Timmy spotted the butcher knife; she'd tossed it carelessly into one corner. He went all grey and flat inside.
"What is it? Are you curious now, brother dear? Wondering how this feels, and whether it's a better choice than dying?"
Her own voice, instead of a man's. Timmy knew he was being played with. The worst thing he could do would be to give it his fear. He would surrender nothing. He owed his mother that much.
The creature giggled. She pointed to Paula's body with stained, wet fingers.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Julie said. "How rude of me. Would you like something warm to drink?"
That did it.
He'd kept his hands behind his back, but now he brought them into view. He had a sharpened stake in one and a croquet mallet in the other. He threw himself at Julie, wailing like a banshee, stabbing and swinging. Julie held her ground and made no effort to defend herself. Timmy feinted with the stake and launched a wild haymaker with the hammer. He gave it all he had, heard it whistle towards her head; guided it in with his eyes...
And missed.
But he couldn't have missed.
He tried again and again; continued to flail away at the empty air, too enraged and grief-stricken to realize he was playing the fool. He never once saw her move, but somehow in-between his blow and her body Julie managed not to be there anymore. She always ended up just inches out of reach. She started laughing, and that's what tipped him off. He was behaving exactly the way she wanted him to. She'd made him crazy for a reason, not just for the fun of it.
Julie had been feeding off him. Drinking his feelings, instead of his blood.
Timmy stopped in his tracks so abruptly he startled the thing. A tiny, hairline crack appeared in her composure. He got a look at what lay hidden below the surface; behind the mind games, the bullying and the illusion she was such hot stuff. He saw soft spots. Weaknesses.
She's afraid, he thought. That means I really can destroy her. But of course I can! All I gotta do is remember that; believe, and don't let her get control of me again.
That's all there is to it.
Timmy moved in with the stake. Everything changed, just from what he'd figured out. He felt a whole lot stronger. He jabbed and stayed aggressive, gradually forcing Julie into the corner farthest from the abandoned butcher knife. As she slithered back and forth to avoid the stake, her actions seemed clumsy, almost comic. He closed, waiting for his best shot.
Julie began to panic. She ducked low, hoping to slip beneath his arm and out the door. Timmy reacted at once, launched himself through the air. He landed right on top of her, with every ounce of his weight behind him.
And the sharpened stake thrust forward.
It didn't make a bit of difference that he'd seen it in a dozen movies; Timmy was totally unprepared for the grim reality, for how it actually felt to shove the point deep into her chest. That brief resistance, then the slippery give. What it was like to puncture rubbery muscles, crack through brittle ribs, twist and turn and push while you tried to ignore the screaming. That awful screaming.
Julie thrashed and bellowed. She begged him to stop, in that wheedling tone of voice he used to hate so much. Hearing it now almost broke his will. No. Show no mercy. Just twist and turn and push with everything you've got.
She swore, snapped, nearly bit his face. She clawed at his skin, his eyes. Timmy, sickened and weary, raised the mallet. He poised himself to strike, to get this bloody, smelly, nasty nightmare over with before he lost his mind.
Julie went berserk at the sight of the wooden hammer. The vamper exploded and began to buck like an unbroken colt. She rose impossibly high off the floor, her spine wrenched double, then slammed down. She arched her back, shook and twisted and finally threw him. Timmy sailed backwards, off balance, and tripped over his mother's body. The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay gasping for air, his face only inches from Paula Baxter's wide, surprised and very dead eyes.
Julie was growling — dying like a vamper, too.
Timmy wanted to get back up onto his own two feet, but he kept slipping and sliding in the huge lake of fresh blood. Maybe that helped, because he got mad all over again.
Julie, the gory stake protruding from her torn chest, had made it as far as the doorway. She had even opened the latch. She was going out for a walk, as if she were really still his sister and none of this had actually —
She had slaughtered Mom, wanted to live forever.
Julie seemed to know she wasn't going anywhere, that he would never let her get away. She was badly wounded. She began to whimper in her own voice, then just hung there, clinging like a bug to the screen door.
Timmy didn't hesitate. He went right at her, swinging the croquet mallet. Hammered and pounded. Pounded and hammered. Again and again and again. He didn't stop until the stake had gone right through her and the point was sticking out of her back. He released her and stood panting a few yards away, watching his sister die.
Julie crumpled up like a tattered ball of newspaper. She slid to her knees, fell through the door, rolled down the steps and out onto the grass. The gory corpse twitched a few times in the porch light, almost rose up again, but then was still.
Raindrops? Thunder in the distance. A big storm, and pretty close by.
Timmy hated the thought of going near Julie again, but he had to retrieve his stake. Just in case. He bent over and tugged hard. Pulling it out felt even worse than pounding it in. He vomited in the dirt before returning to the silent RV.
He could hardly bear to look at Paula, face those staring eyes. The sight of her body kept reminding Timmy of how horribly she'd died. He decided to drag his Mom into the bathroom. After several minutes of tugging and shoving, he'd only covered half the distance. He'd have to settle for the closet.
Timmy allowed himself to cry just a little bit, then reluctantly pushed her inside and closed the door. His overloaded nervous system was shutting down and charging back up again. It didn't know what to do, and neither did he.
There were real monsters outside, prowling around in the dark. He was all alone.
He had no telephone, no neighbors.
Alone.
Timmy Baxter, eight years old, sat motionless in a pool of blood, clutching his stake and mallet. His heart ballooned; felt swollen as a ripe, red blister. His mouth went all dry and tasted awful. He'd just had a horrible thought.
What about the other one, the male vamper?
He was out there plotting something. Timmy was sure of it. He would probably want revenge for Julie's death. He'd have to make his move soon, though, before the sun came up.
Hey, stupid. How do you know it's gonna be morning soon? Timmy sighed. He had no idea what time it was or how many hours he'd have to wait. His mother wore a wristwatch, but he couldn't face the idea of opening the closet to steal it from her body. There was a clock in the cab, on the dashboard, but then he'd probably have to go outside. Too dangerous. Besides, he was pretty sure his mother had complained about that clock, said it wasn't running right.
No.
Yes. A rustling sound, like brush rubbing against something more solid. It had come from somewhere close, real close. Timmy got to his feet. He clutched his weapons tightly, did his level best to sound tough.
"Come on, then. I'm ready!"
To keep from freaking out, Timmy thought about sunshine; the way the whole world springs into life at dawn. He imagined fresh fruit, ripe for the picking, and wild flowers blooming on a hill. Tall pines rocking gently in an afternoon breeze. Daylight.
He'd be safe, then. Free to go.
Sure, but where? He had no idea how to find Peter Rourke, or anyone else for that matter. There was a town nearby, Mister Rourke had told him so. It was called Two Trees. But how would he find it all by himself, with no directions? He'd never learned to drive the camper. If he did leave, and he didn't find the town before it got dark again —
Wait, they gotta have some street lamps. I could find it that way. But then I'd have to go out be
fore dawn. Bad news.
Huh?
That noise again. A faint sound, like someone moving around nearby. Pay attention, dummy. Try to pin it down. Where's that coming from?
It stopped.
They're playing with me. Well, I'll just ignore it. I won't give them what they want. Listen, God, wherever you are. Please. I have to ask you for a couple of things, okay? If I live through tonight, could you at least let me know why this awful stuff had to happen? Maybe not right away, since I'm still a kid, but someday? I'd just feel better if I knew it made sense. And if I don't make it, please help me take the other one with me.
There. Again.
Timmy began to tremble. Oh, God, I want to be a hero, really I do, but I can't stop feeling scared. Can't help it. If that's not okay, I'm sorry. Show me how to act and stuff, and what I'm supposed to do. I can't even let myself think about what happened tonight, because I might give up, let go of things and... leave. And that feels bad, like I'd never come back again.
"Ohh. Mmmm..."
Not that, God.
"Ooohhh..."
He was slipping out of himself, hanging by a shred of raw nerve, tottering on the brink of a deep canyon.
Scrape. Rattle.
Timmy held himself tight and he rocked back and forth and he hummed little pieces of songs. This is not fair, he thought. I'm only eight years old. I don't know how to handle this, what to do or how to be brave enough. It's just not fair.
"Mmm? Oooh..."
Rattle, rip, scraaape —
He couldn't pretend any more, couldn't ignore it any longer. This was real. The knob was brass and the head reflected a compressed image of the table lamp. The reflection had moved. The knob was turning. Slowly. Turning.
The closet.
The door was being opened.
From the inside.
A sing-song phrase, running through his mind: (...not fair, God, not fair, not fair, not...)
"Timmy, who ever told you that life was fair? Certainly not me. I can't imagine where you got such an idea."
The boy moaned, eyes glued to the closet, mind tottering and ready to fall. Fall, and never hit bottom.
The door slid open, whispering along the nappy surface of the little throw rug. It had been his mother's favorite rug, an antique. She had bragged about it to everyone, how she'd bought it for such a cheap price, told them it was special and —
Paula, her neck slashed wide open and her clothing shredded and bloody from stab wounds, stepped from the closet. She located her son.
Grinned.
Drops of blood fell in thickened clumps to splatter on the precious antique rug, the one she'd loved so much. Timmy returned from the edge, the welcome heat of anger building in his belly. This was not Paula Baxter. It was hideous; raw wounds, white bone and naked tendons. It kept weaving like a drunk, as if whatever had just entered the corpse didn't quite have control. The lips twitched, peeled back like slices of fresh, wet tomato.
"Timmy," she croaked. "Come give your Mom a kiss."
She started towards him, still clumsy, her arms spread wide in simulated affection. They had violated his mother, dirtied her and made her into a monster. He could not allow this to happen. She deserved to rest in peace.
"Timmy?"
The baritone.
His skin crawled.
Timmy reached down and took a magazine from the rack by the couch. He grabbed one of Paula's many cigarette lighters and set the pages ablaze. The creature made the familiar hissing noise and began to retreat on stiff, reluctant legs. Timmy waved the fire. He led the obscene thing along the wall, finally forcing it back into the closet. It growled, but the legends were true. They couldn't stand fire.
Timmy couldn't bear the thought of using the stake and mallet. Not on his mother's body, especially after that sickening struggle with Julie. So he started kicking a stack of his prize horror comics and some old newspapers into the closet with her. He kept the creature pinned inside by continually waving the flaming pages in his hand, sometimes touching them to its pale, sensitive skin. More newspapers, the remaining comic books. The beast feared him — and, of course, the flames. It cringed and shrank away whenever he threatened it.
He was ready.
Timmy tossed his burning torch inside, onto the stack of dry, volatile paper. He slammed the closet door and locked it.
She howled and kicked, but the blaze roared up and consumed her almost immediately. Smoke filled the room, choking Timmy and making his eyes water. He found his croquet stakes and mallet, threw on a jacket and walked out into the unholy night.
The camper would burn for hours. There was no turning back. He would have to climb the slope, spot the lights of Two Trees, then make his way there as quickly as possible. If he ran into more trouble, so be it.
He zipped his jacket, gripped his weapons and trudged along the winding trail. It was the same one Julie had used the evening she'd disappeared, but that fact barely crossed his mind.
17
TWO TREES
Orunde howled with pleasure and then drove the wind harder…
Pieces of Two Trees were tumbling like dominoes. Four dilapidated storm shutters, blown loose from the front of Martoni's grocery, sailed several yards through the air and struck the building across the way. Each hit with the impact of a mortar shell, cracking beams and plaster. The noise was lost in the cacophony of clatters, bangs and eerie metallic shrieks parading through the streets and alleys of the little town.
Vargas crawled along after Chalmers, feeling cool and detached. Unless, of course, he slipped and allowed himself to think about the girl. Touching her, hurting her. That fantasy was dangerous. It turned the whole world upside down and set off a violent blast of mushrooming lust that threatened to engulf him. Maggie Moore would have to wait.
He followed Chalmers onto the porch of a deserted home. The bigger man pointed to a brightly lit house across the street.
"He's in there," Chalmers said in a low voice. "We got three in all, if you count the other dude."
Vargas chuckled dryly. "You bet your ass we'll count the other dude. That fucker owes me, and I want him."
Chalmers looked puzzled. Finally: "Tony, I don't like to bug you with too many questions, but this whole thing's got me confused. I mean, what's goin' on here? And why tonight, like it just couldn't wait?"
Vargas hesitated, then decided to toss Billy a bone. "I don't know a hell of a lot more than you do," he said. "Tonight is a real special night. There might never be another one like it. That's why we've gotta follow orders and do exactly what we're told to do. Nothin' less, nothin' more."
"Whatever you say, Tony. Any idea what's so goddamn special about this first guy?"
Both men were squinting, their eyes stinging from the constant spray of pebbles and dust. Vargas ran out of patience. The wooden porch was uncomfortable, and splinters kept pricking his arms and elbows. He brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. "Jason wants him dead, Chalmers, and I want the other one. That's all you need to know."
"I can take a hint."
"One good thing," Vargas said. "Nobody's gonna hear us. We could have a war with all this shit going on. The storm is perfect cover."
He took a few moments to recall the layout of the house. Satisfied, Vargas nudged Billy. "Let's get 'em," he said. "Go around and cover the back, but don't start anything yet."
Chalmers got to his knees, shielding his face with one hand. His clothes began whipping in the wind like laundry on a line. He ducked low again. "Wait a second. You could pick one off through the window, and I might not even notice from there."
Vargas thought for a moment. "If I do, I'll come and yell. If there's anybody else around, they can't hear any better than we can."
Chalmers' teeth flashed. "Be careful, though. I'd hate to shoot you by mistake."
"Get going," Vargas said.
Chalmers lumbered down the alley, around the side and towards the back of the house. Vargas considered moving in a bit closer, b
ut decided he'd be at too poor an angle if he were pressed to take cover. He could get himself wasted before he made it back to the safety of the porch.
"I'd rather see your face," he muttered. "Spit right in your eye when I do it. But the little man said no unnecessary chances. Besides, I got the chick to look forward to."
Movement.
Vargas sighted quickly. He was just starting to squeeze the trigger when he saw a mop of red hair, reflected in the light flowing from the living room. Chalmers, getting into position. Wait. Yeah, somebody inside was walking past the window. He took aim again.
And felt his arms melting like wax, his guts clenching, a white-hot surge of desire welling up from his balls. Maggie Moore was everything he remembered. She was only visible for a few seconds, but to Vargas it seemed an eternity. Jason had shown him all her secrets, revealed her naked body with his cold, cruel eyes. Oh, but this would be a night to remember.
[666 hundred years of pain, first the thunder and the lightnin'...]
Behind the house: Something was there, in the alley. Chalmers jumped and homed in on the target. Easy boy, he told himself. Remember what Tony said. Just the two men, nobody else.
A woman. Jesus, he'd nearly blown it; shot holes in some old broad who only had one oar in the water. Tony woulda gone nuts. Chalmers felt a chill crawl up his spine. He slid a little further into the shadows. Shit, that was close, he thought. If I fuck up, I'll have to answer to Jason himself. No way, Jose. All I need to know about that mean little motherfucker is that I don't wanna get to know him. Anybody bad enough to scare Vargas ain't on my map.
The woman passed within a few yards of his hiding place. Her eyes were glazed. She stumbled out into the middle of the street and just stood there, hopelessly lost. Goddamn bitch, Chalmers thought. Get the fuck out of here, you're right in the line of fire.
Hey lady, would you mind moving? I'm trying to kill somebody.
Night of the Beast Page 28
