The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.

  Gordon sat bolt upright in bed, a scream caught in his throat.

  Marina held tight to his shoulders, hugging him close. "It's okay," she murmured reassuringly. "It's all right. It's just a dream,"

  He clasped her hard and said nothing.

  She let her hands wander up and down his back then lightly caress his sleep disheveled hair. "Are you okay?"

  She felt him nod against her shoulder, but still he said nothing.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  He pulled back from her and looked her full in the face. His eyes were worried, scared. "You have to leave," he said. "You have to get out of here."

  She held him and said nothing.

  "You have to get out of here," he repeated. "Before morning."

  "I'm not leaving," she told him.

  "I'm serious."

  "I'm serious, too," she said. She sighed and kissed him lightly. "Look, let's get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about it in the morning."

  Gordon started to protest, but she pulled him to her, holding his head tightly against her breast. In a few moments he was fast asleep, and she carefullylayed his head upon the pillow. She stood up slowly, so as not to disturb him, and moved in front of the window, not exactly sure why she suddenly felt so frightened and alone.

  Something large rose up from the fire, and Jim was standing before the black metal smelter of the sawmill. He was alone. Around him, the wind whistled and howled, driving the dried leaves on the ground into a frenzy. The door to the smelter slowly opened.

  And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.

  Jim awoke gasping into his pillow, his hands clutching the pillow's fluffy edges, his mouth opened against the cotton material of the pillowcase. He was drenched with sweat. Beside him, Annette still slept, though she tossed fitfully. He was tempted to wake her but decided against it. She would be leaving early in the morning and needed all the sleep she could get.

  They had argued long and hard over her leaving, and finally she had said, "I'm not setting a foot out of this house until you tell me what this is all about. Are you in danger? I don't want you pulling any High Noon crap on me."

  "I just want you to leave town for a few days," he'd told her.

  She'd just stared at him. "Why can't you at least have enough respect for me to level with me, to tell me the truth instead of treating me like I'm one of the kids?"

  That had gotten to him. He'd apologized and meant it, then had lied to her and told her that they were closing in on the murderers, a cult, and that as the family of the sheriff, she and the kids might be prime targets. She'd seemed to buy the story, or at least had realized that the children probably were in real danger, and she'd agreed to visit her sister for a few days.

  She'd made him promise that he would be careful, that he would let someone else play hero, and he had lied again and said okay.

  He pushed a wisp of hair from her face. He felt isolated, alone, in the quiet darkened house. But he was isolated neither by the quiet nor the dark. He was isolated by his knowledge.

  He closed his eyes, trying to will himself back into slumber.

  Across town, Father Andrews slept peacefully and without dreams.

  Brother Elias stared at the bare wall of the lighted conference room, wide awake.

  Gordon awoke well before the alarm went off at four. Next to him, Marina had kicked off the covers and lay unmoving, her face half buried in the pillow, her arms resting at her sides. He watched her back move slowly up and down as she breathed. He should have made her leave. He should have forced her to go.

  But she did not want to go. And trying to force her would have made her all the more stubborn.

  He had to convince her to get out of town, to at least go down to Phoenix for the day and shop. What he and the sheriff and Father Andrews and Brother Elias were going to do was dangerous. There was a strong possibility that one, or more, of them might be injured. Or killed.

  Gordon thrust the thought from his mind. He didn't want to think about that possibility. He wasn't one to believe in self-fulfilling prophesies, but on some superstitious level he didn't feel comfortable dwelling on such thoughts. Perhaps if he didn't think about it, it might not happen.

  He looked down at Marina. She seemed to be sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. His hand touched her back, and she jerked awake.

  "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

  She opened her eyes, rubbing them. She stared blearily at him. "What time is it?"

  "Almost four."

  She sat up on one elbow, looking at him. "I'm sorry about last night."

  Her eyes were serious, her mouth grave. "I've been thinking about what you said, and I think you're right. It is dangerous here for me and the baby."

  "You mean you'll--"

  "And for you, too. I think all of us should get out of here."

  He stared at her stupidly, thrown off by her unexpected change of mind.

  He had been planning to fight an uphill battle in order to get her to leave, and now she not only wanted to get out of Randall , she wanted him to come with her. He was not quite sure how to react.

  "I want us to go to Phoenix or Flagstaff until everything blows over."

  He shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "I can't do that." His voice was regretful and apologetic, but there was no hesitation in it, no openness to debate.

  Marina's mouth tightened. "I'm not going alone."

  "I have to stay here. I have to--"

  "Help the sheriff? Help Brother Elias? Come on, you don't owe any of these people anything. Your duty is to me and to your daughter." She pressed a hand against her abdomen. "Your family." "It's dangerous here," Gordon said. "You know that. After you drop me off at the sheriff's office, I want you to--"

  "I'm not taking orders from you." She glared at him. "Stop talking to me as if you were my father."

  He took a deep breath. "Look, I just want you to be safe. And I want to make sure nothing happens to the baby. Please, promise me you'll take the car and go down to Phoenix for the day."

  "I'm not leaving here without you. If you stay, I stay."

  He shook his head. "Now you're just being stupid."

  "Maybe I am," she said. "Maybe I am being stupid. But so are you. I don't know what's happened, but lately you've been a real macho asshole," She threw the covers off angrily and slipped into her jeans, which were lying on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on a T-shirt and ran a hand through her hair. She picked up her keys from the dresser.

  "What are you doing now?"

  "I'm going to take you down to the damn sheriff's office, then I'm going to get the hell out of here."

  He reached across the edge of the bed, and the tips of his fingers touched her back. "I only want you to be safe," he said. "I worry about you. I care about you."

  Marina pulled away, facing the wall. She said nothing.

  He got out of bed and pulled on his own jeans. He stared at the back of her head. "You are going to Phoenix, aren't you?" She said nothing, and he walked around the bed to where she stood. Hesitantly, he put a hand on her shoulder.

  She pulled away. "Fuck you."

  "Marina--"

  "I'm only doing this for the baby. If it wasn't for her, you'd never get me out of here unless you came with me."

  Gordon looked relieved. "You take first shower. I'll make us some coffee. Then you can drop me off and head back around to the highway."

  "I'll take a shower after I drop you off. I just want you to get the hell out of here right now."

  "Okay," he said. "Okay." He grabbed a shirt from the closet and took a pair of underwear from the dresser. "I'll take a quick shower, and then we'll go." He started out the door, then turned around to look at her unmoving form. "You are going to Phoenix, right?"

  She did not look at him. "Jus
t take your goddamn shower."

  He went into the bathroom.

  Father Andrews awoke to the sound of static from the blank hissing television. He had left the TV on, he remembered. And the lights. He felt, for a second, embarrassed, but that passed immediately. He remembered what they were to do today, and a black cloud settled over him. He did not feel right about this. No, that was not true. He did not feel good about this, though it felt right.

  He felt scared. That was it exactly. He was scared. Like Jim and Gordon, he had only a vague outline of Brother Elias' plan. But that outline was enough to terrify him.

  He got out of bed and turned off the television. He was half tempted to call the bishop and tell him what they were planning. It was not yet four, and the bishop had probably not yet awakened, but he knew his superior would want to know about this.

  And he knew the bishop would disapprove and would forbid him to go along with it.

  That was the real reason, wasn't it? That was why he wanted to tell the bishop. Not because he respected the other man's opinion, not because he was worried about the moral and ethical implications of what they were going to do, but because he was scared and wanted to find an easy way out of it. He wanted to remove the responsibility for his actions from his own shoulders and place it on someone else. He wanted to pass the buck. He wanted to fall back on the oldest, safest excuse in the book: "I can't. I'm not allowed to."

  Father Andrews bowed his head in embarrassment, though no one was there to see him. He looked up, toward the window .. . and Brother Elias was standing alone in the middle of a grassy meadow. His face was covered with a light stubble, and his dirty hat and clothes were typical of the type worn by many westerners of the mid-nineteenth century. At the meadow's periphery stood a small group of similarly dressed men, one of whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Jim Weldon. As the men looked on, Brother Elias raised his hands and cast his eyes toward the sky. The bushes surrounding the meadow began to rustle ominously, and the preacher reached down to grab a pitchfork.

  Father Andrews looked away from the window and closed his eyes, his head reeling from the strength of the vision. He sat down on the bed, waiting for the dizziness to go away. He had never experienced a psychic flash of such length and magnitude before. He had never been the recipient of such a clear and literal vision.

  He opened his eyes, and his gaze fell on the four Bibles he had promised the sheriff he would provide. The Bibles were bound in white and were unused, completely new.

  Trying to think of nothing, concentrating only on the tasks immediately at hand, Father Andrews dressed in nondescript street clothes and put the Bibles in a bag. Before he left the house, he bent down next to the bed, his hands folded before him on the mattress like a child. He began to pray.

  Pete King was sitting in front of the switchboard, waiting for the phone to ring, when Jim walked into the office. He jumped at the sound of the sheriff's boots on the tile and swiveled immediately around.

  "Thank God you're here!"

  Jim stared at the deputy, shocked by the deep circles under the young man's eyes, by the look of haggard frustration on the normally implacable face. Even Pete's hair, ordinarily combed to perfection, looked unkempt and in disarray. "What's up?" the sheriff asked.

  Pete shook his head and picked up a huge pile of scratch paper from the table in front of him. "I don't know where to begin," he said. "The members of the posse out looking for those kids on the Rim never came back. There was some type of huge fight at the Colt, I really don't know how many people were killed or exactly what happened. The whole place is in shambles. The Department of Public Safety's been calling in every hour or so with reports of giant accidents on the highway.

  Eight people from three different neighborhoods called in saying they heard screams and gunshots from their neighbors' houses--"

  "Okay, Pete. I get the picture."

  "I don't think you do. Judson hasn't called in since he went out to the Episcopal church. Tom said Carl was--"

  The sheriff stopped him. "I understand. Where's the preacher?"

  "He's still in the conference room."

  Jim nodded and was about to walk down the hall when he stopped. "You can go home, Pete," he said.

  "Who's taking over the shift?"

  "No one. We're closing down the office for a while."

  Pete shook his head. "That's okay. I'll stay."

  "You need some rest. You look like hell. Now get home. That's an order."

  "No." Pete met the sheriff's eyes for a moment then glanced away. "We have to have someone here. We can't just close down the office. What if something happened? What if someone was in real trouble? Who would they call?"

  "I'll call Elise and have her transfer all our calls to the DPS. I'll explain the situation to Nelson. He and his men can handle things for a day."

  "I'm sorry. I don't think so, sir."

  Jim sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "All right. Stay here then." He started down the hall.

  "Sheriff?"

  Jim turned around. "Yes?"

  "What's going on here?"

  "I'll be damned if I know."

  "Me and Judson were talking about it the other night, and we decided that there's a lot of weird stuff's been going on."

  Jim smiled tightly. "You got that right."

  "No, I mean really weird stuff. We never told you, but we found little footprints out at the farmer's house. Strange little footprints. And I've been seeing a lot of strange things lately. A lot of people have.

  I've heard 'emtalking."

  "I know."

  "The other night? When you thought you saw something in the back of the building? Judson said he saw it too, only he never told you."

  Jim looked at his deputy sympathetically. The young man had been through a hell of a lot lately. "It's okay," he said reassuringly.

  "We have it all under control. Hopefully, we'll have all this cleared up by the end of today. You just keep manning the phones there. I'll keep you apprised of all developments."

  "Sheriff? If you need any help, you let me know. I don't know exactly what it is you're doing, but whatever it is, I'd be willing to help out."

  "I know you would. And if I need your help, I'll tell you. Okay?"

  Pete nodded. "Okay."

  Jim smiled at the deputy. "Thanks, Pete. For everything." He paused, thinking. "You know Gordon Lewis?"

  "The Pepsi guy?"

  "Yeah. How about Father Andrews?"

  Pete shook his head.

  "Well, he's the priest that came to take over for Father Selway . If either of them come looking for me, send them to the back. I'll be in the conference room. And hold all calls." The deputy nodded acquiescence, and Jim walked down the hall toward the conference room.

  Behind him, he heard the telephone ring and Pete answer.

  Brother Elias was seated in a stiff-backed chair, wide awake, staring at the blank wall opposite him. He did not move as the sheriff entered the room. His eyes did not waver from their fixed point on the wall.

  Jim stared at the back of the preacher's head. Technically, Brother Elias was still in custody, and Jim wanted to retain some measure of control over the preacher. Jim knew that he would not be calling the shots today, but he did not feel entirely comfortable subordinating himself completely to Brother Elias. He walked farther into the room and cleared his throat loudly, unsure of what to say, hoping the preacher would speak first.

  Brother Elias remained silent.

  "I got everything we need," Jim said, trying to make the statement sound as casual as possible under the circumstances. "The hospital gave me several different blood types. They said they couldn't spare a gallon of a single type. They don't have enough on reserve, and in case of an emergency, blood would have to be flown in from Phoenix. I wasn't sure what type we needed, anyway."

  "It does not matter," Brother Elias said.

  Jim pulled out a chair across the table from the preacher and sat down.
/>   "Where are we going to start looking?" he asked. "How are we going to begin this thing?"

  Brother Elias smiled slightly, but his eyes were cold. Jim recalled the nightmare he had had during the night, and as he looked into Brother Elias' eyes, he realized that he was a little afraid of the preacher.

  "The others will be here soon," Brother Elias said. "We will talk then."

  Jim sat back in his chair, glancing around the conference room. Though he had spent a lot of time in here interrogating suspects, he had never noticed how dingy the walls looked, how much in need of a paint job the room was. He would have to look into that, see if he couldn't get some funds to repaint the entire office. Perhaps make it a more cheerful color, get rid of that ugly grayish green the county had forced on him the last time.

  If everything worked out today. If they survived.

  "Most people believe that God has a penis," Brother Elias said.

  Jim looked up sharply, shocked. "What?"

  "Most people believe that God created man in his own image. Man has a penis. Therefore, most people believe that God has a penis."

  Jim smiled. "It must be an awfully big one."

  Brother Elias did not smile.

  The sheriff coughed, embarrassed. "You don't believe God has a penis, I take it?"

  The preacher shook his head. "God does not have specialized organs as does man. He does not have a penis, he does not have a stomach, he does not have a spleen."

  Jim said nothing. He looked away from the preacher. He assumed that this bizarre conversation was Brother Elias' equivalent of small talk.

  He said nothing more, hoping to drop the subject.

  There was a knock on the outside of the conference room door.

  "Come in!" Jim called.

  Gordon stepped into the room, looking pale and a little scared. He was wearing a pair of ripped and faded jeans and an old checkered shirt. Over his shoulder was slung an expensive 35millimeter camera.

  He nodded silently to Brother Elias and to the sheriff.

  "Grab a seat," the sheriff said.

  Gordon sat down to wait. A few moments later, Father Andrews entered the room. The sheriff stood up and motioned for him to take a chair.