Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by Ray Garton

  He didn't stop moving. He crawled along the alley, sobbing as he looked down at his hands scrambling over the ground below him and saw the black claws scraping the pavement.

  "No," he growled, fighting the pain and the changes that moved through his body. He tried to hold them off by biting his lower lip until he tasted his own blood, trying to use one pain to battle another.

  On his left was a tall brick wall and on his right a cyclone fence that separated the row of backyards from the alley. He hooked his clawed fingers into the fence wire and pulled himself up. The fence was crawling with ivy through which webs of soft light from the houses on the other side cut into the murky alley. He pushed away from the fence and staggered after Sondra, who was even farther ahead of him now.

  Every few yards, a garbage dumpster hunkered against the wall like a giant metal toad patiently waiting for a passing morsel. A cat dove from the top of one of the dumpsters and shot across the alley in front of Roger.

  Up ahead, Sondra careened back and forth down the alley like a pinball, slamming into the fence, then the wall, her arms joined over her abdomen, her miserable cries echoing in the night.

  Roger called her name, gaining on her in spite of the flames of pain licking his back and legs.

  The sound of a scuffle broke out behind them.

  "Go on, then!" Bill shouted. "Don't take part in the Lord's work! Let evil spread like a—"

  "This is not what we came to do, Bill!"

  "It's what I came to do," Bill growled. "It's what I'm supposed to do. It's part of his plan for me."

  Roger glanced over his shoulder and saw them some distance back, facing each other, preoccupied.

  Sondra collided with a corner of one of the dumpsters, spun like a top, and sprawled onto the ground face down.

  Kneeling beside her, Roger rolled her over.

  Bits of gravel clung to her forehead and her left eyebrow was bleeding from a deep gash and she was shaking like a junkie in need of a fix.

  Her skin moved over her face, shifted into a leathery distortion, then smoothed out again. Her chin jutted as her mouth snapped open and shut repeatedly like a deadly trap, spitting and snarling.

  Roger put the gun back in his pocket and helped her up. She could not stand but was able to sit up, leaning against him. Her eyes seemed to notice him for the first time and she clasped his wrists.

  "Roger, Roger!" she gasped, speaking as if through a mouthful of barbed wire. "Make it stop, please, make it go away!"

  Her fingers tightened painfully on his wrists and her knuckles became knobby and purple before his eyes. At the same time, Roger realized that his hands were once again his own—the claws were gone.

  "Please make it stop, Roger. Kill me. Kuh-kill me now before I—" Her head fell back and she gurgled in her throat. Her teeth ground together loudly as they lengthened, sharpened, splitting her gums—then they returned to their normal shape and size. She began to thrash and pummel Roger's chest with her fists—which were once again dainty and pale and smooth-skinned—hissing, "I hate them, I hate them, oh God, howIhatethem!"

  "Stop it, Sondra." He tried to hold her but she was too strong and broke away.

  Well behind them in the alley, the men were fighting, a single struggling silhouette against the glow of the yellow light.

  "Stand up, Sondra!" Roger hissed, pulling her arm, jerking her to her feet. But he knew she would not get far. He glanced back at the men again. The two men fought with Bill and the three of them were paying no attention to Roger and Sondra. He searched frantically for refuge. "Over here," he whispered, dragging her toward one of the dumpsters.

  Her knees buckled and she whimpered, "Kill me, please, before he comes."

  Roger lifted the lid of the dumpster and leaned it against the fence. With a gush of breath, fighting his own pain, he lifted Sondra into the bin, climbed in after her and pulled the lid down.

  The stench of rotten vegetables and cat shit and old cigarette butts and a dozen other reeking odors stung Roger's eyes and nostrils and made him gag.

  Sondra immediately tried to climb back out, hacking and gagging, and Roger pulled her back down, slapping a palm over her mouth.

  "Don't move, Sondra," he whispered. "Be very quiet."

  She mumbled into his hand and he pressed her head to his chest.

  The shouting in the alley had stopped.

  Distant footsteps clopped over the wet pavement.

  Step...click...step...click ...

  "I'm pretty sure he was hit," Bill said. "But not bad enough."

  Roger closed his eyes and tried to calm his raspy breathing. Surely someone in the neighborhood had called the police about the gunshot. Roger did not care to see them arrive knowing his own probable fate, but they were preferable to this.

  "Did they make it all the way to the street up there?" one of the men said.

  Bill said, "Maybe they did. Turn on that flashlight."

  There was a thunderous gong that bounced the length of the alley, lingering for several seconds.

  "You in there?" Bill shouted. After several more footsteps, the gong sounded again, closer now. "Where are you, Roger? You can't hide from God, you know. He'll find you!"

  Gaaawng ...

  "And so will I!"

  Roger realized that bill was hitting the Dumpsters with his cane.

  "Come on, Roger!" Gaaawng... "Judgment day is here!"

  He's gonna find us before the cops get here, Roger thought with sickening dread.

  Sondra's hand clutched at his coat. "Please, she said, her voice less than a whisper. "Please kill me. Please." She groped for his gun. "Kill me, Roger, please."

  She opened her mouth and vomited loudly in the darkness.

  Roger's eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her face close to his as she writhed, groaning in pain. When her eyes were close, he saw their faint golden gleam. She was changing.

  "No, Sondra, don't let it—"

  She punched him in the face and knocked his head against the wall of the dumpster. Firecrackers went off inside his skull and voices whispered in his ears. She hit him again, and his head slammed against the wall a second time. Roger felt himself shrinking.

  The next echoing gong was not the sound of Bill's cane pounding one of the dumpsters but a huge, monolithic footstep...followed by another...and another...accompanied by an angry, roaring voice that only Roger could hear:

  Where's Carlton? Where is that little shit? Where—

  "—are you, Roger?" Bill shouted.

  "Listen to me, Bill," one of the men said quietly. They were close now, several feet from the Dumpster. "Maybe you should give this up, you know? I mean, there's—"

  —one over there! a loud male voice echoed off the inner walls of Roger's skull.

  The pop of a gunshot was followed by laughter.

  Got him!

  Running feet and panting lungs sounded all around Roger's hiding place.

  Another gunshot. Got another one! Hah! Quick, get—

  "—off my back, Matt," Bill ordered. "I have to do this. It's my purpose. It's his will."

  Roger squeezed his head between his hands as if trying to put it back together. He opened his throbbing eyes and, as dark as it was, he could see Sondra's claws tearing at her clothes as she gagged and tried to gulp air, growling, "Raaah-juuuh! Kuuuh maaay! Peeeze! Kuuuh maaay!"

  She slammed her bulging knuckles against the wall of the bin and the metal made a thick wrinkling sound beneath the force of the blow.

  "There!" Bill cried. "You hear that?"

  Roger clutched the butt of the gun tightly.

  Sondra went wild, flailing and hitting and clawing.

  She hit Roger in the face again and his head slammed against the wall harder than before—

  —and he was on his back on the bloody carpet, naked, with Sondra sliding slowly up and down on his hard cock.

  Josh s
tood over them, healthy again, smiling, arm in arm with Mickey and Minnie. Mickey giggled as he scratched his back with one of Marjie's severed arms.

  "What...what is it again?" Roger panted.

  Josh said, "Five to seven years. Maybe a little longer. Maybe sooner. Who knows? But think about it. Even if you've got a whole seven years of health left before you get really bad, what kind of years will they be? I mean, listen to them!" From somewhere in the distance, Roger could hear Bill shouting his name in a voice filled with hatred.

  "And if it's not that guy and his friends," Josh said as he and the two big grinning mice slowly began to dissolve, "it'll be others like them. Or the cops. Right? Remember the cops? They want you, too. And they won't believe the truth. Nobody ever believes the truth, Roger."

  Yeah, Roger thought, hearing the far-off wail of a siren steadily drawing nearer. The cops...

  "And what kind of life will she have?" Josh said sadly, nodding toward Sondra, who bucked and writhed on top of him, naked, lost in pleasure, her skin shriveling, breasts collapsing like large draining boils, fangs shredding her own lips. "Providing she lives at all, that is." Josh was a faint glow now, fading to a mist. "Remember, Roger...in the end, they always win."

  ... they always win ...

  ... always win ...

  The echo of his words dwindled as he became little more than a shadow.

  Mickey waved goodbye with Marjie's bloody, flopping arm as the three of them disappeared.

  The gun.

  It was in his hand.

  Heavy.

  Almost too heavy for his weakened fingers to grasp.

  He lifted it—

  I'm so sorry.

  —and fired.

  The sound was deafening in the small space and in the white flash of the gunshot, Roger saw the small hole bloom like a flower in Sondra's left cheek and felt moist warmth spatter his face.

  Sondra's body convulsed a couple of times, then fell still.

  Through the ringing in his ears, Roger heard Bill cry, "Over here! In this one over here!"

  The lid of the bin flew open and hit the fence.

  A beam of light flashed in Roger's eyes.

  Bill screamed.

  The siren grew louder.

  In the light, Roger saw his hands—the claws, the patchy hair, the mottled, crusty skin.

  Has it happened again? he wondered. He had felt none of the pain, none of the sickness.

  "Oh dear Lord!" Bill shrieked. "Oh father in heaven, Jesus, Jesus!"

  Roger glanced down at Sondra. Blood ran down her cheeks like tears. Her face was smooth and unblemished once again.

  Lifeless...but beautiful.

  The monster was gone.

  Roger's eyes filled with tears, his heart with loss, and his gut with a burning hatred. He shot to his feet, slapped a hand onto the side of Bill's head and closed his fist on hair and flesh, digging the claws in deep. He pulled Bill's face close to his own and pressed the gun to Bill's throat.

  Forming his words with effort, Roger screamed, "Look what you've done!"

  The other men stumbled backward.

  Bill's pale face quivered like Jell-O, eyes impossibly wide.

  A deadly silence fell over the alley, broken only by the approaching siren and by the soft, hissing trickle of Bill's urine spilling down his leg as he pissed his pants.

  Roger's voice was a low growl. "Look...what...you've done...to us."

  Roger wasn't even sure if they could understand what he was saying because his words were so distorted by the mouthful of deadly shards his teeth had become.

  But it did not matter.

  In the end, nothing mattered because—

  —they always win.

  Roger stuffed the gun into his own mouth, bit down on the barrel and leaned into Bill's face.

  In the half-heartbeat before Roger squeezed the trigger, his mind screamed, I only wish I could live long enough to see my brains splash all over your fucking head you goddamned worthless hypocritical son of—

  42.

  AUTHOR'S PAST REVEALS

  SATANIC CULT CONNECTIONS

  Napa Police are sorting through the past of bestselling author Roger Carlton, who killed himself, 17-year-old Sondra Nivens, and police suspect at least four other people over the last eighteen months, including Nivens's parents, Paul Nivens, 49, and Georgia Nivens, 40, as well as Sidney Nelson, 50, a bakery delivery man from Rutherford, and Napa resident Marjie Shore, 28.

  According to police reports and people close to the author, Carlton, who twice hit the bestseller lists with his novels of murder and sexual obsession, was an active member in a satanic cult. Books on Satanism and the occult were found in his St. Helena home along with keys belonging to one of Carlton's victims.

  The FBI took up the case when it was learned that Carlton "just dropped completely out of sight for about 11 months last year, during which time Paul and Georgia Nivens were murdered in Berrian Springs, Michigan," according to Special Agent Garson Petrie.

  Although some questions still remain unanswered, investigators believe Carlton met Sondra during those 11 months while she was living with her parents and involved her in his satanic practices. After the death of her parents, Sondra moved in with her cousin Annie Dunning and her husband Bill in Manning. Investigators believe she participated in the murders that took place shortly after Carlton returned to St. Helena, where he had lived six years earlier.

  Bill Dunning, who attended high school and college with Carlton, was the last to see the writer alive and witnessed his suicide. Minutes later, he was found by police, running down an alley in St. Helena. According to attending officer Brian Spottaford, Dunning was screaming, "Jesus help me! Jesus help me! I've seen the face of Satan!" That night, he was admitted to the psychiatric ward of St. Helena Medical Center, where he was released after 24 hours of observation.

  After attending a memorial service at the Manning Seventh-day Adventist church, Dunning told a reporter, "We loved each other like brothers once, Roger and I. But he changed. All I can do now is pray for him. And forgive him."

  SINEMA

  Brett Deever had been looking for his dog, Gabby, for nearly half an hour when he found, instead, a hand.

  It lay a couple of yards below him at the edge of Vintner Creek, which rushed with muddy waters left over from unexpectedly heavy summer rains. A tangle of tree branches was jammed between two large rocks, resisting the flow, and stuck along with other netted detritus was the hand. From Brett's vantage atop the creek's three-foot-high embankment, it could have been a dark, tattered glove clinging to the branches as if for life.

  Brett's typical nine-year-old curiosity took him down the embankment and carefully through the mud until he was within reach of the glove, or doll's hand, or whatever it was.

  He stopped when he saw the jut of bone sticking from the purple mush of wrist. It did not look like a doll's hand now.

  "Gabby?" he called softly, nervously, backing up the bank. A clump of bushes to his left began to rustle, and when Brett finally turned his head, he saw Gabby's German Shepherd rump sticking out of the brush, tail sweeping back and forth with enthusiasm. The dog grumbled contentedly, making moist chewing sounds. As Brett drew closer, his stomach roiled like a cluster of worms when he caught a whiff of the odor.

  Gabby was flat on his belly, eyes bright as he turned his head to smile at Brett around dark, meat-flecked teeth, pink tongue dangling. He had been worrying what looked like the stripped branch of a sapling.

  Except it had a foot on the end of it.

  There was more, and after a sharp, happy bark, Gabby flopped on his back and rolled in it. Flies took to the air in clouds, like specks of soot on a breeze.

  Brett stared.

  He knew he should be reacting strongly, somehow, screaming or running or vomiting, something like that. The awful smell made him queasy, of course, but what he could see—some stubby fingers and toes, the swollen, blackened
half of the face that was visible—elicited no emotions in him.

  The walls were up. He felt numb, detached. He felt nothing.

  Just like in church.

  * * * *

  In a town as small as Manning, any death, even one by natural causes, remained the topic of conversation for weeks. A murder was talked about for months on end. When it was one in a series of murders, however, as this was, it was not talked about as much as it was felt.

  But Manning was not just any small town. It was located in California's Napa Valley atop a hill above the town of St. Helena. It was actually a village more than a town, with a population of only 1,750. Most people in the Valley thought of it as neither a town nor a village but a kind of commune.

  It was inhabited almost exclusively by Seventh-day Adventists and was the location of one of their major colleges. It was founded in 1897, when the Seventh-day Adventists, led by their "prophet" and founder, Ellen G. White, settled in the Napa Valley.

  Seventh-day Adventists worship on Saturday, the seventh day, rather than Sunday, although they are a Christian sect. As with the Jewish faith, their Sabbath begins at sunset Friday and ends at sunset Saturday. During that time, the only place in Manning that was open was the church. The village had its own little post office, but it was closed on Saturday and weekend mail was delivered on Sunday. Sometimes Delbert Mundy, manager of the Manning Food Market—which sold no alcoholic beverages, no meat, nothing containing caffeine, and no cigarettes, in accordance with the writings of Ellen G. White—could be seen on Saturday evenings standing just inside the market's front doors, keys in hand, staring at his wristwatch, waiting for the sun to go down so he could open up for a few hours.

  The thing about Manning that Brett Deever hated most—despised, in fact—was that, unlike its neighboring towns St. Helena and Calistoga, both of which were larger but still quite small, Manning had no movie theater. It would have done him no good if it had, though. Along with drinking alcohol and caffeine, eating pork and seafood, reading fiction, wearing makeup or jewelry, dancing, playing cards, and anything that might run the risk of being pleasurable, the Seventh-day Adventist church's list of condemned activities also included going to movies.