Night Of The Beast (23 page)

He was that ready. Baking in the heat, parched and dazed; standing out there on the lower lip of nothing, by a narrow strip of highway. Alone, without a clue to where he was or why he'd come.

Vargas, too, had experienced impossibly potent visions. His were dreams of absolute power, untamed lust. He was drunk on the wine of corruption; stuffed full of raw, pink flesh carved at the table to The Beast. He now understood that the thing would be his, over and over, whenever he wished to do it. Moreover, that the pleasure could be increased a thousandfold. Vargas was offered tantalizing peeks, tormentingly sensual promises meant to tease and inflame him. They did. He'd already lost more than half of his mind, and all but a fragment of his soul.

The nights were wonderful, but when he opened his eyes in the morning he was filled with despair; crushed to find himself a mere mortal again. He ached for his fantasy to take root and flower into reality. He had begun to believe that it would. Someday soon.

But when? What must he do to make it happen — and why was he here, in the middle of this fucking desert?

Something moved in the far, purple hills. It shimmered like a mirage and then took shape at the end of the highway. The thing crept along, turned his direction; inched closer, like a shiny black beetle. Vargas finally heard the engine. He stood watching as the car grew larger. A brand new Cadillac, dark as printer's ink, sparkling in the blistering warm. He raised his arm and stuck out his thumb, certain he'd been on this ride all of his life.

An hour, a millisecond: Glare of chrome, layered wax. The stench of gasoline and rubber, jarring after the flat, pure desert air. The brakes squealed. A horn honked, and his heart jumped.

Vargas approached the magical, glittering vehicle, his pulse racing. It seemed insulated, protected by an energy field. He was unable to see who, or what, was inside. No matter how he bent his head or turned his eyes, he was constantly blinded by daggers of light. He nearly ran away.

The imposing black Caddy squatted there, toad-like, and purred like a satisfied panther. The door to the passenger side swung open.

Faint music beckoned and sucked him closer. Vargas held his breath and ducked down, then hopped onto the leather front seat and into the future. He fixed his gaze on the plush carpeting that pillowed his throbbing feet.

"Close it," said a voice. The door. He yanked hard, yet it whispered into place. The Caddy crouched and leaped out onto the blacktop to cruise at blurring speed. Vargas gathered his courage and faced the driver.

He was shocked to find a human being. A big man, around Chalmer's size, but otherwise unimpressive. Visibly puffy, out of shape. A wimp who wore thick prescription glasses.

His stomach sank, went acid with disappointment and flickering rage. He'd tried to be patient, settled for scraps and vague promises, but no more. Anthony Vargas had played the fool long enough. Now someone would pay.

"You're pretty quiet, aren't you?" the driver said.

Vargas made himself belch. "Guess I don't feel so good," he responded. "Too much sun. Think I'm gonna be sick."

"Jesus, don't!"

In a flash, he'd pulled over and parked by the side of the road. Vargas weighed his choices, still pretending to gag. He opened his door as if to vomit.

"Careful!"

"Sorry."

"Hey, just get away from the car, okay? Toss your cookies and get it over with. Don't worry, I'll wait for you."

Vargas extended his hand and smiled disarmingly. "Nice of you, man. I appreciate that."

The huge eyes hiding behind the dense lenses were a puppy-sweet brown, guileless and trusting. The clumsy cream puff looked like an owl caught in the beam of a flashlight. He clasped Vargas' proffered hand and pumped mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He was distracted by the awful thought of stains on the upholstery of his brand new pride and joy. The man withdrew his grip, leaving Vargas close up and unencumbered.

Vargas curled his fingers, tensed his hand, bent his wrist back. He cocked his arm and took aim, then whipped the base of his palm — all of his strength behind it — under the man's nose. Gore splattered and gristle cracked, bone drove straight up through the brain. Limbs twitched. Breath rattled. The man was dead, but his body didn't know yet: Ruined face, shattered glasses, pathetic expression of surprise.

Vargas snaked an arm around behind the corpse to unlock the door. He pushed the body out and dumped it, unceremoniously, onto the scorching hot desert highway. Next, he stripped the man of clothing, jewelry and identification. Just in time, too — the stranger farted, emptied his bowels and stopped breathing altogether. Vargas shaded his eyes. He looked to the clouds for some kind of sign. He was holding fast to his new faith; a true convert, a believer.

"For you, master!" he shrieked. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine and rolled in reverse for several hundred feet. He was laughing.

"For you!"

He gunned the Caddy and deliberately ran over the naked corpse, nearly losing control of the vehicle when its tires bumped the immense form stretched out in the road. Vargas slammed on the brakes. He put the car in reverse and backed over the body a second time. Then into drive, across it a third time. The man was now just a mass of blue organs and red meat. Vargas threw the car into park, jumped out and threw several large chunks of the sacrifice into the pristine trunk.

He felt consumed by a kind of sexual ecstasy.

Vargas swung the big car around and started back towards the mine. He cranked the radio, found some good jazz, played bongos on the steering wheel. This felt good, really good —like with the thing in a way, only better. Richer. Vargas was nuclear, a stud. A wild man with a license to kill, traveling in style.

Soon it was calm again, quiet. Drooling vultures began to circle high above. The bolder males, cautious at first, eventually landed and began to peck at the steaming feast…

…Perhaps an hour later. We are beneath the earth, now. Footsteps echo with grunts and heavy breathing
.
Gooseflesh. Rotting damp, eerie dark. Two voices
:

"Goddamn you, Tony, stop fucking around and tell me!"

"I will."

"I mean it, Vargas. You've got me spooked. I wanna know where that brand new car came from."

"Gotta show you something first."

"The fuck?"

"Come on, Chalmers, it's only a little further down. Right around this bend here. Chicken?"

"I don't dig small places or dark ones, Vargas, and this damned hole is both."

"You'll get used to it."

"Like hell I will. Now, where did you heist the car from? What did you go and do, Tony?"

"As soon as we get to the end of this tunnel I'll explain. Now, how do you feel?"

"Dizzy."

"That's all? Nothing else?"

"It stinks down here, man. You been shitting down here or something?"

"Tell me what you feel, Chalmers. Tell me!"

"Well..."

"It's important. Say it."

"Crawly, like. Jumpy."

"Yes. Oh, yes. Go on."

"I dunno. Sort of charged up, the way you are when there's a storm coming and the air gets static. Makes those sparks happen when you touch somethin' metal. I kind of like it, though. Is this a test?"

"In a way, Chalmers."

"Talk to me, Tony. Now."

"Follow me down. I'll fill you in as we go. I think you're going to find this very interesting."

"Gawd, you
have
been shitting down here. Hey, where are you?"

"Here. Come on, use your lantern."

"Quit on me just now. Busted, I guess."

"Stay close, then. I know the way by heart."

"I don't like this..."

"Just a little further."

"Only if you —"

"Sure. Why not. Okay, Chalmers, I killed a man today."

"What? Jesus, Tony!"

"I sacrificed him, actually, but it doesn't matter. You'll see."

"Doesn't matter? Have you wigged out?"

"Watch your step here. There's a drop. Look, let me start at the beginning, from when I was down in Los Angeles and felt it for the first time."

"But…"

"Look. There."

Chalmers gagged and spat. "Fuck, Tony! What did you
do
to him!"

"You listen, Chalmers," Vargas said softly. "Then, when I get to the finish, you can call me crazy if you want to." The two men ventured deeper. Their words careened from wall to wall. The sunlight could not follow them, and soon the tunnel swallowed them. Soon, it was as if no one had passed that way in years.

"Edith is such a precious person," Gladys said. It was hard to understand her when she had a mouth full of carrot cake.

"You two are still friends?"

"Friends? Why, of course we are!"

They were seated in the plump woman's garish kitchen. The wallpaper was flocked. Peter had to make an effort not to glance down at his watch. He didn't want to appear rude, but the time was dragging by.

"Well," he said, "the last time I spoke to you she was driving you crazy with all of that astrology and Tarot bullshit."

"Edith is an old woman," Gladys intoned, as if she herself were not. "Old women get lonely and make things up. We're still good friends."

"I'm glad."

She startled him by asking if he intended to pay a visit to his mother's grave... since it was Sunday.

"Yes," Rourke replied. "I guess I will."

The very thought made him go hollow inside. He got to his feet and praised her carrot cake by patting his full belly. "Time for me to be moving on, Gladys."

She made a childish face. He kissed her on the forehead. Her voice betrayed her loneliness.

"See you soon?"

She was still waving goodbye from her kitchen window as Rourke honked his horn and drove away. He thought about the dead.

His imagination flashed on dirty grey cement tombstones, covered with sweet, fresh-cut flowers that had long ago turned to weeds. Then below to cold, naked bones. Worms and maggots. Long snarling yellow teeth, laid bare by rot. Peter shuddered. The talent had unhinged him a bit. Something had bent too far and nearly broken.

He coasted down the alley behind Jake's garage — past that ancient, rusting tractor — and headed for Agatha's house. He was following an instinct as basic and as reliable as a bat's radar. When Maggie Moore opened the door, he was delighted to see honest pleasure in her eyes.

"Peter!"

"I believe I owe you a trip to the soda fountain," he said. "Let's go see if there's anything there that still sells for a quarter."

"If there isn't, we'll go dutch."

They walked in silence.

Dry air crackled like tin-foil around the faded walls and split wooden fences of the little town. Evening, silent as a cat's paw, slithered out onto the floor of the desert and moved forward. At the drug store, Peter held the screen door open for Maggie, then closed it gently behind.

Urich brought them two cold drinks. Unlike Martoni, the elderly druggist wore an air of aloof detachment. He smiled slowly at the two of them, the quarters Peter handed him, and as expected said: "Payment enough, I reckon."

The old man left Maggie and Peter alone, moving about efficiently, as if they were but one small table in a room full of impatient customers. As though he still had a business that meant something.

"You loved somebody." Maggie said. Observation, not intended as a question. He answered anyway.

"It didn't last long."

"She played around?"

"She died."

Maggie recoiled slightly.

"That was some time ago," he lied. "It really doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, it does," Maggie said.

"Whoa, girl. Ease up."

"It just makes me sad. She doesn't seem to have left you with very much. You hide it pretty well, but I think deep down you don't know who you are."

He met her frank stare. "That goes way back, long before I met her. I did drugs, too. I'll tell you all about it someday."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Satisfied, she sipped her drink. Urich returned to see if they needed anything. He cleaned the already spotless table and changed the empty ashtray.

"Glad you came home, Peter," he said quietly. "I missed you now and again. So did Anthony."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

Urich shrugged. "Caring is all people got, ain't it?" He vanished into the back room, a gaunt scarecrow in a spotless apron.

Through the door, into swirling dust; slow steps down a shattered sidewalk. Maggie stumbling, bumping into him. Body language.

"I'm not usually this forward," she said.

Rourke groped for a response. "I hadn't noticed." Great, Rourke. Smooth as silk.

"I'm insulted."

"Okay, I did notice. I just didn't think you'd want me to admit it, that's all."

She straight-faced him. "You mean I was that obvious about it?"

He threw up his hands and surrendered.

"I'm lost," he said.

"Are you embarrassed?"

"Hell, yes. I'm humiliated."

A cascade of giggles. "Are you always this pathetic with women?"

"Are you kidding? This has been one of my better days."

"Then you're hopeless."

"Never said I wasn't."

Something passed between them. Rourke felt it and blushed. Maggie, unable to meet his eyes, turned away to face the town square.

"Peter, what's that over there?"

Flames licked at the sunset. Swirling ashes, logs snapping.

"Listen," he said.

Raucous sound of home-grown country music. The Two Trees special was in progress, an impromptu social gathering. Lonely folks with nowhere special to go on a chilly Sunday evening. Whistling the light away.