A Weaving of Ancient Evil

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  “What are we going to do?” Julia asked wearily.

  “We get out of here, that’s what.” Fields was adamant.

  Robert swept his mind through the research centre; there were many responses, but he knew they were all one. They were all Michael playing games as he had always done; only this time they weren’t children playing pretend dare or die.

  Fields stood in front of Robert. “Look. Maybe we were called here, or whatever, but the truth is she’s exhausted.” He indicated Julia, who was slouched on the ground. “And I’m no better. Everyone else is dead, for Christ’s sake. I’m no hero. Let’s get out of here.”

  Robert nodded his head. “You can try, but I doubt we can.” He put his arms around Julia to try to comfort her. She felt soft and scared; he immediately thought of Rebecca and his last remaining fund of strength dissolved.

  “Let’s try that jeep.” He pointed firmly enough but his voice trembled.

  The jeep wouldn’t start. They ran to another by a side gate but that wouldn’t start either.

  “There must be others.” Julia was aware her voice was pleading.

  “They’ll all be dead as well,” Fields admitted. “We’ll have to walk.”

  “All the way to the city?”

  “Let’s just get out of here.”

  As they reached the gate they looked back at the research centre’s buildings. The lights went out as if someone had been waiting for them to look. Fields swore under his breath and turned to the gate, but Robert held his arm. “I think the fence might be electrified.”

  “Surely all the power is cut off?”

  Robert pointed to a line of dead animals arranged almost deliberately along the perimeter of the wire fence. He took off his shoe and threw it at the fence; there was a flash of blue light and a crackling that deafened for a moment.

  “It’s getting cold. Does anyone else think it’s getting cold?” Julia asked.

  For a while they stood looking through the gates to a freedom that was a tantalising glimpse away. Robert took control. “There’s no point standing out here. Let’s get back inside, see if we can rig up a generator for heat and light; maybe get a telephone or radio to work.”

  They re-entered the darkened centre, their footsteps echoing around the cold corridors, their words spoken in hushed whispers. They tried various telephones but none of them worked; they tried e-mail, fax, but nothing worked – they were cut off.

  Working as a team, using their mind powers under Robert’s guidance, they rigged a makeshift generator in the canteen, and arranged some lighting, and got a cooker to work.

  While Fields and Julia cooked, Robert told them again the history he had with Michael, the entity he believed his brother had become, and he coached them in the use of their own powers, and how they could use them as a team.

  Francine Fields pulled the blue gown over her head and smoothed out the lines.

  “How does it look, Chris?”

  Chris Fields glanced away from his own reflection in the vanity mirror and grunted an incomprehensible reply. He had married Francine three years earlier and she always looked good, that was one of the reasons he had married her.

  They were dressing for a Beverley Hills party. Fields was thirty, and getting nowhere; a bit part actor on TV, a few commercials, a part time comic in the local clubs. His dreams of success were floundering and he was getting desperate. Tonight’s party was a big chance; there were important people there and he needed to impress them.

  “Why did we have to hire a limousine, Chris? What’s wrong with our car?”

  “Ours? Be serious. It’s all image Fran. I can walk home on stilts or on hand and knee but I need to arrive in style. You can only arrive once, and the important thing is for the big people to see me arrive.”

  “Me? It’s always ‘me’. What happened to ‘us’?”

  “It’s a tough business I’m in baby, and I have to be tough to win. What have you ever done for my career? Tonight could be my big chance to meet the right people.”

  Francine started to cry. “That’s unfair; my job pays the rent.”

  “Secretarial work!”

  “A steady nine to five, Chris. It buys the food, keeps us going.”

  Fields stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. He didn’t want her spoiling her looks for the party by crying. Francine sniffed back the tears and re-applied some make-up. Fields let her go and stood in front of his mirror again; he looked good.

  The party was well under way as the limousine dropped them off. The arrival was everything he’d hoped for. As they walked up the marble steps, coloured fountains playing on either side, music from the Hollywood mansion washed over them. People were seated on the steps and Fields waved and called to them; false familiar friends.

  “Who was that?” Francine asked as fields called out ‘hello’ to yet another stranger.

  “Who knows? As long as they remember the face they may do me some good later.”

  The party spread through the mansion; there was wild laughter, naked couples jumping or being thrown into the pool. A bar curved around the entire side of the main room, and every imaginable drink was available. Busy too were the smaller tables laid out with discreet but openly available bowls of powder and pills.

  Everyone was there, each putting on an Oscar act; smiles, more smiles, cleavages flashing, uplifts, tucks, rebuilds. Here was the community of the beautiful, and the more expensive the more well regarded the job. Francine felt ill at ease, but fields hopped from foot to foot, feeling the atmosphere and loving it, oblivious to his wife’s discomfort. Here was his opportunity, his chance to join the club, the select few…over by the terrace window, if he wasn’t mistaken…yes; it was Larry Brock, the agent who handled some of the biggest comedy names in the business. Fields steered Francine in his direction.

  “Mr Brock? How are you, nice to see you.”

  Brock was a small man with black bushy hair, an expensive tan, and a suit that was even more expensive. He turned tired cold eyes onto Fields. “Do I know you?” His voice was almost devoid of his native Bronx accent.

  “Mr Brock, it’s a pleasure. Chris Fields. My wife, Francine, isn’t she gorgeous?”

  Francine nervously held out her hand to the man. Brock looked her up and down, caressing her breasts with his eyes, a spark of interest rubbing away his natural veneer of boredom. “Charmed,” he murmured.

  Francine smiled at Brock. He seemed a little shy, though Chris hadn’t noticed, which was typical of him. He went on talking; nervous she supposed. Then she realised Brock was still holding her hand; that was nice.

  Fields had seen the way Brock looked at Francine, and the way he was still holding onto her hand. There was an angle here; something he could use. “Is your wife here, Brocky?” Brock immediately dropped Francine’s hand.

  “She couldn’t make it tonight, I’m afraid. Visiting her mother in Tulsa.”

  “Too bad. Here let me get you another drink.”

  As Chris wandered off, Brock took Francine’s hand again. “Noisy man your husband.”

  “He means well,” Francine said. “He’s a comic and he wants to hit it big.”

  “They all do. Is he any good?” Brock had let his hand drop against her leg and he was stroking her.

  “Don’t be shy, Francine. You’re a lovely lady, and I don’t think your husband appreciates you.”

  Francine couldn’t help be flattered by Brock’s direct approach. Chris was obviously impressed with him; perhaps she could do something to help his career after all. Maybe if she played along with Brock it might work to Chris’s advantage.

  Fields had no intention of returning with drinks; he thought he would leave the two of them together to see what developed. Besides there were plenty of other people at the party who might be able to help his career; he just had to meet them.

  The party moved on; when it was time to leave Francine looked around for Chris but she couldn’t find him. She started to get angry. Brock asked her w
hat was wrong and offered to take her home; especially as he confided, untruthfully, that he thought he had seen Fields leave with that redhead from the game-show about an hour or two back. Perhaps he was just giving her a lift home and would come back for Francine?

  Francine had been drinking all night, and now she began to drink some more. She could easily believe that Chris had gone off with some woman; it wouldn’t be the first time. The drunker she got the more outrageously she flirted with Brock.

  They collected their coats and left.

  Next morning at seven, Fields rang Brock’s home. The ‘phone rang and rang; he could imagine Brock and Francine lying in a huge bed, an empty bottle on the floor…the ringing stopped. It was Brock.

  “Who the…”

  “Brocky. Chris Fields here.”

  “Who? Oh…”

  “Can I speak to my wife, please?”

  “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “You had a good time, Brocky? Your own wife away so you borrow mine. No problem.”

  “My wife…a divorce would ruin…”

  “As I said, Brock, no problem. I think we can do a deal here.”

  “A deal...sure, clubs, contracts. You want work, don’t you?”

  “Send my wife home, Brocky, and we can talk tonight. I want the big time, and you are my passport there.”

  “You’ve got talent, Fields, I’m sure; you’ll go all the way.”

  “I intend to.”

  Francine arrived home later that morning; tired and guilty. Nothing Fields wanted was too much trouble for her; he became more and more unreasonable but she didn’t mind. He never once asked her where she had spent the night of the party. She was surprised when he told her a few days later that Brock was taking him on as a client; and she was embarrassed when Brock began to visit their house but gradually Fields begun to hit big. The clubs got bigger and richer, there were TV slots, an album a series, talk of feature films. They moved house to a bigger place.

  Suddenly he was one of the top five comedy names in the country. He dropped Brock when another agent, Marty Fontaine, bigger and with a better offer, came along. It had taken five years but it was the moment Brock had waited for. He rang Francine when he knew Fields wouldn’t be there and told her all about the deal that had been made. Described how Francine had been used.

  When Fields came home that night Francine was waiting for him.

  “Is it true?” She knew of course that it was.

  Fields laughed. “Sure it’s true. I got what I wanted, and you did all right out of it too.”

  “You used me!”

  “I prostitute myself every time I go on stage; with my talent I just needed the break. You were it.”

  She spat at him and he slapped her across the face. He grabbed his jacket and left the house. When he returned Francine was lying on the bed, a bottle and some pills next to her. The note said ‘I loved you once, but you only loved yourself. I’m sorry about that.’

  He burned the note, called the police, and enjoyed his success.

  The intimate atmosphere created by Fields reminiscences was beginning to get claustrophobic. The canteen was eerily silent save for the low chugging of the generator. The light it gave was bright, but it flickered every so often.

  Julia laid her hand over Fields’. She didn’t know what to say, and Fields sensed he had made them both uncomfortable.

  “I think I’ll just stretch my legs in the corridor.”

  Robert held up his hand. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I just need to clear my head. Ten minutes at most; keep track of me through here.” He tapped his finger to the side of his head and gave a tight smile.

  After Fields left Julia and Robert sat in silence for a while.

  Fields had never felt so alone. He had lived all his life with nameless fears that had induced headaches, blackouts, and those strange flashes he had grown accustomed to; but now Robert had given a name to it, and explained what it was he felt as if he was losing control over it.

  The thing that seemed to be roaming the centre…suddenly he heard music. Perhaps Julia had found a radio that worked…no, the music was coming from the opposite direction to the canteen. He walked towards the music and found it was coming from the cinema room. Standing outside he could hear the music clearly; it was the kind he might hear at the clubs before he appeared on stage.

  The door to the cinema opened, to reveal an interior where the rows of seats had been ripped out and now stood in clusters around tables. The chairs and tables were intimately lit, and surrounded a small dance floor. Where the screen had been was a spot lit stage. At the tables people were drinking, eating and laughing; one or two couples were smooching on the dance floor; waiters were carrying trays of drinks around.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  The music was getting louder. He looked at the woman who had spoken to him. It was the pretty blonde from Las Vegas, blood still staining her breasts.

  “I said, ‘would you like to dance?’”

  He found himself leading her onto the dance floor. She danced real close to him, ‘it’s okay, honey’, and her perfume wafted into his nostrils, heady and cloying.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Fields snorted. “What do you think we’re doing?”

  He looked down at her pretty face but it was gone. White parchment skin, creased like tissue paper covered where her features should have been. He pushed her away and she fell to the floor, where she writhed in time with the music. The music was getting louder, but no one else seemed to notice. As he watched the woman on the floor the skin on her face began to crack, splitting open like dry earth. A black tongue protruded from the crack where her mouth should have been. Her hands were changing into grotesquely formed claws with black curving nails. Her body was swelling, the seams of her dress splitting against the pressure. Instead of pure white flesh being revealed there was black wrinkled skin, resembling very creased cloth. The parchment covering her face was gone, and beneath was a hideous mask of swollen lumps and sores. There were no eyes, but the thing was struggling to its feet, holding out its parodies of arms.

  “Curtain, Mr Fields.”

  The words were spoken into his ear by a maroon jacketed man at his elbow who was pointing to the stage. “You’re on Mr Fielding.”

  “Fields. It’s Fields.”

  The stage was brightly lit, the curtains pulled back, a stool in centre stage, highlighted by the spot, a mike standing in front. He looked for the woman but she was gone; all he could see were eager faces at tables, all waiting for him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. All the way from Las Vegas, please give it up for Chris Fieldssssssssss.”

  Fields found himself walking up the two steps onto the stage and the spotlight hit him between the eyes. The band quietened, the people hushed. He was on.

  “Good evening ladies and…no don’t stop that’s my probably funniest. Listen I’m frightened of my entire act…no, dentists, I’m scared of Mickey Mouse. Have you ever tried to get through without opening your mouth? I mean oral hygiene...who needs Francine? Hey, Brocky, how was she?”

  “This guy’s a joke, not his act.”

  Fields laughed into the microphone; his head was spinning, and he was hot, the sweat pouring down his back. He looked into the spotlight and it became the burning eye of the sun and he was a prisoner in a pit.

  “My wife’s name was Francine and I killed her. That’s right I took the booze and the pills and I shoved them down her throat. I wish I had told her I loved her.”

  “Loved you too, Chris.” a voice called from the audience.

  “Fran? Is that you?”

  The stage descended into darkness as all the lights went out. Fight it, Fields told himself, fight it; use your power to call the others. A light flickered in the audience, a cigarette lighter. “Hold it still.” It was Francine’s voice.

  “Fran?”

  The band started to play again, a medley of Sinatra so
ngs. He felt someone by his side; it was the blackened woman-thing. He tried to push it away but it clung to his leg. Gradually all the lights came back on and the audience was quietly going about their business, eating drinking, having a good time.

  “Hey, listen to me; I’m Chris Fields.”

  They all ignored him; until one by one they turned to stare at him. They all had bright blue eyes.

  “Would you like to dance?” It was Francine’s voice coming out of the gaping lipless mouth of the thing draped around him. He tried to push her away, and the audience started to laugh. He was screaming but the more he struggled the more they howled with laughter. Tears were rolling down some of their faces.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “This isn’t an act.”

  But they weren’t listening to him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for an absolute jerk, a total asshole.”

  “No, wait I didn’t mean to kill her. I’m sorry.”

  Then there was silence and he was looking out over a ruined cinema, bodies strewn over the rows of seats, drying blood on the floor, the screen slashed, bodies everywhere. He was alone on stage.

  Julia and Robert ran into the insanity.

  The bodies in the cinema were starting to twitch. The screen was showing a film. It showed a dark city street. There was no soundtrack; rubbish was strewn about, streetlights were broken, buildings on fire. The dark street was empty except for shadowed alleys where shapes moved. Along the street a little boy was walking.

  “That’s Matt!” Julia cried out. “That’s my son.”

  Fields was sitting in the front row, a box of popcorn in his hand. “They’re waiting for him.”

  On screen Matt was looking for someone in the street. A sleek black saloon car eased itself from the kerb, tyres whirring on the rain soaked street. It glided almost noiselessly, its engine purring softly like a contented cat. From behind its heavily tinted windows four pairs of eyes watched Matt.

  The car began to move slowly towards the little boy.

  Fields began laughing. “Who’s in the car? This is better than the late, late show.”