Scarecrow Gods

by Weston Ochse

  “Brother,” he said, finding his voice.

  She stared at him, plainly confused.

  “I’m not a Father,” he explained. “Not a priest, that is. I’m a Brother, an Alexian Brother. Is Billy going to be all right?”

  “He’s in good hands, sir. There’s nothing you can do now. Bringing him here probably saved his life.”

  A commotion from the room made him turn around. Two people ran in, one ran out. He heard the unrelenting whine of a heart monitor and knew the worst. He felt a pain in his heart. He’d been so close to saving Billy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost. Just as Simon had discovered who the man really was, the man had found death.

  “Sir? Brother? Excuse me, but we need to fill out some forms.” She touched Simon’s elbow again, attempting to get his attention again. “I know it doesn’t sound important, but it is. We could use his medical history, if you have it.”

  He gazed at the half open door of the room, reluctant to look away. A tall man with an air of authority entered the room and shut the door behind him. There was a glass, triangular-shaped window, but Simon was too far away to see in. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, wishful thinking or if he’d really heard it, but he thought that before the door closed, he’d heard the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Simon said aloud a short prayer.

  There was some hope at least. Reluctantly, he turned to the nurse. Her nametag read R. Maclin, RN.

  “I’m sorry, nurse.”

  “That’s fine. Now, if we can get started. What’s the patient’s name?”

  “Billy Bones,” said Simon. Then he corrected himself. “Sorry, I mean William R. Geddes.” He pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. The reason he’d gone looking for Billy, this paper represented the man’s redemption. If only he could get the chance to deliver it.

  Simon was able to answer most of the nurse’s questions, including home address and employer. Who would have thought that the babbling Dirty Bird who picked through the trash every day, talked to himself, and growled at shopping carts was, in truth, an actual rocket scientist with Raytheon.

  * * *

  Paradise Valley, Arizona

  The thorns of the ocotillo bushes dripped green, winking moonlight reflections in the night. The bursage and bear grasses had become a vertical plain of knives split only by the monstrous creeping violence of a yucca or the insinuative prowling of the prickly pear cactus. These too were trapped in the green light of his vision; as was the sky, a vast palate of vague swirls, green upon green upon green, indiscernible and distant. The moon was impossibly bright. A security lamp for God’s plot, it was the moon that lit up the darkness augmented by the government-issued Starlight Scope, model AN/PVS-7. No longer was the night a wash of blues, deepening to purple in the shadows, nor was it red, the sand the color of old blood. With man-made technology, the scope strapped beneath Agent Gooly’s hat, soaked in all light and refined it to the putrescence of pure neon green.

  Several things bothered him right now, not the least being how he was going to afford the dormitory for his daughter in the fall. He’d been unsuccessful in his attempts to talk her into attending the University of Arizona. He’d shown her the national rankings. He’d discussed academic and athletic superiority bringing home video tapes and magazines and folders filled with personal letters from Alumni detailing their wonderful, life-altering years at the U of A. He’d done everything but hypnotize the girl and still she wouldn’t be swayed.

  It came down to two things. One, her best friend, Missy Applegate, was attending Arizona State in the fall. And two, his daughter didn’t want to live at home and be watched over by her ‘Gestapo Father who never let her have any fun anyway.’

  A rustling sound returned him to the Sonoran Desert. He adjusted the light level on the NVDs so the shadows grew deeper, improving his depth perception. A series of rough snorts erupted near where he’d heard the rustling. He went hard to a knee and pulled out his Glock 9 mm pistol. With a round already chambered, he placed his thumb on the safety release, ready to fire.

  He smelled them first, a heavy musk as the breeze shifted. Javelina—nothing else smelled that bad. He was lucky they’d made a noise and that the wind had shifted. Blood would have flown had he stumbled into a herd of them. One or two wouldn’t bother him much, but sometimes they traveled in packs. Some grew to the size of rottweilers. Their tusks pointed downwards like fangs.

  The way he saw it, he had four choices. He could stay where he was. Not a bad choice, but he didn’t particularly like being a motionless target. He could pack up his gear, get back into the van and high-tail it, he could move down into hollow of the San Pedro River, or he could go up onto the higher bank.

  Considering his longer and more agile legs, he decided to move higher up the bank. If he was going to be charged, being downhill was a bad place to be. His original intention had been to skirt the edge of the property, keeping below the level of the bank. That way, if the members of The Church of the Resurrection did have surveillance, he’d be out of sight. Like most original plans, it gave way to a B Plan. Sadly, the B Plan wasn’t fully developed past the point where The Ghoul wanted to avoid the Javelina.

  Just as he’d begun to half crawl through the bear grass up the side of the incline, a pack of seven javelinas burst from the undergrowth into the river area. There were two that looked large enough to ride. As they disappeared in the higher brush of the river’s edge, he decided that he definitely didn’t want to meet any of them face to face. He’d much rather meet a criminal or two—maybe even a hopped-up junkie. Those he could handle.

  His over efficient mind reminded him that there were also mountain lions and Mexican Grey wolves in the area, not to mention myriad species of snakes, lizards and spiders that could even now be underfoot but invisible to the unique vision of the NVDs. He suddenly hated the vividness of his imagination. He forced his thoughts back to his own problems so he could forget about the dangers.

  Was it his fault he’d busted his daughter’s boyfriend last spring? It wasn’t as if he’d placed the pound of pot in the wheel well of the boy’s Camaro. All it took was a phone call to a DEA agent he’d worked with the year before and the boy was spending the rest of his senior year on probation with enough hours of community service to ensure he didn’t have time for his daughter. She shouldn’t hold it against him, but she did, and let him know at every opportunity that she was moving up to Phoenix, which was three hours away.

  Three hours away my ass, he thought.

  The Ghoul adjusted the NVDs to a brighter level. What he lost in depth, he gained in distance. He peered over the edge of the embankment at the Church of the Resurrection. The low dormitory buildings were cast in the same green light as everything filtered through the special lenses of the NVDs. Here and there brighter squares of white lit windows, but they were few at 2 AM. The taller chapel, with its curved mushroom-shaped roof, was dark in the green light. He scanned the rooftops and building edges for any signs of surveillance.

  Nothing. It appeared as if he’d go undetected. Although he wasn’t going into the compound, and his agency was able to manipulate warrants more easily than any other, it was just easier if he was allowed to investigate on his own with no one peeking over his shoulder—especially those who were being surveilled.

  It was ironic, really. Other than an initial cursory inspection of the compound, The Ghoul hadn’t really concerned himself with the goings-on here. After the Reverend Phillips and his congregation had successfully spirited away one of the cult members, and the ensuing media attention, not to mention the immediate governmental oversight, the Church of the Resurrection had suddenly become more interesting.

  In the back rooms of the ATF, agents reminded each other of Waco and David Koresh. State and Federal officials sent recommendations for action, each one cusping an order, but never actually saying—Shut them down, before it’s too late. The cult leader had managed to broker his fate wit
h the most valuable coin of the land: fear. Everyone in the area felt it to a certain degree. Especially, after the national news crews had set up in town, titillating the world with the possibilities the new, emerging cult represented.

  Yeah, The Ghoul was interested. He’d love to bring the man down and return the misguided children back to their loving parents. He knew about alienation. He knew how the best intentions of a parent could result in the hatred of a child. He also knew how those kids could be manipulated.

  He couldn’t get the man for manipulation, but there were other things he could be found guilty of. In all the excitement, no one had investigated the explosion that had occurred. The state, county and local police forces were uninterested, especially since the explosion helped a grandmother recover her granddaughter, an event that had made everyone more than a little sappy. So that left The Ghoul to investigate. After all, with the proximity to Fort Huachuca, it was a virtual no-brainer that some well-meaning local soldiers had been involved in the theft of the explosives. And whether it was a .38 Special or a Bazooka, it was his responsibility to determine the origin, sale and manufacture.

  The Ghoul made his way back along the rear edge of the compound’s property. His jeans had several smallish tears and other than spotting a few small rodents, the remainder of his slithering, crawling journey to the compound’s back forty was uneventful.

  He had a general idea where the explosion had occurred, based on aerial photos provided by his friends at the Border Patrol, so it wasn’t long before his search revealed the jagged edges of a gaping wound in the earth. After five minutes of searching, he came upon a piece of broken, twisted metal.

  That was all he needed. He placed the metal piece in his nylon backpack and crawled backwards out of the hole. Keeping an eye out for creatures of the two and four legged varieties, he began making his way back to the road, staying as close to the way he had come as possible. It was time to return to the office so he could put out a trace for some missing U.S. Government Armament.

  The two-inch piece of metal he’d found could have only come from an M1A1 Bangalore Torpedo. Dating back to World War II, the torpedo, actually a five-foot explosive-filled tube, had been designed to clear wire obstacles and kill personnel. Although there were tens of thousands in the U.S. inventory, tracing this one would be fairly easy if the supposition that it came from Fort Huachuca was correct. If not, then the trace was Needle in a Haystack impossible.

  When he neared the place where he’d first seen the Javelina, he paused. He heard something—a rustling, a step, a moan—something. He couldn’t be sure. The desert at night was such a strange place, at times it seemed to amplify everything, making sounds that had been made miles away seem just over a rise. Other times it was as if the ground soaked up noise.

  The Ghoul sank slowly to his knees. One hand increased the brightness on the NVDs while the other readied his pistol. He scanned the area. The wind shifted and he smelled the stench of rotting meat. He quickly covered his nose with the sleeve of his windbreaker and tried not to gag.

  Javelina—perhaps this was their grotto. It was a good possibility. The place was close to a water source and probably cooler than the rest of the area. The Ghoul began to crawl up the side of the incline, careful to make as little sound as possible. He’d only managed a few feet before a cry pierced the night. The sound trebled his heartbeat. He brought his pistol up, couldn’t tell where the sound had come from. As his head whipped back and forth, the green images in the NVDs smeared. The smell of rot hung in the air.

  He turned towards the Javelina grotto. The sound came again, a high-pitched scream—this time cut off rather than trailing off.

  He counted to fifty, hoping for another sound. Even a whisper. Nothing. The night was as still as a painting. Crouching, he took a step towards where he thought the sound had come from. The steady tip of his pistol led the way. He tried to step silently, but his feet were more concerned with balance and his boot came down on the long husk of a yucca feeder.

  An explosion of action broke open the night as three huge creatures rose from the tall bear grass. The Ghoul fired three times, then rolled to his right. He slid to a stop on his stomach. A feeling began to creep over him as he replayed the events of the last two seconds in slower motion.

  “This is Agent Gooly of the ATF. If you’re in there, call out.”

  Ten seconds passed.

  “If you need help, let me know.”

  Still nothing.

  “Fuck,” he hissed. Sitting up slowly, he shrugged off his backpack. It was awkward to do one handed, but he wasn’t about to lower his pistol. Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled it out. “I say again, this is Agent Gooly of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. If you’re in there, call out.”

  Still nothing.

  He reached up, turned off the NVDs, unsnapped the goggles from the harness atop his head and placed them carefully in the backpack. Once he’d cinched the backpack shut, he began inching his way to his right. After about five feet he stopped. His left hand flipped on the portable spotlight. His right gripped the pistol.

  The Ghoul squinted as the brightness of the real light assaulted his vision. His two-dimensional world of green had been replaced by one with browns and tans and oranges, and the brilliant glistening red of fresh blood. Upon the spot-lit area of matted grass lay the still corpse of a Mexican Eagle, one of the endangered, carrion birds of the Sonoran Desert. With a wingspan of almost six feet, the thing was monstrous in size. Like the lions of Africa, it was hard to believe something so large and majestic ate the refuse of others.

  He’d shot a carrion bird, an eater of the dead. What it and the others had been doing there in the dark had nothing to do with the living. The screams he’d heard had come from an animal, probably the Mexican Eagle itself. The Ghoul began searching the area. Then he saw it—the black rubber sole of a military issue boot. Stepping forward, he shone the light full upon the body.

  The animals had gotten to what had once been a man—as had the insects and the heat of the desert sun. The left leg was still clothed in blue khaki down to the boot. The right leg was missing. A few lengths of tendon lay limp upon the sandy soil. The tattered shreds of a blue shirt lay like the hurried residue of a ripped-open package. The chest was half peeled, half eaten, the ribs had succeeded in only redirecting the terrible consumption of the man. Long gashes in the bone reminded him of the broad jaws of the Javelina with their fang-like tusks. The great cavity itself was hollow. The man’s neck had been raked clean of the soft meat. Vertebrae was all that kept the head attached. The lower jaw was missing, as was most of the skin on the face. Only small patches of skin remained, like old paper on the frame of an abandoned kite.

  This was the smell he’d mistaken for the Javelina grotto. It insinuated itself into his stomach and ripped free his last meal making him heave until gasped for air.

  He’d seen dead bodies before, but none the equal to this. Those had been gunshot or knifing victims, or the thirteen souls who’d died of asphyxiation in the back of a U-Haul as they were being smuggled from the border to Phoenix. He’d never seen someone who’d been eaten—never even imagined it.

  The light caught a glint of metal upon the tattered shirt. His instinct told him what it was before he saw it and when he did, he understood entirely. It was a badge, which meant that this body was what remained of the missing Border Patrol Agent everyone had been looking for. Bet was the man had left town, something about an investigation into improper conduct. By the location of the body, however, it was possible, even probable, that John the New Baptist was involved. The Ghoul would have to call this in. He’d have some explaining to do, but there was no getting around it.

  As he stalked back to his van on the side of the road, now taking full advantage of the light to mark his path, he formulated what he was going to say in his report. He wondered if he’d get in trouble for killing an endangered species.

  * * *

 
The Land of Inside-Out

  The Land of Inside-Out was beautiful in its own way. There was no sun. No birds singing. No flowers or vegetation. There were no toys or games. There was no noise. Before this summer when Maxom had introduced Danny to The Land, the lack of any of these would have lessened an experience.

  But that was before.

  Now, as Danny swooped and glided through the silent landscape, his opinion had changed. The great black hole of a moon, the Dark Sun as Maxom called it, was no longer as frightening. He felt its pull as if he were an earthen tide, understanding that it influenced his actions in a small way. He accepted it as part of The Land. Although he could never forget it, he was able to ignore it, leaving the bottomless depths unplumbed by his curious mind. There were also times where he actively searched for it and was gratified, like earlier when he’d gone tumbling into a mass of life pads, his first sad attempt at merging.

  Unknown to him, those pads were human and forbidden dualities. Instead of the almost magnetically polarized snap Maxom had described, Danny was repelled and, like a cue ball on the break, was sent bouncing back and forth until he eventually ended up alone, dizzy and confused. It’d been the Dark Sun that had brought him back and reminded him who he was and what he was doing.

  At first he’d been overwhelmed by the sights of The Land. Buildings, trees, even the blades of grass were cast in such harsh relief, as if their edges were sharp enough to cut the most casual onlooker. After only a short time his head had begun to ache. He felt himself returning to his body. It was then that Maxom had stepped in.

  You ain’t using the vision, are you?

  I can see. It’s just…I don’t know.

  You can see, but you aren’t using the vision.

  You’re not making any sense.

  Sure I am. Pay attention. What you’re doing is what everyone does their first time in The Land.