Authors: J. G. Faherty
* * *
Millie Jacobs walked into The Laughing Wok just after six. A long line waited at the counter. Li Mingh, the owner, simultaneously took someone’s dinner order, answered the phone, and shouted rapid-fire Cantonese at the four cooks in the kitchen.
No one paid attention as Millie ducked around the end of the counter and into the kitchen. It was common for customers to grab their own soft drinks from the cooler when the take-out restaurant was busy.
By the time anyone realized she wasn’t getting a soda, Millie had already picked up a steaming, oversized wok with both hands. Unaffected by the hot metal melting the flesh from her palms, she tossed the pan of boiling-hot chicken and cashews onto Li Mingh’s back, burning several of the nearby customers in the process.
Li Mingh screamed and fell to the floor, rolling on the tiles in a vain attempt to stop the unexpected agony. Li’s two brothers, Chen and Robert, tackled Millie, all three of them falling on top of Li and causing him to shout again as his arm snapped under their combined weight.
When the police arrived, Li’s brothers and several customers had already chopped Millie Jacobs into pieces and were busy stuffing the parts into the deep fryer.
One customer was later quoted as saying, “You mess with people’s meals, you’re gonna pay the price.”
* * *
As John Root passed the sign proclaiming “Now Leaving Hastings Mills. Be Sure to Come Again!” he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.
Guilt. I’m doing the right thing, but it feels like I’m abandoning them, running away.
Telling the Andersons he had to return to South Carolina was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Mitch had cried, and Danni had looked on the verge of tears herself, even after he’d explained he absolutely needed certain items in order to prepare the spell to stop Christian.
Danni had generously offered her car, and he’d accepted. It would be far safer driving than in a plane, even if it took longer. It would be too easy for Christian to twist a pilot’s mind and crash a plane.
Before leaving, John had placed protective wards around the house and warned Danni and Mitch not to leave for any reason until he returned. Then he’d pulled Danni aside and told her that if he wasn’t back in four days, she should take Mitch and get out of town as fast as she could.
“Where will we go?” she’d asked.
“Anywhere,” he’d said. “Just go. Before things get out of control.”
He hadn’t explained what out of control meant, but he figured she had a good enough idea, based on what she’d seen in Christian’s office that day.
Driving south on Route 17, he found himself repeating the same thought over and over.
Please, God, watch over them while I’m gone.
* * *
“Thank you for coming, Billy, I know you’re busy. Have a seat.”
Billy Ray Capshaw sat down across from Reverend Christian Cyrus. On Christian’s desk was a map of Riverside Park, where the fair would be held. Before Christian even started talking, Billy could see the Reverend had blocked out areas for the booths, concession stands, and more.
“Are there changes to the plans?” Billy asked, tapping the map.
“A few. How are things going?”
Billy shrugged. “On my end, everything’s right on schedule. I can’t speak for the individual booth owners.” Billy had spent the past two weeks prepping the park for the coming fair, working from the plans Christian had provided.
“I’ll remind everyone during this week’s Mass announcements,” Christian said. “But in the meantime, I’ve made some modifications to the layout.”
Billy looked closer at the plans. For a moment, the design seemed to come to life on the paper, the circular rings spinning slowly toward a center point, like toys caught in a gentle whirlpool. Billy rubbed his eyes and looked again; this time, the paper was motionless.
“It looks like a...spiral or something,” he said.
“Yes.” Christian folded the paper and handed it to Billy. “Make sure you get it exactly right, Billy Ray. This is most important to me.”
Billy averted his eyes from the reverend’s face; he hated when the preacher went from weird to downright scary. Something seemed to happen with his eyes, like they turned into black holes just waiting to suck you in. On those occasions, Billy Ray often found himself squeezing his knees together like a little boy desperate to pee.
“No problem. I’ll double-check everything.” He turned to leave but Christian cleared his throat, stopping Billy in his tracks.
“Triple check, Billy. And then check again.”
Billy nodded and hurried from the office, his stomach flip-flopping and sweat beading on the palms of his hands.
Jesus, I’ll be glad to get the fuck away from this place.
His original plan for the evening had been to grab dinner somewhere and then return to his makeshift sleeping area in the basement. But now he felt the need for a few beers to calm his nerves. He changed his clothes, doing his best to avoid looking at the cabinet where more than eight thousand dollars now sat, according to the latest church fund announcement, and went back outside.
Goddamn, this weather sucks!
The brief respite in the tropical hell they’d been having all summer had been like a heaven-sent gift; now the heat had returned with a vengeance, meaning tomorrow would be another day of chugging Gatorade while he worked, just so he wouldn’t die from dehydration.
All the years I’ve lived in upstate New York, I don’t remember ever having a heat wave this long, or this...powerful.
Billy Ray’s feet and thought came to a stop at the same time.
It’s been like this since Reverend Christian came to town.
Could he be the cause?
He wanted to dismiss the notion as silly, but too many strange—and frightening—things had been happening in Hastings Mills, and more than a few led back to Christian somehow. The way the man always seemed to know what you were up to. His weird sermons.
His eyes.
Billy Ray turned and looked back at Perpetual Hope Church, now over a block behind him and almost lost in the last rays of the sun. A lone figure stood at the top of the stairs. The figure lifted one hand and waved.
“Big day tomorrow, Billy Ray. Don’t stay out too late.”
The figure turned and entered the church.
Did he just speak inside my head?
Right then, Billy Ray wanted to run. Run as fast as he could, just get the hell out of Hastings Mills forever, get as far away from the crazy weather and psychic priests as he could.
You’re imagining things. He’s a major freak, but that’s all. Stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ Stephen King novel.
He forced his feet back into motion, continuing down West State Street at a normal pace. He wasn’t leaving without the cash, that was for sure. Not after all he’d been through. What, to start over again two towns down the highway, without a dime to his name? No way.
Billy Ray pushed open the door to Al’s Club 17, a college hangout during the school year but a favorite of the locals during the summer, thanks to its cheap tap beer and extra-hot chicken wings.
“Gimme a pitcher of Pabst and a dozen wings,” Billy Ray told the bartender. While he waited for his food, he thought about how he could snatch the money from the basement and get away with his skin intact. There had to be a way.
Outside, two pedestrians bumped into each other and immediately started throwing punches while their wives cheered them on. A chill ran through Billy that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
Jesus, just let me get through the next couple of weeks.
* * *
John Root entered South Carolina eleven hours after leaving Danni Anderson’s house. He’d driven straight through, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, both of which had been more frequent than he’d planned, thanks to the Mustang’s poor mileage and too many ice coffees along the way.
Now, with close to a hundred and fifty miles still to go, John felt the need for something more substantial than stale coffee and even staler donuts. When he saw the sign for an all-night truck stop, where it proclaimed “Best chicken-fried steak in all the South!”, he pulled in, his stomach already rumbling at the thought of real Southern cooking.
“What kin I get ya, sweetie?” the waitress asked, as he claimed one of the padded, round stools at the counter. Like so many waitresses in so many other truck stops John had visited, she wore her bleached-blond hair in a fat beehive that had two pencils sticking up like antennae, chewed gum with an audible snap-crackle-pop, and looked older than she should in the unflattering glow of the fluorescent lights.
“Scrambled eggs, grits, and a coffee,” John said, without even glancing at the menu.
“Comin’ up.” The waitress, whose nametag read, appropriately enough, Marge, gave him a half-hearted smile before walking away to get his coffee.
John glanced at his watch. Still too early to call Danni and Mitch. He’d worried about them the entire car ride, but had refrained from calling, figuring that checking in on them too often would only add to their anxiety at being alone. Plus, as the hours had passed without any signs of interference from the Other, John had relaxed just a little.
Maybe he’s still too weak to do anything. After all, I’ve no idea how much I hurt him.
Marge approached, a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and several containers of cream in her other.
“Here ya go.” She set the coffee down without spilling a drop.
“Thank you.”
Instead of walking away, she stayed in front of him, chewing her gum with her mouth open.
Snap-pop.
“They’re already dead, you know.”
John froze in the act of pouring sugar into his cup. “What?”
“The brat and his slut-bag sister. They’re dead.”
Snap-pop.
“He killed them the minute you hauled your sorry ass outta town, Johnny-boy.”
Snap-pop.
With an inarticulate cry, John jumped off the stool and stepped backward. His foot caught on the stool’s post and he fell, arms windmilling but finding nothing to grab onto. Fireworks exploded as his head hit the hard tile, and the room went dim.
They can’t be dead! Not now! Not when I’m risking so much to save them!
Cyrus Christian’s voice filled his head. “You’re wrong, mister. They’re dead, mister. Hey, mister. Hey—”
“Mister? Hey, Mister? You okay?”
John opened his eyes. Marge’s face hovered over him, a look of concern spread across it.
“Get away!” John pushed himself back with his hands and feet, sliding across the floor until he hit a display case filled with desserts.
He looked around. Two truck drivers and a teenage boy, the only other patrons at the counter, were all staring at him. A tall Hispanic man in a white cook’s outfit had come out of the kitchen and stood next to Marge.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” the cook asked.
Marge shrugged. “He was drinkin’ his coffee and all of a sudden he screamed and fell off his stool.”
“She’s right, Leon,” one of the truckers said. “I seen the whole thing.”
The cook—Leon—approached John and crouched down. “What’s your problem, fella? You on drugs or somethin’?”
“No.” John shook his head. “No, I...I saw something.” It was the first thing he could think of, and he was desperately trying to come up with what he might have seen to cause such a reaction when Leon supplied the answer for him.”
“Shit.” The cook lowered his voice. “What was it? A roach? A mouse? Don’t tell me you saw a goddamn rat. I can’t let no one hear that, I’ll lose all my business.”
John swallowed, took a deep breath, and prepared to do something he hated.
Lying.
“It was a...a roach. A big one. It ran up the wall by the coffee machine.”
“Fuckin’ A.” Leon stood up and raised his voice. “Fella saw a roach, that’s all. Marge, put a bait box behind the coffee and leave a note for Carmela to call the exterminator tomorrow.”
Leon held out a hand stained from cigarettes and scarred from grease splatters. “Don’t worry, fella. They don’t never get into the food.”
“Jest make sure you check the lumps in your gravy,” one of the truckers said with a laugh.
“Shut the hell up, Floyd,” Leon shot back, scowling.
John let the man help him up, and he sat back on his stool. While the others joked about roaches in the kitchen, he mentally chastised himself for falling victim to Christian’s glamour. The fact that he hadn’t seen through the illusionary spell meant he was more tired than he’d thought, an easy mark for anything Christian might try.
Worse, it meant his old enemy knew exactly where he was, and where he was going.
And that Danni and Mitch were fair game.
Cyrus Christian raised his arms over his head. “My brethren, the time approaches on nigh! In far R’lyeh, Cthulhu waits for the doors to open! He waits—but not patiently, no,
never
patiently—for the time when the Deep Ones shall rise again and their kingdom cover the world! And you, his servants, must make ready for him. For He has told me you are the paving stones and I the paver, to forge the way for the Old Ones to return! Praise Cthulhu!”
“Praise Cthulhu!” the congregation shouted back at him. “Praise Cthulhu!”
Christian kept his hands in the air, allowing himself a moment to soak in the power the crowd was unwittingly broadcasting, waves of energy that filled him like water filling a chalice, repairing the invisible—but all too painful—damages wrought by John Root just days ago.
“Go forth now, good people. Carry the Word into your homes, and spread it amongst your neighbors. Be as the virus within the body, the mold upon the wall. Spread the Word more each day, until you cover the unbelievers with the unstoppable power of the Gods. Bring them to me, those who have not yet heard the call, and help me shape their souls for a better purpose.”