Then the young girl was there beside him, the one who’d flounced her skirt at him that day. He felt her breasts pressing against his arm, heard her breath in his ear. He didn’t want to turn to look at her.
“Join us,” she said, and it almost sounded like a chorus of many voices entwined into one. He turned his face forcefully away, not wanting to see her in her tiny lace nightgown. He lashed out blindly in her direction, felt a face beneath his hand, and pushed with all his might, using the leverage to push forward and away from her. Chloe, where was Chloe?
Ivan was running toward the back of the room, toward a closed door. As Martin watched, Chloe emerged from the crowd and intercepted him, got him turned around. Olivia was right there with her, holding Ivan’s other arm. Martin pushed toward them, fighting against the tide of twisted bodies, not knowing who was on their side and who wasn’t. Another flash came from somewhere off to his left and behind him. He didn’t dare look back, afraid that the fabric-covered nightmare would be looming massively behind him, blocking his escape, its soul-stealing hands held out before it like lethal weapons. He just hunched his shoulders, protecting his neck, and kept shoving. Coming to the church was beginning to look like a huge miscalculation. They’d have to get Ivan and get everybody the fuck out of here before it was too late. They’d already lost the little drummer boy, and someone else by the looks of it. Two more people they’d have to drag out kicking and screaming. Shit.
Ivan was standing with his back against the closed door. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. The girls were holding him, but he didn’t appear to be struggling too hard. He looked tired. “You should join us,” he said, his voice barely rising above the din, and Martin’s skin crawled at the dissonant echo of the girl’s words. “It’s silly to keep fighting us. We’ll win in the end. We’re only the first wave. The harbingers.”
“We’ll keep fighting until we get the real you back.” Chloe was panting, too, her bare arms filmed with sweat. Martin approached and slipped an arm gratefully around her, hearing her heart pounding against his chest. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost her to this place. She accepted his affection, but wordlessly let him know that his protection was not needed. She stared Ivan down. “Are you coming with us, or are we going to do this the hard way?”
“You are no longer in a position to ask such questions.” The bald man had approached them, silently, the black of his eyes like beads of oil. Arrayed around and behind him were a few dozen smiling, blank-faced disciples. The drummer was one of them, and Martin thought he recognized four or five of the others from Crandall’s as well. His heart sank.
He glanced at Chloe and Olivia, and read the same thought in their faces. It was a trap; deep down he had known it all along. Then he looked around for reinforcements, for at least one of the cavalry they’d brought with them, but he saw no one. The others had either taken off or been zapped. We are so fucked, Martin thought miserably.
The man approached them, clearly savoring the moment. The church’s minions stood around him, not moving or even appearing particularly upset or vicious, but smiling sweetly in a way that chilled Martin’s blood. He surveyed their faces, wondering if he’d look the same once he’d been taken. In the crowd, he recognized Sammy from the coffee shop; Olivia was right, he looked pretty spacey. “Listen, just let us go,” he heard himself saying, thinking he could feel Chloe wince behind him. He wasn’t sure why he had spoken, and now he was sorry he had, but he pressed on anyway. “Ivan can stay with you if that’s what he wants to do. Just let us go and we’ll leave you all alone.”
The man’s predatory expression didn’t waver. “In a few moments, none of you will want to leave,” he said softly. “You’ll see. It will be so easy.” He advanced on them, almost casually. The angel-faced girl appeared beside him, smiling at Martin with her big innocent eyes. He looked at her, helplessly, then felt Chloe’s fist poking him in the small of his back. The man was close now, so close that he could almost smell him, an animal scent that was overpowering, yet somehow seductive.
Martin shrank back a little, inadvertently. The man was right, of course; it would be easy just to give in, to throw back their heads and quaff the Kool-Aid that Ivan and the others had partaken of. Why not do it? These people hadn’t really hurt Ivan, after all; he was, in most respects, exactly the same as he’d been before. Hell, he liked it here; he’d said as much.
Then Martin chastised himself; that was the chicken shit in him talking. These people had hurt Ivan, maybe the worst way you could hurt a person: They had taken away his personality, his free will, had made him nothing but a mindless robot for their cause. This new Ivan certainly looked and sounded the same, but he wouldn’t play guitar with his tongue poking out one side of his mouth, wouldn’t tell dead baby jokes with macabre relish, wouldn’t laugh like a loon at Mystery Science Theater 3000. He wouldn’t love Olivia and call her goofy pet names like Doinklet and Polly Percolator. He wouldn’t stink up Martin’s car with his weird black Djarum cigarettes. This new Ivan, in fact, would only think and do exactly what these crazy mystical assholes told him to. Martin realized that was almost worse than him being dead. Maybe it was worse.
Of course, it was too late to do anything about all of it now. The man was on top of them, and coming through the parting crowd like Moses through the Red Sea was the shrouded figure, which Martin now recognized as a slight, but obviously powerful, woman. Her clawed hands were emerging from beneath her layers of draped shawls, and they were thin as bone, stretched tight with mottled brown skin. The only escape route was blocked with creepy, grinning disciples. Martin’s stomach felt filled with rocks. This is it, he thought. Then, from out of the blue, he suddenly remembered the door somewhere behind them, the one Ivan headed for. Where did it lead? It was probably just a storeroom, he reasoned, but maybe it had a window. It was a risk, that was true, but at least it was a small chance. They certainly weren’t getting out the front way.
He turned his head, trying silently to convey his plan to Chloe, but she was looking past him, past the man who was now looming over them like a giant, and behind him, the monstrous woman-thing with her outstretched fingers was now enormous in his field of vision. He backed up farther, practically crushing Ivan against the door, though he didn’t protest beyond a weak moan. Martin followed Chloe’s gaze and his heart leaped. There, coming in the door, were some of the gang from Crandall’s—they must have been lying low in the parking lot, biding their time. Martin could have jumped up and down and cheered. Instead, he diverted his eyes back to the man’s and tried to keep his expression neutral. Chloe’s hand snaked up his back; he reached behind him, surreptitiously, and caught it with his own, giving it what he hoped was a significant squeeze. Back door, babe, he thought with all his might. If you’ve never been able to read my mind before, I hope like hell you can start doing it now.
The woman’s fingers stretched toward his neck. The man stepped aside to let the horror pass. “This won’t hurt a bit, I promise you,” he said.
A second later, Chloe screamed, “NOW!”
Then, all was confusion again. The gang from Crandall’s surged in from outside, and the shrouded woman turned her head, surprised, her hands suspended in midair. The man turned also, roaring in anger, pushing back a little toward the new interlopers. In the precious second that the monsters’ attention was elsewhere, Chloe shoved Ivan aside and went for the doorknob. “Please let there be another way out,” she said.
The back door came open with a shriek. Ivan tried to run, but Martin blocked his path, still hunching his shoulders up around his neck to protect it from the woman’s roving hands. Olivia jumped into the fray, getting behind Ivan and pushing him toward the door. Chloe hung back, keeping watch for the woman and fighting off any disciples that came too close. She looked grim.
Ivan struggled, but he was tired, and between the three of them, they managed to shove him into th
e back storeroom. Quickly, Martin looked over his shoulder to see how the others were faring; he thought he saw another flash of light, and he swore. The woman had apparently forgotten about Ivan for the moment and was running toward the front, robes flying, her hands extended before her like eagle talons. The hulking bald man—her husband, Martin presumed, though who knew really—had also spun toward the entrance, taking on the group from outside.
“Don’t let her touch you!” Martin shouted into the crowd, not knowing if anyone could hear him or not. He felt bad about escaping through the back way while the gang was providing a distraction, but he reckoned they were all adults and could take care of themselves. As if to needle him, another flash of light popped off to his right, as though the victim’s human essence had manifested itself with a bang outside of its host body. Another one bites the dust, Martin couldn’t help thinking, then turned back to the task at hand.
The storeroom was dark and smelled of old sweat and cheap canned meat. There were cots all around the perimeter, piled with gray, tangled sheets. Martin had a moment to wrinkle his nose at the conditions these people were living in before Chloe’s voice cut through the dimness. “Hold onto him. I’ll get the window open.”
So, there was a window, albeit a small, high one with wire mesh nailed carelessly across it from the outside. Martin and Olivia held Ivan’s arms, though most of the fight left him. He stood still and resigned, watching Chloe as she climbed up on a pile of boxes and yanked at the window frame, finally pulling it up enough for them to pass through. She punched out the cheap mesh easily; it fell into the alley with a dull clatter. It wouldn’t be a very nice drop on the other side, but Martin supposed it was better than getting turned into a zombie and living in the back of a strip mall.
He and Olivia prodded Ivan up onto the boxes, and he went, reluctantly. Chloe grabbed his hands and began pulling him, probably more roughly than she needed to. “I’ll go out first,” she whispered down to them. “Then shove Ivan out. I’ll keep him from taking off until you guys can climb out.”
Martin nodded, already nudging Olivia toward the boxes. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the chaos beyond the door. No one noticed yet what they were doing, but Martin knew they only had a few seconds at best. He saw another flash of light in the teeming crowd, and he winced.
“How many have we lost?” Olivia asked quietly.
Martin just shook his head.
He heard the thud as Chloe hit the ground beneath the window outside. He hoped she wasn’t hurt, but at least she was out; a tiny ribbon of relief snaked through Martin’s body. She made a whistling sound, a signal, and Martin and Olivia began shoving upwards on the boxes, pushing Ivan toward the opening. “All right, all right,” Ivan grumbled. “I’m going. For now.” He maneuvered his skinny frame through the window, butt first. His blank face was strange in the near darkness. Then his gaze flickered upwards, and he almost smiled.
Martin’s skin tingled at the sight of Ivan’s expression, and he wasn’t terribly surprised when he heard heavy, shuffling footsteps coming fast behind them. Without thinking, he pushed Olivia hard toward the window, and then began scrambling after her. Not quickly enough because a hand clamped around his ankle, thick and strong and meaty.
Olivia looked down and screamed, pulling Martin’s arms so hard he thought they’d pop right out of their sockets. “Let him go! Martin!” Martin couldn’t see who had grabbed him, but by the feel of the hand he assumed it was the big bald man. He kicked out, blindly, feeling like the main attraction at a taffy pull, but the man’s grip didn’t seem to weaken. Olivia kept pulling and screaming, and Ivan was still hanging halfway out the window, looking almost amused by the whole thing. If Martin weren’t being pulled apart like a French loaf, he would’ve liked to have clocked Ivan a good one right in the middle of that smug kisser. Maybe he’d do it if they ever got out of here.
His palms were sweaty, and he felt them slipping from Olivia’s grasp. He could hear Chloe shouting something from outside, but he couldn’t tell what it was. For a moment, he thought he could almost laugh at how stupid they’d been, storming in here with no real plan, full of their own sense of righteous anger and misplaced confidence. Well, they were certainly paying for it now. His hands slipped out of Olivia’s, and he was dragged backwards as though he weighed no more than a teddy bear. Sausage-like fingers danced upon his back, grabbing him by the collar. Martin closed his eyes, waiting for a fist to the face, and then, he hoped, oblivion.
The pain never came. He heard a grunt, then the bald man’s iron grip faltered. Martin hit the concrete floor with an agonizing thud, his arm twisted beneath him. Olivia was still screaming, but now there was another quality to it, one not of fear but of an almost hysterical relief. Martin cracked one eye open and saw the bald man down on one knee, holding his head in his massive hands. A pumped-looking guy with tattoos and a short purple Mohawk was standing above him, a baseball bat gripped in his fists, raised and ready to swing. Martin couldn’t place him for a minute, then remembered him as the guitarist from the band at Crandall’s earlier. His name was Scott, or maybe Seth, Martin couldn’t quite remember. At any rate, the guy looked pissed.
The bald man crumpled to the floor in a huge pile of flesh and gray flannel. Scott or Seth poised the bat over him, ready to strike again if necessary, but the bald man fell still. Martin wondered if he were dead, then realized that he didn’t really care.
“We’d better get the fuck out of here,” Scott or Seth said. “That bitch is killing us.”
Martin didn’t have to ask who he meant. He managed to struggle to his feet, yelping at the explosion of pain in his arm. He hoped it wasn’t broken. “Thanks, man,” he said. “That asshole was just going to…”
“Yeah, I know.” Scott or Seth smiled. Despite the three missing teeth, it was a friendly smile. “Get your ass out that window. We’re pulling out the front way.”
Before Martin could say anything else, his savior had whirled and disappeared back into the fracas. It looked as though it was winding down out there, but as long as that woman was still conscious, none of them were safe.
He glanced up at the window, which was now empty of Ivan’s smirking face. Olivia also made her escape, it seemed.
“Martin! Martin!” He heard the girls’ voices shrieking at him from the alley below. With effort, he began climbing up toward the window, stopping every few seconds to cradle his arm and slow his racing heartbeat.
“I’m okay. I’m coming out.” He reached the top of the pile of boxes and peered out the window. Chloe and Olivia both stared up at him, their faces white ovals in the shadows. Ivan slumped between them, looking at his shoes. “My arm might be broken. I’m gonna need a little help.” He knew that the girls were really not that far down, but from his vantage point it seemed as though he was preparing to dive off the Empire State. His heart speeded up again.
Trying to keep his arm from touching anything, he turned himself clumsily around and slid out the window halfway, his feet dangling in midair. Panicked, he kicked at the concrete blocks, feeling like he was going to fall. Nothing like a broken leg to match his broken arm, which had now started to throb so fiercely that he thought he might pass out. “Be careful!” Chloe cried. “I’m right beneath you, you’re all right. It’s not that far, trust me.”
He knew it wasn’t that far, but he still couldn’t stop himself from hyperventilating. What a fucking superhero I am, he thought bitterly. Can’t even climb out a window without having a panic attack. Look out, evildoers. He slid a little farther out, and had pretty much got his shit together when he noticed the bald man on the floor below him had begun to stir, rolling over and moaning. “Fuck!” he screamed, then let his body drop. Chloe broke his fall neatly with her outstretched arms, and she’d been right, the drop was really no more than a couple of yards. Martin’s cheeks warmed.
“Let’s get back to the car as q
uickly as we can,” Chloe said, grabbing hold of Ivan. “Once we get him home, one of us can drive you to the hospital to see about that arm. The other one will have to stay behind and watch this one.”
“What are we going to do about the others?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know. I hope their friends can get them out. We can’t save everybody.” Her gaze flickered up to Ivan, her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I hope saving his ass was worth all this.”
No one had anything more to add to that.
The four of them made their way around the back of the strip mall, silent and exhausted. The sounds from inside the church were nothing more than a distant buzz now, and Martin found himself wondering, again, how many people they had doomed with this foolish expedition. He knew they were all adults and had come along of their own free will, but he couldn’t help feeling the staggering weight of culpability like a heavy yoke upon his shoulders. Between that and the excruciating agony in his arm, he felt that he could gladly curl up in the darkness behind one of the dumpsters and die.
When they rounded the front of the building, they could see the dying remnants of the struggle playing out in the brightly lit but somehow still shadowy parking lot. No one appeared seriously injured, at least not physically, although some of the church members sat on the sidewalk holding their heads or looking otherwise dazed and childlike. Martin couldn’t see the veiled woman, and wondered if Scott or Seth had gotten to her with his baseball bat. The thought brought hope, but also a vague sense of sickness and unease. It wasn’t just the fear that Scott or Seth might go to jail for assault (or murder, his mind helpfully whispered), but also the fact that Martin himself was advocating violence against another person, an idea which he found deeply abhorrent. Troubled, he followed Chloe, Olivia, and their unwilling, but apparently submissive, hostage to the car.
Bellwether Page 12
