Authors: J. G. Faherty
Someplace where people don’t kill each other on the street or light their neighbor’s house on fire for kicks.
Billy Ray’s heart stomped a heavy-metal rhythm as he approached the back entrance. What if Christian was looking out his window again? Or crossing the back lawn on his way to the parking lot?
An image of the reverend, his ebony eyes alight with manic glee, appeared in Billy Ray’s head. Except that in his mental picture, Cyrus Christian’s fingers were long blades, like an evil version of Edward Scissorhands. Blades that dripped blood. When he smiled, his teeth were piranha-sharp.
Stop it! You’re freaking yourself out. He’s crazy, but he’s not the fucking Devil. Open the door, make sure the coast is clear, and get your ass moving.
Billy Ray’s palms were perspiring so badly the paper bag had brown, finger-shaped stains on it and his hand threatened to slide right off the door knob.
Get a grip, you pussy. One. Two. Thr—
The knob spun in his hand and then pulled out of his grasp as the door flew open, revealing Cyrus Christian standing there, along with Chief Showalter, the mayor, and two women he didn’t know.
“Hello, Billy. Going somewhere?”
A terrible tightness filled Billy Ray’s chest. He tried to speak but only a strangled gasp escaped.
“I’ll take that.” Showalter yanked the paper bag from Billy Ray’s numb fingers. “Well, lookie here. A big ol’ sack of money. Guess workin’ for the church pays better than I thought.”
Billy Ray’s body came to life as the chief showed the bag to Christian. He rushed forward, head and shoulders down, the words of his long-ago high school football coach—
“Picture yourself knocking those assholes down like bowling pins!”
—loud in his head, as if Coach Johnson was right behind him. Billy Ray rammed himself into Showalter, sending the heavy-set sheriff stumbling to one side. The two matrons’ eyes went wide as he closed the few feet between them. Visions of freedom filled his head as prepared himself for the impact with their soft, plump bodies.
Five steps and I’m home free! No way they can—
Without warning his body rose up from the ground. The matrons’ shocked expressions changed to self-righteous smiles as he continued his ascent, higher and higher, until he was looking down at them. Belatedly he felt his shirt and belt tugging at him, and realized someone had him in a two-handed grip and was —
Throwing me through the air? Impossible!
His body tumbled, an out-of-control human shot put. He sailed over the two church ladies, watched their mouths open in laughter. As his body revolved, he caught an upside-down glimpse of Cyrus Christian behind him, arms still outstretched like a statue of a Greek Olympiad.
How did he—
Then he was falling, faster than he’d risen, the ground speeding toward his face.
Jesus, God, please help—
The world exploded in pain and then went black.
Billy Ray regained consciousness with no memory of having lost it. His face felt like someone had poured acid on it, and his nose was a concentrated ball of fire.
The bitter, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he tried to spit it out, only he couldn’t work up enough saliva. His tongue felt dry and gritty, and he could tell his lips were swollen.
“Welcome back, Billy.”
His body twitched in response to the reverend’s words from somewhere behind him. He tried to turn and belatedly realized he was tied to something, his ankles close together and his arms spread wide.
Like he was on a cross.
Oh, fuck. No. Fucking shit, NO!
He caught movement from the corner of his eye as Christian came into view, his head even with Billy Ray’s chest.
“Billy, Billy, Billy.” The reverend wore an exaggerated look of disappointment on his ageless face. “So predictable. I probably knew before you did that you’d try and steal the money this morning. In fact, I’d wager that I knew weeks before you did. That’s why I kept you around. You were the perfect choice.”
Billy Ray tried to focus through the pain.
Perfect choice? For what?
“For the Binding, of course. Oh, I could have used anyone, but you practically fell into my hands when you asked me for a job.”
He heard me. Heard what I was thinking. But that’s impossible. Maybe...maybe this is all some kind of nightmare.
“Wrong again, Billy. No nightmare.” Christian pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating what to say next. “Truth is, it’s going to be something much worse. For you, that is.”
Christian turned his back to Billy Ray and waved to someone. For the first time, Billy Ray noticed the rows of pews in front of him and understood he was on the altar of Our Lady of Perpetual Hope. He tried to speak, but only succeeded in making a small croaking sound. The cuts on his lips split open again, but even the fresh blood trickling into his mouth wasn’t enough to moisten his throat.
Four figures stepped out of the gloom and joined Christian at the foot of the altar. Showalter flipped his middle finger at Billy Ray and grinned. Behind him was the mayor, his face as dour and lifeless as ever. Trailing the men were the two women who’d been at the church for Billy’s failed escape attempt. Both wore expressions of pure bliss, the same looks Billy had always thought were fake when he saw them on TV in the audiences of Sunday morning bible programs.
Christian’s four acolytes formed a semi-circle in front of Billy, with Christian at the base of the cross.
Just a dream. It’s all just a dream.
“You hear that, folks? Billy still thinks he’s dreaming. Poor fellow.” Christian lifted his hands in the air, and his voice grew louder. “Lords of Chaos, Blood, and Death! Bringers of Pain and Darkness! Hear my words! Look upon us gathered here today in your unholy names, and see the sacrifice we make to you. Azathoth, Dagon, Cthulhu! Open thine eyes and feast upon the fear and pain of the anointed one! And in return, bestow upon your humble servant a taste of your darkness, so I may complete my work for you in this place.”
Christian bent down out of Billy Ray’s line of sight, and when he returned, he held a glass jar in one hand and a wicked-looking machete in the other.
This time Billy Ray managed to find the strength to shout.
“No! Let me the fuck down! Don’t let him do this!”
“Shut the fuck up, boy,” Showalter said. “I knew you was trouble the minute you walked into town. I’d say you got this coming’ to you.”
“No!” Billy Ray struggled against the ropes, but they held firm. A sudden odor of foul decay filled the air as Christian swung the jar back and forth, splashing an oily liquid across Billy Ray’s body.
“I anoint thee, with stale piss and the melted fats of the dead! I anoint thee to open the eyes of the Elder Ones Who Will Someday Walk Again!”
“Stop! Plea—aagh!” Billy Ray’s plea changed to a choking gag as putrid fluids landed on his tongue.
Christian dropped the empty jar to the floor and stepped closer, tapped the long blade against Billy Ray’s chest. “Time to say good-bye, Billy. Your work here is done.”
The import of the statement was still registering in Billy Ray’s brain when Christian plunged the machete into the soft flesh below Billy Ray’s ribs. The pain was instant and tremendous, and only grew worse as Christian drew the blade down, from sternum to waist. Billy Ray’s back arched and his mouth opened wide in a silent scream that sounded deafening inside his head.
The smell of blood and shit pushed away the stink of the anointing fluids as Christian pulled the blade out. He held it up to Billy Ray’s face. “This is the blood of your life, which you give today so that others may die tomorrow. Look upon this sacrifice, my Lords, and see that I am worthy of your favor!”
This time Christian swung the machete sideways, creating an inverted cross on Billy Ray’s belly. Green and brown fluids poured from the gash. More blood gushed from Billy Ray’s mouth, creating a waterfall down his neck.
For an instant, the agony grew so intense it encompassed Billy Ray’s entire world. He felt nothing else, heard nothing else, not even his own thoughts. Then something broke inside, releasing a rush of icy cold that extinguished the fire and left him totally numb. His body sagged forward against the bindings, and the room dimmed until the figures below him were little more than shadows. One, a man dressed in black, stood close by, holding something by Billy Ray’s feet. He spoke, but the words meant nothing to Billy Ray.
The room grew darker, and Billy Ray wondered where the day had gone.
Am I dying? Is this what it feels like?
They say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life. So I should wake up now. Wake up. Wake—
* * *
Cyrus Christian held a glass bowl under Billy Ray until it overflowed with blood and offal. Only when Billy Ray’s body slumped lifelessly against the ropes did he turn and face the four people waiting eagerly behind him. Dipping his hand into the fluids, he traced a series of symbols on each of their foreheads and recited a phrase to each of them.
“By the glory and the power, I bind thee to me, to serve as extensions of the Dark Lords’ will. You are my arms and eyes and ears. You are my slaves. You are the tools I wield. In return, I give you strength and protection from those who would stand in our way.”
One by one, the chosen four knelt and kissed Christian’s gore-splattered feet. They stayed humbled before him until he ordered them to rise.
“The time has come for us to finish what I’ve started in this pisshole of a town. Meet me in my office in one hour, cleaned and dressed.”
“And until then?” Harry Showalter asked.
Christian pointed at Billy Ray’s corpse.
“Feed.”
* * *
John Root woke to the stench of fire. Before he opened his eyes he knew the town had taken a turn for the worse. He rolled over and looked at the clock. Nine hours he’d been asleep. No dreams, either, which he was thankful for. He sat up, the sheets sticking to his already-sweaty back and legs. Another unseasonably hot day. Was it something his old nemesis purposely emplaced, or was it a by-product of the dark, dangerous forces he called upon?
Hopefully, in two days’ time it won’t matter anymore.
John knew better than to believe defeating the Trickster was a sure thing. Over the centuries, many had tried to stop him. Some, including his own relatives, had achieved limited success, but no one had ever truly banished the Harbinger of Chaos from the world.
Many, like John himself, believed it an impossible task, that the Hand of Chaos was an immutable part of the natural order, and the best anyone could hope for was to set back the timetable for the inevitable day when he opened the way for the Dark Gods to come forth again, bringing about another of the cataclysmic struggles between Good and Evil that shaped the teachings of so many ancient cultures.
And what if I fail?
John knew the answer to that question all too well. Three times he’d visited towns in the wake of the Ancient One. Seen firsthand the devastation. Twice, the towns resembled the aftermath of a military attack. The third had been intact but empty, a modern equivalents of the Roanoke settlement or the Marie Celeste.
Footsteps on the stairs alerted John to Mitch’s imminent presence. Taking a deep breath, he put on his best expression of confidence. It was one thing to prepare himself for failure. There was no reason to worry Mitch or Danni.
Plenty of time for that later.
Breakfast that morning was a solemn affair in the Anderson house. The extreme heat and humidity was enervating, sucking dry their will to do anything more energetic than spread peanut butter and jelly on moisture-laden white bread and wash it down with tepid ice tea.
“I can’t believe this weather.” Danni’s hair hung in limp, curling strands, and her shirt was already showing dark stains under her arms and between her breasts. “I feel like I might pass out, and it’s not even noon.”
John looked at each of them in turn. “We have to keep up our spirits, remind ourselves of how much we care about each other. That will help prevent Christian’s darkness from tainting us.”
“You mean I have to be nice to her for the next two days?” Mitch pointed at Danni and made a face like he’d just eaten something sour. “Talk about doing the impossible!”
“Keep it up, little man. You might just find yourself wearing that PB and J.”
Mitch laughed, and Danni joined in. Perfect, John thought. Now if I can only keep it up for the next thirty-six hours or so.
John’s original plan had been to spend the day observing the activities at Riverside Park, to get a lay of the land and develop a strategy for how he’d go about setting up his traps. However, the moment he’d smelled the smoke and felt, down deep in his bones, the anguish and insane waves of hatred emanating from the town, he’d understood he’d be spending the day inside with Danni and Mitch.
Hastings Mills has turned into a cauldron of uncontrolled rage. Thanks to the influence exerted by the evil thing inside Cyrus Christian, it would be safer hitchhiking through a war zone than walking the streets of Hastings Mills.
No, there’ll be no leaving the house today.
Of course, that didn’t mean he’d waste the day. Rather, he’d just have to rearrange the order of things slightly and use the time to assemble and finalize everything he’d need for the coming confrontation.
John waited until they’d finished eating before bringing their attention back to the task at hand. “Mitch, Danni, I’m going to need your assistance today.”
“With what?” Mitch asked, eager as always to help.
“I have to make a fairly large number of totems, which I will need to use during the binding of the Ancient One.”
“Totems?” Danni looked confused. “Those big poles with the faces on them? How are we supposed to make those?”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a ’tard, sis. Those are totem
poles
. Totems are different. They’re like, little magical figurines.”