The Burning Time

by J. G. Faherty

  “Yes.” Danni wrapped her arms around both of them. “I tried to warn you about that...thing. We saw it outside. But...”

  “Don’t worry, it’s dead.” John stepped back, pulling them into the kitchen. “But we need to leave before Christian springs any other surprises on us.”

  “Where will we go?” Danni reluctantly let go of John so he could keep his gun hand free.

  “It doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Two or three towns from here should be fine. We’ll get you settled in a hotel and then I’ll come back and finish things here.”

  “I’ve already got overnight bags packed.”

  “Good.” John steered them away from the living room. “Take the gun and stay here. I’ll go get them.”

  Five minutes later, John was backing the car down the driveway. A flash of anger ran through Danni as she watched her house receding. Damn Cyrus Christian, whatever he is, for doing this to us. Making us abandon our home. No matter what it takes, I want to see him dead.

  “I know what you’re feeling.”

  Danni looked over at John. His face held no expression, but something in his eyes told her he really did know.

  “How?”

  A slight twitch of his lips gave away the effort it was taking to keep his face impassive. “He did the same thing to me. Twice, now. Made me feel unwelcome in my own home. Made me feel...violated, the way people do when they’ve been robbed. A person’s home is supposed to be their sanctuary. What he does...it’s like what armies do when they come through a town or village and force everyone to flee.”

  Danni nodded. He’d put her feelings into words perfectly. “I hate him.”

  “So do I,” Mitch said from the backseat.

  “You’re supposed to. That’s his purpose in our world, to fuel hate and anger and fear and loathing. It’s all he knows how to do. It’s all he can do.”

  “But why?” Mitch asked. “Why does something like him even exist?”

  John shrugged. “People have wondered about evil since...well, since forever. The Bible tells one story. Native Americans have others. Every culture has their tales of how Evil came into our world. I don’t have an answer. I only know that the great powers in our universe are just like people. Some are very good, some are very bad. Most are in between. Darkness and light, with gray in the middle.”

  “That sucks.”

  Danni found herself laughing out loud, and even John managed a lopsided smile.

  “Yes, it does, Mitch,” John said. “But there’s nothing you can do about it except try to be more good than bad and hope you never encounter true Evil.”

  “Too late for that.” Danni felt her anger returning.

  John’s sudden intake of breath brought her attention back to the road. She immediately saw the reason for his surprise, and why he was already bringing the car to a stop.

  A quarter mile ahead, a police car blocked the entrance to the highway. They already had a car stopped, and two officers were talking to the driver. They were too far away for Danni to see their expressions, but something in their body language told her they weren’t in pleasant moods.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” John’s eyes narrowed as he watched. “It could be something routine, or it could be...” John’s voice trailed off as the two officers pulled their guns and aimed them into the car they’d stopped. A moment later, the bang-bang sound of several shots reached them.

  “Oh, my God,” Danni whispered. She blinked several times, trying to process the fact that she’d just seen the local police, probably men she knew and waved to every day, execute someone in cold blood.

  “Damn.” John hit the gas and spun the wheel, turning the car in a sharp U-turn and heading back the way they’d come.

  “Where are you going?” It struck Danni that she’d never heard John curse before.

  “We need to get to the other side of town. Fast. Hopefully this was just an isolated incident. Otherwise our time, and the town’s, is running out faster than I thought.”

  Danni asked him what he meant, but he just shook his head and concentrated on driving, taking the back roads rather than Main Street to the south end of Hastings Mills. Near the edge of town, he turned onto an older road that brought them past several farms before winding up a hill. At the top, John pulled over and got out.

  “Where are you going?” Danni hurried to join him.

  “Look.”

  From their vantage point, Danni was able see the whole south edge of Hastings Mills spread out before them, including the four corners where Main Street turned into Rural Route 17S and eventually meandered its way to Allenville.

  At the intersection, several cars and trucks blocked the road. Men with guns stood by them, looking in all directions.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Christian,” John said. “He’s making sure no one leaves town. He’s sealed us off.”

  “He can’t do that! Sooner or later people will talk. Other police will show up.”

  John shook his head. “He only has to isolate the town for a few days. With Chief Showalter’s help, they can come up with some excuse, a chemical spill maybe, to keep people from entering. As for people trying to leave...we’ve already seen how they’ll handle that.”

  “So we’re trapped.”

  “Yes. But things aren’t as hopeless as they seem.”

  “They couldn’t be.” Danni took a deep breath. “Sorry. Why not?”

  “It means Christian is getting ready to finish things here. It’s possible he’ll be so busy with whatever he’s planning that he won’t bother coming after us. After all, he knows we can’t leave.”

  “It’s possible? That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Nothing’s a hundred percent sure.” John headed back to the car. “All I can do is prepare us for whatever he might have in store, and hope I can stop him before he brings the whole town to the ground.”

  * * *

  Billy Ray Capshaw’s fingers couldn’t stop sneaking down into his front pocket and touching the roll of money pressing against his leg with every step. The temptation to just keep walking, past the business district and right out of town, was almost too tempting. The only thing that stopped him was knowing the money he’d collected wasn’t good for much more than a bus ticket and a couple of nights in a motel.

  Nothing compared to what I can grab after the fair, he kept telling himself.

  And then there was that awful feeling he had, that if he took off and didn’t get far enough away, Cyrus Christian would find him somehow, and it wouldn’t be a very pleasant meeting. No, he needed more money, if only to put a safe distance between himself and...whatever the hell Christian is.

  Billy Ray cursed at his thoughts. He tried not to let ideas like that enter his head. He hated sounding crazy to himself, but in the back of his mind was the unnerving suspicion that sometimes Christian could tell what he was thinking.

  And if he finds out what’s really in my head...

  Not for the first time, he wished he’d listened to Chief Showalter when the man had told him to get out of town. Now, he was stuck in a crazy, fucked-up world where even the goddamn weather didn’t act right, and the people were worse.

  He’d seen it all day long, as he trudged from one business to the next, exchanging the sweltering heat outside for the frigid stares and barely-controlled violence of the people inside. Each time it was the same. He’d go in and find himself getting the cold shoulder from people who looked like they’d be just as happy chopping him to pieces as selling him something off their shelves. Only when they found out he was on business for Cyrus Christian, selling booth spaces and rolls of tickets for the fair, did their attitudes change, becoming deferential.

  Each time, he wondered if maybe Christian’s name wouldn’t be enough to keep someone’s temper from exploding. That the next store he entered would be his last, and he’d leave in a body bag, a hole in his head or a screwdriver in his chest. More
than once he’d seen someone’s hand slip below the counter, only to rise up, empty, as soon as Billy Ray mentioned Christian’s name. He wasn’t stupid. He knew plenty of shopkeepers kept a gun or bat hidden under the counter.

  And each time nothing happened, each time he escaped from the stink of sweat and violence back into the tropical air and the waves of heat rising from sidewalks so scorching you felt it right through your shoes, he fingered the growing roll of money and felt the temptation to get the hell out of Dodge grow stronger.

  Wiping sweat from his forehead and wishing he could stop for a beer, Billy Ray opened the door to Wilhelm’s Washers and Dryers and prayed he’d leave in one piece.

  “The Old Ones require sacrifices, Billy.” Reverend Christian smiled, only this time he had the face of a coyote and eyes as red as lava. “Blood sacrifices. Soon your time will come, along with everyone else in Hastings Mills.” Coyote-Christian laughed and howled at the same time.

  “Soon, Billy. Soon your time will come.”

  Billy Ray cried out as he rolled over and fell to the floor.

  “Just a fuckin’ dream,” he whispered, as he waited for his heart to stop pounding. Clammy sweat covered his body, and the urge to piss was so bad he wasn’t sure he could make it upstairs to the bathroom, so he ran out the basement entrance dressed in just his old boxers and let loose into one of the rose bushes lining the back of the church. Sweet relief filled him, helping to dull the terror of his nightmare.

  When he’d finished, he flicked his cock to free up any loose droplets and then glanced at his watch.

  Eleven-fifteen? Jesus. After dropping off the money in Christian’s office, he’d taken a long cold shower and gone to bed, intending to take a quick catnap before getting dinner.

  Christ almighty, I could use a few beers right now. More than that, though, he craved human company, even if meant just sitting by himself and listening to other people around him having normal conversations.

  Back in his room, he pulled on a clean tee and a well-worn pair of jeans. It was still beastly hot outside—like livin’ in fucking Africa—but he’d always been of the opinion real men only wore shorts to the beach.

  As it always did, the money in the closet called out to him, but he averted his eyes as he passed by, doing his best to not even think about it. Then he was outside and breathing the thick, steamy air, trying to clear the last of the dream from his head as he headed down Main Street.

  The significance of the dream wasn’t lost on Billy Ray. He might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, God knew he’d proven that more than once, but his mother hadn’t raised no idiot, either. That dream had been his brain telling him that if he wanted to get out of Hastings Mills alive, he’d better be ready to grab all the cash he could and get the fuck out of town before Christian put his plan into action. Billy Ray had no idea what that plan was, but it was a pretty safe bet a lot of people were gonna end up dead from it.

  He won’t do anything before the fair. That seemed pretty certain. So best to stick to his own plan and take off the day of the fair, when the church would be empty.

  A neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign blinked unsteadily up ahead, and Billy Ray decided it would be as good a place as any to quench his thirst, and hopefully get something solid in his stomach as well. Anything would do. Hell, he was so hungry he’d be willing to eat a few of the ancient pickled eggs the old-timers seemed so in love with.

  The inside of The Cellar was exactly what Billy Ray expected. A dimly lit room smelling of old beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat, with an underlying odor of piss and beer farts. The tables and booths were empty; five or six old men, all dressed in well-worn denim shirts and jeans or green Dickies work clothes, sat at the bar, conversing in low tones. No jukebox interrupted the quiet with raucous noise. Instead, a small television mounted on the wall behind the bar played CNN with the sound off.

  Billy Ray took a seat at the end of the bar, farthest from the geezers. Experience had taught him that his long-haired look wouldn’t win him any favors from their kind, and he didn’t have the money to placate them with a free round, so no sense antagonizing them by sitting closer.

  The bartender, a tall fellow with a gray crew cut and a belly that threatened to clear the shelves whenever he turned, slowly approached Billy Ray.

  “Bottle of Pabst,” Billy Ray said, his eyes more on the television than the man in front of him. He was still watching the talking heads mutely summarizing the day’s news when a bottle slammed down on the bar, spraying foam across Billy Ray’s arm.

  “Hey! What’s the—” He stopped cold at the angry look on the bartender’s face.

  “That’ll be four-fifty. Drink up and get the fuck out.”

  Billy Ray slowly took a five dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the bar, his eyes never leaving the bartender. “What’s your problem?”

  “You, asshole,” one of the old men said, and the others laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

  “Look, I just wanna have a beer or two. I’m not here to bother anyone. I’m from the church,” Billy Ray added, thinking that might smooth things over.

  “We know who the fuck you are.” The bartender pointed a sausage finger at him. “That’s the only reason you ain’t on the floor eatin’ glass. Now drink your beer and go, or tomorrow you’ll be sellin’ tickets from a wheelchair.”

  This time the old men didn’t laugh, just nodded their heads in angry agreement.

  No, it was more than just anger, Billy Ray thought as he chugged his beer. They looked furious, as if they’d just caught him stealing their wallets or fucking their wives.

  They looked ready to kill.

  Billy Ray finished his beer just as the bartender slapped two quarters onto the bar.

  “Keep it, asshole,” he told the man. He wondered if it was his own temper getting the best of him, or if the same thing that had the whole town on edge was beginning to affect him, too. Either way, he recognized the danger of starting trouble when outnumbered six to one, so he turned and headed for the door before his mouth could say anything else stupid.

  As his hand closed on the knob, a sharp sting, followed instantly by another, blossomed on his back. He kept his gaze straight ahead as the two quarters fell to the floor with a metallic clink.

  Even after the door closed behind him, the raucous laughter from inside the bar still reached his ears.

  “I hope you choke on your pickled eggs, you inbred motherfuckers.” Billy Ray flipped his middle finger at the bar, what Tony Lopez would have called a pussy move, since no one could see it, but it made him feel a tiny bit better just the same.

  All the way home, anger, fear, and frustration churned inside him, creating a pounding in his head that beat in time to his footsteps. Billy Ray found his hand was shaking as he went to open the church’s front door, intending to see if there was anything in the kitchen to drink. Damn him! Damn all of them! I can’t wait to get my ass somewhere normal.

  So great was his distraction that he was three steps into the church before he noticed the changes.

  Cyrus Christian sat on the red felt-covered steps leading to the altar. A pile of broken plaster surrounded him, and the giant crucifix that had hung behind the pulpit since Billy Ray was a child lay on the floor. All the smaller crosses were gone. Billy Ray glanced around. Nothing religious remained on any of the walls.

  “Tough night in town, Billy?” Christian’s voice echoed across the church. Before Billy Ray could respond, the Reverend continued. “Best not to go out after dark anymore. Hastings Mills is a dangerous place right now.”

  Billy Ray headed for the basement entrance, no longer interested in anything but getting as far from Christian as possible. His previous anger and frustration were gone, leaving only the fear.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that, Billy. I’d hate to lose you before your work is done.” Christian’s chuckle followed Billy Ray to the back of the church and down the basement stairs, only fading
away when Billy Ray lay down in bed.

  He was still wide awake when the morning sun rose.

  * * *

  “So, what’s your plan for stopping Christian?”

  John looked up from the book he’d brought back from his house as Danni entered the living room. It contained all his family’s spells and magical recipes. “Basically, I need to separate him from his magic, either by blocking him from it or removing his ability to use it.”

  Danni handed him a glass of lemonade and sat down across from him with her own glass. With nowhere else to go, they’d returned to Anderson’s house, where John had rigged another warding spell around the entire property.

  “And you’ll do that how?”

  John took a long drink and then held the cool glass against his forehead. With the power still out, the air was stifling, even with the windows open. Not a breath of a breeze stirred the curtains, and nightfall hadn’t brought any relief from the heat.

  “That’s what I’m trying to work out. The problem is, no matter what spell I use, I need something that’s going to be hard to get.”

  “What? Maybe I know someplace in town.”

  “Something that belongs to Christian.”

  Danni slammed her glass down so hard lemonade splashed out. “Oh, that’s just great.”

  From his room upstairs, Mitch yelled down to them, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, kiddo. I just dropped something.” In a softer voice, she said to John, “And how the hell do you propose we accomplish that feat? Ask him if we can borrow his watch? Or maybe I can distract him and you can pick his pocket, all without us getting killed?”

  “I said it would be hard.”

  “Hard? I’d say impossible. The fair is in one week. That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “There’s less time than you think.” John tapped the book. “These spells take a couple of days to prepare, so I’d say we have about three days.”

  “For what?”

  John turned and found Mitch standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing only a bathing suit.

  “A miracle,” Danni said.