He let her drift into her dreams before answering: “Kinda. I think I just met one.”
Downstairs, the kitchen phone began to buzz as the line came back to life.
Looking at the clock, he thought, two hours until I have to get up.
The Flesh of Fallen Angels
(A Gibson Blount Novella)
By
R. Thomas Riley and Roy C. Booth
The town of Jacob's Bluff was covered in a black putrid haze. Yet, it was more than that. It was more like the dismal cloud inhabited the town as Gibson and Sarah topped the overlooking hill. Finger thin shafts, mingled with log-sized tendrils, criss
crossed the town as if it were a familiar lover.
Gibson held his tongue, waiting for his wife to scream out because of the abnormal presence engulfing their town, but she sat placidly beside him, humming a church hymn, quite oblivious to the black cloud and the oncoming storm still far off in the distance. Thoughts of cancer, blight and rot rushed into Gibson’s mind, nearly overwhelming his senses at the sight.
Reflexively, Gibson tightened his grip on the reins, leaning in as he did so. The horses snorted against the pressure, coming to a halt. Something was at the apex of the black, swirling cloud. Just a hint, huge, its features obscured. Fading in and out, a tenebrous shape, twice the size of the entire town, hovered inchoate and nascent. The black, inky, oil-like haze emanated from there, like an airborne disease.
Gibson looked on in horror, now envisioning the entire town engulfed in flames, obliterated to ash right before his eyes. Dark winged figures were traveling down from the vague shape obscured in the black miasma. Mere hints, but enough for Gibson to realize he was thankful they were shrouded in the swirling mist. To see more directly would mean madness, he sensed.
“Darling?”
His wife’s perplexed intonation and gentle hand on his shoulder invaded his consciousness, startling him -- the entire illusion dissipated. Not all at once, like a feverish hallucination might, but gradually, like watching time unravel and flow backwards. Now the anomalous, swirling mist was all that remained. Lingering, hovering.
“Don’t you see that?” he said with a ragged breath, hoping she indeed did not see anything.
She leaned forward, peering down at the town. “See what, silly goat?”
“Nothing, love,” he replied after a few beats, forcing a smile. “Just feeling a bit queer is all, I reckon. I must be more tuckered out than I thought.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll feel much better once we get into town, dear.”
“I reckon so, my love, I reckon so.”
He knew that to be a lie.
Gibson was not an overtly religious man, but what he’d just witnessed couldn’t be described in any other terms, no matter how much he tried to apply simple logic and reason to the situation. What he had seen was pure, malicious evil, silently lying in wait for his town.
He shuddered again, stifling a cough to mask his enhancing sense of dread, his mind racing, trying to make sense of it all, still trying to logically sort out some kind of solution to what he had seen and experienced that day.
At wit's end he concluded there was only one logical person in town who might be able to help him with an explanation for what he was witnessing.
His friend, Nathan, the priest of Jacob’s Bluff.
NOW
“Hey there, handsome, want some company?”
Blount glanced up slowly, fully taking in the speaker posing before him. Black scuffed boots below a pair of dingy white crinoline, horsehair trousers, up to a preposterously tight red silken corset, her breasts straining above the restrictive leather and lace device every time she took breath, ready to pop out at any moment.
“Well, now.”
Finally, his eyes came to rest on her face, painted up white, red lips standing out so starkly against the pale canvas it pained his eyes. The makeup gave her the appearance of a fresh corpse, although beneath the trowel-slathered makeup he could still tell there was a rather pretty girl hidden somewhere.
“Hurm.” Blount poured himself another and slammed it.
She moved in, sliding up to him, now close enough that he could feel her sweet-scented breath on his cheek.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked between a few more shots.
“Name’s whatever you want it to be, dumplin’,” she cooed, playfully pawing at his jacket. “I saw you sitting over here drinkin’ with a purpose all by your lonesome. I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“No, no, I reckon not.” Blount shifted in closer to her, now making eye contact. Something didn't seem quite right, not in a dangerous or threatening sense, but it made Blount mighty curious all the same.
“Good, I’m always partial to new company.”
“I see.” He checked to see who else was watching. No one. “What’s your name?” he repeated.
“Name’s Petty,” she revealed, giving off a slight giggle.
“Ah,” was his only reply. He leaned back, putting some distance between them. Names held power and now that he had hers, it was time to sit back for a bit and try to analyze what he had just gleaned, now allowing himself to relax and look around some more.
“You’re a strange one, mister.”
He gave an affirmative grunt. “So I’ve been told, so I have been told,” Blount chuckled, though there wasn’t any humor in it at all.
“May I?” she asked, motioning to his side.
“Yes, I would enjoy your company. Sit.”
Petty grabbed a chair and dragged it noisily over next to Blount, plopping herself down as if they were long time friends. “Mind if I have a drink?”
“Suit yourself,” grunted Blount, motioning to the bottle.
He watched as she grabbed the almost-empty bottle, tipping it back in one fluid motion. Blount gauged her age to be around twenty, no more than twenty-five, but it was hard to be sure with the illusory hue the heavy makeup added.
Blount saw Bartender Bill motion to him: did he want another bottle? Blount declined.
“People venture you’re an outlaw,” she blurted, wiping her mouth.
“And who might those people be, Petty?” smiled Blount, slouching forward. “I’ve yet to be in this town two hours and already I’m a no-good account fierce outlaw?”
“I see the guns you’ve got strapped to you,” Petty said, shrugging, a droplet of whiskey stubbornly clinging to her lower chin. “When a man has one gun, usually means he sees the occasional trouble. When he has two, he expects trouble,” she finished matter-of-factly.
“You’re quite keen,” Blount allowed.
“Why, thank you,” responded Petty, flashing Blount a knowing smile.
“I think I shall indeed indulge on that offer of company, miss.”
After securing a room from Bartender Bill, Blount took Petty straight to his bed. No matter how hard he tried, he kept seeing Sarah’s face as he savagely thrusted.
THEN
Gibson slowly pulled to a halt in front of the general store, waving absently to the flock of smiling children that erupted from the doors, each laughing and clutching hard onto a stick of rock candy. He clicked softly to the startled horses.
“You run along, Sarah,” he suggested. “I’ve got some business over yonder to discuss with Father Nathan before we head off over to Carson's for a bite of lunch.”
Sarah gave her head a slight tilt, and then replied, “Well, all right. Remember, Carson should have fresh cucumbers in by now. And I know how much you adore a good cucumber and bacon sandwich.”
“Only if the olio is fresh. I’ll be along shortly, don't you fret none.”
He blew a kiss to his wife as she turned to glance back at him. Her face was troubled, but as soon as Gibson blew the invisible kiss, her face lit up. She made as if to grab the kiss, pretending to pocket it for later for safekeeping, quiet laughter drifting up.
He clicked to the horse and the wagon lurched away.
Gibson glanced up
as he neared the middle of town. The hovering dark shape he’d glimpsed from afar was directly above Jacob's Bluff, blotting out the sun, casting a graveyard-like shadow across the town. However, no one else in town seemed to notice the dread phenomena. For a brief moment, he did question his precious sanity; but he knew he wasn’t crazy . . . yet.
He watched as two small girls jump-roped nearby, oblivious to their bare feet splashing in a puddle of thick dark blood. Splotches clung to their bare legs. One of the girls carelessly pushed a hand through her long blond tresses, staining the locks a dusty red. As he rolled past, the girl casually glanced his way. Half of her face was gone. A ragged hole leered at him, filled with maggots and bits of stringy flesh. He gasped, closing his eyes in horror. When he reopened them, the girl was normal again, still looking at him, smiling. She giggled and called to the horses.
Then he saw it.
Movement caught his eye from the rooftop to his left. He saw the first one. It was hunched, clothed in fire, bat-like leathery wings wrapped around its hairy apish muscular frame. A disturbing amber glow obscured most of the creature’s features, but its eyes were what struck fear in Gibson’s heart: large, l vacuous wells of sheer malevolence. The massive lupine head swiveled his direction.
The creature looked right at him and grinned.
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