Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  “Are you seriously telling me this is an angel’s sword?” Nicholas asked, drawing Ben out of his thoughts.

  “I think so.”

  Nicholas offered the sword with the handle facing toward Ben before he nodded to his house. “Let’s go inside.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ben. “I’ll get the shield, you open the door.”

  Ben took the sword and the keys and was thankful to not have to carry the shield again as he trotted up to the front porch. He unlocked the door, held it open for Nicholas, and then secured the lock once they were inside.

  Nicholas carried the shield into the kitchen and put it down on the table. He stood back and shot Ben a perplexed expression. “Can’t you call him?”

  “I don’t exactly have him on speed dial, you know.”

  Nicholas’ mouth tightened into a frown.

  “I’ll try,” Ben said with a sigh. He cleared his throat and took out his phone. “Um, Raziel?” he asked the empty kitchen as if the archangel might have simply been in the other room. He ran a hand through his messy hair when there was no response. “What are we supposed to do now? Come on, Raz. Say something.”

  “Raz? Really, Ben? Really?”

  “Quiet, Nic.”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes and slumped against the countertop.

  Ben regarded the sword in his hand. His gaze fell over the shield and the demonic graffiti scratched into its facade.

  “Fuck, of course.”

  “What?”

  “The sigil,” Ben replied and pointed at it with the tip of the sword. “He said it repels him. Maybe since it’s out in the open, he can’t communicate with me now.”

  “So we have no idea how to destroy it and no way of finding out,” Nicholas said, throwing his hands in the air.

  “I don’t—no, I guess not.”

  Nicholas sighed with an exasperation that was almost aggressive. “That’s just great, Ben.”

  Ben subsided a few steps. “I didn’t know, Nic.”

  “It’s just the situation,” Nicholas said. He sounded almost regretful for his tone, but he crossed his arms and did not move from the counter. His body language screamed with the evidence of his annoyance, exhaustion, and general grief for what was happening to his town.

  Their mutual silence was tense. Ben found he could not look at the sheriff. Instead, he returned to the edge of the table, still gripping the sword. The frontispiece of the shield—tarnished though it was by the sloppy scrawl of the sigil—seemed to glow brighter when Ben was near.

  “We should take it out back,” he said suddenly. He bent to pick up the shield, and his arm muscles strained at the weight.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to stab it with the sword,” Ben said as he staggered to the back door and gestured for Nicholas to open it. “Raziel said to destroy it. I don’t know how else you’d destroy an angel’s shield other than with an angel’s sword.”

  “That makes sense, weirdly enough. But where are you going?” Nicholas asked, moving toward the door.

  “Well, what if it goes nuclear or something? We should probably do this outside.”

  “I think my kitchen is the least of our worries if that happens,” Nicholas said, fixing a withering glare on Ben. “We should take it back out to the forest. You should have left it there anyway. We don’t know what kind of damage this thing could do. What were you even thinking, Wisehart? You’re putting the whole town at risk if this thing blows up.”

  Ben frowned at the detached use of his surname. “I should have just left it out in the open so the other one could find it and hide it again? What was I thinking?”

  Nicholas squared his shoulders and said nothing, but he continued to eye Ben with a stare that was far colder than Ben would have thought possible after their previous evening together.

  “Fine, I’ll take it back out to the woods,” Ben said, his tone harsher than he meant it to sound as he shifted the shield in his arms. He headed to the front of the house and heard Nicholas grumble a curse under his breath.

  Ben returned to the Camaro where he deposited the heavy shield into the trunk once more, but he kept the sword in his hand as he opened the driver’s side door. Nicholas had followed Ben outside, but he gazed at the square as if deliberating about whether or not he should leave the town.

  “You go back to work, Nic. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You shouldn’t go out there alone,” Nicholas said. “If we’re quick, we could be back before they miss me.”

  “You’re on duty, Sheriff,” Ben replied, though his use of the title lacked the same affection he had used that morning. “I’ll deal with this. Away from your town. Don’t worry.”

  Nicholas scowled over the roof of the car. “Don’t be stupid, Ben. I don’t want you going out there alone. It’s not safe.”

  Ben laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I’m used to being alone. Later, Nic.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Nicholas tried to pull open the passenger side door, but it was locked. Ben cranked the engine and used his elbow to push down the lock on his side of the car when Nicholas hit at the passenger window with an open palm.

  “Ben Wisehart, don’t you fucking dare drive away from me right now,” Nicholas said from the other side of the glass.

  Ben rolled his eyes. He threw the Camaro into gear and pulled away from the sidewalk with a quick flooring of the accelerator.

  “Ben!”

  Ben sped away. He turned right onto Main Street and drove to River Bend Road without once looking in his rearview mirror.

  Ben was so accustomed to being alone, to operating on his own, to answering only to himself that Nicholas’ authoritativeness felt like a splinter in his foot—half in, half out, and it stung like an asshole the day after a night without proper lube. He had spent the majority of his time in Point Pleasant dealing with the situation on his own, or with Tucker, even when Nicholas had promised to help.

  Of course, Nicholas had a job to do. Ben did not blame his old friend for that, and the town needed its sheriff right now. Nevertheless, frustration still niggled at Ben on a deeper, personal level.

  As Ben sped past Tucker’s farm, he realized the source of that frustration; he was too comfortable with the idea of Nicholas’ continued presence.

  Ben had started to rely on Nicholas’ input, his promises, and his general there-ness. He had been thankful for the other man’s presence at three o’clock in the morning when the hideous voice of his dead father wafted up from Nicholas’ clock radio. He had felt a level of safety at Nicholas’ side even as they edged around a dark backyard to check for the thing with the red eyes. He had reveled in the comfort of Nicholas’ arm as it was slung over his shoulder while they sipped black coffee and discussed the possibility of a future together. He had liked knowing that there was a number saved on his phone that he could dial even if most of the times he had called it so far had left him with only an impersonal, pre-recorded request to leave a voicemail. Of course.

  Other people let you down; other people leave you standing alone in the dark with only their backs to look at while you watch them walk away.

  The Camaro’s engine whirred when Ben increased his speed. He passed the broken remnants of the road where Raziel and Azazel had held their apparent grudge match the day before. He seethed with what he knew was an irrational anger directed partially toward Nicholas but mostly toward himself.

  Ben slowed and made a left onto the old road to the factory. He was mindful of his car’s suspension as he dodged potholes and fallen branches. When the factory came into view, he sped up again. Rather than stop in front of the building, he pulled the Camaro around to the side. He parked by the north wall where Tucker’s tire marks from earlier remained etched into the wet ground.

  It was almost six o’clock, and the sun was setting behind the tree line. Ben got out of the car with the sword in one hand and opened the trunk. He pocketed his keys and pulled ou
t the shield and a flashlight.

  After he slammed the trunk shut, Ben glanced down to navigate over deep puddles of mud. He froze. Tire marks from Tucker’s truck and their boot prints from their earlier venture to the factory were not the only impressions in the mud. There were footprints as well.

  But they were not human footprints; they were long, thin, and boasted imprints of what appeared to be talons—rather than toes—in the mud.

  The tracks circled the breached wall. When Ben shone his flashlight onto the cement floor inside the opening, he saw that they had not entered the building. His eyes widened with horror, and he crossed over the relative safety of the salt line.

  “Fuck, shit, fuck,” Ben muttered to himself.

  The interior of the factory was much darker than before. He brandished the flashlight around the open space to double-check that he was alone. He placed the shield on the floor near where they had dug the pit and headed to the north wall.

  The shotgun, salt, and sage were still in the trunk of the Camaro, and he needed them more than ever. Ben gripped the sword in his left hand. He aimed the flashlight’s beam toward the surrounding forest. The copse of trees revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Don’t be such a baby, Benji, he told himself, and the voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Andrew’s. Just move.

  Ben clenched his jaw, found his resolve, and stepped over the salt line. He moved fast. The mud was slippery under his feet, and he fumbled to open the trunk as the wind blew and sent a chill down his spine. The rustle of leaves overhead accompanied the slosh of his shoes in the muck and the jingle of the keys in his hands.

  When he popped the trunk, Ben grabbed the duffel bag and shotgun. He clung to the sword, struggling to hold everything else in his left arm, and tottered around the rear of the car to return to the safety of the factory.

  Then, he felt it—horrible, cold, and entirely too tangible, something wrapped itself around his right foot and pulled. Ben fell face first into the mud.

  Fear and panic revved through him like a flooded carburetor. He kicked and scrambled for purchase in the sludge of the mud. When he rose onto his elbows, the thing still wrapped around his foot yanked again and forced him onto his face.

  Ben’s right hand closed around the barrel of the shotgun. He held onto it as he pushed up and rolled over so that his back was in the mud and he could see what had taken hold of him.

  A tall, lean figure with impossibly long arms was silhouetted against the shadowy forest. Dark, undulating appendages billowed from behind its arched shoulders; they seemed to writhe with satisfaction as Ben’s fright levels rose into pure, unadulterated terror.

  As a mass, the shapes looked almost like wings. They thrashed, and Ben saw that the strange, tattered limbs were not joined. Tentacles, Nicholas had called them. And one was wrapped around Ben’s foot.

  In the waning daylight, Ben saw that the thing was not simply dark because it stood in the shadows on the edge of the forest. The skin that covered its long, gangly form was entirely absent of color.

  Raziel’s words reverberated. Stained black by his pride and tainted from the stench of Hell.

  This, Ben realized, was Azazel.

  The thing’s eyes opened to reveal bright, unnaturally red orbs that settled on Ben with fixed malice. Ben wanted to scream, but no sound emerged from his throat. With his hand still on the Remington, Ben raised the gun, pumped the forend, and fired.

  The crack of the discharge rang through the otherwise quiet forest. The modified round hit the thing square in the jutting cavern of its ribcage.

  A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream far louder than the gunshot rang through the trees. Ben fired again, sending another salt round into the creature’s chest. The grip around his foot diminished as Azazel stumbled then seemed to evaporate into nothing with a crackle of what sounded like the same sick electrical hum of a battered power station that Ben had heard the day before.

  Ben fumbled in the mud, struggling to stand. He grabbed the duffel bag, tossed it into the factory, and took the sword and flashlight. He slipped and skidded until he threw himself over the salt line.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, panting for breath, and his heart thudded in his chest. “Fuck!”

  Ben’s hands shook, and his eyes tore around the tree line outside of the north wall. He edged further into the factory but kept the gun trained on the broken wall.

  “What the fuck?!” he screamed out at the forest, clutching the shotgun with bruising force while his brain grappled to register what he had just seen.

  “Ben?”

  Ben spun around and nearly shot at the voice behind him, which rose from the entryway on the other side of the factory floor.

  Nicholas ducked with trained ease. “Don’t you dare fucking shoot me!”

  Ben lowered the barrel of the shotgun. Nicholas had his Glock in his right hand. The sheriff straightened when Ben was no longer pointing the Remington at him.

  “Fucking shit goddamnit!” Ben cursed. “Asshole!”

  “I heard shots,” Nicholas said as he crossed the room.

  “No shit, Sherlock!” Ben screamed in full-blown panic. “I shot it in the fucking chest! Twice!”

  Nicholas reached to take the shotgun from Ben’s still trembling hands; he was gentle enough but firm just the same. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. Just let go, Ben.”

  Ben released his hold on the stock. Nicholas secured the safety. He assessed Ben’s mud-soaked front and peered over to the gaping wall that led out to the forest.

  “Stay here,” Nicholas said. His gait was calm as he strode toward the north wall.

  “Don’t! Fucking don’t cross the salt line!”

  Nicholas said nothing, but he stopped at the edge of the salt line. He stood with his back to Ben while he assessed the forest. Nicholas pulled the flashlight off his duty belt and flicked it on so that its bright beam illuminated the dark thicket of trees facing the factory.

  Satisfied that they were alone, Nicholas stalked closer to Ben. The sheriff’s right hand connected hard against Ben’s chest, shoving him back a step.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Once again, what the hell were you thinking?”

  Fiery umbrage licked at Ben’s already unsettled nerves, and he returned the shove. “Fuck you, Nic.”

  Nicholas’ eyes shone fiercely in the dim light of their flashlights, and the muscles of his jaw clenched.

  He was afraid, Ben realized. For you.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Nicholas said. “I told you not to come out here alone.”

  “I’m fine!” Ben said. “I can take care of myself,” he added and grabbed for the shotgun.

  Nicholas pulled it out of Ben’s reach and gave an authoritative glare as if to dare Ben to try to take the gun from him. “Just fucking stop,” he said and put a hand to Ben’s chest to keep him away. “Just stop and tell me you’re okay.”

  Ben gritted his teeth, and some crazed part of himself wanted to hit Nicholas in the face when he heard the worry crack through the other man’s controlled tone.

  “I’m fine,” Ben repeated.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and neither spoke a word.

  Ben lowered his head, unable to meet Nicholas’ gaze any longer. He moved toward the shield. Its eerie light shone prominently against the contrast of the dark factory floor. Nicholas cradled the Remington in his arms. Ben gripped the sword and knelt down on the floor beside the shield. Finally, he cast a brief, uncertain glance to Nicholas.

  Nicholas adjusted his hold on the shotgun and nodded at the unspoken question that hung on the air like the particles of dust that danced in the beam of his flashlight.

  What if it does go nuclear?

  Ben pushed the thought out of his head and raised the sword with both hands secured around its handle. He took a breath before he brought the sharp end of the blade down onto the center of the shield.

  Unbearable radiance engulfed the factory,
and a loud keening overwhelmed Ben’s senses. Heat blazed through his fingers as if he had reached into some smoldering caldera. A torrid light traveled up his arms to his shoulders before the blast hit him.

  Raw, untamed energy burst forth. Ben had a few seconds to wonder if this was what it felt like to throw yourself on top of a bomb before everything went white, loud, and hot when the shield beneath him seemed to explode.

  Ben felt like he was flying. He was thrown across the length of the factory from the discharge. The light went dark, and Ben lost awareness.

  Ben? Ben?

  The sound was distant and muted under the ringing in his ears.

  Open your eyes, Ben. Look at me.

  Ben fluttered his eyelids.

  Keep your eyes open, can you hear me?

  Ben stared up at Nicholas when his vision cleared. He was reminded of the wet-fist-in-a-power-socket sensation from Marietta Abernathy’s sitting room. His veins seemed to hum with electricity while every inch of his skin tingled uncomfortably.

  Nicholas was talking to him, but Ben only saw and heard him on the periphery of his senses. The sheriff’s face was pinched tight with worry, but Ben felt a ripple of something in the dark corner of his mind. Compelled, he turned his head and gazed at the north wall.

  Standing there in the opening a hundred feet away with its wings outstretched was the creature that had terrified him as a child during a misguided adventure into the forest surrounding Point Pleasant one late summer night.

  The tall, thin, humanoid being with gray skin and wings more akin to that of a bat than a moth treaded across the salt line and into the factory. His pace was slow but assured. Raziel’s wings folded in behind his back as he strode forward to the center of the room, leaned down, and took up his sword.

  Nicholas hoisted himself to his feet. He positioned himself in a protective stance over Ben and cocked the shotgun.

  Raziel regarded them, and his piercing red eyes glowed in the darkness. He opened his mouth and let out a soft screeching noise that, though controlled, was still jarring to Ben’s human ears.