Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  She approaches the hogan, weapon drawn. Inching closer and closer. Looking more and more timid with every step. She slowly disappears into the hogan. I ready my machine pistol, chambering a round. I check the rear mirrors for movement, any movement. With my hand grasping my pistol I eye the door. Moments go by, minutes even, and nothing moves around the house. All is quiet, like a graveyard.

  A scream breaks the late afternoon sun. Karen appears, pulling the child behind her. The child is mortified with fear, screaming a terrible scream, her arms covering her chest. Karen pulls her toward our patrol truck, and she lashes out. Karen grabs her by the waist and thrusts her into the rear seat, slams the rear passenger door, and jumps into the front passenger seat. “Go!”

  I put the truck into gear and leave a cloud of dirt behind. The child screams, cries, and claws about. I press on concentrating on the road and the turns ahead, driving quickly on loose dirt and moist sand.

  “Child, it’s Auntie Karen, remember me? You’re going to be OK, I promise!” Karen also looks mortified, tearful, and anxious. She looks at me with a desperate gaze, a disturbed soul’s gaze. “Courage, it’s ugly in there.”

  “Yes, courage.” I return, driving fast and looking behind me in the rearview mirror, a cloud of dust lingers. In the distance, a dark figure emerges, appearing closer and closer. “Damn! What is that thing following us?”

  Karen looks back. “Oh no! It’s coming! Go faster! Faster!” She glances down and points to the floor. “Is that the other powder from Taylor?”

  “Yes!” The vehicle seems to travel nearly uncontrollably. At the next turn we tumble as the entity now appears just behind our truck.

  In the sideview mirror is a madman, in the mirror is the face of an unnatural act. A compromise of an evil motive and a disturbed fantasy come alive. It moves quickly as if not to make contact with the ground. Its arms blur with awesome speed hunched over like an animal. Its face pale and frowning, its eyes lucid and raised. It bares its teeth, shouting and growling, almost biting at the rear bumper.

  “It’s right outside now!” I dare no longer look, the sight so horrific that my senses slowly begin to fail me.

  “Get it on this side, so I can shoot it!” Karen hangs out of the window, firing round after round.

  “Get back in here!” I pull her back to her seat. “Make sure the child is strapped in, now!”

  Karen struggles with a screaming child while I drive at speed with the devil chasing.

  “Hurry up!” I yell.

  “OK! She’s good! Oh my God! Now there’s a second one!”

  “Strap in, quickly!” I tell Karen.

  In the distance beyond our predator is another shadow in our dusty trail. “When I stop, you dust yourself with Taylor’s mojo then fire at will! Ready?” Karen nods and tightens her seatbelt.

  I put my full weight on the brake pedal, and a massive force strikes the patrol vehicle. Vast and powerful as if another larger vehicle is there, we are thrown violently around against our seatbelts. Karen reaches into our reservoir and pats ash on her shoulders and her face. I hand her my MP5 machine pistol, with the safety disengaged and extra magazines. She goes out to meet the devil.

  Machine gun fire erupts from the rear of the truck as I reach for ash and unbuckle my seat belt. The devil screams and hisses, yet lives. The impacts of the high projectiles stagger him, but he still stands, hissing and clawing. I climb out and face him. I aim for his head. His head bounces on his right shoulder with each round. I hear Karen reloading. I steady and fire at its left eye socket. He looks at me momentarily. I aim for its heart and fire. The devil ripples like still water disturbed, staggering backward but then recovers. Karen starts firing again and the devil runs. Covering a hundred yards in a fantastic blur. I grab the scoped rifle.

  “Over there, by that dune near those bushes.” Karen’s voice shakes as she points.

  Through the scope, I see a man, wounded and dying, bloodied and marred. He shouts blasphemy as a large contorted black dog then attacks him, grasping his arm then thrashing him about viciously. He effortlessly overpowers the dog, throwing it at a distance, and then runs away in a blur. The massive dog regains its footing and runs in the other direction.

  “Shit, there are others?” I situate the rifle firmly into my shoulder. “And who is that dog?”

  “The other one, oh shit!” Karen pulls my arm. In the distance on the road we’ve come from stands a shadow, a void in our vision field, a blur that weaves with the afternoon sun. We see him but only to look a measure to the right or the left, not directly at it. I kneel on one knee and aim through the scoped rifle, steadying myself. I see nothing.

  “Heads up!” Karen pulls me up.

  Overhead, a massive shadow flies over and lands with an earth-shaking thud onto a dried-up streambed that parallels the dirt road. Karen dashes to the truck cab, gets more ammo and starts off toward the sound of the landing. There are now two more voids beside the shadow on the road, yet through the rifle scope, there is still nothing.

  “Karen! We need to go! We’re outnumbered!” I look behind me for any sign of a massive black dog or any abnormal movements. “Karen? Karen!”

  Only her upper body is visible from a great commotion at the streambed.

  “Karen!” I yell keeping an eye on the shadows on the road. “Karen!”

  She fires her gun, again and again as the sound of semi-auto fire echoes. She pulls leather items and starts back to the road, dragging a carcass of a dead bird behind. She holds the items with her hand wrapped in a paper towel.

  “Karen! Into the truck! We have to go!” I say.

  She dumps a handful of ash on the leather items and sets them ablaze. They burn with sparkles of amber orange.

  “Karen…” The center shadow now seems closer. Through the scope, there is nothing still. Karen slams her door. I rush to the driver’s side and climb in.

  From the streambed are the noises of a person choking, the gargling of a drowning, then a deafening scream, a frantic scream. I put the truck into drive and mash my foot on the accelerator pedal. In the distance a man-like figure appears running after the truck, where its head would be is an orange flame. As the vehicle moves on, the fire seems to overtake the figure, until it falls and disappears into the dust. I pull the truck onto the main paved road and head for the church. Karen turns to the child, now quiet, clutching her knees to her face.

  The Chief of Police enters the church dining room where I sit pawing at my aching joints and muscles. “Steve, Karen says you did well out there, well done. An EMT is on his way from Dilcon. Let him look at you, too. File your report. I want it by 10:00 pm.” The Chief walks off and out the door. Karen emerges.

  We sit in silence. “So, what happens now? Tonight is the first night of Gladys’s wake, we have three days still.” I tell Karen. I motion toward the small memorial by the dining hall entrance. “I didn’t think she’d be this involved in the Nelson craft. Little has remained of her upper torso and head. That fire did a lot of damage.”

  Karen looks wearily at the stove in the middle of the church’s dining hall. “We do what we’re told. We don’t ask too many questions, I guess.”

  Pastor interrupts, “Kids, come eat. We have mutton stew and tortillas.”

  “Well, we don’t have to be back at the station until tomorrow.” I say, “Might as well before the people show up again.” We make our way to the kitchen for a large bowl of mutton stew and a tortilla.

  “Tea or coffee.” The short woman looks at me then at my sidearm.

  “Tea, please, thanks.” I return. We get our food and sit at a dining table away from the stove. Pastor joins us. “Pastor, how is the child?”

  “She was given a bath and now sleeping. Poor child,” Pastor says.

  “It’s strange that we have to bring them here, to a church for them to be safe,” I say.

  “It’s not strange at all, Son. This is a place of worship, the Lord’s temple. God lives here. And he is greater than a
ny evil that exists out there, especially that kind.”

  “It seems to be working. Good job, Pastor. You work that mojo.” I sip my tea.

  “You, too, Son. I pray for you both every day. May the Lord be with you both always, every day.” Pastor walks back to the kitchen.

  “Years ago, these things were only out at night scaring people down I-40, now in bright daylight they roam about,” I say and sip my tea. “Back then they only scared people. Now they’re killing people. Why can’t they just go back to the night and not kill anybody?”

  We sit in silence.

  “The flying guy, what happened there?” I ask.

  Karen is silent for several minutes. “His face was contorted, like those pictures you see of people with leprosy, just ugly and twisted.”

  We sit in silence for several more moments.

  “Are you going to be OK?” I ask Karen.

  “Yeah, every time I close my eyes, I see it. Like his upper left jaw was somehow shoved to where his cheekbone supposed to be, blood coming out of his mouth and nose.”

  “Like he crash-landed on his face or like it was like that before?” I ask.

  “Like he was like that before. His shoulder was flat. His whole right side was flat. I think that happened when he landed, that side was crushed inward, his shoulder was way down here and his arm was halfway off. It was ugly. I could hear bones crunching. It was just ugly.” Karen shakes her head.

  “The three on the road were closing in, and the dog that tried to take down the guy you shot up.” I recall.

  “And Pastor’s holy fucking bullets did nothing.” Karen glances in the direction Pastor walked off to.

  “Actually, it stopped them. You took down one of those things. They worked. When he looked at me, I shot him in the heart. It knocked him back.”

  “I emptied a full clip on him.” Karen continues, “That’s a lot of 9mm. Lots of brass still out there on the road.”

  I motion to Pastor, “Hey Pastor,” I lower my voice, “Can we get more of your… umm…Holy bullets? Please? More of the 9mm?”

  “Holy Bullets?” Pastor winces.

  The evening sun harnesses the cold even more. The skies grow dark, and the moon hides behind fast flowing clouds that seem to be escaping to the south. There is misery in these frigid temperatures.

  In the church dining hall gather more relatives of the late Gladys Monroe. Some direct family members, some distance clan relatives, and others make an appearance for the sake of making an appearance, for the free food, and for the banter that will ensue based on the conflicting opinions of a rather enthusiastic and hungry gathering. There are those that attend this church and prayed for her conversion to Christianity. There are others that clearly wanted her death. No one will outright proclaim what everyone else is thinking collectively, but it is a known fact. Strong witchery is alive here on the first day of Gladys Monroe’s wake as the Nelson family arrives. Everyone sits uneasy as a sinister darkness tangibly walks into the church dining room.

  Pastor begins the meeting wishing everyone well and praying. I scan the crowd. Taylor’s children are present, three men and one woman with their families. The women weep quietly.

  I motion to Pastor for a quiet conversation. “Pastor, I’m going to be leaving now. I’ve had a long day. Thanks for the food, bye,” I say.

  “Please stay, we need you here,” Pastor says.

  “I haven’t slept well at all in the past week. If I have to sit here, I’m done. I’m snoring, and I don’t care who sees. I need to go,” I tell Pastor.

  Pastor sighs. “There is a couch in the foyer. The portable heater is on so use your jacket as a pillow.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I motion to Karen, she follows me to the hall toward the foyer.

  “You’re not leaving, are you? Half of that crowd out there is in on this. We can’t prove it, but they are. Maybe the guy we shot up is sitting out there, too.” Karen mutters loudly.

  “Shhhh!” I pull her into the foyer. “Lower your voice, everyone can hear you. I’ll be here on this couch. Wake me if anything happens.”

  She looks at the couch. “Two hours, then it’s my turn.”

  I sit and take off my boots. “You think half of that crowd is part of it?”

  “Yeah, did you see the way the Nelson boys were looking at us? They know something, and the short one is limping badly on his right leg. And the cousin, the rancher, isn’t even coming in. He’s out in his truck. He’s afraid of Pastor, I think, or he’s just a little shit and doesn’t want to show his face.”

  “They wouldn’t try anything here, would they?” I ask.

  “Hard to say, Keller. Hard to say,” Karen pats her sidearm. “They just might get stupid and try something.”

  “I’ll make sure Pastor’s surveillance is working before I take a nap. Where is Holden?”

  “Protecting Rebecca. He’s in there with some prayer people and his wife.” Karen returns.

  “Is that a fact?” I pause my boot removal.

  “Yes, I’ll be back in two hours.” Karen raises two fingers then marches off with the authority of an arctic hurricane and a tropical blizzard combined.

  I make my way to Pastor’s communications closet. Everything seems to be working, no amber LEDs blinking, no alerts beeping. I check in on Holden. They are coloring pictures with Christmas music on in the background. We share a nod. Holden wears a Santa hat. I return to the couch.

  I take off my jacket, roll it into a ball, shove my pistol under it and gaze at the wall and the pictures of holiday greetings. One has Santa with a war bonnet in place of his red and white hat. I lay down and drift off slowly.

  “Mister! They need you in there!” A child pokes at my arm. Mourners rush by toward the chapel away from the dining hall. “Mister!” The young child pulls at my arm.

  “I’m up. I’m up. I’ll be there. What’s going on?” The child disappears down the hall toward the kitchen. More people are rushing out toward the chapel. I put my boots on quickly, re-holster my sidearm, and start toward the dining hall carrying my jacket. Karen meets me halfway.

  “The short Nelson kid, he’s freaking out. He’s got voices coming out of him,” Karen relays.

  “Voices?” I ask, skeptical.

  “It’s just wrong,” she says with folded arms.

  I enter the dining hall to Pastor in a duel with the Nelson kid. Pastor holds a bible in one hand, and his arm extended at the Nelson kid. No one sits, everyone stands gazing at the duel. The Nelson brothers stand looking defiant, strong and resilient, almost mockingly. The mourners have traded their sad faces for ones of terror, fleeing to the chapel ushered by the associate pastors and choir staff.

  “I will kill you!” The voice from the Nelson kid is not that of a teen. It is strong, authoritative, and vast. “I will tear your heart out and feast on it! You’re weak and frail!” It laughs. Its face is contorted, straining to the right side but eyes parted and raised, smiling, as a devil would smile. Hunched slightly with arms hanging downward to the ground, it swings its arms as it starts raising its foot to walk.

  “I come before you with the authority that is in the name of Jesus Christ! The Lord of Lords and the King of Kings! To whose name you will bow to, demon!” Pastor returns loudly.

  The kid laughs again mockingly and attempts to raise its arms.

  “Put your arms down, demon!” Pastor commands.

  The Nelson kid waddles toward the stove sideways, keeping a fixed distance with the Pastor.

  “You will keep those arms down in the name of Jesus, I command you!” Pastor continues.

  The Nelson kid laughs again, inching toward the stove, closer than one should ever be to a very warm stove.

  “You will die! I hate you! I hate you!” It laughs loudly, now inches from the hot stove. The smell of burning cotton and polyester starts to fill the dining room.

  “I will summon the Lord of Hosts to come torment you, demon!” Pastor says.

  “Send for your angels! I fea
r them not!” It laughs again.

  “Steve.” Someone pulls on my arm as I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “What?” My voice is unnecessarily loud. “What is it?”

  “There’s also something going on outside,” says the short woman who wears a gravy-soiled apron. “Hurry. She’s out there.”

  I scurry back to the foyer. “Karen?”

  “She’s outside!” The short woman points.

  I can hear shots being fired in the church parking lot.

  I pull out my sidearm and head for the side door. “Everybody down! Now! On the floor! Now!”

  I exit the chapel. The associate pastor is struggling to get up from the ground. Karen fixes her sights on one of the Nelson boys while another lays on the cold ground. Steam slowly rises from his mouth and the bullet wounds in his chest, he had fallen by his truck next to his rifle.

  I fix my sights on the standing Nelson as he marches forward and picks up the rifle. I quickly scan the shadows around us for anyone else. To the left toward the dining hall is a bullet hole in the door window. The commotion inside the church continues.

  “Drop the gun! I’ll kill you, too!” Karen aims at the standing Nelson while motioning me to her right. I take a quick gander about. The frightened lot have scattered, into the night or into the church. “Drop the gun! I’ll shoot! Drop the gun!”

  “Fucking woman, you’re good for only one thing, making threats is not it.” The standing Nelson defies Karen and cycles the bolt on the rifle, chambering another round. “Stupid woman!”

  “Drop the gun! On the ground!” Her voice echoes into the night.

  The defiant Nelson smiles. “What if I give it to you, here. I’ll hand it to you, you stupid woman!” He slowly starts toward Karen, holding the rifle stock in front with the barrel into his chest. “Here, take it out of my hand, stupid woman! I’ll make you beg for it, you stupid woman!” He continues toward Karen smiling.