by Weston Ochse
“Yes, they make it hard to stay. They want me with them, not with Billy. I can hear them calling.”
“Go to John, Margaret. Go to him now.”
“But what if he doesn’t want me.”
“Of course he wants you. I’m sure you know what to do to make people want you?”
“Of course, I do. I kiss them in places.”
“Well, there you go.” Even as he said it, he cursed himself. The spirit was mortally wounded and needed help. Yet Simon had made the choice to help the living. Maybe one day, he’d be able to help the dead.
“I like you Simple Simon the Pieman.”
“Go now. Go to John.”
Billy Bones collapsed. The Scarecrow Gods seemed to get louder for a while, then softened as Billy came to.
“Means movies, Billy?” asked Simon.
“No more means movies.” Billy opened his eyes and stared at the Scarecrow Gods. A sob escaped.
“Billy, is that you?”
Billy looked at Simon. His gaze softened as he smiled. “Yeah. I think I’m okay now. Can you untie me? I need to pee real bad. Can you help me up?”
Simon cocked his head and stared for a moment, then he smiled as well. He couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, but his gut told him it had worked.
“Sure. Why not?”
* * *
The Land of Inside-Out
Beneath him, great and wondrous life pads moved and merged in a silent ballet. He was somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. One part of his mind watched the movement below him, while the rest of his mind calculated his chances of surviving this zero sum game.
He’d almost escaped, but the Chill Blaine was too fast and too strong. Try as he might, he’d been unable to break free of its grasp. Inexorably, he’d slowed until he came to the place he was now, transfixed in a blue void as the black thing leeched his life away. Amazingly, he felt no pain. In fact, had he not known what was happening to him, he’d just have thought that he was getting tired.
He struggled again to free himself, but the thing wrapped him tighter in its embrace.
Easy now. Keep still.
The creature’s name was Nancy. It had introduced itself as it began to feed. It didn’t speak much, but if Maxom tried, he could get flashes of memory from the thing. Darkness. Pain. A little boy in a dark room. A Satanic ceremony.
Maxom felt used up. He remembered back at Fort Bragg as he was completing his Special Forces Training. Part of it was a 28 mile ruck march. He’d made it, feet bloody and muscles sapped. It was the most exhausted he’d ever felt. Except for now. If anything, he was even more tired—tired without the blood and sweat and dirt of the sandhills of Fort Bragg.
Again, he tried to exit The Land, hoping the Chill Blaine might be taken off guard. Try as he might, it wouldn’t work. He wasn’t even able to return to his body like he had when Bergen had been beaten. It was as if the proximity of the creature prevented escape.
This was the end for sure. His only hope was that the creature would tire of the feeding and move off for a more tasty meal. Not much chance of that happening.
He felt sad. Sad for himself. Sad for the boy. He’d promised the kid he’d be there for him—to help protect him. But how much good could he if he couldn’t even protect himself?
That’s it. There’s the Maxom I know. Feeling sorry for yourself as usual, I see.
Maxom experienced a small happiness. His personal demon had returned. Instead of ignoring the voice like he usually did, he answered it. Enjoy this Bernie. It’s the last time you can haunt me. Pretty soon I’ll be there with you.
Oh Maxom, you never did understand.
What’s there to understand?
There wasn’t a chance in hell for both of us to survive the torture.
What are you talking about? Vietnam? Maxom wondered why Bernie was bringing this up now.
Of course. I’m talking about our crucifixions. I’m talking about your survival. I’m talking, my friend, about the deal I made with Lo Lo.
Maxom stopped, stunned. Bernie was talking as if he was really there. Maxom had always joked about his dead friend haunting him, but never took it seriously. But what if…
Bernie?
Yes, Maxom.
Are you here with me, or did I invent you? He’d always thought of Bernie as his subconscious, a kind of moral barometer his mind had created to get him through the day.
That’s what I’m trying to explain. You never were a very good listener.
Maxom felt simultaneously scared and bewildered. He didn’t understand. Had he been possessed all this time? Had the spirit of his friend been within him?
Yes, responded Bernie to the unasked question.
Then why didn’t you—
Because of the deal I’d made with Lo Lo and the spells that bound me to you. Only one of us could survive. I was the first to go, so the magic man approached me. He showed me how I could save you by adding my life energies to your own.
But you were dead.
Yes, said Bernie.
Then how—
I gave you my soul.
The words echoed in Maxom’s mind. It explained the overwhelming odds he’d beaten. That old man Lo Lo had known from the very beginning. If Maxom had died first, then he’d have been with Bernie. One friend giving up eternity for the other. But it was all for nothing. And now I’m going to die.
You’re not going to die, Bernie said.
What do you know that I don’t know?
Most everything.
Seriously, Bernie.
Okay. It’s about time, anyway.
What do you mean, ‘It’s about time?’ Maxom was desperate to understand.
You were better than any brother I could ever have, Maxom. What you and I had can never be replaced. You’re a great man, my friend. I’m proud of you.
Bernie, what are you doing?
Watch this.
And the Chill Blaine screeched as it was forced to let go of Maxom’s ethereal form. It flew away a small distance and turned, dark claws ready to rend and tear.
Maxom felt an intense pressure, then an elastic tugging at his form as Bernie detached himself. Within seconds, there were two Chill Blaines beside him. One, was the nasty creature Nancy, the other was his best friend, Bernie—a Chill Blaine.
Go Now! Save the boy! said Bernie.
Maxom couldn’t move. His best friend was evil—a Chill Blaine. Did that make him evil as well?
I said go!
But you’re one of them.
Of course I am. It doesn’t make me a bad guy. His voice softened. We’re not evil. Just dead. Now go, Maxom. And live well.
Maxom began to move away, but hesitated. Nancy moved to intercept, but Bernie blocked her.
I said leave, Maxom. Let me take care of this. There’s nothing you can do.
Maxom didn’t move. He was transfixed as the two Chill Blaines converged. Their calamitous screams shattered the quiet of The Land. Bernie raged upon Nancy. His strength had gone unused for decades, reserved for one grand stand. Bernie attacked with fervor, drawing the other creature up towards the Dark Sun. He was both faster and meaner, countering each of Nancy’s attacks. She fought as Maxom had fought, but within Bernie’s grip it was useless.
Soon, they were far enough away that they were indiscernible against the darkness of the Dark Sun, their destiny to become part of it.
Reluctantly, Maxom turned and began his journey back to the boy. He picked up speed as he began to plan. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
* * *
The Scarecrow Gods
Simon awoke to a chill morning. Fire snapped beside him as creosote sparked and popped. The warmth did not go unnoticed. Neither did the new voice.
“You don’t look like someone possessed,” said the voice.
“You don’t look like a hero,” said Billy.
“You should see my friend Maxom. He doesn’t look like one either, but he is.”
“What does a hero look
like, anyway?” asked Billy.
“I guess there really isn’t a way they should look.”
“Are you sure?” What about John Wayne? What about Rambo?”
“They look tough, but being tough doesn’t make a person a hero. Looks don’t matter.”
“No. You’re right,” Billy said. “Looks don’t matter.”
“Do you have anything else to eat? I mean, I like beef jerky and cheese puffs, but that can’t be all you have.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“You eat like a kid.”
“Well, until very recently,” laughed Billy, “I suppose I was.”
Simon opened his eyes and squinted into the dawn rising across the valley. A fire warmed him from the front, but his back was freezing. Billy was sitting on a rock that had been pulled up next to the fire, and beside him sat a rather tattered and dirty boy. The kid’s hair seemed to be constantly shifting in the wind, trying to find its form. His face was a mosaic of multi-colored grime. From the long lines beneath the eyes, Simon could tell that the boy had cried recently.
“Nevermind,” said Billy. “I’d rather forget that anyway. So I see you like Bingo.”
The boy giggled as he played tug-of-war with a long piece of beef jerky and the mutt. “Yeah. Me and dogs get along. We know each other.”
Simon thought the comment strange. He sat up on an elbow and yawned.
“The priest’s awake,” said the boy, letting the dog win the contest.
“He’s not really a priest. He’s a Brother, a monk.”
The boy stared first at Billy then at Simon, then the light dawned and he smiled. “Ohhh. I get it. Monk, like in a church. Not a monkey, like in the trees.”
Simon sat up and grinned. “No. Not the tree type. I’m firmly a ground monk. Let’s just say I’m a priest-lite—all the God and half of the responsibilities.”
Billy walked over with a tattered shirt and laid it across Simon’s trembling shoulders. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Seems to me you did some priestly things.”
Simon shot Billy a look and shook his head hard.
“My name’s Danny,” said the boy holding out his hand.
“Call me Simon,” said Simon, accepting the handshake. “What brings you out here?”
“Boy intends on being a hero,” said Billy, from across the space.
“Is he?” asked Simon. “Where are your parents?”
“Back home in Tennessee,” said Danny.
“And you’re all alone?” asked Simon.
“Not all alone. I have my friend Maxom around here somewhere.”
Simon wondered if the boy was a little off. He seemed too old for invisible friends. As it stood, they’d have to spend precious time getting the kid to the authorities where he could be helped. Where they were going, the kid could never go. It was just too dangerous.
Simon should have known that John was involved. Brother Dominic had been right all along, probably the very reason he was missing. The question was how the cult leader had accomplished it? Simon had never heard of directed possessions before. As far as he knew, the event was entirely undocumented. Then he remembered back in Nuevo Laredo the possessions that had occurred right after a travelling evangelist had come selling God.
Evil’s Agent? Perhaps. Had it been John there as well? Although the odds were against it, lately Simon had learned to disregard the odds.
“Want some breakfast?” asked Billy.
Simon rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure. I’ll have some coffee, eggs over easy, a plate of home-fries, buttered wheat toast, and ketchup on the side.”
“Settle for some water, beef jerky and slightly dusty cheese puffs?”
“Sure.”
Simon drank some water and ate a few pieces of jerky. Try as he might, however, he just couldn’t bring himself to eat any cheese puffs this early. By the time he’d finished, the sun had risen. Although it wasn’t even seven, the temperature was nearly eighty. He noticed the boy staring at the saguaros as Billy kicked dirt into the fire.
“What do you think of them?” he asked.
“Awesome. They remind me of Stonehenge.”
“Me, too.”
“They seem really old, but also sort of religious. You know what I mean?”
“Sure do. I call them the Scarecrow Gods.”
“I’d heard of this place from Maxom. He told me this was a safe place.”
“Who’s this Maxom?” asked Simon, prepared to be introduced to thin air.
“I was telling Billy about him. Maxom, he’s this old Vietnam War hero who lost both of his legs. He’s different though. Not what you expect.”
As always when someone mentioned Vietnam, Simon flashed to his own war-time experience and the memory of so many dead in the bunker.
“Most of us aren’t what people expect. Would you believe that Billy over there is an honest to God rocket scientist?”
The kid stared at Billy who was busy cleaning the clothes of the Scarecrow Gods with a small whisk broom. His blue pants were covered with a thick coating of desert. The T-shirt had more holes in it than not, each revealing the deep tan of someone left out in the sun too long. The man’s blonde hair spiked randomly wherever the grime and grit collected with sweat. He hummed to himself, his tone matching the whispers of the Gods as he brushed furiously, dust drifting from one saguaro to the other, Billy oblivious to the futility.
“No kidding? Like in rockets to the moon and stuff?”
“Yes, like in rockets to the moon and stuff.” Simon grinned. It had been a long time since he’d been with a kid and the infectious interest was stimulating. “You’re right, he doesn’t seem like a scientist. What about you? What’s a boy like you doing in a place like this? You said something about being a hero?”
Danny turned his head and stared into Simon’s eyes. He returned his gaze to Billy. “You’re probably going to laugh at me.”
“No I’m not.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” replied Simon, solemnly.
The boy stared off into the desert. “I’m here to save my sister.”
Simon noticed a hardness to the boy’s jaw that hadn’t been there earlier. There was a time when boy’s played at being heroes instead of becoming them.
“Tell me about it.”
And Danny told him the story about the incest rumors, about his parents, and about the strange man called Maxom. Danny told him about his friend in the hospital and how he’d seen Danny’s sister on the television with the cult leader.
Some of the story was common, like the frustration of losing a loved one and not knowing who to blame. Or the fear of things changing, imagining that change never meant better. Then some of it was uncommon, like the strange relationship that had developed between the cripple and the boy. The boy had said he taught me things. Usually that phrase was a warning, an unconscious plea for help, but in this case Simon didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but felt certain he’d soon find out.
When the boy finished, they sat for a while. Sunlight winked off the pale blue dome of the Church of the Resurrection in the far distance. Simon was the first to break the silence.
“That’s quite a story, Danny. You’ve done things most only talk about. You should be proud.”
“I’ll be proud when I get my sister out of there.”
“What if she doesn’t want to come out?”
Anger flashed in Danny’s blue eyes. “Then she’s been tricked, brainwashed. We’ll find someone to deprogram her. Bergen and I talked about this. It’s been done with others. It can be done with her.”
Simon nodded. He didn’t ask the next question, but he was certain they were both thinking the same thing. What if it really was your father who molested her?
“I suppose you have a plan, then?” asked Simon.
“Yes, we do, but you wouldn’t understand,” said the boy. “It involves things that aren’t real.”
Things that aren’t real? He
re we go with the invisible friend again.
“You’re right, I don’t understand. Why all the mystery?” asked Simon.
They were interrupted by Billy’s scream. He ran across the small space and dove atop the mutt, shielding it. From the air came a great flapping sound followed by a piercing cry. Simon gaped as the largest owl he’d ever seen landed between Billy and Danny. Folding its wings, the bird waddled up to the boy. The head swiveled and two impossibly large orange orbs blinked twice his way. The head swiveled back.
“There you are,” said the boy. “Where’ve you been? I could have used you last night.”
Simon could have sworn that the owl shrugged before it began scratching letters in the sand.
* * *
Paradise Valley, Arizona
“Any change?” the Ghoul asked.
“You shouldn’t be here,” replied the other ATF agent leaning against a pickup. He grinned across the steam from his thermos as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Like I have anywhere to go.”
“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”
“Sleep? What’s that?”
“Just as I thought. Here, have some coffee.”
“God, no,” said The Ghoul. “Give me another cup and I’ll bleed black. I don’t need any coffee. Honest.”
“Ha. You’ll bleed all right. Especially if Lipp knows you’re anywhere near this place. Jesus man. Why’d you have to go and start all this shit? I had tickets to a Diamondback’s game. Was gonna take the family up to Phoenix for the big Fourth of July Celebration.”
The Ghoul leveled his gaze at the other agent. “If one more motherfucker blames me for this thing, I’m gonna beat some serious ass. I might be the excuse, but I am not the reason. There’s a difference, you know.”
The other agent nodded but kept his own frown in place. Both agents turned and watched The Church of the Resurrection. Last time The Ghoul had been here there’d been plenty of activity—young couples holding hands, people walking the grounds, some others farming the small fertile patches around the back buildings, even a pair of kids playing Frisbee. The place had seemed so benign then. Certainly not the site of a coming conflagration.
