Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  [yes, grandfather, i love you that much]

  The face tried to speak, its eyelids like tiny lips flapping. Rourke understood. The memory was being superimposed over reality — two different negatives blended together to form one photograph. A freakish event, an illusion; perhaps also an opportunity.

  Something was cut loose, from deep in his soul. It fell away like old stitches. The pain was brief, relief instantaneous. He began to cry. "Forgive me," he said.

  Only silence.

  "I'd do it again, Gramps," he said aloud. "I know you'd want me to. Forgive me."

  More raindrops fell, but this time to cleanse. The thing became mist and was gone. Rourke was alone. GO!

  Walk [Maggie] Run!

  Stumbling, straightening, picking up speed: Finding his pace. Rourke raced through the rows of dead strangers, clumps of emaciated brush and clutching briars. He ran away from the bottomless pit within himself, and the tempting insulation of madness.

  29

  JASON

  Jason, watching, drew in his breath with a hiss of respect. Down below, the half naked rat was working his way through the very best of traps. He's improving steadily, Jason thought with a ripple of unease. But Rourke does not yet realize that he has the true power. If he dies quickly, he will never know.

  "Bravo, Mr. Rourke," he whispered, rubbing his sandy eyes. "Most impressive."

  Jason stepped back from the window. He turned away, hands clasped behind his back: a little Napoleon, deciding the fate of his army. He began to pace, nervous now that the end game was near. A faint noise distracted him.

  The woman. In the open coffin, so brave before but now mewing like a kitten at the two un-dead watching over her. Jason found her amusing. Her eyes were dull with shock. She was rolling her head back and forth, like someone observing a brisk game of ping-pong. She could not accept what she was seeing. Just wait, bitch. There's more to come.

  Jason grinned, his discolored teeth sharp and wolfen. He spun on his heels and peered out into the long, dark tunnel of the night. The man stood, frozen, by the nearest gate. Jason laughed. The sound, loud and grating, bounced from the torn red plastic couches. It filled the plush interior of the coffin Maggie lay trapped in; had begun to believe she would die in.

  This silly little rat, thought Jason Smith. First he's afraid to enter the maze, and now he's afraid to leave it.

  30

  THE END OF THINGS

  Rourke clung to the fence. He felt dizzy; wet, weak and small. He raised his head. The funeral parlor crouched on the hill, waiting to pounce. He could almost see its claws. The porch light came on, as if to taunt him. Here I am [we are], it said. And she is here with us.

  His rifle was now more of a cane than a weapon. He leaned forward like a cripple and continued the seemingly endless climb.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. A shaft of moonlight emerged from the clouds. It gleamed, reflected by something that teased his talent.

  Above his Grandfather's grave stood the small comfort of a crucifix. Rourke walked over to the tombstone, lifted his rifle and smashed down with the stock. The little concrete cross broke off and fell to the ground at his feet. Peter picked it up and stumbled back to the path. He held the crucifix tight in one fist, clinging to a vague hope for some kind of strength from outside himself. He had been introduced to Christianity in his childhood, but it now meant nothing to him. Perhaps that was about to change.

  This time he barely paused at the gate. The night had wrung itself dry. It was now clearly alive, immune to any interference by man. Rourke felt as though he were entering an air pocket. His ears popped. The faint odor of burning sulfur drifted down through the stillness to singe his nostrils.

  The mortuary was creaking and complaining with the sound of warping wood, of rusty nails pried loose from splintered beams by enormous pressure from within. Rourke paused on the steps to tuck the small concrete cross into the waist of his jeans. He clutched the rifle, then kicked the huge door. The booming echo of his assault ricocheted through the depths of the building. The portal slowly opened. He blocked his thoughts and stepped through.

  An ugly little man with a distorted face and grey hair stood in the hall, less than ten feet away. He smiled pleasantly. Peter aimed the rifle at an imaginary dot right between those obsidian eyes.

  "You're Jason."

  The warlock mocked Rourke with a bow. "The same. And you of course, are dead."

  "Why haven't I seen you before?"

  Jason giggled. "You weren't looking in the right direction."

  Rourke heard the doors slam behind him. It was suddenly very quiet. "Give me Maggie Moore," he said, feeling theatrical and foolish.

  "Or?"

  "Or I'll kill you."

  Jason raised his eyebrows: Bugs curling to avoid a flame. His strawberry birthmark twitched, as if in amusement.

  "Kill me?"

  "Yes."

  "You really don't understand, do you?"

  Cold hands stroked his brain. […..] Rourke pushed back and blocked the probe. "You have a fine, strong mind," Jason said. "Reconsider. We could use you." Peter fired BOOM. The little man hopped to a spot several feet away with the ease of a garden spider.

  "No games," Rourke said. "Give her to me."

  Jason growled. He bent into himself; folded and was gone. Peter skulled, but Jason was nowhere to be found. From deep within the building there came a thin whistle. And something else. A whimper?

  "Maggie!"

  He moved forward, aching with concern. He studied the enormous room. Torn furniture, patched with strips of electrical tape. A desk, long shadows. The parlor seemed to hide shifting forms in its black corners. Crouching, slavering things.

  "I wield the power," cried Jason. Rourke turned full circle, like a child's top.

  No one was there.

  "This is the Night Of The Beast!"

  The universe fluttered and took on a new look. Jason stood before him. Rourke sighed and dropped his weapon on the floor. Said: "Tell me something, Jason."

  "But of course."

  "What was the fucking point of all this?"

  "The point?"

  Jason attacked. The onslaught felt like an electric drill entering his temple. Rourke clenched his teeth and somehow managed to push it away. It was like arm wrestling for several long moments; two men, evenly matched. Then Peter gambled, did the one thing he could never have been expected to do. He took advantage of the opening and slipped through. Rourke entered Jason's mind.

  And he nearly lost his own: [blur of imprints: hundreds impaled on sharpened stakes. showers pumped full of poisoned gas as millions of naked, shrieking jews fight to find an exit… bodies on an ancient Mongol battlefield... a huge pile of severed heads... the inquisition: faceless monks watch the skin being peeled from a sobbing, pleading young woman] Peter Rourke searched for why his own death seemed so essential to Jason's plans, wanted to grasp that, but then he stiffened. [a presence, hideous beyond description; bloated like some engorged leech and ready to explode. it focuses on his id and coils to strike] Rourke withdrew and found his skin crawling. He heard it howl with rage at having missed.

  There was a parasite in Jason's brain.

  Here was a thing beyond even Jasons' imagined Master, the so-called Beast.

  Rourke had been correct. This was an ancient creature, a monster that devoured human suffering and drank up the darkest of fears. It had broken through from beyond real, creating a series of events that linked the nightmares of the humans it required, making those nightmares come alive. Making them seem real, real enough to kill. Jason thought it was all to complete some kind of brilliant mathematical formula. He was wrong. This creature had used Jason Smith, in all of his psychotic grandiosity, to implement its own plan…

  Which was merely to feed.

  And now only Peter Rourke stood in the way of completing the meal. He moaned. Both he and the deformed little man were shaken by a mental struggle that seemed to have taken hours. Do I t
ell him he's a pawn, or just get Maggie the fuck out of here? What does it matter what he thinks?

  Jason wiped his brow on a dirty shirt sleeve. "Perhaps you are a worthy opponent after all," he said.

  "Let her go. You don't need Maggie any more."

  The little warlock shrugged, his scarred face a blank. "True. She caused you to enter the house of The Beast. That was her purpose."

  "Then let her go."

  A sneer. "You perceive yourself as being in a position to bargain, Rourke. You are not running things."

  Rourke smiled sardonically. Said: "I think that's true of both of us."

  Jason blinked, as if disturbed by that thought. He grimaced, then concentrated. Steam escaping: A mirage, high in the air behind Jason's shoulder, a ball of blue fire that flew past him and struck Peter in the chest. Rourke dropped to one knee, unable to breathe, his nerve endings searing with pain. He could smell his flesh roasting; see it blackening beneath his shirt. He began to lose consciousness [beneath my shirt?] Not real. Cannot be, therefore it is not happening.

  And reality was without pain. No burns, no blisters. Jason's eyes changed, turned metallic with anger. His mark darkened. He raised a hand and clenched his fist.

  It's illusion, Rourke told himself. Most of this is only as real as I allow it to be. Timmy was right — you just gotta believe. Jason doesn't even realize it, doesn't know it's all so much bullshit; all coming from his own, tormented psyche. He has the talent, but he's psychotic. He believes everything he's saying.

  Jason opened his fist, closed those eerie eyes and concentrated. Peter blocked, his temples throbbing from the effort, but still nearly buckled under the strain of fending off the probe. He could not prevent a few sick, disturbing tremors from occurring. They shook the foundations of his being. He knew he would not be able to defend himself forever. He'd have to do more than just resist.

  Jason chose that moment to change tactics. He whistled sharply, then leaned casually against the wall. He wore a satisfied smirk that curled slowly into a sneer as he studied Rourke's reaction. He reached behind him and brought something up from the floor.

  Human bones, the fingers formed in a claw; tied around with horse hair. The totem. Peter shook himself, remembered that awful cave; the odor of dried human feces. But wait, the strange smell was here and now, in the mortuary. It was an atrocious stench, the reek of the grave. Peter recoiled. He heard clumsy noises, animal sounds. They were coming from the back of the building.

  His initial impression was of something only a short distance away, right around the corner. But then the noises got louder, closer. He realized how large it had to be to make such a racket.

  It emerged from the back room, drooling, talons curved.

  "I hunger," It said.

  Jason pointed to Rourke and smiled. "Then eat, my servant. Fill your belly and feast!"

  Peter cringed. It shuffled towards him and he thought: […poor jake is gone…] Jesus Christ, the last thing he ever saw had to be this sick distortion of flesh, blood and bone? This is what they left him when he died?

  He started skulling as hard as he could, but the shaggy lump kept coming: salivating, clenching and unclenching those filthy claws, closing the gap. No matter what he did, the abominable whatever-it-was kept looking taller and wider and uglier, making him feel smaller and more and more helpless.

  It couldn't be meant to end this foolishly; with some gross, hairy implausible being ripping him apart like greasy fried chicken. What was he missing?

  It was Jason, he realized. Jason was shielding the thing, betting that Rourke's inexperience would make him doubt himself; think he wasn't good enough, not up to Jason's speed. Well, let's just see about that, shall we?

  He pushed harder...

  Harder still —

  […]

  And the monstrous thing became almost comic. It began stopping and starting, turning this way and that, like some harmless wind-up toy. Peter hadn't the slightest idea how he had done it, but he'd somehow stretched his talent to dominate the creature. He had circumvented Jason's barrier in milliseconds.

  "Eat!" the little man bellowed. "I command you in Dog's name!"

  It lurched in Peter's direction. He effortlessly nudged it back towards Jason, this time willing It to hear no voice other than his own. He won. Jason sputtered, enraged. He raised his stubby arms, mumbled a few arcane phrases and closed his eyes. It vanished. A whiff of sulfur, a grudging nod of respect.

  "Give me Maggie, Jason," Rourke said. "I'll stay, but she goes free."

  Jason grinned, yellow on pink. His mark danced. "You would do that? Stay?"

  "If you'll let her leave."

  "You make things interesting. I shall consider your offer most carefully."

  "Jason," Rourke said. "I think I understand, maybe even more than you do. But I want to hear it from your lips. Why? Why did you do this?"

  Laughter. "You did not enjoy raping my mind, White? If you had stayed a trifle longer, you might even have joined us. That irony would have been wonderful indeed. Why? That's a stupid question, from such a gifted man. For power. Feel it?"

  And Peter did: A band of pressure around his head. Temperature climbing, muscles cramping.

  "This is the final step, Peter Rourke. I must have you to complete the equation. You shall help me throw open The Gate which keeps my master in bondage."

  "That's just stupid. Why are you so fucking special? Why me?"

  "We are chosen. You were doomed the day you were born, for that's when you first stood against us. We were destined to meet, you and I."

  What a fool. There was no point in arguing with him. "Look, Jason, why did you come down so hard on that poor little boy?"

  "Because he's actually a part of you. Didn't you sense that?"

  He was weakening. It was difficult to keep fighting back, every single second, with no rest. Peter dug his nails into his palms and bit his lower lip. The pain centered him, brought back a measure of control. I've got to buy some time, keep him talking.

  "And why Two Trees?"

  Jason seemed surprised he would ask. "You were born here, weren't you? Besides, this place was chosen by the Lord of Flies. It is not for us to question his judgment."

  Rourke spat on the floor. "You're an idiot, Jason. This place chose you!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just that," Rourke said. "This place chose the both of us. It's built on an ancient evil and you're nothing but a pawn. There is no Beast, Jason. Not one that has annointed you, anyway. And there will be no kingdom come, no rich reward. You and I are nothing but…food."

  They stared at each other. Jason smiled warmly. Rourke almost liked him in that moment. Almost.

  "Rourke?"

  "Yes."

  "It's time to die."

  JESUS CHRIST, he's caught me unprepared! Rourke threw every inch of what he had into his talent; watching, horrified, as an ax materialized in Jason's hand. The ugly little man swung it, hefted it for balance, then began to speed up his metabolism faster/faster/faster/ until he was only smoke to the physical Rourke, literally invisible to the human eye, moving in accelerated time: In. For. The. Kill. Hacking. With. The. Ax.

  An idea.

  A frantic flip through some pictures, glimpsed but once, from within Jason's memory bank. And, in the same half-heartbeat, falling flat on the floor — desperately rolling and twisting away, hoping to get lucky. To outguess the blur that was Jason, the certain death in his hands, just long enough to try one thing; to see if he could be hurt by emotions long discarded.

  No more time. He's going to cut you!

  NOW!

  Both men froze, Rourke almost as surprised as Jason when it actually materialized. The warlock stopped in his tracks, his mouth hanging open. The magic blade split into dust.

  Robert Reiss.

  Rourke's boyhood friend, so solid and true he brought tears. Robert was hanging from a large wooden cross, wearing a crown of thorns, looking exactly as Rourke had pictured him. He
opened his serene eyes, gazed down upon Jason with devastating kindness, and pronounced those intolerable words...

  "I forgive you," Robert whispered. "For you know not what you do."

  Jason cried out. The sight forced him to cover his face with his hands. Then he scowled, veins pulsing in his mottled forehead, and used his own will to make the figure go away. He tried to resume the battle. But Rourke was the aggressor, now. He immediately sent a second projection to gather and hang in the bleak, magnetically charged atmosphere. It was a perfect choice: A sharp, crisp construction of a little girl with innocent features. She looked at Jason Smith with a disappointed ache painted on her eyes and said something about forever and ever...

  "Karen!" Jason gasped. He swallowed, then dismissed this vision as well — but with far less authority. Peter had rocked him badly. His eyes bored into Rourke; his mind tried to follow, but Rourke pushed back. He'd found new reserves of strength.

  A stalemate.

  "Dog!" Jason shrieked.

  Thunder. Footsteps. Shapes, emerging into the light. Peter stiffened, dug deep and reinforced his resolve. He probed; skulled empty rooms and empty bodies. The forms behind Jason were slowly revealed as men, but nobody lived here any longer.

  Rourke couldn't help himself, not this time. He wasn't up to looking Martoni's corpse right in the eye, as if he saw this kind of shit every day. These shambling bodies — one a beloved friend — were not an illusion, a fantasy. They were real.

  And coming for him.

  Urich opened his mouth. Foul gas emerged. "Peter," he said in a garbled voice. "Join us." Rourke gave a step or two. He knew he was fueling Jason by feeling, so intensely, what the warlock wanted him to feel — what creatures such as this fed upon. Horror.

  Martoni's decomposing body clutched at Peter. The motion disturbed the grocer's ragged clothing. Threads came loose, and scraps began to fall. That was bad enough, but it disturbed the putrid flesh as well. Clumps of rotting meat began to slap the wooden floor.