Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) (33 page)

Amy told him she'd explain all about
Tobias after work.

Shane slapped her ass before she
bounded down the steps. He could hardly wait, he had told her, and
with any luck, she bought it.

There
had been a glimmer in her eyes and a glow about her body. She
definitely believed this Tobias was a real person living in her
head.
Fuck.

Shane spent the day working on his
motorcycle, until he remembered he had to pick Scooter up from
school.

Twice a month a
forever-mile long train passed through the center of town and today
just had to be one of those days. The bells dinged and the bar
lowered. Stuck behind two cars and a long-ass train, Shane grumbled
to himself. He’d told Birch he’d meet him around three-thirty for a
bike ride and he was already cutting it close at 2:45.

With the way his day was
going it wouldn’t surprise him one bit if Scooter wasn't waiting
for him but rather stuffed in a locker or getting the ever living
snot beat out of him. Shane slammed his fist into the steering
wheel causing the horn to honk. A car behind him beeped its horn
twice and Shane flipped them off.

If only he could teach his brother to
defend himself and not take crap from anyone, but the kid wouldn’t
listen.

Shane hadn’t wanted legal custody of
his brother, but after his folks split and their mom went off the
deep end he’d lucked out and gained guardianship of one Scott
Philip Baker.

And he’d not been worth a damn as a
guardian.

Scooter was a good kid—got
good grades and stayed out of trouble. He didn’t deserve to get the
piss beat out of him. Sad thing was, Scooter was just the type of
kid Shane used to beat on when he was in school.

Somehow, beating on other
kids made Shane forget what a piece of shit he was, but it was like
putting a bandage on an amputated limb. So Shane drank lots of
booze, smoked lots of pot and fucked lots of girls. He had got real
acquainted with Sheriff Rodney Bowden—minor enough shit. The U.S.
Army had scooped his sorry ass up, shoved him into AIT and shipped
him to the goddamn Middle-east.

Nothing could bring Vicki
back and nothing could right his wrong. He’d own it but he couldn’t
fail Scooter, too.

When the last of the train
car passed, the bar lifted and Shane floored the gas pedal.
Minutes, later he arrived at Buckeye High—or the BH as him and his
buddies used to say. Three students stood on the grass, under the
shade of an oak tree, waiting for their rides.

No Scooter.

Shane scanned the schoolyard across an
open field and spotted his brother surrounded by a gang of boys in
letterman jackets.

“
Fuck.” Shane pushed open
the door and raced across the freshly mowed grass. He jumped a
chain link fence and arrived just as a lard-ass kid shoved
Scooter.

“
Fight me, you pussy.”
Saliva squirted from the thick lips of the fatass bully.

“
Hold up, chief.” Shane
stepped between the punk and Scooter. “You kids scram. Get the fuck
outta here!”

They scrambled, all except
Fatass.

“
You’re a fucking pussy,”
Fatass said. “Getting your big bad brother to fight for you.” The
bully looked Shane up and down. “My dad said you’re working the
rigs in Pecos ‘cause you couldn’t cut in the Army.”

Shane clenched his fist,
and glared at the kid. “Leave Scooter alone. Got it,
asshole?”

He snatched a Buckeye Vultures cap off
the ground and with a dismissive flick of his hand, started off the
field.

Shane whistled at the kid.
“And tell your daddy if he’s got shit to say about me, he should
fucking say it to my face and not to his pussy-ass fatass
son.”

Shane clapped Scooter on
the back. “For a genius you sure are a dumb fuck. Why would you
take on all of them? Those guys would have kicked your ass inside
out.”

“
They told me to meet them
and I had to show. I mean I really had to show. They’re just losers
who won’t make it into Ivy League schools. But I had to show them I
wasn’t afraid.”

“
Well champ, in your case,
looking like a pussy is better than being a bloody smear on the
field. Come on Schwarzenegger, let's go home.”

While walking toward the truck,
another kid sprinted across the field. He wore a black T-shirt,
baggy black pants, and his hair was gelled into spikes.

“
Now who’s this assclown?”
Shane muttered. “Do I have to whoop his ass?”

“
That’s Zack.”

Shane smirked. “I’ll take
that as a yes.”

“
No!”

At least
a hundred degrees outside, Shane guessed, and not a drop of sweat
anywhere on the kid’s body. He breathed naturally as if he’d just
taken a leisurely stroll.
Weird.

Shane had met Zack for the
first time at Scooter’s sixth birthday party. He’d thought Zack was
an odd one way back then, but now the kid was just plain freaky.
Sometimes he sent chills down Shane’s spine, a feat not many people
in this world could accomplish.

“
Sorry I’m late,” Zack
said. “Got held up in detention.”

“
It’s alright,” Scooter
said.

Zack looked Shane over.

Shane looked Zack over.

“
Detention, huh?” Shane
said. “Get caught praying to Satan?”

“
Nah,” Zack said with a
wide smile. “Principle Moss doesn’t think stink bombs in the girl’s
bathroom are funny.”

Imprinted on Zack’s shirt was a
laughing skull with a mohawk and flames surrounding angel
wings.

Steering Scooter out the
chain link fence, Shane said, “Let’s go.”

Scooter gave Zack a wave and followed
Shane across the gravel lot. When they reached the truck, they
climbed in and Shane turned up the radio. Glaring out the open
window, he watched Zack leaning against the fence, staring up at
the sun.

Shane floored the gas and
skidded from the school parking lot, an overdriven guitar played
from the speakers. “I can’t believe you’re still friends with that
freak. No wonder the football team wants to kick your ass. Looks
like one of those Cure freaks.”

“
Cure?”

“
What the hell are you
doing hanging around with Zack Grouse?”

Scooter shrugged. “You
don’t know him like I do. He happens to be very
perspicacious.”

Shane turned down the
volume. “Huh?”

“
Sensitive and
understanding.”

“
Right. So, you two picked
out china yet?”

“
It’s not like
that.”

Shane flicked his blinker
and turned left onto Highway 1085. “That grandma Regina of his is
about as batty as they come.”

Scooter’s backpack slid
across the bench seat into Shane. Shane chucked the bag onto the
floorboard by Scooter’s feet. “Why can’t you be normal?”

“
That worked really well
for you.”

“
What the hell does that
mean?”

“
You were wrote up twice
in the Army. Almost court martialed once. You did thirty days in
county lock-up for breaking a guy’s jaw and all because you didn’t
like the way he looked at your girlfriend. And there was that
incident on Harper Top road.”

Shane slammed a palm
against the steering wheel. “I told you not to bring that up
again.”

Scooter flinched and looked out the
passenger window.

“
But don’t stop now,”
Shane said. “You’re on a roll.”

“
Fine!” Scooter snapped
his gaze at Shane. “For a living, you mine a flammable liquid, a
crude substance made of liquid organic compounds that has lain
dormant and undisturbed, waiting for somebody like you to unearth
it so a far-more-intelligent man wearing a suit, in a Houston or
Tulsa high rise can make a few billion, and while he’s at it,
contribute to the destruction of our planet. But hey!” Scooter
threw up his hands and slapped his thighs. “You were a football
star in high school and slept with most of the women in this crappy
town so that’s gotta count for something. I sure wish I could be
normal, just like you.”

Shane jerked the wheel,
pulling the truck to the shoulder. He stepped out and walked to the
passenger side, yanked the door open. “Get the fuck out. We’re
walking home.”

“
It’s like ten
miles.”

“
Doing our part to save
the planet. I did twenty mile hikes in the Army on a diet of eggs
and orange juice. Let’s see how far you make it, champ.”

Scooter looked away.

Shane whispered in
Scooter’s ear. “Something wrong with getting your hands dirty for a
living?”

Scooter shrugged.

Shane slammed the door and got back
behind the wheel. Shifting to gear, the Jalopy heaved before
continuing down the remote country road.

Silence.

And more silence.

“
Shane.”

“
Yeah.”

“
I’m sorry.”

“
You finally stood up to
me and now you’re going to ruin the moment by apologizing?” Shane
shimmied the truck into third gear.

“
But I didn’t mean what I
said.”

Shane snickered. “Yeah,
you did. It’s alright. I like my life, especially since I got
engaged.”

“
To Amy?”

“
Yeah, genius. Who
else?”

A familiar scent of pinewood and fresh
cut hay blew in the open window. No better place to live, Shane
thought as he veered into his dirt driveway and shifted to
park.

A crazed fiancée who might
end up in the asylum before their honeymoon.

A geeky kid brother who he
had nothing in common with.

A twelve-year-old
motorcycle that was in the shop more hours than it had
ran.

And an old trailer set on
the edge of a haunted forest.

All part of his American
dream.

Scooter said, “I’m in love
with your fiancé.”

Shane sighed and clapped
his brother on the shoulder. “I know.” He squeezed Scooter’s
scrawny arm. “Get some boxing gloves on, then meet me in the
backyard under that big weeping willow. Gonna teach you how to
deliver a good old-fashioned ass-kicking.”

# # #

Atticus pulled his car in front of the
house. No sirens, flashing lights or police vehicles. He had
arrived before the crime had been discovered and the authorities
alerted.

He crossed the porch and approached
the hole where the front door should be. Long claw marks scarred
both sides of the door frame. Outside the side of the home, a click
resounded followed by a faint hum. Maybe the air
conditioner.

Atticus had read about
such contraptions in his contemporary studies class. Modern day
America was consumed with technology that offered comfort and eased
the difficulty of everyday living. Microwaves, automated washing
machines for clothing and dishes, and contraptions that cooled and
heated homes. He glanced at his energy-efficient, state-of-the-art
vehicle with the seat warmer embedded in the bucket seats. Mentally
he added automobiles to the list of modern day comforts.

Sword drawn, Atticus stepped through
the threshold of the home. Blood-splatter decked the walls and
ceiling and more collected on the floor in puddles and smears.
Written on one of the yellow pastel walls in dried blood was: DIE
BELOVED DIE.

Female body parts were
strewn across the living room in a similar fashion as the man’s
body from the last crime scene. A ripped torso leaked guts on the
blue carpet; a severed leg rotted in the corner and a severed arm
rotted in front of the couch—all of it putrid and stinking.
 

In the kitchen, a woman’s head gawked
at him. Long bloodstained brown hair curled around the severed
neck, mouth agape.

Atticus’ stomach wrenched. Chunks of
bile crept into his throat.

The woman’s head wobbled. Her mouth
stretched wide open and a thick transparent strand emerged. A knob
on the end pushed and tore its way free of the mouth, splitting the
lips.

Atticus lifted his sword, readying
himself.

A lucent worm crawled from the woman’s
head. The slug squirmed along the wood floor, its body the length
of the room, left a trail of gray sludge. Translucent skin revealed
puke green muscles and organs. The tail, still inside the skull,
surged forward; the tail whipped the decapitated head.

The skull smashed into Atticus’ ribs,
knocking the breath from his lungs. He doubled over and the
serpentine creature rapidly scaled the wall. The tail used the head
as a flail, lashing and striking at Atticus.

Crouching, Atticus went prone as the
head swung over him, crashing into the wall and leaving a gaping
hole. Its movement stopped at eye level with Atticus. Blood dripped
from the lolling head on the tip of the tail.

“
What fiend of the abyss
are you?” Atticus asked, taking a defensive stance with his sword
crossed in front of him.