Night of the Beast
Page 10
"Good day."
A sudden sound, like gravel spraying down onto a tin roof. Purring. Gladys opened a box of dry food and poured each animal a neat little pile of kibble. She didn't care for the odor of a cat box, so she rarely allowed the amiable little creatures inside. If only they didn't need to "go."
Pity.
Gladys Pierson: a lonely, chubby old woman, talking and giving comfort where she could. Gladys never made herself a burden, never sought company with that hidden desperation that so often only ends up driving other people away. She was well-respected, always friendly. A born gossip.
Gladys was the nearest thing Two Trees, which was an impossibly anachronistic town, had to a telephone and telegraph company. Once seated at her tiny switchboard, she could patch one caller through to another with easy familiarity. One long ring for the Polsons over at the hotel; two for Sheriff Bates. Three shorts for Anthony Martoni. Two longs and one short for young Peter Rourke, now that he was around again. Just like the old days; the late forties and fifties of her youth.
Every year or two, a dapper gentleman or lady would come through Two Trees offering Gladys modern dialing equipment, new-fangled cable modems, internet setups and all kinds of other gizmos for her telephone office. She always rejected the upgrades, saying the town had little need for the items and no money. That was partly true, of course, but the real reason was personal.
No one would have needed her, then.
Gladys Pierson would have become obsolete, been lost without all the trivial little conversations that gave her an existence outside of herself. No, the old ways were best. At least this way Gladys was thought of, talked to — and she could still listen in, just a bit, now and then. Not enough to do any harm, of course. Out of curiosity.
Gladys turned on her old color television set and adjusted the rabbit ears. A tired-looking man in a neat, grey business suit was talking about news from San Francisco. They cut away to a piece of film taken by helicopter. Somebody had committed suicide, jumped off one end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Gladys made a cup of instant coffee and lowered herself into a kitchen chair. So much had changed in the world, and so little of it for the better. She turned the television off with a sigh.
When the big highway had passed by Two Trees and the town had begun to shrink and disappear, she had been glad. It meant less interference from the outside. Fewer strange faces. With the whole country going to hell in a handbasket, Gladys felt downright grateful for that. It's just those of us who live here, she thought. As it should be. My little family; passing each other on the street, occasionally calling one another on the party line.
Gladys guarded the information she obtained by eavesdropping with admirable restraint. If a person had trouble, the secret was safe with her. But oh, back in the old days! If someone was getting married then, or having a baby, the gossip would spread through her network almost as quickly as it reached the intended listener.
Good news should travel fast, Gladys figured. There is too much bad news in the world already.
She poured milk over her bananas and brown sugar. In her own way, she considered this a vegetarian diet. It was designed to help her lose the surplus eighty pounds she had been carrying for more than twenty years now. The fact that each day generally began with an entirely different "diet" never occurred to her. There were times when Gladys decided she could eat nothing but ice cream and still lose weight, but by dinner she'd switch to steak and potatoes.
Gladys finished her breakfast and dressed for work. She pulled a baggy, black and white polka-dot dress over her head, then wrapped the bright beads she had bought at the Woolworth's in Reno around her wrists and neck.
Gladys Pierson left her house at exactly seven-thirty for the brief walk to her office. She passed Hi and Louise Polson's adobe hotel and looked up to find Louise waving at her from the top floor window. Gladys returned the cheerful greeting.
Spats Rafferty, town handyman and resident drunk, doggedly began to sweep the front porch. Oh dear, Gladys thought. That looks like another hangover.
"Mornin'," he croaked.
She passed him with a knowing smile.
Two Trees seemed old. Gladys had been noticing it more and more lately. Main Street was cracking, yet nobody ever thought to have the pavement repaired. But then, who would they go to? The town didn't even have a Mayor. The only authority left was Glenn Bates, and no one would have dared to confront him with something so trivial.
It didn't make her sad. This seemed the natural way of things. After all, Gladys Pierson was old. Why shouldn't her town be too?
She opened the door to her little office with its antique switchboard. Cool night air, trapped inside, flowed past. It made her aware that she had already begun to perspire.
Gonna be a hot day, she thought. Real hot.
3
JASON
Jason screamed and clutched his face. The birthmark writhed beneath his
stiffening fingers. Pain had flared suddenly, without warning, as if in response to that one passing car. He dropped the insects he'd collected and stumbled out of the cave to sink to his knees in the blistering sand. Harsh sun blinded him; endless motes of dust, prancing down strands of spun gold.
The agony lessened. Sobbing with relief, Jason blinked back tears and fought to slow
his pounding heart.
White had arrived.
There is still time, he told himself, it is not too late to run. I could pack and leave this
place forever. Dog need not know of my treachery. I am still in control. His inner eye had shown an enemy who was still feeble and undisciplined. White was riddled with self-doubt. But such power slept within him! This man must never be allowed to awaken, Jason thought. I should kill him now, despite Dog's orders.
He stumbled towards a skeletal clump of blue-green sage and sat on a low pile of rocks.
It was bewildering to find himself intimidated by such a pathetic, guilty man.
What did you expect? He is your eternal enemy.
"Dog?"
The sage burst into flame and crackled orange in the afternoon air. Acrid rings of
smoke rose upward. Jason felt ashamed. Terrified.
"But ... But I did not summon you."
Fool, I appear when I choose. Betray me, and you will suffer beyond imagining. I rule
you. Thus it has always been and ever shall be.
LOOK, PUPPY!
[...a moonless, torturous network of filthy alleys and blood-soaked streets. this is victory; the spoils of war; a conquered people. he is Yoth, the leader of his kind, and in the mood for a woman. she will be draped in virgin white, her hands and face stained red by the butchered flesh of her husband and children....a pagan monolith in the soggy green hills. Yoth orders its priests drawn and quartered. he drains their life to renew and refresh his own.
...disorientation, falling through inner space. Rome? yes, this is the capital. blinking in the bright sun, raising his trident high in salute to the emperor, he twirls and dances and clowns for the screaming mob. he is heavily favored, the most savage of gladiators — a towering hulk of muscle and bone. a strawberry birthmark sprawls like a jellyfish across his snarling features...ancient Cathay, Crete, Macedonia and Thrace unroll before his eyes as if on an ornate scroll. he sees Persia and Africa in rich detail. the taste of gritty Spartan wine scalds his tongue. he pictures the coming conflict; perceives that it has happened time and time again; understands that this is one battle he must win...]
Humbled, he lowered his head. "Master, I did not know."
Do not think to escape me, puppy. You are mine, as you have always been. You wear my mark.
"I did not know. I am sorry."
The revelation had been breathtaking, black and glorious. I am not insane, I am the Chosen One! Stunned, Jason Smith panted more apologies. He wrung his hands and chanted for forgiveness.
And The Beast said: You have always been my favored son. Always. Remember that this patch of dirt, destined t
o become The Gate, gave birth to White. Have no fear, but pay him his proper respect.
"What should I do?"
Dog said: Train new soldiers at once. Find fresh converts, helpers from the world of men. Torment their dreams until they join us.
I go now.
"But..."
The fire went out. The untouched bush wriggled sensuously in the breeze. Silence fell like a knitted quilt. A few must be nearer the edge than others, Jason thought. I will begin at once.
Dog had commanded, he dared not disobey. I will not wait for the Night of Nights, as originally planned. I will find fresh offerings. And I will torment them, I promise you. They will turn towards the dark with a vengeance.
4
GLEN BATES
Bates. See him? Just last night, all alone in the dark:
There he was, the sheriff of Two Trees, seated in his police car: Spine ramrod straight and shoulders back. Thinning closely cropped hair, well-polished badge gleaming a toothy grin in the gloom. Glenn Bates watched its reflection, green from the dashboard lights, dance along the windshield. He was cleaning his pistol.
Bates loaded all six chambers and looked out at the uncaring stars. He began to sob; raised the gun and slid the long, icy barrel past his lips. As it filled his mouth, he felt the blunt sight scratch the tender flesh of his throat. He cocked the hammer. One squeeze, bubba — BOOM! Grey mud and pink froth all over the car. Curtains.
Bates started to tremble. After a moment, he lowered the revolver and gently eased his thumb down to disarm it. You're drunk, he thought miserably. Worn ragged from lack of sleep. You need some rest, that's all.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the steering wheel. He knew exactly what would happen if he let go. He'd end up right back there, just like before; smelling, feeling and tasting it. Living the war again, as if time had slipped a gear. The dreams were that real, that scary. They sent him into the past and left him stranded with a lot of nasty, unfinished business.
Bates was afraid to fall asleep. But staying awake for too long could also drive a man crazy. He'd seen that, been through it once in 'Nam. Hallucinated, heard things, gradually lost track of reality. Weird shit, to say the least.
You probably shouldn't be fighting it so hard, he thought. Maybe you're making things worse by trying to keep the lid on. The shrinks said to give it a little air now and then.
Nothing could be as bad as the dreams. And they had been so much worse of late.
Glenn Bates had always liked his liquor, but the Big Green had turned him into a drunk. Anybody in his right mind was scared to death of the bush; stepping into that confusing maze of jungle, booby traps and foul-smelling rice paddies. Bates had started to carry scotch in a spare canteen after he watched a draftee die horribly, legs neatly sheared away by a buried mine. A trip wire had been stretched across the trail. One false step and the kid was wasted; a rare steak, screaming for morphine and mother.
Bates drank, and because of the drinking he doubted his manhood. He suffered through night terrors that refused to be blotted out. Liquor kept him going, helped him stay halfway glued together.
Little Ngo had been his only friend, after all.
Ngo: "I nose Charley. He cook fish. Two klicks, maybe. This nummah one day meet VC, Bates. Nummah one."
He was right.
Fuck it. Let it be, will you? Bates, back in the present, began to lecture himself. Want to think about the service? What about discipline, the pride and loyalty it molded — men confronting violence together as one unit, a team? Discipline is salvation. You're under fire, he thought. You need mental toughness and emotional discipline. Now more than ever.
He would escape. There would be a new job, another chance. Bates had long ago submitted applications to the police departments in several Nevada cities. He'd just have to be more persistent. It would come. There would always be a need for experienced, dedicated law enforcement officers.
When you get right down to it, Bates reasoned, the bottom line is always discipline. He put the gun away, started the engine and drove home to sleep off the booze.
5
EDITH
Also just the night before: Let the small whine of an errant wind carry you down an alley, past the gas station and up to the window of a splintered old one-bedroom home. Peer inside at the dark wooden dining room set, and in the dim lighting: Do you see her…?
Edith, friend to telephone operator Gladys Pierson, was a gaunt, stern-looking old woman who generally wore a black dress and flat black shoes. She stared intently at the cards on the table before her; eyes wide, expression serene. The cards were from an antique Tarot deck. Edith was about to take a peek into the future. Her black dress rippled as she placed her first choice, indicating present position, in the center. Sideways, across the first, she placed another. This second card would indicate the house having the most immediate influence.
She slowly worked her way through the ritual. Three for destiny. Four for the distant past. Five for the recent past. Six led into the future. Seven: the question. Eight would indicate environmental factors, and nine the relevant inner emotions. Ten, the last, would show the probable result of any considered action.
She began to read. Within moments she frowned, puzzled. This pattern was unlike any she had ever drawn before. Its most likely interpretation was ominous, rather exciting.
Death.
The old woman shuffled the deck and began again. She created the proper pattern, concentrated, and flipped the cards in their new sequence. Her heart began to pound. There was absolutely no doubt. Some wild destiny was approaching, and at a rapid pace. The Tarot had spoken, and its message chilled her blood.
The Devil threatened violence, rage and bondage. The Tower sang of calamity — a great disturbance. The Hanged Man meant a terrible sacrifice. The card of Strength: mind over matter. There would certainly be death — and, for someone, a strong test demanding great courage.
Edith shuffled again, paused to catch her breath, then drew a final time. Once more, on behalf of the little town of Two Trees and its rapidly shrinking population.
Death.
She dropped the card as if it had caught on fire, her fingers twitching in shock and dismay. The odds against such a thing happening three times in a row were astronomical. This was no accident, it was a warning. She began to pace, her old bones creaking like the ancient boards in the hardwood floor.
What were the dead trying to tell her?
6
PETER ROURKE/THE BAXTERS
Peter had spotted the Baxters' familiar RV from the highway just as he was about to leave the main road and turn off into the mountains toward his cabin. He'd rolled the wheel and started in their direction, gunning his engine to climb to the top of the grassy knoll. Timmy had been overjoyed to see Rourke show up again. A kid could trust a guy who kept his promises. And now he'd spent the whole day with them, playing croquet and throwing a football.
As the afternoon faded, Peter seemed to be enjoying their company. Timmy made up his mind. He had to find some way to get Peter Rourke to be his dad. Although he couldn't have explained it, the boy knew instinctively that what needed to happen between Rourke and his mother wasn't going to happen. He'd have to think of something on his own.
Rourke had now spent hours with Timmy, taught him to play a chord on the guitar, make his own fishing pole and some real neat secrets about the woods — how to find north and stuff like that. Rourke was tall and strong — kind of a cowboy, and real smart. He made up whole songs all by himself. Jeez, the guy was perfect! Timmy concentrated fiercely, determined to figure an angle. Heck, he just couldn't let a chance like this slip away.
Rourke had tried to leave earlier, saying that he wanted to get to his cabin before dark, but they'd all ganged up on him and talked him into staying for supper. Then to sing a couple of tunes. Afterwards the four gathered around the comfort of a blazing fire. They stuck marshmallows on straightened coat hangers and chatted as they nibbled.
"Paula," Rourke said, "you're absolutely right. You smoke too much."
"I know," she sighed. "They say that's half the battle — admitting you've got a problem."
Peter winked. "I understand more than you'll ever know. Unfortunately, they also don't tell you it's the easy half."
Timmy patted the dog and reached up to tug on the sleeve of Rourke's thick hunting jacket. "Peter, can I ask you somethin' important?"
"Sure you can."
"I know you wouldn't lie to me, not on purpose, but is there any chance you're wrong?"
"About what, Timmy?"
"You know," the boy mumbled. He seemed embarrassed.
"I do?"
"Yeah. Well, about there bein' any vampers in the woods and stuff. Could you be wrong, even a little bit?"
Paula groaned. "Damn it, Timmy! Peter, I'm sorry about this foolishness. It's those horror comics."
Julie was making faces and giggling. The boy ignored both his sister and mother. He locked eyes with Rourke. He was serious, and he wanted a serious answer.
Peter remembered the feeling from his own childhood. He spoke to Paula first, without turning his head or looking at Timmy.
"No, relax," he said. "I don't mind. We've all got our own special monster, Timmy."
"Really?"
"Really. Now, here is the truth. I've spent most of my life in the high desert and these mountains. I've hiked alone, sometimes for days at a time. I have never once seen a vampire, or talked to anybody who claimed to have seen one. Never heard so much as a rumor. Cross my heart."