Deadliest of the Species

by Michael Oliveri

  “Don’t make me come out after you!” A stern, almost threatening tone.

  She talking to us? Tim wondered.

  “There,” the woman on the walk said, then moved toward the car. “Can’t I tie my shoes?” The retort of the other ladies was cut off by the slamming door and the whirr of the power windows closing. Almost immediately, the car accelerated from the curb and drove away down the street.

  “Jesus Christ that was close,” Tim muttered. He rolled out of his hiding place, stood, and held a hand down to Bart. “C’mon. Let’s get going.”

  “I—I think I’m having a heart attack,” Bart replied. Even in the sparse light, Tim saw his face looked extremely pale.

  “What?” he crouched down, placing two fingers at Bart’s throat and wishing he paid more attention in the mandatory first aid classes his last employer sponsored. “Your heart’s racing. You feel any pain?”

  “I d-don’t think so…”

  How the hell could he not think so? “Okay, uh, good. How about dizziness?”

  “I’m not dizzy, but I can’t move.”

  Tim chuckled softly.

  “What the fuck is so funny?”

  “You’re not dying!”

  “What?”

  “You’re scared shitless, that’s all.” He grabbed Bart’s wrist and pulled him to his feet.

  Bart shook his head as Tim tried to control his laughter. “That’s all,” he mimicked, lowering the hammer on his pistol. “Asshole.”

  A few seconds later the humor passed and they got on their way again. Within a few minutes, they came within sight of the church. As they came even closer Tim, before he could think about it and prevent himself, looked up at the steeple. Jack’s corpse still dangled from the belfry. Runnels of blood stretched down the roof, dark streaks on the weathered gray shingles. Bart cursed beside him.

  Tim spotted a few candles burning behind the stained glass windows. “Why haven’t they taken him down?” he asked grimly.

  “That would be defiance. Anyone who’s ever taken anyone else down from one of the posts in the cornfield was put up right next to the one they tried to help.”

  “Well, you and I can’t get in any more trouble, can we?”

  “Gotcha,” Bart replied. “But wait until this is over with. Otherwise, that will definitely bring them running.”

  They crossed the burned remains of the parish hall and the rectory to go in the back door, the trip inciting painful memories for both of them. They thought again of all the deaths since this ordeal began, two of which occurred on this block alone. Now that they went into the church to set the remainder of their plans into motion, they decided to turn their sorrows to vengeance. With luck, whoever Steve managed to gather would be able to do the same.

  Someone had the presence of mind to leave a few candles lit in the back rooms and hallway, allowing them to make their way through to the chapel rather easily. Darkness filled the most of the chapel proper, as the few candles inside were spaced fairly far apart.

  Bart went in first, and Tim looked around as he stepped over the threshold. With the exception of the liberal coating of dust resting on everything, it looked much the same as when Tim last stepped inside. He glanced up at the wall and at the floor. The bodies of Father Tierney and the sheriff had been removed, of course, but old, black bloodstains served as reminders of their violent deaths. He forced himself to look away.

  Tim expected the pews to be full of men willing to fight for their freedom, but only a small handful answered the call. Gus and Steve were there, both of whom greeted Bart when he entered. Seven others sat or stood throughout the rows of pews, fidgeting or talking quietly or watching out the windows, and only one of them looked even vaguely familiar. He wore a brown sheriff’s uniform and wrapped up a conversation with another man before standing and walking towards them near the altar.

  “Hey Bart,” the sheriff said. “Glad you made it. We were starting to get worried about you.”

  Tim searched his thoughts, wondering where he saw this young man. The sheriff was taller and thinner than Tim, with a large nose over a thick goatee. His dark hair, which needed a meeting with a good pair of barber’s scissors, showed a flattened ring from the wide-brimmed hat he held in his hand.

  “We had a good scare, but nothing to be concerned about,” Bart replied. “Lucas, this is Tim.”

  The sheriff extended a hand. “We’ve met. Sort of, anyway. Back when Tim first came into town.”

  Finally the identity struck him. “Of course! You’re the waiter from the diner, right?”

  “That’s right. I understand I have you to thank for this uniform. I inherited it when you shot my father.”

  Tim’s pulse revved up a few notches. “Well, I—”

  Lucas held up a hand, palm open. “Don’t worry, can’t say as I’ve regretted it at all, other than the additional exposure it’s gotten me with the witches.”

  “Lucas is sort of a double agent,” Bart explained. “He plays the part of their little flunky, which his old man truly was, as much as he can. At the same time, he tries to support the rest of us. Most of the time that means he keeps us out of trouble.”

  “So how does that work in this case?” Tim asked. He made no effort to mask his suspicions. Bart and the others may trust the kid, but Tim could not help but think of the phrase “like father, like son.” Nor could he easily forget the memory of Lucas kneeling on the diner floor and giving Alexandra a foot bath with his tongue.

  Lucas shrugged. “Depends on what you boys got in mind. Right now, I can tell you the women are tearing apart every place Bart here has access to. The cemetery and mausoleums, the school, the water works, and so forth. Near as I can tell, they don’t know about this little ‘prayer meeting’ yet, so we should have an hour or two before they come sniffing around here.”

  “Relax, Tim,” Bart said reassuringly. “Luc’s old man may have been an asshole, but Luc’s on our side.” The sheriff gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Sorry,” Tim replied. “Just have some bad memories of your old man.”

  “Now, if all the distrust has been resolved, we best get this little party started,” Gus said, stepping between them all. “If you boys got what I think in mind, we best get a move on before the witches come pokin’ around.”

  “Ever the voice of reason,” Bart remarked. “Alright men. Have a seat and let’s talk about a few things.”

  For the next half hour, arguments raged back and forth as to the wisdom of “rising up” (as a few of the men had put it) against the witches. As that time progressed, Tim found himself staying out of the conversation more and more. At one point, however, he became the focus of the argument. One of the others, a gruff older man named Paul, decided he did not like the idea of an outsider like Tim telling them what to do. He also did not see the point in risking his neck for a total stranger. Bart defended Tim to the best of his ability, but at one point sounded unconvinced himself.

  At last Paul got fed up and left, and the actual planning began in earnest. Tim wondered if Paul would sell them out, but Bart assured him Paul would not do anything to get them into trouble. He may not be willing to help, but he never sold his friends down the river.

  Bart started by outlining the plans made back in the caves, and Tim assisted periodically with details. The group agreed most of the time, though some ideas they expected to be too dangerous to pull off and not to be violent enough. It became obvious to Tim that though these men were angry and driven for revenge, they lacked the courage and confidence to carry out some of the more important parts of the strategy.

  Tim sighed. Thankfully, he and Bart planned to accomplish a number of the tasks alone, keeping the bickering and reliance on others to a minimum.

  The next problem to come up was the existence of the satyr. Nearly all of the others agreed that Tim either hallucinated it all or he lied about it, and Bart should know better than to believe in such nonsense. One man, a gruff fellow named Archer, went so far as
to accuse Tim of being a plant by the witches who wanted to deceive Bart into trying to incite the men to revolt. The witches, with advance preparation, would be ready for them and most of the men would be killed.

  Bart, insulted his friend could think that way, cited the deaths of Ed and Jack and the burning of the power station in defense of Tim. He also explained about the strange footprints they found outside the cave opening. Most of the others believed him, but Archer continued to stare them down.

  Finally he backed down, but the way his eyes narrowed when they locked on Tim said he still was not convinced. Gus, in a whisper, advised Tim that Archer always acted paranoid and to not think anything of it. Tim decided he would make sure whatever went on, Archer never strayed out of his sight. No telling what the man would do when the shit hit the fan.

  Finally they fleshed out their entire strategy, broke themselves up into teams for the various tasks, and broke their progress into an overall timeline. Over the next two nights, Rapture will see a lot of action.

  And, possibly, quite a few deaths on both sides of the battle.

  The got ready to leave just in time, as the man working lookout at the door shut it quickly and called out “Here they come!”

  “Let’s go,” Bart said, tugging on Tim’s sleeve.

  “Hold on, let me see something.” He went to the altar and removed the candelabrum, followed by the red cloth draped over the top. He knocked on the wooden surface, making a hollow sound. Satisfied, he ran his fingers along the beveled edge.

  “What are you doing? We have to get out of here!” Bart said urgently. Headlights washed across the stained glass windows as several cars pulled into the drive.

  Tim found a small latch, opened it, and lifted. The top of the altar swung upward on concealed hinges to reveal a large storage space. A few small boxes were stacked to one side, but they left plenty of space for both he and Bart to hide. “Father Mike mentioned this to me once. He kept a lot of the spare candles and such in here to keep them away from the witches.”

  The two men climbed in, forced to curl up in a rather intimate position. Gus and Steve latched the altar and hurriedly covered it once more. Climbing in kicked up a lot of dust, and Tim shoved his nose into the fabric of his sleeve to prevent a sneeze that might give them away. He rested his head on a box corner, but whatever was inside would not give and made his cheekbone ache. He endured the discomfort, thinking it better than chancing a run for the woods during which they may be spotted by the arriving women.

  The large front doors creaked open and women’s voices echoed through the chapel. Tim tried hard to listen but could not understand through the wood of the altar. Judging by the sound of it, Lucas appeared to handle most of the men’s side of the conversation. Within a few seconds, the speakers moved closer to the altar.

  “…prayer meeting, huh?” a woman asked. Her voice did not sound familiar, though her tone demonstrated her disbelief.

  “Well, that’s what they tell me, anyway,” Lucas replied. “When I walked in they were just sitting around, mostly quiet.”

  “And how long have you been here?”

  “Oh, twenty minutes or so. I gave the place a once over.”

  “Just once?” A pause. “And?”

  “And nothing. They were all here in the chapel. Gus there was leading the prayer.”

  “So what about it, old man? Your God answering you these days?”

  Gus declined to answer.

  “I thought not. I don’t know why you men persist in adhering to beliefs spread solely by violence and bloodshed.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want that!” Archer growled from the front pew. “I’m glad you women are all so loving, or I don’t know where we would be!”

  “Hold your tongue!” the lead woman snapped. “You men started the violence in Rapture. And besides, that was the only way you would listen—”

  “Save it, lady. We’ve heard it a million times.”

  A palpable silence fell over the room for several seconds. “Search the place!” she barked suddenly. “Tear it apart if you have to! And you, Mister Archer, better watch your mouth or you’ll be a new perch for the ravens in the field!”

  Wisely, Archer bit back any further remarks he may have had.

  The altar lid creaked under the weight of someone leaning on it. Beyond that they heard very little noise for some time. Periodically a brief murmur came near the altar as two of the women conferred. Finally the crash of something big and glass shattering came from one of the back rooms. That prompted pounding on the floor that quickly receded away from them.

  They heard a shouted “A-ha!” followed by a bit of mocking laughter.

  “All right, gentlemen,” a voice from above stated. The woman still sat on the altar, and Tim thanked every god that came to mind that he was able to stay still and keep that sneeze down. “Continue praying to your phalluses and your false icons.”

  After the women filed out of the chapel and drove away, the others cleared the altar opened it back up. Steve helped Bart and Tim from their hiding places. They took large breaths of the fresh air, and Tim let out his sneeze at last.

  Tim flexed cramping muscles. “Not bad, huh?” Bart shot him a look he could not interpret.

  “You were lucky, boy,” Archer said. He rose from his pew and approached the altar. “That bitch was fiddling with the drape there when I started mouthing off. If I hadn’t distracted her, this little scheme of ours would be over.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” Tim replied, trying to pack as much sincerity into the comment as possible.

  “I didn’t do it for you! We all would have been dead men.”

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” Bart admonished them. “Where did Lucas go?”

  “He followed the witches out,” Gus said. “I assume he’s trying to keep up the appearance of working for them…”

  “Fine. Let’s get started.” He pulled his key ring from his pocket and began stripping off some of the keys and distributing them to the various teams they set up. While they reviewed briefly and synchronized their watches (giving the task a decidedly military flavor), Tim searched for the belfry access to take care of Jack’s body.

  He found the belfry ladder through a small door at the back of the chapel, which at first appeared to be a closet door. The old, heavy, hemp rope for the bell dangled parallel to the ladder. The ladder was in good repair, and Tim steadily made his way to the trap door at the top of the climb. The door, though surprisingly light, proved difficult to open from his position on the ladder. He finally wrestled it open and climbed into the belfry proper. He expected a larger space, and he emerged directly beneath the bell with just enough space to crawl over to one side and get to his feet. The bell pull descended through a separate hole to his right. A thin rubber gasket served to keep out the worst of the elements.

  He noticed someone had removed the clapper from the massive brass bell, then broke off the ring it once dangled from to ensure permanent silence, leaving behind two little brass nubs. Several bas relief carvings wound their way around the lower rim of the bell, and the moonlight glinted off the various surfaces. Crosses dominated the imagery, and various representations of human and angelic figures filled in the rest.

  Tim rose slowly, first peering over the edge in all four directions to be sure nobody on the street would spot him.

  Satisfied, he moved to the front of the belfry to get the job done with. Several loops of nylon had been tied around two corner posts, then led down to Jack’s body, creating a V that terminated with his arms and shoulders. Jack’s head drooped over his chest, sparing Tim the likely ghastly sight of his face for the moment. Blood soaked the front of the boy’s clothing, and one of his shoes had fallen to the concrete stairwell below.

  The revealed sock shone clean and white in the moonlight, and strangely enough Tim found himself thinking that this kid’s mother probably took good care of him. Thinking back to the boy’s home, he remembered walking past Jack’s bedroo
m on the way to get the bandages. It was clean and orderly, and the bed had been made. In fact, the entire house had been immaculate. He thought back to when he opened the freezer to retrieve the ice, and remembered seeing plastic tub of vanilla ice cream and a bright orange box of Popsicles.

  If she took such good care of him, perhaps things like making him dean the gutter alone were for show to impress the rest of the witches. Even so, would she sit back to let her son be taken away and murdered? He doubted she could have murdered the boy herself. He wondered how many other women went along with Alexandra and the others out of fear, and how many regretted the way they were expected to treat their husbands and sons. If he was right, such feelings could be used to their advantage.

  Only if he could figure out how…

  He filed the thought for further pondering at a later time and returned to the task at hand. Carefully, he untied the rope from one post and gently lowered the corpse so it dangled freely from the opposite bond. Then, hand-over-hand, he hauled the corpse up and over the railing. Not prepared for the condition of the boy’s face, sunburned and pecked over, scabbed and eyeless, he yelped and leapt away, inadvertently releasing his hold on the body.

  Jack tumbled to the floor of the belfry with a thud, his body stiff with the onset of rigor mortis.

  “Heeelllp…”

  Undoubtedly a pocket of air freed itself from the boy’s lungs, passing through his lips in a soft whisper, but Tim leaned over the railing and vomited down the side of the building. “Oh, God,” he whispered, tears filling his eyes. Again he heaved the contents of his stomach over the side. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.”

  A deep breath and a sleeve drawn across his mouth conquered his rebellious stomach, and he silently tried to convince himself Jack had not spoken. He repeated it four more times before he could muster enough mettle to turn back to the body. He half expected Jack to rise up and come shuffling across the peeling paneling with hands outstretched in an additional plea for help. Thankfully, the corpse still laid where he dropped it, vacant eyes staring at the roof, arms stretched out over its head.