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About The Inhuman Condition
Product Description A master storyteller and unrivaled visionary, Clive Barker has mixed the real and unreal with the horrible and wonderful in more than twenty years of fantastic fiction. The Inhuman Condition is a masterwork of surrealistic terror, recounting tragedy with pragmatism, inspiring panic more than dread and evoking equal parts revulsion and delight. Review Time Ever since the heyday of horror fiction...aficionados have been awaiting a writer to transcend the genre and give it new legitimacy. Clive Barker may be the man...witty, unpredictable, and concise....Each story involves an uncanny mix of eroticism and terror. The New York Times Barker create[s] an atmosphere of dread and foreboding...He makes a bad dream seem not only creepily disturbing but plausible.... The Inhuman Condition is Clive Barker at his most effective. The Washington Post The most provacative tales of terror ever published. About the Author Clive Barker is the bestselling author of over twenty novels and collections, including Weaveworld, Imajica, and Galilee. He regularly shows his art in Los Angeles and New York, and produces and directs for both large screen and small. He lives in California with his partner. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One "Are you the one then?" Red demanded, seizing hold of the derelict by the shoulder of his squalid gabardine. "What one d'you mean?" the dirt-caked face replied. He was scanning the quartet of young men who'd cornered him with rodent's eyes. The tunnel where they'd found him relieving himself was far from hope of help. They all knew it and so, it seemed, did he. "I don't know what you're talking about." "You've been showing yourself to children," Red said. The man shook his head, a dribble of spittle running from his lip into the matted bush of his beard. "I've done nothing," he insisted. Brendan sauntered across to the man, heavy footsteps hollow in the tunnel. "What's your name?" he inquired, with deceptive courtesy. Though he lacked Red's height and commanding manner, the scar that inscribed Brendan's cheek from temple to jawline suggested he knew suffering, both in the giving and the receiving. "Name," he demanded. "I'm not going to ask you again." "Pope," the old man muttered. "Mr. Pope." Brendan grinned. "Mr. Pope?" he said. "Well, we heard you've been exposing that rancid little prick of yours to innocent children. What do you say to that?" "No," Pope replied, again shaking his head. "That's not true. I never done nothing like that." When he frowned the filth on his face cracked like crazy paving, a second skin of grime which was the accrual of many months. Had it not been for the fragrance of alcohol off him, which obscured the worst of his bodily stench, it would have been nigh on impossible to stand within a yard of him. The man was human refuse, a shame to his species. "Why bother with him?" Karney said. "He stinks." Red glanced over his shoulder to silence the interruption. At seventeen, Karney was the youngest, and in the quartet's unspoken hierarchy scarcely deserving of an opinion. Recognizing his error, he shut up, leaving Red to return his attention to the vagrant. He pushed Pope back against the wall of the tunnel. The old man expelled a cry as he struck the concrete; it echoed back and forth. Karney, knowing from past experience how the scene would go from here, moved away and studied a gilded cloud of gnats on the edge of the tunnel. Though he enjoyed being with Red and the other two -- the camaraderie, the petty larceny, the drinking -- this particular game had never been much to his taste. He couldn't see the sport in finding some drunken wreck of a man like Pope and beating what little sense was left in his deranged head out of him. It made Karney feel dirty, and he wanted no part of it. Red pulled Pope off the wall and spat a stream of abuse into the man's face, then, when he failed to get an adequate response, thr
