particular itch to scratch.

Yes, sir, I’m gonna be in fine company in here. Maybe they’ll come say hello when I cross to the other side. They won’t care that I’ve got purple spots popping out on my skin, and lungs all congested with shit. Hell, maybe we’ll throw ourselves a party. This is for the best, going out in style on my own terms.

He opened his gym bag and snorted two spoonfuls from his little vial. He’d paid for it; he might as well use it up.

Flint yanked off his Calvin Klein jacket and hundred-dollar shoes. Popped the buttons on his silk shirt designed by somebody fancy in New York. Whispered out of his pants. Threw them all into a pile beside the hot tub and slid into the lukewarm water. That was fine by him; he didn’t want the water up to full temperature. He’d read that slashing wrists in a tub of water was an easy exit. Supposedly it felt like just melting away.

And so Flint, with the doctor’s words ringing in his ears—I’m sorry, Mr. Stone, but our biopsy definitely shows Kaposi sarcoma—hesitated only briefly before cutting first the left, and then the right, wrist.

The water churned red. He melted.

The disco retrospective was up to another Donna Summer hit, this time singing I Feel Love in 1977 (or was it 1978?), before Jesus came knocking at her door.

Let’s face it, he thought dreamily, head resting on the outer rim of the tub, slashed wrists somewhere underwater. I’m a child of the seventies. Nothing’s ever been the same since then.

At least he’d had his golden years. Nothing wrong with a candy store. You eat too many sweets, you floss. These young kids coming up—they’d missed it all. They wrinkled their cute smug noses at the very idea of patronizing a bathhouse. Playing in the orgy room. Sniffing poppers. Taking a hot load down the throat or up the ass.

At least he’d had fifteen years. These kids were still wetting their beds when he was down on his knees, taking care of a man. Growing up in Atlanta had been no bed of roses, and he’d plugged a girl or two as a teen to keep his suspicious friends at bay—but moving to San Francisco had ignited that spark that was his truest self, and he had embraced the city and his new lifestyle with all the fever of youth.

He played hardball, but he played to have fun. What was that dippy French song all the drag queens loved to sing? No Regrets.

Flint glanced groggily at his surroundings. The very best had come to play within these walls. This was his crowning achievement. Top of the world, Ma.

And now here he was, center stage in the hot tub, Flint Stone, ole har-de-har-har himself, presently offing himself.

He sank into crimson waters.

4

Suddenly, awake.

He thinks he must have dozed. Nodded off. Because everything is different, now. The air around him is bloated with moisture. The lights, dim.

The steamroom breathes with a mechanical hiss. It sits in front of him, ten feet away. The generator that runs it is old-fashioned and loud. Its steamy sigh wafts over him.

Had he turned it on? He can’t remember. He thinks no, he had no reason to, but his head spins and he’s not sure of anything.

His homemade disco tape has rewound and started over again. Gloria Gaynor, Never Can Say Good-bye. Below the music, like a slumbering giant, the hiss and gasp of steam.

Flint looks down at himself. The swirling water is candy red, sticky. He studies it with cool detachment. Did all that come out of two little cuts? He lifts his eyes to glance about the room and blinks.

The steamroom door swings open on silent hinges. A cloud of steam rolls out and up, running along the water-spotted ceiling in billowy tendrils. The sharp tang of eucalyptus fills the room.

He smiles. Calm. Almost as though he expected such a thing. The door opened by itself—ain’t that a killer? He is not the least bit frightened when the voice speaks to him.

(Come to me, Flint)

Who’s there?

he answers, unaware that he said nothing aloud.

(I am here to make you king)

King?

(This shall be your palace. We will fill it, you and I)

I don’t understand.

(Isn’t that what you want?)

Yes, but—

I’m dead, Flint thinks all at once. I must be dead. And he hears a chuckle, as though the voice has heard his thoughts and confusion.

(I shall reward you, Flint. You have paved the way for me. All you have to do … All that is required…)

Yes? Yes?

(Come to me)

Steam billows out toward him. Flint sits up. He moves. He can move! The knowledge sweeps through him. It isn’t too late, then. With hardly an effort he glides through the water and steps up and out of the hot tub. A second chance. That thought propels him forward, even as he hears that laugh again, reverberating up through his soul. The steam pouring out of the room reaches for him, urging him forward. Tingling against his body. He has but one thought: a second chance.

And as he stands at the entrance of that yawning dark mouth, steam touching his skin with a hot damp kiss, Flint glances behind him, and chokes back a scream.

His body floats in the jacuzzi, face-up, swimming in the bubbly red water.

Flint takes a backward step.

The laugh, fiendish and high-pitched with excitement.

As the steamroom door whispers shut.

5

Outside, the great Pacific storm lashes San Francisco. Lightning rips and shreds the purple sky.

It begins.

2

The Comic-book Storm

1

THE DARKNESS RODE THE WINGS of a Pacific storm, and only a few saw—or sensed—its arrival.

2

A low fog erased twilight on that Saturday night. It rolled in like a living gray smudge upon the horizon, blanketing all of the city west of Twin Peaks that faced the Pacific. From there, it quickly whipped across the panoramic slopes of Twin Peaks and spilled into the Castro district. Lights flipped on early downtown and in the Marina, as if nightfall had caught the city by surprise. Even the normally fog-free belt south of Market was not exempt that day. Whole chunks of the city all but disappeared. The world fell gauzy white, gray.

In the Castro, streets that had earlier hummed with activity began to empty as temperatures plummeted and a chilling wind whistled down Market Street. Men and women caught unprepared for the cold dashed home for jackets and sweaters or ducked into bars to warm up. Customers in these bars peered out of tinted glass windows with mounting alarm; never had the fog seemed so … suffocating. Everywhere men hurried helter-skelter with hands buried in zippered jackets and chins tucked against the damp wind.

High clouds gave way to the storm that had traversed the entire Pacific. Thunderheads boiled purple and black, gaining strength as they collided with land. Heat lightning lit the sky in crazy negatives. The wind shrieked with a banshee cry, rattling Victorian homes.

By nine-thirty the first drops of rain began to fall. And then it seemed a giant took a knife and ripped open the pregnant bellies of the clouds, for all at once rain descended in torrents. Half of San Francisco would sit up and watch, wild-eyed with a mixture of dread and delight, the storm’s pounding of the city.

3

David Walker thought he knew about storms, and their darkness. They held no fascination for him.

That’s why now, in his two-bedroom flat on Noe Street, he wasn’t sitting by the sliding glass doors for the spectacular view. All of the apartments on his side of Noe Street (that’s pronounced No-e, as he used to correct all his New York friends) sported gracious views of the Castro and the steep sparkling slopes of Twin Peaks. In the mornings, blurry with sleep, he usually perched on the couch with his candy-sweet coffee. And sometimes—especially during the long summer twilights—he would come home from his days of running errands, plop onto the couch, and simply watch twilight paint the city.

But he was not at the window now.

Tonight, he sat at his desk. Not in an office, but in a chunk of his bedroom, a tiny corner sandwiched between closet and dresser, where he had set up a desk, typewriter, books. Here, he wanted no distracting view. Here, the wall was bare, mutable, for the cinema of his mind.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Purr of electric typewriter.

Tonight, each sentence was a wild effort, all of it clumsy and cliched. The trash can beside the desk was stuffed high with paper snowballs, a sentence or two typed on each crumpled page.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Purr.

Tonight’s story should have been a quickie. He’d labored on it for three days, and still it was a piece of crap, all loose threads with no central thrust and—sin of sins—no climax. He remembered that scene in Julia where Jane Fonda, as Lillian Hellman, tossed her typewriter out the window in frustration. No writer would ever do that, he had thought smugly at the time.

Tonight, if someone had handed him an axe, he would have chopped his Smith Corona into baby food.

David rubbed his eyes. The clock on his desk read 11:45. One more cup of coffee? He was already jittery, still wired from his afternoon visit with Eddie at the hospital. Even so, he debated the coffee. It’d give him another hour of writing—maybe. Or another hour of staring at the blank wall in front of him where he should see his short story projected upon a mental screen, but where instead it was Eddie he saw, Eddie with his full-moon eyes and tubes sticking out of places David didn’t dream existed, Eddie his roommate and old college chum who now weighed one hundred and thirty-two pounds soaking wet, shrinking away to nothing in a hospital bed.

David Walker knew about real horror, oh yes indeed.

He reread the paragraph it had taken him thirty minutes to write:

Hank knew if anyone could teach him how to be with a man, it would be Rob, the swarthy Italian hero of his own stories. But Rob would only visit at night, lights out. In the morning, all that would be left of him were little black curls of hair on the sheets. He

He what? David thought miserably, and then added and who cares.

Porn. That was his problem. Years ago, in New York, it had been a pretty good racket, an unexpected meal ticket to augment rent and waiting tables while he labored over his sci-fi novels. He had discovered, once he relaxed about it and simply went with the flow, that by tapping into his own sexual fantasies and experiences, he could crank out three or four stories a month. In traditional stories, sex—if it was even included at all—lasted a paragraph or two, perhaps a page, as an interlude between the real action. The secret to writing porn was inverting that process. Take that sexy paragraph and pull it inside out, stretch it until the whole story reveals itself using sex as its canvas. Spice the sex with an exotic locale, or danger, with the first sexual encounter no later than the bottom of the first page, and end the story with an orgy of unsurpassed pleasure for the host character. Mail it out, get busy on something else, and see what trickled in.

Somewhere along the way—long before his move from New York back to San Francisco—all the fun had gone out of writing porn. Actually, he knew the where and when, though it had happened as a whimper and not a bang. Like air escaping from a balloon, leaving him flat and deflated and worst of all scared.

That night in his New York hospital room, six months after his accident, the night he read 1100 And Counting on the front page of the New York Native and learned about an enemy far worse than an army of Anita Bryants and John Briggses.

And just like that, before he could say abracadabra, the fear had settled into the pit of his stomach, an uninvited house guest. Don’t mind me, Davie ole boy, the fear seemed to say. We’re going to be pals for a long time, I say a loong time, so better just get used to me. I’ll give you a tweak whenever you catch a cold and make you wonder if it’s The Big One. I’ll feed on your guilt and spit on your worry and just kick up my feet and laugh and laugh, because I’ve got all the time in the world buddy boy, but you? Well, who knows how long it’ll take before the pounds begin to slide right off of ya and you wake up in pools of sweat with your heart hammering to beat the devil, who knows how long, that’s the great question. I know how long—but I ain’t telling.

His life, in that instant, surgically divided into a Before and an After. The new sickness (and his accident, which somehow swirled together) had swept aside the Before part of him; he, a misbehaving child, his toys snatched away.

Little by little, as the days turned into years and news of the plague grew into out-and-out war, as friends and acquaintances and strangers succumbed into the bottomless well of statistics, his work became a mockery of the life he saw around him. In this world where men searched for love through phones and video and pornography, the desire to write about sexual adventures paled and grew hollow. Perversely enough, the need for his stories was never greater. And so David kept at it, even after he moved back to San Francisco to finish his recuperation. His concentration was shot for attempting something as heavyweight as a novel; he just didn’t have the energy any more. What else could he do? He had to pay rent. He had to put his life back together. So he stuck with the porno, trying sexy new angles, different themes, rehashed dialogue. What the hell; the editors loved him, even though his writing flew on automatic pilot.

Then he would have one of his nights, like now, where he sat at his desk writing of cocks and sweat and desire but his mind stayed on Eddie, sick for the past eight months and going fast now, Eddie who wanted to see one more Christmas but who would probably never even see Halloween.

Yes, David knew the horror.

This stuff ate at his insides day by day, a bite at a time. The horror of monsters from outer space that he wrote about in his many unfinished science fiction novels couldn’t hold a candle to the quiet horror that was his After life.

Tap tap tap. Purr.

He snapped off the typewriter and wrenched himself away from his desk. No good. It was just no good, tonight. Too many haunted faces.

He stood up and stretched, his cramped muscles flaring. His hip, where he had broken it (along with just about every other bone in his body), thudded dully. He was of modest height, five foot ten, and lanky, with short black hair