by Edward Lee
Phil shook his head. “How do you know this, Gut?”
“I know it on account of ’cos Natter, see, he come in here and told me.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, Gut,” Phil caught him up. “You’re telling me that Cody Natter came into this jail one night and told you this stuff about sacrifices and demons?”
“Er, well, it weren’t like he came in here phys-ick-erty.” Gut, then, pointed to his temple. “He come inta my head, see? Most ever night. Sometimes while’s I’se sleepin’ and sometimes not. And he whispers ta me and shows me things, in my head. He shows me this demon, and he shows me hade’s place. Says he’s got hisself a special place fer me down there once he gits me.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Phil thought in disgust. There goes my eyewitness right out the window. I can see him sitting up on the stand testifying and then telling the judge that Natter comes into his head at night and shows him demons. Phil despondently put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “You know, Gut, that shit you do really fucks up a person’s brain.”
“What shit ya talkin’ ’bout?”
“Dust, Gut. Flake. PCP. It’s fucking horse tranquilizer processed through paint thinner and industrial solvents. It causes irreversible brain receptor damage.”
“Aw, but ya got it wrong. I ain’t smoked flake but maybe twice in my life, and that were years ago. Didn’t like it, so’s I never did it again.”
Yeah, right, and the Pope shits in the woods.
“Now I ain’t sayin’ we weren’t movin’ it. What me an’ Scott-Boy did, see, was we used ta wait behind bars at night and jack guys out fer their green. Scott-Boy, he had hisself a pair of brass knucks that’d do a zinger on the biggest of fellas. And we went on doin’ that some, when the pickin’ was ripe, but, see, we could make lots more scratch faster by running drops fer Sullivan and Eagle. Folks buy the shit right up, any town you can name from here ta Lockwood. Big money ta be made. ‘A’course, I knows now all that shit we pulled, either ruckin’ or working fer Sullivan, was bad. And I also know that’s why Natter wants ta git me, to send me ta hade’s place where I’ll have ta pay fer my sins. See, what he plans to do is snatch me when I get outta here, and then he’ll take me to the demon.”
Phil groaned. Why does this shit always happen to me? Why do I always get the live ones? So far, nothing jibed. Every time he got close, his leads turned to garbage. It was almost like this case had put a curse on him.
“It’s part of their religion,” Gut said.
Phil’s thoughts stalled a moment. Religion. What had Sullivan told him at the county lockup?
Something about the Creekers’ religion…
But that was ridiculous. Mullins was right: Gut was obviously suffering from a PCP-related psychosis. Crazier than a possum in a shithole, you ain’t kidding, Chief. Nothing Gut said could be deemed reliable. He wasn’t fit to testify, and never would be.
“Thanks for your time, Gut,” Phil got up and said. “You sure you don’t want me to let you out of there?”
Gut flinched at a sudden pang of fright; his belly jiggled. “No, man, please. I ain’t safe nowhere’s else. Please don’t make me leave.”
“All right, Gut. You want to stay in there a few more days and get your head together, that’s fine.”
“Ain’t nothin’wrong with my head. I know it all sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
“Sure, Gut. Later.”
“And you best be careful, man. Don’t go messin’ with Natter and them Creekers, or else they’ll be doin’ the same job on you they did ta Scott-Boy. They’se be sacker-ficin’ you to that there demon.”
“I appreciate your concern, Gut, and you can be certain I’ll keep it in mind.” Jesus, just what I need, another whack, Phil thought. Aren’t there enough eightballs in the world?
Phil began to walk out, but before he made it to the hall, a single word sounded behind him:
“Skeet-inner.”
He stopped, stood a moment. The word nailed him in place. He walked back to Gut’s cell.
“What does that word mean?” he asked very slowly.
“That’s what they calls the demon,” Gut replied. “I thinks it’s sort of a nickname, ’cos it’s got another name, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Ona,” Gut said.
— | — | —
Twenty-Eight
Skeet-inner, Phil thought. Ona.
He drove the Malibu down the Route, the two words hanging like vapor in his mind. They wouldn’t go away.
A demon.
Phil didn’t believe in demons, but he definitely believed there were lots of people who did. The country was full of whacked-out cults that worshipped the devil—you read about them in the papers every day. And a lot of these cults incorporated drug-use in their rituals, and also sold drugs to finance their activities.
Before he’d left the station’s jailhouse, he’d asked Gut about the other words he’d heard. Mannona. Onamahn. Prey-bee. Where Sullivan had dismissed them as “Creeker talk,” Gut had indeed verified them as still more designations regarding the Creekers’ religion…
It could all be meaningless, but then again, everything Phil found out about Natter and his Creekers would lend a better understanding of them. And the more he understood them, the closer he could get.
Except when all my leads are either crazy, clamming up, or dead, he reminded himself. Starting from scratch would be a pain in the ass, but there was no other alternative. He’d have to go back to Sallee’s and try to cultivate more low-life, get back into the scene. Still too early, though, he realized when he looked at his watch. The denizens didn’t generally start coming in till midnight or so.
To kill time, he went back to his room and read more in the books he’d gotten from the library. One text did indeed mention a frequency among inbred communities to participate in non-Judeo-Christian systems of worship. This, of course, stood to reason: in their sheer isolation, such communities and settlements had no exposure to more popular religious beliefs. They existed and developed within their own spheres of influence; therefore, it made sense that their theological beliefs would develop on their own, too. Most of these religions, though, were nature-oriented, or revolved around self-made superstitions. Many actually were rooted in guilt-syndromes; in other words, the inbreds believed that the “gods,” through birth deformities, were punishing them for their sins. And those born non-defected were frequently given higher social status; sometimes they were even worshipped themselves as semi-gods, as proof of forgiveness. The book, however, made no mention specifically of demonological beliefs.
In time, Phil’s curiosities took him back to the more technical text, the one with photoplates. Again, his most immediate observation came when comparing the book’s most extreme examples of inbred defectivity to the most extreme examples he had seen himself among Natter’s Creekers. The enlarged heads (hydrocephalus), lengthened bone structures (endo-acromegaly), and cleft skulls (cranial bivalvism or “split-head syndrome”) were all well-known traits of congenital inbred birth defects, all caused by hypersecretions of pituitary growth hormones. Also common were crimson irises, additional or missing fingers and toes, even extra limbs (adulterated biamous appendagalus). But it was the extent of these extremes that struck Phil right off.
The textbook depictions were minor in comparison. He understood that the more actively inbred the community, the more grievous the defects. And this could only mean that Natter’s Creekers had been inbreeding for a very long time.
Next the text delved deeper into causal aspects of inbreeding. Initially, parental or sibling reproduction presented only one chance in about nine of producing a defected offspring. But it was exponential. After generations of incestuous reproduction, a community’s gene pool became so corrupted that normal births were rare. The text gave examples of several such communities which hadn’t known a normal birth in decades, yet—quite futilely—these same communities would inbreed even more actively on the
false assumption that the more births they achieved, the greater the chances of a rare normal birth.
God, this stuff’s dense, he thought, reading on in the lamplight. Some of the words hurt his eyes just to look at.
Here was an oddity: homeoaxial transfective deflection—What a mouthful, Phil thought—a congenital syndrome where a person displayed horrendous defects while remaining possessed of absolutely normal reproductive genes. And here was another oddity, the kicker:
“Hierarchal savantism.” Phil had skimmed this description the other day, but now he read it carefully. One more commonality among inbreds. By some chromosomal fluke (which was termed homotopic genetic inversionism), some were born with grievous physical defects but normal if not brilliant minds, and these persons often became the community’s leaders…
Natter, Phil thought.
At midnight, he embarked for Sallee’s.
The notion of religion continued to peck at him. Were the Creekers really an inbred cult that worshipped a demon? And were they actually sacrificing people in some sense of appeasement, or in some plea for forgiveness? And if so:
Was Natter the “priest” of the “sect”?
Phil shivered. The entire idea shed new light on Natter’s possible motivations. Maybe he’s more than just a pimp and a drug lord, Phil considered. Maybe he’s also some crackpot cult governor urging his followers to commit murder…
He parked in the back of Sallee’s; the lot, as usual, was jammed. Concussive music hit him in the face the second he walked through the door. “Highway to Hell,” the speakers thundered. Cigarette smoke burned his eyes; the strobe lights flashed. Up on stage an ungainly blonde scarred by tattoos was demonstrating the dexterity of her pectorals, flexing them to the beat, which made her breasts jump up and down as if jerked by unseen strings. Then she flung herself to the top of the brass stage-pole and spiraled all the way down, a human corkscrew.
Don’t worry, honey, you’ll make the Olympics next time. Phil pulled up a stool, and in less than a second a draft was placed before him. “Ya never get here early enough,” the keep complained.
“Don’t tell me, I missed Sting whipping Ric Flair’s ass.”
“Ain’t no way in hell the Stinger’d whup the Nature Boy. To be the man—”
“I know…you gotta beat the man.”
“You’re catchin’ on,” the keep smiled. “But you did miss Ravishing Rick Rude winning back his U.S. title from that putz Ricky the Dragon Steamboat.”
“Them’s the breaks. Seen Paul or Eagle?” he asked to gauge a reaction.
“Nope, not tonight,” the keep replied immediately. He obviously knew nothing. “Can I interest you in a hot dog?”
“Maybe later.” Phil shook his head to himself, then turned when the crowd’s applause grew riotous. The tattooed blonde had stepped down, and in her place stepped Vicki.
More bad thoughts. He hadn’t seen her since being “caught” by Susan, which probably hadn’t been the most comfortable situation for Vicki. Yeah, he reflected sourly. I’ll bet that really made her day.
The jukebox chunked on to the next song, and Vicki commenced with her set, flawlessly as ever. Her red hair glittered in the fracturing light; her high, large breasts swayed with her movements. Even now, seeing Vicki close to naked before a roomful of uncouth rednecks didn’t exactly leave him overjoyed. And worse was the way she discreetly shot quick glances at him during her act. Yeah, she still loves me, he could plainly see. I better get out of here. He slapped cash on the bar and made for the back room.
Druck, ever the Creeker sentinel, stood by the door with his arms crossed, a meld of colors from the strobe roving his enlarged head.
“Hey, Druck,” Phil greeted.
“Hey-uh.”
“Can I get in back tonight?”
“Shore,” Druck said.
“Kinda muggy tonight, ain’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Seen Eagle or Paul?”
“Naw.”
A real motormouth, yes, sir. Druck pushed the door open with his two left thumbs, and Phil walked through.
The back didn’t seem as crowded tonight, not that he could see a whole lot in the darkness. The weird music churned in the air while light churned as well up on stage. “He-ah, come,” a soft voice whispered, then a hand queerly took hold of his arm. Phil couldn’t help but note that the single hand possessed only one finger, though the finger itself, by means of six or eight additional joints, was nearly a foot long; it coiled about his arm. A bosomed Creeker waitress with a grossly recessed forehead led him to a table. She wended through the semi-circle aisle with the aid of a tiny flashlight. But when Phil sat down and ordered a beer, he noticed that she’d been holding the flashlight with a thin, stunted “accessory” arm, small as a baby’s, sprouting from her armpit.
Jeeeeze…
These sights, along with what he’d read not an hour ago, depressed him further. He glanced around to survey the audience now that his vision had acclimated. Shit, hardly anyone here. Then he glanced up to the stage…
The dancer appeared normal. Beautiful. Sleek-white in nothing but a frilled, lemon-yellow g-string. Glossy straight hair, black as pure obsidian, shimmered past her shoulders and covered her face like a smooth, silk veil. Hour-glass figure and lustrous white skin. Her legs were perfect, and her breasts—Perfect, Phil recognized. High and full, centered by pink, undefected nipples. But the back room, he knew now, existed to accommodate those whose tastes were significantly bent: kinks and slobs who got off on the misfortunes of the handicapped and the defected. Phil noticed no extra fingers or toes, no warped head, crimped spine, multiple navels, or “accessory” limbs. What’s she even doing here? he wondered. There’s not a thing wrong with her. When the stagelights upped a little, Phil was able to see the number on her garter: 6.
And that gave him an idea.
He finished his beer, paid up, tipped the waitress, and went back out to the hall. Druck was still minding the door.
“Hey, Druck,” he said. “I think I’d like to spend a little time with that last gal, number six.”
Druck’s swollen head nodded. “Uh-yeah. Purdy one, ain’t she?”
“Sure is. So what’s the deal?”
“Fifty fer a half.”
Fifty bucks for a half hour must be what he means, Phil realized. “Square,” he said. Then he discreetly slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Druck’s twin-thumbed hand.
“Just ya go on out an’wait by the side door now,” Druck said. “Name’s Honey, an’ she’ll do ya right. Give her a few ta get ready.”
“Okay, man. Thanks.”
Yeah, Mullins would love this, his star undercover cop soliciting a prostitute at a stripjoint, Phil joked to himself as he exited the club. But, no, he had no intention of soliciting sex from the girl. What he planned instead was simply a little discreet talk. Drop a few hooks, slip in a few questions, see what I can get out of her
And perhaps she could even tell him what some of those strange words meant.
Skeet-inner. Mannona, he reflected. Prey-bee. Onnamann.
Of course, it might be all for nothing; most of the Creekers had serious speech impediments and could barely talk coherently, and some couldn’t talk at all. But he wasn’t making any headway in the club, so this seemed the next logical step. He had nothing to lose—except fifty bucks, he reminded himself
As instructed, he waited by the ill-lit side door. The big road sign flashed, painting one side of his face in garish reds and yellows. The moon peeked at him from the treeline on the other side of the road, and the night’s humidity seemed to suck the sweat out of his pores.
Then—
Phil turned.
The side door clicked open, then clicked shut. The girl stood before him in flashing silhouette.
She wore a red satin robe now. She stood there a moment. Her face remained occluded by the shiny black hair; she seemed to be looking at him through sliverlike black gaps.
“Hi,” Ph
il said.
She opened the satin robe, fully nude beneath it.
“Got you’s yer car here?” she asked in a strained peep of a voice.
“Uh, yeah,” Phil faltered in reply.
“Well’s then, come on,” she said.
««—»»
No one believes me, Gut lamented. They all think I’m done plumb crazy.
The darkness seemed almost gelatinous; only a slant of light coursed in from the bare bulb on the outer room’s ceiling. Sometimes Gut could look into that darkness and gander the same things he saw in his mind every night. Awful things…
But at least here, in the jail, he was safe.
It was hard to keep track of time; it was hard to keep track of anything. But Gut would just as soon sit here and rot than leave ’cos he knew full well once he did that he was finished.
They’d do me just like they did Scott-Boy.
He never really slept now—he just dozed off every now and then and was jerked awake each and every time. By Natter’s evil whispers, and by the hideous things he showed him in his head. Natter’s wrecked face always seemed to hover just outside the bars, all squashed like something run over in the road, them dry puffy lips barely moving, them big blood-red eyes staring at him. Sometimes Natter’d scratch on the wall, and other times Gut thought he heard him tapping on the glass of the jailhouse’s only window with those long kinky fingers of his. Gut, Gut, the whisper creaked like old wood. Look…
And Gut looked. He had no choice really. And Natter would say fancified things too, while Gut was looking, like, Such blessings, Gut! Such epiphanies! and Behold my promised dominion, little one. Upon some future time, it will be your dominion, too… And that’s when Gut was forced to look into that place.
It was a horrible place. Smoking canyons of rock, miles deep. There was never a sun, just a big warped black moon shining its black light over blacker hills and lakes-yes, lakes, like giant steaming pools of tar, and Gut could see things in those lakes. He could see people. And then he saw other things that weren’t people at all, but monsters. The monsters would pull people out of the lake and put a rucking on them like ta make the stuff he and Scott-Boy did look like two kids playing paddycakes. These monsters would bust open folks’ heads like they was melons under Scott-Boy’s big-ass hickory pick handle, and they’d yank off arms and legs likes they was wings on flies. They’d slice folks’ bellies open and haul out their kidneys and livers and stuff and play catch with ’em, and they’d pulls people’s faces off like they was rubber masks only they wasn’t masks at all, they was the folks’ real faces. One time he’d seen one yank a fella’s spine right out his asshole. They’d chop folks up into big piles of chunks and then walk around in the piles. Once he saw one suck some fella’s insides right out his mouth lickety-split and swallered it all right down neat. And as for havin’ themselves a nut—well, these ugly monster dudes got ta layin’ dick on gals—and fellas, too—in a bigtime way. They’d stick their peters inta any hole they seed fit. Shit, one of ’em twisted a fella’s head clean off and fucked his throat, and another time Gut saw one bite a hole in a gal’s belly and get his rod off in the hole, and a whole lotta super gross shit like that…
