Anathema (12 page)

They moved down Main Street and paused to look in the shop windows. They left behind greenish smears of slime on the glass, smears that would be gone come sunrise.

When the group reached the residential streets, they huddled together in a circle. Black clouds, like spilled ink, tumbled in the sky, blotting out the stars and moon, throwing the town into perfect darkness.

The children and the whores melded together, forming a pulsing orb of energy. The sphere rose into the sky. A green moon against black satin. Lightning crackled around it. Moans and laughter cackled inside it. Growing three times its original size, the orb exploded with a crack that could've shattered the globe.

A misty green fog covered the town and was absorbed by everything it touched. The pendulous clouds shrank back to the horizon and the night was clear, calm, and humid once again.

Now it could begin.

Chapter 16

Just one drink. What harm would it do? Just one to calm his nerves.

Reverend Timothy poured a jigger of Old Crow into the glass and downed it with one quick gulp. The harsh liquor tore at his gullet like dull razor blades as it traveled down his throat. It warmed his innards like a thick wool blanket on a frosty winter's night.

Better now.

He'd be able to perform the duties the community and the Lord expected him to. Pastor Timothy had a funeral to officiate. He hated funerals. They were the worst part of a preacher's job. Even if the dearly deceased were a ninety-seven-year-old man whose ticker suddenly stopped while he was taking a leak, it took all of Timothy's inner strength to recite the Rite of the Dead. But when the Rite was for a child, like it was today, the task was almost unbearable.

Timothy locked the liquor bottle in the cabinet and left the parish house, heading for the church. Since the thunderclap a couple of nights ago, he thought the air smelled different. Almost like fried eggs and burnt toast.

The sun felt like a blast furnace on the back of his neck. It toasted his bare arms. The air was so heavy it was almost like inhaling water. Heat ghosts shimmered off the black asphalt of the church parking lot. It was another insanely hot and humid day.

Timothy walked into the church. The casket was already there. The oblong teakwood and brass box looked small and out of place in front of the altar. A spray of red carnations, yellow mums, and white roses lay on the lid. Alabaster stands flanked each side and huge pots of yellow roses laced with delicate baby's breath stood on top of them.

On a small, round table in front of the casket was a silver-framed picture of Travis Anderson. The table was draped with white linen, and more roses graced the bottom of the photograph.

The sweet fragrance of so many flowers filled the church with a sense of calm, but Timothy couldn't keep from thinking how the sweet scent masked the stench of death.

Jim Anderson requested the funeral be closed casket, for which Tim was grateful. The service was going to be hard enough without having an innocent corpse staring at him from a wooden box.

The pastor headed to the back of the church, toward his private dressing room, when he thought he detected movement from the corner of his eye.

He stopped.

Turned.

The coffin lid was open; the spray of roses scattered across the floor.

Now a hand, as pale as bleached flour, gripped the side of the coffin, and Travis Anderson sat up. His head creaked on his shoulders, and Timothy found himself staring into the cataract eyes of the dead. Travis's jaw dropped open and a thick, blackish-green goo gurgled out of it. The same fluid leaked from his ears and nostrils.

Timothy closed his eyes. When he opened them, the hallucination was gone. He hurried to his dressing room. And as he closed the door behind him, the nave filled with the sounds of children's laughter.

Jim Anderson supposed he should've been the first one at the church. He supposed he should've been there to greet those who came to mourn his son. He supposed he should've tried to make sense of all this. Jim Anderson supposed a lot of things, but he couldn't stand being alone in an empty church with his dead son.

Both Diane and Molly had chosen not to attend the service. He tried hard to convince them to come—he probably should've
insisted
they come—but he decided he wasn't going to argue the issue. In the future, they both would probably regret their decision, but the guilt would be their cross to bear, not his.

Dressed in a pair of black slacks and a dark gray shirt, Jim stood on the church steps and wished the ordeal was over and done. His black shoes were scuffed and dirty. He supposed he should've given them a coat of polish, but it was too late now. Oh, well, he couldn't think of everything. Besides, how often does anyone ever notice someone's shoes? And what did he care if someone did. He was here to bury his son, not win a fashion show.

As the mourners arrived, they gave Jim their condolences before finding a place to sit in the church. Jim was surprised at the turnout. His family had been in town for such a short amount of time, yet so many people had come to share his grief. It was as if they were all part of his family. And that was what attracted him to Prairie Rest in the first place—the sense of community.

When Jarvis arrived, Jim hurried down the steps to meet him. The last time he'd seen his friend, something had gone down between them, and although the details were somewhat foggy, he knew he owed Jarvis an apology.

Jarvis stepped out of the truck and met Jim halfway across the parking lot. Jim extended his arm, expecting a handshake. What he got instead was a compassionate hug. If Jarvis was angry at him for what happened at the house, he hid it quite well.

"Thanks for coming,” Jim said.

"I couldn't very well let you go through this alone,” Jarvis replied.

"I ... uhm ... owe you an apology,” Jim stammered.

"What for?"

"The last time we saw each other I ... uhm ... have the feeling I acted like a bastard. And I'm sorry."

Jarvis rolled his eyes. “Oh, that! Hey, you were under a lot of stress. It's okay, really."

"Uhm ... what exactly did I do?” Jim asked sheepishly.

"You don't remember?” Jarvis raised an eyebrow.

Jim shrugged. “Sorry."

"You threw me out of the house,” Jarvis said, smiling. “Literally."

"Please, say you're kidding."

"No, really.” Jarvis rolled up his sleeve and showed Jim the bruise. It was a big purplish-black thing that covered most of his arm.

"Shit. I did that? Geez, I'm sorry."

"Actually, I was kinda impressed. I didn't think you had it in you. You being such a little guy and all.” Jarvis rolled down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “Come on, let's go inside."

They walked into the church and sat in a pew directly in front of the casket. Seeing the coffin made Jim's heart ache. He felt a lump of sorrow rise in his throat. The weight of his loss numbed his nerves.

Jarvis squeezed his pal's knee. “You're going to get through this."

Pastor Timothy walked to the pulpit.

The congregation stood.

The service began.

Russell Harvey was a fat thirteen-year-old boy who wore glasses with lenses as thick as Coke bottles and suffered from severe asthma. He was also an avid rock collector. Much to the dismay of his asthma, he spent most of his summer days at the town quarry looking for quartz and agates. Once, he found a stone as big as a half dollar, and after it was polished, it was the most beautiful Cat's Eye he ever found. In fact, it was so beautiful Russell's mother brought it to the local jewelers and had it fashioned into a pendant. Russell always wore it and has never found another rock to rival its brilliance.

Russell took the inhaler from his pocket, stuck the tube in his mouth, and gave himself a blast of medicine.

Too much dust.

He dug a piece of rose quartz out of the sand, wiped it on his blue jeans, and examined it. He was pleased. It would polish up nicely. He picked up several similar stones from the same area, dropped them in his bag, and pushed a lock of his oily hair off his forehead.

Russ could wash his hair a dozen times a day, and twenty minutes later, his head would look like he dipped it in a vat of grease. Consequently, the condition of his hair led to undaunting ridicule from his schoolmates. They called him names like
Crisco Kid,
or
OPEC
. They'd whisper behind his back just loud enough for him to hear:
Who's Standard Oil's greatest competitor? Russell Harvey, of course.
Sometimes, the taunts were so hurtful, all he wanted to do was teach them a lesson. Sometimes, he understood exactly why those kids at Columbine did what they did. Sometimes, he wanted to do the very same thing.

Doc Addlerson said a lot of young fellas go through this kind of thing. Sore breasts and oily secretions were a part of puberty. He'd outgrow it in no time, just like his asthma. Somehow, Russ didn't quite believe it. Doc was wrong about the asthma, and the jury was still out regarding his body's excess oil production.

"Hey, Wheezer!"

Russell froze. The rocks he held dropped from his hand. He recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Vincent Mardell.

"Leave me alone, Vince,” Russ said. He kept his back to Mardell.

"That's not very respectful, Crisco Boy.” Vincent's voice was laced with the syrup of meanness.

Vincent Mardell was a year older than Russ. His carrot-red hair was cropped into a military crew cut, and his dark eyes were as cold as the stones Russell collected. There was a red scar across his forehead he had gotten from his father who, in a drunken rage, busted a chair across his face. His nose had been broken so many times it looked like nothing but a bulbous chunk of cartilage in the center of his face.

"Go away, Vincent."

"You little faggot. Look at you, carrying a purse just like a little girl."

"It isn't a purse. It's the bag a put my rocks in. Now, leave me alone."

"Or what?” Vince croaked. Air whistled through his nose like a harmonica. “Are you going to run crying home to mommy? Boo-hoo-hoo.” He pushed Russell over with his foot. The stones fell out of the bag, and Vince kicked them away. Grit peppered Russell's cheeks. His glasses fell off his face. “Get up, faggot!"

"Fuck you."

"Such language! Does your mommy know you talk like that?” Vincent kicked Russ with the tip of his shoe.

Since as long as Russell remembered, he had always been bait for the town bullies. It used to be Bruce King, until his family moved away. Then Jeb Hunter became his tormentor. Now it was Vincent Mardell. In Russell's short thirteen years on earth, it had gone on way too long. Russell Harvey had had enough.

Russ pulled his inhaler out of his pocket, blasted a double dose of the copper-tasting drug into his lungs. The results were immediate. His lungs sucked in oxygen in whooping gulps. “I said, leave me the fuck alone!"

"And what if I don't? What're
you
going to do about it, Wheezer?"

"This!” Russell rolled onto his back, grabbed a handful of sand, and threw it at the bully.

Grit showered Vincent's face like hard rain.

"You shithole,” Vincent sneered and tackled Russell like a football linebacker. He rolled his hand into a fist with the intention of punching Russell in the face, but Russ was ready and moved his head to one side. Vincent punched only sand.

Russell elbowed the bully. Vincent heard his nose snap and felt blood flow from the nostrils.

"Now I'm really going to give you something to cry about, Crisco!” Vincent wailed. Spittle sprayed from his lips. Blood dripped from his nose. He swung again, and this time, clipped the side of Russell's head, splitting open the lower part of the boy's ear.

Russell yelped, but he didn't give up. Something inside him told him not to let this scum bucket hurt him anymore. When Vincent tried to hit him again, he was ready.

He brought his right arm across his face and grabbed Vincent's fist with his hand. With a quick, fluid snap, Russell gave the bully's fist a twist.

Vincent howled. Tendons and ligaments sounded like popping corn as they tore away from the muscles and bones. Then, before he had a chance to react, Russell kneed him in the balls.

The bully grabbed his crotch and fell backward. His eyes watered, blurring his vision as if he looked through textured glass. He wanted to throw-up.

Now the roles were reversed, and Russell sat on top of Vincent. He looked down at his tormentor and smiled.

Vincent's face was covered in bright red blood as was the front of his shirt. A bruise was developing under his left eye. His right eye didn't look too healthy, either. A black circle had formed underneath it, and spider webs of broken blood vessels crawled across his eyeball. Blood bubbles pulsed from his nostrils, and Russ was amazed how much gore still leaked from the smashed nose. Vincent's breathing was heavy and labored.

Russell breathed hard, too. A bolt from his trusted puffer would work a miracle right now. But if he reached in his pocket for it, the distraction might give Vincent the opportunity to turn the table. Russ wouldn't allow that. He survived worst attacks in his life; he'd live through this one just fine. And when he was finished here, that bitter-taste of medicine would be oh, so sweet!

Vincent made a funny, gurgling sound in the back of his throat, paused, then spat a glob of bloody mucus in Russell's face.

You aren't going to let him get away with that, are you, Wheezer?

Russell jumped. He wasn't sure if he was more startled by Vincent's rebellious act, or the strange, unknown voice he suddenly heard in his head.

You can't let him get away with that. If you do, needledick'll beat you up every single day . FOR. THE. REST. OF. YOUR. LIFE.

No, he couldn't let Vincent get away with it. And, yes, if he did, his torment would never end. Ever. Somehow, Russell knew the bully had to be stopped. He had to be taught a lesson. He couldn't be allowed to torment anyone anymore. This was where it stopped. Right here at the quarry. Right now.