The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  "Thanks." Jim watched the man lumber away. Next to him, the young woman was still sobbing. From the front door of the church a yellow-suited fireman, Ernst presumably, gave him the high sign. Jim waved back and turned to the girl. "It's out," he said. "It looks like they saved most of it."

  She did not hear him, or, if she did, she did not care. She continued to cry into her hands. Jim stared at the church. A small plume of smoke was still swirling upward from a hole in the roof, like the benign smoke from a chimney. The brownish bricks of the building were covered with soot and water.

  Brother Elias, Jim thought.

  The preacher stood on the small wooden bench, holding his Bible high in the air and glaring out at the assembled crowd before him. There were at least fifteen or twenty people standing on the rough asphalt sidewalk in front of the rodeo grounds, staring up at him in rapt attention. They had all been walking by on their way to other places, they had all been thinking of other things, but they had all stopped to listen when they'd heard the sound of his voice.

  "The evil one is amongst you NOW!" the preacher screamed, gesturing into the crowd with his Bible. He smiled slyly, crouching low on the bench. "No, don't pretend that you are surprised. Because you are not surprised. He is here now, and you know he is here! In fact, YOU have had dealings with him!" The preacher jumped up, pointing to a long-haired young man drinking a Coke.

  "Fuck you," the young man said tiredly. He held up a middle finger as he walked away. Several people in the crowd giggled.

  "Yes, you can laugh now," the preacher said. "But there will be no laughter when Satan claims the earth for his own and walks freely amongst his subjects! For, yes, that is what he intends to do.

  He will conquer this earth and all on it and turn it into his own private playground, his own annex of hell!"

  Someone in the crowd stifled a laugh.

  The preacher looked heavenward, straining his neck as he faced the skies. "Oh Lord, why dost thou give them brains when they do not use them to think? Why dost thou give them eyes when they do not use them to see?" Suddenly, he jumped down from the bench, waving the Bible in his hand at the crowd. The people backed up a step, shocked. The preacher's black eyes burned with a crazed, fiery intensity. "He has come once before, the evil one. He came to this town and was defeated!" He looked around at the faces before him. "Do you have enough faith to defeat him this time? Are you willing to fight on the side of the Lord, or will you lay down and die and surrender your souls to the clutches of Satan?"

  A frightened woman in the front of the crowd took a dollar bill from her purse.

  "I don't want your money!" the preacher yelled, slapping her hand and sending the bill fluttering to the ground. "I want your word! God has given you his word, will you give him yours? Will you stand by your faith? Will you fight against the forces of evil?" He stared at the woman who had offered him the money. "You," he said. "Your son is fighting on the side of Satan. He is lost."

  The woman paled. "I ... I have no son," she stammered.

  But the preacher was already moving through the crowd, touching certain individuals. "Your wife died in childbirth," he said to one old man.

  "She has ascended to the bosom of the Lord. Your daughter is burning in the pits of hell." He looked at another man. "You could go either way," he stated.

  "How do you know all this?" one skeptical voice piped up. "What makes you think we should listen to you?"

  "It has been foretold in the Bible," the preacher said loudly. "It has all been foreseen by Almighty God." He glanced around him. "This has happened before," he repeated, "and if we are successful in our attempts to combat the adversary it will happen still again. And again. And again. Satan has been banished for all eternity from the presence and grace of the Lord, and he will never give up in his attempt to usurp the power of God. Satan is gathering to him an army, and he will use that army to fight against the forces of good." He moved back through the crowd and once again jumped on top of the wooden bench. "We have no time to argue or debate. Either you are with God or you are against him. The time for indecision is past. The evil one is here and ready to strike!"

  The crowd was silent.

  The preacher closed his eyes and began swaying. "And the lightning will turn red, signifying the coming of the adversary," he chanted.

  "There will be flies, there will be earthquakes." He stopped speaking, opening his eyes, and he stared silently down at the crowd. He jumped down from the bench and, without a word, picked up his suitcase from the ground behind him and strode purposefully through the throng of people. He continued down the street, not looking back.

  On the bench, he had left a pile of pamphlets, religious tracts. One man moved hesitantly forward, picking one up. "Blessed are the brave,"

  the title announced, "For They Are the Armies of God."

  EIGHT

  Pete King sat in the metal swivel chair in front of the switchboard, his feet propped up on the counter. He stared at the randomly flickering lights of the board, wondering why they lit up when no one was calling. He never would understand how these damn things worked.

  Judson came in from the back, from the bathroom, buckling his belt. He nodded toward Pete. "Any of them donuts left?"

  Pete tossed him a crumpled white sack. "Some."

  Judson pulled out half a crumb donut and a small piece of maple bar. He dropped them back in the sack and threw the sack at Pete in disgust.

  "That's it? You ate all the rest?"

  "I saved two for you."

  "Two pieces you bit out of."

  Pete laughed. "I didn't bite out of them. I tore pieces off with my fingers. What a pansy."

  "Pansy hell. I just don't want to get your AIDS germs." Judson pulled the chair out from Rita's desk and sat down, pushing his feet against the wood and tipping the chair back on two legs. He nodded toward the switchboard. "Anything?"

  Pete shook his head. "Slow night."

  "So what'd that dickhead from Phoenix have to say?"

  "McFarland? Nothing new. I think thestaters are concentrating more on the Valley than here."

  "That's bullshit.More's happened here than there."

  Pete laughed. "What is this? A contest? Sure,more's happened here than there, but they figure Phoenix is bigger, he'd have more place to hide. Up here, we'd notice someone new immediately, the town's too small."

  "He, huh? They've narrowed it down to a single person?"

  "Don't play goddamn word games with me. You know what I'm talking about. They think the perpetrator or perpetrators is or are in the Phoenix area, all right? Is that clear enough for you? They're concentrating their efforts in the Valley. McFarland's staying here, butRalphs will be operating both here and in Phoenix."

  "That's bullshit. Did you tell him about the preacher? What's his name?"

  "Elias something. Yeah, I told him. He said he'd talk to Wilson about it, but he himself couldn't make any decisions. He said he'd tell him about the fire this afternoon, too, but he thought that last fire was totally unconnected. He has a real bug up his ass about everything being centered in Phoenix."

  "Shit."

  Pete shrugged. "That's the way of the world."

  Judson put his feet back down on the floor and pulled a stick of gum from his shirt pocket. He slowly unwrapped the gum. "Tell me the truth. Do you think it was a good idea bringing these guys in?"

  Pete thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted. "I did at first, but they don't seem to be doing any better than we did on this.

  Worse, maybe. And they treat us like shit. They're supposed to be cooperating with us on an investigation, but they act like we're their goddamn servants or something."

  "Ain'tthat the truth."

  "They think that just because we work in a small town instead of a big city, we're Podunk know-nothings and can't be trusted to work on an investigation."

  Judson laughed. "The old Barney life situation."

  Pete shook his head. "I don't know." He turned ar
ound and stared at the lights of the switchboard, flicking on and off for no discernible reason. Behind him, he heard Judson scoot across the floor in his chair and grab the donut bag. He stared at the lights for a moment longer, thinking, then swiveled around again. Judson was eating the last of the crumb donut, licking the excess spices off his fingers. He wasn't quite sure how to bring up what he wanted to say, and he almost turned back around, but he gathered up his courage and cleared his throat. "Jud?" he said.

  Judson looked up. "Yeah?"

  "Have you noticed anything .. . strange about all this?"

  "What do you mean, strange?"

  "You know, strange."

  "You mean like those strange little footprints in the blood over at the farmer's place?"

  Pete nodded excitedly. "Exactly!"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Come on. Be serious. You know what I'm talking about. You know this isn't any ordinary investigation."

  Judson nodded reluctantly. He put the donut bag down. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I do. I don't want to, but I do." He sighed. "I've been seeing things, hearing things, thinking things, and I wish to Christ they'd go away."

  "What'd you see?"

  Judson was silent for a moment. "The footprints," he said, finally.

  He looked at Pete. "You saw the footprints, too?"

  Pete nodded.

  "We all saw the footprints. So how come we pretended we didn't? How come none of us said anything? How come we didn't tell Jim?" He shook his head. "Jesus. Last week, right after all this started, about this time of night, Jim came running out of his office with his gun drawn.

  He was scared shitless. I could see it in his face. I was coming back from the head, and he ran into me in the hall, knocking me down. He said he saw something, something strange, running down the hall. I told him he was tired." He laughed mirthlessly. "Jesus, tired."

  "You think he really saw something?"

  "Hell, I saw the fucking thing too! It was running fast and keeping to the shadows. You know how shitty the lights are back there at night.

  But I could see that it was about the size of a small dog. It was hairless and pinkish, and it ran on four legs, babbling to itself. I saw it right after the sheriff left. Right after! He turned around the corner, and it sped by at the other end of the hall. I should've called out to Jim, or at least said something to him the next day, but I didn't. I ignored it, tried to forget about it, pretended it didn't happen."

  Pete nodded. "I know what you mean. I saw those footprints too.

  Weirdest damn things I ever saw. What do you think they were?"

  Judson shook his head slowly. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to know."

  "And what about those bodies? The farmers' and the preacher's family.

  I mean, we were all acting like it was nothing, like we did this all the time, like we were trained to handle shit like that, but I know damn well that I wasn't trained for anything like that. I've never seen anything like that in my life. And I never thought I would, outside of a movie."

  "Me either," Judson said softly.

  Pete stood up and began pacing. "People are talking, too, in town. I

  hear them. At the store, at the gas station, at the restaurants. They know thisain't no normal situation here. People have a good nose for this sort of thing, and they know there's something strange going on. A

  lot of them are talking about that preacher, that Elias. They say he's making predictions, warning them about what's going to happen." He stopped pacing and stared down the hallway toward the back of the building. The lights were off back there, and the hallway disappeared into blackness. He shivered. "Something is going on here, but I'll be damned if I know what it is."

  "I don't know either. And I don't think I want to know." Judson picked up the donut bag and pulled out the last piece of maple bar.

  "Aren't you even curious?"

  "Sure I'm curious. But I'm not going to do anything about it." He gave Pete a halfhearted smile. "It's not my job."

  Pete moved back to his seat and slumped down in the metal chair, his eyes focusing on the blinking lights of the switchboard. "Yeah," he said. He stared at the lights. "Yeah."

  Dr. Waterston tore up the duplicate copies of the test analysis, wadded up the pieces and threw them across the room in disgust. The crumpled paper fell far short of its intended mark against the opposite wall and landed benignly on the middle of the carpet. Waterston picked up the flask of whiskey next to his right elbow and took a long, healthy, medicinal swig.

  Nothing. The test results revealed that there was nothing in the Geronimo Wells water. If anything, the water was cleaner, purer, than average. No chemicals, particulates down to almost nothing, only a few traceable minerals.

  So what the hell was it?

  There had to be some common denominator, something that linked Julie Campbell, Joni Cooper, Susan Stratford and possibly even old Mrs.

  Perry. But what could it be? The water was out. Chances of it being some type of food were slim to none. Could they have been exposed to hazardous waste being transported through Randall? It was possible.

  Though it was a much longer route, many trucks preferred to pass through Randall when transporting goods from Phoenix to either Prescott or Flagstaff in order to avoid the weigh and inspection stations on Black Canyon Highway And who knew what those trucks carried? Who knew what sort of substances they were transporting?

  Waterston took another swig from his flask. He realized that he was grasping for straws. If there had been any unfamiliar chemicals in any of the women's bloodstreams they would have shown up on the blood tests. There didn't seem to be anything physiologically wrong with any of the women, with the possible exception of Mrs. Perry. But something obviously was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  He had to admit it: he was baffled.

  But at least something good had come out of all this--the chances that something would go wrong with Marina Lewis' pregnancy had been whittled down to almost nothing.

  Waterston pulled open his desk drawer and drew out the photographs he had taken of the miscarried babies before the autopsies. On the top of the stack, the half-formed mucilaginous eyes of Julie Campbell's fetus stared blindly up at him. In the next picture, the premature infant's reptilian hands were clenched into permanent fists.

  Waterston put the photos down and took another swig of whiskey. He needed courage. He would have to call each of the women and tell them what he had found. Or what he had not found.

  He shuffled quickly through the photos, and his eye was caught by the horrible face of Joni Cooper's infant. The smooth bald forehead was wrinkled into a frown, and the toothless mouth was twisted into a hideous grimace. The eyes, pure white, with neither irises nor pupils, bored into his own and caused him to shudder. He dropped the stack of pictures on the desk. It was impossible, but the tiny infant looked angry, furious.

  Waterston picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Joni Cooper stared into the blackness of the living room, letting the phone ring without picking it up. From the bedroom, Stan called out angrily, "Are you going to get that or what?" She did not answer him.

  "Fuck it, then!"

  The phone rang three more times, then stopped. Joni sat unmoving. The drapes in the room were all closed, and the lights were off. She could see nothing. But she stared into the blackness, listening, thinking.

  She could hear Stan thrashing around in the bedroom, taking his aggression out on whatever inanimate object was closest to hand. They had had another fight tonight, or, rather, another battle in their ongoing fight. She knew she should be upset, but for some reason she just didn't seem to care.

  She sat, staring, thinking, and after a while Stan shut off the television. Soon she heard his even, regular breathing--the breathing of sleep--loud in the silent empty house.

  A year. It had been almost an entire year since she had lost the baby.

  Though she knew there was something wrong with her, she had ne
ver gotten over the loss of her baby. It was affecting her still. She thought about it constantly, brooded about it, lamented it. She realized that her preoccupation with the incident was taking its toll on her marriage, her job, her friendships, but there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it. She had no control over the situation.

  She was losing her grip on everything.

  It was stupid, she knew. Women had abortions all the time. It wasn't the end of the world. And she could always have another child. There was nothing physically wrong with either her or Stan. Theoretically, they could have a whole bunch of kids.

  But she couldn't let this child go. Stan Jr." she thought. They would have named him Stan Jr.

  She even imagined sometimes, in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness, that she could hear the baby crying, crying.

  From the bedroom came the sound of something heavy being knocked over.

  A lamp. She heard the shattering of glass, followed by a loud hard thump. What was Stan doing in there, tearing the place apart? She knew she should get up to investigate, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Instead, she sat still, staring into nothingness, listening.

  There was a muffled yelp.

  And a baby's cry.

  Joni stood up, her heart racing. The sound came again, and she hurried down the hall toward the bedroom. The lamp had been knocked over. The room was dark. The only light was the diffused glow of the bathroom overhead. She peeked into the room. "Stan?" she called softly.

  Something small and soft nuzzled against her leg, and she felt a thrill of excited anticipation rush through her. She bent down on one knee and reached forward with both hands. Her fingers touched skin that was cold and slightly slimy. In the half-light, she saw something pinkish press toward her. Stan Jr.? She reached for it and instinctively pulled it toward her, cuddling it blindly against her breast.

  Searing pain lashed through her as tiny teeth bit down and tiny claws dug in. She tried to push the small creature away from her, but it held tightly onto her breast, ripping open the skin. She fell forward, screaming, feeling the blood spurting from the open wound. Another pair of jaws bit into the exposed skin of her calf.