Demon King

by Erik Henry Vick

  “We’ll find you a meeting, Mike,” she said, as serious as a preacher.

  “A meeting,” he muttered.

  “Yes, Mike, a meeting. Believe me on this, you can’t quit drinking without them.”

  “Who said I was quitting?” he asked.

  “Oh… Well, I just…assumed… I mean, after last…” She stumbled to a halt, and her words did the same.

  “It was a joke,” Mike said, feeling like an utter shit heel. “Not a funny one, I guess. Sorry.”

  She sighed with relief. “Oh, you had me going. No more of that for a while.”

  “Too soon?”

  “Definitely too soon.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  She led him from the small apartment she rented out to the sidewalk that ran along Main Street. Her apartment was over the garage in a house across from the Town Hall. Mike grinned at the thought of her driving her car across the road and into the rear parking lot every single day. “Did you drive every day just so you could follow me and make sure I didn’t get hurt?”

  She blushed for about the thirty-thousandth time since last night and hung her head.

  “Shannon, I’m the kind of guy who teases to show affection. I don’t mean anything by it.”

  “Affection?” she asked, looking up into his face.

  The desperate hope he saw in her eyes almost hurt. “Shannon, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Later,” she said. “Breakfast, first.”

  11

  Drew had driven through the night, but he wasn’t tired at all. When he got stressed, he could go on and on without rest—one of the bonuses from his mysterious past. He’d parked the Desperado outside the town limits—hidden inside an abandoned barn—and switched to the BMW. No one in Oneka Falls would recognize him in either vehicle, but the BMW zipped through tight town streets much better than the lumbering motor home.

  Late-season corn fields blurred by on the right and the left, with occasional flashes of greenery at the borders of the fields. He turned down Main Street where it dead-ended into 158, trying to look like a tourist from Rochester out on a weekend drive.

  At the edge of town, he passed a huge pile of logs and junk wood left to rot on the side of the road. Next to the pile stood a row of old, rusty tractors, each on rotting rubber tires, and each at war with weeds and creeping ivy. Behind the pile of wood, stood an old, crumbling and rotting warehouse. The paint had peeled from the building, and the sign hung crooked from the single post holding it. The sign read: Tri-Blend Meats.

  Drew shook his head. Who would buy meat from a company with a name like that?

  In the next lot, a knot of demons stood and stared at him from the front porch of an ancient Victorian house that had once been white—not to mention that had once had all of its siding attached. The roof was rusting metal.

  He smiled at the six demons staring at him and lifted his hand in a friendly wave. Two of the six were the classic demon-type: leathery wings, red scales, horns, tail. The other four were weirds: various colors, shapes, and sizes.

  A yellow one with chartreuse, alligator eyes stood in the middle of the others. Its eyes followed Drew. It had a V-shaped mouth and rubbery lips. It didn’t wave back. One problem with not seeing the visage the demon projected was that he didn’t know if he should pretend to recognize Trooper LaBouche or not.

  Heart beating fast, Drew turned his attention back to his driving. Oneka Falls was a typical New York town: creepy, dilapidated houses, with a few fixed up or well-maintained houses interspersed among them. Rusting hulks at the run-down places, fancy German cars at the nicer ones. Roads led to working fields behind the houses on the west side of the road, forest backed the houses to the east. Demons lounged right out in the open everywhere he looked. In yards, on porches, driving tractors, working on cars. He passed various small businesses operating out of old factory buildings or warehouses standing right next door to inhabited houses. He smiled at the garish, red-painted house that had been converted into an antique shop. A huge, hand-painted sign decorated the side of the building. It showed a huge strawberry with arms, legs, eyes, and a big smile pointing to the words: Fine Antiques & Collectibles.

  He found downtown a few minutes later. Two whole blocks of two-story commercial buildings from the forties in various states of repair on the west side, and churches, modern bank buildings, and more houses on the east. Between the two blocks, a single stop light swung in the wind where another state road dead-ended at 158. On one northwest corner, stood a building that looked familiar. Drew slowed, staring at it. A small brass sign hung on the side of the building over a single glass door. It read: “Town Hall & Police Department.” Something nagged at the back of his mind. A fleeting memory or déjà vu.

  He continued through the quaint little downtown area, waving at the demons who walked arm in arm with human companions on the sidewalk. After the second block, a small road veered off to the left. Drew glanced at the street sign, and it was like being struck by lightning.

  Mill Lane. He slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. Then Drew faded away for a while.

  The loud air horn startled him back to awareness, and, for a moment, he didn’t know where or when he was. He sat in a car, in the middle of the street, and behind him a grain truck idled. The farmer driving it leaned out the window and shouted something or other.

  The driver was a demon with huge, pale wings crammed into the cab behind him.

  Drew shook his head to clear it and then smiled in his mirror and waved. A small convenience store (in the shell of an old house, of course) sat on the left. He pulled into the parking lot and put the BMW in park.

  It hit him then. Mill Lane. He was on Mill Lane. The thought upset him though he did not understand why. A pit yawned in his stomach.

  A man and a woman came out of the convenience store, laughing. The woman did not interest Drew, though she was beautiful underneath a plainness that seemed like camouflage. The man, though… Something about the man set bells ringing in Drew’s mind. Something about the eyes, maybe? The mouth? He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only stare at the couple as they walked toward him.

  The woman noticed him staring and said something to her companion. Drew thought he saw recognition in the man’s brief glance, but then the man laughed and said something to the woman, who also laughed. The man had something shiny—a rodeo belt buckle or something—on his belt, but the bag of groceries he held obscured it.

  Drew waved and smiled, chin dipped a little toward his chest. Everything about the move was calculated, studied. Over the years he’d developed a whole repertoire of behaviors designed to meet his own needs and wants. This one said: “I’m embarrassed you caught me staring. I’m harmless, though.” Like the many other times he’d employed it, it worked like a charm.

  The couple smiled at him, and the woman gave him a cutesy wave. They passed his car—less than a body length away, a calculating part of his mind noted—and walked across Mill Lane toward downtown. The man had a Glock 23 stuffed in the back of his jeans, and Drew realized what the shiny thing on his belt must be: a badge. He put the car in gear and turned on to Mill Lane, heading away from the cop and his lady-friend with a feeling of relief.

  The houses went from sort-of-nice to decrepit and creepy in less than a block. The farther he drove, the worse he felt.

  A house on the left drew his attention. Weeds and rotting garbage choked the overgrown yard. There was something familiar about it… When he saw the house from the front, panic took him by the short hairs, and he mashed the accelerator to the floor. He didn’t even see the humor-filled looks flashed at him by demons, nor the angry looks from the humans.

  12

  The ringing phone interrupted Mike mid-laugh. With a grunt, he flipped the phone open. “Chief Richards.”

  “Mike?” The voice sounded tinny and far away.

  He scratched his cheek. Shannon raised her eyebrows at him, and he held up one finger.
“This is Chief Richards. Who is calling?”

  “Mike, thank God. It’s Tobias.”

  “Tobias…” The name tickled his memory, but he couldn’t pull any sensible thoughts out of his fogged mind.

  “Yeah, Mike. Tobias. He’s out.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he grumbled. “Let a guy think.” He put his fork down and turned away from Shannon’s tiny “French café” table-for-two. “Tobias Burton?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Listen, he’s out and—”

  “Wait a second, Toby. Aren’t you in Millvale?”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay. And call me Tobias.”

  “Well, if you’re still in Millvale, then how are you calling me?”

  “It’s no big deal. I earned privileges back. I’m calling from the phone outside the TV room.”

  “Okay…”

  “What is it, Mike?” Shannon hissed. Mike held up his finger and shook it a little.

  “He’s out, or he’s going to be,” whispered Tobias.

  “Who’s out?”

  “The guy, Mike. You remember.”

  Mike shook his head. “Tobias, I don’t—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I get confused about the details sometimes. Is that my memory or Benny’s?”

  “This isn’t making a lot of sense, Toby. Is there a nurse available?”

  “It’s Tobias. Listen to me, Mike, He is out. The guy! That guy who caused all that ruckus back when we were kids. The one who terrorized us, who kidnapped all those kids.”

  It hit Mike like a freight train. “No, Toby—Tobias, I mean—you don’t have to worry about him. He’s locked up and will never get out, not after what he did.”

  “No, he’s out. The invisible woman let him out. Or will let him out. Or something. I get confused with the details sometimes.”

  “The invisible woman.” He tried, but he couldn’t keep the derision out of his voice.

  “Yeah. You know, they took me and those others. You remember that much, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I remember, Tobias. How could I forget? But, I’m telling you, he got life with no chance of parole.”

  “Yeah, okay, Mike, you’ve got me there, but I’m telling you: the invisible woman got him out—or will get him out—of Sing Sing.”

  “Toby…”

  “Tobias. Listen, Mike—for the love of God, listen. He’s out. He’s on his way there. To kill us. He’s out and he’s coming to Oneka Falls.”

  To kill us? Mike ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Tobias, I’m sure you are wrong, but if it will make you feel better, I’ll call tomorrow and make sure he’s still there. Good enough?”

  Static tickled the line for a long breath, then Tobias sighed. “Okay, Mike. Okay.”

  “Was that really Toby Burton, Mike?” Shannon asked when he dropped the hand holding the phone to his lap. Mike nodded without turning back to the table. “That’s so sad,” she said. “I wish…”

  Mike glanced at her. “Shannon…you were part of that mess back when we were kids, right?”

  She forced a laugh. “Was I? I don’t remember.” She scooped a lump of eggs into her mouth. “Mmm. These eggs are great, aren’t they? I love breakfast.”

  “Shannon,” Mike breathed. “You don’t remember being kidnapped?”

  She flapped her hand at him. “No. Who would want to remember that? Besides…I was nine, my love.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked down, blood burning in her cheeks.

  “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Shan.” Mike reached across the table and touched her arm. “Did you ever…did you see someone…after?”

  “After what?”

  “Shannon…”

  “And anyway, I’ve seen lots of people since I was nine.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Shan. I mean a psychologist, a counselor.”

  She flapped her hand at him again. “Oh, pish-posh. What do you want to do today?”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Shan, there are people who specialize in PTSD. They can help you work through it.”

  “Stop talking about that, Mike. I don’t remember, I told you.”

  For the first time in his memory, Mike heard iron in Shannon’s voice. He sighed and patted her arm. She’s helping me with drinking. The least I can do is help her through her past if she will let me.

  Shannon turned to him, eyes bright, a mischievous grin plastered across her face. “Since you didn’t say what you wanted to do today, I get to pick. Fair’s fair!”

  Mike smiled. “Sure, Shan. Anything you want.”

  She cocked one eyebrow and looked at him in a lascivious, challenging way. “Anything?” She grinned crookedly.

  Mike chuckled. “I should rephrase, Shan.”

  “Mike?” she asked, the playful, flirty facade gone in an instant.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you call me ‘babe’ sometimes?”

  13

  LaBouche grimaced as the phone rang again. The constant ringing cramped his style. Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, he flipped the phone over and dug the battery out of it. It wouldn’t do to have Scott track him by GPS.

  The naked girl in front of him shivered with fear. “Please, Lane, just take me home.”

  “Don’t start that again, Beck. We’re beyond that.” He liked to preserve the idea he was human until the very end. He liked to spring his true form on them after a day or so. One time, his victim had a heart attack and died when he let the guy see who he was. It had been so good, so sweet…so delicious. “Your old man keeps calling me. Ain’t that funny?”

  “Please…Lane, please.”

  “You need to shut up, Becky. Now.” He leaned close to her and snapped his teeth, inches away from her face. The girl whimpered, and LaBouche sighed with pleasure. “That’s better.”

  He took the red-hot coat hanger out of the brazier and showed it to her. “I’ll give you a choice, Becky. Coat hanger, or I do you again.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes flipped back and forth between the glowing coat hanger and his face. “Why are you doing this, Lane?”

  “Choose, Becky, or I will.”

  “Why, Lane? Just tell me why.”

  “Because, you sniveling little bitch, it’s fun!” He whipped the coat hanger down, searing the flesh above her breasts, and, at the same time, rammed himself inside her. Her screams were delightful.

  14

  His heartbeat slowed and, as it did, so did his flight through the back streets of Oneka Falls. His vision expanded from the tunnel-like view of the street to include the houses, yards, people, and demons he passed. The demons looked amused; the people looked pissed.

  He didn’t remember turning off of Mill Lane, but the road he drove down didn’t look familiar. Not on the street with that house. He had no memory of that house. Why does seeing it bother me? Why does thinking about it scare me? What happened there?

  He idled down a pretty street—for the most part. Lined with stately trees and well-kept lawns, most of the homes were maintained with fresh paint, though like anywhere in the western part of New York, there were exceptions.

  The old house on his left screamed ugly at the top of its voice. It was a small house with a mish-mash of stylistic starts and stops. The rotting steps in front of the porch sported elaborate wrought-iron rails, but the floor of the porch was plywood. On the ground floor, the front walls of the house boasted ugly fake brick, while the second floor had wood shakes, painted a barbaric shade of red that would make any Italian sports car proud. A metal roof rusted over the porch, but nasty brown asphalt shingles curled up at the sky over the rest of the house. Drew could see two windows upstairs, one covered with roofing tin, and a flowered bedsheet obscured the other from the inside. The windows on the ground floor sported actual curtains, except for the plywood-covered one closest to the front door. A narrow, cracked concrete path led from the sidewalk to the porch, and weeds grew madly from its cracks. The mowed side yard sported nic
e flowerbeds, but in the overgrown and weedy front, the flowerbeds had been consumed by ivy a long time ago.

  As he looked at the house, the flowered sheet in the upstairs window jerked aside, and a demon glared out at him. Drew flashed an uneasy smile. He licked his lips and pulled his gaze away from the bizarre house. His scalp prickled and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He excelled at unobtrusive observation. Haven’t blown it this bad since that third demon way back when. Better get it together. Rousing the suspicions of every demon on this side of town, almost guaranteed he’d be followed. Or worse. With this many demons in one place, he could be attacked with impunity.

  How in the hell did a haven like this come to be? The town must be overrun with crimes of all sorts. Either the police here were incompetent, on the take, or demons themselves. The thought made Drew angry, though he couldn’t say why.

  He passed a quaint little Catholic church on the left with the strange name of St. Genesius’ Sanctuary of the Holy Mother. Strange place, thought Drew. Besides the saint he’d never heard of, the Spanish sign below the placard bore no English translation.

  He drove on; the houses getting bigger and fancier as he went. Then, as if he had crossed an invisible boundary, everything seemed darker: the sky, the houses, the trees. This must be hell on the property values of those nice houses back there, he thought with a humorless grin. As if demons give two shits about property values.

  Ahead, the road twisted to the left, and on the right side of the road, an enormous white church, replete with ugly stained-glass windows and a tall, tall steeple, squatted like an evil frog. A crooked, rusty metal sign hung next to the double front doors. “First Grand Church of the Reformation” read the sign. Two bullet holes stared out from the center of the two Os, and above the door, someone had hand painted “Play Time” with blood-red paint.

  Something was very wrong with that church. Drew put his foot on the brake and slowed. The place felt…evil. Drew had no doubt that whatever demonic activity anchored in the town of Oneka Falls, most it happened at the Play Time. It had to be the focal point of the infestation.