by Jeff Altabef
Music starts playing, a choir with three guitarists. They play a sweet song. When the second verse to the song starts, the crowd joins their voices to the choir and the night bursts with song.
Megan knows the second song, or at least the beginning of it. The choir leads the crowd through “Amazing Grace.” Everyone sings and when the song ends, Ivy stands in the middle of the circle of priestesses, standing six-feet above the crowd on a pedestal. She wears a robe instead of her jumpsuit. It’s multicolored like her jumpsuit and glints in the firelight. She reminds Megan of the Goldfish. She has the same presence, one that demands to be seen and watched.
Her voice projects across the clearing, enhanced by a microphone and hidden speakers. “Close your eyes and breathe Him in.” She closes her eyes.
Megan checks those around her and everyone has closed their eyes. Everyone except Petal, who scans the outside of the clearing.
After a long pause, Ivy opens her eyes. “Who can feel Him with us?”
An Angel to Megan’s right, shouts, “I can.”
Other people cry out. Do they speak out because they truly feel His presence or do they want to be special? Soon, the entire clearing rings with shouts, a desperate voice, all wanting to be heard. All agreeing with Ivy, their leader. In a weird way, Megan thinks she feels a presence also.
Ivy grins and lifts her arms. “I feel Him. He is here.”
The crowd cheers.
“Once again, the Dark One tests us, and we answer that test. He wants to weaken our resolve. He...”
Megan loses track of Ivy’s speech and scans the faces lit by torchlight. While most look rapt, as if they’re looking upon God, a few seem scared. Megan wonders if the believers really believe, or just want to believe so badly, they’ve fooled themselves. She’s not even sure what she believes at this point.
Ivy presses on, “We will not weaken. We will prevail! We will bring about the End of Days.”
Those gathered around the clearing chant, “End of Days! End of Days! End of Days!”
The energy and passion in their collective voice explodes in the night air. Megan resists the urge to chant herself.
Two men, dressed in black, wheel in a naked young woman tied to a cross. The woman has blonde hair and resembles Megan. She’s probably the same age, the same height, the same eye color. The men stop when they reach Ivy.
The girl struggles, the sluggish actions of someone subdued, someone drugged.
Ivy lifts her hands and the crowd silences. “The Dark One possessed our fair Angel. He tried to turn her against us, but he will not win. We are vigilant. What are we to do with our fallen angel?”
The crowd shouts as one, “Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!”
Ivy nods to her priestesses who bring their torches forward.
The crowd continues to chant, “Burn her!”
Megan wants to look away, but she can’t. The energy, the chanting, the torches keep her eyes fixed forward.
One of the priestesses hands a torch to Ivy, who holds it above her head.
The chanting continues. “Burn her!”
Ivy lifts her head to the sky, as if she’s talking to God.
“Burn her!”
“So be it!” She tosses the torch onto a small pile of kindling at the young girl’s feet. The priestesses do the same, and red flames engulf the girl. Not ordinary flames, but darker and redder flames that look like they come from hell.
Megan gasps, still unable to look away.
The girl screams, and a shape rises behind her—a dark crimson creature with horns. It screams a defiant yell and vanishes.
Petal pulls at Megan’s jumpsuit. “We’ve got to go now while everyone is distracted.”
“Was that the Devil?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think?”
Petal frowns, “That’s the incense in the air. It’s effecting your ability to think. You’re a science person. If you wanted to make flames that red, how would you do it?”
A small ray of clarity burns through the fog in Megan’s brain. “I can think of a few chemicals that burn red.”
“Right, and if you wanted to create a devil?”
“Maybe a small projector. The smoke would work like a screen. But it seemed so real. Are you sure?”
“I have no proof either way. All I know is that Mother is the Devil. Come on, we’ve got to go.” Petal pulls Megan from the gathering. “We’ll go to the apple orchard and cut through the hemp field. It’s the fastest way to the cathedral and the sanctuary. We’ve got to get there before the crowd disperses. This way we can remove these pendants and escape. With any luck, we can reach the main road and hitchhike.”
Petal grabs Megan’s hand and pulls her faster. Small plants scrape against her legs.
Once they reach the apple trees, Petal sighs. She looks over her shoulder and says, “Good. No one’s come after us. With a little luck, we’ll make it.”
Megan yanks Petal to a stop. Their luck has just run out.
I point to an open space on the curb, and Gabriel pulls the SUV over.
“What are we doing here?” asks Tina.
“I have to see a priest about something important,” I say.
“Since when did you get religion?”
“I’m not.” I climb out of the car.
“We’ll wait for you right here, as long as it takes,” says Gabriel.
He doesn’t know why I’m headed inside St. Thomas. Heck, I’m not totally sure, but the message from The Farm said I had to “make the right choice.” The language seems odd under the circumstances and sounds a lot like what Father Paul told me early today. It could be a coincidence, but I’m not a big fan of coincidences.
I don’t know how my growing demon problem relates to Kate and Megan, but my gut says they’re twisted together, and I’m not going to ignore that feeling. Not now.
I open the heavy, wooden door, stand in the doorway, and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. A few wall sconces and a dozen candles by the altar offer just enough brightness to see the general contours of the old, dusty place. Without the sun streaming through the windows, it feels even emptier and hollower than earlier in the day.
A priest kneels at the altar, praying.
I head to him. Halfway there I call out, “Father Paul, I need to talk to you.”
The priest stands and turns. He’s thin with short dark hair, but he’s thirty years older than Father Paul. He looks confused as he squints, “Excuse me, young man. Have we met?”
“I’m sorry. I’m looking for Father Paul.” I look around the church and find no one else.
The aging priest frowns. “I’m sorry but you have the wrong church. There’s no one named Father Paul here.”
I grab his arm. “Listen, I’ve been here the last few days and met a young priest, about your height. Black hair, young, sharp eyes, he’s new to the parish. Maybe you don’t know him.”
“You must have the wrong church. Some of these old buildings look the same. This one has been closed all week. I only just opened it an hour ago. This Sunday they’re shutting it down for good. It’s a shame, but attendance,” he shrugs his thin shoulders, “isn’t what it used to be.”
He’s telling me the truth, so I let go of his arm. If Father Paul isn’t really a priest, then what is he, and how did he know who I am? This puzzle only gets more complicated.
I hear laughter. It’s high-pitched and mocking—the blasted Fates, screwing with me.
“Do you hear that?” I ask the priest.
He raises his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t hear anything. Just you and me in this old place. Do you want to tell me your confession my son? Confession can do wonders to settle a worried mind.”
“I’m afraid my confession would take too long and would keep you up tonight, Father.” I turn my back on the priest. I don’t like being jerked around and I feel like a tennis ball in the middle of a sick match.
I slam the door on my way outside,
and the skies open up, cold rain pelting me.
Perfect.
Megan blinks and wipes the sweat from her face. She hopes her eyes are playing tricks on her, but no such luck. Deep down, she always knew this would happen. Monsters don’t just disappear; they have to be destroyed.
Frankie stands a few steps in front of them, an electric prod in his hand, fire burning in his gaze. “Where are you birds flying off to?”
“We’re headed back to the cabins,” says Petal. “We just got a bit turned around.”
“Right. Looks like you two are trying to run away. That’s not going to happen.”
Megan figures she has two options. She can run, but Frankie will eventually find her. He’s obsessed with her and a fixation like that only grows stronger; it won’t fade away. Or she can take a stand. Frankie expects her to run, so she charges forward instead.
Frankie grins. He outweighs her by a hundred pounds, so she can’t try to tackle him. That would be foolish.
When she reaches him, he swipes the prod at her head in a wide arc. She ducks under and kicks his left knee. Her foot lands hard and he buckles. She spins to deliver a roundhouse kick to his ugly face. She’s good at roundhouse kicks in the gym, but this isn’t a gym, and she slips on a rotten apple. Thrown off by the fruit, she misses badly and twists to the ground.
He laughs and smacks her in the leg with the electric prod. Excruciating pain surges through her body. Her leg feels like it’s about to explode, and blinding light erupts in front of her. She’d scream except her mouth is clamped shut in a death clench. The pain is twice as bad as her first encounter with the electrified stick.
She tries to get to her feet, but her body convulses. She’s lost all control. Angry, fat rain drops fall from the sky in a torrent of water.
Frankie curses and a blur of yellow launches itself at him. Petal shouts and they both tumble to the ground. Megan uses one hand to prop herself up, but it slips on the wet ground. It’s useless. Rubber. She desperately tries to see what’s happening, but she only glimpses a few desperate images through the rain: Petal scratching Frankie’s face, Frankie grabbing hair, a fist swinging.
Frankie must have thrown Petal off him because two shapes move in the darkness.
Small functions return to Megan’s body. She pushes up on rubbery arms. Her legs are still wooden. Useless when she needs them most. She has to help Petal, but she still can’t even stand. Panic flares up inside her.
Petal charges Frankie again. This time he flips her over his shoulder. She hits the ground and, when she struggles to get up, he kicks her in the head. The blow makes a sickening thud. It snaps her head back and her body bends backward onto the mud awkwardly.
“No!” Megan’s anger combats her pain and brings life back to her legs. She stands shakily, her balance unsteady.
Frankie sneers at her. “It’s time for you and me to get to know each other better. Petal can’t interfere now. It’s just us.”
Petal moans and rolls onto her side.
Frankie unzips his jumpsuit to his waist. He’s no longer holding the electrified prod. It’s useless in the rain.
“You can’t touch me,” cries Megan. “I have a green armband. Mother will know and she’ll—”
“I don’t care. Your time has come, Bitch.”
Megan staggers backward into a tree.
Frankie lashes out, slaps her across the face. The force of the blow spins her backward. “You’ve been nothing but problems. Teasing me from the moment you arrived. Now you’re going to get yours.”
Megan spits blood from her mouth, and with the last of her energy twists and throws a wild right hook at Frankie’s face.
He blocks the punch with his elbow and hits Megan in the stomach.
Megan crumples to the ground. She gasps for air, desperate to breathe again.
Frankie falls on her like a vulture and flashes a small two-inch blade in his hand. “I like it if you struggle, but don’t fight too much, or I’ll cut your throat and leave you here to die.”
Megan sucks in air but it’s spoiled by him. Foul. Sour. Rank. The apple tree shields much of the rain, so she can see him clearly. Small details pop. His face contorts into a rage-filled mask. Dark blood drips from a cut on his cheek and his eyes look as if they’re on fire, red sparks burn inside of them. He smells awful, as if his sick excitement cloaks him in pus.
She struggles to throw him off her, but his weight anchors her to the wet ground and she has no leverage. He grabs the zipper of her suit and she goes for his eyes. She knows he’s holding a knife, but she doesn’t care. She’ll take her chances, but he slaps her across the face. The blow numbs her thoughts as pain buzzes through her head.
He unzips her jumpsuit all the way down to the crotch and holds the knife near her face now. She can’t struggle, or the blade will cut her. She’s forced to breathe his air, rancid, fetid, hateful.
“Don’t do this. You don’t need to do this.” She pushes her heels against the ground, but they slip, and his weight keeps her planted.
“Oh, yes I do.” He cuts away her bra with the edge of the knife, the steel sliding along her flesh. His rough fingers scrape against her skin. She resists the urge to vomit. A bolt of lightning tears into the sky, and thunder rips through the night.
A discarded, apple-picking pole leans against a tree, just outside of her reach.
Frankie circles her throat with his hand and licks her cheek. Disgusting slime from his mouth slobbers against her skin, his tongue slithering across her neck like a snake, working its way downward.
She reaches for the pole, but it’s a few inches away. His disgusting paw reaches down her body. Rage rips through her.
An apple bounces off the brute’s head with a clunk. He twists his body off her for a moment and looks away.
Petal still lies on her side, but she reaches for another apple on the ground.
He sneers at her. “Are you jealous? Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ll have plenty left to satisfy you.”
With Frankie’s attention distracted, Megan reaches the pole, and brings it down on the creep’s head. The wood snaps in two across the monster’s skull.
He grins at her. “Nice try. Now, where were we?” He squirms further out of his jumpsuit.
“You won’t be needing that little thing where you’re headed.”
“What?”
Megan kept her grip on the split pole and rams the jagged end into Frankie’s eye with all her strength. The wood sinks in and he screams.
She shoves him off, and he strings together an incoherent slew of curses. Megan finds another pole, this one solid.
Frankie pulls the splintered wood from his eye, blood streaming down his face.
“This might leave a mark,” Megan says right before she swings the pole down with all her strength against Frankie’s head. This time it connects, and the wood doesn’t break.
Frankie falls face first into the mud.
Megan tosses the pole to the side and zips her suit up with shaky hands. Her entire body trembles. Air comes in gulps. She’d probably stay there for hours if it weren’t for Petal. She staggers to her and falls to her knees in front of her friend.
Blood darkens Petal’s head where Frankie’s boot cut her. Megan’s stomach clenches. “Are you okay?”
Petal nods. “A little woozy, but I’ll live.” She looks in the distance towards the cathedral and then back at Megan with sorrowful eyes. “We don’t have time now. They’ll be back at the cathedral.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Megan says even though there’s no conviction in her voice. She helps Petal to unsteady feet.
Petal’s eyes grow wide and she falls backward to the ground.
Megan spins.
Frankie stands like a monster bathed in darkness, one shattered eye hanging from the socket, sludge like blood seeping down his face. He wobbles forward, the small knife held in his hand. “I’m not supposed to kill you. He won’t like that, but now you have to
die.”
“Shouldn’t you be dead by now?” asks Megan with as much false bravado as she can muster. Fear courses through her veins, chilling her blood. She edges away from Petal, who’s too dizzy to run. She’s hemmed in by another apple tree only a few feet away.
“You’re going to beg me to kill you before you die.”
Megan frantically searches for some advantage before Frankie closes in on her. She sees nothing but a low hanging branch. Desperately, she grabs it and tries to pull herself up, but the wood is slippery from the rain and she’s exhausted from fear. Her arms are only weak impressions of her real ones.
Frankie’s voice transforms into a young tone, high-pitched and totally frightening. “No where to hide, little Angel.”
Megan’s hands slip again from the slick wood and this time she turns to face her attacker. If she’s going to die, she won’t go meekly. She’ll hurt him as much as she can.
She readies herself to lunge at him and go for his throat. An explosion rips through the air and a large chunk of Frankie’s skull bursts from his head. For a moment he looks confused, as if he doesn’t realize he’s already dead, and then he falls to the mud, head first.
Buck marches toward them. “Are you all right?” he asks Megan.
Megan’s not sure. She’ll live but Frankie will also live on, in her memories, tormenting her in quiet moments. She can’t find the words to express those thoughts even if she wants to, so she nods. And kicks Frankie’s dead body a half-dozen times before she stops.
Buck helps Petal to her feet. “You guys are a mess. Get back to the cabins before you’re missed. Let the rain wash away the blood and tell them you slipped into one of the sinkholes by the hemp field we use for drainage. Get May to cover for you because they’ll notice something’s wrong when they see you. You’ll need a witness, or they’ll suspect the truth.”
Megan says, “Thank you. Without you...”
Buck shrugs. “I should have killed Frankie months ago.”