Night Of The Beast (11 page)

The first shower of earth rattled along the top of Beth's coffin like the Rockettes breaking into a tap routine. Jake Lewis shuddered. He hated that sound, and dreaded the day when it rained down on his head. He prayed the dead could not hear it. He bent to the work, the shovel snickering into the dirt and rising skyward.

Sundown, soon. Night wind rising.

The two men dug feverishly, neither one admitting his fear to the other. Darkness approached on velvet paws.

Jake fought to keep his mind a blank. For some damn reason he kept flashing on that old rusty tractor he'd always meant to repair. All those things in life, in fact, that he'd developed the habit of puttin' off. Elmo's death made him feel old, regretful of the stuff he'd never gotten around to.

Spats Rafferty, for his part, drank as much as he dug. He'd lift two shovel-fulls of the thick, parched earth, slam them down onto the cheap wooden coffins
whuuuuuump
and then
whuuuuuump
, and steal a nip.

Spats couldn't keep his mind off that pretty little girl Elizabeth. He'd had his share of lustful thoughts about the child, and now they returned. She whispered to him from beneath the pile of dirt:

Want to look under my dress, Spats?

You always wanted a peek, didn't you? Come back later. It's okay. Really. You can do anything you want. I'll never tell.

Open me up, Spats. Come say hello.

Jake paused for a breather, shaded his eyes and swore under his breath. The sun was almost down. They'd have to hurry. No man in his right mind liked being in a goddamn graveyard at night. Jake said: "Let's pick it up, Spats." Louise Polson's voice echoed through Jake's mind: Let us pray. I don't fuckin' know how, Jake thought. I never learned to believe. Wish you could tell me what it's like, Elmo. What do you see? Is it still dark for you over there, like it was here? Is life worth the trouble?

Elmo's corpse said: Open it up, Jake. Want to see what happens when you check out?

I know all the answers, now. Why we live and why we die.

Hey Jake. Hey Spats. Come see…

Jake reeled back after one particularly nasty vision, his stomach squirming and his soul in turmoil. "Spats, he whispered hoarsely, "Let's wrap this up tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay by me."

But Jake eyed the sunset, the ominous shadows crawling towards them. He looked into the hole in the ground and gnawed his lower lip. He was tempted to think about quitting, leaving the job half done, but that just wouldn't be right.

"Naw, fuck it. We finish," he said curtly. He forced his old bones to move faster. Dig, lift.
Whuuump.
"Hey, Elmo," Jake grinned, I got an idea — you'd like this. "Listen." And he sang tunelessly: "Your cheatin' ways, are gonna break my heart…You're lyin' eyes are tearin' me apart…"

Spats heard Beth: My legs are slim and smooth, she said. I am not wearing underwear. My skin is sweet, it hasn't even started to rot away yet. And Spats, you really oughta taste my nipples.

"STOP IT!"

Startled, Jake dropped his shovel. "What in tarnation is the matter, Rafferty? You scared the be'jeezus out of me!"

"I got to leave now, Jake. Got to."

"We're almost done," Jake said. The air was turning chilly and night was almost upon them. An evening breeze began moaning, low and fierce, through the nearby gullies and ravines.

Whuuuuuump.

Jake had raised the earth to within inches of its proper level. Only a shallow depression remained. Rest in peace, Elmo. Maybe I'll bring you flowers, he thought. A country record or

two. Somethin' nice. We can do the rest tomorrow. You won't mind, will you, Elmo? How about I plant a little sod, some green to grow you a blanket. This desert gets cold at night.

"Mmmm..."

Jake spun around. Spats Rafferty was shaking all over, standing in a pool of shadow with drool running from his mouth. Jake lurched back, his flesh icy. Goddamn, he thought. I've never seen a man so fucking scared.

Rafferty whimpered.

"Let's go Spats," Jake said gently. He walked over and took the smaller man's elbow. "That's good enough."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Spats whined. The tramp sounded like a small child. He was shaking his head back and forth, like he'd just peeked in a magic mirror and couldn't hack what he'd seen. Graveyards can do that to a man.

And so the old codger and the town drunk strolled away through the cemetery, down towards the rickety wooden gate. They walked arm in arm, almost like they were out on a date, trying to act like they weren't scared shitless.

Night. Silence, except for the macabre shriek of the wind as it whipped through the barren desert. Dried sage scraped like claws in the dirt. And his mind kept on singing…
the devil's reign…

The handsome Latino known as Vargas had ditched the useless stolen car in a narrow ravine, overgrown with brush. Its water pump was gone. Tumbled boulders and clumps of dried sage had helped him bury the Ford deep. He'd scattered dirt clods and sand to make it look like an abandoned wreck. He was right where he had been instructed to be, and totally on his own.

But now what?

Confused, his head full of haze, the crazed Latin man reeled through the undergrowth trying to get his bearings. He had killed again, and recently. The memories were still sharp and clear
[
...
fresh blood, familiar words scrawled on the wall of the suite reserved for the casino's high rollers, the thing!...]

I'm running, he thought. That's right. There are men after me because of what I did a few hours ago in Las Vegas. I remember the clatter of roulette wheels, the clank of small change dropping into tin cups. The stench of watered whiskey, thick smoke, expensive sex — and the burning, her flesh burning. I did the thing to her, the thing, but someone came in right at the end, someone saw me…

Vargas tripped on some stones and fell with a curse. He fell to his knees in the dirt and sniffed the air like an animal, searching for clues. Nothing. Someone saw me…and I stabbed him, too and ran. But that second bodyguard was right behind the first one, and he followed me.

Help me, voices. I have to hide for a while. Where should I go?
How was I supposed to know who she was, what she was?

…Vargas had gone crashing through the doorway and down into the casino stairwell, his footsteps booming off the corridor walls. The other man was close behind, right on his ass, screaming for him to stop; a handsome face blotched with rage and grim with determination. That young bodyguard had fired a gun BOOM, and then he'd moved like a panther, leaping over railings, closing the gap. So loud, everything had been so loud, even the rasp of their breathing.
Jesus, I knew that beautiful icy, Italian bitch belonged to the Cosa Nostra, and that if I got caught I was dead — no trial, no chance, and that I was gonna die slowly, begging for mercy, just like the woman herself. So why did I do her? They almost had me, almost
. Then the bodyguard tripped in the stairwell and almost knocked himself out and Vargas was saved and he kept on running…

[
…
the devil's reign, reign, reign….]

Vargas looked around the darkening desert, his heart beating faster. He could sense that young bodyguard was still on his trail. He's in the same boat; he doesn't find me, they kill him instead. Mafia, he thought grimly. I really did it this time.

[
...
oh, but the thing had been so wonderful...]

Help me, voices. I have no water, no map. I'll die out here all alone. I'll do anything you want, just help me.

There: A collection of tiny lights, far in the distance. A town of some kind. The man walked that way, stumbling and panting. He had covered several hundred yards before it hit him. He couldn't go into a town. Too risky. There might be law, or worse, like someone connected, who might have his description. There had to be another choice. The man snarled in the night, a trapped carnivore. His perfect teeth flashed. He turned in slow circles, delicate hands curling into claws.

One light.

A solitary lantern, perhaps two or three miles away. Someone lived out here. That meant food, shelter, a place to hide. He could check things out, maybe kill the owner and then lay low for a while.

As he fingered his knife, a sexual thrill ran through his genitals.

Peter, exhausted, had pulled over intending to rest his eyes. He'd fallen asleep instead. When he jerked awake it was late at night and there was a creature standing on the open highway, in front of his parked car. It was an old man, waxen and pale, almost transparent. Veins and arteries pulsed just under the skin, like some complex, multi-colored roadmap. Tubes and wires stuck out from his frail body, pointing in all directions like rows of plastic tentacles. He knew who this was, but refused to accept what was happening.

Peter sat up slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. The apparition stared at him for a moment through blank, rheumy eyes and then vanished. Suddenly here was nothing in front of him but starlight and the last few miles of road leading to Two Trees, Nevada. Rourke glanced at his watch. He knew he could be home by sunrise.

He shook his head and rubbed his weary eyes. His mind sang, in many voices:
Soon is the Night of the Beast.

Rourke started the car and pulled out onto the highway. There was nowhere to go but forward, now. He'd left his laptop computer, his business obligations and his old self behind in LA. Whatever he had been running from all these years had finally won the war. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, he pressed down on the accelerator.

It was time. Time to go home.

A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!"

"I know," replied the universe. "However,

the fact has not inspired in me a sense of

obligation."

— Stephen Crane

"I believe that much unseen is also here."

— Walt Whitman

"Song of the open Road"

"If you gaze long enough into an abyss, it will gaze back at you."

—Nietzsche

Dawn.

The long-suffering town of Two Trees looked like short rows of cardboard boxes, painted pastel and left abandoned on the cruel surface of the high desert. Shiny tinfoil covered many of the spider-webbed windows. Sheet metal, cracked bricks and bleached tiles dangled from the walls and patched, sloping roofs. Meanwhile, the harsh, uncompromising Nevada sun threw down waves of heat like shards of broken glass.

Peter drove over the top of the rise, past the two tall cactus trees and whipped to the side of the highway in a spray of sand. His eyes were burning, his skin felt fried and gritty, but for better or worse he was finally home. He got out of the car and looked at the town; the mounds of rock around it, the mountains, so blue and green, above and beyond it. He tucked his blue work shirt back into his jeans, scuffed his boots on the blacktop. Thought:
The prodigal son has returned.

Movement. The long barrel of a shotgun moved slowly through the low dunes like a periscope. The head and shoulders of an old man appeared. He wore blue overalls and a billed railroad cap.

"Good morning, Jake," Rourke said.

The wizened figure jerked, startled, and swung the weapon around. Rourke flinched. "Easy," he laughed. "I didn't come all this way to get shot by a friend."

Jake, squinting in the morning sun, studied the tall, wide shape before him. He placed the familiar voice and lowered his gun.

"Pete Rourke? That you?"

"Was the last time I looked, Jake."

"It's been years, boy! What you been up to?"

"Working my ass off down in good old Hollywood. Figured it was high time I came back."

Jake dug for fresh words, came up empty. "Pete. Hot damn. Well, how the hell are you?"

"Just fine, except I may have to change my shorts now. What are you hunting with that cannon?"

A wide grin creased the old man's features. "Badger, I reckon. Somethin's been gettin' to Candace Stone's chickens of late. She asked me to nose around, since her fella's been so downright useless."

"Fella? I thought she'd be living alone out there forever," Rourke said, walking closer.

"She's with Bert, now. No accountin' for taste."

"You've had twenty and some years to speak up, Jake. You telling me you're jealous?"

"Not a bit of it, you young punk! Course, she sure can cook up a storm, Candace. I'll miss the meals."

"Nail the critter, then," Rourke said. "It's bound to earn you a free supper."

"That's just what I'm doin', Pete. You stop by and see me, hear? Glad you're back."

"Thanks. Glad to be back."

Amazingly, he was; more so each passing moment. He returned to his car and waved. The thin old man wandered off, doggedly scanning the ground for badger tracks. Peter started the engine, humming to himself. He drove down the curving slope into town.

The town seemed to balloon sideways and fill the windshield.
At least
, he thought,
this is one place where nothing ever changes.