Anathema

by David Greske

  Jim rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. His jaw creaked open. He began to tremble. The others nearly piled into the back of him.

  "Oh, no,” he whispered. “Diane."

  Chapter 36

  An army of living dead blocked the way out, and Diane stood at the forefront. She was bloated, her skin blue. Veins were visible under her translucent flesh, making her look like a strange kind of road map. Pudgy hands dangled from torn tendons still attached to her wrists. In one fist, she held the head of the flashlight and was furiously pumping the other end of it up her bleeding vagina. With her other hand, she fondled the breast of one of the dead whores.

  "Jim,” she purred. Her mouth was full of gravel. Her eyes stared blankly forward. “I knew you'd come back for me. Come and make love to me. Make love to me like you did with the others."

  Jim felt the gorge rise in his throat, yet at the same time, desire rose in his pants. In his mind's eye, he saw them together in happiness. They were vacationing at the beach, laughing at the carnival. He saw her young body glistening in the moonlight while they made love beneath the autumn sky.

  He took a step toward his waiting wife. She was beautiful again, just as she was the day they moved into the house.

  "Jim, you've gotta fight it!” Jarvis reached forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, and yanked him back to the group.

  "But it's my wife. It's Diane."

  "No, it isn't! Diane's dead. She killed herself. You found her in the bathtub. That thing's just a shell reanimated by the power of the creature."

  "But she's so beautiful!"

  "That's an illusion. You only think she's beautiful because that's how the creature wants you to see her. The monster's fucking with your mind!"

  "No! It's Diane!” Jim spun around and hit Jarvis with a wicked right hook. Cartilage snapped, and he felt a warm gush of blood on his knuckles. Jarvis cupped his hands around his broken nose and dropped to his knees.

  Jim moved toward Diane, heading for her welcoming, outstretched arm, but Timothy moved faster.

  The reverend skirted around the fallen Jarvis and in between Cal and Jim. He took the bottle of Holy Water from his shirt pocket, opened it, and sprinkled some on Diane before Jim had a chance to reach her.

  Diane's reaction was immediate. It was acid against her skin. Flesh sizzled and bubbled into blue-green welts. Open sores oozed yellow pus as her body began to smoke. She brought her hands to her face and clawed strips of rotting meat from her skull. Hunks of it slipped from her grip and made a murky splat when it hit the floor. Long threads of skin dangled from the ends of black fingernails. She dropped to her knees, and her carcass folded in on itself until it was nothing more than a mass of red-black jelly.

  The allure of the spell broken, Jim touched his hand to his forehead and staggered backward. He almost tripped over Jarvis.

  "Geez.” He helped his friend to his feet. “Did I do that?"

  "Yup, but I forgive you this time.” Jarvis had managed to staunch the bleeding, but his nose continued to drip like a leaky faucet and had swollen to twice its size, making his voice sound compacted when he spoke.

  "Quickly,” Timothy said. “We can use the Holy Water to clear a path through these abominations."

  Timothy swung his arm in front of him, dousing the dead on either side of him with the water. The dead smoldered and twisted to the floor, until they were nothing but a quivering pool of oily jelly. In a few seconds, the pastor had cleared a path through the dead, just as Moses had parted the Red Sea.

  One by one, the others followed the pastor. Those dead that hadn't been reduced to Jell-O tried to grab the men as they passed, but Timothy only had to show the bottle and they'd cower, hooting and hollering at its sight. Apparently, the dead understood some things, and the effect of Holy Water was one of them.

  Pastor Timothy was just about to reach for the door, when the ground rumbled and an incredible flash lit up the interior of the house.

  Then the walls came tumbling down.

  * * * *

  Slabs of plaster fell from the ceiling. Cracks spidered up the walls. The windows blew out.

  Jarvis was first to understand what happened. The charges were exploding. He steadied himself against one of the crumbling walls.

  A second explosion ruptured the foundation. Mortar crumbled from hundred year-old stones that held everything in place. Some rocks cracked, and wide fissures were created that ran the entire length of the house. In the basement, a gas line snapped and the noxious poison hissed from the broken pipe.

  No longer able to support the weight of the old house, the foundation broke away. The walls shifted, and the third floor dropped onto the second, blowing out the west wall.

  Like rats deserting a sinking ship, the men scurried to the door. Timothy reached for the knob just as a support beam above them snapped.

  There was a third explosion. The second and third floor crashed through the ceiling, creating a maelstrom of debris.

  Plaster, wooden splinters, and glass fell in a great gray cloud. The dead waved their arms about as if they were trying to shoo away a horde of annoying flies. Frenzied, they clawed at one another, ripping each other apart. Some were buried beneath the fallen rubble, joined again with the earth from which they rose.

  A timber broke and pushed Cal to the floor. There was an audible pop as several of his vertebra snapped.

  Cal howled. He no longer had any feeling in his legs or arms.

  "Cal!” Jim tried to move the plank off Cal's back, but it was too heavy to lift.

  "Come on.” Jarvis tugged at Jim's shirtsleeve. “We gotta go!"

  "No! We can't leave without Cal!"

  "It's too late.” Jarvis pointed to the bowels of the fallen house. “Look."

  Out of the darkness, a thick, serpent-like tentacle wrapped around Cal's left leg. It yanked him out from under the timber and pulled him across the littered floor. Cal felt none of this, but screamed when the Beast's acid saliva melted his crippled body.

  The Beast howled victoriously as it sucked up Cal like a cherry Slurpie.

  Jim's blood chilled. The hairs on the back of his arms stood at attention. He wanted to turn and run, but fear had locked his knees and frozen him in place.

  The tentacle came again. He saw the suckers on the flat, shovel-shaped end. They were red and puffy.

  Vaginas. They look like little vaginas.

  Gray proboscides darted from the center of the bloated suckers.

  And penises. Small penises.

  Jim closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. In his mind, he saw the tentacle cover his face, closing his nose and mouth, slowly suffocating him. He felt the tiny suckers stick to his cheek and nose, chin and forehead. There was a tingling sensation as the penis-like proboscides bored into his skin and injected their strange, flesh melting poison...

  Jim felt a sudden jolt from behind, and his petrified legs moved. Timothy had opened the door, and Jarvis, who had Jim by the collar of his shirt, was pulling him toward it.

  They had just stepped over the threshold when a fourth explosion lit up the sky.

  * * * *

  The blast threw the trio across the lawn. Or rather, what was left of it. The explosions had pretty much fried the grass to black stubble, and the rain, which had started just about the time of the first explosion, had turned the ground to mud.

  Rain squashed the rampant fire that ate its way through town. Now, only a few small fires continued to burn, but they were dying rapidly as well.

  Timothy, Jim, and Jarvis watched the burning husk of the house. They heard the whimpering of the dead as they were incinerated, the flames sending the tortured souls back to hell, or maybe heaven. A defeatist cry bellowed from the Beast as it slithered back from wherever it came.

  Darkness folded in on itself, breaking up and dissolving like aspirin in water. On the horizon, a sliver of blue appeared in the sky; in the west, the beginnings of a rainbow.

  "Is it over?” Jim asked.
There was a gouge in his cheek and his right eye was slightly swollen. Both his knees and elbows were skinned and bleeding.

  "No, it's never truly over,” Jarvis said. The left side of his body was caked in mud, and his shoulder stuck out at a weird, unnatural angle.

  There came a rustling from behind them. They looked over their shoulders and saw a pair of golden eyes staring from behind a burned juniper. The hairs on the back of their necks pricked up. Jarvis was right, it was never over, and they hadn't the strength to fight anymore. However, their fears were eliminated when Rufus stuck his head out from the charred evergreen.

  The dog sniffed the air, picked out the familiar scents from the acid stink of burned ruins, and trotted over to the men. When things started changing, the dog had enough smarts to seek shelter away from the house, and although the intense heat blackened the pet's fur, it had survived. Tail wagging happily, the dog barked once and licked the face of each man.

  Jarvis gave the dog's scruff a scratch and the tail wagged faster. “Nice to see you, boy."

  Settling next to his master, Rufus rested his head on Jim's lap. Sadness settled in his eyes as he watched the house burn.

  They were all silent for a moment as they watched the flames peter out, thanks to the rain. Then, they bowed their heads. As the pouring rain ran off their shoulders, Pastor Timothy led them in prayer.

  Chapter 37

  When disasters strike, be it hurricanes, tornadoes, or earthquakes, entire communities bond together and turn out to help clean up the mess. Prairie Rest was no exception.

  Busloads of volunteers from neighboring counties rolled into town once they heard about the destruction. Of course, along with them came questions. Always questions.

  Where'd the fire start?

  What caused it?

  How'd it get so out of control?

  Jarvis and the others did their best to answer them: The fire started at Cal's Gas-n-Go. An electrical short caused it. The high wind fed the flames.

  Sometimes, you had to lie to protect each other.

  No one knew what happened in the cave, or how Cal really died. Jarvis said he was just another unfortunate causality of the fire. That part would forever be a secret. And that'd be okay—all towns had their secrets.

  Kelly Swans, a fellow from nearby Eau Claire County, found the three young men responsible for blowing up the service station. The bodies were pretty well mutilated and Jarvis told Kelly some kind of animal must've gotten the boys. Kelly accepted the explanation, but was skeptical. If you caught him in just the right mood—which was usually after three or four beers—he'd tell you he didn't think those bite marks came from an animal. They looked too human. Then, he'd bite his own forearm to show you exactly what he meant.

  Two of the five buildings on the Honeybrook campus collapsed when a fissure opened beneath it. Still standing were the main house, the residence hall, and a patient dormitory.

  When the earth swallowed the buildings, over fifty people died in a rain of concrete, glass, and steel. More than half were patients. The rest were nurses, orderlies, and doctors. Among the deceased were Nurse Carmen—her reign of terror ended by a glass shard in the throat—and Jim's daughter, Molly.

  Before she died, Molly had an epiphany. Her mind cleared of the insanity, and she felt peace. She knew the love of her parents and let it fill her heart. She saw Travis. He was bathed in golden light, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires. This was not the monster she saw in her room, but her brother as she remembered him.

  Travis reached out. “Come, sister. It's time to go."

  "Yes,” Molly agreed. And their souls touched, became one, and disappeared into the warm, golden light.

  The survivors were loaded into a school bus and transported to the hospital in the next county.

  Honeybrook wasn't rebuilt. Instead, the existing buildings were razed, and there was talk about renting the land to the nearby university for the school's agricultural or geology programs.

  The white elephant was dead, and Prairie Rest had no intention of resurrecting it.

  All that remained of the Anderson place was the charred stone chimney—a black finger pointing to heaven. The Elders held a meeting to decide whether or not the thing should be knocked down, but they all agreed it should be left standing. A memorial of sorts to all those who died in what eventually became known as the Great Fire.

  It took the townspeople and the volunteers the rest of the summer to clean up the town before the rebuilding could begin.

  * * * *

  As Jarvis promised, Pastor Timothy held a memorial service for Jim's wife.

  A makeshift chapel was constructed in one of the still-standing pole barns on the outskirts of town. Someone even hammered together a couple of planks and made a cross to hang above the door.

  The service was short, and only a handful of people actually showed up. But there were no photographs of Diane. All the pictures were lost in the fire. But that didn't bother Jim. He had plenty of memories of Diane, and he only had to think about her and he'd have all the photographs he wanted.

  The most important thing about the service was it made Jim realize that, despite the bitter disagreements, the ugly words, the knockdown, drag-out fights, he truly loved his wife. Even though the threat of divorce had loomed above them like an angry cloud for so long, they never would've separated. They would've worked things out, just as they always had. They needed each other. Realizing this, Jim felt more alone than ever.

  Despite the closure the service brought, Jim's dreams would be haunted by the final image of his wife as she stood among the living dead. For years, he'd awake with the sheets soaked in sweat and the stink of her decayed body in his nostrils. In time, the nightmares would fade, but until then, they were just another thing he'd learn to live with.

  After the service, Jim and Jarvis stood on the church lawn. The sky was steel blue as rain drizzled from bloated clouds. An unseasonably cool breeze blew from the north. Given the circumstances, it was a perfect day.

  "I'm sorry about the bar,” Jim said. Even after two weeks, the air was still heavy with the stink of fire.

  "It's not your fault,” Jarvis replied. His arm was in a sling. He had dislocated his shoulder, and even though Doc Addlerson had popped it back into place, the muscles around the joint were stretched enough that, without the added support, it could dislocate again. Doc said in a couple of days it would be healed enough that the sling could come off. “The bar was insured. I'll get more than enough to rebuild. It'll be like the Six Million Dollar Man. I'll rebuild it. I'll make it bigger—better than it was before."

  Jim tried to chuckle, but found he couldn't. He didn't have the energy.

  The rain came down harder, and Jim pulled the collar up on his jacket. “Seems like all it does is rain these days."

  They were silent for a moment. Maybe they were reflecting about the past; maybe they were thinking about the future. Then, Jarvis said, “Timothy's giving up the preachin’ business. Diane's memorial was his last."

  "Really? Why?"

  "After everything that's happened, he says he can't do it anymore."

  "Has he lost his faith?"

  "No, he still believes. He just doesn't believe strong enough to lead others."

  "Sometimes a man's gotta do what he thinks is best."

  "And what're you gonna do, Jim? What do you think is best?"

  "I dunno. I'd like to stick around. I've gotten to like this town. I feel like I belong here, like I'm part of it."

  "You are part of it, Jim, in more ways than you can imagine."

  "But I can't go on staying at your place indefinitely."

  "You're right. You can't. But you can stay until you find your own place, no matter how long that takes."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  Timothy came out of the chapel wearing a pair of blue jeans, a green T-shirt, and an unbuttoned navy raincoat. It was the first time Jim or Jarvis had ever seen the preacher without his collar.r />
  "What's up?” Timothy asked. He hunched his shoulders, trying to prevent the rain from falling down his back. “You two look like a couple of drenched rats standing here in the rain."

  "Jim'll be staying with me for a while. Until he gets settled. Until he finds a place of his own."

  Timothy turned to Jim. “Yeah?"

  "Yeah.” Jim smiled.

  "What about the books?” Jarvis asked.

  "They're gone,” Tim replied.

  "So, it really is over,” Jim said.

  "It is for us.” Timothy looked up at the sky. By the looks of things, the rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon. “Whatdaya say we go to my place and have a couple of beers?"

  "I could go for that,” Jarvis replied. “Jim?"

  "Sure. Why not."

  The trio walked to Jarvis's truck. A writer, a barkeep, an ex-minister.

  All friends.

  Forever.

  Epilogue

  Ten Years Later

  Plainfield, Wisconsin

  Once the interment was over, Father Mallard returned to his small, country parish. It had been an exhausting day. Funerals were always difficult, especially when the deceased was a child. And such a young one at that. Seth Christianson was only six years old.

  Seth was climbing the craggy, old maple tree in his backyard, when he slipped and fell. His neck snapped on impact, and he died instantly. Accidental. That's what the coroner's report said, but Mallard didn't quite believe it. He thought the boy was pushed.

  The priest took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his balding head. With his left index finger, he poked his glasses back up on his nose. It was too hot for the last week of October.

  Mallard walked across the darkened nave, stopping briefly at the altar to light a candle for the boy. He proceeded to his small office at the back of the church, snapped on the light, and had to hold onto the doorknob to keep from collapsing.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus,” the priest mumbled through a mouth that felt full of sand. “Give me strength."

  Open on his desk, was a thick, leather-bound book about the size of a Bible. Across one of its ancient, yellowed pages, a single sentence was written in ink as red as blood...