They Came With the Rain

by Christopher Coleman

  And demolishing the grounds had proven a trying effort indeed. Whenever it seemed he’d found the bottom, additional layers of mental sediment emerged, covering up some other lie or harmful action he’d committed in his life. Many of these moments of wickedness or immorality Winston had inflicted upon himself, and he discarded those immediately, believing nothing he had done to himself could qualify as his greatest sin. It was how he treated others that mattered, he decided, and that narrowed the candidates by half.

  But what was the worst crime of his past? And how should it be calculated? Was it based on the net effect of his actions, the magnitude of the consequences? Or was the sin weighted more heavily by the number of people it harmed?

  Winston ultimately decided it boiled down to his intent at the time, to how little regard he had felt for another when the sin was committed.

  And it took a week or so before Winston finally arrived at the answer, but he eventually found it, buried deeply beneath an ancient fold of his brain, a place which he’d vowed never to explore again.

  Until now.

  Diana Modesto. The night of the Christmas Party. 1975.

  Nikolas Barth was Diana Modesto’s secretary and the second in charge at Demornay Labs at the time. He was technically Winston’s superior, but Mr. Barth knew Winston was on the fast track to leadership in the company—and that he’d probably be working for Winston one day—and thus he had taken him under his wing, elevating Winston at every turn, even allowing him the services of Diana to perform routine errands, things like coffee, dry cleaning, and other not-quite-essential services.

  And Winston and Diana had hit it off immediately. From the day she became unofficially assigned to Winston, they had formed an instant rapport, and within the first week or so, this connection quickly evolved into flirting.

  But Winston was a dozen years older, and Diana was engaged, and thus the two had reached a certain understanding, an unspoken rule that the flirting would never pass the point of double entendre or slightly sexual wordplay in the office. And since the office was the only time Winston and Diana interacted with each other, nothing beyond that type of banter ever materialized.

  Until the night in early December—Demornay’s Annual Christmas Party—when, to the best of Winston’s recollection, he’d attempted to rape Diana by the pool of the Pinnacle Spa and Lounge in Sedona.

  Many of the details from that night had eroded permanently from Winston’s mind, but as he replayed the memory of the party over and over again, events and feelings from the evening began to surface, slowly and fragmented at first, and then more quickly as certain pieces began to fall into place. Soon he could smell the sage that was in the air that night, taste the roasted tomato of the hors d’oeuvres and the smooth burn of the Don Julio. And after several weeks of this type of mental work—careful not to fill in any gaps by inventing what didn’t happen—Winston could return to the scene of the incident with regularity and a good degree of clarity.

  He remembered a certain shyness arising when he first saw Diana that night, a fear even, especially at that moment when she spotted him from across the room and quickly marched over wearing a panicked grin, seeking his company as refuge. And that unease he had felt stuck with him well into the first part of the evening. Winston had never seen Diana in casual clothing before, or with her hair down, and he was suddenly clueless about how to behave in her company. The quick-hitting witticisms that had passed as conversation in the office, and that were spaced out over the course of an eight-hour day, now seemed inappropriate and awkward, forced.

  But then the tequila began to pour, and by the time the second or third shot had begun swirling in Winston’s stomach, he started feeling relaxed—and then cocky—in the presence of his informal secretary, and the two spent much of the middle part of the evening laughing and drinking and having a fine old time.

  Then, at some point, Winston asked Diana about her fiancé and why the lucky fellow hadn’t joined her at the party. He had even not-so-jokingly accused her of inventing the beau to prevent men at the office from hitting on her, a fairly common technique used by single working women at the time. Diana wasn’t stunning by any measure, but she was thin and young and had a great smile, and, perhaps most importantly, at Demornay Labs, she was one of only three women in an office of several dozen men.

  According to Winston’s recollection, Diana had laughed off the accusation at first, but he had kept the charge going for at least several minutes, until he eventually pushed it across the threshold into embarrassing and rude. At that point, Diana had excused herself for the restroom, giving a humorless smile as she departed, clearly disappointed at Winston’s drunkenness and the turn the night had taken.

  Winston couldn’t remember the exact set of circumstances that later placed him alone with Diana by the outdoor pool, a secluded area of the spa that was situated on the first level of the Pinnacle just below the party, but he assumed he had followed her there, or had searched for her when she didn’t return from the restroom, perhaps with the intent to apologize.

  But the liquor—and the depravity in his heart—guided him to a much darker place.

  His most vivid memory of the incident was the feel of his erection against her buttocks as he grabbed her from behind, his hands cupped across her breasts, pressing his chest against her back and shoulders. He had tried to walk her in that position toward one of the dozen or so chaises lined beside the pool, where he could then press her torso down into the long fabric cushion and force himself upon her.

  But Diana had begun writhing and flailing the moment Winston touched her, and those struggles had caused them both to topple to the concrete pool deck before they ever reached the row of lounge chairs.

  Diana had gotten to her knees in a flash, but as she pressed her hands to the ground to rise to her feet, Winston had grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him, feeling a strength throughout his core that he’d never known existed inside him. His heart was racing, his groin throbbing; it was a feeling that today he could only have compared to an insatiable hunger, a ravenous sexual famine.

  His lone-hand grip was no match for Diana’s desperate need to escape, however, and before Winston could find his focus and absorb the meaning of what had just occurred, Diana was through the doors of the pool deck, disappearing into the spa and out of Winston’s sight.

  When Winston returned to the party a few moments later, Diana was gone, and by the end of the week, she had left Demornay Labs for good. Within six months of the party, Winston was promoted to assistant vice president of operations, and he had all but erased Diana Modesto and the memory of that night from his mind.

  Winston opened his eyes now, allowing the memory to end and then reset again in his mind, to be primed and ready for retelling, knowing he would need to reveal the sin again in only a few hours, and with as much vivid detail and feeling as he’d just conjured in his mind. He prayed it was the answer the Arali sought. In his heart he believed it was, but a sliver of doubt still nagged at his conscience. After all, in the scheme of all things, the incident didn’t amount to much, at least not as far as Winston rationalized. There were true villains of the world—killers of cops and wives and children—and he, himself, had probably done greater harm to people, at least in ways that were more lasting than what Diana Modesto had endured. There were investors he’d bankrupted, or at least had been partially responsible for doing so, and woman and children he’d walked by without a second glance as they begged for a few coins on the street. Surely those financial iniquities had had a more lasting effect than what Diana had incurred.

  But it wasn’t the outcome that mattered, Winston decided; it was the feeling in his heart at the time. If Diana hadn’t escaped, he would have raped her. There was no doubt in his mind about that. And in his most honest and unforgiving recollections, which was where he had finally arrived, whenever he replayed the moments of the attack, his body still longed, ached for the effort to be complete. The sin was still present,
even in his imagination, unbiased in its animal desire.

  So that was the answer. That was the fare of Winston’s heart that he would feed to the Arali. And in exchange, the elimination of his sickness and decades more life would be given.

  That was the promise, anyway, and in a few hours, after the town of Garmella had been rendered ruinous by the Arali, he would know for sure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Mr. Bell!”

  Ramon gave three loud thumps on the front door and then took a step back on the portico and stared up, trying to get a view of the windows above and any movement inside. But the house was too high, and even if Winston Bell were in his bedroom peeking down at them through a curtain, there would have been no way to tell from the front porch.

  “What about around back?” Tony asked. “Maybe the old man left one of his thousand windows open somewhere.”

  Ramon gave the front of the home one last inspection and then said, “It’s worth a shot.”

  The two men went left around the house, Ramon checking the security of the garage door on the way—locked—and within moments they were standing on the outside of a ten-foot high gate, iron, with thin flat slats that ran top to bottom, designed in a way as to give no place for a foothold. Inside, between the fence and the mansion, the vast yard was anchored in the center by an Olympic-sized swimming pool that was landscaped all around by tropical trees and rushing waterfalls.

  “Came this close to buying this place,” Tony said flatly.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “How the hell we gonna get in there?”

  Ramon continued to scan the yard and house for weaknesses, some gap of opportunity that had gone unnoticed previously, and then he strolled the length of the fence in both directions. At the end of the second wing, he sighed and shook his head, contemplating.

  “What’s the plan, Sheriff? Gotta have a plan, right?” Tony’s voice teetered on annoyance.

  Ramon put his hands to his hips and turned away from the house now, focusing on the plush trees and the large, man-made lake, a small portion of which he could just make out through the middle of the canopy. He stared up to the sky in thought and then back to the ground, and as he did, his eye caught an anomaly in the distance, thirty yards out, just before the tree line. “Look at that,” he said, moving slowly in the direction of the forest.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Ramon broke into a light trot, and within seconds, he was standing at the muddy tree line pointing at a pair of tracks that began at the edge of the grass and stretched out into the woods. “Look!”

  Tony was beside Ramon a few seconds later. “Someone drove a car into there?”

  Ramon shook his head. “Smaller. Golf cart, maybe.”

  Tony nodded. “Any idea what’s back there?”

  Ramon shook his head. “Not really. I know there’s a private lake. But other than that, no.”

  “Well, hell, shall we?”

  Tony and Ramon jogged through the woods for a quarter-mile or so, and when they finally cleared the tree line on the other side, they were met by the shoreline of Winston’s private lake, which was as beautiful and serene as Ramon and Tony’s day was chaotic.

  “Wow,” Tony uttered.

  “Yeah, well, maybe when the house comes on the market again, you should make a better offer.”

  “No, thanks.” Both men surveyed the area for several seconds, and then Tony pointed to a spot in the forest about fifty yards down. “Will you look at that.”

  “What?”

  “See it? Looks like a deer stand. A helluva one too. Didn’t peg old Winston for a hunter. Never seen him in my place before.”

  Ramon had lost the tracks of the golf cart ten yards or so into the woods, but as his eyes adjusted to the new coastal landscape, he located them again, a pair of treaded, sandy wires several feet down on the soft shoreline, leading in the direction of the tree stand.

  “I’m gonna check it out.”

  “Okay, but let me call Allie first.” Ramon had already clicked the call button on his radio, and he held up a finger, signaling to Tony, who was already halfway to the stand, to wait. “Tony, hold up.”

  “Catch up when you’re done.” Tony held his shotgun above his head, never turning, demonstrating he was well-equipped to defend himself against an eighty-year-old millionaire, if, indeed, he were hiding out in the hunting loft, waiting to ambush.

  Ramon began to call for the gun-store owner again, to insist he wait, when Allie’s answer rang through the speaker.

  “Sheriff!”

  Ramon heaved a sigh of relief at his deputy’s voice. “Allie, where are you?”

  “KD’s. Looks like there was some activity out back earlier. All clear now though.”

  Ramon decided not to describe his role in stated activity. “What are you doing there?”

  “We just came from Carla’s and I wanted to check it out. Found Josh’s mom at the diner. Locked herself in the fridge. She’s alive. Okay, I think.”

  “Thank god. And the baby?”

  “Found him too. Also alive. He’s...okay too, I guess. Believe it or not.” There was a pause. “Were you able to get a hold of anyone?”

  “No. Haven’t really had a chance to try. Far as I know the phones and internet are still down.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Winston Bell’s.” And then, “Geez, Allie, I can’t believe you were right about Maria’s brother. Honestly, I didn’t see much hope there.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be honest with you, Sheriff. He doesn’t look great. He’s clearly not healthy. I don’t know how much life is left in him. It’s...quite the condition he has.” There was a moment of silence and then, “What are you doing at the Bell place?”

  “Ran into Tony Radowski.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Long story, but he saved my life.”

  “Wow.”

  “And he also had a curious idea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Thinks these things have something to do with the Grieg, and that Mr. Bell’s interference these last few months isn’t a coincidence. He doesn’t know what the connection is, but we figured a couple of questions were in order.”

  Allie was quiet.

  “You still there?”

  “Just taking in the new data, trying to put the pieces together.”

  “You have some pieces to add?”

  “I’ve got one, at least. One I think is pretty solid.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Well, it seems pretty obvious they don’t like loud noises. You noticed that, right?”

  Ramon did, but he wasn’t sure what it had to do with the telescope. “Yeah, I think that’s right. But I’m not sure what difference it makes, since they don’t seem to get hurt by the bullets that make those loud noises.”

  “Right, but I don’t think it’s the bullets; that’s the point. I think it’s the sound of the bullets they don’t like. And I don’t think it just scares them either; I think it causes them actual pain.” There was a delay, and then, “At least...” Allie broke off the thought.

  “At least what?”

  “I don’t know. At least it did at first. Caused them pain, I mean. But I think maybe the sound isn’t hurting them as much anymore. From what Josh and Maria described. I think they’re getting stronger. Or maybe that’s not the right word. More resilient, maybe. I don’t know, I’m rambling.”

  Ramon gave his deputy’s words a moment to land, and then he said, “Well, it’s new intel, something to work with, so I’ll take it. Josh and Maria, are they okay?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. Had some moments though.”

  Ramon continued watching Tony until the man finally disappeared into the woods in the direction of the hunting stand. “I’ve gotta go, Allie, but—"

  “Yeah, go, we’ll get on the way now. Be there in a few minutes.”

  “No,” Ramon blurted automatically. “Don’t come here.”

  “W
hat do you mean? Why?”

  “You have kids with you, Allie. And now a baby. And I’m guessing a woman who needs more than a warm blanket and a rub on the back. You need to get them out of here.”

  “Yeah, that’s not an option, remember? There’s a sinkhole the size of Rhode Island in the middle of 91.”

  “I remember, Allie, but you’ve got to try. We can’t...we can’t all die here.”

  Allie was silent for several seconds, and Ramon could sense her debating another retort as she moved away from the car and the prying ears within. Instead, when the radio crackled again, she said with a whisper, “Okay, Sheriff, what’s the plan?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Zander’s backup plan to gas the town was one he’d given great thought to over the last six months, and as he considered the execution of it now, he thought it ingenious. It was only a backup plan, of course, in the event he was wrong about the Arali and where they would go once the collections were done; but in any case, by the end of the day, the air above Garmella would be poisonous and the land uninhabitable.

  The explosions would occur at a number of strategic points around the town, and, if all went to plan, would set a half-dozen houses—each of which had been staged as methamphetamine labs—ablaze. The blasts would be significant, and once the structures were lit, the fire would eventually jump to the surrounding homes, creating a domino of flames that would burn for days.

  The result of this conflagration would be the release of large quantities of pseudoephedrine, as well as a number of other toxic gases, all of which would render the town a waste land, at least for several days following, depending on when the emergency vehicles arrived, which, with the sinkhole unrepaired, could be as long as a week.

  And once the investigation began and evidence of the labs and the budding meth empire was uncovered, only the conspiracy theorists of the world would continue looking for explanations beyond what science and forensics had concluded.

  And for those handful of souls who did survive the day, the mind-altering qualities of the chemicals in the air would be the only reasonable explanation for their hallucinations, at least as far as the FBI would be concerned, if not the survivors themselves. Mass hallucinations were a well-documented phenomenon, and little time would be spent searching for blurry black creatures that possessed the ability to control minds.