Joseph, chained closest to the heavy door, thinks he heard talk of moving to Wichita. Isn’t that peachy? Kansas. The heart of the Dust Bowl. The land of polio and starvation. A visit to the festering wound spewing the misery that has been slowly eating America’s soul may not end well for some of us. Frankly, I expect some deaths before we finish, and there are so few of us left. When I came in, there were a couple dozen of us, but now there are only six, and we all know the carnivorous tumor in Ralph’s brain will soon finish him.
Though it’s been quite a while since we picked anyone up, I couldn’t say just how long. Time is extremely subjective with no way to track night and day. The occasional feeding and the never-ending shows are the only ways we have to measure the passage of time. In those terms, it’s been twelve shows since Memphis, how long that is in normal people time, there’s no way to know.
To be honest, the anticipation is almost worse than the performance. Almost. It’s just so damn hard to sit in the hot darkness, afraid to speak to the only people who could ever understand this ordeal. But what would we say to each other? Speak words of hope that ring false and hollow the moment they leave one’s lips? Talk of escape when metal and leather and malnutrition make it impossible? No, there are no words left in any of us. All the pleadings and prayers are spent. There is nothing for us but the sweltering silence of this dark oven.
And the show.
The goddamn show, it must go on.
* * *
The small fire spewed hot sparks and ash into the night sky as Abel hurled a fresh log into its embers.
“Hey! Watch out, you stupid bastard!” Lot yelled, beans and pork juice dribbling down his chin. Abel replied only by hanging his head and stumbling sullenly out of the weakening ring of light. Lot wiped his grimy mouth on his leather gloves. “Aw, hell,” he muttered, “I guess I better go apologize to the big lout.”
“Leave him be, Lot. He’ll find a pile of dirt or a dead animal and he’ll forget all about it.” Adam’s soft but powerful voice drew a hushed burst of laughter from the small group of shabby-looking men.
“Well, you’re the boss,” Lot sighed as he sat back down. “If you think he’ll be okay, I’ll get back to dinner.”
“He’ll be fine. Now finish that grub up quick, boys. We got a lot of work in front of us and you know the Rev hates to get behind schedule.” Adam inhaled a last mouthful of beans and tossed the can toward the newly invigorated fire. The rest of the tired men quickly did the same. After much groaning and consternation, they eventually began to shamble toward the heavily loaded trucks.
“Where is the good Reverend this evening?” Jeremiah inquired as softly as he could without belying his utter dread of the holy man. “He didn’t want to share in the vittles?”
“My sincere apologies for not joining in the sumptuous feast this evening. I acquired other accommodations and dined alone in the confines of my trailer.” The reverend’s deep, haunting voice and soft Southern drawl crawled through the cool, dusty night air from behind the group of men. “Although, I must admit that I am slightly miffed that my presence was not inquired into until after the ‘vittles’ were no more than memories and grease stains.” The last few words oozed from Wainwright’s lips like a foul sludge and sent chills through the spines of every man who heard.
“Reverend! I…uh…that is…I mean…” Jeremiah tried to stammer some sort of coherent response, but as he turned to face the Reverend, their gazes locked and all his words seemed to slip away. Wainwright’s eyes were all white with the exception of the pitch black pupils which pulsed and pinwheeled like a kaleidoscope. His direct stare was enough to make even the most resolute of men whimper, and Jeremiah involuntarily stumbled back a few steps.
The Reverend smiled coldly at his flock of miscreants. “Come now, dear Jeremiah, I merely sought to have a little jest at your expense. I am, all joking aside, glad that you are all well fed and eager to move forward. There is still so much work to be done. So much work. How go the preparations? Can we expect the main edifice to be erected soon?”
“The main edifice?” Adam interjected. “If you mean the big tent, we should have that thing up in a couple hours. As for the rest, Jeremiah here and Lot are gonna head to town at first light to start handin’ out flyers. Me and the rest of the boys’ll get the stage set up and Abel is gonna get the kids fed and cleaned up for the show.”
Wainwright scowled up at the uncaring moon. “Abel, you say? You are aware we have several little girls amongst our family of flagellants, correct? We have traveled far and seen much together, Adam, but I swear to all that is holy in this world, if that half-witted pedophile touches even one hair on their sacred heads, I will castrate you both with my bare hands!”
Adam laughed nervously as he struck a match on his thick leather glove and carefully lit a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Relax, Rev. Abel may be slow but even he isn’t stupid enough to go after them girls.” A casual glance passed amongst the huddle of men as the same shadow of doubt crossed each mind. Adam caught the look as it went around and sighed heavily. He dropped his smoke onto the hard earth. “Well, I gotta go, uhhh, check on some stuff. I’ll be right back.” Trying his best not to flat out sprint, Adam strode away from the group in the direction of the children’s trailer.
Wainwright watched him for a short moment before turning his withering gaze on the rest of the workers. “Well, gentlemen, let’s get to it, shall we? I have preparations of my own which must be attended to.” The Reverend turned petulantly and walked away, darkness wrapping his tall, gaunt frame until it disappeared.
Jeremiah scooped the still smoldering cigarette butt from the ground and inhaled deeply. “This job gets a little more entertaining every day. What the hell does ‘castrate’ mean, anyway?” The men laughed nervously and made their way into the night, casting cautious glances over their shoulders for whatever demons might be following.
* * *
“Step on up, ladies and gents, and God-fearing children of all ages! For today, the just and holy Reverend Wainwright will hear all your pleas and grant God’s mercy to even the most wretched amongst you! A nickel gets you in and a dime gets you a seat! Don’t be shy now, folks! Claim your ticket now. They will go fast, and you’ve travelled so far, I’d hate to see you stuck out here with me when the service begins!”
Jeremiah’s powerful voice rang through the crowd milling anxiously in the brown field. The blazing Kansas sun beat the life out of all below, and to most it was worth the nickel just to get in the shade of the tent. Of course, the Reverend’s men had been diligent about spreading word of the healing service throughout downtown Wichita, and the assembled masses were almost all injured, sick or carrying someone who was. Bleak times often call for desperate measures, and hope in any form was a welcome relief from the pulverizing daily desolation.
It took only half an hour for the available tickets to sell out. Being the kind hearted doorman, Jeremiah let a few families slip in late with a wink and a grin. Lot came strolling out of the tent once they were in and secured the heavy leather flap.
“That’s a hell of a crowd. How much did we get?” he asked as Jeremiah shook the box filled with silver and copper.
“Hooee, gotta be fifty bucks in there!” Jeremiah cooed. “Days like this make it all worthwhile.” He put the heavy box on his shoulder and walked with Lot to the trailers behind the tent.
“So, did you get a look at the folks comin’ through? There were some tasty looking dishes in there.” Lot’s eyes gleamed with a lunatic glare for half a second as the question fell out. Jeremiah licked his lips and tried not to think about it too much.
“Oh man, it’s too early for that kind of talk. I’m starving as it is and I don’t want to have to think about it all evening.”
Lot laughed heavily, punching his friend on the shoulder playfully. “But isn’t the anticipation half the fun?” Jeremiah frowned, staring at the sun as it crawled toward its tomb on the western horizon.
“For some, I reckon it is. Not for me, though. I like to stay focused on what’s in front of me. Now let’s get this loot counted up so we can have a smoke before the real show gets going. By the way, you seen Abel lately?” Lot shook his head and whistled a few bars of “Toreador,” clapping his gloved hands as the two stepped into the shade of the hulking trailers.
Inside the big white tent, Reverend Wainwright had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. “Times are troubled, my friends,” he crowed from his pulpit. “I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your faces, I can see it in your hearts.” His frenetic gestures rippled his long white robe as the light from a hundred candles danced in his dark eyeglasses. “I know your pain, dear people, God knows your pain. We have felt it in a hundred cities all across this great land. We’ve heard the countless prayers begging for relief, begging for mercy, begging for a ‘surcease of sorrow’, as a man wiser than I once put it.”
Wainwright hopped down from the small stage and strode resolutely into the heart of the crowd. “But you know what? He hears you, and he shares with me all your prayers. All those cries that you think disappear unheard in the black of night do not go unheeded. I have come to this barren place for one reason today. I am here to take away your pain.” With a heavy sigh the Reverend raised his arms to the Heavens. “Almighty Father! Smile on your dour children this day. Let your love rain on us and take away all the hurt Satan heaps on your flock!”
It took only one cry from the crowd to ignite the wild fire. “My daddy’s got cholera! Can you help him?” Afraid to be left out of any miraculous proceedings, the mob began to shout as one. The pleading filled the tent and cascaded on Wainwright’s back as he walked to the stage. He turned and gestured for calm. The wailing slowly tapered off until silence gripped the group in an anxious grasp.
“Please, my children, there’s no need to grovel. As I said, your prayers have been heard and I am the answer to them. I will be here amongst you for as long as it takes. On this day the love of God Almighty will be felt by all! A lucky few amongst you will even have your ailments remedied by our most holy maker!” The crowd cheered and cried and gnashed their teeth in bliss. “Now, I see back in the back there, a child lying on the floor. Bring him to me.”
A somber looking man in dingy denim overalls scooped the boy from the floor with the infinite gentleness and promise of protection that only a father can give a child. He carried the boy slowly to the front as the crowd parted for him like the sea for Moses. Pain etched the boy’s face, but he bit back the stinging tears, wanting to be strong like Daddy but knowing he would soon break.
The man laid his son at Wainwright’s feet. He removed his cap and spoke gently to the Reverend. “Please, sir, my boy, he fell down a well, his back is broken. The Doc says he ain’t gonna make it.”
Wainwright smiled warmly on the man as he put a soft hand on his forehead. “Your faith brought you here today and that faith will be rewarded, my son. Please take a seat over there and let the Lord do his work.” Wainwright shook his hands and knelt down next to the boy, his back to the crowd.
“What’s your name, child?” He asked as his gentle hands caressed grimy cheeks.
The boy gritted his teeth and forced a reply through his lips. “Joseph, sir.” It was all he could manage through the haze of agony. Wainwright nodded calmly, and with a deep breath he removed his dark glasses and set his gaze on the boy.
A look somewhere between terror and awe crawled across Joseph’s young face as he stared deeply into those hypnotic, dancing eyes. Wainwright lowered himself until the two were face-to-face. “Look at me, Joseph.” He purred quietly. “Look deep and pour your pain into me. Give me all the bad things inside. Take the misery you feel and give it to me. All you have to do is let it go and you will be healed. Give me your pain.”
The Reverend leaned close and pressed his hands to the boy’s temples. Joseph gasped as Wainwright increased the pressure on his head until it felt like it might burst. He could feel every finger and nail digging into his skin, pressing and grinding like a vise. He couldn’t look away from those hideous eyes, he couldn’t fight back or break free. Even if he could, he had to admit to himself he wouldn’t.
“Give me your pain.”
Hot, rancid breath and small droplets of spittle fell onto Joseph’s face. He could feel the bones in his skull flexing and tensing under the relentless pressure, and then there was a spark. The pain in his head dissipated and a pulse of charged energy leapt from his temples to his back like a heated wire.
“Give me your pain.”
Like a black sludge, Joseph felt the ball of anguish slowly drain from his shattered spine. The bones mended and the nerves reassembled as Wainwright pressed his fingers harder into his cranium. The boy wanted to scream in joy, to jump up and dance a jig right there in front of the astonished crowd, but he was held by the Reverend’s crippling gaze. Soon, the pain which had been collecting for days was being pulled gently away from him.
“Give me your pain…”
Joseph wanted nothing more than to give away his pain, his hurt, his memories of the furious, withering torture he had suffered.
“Please, take it away, take it all away.”
He pushed all his hurt to the Reverend’s healing hands. Wainwright’s eyes spun and twirled and he smiled as the boy gave in and let everything be taken. Joseph had never felt so good, so alive, but even after the pain was gone, the electricity continued to drain him.
Fatigue suddenly fell over him and small twinges of fear replaced the joyous celebrations in his heart.
“Give me your pain…”
Joseph tried to shake free of the Reverend’s hands, recognizing that something was wrong. He tried to speak, tried to tell his healer that he was all better, but he could not. The fanatical grin on Wainwright’s face grew bigger as the boy tried to fight against his hold. Joseph’s eyes glazed over and his will drained away. The Reverend smiled still, and pulled everything remaining from his victim, but was not yet satisfied.
“Give me your pain…”
* * *
I feel a gentle pressure and slight heat twisting the small of my back. So the show has begun and it appears that I shall be the first supplicant of the evening. I let out a little gasp as the pressure turns into a sharp pain grinding my vertebrae together. In the darkness, I know the other kids are looking at me wide-eyed, seeing little, but understanding everything. They know they are momentarily spared, but fear what may be ahead.
“Give me your pain.”
I hear the Reverend’s words scything through my mind. He must be in full swing now, the conduit open and the prostrated parishioner marveling at the miracle he’d brought to Wichita.
The sharp crack as my backbone gives out rings through the darkness like a gunshot. I would scream, but my voice was taken from me ages ago. I bend backward as my spinal cord tears and all the sensation drains from my legs like fluid. An icy chill grips my lower body, complemented by the fiery agony ripping into the rest of me.
“Give me your pain.”
I try to imagine who is lying in front of the Reverend, slowly feeling their life return and their body becoming healed. It could have been anybody, really. We would never know the people Wainwright set his healing hands to, marking their existence only by the signature of their affliction. He took their pain all right, but he didn’t keep it. He gave it to us. Suffer the little children, indeed. It could have been a source of solace to know that through our sacrifice, someone else was freed of their burden, but we know what else the Reverend takes.
When the families see the hollow eyes and hear the melancholy voice of the healed, they must understand as well. We don’t really know how or why this reaper does his deeds, but in the guise of a holy man he draws the submissive to him like moths to a flame. For some, I guess, the end of agonies is worth the price of a soul.
As the echoes of my breaking back cease ringing from the dark walls, silence falls on us. Only, it’s not si
lent, I can hear a slight jangling and the soft click of a lock releasing. A burning sliver of light blinds us momentarily before the door is flung wide open. The dying red sun envelops the huge frame of the man the Reverend calls Abel standing before us.
“Hello, Juliana,” he whispers softly, his voice dripping like bittersweet poison. The sounds from the big tent waft slowly toward us. The door has never been opened during a show before and it is amazing to hear the cheers and exultations of the crowd. Taking a large revolver from his pocket, Abel climbs into the trailer and kneels carefully next to little Juliana.
“You an’ me are goin’ for a walk, girl.” His shaky voice imitates calm and caring, but seethes with hidden malice. As he waves the pistol in the girl’s face, he asks, “Are you gonna’ be a good little girl?”
Juliana’s expression doesn’t change, but she nods her assent. Abel fumbles with her locks, his thick leather gloves making the process almost comical. With a grunt, he finally gets her bindings undone and the last chain falls away.
Even after it’s too late, the imbecile doesn’t understand his mistake. At this point, my compatriots and I are no better than wild animals, beaten and starved, and to remove the leash of such a creature is both foolish and dangerous. Juliana springs toward her tormentor with a feral growl that chills even my screaming blood. Despite her atrophied and hunger-deteriorated muscles, she is on the big man before he can react.
With a hoarse yell, Abel falls backward out of the trailer, waving his gun wildly in the air. He understands the power the pistol carries, but not the operation that imbues that power. Juliana sinks her few remaining teeth into his wide throat and crimson liquid sprays the thirsty earth. The pistol falls from his fingers and he tries to yell for help but can only produce a gurgling whimper. The little girl, drenched in ichors and hopeless ferocity, steps back and picks up the heavy gun. As she aims at him, the two lock eyes. Abel holds his arms in front of his face in a futile attempt to ward off a bullet.
The Best of Horror Library: Volumes 1-5 Page 25