Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  "Mom!"

  "Damn it, Julie!"

  "Oh, Mom. I hate this trip. There won't be any movies and nothin' to do, no malls or shopping, I just hate it!"

  "Julie Baxter, you shut your mouth this minute."

  Ooops. Mom had used the dreaded last name. That meant it was time to straighten up and fly right. Timmy gave his sister a dirty look. He stuck out his tongue, but failed to provoke her. Julie was quite adept at assessing her mother's moods, and usually knew when to quit. She'd won this round, anyway.

  Timmy decided to skip the vamper story. He'd have enough trouble getting to sleep tonight just because she ran her mouth about the darned closet.

  Miles of sand went by, each one much like the last.

  10

  ROURKE

  Further up the long, black ribbon of highway Peter Rourke was pushing his Nova past seventy. He had classical music playing on the cassette deck. Suddenly the strong sounds warped, his vision blurred and he heard electric guitars and Dee Jennings:

  "Storm clouds gather

  In a bleak grey sky..."

  Panicked, he yanked the tape from the machine's mouth and immediately lost control of the car. The Nova began swerving all over the road, new tires belching smoke. I'm having another hallucination, he thought. This is not real. That did not happen. I only imagined hearing the song.

  Rourke slowed. He was breathing hard, sweating fiercely. He forced himself to relax, turned the radio on and —

  "Storm clouds gather

  In a bleak grey sky..."

  Christ!

  Peter felt a wall of sheer energy, and solid as a block of dry ice. His foot slammed on the brake and the car wheeled 180 degrees, peeling rubber. Had he encountered a palpable force — something powerful enough to trigger his latent talent? Perhaps. Or maybe, he thought, I've just gone crazy again. Either way, I lose.

  He felt too exhausted to continue. He leaned back and closed his eyes to rest for a moment. The world went away, and all music with it.

  11

  TWO TREES

  Late afternoon: Blistering heat, flowing up towards a crimson sunset. See them? All the people of Two Trees, Nevada stand gathered in prayer; a dusty clump of human beings in ill-fitting suits and faded dresses, murmuring about mercy…

  The caskets were closed. Sheriff Glenn Bates ordered Jason to seal them. He saw no reason why the others should bear witness to the horror lacquered on Elmo's sightless eyes, much less the ghastly mess that had been made of pretty little Beth Reiss. It was the worst sight Bates had seen since Viet Nam.

  Let's get this over with, the Sheriff thought grimly. It's hot. They'll be starting to stink soon. What the fuck is happening to this little town? He nodded to old Martoni, the grocer, who hit play on his small cassette player. Bagpipes played "Amazing Grace."

  Preacher Louise Polson, feeling like a hypocrite, said: "Now let us pray."

  Everyone bowed their heads. The grey-haired former evangelist dropped the Bible into her broad lap and shifted her weight abruptly. Her wheelchair began to move forward. Her husband Hiram, gasping, grabbed for the handles. He was barely able to stop her from rolling down through the parted lips of soil and into the mouth of the double grave. Louise would not have cared. Whatever faith I had left, she thought grimly, is being buried with that poor, innocent child.

  Louise had been chosen by default. Robert Reiss was too grief-stricken to form a rational sentence. He stood nearby, head bowed and blue eyes streaming tears, struggling to grasp how his God could have allowed such a thing to happen. Thought: My sweet Lord, I cannot bear this.

  Louise continued. "Jesus, we bring these two departed souls to You in their human imperfection. We pray You will show them mercy. Take them in Your loving arms for all eternity — You, who are the Resurrection and the Light. Amen."

  "Amen," said the town.

  The Murphys, hard-scrabble alfalfa farmers until less than one week ago, turned and walked briskly towards a battered tan station wagon piled high with their belongings. They'd had their fill and were moving south. Jack and Helen Younger, a couple in their sixties, followed.

  A cloud of swirling dust, and Two Trees was smaller still.

  Spats Rafferty, his breath sharp with liquor and his mind fogged, stood waiting with Jake Lewis. They'd been appointed by Glenn Bates to fill in the graves. Spats hated work, but had been afraid to say no to the Sheriff. Old Martini stopped the tape and handed the cassette to his friend Urich. They walked away, heads down.

  Hiram rolled Louise closer to Robert Reiss. She patted his hand wordlessly, and then the Polsons left for their hotel. Soon, no one remained behind but the confused young minister and his two reluctant gravediggers. Jake spat on his hands and hefted the shovel, impatient to get started and get it over with.

  Jason Smith watched from the second-floor window of the mortuary, a thin smile carved on his gnarled features. He fingered his birthmark, which had now all but vanished. The Beast was pleased with his sacrifice. The time was coming. Jason closed the drapes.

  Robert: Father, please help me to understand. Thy will be done, but soothe my rage so that I carry no hatred towards the man who caused this. Ease my guilt, my gnawing pain; still the shrieking voice that insists I should have been here when it happened. Bless Elmo and Elizabeth Reiss, Heavenly Father. Bless me. I must leave. I can't stay here any longer. Something wicked has entered this place. Guide me, Lord, that I may be Your servant. Amen.

  The bearded young man glanced up at the mortuary windows. Had the closed curtains rustled? Probably just the wind. He should come to the service, Robert thought with a burst of resentment. Smith knew my family well enough. He lives in Two Trees. It's disrespectful of him to remain indoors. He's the mortician, for heaven's sake. How can he stay away?

  But then again, perhaps the pitiful sight of Beth's ravaged corpse might have disturbed the strange little man; sickened him, despite his professional training. Robert knew that Smith had nurtured a crush on his sister. Tending to her body, he thought, must have cost Jason a great deal.

  Forget not your charity.

  Spats Rafferty belched, shuffled his feet and began knocking his shovel against a small mound of clay and pebbles. Jake elbowed him sharply, but Beth's brother heard and understood. He sighed.

  "Amen," Robert whispered. "Rest in peace." And then he walked away.

  Moments passed. A steaming wind pirouetted across the parched, yellowing hillside. The afternoon grew hushed and still. Alone in the scorching heat, with the sun just beginning to sink behind the towering mountains, Spats Rafferty and Jake Lewis shared a drink of whiskey. Jake coughed and wiped his mouth.

  "May as well get started."

  Rafferty decided to keep his mind on the twenty bucks Bates was paying. A lot of sauce for an hour's work. Spats lifted the shovel, dug deep. Grunted.

  The first shower of earth rattled along the top of Beth's coffin like the Rockettes breaking into a tap routine. Jake Lewis shuddered. He hated that sound, and dreaded the day when it rained down on his head. He prayed the dead could not hear it. He bent to the work, the shovel snickering into the dirt and rising skyward.

  Sundown, soon. Night wind rising.

  The two men dug feverishly, neither one admitting his fear to the other. Darkness approached on velvet paws.

  Jake fought to keep his mind a blank. For some damn reason he kept flashing on that old rusty tractor he'd always meant to repair. All those things in life, in fact, that he'd developed the habit of puttin' off. Elmo's death made him feel old, regretful of the stuff he'd never gotten around to.

  Spats Rafferty, for his part, drank as much as he dug. He'd lift two shovel-fulls of the thick, parched earth, slam them down onto the cheap wooden coffins whuuuuuump and then whuuuuuump, and steal a nip.

  Spats couldn't keep his mind off that pretty little girl Elizabeth. He'd had his share of lustful thoughts about the child, and now they returned. She whispered to him from beneath the pile of dirt:

  Want to
look under my dress, Spats?

  Whuuuuuump.

  You always wanted a peek, didn't you? Come back later. It's okay. Really. You can do anything you want. I'll never tell.

  Whuuuuuuump.

  Open me up, Spats. Come say hello.

  Whuuuuuump.

  Jake paused for a breather, shaded his eyes and swore under his breath. The sun was almost down. They'd have to hurry. No man in his right mind liked being in a goddamn graveyard at night. Jake said: "Let's pick it up, Spats." Louise Polson's voice echoed through Jake's mind: Let us pray. I don't fuckin' know how, Jake thought. I never learned to believe. Wish you could tell me what it's like, Elmo. What do you see? Is it still dark for you over there, like it was here? Is life worth the trouble?

  Elmo's corpse said: Open it up, Jake. Want to see what happens when you check out?

  Whuuuuuump.

  I know all the answers, now. Why we live and why we die.

  Whuuuuuump.

  Hey Jake. Hey Spats. Come see…

  Jake reeled back after one particularly nasty vision, his stomach squirming and his soul in turmoil. "Spats, he whispered hoarsely, "Let's wrap this up tomorrow. Okay?"

  "Okay by me."

  But Jake eyed the sunset, the ominous shadows crawling towards them. He looked into the hole in the ground and gnawed his lower lip. He was tempted to think about quitting, leaving the job half done, but that just wouldn't be right.

  "Naw, fuck it. We finish," he said curtly. He forced his old bones to move faster. Dig, lift. Whuuump. "Hey, Elmo," Jake grinned, I got an idea — you'd like this. "Listen." And he sang tunelessly: "Your cheatin' ways, are gonna break my heart…You're lyin' eyes are tearin' me apart…"

  Spats heard Beth: My legs are slim and smooth, she said. I am not wearing underwear. My skin is sweet, it hasn't even started to rot away yet. And Spats, you really oughta taste my nipples.

  "STOP IT!"

  Startled, Jake dropped his shovel. "What in tarnation is the matter, Rafferty? You scared the be'jeezus out of me!"

  "I got to leave now, Jake. Got to."

  "We're almost done," Jake said. The air was turning chilly and night was almost upon them. An evening breeze began moaning, low and fierce, through the nearby gullies and ravines.

  Whuuuuuump.

  Jake had raised the earth to within inches of its proper level. Only a shallow depression remained. Rest in peace, Elmo. Maybe I'll bring you flowers, he thought. A country record or

  two. Somethin' nice. We can do the rest tomorrow. You won't mind, will you, Elmo? How about I plant a little sod, some green to grow you a blanket. This desert gets cold at night.

  "Mmmm..."

  Jake spun around. Spats Rafferty was shaking all over, standing in a pool of shadow with drool running from his mouth. Jake lurched back, his flesh icy. Goddamn, he thought. I've never seen a man so fucking scared.

  Rafferty whimpered.

  "Let's go Spats," Jake said gently. He walked over and took the smaller man's elbow. "That's good enough."

  "I'm... I'm sorry," Spats whined. The tramp sounded like a small child. He was shaking his head back and forth, like he'd just peeked in a magic mirror and couldn't hack what he'd seen. Graveyards can do that to a man.

  And so the old codger and the town drunk strolled away through the cemetery, down towards the rickety wooden gate. They walked arm in arm, almost like they were out on a date, trying to act like they weren't scared shitless.

  12

  VARGAS

  Night. Silence, except for the macabre shriek of the wind as it whipped through the barren desert. Dried sage scraped like claws in the dirt. And his mind kept on singing…the devil's reign…

  The handsome Latino known as Vargas had ditched the useless stolen car in a narrow ravine, overgrown with brush. Its water pump was gone. Tumbled boulders and clumps of dried sage had helped him bury the Ford deep. He'd scattered dirt clods and sand to make it look like an abandoned wreck. He was right where he had been instructed to be, and totally on his own.

  But now what?

  Confused, his head full of haze, the crazed Latin man reeled through the undergrowth trying to get his bearings. He had killed again, and recently. The memories were still sharp and clear [...fresh blood, familiar words scrawled on the wall of the suite reserved for the casino's high rollers, the thing!...]

  I'm running, he thought. That's right. There are men after me because of what I did a few hours ago in Las Vegas. I remember the clatter of roulette wheels, the clank of small change dropping into tin cups. The stench of watered whiskey, thick smoke, expensive sex — and the burning, her flesh burning. I did the thing to her, the thing, but someone came in right at the end, someone saw me…

  Vargas tripped on some stones and fell with a curse. He fell to his knees in the dirt and sniffed the air like an animal, searching for clues. Nothing. Someone saw me…and I stabbed him, too and ran. But that second bodyguard was right behind the first one, and he followed me.

  Help me, voices. I have to hide for a while. Where should I go? How was I supposed to know who she was, what she was?

  …Vargas had gone crashing through the doorway and down into the casino stairwell, his footsteps booming off the corridor walls. The other man was close behind, right on his ass, screaming for him to stop; a handsome face blotched with rage and grim with determination. That young bodyguard had fired a gun BOOM, and then he'd moved like a panther, leaping over railings, closing the gap. So loud, everything had been so loud, even the rasp of their breathing. Jesus, I knew that beautiful icy, Italian bitch belonged to the Cosa Nostra, and that if I got caught I was dead — no trial, no chance, and that I was gonna die slowly, begging for mercy, just like the woman herself. So why did I do her? They almost had me, almost. Then the bodyguard tripped in the stairwell and almost knocked himself out and Vargas was saved and he kept on running…

  […the devil's reign, reign, reign….]

  Vargas looked around the darkening desert, his heart beating faster. He could sense that young bodyguard was still on his trail. He's in the same boat; he doesn't find me, they kill him instead. Mafia, he thought grimly. I really did it this time.

  [...oh, but the thing had been so wonderful...]

  Help me, voices. I have no water, no map. I'll die out here all alone. I'll do anything you want, just help me.

  There: A collection of tiny lights, far in the distance. A town of some kind. The man walked that way, stumbling and panting. He had covered several hundred yards before it hit him. He couldn't go into a town. Too risky. There might be law, or worse, like someone connected, who might have his description. There had to be another choice. The man snarled in the night, a trapped carnivore. His perfect teeth flashed. He turned in slow circles, delicate hands curling into claws.

  First the thunder, then the lightning…The devil's reign, reign, reign…

  One light.

  A solitary lantern, perhaps two or three miles away. Someone lived out here. That meant food, shelter, a place to hide. He could check things out, maybe kill the owner and then lay low for a while.

  As he fingered his knife, a sexual thrill ran through his genitals.

  Thank you, voices. Thank you.

  13

  ROURKE

  Peter, exhausted, had pulled over intending to rest his eyes. He'd fallen asleep instead. When he jerked awake it was late at night and there was a creature standing on the open highway, in front of his parked car. It was an old man, waxen and pale, almost transparent. Veins and arteries pulsed just under the skin, like some complex, multi-colored roadmap. Tubes and wires stuck out from his frail body, pointing in all directions like rows of plastic tentacles. He knew who this was, but refused to accept what was happening.

  Is that you Grandpa? What are you trying to tell me?

  Peter sat up slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. The apparition stared at him for a moment through blank, rheumy eyes and then vanished. Suddenly here was nothing in front of him but starlight and the
last few miles of road leading to Two Trees, Nevada. Rourke glanced at his watch. He knew he could be home by sunrise.

  He shook his head and rubbed his weary eyes. His mind sang, in many voices: Soon is the Night of the Beast.

  Rourke started the car and pulled out onto the highway. There was nowhere to go but forward, now. He'd left his laptop computer, his business obligations and his old self behind in LA. Whatever he had been running from all these years had finally won the war. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, he pressed down on the accelerator.

  It was time. Time to go home.

  PART TWO

  …"THE OFFERINGS"

  A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!"

  "I know," replied the universe. "However,

  the fact has not inspired in me a sense of

  obligation."

  — Stephen Crane

  "I believe that much unseen is also here."

  — Walt Whitman

  "Song of the open Road"

  "If you gaze long enough into an abyss, it will gaze back at you."

  —Nietzsche

  1

  ROURKE

  Dawn.

  The long-suffering town of Two Trees looked like short rows of cardboard boxes, painted pastel and left abandoned on the cruel surface of the high desert. Shiny tinfoil covered many of the spider-webbed windows. Sheet metal, cracked bricks and bleached tiles dangled from the walls and patched, sloping roofs. Meanwhile, the harsh, uncompromising Nevada sun threw down waves of heat like shards of broken glass.

  Peter drove over the top of the rise, past the two tall cactus trees and whipped to the side of the highway in a spray of sand. His eyes were burning, his skin felt fried and gritty, but for better or worse he was finally home. He got out of the car and looked at the town; the mounds of rock around it, the mountains, so blue and green, above and beyond it. He tucked his blue work shirt back into his jeans, scuffed his boots on the blacktop. Thought: The prodigal son has returned.