***
They saw the flash as someone walked by their room. It startled them; they had heard sounds, but had not heard anyone actually come in the house.
Todd looked at Malachi, mouthing the words, "What now?"
Malachi was about to answer when they heard the front door open. Distracted by the presence of a stranger in the hall, they hadn’t heard the latch disengage.
Now there were two people in the house.
Malachi decided to wait and see what happened next.
***
John stepped into the living room at the same exact time someone else entered through the front door. It registered on him that this room was as bare as the other had been, but that was before he locked eyes with the man who had stepped in.
"Skunk Man," whispered John.
Devorough stared blankly at John, his jaw slack, as though he were some patient in a mental hospital, too doped up to recognize anything around him.
John and the man both waited, a frozen tableau, before John broke the silence. "Mr. Devorough?" he started.
Devorough seemed to animate a bit. His mouth closed for a moment, then in a dreamy voice he said, "She forgot her doll. I came back for it. The place has to be clean."
John didn’t know what was going on; was too confused and frightened by half to make any sense out of Devorough's strange words. He pressed on, though, wanting more than ever to pierce the shroud of mystery that had suddenly wrapped around his life.
***
Malachi held up a hand. They could hear the conversation in the next room. They might find something out. One of the men had mentioned a girl, and he wanted to hear what he could before going in and blowing both of them back to Hell.
The first voice came through the door. "Mr. Devorough, I’m Kaylie’s teacher, and...."
Teacher? Malachi frowned. No matter what false name the Controllers had given her, why would Fran have a teacher? This wasn’t sounding right.
"...well, this is gonna sound crazy," the first voice continued, "but were you ever in Iraq?"
There was a long pause. And then a sudden, violent crash.
***
John expected several things. A laugh, perhaps, with an accompanying "What are you talking about?" If not that, then a mere "I’m calling the police" was also something he would have been ready for. He even felt fairly prepared for Devorough to rip off his face and reveal an insect-like alien beneath the skin that would grab him and take him aboard some mothership hovering a few miles above the earth, undetected by NASA’s best scientists, there to be anally probed and made to mate with the bug women.
But he did not expect Devorough to attack him.
The man screamed, a crazy, ravaged cry that seemed to tear out of him, and John instinctively threw up his hands as Devorough rushed him, the other man's hands curled into vicious claws that would rend and tear.
John suddenly found himself in the fight of his life. Devorough’s hands were like flesh-sheathed pincers that felt more as though they were powered by pistons and steam than by muscle and tendon. John pushed the man away, kicking him in the groin and forking at his eyes automatically, old training surging up to take control of his reactions.
Devorough defended against the eye-gouge. John’s foot, however, connected. It was a solid hit, slamming Devorough’s genitals straight on. It should have dropped him, but the guy kept coming. He didn't even slow down, in fact. He pushed into John, punching him back into the wall hard enough that he felt his ribs bend and the air whoosh out of him.
In the movies, such a hit was always a chance to hear the good guy scream in rage and then come on with renewed vigor. Reality was different. John couldn’t breathe; for an agonizing moment he couldn’t even think about breathing. Then his body recovered enough to suck in a huge gasp of air.
Too late for further action, though. Devorough had the upper hand, and he kept it, pressing John into and up the wall, keeping John’s feet off the floor, keeping him from getting his balance. Both Devorough’s hands were occupied, though, so this time when John’s two fingers stabbed out, it was a success.
One slammed into Devorough’s cheek, bruising John’s knuckle. The other slammed home, plunging into the gooey mass of Devorough’s eye, ruining it forever. John felt no immediate qualms about the action: he knew instinctively this was a fight to the death, with no second place award. But still, in a place in the back of his mind, he knew that he would later agonize about the move; would replay it over and over in his mind to see if there might have been some other way of dealing with the situation.
If he survived, that was. If he was dead he wouldn’t have the luxury of feeling guilty.
Devorough stepped back - without a sound, though he should have been screaming! - and John found his footing again. He grabbed hold of Devorough’s neck and pulled, throwing his hip under Devorough’s and swiveling his feet as he simultaneously yanked on Devorough’s head and neck. It was a hip-toss, and John planned to throw the other man down as hard as he could, adding his own body weight to gravity’s taut pull and hopefully crushing Devorough’s ribs into pudding.
It didn’t work. Devorough pulled himself high, defying physics and leverage to yank John into the air again. It wasn’t form or technique, it was sheer brute strength.
John had never felt such power. It was as though a monster, a juggernaut, a leviathan was attacking him. He had fought large men before, and his training allowed him to win. Technique provided him with enough advantage to come out as victor. But here, it seemed that training was nothing. And technique was just a silly fairy tale that evaporated in the face of rough, brute strength.
Devorough slammed John into the ground, a throw that seemed almost clumsy in execution. For all its lack of smoothness, though, the move was effective. John landed on his tailbone, bruising and perhaps fracturing it as he landed. He cried out, a staccato yip that was broken off as Devorough’s hand wrapped itself tightly around his throat.
For a moment, John thought he was going to be slowly strangled, the oxygen and life crushed out of him. Devorough’s grip changed, though, and John gasped quickly as the other man’s hands left his trachea, inhaling with relief. The relief quickly fled, however, as Devorough switched his hands to a firm hold on his chin and the back of John's head, and began twisting.
He’s going to snap my neck, thought John.
And there was nothing he could do about it. The pressure was slow, even, utterly unrelenting. And inescapable. John could actually hear the vertebrae in his neck popping and crackling as they struggled to maintain themselves under stress which nature never intended them to feel.
He heard a bang, a loud clattering sound that he knew must be his neck breaking. John thought the pain would cease with the noise, but miraculously it didn’t. It got worse, a sheer agony that ripped through his muscles and set them afire.
Then he felt Devorough’s hands loosen and the man’s body fell next to John. A hole the size of a cat was punched through the Skunk Man's torso. John could actually see through the gaping wound to the wall behind as Devorough fell.
John looked behind him, and recognized the four strangers he had bumped into at Casey’s coming in the bedroom door. They held guns.
The one in front, the oldest one, smiled. He looked at Devorough’s body and whispered, "Thou shalt fear no evil." He aimed his gun at Devorough’s body, which was still twitching.
Do bodies twitch that much? he thought. John had seen bodies before, and they’d never convulsed like this one was doing,
The older man pulled the trigger of his weapon.
John threw himself to the side as the shotgun blasted. He felt the heated shot whiz past him as he hit the wall under a large window, but wasn’t harmed.
He looked at Devorough, whose head was splashed all over the room, body ending in a mutilated, ragged stump of a neck that dripped blood everywhere.
Devorough was no longer twitching. Once again, the Skunk Man was dead.
CON
TROL HQ - RUSHM
AD 3999/AE 1999
Adam was poring through the unsealed portions records databases, trying to figure out exactly what was going on in Loston, and as always, he scanned the electronic files with trepidation. To look to far into the matters they contained could mean death, and worse, so it he felt a mixed sense of frustration and relief when his studies were ended by the all-too familiar sound of trouble.
"Sir!" Jason yelled. "One of the bits just went offline!"
"Was his cam recording?" asked Adam as he made his way to his right-hand man’s console. Jason nodded. "Then let’s find out what happened."
Jason keyed in a command on his console, and they turned to the screens that hovered over the walls. One expanded, and began to play out a scene. It was confused and jerky, but Adam could see John's face for a moment, and then another face. Light hair, dark clothing. Adam's breath caught in his throat as he realized who it was.
"Malachi," he gasped. Then he turned to Jason. Gesturing at the monitor, he snapped, "Who was this? Who did we just lose?"
Jason checked his record bank. "Devorough 42261-6. That’s who just went down."
"The bit?"
Jason nodded, his face ashen. So he recognized Malachi, too, thought Adam.
"The records maintain that Devorough is offline and in storage," said Jason, "but the console also shows him as the one we just lost."
Confused and worried by this new bit of information, Adam turned back to watch the scene. It ended when Malachi pointed his gun at the cam and pulled the trigger.
"Locate them," he said to Jason.
Jason began working, and Adam began to pray.
Just one break, God. Just one little break, please.
DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
6:30 PM MONDAY
The man who had pulled the trigger turned his attention to John. John cringed. He had never, in all his life, confronted a gaze more filled with malevolent insanity. It seared through him like a red-hot poker, burning out courage and security and leaving behind it an ashy trail of fear. John shuddered. He knew instantly that Devorough, for all his chaotic action and superhuman strength, was far preferable to this man, this devil in human guise.
"Have to make sure they stay dead," said the man, and John was struck by the incongruously happy voice that came out of the man's mouth. "It’s how we bring about the end of days."
John tensed, preparing to jump to his feet. Instantly all four strangers pointed their guns at him, aiming with military precision. John remained down, kneeling with his hands up.
"Not so fast," the man said. "You don’t do anything until you tell us where she is." And then, insanely, he said something which made no sense whatsoever: "I’m human, by the way."
John looked at the people threatening him. There was the older man who had spoken, who was so obviously in charge there was no need to ask to whom John must direct his attention. Behind and to his right stood a younger man, pale blue eyes crackling with an only slightly less intense version of the same insane energy that riddled the older man’s irises. To their left stood a petite blonde girl. She held her gun in rock-steady hands, but John noticed her feet shuffling back and forth.
Nervous, he thought. She's the weak link.
He filed away the information for later use.
The last person in the group was a black woman, dark and dusky as a sunless night over a tropical forest, her clothing seeming both a part of her and of the dark quarters in which they now stood.
John remained silent. He knew from experience what to do and what not to do in a prisoner situation. Rule number one was only speak when asked a direct question.
Apparently these people hadn’t studied their hostage etiquette, for the younger man stepped forward, forcing the other three to shuffle sideways and draw a bit closer to keep their guns on John.
The man kicked John, then hit him with his gun. "Tell us!" he screamed.
John went down again as his already-abused body suffered further damage. He felt another rib bruise. The pain was bad, inconvenient, but not unbearable. He stayed down, though, arms crossed in front of his stomach, and began sobbing as though hysterical.
He could hardly breathe between the tears and the sobs that shook his entire frame like a wind-tossed leaf, and each shudder took its toll on John's bruised neck and chest. But it was worth it. The young blonde girl stepped forward, prodding his shoulder with her gun.
"Shut up," said the woman. Her voice was like steel, but John could detect a tiny quaver around the edges. "Tell us where she is."
She prodded him again.
Mistake.
John exploded upward, twisting to the side and pushing her gun to the floor as he jumped. The gun boomed as it went off, and at the same moment John stood, using his powerful momentum to hurl her into the younger man. They both tripped, arms pinwheeling to maintain balance, then fell backward into the other two.
In the same motion, John heaved himself up and back, through the window behind him. He fell through in a tinkle of glass and felt a shard pierce his lower back, hopefully nothing serious, and then the breath whooshed out of him yet again as he hit the ground outside. He sprang to his feet and was running even as he heard his attackers struggling to their feet inside the house.
John ran to the corn field that butted up against the Devoroughs’ yard, plunging head first into the stalks and running. He could hear muffled grunts at the house as his four assailants came through the window in pursuit of him. They plunged into the rows of shucks as well, hurrying to catch him as he fled.
But John was no longer fleeing. He ran about six feet into the thick patch, just far enough to be out of sight from the house, and then dropped to his belly, laying flat in the dirt.
It was a gamble, but his car was in front of the Devorough place. Escaping on foot was something he didn’t want to try, especially if it meant running into the nearby mountains. He wanted someplace populated, so he had to make it to his car. Once there, he could get into Loston and go see Tal, the sheriff.
Four sets of feet crunched by him, one set - belonging to the young man - coming close enough that he could have seen John had he merely looked down for a moment. Luckily, for all their apparent facility with guns, John could tell they had no idea how to conduct a thorough sweep of a cornfield.
John waited until he heard them plow deep into the rows, then stood and ran with all his might. His legs pumped like the pistons of an angry locomotive as he fairly flew to his car, expecting at every moment to hear the explosion of a shotgun and feel the tearing pain of shot ripping into him.
With that thought, the scar on his shoulder twinged, as though it was remembering its birth. John had no time to think of that long-forgotten day, however, and dismissed the thought. But he did not send it far, for he sensed that what had happened that day would prove important; that it might even be crucial to staying alive.
He made it to his car, yanking the door open and throwing himself onto the seat. A small cry escaped his lips as he sat. The shard of the window glass that had imbedded itself in his back was still there, and as he sat down it was pushed further inside. John hoped it wasn’t severing any nerves or causing serious damage, but he didn’t have time to stop and try to get it out.
He turned his key in the ignition and rolled out, casting one last look at the house.
He had escaped death tonight. Not once but several times. But he felt no relief, merely a burgeoning sense of despair.
As though what had happened was only a small taste of things to come.
"The end of days," was what the older man had said.
John hoped they weren’t his.
CONTROL HQ - RUSHM
AD 3999/AE 1999
"How did this happen?" asked Adam. He wasn’t angry, rather he had ascended all the way to the point those who worked with him described as The Calm. Beyond anger, beyond fury, beyond rage lay The Calm, and it told the other Controllers
the depth of Adam’s fear.
"I don’t know, sir," said Jason. "As soon as we were aware that John had recognized Devorough we tried to recall him."
"And?"
"He didn’t come. Kaylie showed up - she’s in the Clinic - but Devorough never did."
"Wonderful. Didn’t you ask her where Devorough was, and how she came to be his daughter?"
"Yes, sir, but...." Jason’s voice trailed off.
"But what?"
"She’d been erased. Nothing left. She couldn’t even talk."
"Damn. That’s the work of someone inside." Adam turned to the wall, a single enlarged screen there the focus of his attention. It showed the last thing Devorough had seen: a freeze frame view of the bullet that ended his life. And behind it, that face that Adam had hoped never to see again. "Malachi," he whispered. The name pulled at him like a one ton weight on a swimmer.
"Sir," said Jason. "What do you want us to do?"
Adam turned to the Controllers and tried desperately to think of an answer to that question.
DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
6:50 PM MONDAY
Sheriff Tal White cultivated despondency like others raised roses.
Functional depression wasn’t merely his hobby, it was his way of life. People laughed at him behind his back. He knew that, and it served only to sadden him. He had never married, as that would have contributed too much of a chance of happiness.
Single, he graduated Loston High, took a correspondence course in forensics and criminology (amazing what you could get for yourself over the computers these days!), and then lobbied - successfully - for the job of Loston’s sole Sheriff. He told himself he got the job because people secretly admired his fortitude in the face of despair.
In reality, no one else wanted a job that paid slightly over thirty thousand dollars a year and tended to result in lowered sperm counts through exposure to extremely high levels of boredom. Nothing ever happened in Loston.
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