by Dan Thompson
The office phone is nearby and appears to be intact; a quick connect to the emergency dispatcher, but a rogue thought tells her that finding two people in similar situations will make her appear suspicious to the police. If they find Jimmy Evans, she will become a prime suspect. She hesitates, and turns away from the scene, just as the large window pane crashes into Kyle’s office and Diesel pushes through from outside. Exploding glass fragments fill the air, and the stranger’s warning comes back as she runs from the frothing dog and slams the door behind her.
There is no doubt in Wendy’s mind there is a connection between Jimmy’s attack by his pet Labrador, her boss’s death by creatures unknown, and the feral dogs on the street. She never saw Jimmy’s injuries, but Mr. Kyle’s wounds are visible at through the glass-topped door. Her phone’s camera is ready, and she shoots a picture with flash, afraid if she leaves, the animals will consume him, and there will be no evidence for the police to examine. In the red light of night, her boss’s face is eerie, for one of his eyes has been removed, and his lips are shredded.
She hears through the thin wall as the mastiff paces, then jumps and bumps against the sheetrock and the door. Will it remain in the other room, or leave through the broken window, and circle around to the front entry? Or maybe break down the wall and grab her with its big teeth? Either option scares hell out of Wendy. She doesn’t want to die like her boss did.
She calls the 911 exchange, ready to give another name if asked, but the number is unanswered and there’s no way to make a report. There is nothing she can do. Peeking out the front door, she sees nothing more amiss, grasps her phone tightly, and runs outside, headed for her car. Where to go next is her dilemma. Should she drive to her home or to the local police station, where officers will take her statement?
Law enforcement officers didn’t do much for her in the past, so why should things have changed? When the lunatic from the abandoned warehouse attacked her two years ago, those who showed up seemed far more concerned with his comfort than hers. Someone told her later it wasn’t that way at all; the officers had to do everything just right or the perp would get away with his crime. Wendy briefly remembers the ordeal, then shakes it off, determined to keep the debilitating memories out of her head.
The sound of her car engine gets the attention of the crazed animal in the office, sending it through the broken window in a fury. She guns the motor and drives away, seeing the giant dog in her rearview mirror. He is missing his army, and she wonders where they have gone.
With her adrenalin high, Wendy drives to her apartment, leaving the headlights off. There is no need for additional light. The streets are bare, except for an occasional dog that glares at her, snarls, and chases behind her car. She can see their jaws moving as they run. It is after eleven, and those people who should be asleep in their houses must be, for all is quiet. Rosedale’s population is small, but it is an active city, with a youthful demographic. Every weekend the parks are loaded with families and pets, enjoying their free time, and at night, they party until late. Why not tonight? You fools, she thinks, just look at the damn red sky; it’s reason enough to stay awake.
It has to mean something, she thinks. Maybe the world is ending and spaceships are about to land across Nebraska. But why Nebraska, where nothing happens? No, there is a logical explanation, and I, Gwendolyn Dianne Matthews, can’t be the only person in the city who wants to hear it.
Chapter 4
The old brown truck is sturdy and dependable, very much like Elisha Short. It is far younger than the immortal, but very serviceable. Driving to the source of the red sky won’t take long; he has made himself comfortable, listening to Willie Nelson sing Christmas carols on the radio. Short has no need for a GPS; his map is inside his head. He is ready for work, all boots and jeans again, with a tee that says “I heart Nebraska,” and a blue jean jacket for show.
The uplift, or raised topography, is ahead, and although nothing much is there except rancher-owned land, Short knows that’s where he he’ll find the others, the whole group of nasty creatures. He has learned a few things in his long lifetime, but he still has some unanswered questions. Like, why does the Creator let goblins live? And that indwelling thing with the dogs, he wonders, why was that allowed?
Dust kicks up along the road. Without moisture, the cross-country paths that are normally snow-covered create thick air that is hard to breathe. He wonders about the cattle ranchers and what will happen without rain. It is not his concern, the voice tells him. He sheepishly nods and looks up. Continuing on his route, Short thinks about his surroundings, his timing. He knows it is the twenty-first century, and the year has iPhones, iPads, and curved-screen televisions. He heard it all in the breakfast shop that morning over coffee that tasted the way he remembered. This seems to be a good year for living.
The girl might be a problem. She is curious and has a loving heart, two attributes that don’t necessarily promise long life. He hopes it will turn out well for her. After a while, he checks the time by the stars and realizes he must hurry, for there are few of them visible. Lifting his hands from the wheel, Short points in the direction toward the hills and lets the air currents take him across the dry plain. The smooth ride gives him time to consider his path.
“Red sky at morning, sailor take warning; red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” A little rhyme from his childhood, but those days never saw the red sky that Short sees now. He fears for the Earth, for its survival. The Lord God never meant for his people to endure the hardships of the Devil; that’s why there’s a barrier between them. That business last night—now that speaks of a firm effort by at least one of the demons. Probably not Wargel, for the last Short knew, that fellow was locked away for the duration. But one of the others, probably Gorgel, the oldest and most powerful, has made his presence known.
Back in his early years, Elisha Short was a rounder, fearing nothing that moved. He chose ranching and cowboying, for they met his needs, providing the stimulation that a young man craves. He never married, never fell in love—not that he had objections, just couldn’t sit still long enough to get to know a real lady, never mind marrying one. When he was a little older, and a dang sight dumber, a few fellows in Boston offered a severe amount of gold for the capture of an arsonist.
After all the testing trials were over, Short and two of his friends, Buffalo John Handy and Augustine Draper, were chosen to do the deed and make all the gold. Those who hired them were religious men, black-robed and solemn, instilling fear and respect at the same time. They had instructions, but mostly they had a command: “Find the man, tie him, bury him upside down.” It was later, much later, after his two friends were killed, that Short found out what he had buried. He had no more use for religious men after that, believing them to be liars and frauds.
Wargel was the demon from that time, and Short had handed him over to his daddy. Old Lucifer, or Satan, as some called him, locked Wargel away. Now, it seems, a sibling has stuck his feet onto solid ground, and Elisha Short will have to see about that.
Chapter 5
Home at last, Wendy undresses and showers, hoping to put the day away from her. She gets 911 voicemail again, and leaves anonymous information about Chuck Kyle. Fully expecting to be awakened by police officers, she leaves her bedroom door open so that she might hear the knock when it comes. Four hours later, Wendy is awakened by screaming in the apartment two floors above her. She knows the tenant, Claudia Bolls, a woman her age or thereabouts, and they are almost friends.
After slipping a pair of flip-flops between her toes, Wendy races into the kitchen and grabs her largest carving knife. The hallway is empty, but there are tracks up and down the carpet, some small, some large. Wendy freezes and steps inside the maintenance doorway when she hears the rat-a-tat of many claws descending the wooden staircase leading from the third floor.
Inside the closet, Wendy sees a few tall electrical boxes. She pulls in quickly, holding the knife ready as she peeks through a crack in the door�
��s opening. She is afraid they will smell her. A line of scruffy dogs fills the corridor, some of them with blood on their jaws, while others are well groomed, as though they have recently emerged from a clean pet bed. Each of the animals stays behind the big Labrador leading the group.
“Elroy,” she whispers. “My God, it’s you. How did you get so far from home?”
“Hush,” a voice speaks into her ear. “Do you want to die?”
“Sorry,” Wendy mouths, recognizing her neighbor. She lowers the knife and they stand together, watching the procession as each of the canines march, one behind the other. Finally, the last one exits the hallway. “They act like they’re hypnotized,” Wendy murmurs. “Who was it screaming? I thought it was you.”
“No, it was the girl down the hall. She… was scared and knocked on my door. When they came, I went out the back, and told her to follow me, but she didn’t move. I… went back to get her, but it was too late. I barely got out in time.” Claudia starts crying, and Wendy puts her arms around her. “I tried, really, I didn’t want to leave her, but they had her on the floor and the big one, he just stood there, watching me, so I ran. I’ve been hiding behind the boxes, praying I didn’t get electrocuted.”
“Did you call the police?” Wendy asks, hating to move from the room, but she knows it’s time. “We have to see if she’s still alive.”
“I called, but all I got was a busy signal, like no one was working. I… can’t go back, Wendy. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“All right, I’ll go. You can go to my apartment. It’s open. Lock it when you get inside. Just stay awake so you can let me in.”
“Sure,” Claudia says, her head hanging. “I really am sorry. I wish I could have saved her.”
The steps creak as she tiptoes upstairs. The building is too old to have an elevator, and besides, the apartments are cheap, which is why she can afford hers. The steps make her thankful her apartment is on the ground floor. She wonders why the dogs missed her before, or maybe, she thinks, they were saving her for dessert. What if they come back? They knew Claudia was somewhere near. Why didn’t they attack her? Too many questions, she thinks.
Bloody tracks lead from Claudia’s apartment to the stairwell, decreasing in hue as they descend. When Wendy reaches the front door, she sees there is a bloody mess inside and she refuses to enter.
“WTF,” Wendy mutters. “The world has gone crazy. Dogs don’t eat people.” She says this over and over as she begins knocking on other doors. All the apartments have residents, but none respond. Are they incapable of answering or too frightened? Everyone on all three floors must have heard the scream earlier.
The second floor is like the third: there are no responses, but dog tracks and blood coat the carpets. Wendy is frightened and wishes she learned to use a gun when her first boyfriend tried to teach her. The carving knife is unwieldy and probably useless in a fight. She begins to see the ridiculousness of it against a pack of violent dogs. Elroy seemed unaware of her, as though his memory had been wiped. So many thoughts run loose as Wendy enters quiet, dark red hallways in the apartment building.
The building appears empty, and the echoing sounds are of vacant halls. She leaves the second floor and goes to the first, where she lives. There are four apartments on each floor, so three other neighbors to warn. No one responds, and Wendy almost runs to her door. She knocks, but there is no answer. Claudia doesn’t come.
“Open the door, Claudia,” she yells. “It’s me, come on, no one else is here.” Silence is what she gets. She tries the door and it is unlocked. Inside, there is no evidence of Claudia, no sign at all. Shivering, Wendy slams and locks the door then runs to the bathroom. She sits inside the bathtub with a towel over her head. Why? What the fuck is going on? Where’s everyone? Where’s Claudia? She was just here. The bathroom light is from the street lamps that reflect the red sky. Wendy rises from the tub and peeks outside through the small bathroom window. She sees nothing moving. The dogs are gone. The neighbors are gone, and her nerve is quickly leaving.
Easing out of the tub, she puts on a heavy robe to stop the cold, awful trembling that affects her arms and legs. The heat is set at eighty degrees, but it is icy inside. The thermostat reads fifty degrees, and the furnace is running, with cold air from the vents. Wendy turns it off, but nothing changes, except it is getting colder. She wishes she could go to sleep and not wake up until the craziness is over. A half-hour later, the temperature in the apartment is forty degrees and still falling. Her only pet, a tropical black molly, floats on the icy water of the aquarium. Sudden tears fill her eyes at the loss.
Wendy has a waterbed with a digital heater to keep her warm at night. She saved money and bought it after Andrew dumped her, back when she felt terribly unloved. Actually, she has been entranced with waterbeds since she slept on her grandmother’s motionless mattress many years ago. She thinks of the heater on the bed and runs to it, diving into its warmth, but it is not warm, it is colder than the water from the faucet. Earlier it was fine, but things have changed. Everything has changed.
Gathering together a bit of food and water, for she still has to eat and drink, Wendy strips her bed of a few warm, cuddly coverlets, and stuffs everything into two large shopping bags. She changes her clothing, layering her body with a tight warm-up suit, a thick cashmere sweater from her mother’s collection, an extra-large Lowe’s white sweatshirt with hood from a guy who worked there and thought he could get sex in exchange for the hoodie, a pair of Dickies workpants left behind by Andrew, three pair of socks, her biggest running shoes, and a pair of thermal gloves. She thinks she looks like a Marshmallow Man with no fashion sense, but she doesn’t give a damn. She is warm.
It will be difficult to run with so many clothes on, but she has made a choice. There is nothing in the apartment that holds her, only death in the room two floors above her head. There is little gas in the Escort, but it gets great mileage, so maybe she can stop and buy some when it gets really low. She has money, though not much, and no clear destination, but Wendy thinks she knows where she is going. The origin of the red sky, where yellows and reds burst prophetically upward, tells of doom and something else. She wants to know what is there and is willing to chance whatever may happen. All the people in her apartment building need an advocate, someone who will search and find the truth behind the horror in Rosedale. Wendy has never been that person before—she’s always been fearful of change, of confrontation, of everything connected with unfamiliar surroundings—but she wants to be better, wants to speak for some of the dead.
Chapter 6
Elisha Short stops before he reaches the highest part of the uplift. A road circles to the right, and he takes it, for he is back to driving the truck the old-fashioned way. He hums along with the Beatles on a retro station, wishing he had held more hands when it was possible. Looking deeply into the mirror, he observes the blast that spits out of the far side of the lift. He feels the explosions from miles away as the production of gas pushes upward, sending sparks and streamers for miles on high. Gorgel has outdone himself. Short feels a sharp pain in his side in anticipation of the task ahead, but he has no fear. He knows where his help will come from, for it is a righteous mission.
The long double-barreled shotgun lies across the seat of the truck, and it is loaded with a special shot made from angel dust—flakes of power shed by immortal creatures. The real kind, he thinks, not the chemical mess that makes mortals even crazier. No, there is only one way to quell a demon, and that’s with a good dose of angel dust. He only hopes he gets his chance to fire the weapon.
He sees them, all in lines. They’ve been on the road for some time. Short wonders if this is some kind of reckoning, and he hasn’t been told what to expect. Chasing demons was never what he set out to do, and he didn’t intend to get involved with supernatural beings as an occupation. The Creator seemed to think he was good at it. Like one of those mighty men from early times—those giants, the Sons of God—whereas Elisha Short knows he is nowh
ere near that. He had been an ordinary man, nothing more. Humility is a characteristic of the demon hunter—not because he doesn’t believe in his capabilities, but because he realizes it was grace that saved him from destruction. Nothing he did made him deserve those extra years. The day he rode off to Mexico, refusing to return to Boston, the raiment of grace came down upon him, and stayed for three hundred years.
There is no time for reminiscing, but Elisha Short is always a bit of a dreamer, a character flaw, he believes, and it doesn’t take much to get him going. Like tonight, when the work of the Devil’s children is afoot on the earth, he still has time to look back and wonder at the life he lived, how he was blessed. He has traveled through time, through other dimensions, yet none of them are as interesting as what he finds on Earth.
Chapter 7
Wendy grabs both bags and runs for the car, opens the back door, throws the bags in, and piles in through the front door. She is no longer cold, but the amount of clothing on her body is cumbersome and slows her movement. The car starts with difficulty and she waits a moment for the motor to warm. The doors are closed and locked, but even so, inside the car it is as cold as outside. The heater blower spouts cold air after she turns the dial to maximum heat.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Wendy yells, getting really angry at all that has gone wrong. “Claudia, where are you?” She lowers her window and yells the question that is half plea. In her frustration, she has drawn the attention of three wolfhounds, a half-block from her. “Double shit! Come and get me, you hungry motherfuckers,” she screams, giving gas to the carburetor. The engine coughs, as it pumps cold water and oil through its radiator and combustion chambers. Wendy is hysterical, watching the usually gentle wolfhounds bare their teeth. She can’t warm the engine enough to make it go fast, and she now regrets her challenge to the big canines.
