by John L. Monk
“Whereas I’m more well rounded.”
He handed me the keys and said, “You drive.”
I had no interest in the minister’s Book of Enoch war. All I wanted was that address.
Time for a little Jenkins guile…
“So where to?” I said lightly. “Maybe I should have a look at that list, so I know where I’m going.”
“Forget it. Take I-75 South, to Columbus.”
Rats.
After getting on the interstate, I said, “Are you seriously going to exorcise these hoppers?”
“Demons,” he said tightly. “Just like you, though unworthy of reprieve. I’m convinced you’re here by God’s will—to help me, and thereby redeem yourself.”
A minute later I said, “Yeah, but are you really going to exorcize them?”
“Yes,” he said testily, “I’m really going to. And if it works and they’re banished, then I was right about them being unworthy.”
Nice little bit of sophistry he had going on. Real Cotton Mather stuff, straight from the witch trials. Not every hopper was as bad as Stephen. With the revelations about Rachael and her ties to the Mob, Rose was off the hook. As crimes went, being in bed with the Mob wasn’t exactly a whack-’em and stack-’em offense, but at least the DA had been guilty of something.
“What about rosary and holy water?” I said. “You bring any of that?”
He offered a sad smile at my naiveté. “The Lord is my armor, Dan.” He opened his precious list and told me an address in Columbus. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to clear my mind and prepare.”
The ride south should have taken two and a half hours, but I turned it into three by faking bathroom breaks to buy snacks. The minister didn’t appear to notice. The more we drove, the quieter he got. If I had to guess, he had stage fright. Now he had to stop being a simple priest and turn into The Prophet.
I tried talking about strategies for when we got there. For example, what we’d say when a hopper answered the door (because I couldn’t use my code). He didn’t nod at my suggestions or disagree or offer anything in reply. When I glanced at him, his eyes were shut, and his mouth moved in silent prayer—which meant he probably hadn’t noticed the cherry pie I’d bought him at the last stop.
“Leave it alone, Dan,” he said, eyes still shut.
I placed the pie gently back in the cupholder.
Much like the hopper house in Seattle, the one in Columbus was remote enough you couldn’t see any neighbors through the trees. Large without being ostentatious, right on the shores of the Hoover Reservoir. I wondered if all hopper houses were near water.
There was a car parked out front when we arrived.
“We’re close enough,” I said, and parked where the curve of the long driveway hid most of the big vehicle behind a row of tall hedges. “The other houses may have had cameras hidden outside. I never checked. The last thing we need is the landlord seeing our tags. Then he could learn about Nate.”
The minister nodded impatiently, already unbuckling.
“What are your plans when we get inside?” I said.
“What do you think?” he said, exasperated. “We go in, I cast out the demon, we move on to the next. Very simple.”
I stared at him in wonder. “What if his ride’s a homicidal maniac? You just want to let him go?”
“We’ll figure that out when it happens. Besides, you’ve had a lot of experience with criminals. That’s why you’re here. You can tie him up, then we’ll call the police from a payphone.”
I’d seen payphones in recent years, but precious few.
“I don’t suppose you brought a gun?” I said.
“Don’t be absurd. We’re not shooting anyone. This need of yours to shoot at your problems is a sign of a diseased mind.”
“Fine, you go in first.”
“Of course,” he said and got out.
We walked up the driveway to the front door. There was a keypad system to get in, but I ignored it. I wondered what the landlord would say about a priest showing up and exorcising his guests. Hard to claim it was all gamma rays and science in the face of the minister and his faith.
“Let me do all the talking,” I said, smoothing my hair for some reason.
He snorted. “Are you sure? You’re usually so quiet.”
The minister knocked on the door three times. His jaw clenched and unclenched nervously, transferring his tension to me. I forced myself to take a steadying breath. The door didn’t open. Not even after he tried again, harder and longer.
“I don’t suppose you know the number for that thing?” he said, pointing at the keypad.
I hadn’t told him about Ross’s code, and now wasn’t really the time.
“It’s complicated."
The door cracked open an inch.
“Hello?” a woman said.
I angled for a look through the crack and flashed my most trustworthy smile.
“My code’s messed up,” I said, shaking my head. “I keep entering it and nothing works.”
“Oh … you live here too?”
That was an odd thing to say. Why would a hopper ask if—
The minister barreled his way into the house. The woman—young, slim, completely naked—fell back with a shriek.
Clamping both hands to her head, he shouted, “I cast you out of this stolen vessel, demon! Spawn of Satan! Defiler!”
I stared at him in stunned amazement.
The woman screamed and thrashed, flailing around with her hands and grabbing the minister’s hair.
“Out, unclean spirit! Tremble and flee! Depart, foul transgressor!”
Though the minister’s words were clearly directed at the woman, his anger spilled onto me, leaving me nauseous and dizzy. I couldn’t look at him. The woman screamed hysterically and kept screaming.
I slammed the door shut.
“Get off me, you fucking perv!” she shouted, breaking away and running up a flight of stairs.
“I cast you out!” he shouted after her.
“Would you calm down?” I said, trying not to laugh. “Can’t you see she’s not a hopper?”
He blinked at me in confusion. “What? Are you sure? But we … oh good grief. Did we pick the wrong house?”
I considered letting him twist there in shock, but we had to go after her. The last thing we needed was the woman calling 911.
“It’s the right house,” I said, pointing at the camera aiming down at us. “Now let’s go.”
I took the steps three at a time and arrived at a landing with a hall going left to right. I chose right, which brought me to the master bedroom. The woman stood shaking a naked man lying on the bed, shouting for him to wake up. She saw me—shrieked—and groped around the nightstand. Possibly for a phone, or possibly the wine bottle she picked up and threw at me. Her aim was off—it thudded harmlessly behind me.
“Ghah!” the minister yelled in pain.
When I turned and looked at him, he held his head with one hand while a trickle of blood seeped down his face. He stared jerkily around the room. A second later, his eyes rolled back and he fell on his ass.
The still-naked woman grabbed something red, rubbery, and gross and sent it sailing at us. Terrible aim. It bounced off the wall onto the hardwood floors, where it proceeded to buzz and jiggle around in a slow circle.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” she shouted.
“Can’t do that ma’am,” I said in my best Dan Aykroyd. “We’re on a mission from God.”
The minister clambered to his feet and shoved unsteadily toward the woman. She screamed and ran for the bathroom, then slammed the door shut.
“Let her go,” I said.
“She hit me with a bottle!”
I examined his head. Like Trevor’s cut, it bled a lot the way head wounds do. But it wasn’t gushing.
“It’s times like this,” I said to him, “you gotta ask yourself: What would Enoch do?”
The minister stepped past me and looked at the unconsc
ious man, who didn’t seem asleep so much as out cold. He had a starburst tattoo on one shoulder, long hair, and a thin goatee.
“We have to wake him up to exorcize him,” the minister said. “Otherwise we won’t know if it works.”
I thought about that. “Should we put him in the shower?”
“With that banshee in there throwing things?” he said. “Slap him on the bottom like a baby. Should snap him right out of it.”
“I’m not slapping anyone on the ass,” I said. “You do it.”
“If I touch him…”
He was right. The first time the minister touched me, I’d experienced a kick.
I stared at him a second. “You wearing street clothes under those robes?”
He nodded.
“You wearing a belt?”
He nodded again.
“Then use your belt. Just be careful.”
The minister bit his lip, a study in indecision. Then he reached under his robes and removed his belt.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Well, go on,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Hit him.”
Hesitantly, the minister reared back and brought the belt down lightly across the man’s exposed buttocks—bringing a shriek behind us from the woman, who’d taken that moment to peek from the bathroom. She slammed the door and screamed profanity at us from the other side.
“You’ll have to hit him harder than that,” I said.
The minister nodded uncertainly—then again, more forcefully. He reared back higher and brought the belt down hard with a snap.
The man’s eyes popped open and he howled in surprise. He twisted and stared up at us in terror.
“Why’d you do that for?” he yelled, scrambling away, his words slurring from whatever drug he was on.
“What’s your name?” I said to him.
“Huh?” he said, blinking, staring back and forth between us. “Who are you people?”
I tried for a menacing sort of grimace. “I’m the landlord, and I asked you a question.”
He shook his head in confusion. “What? Uh … why? What are you doing here? I was just sleeping…”
“Your name,” I said.
“Patrick.”
“Is that your name or your skin’s?”
“His name’s Gary. I was gonna send something before I left, I swear. It’s just I’ve been away so long. Wanted to have fun first.” He laughed as if he wanted us to laugh too. “Man, you scared the shit out of me. Where’s … there was someone with me. Paid good money for her. Didn’t catch her name.”
“How long have you been away?” I said.
“I don’t know. A month? Too long.” He shook his head and blinked a few times. “I’m kind of fucked up right now. The hell you bothering me for?”
The minister was watching the exchange intently.
“I’m curious, Patrick,” he said. “Your new body—”
“Skin,” I whispered.
“Do you know much about him? Was he … is he a bad person? Good?”
“Who gives a fuck?” Patrick said. “Who the hell are you?” He rubbed his eyes and stared at the minister, taking in his robes. “Wait a minute, why are you dressed like that?”
The minister crossed himself, pulled a piece of paper from under his robes, and read from it.
“I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your creator, by the creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to Hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God—Gary—who seeks refuge in the fold of the church!”
A funny thing happened as he read this. A pressure, like a bubble, built up around him, pressing against my psyche and forcing me to turn away. I saw a similar reaction in Patrick. And with the last word, church, I felt a terrible pain slice through my entire being, more spiritual than physical.
“What the fuck was that?” the man shouted, scrambling near the headboard, arms raised for protection.
“Is that you, Patrick?” the minister said.
“What? Leave me alone!”
He tried to leave the bed and I cut him off.
“I think it works best if you grab him,” I said.
The man’s eyes widened, and he reached to cover his dangly bits.
The minister reached across and grabbed one of his feet. The force that emanated this time was so powerful it blurred my sight, and the world smelled the way it does after accidentally snorting water at the pool. A howl rose up from the man, louder than any human voice could muster, causing my ears to ring. The minister yelled too, his hand still locked on Patrick/Gary’s ankle. Successive pulses of otherworldly pressure pounded outward from their contact, slamming me in waves. Then came a soul-crunching smash of power that drove me to my knees.
Desperately, I crawled for the door to get away, then stopped. In front of me, the naked woman was struggling into a skintight pair of pants. A second later, she grabbed her blouse from the floor and ran from the room.
When I looked back at Patrick, his mouth gaped wide but he’d stopped yelling. Then, from both eyes, snakes of inky darkness shot out and hovered over the bed.
So abrupt was their appearance that the minister fell back and skidded on his butt. In response, one of the snakes turned toward him and hissed, sounding like a million sibilant voices speaking at once in a strange language.
Just like the minister’s number in Tara’s phone—vanishing from my mind no matter how long I stared at it—the snake voices were exactly the same. I heard the words and then they were gone.
The second snake didn’t say anything—it lashed out with frightening speed and plunged into my chest. Pure cold like an icy river spread from the connection. My hands passed through the creature’s neck when I tried to pull it off.
No such limitations applied to the snake. Inch by bone-chilling inch, it dragged me toward Patrick. I braced both feet on the bed, leaning out from the frame, and that halted my progress. In response, another snake flew out of Patrick’s mouth and lashed itself to my neck. Still I held on, bunched up and angled off the bed in a tight ball. It couldn’t last. The snake squeezed my neck, constricting my airflow. If I blacked out, nothing could save me.
Patrick’s head was completely engulfed by the things. The creatures oozed into each other, forming a fat trunk of darkness that expanded to cover half his body.
A glance at the minister showed him back on his feet with a cross in his hand. He slashed and pounded the snake repeatedly with it. Unlike mine, his blows connected. With every strike, the creature hissed the vanishing language, and eddies of smokey darkness swirled up like puffs of ancient dust.
“Dan!” the minister yelled. “Get away from those things!”
I stared at him incredulously as the creature continued to choke me.
The minister landed a terrific slash with his crucifix, connecting powerfully to the snake’s head. Then, much like the snakes in the Gray Wherever, the entire length of the thing scattered in a shadowy haze and vanished.
Now there were only two to deal with.
I’d lost my grip on the bed and was sliding knees-first towards Patrick. With the disintegration of the minister’s snake, the ganglion mass of darkness had reduced by a third. I could see Patrick’s limp body again, though not his head.
The minister’s voice rang out: “I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your creator, by the creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to Hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God…”
Though his words weren’t directed at me, I felt their power as I gurgled and thrashed in the creature’s grip.
My face hovered inches from the inky darkness—then merged with it, sinking into a cold so awful it transcended physics and flooded my mind with hopelessness and sorrow.
From far away, in a softer, gentler universe, a warm hand grabbed my ankle. The warmth spre
ad through me, banishing the terrible cold in the fire of holy zeal.
The minister dragged me off the bed onto the floor.
“Thanks,” I said, beaming up at his bloody face and crazy eyes.
I felt lightheaded. Perhaps my oxygen-starved brain gave out on me, or the minister’s superpowers had pushed me past my limits, or maybe my terrorized consciousness simply needed a reboot. Whatever the reason, I promptly blacked out.
* * *
When I came to, I found the minister sitting in a straight-backed chair staring at the bed. Gary the ride, or Patrick the hopper, lay spreadeagled with a pillow between his legs. Breathing, but not moving.
Drying blood streaked the minister’s face and neck, and had stained his priest’s collar red.
I crossed to the window and looked outside. The Hummer was still there, but the other car was gone.
“What happened?” I said. “I seem to have missed a few things.”
“If I had the strength to go through that again, I’d cast you out too.” He shook his head. “Demons, the lot of you. I had to see it for myself. That’s why I’m here. Now I know for sure.”
“You seemed pretty certain before.”
He watched my face as if searching for clues. “How can you be held accountable if you don’t know your crimes? You’re like a clean slate. Did you escape from Hell? Or were you simply allowed out?”
“I have a mom,” I said. “And a sister! I saw them like eight months ago, for crying out loud.”
“The tiniest part of your true self squeezed away and entered the world as an infant,” he said. “The only way a divine soul can enter this world and stay is as an innocent, so that’s what you did, severing yourself from limitless power and knowledge. But your sin—your defiance—still stains you, and the judgment of God remains.”
It was useless. The minister had abandoned conventional theology and was just making it up as he went along. The other times I’d talked to him, he’d seemed rational. Pompous, self-aggrandizing and humorless, but always rational.
I smiled at him like I would my dying grandmother. “Judgment of God. Danel. That’s what you said my demon name was.”