The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  Stuck to the points, still squirming, was a fetus.

  Gordon turned away, feeling nauseous. Even the sheriff flinched.

  Father Andrews stood with his eyes closed, leaning heavily on his pitchfork for support, his lips moving in silent prayer. Though all of them had known, deep down, why they had been carrying the pitchforks, though all of them had known what Brother Elias expected of them, none of them had visualized the experience, had realized just how repellent the actual act would be.

  What if Brother Elias was wrong? Gordon thought, sickened. What if he had just stabbed a real baby? But what real baby would be crawling through the dump, through the garbage, at six o'clock in the morning?

  The preacher turned toward them. "This is what we are up against," he said. He held his pitchfork forward for them to examine the fetus. The thing was still alive, still squirming, though it did not seem to be in agony. Indeed, it appeared to feel no pain at all. Instead, it struggled furiously to free itself, as though the long steel points protruding from its body were nothing more than a harmless restraining belt. Its face was hideously malformed and was twisted into a malevolent grimace of hate. Thick fur grew on the unnaturally short arms. It stared up at them and spat angrily. There were tiny pointed teeth within its too-red mouth.

  Brother Elias nodded toward the sheriff. "Get the blood," he said.

  Jim ran off toward the truck.

  Father Andrews moved forward gingerly. He was tempted to touch the fetus to make sure it was real. "What is it?" he asked. "I mean, is it alive? I thought these were infants who had died before birth.

  Shouldn't they be rotted? Or decomposed?"

  "I thought they'd be like ghosts," Gordon admitted. "Not real babies."

  "They have corporeal form," Brother Elias said. "But they are not real babies."

  The sheriff returned, lugging a box filled with the four quart jars of blood. He set the box down in front of the preacher.

  Brother Elias nodded to the sheriff. He lifted the pitchfork, the fetus still struggling on the points, and ran it hard into the ground.

  The hideous creature screamed, wiggling crazily. The preacher looked at Gordon. "Get the camera," he ordered.

  Gordon ran to his truck and returned a moment later with the camera. He snapped a picture of Brother Elias standing next to the impaled fetus.

  The preacher picked up two jars of blood, muttered a short incomprehensible prayer, and walked across the gravel to the smoldering woodpile. Chanting something in a strangely guttural foreign tongue, the words rising and falling in ritualistic cadences, he began walking in a circle around the pile, sprinkling the blood on the ground as he did so.

  "What's he saying?" Jim asked.

  Father Andrews shook his head. "It sounds like he's repeating some type of liturgy, but I'm not familiar with the language. It's not Latin, I know. And it doesn't sound either European or Oriental." He listened, cocking his head, and his face turned suddenly pale. "I ...

  I don't think it's human," he said.

  Brother Elias continued chanting until he had completed his circle around the smoldering woodpile. He knelt on the ground and dribbled the last of the blood on the dirt in a peculiar spiral pattern. He waved his hands over the ground, said something in the alien tongue and looked up into the sky. His fingers traced in the air a cross, a spiral, and an unnaturally angular geometric shape.

  The circle of blood erupted immediately into flame. Within the circle, the ashes of the woodpile began to burn again until the flames had become a full-fledged conflagration.

  The fetus on the pitchfork was now struggling harder and screaming wildly. From other parts of the landfill, other tiny bodies, other babies, other fetuses, pushed their way up through the wet slimy garbage, crawled out from between sheets of metal, and moved toward them. They moved slowly but surely, like large retarded slugs.

  "Jesus," Gordon breathed. "How many of them do you think there are?"

  "Hundreds," the sheriff said, and Gordon realized for the first time the enormity of what they were fighting against. He felt weaker, smaller, more impotent than he had ever felt in his life. What were they? A ragtag group of four stupid pitiful men fighting an evil so powerful, so organized, so all-encompassing, that it could animate these hundreds of bodies and will the bodies to do its bid ding. There was no way they could hope to battle anything this large. He stared at the small wiggling forms moving toward them across the dirt. This was all part of a long-range plan, a plan that was coming finally to fruition. Something that could do this, that could capture these babies over a period of years, perhaps decades, and save them, hoard them, until needed, could not be fought. Not by them.

  Brother Elias grasped the handle of the pitchfork and matter-offactly pulled both it and the impaled fetus from the ground. He shoved the end of the pitchfork into the fire, and the fetus disintegrated in a flash of blood red light. The preacher turned toward them. "Now you know what you must do," he said.

  Gordon stared at him. "It'll take us all day to get them all."

  Brother Elias' tight lips curled into a smile, and for the first time his eyes joined in. He looked almost happy. "We are not going to get them all," he said. "We are using them for bait." He walked toward another small fetus flopping along the dirt and speared it through with his pitchfork. He shoved the pitchfork into the fire, and the creature disappeared in a squealing flash of red. "Get to work," he said, and his voice was filled with a powerful authority. "We have no time to waste."

  Gordon found himself walking toward the large pile of scrap metal to his right. He had seen pink movement against the dull gray and silver of the discarded metal. He stopped in front of the pile. Before him, moving awkwardly toward him, was a hunchbacked creature much smaller than an ordinary baby, about the size of his fist. This, he realized, was one of the fetuses that had been aborted or miscarried early in the pregnancy, not one that had been stillborn. The creature had bent misshapen arms and a thick tuft of coarse black hair atop its pink elongated head. Gordon raised his pitchfork above the fetus, ready to bring it down, but he could not do it. He could not bring himself to stab the creature. Slowly, he lowered the pitchfork. He had never been able to kill. He did not hunt. Hell, he had a hard time getting rid of bugs; he usually took them outside and threw them into the bushes rather than kill them. He realized that these creatures were not exactly alive, but stabbing them felt the same inside as it would stabbing a normal baby.

  He looked around. The sheriff, grimacing, was carrying a squealing, squirming infant to the fire, which was still burning as strongly as ever. Even Father Andrews was gingerly holding a tiny creature he had impaled on his pitchfork. Brother Elias was vigorously and enthusiastically spearing infants left and right.

  Thoushalt not kill, Gordon thought.

  He felt a sharp flash of pain in his foot, and he looked down. The fetus's twisted little hands had clawed a hole through the canvas material of his tennis shoe and were digging into his flesh. He stepped backward, and the fetus crawled toward him. Slowly, grimacing distastefully, Gordon scooped up the fetus, using his pitchfork like a shovel. He held the pitchfork way out in front of him, balancing the still moving creature carefully on the prongs, but before he could reach the fire it fell to the ground. The fetus looked up at him and laughed nastily.

  He carefully picked it up again the same way, using the pitchfork as a shovel, but as he approached the fire the creature threw itself off the prongs onto the ground. He was about to pick it up yet again when another pitchfork speared the fetus through its midsection. Gordon turned to see Brother Elias standing next to him. The fetus gave a tremendous screech of rage and agony, way out of proportion to its small size, and the preacher shoved it into the fire where it disintegrated.

  "You're too slow," Brother Elias said.

  It was a criticism, but Gordon did not care. He could not bring himself to stab anything in cold blood, no matter what it was. He looked up. The sun had risen by this time, and the morning sky
was clear and cloudless. The trees on the side of the Rim stood out in green relief against the brown rock cliffs, and overhead a lone hawk circled lazily. Gordon started to walk toward the far side of the dump. He stumbled and looked down .. . and saw, protruding from beneath a leaking shopping bag filled with garbage, a hand. An adult hand.

  He pushed the bag aside with his foot, cleared away some rancid food and old newspapers, kicking them off, and found himself staring down at the lifeless form of Brad Nicholson.

  Brad.

  He was too shocked to even call out. There was a huge ugly gash in Brad's neck, and from the gash protruded a twisted bloody windpipe.

  The garbage beneath his neck was soaked red with blood. Brad's eyes were open, staring, and his mouth was contorted in a silent scream.

  There was something else in his face as well, some other expression, and though Gordon did not know quite what it was, he did not like it.

  He thought suddenly of Brad's son Bobby. Somebody would have to tell him that his dad had died. Had been killed. Had had his throat ripped out, bloody tubes yanked out of his body through a hole torn in his neck. The boy would grow up without a father. He might not even remember his father by the time he turned twenty. Not very well at least. And Connie. Someone would have to tell Connie. She and Brad may not have had the closest marriage in the world, but .. .

  By the time Father Andrews and the sheriff had run up next to him, Gordon realized he was screaming.

  "Jesus fuck," the sheriff breathed, staring down at Brad's body. Next to Brad's head, he saw a large brown rat, curled into a sleeping position. The animal awoke suddenly and stared into Jim's eyes. The sheriff watched in horror as the rat crawled into Brad's open mouth.

  Gordon gasped and turned away. Father Andrews prayed silently.

  Brother Elias came up behind them and glanced down at the body. Without speaking, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and touched it to the tattered remnants of Brad's shirt. The blood soaked clothing started to burn, and the air was filled with a sickeningly acrid stench.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Gordon said, shocked. He grabbed the preacher's arm. Brother Elias pulled away from his grip. "Let us hope we are not too late," he said.

  Gordon stared down at the body of his boss, his friend, and watched the flames lick at the ragged edges of the gash in Brad's neck. The drying blood smoked and turned black, and the skin began to char and peel off.

  A tongue of fire leaped from Brad's blazing shirt to his beard, and his beard began to burn. Flames entered his mouth, blackening his teeth.

  "We are too late," Brother Elias announced.

  Gordon looked up and saw, coming toward them across the gravel, two adult figures.

  One of them was Brad.

  "Get the Bibles!" Brother Elias ordered. He rushed over to where the coils of rope were lying on the ground. The sheriff ran immediately toward the parked pickup. Suddenly remembering the camera around his neck, Gordon began snapping pictures. He could see the approaching figures even more clearly through the slightly magnifying lens of the camera. He did not know where they had come from or why they had not been noticed sooner. The figure next to Brad was jet black, its features unidentifiable. Brad appeared to be limping and was carrying his.... But Brad's body was burning on the ground next to him.

  The sheriff hurried back, carrying the four white Bibles Father Andrews had brought along. "Give them to me!" Brother Elias demanded. Jim handed him the books. "Now pick up the end of that rope!" The preacher looked at Gordon and Father Andrews. "You two walk forward, holding your pitchforks in front of you! You're going to have to use them!"

  Brad and the other figure had stopped.

  "It's Father Selway ," Jim said softly, picking up his end of the rope.

  "The other one's Father Selway ."

  He was right, Gordon saw immediately. The black figure was Father Selway. He saw the burnt face smile, teeth a lighter black against the jet skin, and he felt a wave of cold terror wash over him. He looked at Father Andrews, standing next to him, and wondered what the priest was thinking.

  Father Andrews was trying not to think at all. Unwanted feelings, outside thoughts, alien impressions were pushing themselves into his mind. He saw the scene before him with unnatural clarity, his brain absorbing every detail, but it was inter cut with other scenes, other events. A group of settlers shoveling deformed infants onto a bonfire.

  Naked men and women dancing ritualistically before the unmoving form of Brother Elias in another guise. The blackened figure of anAnasazi woman standing amidst a sea of fetuses. The priest's head was pounding with the pain. He looked at Gordon, grasped his pitchfork tightly and forced himself to move forward, his face a mask of grim determination.

  Brother Elias walked forward next to Father Andrews, three Bibles clutched under his arm, one held in his outstretched left hand. In his other hand, he grasped the end of the rope he and the sheriff carried between them.

  Jim walked abreast of the preacher, keeping his eyes on the figures in front of him. He felt woefully unprepared, and he wished Brother Elias had told him what they planned to do. He felt extremely vulnerable walking toward these two .. . things .. . carrying nothing but a rope, and he cursed himself for leaving his gun in the pickup. He thought of the four high-powered rifles in the bed of Gordon's vehicle and wished that he had one of them with him. His jaw hurt from gritting his teeth, and his legs ached with nervous tension. This close, he could see the two figures quite clearly. And he did not like what he saw.

  Brad Nicholson's face was an inhuman blank, devoid of all thought and feeling. Only the eyes seemed alive. They burned with a piercing intensity not unlike that of Brother Elias'. The body appeared solid, real, though the stench of Brad's burning body singed his nostrils and the air was beginning to fill with the smoke of burning flesh. He could see the figure's skin darkening as Brad's real body burned, and he knew that when the body had been consumed completely by fire the form would be as black as the figure of Father Selway next to it.

  Father Selway stood smiling, unmoving. His skin was charred by fire, and his features bore an expression of triumphant evil. The sheriff was unable to look into the hellish face for more than a few seconds.

  Brother Elias stopped. They were only ten feet away from the unmoving figures. The other three men came to an abrupt halt. Around them, the wiggling and flopping infants were coalescing into a coherent group, coming from all parts of the dump toward them. Many of the tiny creatures were gurgling or mewing, making tiny sounds of pleasure.

  Brother Elias placed the four white Bibles on the ground in front of him, along a straight line.

  The figure of Father Selway raised a blackened hand into the air. "Do you really think your pagan rituals can accomplish anything?" The voice was grating, inhuman, filled with a disgusted contempt.

  Brother Elias said nothing but passed his hands over each of the Bibles, muttering something in his strange unearthly tongue.

  "Gordon," the figure said, turning toward him. "And how is your pretty little wife?" The black smile became wider, crueler. "And your daughter? Your daughter wants to be one of us, you know. She wants to claw her way out of your wife's thin little body and escape. Right now, your wife is coughing blood as her insides are being ripped apart.

  Blood is streaming from that pathetic little hole between her legs."

  Gordon felt his muscles clench against this verbal assault. Hot anger rushed to his face. His grip tightened on the pitchfork. He felt like shoving it straight through Father Selway's head.

  Brother Elias looked at him. "Satan is a liar and the father of lies," he said. "Ignore him. He is trying to provoke a reaction."

  Father Selway turned toward the sheriff. "You have strayed from the path, Jim. You have forsaken the path of righteousness. You must be punished." The figure glanced around the dump. Its voice lowered.

  "The boy is here, Jim. Don Wilson. His body is burning. He is going to burn in hell for all eternity."

>   The sheriff smiled coldly. "Fuck you."

  "And you, my successor." The figure turned to look at Father Andrews.

  "Is this what you were taught by the church? Is the bishop aware that you are taking part in these blasphemous rituals?" The creature laughed harshly. "You are a poor excuse for a priest."

  Father Andrews looked away, saying nothing.

  The figure of Father Selway lowered its head and, as if on cue, a look of joyous hatred passed suddenly over Brad's blank features. Behind the two, hundreds of infants appeared from nowhere. They were much larger and much more coordinated than the others. They moved forward in ranks, propelling themselves with precision.

  Brother Elias stood up calmly. He looked at Gordon and Father Andrews, pointing toward the still-darkening figure of Brad. "He is weak," the preacher said. "Stab him when he comes forward and hold him down, pin him to the ground. The sheriff and I will take care of the other one."

  He moved next to Jim, took a deep breath and lowered his head in a position of prayer. "We ask thee for protection, O Lord. We seek only to do your bidding. Do not let us walk alone. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen."

  Jim glanced over at the figure of Father Selway , still smiling, still unmoving, as hundreds of tiny infants and fetuses massed together behind it.

  "Hold tight to the rope," Brother Elias said. "We are going to tie him up."

  The figure of Father Selway said something harsh, guttural, and incoherent. A command. Brad rushed forward. The fetuses and infants swarmed suddenly over the dump in a liquid wave.

  Gordon held tightly to his pitchfork as Brad ran toward him, and he pushed the weapon deep into the running figure's dark flesh. Brad let out a cry of rage and frustration, but there was no pain in the sound.

  The metal spikes sank easily and deeply into the soft body, coming out the other side. Gordon's weapon went through the stomach and Father Andrews' hit higher in the chest. Both used their weight to force the struggling body to the ground. Brad's arms were flailing wildly, trying to grab the handles of the pitchforks and pull them out, but it was no use. They had the creature pinned.