by Liam Jackson
Room twenty-six wasn't the only part of the motel that had suffered. The entire south side of the complex was damaged in one way or another. Three people in adjoining rooms had been hospitalized, one of them in critical condition. At least four cars that had been parked in the adjacent lot would be totaled by reluctant insurance companies. There wasn't enough left of the expensive Harley to build a decent ten-speed.
Shaking his head, Petey began filling out the preliminary reports. He had been the first officer to arrive on the scene, finding a hysterical Lance Tomlinson screaming incoherently about aliens dressed in outrageous clothing and shooting at each other with balls of lightning. More crazy shit from Mr. Candy-assed College Boy, thought Petey, grinning.
It made his day to watch the paramedics as they strapped the sobbing Lance onto a gurney and wheeled him into the back of a waiting ambulance. "Shock," one of them said with a knowing nod of the head. Petey laughed as the ambulance pulled away.
For all the hassle of the past eight hours, Petey was in a pretty good mood. He had managed to get back to his apartment before Tina sobered up. She had cried while he banged her senseless. Petey loved it when they cried, especially the younger ones.
He was also ecstatic that he didn't have to investigate this current mess. Chasing transients out of the county was one thing. Building explosions were quite another. Besides, he had already done his duty, as he saw it. As soon as the state police arrived, Petey informed them that the explosion was obviously caused by a natural gas leak. He explained in great detail how he had witnessed hundreds of such scenes while working the back roads of rural Hurley County. No need to thank him, he told the troopers. Always glad to help out the state boys.
Of course, the arrogant pricks dismissed him like yesterday's news. Upon hearing Petey's theory, the investigator smirked and said, "Thanks for the hot tip, Sherlock," then walked away. The Illinois troopers all got a big laugh out of it, and were still laughing two hours later as they drove past him on their way out.
"Fuck 'em," grumbled Petey. "How the hell was I supposed to know that the motel was all-electric?"
All of the remaining electrical breakers had been tripped by one of the troopers, but the scene would continue to be unsafe until the power was disconnected at the service pole. Petey volunteered to remain behind and wait on the county electricians. Small price to pay, he figured, for avoiding any real police work.
Petey Scanlon knew that he was considered an abysmal failure by his peers. In fact, according to most who knew him, the same could be said for his status as a member of the human race. His own brother had once commented that Peter Leonard Scanlon was "a total waste of oxygen." Petey knew this, knew it all, and he didn't care. Not only did he figure himself to be smarter than the average bear, he also considered himself a man of substantial power.
Petey figured he was powerful because he understood exactly how to manipulate the system for his own sleazy benefit. He understood how a guy could beat just about anything, including multiple allegations of child molestation, provided the paperwork was complete. In fact, he had proven that very point just two years earlier.
He proofed the first page of his Incident Report and grinned. Another masterpiece! So what if the cause of the explosion was suspicious as hell and possible perpetrators were still on the loose? It wasn't his responsibility. The paperwork said so.
From the corner of his eye, Petey caught a glimpse of something moving about in the swirling wisps of wood smoke and morning fog that mingled deep within the motel ruins. He laid the clipboard aside, and peered intently into the exposed cavity that had once been room twenty-six. Seeing nothing, he decided his eyes must be playing tricks again, then...
"Wait a damn second," he grumbled. "Damn it, there is someone in there!"
Petey climbed out of the cozy confines of the cruiser, cursing the falling snow and cursing the asshole inside the shell of the building. Zipping up his heavy jacket against the frigid air, he ducked underneath the police tape and started for the building. He caught another glimpse of a tall, slender figure standing just inside the doorway of what once was a bathroom.
"Hey! Hey, you! C'mere, dumbass! Come out of there now!"
Petey's voice cracked as he yelled, alternately embarrassing him and pissing him off to no end. To make matters worse, the person inside the rubble ignored his order to come out. He tried again.
"This is Deputy Scanlon of the Sheriff's Department! I know you're in there! Come outta there before you get your ass fried by a hot wire!" Again his shrill command was met by silence.
He reached for his walkie-talkie, and then thought better of it. The offender had to be a vagrant, one of the hundreds of homeless bums that constantly roamed the interstate from one town to the next. Petey knew that if he called for backup, the county dispatcher would likely ask a state trooper to respond as backup. Mulling over his options, Petey decided he had already taken all the crap he could stand from those pricks for one day. Besides, as long as no one was around, he might get the chance to try out his new stun gun on a hobo.
"All right, buddy. We'll play it your way!" he said with a cruel smile. Taking the Taser from its pouch, he began making his way through the rubble. One way or another, the guy inside was about to get fried, he thought gleefully.
Petey loved the Taser. Twin barbed needles connected by thin gauge wires to a small but potent power supply. The Taser could deliver a teeth-grinding 50,000 volts of electricity. That was enough juice to drop anything short of a water buffalo. Only the absence of amperage prevented victims from being blown right out of their shoes!
Locating a path through the debris proved to be more of a chore than he anticipated. Twice he tripped over sections of roofing, tearing his uniform trousers in the process. He was cursing his luck and wishing for a K-9 unit when someone called out his name. Moving to a spot near a standing section of the bathroom wall, he grew still and listened.
Again, someone softly called out, "Deputy Scanlon. Petey. Come here, Petey. I need you."
The voice sent a chill along the length of his spine, soft and seductive, compelling. Despite his trepidation, Petey moved forward. The door hung at an angle, suspended by a single hinge. Petey craned his neck, trying to peer inside without fully exposing himself. Inching forward, until he could see the entire interior of the tiny bathroom, he looked into an empty room.
He felt the caress of hot, moist breath on the back of his neck. Letting out a startled yelp, Petey spun about and blindly fired the Taser into the looming figure of a man. Without waiting to see the results, he flung the spent stun gun aside and tried to draw his heavy-frame .357 revolver. Before the barrel could clear the edge of the holster, an iron grip clamped down upon his wrist. Petey gasped and sagged to his knees as bones snapped like so much straw in a vise.
"How fortuitous," said Axthiel. Taking a handful of Petey's coat into his other hand, he lifted the terrified deputy completely off of the debris-littered floor and drew him close. Holding him aloft as easily as one might hold a loaf of bread, the man closed his eyes and sniffed the air.
"Where have they gone? Do you know?" he asked.
Petey whimpered and shook his head violently side to side. "I—I don't know... who..."
Axthiel studied his captive intently, then slowly ground the splintered bone within his unrelenting grasp.
Petey moaned and rivulets of spittle ran down his chin "God... I don't... know! Oh, God, help me!"
"God? You call on Him? Why do you and your kind insist on calling out to someone you obviously don't know?" asked Axthiel, smiling sweetly.
"Now, answer me this, would you tell me where they've gone if you knew?" Without waiting for a reply, Axthiel sniffed the air about Petey's face and after a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled.
"Oh, yes, I can see that you would tell me. You'll make an excellent lapdog."
Leaning slightly forward, Axthiel's mouth closed over Petey's quivering lips. His tongue probed and pushed against Petey's c
lenched teeth, threatening to snap them at the root, until the sobbing deputy relented. Hungrily, Axthiel kissed him, his tongue worming its way into Petey's mouth. It didn't stop there.
Petey's eyes bulged as he had the sudden and shocking sensation that the tongue was growing, expanding, inching its way into the back of his mouth. Further it crept, to his
throat, then downward. Gagging, Petey fought to break free of Axthiel's grip, but his struggles proved less than useless.
The tongue continued to swell, threatening to close off his airways. Suddenly his throat filled with a thick, putrid liquid, the consistency of warm mucus. However, it was something far more than mere liquid. It was conscious, alive and malevolent, a primal, elemental evil. It recognized that in Petey it had found a fertile host, already twisted and corrupt beyond redemption. It filled his throat and slowly began the short descent into his belly and Petey somehow knew that, eventually, it would invade every inch of his body.
Moments later, Axthiel gently set Petey back on his feet. He regarded his newest creation, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He said, "Yes, this is a fortuitous day, indeed; for the both of us. You see, I've just given you an incredible gift. You are now a member of my extended foster family, complete with brothers, sisters. I shall be both mother and father to you, and you shall serve my cause. And if you serve well, you will know the rewards of a perversity so profound, it would have otherwise been forever beyond your comprehension. Do you understand?"
Petey nodded, surprised to realize that he did.
Struggling to his feet, he was astounded as he realized that the pain in his wrist was gone. Not dulled, or lessened, but utterly and completely gone! Something else was taking place within his slender, frail body, something both terrifying and wonderful.
The fibers of his muscles were enlarging, elongating, engorged now with the precious gift. Petey's blood, now nearly a living, sentient organism, coursed through enlarged arteries, fueled by the tainted life essence of angels. Petey marveled at the realization that all five senses were reaching out, far beyond old and established barriers. His euphoria climaxed at the added realization of new and incredible senses, which revealed supernatural dimensions of time and space that he never before dreamed existed.
As the Taint continued to manifest itself within him, Petey looked adoringly into Axthiel's face, awed by the power of the man he would now serve. No, this was no man standing before him. Surely, this is a god!
Petey Scanlon knew that by whatever Power existed in the universe, he had been given this gift and was no longer entirely human. He was now something less... and something more. He fell upon his face at the feet of his master and wept with joy.
"There's a good boy. Now, listen closely. There's something you must do for me and I think you'll enjoy the task. There's a boy, Sam Conner...."
CHAPTER 19
Knoxville, Tennessee
Sam. Wake up, son." Sam opened his eyes and lay still for a moment, trying to remember where he was. Sitting up, he shoved his duffel bag into the floorboard of the old pickup truck. He could tell it was early morning despite the overcast skies and swirling snow. He turned stiffly to look at the driver and felt a shaft of pain lance through the stiff muscles in his neck. The old man was watching him, smiling broadly. "Good mornin', Sam. Ya hungry, son?" Without waiting for an answer, the old man pushed a brown paper sack across the seat. Yawning, Sam looked inside and was greeted by the aroma of fried sausage and eggs on an English muffin. Horace removed the cap and handed Sam a plastic bottle of orange juice, then sat back in the seat and waited while the boy finished his breakfast in silence.
Sam mumbled a "Thanks" and nibbled on the muffin. He hadn't realized the extent of his hunger until the first tentative bite, then fell to it with abandon. As he ate, he surveyed his surroundings. They were parked on the edge of a wide expanse of asphalt parking lot. In the center of the lot was a small convenience store, with a couple of forlorn-looking gas pumps standing out front. If not for the lights inside the building, Sam would have thought the store closed. "Are we in Memphis?" he asked between bites. Horace chuckled. "Nah, son. Back down th' road, Ah guess it wuz 'bout Forrest City, Ah got to thinkin' 'bout some kinfolk I have in eastern Tennessee. I ain't seen 'em in a good long while, so I figured as long as ya needed a ride, and since I didn't have anything better to do, I'd just bring ya on to Knoxville."
Sam finished off the orange juice then dropped the container into the paper sack. He was both surprised and pleased at the news that the longest leg of his journey was behind him. Horace had driven the entire night, and made it all the way to... but, something wasn't quite right. Sam replayed the bizarre chain of events from the previous night. The Lincoln catching up with him in Little Rock and pacing him along the on-ramp, the mysterious trench-coated figure on the bridge, and the unexpected appearance of Horace. Then it came to him.
And at no time, had Sam even mentioned Knoxville. Had he talked in his sleep? Or maybe the old man was psychic or something.
Or something, agreed the Voice. Leave it alone. For now.
Intrigued by the simple, yet telling answer, Sam tried to question the Voice. He was rewarded with a cold shoulder. Sam decided that there were times when it was best to just shut up and go with the flow.
"Well, Horace, I really appreciate the ride, but I guess it's time to get going."
Sam dug into his jeans pocket and pulled a small wad of cash. He peeled off a five-dollar bill and handed it to the old man. "My part of the gas money," he said simply.
Horace accepted it with a big smile. "Yes, sir, you're a good boy, Sam. My daddy's name was Samuel, did I tell you dat?"
Sam returned the smile and said, "Yes, sir, as a matter of fact, you did."
Sam opened the truck door and stepped out into the morning air. The cold bite of the brisk northwest wind sent a shiver through his body. He pulled his coat tighter about him and dragged his duffel bag out onto the ground. He gave Horace a quick wave and started to shut the door when the old man softly spoke his name.
"Sam. Listen here, son. Ya got a way of callin' folk to you when you need 'em. Reachin' out, ya might say. Most times, you don' even know yer doin' it. That can be dangerous thing, son."
Sam wasn't sure how to answer. The observation took him by surprise and he suddenly wondered just how much the old man knew. Horace obviously knew about a great many things that he shouldn't. Things like reaching, and Sam's destination. And there was that thing about the old man's eyes changing color. The more Sam thought about it, the more he was certain it had been no trick of lighting.
Horace seemed like a godsend, showing up just as Trench Coat was closing in. However Sam would be careful until he knew more about the old man's agenda.
"Well, sometimes I get lucky and people just sorta show up when I need a hand."
Horace nodded, the smile suddenly gone and replaced with a somber expression. "Call it what ya will, son. But there's a little more to it than that. A whole lot more, in fact.
"Now, listen to me, and listen real good. Ya have a little farther to go, and ya gonna meet some folk along the way. Some of them folk are gonna be a lot like you. Real good people. They'll try to help you best they can. But other folk... well, they're not gonna be much for helping you or anyone else. Some of them will be downright mean... dangerous folk, if you get my meaning."
Sam nodded his head slowly. He wasn't sure he understood anything, but the old man had his attention.
Horace continued, "Where you're headed, ya gonna need friends, son. And I promise, there ain't gonna be too many of them around. There'll be times when ya just have to be careful and take care of yourself. The best way to do that is to keep your eyes and ears open."
Horace tapped the side of his head and added, "And pay attention to your little friend. When all else fails, you can always trust that one."
Stunned, Sam stared at the old man. Horace knew about the Voice! Moreover, there was the matter of
Sam's ability to reach. He was sure it was no coincidence that both Horace and the Voice used the same word to describe Sam's mental radar. But how? How can he know? Who are these bad people he rambles about? Is he talking about the Lincoln, or Trench Coat? Or both? And how did he know about Knoxville?
Sam had a notion that Horace wasn't just referring to common, everyday thugs. What else does the old man know? One thing's for sure, he isn't some poor old black guy out on some spur of the moment road trip to see his pals. There's some serious shit going down in the band room, or my name ain't Lucky Sam!
"Is that why you stopped on the bridge to give me a ride? You heard me reaching, like, in your head or something?"
Horace smiled, again. "Oh, I heard ya, son. I've been hearing you for a long, long time. But that's just part of the reason I stopped." He suddenly turned somber again. "I ain't tryin' to scare ya, son. You're heading for a bad spot in the road, but I ain't tellin' you anything that you don't already know. You just remember that there's some bad folk in this old world, and they can hear ya as clearly as I do. You just have to be careful, Lucky Sam. Be real careful."
Sam stood by the door of the pickup for several seconds. He realized that Horace knew a great deal more than he was saying, but like the Voice, the old man would only part with so much information at a time. Sam desperately wanted to break down and confide everything to Horace. He wanted to lay it all out in the open, to reveal everything, including the depths of his fear. He wanted the man to tell him that his fear was nothing more than the product of an overactive, teenage imagination, and nothing that a month's supply of Prozac couldn't fix. Most of all, he wanted answers about the Enemy and the Veil.
The Voice whispered, Not now. Just listen. Save the questions for another time.
Sam almost laughed aloud. Sure, he could save the questions for later, assuming he was still alive. In the end, Sam kept his questions to himself. He simply nodded and said, "I don't suppose you wanna go into a little more detail about this? This is all just a little, well, confusing, ya know?"
