Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  "You got some marvelous responses. I just got sleepy."

  Edith looked amused and complacent. She smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. "I'll make a believer out of you tonight, Gladys. Have you heard about poor Mr. Urich and Mr. Martoni?"

  Gladys had been listening in on Bates all morning, but she pretended ignorance to give her friend the thrill of passing along some juicy gossip. "No," she said, leaning forward. "I've been working."

  Edith proceeded to tell her, embellishing the gruesome saga with a few imaginative details of her own. After milking every possible ounce of enjoyment out of the exchange, both women agreed that it was a sad and terrible event. Edith's face took on a self-satisfied look. She folded her arms across her chest. "Now, Gladys. Didn't I tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  Edith became dramatic. "The Tarot cards. They said evil was coming here, remember?"

  Gladys felt uneasy all of a sudden. Edith seemed... wicked. Again. "You said that's what they meant, but you always say things like that."

  "You'll see later on," Edith intoned. "Tonight is the night I convert you. You'll believe, I promise you. The spirits know everything before it happens."

  Gladys cringed in fear. The minute Edith left, she located and began to inhale a candy bar. Food always made her feel safe. She was being foolish. What in the world had poor Edith done? They were old friends, for God's sake. She licked the wrapper, crushed it in her fist and tossed it out onto the sidewalk. A playful gust of wind began to bounce the crumpled ball of paper down the street towards the outskirts of town.

  42

  CANDACE & BERT

  Candace Stone had begun to fear for her life. Often, just out of the corner of her eye, she would catch Bert staring at her. His features seemed twisted and ugly; the face of a stranger. But that ghastly expression would vanish the moment she turned to confront him. It was as if she were going psychotic.

  They each went through the motions: Small talk at the dinner table, splitting chores, watching television together. But it was all a travesty. Neither trusted the other. As the horror grew, she began to picture sick, nasty things; images her conscious mind tried to shove aside. Ways to kill Bert, before he could murder her.

  But then, as quick as the flip of a coin, Candace would ache with a desire to marry him. To have a legal, binding relationship before God. Almost like that was the answer. It was kind of crazy, she knew that, but so was the alternative. Going on with things as they stood.

  Why couldn't they sit down and talk it over? What in God's name had come between them?

  Bert was rocking silently, as usual, his attention focused on town. Candace gathered up her knitting and went out to join him. Time crawled by. She was searching for words of her own when Bert finally spoke to her, his voice surprisingly warm.

  "Maybe you'd best get away," he said. "I think something's wrong with me, Candy. Can't explain it, don't understand it."

  Candace felt as though a hundred pound rock had just been lifted from her shoulders. "You don't need to explain, Bert. I'm not myself, either."

  He lowered his head. "I get these bad ideas. I keep wanting to hurt you, Candy. Really hurt you."

  "I know," Candace said.

  "You do?"

  "Yes. I feel it, too."

  "Life just ain't worth a damn to me no more," Bert mumbled. "I don't even know if I wanna go on."

  "I understand."

  "You do?"

  "I surely do."

  "That's good. That's good."

  They didn't talk again for quite some time, just rocked back and forth together on the porch.

  43

  CHALMERS & VARGAS

  Meanwhile, in another life: The day hung suspended, as if from a pendulum — bright and shiny and waiting for a push. Chalmers looked out through the cracked glass of the hotel window and wished that something, anything, would move. The fucking place was incredible. Normally the big hermit enjoyed peace and quiet, but this was different. Not like the desert, that wide-open stretch of beige he was accustomed to. Hell, Two Trees was supposed to be a goddamn city. Life in it, people moving around. Voices, dogs barking, cars. This felt like it wasn't real, just some damn oil painting.

  The claustrophobia and stifling heat combined to make him feel drowsy. He went to the sink, twisted the rusty handle and threw cold water on his face. I'm losing my edge, he thought. Vargas wouldn't like that. He'd get pissed off.

  Chalmers lay facedown on the floor and did some pushups to clear his mind. He experienced a sudden jolt of confusion and fear. Someone buried deep within him struggled, briefly, to regain control; tried to structure him as he'd been... before. Way back in the beginning.

  But then it didn't seem important anymore. Chalmers relaxed. He stretched and yawned. Shit, things would be okay. He returned to his place at the window, dreading the view and the eternal day.

  He watched as a tall man wearing a badge crossed the street. Chalmers took the Sheriff's measure. Strong, loose and limber in his walk. Military background. Someone to stay clear of, most likely.

  44

  BATES & MICHAEL

  Sheriff Bates went up onto the splintered sidewalk and into the afternoon shade. Behind him, his shadow mated. Michael Moore stepped through the swinging doors of the hotel casino, finishing a beer. The two men eyed each other. They were natural enemies, and knew it. Something tense crackled between them.

  "I took another look this morning," Bates said. "It must have gone down about the way you figured. I was a little drunk, but I sorted it out all right."

  "Town's lucky to have you, Sheriff."

  Bates showed his teeth. "You know something? Now that I'm sober, I don't think I like you very much."

  "Don't worry. I won't be around long enough to bother you. Don't feel obliged to do anything about it."

  "You best be telling me the truth," Bates said. He seemed a bit mollified. Michael noticed more than a hangover. The Sheriff's eyes were darting about nervously. He had slept poorly.

  "All the bodies get where they belong?"

  He was not prepared for the white-lipped glare Bates threw him. Michael took a step back, readying himself for a fight. Bates looked away and loosened up.

  "Took 'em over to the mortuary. Must admit it made me a tad jumpy."

  Michael grinned disarmingly. "I guess it would do that to anybody. I sure as hell wouldn't have had the balls."

  Bates grunted, nodded and walked away.

  Yeah, Michael thought. There it was, the key to Glenn Bates. Tell him he's a brave man, so he won't feel obligated to prove it.

  45

  ROURKE & MAGGIE

  The day was slipping away. For some reason they both were feeling lighter, happier. They were in the cool of Agatha's living room. Rourke was lying with his head on Maggie's lap, strumming guitar chords.

  "Can you feel anything?"

  Rourke shook his head. "Everything has been quiet for the last few hours."

  "That's good?"

  "That's really good."

  "What is your new song about?"

  "Can't tell you."

  Maggie slapped him on the bridge of the nose with the tip of her finger. She scowled. "Hey. What do you mean you can't tell me?"

  Peter kept his eyes closed. "If I talk about it too much I'll never write it, that's all. Simple. You'd better get used to the idea if you're going to marry me."

  She jumped. "Marry? Who the hell said marry?"

  "Not me," Rourke chuckled. "I must have listened in."

  She pretended to strike him and they wrestled a bit. He put the guitar down and told her that he'd begun fooling with an idea for a concept album about ecology. "You can hear a few tunes once I've polished 'em. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  Rourke lay still while Maggie gently stroked his forehead. She assumed he was resting. He saw no reason to worry her by telling her otherwise. But Peter was skulling, probing cautiously at the evil gathered all around them. He was hoping to locate its heart, before
it found his…

  [a hole in the heavens, a crack in time and space…a totem of bones and fingers and hair from a horse…JESUS!]

  Rourke collided with a solid mass, the outer edge of something. He bounced back, horrified. This was pure evil, foul and wicked. Cruel impulses rose up, writhing and rolling, intertwined like slimy cables leading to a massive source of dark energy — a collective brain of unprecedented size and strength. Rourke whimpered aloud, then caught himself.

  "Shhh..." Maggie whispered, brushing back his hair. She was at peace, still unaware that in a short while her worst nightmares were destined to come true. That this would happen to the entire town of Two Trees, Nevada.

  46

  JASON

  Jason sat silently, playing chess with himself. He slashed the black queen across the board, neatly amputating a white knight with one smooth stroke. He studied, ruminated… switched sides and moved a white piece. His blood was singing and the fever was high. Madness or not, fact or not, he had manifested his destiny. It would soon be time to sieze control.

  A thump echoed through the empty room. Shadowy fingers splayed across the wooden floors: Night approaching, darkness scratching. Soon is the Night of the Beast.

  Jason raised his eyebrows and twitched his nose, sniffing black, moist things. His eyes burned like twin coals in their pitted sockets, and his sullen face moved in clumsy lumps. Lips twisted back from stained teeth. He smiled.

  I know all, I am all, he thought. Deeper than a charnel pit, higher than a rising cry of pain. I cleanse, refresh and renew. He whooped and laughed, rolling on his back like a beetle. Chess pieces flew and clattered onto the floor.

  Abrupt silence.

  How odd. I am tired, yet it is only now I come fully alive, that I rise up and feel tall. Jason slid to his knees, stood up and walked to the window. He pulled back the drapes. He watched the last sunset the world would ever know. Saw it scream in silent pantomime as it dripped fresh blood down onto the distant mountains.

  "It is done."

  Jason began to whistle. He replaced the chess pieces neatly and shut the board. He

  growled like a panther and spun around as the door opened.

  "I told you never to come here unless I summon you," he said.

  It bowed. "Master, I could not wait."

  Jason squatted, petulant. "You dare to disobey me?"

  It blanched and withdrew a step. Miserable, but gaining strength, It went on to roar its demand. "I hunger!"

  Jason waved a hand. "The game is all but ready. It will begin soon. You should remember that you are but one small piece on the board."

  "That which I am is weakened, that in which I live is empty. I hunger."

  "You are spineless," the little man said cruelly.

  "My will is firm. I only hunger."

  "Could you have been seen?"

  It shook its head. "I came down the stream bed. I was not seen."

  Jason Smith sighed like an annoyed parent and picked at his filthy fingernails. He shrugged and found something upon which It could feed. Then, ignoring the smacking sounds, he replaced the chess game as it was and resumed playing. The night arrived with a chill. He turned to It and smiled.

  "Stay here after," he said, almost gently. "I will have need of you."

  "Has the time arrived?" It asked, snuffling and chewing. "Will this be the Night?"

  Jason nodded. "It will," he said. "It will indeed."

  PART THREE

  "NIGHT OF THE BEAST"

  "When the senses are shaken

  and the soul is driven to madness

  Who can stand?

  When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle

  and sails rejoicing in the flood of death;

  When souls are torn to everlasting fire,

  and friends of Hell rejoice upon the slain -

  O, Who can stand?

  O, Who hath caused this?

  O, Who can answer at the throne of God?"

  — William Blake.

  "Of whom much is given,

  much will be required."

  — St. Luke.

  1

  ROBERT REISS/VARGAS

  The sun was setting in the far hills, the air was growing chill. The Night of the Beast was upon them.

  "Why, of course I fear death," said the soft-spoken, bearded young man in denim. "I'm mortal. Pain frightens me. But so does the evil men do when they turn away from a brother in need. When they abandon a helpless child to fend for itself, without protection or guidance. Or destroy their bodies with alcohol and drugs. In short, I believe that we must never help the Devil do his work."

  The handsome stranger turned, almost arrogantly. He permitted himself a second, more leisurely look around. The gigantic, impressively furnished tour bus was parked near the deserted highway. There was an altar and a modest podium near the back of the huge vehicle, and a beautifully carved crucifix on the wall. A large group of polite children were quietly amusing themselves nearby. Some seemed to be waiting for dinner.

  "I respect courage," the stranger said. "I also respect a man with convictions, whether I share them or not. I salute you, friend. Or should I call you Preacher?"

  A smile. "I'd prefer friend any day. Unless you'd like to call me Robert?"

  "Robert, then. I'm Anthony."

  The two men were seated in a swing under a large awning attached to the side of the bus, watching the sunset. Robert Reiss was enjoying himself. He worshiped children, but found it a pleasure to spend an hour or two in idle conversation with another adult. It was a welcome change of pace.

  "Now, if you're worrying, Anthony," he said, his blue eyes twinkling, "please relax. I'm not out to convert anybody. I don't care for the hard sell. That's not my style."

  "I didn't think it was, Robert."

  "Bless you. Anyway, as you can see, I like kids. These youngsters really react to attention, know what I mean? They haven't had much, and they truly appreciate it. That turns me on. Gets me high, man. It's real, solid love. You can almost touch that when it happens."

  "So you take them places and let them see the country?"

  Robert grinned. "Every chance I get," he said. "And I'll bet I have almost as much fun as they do. Besides, this puts a little God back into the world."

  "Say what?"

  "Never mind. I'd better not get started."

  "No, I'm interested. Really."

  "Well. You see, I believe that we are witnessing the events set down in the Book of Revelations as The Last Days. I know that's a tired old schtick for a Bible thumper, but I'm dead serious. We may see the appearance of the Anti-Christ within our lifetime. Remember, the selection of a millenium date was highly arbitrary. It is arguable that the true millenium has yet to take place."

  "I see."

  "And I think that never before in history has the issue of free will been as critically important as it is today. When judgment comes, we shall be measured by two things: what we chose, and how we lived with those choices."

  "Hmmm..."

  "I'm boring you."

  "Not at all," the stranger replied. "Go on. Is there actually such a thing as the Devil?"

  Robert nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes. I believe The Beast, as he is named in Revelations, is a psychic manifestation of our animal nature. If we summon him, he will come unto us." The earnest young man blushed. "I'm just another sinner, Anthony. But I swear to you, sometimes I can actually feel it. We are all in grave danger. And so it follows that every time we love, each time we perform a small act of kindness, we strike a blow against evil."

  A cheap red plastic ball bounced to the ground a few yards away and rolled to a stop in the dust. Robert, smiling, threw it back to his waiting flock.

  "Can we have dinner soon, Robert?"

  "I'll cook in a few moments, kids."

  Anthony said: "So you have your own little church right here inside this bus?"

  "Why, yes."

  The stranger got to his feet and strolled towards the veh
icle. "Come," he said curtly. "Show me around."

  Robert, suddenly uneasy, followed him in. "There's really not much to see," he stammered. "I've had everything but the kitchen and the plumbing torn out to make room for the children. I'm afraid it's stuffed full of couches, beds and sleeping bags."

  "And that."

  Large wooden cross, modest altar.

  Robert unconsciously dropped his voice to a reverent whisper. "Of course. And that."

  The man searched for a light switch, since the room was nearly in shadow. Robert turned the lights on. Anthony approached the cross, at first taking long strides to better weave his way through the bunks and the piles of clothing that lay strewn about the floor. But then he stiffened and stopped. Robert became aware of a strange rattle, a sound not unlike the clicking of Spanish castanets. With a jolt of fear he realized what it was.

  The stranger's teeth were chattering.

  Something was terribly wrong. Oh, my God the children…Robert Reiss began to pray. He started to back away as quietly as possible, his nostrils suddenly filled with the scent of burning sulfur. The stranger heard the footsteps. He whirled, snarled. He was on the poor preacher in a blink of an eye. A forearm smashed down to crush his windpipe, and Robert thrashed about like a beached fish, unable to breathe. As the world grew dim and cold and went very far away, he thought of all his lambs.

  [our father who art]

  Chaos followed sunset. The mindless violence lifted Vargas to a state of unholy grace. Naked in the new darkness, his body sticky with the blood of the innocent, he began to meditate. After a time, he raised his splattered head and turned to stare at his surroundings.

  The tour bus was a shambles; altar upside down, floor littered with the torn and brutalized bodies of several young children. The large wooden cross was tilted at an angle. The nude corpse of Robert Reiss hung facing it, buttocks jutting, an obscene parody of Christ.