Little Heaven

by Nick Cutter

  “What happened?”

  “I do not know. But I am fine. Stand back,” he said, his voice a bit shaky.

  “Shug, what—?”

  “I said stand back.”

  They did, all three training their flashlights on Preston’s body. It jerked roughly, as if a pair of huge invisible hands was jolting it. Then something began to push itself out of Preston’s back. His spinal cord ripped through the paper-thin flesh. The children writhed beyond the light, their bare feet whushing on the stone. Preston’s toothless mouth was open, withered eyes alight with horror.

  “Faaaaather,” Preston breathed as he bucked like a giant revolting newborn in the girdle of red ropes. “Father, noooooooo . . .”

  All of them watched, horrified, as a wriggling shape emerged from Preston’s squandered flesh. It perched for a moment on a flap of hardened skin before toppling gracelessly to land with a splat. The fibrous tendrils attached to its body snapped as it fell; those tendrils must have been mooring it to Preston at some unseen root.

  That connection severed, Preston began to thrash even more animatedly. His mouth opened so wide that the skin split at its edges, stretching it into a gruesome bloodless slash. The red ropes anchoring him to the ceiling began to snap one by one; Preston jerked awkwardly, like a snarled parachutist getting cut down from a tree. When the second-to-last rope let go, Preston swung on the final cord, a gibbering pendulum. When that last one disconnected, Preston hit the stone with the unmistakable snap of bone.

  Preston mewled as he tried to crawl toward whatever had pushed itself from his body. His arms were shattered, the sharp edges of bone shorn through his papery flesh. He issued a pitiable cry—not of pain, but of abandonment. The wail of a milksop boy left in the woods by his callous parents. It was terrible to gaze upon a body lacking a true animus, a soul—at least Micah prayed so, even for a man as horrible as Preston surely had been—as it squirmed and thrust on the cold stone floor of this inhospitable place. It was like watching a wooden marionette stir to ghastly life, its legs kicking in feeble paroxysms, its lifeless marble eyes rolling wildly in their beveled sockets—

  “Faaaaaaather. Oh please, my faaaaaather . . .”

  The gunshot was deafening. Preston’s head did not explode so much as crumple like a dry bird’s nest. The brain inside the blown-open skull case was arid and chalky as an old cow flop.

  Ebenezer holstered his pistol. The three of them stared through the haze of smoke at the shape that had deposited itself on the stone.

  16

  WHEN THE GUNSHOT THUNDERED UP from the tunnel below, Ellen flinched. She exchanged a glance with Nate: What should we do?

  She shone her flashlight over the ledge. The gunshot’s echo continued to ricochet through the cave system. Who had done it—and why? Was someone hurt?

  “Wait here,” she told Nate. “I’m coming right back, okay?”

  Nate’s face was pinched with worry. “Hurry.”

  Ellen slid her flashlight into her pocket and climbed down the ladder. Nate peered over the ledge, watching the darkness swallow her. She reached the floor and crept to the tunnel.

  “Ellen?”

  “I’m okay,” she called up to Nate.

  She crawled into the tunnel carefully, the rock smooth under her knees. The tunnel was pocked with holes. She shone the flashlight into one. The light turned grainy, giving no sense of its depth. She crawled on, ears straining for a human voice. All she could hear was a dull hum. She wondered where it could be coming fro—

  A pair of hands shot out of the hole she was passing, one that was deep and vaporous. A cheese-white face swarmed out of the darkness.

  “Wormwood!”

  The Reverend’s hands closed over Ellen’s mouth before she could make a sound. He jerked her skull with terrific force, slamming it into the rock.

  “ELLEN?”

  No reply. Nate knelt at the ledge. He felt a point of concentrated cold at the nape of his neck, as if he had been touched with a dead man’s finger.

  He looked behind him. Nobody was there. Just the faintest glow of fire on the rocks. He was scared that the thing—the huge prancing monster the Englishman had set aflame—would come stomping down the cave next, its skin crackly black and its eyes full of hate. He had seen the thing’s face as it went up in fiery incandescence. It had looked, at least momentarily, like his own father’s face. His father saying, I’m so sorry, Nate. So, so sorry . . .

  Please, Ellen, he thought. Come back.

  A BABY. Could it possibly be?

  For all the world, it appeared to be just that. An infant, cherubic and chubby, its flesh a clean-scrubbed pink. A healthy eight pounds, six ounces, if any of them were to hazard a guess.

  This was what had tumbled from the slit in Augustus Preston’s back. What had been nesting inside of his body for God knows how long.

  It squirmed from its gelatinous sheath—a placental sac of sorts, splattered with the contents of Preston’s skull. It wriggled out of its translucent membrane and writhed on the stone like a fat, contented grub. Michelin Man arms and legs, plump fingers grasping at the air. It could have just fallen from the stork’s blanket. It was as cute as a bug’s ear, it really was. A thousand photographers would line up to snap a shot of the little darling.

  The three of them stepped around the shriveled mess that was Augustus Preston, drawing nearer to the baby. Its aspect shimmered; it was almost as if it was clarifying and solidifying its own shape before their eyes. For an instant Micah saw a prawn-bodied fetus with a bulbous rotted-melon head crawling spastically over the stone; its eyes and mouth and nose were horribly compacted, as if it had been born under immense pressure that had wrenched its features monstrously out of shape—

  The next instant, those deformities disappeared. The baby was cute, angelic.

  The compulsion to touch it was irresistible. Each of them felt a powerful stirring in their sex organs—but there was nothing lustful in this feeling. It was a straightforward, procreative urge. They each wanted to have a baby. Desperately. Right that minute. A baby just like this perfect dewdrop, right here.

  The creature shimmered again; in that shimmer, its perfection dissolved for a few stuttering heartbeats. The child had no sex organs; the space between its legs was studded with inflamed nodes that looked a little like misshapen nipples. Its skin was faintly wrinkled—the crepe-like folds that grace the backs of an old woman’s hands. And its eyes were not those of an infant: black as tar, glinting with an ancient cunning.

  But these obvious malformations quickly dwindled to irrelevancies. This infant was purest beauty, sheerest love. It made a display of its nakedness, angling its body to show off its buttery curves. Inviting them to touch it—just one finger, the barest brush of its skin. It humped awkwardly toward Eli Rathbone, who lay a few feet away. The baby’s tongue popped out of its too-plump lips, licking them lasciviously, obscenely—an infantile come-on that made Ebenezer ill. But his revulsion was a distant thing, far less powerful than his urge to touch or even kiss this child. He was not a fan of babies. Shrieking, shitting, life-ruining creatures. But this child . . . oh yes, he wanted to sweep it up in his arms and shower it with kisses, even though he felt certain those kisses would taste of old death.

  It is not a baby was Micah’s own desperate thought. It is something terrible, something that wants to have its way with all of us . . .

  Minerva’s knees gave out; she sank down in front of the child. “Such a pweeetty bayyyy-beeeee,” she cooed.

  She reached out a trembling hand. Micah batted it away. The baby’s eyes rolled, trapping Micah in its baleful glare.

  “We have to kill it,” Micah heard himself say.

  “And why would we ever consider doing that to such a cutie-pie?” Ebenezer said in a breathy voice.

  Micah was distantly aware of the horror of the scene: the three of them in a box made of rock with a dozen emaciated children, doting over something that looked for all the world like a baby but was in fa
ct something far older and infinitely more hostile.

  The Father.

  Micah drunkenly swung around. He had surrendered control of his limbs. This thing on the floor was robbing him of his motor skills somehow. The beam of his flashlight fell upon the bayonet. He approached it clubfootedly, swaying like a wino. He managed to pick it up. He swiveled to spot Ebenezer and Minerva reaching for the baby again.

  “No!”

  He blundered toward them. His feet got tangled with Preston’s legs as he lurched past the corpse. Eb’s and Minny’s fingers were only inches from the baby’s piglet-pink skin—Micah swept his arm in a rude chopping motion, hitting their grasping hands away. He shouldered them both aside, hearing the wind whoof out of Ebenezer.

  “Close your eyes,” he said. “Don’t look at it.”

  He knelt next to it. He lifted the bayonet and stabbed down, aiming for its chest. The thing’s eyes widened in shock. The bayonet zagged sideways, nicking the rock an inch left of the baby. Micah raised the blade—it took an enormous force of will—and tried again. This time, the bayonet zagged in the other direction. It felt like trying to touch two giant magnets with matching polarities; he would get close—so, so close—only to miss with his strike.

  Ebenezer grabbed his elbow. “Heeeeyyy, don’t hurt the—”

  Micah shrugged him off. The baby was squalling pitiably, eyes squeezed shut as saliva bubbled between its lips. It looked more like an infant than ever: perfect, pristine. Micah positioned the blade directly over its flaccid chest. He hunched his shoulders, using the full weight of his body to bring the bayonet slowly and remorselessly down—

  The baby’s eyes widened. For the first time, Micah saw fear kindling in those fuming black pits.

  No. Don’t you dare.

  The voice that filled Micah’s head was the dreadful rasp. Micah shuddered . . . then, summoning all his will, bore down again.

  Stop, the thing spoke inside his head with a rising note of concern.

  Micah glanced at Minerva and Ebenezer. So they could hear it, too. It wasn’t just him.

  No, Micah thought back at it. You die now.

  Anything, it said desperately. Whatever you desire . . .

  AFTERWARD, WHEN THEY THINK ABOUT it, the shape of those moments will never be quite clear. Their thoughts become hazy. Did any of them truly ask for anything? Did they wish in the traditional sense: a plucked eyelash, a whispered hope before blowing out their birthday candles? Was it ever so cut-and-dried?

  Or was it more that the Father had reached into their hearts and found their deepest longing, and in that moment granted it? Was it that they didn’t even understand what they had wished for—and would that be so unbelievable? How many of us truly know the beat of our hidden hearts?

  None of them will be able to find any certainty. It simply occurred. All three of them felt it. Their bodies filled with the terrible, overpowering certainty of it happening.

  Anything. Whatever you desire.

  One wish. A terrible one. They were granted their heart’s desire. Unconsciously and involuntarily. And from that moment forward, they would be forever burdened with it.

  WHEN THEIR MENTAL HAZE BEGAN to lift, they found that they were still in the chamber. The baby was crawling toward Eli.

  “No,” Micah said.

  He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. What had just gone on? He felt like a dinner party guest who had entered a room where everyone had been talking about him and now they had all lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

  The baby continued humping toward Eli. Its fingers were elongating, becoming less plump and coming to resemble twitching pink wires.

  “No,” Micah said, more forcefully this time.

  I neeeed them, the thing’s voice wheedled in his mind. I gave you what you wanted . . . gave you everything . . .

  Gave him what? Micah shook his head again. He couldn’t clear the fog; his skull felt as if it was stuffed full of cotton balls.

  “Not the children,” he said.

  You must give me someone, it groveled. You must must must—

  Micah took two big steps, pistonned his leg back and punted the hateful infant as hard as he could. His boot sank into the marbled tissue of its chest. The baby tumbled pell-mell into the darkness, arms and legs flapping. Silence . . . then a squalling cry that rose to a petulant shriek.

  The children at the back of the chain were beginning to stir. Their hands came unstuck as they entered wakefulness. Their movements were clumsy, as if they’d been drugged. Minerva and Ebenezer helped them up. They were scared and shaky, like children who had just come out of a coma—and perhaps they had, of a sort. None of them cried. They were too shocked for tears, though those would surely come before long.

  “Where are we?” asked a little girl.

  “We’re in the dark,” Minerva told her gently. “But we’re going to find our way back out, okay? You stick tight with me.”

  The girl rubbed her eyes. “Why is a baby crying? I can’t see it.”

  “It misses its mom, I guess.”

  “Oh.”

  Eli, Elsa, and the Redhill boys did not stir. Their hands were welded together, the flesh melded and seamed. The other children had not suffered this same fate. Those ones—who Micah had to assume had only recently arrived here—seemed to be recovering already. He hoped so. He shook Eli’s shoulder; flies buzzed from the rotten hole under his armpit. Wordlessly, Micah held his hand out for Ebenezer’s pistol.

  “Take the rest,” he said. “I will follow directly.”

  Ebenezer and Minerva led the children to the tunnel. Ebenezer said: “Hop lightly, boys and girls.”

  They trailed him into the tunnel. Minerva waited until they were all through before bringing up the rear. She hesitated.

  “You sure, Shug?”

  “Go on, Minny.”

  Once she was gone, Micah sat with Eli. The baby’s keening screams shot acid through his veins. Biting back his disgust, he gripped the umbilical cord fixed over Eli’s mouth. It clung to his face as if attached with fishhooks. He pulled, terrified he’d rip the boy’s skin off or discover some giant leech projecting from his mouth—

  The baby’s cries abruptly cut out.

  Take them, then, it said spitefully.

  Eli shuddered upright. His eyes shone black and he was screaming; his gleeful, lunatic cackles traveled through the funnel of opaque skin. The other children staggered up, too. Their stick-figure bodies began to prance in the flashlight’s beam as their ghastly laughter filled the darkness. Their hands were fused together in those ulcerated florets; they swung one another around as if playing a hellish version of “Skip-to-My-Lou.”

  There was no longer anything recognizably human about them. Some essential quality had been cleansed away. The thing living inside Preston hadn’t simply eaten their flesh—it had eaten their spirits, their sanity . . . their almighty souls, if those existed.

  Micah stifled a scream, his own sanity threatening to go right along with them. There was no saving them. There was only one final mercy he could offer.

  He raised Ebenezer’s gun. It should have taken four bullets. But it took a few more. It was so dark.

  And Micah’s hands were shaking so damn bad.

  17

  WHEN MICAH MET THEM outside the black rock, his hands were still trembling.

  The night was cool. The children who had been saved were standing around a strange vehicle. Micah figured it must be the track machine the shopkeeper in Grinder’s Switch had spoken about. Ebenezer was helping them into its bed. Micah caught snatches of the children’s anguished speech—“Where’s Mommy and Daddy?” and “What did the Reverend do to my momma?”

  Down the slopes, the forest was burning against the night. A fire was spreading quickly, urged on by the wind blowing over the mesa.

  “We have to get out of here,” Minerva said.

  “We can still make it,” Eb said, “but the fire is curling down the hillside to Little Heaven. Our
only shot is to outrun it.”

  Nate rounded the edge of the machine. His face was peppered with ash.

  “Where’s Ellen?” he said.

  “Wasn’t she with you?” Micah asked the boy.

  “No. She followed them down.” Nate pointed at Minerva and Ebenezer.

  Jesus. Ellen was still in there.

  “Go,” Micah told Minerva.

  “We can wait, Shug. We’ll go back together.”

  Micah shook his head. “If you do not get the children out now, it will be days before help comes.”

  Minerva cast a glance at the fire gathering along the hillside.

  “Five minutes,” she said. “Then we go.”

  Micah nodded. He walked back into the cleft.

  WORMWOOD WORMWOOD WORMWOOD the star’s name is called—

  Amos Flesher lay in his rocky burrow with the burn-faced woman. Their bodies were pressed together. He could smell the blood from her wound, warm on his nose. He giggled. He had hit her quite hard. Had he fractured her skull? He hardly knew his own strength anymore! Something about the darkness, the smells, and the dripping rock gave him an immense sense of power. Wonderful voltages coursed through his bloodstream.

  He had been tucked safe in his hidey-hole when the gunshots rang out. Four or five, he couldn’t count, as they had come so fast. Then three more, spaced out with some deliberation. The woman jerked with each shot, but she did not regain consciousness—just nerves, he figured, the way a fish will flop when you drive a knife into its brain.

  Next came the sounds of passage through the tunnel. Someone was exiting, following the children he’d heard leaving already. Things went silent again. Had everyone gone? Were they all alone, finally?

  Aaaaaamos.

  The Voice filled his skull. Oh! Painful. Like putting his ear next to a huge stereo speaker. Warm wetness coated his lips. Was his nose bleeding? He could feel it trickling from his ears, too.

  Come to me. Worship.

  Yes, Father, Amos thought. Anything for you.

  He squirmed out of the burrow. Gripping the woman’s ankles, he dragged her into the tunnel with him. He flicked her flashlight on. Oh my! That was a lot of blood. Doc Lewis could have stitched up that gash on her head, but Lewis was now dead in a pool of his own blood. Ah, well. Fiddle-dee-dee.