The Revelation

by Bentley Little

"That's why I beentryin ' to call you. Same thing happened to everybody."

  Clay stared at him. "What?"

  "All my goats were killed. Ace's, Johnny's, Henry's, everybody's."

  "Same way?"

  Loren nodded. "Ripped open their throats and pulled out their innards.

  Looks like it was done with a can opener or something. Goddamn flies everywhere."

  "Yeah, same here." Clay sat down on the top step. He looked toward the spot where the six goats lay slaughtered. He couldn't see them from here, their bodies were hidden by the tall grasses and weeds, but he thought he could hear the constant buzzing of the flies. The sound seemed to echo in his head. "I was just going to come in and call Weldon," he said. "See what he could do about it."

  Loren looked at him. He waved a fly away from his face with his hat.

  "No one's called here yet?"

  Clay shook his head, puzzled. "They might've. I've been out in the field all morning. Why?"

  "Jesus," Loren said. He kicked at the bottom step with his scuffed work boot, staring down. A piece of hardened sod broke off from the side of the step and fell to the ground. "You didn't hear what happened?"

  Clay shook his head.

  Loren was silent for a moment. "You know the Episcopal church?" he said finally. "That one out there past the hospital?"

  Clay shook his head. "You know I never been no churchgoer."

  "Well it don't matter. That's the church Verna goes to. All new and modern looking and real nice. What happened is that someone wrote all over the front of the church. "Damn you all to hell' and shit like that. Wrote it in goat's blood."

  "Goat's blood?"

  Loren was nodding before Clay had even got the words out. "Yeah. Carl Chmura'sbeen calling all morning. Calling every rancher around.

  Prob'ly called you too but you weren't in."

  "I was out in the field," Clay repeated. He stood up, holding onto his leg, a sharp flash of pain registering on his face as he lurched to his feet. "I better call them then." Holding the rail, he half-walked, half-pulled himself up the last step. He yanked open the ripped and rusted screen door, holding it open for Loren. He looked at the other rancher. "You coming in or you just going to stand there?"

  Loren walked up the steps and caught the screen door just before it slammed. Clay was already walking down the long hall to the back of the house.

  "You got coffee or anything?" Loren asked.

  Clay waved an arm in the general direction of the kitchen. "Didn't have time to make none this morning," he called out. "You go on ahead and make us some. You know where everything is."

  Loren walked into the old kitchen. It was spic and span as always, exactly the way Glenda used to keep it. The same anemic, half-dead creeping charlie was struggling for its life on top of the Sears Coldspot refrigerator, the same faded plastic flowers lay arranged in the same brown wicker basket on the red-and-white checked tablecloth that covered the breakfast table. The ancient gas stove remained brightly polished as always, its few black nicks standing out dully against the gleaming porcelain. Through the greenhouse window above the sink, the mid-morning sun streamed in slatted rays, lighting up the entire room.

  Loren walked across the white tiled floor to the row of cupboards that lined the walls above both sides of the sink. He took out a half-empty can of MJB and measured two plastic cupfuls of coffee, pouring them into Clay's drip-pot. He was about to fill the pot with water when he heard a loud crash from the back of the house. He hurriedly dumped out his measuring cup of water, letting the plastic cup fall into the sink, and ran to the hallway. "Clay?" he called. "Clay?"

  He strode quickly down the hall, his work boots echoing loudly in the silence of the farmhouse. No noise came from any of the rooms. He glanced into Glenda's old sewing room as he walked by. Nothing.

  Clay's bedroom. Nothing.

  Clay's den.

  The rancher lay on the floor amidst debris of fallen books and knocked-over knickknacks. His eyes were wide open and staring, the pupils fixed at oddly askew angles, and there were several thin red marks running lengthwise down his cheeks. His mouth looked as if it had been forced open; his tongue was protruding from between bared teeth. The fingers of Clay's hands were clenched into claws and blood dripped thickly from his two middle fingers.

  Loren staggered back as he looked into the den, instantly nauseated by the putrid smell of violence, which was amplified by the heavy close air of the windowless room. He grasped the edge of the doorframe with his hands and swung back against the wall of the hallway, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The walls of the den had been spattered with blood, and somehow the flies had already found their way in. He could hear their droning maddened buzzing as they feasted on the blood.

  It sounded unnaturally loud in the silent house.

  He stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen. And stopped.

  Where had all the blood come from? He had seen only that trace of red on Clay's clawed fingers. There were light marks on the rancher's face, but the rest of his friend's body had appeared to be untouched.

  He turned around and, taking a huge gulp of air and holding his breath, peered around the corner into the den.

  Something small and chuckling, vaguely red and pink, scuttled from the side of Clay's body to a spot under the bed.

  Loren felt a trip-hammer of fear interrupt the rhythm of his heart.

  "Hey!" he called.

  The creature belted out from under the bed and in a crazed blur ran into Loren's legs, connecting just below the kneecaps and knocking him down. For a wild disjointed moment he was sprawled on the floor, looking into the dead staring eyes of Clay Henry, seeing his own panicked reflection in the lifeless orbs. Then something small and sharp and painful dug into the back of his skull and he was knocked unconscious.

  Gordon sat in front of the open window typing, the small plastic desk fan trained directly on his face. Even with the artificially generated breeze he was still perspiring, the sweat coursing down his cheeks in salty rivulets, occasionally dripping from his face to the white erasable typing paper. Brad was right. The heat was miserable. He ran a hand through his damp hair. He was beginning to hate summer, really hate it. Such a thought was un-American, he knew. He was supposed to love the long summer days, to want to play volley ball and other outdoor sports, to go on picnics, to listen to the Beach Boys.

  But it didn't get dark until nearly nine o'clock at night, and the days were hot, humid, and uncomfortable. He understood that he would be hot unloading cases of Pepsi; that was expected. But here, even wearing shorts and no shirt, he was still sweating like a pig. And when he typed his bare back stuck painfully to the slatted wooden chair.

  Of course, the nights and late afternoons had cooled off now that the monsoons had come. But the mornings more than made up for it.

  Marina, on the other hand, loved the summer. She always had and probably always would, although God knew why. He could see her lying on her tinfoil-like Space Blanket in the clear treeless area in front of the house, trying to enrich her already ecru tan. He took a sip of iced tea from the tall glass next to the typewriter. The recently poured beverage was already forming a rounded pool of condensation on the walnut desk top, and he wiped away the puddle with the side of his arm. Setting the glass back down, he reread the sentence he'd just typed, thought for a minute, then ripped the sheet from the machine, crumpling it up and tossing it into the overflowing wastepaper basket.

  On the lawn, Marina rolled over and faced the window, holding her left hand above her eyes like a visor. "I heard that," she said.

  He looked toward her, smiling. "It's too hot to work."

  "You've been saying that all morning."

  "It's been true all morning."

  She stood up, facing away from him, her back an intricately patterned mosaic formed by the serrated material of the Space Blanket. She bent down to pick up her sunglasses and tanning lotion, and he had a clear view of her perfectly round ass. He whistled loud
ly. Still shielding her eyes from the glare of the noonday sun, she turned to face him. "If you're not going to do any work then let's go into town. There are some things I have to do."

  "What things?" "Things." She stuck her tongue out at him. "And that's for whistling. Pig."

  Gordon watched her fold the blanket into a small square and, putting it under her arm, trek barefoot across the rocky dirt toward the side door of the house. She'd gained weight this summer, he realized. Not really enough to be noticeable--she still looked svelte, even in her skimpy bikini--but there was a small, barely perceptible increase in the size of her formerly flat stomach. Of course he was a fine one to talk. He stared down at his spreading paunch. Even with the increased demand for soft drinks in the summer and the extra work he'd had to do, he still looked like he had the beginnings of a beer belly. All that loading strengthened his arms but didn't do a thing for his stomach. He smiled. Maybe they should both start to exercise; get the Jane Fonda videotape or something, do aerobics.

  Marina passed by the den, peeking into the open doorway as she headed down the hall to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower!" she called out.

  "You get ready too!"

  Grimacing, Gordon moved forward, peeling his skin from the back of the chair, and covered the few pages of the manuscript he'd completed. He walked next door to the bedroom, stepping over the small pile of Marina's clothes on the floor, and walked around the quilt-covered brass bed in the center of the room. They'd gotten the bed several years ago at a church rummage sale, and Marina had spent long weekend hours scraping the tarnish off the metal and restoring the bed to its original condition. The antique armoire next to the bed had been a present from Marina's mother. Gordon pulled open the drawer at the bottom of the armoire and pulled out a pair of sneakers. He searched through the small closet for an appropriate shirt. After a cursory examination of his wardrobe, he yanked free from its hanger a loud multicolored Hawaiian shirt. It was the closest thing to summer wear he owned. He put on the shirt and sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. Although they had been living in Randall for more than four years now, Gordon had never adjusted to the complete climate reversals and almost menopausal shifts in seasons that characterized the meteorology of Northern Arizona. For some probably psychological reason, he'd kept telling himself that each year was an atypical one, that the summers were not usually this hot, the winters not usually this cold. As a result, his wardrobe consisted of the same moderate weather clothing he'd worn in California. Which meant that he roasted in summer, froze in winter and seldom had anything appropriate to wear.

  They'd learned about Randall through Ginny Johnson, one of Marina's coworkers at the high school. One weekend Ginny had run into her old college roommate, and the roommate told her that she had been offered--and had turned down--a full-time teaching position in Randall, Arizona. "It's a beautiful little town," she said. "I'd love to live there, but they just don't pay enough."

  "Sounds like just what you're looking for," Ginny told Marina. "The school's looking for someone to teach English and typing, the land in the area is cheap, there are four seasons and the town's population is a whopping three thousand. You always said that you and Gordon wanted to get out of Southern California."

  "Arizona?" Gordon said when Marina relayed the information.

  "It's up near Flagstaff," she explained. Gordon started making disgusted faces, and she playfully slapped his cheek. "Be serious.

  There are some nice places there."

  "In Arizona?"

  Nevertheless, they'd driven out to Randall the next weekend. And both of them had fallen instantly in love with the town. It had been a brisk clear autumn day, not a cloud in the ink blue sky, and they'd come in from the southwest, driving the two-lane from Prescott. Their first view of the town looked like a Currier and Ives painting, or the falsely pastoral picture on an artfully retouched postcard. They were driving over a ridge. Below them, the town was nestled into a long narrow valley. The only building clearly visible from this vantage point was the sawmill. Around the mill, smoking chimneys and A-framed roofs peeked out from between leafless oaks, multihued aspens, and green ponderosa pines. Here and there glimpses of blue--brooks or streams or ponds--could be seen between the green foliage. To the north, overlooking the entire region, dominating the scenery, stood the Rim--a huge majestic forested mesa that stretched spectacularly from horizon to horizon.

  At his first sight of the town, Gordon had begun grinning widely, the excitement showing in his face. He pulled off to the side of the road, getting out of the car and grabbing his Canon. He snapped several shots of the unbelievable view, finishing off the roll, and took a deep breath of air, inhaling the intertwined fragrance of living forest and burning firewood. He stared down at the panorama below him. "This is it," he said. "This is our town."

  Marina coughed loudly from inside the car: a melodramatic stage "ahem."

  She looked out at him. "Don't you think you should ask my opinion before making blanket pronouncements about 'our' town?"

  He swung around in surprise. "You don't like it?"

  She got out of the car and walked to the edge of the cliff, looking around her at the scenery. She pretended to think for a moment.

  "It's ... all right," she said finally in her most affected voice. She looked toward him, eyebrows raised.

  Then the smile broke through.

  Marina had interviewed for the teaching position the next week and had been accepted. They'd bought the place two months later, after several weekend house-hunting trips to the area. Gordon had originally wanted to buy a converted farmhouse--he had dreams of living a cinematic small town existence, complete with a cow for milk and a couple chickens for eggs--but the only farmhouses for sale were way out of their price range. Even with the bank loan and money borrowed from both their parents they were only able to afford someplace small. Still, their new home was by itself, outside the town limits, backed up against untouched National Forest land. An old one-story wood-framed structure, it was set in the middle of a half-acre of thickly wooded property. The previous owners had built a small animal pen next to the tool shed out back and had cleared a large area on the side of the house for gardening. Gordon was delighted. The old owners had also added several large picture windows to the house, allowing for unobstructed views of both the Rim and the surrounding woods.

  That first year, they too had made a lot of changes: converting the breakfast nook in the kitchen to a small solarium, furnishing the house with Marina's antiques, painting the peeling walls white, adding on to the storage shed so they would have a place to store firewood. Yes, the winter had been colder than Gordon had expected, and the summer hotter. And the entire cycle had repeated itself the following year.

  But he really did love living here. It was everything he'd hoped for.

  He loved the house, loved the forest, and loved Randall. Hell, he even liked his menial job.

  Marina emerged from the bathroom dressed and ready to go. She walked into the bedroom and stopped just inside the door, staring at him, her eyes moving visibly upward from his grubby sneakers to his torn cutoffs before finally settling on his obnoxious Hawaiian shirt. "You're not planning on going like that?" she asked.

  "This is all I've got."

  "What about that new light-blue short-sleeve shirt I bought you?"

  "It's dirty."

  She shook her head. "If we see anyone, I'm pretending like I don't know you."

  He grinned. "Want me to walk ten paces behind you? Just in case?"

  "You think I'm joking?"

  He grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser and was about to start out the door.

  "Wait," she said, as if remembering something. "Maybe you'd better change after all. I forgot I have to stop in and see Dr. Water ston."

  "What for?"

  "Oh, nothing."

  "He's open on Saturday?"

  Marina nodded.

  He scanned her face, looking for telltale signs of sickness. "Wha
t's wrong?"

  "I told you. Nothing. I'm just going in for a checkup."

  "Why didn't I hear about this checkup before?"

  "Because it's not important. Just get dressed so we can go." Annoyance had entered her voice, and she walked over to the closet, pulling out a pair of Levi's and throwing them on the bed. "Wear these," she said.

  He put on the pants as she rummaged through the closet for a shirt.

  She finally picked out a plain, light green, cotton dress shirt.

  "Here. Just roll up the sleeves."

  He bowed down before her. "Yes, master. Will there be anything else?"

  She laughed. "No. You can keep your shoes."

  He put on his clothes.

  Gordon sat in the small air-conditioned waiting room for what seemed like an eternity, glancing periodically at thestulted wall clock that hung above the door. The clock's oversized hands moved in a cruelly slow parody of time, ticking off minutes that registered as seconds, hours that clocked in as minutes. He already knew by heart the minute brush strokes that made up the three watercolor prints on the waiting room walls, and now he simply stared into space. Every so often he would pick up one of the magazines on the low glass coffee table in front of him--Flying, Computer Science, or perhaps Modern Medicine--and scan the glossy pages for some item of interest. He had exhausted the magazines and was just about to start on The Children's Living Bible when he heard Marina's muffled voice through the thick clouded glass partition that separated the receptionist's desk from the waiting room.

  He put the book down and looked up. There was a blur of colored movement behind the frosted glass.

  Marina's face was an embarrassed mixture of conflicting emotions as she came bustling through the waiting room door shoving a folded slip of prescription paper into her purse. Fear and joy, anxiety and excitement all vied for time on her features. She looked around the empty room for a second, as if not seeing him, then fixed him with an unsure smile. Her face was red. "I'm pregnant," she said.

  Gordon blinked in startled incomprehension, not sure he had heard her right. "What?" he said.