Night Of The Beast (35 page)

Oh, I might tell, Timmy threatened. You couldn't stop me, either.

Better not. I'm warning you.

Give me one good reason.

Julie was suddenly back at the window. She'd gone all sticky and hollow, as if her skin were made out of clear sandwich wrap. It was horrifying. Her nose seemed to strain itself right through the screen, like a thin cloud of fog. Her eyes were murderous.

Here is one good reason, she hissed.

Julie raised her pale upper lip and bared fangs. Were they real? Timmy didn't want to find out. He felt exactly like what he was, a little boy trying to bluff a monster with a couple of croquet stakes. She let her fangs drag along the side of the camper. They made a soft, raspy sound — teeth against metal, one equally as strong as the other.

Fffffffffffft. Click.

Timmy shuddered. It wasn't hard to imagine what those could do, how they'd rip into a body and tear the meat to shreds.

But vampers didn't keep promises or stick to deals. Some night soon, whenever the mood struck her, Julie would attack. Should he gamble, then? In the movies, the creature always needed a while to change back again. And Julie was outside.

"MOM!" Timmy screamed. He formed the cross, a shield of sharpened stakes. "Mom, hurry!"

You'll pay, Julie barked. She called her brother nasty names. He felt her rage, white hot, like the blast from an open furnace. She coiled, faded, and began to shift. Timmy gulped, his mouth dry as a sack of cat litter. Well, it's a race. Jeez, come on. You gotta hurry!

"Mom! Mom!"

Better get here fast, he thought. Before Julie has time. If you don't this will all be for nothing, 'cause she'll just fake you out again.

"Mom?"

"What the hell is it?"

Paula stumbled into the room, still tying the belt to her robe. The boy took a quick peek outside. The night seemed calm and empty. Timmy crossed his fingers for luck and yanked on his mother's sleeve. He dragged her down the hall, past the dreaded closet and over to Julie's bed. He felt around for a moment, located the light switch...

And there was Julie, sound asleep.

He'd lost. There was no sense trying to fight it, she'd won this round. He'd better stay quiet, at least for now. Until he found a new angle.

Timmy apologized. He blamed his yelling on a terrible dream, then softened things even further by claiming that Julie had been a part of his nightmare. That she'd been in danger. He'd felt scared silly, really worried about her.

His mother accepted the story immediately, and her trust disturbed him. He had to suppress a bubble of guilt, the urge to confess.

"Hey, Timmy," Paula said, gently stroking her daughter's hair. "I think she's getting better. She seems stronger now, don't you think?"

That was true enough. Julie wasn't pale anymore. In fact, she looked absolutely radiant.

Something woke me.

The dog, scratching, begging Rourke to let him go outside. Maggie lay naked in the firelight, fast asleep. Sleepily, Peter padded over to Monday. He opened the door and was blown backwards by the raw force of a howling wind.

Monday slid past his legs and out into the darkness. Rourke had to lean his full weight on the door to close it again. He walked to the fireplace, pulled the screen, placed fresh wood on the glowing embers. The room grew brighter. He wondered how Maggie could sleep through such a storm. The floor shook beneath his feet with each new roll of thunder.

Peter couldn't pull his eyes away from Maggie. So brave, so intelligent, so loving. He felt a sense of awe. How delicate, he thought. Her long lashes, the tiny flutter of thin blue veins in her neck, those sensitive, pillow-soft breasts. How vulnerable we are, in spite of ourselves.

She looked lovely in the firelight.

Shrill bells: Two longs, one short. Maggie sat up, groggy, and covered herself with Peter's shirt. He went to the phone, spoke into the antique mouthpiece.

"Gladys?"

His voice echoed and caused subtle motion, as if thrown down a long, wet sewer full of crawling things.
Hahhahhuuahhauuhah…
"Hello?" There was no answer. Rourke hung up, hid a tremor of concern and began to get dressed.

"Who was that?"

"Wrong number."

Maggie made a face. "How the hell can you get a wrong number with so few to pick from?"

Rourke met her gaze, willing himself to look calm. "Damned if I know, but some clown did it. Let's get dressed."

"Hey," Maggie said as she pulled on her jeans. "Want your dinner yet?"

"Sure. Make mine rare."

"Peter, what's the matter?"

"I don't know. It's not unusual to have a problem with the telephone in bad weather, but suddenly I'm worried about Gladys."

"How do you know it was Gladys? Maybe Michael was trying to get through to see if we're okay."

He patted her fanny affectionately. "Because the call would still have to be routed through her office, dummy. Go cook." Maggie realized he was right. She thought of Tony again and immediately reached for her clothing.

Peter cranked once, for Gladys. He tried several times before replacing the phone in its cradle. "Maybe the lines are down because of the storm. That could have happened just as she called me, but somehow I don't think so. There's something wrong."

Maggie looked back over her shoulder. "Oh, Jesus."

"Yeah. It may be back again."

"Let's not stay, Pete. Let's hurry up, have our dinner and then drive on back to town to get Michael. We should all be together."

"Yes, maybe we should," he said. He smiled. "You have a deal."

She put the steaks on to broil and went to the sink. Another gigantic blast of thunder. Maggie peered through the kitchen window. "Damn, this is a big one."

Rourke was looking for his socks. The floor was cold. "Yeah," he said. "Worst I can remember."

Maggie gasped and put both hands to the front of her neck. "Peter, something's moving around in the yard!"

"I let Monday out while you were sleeping."

She sighed and leaned on the counter for support. "God, that spooked me. I guess I saw his shadow."

"Shadow?"

She missed the fear in his voice.

"It looked taller than the dog," she said, "but too small to be a man. Probably just the lightning playing tricks."

Rourke skulled. The skin at the base of his neck grew taut, and tiny hairs bristled.

"Wait. I don't like this, Maggie."

She whirled, moved closer. "Anything clear?"

"No, nothing clear…but there is something out there. It's all around us."

She nodded furiously. "I can feel that, too. I thought it was my nerves."

Rourke took a look outside. The night stared back, sullen and indifferent. "No, this is an energy field of some kind. Negative energy."
[evil]
He opened the closet and slipped on a heavy hunting jacket. "Maggie, I'm going to get the dog. I shouldn't have let him out. I wasn't thinking."

"Peter?"

"Hush. Whatever it is, it might be happy just to keep us in sight and out of the way."

"Don't go too far," Maggie said, her voice husky. "Monday should be fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"I'll go armed, lady love. Heavily."

He took a rifle from the gun rack and loaded it. The front porch: Wild wind, pelting rain, everything slightly out of phase. His lovely little valley smelled like decaying meat. It conjured and taunted — dared Rourke to step down, move closer.

The wind died,
and so did someone he knew/not far/close
. A bad death, an ugly death, with more to come.

Rourke, fragmented by panic, stalled. He had never experienced such power. He'd been totally blocked, yet it had broken through. The night itself felt alive, a cruel and cunning enemy. Peter thought he heard barking to his right, up the hill, and started in that direction. His feet seemed to be sinking into thick pools of mud; hot, sticky tar that weighted him down and clutched at his ankles. Everything rolled in slow motion. He walked and walked, but didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

An illusion. A try at breaking him down.

He probed lightly. His vision cleared. He was at the foot of the slope after all. Only his mind had remained near the cabin.

"Monday? Here, boy!"

Thunder.

Vicious hail, heavy rain.
Another death. No, two.
Rourke retreated a step. Self-hate rose up with a vengeance:
[coward! you'd kill a helpless old man, but you won't try to save your own dog? jeremy thought you were a coward. prove him wrong]

Tune out. Shield yourself.

His head began to pound, picked up speed until it clattered like a jackhammer. It took an enormous effort of will, almost everything Rourke had, just to stand his ground. To take the blows.

"Stop it," Peter whispered. The voice droned on.

A savage bolt of lightning struck the earth, came close enough to drive him to his knees.

Maggie, trying to see out through the kitchen window: She went rigid with terror. A presence, behind her in the living room. Maggie felt eyes boring into her neck, but couldn't bring herself to turn around. The world shifted slightly. She heard a warped version of her own voice, and began to wash her hands. They would not get clean, so she washed them again.

Maggie scrubbed her flesh, scrubbed until it began to bleed; over and over, afraid to look up or look back, even to breathe.

[get in that car, just go... leave her, leave the dog. fuck them. you've always lived alone]
Rourke blocked with all his might and stole a moment to gather his wits.

"Monday! Here, boy!"

Something moved on the hill. Please mutt, let it be you. The shape came closer. Instinct made Peter throw up his rifle.

Rourke began to back away.
No more
, he thought.
You've shown me your stuff and it's good. Strong enough to make me think twice about another confrontation on your terms.

Maybe another time, in some other arena.

He fumbled with the latch and stepped inside, slammed the door and bolted it with a sigh of relief. Maggie was still at the sink. He returned his rifle to the gun rack and entered the kitchen. "I couldn't find him," he said. A frigid wave, high frequency:
[dirty i'm so dirty i'm so]
"Maggie?"

She spun to face him. Spray of dish water; soap bubbles pink with her blood. "Get away from me," she cried. "I'm not clean. I hate you for wanting to fuck me. Oh God, I see now I won't ever feel clean again. I'm so dirty!"

He slapped her, gripped her hands and held her close. They melted together, trading strength for weakness. "Shhh. You'll be all right, Maggie," Rourke said. "It's not you, it's what's all around us. The force we talked about. This thing is huge. Do you remember what I said? About how I thought it preyed on people? Remember?"

"Y-y-yes."

"That is what you're feeling. It is a lie. This thing is not human. And I think it is something that has always been here in Two Trees, deep in the bowels of the earth. It feeds on human misery and pain. That's what fuels it and keeps it growing. I think it has driven everyone within miles out of their minds. Some folks are already dead. Try not to listen to it, Maggie. Talk to me instead. Maybe we can help each other."

Maggie managed a wan smile. Rourke returned it and felt a tickle.

The phone rang. He answered. Something spoke.

It was alive, but not human. It crept down the wires; a sinister whispering, low chuckles, macabre grunts and inaudible words. A clattering freight train in that long, booming tunnel of a dead line. Chants, curses and incantations that mingled with the sobbing of an eerie, rising wind.
Hhhahhahhuuuahhahhhhhaauhaa….
Rourke smiled and nodded to the air.

"No problem," Peter said. "Really. We'll drive in right away. 'Bye."

He left the phone dangling, so it couldn't ring again, and took Maggie by the arm. "Gladys is a little upset by the storm, so we're going back to town to be with her. We'll get Michael, too. Okay with you?"

Maggie sighed and sagged with relief. "
Okay
? Peter, all I want from life is just to get the hell away from this town."

"Then maybe it's time we did."

Something wailed outside, its cry intense enough to slice right through the weather. Something tortured. Maggie pulled away, jammed knuckles into her mouth and slid down into a corner
. Jesus
, Rourke thought,
it wouldn't.

But of course it would. It meant to punish Peter, and also set off an uproar of emotions he'd be unable to suppress. The evil was feeding on him. Enjoying how much it galled Rourke to have that happen.

Screams ripped from a lost creature raving in unbearable agony. It went on and on. "Christ!" Rourke spat, grabbing his rifle. The shrieks wounded him, tore at his heart, set his talent on fire. So forlorn and betrayed, so pitiful; too much pain, with no release.

Rourke stepped out into the wicked, sadistic dark. He heard Maggie emit a high, primal scream of her own. A grieving sound. It provided him with a few precious seconds of peace by drowning out the keening wail of torment.