Night Of The Beast (25 page)

Something moved in the brush a few yards away. He fell prone with his rifle raised; found himself humping pebbles before his conscious mind reached a decision.

Jake felt better. At least here was a solid enemy, not some damned boogey-man from his own head. Whatever this thing turned out to be couldn't be any worse than the crap his imagination kept cooking up.

More movement: Something was coming down the hill, making very little effort to be silent. An animal, Jake decided. He cocked his rifle anyway. Only a damned fool wouldn't on a night like this. Any second now...

The brush parted and Jake almost squeezed the trigger. That would have been pretty dumb, since it would have announced where he was and what he was packing.

Of course. Murphy's Law, right? The man almost laughed out loud. The badger grunted in surprise; snorted, huffed and backed away. Jake lowered his rifle with a sigh of relief and a chuckle of appreciation. This was a good one, darn it. Funny as hell. A story to tell Hi Polson over a cold beer. But then something registered. Just as the badger had emerged from the brush, he'd noticed a flickering.

There was a campfire up there on the next slope. A campfire meant people.

That smell could be anything, he thought. It's not a skunk — a dead cow, maybe. Or a horse. I got to go, and that's a fact.

Jake started up the hill. He told himself a few jokes, the ones that always got old Hi to laughing once he'd had himself a few. He added up some numbers, just for the hell of it, then subtracted them again. Jake wasn't any too good at math. That's why he was doing it.

As he got to the top of the rise, he finally identified the horrid smell. It was rotting meat. The odor of a battlefield in the hot sun, or a packing-house where the beef has spoiled.

The orange ballet of a small campfire twinkled, warm and inviting. Jake paused for a moment. Why would anyone choose a place like this to cook dinner? Worse yet, who would roast and eat rancid meat? He considered turning back.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," said a soft voice. Jake stretched his ears, straining to locate the source. It seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right of the blaze.

"Care to tell me why?" Jake managed.

"You have been chosen, my friend."

"Come again?"

A figure stepped out of hiding. A small man, pale and skinny. He held something in his hands, something that looked like a cluster of human bones and fingers. Jake aimed his rifle squarely at the middle of the bastard's chest. He felt a squirming in his belly, a fluttering mixture of curiosity and sickening dread.

"I know you. Don't I? Well, don't I?"

A laugh, thin and screechy: "In a manner of speaking."

"What the hell is this? What's going on here?"

Jason spoke again. "You should feel honored, Jake. You have been summoned here because this night is sacred to the ancient ones."

"Who?"

"An tribe of Native Americans who were once called the Horse People. They are no more, unfortunately."

Jake blinked, not sure if he should laugh or run away. "Is that so. Sacred, you say?"

"Yes, sacred. And you, Jake, will now become an offering. You see, this event had to occur somewhere outside of town for the sake of... delicacy, shall we say. The element of surprise is essential to our plans, yet there are certain initial rituals we are commanded to perform."

"Okay, that's it. Good-fucking-bye, friend," Jake said.

He kept the gun pointed at ugly little Jason Smith and began to back away from the fire. That's when he saw It step from behind a pile of rocks. The boogey-man.

It was huge, shaggy and filthy; so deformed and nightmarish his initial impulse was to laugh. Count 'em folks, he giggled. How many arms? Legs? Can you shoot a thing like that? Hell, I wouldn't know where to start. Like which brain, for Chrissake.
Hah-hah.
And which heart — does it even
have
a fuckin' heart?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph
, Jake thought. This was the cause of that terrible stink. But —

The first blow broke his neck and nearly severed his head from his body. Mercifully, he felt no pain. It broke off his arms, one by one. What happened next was unspeakable.

She continued feeding.

Shhhhh
…Hear it writhe, hear it grunt and snuffle? It lives beneath the tiny town, and now it is fully awake again after generations of slumber. And all this occurred, too, as the thing called Orunde worked dark magic…

Sheriff Glenn Bates swam in an ocean of sweat, clawed by his nightmare of war. Horrified, but unwilling to part with it; awake, yet still dreaming…

...Gladys the telephone operator sipped white wine with her daffy friend Edith Evans, patiently listening for the fiftieth time to an explanation of how to read Tarot cards…

...Grocer Anthony Martoni moaned in his sleep. The photograph of his wife came to life again. She made love to him, her hips pumping like a young woman's. Martoni wouldn't have known the meaning of the word Succubus if he'd heard it — nor cared, nor chosen to stop the dream…

...Old Louise Polson stared up at the ceiling and searched for a way to recover her lost spiritual faith…

...Fred Langstrom began painting like a lunatic. He worked on through the night with no thought of food, drink or rest…

...Teacher Candace Stone slipped out of bed and walked barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen. She had to get away from Bert, the man who slept beside her, for his sake as much as her own…

...Far from Two Trees, in a national park, Robert Reiss woke up worried about his children. The young minister felt a crushing burden fall upon him. It brought tears to his eyes, anguish to his soul. Something was going sour, piling up everywhere, like poorly stored poison gas just waiting to explode. Robert had a difficult time getting back to sleep, despite a lengthy period of prayer…

...No one who lived in the heart of Two Trees chose that exact moment to step outside. If they had, they might have noticed the slim, ugly little man walking down Main Street in the wind. He had his hands behind his back and he was whistling. Peter saw him, could not help but see him. He sat up straight in his chair at the cabin and skulled Jason, watched him stroll across the fireplace screen like a blurred reflection from a color television set. A tiny man; arrogant, cruel and reeking of evil…
Who is that? Where is he?

The spectre dissolved, but the whistling sound remained a moment longer as if to taunt him. Rourke frowned and shook himself, trying to clear his head.

Maggie heard the keening whistle at Agatha's house, but it seemed tuneless. She assumed it was only the wind. She began to draw a bath, and then sat for a while on the edge of the tub thinking about Peter Rourke. She imagined his face, all kindness and weary intelligence. It was hard to picture him fooling around with drugs. He had such nice auburn hair. Sad eyes, too. Clear yet deep and melancholy.

She wondered: Am I falling in love?

More wind, half-human. Maggie shuddered, left the bathroom and went over to the ancient record player in the den. It was definitely time for some music. She felt a strange bitter cold bite deep into her flesh; the chill of the dead, wafting up from boot hill. She walked through the old house, flicking on the lights, and returned to the bookshelf nearest the record player. Nothing but old 45s.

Tommy Dorsey, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra. How stimulating. Her fingers raced through the dust to nab a cover that had caught her eye. How bizarre, Agatha.

Maggie giggled, blinked and looked again. Wow, she thought, this is a whole lot more than something to pass the time. It was songs from an album produced by Peter Rourke: "SOUR CANDY." She'd heard the hit single but knew little else about the group. Rourke must have sent it. She supposed he'd had an acetate, or old-fashioned disc, made as a present to Agatha.

If Maggie had made a wish just moments ago, it wouldn't have been for much more: A kick-ass record, a quiet night and a chance to peek inside an attractive man's head. She put the record on the turntable, her eyes dancing. This would be fun. Perhaps she'd learn something about Peter from his work in the studio.

Her bath was ready. The aggressive opening vamp to the long version of "Devil's Reign" was in full swing as Maggie dropped her robe and slid down into the tub.

Odd. The music now seemed violent, not at all like the person she knew as Peter Rourke. It sucked her in and blurred reality. Her skin broke out in little furry bumps.

"6-6-6 hundred years of pain

First the thunder and the lightnin'

Then the Devil's Reign..."

The piece terrified her. Maggie felt as if she'd entered the mind of a borderline psychopath. A man was slowly losing control of his sanity. The verses had never seemed this intense before, so drenched with morbid humor. She almost laughed.