The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  The preacher pointed up the trail before them. "This is an evil spot," he said. "It has always been an evil spot. The power that is here has always been here and always will be here." He paused, and his voice lowered as if he were afraid of being overheard. "In the countless centuries before man, animals brought their young here to die. Deer that were born crippled were dragged here and left by their mothers.

  Bears that were undersized and would obviously not survive their first winter were brought here and abandoned. The evil was fed, and its power grew."

  Father Andrews paled. He knew where the conversation was headed.

  "The first men also left their unfit young here instinctively. But as cultures evolved, reasons were needed for continuing these practices.

  Elaborate rationalizations were concocted by men. Sacrifices were incorporated into emerging religions. This was considered the home of the dark gods, and sacrifices of infants, healthy or unhealthy, were supposed to appease the deities and keep their anger at bay." He looked at the priest. "Always, the evil of this place was recognized."

  Father Andrews licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. "So what happened?"

  "The evil fed on the bodies, on the blank innocent energy of the infants. But rather than appease the evil, the sacrifices added to its power until it began to expand, until it had grown far beyond its traditional confines." He smiled, but there was no joy in it. "This is the lake of fire."

  Father Andrews nodded dumbly.

  "Religions, as they changed, abandoned the sacrifices and no longer condoned them, but the sacrifices were still practiced surreptitiously by the people of this area. Stillborn infants were brought here and abandoned. Unhealthy babies were dropped off to die. The people forgot the reasons why they brought the infants here, but the reasons had not mattered to begin with. They were only rationalizations." He looked again at the darkening sky, then down at Father Andrews.

  "Infants are still brought here to die," he said.

  "It's not possible. Not in this day and age."

  "Aborted fetuses are brought here by doctors. Dead babies are stolen from their rightful graves and deposited here. The people often do not know what they do or why, but the evil is strong and it demands to be fed. It stretches outward as it grows, exerting more influence as its power increases." There was the sound of one gunshot, then another, as behind them Jim and Gordon practiced shooting. The sound echoed like thunder in the wilderness. "There is nothing we can do to stop any of this. The evil exists and it will always exist. We can only keep it contained, diffuse it when its power begins to grow. This is why we perform the ritual."

  "Why are you telling this only to me?" Father Andrews asked. "Why aren't you telling the others too?"

  The preacher once again put a firm hand around the priest's shoulder.

  "Because you need to know. They do not. We all have our roles to play."

  "And what exactly is my role?"

  "You must communicate with it. You must allow it to speak through you and to hear with your ears while I recite the words of the ritual."

  A wave of terror passed through Father Andrews as the import of the preacher's words struck him. Panic flared within him, and he pulled away from Brother Elias. "You want me to let it possess me? I'm supposed to willingly let myself be possessed by some ..." He could not find the word to finish his sentence.

  "It's not dangerous," Brother Elias said. "If we do everything right, there will be no danger to you whatsoever."

  Father Andrews felt the lie of the preacher's words. "I don't believe you!" he shouted. He glared at Brother Elias, his eyes wide with fright, his head pounding. "You're lying!"

  Brother Elias stood unmoving as a warm wind blew around him. He looked at the priest but said nothing. His eyes were unreadable.

  As Brother Elias talked in low tones to Father Andrews, Jim gave Gordon a crash course in firearm use. After showing him how to unlatch the safety, how to aim and fire the rifle, he shot a pine cone lying on the ground. The pine cone was blown into tiny fragments. He then coached Gordon through a shot of his own. Gordon aimed at a blue logger's marking on a tree, but the bullet whistled harmlessly through the nearby branches, missing the tree completely.

  "That's okay," Jim said. He then showed Gordon what he had done wrong, demonstrating how to hold the rifle properly and how to sight by tilting his head and not the gun. After several more tries, Gordon was finally able to hit one of the wider trees. He shot the rifle twice on his own, with no help from Jim, and he hit the tree both times.

  "That's good enough," Brother Elias said, walking over to them. "You don't need to be any more precise than that. Your target will be big."

  "How big?" Jim asked.

  Brother Elias did not answer.

  Behind the preacher, Father Andrews came shuffling forward. His face was ashen, his walk slow and stilted. He looked from Jim to Gordon, but his eyes were blank. His hands were clenched into trembling fists.

  "We must start walking," Brother Elias said, stepping to the back of the pickup. He picked up a box and put it down at his feet, drawing something hidden in a greasy rag from the rear of the truck and dropping it into the box. "I hope we are not already too late."

  The four men climbed over the hastily made barrier of downed aspens, Jim and Gordon shouldering rifles, Brother Elias carrying his box.

  Father Andrews followed close behind the preacher, carrying nothing, lost in silence.

  The warm wind that had been blowing around them grew stronger as they walked. It whipped around them in strange and unnatural currents, sending strings of round aspen leaves fluttering in tiny whirlwinds, blowing against their faces from first one direction then another.

  Above them, the clouds and smoke were slowly encroaching on the sun.

  Ahead of them, the trail was already shadowed.

  Brother Elias walked fast. He was obviously used to walking, and even wearing a suit and dress shoes he strode quickly and purposefully over rocks and ruts, pushing his way pastmanzanitas and mimosas. There was a trace of urgency in his movements, a hint of desperation in his long-legged stride. The trail they followed wound gradually upward, climbing a graded slope, but the preacher did not seem to notice. He did not slow down as he climbed but maintained a consistently even pace.

  Ahead, the trail widened into a dirt semicircle. It was here that the off-road vehicles able to navigate the rough trail parked. Beyond this point there was only a small narrow footpath. Brother Elias did not even slow down as he came to the trail's end. He stepped purposefully over the low border of intentionally placed boulders and continued walking.

  The climb was much steeper now. They were walking almost straight uphill, and both Gordon and Father Andrews were soon gasping for breath. Even Jim was having a difficult time. In addition to the rigorousness of the climb, the altitude was quite high and there was a noticeable lack of oxygen.

  But Brother Elias seemed not to notice any of this. If anything, his gait became quicker, surer. He continued forward at a rapid pace, undaunted by either the steep climb or the thin air. He did not even bother to look back to make sure the others were following him.

  Finally, all four of them reached the top of the hill. Here the path ended. Around them, the top of the rise was flat, the trees spaced widely apart. To their left, down through the forest of aspens, they could see the shimmering blue of the lake.

  Brother Elias strode along the hilltop, never glancing to the side, never looking back, sure of his destination. The other three followed, trying to keep up. The wind was blowing wildly. Although very few trees or bushes were moving, the four of them were being buffeted by extremely strong gales. It was as if the wind was sentient, alive, and wanted only toharrass them. Gordon looked up. The sky was now almost completely overcast, the sun effectively blotted out.

  Suddenly Brother Elias stopped. He pointed in front of him.

  Protruding from the tall weeds and grasses were scores of small white crosses. Gordon shivered,
feeling his knees grow weak.

  Brother Elias put down his box and turned toward them. His face was set in an expression of grim determination. "We are here," he said.

  Marina slowly came to her senses. The first thing she felt, before she even opened her eyes, was the sharp agonizing pain that burned through both the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet.

  "Marina," Dr.VVaterston said softly. "Marina."

  She tried to stretch, but she could not move, and the pain ripped through her hands and feet like razor blades, flaring up through her body. She screamed in agony, opening her eyes wide.

  Before her, standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at her, was the charred and blackened form of Dr. Waterston. He was burned horribly, and he smiled, his teeth unnaturally white. "We have been waiting for you to awaken," he said.

  Marina noticed that her robe was wide open. Her panties had been ripped off.

  "We wanted to make sure you could see and enjoy what we are about to do," Dr. Waterston said.

  The evil-looking fetus with the large carving knife moved between Marina's legs.

  "NO!" she screamed.

  Brother Elias motioned for the rest of them to file past him into the unholy graveyard. The wind was howling wildly now; the sky was black.

  The preacher clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder as the sheriff moved past him. "You are a good man," he said. "I know you will protect us well, as your family always has." There seemed to be a note of regret in his voice, a hint of apology. His hand clasped Gordon's shoulder as Gordon walked into the field of crosses. "You, too, will be strong," he said.

  "For us as well as for your wife and daughter."

  His black eyes met those of Father Andrews as the priest filed past.

  "Are you ready, Father?"

  Andrews nodded silently.

  He looks scared, Gordon thought.

  Brother Elias drew from the box he had placed on the ground before him the two jars of blood. He opened the jars and passed his hands over the mouths of both, chanting quietly to himself. He took a small sip from each. Standing straight, his short hair blowing in the hard wind, he began walking slowly around the unseen perimeter of the makeshift graveyard, dribbling the blood on the ground as he did so. The wind was strong, but it was not strong enough to scatter the blood, and the heavy red liquid fell straight to the earth and weeds below.

  Gordon did not think the supply of blood would hold out, but Brother Elias finished the entire circle and returned to them. From the box, he drew something small wrapped in a greasy rag.

  He pulled open the sides of the rag to reveal the dried body of a long-dead fetus.

  Gordon looked at the sheriff, who returned his troubled gaze. Both men watched silently as Brother Elias took the four small crosses from the canvas bag. He embedded three of the crosses in the ground at his feet, and immediately the wind doubled in strength. A tree branch cracked, falling to the ground. There was a low roaring rumble beneath their feet.

  "Come closer!" Brother Elias shouted over the noise.

  The other three moved next to him, holding their ground against the wind.

  "The time has come!" the preacher shouted. "We must eat of the body, we must drink of the blood of power!" He looked at Gordon. "Give me your arm!"

  Hesitantly, unsure of what the preacher was going to do, Gordon held out his arm. Brother Elias pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and drew the sharp edge of the remaining crucifix across Gordon's arm in a series of three quick slices.

  Blood welled from the wounds, but Gordon felt nothing. His mind was shocked into numbness. He stared down at his bare arm, watching the rivers of red flow and grow.

  Brother Elias raised the dried form of the fetus to his lips. He bit off the tiny head, chewing and swallowing it down before bending to Gordon's arm and licking clean the top cut, lapping up the blood.

  Gordon did not even flinch. He stared in shocked silence, feeling nothing. It was as if the entire ordeal were happening to someone else. When Brother Elias raised his head, Gordon could see that the top wound had completely disappeared.

  "Now you!" the preacher shouted, nodding toward Jim. He held forward the remainder of the fetus's body.

  The sheriff's arms and hands were shaking with fear and revulsion, but he found himself, almost against his will, bending down to take a bite of the tiny dried form. His mouth closed upon the upper torso of the unborn infant, and the torso snapped cleanly off. He could taste dust and dirt and mold. He found himself chewing.

  "Drink!" Brother Elias commanded, guiding the sheriff's head toward one of the freely flowing cuts on Gordon's arm.

  Jim opened his mouth and began licking the blood. He had prepared himself for the worst, but he found to his surprise that the blood had no taste at all. As he lapped it up, he felt a warm strength settle inside him. Beneath his tongue, Gordon's wound healed.

  He straightened up, looking first at Gordon's blank face, then at the approving countenance of Brother Elias. His gaze shifted to Father Andrews, and his heart lurched in his chest. Next to the priest, wavering and unclear but becoming ever more distinct, was a familiar white human form. As he watched, the form came into focus, taking definite shape.

  Don Wilson.

  He stared at the boy, meeting his eyes, trying to make contact, but Don did not seem to see him. The sheriff glanced quickly back at Brother Elias, but the preacher only nodded silently.

  Now Gordon was taking a bite of the fetus, chewing upon the dried dusty body. As he swallowed, a light came back into his eyes, his face once again became animated.

  He followed the sheriff's gaze and saw the form of the boy coming into focus. The boy was wearing the same clothes he had worn in Gordon's dream. His eyes snapped back to Brother Elias, but the preacher was already stepping toward Father Andrews.

  "It's your turn!" Brother Elias shouted above the wind. "Hurry! We are almost out of time!" The priest looked up. No. He could not. He had watched both Brother Elias and the sheriff participate in this sacrilegious inverse of the Eucharist. He had seen them act out this unholy ritual, and though he felt intuitively that Brother Elias knew what he was doing, he could not bring himself to follow suit. It felt wrong to him.

  It felt evil.

  A small hand gently grasped his own, slender fingers intertwining with his own larger thicker fingers, and he looked down to see a boy, not more than eleven or twelve, looking up at him. There was an innocent radiance in the youngster's face, and Father Andrews felt the negative resolve fade away within him. He glanced toward Gordon and the sheriff and was shocked to find them staring at the boy next to him. They saw him too!

  But that was not possible. Even as he felt the boy's hand squeeze his own, he realized that the figure was not real.

  "It is your turn," Brother Elias repeated.

  Moving as if through water, hardly aware of what he was doing, allowing the gentle pull of the boy's hand to guide him forward, Father Andrews bent down to accept the last portion of the fetus's body. He opened his mouth to accept the small dried legs.

  He licked the blood off Gordon's remaining wound.

  The figure of the boy faded slowly from sight.

  Brother Elias placed the final cross, the one he had used to cut Gordon's arm, into the ground at his feet next to the others. The earth lurched beneath them. "I must now confront the adversary!" he announced. He gestured toward the ring of blood surrounding the field of crosses. "We are protected against any nonphysical manifestations as long as we remain within the circle." He looked at Gordon and the sheriff. "But we are not protected against anything physical. The adversary knows this. So whatever it attacks us with will be real." He pointed toward the white crosses. "Shoot whatever comes up there.

  Shoot the hell out of it. You must protect us until the ritual is over or we will fail."

  He bowed his head. "Let us pray."

  There was a high-pitched shrieking, but they all ignored it, bowing their heads. The preacher recited the L
ord's Prayer and the rest of them mouthed the words. Immediately after, with their heads still bowed, Brother Elias chanted a prayer that was harsh, guttural, and entirely inhuman. He raised his head and traced in the air before him a cross, a spiral, and a geometric shape.

  Gordon looked at the preacher, whose eyes seemed to be filled with an unfamiliar emotion--Fear?

  He pointed to the left side of the graveyard. "You station yourself there," he told Gordon. He spoke quickly, urgently. "You stay there,"

  he told Jim, pointing to the opposite side.

  Both men ran to their positions.

  And the ground split open, the white crosses falling over.

  "Jesus!" Gordon screamed.

  Clawing its way up from the ground was a gigantic infant, easily as big as a large cow. Its skin was rotted and peeling, a disgusting bluish gray. Gordon could see exposed veins throbbing in its temples. A portion of its face had rotted away, leaving only skull. This was not one of the clearly supernatural creatures they had encountered at the dump. This was obviously a corpse that had been reanimated, a dead baby that had been allowed to nurture and grow in the ground underneath Milk Ranch Point for decades. Huge fingers, dripping with slime and dead skin, grasped the crumbling ground.

  Jim aimed his rifle and shot the huge infant full in the face. The bullet passed through the monstrous head, sending shattered fragments of bone and skin flying. Black blood began to ooze from the wound.

  Jim reloaded, aimed and fired again. And again. And again and again and again.

  The huge creature fell, its head a shattered mass of pulpy flesh. The ground was littered with black blood.

  Another huge infant pushed its way up from the ground on the far side of the graveyard and another crawled over the dead and bleeding body of the first.

  Were these the babies who had been buried here? Jim wondered. He thought of his great-grandfather, Ezra Weldon, whom he had never met.

  Was this what had happened last time?

  He loaded his rifle and fired again.