The Burning Time

by J. G. Faherty

  Goddamn, this weather sucks! The brief respite in the tropical hell they’d been having all summer had been like a heaven-sent gift; now the heat had returned with a vengeance, meaning tomorrow would be another day of chugging Gatorade while he worked, just so he wouldn’t die from dehydration.

  All the years I’ve lived in upstate New York, I don’t remember ever having a heat wave this long, or this...powerful.

  Billy Ray’s feet and thought came to a stop at the same time.

  It’s been like this since Reverend Christian came to town.

  Could he be the cause?

  He wanted to dismiss the notion as silly, but too many strange—and frightening—things had been happening in Hastings Mills, and more than a few led back to Christian somehow. The way the man always seemed to know what you were up to. His weird sermons.

  His eyes.

  Billy Ray turned and looked back at Perpetual Hope Church, now over a block behind him and almost lost in the last rays of the sun. A lone figure stood at the top of the stairs. The figure lifted one hand and waved.

  “Big day tomorrow, Billy Ray. Don’t stay out too late.”

  The figure turned and entered the church.

  Did he just speak inside my head?

  Right then, Billy Ray wanted to run. Run as fast as he could, just get the hell out of Hastings Mills forever, get as far away from the crazy weather and psychic priests as he could.

  You’re imagining things. He’s a major freak, but that’s all. Stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ Stephen King novel.

  He forced his feet back into motion, continuing down West State Street at a normal pace. He wasn’t leaving without the cash, that was for sure. Not after all he’d been through. What, to start over again two towns down the highway, without a dime to his name? No way.

  Billy Ray pushed open the door to Al’s Club 17, a college hangout during the school year but a favorite of the locals during the summer, thanks to its cheap tap beer and extra-hot chicken wings.

  “Gimme a pitcher of Pabst and a dozen wings,” Billy Ray told the bartender. While he waited for his food, he thought about how he could snatch the money from the basement and get away with his skin intact. There had to be a way.

  Outside, two pedestrians bumped into each other and immediately started throwing punches while their wives cheered them on. A chill ran through Billy that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

  Jesus, just let me get through the next couple of weeks.

  * * *

  John Root entered South Carolina eleven hours after leaving Danni Anderson’s house. He’d driven straight through, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, both of which had been more frequent than he’d planned, thanks to the Mustang’s poor mileage and too many ice coffees along the way.

  Now, with close to a hundred and fifty miles still to go, John felt the need for something more substantial than stale coffee and even staler donuts. When he saw the sign for an all-night truck stop, where it proclaimed “Best chicken-fried steak in all the South!”, he pulled in, his stomach already rumbling at the thought of real Southern cooking.

  “What kin I get ya, sweetie?” the waitress asked, as he claimed one of the padded, round stools at the counter. Like so many waitresses in so many other truck stops John had visited, she wore her bleached-blond hair in a fat beehive that had two pencils sticking up like antennae, chewed gum with an audible snap-crackle-pop, and looked older than she should in the unflattering glow of the fluorescent lights.

  “Scrambled eggs, grits, and a coffee,” John said, without even glancing at the menu.

  “Comin’ up.” The waitress, whose nametag read, appropriately enough, Marge, gave him a half-hearted smile before walking away to get his coffee.

  John glanced at his watch. Still too early to call Danni and Mitch. He’d worried about them the entire car ride, but had refrained from calling, figuring that checking in on them too often would only add to their anxiety at being alone. Plus, as the hours had passed without any signs of interference from the Other, John had relaxed just a little.

  Maybe he’s still too weak to do anything. After all, I’ve no idea how much I hurt him.

  Marge approached, a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and several containers of cream in her other.

  “Here ya go.” She set the coffee down without spilling a drop.

  “Thank you.”

  Instead of walking away, she stayed in front of him, chewing her gum with her mouth open.

  Snap-pop.

  “They’re already dead, you know.”

  John froze in the act of pouring sugar into his cup. “What?”

  “The brat and his slut-bag sister. They’re dead.” Snap-pop. “He killed them the minute you hauled your sorry ass outta town, Johnny-boy.”

  Snap-pop.

  With an inarticulate cry, John jumped off the stool and stepped backward. His foot caught on the stool’s post and he fell, arms windmilling but finding nothing to grab onto. Fireworks exploded as his head hit the hard tile, and the room went dim.

  They can’t be dead! Not now! Not when I’m risking so much to save them!

  Cyrus Christian’s voice filled his head. “You’re wrong, mister. They’re dead, mister. Hey, mister. Hey—”

  “Mister? Hey, Mister? You okay?”

  John opened his eyes. Marge’s face hovered over him, a look of concern spread across it.

  “Get away!” John pushed himself back with his hands and feet, sliding across the floor until he hit a display case filled with desserts.

  He looked around. Two truck drivers and a teenage boy, the only other patrons at the counter, were all staring at him. A tall Hispanic man in a white cook’s outfit had come out of the kitchen and stood next to Marge.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” the cook asked.

  Marge shrugged. “He was drinkin’ his coffee and all of a sudden he screamed and fell off his stool.”

  “She’s right, Leon,” one of the truckers said. “I seen the whole thing.”

  The cook—Leon—approached John and crouched down. “What’s your problem, fella? You on drugs or somethin’?”

  “No.” John shook his head. “No, I...I saw something.” It was the first thing he could think of, and he was desperately trying to come up with what he might have seen to cause such a reaction when Leon supplied the answer for him.”

  “Shit.” The cook lowered his voice. “What was it? A roach? A mouse? Don’t tell me you saw a goddamn rat. I can’t let no one hear that, I’ll lose all my business.”

  John swallowed, took a deep breath, and prepared to do something he hated.

  Lying.

  “It was a...a roach. A big one. It ran up the wall by the coffee machine.”

  “Fuckin’ A.” Leon stood up and raised his voice. “Fella saw a roach, that’s all. Marge, put a bait box behind the coffee and leave a note for Carmela to call the exterminator tomorrow.”

  Leon held out a hand stained from cigarettes and scarred from grease splatters. “Don’t worry, fella. They don’t never get into the food.”

  “Jest make sure you check the lumps in your gravy,” one of the truckers said with a laugh.

  “Shut the hell up, Floyd,” Leon shot back, scowling.

  John let the man help him up, and he sat back on his stool. While the others joked about roaches in the kitchen, he mentally chastised himself for falling victim to Christian’s glamour. The fact that he hadn’t seen through the illusionary spell meant he was more tired than he’d thought, an easy mark for anything Christian might try.

  Worse, it meant his old enemy knew exactly where he was, and where he was going.

  And that Danni and Mitch were fair game.

  Chapter 26

  Cyrus Christian raised his arms over his head. “My brethren, the time approaches on nigh! In far R’lyeh, Cthulhu waits for the doors to open! He waits—but not patiently, no, never patiently—for the time when the Deep Ones shall rise again and th
eir kingdom cover the world! And you, his servants, must make ready for him. For He has told me you are the paving stones and I the paver, to forge the way for the Old Ones to return! Praise Cthulhu!”

  “Praise Cthulhu!” the congregation shouted back at him. “Praise Cthulhu!”

  Christian kept his hands in the air, allowing himself a moment to soak in the power the crowd was unwittingly broadcasting, waves of energy that filled him like water filling a chalice, repairing the invisible—but all too painful—damages wrought by John Root just days ago.

  “Go forth now, good people. Carry the Word into your homes, and spread it amongst your neighbors. Be as the virus within the body, the mold upon the wall. Spread the Word more each day, until you cover the unbelievers with the unstoppable power of the Gods. Bring them to me, those who have not yet heard the call, and help me shape their souls for a better purpose.”

  He lowered his arms and leaned forward against the lectern; across from him, five hundred bodies mimicked his action.

  “But beware,” he said in a softer voice. “For there are those in our community who refuse to believe, who mock our ways, our Gods. Look around. See who fears to enter our House. Find them, for they are the snakes in the grass, the scorpions in the shoe. They want to bring us down, take away our faith. But will we let them?”

  “No!” cried the assembled throng.

  “No!” Christian said, his voice rising above theirs. “For we will not be denied!”

  “This is our time!” the crowd responded.

  “Go!” Christian pointed toward the doors. “Go and spread the fury of the Gods!”

  “Praise Cthulhu!”

  Christian stepped away from the lectern and nodded as the people rose and headed out of the church, their faces identical masks of angry determination. He watched them for signs of hesitation or fear, signs someone was resisting his subversion of their minds.

  He saw none.

  In the empty church, the signs of Chaos were evident everywhere, beginning with the eight-foot-high wood and plaster crucifix that overlooked the church from behind the altar. Gray slime streaked the once-clean surface, and patches of mildew created demented Rorschach patterns on the wall around the cross. On the altar, the linens lay in moldy tatters and the chalice looked as if an archeologist had just unearthed it from an eons-old burial ground.

  Christian breathed deep of the musty, dirty smells of rot and decomposition, savoring each spore of decay. Gone were his fears of faltering in his ultimate goal for Hastings Mills. The absence of John Root played no small part in the resurgence, as there was no longer an opposing force of good to contend with.

  I wonder if he knows how much he’s hurt his own cause just by leaving. And for what? Some herbs and potions that in the end will matter no more than a fart in a tornado.

  The phrase, which he’d overheard that cretin Billy Ray Capshaw say one afternoon, pulled a hearty chuckle from Christian, a true expression of humor he rarely allowed himself.

  Outside, six dead crows fell from the sky onto the front steps of the church.

  * * *

  Angela Parisi stopped short as she entered her living room. The sight of her good-for-nothing husband sitting on the sofa in a stained T-shirt and ragged boxer shorts, eating cheese puffs and getting sticky orange powder all over everything, was a bucket of cold water on the inspired feelings she’d carried with her since leaving church.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She put as much venom in her voice as she could, thinking it might cut through the layers of sloth he’d built over the years.

  “Huh?” George looked up at her with his mouth open, exposing teeth coated in orange paste. “I’m watchin’ the game, same’s I was when you left.” He shoved another fistful of snacks into his mouth.

  Angela pursed her lips and frowned. Each smack-smack of his lips sent needles of pain into her skull. “I don’t suppose you’re planning to move your lazy ass and fix the back steps, like you said you would.”

  George sipped a beer, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

  “Well?” Angela asked.

  With a sigh, he looked away from the game. “I said I was gonna do it, and I will. Soon as it cools off. It’s too hot out right now.”

  “That’s been your excuse for the past month.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t help it if it’s been a bad summer.”

  Unaware she was clenching her fists so hard her nails had pierced the skin, Angela fought to keep from screaming. No reason to broadcast their problems to the neighbors. “I suppose it’s too hot to get a job, too?”

  George wiped his hands on his t-shirt, leaving neon-orange tracks across older, yellow stains. “Summer’s a tough time to find work, babe.”

  “You’re a mechanic, for R’Lyeh’s sake! There’s always work!”

  “Whatever.” He turned away from her. “Give it a rest, will ya? I’m tryin’ to watch the game.”

  Angela opened her mouth to tell him where to put his game, and then remembered Reverend Christian’s closing statements. Snakes in the grass.

  Those who didn’t believe.

  George never goes to church. That’s the real problem.

  Without another word, Angela left the living room. She doubted George even noticed. She went to the kitchen, where she slid her largest knife from the cutting block, a nine-inch blade they only used for carving holiday roasts and turkeys. A reflection in the polished steel caught her eye. Not her own face, but rather Reverend Christian’s, his black eyes filled with determination. His mouth opened and closed, and she stared hard, trying to read his lips.

  “Spread the fury of the Gods.”

  Yes. It was time for George to make a choice.

  Returning to the living room, she stood behind her husband. “George, I think you should go to church with me from now on.”

  Without turning his head, George uttered a short laugh. “Church? That’s your thing, honey. I ain’t stepped foot in that place since we got married, and that’s how it’s gonna stay. I got better things to do on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “This is your last chance.” She raised the knife.

  “And this is your last chance to leave me alone, for Chrissake.”

  “So be it.”

  Angela plunged the blade into his neck, stabbing as hard as she could, putting her shoulders into it. George let out a wet, choking cry and dropped his beer into his lap; blood spurted out and mixed with the beer, creating a red foam that covered his shirt and waist. Angela twisted the knife, severing the tendons in his neck and causing his head to flop to the side. She gave it one more turn and then pulled it free, revealing a gaping hole that exposed grayish tubes and thick muscle amidst the geysering blood.

  For a moment she stood there, wondering what to do with George’s twitching, jerking body. Then it came to her. The Women’s Auxiliary potluck dinner was next week. She got her recipe book and quickly turned to the page for pulled pork.

  “Let’s see,” she murmured to herself, oblivious to the red smears she was leaving on the pages. “Place 3 pounds of pork into crock pot and cook on low for eight hours.”

  Angela glanced at George’s body, which lay on the floor like a beached whale.

  “I think I’m going to need more crock pots.”

  * * *

  Ken Olsen crossed the parking lot toward the entrance to Rosie’s Diner, wondering how in the hell it had gotten so hot between his last stop and Hastings Mills. As he opened the door, he braced himself for the welcoming rush of cold air from the diner’s air conditioning.

  Instead, a wave of stifling heat washed over him, riding on twin wings of grease and body odor.

  Doing his best to ignore the unwelcome atmosphere, Ken headed for the cashier’s counter, where Millie, the usual Sunday clerk, sat on her stool, cleaning her long fingernails with a letter opener. He always tried to be nice to her; she reminded him of his own daughter, too chunky for her height, but with a pretty face just waiting to blossom.

/>   “Hey, Millie. Is Rosie around? I got a delivery.”

  Millie rolled her eyes, let out a sigh, and put down the opener. She stared at him long enough that he started to grow uncomfortable, wondering if he’d done something to offend her the last time he’d been by. Finally, after what seemed like a full minute of silence, she opened her mouth.

  And spat a huge gob of stringy saliva on his shirt.

  “There’s a delivery for ya,” Millie said, and then let loose with a vicious laugh.

  “What the...Millie, what the fuck’s your problem?” Ken grabbed some napkins and wiped at his shirt.

  “Hey, don’t go talkin’ to Millie like that,” a rough voice said.

  Ken turned around and saw three burly men getting up from their booth. “Did you see what she did? She spit on me. I don’t need that shit.”

  One of the men stepped forward. Ken expected him to continue the argument, or perhaps even say something to the belligerent counter girl. So he was caught completely unawares when the man lashed out with a softball-sized fist. Stars exploded in Ken’s head and he crashed into the counter, knocking over a tip jar and a basket of mints in the process.

  “Maybe that’ll teach you keep yer mouth shut.”

  Ken held onto the counter with one hand and rubbed his bruised jaw with the other. His first thought was to swing back; the other man was larger, but didn’t look to be in great shape. Then he saw the way the other two locals had tensed up, fists clenched and eyes narrowed, and he understood he’d be fighting three against one.

  “All right, I’m leaving. I —FUCK!”

  Hot fire flashed through Ken’s hand, the one on the counter. He turned and saw Millie’s letter opener sticking up from his hand. “Jesus Christ! What—”

  Something hard hit him in the stomach, doubling him over. As he gasped for air, he saw a blue shape heading for his face. He tried to turn, but the knee caught him dead on, splitting his lip and knocking his nose to the side with a crack that seemed to echo in his head.