The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  She smiled back at him. "Somehow I knew that you were going to be in favor of going through with it."

  "What do you think?"

  She ran her tongue across her teeth and shrugged noncommittally. "I

  don't know."

  "You're not leaning one way or the other?"

  "Well, maybe I am. But--"

  "You'd better decide pretty quick, you know."

  "I know. But I'll have to quit school, we'll have to get by on just your salary ..."

  "You mean this is because you're worried about money?"

  "No, of course not. But we have to take everything into account, and so far the bad points seem to out weight the good."

  "Which way are you leaning?"

  She tried to look at him seriously, full in the face, but she could not keep the smile from her lips. "I'd kind of like a little Marina running around the house, too."

  "Then it's settled."

  "Not quite. I still want to think it over a bit." She held up a hand. "I know, I know. I'd better think fast." She kissed his nose. "I will."

  Gordon kissed her back, then put his head down on her stomach, as if listening. "Hey," he said, sitting back up. "What about sex? How much longer can we keep on doing it?"

  Marina laughed, and her laugh sounded happy, free of troubles. "I should've known you'd worry about that."

  "I'm not--"

  "We can do it as long as we want."

  "It won't hurt the baby?"

  She thought for a moment. "Well, maybe we'll have to try a few new positions. You probably shouldn't be on top all of the time."

  "All of the time?"

  She smiled. "Pretty close."

  He looked at her haughtily. "Maybe we should give it up for the next eight months or so. Just to be on the safe side. After all, you do have two other holes."

  "Oh no," she said.

  He laughed and kissed her. "So how do you feel about Sandra?"

  "I was thinking more along the lines of Olga or Helga. Perhaps Bertha."

  "If it was going to be a boy you would've planned on Percy?"

  "Or Otis," she agreed.

  Gordon leaned back against the brass headboard, his head fitting neatly between two brass bars. "You laugh now, but we're really going to have to start thinking about names soon." He cleared his throat. "If you decide to keep the baby," he added.

  Marina swung her legs over the side of the bed. "We will have to start thinking about names," she said.

  "We will? For sure?"

  She nodded. "We will."

  "That was quick."

  "I'm a quick thinker." She walked over to the Queen Anne chair in the middle of the room and took her flowered bathrobe from its seat, putting it on. She pulled her hair from inside of the robe and let it hang outside the collar. She walked out of the bedroom.

  Gordon heard her enter the bathroom and a few moments later heard the toilet flush. She walked into the kitchen .. . and came screaming back down the hall.

  "Marina!" Gordon jumped out of bed and almost collided with her as she ran through the bedroom door. He grabbed her shoulders. "What happened?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

  She was sobbing so hysterically that he could not make out what she was saying. He pushed past her into the hall and hurried into the kitchen.

  Where he stopped.

  The makeshift cat box Marina had fashioned from a Pepsi carton was overturned, its dirt spilled all over the tile floor. The kitten's food and water dishes had also been emptied onto the kitchen floor.

  And everything was covered with cat blood.

  Red blood had been smeared all over the yellow refrigerator like paint.

  Smears of blood and black guts were trailed across the table top. A gray paw stuck out of the garbage disposal in the sink.

  The kitten itself, or what was left of her, was lying in the middle of the floor directly in front of the stove. The body--little more than gutted skin and fur--was spread-eagled on the floor and pinned in place with steak knives. The head, severed from the body, lay like an unused gray tennis ball, dead greenish yellow eyes staring up toward the roof.

  Gordon's eyes quickly scanned the room. The windows were shut and locked, as was the door. He ran into the living room, but the front door was also closed and bolted.

  How?

  What?

  He opened the front door and looked outside. The mist had dissipated somewhat, but the air still felt damp. A forerunner of autumn; a taste of the coming fall. His eyes searched the gravel driveway, but he could see nothing unusual. He closed the door and returned to the bedroom where Marina, still crying, lay huddled under the blankets. He knelt next to her. "It's all right," he said, hugging her close. "It's okay."

  But he was not sure himself that everything was OK. He suddenly felt an unfounded irrational fear for the baby.

  ONE

  The hitchhiker stood next to the off-ramp of Black Canyon Highway on the road to Randall. He had been standing there for several hours and was sweating profusely in the wet heat of late summer, but the stains under his arms and on his back were covered by his expensive jacket. As always, his tie was securely knotted. Next to him, on the ground, was a blue Samsonite suitcase containing his clothes, toothbrush, and personal effects. On top of the suitcase rested a photo album and a parcel filled with religious tracts. In his hand was a copy of the Revised Standard Version of the Bible.

  A Dodge pickup truck, the first in nearly an hour, pulled off the highway and the hitchhiker dutifully stuck out his thumb. The driver passed him by without a glance.

  Another truck, following close upon the heels of the first, passed him by as well, then pulled to a stop a few yards ahead. He looked at the truck and the driver honked, waving him on. The hitchhiker picked up his parcel and suitcase and jogged up to the dirty dented vehicle, pulling open the passenger door. He smiled at the driver, a burly bearded man wearing a red tank top and a yellow Cat hat. "Thank you, sir."

  The driver nodded and flicked a newspaper from the seat to the floor of the truck to make room for the hitchhiker's suitcase. "What's your name?"

  "Call me Brother Elias."

  "Brother Elias?" The driver snorted. "What the hell kind of name is that?"

  "I am a preacher of the Lord's living gospel, a testament to his glory, and this is the name by which I am known to his followers." He got into the truck and slammed shut the door.

  The driver put the truck into gear and pulled back onto the road. "A preacher, huh? I knew you weren't no ordinary hitcher. I could tell by the way you're dressed. To be honest with you, that's the only reason I picked you up. I don't usually stop for anybody unless I know them or I see their car's broken down. Can't tell what kind of people are out there these days. Never can tell who you're picking up. Some of theseguys'd just as soon kill you as look at you." He offered Brother Elias a thick calloused hand. "Name's Tim McDowell. I work over at the sawmill in Randall. Just got through collecting orders fromHargreve ." He looked at the preacher. "You ever been to Hargreve? Little town out in the Coconino . Hardlymore'n fifty people in it and you can't get there except on this little one-lane dirt road that curves down the side of a cliff to the valley. It's a real bitch." He looked immediately embarrassed, and he smiled sheepishly at Brother Elias. "Sorry." He drove for a few miles in silence, but when the preacher didn't say anything he cleared his throat. "So, what brings you out this way?"

  Brother Elias stared straight ahead, his eyes fastened on the road.

  "The Lord's work."

  Tim nodded, smiling, and lapsed back into silence. He should've known better than to pick up a hitcher. Any hitcher. Even the ones who looked normal and respectable were weird these days. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at Brother Elias. The preacher was staring straight out the windshield, his hands folded over the Bible in his lap, his face a complete blank. Tim shook his head. It was his own fault; he had picked this clown up. But it was his duty to be friendly. He drove silently for a few miles
then turned to the preacher. "So you just travel around? Hitching? Seems like it'd be easier to have your own church and stay in one place to me."

  "I go where I am needed," said Brother Elias.

  "And where're you headed now? You going to Randall?"

  Brother Elias nodded.

  "You think Randall needs saving?"

  Brother Elias nodded again.

  "Seems like there're a lot of worse places than Randall to me. Los Angeles, for one. Damn place is full of hippies, punks, queers, you name it." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Sorry again. So how do you pick where you're going? How come you decided Randall was the next place needed to be saved?"

  "I have seen the coming evil," said Brother Elias. "I have seen it in a vision. The Lord has shown me the foulness of Satan's corruption and the face of his evil. He has shown me the means by which the adversary will triumph in this new Babylon. "And he called out with a mighty voice, "Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great! It has become a dwelling place of demons, a haunt of every foul spirit."" Revelation 18:2.

  "The Lord has sent me to combat this evil with his holy word and the teachings of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior."

  Tim did not respond to the preacher. He said nothing. Instead, he looked ahead to where the two-lane road curved through a wooded canyon and inwardly cursed himself for picking up the man. Brother Elias was crazy. Not playing with a full deck, deuce high, as his daddy used to say. This should teach him not to pick up hitchers. No matter how they looked. He hazarded another glance at the preacher and saw that he was again staring straight out the window, his face a blank. Tim shivered and gave the truck more gas, pushing it up to sixty-five.

  They passed through the canyon and sped past the small dirt road that led to the ranger station. There was nothing but flat forest the rest of the way into Randall, and Tim turned on the radio to make the drive a little more pleasant and to ease the strain of silence that he felt.

  He looked toward the preacher as he tuned in the clearest station, but Brother Elias' face remained impassive.

  Since he did not seem to object to the noise, Tim left the radio on.

  A few minutes later, the preacher closed his eyes.

  They were almost on the outskirts of town when Brother Elias jerked wide awake. He looked at Tim. "You have a son," he said. It was not a question but a statement of fact.

  "Yes," Tim admitted.

  "Drop me off at the police station," Brother Elias said.

  "We don't have a police station. We have a sheriff's office."

  "Drop me off at the sheriff's office."

  Tim drove through the main part of town and pulled in at the sheriff's office. He watched as the preacher picked up his suitcase and small brown parcel from the seat between them. "Why did you say I had a son?" he asked.

  The preacher opened the passenger door and stepped out.

  Vivcame running out of the sheriff's office, her face red and wet with tears.

  Tim stared at his wife as she dashed across the small parking lot. He jumped out of the truck and hurried toward her, leaving the keys in the ignition. "What is it?" he demanded. "What happened?"

  She threw her arms around him and held tight, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Her face was hot and wet against his skin. He hugged her, his hands pressing against the soft flesh of her back. Above her head, he could see Carl Chmura striding slowly but purposefully out of the sheriff's office. The deputy was staring at the ground as he crossed the parking lot, avoiding Tim's eyes. Tim felt a sudden rush of panic--Matt!-and looked quickly from Carl Chmura's averted face to his own white knuckled hands grasping iv's back.

  No, he thought, please God don't let it be Matt.

  "Tim--" the deputy began.

  "Is it Matt? Tell me, Carl."

  The deputy nodded. "He never came home this morning. Neither did Jack or Wayne. Your wife reported Matt missing around ten o'clock this morning. I tried to getahold of you, but you'd already left. I called the store up inHargreve , but I guess they didn't find you in time."

  "What happened to Matt?" He was starting to feel numb, disconnected, as though his brain was preparing itself for the inevitable shock.

  "We don't know," the deputy admitted. "We have a search team out there looking for the boys right now. Your wife said they went camping at Aspen Lake--"

  "That's right."

  "--so we sent a posse." He looked at Tim. "There was quite a big storm on the Rim last night."

  "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  The deputy shrugged. "Can't tell. There was a lot of lightning, lot of rain, lot of wind. If we're lucky, they just got lost; they were out hiking when the storm hit and somehow got turned around in their directions. If we're not lucky ..." The deputy left the sentence unfinished.

  "Maybe their car just broke down--"

  "We found the car. And all their gear. They started to make a camp down by the lake itself."

  "We should never have let him go!"Viv screamed, looking up at him. "I

  told you he shouldn't have gone!" Her face was contorted with shock and pain and fear.

  "Maybe you'd best take her home," the deputy said quietly. "We'll call you if anything turns up."

  "I'm going up there," Tim said. "I'm going to look for my son."

  "Take me home,"Viv sobbed, looking up at him and clutching the shoulders of his tank top. "Please take me home. I want to go home."

  "Take her home,"Chmura said gently.

  "I'll be back," Tim said, leading his wife toward the truck. "I'm going up there." He opened the passenger door and helped his wife in.

  Closing the door, he ran around to the driver's side and jumped up on the seat, knocking a small illustrated pamphlet onto the floor. He bent down to pick up the pamphlet.

  "Do you know where your children are right now?" the headline screamed up at him. "They could be caught in the clutches ofsatan ."

  He tore the pamphlet in half and tossed it out the window, and the rear tires of the truck scattered the pieces as he sped out of the parking lot toward home.

  Gordon parked the Jeep in front of the closed chain link gate of the dump and got out, leaving the headlights on. The high beams stabbed forcefully into the moonless dark but failed to illuminate more than a straight narrow stretch of the landfill. Around the edges of the light, the blackness closed in thicker, as if gathering for an assault of its own.

  Gordon raised his arms and linked his fingers through the square holes in the metal fence, pressing his face against the chain link. He could smell the powerful odors of unburied garbage, rotting food, burning trash. The dump had been here almost as long as Randall, he knew.

  There were literally tons of garbage buried beneath this land. A lot of it was natural, organic, but a lot of it wasn't. There were various synthetic products, the used goods of an increasingly disposable society, discarded carburetor cleaner, old oil from oil changes, old transmission fluid. God knew what all was down there.

  Dr. Waterston was right. It could be leaking into the wells below, into the water supply.

  He peered into the dimness, trying to make out specifics of the several-acre landfill. This was where The Selways’ bodies had been found, he knew. He'd read it in the paper. They'd found the kids' bodies all torn up and ripped apart, barely recognizable. Mrs.Sel way's head had been removed from her body and buried separately.

  Gordon shivered, feeling a tremor of fear pass through him, a shiver of dread.

  A white figure inside the dump passed through the diffused headlights of the Jeep.

  Gordon's heart jumped in his chest, his blood pounding. His fingers squeezed against the strong metal wires of the fence. "Hey!" he forced himself to call bravely. "What are you doing in there?"

  There was no answer. He continued to stare into the landfill, his eyes searching through the blackness for some sign of movement.

  The figure passed again through the headlights, this time closer.

  Gordon ba
cked away from the fence, not daring to look away but terrified of what he might see. The figure had been burned, badly burned, a charred husk of a person in a glowing white T-shirt. It had beckoned to him, wanting him to join it.

  He bumped against the Jeep and felt behind him for the reassuring solidity of the vehicle's metal hood. He guided himself by touch around to the driver's door, still keeping his eyes on the spot where he'd seen the terrible figure.

  He started to climb into the Jeep. And then he saw the boy sitting in his seat.

  He leaped back.

  "It's okay," the boy said, trying to smile. He was a kid of twelve or thirteen, wearing strangely ill-fitting pants and a white T-shirt. His greasy hair was long, and it curled onto his shoulders. Although he was trying to appear brave, confident, at ease, Gordon could tell that the boy was nervous, scared. "There's nothing to be afraid of," the boy said.

  Gordon backed away from the Jeep. "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "Your friend," the boy said. He climbed out of the Jeep and approached Gordon, hand extended. "I have something to show you."

  The boy's voice was tremulous, nervous, but there was an undercurrent of iron resolve in it, as though he knew he had to say something but was afraid to say it. Gordon shook his head, backing away. He was backing into the darkness of the forest, he knew, away from the modern comfort of the Jeep and its headlights, but he did not care. The natural darkness behind him seemed infinitely preferable to the unnatural boy in front of him.

  "I have something to show you," the boy repeated. One hand pulled a wisp of hair from his forehead. "Don't run away."

  He turned away from the boy .. . and he was standing in a large semicircle with several people from town. The fire before them was so large and so hot that the shimmering heat waves radiating outward obscured the faces of the other people, but he knew they were from town instinctively.

  The fire raged and crackled, flames shooting upward higher and higher until they were well above the tops of even the tallest pines. From somewhere within the blaze came cries and moans, sounds of pain and agony, and Gordon could see that what he had mistaken for blackened kindling at the base of the fire was moving, wiggling, writhing. A charred hand reached upward, then disintegrated into ashes.