Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  "He left last night," Jason explained. "I shall be taking his place." He felt his eyes begin to drift towards Beth Reiss and her lush breasts, then tore them away as if Elmo could see. Perhaps, in a way, he did. The social climate grew decidedly chilly.

  Mr. Reiss snorted. "Well, that crotchety old bastard always said he'd up and do it. Congratulations, I guess."

  "Thank you."

  As Jason turned to leave, Beth startled him by waving and calling out. "Bobby, we're over here!"

  Robert Reiss. The sight of the young seminary student struck Jason like a physical blow. Something deep inside him snarled and tried to back away. He generally found it intolerable to be within more than a few feet of the man.

  "Hey, Dad. Beth."

  Robert began jogging through the dust. Jason's forehead darkened. His birthmark started to throb. He ducked his shoulder and tried to leave, but Robert arrived just in time to grab his free hand.

  "Hey, Jason," Robert said. The warm simplicity dancing in his clear blue eyes infuriated the smaller man. "What's happening? How you doin'?"

  "Fine," Jason mumbled. His fingers were twitching. "I take it you are on leave from school?"

  "Nearly finished," Robert said proudly.

  The handsome young minister was always graceful, and his face betrayed none of his revulsion. Poor twisted little man, Robert thought. His scar seems to be getting worse again. The Lord certainly gave him a cross to bear. Robert tried to pull his hand back, satisfied he'd delivered a friendly Christian greeting. He couldn't break contact.

  For one elongated second, it felt as if he and Jason Smith had each palmed magnets of opposing polarity. Something crackled in the dry desert air and passed between them. To Robert, the sensation was like sticking his fingers into a tall anthill; hundreds of tiny stings rolled up and down his flesh in painful waves. He grimaced.

  Jason pulled away, his palm now as red as that hideous birthmark. He managed to nod politely, then excused himself and darted off towards the mortuary.

  "Odd fellow," Elmo Reiss said. He was perceptive, even in his world of darkness. "Can't say I care for him."

  Robert just stared after Jason, shaking his numb hand. What a strange experience. Finally, he shrugged the uncomfortable tension from his memory and shared a hug with his sister. "Let's get something to eat."

  Jason's mind was racing. It was happening. There was a White force on the way. A storm was brewing; perhaps the final battle was upon them at last. He could sense it, smell it on the wind: the stench of fallen soldiers, decaying in putrid heaps. What are you willing to do? But in order to find his proper place in the scheme of things, he had to summon Dog. He would need advice and counsel. But would Dog come again, at long last?

  What was he doing wrong? He who had been abandoned, yet had kept the faith; taken great risks, studied and given his all?

  Why hast thou forsaken me?

  Safe behind the wooden doors of the funeral parlor, Jason Smith managed to slow his pounding heart and concentrate. He had done what was asked, died and been resurrected. He knew he was close, look what he'd already accomplished.

  So easy — everyone had believed him. Even the killing had been simple; pulling slowly on the strand of barbed wire while the old man thrashed and kicked and whimpered. Doc had been too drunk to resist. At the last, his bowels had emptied. Jason had mopped the floor and then dragged the corpse, with its ghastly frozen expression, into the embalming room. He had use for it.

  He had read the books carefully, one final time. He had drawn the pentagram last night, immediately after the murder. Now Doc Tyler lay sprawled across it as an offering. His flesh had already begun to decompose in the sweltering desert heat. Some dim part of Jason's brain wondered: Did I need to do any of this? Maybe I'm just fucking psychotic and this is all in my mind. What difference does it make, either way?

  Jason unpacked his books. No, in truth, it did not matter what was true or false, not anymore. He would worship regardless. He would believe. Dog would listen in, come to him. Perhaps he would not. It had been so very long.

  Jason knelt, naked, in the center of the inverted Pentagram. He faced the Seal of Belial, drawn backwards in Doc Tyler's blood upon the dusty wooden floor.

  "Besticitium consolatio veni ad me," he cried. "Adonay, appear instanter! Eloim, Ariel, Aqua, Tagila, Varios!"

  Had the ground shook, or only his legs?

  Again:"Besticitium consolatio veni ad me!"

  The foul smell of Doc Tyler's body seemed to grow worse, although it could have been Jason's imagination. I am mad, I am truly mad. Did the room now reek of sulfur, as well as moldering meat?

  Nothing happened. Dog had refused him yet again.

  Jason continued, but sensed he had already failed. Only the usual phenomenon manifested; sudden blasts of what felt like steaming vapor, tiny insects that grouped in Doc's blood. Arcane signs, but not the puppy's master. Not the Beloved one, The Beast.

  Am I mistaken to believe?

  Jason's birthmark flared and burst into flame. He screamed as it bored into his forehead like a cattle brand. The pain seemed very, very real.

  I am your savior. Jason, seek me. The time is nearly right.

  The pain vanished. Jason knew he had come closer than ever before. The answer was near. He would call on Great Abaddon, leader of the Angels of The Bottomless Pit, for protection. He blew out the sacred candles; rose up, his knees weak. Perhaps Dog would never return. Perhaps, which was even more frightening a prospect, he had never existed.

  But no, Dog was real and he was coming soon. Jason could feel it in his bones.

  Hold fast to your faith. There is much more to do here.

  Jason dressed himself with weakened fingers. Should he leave Doc's meat where it lay, to bless the room for his next attempt? No, it was useless, now. He would feed it to the animals.

  I am so weary, so empty from waiting. What must I do, Master? Tell me. And then it came to him, all in a rush. Jason Smith grinned in the gloom. Of course. More offerings…

  6

  ROURKE

  The new Sour Candy album was almost finished. Peter Rourke had spent all of the previous night and morning doing what he hated most: sequencing the songs, mastering and then suffering through gut-wrenching second-thoughts about each of his decisions. Back home, he opened his laptop, checked his email and found it backed up to Cleveland.

  "Fuck this," he sighed. He deleted everything and then crashed like a 747 around three in the afternoon. It was a dreamless, exhausted sleep. When the alarm went off just after sunset, he almost cried. It's nine PM, Rourke, let's get up and at 'em. Jesus H. Christ, what a way to make a living.

  I exist in the dark, he thought suddenly; work in it, wake up to it. I don't see the daylight anymore, never feel the heat of the sun on my skin. I miss the desert, the mountains. I need to go home. None of this is what I thought it would be when I ran away from Two Trees. Careful what you pray for, as someone once said. You just might get it.

  Oh, bullshit, Uncle Jeremy said in his mind. It's your own damn fault. You've become what you always hated.

  Peter fumbled his way to the bathroom without turning on the lights. He stepped under the lukewarm shower. Everything hurt, each muscle and tendon and nerve ending chanted its own litany of complaint.

  He felt his body with shaky fingers. Excess fat was beginning to appear. His slightly arthritic ribs were still sensitive from old football injuries, and one badly damaged knee stiffened up on him every week or so. He'd been warned an ulcer was fast approaching. He was probably an addict. I'm only thirty-two years old, he thought suddenly. Why am I doing this? Because I love music, writing songs? This isn't music, it's suicide.

  Hey, I didn't invent the business, I just work in it. Give a guy a break.

  Rourke jerked the shower handle all the way to the right. He screeched as an assault of icy needles riddled his flesh. Oh, shit, so cold. He hopped from one foot to the other, forcing himself to endure the torment. A few moments l
ater, he looked in the mirror with the lights on. Cruel pockets had begun to sag and darken under his blood-shot eyes.

  Suicide. Can't hack this much longer. Screw the money.

  Peter opened the medicine cabinet with trembling hands, looking for a little chemical assistance. He had to get himself up for one last vocal session. And then there's Dee, he thought as he searched around behind the bottles of aftershave for some drugs. That's got to stop, too.

  No more rainbow?

  His heart kicked. Rourke swallowed and tried to calm himself. There had to be some of the shit hidden somewhere around the apartment. He always kept a small stash for emergencies, and tonight's session definitely qualified. He had two battles to win: First track the final tune with Dee, and then find a nice way to cool things down between them, before it was too late.

  He glanced around his expensive condo, suddenly feeling foolish and artificial. Fake plants, bland furniture, pastel colors. Plastic, Peter thought. I live in the dark and the fucking world's made of plastic.

  The phone rang. Rourke rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to the nightstand. He noticed the little folded packet of waxed paper lying next to the clock radio. Of course. He'd saved half a gram of Rainbow from the day before, just in case. Praise the Lord. He answered the phone with one hand and groped for a shortened straw with the other. Which drawer, damn it?

  "Yeah?"

  "This is your wake-up call," Friedheim said. "Would you like me to send up our continental breakfast?"

  "Huh?"

  "It's two gay Frenchmen who are very well read."

  "Not funny, Bryan."

  "That's not meant to be funny. It's what I was dreaming about just a minute ago."

  "Hope you had fun. What time is it?"

  Bryan waited a beat. "Nine-fifteen in the evening, Mr. Producer. And we're almost finished."

  "From your mouth to God's ears."

  "See you there what, around eleven?"

  "Yeah," Rourke said. "That will give Dee and I some extra time to run over the song."

  Transparent as a sandwich bag. Still, Friedheim was tactful. "Okay, boss. I'll meet you at the front."

  Rourke hung up. He found a short straw and inhaled two scoops, then two more. When the phone rang again, he was giving serious thought to the idea of doing the entire stash.

  "Maker of stars. Whatcha want, Tinkerbell?"

  "Rourke," Gordie Easton said, "shut up and listen." His voice sounded slurred. Peter could hear nightclub noises in the background: shrill feminine laughter, the pounding pulse of a live band. Here it comes, he thought. I'm fired.

  "All right, Gordie. You have my full attention."

  "And I've got your contract," Easton said. "You wanna go cut a garage band out of Omaha?"

  Rourke winced. "You're drunk, Gordie."

  "And you're fucked up on the latest thing. I figure that makes us even."

  "Fair enough. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"

  Gordie lowered his voice. Peter was shocked at the real agony hiding behind the words: "Call it off. I want you to stop seeing Dee."

  "Gordie, I…"

  "You think I don't know, Rourke? Shit, I've always known. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Look, she's young and pretty, so I let her have a fling now and then. Why? Because I'm not young, and I've never been pretty. But I love her, so it's over between you. You got that, Pete? Am I getting through?"

  "I care about her too, Gordie."

  "Well, I fucking care more," Easton said. He's bluffing, Rourke realized. My God, he's almost begging. "You hear me? I care more."

  Maybe you do.

  Rourke sighed. "For what it's worth," he said, "you don't have to try and blackmail me. I can't handle her anymore. You're safe, Gordie. She'll never choose a songwriter over the head of a label. Dee's too smart for that. To tell you the truth, I don't think she loves either one of us."

  "I know that too," Gordie Easton said. Then his voice broke, and so did a bit of Peter's heart. "But I need her. Do we understand each other?"

  "We do," Rourke said.

  "Do I have your word?" "You do.

  "End of subject."

  "Goodnight, Gordie."

  Dial tone.

  Peter Rourke sat on the edge of the bed for a while and thought about his life. It did not make him feel any happier. He flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet and went out to brew some strong, hairy coffee in his plastic L.A. kitchen.

  At a quarter to ten, Rourke was on the Hollywood Freeway approaching the Vine Street exit. He was thinking about going home. Not back to his furnished apartment, but to Nevada; to Two Trees. He hated the city more with each passing hour. An empty throb of mourning made his leased black Mercedes feel like a hearse.

  Peter wanted to stop somewhere, trade the huge hog in on a jeep Ranger and just head North and East. Maybe drive straight through until there were no more tall, skeletal buildings cocooned in smog; only awesome blue mountains and open stretches of yellow-brown sand. He recalled the tangy smell of fresh sage, and the fantasy brought tears to his eyes.

  The parking garage was deserted, but packed with expensive cars left by some patrons of the musical theater located just around the corner. Concrete shimmered with reflected neon. Peter shut off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the darkness.

  Which chuckled and fell on him.

  Shadowy corners cracked gnarled knuckles and whispered (..am I skulling?…) He walked faster, ordering his imagination to shut down. It had to be that damned rainbow again, bringing on little flashes of paranoia. The talent wasn't coming back. It couldn't be coming back. But it's happening way too often now to be an accident, he thought. That can't be. Oh sweet Jesus, is it all happening again? No, that's ridiculous. It's the dope, that's all. You just have to try and kick for good.

  Wise saying: Drugs are nature's way of telling you you're making too much money. Okay, and death is nature's way of telling you to slow down? Funny, Rourke. You know what you need? You need to go home, back to the high desert and the mountains. You need to start your life over again…and do things right this time.

  Footsteps. Someone else? No. Just his own sounds, careening off the concrete walls. His vision blurred from looking down at the grinning row of chrome fenders and blank windshields of tinted glass. As the well-lit lobby area swam closer, Rourke fought to suppress his panic. That tears it, he decided. I'm signing up for rehab. I'm off that shit for good.

  He stepped inside the waiting area and pressed the elevator button. A feeling of disorientation struck him while he waited for the car to arrive, a creeping sense of madness. For a long moment, it was as if he'd slipped into another man's skin — someone violent and cruel. His stomach churned.

  The elevator slid open. Rourke jumped for the safety of the metal coffin before his knees could buckle. He pressed 7. Only after the doors closed, locking him in, did he begin to relax.

  Home to Two Trees. It would be good to feel the desert sun. Easier to stay off the dope, too. There was usually some Mexican laughing tobacco around, and always lots of booze, but not the varied, seductive powders that passed for currency here in Hollywood. He could think things over, dry out, get rid of this insanity once and for all. The idea was comforting.

  Ping. Seventh floor.

  The hallway was dark, and once again Peter sensed the trace of some twisted presence. He shivered and flicked on the lights.

  When he entered the lobby of Music Works, the track he and Dee Jennings were working on was playing. The music was coming from somewhere in the back of the complex, probably his own office. Dee was already waiting for him. That knowledge, plus the loud sound of aggressive rock and roll, helped to reassure him. He was becoming sexually excited, despite himself.

  "Dee?"

  No answer, but then the amps were cranked to the max. Peter could feel his speaker cabinets vibrating against the walls. Dee liked to listen that way. What rocker didn't? She was probably singing along, bouncing
around, laughing.

  God, she's going to be hard to give up, Rourke thought. Half of her seemed worth any two other women. But Gordie was right, and Peter knew it. Dee belonged to Easton and her all-important career. There was no way. Besides, he couldn't accept being a diversion, not any longer. It had become too painful.

  "Dee?"

  Peter dropped his briefcase on a secretary's desk, now sure what she was up to; both loving and hating it. A little quickie before the record date, huh? He felt himself harden in anticipation, but didn't enjoy the feeling. After his sad talk with Gordie Easton the sexual excitement made him feel guilty. It crossed his mind to say no, but just for a moment.

  He opened the door. Dee was lying across his desk, naked and waiting for him with her legs spread wide. But her stomach had been sliced open, her mouth was frozen in a silent scream and she was very, very dead.

  Rourke gagged. The music pounded like angry fists.

  Gore was splattered everywhere. Dee's eyes were glazed over, locked forever in a gut-wrenching expression that shrieked out the pain and terror of her final moments. She had been tortured; tiny burn holes freckled her lovely skin, and the office stank of scorched flesh. Peter recoiled. He tried to cover his eyes before he saw the words, the words he suddenly knew would be there, but it was too late. They were on the far wall, printed in his woman's dried blood:

  FIRST THE ThundEr & LigHTNing

  thEn THE DEVILS RAIN!

  Rourke stared and stared at his own lyrics in crimson smears. He mumbled, shook his

  head and fell back against the wall. He dropped away into nothingness.

  [...images ripple and dart through his mind like piranhas in a pool, snapping and ripping away: dog, someone calls quietly, dog? see his friend robert reiss crucified and wearing a crown of thorns, while below on golgotha a little man with twisted features steals down the side streets of an ancient city of antediluvian gables, thatched roofs and smoldering ruins, hears the wails of victims and the joyous cry of a crowd /burn/witch/burn/ in another place, some unspeakably awful place, something immense, coiled like a pile of reeking intestines, rears its fanged snout and rushes for him...]