Coven

by David Barnett

  Czanek shouted “Don’t!” as Tom, the Achillean myrmidon, the haunter of the dark, raised the hewer high above his head.

  Czanek emptied the Charter in five evenly spaced taps. The impact of the slugs mowed the kid down like a hinged duck in a shooting gallery.

  Czanek stood in grainy, hot silence. Gun smoke stung his eyes. Unaffected, he stared down at the dead boy.

  Then the dead boy got up.

  Tom’s smile never wavered. His clean white T shirt bore no evidence of blood, just gritty black powder marks. The grouped slugs had punched a smoking hole in the middle of his chest. It was a deep hole.

  “Don’t worry,” Tom said. “I won’t charge you for the shirt.”

  Again, Czanek thought: I am in some shit.

  The empty piece fell out of his hand when the girl entered the room. There was a strange, resonant hum, and a shrinking line of light that was black.

  But the girl was just a child. She stood caped in black, a white face in the room’s dark. Her gentle aura filled Czanek’s head.

  —Hurry up, Tom! We want to eat, please!

  “Coming right up,” Tom said.

  The massive hewer’s blade blurred down. The sister smiled. Tom’s new gift of strength made Besser’s job on Sladder look like child’s play: Czanek was shorn completely in half, from head to crotch. Between his feet, the blade struck the floor with such force that the entire building tremored.

  Czanek’s body parted and fell in two cleanly cut pieces.

  —

  CHAPTER 18

  Lydia remembered feeling afraid. She felt naive, puerile, inexperienced. She was an adult, a sexually mature woman, yet she felt like a child. The very next thing she knew, she was in the shower with him. That was the only word: afraid. But it wasn’t Wade she was afraid of, nor sex, nor closeness. It was herself.

  The cool water rained down on her face. Wade stood behind her, sudsing her into a suit of slick lather. He did so very slowly. Lydia’s excitement began to unravel the instant his hands touched her skin. She’d forgotten what that felt like, to simply be touched…

  Neither had said a word since they’d come into the shower. Lydia liked it that way—no talk, just the detailed hiss of the water and the sensation of his hands sudsing her body, beguiling her. This was a shocking luxury—being washed in the dreamy torrent, being so slowly and attentively felt. The contrast of warm lather and cool water made her nipples stand right up, right away. She was happy to feel, against her rump, that something of his was standing up too. Now his hands smoothed suds over her breasts. The slow, radiating pleasure was almost infuriating. He pressed her breasts together, offered them to the water. The suds sluiced off and left her flesh squeaky in his hands.

  She felt the trail of suds course down her legs. More and more, Lydia felt thinly wired, like a rosined bowstring fit to snap. Wade’s hands slid up her hips; then the bar of soap glided brazenly into the cleft of her rump. The shock brought her up on her tiptoes.

  Wade seemed to know that she could bear no more of this. He hugged her as he turned off the water, then he took her straight out. The room opened to them in cool darkness. They kissed belly to belly, dripping. The beads of water on her skin turned warm with her heat. Her open mouth sucked over his; their tongues frolicked. In the window she could see the moon, which seemed to watch like a distant face, or part of her past self.

  Wade’s hands coaxed her buttocks apart and squeezed. His member (which she thought of unhesitantly as his cock) stood erect between their pressing bellies. Its hot underside throbbed. She longed to see its details, to witness its mysterious proof.

  Next he straddled her on the bed. His strategy was agonizing: He kissed and licked every square inch of her body, from her lips to the tips of her toes—he dressed her in kisses. He traced her tan lines with his tongue. He sucked her nipples till they filled with a delicious ache. His mouth drew a wet line to her belly button, which he kissed, licked, and sucked with undue fascination.

  Lydia felt stretched on an inquisitor’s rack when he began to kiss around the entirety of her sex; the sensation churned upward. Was she losing her mind from this? And what of him? She strained to grasp his cock, but it remained out of reach. For now she could only vow a dutiful reciprocation. Yes, she would tend to his cock as voraciously as he now tended to her. She would suck it till he came in her mouth, and that would only be the beginning.

  These thoughts confounded her. Dirty girl, she thought. She wrapped her legs around his back. Yes, she would show him, once his cock was in reach. I don’t love this guy, do I? she dared to ask herself, but she could only think through chinks in the teasing frenzy. Then the wave began to rise. Oh, no. Oh—

  Flexing spasms gathered and burst. A finger slipped in. She began to come at once when his mouth found the exposed nub of her clitoris. (She often thought that clitoris had to be the most ridiculous name devisable for the seat of feminine sexual pleasure.) The tongue licked up, bearing down. Moaning wasn’t Lydia’s style, yet she moaned just the same, writhing against the synchronicity of his tongue and mouth, which coaxed pulses of orgasms from her. Each beautiful release reminded her how long it had been since anything like this had happened to her. All she could do was lie there and come, give in to him. Yes, it had been a very long time indeed.

  ««—»»

  The Supremate hummed, as if to set a score to its intricate web of thoughts. Soulless behind the shocking countenance, it knew everything. It watched and listened. And hummed.

  —WHO AM I? The Supremate thought.

  In a manner, it did know everything, and enjoyed the luxury of being in many places at once. Some would define God by these criteria. —AM I GOD? it wondered. —I AM OMNISCIENT. I AM OMNIPRESENT. I AM WORSHIPED. MAYBE I’M GOD.

  Deep in the labyrinth, the daughters were at work, happy in mindlessness. They were pawns, but the Supremate loved them.

  —I LOVE.

  More God. Wasn’t love, too, a necessary criteria?

  —WORK HARD. MY PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS. FOR I LOVE YOU.

  —We know! came their reply. —We love you too!

  But the Supremate idled. Surely there must be more to God than this. There had to be. —GOD? it thought.

  Their holy—yes, holy—burdens here would soon be ended. Then they would move on to new fertile gardens, new pastures from which to reap. But how many more times? And how much longer?

  The Supremate didn’t know.

  —I’M NOT GOD, it realized. —I’M JUST… ME.

  The Supremate’s head roared with ancient laughter. It laughed and laughed. And hummed.

  ««—»»

  Stella Erbling arched forward, painting her toenails. She was painting them black. Her sister, Liddy, lounged back on the couch with her feet up, bored as she scrutinized the TV guide.

  “What’s on cable?” Stella asked, painting daintily.

  “Just horror movies on cable,” Liddy replied, bored.

  “What ones?”

  Liddy was a year older but a year behind. Their father had arranged for them to room together, believing that a familial proximity might encourage academic motivation. This, in truth, effected the opposite. Stella was proud that her 1.2 grade point average was one tenth of a percent higher than Liddy’s.

  “Let’s see,” Liddy said, scanning the TV cable guide. “I Eat Your Skin, Bloodsucking Freaks, Three on a Meat Hook, and Citizen Kane.”

  Stella laughed. “Citizen Kane isn’t a horror movie, you mushhead. It’s porno.”

  “Oh,” Liddy peeped. Stella knew everything, damn her.

  Stella capped the polish bottle. “Forget TV. I got a better idea.”

  Liddy’s face shined in glee, “Do Horse?”

  “Do Horse,” Stella authorized. “Call that human pile-driver right now. We’ll raise his Kane, all right.”

  The sheer delight of this conspiracy merged into their laughter. Liddy’s denim mini slipped up and showed her pantyless bottom as she bent for the phone. They c
ouldn’t wait for Do Horse to come calling. So what if he had less charisma than a package of lunch meat? He was like the flag at the White House—always up.

  And they would do well to have their fun quickly, for sometimes the night brings many callers, not all of whom are welcome.

  ««—»»

  Such callers, in this case, would be Tom, in a clean T shirt, and one of the middle sisters. Several hours had passed since David “Do Horse” Willet had arrived at the Erblings’ for what would be his last so called roll in the hay. Tom and the sister took the fire stairs up, to avoid notice by the lobby guard. Up, up they went, for another small straw of destiny.

  Lois Hartley had acclimated well and was now brewing nicely in the gestation catalyzer. The Supremate was pleased. Vaguely Tom wondered what manner of grossness would emerge from Lois’ radiophaseshifttriionized womb. Too vividly he remembered the stillborn sack of flesh that the stasisfield defected Penelope had birthed. Ugh, he thought. No cigars from that daddy.

  The cloaked sister stood behind him, grinning stupidly. They advanced with discretion, and passed room 202, Sarah’s room. Tom wondered if Jervis was still ravaged by the destruction of the romance. He also wondered if he’d ever see his Kirin guzzling friend again, before the promised all expense paid trip to eternity. Despite what Tom had become, he missed his friends.

  Next came room 206, Penelope’s room, or at least it had been until her address was changed to underground. The poor airhead was probably still blubbering away down there.

  Next came room 208, the Erblings’.

  —Remember, said the sister. —Don’t make a mess this time.

  Tom twisted the doorknob and pushed. Metal crunched as the bolt ground out. The door opened to a brightly lit room: three astonished faces jerked up from a rather elaborate ménage à trois. Suddenly naked bodies blurred, dashing madly. Stella yelled, “Who—”

  “—the fuck are they!” Liddy finished, gleaming breasts abob. But the dude, David “Do Horse” Willet, stepped forward, confident in spite of total nakedness, and totally unafraid.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Do Horse asked.

  “Ted Kennedy,” Tom said. “Wanna buy a Delta 88 cheap?”

  Do Horse, who was at no loss for muscle, rammed his big, knuckly fist at Tom’s face. The guy must be a Democrat, Tom surmised. He held up a palm, into which Do Horse’s fist collided. Tom’s palm didn’t budge. The bones in Do Horse’s hand shattered.

  —Get them! the sister ordered. —They’re getting away!

  The Erblings, screaming, flew by on either side. Tom snatched each by the hair, and that was the end of the great escape. By fistfuls of scalp he held the two girls off their feet, as a fisherman might hold up two trout. The sister’s grinning face beamed within the recess of the black hood. Her sunglassed eyes drank up the sight of the girls’ nude bodies as they lurched screaming beneath Tom’s fists. Next the sister was touching them, feeling their breasts, cupping their pubes as if in awe.

  Hurry up, Tom thought like a groan.

  The sister’s fanged mouth stretched wide. The pink needled tether shot out too quickly to be seen and rammed its stinger into one throat, then the other. The Erblings fell limp.

  Tom dropped them on the carpet. Meanwhile, Do Horse had sprung back up, bringing a Mitsubishi VCR down on Tom’s head with a heavy metallic bang.

  Tom turned. “Don’t waste your time, pal.”

  Do Horse grabbed a large wall mirror and broke that, too, over Tom’s head. Tom winced slightly as the mirror burst. Do Horse stared, incredulous that Tom was still standing.

  “Here’s an old one,” Tom offered. “You know what a Chernobyl hooker’s specialty is? Glow jobs.”

  “That’s terrible,” Do Horse couldn’t help but comment.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Tom grabbed Do Horse’s throat and crushed it.

  He calmly dragged the slowly strangling young man into the bathroom and dropped him in the tub. The body slapped like raw meat hitting slate. Tom ripped open the boy’s rib cage and abdominal wall, exposing the warm delicacies within.

  “Soup’s on,” he said.

  —Oh, good! The sister scurried in, knelt, and began to eat.

  Tom rolled the two paralyzed girls up in the oval carpet, then carried them out to the car. The sister was still eating when he returned to the dorm room.

  —It’s so good! she exclaimed. Tom saw with some distaste that the body part for which David Willet was nicknamed had already been eaten. The sister was now clunkily prying apart the boy’s skull and scooping out big squiggles of brains.

  —Want some? she asked, offering a handful.

  “No thanks,” Tom said. “I’m trying to cut down.” He cleaned up the broken mirror, faintly unnerved at the glimpses of his own graying face in the pieces. He set the VCR back, made the bed, and packed the strewn clothing into the hamper. Then he checked the fridge for beer but grimly discovered only cans of Bud. Forget it, he thought.

  At last the sister emerged, her little mouth smudged red. —I’m done, Tom. I’ll wait in the car while you clean up the rest.

  Tom glanced at the offal in the tub. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  ««—»»

  And just as the night has its share of callers, so, too, does it have its share of watchers. One such watcher was Jervis Phillips.

  He’d set up an hour ago with the telescope and Czanek’s receiver, expecting Sarah and the German to repeat last night’s performance. But they’d never arrived. The only activity to be seen in Sarah’s window was Frid, the cat, which milled disinterested about the dorm room. Jervis could hear it purring over the receiver. Every so often its bottomless eyes seemed to gaze directly into the telescope, as if it knew Jervis was watching. God, I hate that cat, he thought.

  But then he spotted motion in another window. It only took a moment for him to realize it was the Erblings’ room.

  Jervis pulled his azimuth to the left and focused in.

  Then he froze.

  Jeeeeeeeesus Christ.

  Insanity. That’s what smiled back at him through the telescope. This was not a voyeur’s cheap thrill. This was insanity.

  The unwatchable things he watched consumed only minutes. The Erbling girls, naked, lay limp on the floor. A naked guy, who looked just like Do Horse Willet, was fighting another guy who looked just like Tom.

  “It is Tom,” Jervis muttered, eye pressed to the barlow.

  But why was Tom’s face gray and sunk eyed? Furthermore, what was that lunatic scene? Most bizarre of all was the woman who presided over this, a woman in a black cape and sunglasses.

  Now Tom was dragging Do Horse to the bathtub. And the woman…

  She’s eating him, Jervis realized.

  Jervis took his eye away from the telescope, away from the crimson frenzy. Illusion, he thought. That’s all. He finished a Kirin and rationalized. Too much drinking, too little eating, and the mind plays tricks on you.

  He calmed his terrors with reason, convinced himself that when he looked back in the telescope, he would see none of the rampant madness he thought he’d seen. He would see no murder, no cloaked woman, no blood. He would see normality.

  He looked back into the telescope—

  Jeeeeeeeesus Christ!

  —and saw Tom stuffing handfuls of innards into a plastic garbage bag as the black cloaked woman pushed a final clump of human brains into her red smeared mouth.

  —

  CHAPTER 19

  What time was it? The faintest dawn gathered in the window. Birds chirped. It must be five or five thirty.

  Lydia slid carefully out of bed, slipped on her panties, and padded about the dark room. It occurred to her that she could put her clothes on and slip out right now, leave a tawdry note like “Thanks for the good time, see you around.” How would Wade react to that? It was too hard nowadays to judge the nature of emotions—a litmus test would be so much easier. Her cutoffs lay on the floor, her loaded derringer on the desk. Did she, a rat
her dedicated police officer, want to get involved with Wade, a rather undedicated student?

  How could they be compatible? They were opposite in so many ways. The physical thing had been good; was she letting that fog her focus? This seemed different, though. The sex aside, her heart deciphered itself: she did want to be involved with him. Even better, maybe she already was.

  She heard footsteps in the hall. They sounded stealthy.

  Abruptly then, the doorknob jiggled.

  But surely Wade had locked the door. Only idiots leave their doors unlocked, she thought.

  Then the door opened.

  Lydia grabbed her gun and hid behind the desk. A figure entered cautiously and took time to close the door without making noise. Lydia made no details of the shape. It crossed the room in silence and stopped at the foot of Wade’s bed.

  Was the figure deliberating? It stood still a moment. Then, quickly, it began to reach for Wade.

  Lydia snapped on the light and pointed the .22 at the 5x zone of the trespasser’s torso. “Don’t move,” she ordered.

  A wearied face stared at her. Wade leaned up from bed, squinting.

  “I don’t believe it,” the trespasser said. “I’m being held at gunpoint by a topless blonde.”

  “A topless police officer,” Lydia corrected, but then she thought: Oh my God, it’s true! I’m practically nude!

  Wade laughed. “Put away your heat, Annie Oakley. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Goddamn it!” she shouted. Embarrassment flooded her. “Get him out of here! And quit laughing!”

  “In the hall,” Wade said to Jervis Phillips, who quickly scooted out. Lydia couldn’t remember ever being this pissed off. “Sorry,” Wade apologized, and put on his robe. “These things happen.”

  “Shit!” she yelled at him.

  Wade went out to the hall. Lydia quickly put on her cutoffs and top. The conversation was easy to overhear.

  Jervis sounded hesitant. “I saw something. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I witnessed a murder. Over at the girls’ dorm.”