The Devil's Due

by TJ Vargo

  "Stop it Felicia. Stop it. Wake up." He shook her. "Wake up Goddammit!"

  From behind, Nathaniel laughed and stepped around Jackson, up the stairs, onto the altar, toward the table, then stopped and turned back toward Jackson.

  "Leave her alone Jackson, she's enjoying herself," he said. He pointed to the table where Kirtland still worked. "Leave her and come see what you've brought me."

  Jackson looked down at Felicia, still holding her head in his hands. Still in a trance of some sort, huffing in the rhythm of a freight train. Her eyes rolled beneath her eyelids as her hand worked in a frenzy between her legs. She was trapped in the lie Nathaniel had put in her head, and Jackson gently laid her head back down on the steps. "I'll be back," he whispered, then got up and walked toward Nathaniel.

  His breath caught in his throat when he got close to him. He could see the top of the table. The form of a dark-colored woman was there, lying naked and lifeless. He squinted, seeing Kirtland push on her hip. The hip kind of dented then smoothed back out when Kirtland patted it with his small skeletal hand. She looked real on that table - the naked woman - but even in the flickering candlelight of the church, Jackson could see she wasn't. His brow furrowed. It was dirt. The naked woman on the table was made of mud and dirt. That's what the townspeople had dumped on the table, mud and dirt, one handful at a time.

  "You've made this easy for me," said Nathaniel, placing a hand on Jackson's shoulder.

  Still marveling over the excellence of the sculpture Kirtland had fashioned, Jackson asked, "Who is she?"

  Nathaniel squeezed Jackson's shoulder. "I'll tell you who she's not. She's not your mother." He turned to look at Jackson. "Your mother - poor woman - she's dead. But at least she died with her legs spread." He laughed. "I should know - I was there." He laughed at that too, patting Jackson on the shoulder. "But you're here and I thank my lucky stars you are. You did me good son. You gave your blood hoping to save Felicia. Like a lamb to slaughter, you did it just like I needed. But, to tell you the truth, I wish you had put up a little more of a fight. The blood you gave me deserves something more. A little death and destruction. A battle of bib-li-cal proportions." He rolled each syllable of the word biblical around in his mouth, mocking it. Shiny wet spittle slicked his bottom lip. It disappeared when he began speaking again. "It's almost disappointing." He took a great breath and sighed, his lips pulling back over his teeth, revealing an outrageous smile. "But I'll take what's given to me. I always do."

  Jackson shifted his eyes from Nathaniel to the dirt figure on the table, then back to Nathaniel. He rubbed one hand over a forearm, feeling the hair on it stand straight up. The air was crackling with energy. Everything in the church had taken on a new reality. The candlelight was brighter. He turned to look behind him and was awed at the starry shine of the wooden pews. A smell of beeswax bloomed in the air, filling his head. It would've been beautiful except for the sight of Felicia on the steps of the altar, arching her back, her tongue flicking serpent-like as she shuddered with an orgasm. He looked away quickly, his eyes meeting Nathaniel's.

  A short little laugh came out of Nathaniel. He cocked an eyebrow. "I think she's enjoying herself, don't you? I don't think she'd mind if you joined her. Help yourself."

  Jackson stepped back as Nathaniel tried to put a hand on his shoulder.

  "She wouldn't be a bad fuck. Try her, I think you'll like her, even if she's not your sister."

  Jackson screamed, "Shut up!"

  Nathaniel laughed and reached into his coat. The dull flash of a knife glinted. The knife Frida had used - a long-bladed butcher knife sticking out from a faded wooden handle. Both the blade and the handle were darkened with Jackson’s blood. Jackson turned his hand over, checking out the slice across his palm. He tightened his hand into a fist, feeling the cut burn. Nathaniel interrupted his thoughts.

  "Your blood," he said, showing the knife, "has one hell of a mojo for what ails me." Light glittered off the blade as he tossed it in the air, the knife spinning and twirling above his head, then back into his hand. "And what ails me is not ever having had the chance to show my love to your real sister." He flipped the knife from one hand to the other. "Problem is, I never could quite get my hands on her. But with this blood you gave, my hands will be all over her... tonight."

  Jackson kept his mouth shut. Nathaniel wouldn’t get the satisfaction of hearing his anger or despair. His cut hand burned from clenching it, and he tried to ease up, but found it was impossible. He wanted to punch something.

  Nathaniel walked toward the table, holding the knife in front of him. "Do you know she's the only female ever born from my seed. The only female ever born with part of me inside of her. It seems like forever that I've tried and failed to have a daughter. But then I met your mother and she whelped both you and your sister in the same birth." He reached the table and turned, his black eyes trained on Jackson. "My son will be born through your sister. A son of my blood. A real king of kings - not like that other one."

  Jackson shook at what he saw. Not with the quiver of fear everyone had at one time or another in their life. No, this wasn't the tremble that weakened his knees when he knew a bully waited for him after school. Or even the shake that came when Sam Lewis had stalked him, reaching under the bed to yank him out of his pathetic attempt at safety. This was a deep primal thing. All over. From the inside out. It shamed him to show his fear so openly, but he couldn't stop it. The figure of Nathaniel was flickering back and forth. Like a bad television picture flipping between half distinct images. Horns. Big black horns peeking in and out from that transmission. The hands lengthening and shortening. Claws glistening then disappearing. All these things were bad enough. But the face of Nathaniel; the way it changed. Flashing the image of a leering, hidden thing that bore into him with eyes that knew so much of what he was. All his weaknesses and lies and sins and repressed desires laid bare before the intelligence of that thing that flashed at him. It knew all and delighted in that knowledge. So Jackson shook and shrank before it, a rabbit under the hunter's foot, while it talked and leered, telling him of itself.

  "But it didn't have to be this way. Not at all Jackson. Not at all. I'm sure you've heard of the man that was born on the same day as I. Both our mothers were virgins. His, however, walked on two legs." He smiled at that and Jackson's blood turned to ice, seeing the fangs that flashed from behind human teeth. "But even so, we grew up together. With different plans, of course. But he could have changed. He had his chance to save you and everyone else when I was with him in the desert. I showed him all of it. From the kingdoms that would be his to the simple water he thirsted for. And make no mistake - he wanted it. I think you know now that I have a special talent for knowing when someone wants something, so believe me when I say this - he wanted it. But I think he, or maybe it was his father, wanted something else more. For all the lies that were made since he walked with me in that desert, about his sacrifice and how he died so you could live forever with him, the truth is, he wanted something for you more than he wanted what I offered him. He wanted you to struggle with the death, disease and hate that breeds on this earth, that's what he wanted. And that's what you got. All because of him."

  Nathaniel raised his head and for a brief pure moment, Jackson saw all of him at once. A vision of awful enormous beauty. He stopped shaking and became transfixed, feeling himself slip away into nothingness, his mind wiped blank as his eyes caught and held the sight. Only for a instant. Then gone as Nathaniel looked back down at him. Only a man once again. A man that reached out and held his shoulder, keeping him upright as he wavered on his feet.

  "So now you understand," he said, holding Jackson steady with the strength and care that a father holds his baby. "He didn't save you or anyone else. He shit out a beautiful existence of despair and unknowing fear for all of you to roll in like hounds licking each other's asses. Not me. Him. He did that and you've been paying for it ever since. But when I bring my daughter," Nathaniel stopped and bowed his head resp
ectfully, "I'm sorry - your sister - forgive me for forgetting that. When I have her, and I do mean have her, she'll bring you a brother that will raise up a real kingdom on this earth. Your brother will be walking doom to those that don't believe. But there will be kingdoms for all that do. And...," he tittered, "it's all because of you - the son I never expected, the son I never wanted to have."

  Jackson watched as Nathaniel moved from him to the table, waving Kirtland aside. He couldn't speak or move. There was nothing in him but confusion. Why was he responsible? What had he done, except want to save Felicia? He watched as tiny incandescent sparks popped blue in the air around Nathaniel. Everything shined with energy. He wondered if his mind had jumped the tracks into insanity at what he saw Nathaniel become moments ago and what he saw now. Everything was too real. The candlelight that was too bright, and too soft, all at the same time. The smell of beeswax hanging thick. All too perfect.

  An unearthly chant rose up from the townspeople in the pews behind Jackson, filling his body with a sweet tremor. The knife swung up in Nathaniel's fist, over the mound of sculpted dirt on the table. Jackson's breath caught in his throat and he made a choking sound, his mind a fever of indecision.

  Run away from him. Do it now, while he's not looking.

  No. Run at him. Get the knife. You have to take it away from him.

  Join him. Help him. He was right. This life was nothing but pain and despair. Who wanted to be a dog rolling in shit when you could be a lion tearing at the meat?

  Get that knife. You know you have to try.

  It was Nathaniel's eyes, shifting to him, the knife poised above the table. Seeing those eyes, how they laughed at him, that made his mind up for him. He screamed and leaped forward, throwing himself at Nathaniel. In the air, the full weight and power of his body leaping forward, he grunted painfully and stopped in mid-flight. He hung for an instant, floating, his whole body ringing from the invisible force that grabbed him. Before he had time to catch his breath he was flying again, slapped backwards through the air with ferocious speed. The floor sped underneath him as he went backward, wind shrieking in his ears. He hit a wall. The air knocked out of him. He fell to the floor, racked with pain.

  Rolling to his stomach, he clawed at the wooden floor, eyes clenched shut, struggling for breath. His head rang, fireflies spun behind his eyelids, then Nathaniel's voice pushed its way in, overcoming the chanting of the townspeople and the sound of Felicia's moaning and the sound of Jackson's own heartbeat drumming in his temples. All gone, replaced by Nathaniel's voice, echoing everywhere.

  "Created from the ashes of the elements, the wheel turns to plague mankind." His hand plunged downward, "My son will be born!"

  The handle of the knife quivered above the chest of the dirt sculpture. Deep between the breasts that had been sculpted in the dirt, the blade was buried. Jackson looked with pained eyes from a kneeling position, quietly gasping for air. Nathaniel joined in the strange chant that had begun with the townspeople. Everyone's attention was hooked on the table, waiting for something. Jackson crawled to Felicia. Reached out, grabbed her shoulder and shook.

  "Wake up. Wake up Felicia. We have to get out of here."

  Her head rolled loosely around her shoulders. Daring a quick look up at Nathaniel, he saw him still brooding over the table, chanting louder. Jackson shook Felicia again, hissing in her ear.

  "Shit. C'mon, get up. Get up. GET UP."

  Her eyes fluttered; her lips parted.

  "Jackson..." It was all she could manage before she grabbed him and hugged him fiercely, her voice choked with emotion. "Make love to me again." Her lips kissed his neck; her face burrowed against him.

  Gently, but with a firm grip, he pushed her at arms' length. Confusion spread on her face as she became aware of the chanting, then looked past him to the townspeople filling the church pews. "I don't understand," she said distractedly. " I thought we were alone... We were on a beach... The sun and the waves... I thought..."

  Jackson gripped her firmly, speaking in a soft rush. "He put that in your head." His throat tightened and he could barely keep eye contact as he added, "It wasn't real. He put me in your head." He took her hand. "Hold my hand. We've got to get out of here." Touching at his pocket with his free hand, feeling the hard circle of the belt buckle he had kept with him since he left Bethel, he said, "I'll get you out of here. I'll keep you safe."

  She looked down, her face red with shame. He grabbed her hand and pulled her next to him. He looked deep into her eyes and said, "We have to leave now, okay?"

  She nodded and he stood up with her, standing in full sight of the chanting townspeople. His eyes scanned the townspeople, none of whom returned his stare. Maybe they would let them leave. Maybe. He began walking down the altar steps and stopped as his feet hit the main aisle of the church. A line of sweat prickled along his spine as he stood in front of the whole town. They still didn't seem to notice him. All their attention was focused on the table. He shuddered, having the sense that a weight was ready to fall from above, crushing down on him and Felicia, but he ignored it. Just walk out of here. That's all they had to do.

  Taking the first steps down the aisle, Felicia pressed against him. Her whole body shook. They passed the first set of pews. It was hard not to look back. Not a person in the pew seemed alive. They were motionless statues, staring and chanting and waiting with tense muscles. Their faces waxen. Eyes wide and unblinking. He passed another pew that held more people in the same state. He tried to stare straight ahead. One foot in front of the other. Holding Felicia close, her breath trembling in and out. The doors leading out of the church were so far away. Just put one foot in front of the other. The chant of the townspeople reverberated in his chest.

  Halfway down the aisle he began to have hope. They might make it. Even Frida and her husband Tom didn't bat an eye as he passed them. He glanced at them. Their mouths opened and closed rhythmically, keeping time with the low chant. Jackson was awed by the sound of it, even though he couldn't understand it. Awed in the way a child stared at fire. There was something in the chant that tugged at him. Something familiar. It picked up in volume, (or am I just listening harder?) suffusing everything, becoming one with his heartbeat. He stopped walking, cocked his head, and listened.

  Felicia pulled his arm. "Jackson, what's wrong? C'mon Jackson, we have to move. We have to keep moving."

  He nodded (please leave me alone), then turned to look at the altar, the voice next to him screaming for him to please keep walking. Please. But he couldn't. He was supposed to be here. Someone important was coming. He would wait. And watch.

  Nathaniel was watching him from the altar, his face lit with energy, leading the chant, raising it to a sound that thundered as if pounded from a bass drum.

  "Implicor et vitiis, immemor virtutis, voluptatis avidus, mogis quam salutis, mortuus in anima, curam gero cutis."

  Jackson took a step backward without thinking, feeling the chant of Nathaniel slide into him. A hand clutched the back of his neck, a voice whispering hot breath against his neck before he could react.

  "My soul is dead, so I shall look after the flesh. I give myself to vice, unmindful of virtue, I am eager..."

  He felt himself being pulled away, Felicia holding his arm - pulling and swatting Frida's hands off him.

  "Get off him you fucking witch," Felicia shouted. The chant circled through Jackson, again and again, climaxing in its power and desire. He was spun around hard, Frida's hands on him, pulling his face toward hers.

  "Your blood is bringing her from wherever she is. It's bringing her now into the body we've made. She'll give birth to the savior who will bring us our kingdom on Earth."

  Felicia screamed. He wanted to join her. God how he wanted to join her, his skin crawling as he watched Frida's face somehow changing. His eyes jerked around, looking from face to face of all the townspeople. They were all changing.

  Another scream from Felicia tore his ear drums. The volume of the chant bellowed. He pulled
away from Frida, his heart in his throat, and started to run, pulling Felicia with him. He froze. Those weren't the doors leading out of the church. He blinked and looked again, breathless. They were not the beautifully carved doors he'd seen when he'd first entered the church. These were hanging rotten on their hinges, worm riddled and ancient. His eyes followed a swarm of dead leaves blowing their way into the church, one of the doors protesting feebly on rusted hinges as it was pushed open. It was hanging by a thread, ready to fall to the floor at any second. He turned, taking in the rest of the church. The wooden walls of the church were no longer sturdy lacquered wood. They were grey and weathered with cobwebs papered over them that drifted to and fro like seaweed in a current. Whole sections in the ceiling of the church were missing. He squinted and craned his head back, making out the dotted pinpricks of starlight through a ragged space in the timbers overhead. Pushing his hair back over his shoulder, Jackson lowered his gaze to the floor. A strange feeling of emptiness entered him, The volume of the chant drummed against his empty shell. Everything was changing into a ghastly, decayed version of itself.

  Felicia's face rose up in front of him. Her skin was a white with fear, but he thanked God that she at least looked like herself. She hadn't changed like the townspeople. She yelled something at him, her eyes wild and frightened. He couldn't hear her over the deafening chant. Pointing to his ear, he shook his head and pulled her against him, stroking the back of her head as a father would a tearful child. It was all he could do, just hold her tight in the maelstrom that was swirling around them. He could feel the tremble in her torso while he tried his best to comfort her, switching his gaze onto the altar. Watching and waiting like all the others. And seeing what he'd never wished to see.

  The strength in his legs drained away, his heart skipping beats, black nightmare images whirling in his head. Seeing what was on the altar changed him from the protector to a weak-kneed kid. Now it was her turn to hold him up, letting him lean against her. And even as she held him from collapsing, the smell of her sweat and fear filling his nostrils, he wished she would let him fall so he wouldn't have to see the nightmare on the altar anymore. The pile of crumbling dirt rising from the table in the shape of a woman. The townspeople abruptly stopping their chant to move out of the pews and rush to get closer to the altar. Nathaniel grabbing the arm of the living earthen thing, pulling it off the table to its feet, holding it while it pawed at him weakly. Seeing the knife slip from the chest of the thing and clatter to the floor, a small rivulet of blood snaking down its muddy chest.