The Dark Age

by Dallas Mullican

  Evan drove the quarter of a mile over a narrow dirt path and pulled to a stop next to an old, but well-maintained barn—traditional red with white trim. Another snip with the bolt cutters freed the latch. He drew open the doors, drove his pickup inside, and closed them. His entrance spooked a covey of finch nesting in the loft. The beat of tiny wings and their frantic chirps echoed through the musty confines and quickened his pulse. Jumping at his shadow, this enterprise taxed his nerves and his will. He had never received so much as a traffic citation, and now the police would be looking for him soon, if they weren’t already. A wanted man. The idea intimidated Evan. Death didn’t frighten him, but incarceration would be unacceptable.

  So much to do, so little time.

  Chester’s old Chevy pickup sat parked outside, near the rear of the building. Switching out batteries should get it running. The tires looked good, plenty of tread and inflation—Chester kept his things in good repair. No reason to think the cops knew his plans; even so, better safe than sorry, and using the Chevy would help to mask his movements.

  He offloaded the generator and electric saws and surveyed the interior of the barn. A hand-cranked winch and two pulleys, used to hoist hay bales into the loft, went onto the truck’s bed along with several two by fours. A thought struck him. A six-foot flagpole absent a flag jutted from above the barn doors outside. His stepladder barely reached, but he was able to remove the pole and attached holder.

  Evan returned to the truck and sat down on the tailgate, rubbing the small of his back where heaving the machines atop the wood had tweaked his muscles. A grunt of pain, and Evan sighed, a whisper forming on his lips. He shook his head with a grimace. No more prayers; his own strength must suffice. Sweat ran down his chest and slicked his forehead after the exertion. Evan retrieved a shop rag and blanket from the backseat and wiped his face and neck before spreading out the blanket near one wall and lying down. So tired. His eyelids seemed to slam shut without his volition. A restless sleep took him, filled with flames, screams, and the scent of burning flesh.

  * * *

  Sixty miles northeast of Walnut Grove, Evan veered onto a dirt side road little more than a walking path. The Chevy pickup bounced over roots, branches, and stones before coming to a stop within sight of a dilapidated shack. Vines had overgrown the building, snaking onto the roof and in through shattered windows. A sea of high tangled grass impeded his trek to the front door, so he pulled the truck to a halt and trudged through weeds that clung to his pants, leaving behind tiny brown, prickly burrs. The entrance groaned from rusted hinges, its opening sending an empty coffee can rolling across the floor to strike with a soft clink against the leg of a rickety kitchen table. Another abandoned gift from a deceased customer. When Evan last visited this house, he had put up molding and installed a full set of kitchen cabinets. He’d read of Ms. Winchester’s death in the obits and, at the time, said a prayer for her passage.

  The small house and its tiny acreage, positioned outside the main routes for phone lines and cable, was too old to warrant the investment required to sell as a residential property. A lumber company bought the lot with the building included and added it to the hundreds of acres on every side it had previously acquired. Obviously, the company had yet to do anything with the land, and in absence of development or logging, the place fell to disrepair. No more than a decade had passed, and the floorboards now bucked and the ceiling drooped. Cabinet doors hung open, and roaches scurried from his intrusion. With hunting out of season, no one was likely to venture into the woods this far from town. The house would serve his needs, out of sight and hearing.

  Yeah, this will work just fine.

  Evan dusted off the table and draped a survey map across the surface. The town of Redwine sat less than five miles further up Highway 431, the place where his life with Julie and Jenny had begun. Bethany Baptist Church sat a stone’s throw from the same forest line eight miles to the west. He traced his finger along a string of logging roads that would lead him behind the church unnoticed. Satisfied, he rolled up the map and set it aside. He stepped out the front door, inhaled the humid air filled with scents of the forest, and gazed up at the sun falling steadily toward the treetops.

  He surveyed the grassy area in front of the house, crisscrossing a wide swath to check for broken bottles, nails, or anything that might puncture the truck’s tires. After moving a few stray limbs out of the way, he pulled the Chevy up against the porch. Evan lugged the generator inside, along with the tools he expected to need. Back indoors, he worked the base of the flagpole’s holder, straightening it from an angle to a vertical sheath with two metal arms, holes at their centers. The flagpole he rubbed down with sixty-grain sandpaper, removed the cap piece, and sharpened the end to a fine point.

  With everything prepared, he rested at the table with a bottle of water, his head propped against one palm. The voices whispered unintelligible words, the laughter faint and haunting. Images played across his mind, red and glistening. How to kill an intangible force? Was it even possible? Could he destroy something so deeply entwined with his being? Questions without answers stabbed at his consciousness and robbed him of relaxation. When night fell and drifted past midnight, Evan’s resolve waned and left him in doubt. He knew only one way to quiet the voice and the laughter, only one way to find peace—smother the faith laced through every aspect of his spirit.

  A full moon set the world alight in silver-white as Evan climbed into the truck and slowly made his way through the forest by way of rutted constricted roads. The eyes of nocturnal creatures glowed from the brush and trees, watching his progress with apparent apathy. He wondered what they might think of his quest. Did they care why or how they existed? He doubted philosophy entered their thoughts, their only concern where to find food and shelter. Evan envied them.

  After a forty-minute drive to cover the eight miles, lights peeked through the trees from up ahead. With the moon bright, Evan cut the Chevy’s headlamps and drove to the edge of the wood line. He gathered up the supplies he planned to use into a large duffle bag, carried it to one side of the church building, and deposited it behind a tall hedgerow. Much like the church grounds in Walnut Grove, and probably every church in the region, the pastor’s residence sat next to the main building, less than fifty yards away.

  Evan walked to the parsonage and knocked on the door. Lights flicked on illuminating the yard and showing behind the drapes. A man, forty or so, opened the door and peeked out over a chain between door and jamb.

  “Evan? Evan Marshall?” Pastor Mark Grayson rubbed sleep from his eyes and removed the chain. “What in the world are you doing here so late? I mean it’s good to see you, but…Is something wrong?”

  “Brother Mark. I have questions.”

  Evan shoved the door open with one hand. The man staggered back, stumbled, and fell onto his rear. With the tire iron raised, Evan advanced. Brother Mark sprang to his feet and flung up his arms to block the incoming swing, but the metal bar crashed through his defense and clubbed him on the crown of his head. A sickening smack followed by a stream of blood gushing down his face dropped Brother Mark to the floor, splintering a wooden coffee table. Evan checked to make certain he hadn’t struck the preacher too hard. He verified the man still breathed, lifted him onto his shoulder, and hauled him to the church. With Brother Mark’s unconscious form slumped against the wall, Evan pried a side door open with the iron. Dragging the man into the sanctuary left a thin trail of blood on the carpet, black against the beige.

  After retrieving his bag, Evan set to work. Baptist churches in the South had a sort of uniformity, with only slight variations in design. Different images depicted on their stained glass windows, a different scene on the baptismal mural, a different color scheme or light fixtures, but the layout was always essentially the same—pews, pulpit, choir loft. This particular building had crossbeams positioned at ten-foot intervals, spanning across the sanctuary to meet the wall at the juncture where the ceiling rose in an A-frame.
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br />   Evan stripped the pastor naked and tugged him to the foot of the dais. Plastic ties bound the man’s hands and feet together, supplemented by a length of cord to support his weight. Evan tossed a rope over a crossbeam directly above the preacher’s head and threaded one end through a pulley and between the bindings before attaching both ends of the rope to the winch. A cordless drill allowed him to fasten the flagpole holder to the floor and place the pole inside, pointing straight up. The click clank of the winch’s crank echoed in the auditorium as Evan hoisted Brother Mark into the air.

  Sitting on the front pew, waiting for the pastor to regain consciousness, Evan recalled all the days he’d spent here. He could almost feel Julie and Jenny at his sides, hear the hymns and Brother Mark delivering his sermons. The doubt came again, clawing at his heart. His fingers dug into his thighs. Evan shoved the uncertainty down as the din of garbled voices rose in this mind.

  “W-what? Where am I?” Brother Mark’s eyes fluttered open and darted about, trying to make sense of his predicament, his face ashen.

  Evan stood and walked forward into the pastor’s field of vision.

  “Evan? What are you doing? Let me down.” He shook against his bonds, panic washing over his face. The cradle swayed with the pastor’s frenzied thrashing.

  “You stood right here.” Evan pointed to the floor. “Right in this very spot when you married me and Julie. Do you remember?”

  “Of course, of course I do. B-but…I don’t understand. What do you want? Please, let me down and we’ll talk this out?” Blood had dried on Brother Mark’s face, creating a ghoulish appearance, like a kabuki mask, all white and scarlet.

  Evan leisurely paced the aisle, hands clasped behind his back. “And here, this is where you christened Jenny, consecrating her life to God.” He stared up at the pastor. “We were happy here, serving the church and God. We were so happy and in love. But God took Julie from me. Jenny, my little girl, He abandoned her just like he has me.”

  Brother Mark tried to steady his sway and fought to gain composure. Consternation showed on his face, the hard set of his jaws, the terror in his eyes.

  “Y-you’re confused, Evan. I don’t know what you want me to say. Tell me what you need. What can I do or say?” Tears spilled down the pastor’s cheeks, trailing across dried blood to run in rivulets of pink onto his neck.

  Evan scratched at the back of his scalp and stared at the cross affixed to a section of wall above the podium. “Jenny was a lion cub in the play about Noah, and later Mary in the Christmas pageant. Julie sang in the choir. She had such a beautiful voice.”

  Brother Mark instinctively attempted to avoid Evan as he came close and tugged on the rope. With his hands stretched toward the ceiling, his legs straight out in front of him, the pastor appeared to sit in an invisible chair eight feet off the ground. Evan positioned him directly over the sharpened end of the flagpole.

  “Please, Evan. No, don’t do this. Please…”

  Click clack. The winch turned and the rope squeaked through the pulley as Brother Mark’s body lowered a foot…and then two. The tip of the pole jabbed several inches into his anus before the teeth of the winch locked into place. The pastor screamed. Blood trickled from his backside and spiraled down the pole.

  “I’ll do anything. Please, no more.” Brother Mark writhed against his bindings, but the rope held taut and the pole secured him. He sobbed uncontrollably, his whole body quaking with pain and panic, trembling the line up to the ceiling.

  “Confess,” said Evan, his voice cold and lifeless.

  “I will. I will. Tell me what I did. I swear I’ll confess.”

  “Julie and I were happy, and God killed her. Or, there is no god…and…and it’s all meaningless. Jenny, so precious and innocent. Tell me I believe a lie. Convince me we’re alone and no higher power exists. It’s all random, pure chance. Tell me God is only a myth, and no one’s to blame. Make me believe it.” Evan cranked the winch another turn. “Confess.”

  Brother Mark’s wails of agony filled the auditorium as another few inches of wood penetrated him. “Oh my God. My God, save me.”

  Evan laughed at that. “Yes, do.” He gazed upward, his hands lifted. “Come dear Lord, save your humble servant.”

  “Evan, you’re wrong. Ju-Julie wasn’t happy. You know that. You must remember. I counseled you about your marriage. It was falling apart. Julie was drifting away from you, from God. It wasn’t God’s fault, or mine…or yours. Jenny, I-I didn’t…”

  Evan stalked forward, grabbed the base of the flagpole, and shook it. Brother Mark writhed against the constriction and bellowed in agony. Blood frothed from his mouth as the pole stabbed further inside him.

  “Liar. Liar. Lies, that’s all you know. You open your mouth and lies pour out.” Evan marched back to the winch and clutched the handle.

  “No. God, no.” Brother Mark pleaded, wild-eyed.

  Click click click, clack clack clack. Evan released the handle and allowed the pastor’s full weight to descend. His bowels erupted, spewing blood and defecation in a red-black shower as the pole disappeared into his body. Brother Mark sank a foot, paused, and jerked downward another foot. Ripping and tearing sounds emanated from inside him, the stake piercing through intestines and organs. He gurgled, bright red spume bubbling from his nose and dribbling over his lips. His hands contracted into claws reaching out, grasping the air, while arms and legs seized with violent spasms. Bulging eyes stared toward Heaven with a silent terrified prayer. Death did not come quickly for the pastor, but lingered on the outskirts, watching with indifference. Finally, it slithered in, wrapped Brother Mark in a cold embrace, and stole his last breath from a shuddering chest.

  Evan stared at the scene for a long moment, his own breathing expelled in sharp pants. With part excitement, part abhorrence, he gazed on the measure of his work…his justice. As before, after Brother Weaver, the voice died and the laughter faded. Relief came with these acts of recompense, holding the blasphemers, the false prophets, the liars to account. But unlike before, the wave of contrition and doubt did not follow. The longer he stared, the more revulsion dimmed, until a faint smile spread across his face. Faith remained, belief still held on, but less now.

  Yes, this must be the way.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Marlowe massaged the stress from his neck and clicked off the television. Concentration on trivial shows eluded him, and the cable news programs gave him a headache. Present concerns dominated his mind and allowed no respite. No more signs of Caesar, but he felt eyes following him everywhere. Every car that remained close for more than a minute, every Latino in sunglasses or glancing his way, all seemed a sure threat. Becca and Paige weren’t helping to soothe his mood. He insisted on supper together the first two nights, but decided it a bad idea after a near food fight. Becca enjoyed cooking and wanted to prepare meals, her kitchen a sacred place she loathed anyone else entering. Paige hated everything she made, even what previously numbered among her favorites. Becca relinquished the duty to Mable under duress.

  The house was quiet for the moment, Becca having left for work a few minutes earlier. Mable washed up the breakfast dishes in the kitchen, and Paige busied herself with something in the bedroom. Wayne’s men moved like ghosts through the house and yard, masters at remaining unobtrusive. After the initial inconvenience of their mere presence in her home, and the severity of the situation sank in, Becca seemed to appreciate them being there and checked to make sure one or another was near whenever she stepped outside.

  “Nothing fishy?” Marlowe asked as Wayne came into the den.

  “Not a peep. All the vehicles entering the area confirmed as belonging to neighbors. No strangers walking the sidewalks or yards. We’ve kept scans on the woods and the streets running past the suburb; haven’t spotted anyone loitering or suspicious.” Wayne sat down on the couch and popped the tab on a soda.

  “Good. Maybe Ricky was right, just a scare tactic.” Marlowe eyed his friend, praying fo
r a convincing agreement.

  “Maybe.”

  Not nearly as resounding as Marlowe had hoped for, but he’d take it. With things calm at work, no one killing each other for the past few days, he figured a late arrival would go unnoticed, and he might take Paige to the toy store. Bribery—a parent’s most valuable weapon. If she had things to keep her occupied, maybe her ire toward Becca and the present predicament would lessen.

  “Marlowe.” Mable leaned into the den.

  The cherub-faced nanny had been with them since Paige came home from the hospital. With experience in caring for children with special needs, she’d managed Paige and Marlowe through a difficult time. Once Paige broke free of the near catatonic state that persisted after Katy’s murder, Mable stayed on, and Marlowe thanked every god imaginable for her daily.

  “Yeah, Mable?”

  “I think you might want to talk to Paige.” She arched an eyebrow while drying her hands on a washcloth.

  “What’s wrong now?” Marlowe gave an exasperated huff.

  “She’s threatening to run away.” Mable frowned, shook her head, and returned to cleaning up the kitchen.

  “A dad’s work’s never done, huh?” Wayne smirked.

  “Never,” said Marlowe.

  He took a last swing of his iced tea, reluctantly rose, and headed upstairs. He found Paige in the bedroom she had claimed as her own, allowing no trespass without a knock and permission. Marlowe listened at the door for a moment.

  “No, Maggie, you can’t do that. This isn’t your house. You’ll have to wait until we get home.”

  Marlowe tapped on the door.

  “Come in.” Paige peered up as he entered and set her doll on the floor beside her.

  “What’s Maggie complaining about?” he asked with a grin.