Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  Apparently Momma saw it, too. But not the wolf. She saw something entirely different. “Jenny!” Her hand went to her mouth in astonishment; her face filled with joy. “Jenny!” She ran toward the wolf.

  “Momma, no!” Brandon cried. “Momma, it’s a trick!”

  But she gave no sign of hearing as she raised her arms and raced toward what she thought to be her little girl.

  Brandon ran along the pew toward the wall to cut her off. “It’s not Jenny! Momma!”

  He was barely aware of the head. Taking advantage of his distraction, it quickly moved in, rotating to his left. For a moment he couldn’t see it.

  And then it screamed. An unearthly roar. Agonizing voices. Blaspheming voices. A chorus of cries and shrieks so powerful that they hit Brandon’s body with physical force. He fell against the pew as the beast appeared at his left. The voices pushed him, forcing him to stumble, to stagger along the pew until he fell back into the center aisle just a few feet from his father’s chair.

  The assault had begun.

  The head continued rotating until it was behind him. Brandon struggled to his feet but the voices were too loud, their hatred too strong. They blasted him with an even greater barrage of screams and obscenities. The impact threw him off balance, sending him staggering down the aisle. The beast pursued, pushing and driving him toward the front of the church. Brandon turned to confront it, but another blast threw him backward, stumbling, falling, until the back of his head struck the hard ashwood altar with a sickening thud.

  This time he did not rise.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw through a blurry haze. The beast’s head hovered fifteen feet away, in the center of the aisle, staring directly at him. Off to the left stood his mother, apparently torn between running to help him or running toward her daughter … until the head rotated, opened its mouth, and shot another stream of vapor toward the wolf. Suddenly a wall of flames ignited and surrounded the animal.

  “Momma!” the wolf screamed in Jenny’s voice. “Help me, Momma! Help me!”

  “Jenny!” Momma ran toward the animal. But the wall of fire was too tall and too thick. Brandon understood. It was merely a decoy — something to keep his mother occupied, to keep her from interfering during the real showdown.

  Now the head turned its full attention to Brandon. Slowly, menacingly, it started its approach. Brandon tried to clear his vision, to move his body, but nothing would cooperate.

  The thing was ten feet away when something caught Brandon’s attention — a glint, a moving reflection, behind the vaporous head. He squinted, trying to clear his vision. Then he saw it. It was his father’s silver-and-turquoise wristwatch. The one he’d given him so many years before. But why was it — and then he had his answer. The watch was moving. To be more precise, his father’s hand was moving, just enough to catch and reflect the light. Was it possible? Was his father actually moving his hand?

  “YOU ARE MINE.”

  Brandon focused back on the approaching beast. It was eight feet away, its mouth opening wider. And now, for the first time, Brandon could see into its throat. To his astonishment, it was not a throat but a swirling, glowing pit. A spinning whirlpool of fire that stretched as far as the eye could see. A whirlpool that created a tremendous wind, a vacuum so strong that it began sucking in all of the surrounding air. Hissing, howling wind rushed into the creature’s mouth. Brandon could feel his hair, his clothes being drawn toward it.

  And still the beast approached. The wind pulled harder until Brandon felt his body starting to move. Just as in the experiment at the Institute, the current was attempting to drag him toward it. Toward the mouth. Into the throat.

  He struggled to get to his feet, but his unsteadiness coupled with the powerful wind made it impossible. He was sliding toward it faster now. He had to stop himself, he had to grab something. But there was nothing except the altar behind him. Twisting around, he grabbed the nearest corner. It was smooth and slick. His grip wouldn’t last long, but it was all he had.

  The beast closed in. Brandon tried not to look over his shoulder into its throat, but he couldn’t help himself. The swirling fire went on forever. And now he saw faces. Human faces. The same tortured, burning faces that had surrounded him when he was tumbling in the experiment, when he was falling into the fiery void. The same terrifying, burning, screaming faces.

  Once again he caught a glimpse of a reflection. Behind the head. The moving reflection of his father’s watch. His father’s hand was trembling and shaking as it continued to inch its way forward.

  The operating lights illuminated Sarah’s shaved head in an unearthly glow. Dr. Hibdon could have waited for the neurosurgery team to come in from South Bend, or they could have evacuated her to Fort Wayne. But the CT scan had confirmed his suspicion of an acute subdural hematoma. They’d already run the Glasgow Comma on her. She’d not scored well. It was a judgment call, but Hibdon was a competent surgeon and seconds counted.

  He picked up the stainless steel scalpel from the tray. “All right, let’s see what we can do for her,” he said as he reached down to the marked incision site on her skull.

  That was when the EKG went off.

  The doctor’s eyes shot up.

  “She’s arrested!” a voice called from the right.

  Hibdon leaned past a nurse to see for himself. The green line on the oscilloscope had dropped. There was no tracing. It was smooth and flat.

  “Check her leads,” he said.

  “Leads okay,” the voice replied.

  “Give her a milligram of Epi,” he ordered. “Bring in the paddles.”

  The team moved into action.

  “Give me two hundred joules.”

  The creature’s mouth opened wider. The swirling abyss of fire and faces pulled harder; the tug on Brandon’s feet and legs was relentless. He clung to the edge of the altar, but his handhold was too weak. He was already beginning to slip.

  And then he saw the wheelchair. It had started down the incline. Somehow, his father had moved his hand far enough to release the brake. Now he was rolling down the aisle directly toward them.

  “YOU ARE MINE,” the voices in the throat shrieked.

  The chair rolled toward them. It was heading straight for the back of the beast’s head! So that’s what his father was up to. He was trying to stop it!

  Brandon’s grip on the altar was nearly gone.

  “YOU ARE —”

  And then the wheelchair struck. But instead of slamming into the head, it passed through the vaporous back and entered it!

  The creature roared in surprise. It shrieked and screamed. It pitched its head back and forth, but Brandon’s father and the chair remained inside. For an instant Brandon saw the man’s eyes. They were wild with fear. But they showed no more fear than the eyes of the beast. It was clear that his father’s presence was inflicting pain — but not just his presence. Brandon guessed that it also had something to do with his faith. A faith that had been trapped inside a lifeless body for six years, but a faith that was finally being released — and doing some extensive damage in the process.

  As the creature writhed, his father was thrown from side to side. The beast’s screams grew to a shrieking resonance that vibrated the entire church. Above, the light fixtures began to crack; some shattered into a rain of glass. On the front wall, behind the cross, the organ pipes began to explode. One after another — fiery, popping explosions. And still the shriek continued. The supports holding the cross vibrated until they shook loose and the entire structure broke from the wall. With a groan, it toppled forward. Spotting it, Brandon rolled out of the way just as it crashed to the floor, missing him by inches.

  Thanks to his father’s attack, the wind had momentarily lessened, giving Brandon the time he needed to struggle to his feet. But he’d barely risen before he heard:

  “YOU ARE MY DEEPEST DISAPPOINTMENT.”

  He looked up to see his father standing, floating inside the beast’s head just a few feet away. The c
hair had already been flung to the ground, and the man hovered before his son.

  “YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A DISAPPOINTMENT.”

  The words hit Brandon hard. Part of him knew that they were coming from the creature — that his father had put up a gallant fight but had been overcome. Still, the other part of him knew that the man standing before him was his father, that he was finally speaking to him after so many years of condemning silence. And that the words he spoke were the very words Brandon had known he would say, had feared his father had been thinking for all of these years.

  Brandon’s response was faint and trembling. “Pop —”

  “YOU ARE NOT MY SON.”

  The indictment brought instant tightness to Brandon’s throat. It was nearly impossible to speak. “Pop, please. Please don’t say —”

  “MY SON WAS TO BE A LEADER. TO EMBODY MY FAITH.”

  “I do. I have faith. I —”

  “LIAR!”

  The accusation made Brandon’s legs weak. He took half a step back, trying to regain his balance as tears sprang to his eyes.

  “FAITH DOES NOT DESTROY.”

  “Poppa, I swear to you. I believe!”

  “YOU ARE DESTRUCTION. YOU HAVE DESTROYED JENNY, SARAH — ALL THAT YOU TOUCH!”

  The words hit with such force that Brandon gasped. He tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t. “Please. I —”

  “YOU ARE DESTRUCTION. ALL THAT YOU TOUCH, YOU DESTROY.”

  The ache in Brandon’s throat was agonizing, his breathing impossible. Everything his father said was true. And that truth was relentless, powerful, devastating. Slowly, he dropped to his knees. He was no longer able to stand.

  And still the onslaught continued.

  “YOU ARE NOT FAITH. YOU ARE DESTRUCTION.”

  “I …” He could no longer look up. “I belie — ”

  “YOU BELIEVE NOTHING!”

  “I do.” Brandon’s voice was barely a whisper. “I …” He felt his body shudder. It was an escaping sob.

  “YOU BELIEVE NOTHING. YOU HAVE NO PURPOSE. YOU ARE NOTHING.”

  Brandon choked, trying to talk. “I …” But he could not. There was another sob. Then another. Deep, gut-wrenching. His father was right. He was a failure, he was nothing. Whatever fraction of faith he might have had before his father’s words, was gone. It was all gone.

  “I’m…sorry.”

  “YOU BELIEVE NOTHING!”

  Brandon lowered his head, silently weeping, nodding in agreement. He was remotely aware of his father’s body being tossed to the floor like a rag doll. He knew that it had served its purpose. The beast had used it to break him … and it had succeeded.

  Brandon remained on his knees. He did not look up. He sensed the beast approaching. He could feel the wind increasing, pulling harder. But he no longer cared. What was the point. This was his fate; this was what he deserved.

  The wind grew, pulling with greater and greater force. Brandon was moving now, being drawn toward the open mouth, toward the swirling flames of the throat. But it did not matter. He no longer cared.

  CHAPTER 17

  SARAH’S BODY LURCHED UNDER the electrical paddles. The doctor looked at the monitor. The line remained flat.

  “All right, give me 370.”

  The male nurse manning the crash cart nodded and reset the calibrations. He was new — tall and gangly with a steel prosthesis for a left hand. He had spoken only a few words, but Dr. Hibdon recognized them as British. Lower middle class.

  An intern placed the paddles back on Sarah’s chest, one near the sternum, the other just past the nipple. “Clear,” he called.

  The body leaped.

  The alarm continued to sound.

  The open mouth filled Brandon’s vision, the swirling abyss of flames and faces were all he could see. Still on his knees, he instinctively leaned back. It was more reflex than resistance and it did little good, except to free his feet and legs. They were the first to be sucked into the mouth. He watched in terror as the howling wind pulled them into the throat. The heat and flames ignited his pants with a pain so excruciating that all he could do was scream … and scream. He spun onto his stomach and tried to crawl away, but the wind was too great. He clutched at the carpet in a vain attempt to slow himself, but there was nothing for his fingers to grip; their tips burned raw dragging across the coarse fabric.

  To his left he saw a pew, the very one he and his mother had sat in for so many years. He lunged toward it, grabbing the base, and hung on fiercely. The pain in his burning legs hardened his grip to iron. But it made no difference. For the pew itself began to move. He was dragging the pew right along with him into the mouth.

  “No!” he screamed, searching for another handhold. Something heavier. Anything. There was only the fallen cross. It had wedged itself against the altar with the crossbeam jutting out toward him. It was close enough for Brandon to grab, but he had no assurance that it would be any more stable than the pew.

  The burning pain exploded around his waist, igniting his shirt, the flames eating into his back and belly. Over half of his body was in the throat now. He grew light-headed; his consciousness started to shut down. Pain was everywhere and nowhere. It would be easier to just —

  “Brandon!”

  His senses sharpened. It was Sarah’s voice. It was softer than the tormented screams surrounding him, softer than the screams coming from his own mouth, but somehow it was closer, clearer.

  “Help me,” she whispered, “Brandon …”

  “Sarah?” he groaned.

  “You must believe.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Believe.”

  The plea was unmistakable but confusing. Believe what? Believe in himself? He’d already proven the futility of that. Gerty had been wrong. He had no authority. He had no power. He had —

  “Believe!”

  “What!” he cried. “Believe in what?”

  Desperately, he turned his head in every direction. There was nothing he could believe in, nothing to hold on to. Nothing but the flames dancing around the edges of his vision. Nothing but the pew that served no purpose, and the cross wedged behind the —

  “Believe!”

  No. She couldn’t possibly mean the cross. Yes, he could reach out and grab it, he could take hold of the horizontal beam stretching toward him. But there was no promise it would hold.

  “Believe.”

  Was that what she meant? To grab the cross and believe that it would hold? Even now, the irony wasn’t lost on him. Once again, that foolish symbol of death was offering help. The very icon that had mocked him since childhood, the perfect representation of all that was hopeless and foolish and futile was again before him — testing him, taunting him, offering its meaningless help.

  “Believe.”

  “I can’t!” he shouted — and then screamed as fire enveloped his shoulders, lapping around his neck. He closed his eyes. He wanted to pass out, to put an end to it. But he couldn’t. He looked back at the cross one last time — and, despite the pain and the difficulty in breathing, he gasped. For there, on the beam of the cross, was a hand. A human hand lashed to the wood. It hadn’t been there a second ago. It had never been there.

  And it was alive.

  The hand was covered in blood, but its fingers were moving — stretching, reaching out. Stretching toward him!

  Of course. What did he expect? This would be his final hallucination. The perfect, mocking end to all of his suffering.

  But it looked so real.

  No! And even if it was true, even if it was real, even if he did reach out to it, he would have to let go of the pew. And the wind was too strong, the power too intense. He would be sucked away before he ever made contact.

  “Believe …”

  The hand stretched, reaching. Urging. Brandon was no fool. He knew whose hand it was supposed to be. But he also knew how he’d rejected it in the past. How he’d scoffed at it — and worst yet, how he had remained indifferent to it. Even if it was
the hand, it wouldn’t accept him. Not now, after all he’d done. Not after all that he’d become.

  And then he saw something else. Through the blood on the hand he saw the open wound. The gaping hole in the center of the palm. It was the hand. The hand with the hole. The hand with the perpetual wound. The hand that received its scar because …

  Sunday school verses rushed in. Songs and sermons and prayers. Memories of why that hand had been wounded. Not because of Brandon’s faith or success. It had been wounded because of his doubts and failures. Wounded for his defeats, not his victories. And now it was reaching out to him.

  “Believe …”

  But if he let go of the pew, if he let go of his only security and grabbed the hand, how did he know that it would take hold of him? It had every reason to ignore him, to reject him, to let him perish. That was, after all, what he deserved.

  But there was the open wound — and its promise of forgiveness.

  “Believe …”

  The fire had burned through his skin, igniting flesh and muscle, organs and bones. He had to decide, and he had to decide now.

  But he couldn’t.

  And that, he suddenly realized, was in itself a decision. If he refused to reach out, wasn’t that his decision? The skin of his face ignited in the intense heat, searing his mouth, obliterating his vision.

  “Believe …”

  Finally, with a scream from the depths of his doubt and agony, Brandon let go of the pew and lunged for the hand.

  But it did no good.

  Just as he’d feared, the hand failed him. He was sucked into the throat. He screamed one last time as the fire roared into his mouth, down his own throat, burning his lungs, every inch of his body consumed in flame, everything but his outstretched hand — when suddenly, something gripped that hand. Brandon couldn’t grip back — he didn’t have the strength. But something was holding on to him firmly, around his wrist.

  And it was pulling.

  Rapidly. Steadily.

  The fire disappeared around his face. He didn’t have the courage to open his eyes, but he felt the flames recede from his lungs, his throat, his mouth. He gulped in cooler, soothing air. His head and neck were out, followed by his shoulders and chest, then his stomach. He still didn’t have the strength to hang on, but he didn’t have to. He knew the hand was holding him. Its grip was firm, and it would not let go.