Night Of The Beast (44 page)

Maggie, screaming in her mind, knowing he was somewhere near. She was trying her best to send him strength and love. Rourke stared into Martoni's flat, dead eyes. Had his talent detected something, a faint glimmer of life?

[PETER
!
]

Maggie again, loving him in the midst of her terror. Rourke thought of Timmy Baxter's rare brand of courage. That inspired him to reach for — and offer up — the cross. The cross: It had begun to glow, like a sparkler on the fourth of July.

He was certain he was right when Urich hissed and tried to back away. Martoni leaned an inch or two closer, that tiny glimmer still trying to communicate. It didn't need to anymore. Peter understood. The mortified flesh wished only to rest, the soul not to be shamed. Rourke held out the cross. He let the flickering white touch Martoni. The wretched face relaxed, the twitching ceased. The corpse began to crumble into powder, and Anthony Martoni flew away.

Rourke marched towards the cowering, rotting insult to the memory of Urich, the cross extended. The air before him folded, creased and became Jason. Peter faked to his left, then cut right. He stepped around the little warlock and sent Urich's soul away. The deed was done before Jason had time to shift his clumsy feet and wheel around.

The air yawned empty.

Jason bellowed his rage. The mortuary shook and the storm outside strained to smash right through the walls. Rourke walked forward at an even pace, the glittering cross held high.

"What foolishness is this?" Jason growled.

"Just a little something from my Grandfather's grave," Rourke said. "Perhaps he has forgiven me. Do you think so, Jason?"

"Stupidity. A token. A talisman for savages."

"You know something," Peter said, shaking his head in amazement, "I used to think that myself. I'll bet there isn't a man on this earth, no matter how rock-solid his faith, who hasn't had that thought from time to time. But it's not really true."

Animal grunting from a long-buried trunk: A flashbulb of pulsating, frustrated evil. For a gut-wrenching moment, it seemed to plunge both men straight through the floor, deep into the belly of The Beast. Jason's imaginary master had begun to hammer on the locked door. His screams of rage, blistering threats directed at Jason, were deafening. Rourke knew that he was at last turning the tide.

Jason paled and wrung his hands.

"Well," Rourke smiled. "You've got one sick-fuck imagination, don't you Jason? You created this thing, and now you've failed to satisfy it. I guess you're in a heap of trouble, aren't you?"

Jason went wild. He began frothing at the mouth and howling, unable to accept defeat. An icy sweat of fear erupted from his sallow flesh and began to soak through his stinking clothing.

"Impressive," Rourke said.

"You!"

Jason crouched, flint glinting in his evil eyes. He took Rourke's measure, tensed himself and sprang. Peter struck him with the cross. Their collision was a nova; it left a smoking crater in the skin of Jason's left shoulder. His birthmark nearly imploded. Jason cried out and dodged into a corner to think things over. He was still making carnivore sounds, but now with a trace of whine in them. Peter chatted as if they'd just been introduced at a dull party.

"This could be a Star of David, couldn't it?" he said. "Or a Saint Christopher medal, a Buddha. Hell, anything, right? Doesn't have to be religious. Garlic, silver bullets, whatever. All that's important is that I believe in it more than you, Jason. In
myself
more than you."

"Damn you, Rourke!"

"You're nothing, Jason. And your so-called Master is nothing, assuming he even exists. Like I said, you are a pawn. You have both been serving something older than yourselves; something that wanted to feed on us all, on this whole sick enterprise. And it's something that will leave you to die, now that it has finished with you."

And he went on like that, while searching the rooms; rubbing it in as The Beast lost His power and Jason began to wonder what would be done to him as punishment for his failure. Rourke stayed calm and level-headed, until he found Maggie in the coffin. Then he was so outraged that he struck Jason with the cross a second time.

Maggie sobbed with relief as Peter untied her. She held on to him, shivering with joy as much as fear.

"You lose, Jason," Rourke said.

"Lord of Flies, strike them!"

Nothing happened. Rourke shook his head. "You really don't get it, do you? There was never anything out there, Jason. It was all in your mind, except for your psi talent. We've both been toyed with. Something wanted to feed on us all, on our terror and your greed and rage."

"Fuck you, Rourke!"

Peter picked up the rifle and shot Jason in the leg. Jason fell with a startled gasp. He stared at his own blood, unable to accept that he'd actually been wounded.

"You…
shot
me?"

"See? You're nothing now. Nothing."

"One round, Rourke," Jason hissed. "You know as well as I that this is not over. It is never really over."

Rourke snarled. "Fuck off," he said. "It is for us." He started to go. A keening wail exploded from the tiny warlock, the hint of a plea: "Kill me, then! Come on, finish it!"

Peter, flushed with anger and disgust, was happy to oblige. He raised the rifle for a second time and drew back the bolt. Maggie remained wooden, but then spoke in a sweet, soft voice. "Don't do it, Pete. Don't sink to his level."

Rourke scowled. A nerve twitched: Finger on the trigger
. [squeeze, jeremy said. that's the boy, squeeze]
Tighter and tighter...

But suddenly Rourke lowered the weapon with a huge sigh. Oddly enough, he felt a melancholy kinship with Smith.

"No," he said.

Jason Smith whined. "I ... I'm begging you to make it quick. Please, damn you. We are brothers, you and I."

"Sorry, Jason," Rourke said. He actually felt pity. "I'm afraid that's not your fate."

A cracking sound.

Bones.

Jason, his ruined face a mask of pain, flipped over onto one side. His skin tightened, wrinkled and began to peel. Hair came loose and slid from his scalp; it floated to the floor in a thin shower of silver thread, right before his horrified, helpless eyes... Bloodshot eyes, each suddenly a roadmap of broken veins.

"AAAAaaahahhhHHHHAaaaa
" he cried, like a tortured prisoner.

For it was as if his skull were caught in a vice, or in the grip of two gigantic, taloned hands. They pressed and pressed until his eyeballs enlarged; slowly ballooned out in an almost comic way, their pupils stretched and showing the strain to the point where dots were visible, the dots that had connected to form the color of those eyes — and
POP
they exploded. Jason produced a throaty
grrrrr
sound. Rourke spoke to him in a voice both urgent and kind.

"You've been used," he said. "And now you're all used up. You see, it's full. It doesn't need you any more."

"K-k-kill me!"

"I can't," Rourke said. "It wouldn't let me."

"W-w-why not?"

"Because you're dessert."

The warlock thrashed like a fish on the dock and blood splattered. Maggie gulped and turned away. Jason continued to disassemble, his panic increasing as his body failed him. There was a ripping and rending of flesh, of tendons, muscles and tormented organs being smashed and sucked inward. He was aging, old and then ancient.
[jason heard the screeching of vultures, swooping low over spoiled carrion reeking under a scorching, black sun. carnivore and prey joined in a cacophony of agonized howls wrenched from heaving lungs... his lungs…and he saw vargas there, another prometheus, and knew that they were both doomed to the eternal agony of evisceration…]

When Maggie looked back, Jason Smith had withered completely. He was jagged shards from a crumbling skeleton and some scraps of dirty cloth. Rourke imagined he heard one last, faint cry. But perhaps it was only the wind.

The wind. Easing?
Yes
. Silence, except for the patter of rain on the roof above and the sound of their breathing. The storm was lifting.

Rourke led Maggie through the tall wooden doors and out into the clean, fresh air. Friendly dark: Soothing breeze tickled their flesh, parted stubborn wisps of cloud to reveal the night sky. They heard cheering and laughing.

Timmy was waiting just beyond the splintered picket fence. He was jumping up and down and waving. Rourke collected the third member of his new family and they returned to Agatha's house to get his car. Maggie drove, for Peter was exhausted.

Behind them, the lights flickered and sparks flew.

"Look!" Timmy shouted, pointing back through the rear window. They were on the rise above Two Trees. The power lines had fallen, and fires were springing up all over town. Flames seemed to race towards the mortuary as if directed by an unseen hand. It felt right. This way, nothing would remain of the battlefield but ashes.

People have to be warned, Rourke realized. Oh, not tonight — it could wait a bit — but someday. The truth: Jason was probably right, it was never really over. Whatever did this might rise again.

We cling too desperately to the sunshine,
Peter thought.
We never seem to learn.
Look at any city: Millions of lights, every color of the rainbow — street lamps, porch lights, neon signs and billboards. Bright as day, and all left on until the break of dawn. Why? Because man is afraid of the dark.

With good reason.

The author would like to thank Nick Dollak for his time and attention. If he had not cheerfully scanned the original version of this manuscript (written nearly twenty years ago) onto a workable computer file, this book would not exist. Fellow Irishman and author Kealan-Patrick Burke then proofed the entire book and thus saved my sorry ass.

My eternal gratitude to my wife, Wendy, and my daughter, Paige Emerson, for their continued patience and support.

I offer another nod to the collective members of the esteemed Horror Writers Association. Also, to so many supportive authors and editors including, but not limited to: William F. Nolan, Ed Gorman, Graham Masterton, my dear friend Richard Matheson Sr., the diabolical Eddie McMullen of Feo Amante.com, Joe R. "Mr. Mojo" Lansdale, Owl Goingback, Tim Lebbon, Douglas Clegg, Robin Spriggs, Scott Nicholson, Mike Oliveri, Jon Merz, Edo van Belkom, Bruce Ballon, Gina Gallo and Brian Keene.

I am grateful to John Turi of Medium Rare Books.com, his lovely wife Shawn, the talented Ms. Christina Crooks and to all those who criticized, commented on and just plain slogged through reading the preceding pages so that someone, someday might enjoy them. That list must include (from days of yore) Ms. Candace Lake, Dr. Linda Segar, Jane Cushman and Joan Bellefontaine. Thanks so much.

Harry Shannon is a former Emmy-nominated songwriter, music publisher and film studio executive who is now a counselor in private practice. His first collection, "Bad Seed, 2nd Edition," received numerous HWA "Stoker" Award recommendations and is available through Medium Rare Books.com. Harry has published fiction in Twilight Tales, Blue Murder, Alternate Realities, Crimestalker Casebook, Terror Tales, Futures, Sinisteria and several other magazines. He can be reached via his website, the predictably eponymous
www.harryshannon.com
.