The Scream

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  Jake looked at her anxiously. “Will you come back down?”

  “Do you want us to?”

  “Yeah.” He feigned a smile. “I wanna see my women.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Both of you.”

  “And Ted?”

  “Oh, yeah. Maybe most of all.”

  She came to him then, pulled the towel from his hands, and brought her open lips to his. If they ever had any doubts as to the status of their love, all they had to do was kiss. Like the old saying goes: You don’t need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows.

  The wind was blowing some extremely bad ways. The bad news from the concert was doubtless still coming in, and it was apt to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.

  But the kiss was good. And that, too, would have to do.

  “Pinky and I will be right back,” she said, pulling gently away. He touched her face: an act of reverence, softly delivered. She smiled again, stepped out of his reach, and turned toward the stairs.

  In turning, her gaze swept across the snow-blind screen. It would not be so blank when she returned, she knew. He’d be rolling back the day’s noteworthy broadcasts, drinking in the atrocity, relentlessly stroking the tension that drove him. Rachel moved down the hall, smiling tiredly at Ted, who scrutinized her every move. Passed the bedroom and on toward her howling daughter’s lair.

  Again she cursed the empty side of the bed.

  And the war that she slept with instead.

  * * *

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6

  JONESTOWN, PA

  Pastor Furniss’s morning began in outrage, and got steadily more outrageous from there. Never before had he had so much righteous anger at his disposal, so much justification at his beck and call.

  Surely the day of reckoning was at hand.

  The numbers had upped since the late Saturday night reports; secular TV filled him in on that much, hours before his own program began. He paced around the kitchen in his pajamas, sucking down cup after cup of Brim while the statistics rolled in and his wife Mildred tiptoed quietly around him.

  Five more dead, thirty more listed as missing in the Rock Aid aftermath. Increasingly bizarre rumors as to what had actually happened there.

  Not the least of which came from within his own camp.

  If only he could speak it.

  No matter, he told himself. There’s more than enough. More than enough. He sat at the kitchen counter, impatiently awaiting his eggs over easy and pure pork sausages, his toasted Roman Meal Lite bread and molten Parkay, while the show began to take form in his mind.

  Breakfast was served. He shoved it down, offered perfunctory thanks, moved to the bathroom, got ready to shower. His b.m.’s were runny and vile; it burned coming out and took forever to do so. The body, rebelling as usual.

  No surprises there. It was the nature of the flesh to betray. With lust. With pestilence. With the simple passing of time. He looked at the roll of his massive belly, the tiniest protruberant hint of his flaccid genitalia, the reeking porcelain beneath, and a wave of revulsion ran through him.

  “Oh, Jesus God,” he whispered, a prayer for strength.

  Then he had squeezed out the last, and he wiped disdainfully, stood, turned away, flushed without looking. There was some aerosol air freshener on the shelf before him. He spritzed it around the room to mask the smell.

  He saw himself naked in the medicine chest mirror. It was not a pretty sight. He didn’t like thinking about his body, its slow decline into lumpish disrepair. Clothed in the finest that the Lord’s bounty could provide was another thing, yes—he looked dashing in a suit—but stripped down like this, it was more than humbling. It was humiliating.

  “Vanity,” he muttered, and turned back toward the shower. It was not fitting to dwell on his nakedness, nor to bemoan the state or the fate of the flesh. For the flesh was temporary, as was the world; when both were gone, he would linger still in the kingdom of Heaven.

  It was just that, every once in a while, he wished that He would hurry up with it.

  Because the world was crawling with sin. Oh, yes, it was. Satan was alive in every speck of matter, just waiting to drag you down, and there was no safe place to hide.

  Except in fervent prayer.

  Pastor Daniel Furniss pulled back the shower curtain, put the hot on three-quarters full, and the cold on just a tad. It would take a minute for the water pressure to build back up. He would use those moments to focus his thoughts, bring himself back into line.

  “Oh, Heavenly Father,” he began, loud enough to be heard over the water. “Grant me the courage and wisdom and power of faith in you, O Lord. Give me your blessings and your support.

  “For today I face the Enemy, and he is mighty indeed. He has brought great suffering and death to our young and then dared to turn it against us. Against you, O Lord; for when he casts aspersions onto your Faithful, he makes blasphemous mockery of your sovereignty on Earth, the testimony of the Spirit.

  “I beg you, oh Lord, to give me strength today. Cleanse me of sin and sinful thoughts. Purify me, so that I may enter into battle with the radiance of your light around me, protecting me, glorifying me as I glorify the word of your only begotten son.”

  The toilet’s burbling hiss concluded, and the shower shot up to full strength. It was as if God had spoken. He stuck his hand under the water and found that it was good.

  “Amen.” He stepped under that cleansing rain.

  But there were impurities within that neither prayer nor shower could rinse away. This became clear as soon as he closed the curtain, closed his eyes, allowed himself a moment to luxuriate.

  Thought began.

  And feeling.

  There were problems, coming into this morning’s show—problems of the world, the flesh, and the devil—not the least of which was the anti-Christian backlash stampeding through the secular media. As if Christians had anything to do with it . . . as if any decent Christian were capable of doing such a thing.

  No, they were fishing, and without bait at that. All they had going was the Kleinkind woman, who had quite obviously worked alone, and who quite clearly had no idea what was going on around her. So, essentially, they had nothing that would stick.

  Pastor Furniss, on the other hand, knew exactly who to blame.

  Unfortunately, he had nothing tangible, either.

  Because, from a practical worldly standpoint, the whole thing made no sense. Why would the rock industry want to sabotage its own mechanism, make its big statement of principles a bloody disaster? The answer was simple: No reason at all.

  But if you looked at the big picture . . . ahh. There was rhyme and reason there.

  More than enough to let him know that what he knew was truth.

  In the big war . . . the eternal war where souls lay in the balance . . . the Fallen One had very few advantages. Primary among them was deceit. The serpent had no shame and no loyalties; but it took great joy in panic and chaos, and the greatest joy of all in mocking God. Surely the already dubious credibility of the Devil’s music was worth a giant stab at the heart of Jesus.

  And if it worked, God only knew what demons could be born.

  So yes, he had no doubt: Satan was behind it, just as he was behind the whole of rock ’n’ roll. It didn’t matter whether the bands or the fans believed; it didn’t matter what they believed, in fact. Satan had them all by the short hairs. Satan worked through them, through their worldly abandon. Just as Satan used our own bodies against us and then gloried at our inevitable destruction.

  While the chaos spread.

  And the end came ever nearer.

  Of course, the question still remained: What earthly vessels did the Vile One use? Demonic culpability notwithstanding, the knives and grenades had been wielded by human hands. Whose hands, precisely, were they? And how much did they know about the Evil One they served?

  Which brought him to his own most disturbing problem.<
br />
  The girl named Mary Hatch. . . .

  Furniss became aware of the water thundering down, the pleasure it provided, the purpose it implied. He submerged his head in the spray for a moment, pulled away, wiped his eyes, reached for the Tegrin Medicated Shampoo, poured some onto his palm, massaged it vigorously into his scalp. Tegrin didn’t lather well, but within a minute the top of his head was burning and tingling. He could feel those would-be dandruff cells screaming all the way to oblivion.

  He rinsed his hands, wiped his eyes again, and reached for the soap. Ivory, same as when he was a kid. Eschewing the washcloth for the first run through, he began to soap himself down. Luxuriously.

  And thought about Mary Hatch again . . .

  Mary Hatch lay curled in the Quiet Room, face to the ceiling, staring into the light of the solitary sixty-watt bulb with her eyes open wide. Her breath was close and hot and stifling, and the thick-padded walls so close around her did nothing to alleviate it.

  Paul had put her in here for getting him in trouble with the pastor. Just her and her Bible and a chamber pot, in a soundproof, windowless padded cell the size of a small walk-in closet.

  The Quiet Room.

  She’d been in there all night, but it didn’t matter. It was stifling in there, but that didn’t matter either. She couldn’t feel it. She barely felt the hot sweat of her own body.

  Because she felt so cold inside.

  Somewhere, she thought, on the other side of all this cold, a message is waiting for me. If only I could see it, I’d know how to tell people. I’d know what to say.

  But I can’t, and I don’t.

  And—forgive me, Jesus—but I’m so goddamned scared. . . .

  One thing was for certain: Aunt Elaine was right. These people did not understand. Pastor, at least, seemed firm in his beliefs, so far as they went; but that wasn’t nearly enough. And then Paul Weissman, with the hate like a cancer within him. Jesus would have had to be a contortionist to fit on the cross that he worshipped.

  But they were only the smallest part of the cold within.

  The crux of it, she knew, lay with The Scream.

  The Scream. Just the thought of the name made her shudder, brought the images back in full-flooding Technicolor: no longer just the Diamond Bar massacre, but Rock Aid as well, the two merged inextricably by the three factors they held in common.

  The music.

  The murder.

  And the presence of Cyndi Wyler . . .

  The girl’s story was lunacy, even for a man of the Spirit. It was one thing to claim that her missing friend had shown up at Rock Aid, quite another to claim she was a walking, talking corpse. Damn that idiot Weissman! Furniss didn’t know much about mind-destroying drugs, other than the obvious connotations; but he had heard about flashbacks, and there was little doubt in his mind that Mary had gotten away from him at the concert and experienced exactly that. Probably smoked some pot or crack or God knows what! He wondered how prudent it was to allow a girl like that to remain at the Village.

  The water splished down. Still, there was something compelling about her. He thought about it as he rinsed away the soap and shampoo. Her commitment to the spirit, whatever its original inspiration, was truly impressive. Ever since she’d arrived at the Village, she’d done little other than study the Scriptures, day in and day out. That drive, that level of scholarly intent, was almost unheard of at LCV.

  That, combined with the terrible aura of sadness around her, made her an object of powerful fascination. (This he mused as he lathered up once again, this time with simple Prell.) She had experienced true Christian suffering, and its mark was upon her. It made her seem so vulnerable, so pure. . . .

  It was the smoothness of the lather, the gentle warm rushing of the water, that put the thought in his head. It was the simple fact of his nakedness, his isolation.

  It was the Devil Himself.

  Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, she had come to his arms, and the sun was shining, bright and warm, and she was naked against him, he could feel her tight young flesh against his own . . .

  “No,” he muttered, wiping and opening his eyes. The familiar pale aquamarine tiles of the shower stall greeted him, pulled him back toward safety.

  But it was too late. Too late. The seed had awakened, and every steaming molecule of air in the room was charged with that knowledge. This wasn’t like the other times, no . . . not like the sinful weakness he’d felt toward the Anderson boy (Lord, forgive me!) or any of the other times he’d yielded to the lusting of the foul animal within him. He could feel the slow stirring in his male organ, like a long-slumbering beast aroused from hibernation by the scent of fresh-killed meat.

  “No,” he repeated, and then his eyes went shut again . . .

  . . . and her long blond hair was in his hands, flush against her smooth back as he stroked its length, down to her glorious hips, the great round globes of her . . .

  “NO!” Furniss shouted, slamming his fist against the tiles. A pointless gesture. The pictures were still there, even with his eyes open: a ghost image transposed over the shower’s reality, the sight of suds cascading down his belly and to either side of his burgeoning erection . . .

  . . . and she made a little noise, so sweet, as his tongue caressed her ear, while her own hands came up and around to take and stroke him gently . . .

  He was stroking himself. He stopped, stared at the offending hand. Sweat began to form under his skin despite the water, as if, in fact, it had suddenly hiked up thirty degrees. “Dear God,” he began, “please help me. This is wrong. . . .”

  . . . and she was sliding down the length of him now to take him in her mouth . . .

  “. . . Jesus, please . . .”

  . . . her fine ripe succulent fifteen-year-old mouth . . .

  “. . . have mercy . . .”

  . . . and he could feel the motion, was slave to the motion, the deep and shallow and deep and shallow and deep . . .

  . . . and he was committed now, God help him, there was no turning back, he was fully erect now and aching for release as she worked him and worked him, shallow and deep . . .

  . . . and he leaned against the wall with his free hand, no longer praying, eyes squinted against the tumbling water and his own deep-seated shame . . .

  . . . as he entered between those beautiful hips from the rear, entered her deeply, wrenching great sweet sobs of joy from her as he ground inexorably toward his own massive conclusion . . .

  . . . and then he watched, grim-faced and panting, as the last few strokes of his hand produced the driblets of squandered seed that were his just reward. Even as the passion gripped him, caught the breath in his lungs and then bucked it out in spasms, he was disgusted.

  He saw himself, his fantasy gone: a pudgy middle-aged man of God, clutching his reddened pud while his heart hammered in his throat. He watched his semen spiral around to catch in the hair-clogged drain, and a physical wave of revulsion ballooned in his gut.

  A man of God!

  For surely this was the Devil’s work. The Devil, working through the weakness of the flesh and the soul’s own sinful nature, dragging him down to the level of the animals and worse!

  Because he knew better.

  Because he was a man of God, anointed in the blood of the Lamb . . .

  “Give me strength,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Give me strength, O Lord, and forgive me my weakness. For I have fallen short of the Glory of God.

  “But I am your servant, chosen by You to lead Your flock in the ways of Your love.

  “Help me, O Lord, so that I might save them from themselves.”

  Then he turned off the shower, toweled dry, and—almost as an afterthought—eliminated all evidence of his crime.

  * * *

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The target range was directly across the trail from Cody’s shack, roughly equidistant between the lodge and the house. The trenchlike slice had been carved ten-feet deep into the clay soi
l of the mountainside around nineteen fifty-two, back when little Cody was glued to a black-and-white Zenith somewhere in Arizona, watching Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. It had long fallen into disrepair: the timbers that lined its thirty-meter length rotting away with each successive season’s cycle of decay, brush and branches falling to clog the clearing.

  Cody had fixed all that, damned near single-handedly. He cleaned out the flora, replaced the rotten beams and put in a variety of fresh targets. It was set up to accommodate all manner of projectile-throwing implements: rifles, side arms, or bows. Pennsylvania’s weapons laws were significantly more accommodating than the Big Apple’s, and quite a few members of the crew had availed themselves of that fact and either acquired weapons or legitimized ones already in their possession. Most of them, anyway.

  Personally, Cody preferred more subtle, if no less lethal, devices. “This here,” he lectured, “is yer basic Magnum Force Trident.” He brandished the bizarre weapon: a black, high-tech-looking crossbow pistol, replete with cross-haired scope. “It’s twenty-four-ounce, heavy-gauge aluminum, with a laminated fiberglass bow strung with forty-five pounds of tension, and it’s accurate up to sixty feet.” He aimed it at a sandbagged target halfway back and squeezed the trigger. An eight-inch bolt whizzed out and away, sinking into the bull’s-eye with an abrupt thwok!

  Slim Jim whistled appreciatively. Hempstead just shook his head and laughed. “Not bad, but somehow it would be a whole lot mo’ fearsome if you didn’t boost yo’ sales pitch straight outta the Sharper Image catalog.”

  “Yeah, well”—Cody grinned—“you take it where you find it, dude.”

  “You got this from the Sharper Image?!” Slim Jim asked incredulously, taking the weapon into his hand and hefting it. “Who the fuck are they selling ’em to?”

  “Same yups that buy the fake samurai swords, ah guess.” Hempstead nudged; Cody winced. “Seriously,” Hempstead continued, letting the ribbing drop, “I prefer something with more of a kick.”

  He held up his hunting rifle like a kid at Christmastime and looked very serious. “Kleingeunther K-fifteen two seventy Winchester, Frontier one forty-grain boat-tail spire-point interlock ammo, Redfield Illuminator 3X-9X scope.” He finished the dissertation, shouldered the gun, sighted in the target, and said, “Go ‘head, homeboy. Fire another bolt.”