Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  Wa fol­lo­wed af­ter Wen­ton.

  And then the alarm so­un­ded aga­in, scre­ec­hing at a high de­ci­bel.

  "And shut that fuc­kin' thing off," Wen­ton yel­led over his sho­ul­der as he and Wa ar­ri­ved at the front ent­ran­ce. Wen­ton swung the front do­or open.

  A man in a dark over­co­at was fa­cing them but had his he­ad lo­we­red so that they co­uld only see the top of his ba­se­ball cap.

  Wa le­aned for­ward trying to get a bet­ter lo­ok. "Gary?" he sa­id ten­ta­ti­ve­iy

  And then the alarm stop­ped as ab­ruptly as it be­gan.

  "Don't let him in!" Nick cal­led as he stag­ge­red to the front ent­ran­ce. "Get out of he­re Gary."

  The pas­tor lif­ted his he­ad. As his fa­ce ca­me in­to vi­ew, his tor­tu­red smi­le was al­most too much be­ar. Gary's lips we­re tightly drawn up at the cor­ners and his eyes we­re glo­wing with mock hap­pi­ness.

  "I've co­me for the An­tich­rist," Gary an­no­un­ced and step­ped in­to the ho­use. Wa and Wen­ton sto­od far eno­ugh back to al­low him in.

  "I'm he­re to re­turn you to hell."

  "Ke­ep him away from me," Nick scre­amed.

  "Gary?" Wa at­temp­ted. "Are you okay? What's go­ing-"

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning Gary tur­ned on Wa, lif­ting a lar­ge kni­fe in­to the air. He bro­ught it down qu­ickly, aiming for Wa's chest. The ac­ti­on was so unex- pec­ted and ext­re­me that Wa had ba­rely even re­gis­te­red what was hap­pe­ning.

  As Wen­ton saw the kni­fe, his hand shot out, de­li­ve­ring a ner­ve punch to the back of Gary's arm. The jolt was eno­ugh to ma­ke the bla­de just ba­rely miss Wa, as he stumb­led back­wards on the gar­ba­ge-strewn co­uch. Wa felt a hot pa­in sli­ce thro­ugh his left arm. Wen­ton was abo­ut to grab the pas­tor's arms when he he­ard Nick.

  "No Gary!" In a pa­nic] Nick was char­ging for­ward hol­ding both hands out in front. Gary bro­ke free of Wen­ton and tur­ned to Nick, ra­ising his kni­fe as they col­li­ded. Wen­ton watc­hed them both col­lap­se to the flo­or.

  Imme­di­ately, Wen­ton grab­bed Nick and pul­led him off Gary. The­re was a gush of blo­od so­aking ac­ross the front of Gary's ro­ugh wo­ol over­co­at. Wen­ton drop­ped Nick, who slum­ped aga­inst the wall and lif­ted his hands to his neck. At a glan­ce, Wen­ton co­uldn't tell who'd sus­ta­ined the inj­ury but he knew it must ha­ve be­en a bad cut gi­ven the amo­unt of blo­od. He lo­oked back and forth bet­we­en Nick and the pas­tor. It was a mess.

  "Wa!" Wen­ton yel­led. "If you're not too fuc­kin' busy I'm gon­na ne­ed a hand he­re." He knelt be­si­de Nick to see how bad he was inj­ured.

  THE PROP­HECY IS CO­ME. I AM WHO­LE.

  The words se­emed to co­me from every cor­ner of the ho­use, and left stabs of pa­in in Wen­ton's ears. Wen­ton lo­oked over to Wa, only it wasn't Wa any lon­ger. The fi­gu­re of a man was sta­ring down at Gary Wright­land. The pas­tor had pus­hed him­self back aga­inst the do­or and was whim­pe­ring softly.

  JO­IN LE­GI­ON. FA­CE EVIL.

  Wen­ton didn't un­ders­tand. He sta­red up at Wa's con­tor­ted fa­ce. A gash had ope­ned down his fo­re­he­ad, stretc­hing from his ha­ir­li­ne to the brid­ge of his no­se. The open skin re­ve­aled the pa­le whi­te bo­ne be­ne­ath. His eyes bul­ged and ap­pe­ared red from the en­gor­ged ve­ins. His arms hung at his si­des with his palms fa­cing Gary in an un­na­tu­ral way.

  "Wa?" Wen­ton bar­ked.

  In one ra­pid ges­tu­re, the fi­gu­re bent over Gary and lif­ted him off the gro­und. The pas­tor's fa­ce was pin­ned aga­inst his at­tac­ker's gory fo­re­he­ad.

  "Hey!" Wen­ton yel­led. He bri­efly lo­oked back at Nick, who was still hol­ding both hands aro­und his thro­at. Blo­od flo­wed fre­ely bet­we­en his fin­gers and dra­ined down his shirt. His eyes we­re wild with ter­ror. Nick ope­ned his mo­uth to spe­ak, but he co­uld only sput­ter as blo­od spat out. No ti­me far you, Wen­ton tho­ught as he pic­ked up Gary's kni­fe and sto­od to fa­ce the cre­atu­re.

  Words still ec­ho­ed thro­ug­ho­ut the ro­om, but now Wen­ton co­uld tell they ori­gi­na­ted from Wa. Fa­ci­ni ent­fas­te blac­ke­ned si­de.

  Gary lay in this mons­ter's arms. Shock and ter­ror si­len­ced him as the cre­atu­re's wet, slimy skin met his own swe­at-so­aked fa­ce.

  "Ple­ase God," Gary mo­aned. But Gary wasn't in Stan­gos' ho­use any lon­ger. So­me­how the put­rid to­uch of the cre­atu­re's dis­fi­gu­red flesh had trans­por­ted him to a ti­me not long ago…

  ***

  Gary ho­ve­red abo­ve his own body. He watc­hed him­self stri­de down the ste­ri­le hos­pi­tal cor­ri­dor with con­fi­dent pur­po­se, the bulky ca­se ke­eping rhythm aga­inst his leg. He re­cog­ni­zed the sce­ne. He knew the lo­ca­ti­on.

  The No­va Sco­tia Hos­pi­tal, he tho­ught. I'm vi­si­ting a pa­ti­ent at the No­va Sco­tia Hos­pi­tal

  Gary Wright­land stop­ped at the end of the hal­lway and knoc­ked on­ce be­fo­re ope­ning the do­or and en­te­ring. Pre­vi­o­us vi­sits had ta­ught him not to wa­it for a res­pon­se.

  Gary sud­denly re­ali­zed what he was watc­hing. "No. Not this." He tri­ed to lo­ok away but he co­uldn't.

  "Go­od af­ter­no­on Ed­ward. Fe­eling any bet­ter?" Gary as­ked. He en­te­red the ro­om and sat down next to the bed, set­ting the bri­ef­ca­se up on a bed­si­de tab­le, clo­se to Ed­ward. The ro­om was dark, the cur­ta­ins drawn tightly clo­sed. Ed­ward didn't li­ke the ro­om ex­po­sed to light be­ca­use it inc­re­ased the li­ke­li­ho­od that he wo­uld see things that ot­hers co­uld not-awful things.

  "Pas­tor, it hurts. What's go­ing on?" the sickly thin Ed­ward as­ked.

  "Not­hing Ed­ward. The­re's not­hing. Just re­lax. Be open to God."

  Edward bro­ught his hands to the si­des of his he­ad. "But so­met­hing hurts when you vi­sit me. So­met­hing hurts me."

  "Lay back, Ed­ward. I'm he­re to help you. I want to sa­ve you."

  "No," Ed­ward whim­pe­red. "Ple­ase ma­ke it stop. It fe­els li­ke my he­ad is be­ing split in half. It hurts. It hurts."

  "I don't fe­el anyt­hing, Ed­ward."

  Edward's eyes went to the pas­tor. "You can't fe­el this bur­ning? It's li­ke the­re's a no­ise in­si­de my bra­in and I can't turn it off. You don't fe­el it?"

  Gary le­aned over and put a hand on Ed­ward's arm. "It's not­hing. What you are fe­eling is yo­ur he­art and mind ope­ning to God. Be open to God so that you don't fall to Sa­tan."

  Te­ars we­re rol­ling down Ed­ward's fa­ce now. "I am open to God. Ple­ase be­li­eve me. I am open to God."

  Gary smi­led and nod­ded. "You will be. I'm go­ing to ma­ke su­re you are." He sat back and wa­ited. He wan­ted Ed­ward to get a full do­se of the ELF wa­ves so his spe­ci­al­ly cho­sen pas­sa­ges from the Bib­le wo­uld ta­ke full ef­fect when he re­ad them.

  After a few mi­nu­tes' ex­po­su­re to the mac­hi­ne, Ed­ward's hands drop­ped away from his he­ad and fell to the bed. His he­ad slum­ped to one si­de and he was still, only the rem­nant of a te­ar con­ti­nu­ed to sli­de down his che­ek.

  "Edward?" Gary whis­pe­red. He'd ne­ver slum­ped li­ke that. "Edward?" In the dim light he co­uldn't tell if Ed­ward's chest was still mo­ving. Ins­tinc­ti­vely, he lo­oked back to the do­or, ma­king su­re no nur­sing staff we­re ne­ar.

  Gary le­aned over and put a hand on the man's chest. Ed­ward's eyes im­me­di­ately shot open and his he­ad tur­ned on the pas­tor. He lo­oked un­na­tu­ral, pos­ses­sed.

  Gary pus­hed back, cla­wing and kic­king, un­til he was pre­ca­ri­o­usly ba­lan­ced on the back legs of his cha­ir. He ma­na­ged to stif­le a scre­am.

  Watc­her, Ed­ward spo­ke. His sun­ken fa­ce and black eyes held Gary tightly in the­ir grip. You've ser­ved me well You
ha­ve ope­ned the orp­han of in­cest's mind so that I am born. Fa­ci­ni ent­fas­te blac­ke­ned si­de.

  "No," Gary sa­id. "No. I'm not the watc­her. I'm not res­pon­sib­le for you. I re­bu­ke you in the na­me of Jesus Christ. I re­bu­ke you in the na­me of God the Fat­her. I re­bu­ke you-"

  Edward wa­ved a hand dis­mis­sing Gary and the pas­tor lost his ba­lan­ce and fell over back­wards, stri­king the flo­or hard. Gary scramb­led and ro­se, grab­bing for his bri­ef­ca­se and hur­rying out of the ro­om.

  Flo­ating high abo­ve, Gary watc­hed thro­ugh a ha­ze of te­ars.

  ***

  Wen­ton re­ali­zed that the cre­atu­re was now at le­ast a fo­ot tal­ler than he was. It tur­ned to Wen­ton, to­we­ring over him.

  "Wa, let him go," Wen­ton or­de­red.

  The cre­atu­re la­ug­hed. The­re is no Wa. Only Lu­sus Na­tu­rae.

  "Now!" Wen­ton snap­ped. "Drop him."

  The mons­ter lo­we­red the pas­tor and tur­ned to fa­ce Wen­ton. I know you.

  Wen­ton glan­ced at Gary. The man hung limply in the cre­atu­re's grip, his eyes wi­de with ter­ror. A long li­ne of dro­ol fell away from his lips.

  "Su­re we've met be­fo­re. You're a fuc­ked-up cop and I'm the guy that's go­ing to knock you on yo­ur ass," sa­id Wen­ton.

  I am you. You are me. I'm in you al­re­ady.

  The words we­re fa­mi­li­ar to Wen­ton. Ed­ward Car­ter had spo­ken tho­se exact words to him at the­ir first me­eting. "Fuck you," Wen­ton bar­ked.

  Exactly.

  Wen­ton ra­ised the kni­fe he was hol­ding and lun­ged at the fi­gu­re. The cre­atu­re drop­ped the pas­tor to the gro­und and ca­ught Wen­ton aro­und both wrists. Wen­ton's for­ward mo­men­tum pus­hed them back aga­inst do­or with a lo­ud crash as the wo­oden fra­me vir­tu­al­ly ga­ve way,

  Wen­ton twis­ted his kni­fe hand free and lif­ted it to stri­ke. The mons­ter twis­ted and pus­hed, trying to buck Wen­ton as the bla­de slas­hed thro­ugh the air. Wen­ton jum­ped to­wards the cre­atu­re aga­in but stop­ped in his tracks at the so­und of a dif­fe­rent vo­ice.

  "Wen­ton, what the fuck are you do­ing?" Wa scre­amed hol­ding his arms up to pro­tect him­self.

  "Wa?"

  "Holy shit. What the hell are you do­ing?"

  Wen­ton sta­red at the man. Wa's fe­atu­res and vo­ice had re­tur­ned to nor- mal. He lo­oked wildly aro­und the ro­om but saw no sign of the cre­atu­re that he'd be­en bat­tling.

  "Nick!" cri­ed Wa, lo­oking over at the man slum­ped in the cor­ner. The flow of blo­od se­eping out of Nick's neck had stop­ped. He was de­ad.

  Gary's eyes we­re open, but he co­uldn't see anyt­hing. His wi­de-eyed sta­re bet­ra­yed his ca­ta­to­nic sta­te.

  FORTY-TWO

  The pho­ne rang aga­in. The ec­ho so­un­ded thro­ugh Wen­ton's apart­ment for the ninth ti­me. The cal­ler was per­sis­tent.

  Wen­ton had only just ar­ri­ved back in his con­do. The po­li­ce and EMS had ar­ri­ved at Nick Stan­gos' ho­use qu­ickly. The­re was a lot of sho­uting and pa­nic for a few mo­ments but luc­kily the two cons­tab­les on si­te knew Wa. The in­ca­pa­ci­ta­ted Gary Wright­land was ar­res­ted and ta­ken to the hos­pi­tal, and Stan­gos was drop­ped in­to a body bag. Thro­ug­ho­ut the cle­an-up, Wen­ton watc­hed Wa for any sign that he was dif­fe­rent. Wa ac­ted comp­le­tely nor­mal wit­ho­ut a hint of the bi­zar­re spec­tac­le Wen­ton had se­en ear­li­er. When Wa left to go to the po­li­ce sta­ti­on with the ot­her of­fi­cers, Wen­ton didn't say a word.

  The pho­ne rang aga­in.

  Wen­ton to­ok anot­her drink from his rye and Co­ke, and snatc­hed his cord­less pho­ne off the wall on the fo­ur­te­enth ring. "What?"

  "Dr. Wen­ton?"

  "What?" Wen­ton as­ked in the sa­me flat to­ne.

  "We've be­en trying to re­ach you for a num­ber of ho­urs. This is Dr. Earl Dri­er."

  "I don't ha­ve the energy for yo­ur shit right now."

  "Wa­it," Dr. Dri­er yel­led in­to the re­ce­iver. "This is im­por­tant. We ne­ed to talk ASAP." He spel­led out the ac­ronym, thin­king it ad­ded emp­ha­sis.

  "ASAP," Wen­ton moc­ked. "Well then, I bet­ter put my fuc­kin' pants on."

  "Dr. Wen­ton," Dr. Dri­er an­no­un­ced, "yo­ur gra­du­ate stu­dent, Nor­ma Mac­Do­nald, was fo­und de­ad in her apart­ment. She may ha­ve kil­led her­self. I think you bet­ter ta­ke an in­te­rest."

  The news didn't shock him. "The who­le world is de­ad any­way. What do you want from me?"

  "You son of a bitch," Dr. Dri­er grumb­led, ba­rely ab­le to spe­ak be­ca­use his who­le body was sha­king. "You kil­led her. You may not ha­ve held a gun to her he­ad and pul­led the trig­ger but you are in so­me way res­pon­sib­le for her de­ath."

  "I don't ha­ve ti­me for you right now. Why don't you go whi­ne at so­me­body who ca­res?"

  Wen­ton hung up. He was too pre­oc­cu­pi­ed with what he saw at Nick Stan­gos' ho­use that Dr. Dri­er's news car­ri­ed lit­tle we­ight. The fu­tu­re of the world was at sta­ke, and he knew he had to be part of it, but how? He tho­ught abo­ut the crazy dre­am he'd had not long ago and to­ok anot­her drink.

  FORTY-THREE

  Terry Mes­si­er he­ard a knoc­king at his do­or but he didn't ca­re. The­re wasn't an­yo­ne he wan­ted to see, no one he wan­ted to talk to.

  He to­ok anot­her sip of his pro­te­in sha­ke. It was sup­po­sed to be a me­al rep­la­ce­ment du­ring the ti­me his jaw was wi­red shut. The be­ating that Ser­ge­ant Wa had de­li­ve­red left him with three stitc­hes on his fo­re­he­ad and a bro­ken jaw. Fuc­kin' cops, Mes­si­er tho­ught. He was glad he had a da­te very so­on to pro­vi­de a sta­te­ment to the po­li­ce abo­ut the in­ci­dent. I 'ope so­me of dem bas­tard cops get fi­red.

  Mes­si­er had be­en in hos­pi­tal for two days. Now he was la­id up in a crummy, low-rent pla­ce in Spryfi­eld. It was the only pla­ce that he co­uld af­ford on his di­sa­bi­lity pen­si­on.

  Anot­her knock on the do­or.

  "Go awee," he yel­led thro­ugh a mo­uth that wo­uldn't open pro­perly.

  "It's the po­li­ce," ca­me the res­pon­se. "Open up, Mes­si­er."

  "Fuck," Mes­si­er bre­at­hed. "Not aga­in." He to­ok anot­her sip of his drink and felt a trick­le es­ca­pe and run down the un­kempt ha­ir on his chin.

  He strug­gled to his fe­et, gri­ma­cing at the sligh­test mo­ve­ment. "Juss a mi­nu­te," he cal­led as he shuf­fled to the do­or.

  "Who is id?" Terry as­ked from just be­hind the do­or.

  "Ha­li­fax Re­gi­onal Po­li­ce."

  Terry le­aned to his pe­ep­ho­le. It was black as if so­me­one we­re in­ten­ti­onal­ly co­ve­ring it. "Mo­ve away from the do­or, si­vo­us pla­it."

  "Sorry," ca­me the vo­ice be­hind the do­or. "How's that?"

  Terry le­aned in aga­in but the do­or exp­lo­ded in, cras­hing in­to his fa­ce and sen­ding him hard to the flo­or. He cri­ed out in pa­in hol­ding his jaw with both hands. Te­ars swel­led in his eyes as he lo­oked up to see Mitc­hell Wa in the do­or­way.

  "Hey the­re, Terry," Wa sa­id. "How's everyt­hing go­ing?"

  Wa step­ped in and shut the do­or be­hind. Only the flimsy lock had pop­ped when he kic­ked it, which was go­od; he'd le­ave no signs of a for­ced entry.

  "You can­nod be 'ere," he mo­aned. "You are in big tro­ub­le."

  Wa cro­uc­hed down be­si­de him and smi­led. "Terry, don't be ru­de. I was just he­re to fi­nish up our con­ver­sa­ti­on from the ot­her day. I don't think we had the chan­ce to cle­ar everyt­hing up."

  "You at­tac­ked me."

  "A lit­tle blip, that's all," Wa re­as­su­red him. "Won't hap­pen aga­in."

  "Ge­do­ut!"

  "Ke­ep it in yo­ur pants," Wa
sa­id de­ri­si­vely. He re­ac­hed out and grab­bed

  Terry's ma­ne of ha­ir and drag­ged the man back in­to the apart­ment, tos­sing him on­to the co­uch wit­ho­ut ef­fort.

  "You can­nod…," Mes­si­er star­ted to pro­test. He stop­ped when he saw the way Wa was lo­oking at him.

  Wa's eyes we­re go­ne, rep­la­ced by dark swir­ling po­ols of hat­red. He was sta­ring at Mes­si­er as tho­ugh the man was a pi­le of gar­ba­ge.

  Fa­ci­ni ent­fas­te blac­ke­ned si­de.

  "Qua?"

  Fa­ci­ni ent­fas­te blac­ke­ned si­de, Wa re­pe­ated.

  Ima­ges flas­hed thro­ugh Mes­si­er's mind. He sud­denly saw the par­king lot at Mic Mac Mall. He saw the boy. He saw the small park whe­re he pul­led the boy's pants off. He saw it all only this ti­me he felt the pa­in of it. He felt the fe­ar of the lit­tle boy. He felt the an­ger of the boy's pa­rents. He felt the ra­ge of the com­mu­nity that wan­ted him de­ad.

  "Did you mo­lest that boy at Mic Mac Mall?" Wa as­ked.

  Mes­si­er co­uldn't ans­wer right away. The ima­ges we­re still po­un­ding him, ma­king him fe­el as tho­ugh he we­re go­ing to pass out.

  "Did you mo­lest that boy at Mic Mac Mall?" Wa re­pe­ated.

  "Oin.Yes."

  "Will you sign a full con­fes­si­on be­fo­re you kill yo­ur­self?"

  "Kill myself? Non"

  Ser­ve me.

  The vo­ice sank thro­ugh every inch of him.

  I am the Ome­ga. I am Lu­sus Na­tu­rae.

  "What?" Mes­si­er mumb­led. He co­uld ba­rely think. He felt li­ke his he­ad was be­ing squ­e­ezed.

  I am with this for now. It ser­ves me and you are a nu­isan­ce that must di­sap­pe­ar.

  "I don un­ders­tand," Mes­si­er we­akly pro­tes­ted.

  Wa ro­se up, his fa­ce con­tor­ting back in­to the fa­ce of the cre­atu­re. He le­aned in­to Mes­si­er and the fo­ul smel­ling rot­ted flesh of its fa­ce so­aked thro­ugh the frigh­te­ned man.