by Jack Yeovil
"Jessa-myn," Elder Seth said with her dead daddy's voice, "gimme the scav. Gimme the scav now, or it'll go harsh with you."
Her forefinger had gone to sleep on the trigger. She tried to fire the gun but her godrotted finger was stone. It wouldn't move. The gun shook and she tried to gouge into the preacherman's chest with the barrel. His hands were on her now, fingers digging into her waist.
"Jessa-myn!"
Her cheek was wet, she knew. She was crying. No, her optic was leaking biofluid. She tried to singe through the patch, to blast the preacher's hat off. The amendment wouldn't burn and she had a feedback headache.
She had ripped out her daddy's throat when he had tried once too often to take things out on her. That had been her first, and she had done it with just claw-gauntlets. Now, when she needed to kill him again, she had a fine piece of high-precision deathware ready and couldn't bring herself to exert the pull you'd need to open a tube of Pivo.
Elder Seth had his own face back but her Daddy's hung just behind his skin, ready to peer through at her.
Bruno Bonney wasn't done with her yet.
Elder Seth took the gun away from her and put it on the bar, between shot glasses. His other hand crept up her side, sliding through her armpit, reaching around her back, pulling her to him.
He leaned his face close to hers. She thought he was going to kiss her and shuddered at the anticipation of his reptile touch, but he just let his eye loom as close to the lens of the spectacles as her own was behind it.
She didn't want to look into his huge eye. She knew she'd be dead if she did that.
But she looked …
…and she saw such horrors.
VII
Outside everything, the Summoner held the girl by the shoulders and watched her face as the truth crowded into her mind…
After nearly a century and a half, he was back. The name didn't matter: Spanish Fork, New Canaan. The place had other names It was a site of predestined power. Once, he had put his mark here Now, he would rekindle the flame.
Across the featureless, white plain rushed a crimson wave, driving before it hordes of ghosts.
The girl shivered and screamed, pestered by her own phantom. She was crying for her father, or crying against her father. It didn't matter. Nichevo, as she would say.
Horsemen passed by, their eyes shot away. Farmers trudged from the fields, hair askew on encrusted scalps. Pilgrims were borne down under the rush of blood, and embedded into the white sands. An eternal battle continued, as the living and the dead clashed, vast ignorant armies in a war only the Summoner truly understood.
Here, the Dark Ones walked, preparing themselves for the earthly plain. The desolation was magnificent.
This was, for the Summoner, a peaceful juncture, a moment of calm. He was poised on the lip of the next phase of the ritual, the mass spilling of blood. At this second, he was alone with this tiny girl, almost intrigued by the rudimentary workings of her mind.
"Jessa-myn," he said to her, in her father's voice, "now it's just us two, all alone and the evening ahead of us."
She was still horror-struck.
In the girl, the Summoner sensed the seed of something fine, something strong, something strange. When the moment was over, he should snuff her like a candle before her flame grew to a brushfire. It was even conceivable she could hinder him. She had the makings of a spirit warrior inside, as a marble block conceals the statue that must be dug out by the sculptor.
But he would miss her. There were so few in his league. It would be a shame to finish her before she could truly test him.
That was sentimental nonsense. There were others, and they would come forth when it was time. They would give him enough trouble. There was a woman in Switzerland, a man in Rome. And there were men and women in the United States, already bloodied in the Dark Ones' killing grounds. The Op in Memphis, the woman from Denver, the Navajo, the horseman…
He took Jessamyn's head and turned it away from his face, admiring her clean profile as she saw the plain extending away to infinity. Her white face was pinked by the reflection of the crimson wave that towered across the plain, rushing closer…
Jessamyn breathed something that might have been a profanity or a prayer.
In the torrent, creatures danced. They might be called demons and imps. Lost souls were turned inside out and left behind on the sands, exhausted forever. The wave ate everything…The Summoner was unique. He could ride the wave…
VIII
12 June 1995
Tyree didn't believe it but she saw it anyway.
The Psychopomps – one creature of indeterminate sex with an orange cockatoo haircut, and two shocked girls – stood back and watched Elder Seth go to work on their leaderine. And he just glided across the floor and picked her up like the hero of a romance comicstrip cruising for truelove in the disco hall.
The jukebox was stuttering into life again, some zonked version of "The Tennessee Waltz".
With a deep revulsion at herself, Tyree realised she was actually jealous of the one-eyed 'Pomp. There was something badly wrong, and Leona Tyree was part of it. Quincannon had his side arm out now but wasn't doing anything with it.
Elder Seth, dancin' with his darlin', whispered something Tyree couldn't hear in the girl's ear and put her sunglasses on. Her mouth opened in a silent oval scream.
It was as if an invisible but blinding light filled the room. Tyree found herself blinking, rubbing her eyes as tears flowed. Everyone in the bar was doing the same. But there hadn't been any real light.
The Psychopomp was slumped over the bar, one arm hanging limp, throat exposed. Elder Seth supported the girl and heaved her up onto the stool. She was either dead or in a dead faint. He lifted her head and took her dark glasses off. They were the old-fashioned, metal-rimmed, non-wraparound kind.
He slipped the mirrorshades on and his face was complete.
The Elder picked up the fillette's handbag and emptied it on the bar. The cockatoo laid a hand on him, but backed off instantly, face clown-white under make-up. Elder Seth sorted rapidly through the 'Pomp's belongings.
…Tyree could see the burning village in her mind again. Sod huts, log cabins, cattle and goat pens, all ablaze. Horsemen riding through, whooping, swinging weapons. Men and women ridden down and killed. And the Elder, on his knees, rubbing a small dead thing into the dirt, squeezing out the blood.
Elder Seth found what he was looking for.
"My little demon, I believe," he said to the cockatoo, holding up a cashplastic. He made it disappear in his hand like a conjuring trick. He reached out and picked up the unconscious girl by the throat, hauling her upright as if she were a straw doll. Her arms dangled, her head lolled and her feet scraped the floor. Brother Wiggs and Sister Ciccone held the batwing doors open. Holding the 'Pomp like a plucked turkey, Elder Seth left the saloon.
Quincannon followed him and Tyree snapped to it, followed by everyone else in the saloon.
The sun wasn't yet down, but evening bugs were in the air. The street was crowded. Something had brought the people of Spanish Fork out of their houses. The resettlers were crowded around like a congregation, and a cadre of Psychopomps gathered like a gang spoiling for trouble.
The skies were darkening. There was a tang of blood in the air.
Elder Seth carried his prize through the ranks of parked vehicles and dropped her in the middle of the road. Her head cracked on the blacktop, and she moaned, stirring a little. Blood was smeared where she had fallen.
IX
Six hundred threescore and six! 666!
The Summoner heard the Number in his mind, ringing like a chorus, voiced by a thousand inhuman throats. It had been left for him in the writings of all the religions, a sign to be read.
There was blood on the road. The road to the Prime Site. And that was as it should be. The blood was the main ingredient of the ritual, it was there to guide the Dark Ones, to call them down, to help them gather at the City, the Shining City, th
e City of Dreadful Night, the City of the Last Days. He had the glasses now, and he had the Key.
666!
He knelt and took Jessamyn's head in his hand, gathering a forelock of her hair in his fist. The girl was unconscious, still terrified on the plain outside space. A pity. It would be better if she were awake. He slammed the back of her head against the hardtop. Her skull bounced a little, like a coconut.
666! The Number of the Beast!
The Summoner smashed Jessamyn's head against the road again. Blood flew, splattering in a neat arc, and sank in like butter on a griddle.
666! The Number of the Dark Sun!
He remembered New Canaan, remembered fighting alongside Old Hendrik Shatner and the Paiute. To him, 1854 was but a minute past. Then, he had been called the Ute. He had pulled a child out of a burning cabin. It had been grateful but started kicking and squealing when his mule-skinning knife came out. Burned flesh was no good to the Dark Ones, only spilled blood.
666! The Number of the Apocalypse!
He had seen so much blood, down through the centuries. He had been born in blood, continually rejuvenated in blood. There were many places, many names, many faces, but the blood was always the same. Whether on the Mutia Escarpment in Africa, or Judea under the Herods, or Pendragon's Britain, or Temujin's Eastern plains or Bonaparte's Empire or the fields of Kampuchea, the blood was always the same.
666! The Number of the Neverending Darkness!
In the Outer Darkness, the Old Ones heard the call. He spoke the words under his breath as his fingers spread the blood.
666! The Number of Blood!
He invoked the Names He recited the Nine Names of the Beast. The creatures of the Outer Plains gathered around pricking at the balloon of this reality.
666! 666 times 666! 666!
His hands were bloody to his shirtcuffs.
666 666 !
X
12 June 1995
Flat hammers pounded the back of her head. Jazzbeaux awoke to mushrooming pain.
Her mind was blanked. A continent of blood funnelled into her eye and washed everything from her head.
Only fear remained.
A hand held her hair. Her head was being lifted up and slammed down. Again and again.
A black arm was responsible. It was as precise and impassive as a machine component.
More pain cracked inside her head. Something was breaking.
She scanned Elder Seth's impassive face floating above in the distance. The black arm which hurt her stretched up to the Elder's shoulder.
She was getting motion sickness.
The rhythmic pounding echoed, beating time like a metronome. Her nostrils were full of blood.
She sent signals to her hands to come together around Elder Seth's throat, but the rest of her body wasn't at home when her graymass came to call.
The Elder muttered something as he killed her. He chittered like an insect.
"…sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sick-sicksicks…"
Her right arm convulsed and reached upwards, but Elder Seth brushed it away and bore down on her body with a bony knee. A stab of pain shot through her ribs.
She twisted her neck and her bloody hair slipped through the Elder's greasy fingers. She grabbed the road and tried to pull herself away.
Hands took the back of her neck and the back of her head. Cruel fingers squeezed her wounds.
Jazzbeaux heard herself screaming again.
Elder Seth smashed her face against the road, twisting her head so the brunt of the blow was taken by her eyepatch. She felt crunching in the orbit around her optic burner.
If she could roll over, she could give the scumsucker a blast at the bridge of his cursed shades. She could bore a hole through his head and see the evening sky.
With the next thump, biofluid filled the inside of her patch and she felt the implant shifting, metal digging into her meat. Her nose was completely plugged with grit and blood and she was afraid for her teeth.
After this, she would not be the prettiest girl at the prom.
From her good eye, she saw the cracked ground, decorated with patterns in her own blood.
"…sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sicksicksicks …"
Elder Seth slammed her face against the road again. And again. And again …
XI
12 June 1995
Elder Seth was methodically killing the one-eyed Psycho-pomp, without distaste or anger. As he smashed her face against the road, he looked as if he were baptising the girl in tarmac.
Everyone seemed only too pleased to watch. Tyree had her side arm out but didn't know who to shoot. Sergeant Quincannon had fetched his pumpaction from the Feelgood, but wasn't pointing it at anyone. The Josephites had beatific smiles on their faces, as if watching their spiritual leader kissing a baby. The Psychopomps were appalled but made no move to help their gangbuddy.
"Hold on there a moment, your reverendship," shouted someone.
Everybody turned to scan. Everybody except Elder Seth. He still beat the girl's head against the road. Each blow was like a drumbeat.
A short man, nattily dressed in a frock coat and a big black stetson, stood in the street, flanked by two gorilla-shaped individuals with tin stars and Cyberfeed stetsons. The local heat.
The girl's blood made signs in the cracks of the road.
"I say I don't know if'n you have much familiarity with the law," the short man said, "but we take objection to this here sort of unruly behaviour in Spanish Fork, Utah."
The Elder dropped the girl's head and stood up. His hands were red, but the rest of his outfit was as clean as it ever was. His face was empty.
"Deseret," he said, grinding the word between his teeth. "New Canaan, Deseret."
"We like proper names round these parts," said the short man.
The girl rolled away from the Elder's legs, and the cockatoo creature went to help her. The fillette was still alive but had a bloody dent in her forehead. Her eyepatch was scraped away and and a mechanical doodad hung out of her socket on multicoloured filaments. Tyree would guestimate severe concussion at the least, probably brain damage.
The short man took off his hat. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Judge Thomas Longhorne Colpeper and we do things my way in Spanish Fork. Job, arrest this man."
One of the deputies lurched forwards, his clapperclawed right hand held out. Circuitry hummed inside the bulky bio-amendment.
There was quite a crowd. Most of the Josephites were there, looking bewildered but not surprised at their Elder's activities. Kirby Yorke was with them, goggle-eyed and slack-jawed, derelict in his duties for leaving the cruiser unguarded. That worried Tyree almost more than anything; it was like seeing a baby crawling in the road. There were more Psycho-pomps, pouting with indignation and fingering home-made shooting and stabbing irons. The townsfolk of Spanish Fork all turned out to see the show.
Shutters went up over breakable windows and guns were banded out like burgers at a B-B-Q. This situation had all the fixings of a medium-sized bloodbath, Tyree thought.
The clawed deputy reached out to take Elder Seth's wrist. With an easy movement, the Elder pushed the big man in the centre of the chest. It looked like a playground shove to Tyree, but there must have been deadly force behind it. She heard bones snapping and the deputy dropped like a felled tree.
Brother Wiggs and Sister Ciccone darted forwards and fell on the deputy. Wiggs' knee smashed into the man's throat and Ciccone's hands dug into his guts. The cyberfeed overloaded and blew its circuits. The deputy's head caught fire, burned bright for a few seconds, then turned into a reeking, charred blob. The rest of him was still twitching.
There was more blood on the road.
Elder Seth said something that sounded like "sicksick-sicks". The resettlers gathered behind him. Wiggs and Ciccone, dirtied and bloodied, were back in line. One or two of the faithful looked scared out of their tiny minds, but they still backed him up. Tyree had to fight the impul
se to go stand beside the Elder. She got the impression Brother Bailie, for one, was fighting an impulse to get out of the line-up and stand against Elder Seth. The man had some sort of unnatural influence.
"Get your kicksssss," hissed Elder Seth, "on Route Sicksicksicksss..."
The remaining deputy shot his arm out, flat-handing the air. He had a shotgun implant, an impressive piece of work. There was an almighty bang as he discharged himself. He cocked his elbow, filling the chamber again, and fired a second time.
"…sicksicksicks sicksicksicks..."
He had taken one of the blasts full in the belly. The other had glanced off his right shoulder. Brother Bailie, who had been standing behind him, was on the ground with his face in his hands, trying to press it back onto his skull. Elder Seth was still standing, clothes a ruin, body still whole. Tyree saw patches of his skin blackened from the discharge, but unbroken.
"…sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sicksicksicks sicksicksicks ..."
Elder Seth wasn't human. That explained a lot.
XII
This was the site of the Great Invocation. The Summoner ignored the stinging in his flesh, and advanced on the man with the gun in his arm. Deputy Larroquette reminded him of a Roman legionary he had pulled apart when he rode with Attila. If you lived long enough, everybody reminded you of somebody else. The Roman's insides had felt slippery and yet tough in his fists. He had been less strong then.
He took the next blast full in the face. His hat flew off and he shook the flattened fragments of the charge out of his hair. His spectacles were not destroyed. He fixed the Deputy with mirrored eyes.
The Deputy saw the worst thing in the world and lowered his arm. For Larroquette, the worst thing in the world was a man with two buzzing chainsaws, surprised in the boiler room of an Albuquerque elementary school The Summoner let the man with the chainsaws carve the deputy's mind into sections.
