Fiddling crazily, he looked up at Tim Hanna — a man with golden hair, piercing eyes. Dressed in a dark suit. His skin smooth and tan even under the crime-stopper tungsten lamps. He was right there, in front of Will.
The lid fell off. Will pulled out the jar.
“By the power .
.
. of God —” Will muttered.
Like some deranged idiot.
Will went to toss the water.
Only feet away, at Tim.
But the jar grew warm, then hot, hotter, and a plume of steam erupted from the open mouth. The water bubbled and Will had to let the jar, so damn hot, slip through his fingers.
‘‘‘You didn’t really think
that
would work, did you?” Tim Hanna laughed. Then he said, “By the power of Mickey and Donald, Goofy and Pluto, Goobers with peanuts, a Penis for Venus, and Walla-walla Bing-Bang!”
The words echoed off the asphalt, off the concrete, off the buildings.
Will pulled out the cross, shaking it free of its velvety wrappings.
Again, he yelled, “By the power of God, all evil shall go, all- —”
Hanna sneered. And Will thought he smelled something. A wind that blew across his face, filled with the gaseous odor of methane, a sticky warm gust of foul air.
“Don’t say that fucking name!” Tim Hanna screamed. He raised his fist. “You will
never
say that name to me!”
Will held the cross up, pathetically. His bad arm holding the bag, the other holding the cross aloft.
Then it burned. Grew hot. It’s a trick, thought Will. Just a trick. It’s not really hot, and I can —
Hotter, until the metal creaked, bending, and it went soft in his hand. Will cried.
His fingertips burned. He tried saying the words.
“Power .
.
. God .
.
. commands Lucifer, commands all evil, every spirit .
.
. put to .
.
.”
He had to let the cross slide through his fingers, crying out as it turned cartwheels in the air, spinning to the ground, splattering to the sidewalk.
Will cried.
He heard the noises.
The chattering, the clicking sounds.
Listen for them, James had said. Take hope from them.
His control is not perfect. Then it’s time.
“I saved the worst for you, Will. The absolute fucking worst. For you. And your goddamn family.”
The clicking filled his ears, but beneath that he heard another sound.
And he looked to the side of the buildings. To where the noise, the cracking sounds, were coming from.
He saw long, blackish things moving back and forth, hugging close to the crack of the building.
No, Will thought, not blackish, brown. He saw a line of them emerge into the purplish light.
“Big, aren’t they? The biggest fucking cockroaches, Will. Do you know how a cockroach eats? They’re maniacs, absolute monsters. They tear at their food, eating everything.” Tim smiled. “I’ll let them save your brain for last.
As above so below, thought Will.
It’s all scripted. He heard James .
.
.
We can change the script. It’s about time, Will, time and power .
.
.
He knew that he really shouldn’t look at the building, to the sounds that now circled him. But God, he had to, couldn’t avoid looking down, around —
At the sea of brown. At these giant roaches, moving fast, excited, climbing over each other, surrounding him, hundreds, thousands, millions.
Waiting for a signal.
“There’s just one thing I have to add,” Tim Hanna said, “before we begin —”
Now, thought Will. Turn away. Don’t listen.
You must act, James had said. When you see the signs, smell them, hear them, you
must
act then. He won’t expect it.
Will dug into the bag and pulled out the book. It had a black binding, and ribbons dangled from it.
James’s own Bible.
Been through a lot, he’d said. A lot of battles.
You’ve got to wrestle with the devil .
.
. not in your name, but God’s.
Will held it up. Tim Hanna seemed unalarmed.
The rest had been a lure. Show him that I have no weapons. That I’m defenseless.
Then the words. Memorized, repeated at almost unintelligible speed. The book held out. Keeping me focused on where the power, the strength come from.
Telling Tim Hanna. It’s not me.
Telling his master.
Because .
.
. because that’s who the game was all about.
The roaches seemed directionless, moving over his feet, suddenly unleashed from any control.
Will sputtered, babbling quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the clicking noise, the sound of teeth gnashing, eager for their earthly feast.
“I command you, whoever you are .
.
. unclean spirit, and all your companions who possess this child of God —”
Will kept his eyes on the book, off Hanna, away from his face. Can’t get distracted. And then faster, running the words together at high speed, but louder now, starting to yell —
“By the mystery of the Incarnation. The Passion. And Resurrection and Ascension. Of Our Lord Jesus Christ!”
A howl. A mind-numbing scream. From just ahead. Will kept looking at the book.
He felt cold. A million voices hissed at him.
You don’t believe anything, you shit. You goddamn atheist fornicating sonuvabitch. You don’t believe anything and —
Right. That’s right. And this won’t work. This is nonsense.
And it means nothing because there’s no God, no life, no —
No.
He made himself say the words. “By the Holy Spirit, be summoned to judgment,
leave this soul
. Leave and obey the word of God.”
He screamed the last words again.
“Obey the word of God. By the power of Lord Jesus Christ, leave and —”
Will took his eyes off the book. He looked at Tim Hanna.
Hanna backed up, staggering now, oh, yes, reeling like a fighter taking another smash to the head.
Will intoned the words again.
The book felt cool in his hand, impervious to anything Hanna would do. Will walked forward, through the sea of roaches. He heard them crunch and crack under his steps. Some crawled absently and undirected onto his shoes, a few big ones up to his pants leg, but Will just kept repeating the words.
Over and over.
Tim Hanna said, “You liar. You believe nothing, your soul is empty. A damned empty pit. You are a fucking liar.”
Will repeated, “By the power of God, I command you to obey .
.
. obey God’s word and—”
He lifted his eyes from the book.
Another smell filled his nostrils.
The signs. He’ll grow desperate, James had said. He’ll call for help.
Remember that
. Watch for the signs. They mean he’s desperate. Don’t lose your concentration, your thoughts .
.
.
Back, nearing the corner of the street, Hanna stumbled backward.
Will looked up. The smell was barnlike, the stink of animals.
And then, dropping around Will, on him, landing on his head, his arm, on the Bible, something .
.
. gooey wet glops of offal, the smell filling Will’s throat. Burning his throat. Choking him.
Will coughed. The words sputtered to a stop as he hacked at the air.
I looked away, he screamed inside his head. Then he saw it all slipping away. His concentration. His belief. Everything melting — a dream.
Something bit his leg. He cried out.
I’ve lost it.
They were at the corner.
Will tried to start his chant again. But it didn’t feel the same.
Liar
, screaming in his ear. Bullshit artist.
God-hater. Deceiver.
Dumbfuck
.
Hanna spoke.
He said, quietly, calmly, “Listen.”
Will thought: No. I won’t do that.
But he did.
The pay phone rang.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Over and over.
“It’s for you,” Hanna said.
“By God’s power, obey and —” Will tried to say again.
The phone kept ringing. Hanna said, “I think you should answer it. It’s for you, Will.”
A cold spiky hand seemed to close around Will’s heart. He moaned.
“It’s for
you
,” Hanna said, his voice garbled, as if coming over through a cassette player in need of batteries.
“Pick it up. Pick it the fuck up, Will!”
Will stopped his yammering.
“It’s a call from home,” Hanna said.
But Will knew that already. Oh, sweet Jesus .
.
.. he knew that.
And he reached out for the phone …
Joshua James shifted in the seat. It was strange, sitting here in this quiet house, sitting watch over Will Dunnigan’s family.
Not as strange as other places I’ve been, other vigils I maintained.
No, I’ve sat huddled in freezing-cold tenements surrounded by stale puke and feces. I’ve walked through tiny Amazon villages in search of someone who was said to be blessed with powers and abilities.
When blessed was the wrong word.
James felt sleepy.
And he thought —
I can’t fall asleep. I have to stay awake.
Simple as that.
Until morning. Until it’s over.
He rubbed his eyes. He had the TV on, very quiet, almost inaudible. And a book. Father Paone’s
Meditations
. A simple book of simple prayers.
Easy does it.
And beside him, a Bible, its cover worn to a frayed and tattered black hide. My spare, he thought. And —
I must not sleep.
He thought of his lie.
When they asked him why he left the priesthood.
How that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth. But he couldn’t very well tell them the truth, now, could he? Couldn’t very well tell Will that one time he buckled? I ran from it, scared, terrified beyond belief. My own worldliness thrown into my face, my own secret desires dredged up, dancing in front of me.
And I was lost.
I was useless against it. Because each time, this evil, this mocking abomination, would plunge into my soul and find the hollowness and desire there. It fed on it.
Like rats. Like ants
. Fed on it, growing stronger.
The state of the human soul feeds it. And I had let mine grow weak.
No, he thought. I couldn’t tell him that. Not to Will.
Just as he knew he couldn’t tell Will how he feared the same thing might happen to him. That Will might face the Adversary, so much stronger than he was, that it would be no contest.
If he forgot in whose name he fought …
And I must fight this feeling of hopelessness, James scolded himself. That was the worst. That opened all sorts of doors. Bad doors.
He shut his eyes. They were so heavy with a terrible need for sleep that they ached. He shut them. Just a second. Then he quickly opened them.
The TV seemed to have no sound now. Fading.
Fading.
Must not sleep, he told himself.
Must.
Not.
Will’s hand locked on the phone. It kept ringing.
“Go on,” Tim Hanna said. His voice smooth, seductive. It was a voice of reason, a doctor asking you to breathe in and out while he listened to your lungs. Nice, normal breaths, please. Or the dentist pleading for you to stretch your maw open just a
bit
wider.
Then, a subtle change, “Pick it up, you stupid bastard.”
“No,” Will moaned.
It rang in his ear, electric and shrill. Again and again.
Tim Hanna again, oily now, victorious. “Reach out .
.
. and pick it up!”