"Fuck off," Rourke said, rising to his feet.
Turi's grin slipped a bit. "I beg your pardon?"
"Trying to get what word out? Don't try to pin that bullshit on me. What I was trying to do was make a buck."
"But, I…."
"Your five minutes are up," Rourke said. He stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him. He went back into the studio.
4
VARGAS
"The Devil's Reign
Reign
Reign…
The bartender got all kinds. His video saloon on Selma Avenue in Hollywood drew skinny punks with body piercing, bizarre hair and thousand-yard stares; con men, pimps and gum-chewing young hookers. He got your bikers, faggots and undercover cops. All kinds. But there was something different about this dude. And it was something really fucking scary.
"Storm clouds gather
In a bleak, grey sky
And mushrooms blossom
In a demon's eye..."
Dipshit. Kept playing that same freaky rock video, like he'd gotten married to it and his wife had just split. Sexy stuff, but pretty sick, with black magic symbols popping out of a girl's tits and some asshole carving her up with a knife. T&A with a little blood thrown in.
The bartender wiped some watermarks off the bar with a smelly orange rag. The handsome stranger listened to the music and soaked up the video. It had been like this for nearly an hour, now. Two men in different universes. The guy was so bizarre, when someone else wandered in they'd sit through a rotation or two and then leave again rather than ask him to knock it off, play something else for a change.
Weird taste, the burly bartender decided. Loves end-of-the-world songs.
A really good-looking Latino dude, though; movie star looks. He seemed totally hung up on that Sour Candy thing. The bartender found it depressing, himself. Pissed him off whenever his kids played the sucker at home. Nothing but noise. Junk food for the ears.
The dark man sipped some whiskey, his piercing brown eyes glued to those flickering neon tubes above the jukebox. He began to smile. Wickedly. The bartender flinched, reached below the bar and fingered the sawed-off baseball bat he kept handy for emergencies.
"6-6-6 hundred years of shame
First the thunder and the lightnin'
Then the Devil's Reign..."
There she was again, that spooky broad with the big tits, Dee Jennings: The bartender had seen her on the other music videos his kids watched all the time. He had to admit she sang her ass off, and what an ass it was, too. The band was easier to watch than most, but Tip still hated this fucking tune. Now more than ever.
"The Devil's Reign
Reign
Reign..."
He wished somebody else would come in, another customer. The bartender was not a cowardly man. He'd whipped some drugged-up, drunken ass in his time. But this character was starting to get under his skin in a very big way.
Hey, Ricky Martin, he thought miserably, welcome to tinsel town. You're in L freaking A, man. Go take the Universal Tour. Check out how they make movies. Maybe spend some money on a blow-job down the street. Just beat feet the fuck out of here. Okay?
"If Mid-east meets West
There'll be nowhere to hide
When mushrooms blossom
In a demon's eye..."
A nasty grin spread across the stranger's sculptured features. It looked like the snarl of a barracuda. The bartender felt perspiration dripping, forming icy saucers under his hairy armpits. Get lost, goddamn you. What is this, Halloween?
"6-6-6 hundred years of pain
First the thunder and the lightnin'
Then the Devil's Reign..."
Almost over, thank God. The bartender quietly emptied the change from the cash drawer into one pocket of his stained apron. Decided: Sonofabitch asks for more change, he ain't gonna get it. Fingered the weapon and waited.
"The Devil's Reign
Devil's Reign
Devil's Reign..."
The handsome stranger stared at the credits as if memorizing the name of the producer, Peter Rourke, and the publishing and record companies who owned the master recording. He nodded to the empty air, but as if to someone sitting nearby. He went over to the pay phone and ripped through the telephone book. He looked something up and snickered. He searched his pockets for more coins, but came up empty.
Scraatch/hiss/click.
The video monitor shut down, and the sudden silence was deafening. For one long beat the graceful stranger sat by the telephone, perfectly still, then slowly and silently he slowly rose to his feet, like a puppet on strings. He seemed to glide across the floor without moving his feet. The room grew cold. The bartender had a strange flash from childhood. He was small and helpless again, hiding in the closet while Daddy played monster: Grrrr — Gonna getcha — Grrrrr.
The slim, dark man left in a hurry, as if he'd just remembered an important appointment. He left the door open and he didn't leave enough money to pay for his drinks.
The bartender didn't give a shit. He closed up shop and went home.
5
JASON
Less than six months after Karen's adoption, little Jason Smith was called into Sister Jane's austere office for a conversation with George and Betty Nelson. They had grim faces and red-rimmed eyes. A lump formed in his throat as he intuitively realized Karen was dead. Betty Nelson ah-hemmed and stuttered past her grief to form some words. "We'd like to take you home with us after all, Jason. To be our little boy. She asked us to."
"Betty…"
"But first, I'm afraid we have some bad news..."
"You killed her," Jason spat.
George Nelson, his puffy skin ashen, recoiled like a garden snake. The scar on the kid's forehead had turned beet purple all of a sudden. It hadn't looked that bad when he'd first walked into the room. "Now, you listen here."
Sister Jane, soothing. "That's not true, son. Karen was sick. It's nobody's fault. She had a very bad disease."
Jason, eyes brittle and flaring with suppressed rage, remained silent. His skull was throbbing. "Look at the boy," George Nelson mumbled to his wife. "The shrinks are right, he's fucking crazy."
"Did you touch her?" Jason snarled. "Did you?" Nelson cringed.
"She talked about you all the time." Mrs. Nelson was close to tears. "George and I, we thought maybe —"
"You killed Karen," the boy shrieked. "Well, now you'll die!"
Sister Jane slapped him. Jason flew backwards and reeled into a huge potted fern. He fell, head ringing, onto the glossy hardwood floor. His voice dropped to a low, throaty growl that terrified everyone in the room. He growled like an animal and got up on all fours. He sat up and barked like rabid dog. The adults were petrified. Suddenly Jason Smith laughed and got to his feet.
"You'll both die. That's a promise," he said, and then he tried to attack George Nelson. It took a number of people to subdue him.
His time in the hospital was a blur: Blood tests, MRI, EKG, tapping and thumping and head shrinkers galore. "Paranoid Schizophrenic," they said. "Amazingly young to be this severe, isn't he?" One called him a manic depressive instead, and prescribed a number of medications. Jason lost weeks to a pharmacological haze. Once released from care, he refused to take his meds and wound up at a state facility in a white canvas jacket. Finally he stabilized and returned to St. Augustine.
Sneaking out of bed. Listening at the door: "He seems to have what Otto Kernberg called a malignant narcissism," one fat shrink said. "He may be dangerous, even sociopathically violent someday. His grandiose personal visions are more appealing to him than the real world; his fanatasy relationships more signifigant than his connections to other humans." Fantasy? Real? What did those words mean? Karen was dead. If that is reality, then fuck it. And fuck them.
Jason voiced the challenge: "You'll both die. That's a promise."
Even now, almost twenty years later, Jason Smith still relished the pallid, fearful look Sister Jane had
given him when she heard about the accident. A head-on collision with a gasoline truck, only a few miles from Saint Augustine, had incinerated the Nelsons. No one had been able to reach them in the blazing wreckage. The shrinks said: "Obviously some kind of macabre cooincidence, but unfortunately it has now deepened the boy's delusions of granduer."
But word spread quickly, and as of that moment the local bullies left Jason alone. In fact everyone avoided him, even the staff. Cupped palms, glazed eyes, whispers of evil in the flesh.
In the chapel, late at night: Jason, overjoyed, slipped out of his pajamas and stood naked in the dark. He used a box of stolen matches to light two of the towering church candles. Flickering light, shadows dancing, ears ringing from far-away peals of laughter. Jason was not aware that he was humming and rocking…
"Thanks," the boy said softly. "Now I belong to you. Whatever you are. I guess that's okay, but when do I get to see you?"
You have, said a deep bass voice. It was in his mind. It said: You know me, Jason.
"I do?"
I am in the mirror, on your forehead. I am written on your skin, but you cannot yet ken my sign. I was also near the gate, by those cans of rotting garbage. You have seen me.
"I have?"
What are you willing to do, boy? Are you willing to die?
"I…I guess so."
What are you willing to do?
"Anything. Have I really seen you?"
Yes. And now you shall again.
Gooseflesh: The floor began to vibrate, the sky boomed thunder. It seemed impossible for everyone else at Saint Augustine to go right on sleeping, but they did. Am I really insane? The noise was earthshaking. Violent. But no one else heard. And Jason began to bleed, in an obscene parody of religious stigmata; first from the ears and then from his nose and mouth. Crimson droplets splattered the boy's trembling hands and bony knees.
He was very much afraid. What are you willing to do, boy? Are you willing to die? And he wanted to change his mind, but knew instinctively it was far too late for that…
"H-h-help me," Jason cried. His feeble whine was muffled by a low rumble as the building began to dance along its foundations. And yet he was still alone. No one had awakened. No one else had come to investigate.
Look at me!
Jason realized that his eyes were squeezed shut. He urinated and shook his head fiercely. He was too terrified.
Obey, the creature demanded.
No. Please.
Look at me, puppy. Looook at me!
He looked.
It was huge. Long, yellow canines drooled strange milky fluids. A giant tongue lolled and lapped at him, unrolling like a red carpet from its cavernous mouth. Jason saw thick grey fur, mangy and ripped away in places, revealing scarred patches of rotting flesh. The eyes were flaring coals above a long, black snout and the wide, wet nostrils bubbled with foul-smelling mucus.
The evil being barked. I am your saviour, it said.
"Dog," Jason whispered, shaking like a leaf. "Geez, but you're dead!"
I never die. And neither will you, if you serve me well. Do you understand, puppy?
The boy nodded. The truth was he didn't understand, but he wasn't about to risk saying no. How could Dog still be alive, much less so big? But the proof was right in front of him. Barking. How could so much be happening without anyone else hearing a sound? Yet it was, and he was witness to it.
What are you willing to do?
Jason turned away from those hypnotic eyes, his stomach churning with acid. He was now bleeding from every orifice. Amazingly, there was still no pain. Only the fear, terrible and paralyzing. He had made a terrible mistake. Dog reached for him. His massive paw seemed to stretch and get smaller at the same time; turn from a furry pipe into a hairy garden hose. Claws lightly raked the boy's face, smearing fresh blood across his hated disfigurement.
Jason got an erection.
You wear my mark, Dog said. The booming voice turned gentle. Jason's bleeding slowed, then stopped. But so did his heart. The red muscle ceased to beat in his chest and clenched like a fist. Panicked, the boy desperately tried to breathe; he pounded his own ribs as he dropped to his knees. He fell over, and the world began to slip away. What are you willing to do?
Die. He was willing to die. And he did.
Moments passed, perhaps hours.
Blessed silence, except for the giggling whispers…
A long, deep gasp of air. His heart kicked. Dog said: You are mine. Jason fought back and got to his knees. He stared at the vision. He was now certain that he had indeed gone completely insane, but he did not mind. The spectre began to dissolve and twist into smoke. Jason continued to stare, his mouth hanging open.
Leave this place, Dog's fading voice instructed him. Wander in the desert and seek me.
"The desert? Which desert?"
The North American deserts. Wander. Wait until I appear to you again. Have faith, for the time is coming. You will then repay me one-thousand-fold for my charity. Seek me and remember.
"How am I gonna find you?"
I will find you, Dog said. In the desert.
"Hey wait!" But he was gone. So was the past.
So in the present, in the dying town known as Two Trees, Nevada, Jason Smith thought grimly: He is gone, and here I am still searching in yet another place. He checked the hotel closet for anything he might have forgotten. No, his books were packed; so were his notes, extra shirts and jeans. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door to room sixty-six behind him.
Hi Polson waited at the front desk, his normally cherubic face lined and haggard. Hi had not been sleeping well. His crippled wife Louise was acting more like a shrew than a former evangelist. Hiram was glad this little stranger was checking out. The man seemed to sneeze trouble, and the Polsons kept catching the flu.
Sheriff Glen Bates suddenly filled the doorway. Hi Polson breathed a sigh of relief. Bates always made him feel safe. Hell, when the man walked you could hear his balls clank. He was a decorated veteran and a career peace officer. The town was lucky to have him, especially with so many folks packing to leave.
Including, Polson thought with a shake of his head, Doc Tyler. Now, ain't that a bitch?
"Mornin', Hiram," Bates said curtly. "Gladys Pierson called. She told me Doc left during the night. You know anything about that?"
Hiram shrugged. "We was drinkin' a bit, Glenn. He gave me and Jake his usual speech about finding a place where there were more people to kick the bucket. I guess this time he meant it."
"Why?"
"Beats the hell out of me."
Bates blew on his badge, polished it. He was so weathered he almost squeaked like a holster when he moved. The sheriff looked around. "Where's the little guy?"
The elevator doors slid open and Bates turned. Jason Smith stood quietly, suitcase in hand, staring at him. With that fading scar half in shadow he looked oriental, almost VC. Bates shook the thought away, his skin crawling. That's all behind you now. Discipline.
He nodded. "Jase."
"Sheriff," Jason said. "You've heard the news, I suppose. Would you like to see the note Doc left me?"
Bates accepted the folded piece of paper. It didn't say much. Tyler'd had himself a belly-full of working in a dying town. He declared Jason Smith qualified to take over as mortician, then closed with a cheerful goodbye to his drinking buddies Jake, Hiram and Spats.
Glenn returned the note to Smith. For some damned reason he couldn't look the little fart in the eye. He needed a drink.
"Guess you got yourself a job," Bates said. He scratched his head. "I reckon it's for the city, since Two Trees owns the mortuary. Pay won't be much. How you figure to eat?"
"Between jobs, you mean?" Smith was joking, of course. "Don't worry, I've got a little something put away."
The sheriff, uncomfortable as hell, turned to go. "You'll be moving into Doc's quarters, back of the parlor?"
"That's correct."
"Fine."
Bates step
ped out into the blistering sunlight, glad to be back on his rounds. Jason paid his bill and followed, lugging his battered brown suitcase. Polson wondered: What's he got in there that's so damned heavy?
"Hiram?"
Louise. Upstairs, rolling around in her wheelchair. Hi Polson sighed. "Yes, dear," he called. "What is it this time?"
"Why don't you wheel me into the kitchen, sweetie? I'll fix us a nice lunch. It's such a beautiful day."
Well, I'll be damned, Hiram thought. Sounds like she's in a pretty good mood, all of a sudden.
"I'll be up in a few minutes, honey."
He began dusting and straightening up the lobby. Within minutes, he found himself whistling. Louise was absolutely right. It was a beautiful day.
Out on the cracked sidewalk, Jason Smith literally bumped into young Beth Reiss. Her pert, pointed breasts nudged the front of his shirt. She excited him. Jason had seen Beth dozens of times, and she still reminded him of Karen. He badly wanted to fuck her while she lay dying.
"Excuse me," he said quietly.
Beth was off-balance and supporting her blind father, so Jason stole a few extra seconds before stepping out of the way. Meanwhile, Elmo Reiss adjusted his thick sunglasses. He tapped the cement with his cane.
"Who's there?" Elmo asked pleasantly. "Did I slip or something? You'd think I would have memorized every pothole and pebble in this whole blasted town by now."
Beth Reiss was thirteen years old, sharp as a tack. She shot Jason a dirty look. Just another creepo, trying to cop a feel. Yuck.
To her blind father, in a normal tone of voice: "Not your fault, Dad. It's Jason Smith, Doc Tyler's guy." A sneer. "He tripped."
As a child she was as tender as Karen, Jason thought. She saw no mark. Yet now that I barely have one, she scorns me. She is bleeding. She's nothing but a student whore. But Dog, she is beautiful.
Elmo's white cane rapped the pavement like a gavel. "Good day to you, Mr. Smith," Reiss said. "And how is Doc?"
Night of the Beast Page 4
