Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  [666 hundred years of pain...]

  Okay, try for the thigh. Cripple him. Two or three quick ones, then hit the floor. That rifle won't stop for a kitchen wall, not from ten feet away.

  Wait a minute, he thought. What am I doing? Am I really gonna risk everything for a chance to fuck around this guy's head? Kill the bastard.

  Vargas inched to the right and found the best possible position. He brought his gun up, felt rain slap his neck... Rourke wasn't there anymore.

  Something struck him in the back. Hard.

  Suddenly his arms felt like concrete posts. Vargas lowered them, puzzled. The next bullet hit him in the leg, an amusing coincidence. The kitchen seemed to pull away in revulsion, as if disgusted to be near him. No, that wasn't it; he was falling; collapsing from the leg wound.

  I'm outside in the yard, he thought, lying on my side. I can taste mud. Funny, there's not much pain. I'm just numb all over. Cold.

  Dying wasn't such a big deal.

  [oh, no?

  So I'm dead. So what.

  [ahh, but now you have failed us, vargas, we who never forgive…now you will pay…]

  He felt fear for the first time. Vargas coughed. Blood poured from his nostrils and bubbled into froth on his lips. Hey, last request. Gotta see who shot me. He summoned enough strength to roll over: A man, bobbing and weaving, playing it safe. At least I'll know, he thought. For some reason it mattered who ended it.

  [first the thunder]

  Jesus, this is like being too high on some baaad shit! Damn. The man was tall. Rourke? But Rourke had been in the house, Vargas felt sure of that. And then he put it together. He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

  [and the lightning]

  What a fucking joke. The Sheriff, for Chrissake.

  [then the devil's reign ... ]

  Must have done fifteen, maybe eighteen girls. Had a blast, always got out clean, only tangled with the law one time. I do this gig for Jason, and I get wasted by the Sheriff. A trigger-happy cop with bizarre eyes, who probably thought I was ripping off a stereo. I don't believe it; this is too […welcome to hell, vargas…] much, just too much.

  Oh fuck, I've let them all down, the dark ones, what are they going to DO to me now, what are they going to…?

  Glenn Bates blew his face apart before he could finish the thought.

  26

  ROURKE

  Rourke, still inside, heard the shot and wondered what the hell was going on. He hadn't moved since skulling the danger; in fact, he'd barely been breathing. He'd been totally paralyzed, glued to the rug, as blind and as helpless as an infant.

  The talent had deserted him again.

  He'd sensed Dee Jennings' killer behind him just in time to save his own life; but since then, nothing. He had been deeply concerned about Michael, but was suddenly unable to probe through the wall. He couldn't even scan for Maggie to see if she'd reached Gladys safely. And when he heard the shots, he hadn't a clue who'd been hurt, or how badly. The blackout sickened him, left him horrified.

  The talent had now become an integral part of Peter. At that moment, he fully appreciated just how much he'd come to depend on it. A few tense minutes with only normal sensory equipment had driven the point home.

  "Rourke?" It was Glenn Bates. He was standing at the back door.

  And the talent returned.

  Rourke walked out into the kitchen. He took a quick look at Michael and turned away. Poor Maggie. Bates tapped on the screen and pointed to Vargas, a corpse wearing too much lipstick. And so it ends for you instead, Rourke thought. I hope Hell takes revenge for Dee, and the others you butchered.

  "I got this one," Bates said. "I guess Michael must have picked off the big guy with the red hair. You seen any others?" Glenn Bates had a strange look in his eyes. His body was jumping and twitching; facial features like a solid lump of rock. Peter followed the sheriff outside. He was careful not to make any sudden moves.

  "Others, Glenn? What do you mean others?"

  Those eyes.

  "Oh, I've seen some," Bates said in a hollow, cramped voice. "I think there are more. Maybe a lot more."

  Rourke probed, shuddered and withdrew. Writhing madness. He spoke gently, as if to a child. "I'm pretty sure there were only two, Glenn. Here, anyway."

  Bates kicked Vargas. "This one will stay dead," he said. "Head shot. But there are at least two more walking around that won't stay dead. We've got to get them, too. Head shots work best."

  Won't stay dead?

  "We'll get them," Peter soothed. "But first I have to find Maggie."

  "I saw her just a little while ago."

  Rourke grabbed his arm. Bates didn't notice. "Where, Glenn? Where is she?"

  The sheriff tried to remember. "On her way to find Gladys, I think. That's what she said. Are you sure she's not one of them?"

  "One of them? What are you talking about?"

  Bates assumed the coy manner of a crafty child. "I'll bet there are lots and lots," he giggled. "More than we know about. Dead men, walking around. You can tell if you pay attention. You can smell them."

  Rourke probed again. This was real enough to have driven a man over the edge. Bates believed in what he'd seen, and was now a man obsessed. "Glenn," Peter said. "Listen, I know Maggie isn't one of them. You hear me?"

  Bates looked relieved. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want to have to shoot her. Your friend Martoni, he's one."

  Rourke blanched. "What?"

  Thunder rumbled beyond the mountains. "He's dead, but I've seen him walking. I never would have believed it either, Rourke, but it's true. Urich is with him. They're both back."

  He began to shake. Peter pushed him out of the way. "I'm going to go look for Maggie," he said.

  "I'm tired, but I'll come with you."

  They jogged across the yard, past the bigger man's corpse, Bates trying to find a soldier's rhythm: Don't think, just keep moving. He was weary, wet, covered with mud and blood, but finally something of a hero to himself.

  Rourke was nearly overcome by despair. He had a gut hunch that Maggie was in trouble. It wanted him, and the little man would surely know that holding her would draw him out. He had let her leave, walk right into its lair. He had to find Maggie. Quickly.

  Glenn Bates and Peter Rourke ran through the empty town in the pelting rain. The power faltered again and lights flickered all around them. Their legs pounded, mud splattered.

  Bates stayed with him, stride for stride, while Rourke probed. Where are you, Maggie?

  Edith's house: For one horrendous second, Rourke thought the corpse he saw was hers. He thought of Dee Jennings and howled like an animal. Bates was waiting in the street, bent double and fighting to catch his breath.

  "Dear God!" Peter choked. "What is going on around here?"

  Bates straightened, madness in remission for the moment. "You feel it?" he said. "I do. It's bad. Unholy. I saw those bodies walking, Rourke. I know I did."

  Peter believed him, told him so. It seemed to help. "Maggie, Glenn. Where else would she go?"

  "Hell, I have no idea. There may not be any place to go. I think just about everybody's dead, except for you and me — maybe Gladys and Jason."

  "Jason?"

  "That creepy little fucker that works over at the funeral parlor. I haven't seen him all night."

  "Maybe Maggie found Gladys. Come on."

  Rourke set out again, holding his rifle in one hand. Bates fell into place beside him. They crossed First Street and turned up the main road, heading for the telephone office. Bates tripped. Rourke heard him fall, but didn't slow. By the time the sheriff managed to rise again and follow, he was quite some distance behind.

  The light was on. Rourke opened the door and stepped inside. Gladys was seated at the switchboard. Her torn clothing was soaked and her make-up looked a mess.

  "Peter," she said. "I'm glad you came. I've been trying for a line out, but I can't seem to get one."

  He rushed around the counter, vaguely aware that his talent h
ad begun to murmur. "Listen to me, Gladys. Have you seen Maggie? The girl from Aggie's house?"

  Gladys shook her head. "I haven't seen anyone at all."

  "Shit!" He paced. "I've got to find her."

  She got to her feet, big hands behind her back. "Now, how many times have I asked you to watch your language."

  Bates appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame for support. "I'll bet she's one of them, Rourke."

  "Easy, Glenn. It's only Gladys."

  But the sheriff had that crazed gleam in his eyes again. He brought his gun up. "She's one, like Urich and Martoni."

  Peter moved to stop Bates. He felt split into fragments; worry over Maggie, concern for Gladys and the itch of his talent trying to tell him something important.

  "Put it down, Glenn."

  Gladys shrieked. She came at Rourke with astonishing speed for a woman her size. She was brandishing a long carving knife. He threw himself over a table and cracked his head against the wall. His rifle slid to the floor. Things got hazy.

  Bates shot her. A red dot blossomed on the front of her dress. Gladys went after Glenn, knife raised. He fired again and hit her in the lower stomach. She paused to look down. Bates took careful aim at the center of her forehead, squeezed the trigger.

  And heard a click.

  "Oh, hell," he said. The memory of Ngo popped into his mind; Rourke shared it with him. When Bates sank to his knees he was feeling relieved, almost grateful. Then Gladys slit his throat from ear to ear and he died.

  Rourke recovered and grabbed his rifle as Gladys spun around. She was covered with gore, but still smiling. He shot her in the chest two more times. The roar in the tiny room was deafening. How could she stay up? How? Then he shot her in the head. Her skull shattered and Gladys flew back against her desk. She slid down into a sitting position, then fell over and lay still. A rattle, a wheeze. Rainwater, blood and brains.

  Rourke got to his feet. He stepped over the bodies and out into the night. The power had failed again, left him standing alone in the dark. He stared up at the sky, silently pleading for answers. No one responded.

  It was time.

  [...patterns...]

  Time.

  [...vargas to dee to rourke to michael to chalmers to beth reiss to elmo to robert to edith to bates...someone had put this all together…]

  But who?

  [someone put all of this together, someone here in two trees…]

  Rourke dropped his blocking and probed. "All right, you son of a bitch," he shouted. "Yes! Let's go!"

  Something tugged at the sleeve of his talent.

  He followed.

  27

  JASON

  Smith, his mind still aloft in the web, stiffened. White has escaped. He is coming, closing fast.

  He felt a tremor of anxiety. Thought: So what? The holy war will at last begin. Jason released his tension. The warlock felt fully prepared. There was nothing to be concerned about. The Master would protect him.

  He had only to wait.

  28

  ROURKE & TIMMY

  Peter Rourke pounded along through the storm, slime popping at his heels, right into the jaws of the nightmare. He looked like a little stickman, sketched in by sporadic flashes of lightning on the barren, hostile horizon.

  A flurry of images formed in his head: The dismembered dog, the gaping bullet holes in Gladys, Michael's brains on the wall, poor Glenn Bates sprawled in a doorway — And all of those random screams and flickerings.

  Rourke paused, gasping, to lean against a tree trunk. He was suddenly aware of an odd pulse in the air — the rhythm of a darkness within the darkness. His stomach cramped savagely. He half expected to look down and see his innards sprawled in a colored mass at his feet.

  For the first time, Rourke realized where he was headed. He swayed and weakened.

  The graveyard. The mortuary. Of course, because it must be in the place most likely to inspire terror in human beings. Bass had mentioned Jason, a "creepy little fucker," worked at the mortuary. But he'll see me coming… He debated going down to the creek bed, through the running water and then up the drive. The rain was pelting his skin, stinging; tiny diamonds of ice formed on goose flesh.

  "Mister Rourke!"

  Timmy Baxter, here?

  "Timmy?"

  The boy threw his arms around Rourke's legs and hugged him tight. He clutched at Peter, gasping. Rourke heard racking sobs, felt the frail chest heaving against his thigh. He squeezed Timmy's shoulder. It knows what frightens us the most….[…] The bloody stakes tucked into the kid's belt and the hideous graphics flickering behind his eyes told Peter the whole, gruesome story. This child would never be eight years old again.

  Timmy cried himself sane and faced the mortuary. "Is it comin' from up there? All the bad stuff?"

  "Yes," Rourke said. "And from inside of us all."

  "Lemme help you. Please?"

  Rourke smiled and shook his head. "Thanks anyway Timmy. I have to do this on my own. It seems to be set up that way. Maybe this was all worked out a long, long time ago."

  Timmy looked him square in the eyes. "Okay," he said. "But if you get beat, I'm gonna be right behind you. We've gotta stop what's goin' on here, Mister Rourke. We just gotta."

  "Yeah. I know."

  Rourke worked to gather himself. It wasn't easy. Timmy noticed, cocked his head and tried again. "You sure there's nothin' I can do?"

  Peter sighed. "You could pray, Timmy. Shoot me some good thoughts. I just might feel you sending them, and that could help a lot."

  A quick hug.

  "You got it. Be careful."

  Rourke stepped away from the boy. He turned, gripped his rifle and trembled. "I will," he croaked. He moved off, barely hearing the last few words thrown his way.

  "You can do it," Timmy shouted into the wind. "But you gotta believe, Mister Rourke! Remember that, okay? Never let them get inside and lie to you. Just don't listen. You gotta believe!"

  The voice faded, fear returned.

  The graveyard sucked him closer. It inhaled, pulling Peter forward. The gate yawned and creaked, flapped in the wind like the eyelash of a dragon. The cemetery waited, as it had always waited.

  It was time.

  He walked. He could no longer run. Cross through, Rourke told himself. Don't think, don't imagine, just go through. See if Bates was right, if Maggie is here. If the one called Jason has her. Be logical. Hold on.

  Rourke was on his way to the gallows. He could almost hear the mob and the click of the trap. The gate swung open, picket-fence fingers wriggled. Tall branches seemed to bend and reach down to hook his flesh. Leaves winked, glittering in the wet.

  Tombstones: Row after row of gleaming gray teeth, his shadow their licking tongue. Rourke stepped inside the gate. Hinges chuckled. Hahhahhauuhahhau.

  The wind stopped.

  The sudden silence was more terrifying to him than any shriek of nature. He looked up in despair, but the moon had become the grinning skull of his captor.

  MELISSA ROURKE.

  [don't think, damn you. walk!]

  Suddenly, the wind returned; puffed its cheeks and blew him backwards. Dead trees leaned like radar screens. Rourke held his ground until, from behind him, there came a scratching. A clawing at the earth... from beneath the earth.

  [sweet jesus!]

  Fear painted his mouth with iodine. He tasted himself: Guilt and cloying sin.

  [scratch! scratch!]

  A breeze scuttled along the tombstones. His talent fed him a smell. Something spoiling, like an untended wound.

  [scratch!]

  A rustle of dirt, sliding away. A rattling sound. Rourke looked down. His feet were rooted to the spot by fear. The rattle was the barrel of the rifle, clattering against the buckle of his belt. His arms began to twitch. He felt his senses enlarge and the moment froze in time. His body would not stop shaking.

  Dry, bleached bones: Something rose up behind him and tried to whisper in his ear.

  [don't t
hink! walk!]

  A lot of ground to cover, a lot of ghosts to pass. This cannot be, therefore it is not happening. He clung to the phrase desperately: This cannot be, therefore it is not happening.

  Walk, damn it.

  A hand touched his shoulder. Rourke turned without meaning to, wishing in mid-action that he could faint, simply cease to think. He did not, and he did turn around.

  Emptiness mocked him. […from somewhere else, jason cawed a harsh raven's chuckle and the little man broke wind…]

  The gate, still flapping in the breeze. The path was empty. Peter tore his eyes away. He willed himself to look down. The grave was untouched, her tombstone cold as a block of ice. Sage caressed the back of his mother's name; brushed up against the battered marble like an alley cat.

  [scratch! scratch!]

  He turned and began to walk. Again the shadow rose behind him, and again it whispered. Rourke tried to ignore it. How long have I been here, he wondered. How long did I stand there and put myself through that?

  This time he made himself look directly at the name. He searched its letters for a sign, for anything at all.

  JEREMY SHARPE.

  He was amazed to feel so little, only a vague sense of regret. Rourke lost himself. He was just a little boy in a maze full of mirrors, seeing life from too many angles. He realized it was his turn to speak. Finally he said: "It's a shame we never knew each other, Jeremy. We both missed something."

  The grave grunted. Moved? No.

  The wind rose and pushed. He lost his balance, fell against the stone, toppled it over and crashed to the ground. The stars whirled above him, and the moon's pitted face seemed amused. Rourke clawed his way back to his feet and righted Jeremy's stone. He found his rifle and checked inside the barrel for clumps of mud. Satisfied, he turned to leave.

  A transparent shape now blocked his way.

  He shook his head and blinked. He could see the graves beyond it; look right through it, yet it was there. Something bulky, suspended only a few feet above the pathway. He probed [this cannot be, therefore it is not] and stepped into it, joined with it, stared right into the eyes. A face hovered; still, as if carved from white oak. It was pleading.