Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  Movement. The long barrel of a shotgun moved slowly through the low dunes like a periscope. The head and shoulders of an old man appeared. He wore blue overalls and a billed railroad cap.

  "Good morning, Jake," Rourke said.

  The wizened figure jerked, startled, and swung the weapon around. Rourke flinched. "Easy," he laughed. "I didn't come all this way to get shot by a friend."

  Jake, squinting in the morning sun, studied the tall, wide shape before him. He placed the familiar voice and lowered his gun.

  "Pete Rourke? That you?"

  "Was the last time I looked, Jake."

  "It's been years, boy! What you been up to?"

  "Working my ass off down in good old Hollywood. Figured it was high time I came back."

  Jake dug for fresh words, came up empty. "Pete. Hot damn. Well, how the hell are you?"

  "Just fine, except I may have to change my shorts now. What are you hunting with that cannon?"

  A wide grin creased the old man's features. "Badger, I reckon. Somethin's been gettin' to Candace Stone's chickens of late. She asked me to nose around, since her fella's been so downright useless."

  "Fella? I thought she'd be living alone out there forever," Rourke said, walking closer.

  "She's with Bert, now. No accountin' for taste."

  "You've had twenty and some years to speak up, Jake. You telling me you're jealous?"

  "Not a bit of it, you young punk! Course, she sure can cook up a storm, Candace. I'll miss the meals."

  "Nail the critter, then," Rourke said. "It's bound to earn you a free supper."

  "That's just what I'm doin', Pete. You stop by and see me, hear? Glad you're back."

  "Thanks. Glad to be back."

  Amazingly, he was; more so each passing moment. He returned to his car and waved. The thin old man wandered off, doggedly scanning the ground for badger tracks. Peter started the engine, humming to himself. He drove down the curving slope into town.

  The town seemed to balloon sideways and fill the windshield. At least, he thought, this is one place where nothing ever changes.

  The railroad tracks, long unused, still crossed from east to west like stitches. A thin carpet of powdered red clay covered them like a strip of filthy gauze bandage, and they were littered with bleached fists of dried tumbleweed. At the southern end of Two Trees stood a concrete tunnel. One summer, long ago, Rourke and his cousin Rod had painted skull and crossbones above it as a prank, after finding an old Indian burial cave. The outline was still visible on the chipped cement, the work of bored children. It said something of the town of Two Trees that it had never occurred to anyone to bother to remove the crude design. It had simply become a part of this place and its heritage. So am I. Rourke drove on in, straight down Main Street.

  Hiram Polson's ancient adobe hotel still dominated the town square. A glimpse inside the lobby would have revealed cracked, peeling walls and rows of silent slot machines that waited patiently for tourists who no longer came. Hi and Louise Polson could never bring themselves to sell it, and now there were no buyers.

  Jake's gas station hunkered, oily and bright with reflected sunlight, in the far corner of the square. A rush of memory: Rourke could smell the engine parts in the garage, see the decrepit old John Deere tractor that stood rusting, year after year, out behind the station's single restroom. Jake, who had somehow inherited it, always said he'd get it running one fine day. Actually, Jake tinkered but rarely fixed anything or managed to turn a profit. He smoked cheap cigars, drank Nehi orange soda by the gallon and read cheap paperback novels about the old West. Jake's knuckles were mangled from years of toil as a mechanic, his hands stained with thick, green grease. He still wore that American Legion pin on the chest of his worn, patched overalls. No, nothing ever changed in Two Trees.

  Rourke tried the radio, moved the tuner around, but heard nothing appealing. He turned it off again and continued his slow drive, whistling a Beatles song. He felt safe, which struck him as ironic.

  Safe, where he used to have to hide. Where he'd tried to run away, again and again, to escape his father; slid through mud and under houses, crept down alleys and across small vegetable gardens, hoping to make it to the highway and somehow bum a ride. But he'd had Grandpa, then, to even out the score. God, how he'd loved the man. Hey, Rourke thought, turning the wheel. Do you suppose — I don't believe it. Am I that old?

  Uncut weeds. The dusty outline of a once-green field and a pair of empty, splintered bleachers. No buildings; they'd probably all been hauled away for scrap.

  The entire high school was gone.

  Now this was a heartbreaker. Even for a guy like Rourke, who had seen Two Trees football as a dreary social obligation, one a big, strapping kid couldn't wriggle out of, not unless he limped convincingly. Nobody plays on that grass anymore, he thought. It's all dead.

  Dead as Two Trees was dying.

  Punt. I need to hear an old, familiar voice.

  Peter drove past the sheriff's office and parked in the dirt near Martoni's Market. His back felt stiff. He slid out of the car, tried to crack his neck and caught sight of his reflection in Martoni's front window. He saw a big man in his mid-thirties with decent Irish features and a smattering of freckles. The eyes a little colder, maybe; reddish-brown hair now long and unruly. But all in all, not that different from the boy this town remembered.

  Martoni's screen was stuck. Rourke tugged it open and got a puff of dust in his eyes. He entered the cool, dark grocery store. The bell rang, the door slammed behind him and: [Uncle Jeremy shoved the long hunting rifle into his small, reluctant hands. "Aim high and left. Drop the bastard with your first shot, or you'll be chasing a wounded deer for hours. Always respect what you kill," Jeremy had said. "Be clean. Quick."]

  Rourke shook the memory away.

  "Mr. Martoni?"

  "You don't gotta yell, kid."

  "You've got good ears for an old fart," Peter grinned.

  Martoni appeared from far in back, behind the butcher counter, his body embraced by a stained white apron. Brown hair greying at the temples; blood-darkened hands and irregular teeth in a warm, soft face. He shook his wet fingers and sprayed the wall with crimson droplets.

  "Good ears? My wife died years ago, kid. My hearing came back something remarkable after that. So you're home, Pete. I'm glad. It's been a while." Martoni, the gruff old man who'd once given refuge and fresh oranges to an odd little boy he hardly knew. Small-town grocer, unwitting savior.

  "It's good to see you," Rourke said. He meant it.

  "Quick, now! Swipe an apple while my back is turned."

  Peter approached the fruit counter, boots clumping on the wooden floor. He chose an apple and crunched a bite. This had once been something of a joke; but now it felt sacred, a ritual that slowed and twisted time.

  The grocer nodded in satisfaction. "I missed you, Pete," he said. "Years too long."

  "Likewise, sir. Decided to come home for a while. Maybe I'll work a bit, maybe not. We'll see."

  Martoni smiled. "The music and everything, we're all proud of you. I've got some of your CDs here in the back of the store."

  Rourke blinked. He finished the apple and flipped the core into the trash can below the book rack. "I'll need to stock up for a few days," he managed. "Beans. Flour, meat. Some coffee and soft drinks. That's for starters."

  Martoni ended up filling several cardboard boxes with provisions. Each time Peter took one out to the car, the heat tried to knock him down. When the back seat was full, he went into the store and found Martoni busying himself at the shelves. The grocer handed Rourke a pencil and a scrap of paper. Straight-faced, ignoring both the cash in his pocket and the check book in his car, Rourke wrote out an IOU for $129.50. This was another old ritual, denoting mutual trust. Martoni dropped the note into the drawer of his register without even looking at it.

  "How long will you be staying, Pete?"

  "A couple of weeks, I guess. Maybe longer."

  Martoni struggled wi
th himself. "Don't spend too much time alone, kid," he said. "You always did that. But since… well, it never was a good idea. You know?"

  Rourke winced. "I'll be okay, Mr. Martoni. Relax."

  Peter returned to his car. He considered stopping by the cemetery where his mother and Grandfather were buried, but decided against it. He was rationalizing, but figured he'd be around long enough to make a lot of graveside visits. Perhaps some older ghosts could finally be laid to rest.

  Rourke spun the vehicle in a wide half-circle, completely around the weathered grocery store. He parked again, then jogged to the sheriff's office and tapped on the door. Glenn Bates, his skin smooth and compact as a leather saddle, emerged from within. Though a bit younger, the sheriff still had the bearing of Rourke's late uncle Jeremy. That same Marine Corps toughness. Bates wore his usual starched tan uniform. His badge gleamed in the sunlight; polished so often the engraving had begun to wear flat.

  "Welcome home, Rourke," Bates said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Didn't bring any dope into my quiet little town, did you?"

  "I'm fine, Sheriff. Thanks for asking. And you?"

  "Don't cause me trouble, Rourke. Or I'll make you sorry you did."

  Rourke sighed. "I just wanted you to know that I was here, Glenn. I didn't want you to think someone had broken into my cabin. I'd hate to have you blow my ass away when you drop by to check on it."

  "That would be a shame, wouldn't it."

  "In my opinion," Rourke said.

  Bates nodded. "Glad you stopped by, then. Have a nice visit."

  Bates closed the door in his face. Peter shrugged. He started back towards his car. A cold rush of fear ran through him and icy lashes brushed his spine: Jesus, am I skulling? [...something rancid, evil...] Before he could locate or define it, the tingle vanished. He shook himself, numb with shock. No drugs this time. Some trace of stray emotion, perhaps. Another memory, or perhaps a premonition.

  Please, God, he thought. Don't let this start again.

  The world swam into focus. Hi Polson, rocking quietly on the front porch of his dilapidated hotel, waved and smiled. Rourke waved back.

  "Howdy, stranger," Hiram called. "How's life?"

  "Good enough, Hi. What have you and Louise been up to? Business must be hard to come by."

  "We're making do," Polson said. "Making do. Oh, that Reiss boy, young preacher Robert, he was asking after you the other day. I said I'd say howdy. Terrible thing, wasn't it?"

  "What?"

  Polson blanched. "Why, Beth and Elmo. You didn't hear?"

  "No."

  As Hiram explained, Rourke sagged. The sickness of the city, mindless violence, had spread this far into the wilderness. Man and his deeds.

  "They have any ideas?"

  "Bates thinks some drifter done it," Hi Polson said. "State Police agreed."

  What a tragedy. Poor Robert, he thought. This was a terrible thing. "Tell him I'd like to see him," he said.

  "Will do, when I hear something," Hiram said. "Pete, you drop by sometime."

  "Sure."

  Peter shelved the depressing news. He found the old green house on autopilot, parked in the shade of the overpass and whistled sharply between two fingers. Nothing. He whistled again.

  A whine of recognition, mock growling. Paws thumping the earth. Monday came racing around the corner of the porch, barking joyfully. Peter wrestled the big shepherd, laughing, and ended up prone in the dry grass. He remembered right away, bless him, Rourke thought. A lot of dogs would have snubbed me after this long.

  He went up the steps of Agatha's house and peered in through the closed screen door: Lace, old lady dust and empty chairs. A sudden gust of wind entered the deserted living room, thumbed through the pages of a magazine and moved on like a restless spirit.

  "Hello?"

  "You must be Peter Rourke," said a soft, precise female voice.

  She stepped up onto the end of the porch, a pert woman in her middle twenties. She had large, alert eyes, a pouting mouth and raven-black hair. Her elbows and knees were dark with freshly turned soil from the garden. She wore cut-off blue jeans and a faded work shirt several sizes too large for her, as if hoping to disguise the taut muscles and round curves of her lithe, strong body. Rourke thought briefly of Dee. The girl did not remind him of the singer in any concrete way, but struck a similar chord of physical appreciation. The moment was crystal clear; luminous and quite sensual. He suddenly realized that she was appraising him too, and that it had been an embarrassingly long time since she had spoken.

  "Sorry. Yes, I'm Peter Rourke."

  She strode forward, extending her hand for a solid Midwestern shake; eyes locked on his, shoulders back and face open for inspection. Someone had taught her to project strength, self-confidence and sexuality, but perhaps a bit too well. There were no rough edges or worn spots; this was all rehearsed. Stiff. Meanwhile, someone timid and guilty crouched low behind a barricade, hoping to remain undiscovered.

  "I'm Maggie," she announced. "Agatha's niece."

  "She passed away?"

  "Yes. It was a blessing, actually. She couldn't look after herself any longer."

  "She was a nice old woman," Peter said sadly. "I'll miss her."

  "So will I. She left everything to me, the sweetheart. I came here intending to spruce things up a bit and sell the house, but now I can't decide."

  Rourke smiled. "I guess Aggie told you that I might be coming to check on my dog sometime soon."

  "Yes. Monday's such a dear. How old is he?"

  "He's getting up there. Not only that, he's the son of another shepherd I had when I lived here. Needless to say, it's been a while since I've been home."

  Maggie nodded. "By the way, why is he called Monday, anyway?"

  The shepherd barked gleefully at the sound of his name. They laughed. Rourke seized the opportunity to move a bit closer. He and Maggie knelt on either side of the dog, as if unaware of the sparks beginning to fly back and forth between them.

  "We called his Mom by the same name, because Monday was the day we found her wandering by the highway."

  "I admire you," Maggie said.

  "Why?"

  "For leaving a dog out here in the country, where he belongs, and not dragging him off to L.A."

  "Not one dog, Maggie. Two generations worth. And you know something? It wasn't an easy choice."

  "I believe you," she said.

  "But…Fair is fair."

  She nuzzled Monday. "He's wonderful."

  "I've missed him as much as my uncle's cabin."

  "But how come you know each other so well?" she asked. "You said you haven't been back home in years."

  Rourke scratched the dogs muzzle. "My Uncle Jeremy used to visit me pretty often, and he always brought the dogs. First the Mom, then both of them and finally just this guy. I used to meet them halfway sometimes, like in Vegas. He left Monday with me in L.A. for a few months when he was about a year old, but that was downright cruel. A country dog in a bullshit L.A. condo, you know? It seemed immoral, or something."

  She laughed. "Sounds like," she said. Rourke decided he liked her laugh. A lot.

  Maggie rose, dusting herself off. "Hey," she grinned, "Would you like a drink or something? Want to come in?"

  Those eyes roamed over him, and her gaze felt seductive. Peter deliberated, then reluctantly shook his head. Said: "Thanks, but I really should go unpack. It'll be dark soon as it is. Another time?"

  He turned at the foot of the steps, but couldn't read Maggie's expression. Her face was cloaked in shade. Had he offended her? He stretched for something to say. The woman had suddenly made him feel clumsy and adolescent.

  "Maggie, I..."

  "We'll have to talk," she purred. "I've never met a songwriter. I play semi-pro tennis, myself. Perhaps we could have a game sometime."

  He winced. "I'm awful. Would you believe football?"

  She clapped her hands. "I'm a born jock, Rourke," she chuckled. "We'll debate who was better, Marshall Faulk, Si
mpson, Eric Dickerson or Gayle Sayers. Just name the time and place."

  Peter nodded as if coming to a momentous decision. "You and me, Maggie," he intoned, "are going to get along."

  Monday raced to the car and sat patiently by the passenger door until Rourke let him hop inside. The shepherd barked again, excited to be returning to the mountains.

  "Let me get settled," Rourke called. "I'll drop by. Maybe Mr. Urich over at the drug store will sell us a quarter lemonade."

  "I doubt it. Inflation."

  "We'll see. He still was doing it six years ago, when I came up here for my birthday."

  He slid into the car and began to drive away. Maggie waved, then went off to resume digging in Agatha's garden. Rourke scratched Monday on the neck and studied Maggie's shapely behind in the rear view mirror. Very nice. Maybe you can go home again, after all.

  2

  GLADYS PIERSON

  Gladys Pierson pulled her bulky body up and out of bed, her stomach demanding bananas and milk with brown sugar. Damn her friend Edith and that stupid ouija board. Out so late, feeling so foolish; sitting there in that dark room, waiting for some fool piece of wood to move on its own. Lord, how two silly old women can carry on.

  "It might be the end of the world, Gladys," Edith had said. "We can learn all about it, too. I've read books." Foolishness, all of it, but what are friends for? Besides, suppose something really did happen some night.

  Gladys decided that she would need a big breakfast to keep up her strength. Her routine had been the same for more than twenty years, and she found it a comfort.

  A blue jay called from its perch in the tree right outside her bedroom window. The harsh grating laughter rolled up and down two octaves. The racket pleased her. Why, that jay must be as old as I am!

  Gladys wrapped a giant green terrycloth bathrobe around her obese frame and padded into the kitchen, cooing to her houseplants. She opened her back door. Five large cats were waiting on the steps.