by Ray Garton
"You look exhausted, Mr. Haskell," Mace said.
The genuine concern in his voice confused J.R. for a moment, threw him off, made him feel unprotected, vulnerable.
"You should go home. Take a hot shower and go to bed. Get a good night's sleep. Don't worry about any of this. It's not your problem."
It took J.R. a few moments to catch enough breath to speak.
"You… you're not… gonna… get away with it… this time," he wheezed.
"This time? Sorry, guy. You must have me confused with someone else. I don't know what you're talking about." His smile dripped with smug sarcasm.
"I don't… don't know what you are, but… I know what you're doing."
Mace threw back his head and laughed. "And what's that?" He took a step forward.
J.R. wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "You know what I'm talking about, Mace."
"No. No, I don't think I do. Why don't you explain it to me?" Another step forward.
J.R. moved back but heard a low, ominous growl behind him and glanced over his shoulder.
Countless eyes glared up at him from the walkway.
"The kids," he said unsteadily. "These kids… others … my sister… what you do to them…" His thoughts were not holding together; his growing fear was getting in the way of his words.
"Mmm," Mace purred thoughtfully. "And I'm not going to get away with it? What, exactly, are you going to do?" Another step.
"I know about you. Others do, too. It'll be harder for you the next time."
"You think you're the first one to figure things out? Hah! It never changes, big brother. They never learn. There's always room for me somewhere else." His next footstep slapped softly into a puddle.
"Not if word spreads."
"What will you tell them? You just said you don't know what I am." Step. "They'll think you're crazy." Step. "They'll think—"
"Stay back." J.R. held up the knife warily.
"—you're just another nut with an imaginary cause. Especially if you don't know what I am. So what are you going to tell them?"
"I'm serious. Don't come any closer."
"Do you want to know what I am, big brother?" Step.
"Goddammit, I mean it, don't—" He swung at him with the knife, and there was a dark rush at his feet as the creatures pressed in around him.
Without flinching, Mace held up a hand, and the animals were still. "Do you?"
J.R. swung the knife again, but moving like lightning, Mace's hand struck his wrist, and pain shattered through his forearm like splinters of glass. His fingers stiffened and dropped the knife; it clattered to the cement and splashed into the black stream to J.R.'s right.
"Do you want to know, big brother?" There was laughter in his golden eyes; he was enjoying himself.
J.R. wanted to move away from him but could feel the creatures at his heels, brushing against the hem of his pants. He shone the beam directly into Mace's eyes, but he seemed not to notice.
Mace reached for his hand, and J.R. threw himself to the left, into the darkness beyond the passageway, screaming when his light illuminated half a dozen long, pale faces, and cold, bony hands clutched at him, grabbing his clothes and scratching his face. Thin arms embraced him, and the powerful stench of body odor and decay reduced his scream to a sickened cough.
"Don't you hurt him!" a phlegmy voice exclaimed.
"… gives us food…"
"…our friend.
"Don't hurt him," Mace ordered. "Hold him, but don't hurt him."
Suddenly weak with fear, J.R. clutched the flashlight as if for life as the hands turned him around until he was facing Mace. The arms encircled him like- tentacles.
Mace moved forward until he stood no more than a couple inches from J.R. He crooked a finger beneath J.R.'s chin and lifted his face until their eyes met.
"Do you want to know what I am?" he whispered.
J.R. could not speak or move, could not take his gaze from those caramel-flecked eyes, although he tried.
Mace's hand cupped J.R.'s chin, almost lovingly.
"I am the weeds in your garden," he breathed, placing his other hand on J.R.'s cheek.
J.R. felt as if his insides were turning to ice.
"I am the moldy bowl of goo"—he chuckled—"on the bottom shelf of your refrigerator." He moved closer until his body was pressed against J.R.'s.
A memory came back to J.R., a memory of something Jeff had said, something that made him fear his life was over, "I am…"
His tongue…
"… what happens
… it came out of his mouth like…
"… when no one…"
… like a snake.
"… is paying any attention."
A snake…
Mace opened his mouth slowly, opened it wide, as if he were yawning, and J.R. saw his tongue move forward, saw sparkling reflections of light on the wet, pink lump of flesh, and he wanted to scream but had no breath, wanted to struggle but had no strength, and the moment that J.R. was certain would be his last seemed to go on forever until—
—the creatures outside the passageway began to squeal as if in pain, and there were footsteps on the walkway, hurrying closer, punctuated by panting breaths, and Mace's eyes rolled around in their sockets as if he were watching a fly buzz around his head, and he let go of J.R.'s face to turn around slowly as—
—the creatures were kicked aside, and someone came through the passageway, stepped forward into the light—
—"Kevin!" J.R. gasped—
—and lifted an axe over his head, eyes wide with rage—
—Mace said, "You don't want to do—"
—his scream filled with madness as he brought the axe down.
The heavy blade landed in Mace's forehead with the sound of a large melon being dropped.
Mace's arms flew outward at his sides, and he staggered backward with a guttural grunt, bumping J.R., and Kevin jerked the axe from his skull and lifted it again.
The arms released J.R. and reached for Mace; the pale faces screamed, and frail, filthy bodies pushed by J.R. to Mace's rescue, backing away again as Kevin swung the axe a second time, burying it in Mace's left shoulder.
J.R. shouted Kevin's name and stepped around Mace, who was falling backward, arms flailing to keep his balance.
"Okay, Kevin!" J.R. cried. "That's enough!"
"Noooo!" Kevin screamed, jerking the axe out of the huge gash in Mace's shoulder. "You were wrong, Mace! Wrong! I don't need you! I don't fucking need you!"
Mace slammed against the wall and slumped down to a sitting position as several of his pets dived, shrieking, through the air and latched onto Kevin, biting and clawing. He seemed not to notice and lifted the axe again.
J.R. backed away as Kevin screamed again, bringing down the axe and taking away a chunk of Mace's skull just above his left temple. He pulled back the axe, and the blade dragged noisily over the cement as he backed away from Mace, preparing to lift it again.
J.R. turned the light on Mace and thought he could feel the last threads of his own sanity unraveling.
Mace was lifting his sagging head; his forehead was caved in and opened down the middle, part of his skull was gone, and the gaping openings glistened blackly, but there was no blood. His golden eyes were bulging like a toad's, and he was smiling as he looked at Kevin, pulling himself to his feet, but—
There's no fucking blood! J.R. thought.
"Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," Mace said admonishingly.
"Kevin, get out of here!" J.R. shouted as Kevin swayed back and forth, axe lifted over his head, creatures hanging from his clothes, others still leaping at him from the floor.
The thin figures in the shadows seemed to sense a moment of weakness in the boy and rushed forward, arms outstretched to seize the axe, but Kevin began to swing it wildly, blindly, and J.R. lifted his arms protectively, stumbled back, and fell as fearful, agonizing screams echoed through the darkness. Eyes closed, J.R. heard the axe fall again and again,
meeting flesh and bone, heard the scrambling, limping footsteps of the people who had held him earlier, and then—
—just the sound of Kevin's manic cries and the heavy clank of the axe against the floor, the wall, the grimy pipes.
J.R. opened his eyes slowly and lifted the flashlight.
He was alone with Kevin, who was still wildly swinging the axe. A clump of rags was heaped at Kevin's feet, and what appeared to be a dirty sheet was attached to the axe head, fluttering with each swing. The animals that had been hanging from him a moment before were gone, leaving behind only torn clothing.
J.R. called Kevin's name, stumbling to his feet, pleading with the boy to stop.
"He's gone, Kevin, he's gone now…."
Kevin suddenly dropped the axe and moved away from it as if it were a deadly snake, tripping, falling back onto the floor, crawling backward, and finally collapsing in a weak, sobbing heap.
"Where did he go?" he blubbered. "He's just—just—just gone! Where the fuck did he go?"
J.R. knelt beside the boy, flashing his light over the rags on the floor.
Mace's clothes. No blood, no sign of Mace, just clothes.
Kevin leaned on J.R. and cried.
Somewhere deep in the sewer, low, throaty groans and babbling voices mingled with the flowing rush of waste.
J.R. held the boy for a long time, finally realizing that he was crying, too.
"Come on, Kevin," he whispered after a while. "Let's get out of here…."
PART VI
Crucifax Aftermath
Thirty
October 20
By Thursday afternoon, the storm was reduced to a damp gray shadow that covered the Valley. The rain became a light drizzle, and the wind died to a whisper until it was gone entirely.
The power had come back on sometime during the early morning hours; traffic was once again flowing at a relatively normal pace, although the streets were a mess. Ventura Boulevard was littered with debris; boxes were scattered over sidewalks, and gutters were strewn with soggy clumps of newspaper, splintered wooden slats, wind-tossed banners and posters, and unidentifiable clots of garbage. Toppled trash cans rolled about on sidewalks. Storefront windows were dappled with filth.
All day long, the attention of the entire country had been focused on the burned building at the corner of Ventura and Whitley. Local news teams as well as network crews had flocked to the building in their vans and station wagons not long after midnight, set up their cameras as close as the police would let them, and clamored to get footage of the corpses being carried out of the smoking building, one after another.
By seven-thirty that morning, eighty-seven bodies had been taken out, with many more left inside. Local television stations preempted their regular morning programming to cover the story; it wasn't until later that morning however, that they began to make any sense of it all.
By the time fire trucks had arrived late the night before, some people had already left with the teenagers they'd managed to coax out of the building. Those remaining were too hysterical to explain anything to the authorities, and most of them were taken away in ambulances to be treated for what at first appeared to be serious injuries. The ambulance attendants soon realized, however, that the blood that covered these people was not their own.
By eight a.m., word of what had actually happened began to reach the media. The first person to talk was Will Brubaker. He and his wife were rushed by reporters outside the hospital after being released; Brubaker had received eight stitches on his left hand where he'd cut himself on the stair railing on his way out of the building. His wife had been treated for smoke inhalation. The police had already asked them countless questions, but the police were not yet talking to the press, so the Brubakers' answers had not been passed on. Brubaker took advantage of the opportunity, and, with one arm around his wife, holding her close, both of them looking haggard and bereaved, he explained slowly and emotionally that the corpses in the abandoned health club were those of teenagers and that they had been coerced into committing suicide by a man named Mace. When asked why he and his wife had been there, Brubaker replied, "We got a phone call from a man named Haskell. Said he was a counselor at my son's high school. I don't know how, but he knew what was going to happen. He knew about it but waited until the very last minute to tell anyone. And I hope, for his sake, that he's got some damned good reasons."
Within the hour, the tragedy was being compared to the Jonestown mass suicide in Guyana; the press dubbed it the Valley Massacre and immediately began to call on "experts" to speculate on the possible reasons why so many teenagers would take their lives all at once.
Throughout the valley, parents who did not know where their teenagers were waited fearfully for a phone call, agonizing over the possible fates of their sons and daughters.
The final death toll was one hundred and sixty-three.
It would be days before all the bodies were positively identified.
Over a week before the last funeral was held.
Months before the story faded from the public eye.
But the scars left behind would never heal….
Mr. Booth paced the length of his office, walking fast, as if late for an appointment. He'd smoked two cigarettes down to the filter in the few minutes J.R. had been seated before his desk.
"You've avoided the press so far?" he asked, his voice breathy, tense.
"Yes."
"Said nothing?"
"Nothing." J.R. looked at his watch; it was a few minutes to ten. His shoulders and neck burned with pain, his head throbbed, and he was buzzing from all the coffee he'd been drinking for the past several hours.
"Any idea what you will say once they catch up to you?" Booth asked, blowing smoke.
J.R. sighed and slumped down in the chair. The previous night had been the longest J.R. had spent since Sheila died. After climbing out of the sewer with Kevin, they found themselves in an alley off Ventura. They spent a few moments collecting themselves; J.R. lifted his face to the rain and drank in the fresh, cold air. With his arm around Kevin, J.R. led him to the edge of the boulevard and, to their right, saw the orange glow of the fire through the narrow gaps between the boards over the health club's windows. He knew immediately what would happen within the next hour; first the fire trucks would come, then ambulances, the police, and, worst of all, the reporters. It would be spread over the news like butter on toast; they would tack some catchy name on the whole thing, hound the families of the dead teenagers, and go through half a dozen versions of what had happened before getting to the truth. If they ever got to it at all.
He led Kevin through the motionless line of cars on Ventura and behind the building to the parking lot. People were stumbling out of the building, clutching their chests, crying, racked with coughs. Smoke was billowing out of the door behind them. Cars were starting, doors were slamming.
Jeff, Lily, and Erin were not in the parking lot. They were on the other side of the bushes that ran along Whitley. When Lily called J.R. over, he found Jeff and Erin sitting on the curb, their feet in a flooded gutter, embracing and crying. He got them to his car and drove them to Erin's apartment. After lighting some candles, he was relieved to find that no one was badly hurt; he was the worst, with cuts and scratches on his back and legs, but they were easily taken care of.
He put Erin to bed; Jeff sat with her awhile, wanting to be left alone. Kevin plopped onto the sofa when he arrived and remained there for a long time, silent and dazed. He found a pack of Erin's cigarettes on the end table and lit up.
"So, what do we do now?" Lily asked J.R. in the kitchen as he poured himself some vodka.
"I don't know. Wait, I guess."
"Shouldn't we have, like, stayed there awhile?"
"Why? If the police want to, they can talk to us later. That place is probably a carnival sideshow by now."
He found a portable radio, and sure enough, the story had already broken.
He spent the night in the apartment, sitting
up with Lily and Kevin, comforting Erin and Jeff through frequent attacks of tears and quaking sobs. After a few drinks, they calmed down and eventually slept.
J.R. could not sleep. Neither could the others. They talked their way through the nightmare again and again, trying to understand exactly what had happened and why.
"He was just… gone all of a sudden," Kevin whispered. "One second there, the next…"
After the lights came on at two-thirty, J.R. switched from vodka to coffee. He didn't want to sleep; he was afraid he would dream.
He sat in front of the television from two-thirty on while the others slept and the rain clawed at the windows. The story unfolded slowly; the all-night movies were interrupted again and again, and there weren't as many used car commercials as usual. At a little after eight, he saw Will Brubaker on the screen, arm around his wife, talking about him, about J.R.
"Holy Christ," J.R. growled, sitting up on the sofa. He leaned over and woke Kevin, who was asleep at the other end. "Do me a favor and wake Lily. Keep an eye on the others, and don't answer the phone or the door. I've gotta leave for a while."
He drove to his apartment to shower and change his clothes. As he briskly dried himself in his steamy bathroom the phone rang, and he almost didn't answer it, certain it would be a reporter. But it occured to him that something might be wrong over at the Carrs'; it might be Lily or Kevin.
"Mr. Haskell?" an officious-sounding woman asked. "I'm calling for Faye Beddoe."
"Faye? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. She just wanted me to give you a message. She's fine. A little stubborn this morning, but fine. She's been insisting that I call you. I told her—"
"What message?" he snapped.
The woman sniffed. "The note reads, 'Say as little as possible. Talking isn't worth it.' She said you'd know what it means."
He nodded silently to himself. "What's she doing?"
"She's been watching the television all morning. There was a big fire over at—"
"Tell her I'll be in to see her later. And thank her for me." He hung up, dressed, and drove to the school, sneaking by the horde of reporters out in the hall.
