The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  The four men dropped facedown on the sidewalk. Sam patted down them quickly, extracting two short-barrel handguns, a couple of empty plastic bags, a crack pipe, a well-made switchblade, and a wad of cash. He held the cheap guns, feeling the light weight, short-hair triggers, and poorly balanced grips. Saturday Night Specials. He dropped one gun and shot it with the other, sending shattered pieces of metal scattering across the ground. Then he shoved the second gun in his pocket and kicked the nearest man. “Stand up,” he ordered. They all stood and he motioned to them. “Get out of here,” he said. They turned away and started walking slowly down the street. “RUN!” Sam screamed at them. They broke into a halfhearted jog.

  Turning, Sam walked quickly down the narrow alley. His group was waiting, just beyond where he could see. Ammon’s gun was in his hand. “I had you covered,” he said.

  Sam smiled and slapped his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, hurrying past.

  Out of the alley. Another corner. He studied the street signs, then turned left. A huge Norfolk Southern rail center lay two miles straight ahead. They planned to make their way to the rail yard, then follow one of the railroad lines heading south, hoping to avoid the crowds on the streets.

  Moving quickly, Sam felt a sudden shudder. He was growing anxious, the hair on his neck rising on end. The night was dark. Every street was crowded. He looked at his watch, its luminescent dial barely visible in the dark. 0234. Didn’t these people sleep? Why did they love the darkness?

  His hair prickled once again.

  Something deep inside of him knew.

  * * *

  Balaam could have chosen any of a hundred. So many evil men around him, he could have chosen any one—they were so ready, so anxious, their dead eyes waiting, their empty souls ready to step into the dark. Still, he took his time deciding. He wanted to select the perfect one.

  Moving through the crowded, filthy streets, he watched and listened, evaluating the darkness that emitted from their souls. Observing the empty mortals, he couldn’t help but smile. So many had already forfeited their sacred agency by violating their bodies with sludge and filth. Alcohol. Drugs and needles. Pain and deep despair. The addictions they had assembled were wide and varied: Sex. Violence. Pornography. Malignant and deadly thoughts. Hatred for a brother. Hatred for all men. It had taken a long time—the truth was, Balaam and his angels had been working on these mortals for generations now—but their work was paying off. This neighborhood was a cesspool of breeding evil, strong enough to steal the light from even the most innocent of the children who were born to them now.

  Moving among the mortals, he considered and then selected.

  He was a small man, thin, long fingers, a wispy beard. Dark eyes and angry mouth. A man who’d killed before.

  Yes, he was the right man. “Come to me!” Balaam hissed.

  The man was filthy and just coming down from the last trip of opium he would experience in this world. Better, he was full of a raging hatred that he couldn’t even begin to understand.

  Balaam looked at him, studying the deadness of his eyes. Yes, he would do what he was told.

  “Come with me!” he said again.

  The man started walking toward the darkness.

  “Bring your others!” Balaam commanded.

  The man stopped and turned toward his friends.

  * * *

  GO, GO, GO! the Spirit told him. Sam looked back at the others. They all felt it too, and, as if at some unheard command, they all broke into a run. Down the middle of the street they ran now, heading west, toward a growing crowd. Ammon kept his arm around Azadeh; Luke held onto Sara and Sam, supporting himself against their shoulders, sometimes stumbling as he ran. Mary led the way now. She knew where she was going, and the others followed through the night. They passed through a wide intersection littered with cars, taxis, and city buses: East 169th and . . . something else, Sam couldn’t read the street sign as he passed. They ran for blocks, their breathing heavy, the adrenaline surging through them, giving lightness to their feet. As they crossed a wide T-intersection, a huge building loomed before them and Mary drew up to a stop. “This is it,” she muttered through gasping breaths.

  The building was tall and long, stretching almost the entire city block. A twelve-foot, razor-wire fence extended from the corners of the building on both sides. The enormous railroad yard was on the other side of the dirty building.

  Sam hesitated, then ran up the cement stairs that led to the front door. He pulled on it. Locked. He returned to the group, his eyes darting back across the road.

  They all looked behind them.

  Something was out there in the dark.

  RUN! They sensed the warning.

  “This way!” Ammon cried. He led the group south. The razor-topped fence met the corner of the building. The dirt on the other side of the fence was black: old coal, blackened gravel, broken asphalt, and spilled oil, a hundred years of railroading spread across the enormous yard. A series of railroad tracks, it looked like there were dozens, glinted in the starlight, their shiny tops melting into the darkness as they extended left and right. Abandoned railcars and locomotives stood silent in the night. No one was around.

  Ammon pushed against the fence. The chain links were high and tight. Sam moved beside him, pulled out a military Handyman, extracted a set of wire cutters, and started hacking, cutting low, near the ground. The others gathered around him. The fear was rising, cold and real. A sudden sense of electricity sprung through the air, tart and tangy. Sam’s hand slipped and he cut himself against a strand of wire, the blood oozing around the back of his thumb and dripping from his palm. Ammon saw the blood and pulled back. He thought that he could smell it, coppery and wet. Another chill ran through him. Shaking his head, he grabbed the wire as Sam cut another section of the fence, holding the cut links back. The work went more quickly and a couple of strands of metal snapped from the building tension as Sam cut. When he guessed he had enough, Sam moved to the side, pulled the cut-out section, and motioned to Sara. “Go, Mom, go!” he whispered fearfully. His eyes were always moving, searching the darkness that seemed to swallow up the moonlight. Sara dropped to her knees. She’d already taken off her backpack and she pushed it ahead of her, then quickly crawled through the hole in the fence.

  Ammon motioned to the others.

  Sam held his gun tightly at his side, his back against the fence, his eyes glinting in the night.

  Something was out. Something he’d never felt before.

  Something evil. Something near.

  * * *

  Sam finally saw him. He walked low, almost like an animal, his knees bent, his head down, as if he were sniffing the ground. A shudder of fear ran through him. He pulled back the fence again. “Go, Mary. NOW!”

  She bent, her arthritic knees slow to move. Ammon stepped beside her, helping her through the fence. Kelly held desperately to her hand, tears now in her eyes. She didn’t understand the urgency, all she knew was that a sense of darkness had taken hold of her. “Mama,” she pleaded in a whisper as Mary knelt down by the fence.

  “Come on, baby,” Mary said as she reached out for her child. She motioned in the darkness. “Come on, baby, come with me.” Her voice was calm and soothing and Kelly quit her crying. Crawling on their bellies, Mary and Kelly moved through the small hole in the fence.

  Luke was standing next to Sam now, looking back across the street. Abandoned cars and semis filled the deep shadows. He saw it again, lurking behind one of the cars. White eyes. Yellow teeth. A tight and wicked smile. The wind gusted and he smelled it, a dank and burlap kind of smell. Wet dog. City garbage. He shivered as he stared.

  The man lurched from the shadows, moving closer, running toward another car. Just before he got to it, he seemed to drop down to all fours.

  Sam sucked in a sudden breath, an unspeakable fear welling up inside him, fierce and bone-chilling. The evil fell upon him, sucking the breath out of his chest. Then he heard the garbled gutter of the chant th
at was emitting from the dark. His heart froze. He didn’t move. His blood turned icy cold.

  Kill them for the Master.

  Kill them for the King.

  Kill them for the Master.

  Kill them for the King.

  The stranger chanted from the darkness. The night grew darker. A suffocating sense of evil sucked up the dim starlight.

  Then he saw the others.

  A dozen strangers on the street.

  Half of them were women.

  All of them were moving toward them now.

  * * *

  They scrambled through the hole in the fence, Sam the last one through, then stood together on the other side, unsure of what to do. Looking back across the cluttered street, they saw them coming, bent men and hissing women, animals filled with hate and lust and burning evil. Sam shivered. For the first time in his life, he was utterly terrified. He didn’t know this enemy, and it scared him to the core.

  Turning, he started running toward the railroad tracks, moving into the open rail yard, black gravel slipping under his feet. He stopped suddenly. It wouldn’t do. There was no place in the open yard where they could hide. The others bunched up behind him. “Come on, Sammy!” Ammon whispered, lifting his handgun awkwardly. “Come on, baby, we gotta go!”

  Sam hesitated, then turned toward the building. “Follow me,” he said.

  He ran toward the side of the rail building. It was dark and tall, four stories high, dirty brick, flat roof, white cement arches over a set of eight-foot windows, an old administration building that was used for storage now. A row of narrow steps ran up to a tall, metal door. Sam ran toward it but stopped, knowing that it was locked. He turned and ran instead toward the nearest window. “Ammon!” he called as he ran. Ammon followed. Sam bent and picked up a rusted piece of rebar, holding it in his hand.

  A sudden clang sounded from behind them. A stranger pressed against the fence, his dark eyes peering at them desperately, his fingers stretched between the metal links. “Kill them for the Master!” he chanted as he stared. His voice was thin, sarcastic and hysterical. His dark eyes wandered to the women. “Kill them all,” he sneered.

  Another man ran up behind him and pressed his face against the fence.

  Sam turned to the window. “Help me up!” he shouted. Ammon bent and grabbed his foot, bracing Sam against his knee. Luke broke away from the women and helped Ammon lift. Sam held the rebar over his head and broke the window. Large pieces of old-fashioned glass fell in huge sheets at his side, shattering across the ground. Sam used the rebar to break away the shards of broken glass from off the window frame; then he reached up, found a handgrip, and pulled himself into the building.

  Falling onto the dusty floor, he rolled over and looked around. The room was almost completely black and empty. He quickly turned and reached back through the window. Starlight filled the rail yard. The others were waiting, six feet below.

  More chanting from the dark streets. A group had formed along the chain-link fence. They pressed and felt their way, looking for the hole they knew was there. Sam reached down, bending through the window. “Come on, Mom!” he cried. Sara reached up and Sam almost jerked her from her feet. She scrambled and fell into the building. “Mary!” Sam said, reaching down again.

  A terrible scream emitted from the street. It echoed between the buildings, a painful sound that cut through the darkness of the night. Piercing. Angry. Animal-like in fury, it rolled through the broken window and bounced off the bare back wall. Sam cringed and looked toward the streets as the scream faded slowly. The crowd was growing larger. Some had come to watch. Others had come to kill. The thin man pressed against the fence, probing with his fingers, searching for the cut-out section. Ammon had lifted Kelly below the broken window. “Got her?” he cried to Sam as he lifted the little girl.

  Kelly held up her arms toward the soldier. “Sam, you got me. Please don’t drop me.” Her voice was nothing but a whisper in the dark.

  “HERE! HERE!” an old man screamed out to the others, finding the hole cut in the fence. He leaned down and started crawling. A gunshot rang out from the darkness. The brick beside Luke’s face seemed to shatter, sending broken pieces of baked clay into the soft skin beneath his eyes. He turned, his own gun raised, and fired toward the growing crowd, aiming low, a quick shot of white-hot sparks erupting at the crowd’s feet as the bullet ricocheted away.

  “COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!” Sam cried from the broken window. He was reaching down for Azadeh now, bending so far through the window that it looked like he might fall. She jumped, grabbed his hands, and quickly pulled herself up, her feet scrabbling against the brick.

  Behind them, the first man crawled through the cut-out section of the fence. He didn’t wait for the others but ran toward the building. Sam reached through the broken window. “LUKE!” he cried. Luke jumped, gritting his teeth in pain. Ammon pushed his brother’s hips, then his feet toward the window, feeling his weight until his wounded brother finally fell onto the other side. Another gunshot from the darkness. Another explosion of shattered brick against the wall. Ammon felt the sting of fractured clay and squinted as a stream of blood began to dribble into his eyes.

  Ammon was alone now. The killer was getting closer. Other men were crawling through the fence. Ammon could hear the first man panting as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder to see him coming. He cried, half in fear, half in fury, and looked up at the window. Sam had disappeared, having fallen with Luke onto the floor. Footsteps now behind him, just a few feet away. He raised the gun to fire, but it was too late. The man was too close. Too fast. He screamed as he ran, then lowered his head, making himself into a running ball of bone and speed. Ammon braced. The stranger smashed into him, hurling his weight against his chest. He fell back. The brick caught him and his neck shot back, slamming his head into the wall. With a violent ooofff the air escaped him. His head spun. His chest burned. He thought he heard the cracking of his ribs. He fell down. The man was on him. Somewhere above him, his mother cried. The stranger joined her, almost screaming in his ear. Pounding with rage and fury, he beat Ammon in the face. But he was weak and lifeless and there was no power in his fists. Ammon lifted his arms to protect his face, then rolled and kicked his leg up, slamming the tip of his boot into the back of the stranger’s head. The man cried in pain and anger, completely out of control. Ammon twisted and threw him off, smashing him into the wall. There was a thud, and suddenly Sam was standing at his side. He reached down, picked the man up by the collar, and threw him into the wall, slamming his head into the brick. The man started sliding downward. Ammon kicked him in the jaw as he fell. The man’s eyes rolled back and he groaned once before rolling lifelessly to the side.

  “UP, UP, UP!” Sam commanded. Luke was standing at the window, reaching down to them. Behind them, other voices. Other footsteps. Sam recognized the sound of a

  12-gage shotgun being cocked, and the blood turned even colder in his veins. Ammon jumped. Luke pulled. Ammon fell inside. Sam stepped back, ran three steps, and leaped. He reached the splintered window sill and pulled. Ammon and Luke each grabbed an arm and yanked him through. A powerful explosion shattered the brick wall behind them. They rolled across the floor. “Stay down. Stay away from the window!” Sam screamed as he rolled.

  Another gunshot. Another explosion through the window. The sound of voices, all of them closing in now.

  “He’s got a shotgun!” Sam shouted. He rolled to his knees and halfway stood, keeping his head down; then he started running toward a dark outline of a shadow against the back wall. “Come on, come on!” he cried, motioning toward the door.

  The others followed. An empty hallway. Layers of garbage across the floor. A stairway on their right side.

  “This way,” Sam cried.

  * * *

  High ground. Cover. Line of fire . . . Sam’s mind raced with the tactical considerations as he moved up the dank and smelly stairs. Everything was filthy and he wished he was wearing combat glove
s. Running, he looked around desperately. Where to go? How to protect the others? What was the best way out? If he had been by himself, it would have been so easy to shoot his way out of this mess. But there were his mother, the other women, and Luke, who was still not even close to being well.

  He heard the thud of heavy footsteps below them now, then the sound of angry voices and shrill laughter emitting from the hallway on the first floor. Breaking glass. A thunderous BANG! as the front door was shot off its hinges. More voices on the street. A building surge of panic. Who were these people? Where had they come from? Why did they want to kill them!

  Nothing made any sense.

  The evil all around him thickened. He could feel them. He could feel him. He felt like throwing up. The darkness was so real, so oppressive, it sucked the life right out of his soul. Depressing and despairing, the evil gathered nearer. He could almost hear the voices of the spirits that were watching them from the empty halls.

  Sam shivered, stopping on the stairwell, unsure of what to do or where to go. His mother moved beside him, her eyes barely visible in the dark. She leaned into him and whispered in his ear, “Do you feel that, Sam?” He sensed the tears of fear that wet her eyes.

  He tried to speak but couldn’t answer, so he slowly moved his head. Then, despite the utter darkness, a scripture sprang into his head. He didn’t know it, at least not really, but the words came with clarity to his mind. “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world.”

  He shivered once again.

  This was his day of glory. His night of splendor. The last days of his pride.

  The rulers of the darkness. Sam forced himself not to cry.

  So that was what they were up against. But at least he finally knew.

  Turning, he raised his fist and raged back at the darkness. “You do not own me or my family. We are your enemies. We are your weakness. And this is not our time. Do what you will with your mortal servants, but you will not move us from this place!”