Night Of The Beast (6 page)

Jason got an erection.

You wear my mark,
Dog said. The booming voice turned gentle. Jason's bleeding slowed, then stopped. But so did his heart. The red muscle ceased to beat in his chest and clenched like a fist. Panicked, the boy desperately tried to breathe; he pounded his own ribs as he dropped to his knees. He fell over, and the world began to slip away.
What are you willing to do?

Die. He was willing to die. And he did.

Moments passed, perhaps hours.

Blessed silence, except for the giggling whispers…

A long, deep gasp of air. His heart kicked. Dog said:
You are mine.
Jason fought back and got to his knees. He stared at the vision. He was now certain that he had indeed gone completely insane, but he did not mind. The spectre began to dissolve and twist into smoke. Jason continued to stare, his mouth hanging open.

Leave this place
, Dog's fading voice instructed him.
Wander in the desert and seek me.

"The desert? Which desert?"

"How am I gonna find you?"

I will find you,
Dog said.
In the desert.

"Hey wait!" But he was gone. So was the past.

So in the present, in the dying town known as Two Trees, Nevada, Jason Smith thought grimly
: He is gone, and here I am still searching in yet another place.
He checked the hotel closet for anything he might have forgotten. No, his books were packed; so were his notes, extra shirts and jeans. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door to room sixty-six behind him.

Hi Polson waited at the front desk, his normally cherubic face lined and haggard. Hi had not been sleeping well. His crippled wife Louise was acting more like a shrew than a former evangelist. Hiram was glad this little stranger was checking out. The man seemed to sneeze trouble, and the Polsons kept catching the flu.

Sheriff Glen Bates suddenly filled the doorway. Hi Polson breathed a sigh of relief. Bates always made him feel safe. Hell, when the man walked you could hear his balls clank. He was a decorated veteran and a career peace officer. The town was lucky to have him, especially with so many folks packing to leave.

Including, Polson thought with a shake of his head, Doc Tyler. Now, ain't that a bitch?

"Mornin', Hiram," Bates said curtly. "Gladys Pierson called. She told me Doc left during the night. You know anything about that?"

Hiram shrugged. "We was drinkin' a bit, Glenn. He gave me and Jake his usual speech about finding a place where there were more people to kick the bucket. I guess this time he meant it."

"Why?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

Bates blew on his badge, polished it. He was so weathered he almost squeaked like a holster when he moved. The sheriff looked around. "Where's the little guy?"

The elevator doors slid open and Bates turned. Jason Smith stood quietly, suitcase in hand, staring at him. With that fading scar half in shadow he looked oriental, almost VC. Bates shook the thought away, his skin crawling.
That's all behind you now. Discipline.

He nodded. "Jase."

"Sheriff," Jason said. "You've heard the news, I suppose. Would you like to see the note Doc left me?"

Bates accepted the folded piece of paper. It didn't say much. Tyler'd had himself a belly-full of working in a dying town. He declared Jason Smith qualified to take over as mortician, then closed with a cheerful goodbye to his drinking buddies Jake, Hiram and Spats.

Glenn returned the note to Smith. For some damned reason he couldn't look the little fart in the eye. He needed a drink.

"Guess you got yourself a job," Bates said. He scratched his head. "I reckon it's for the city, since Two Trees owns the mortuary. Pay won't be much. How you figure to eat?"

"Between jobs, you mean?" Smith was joking, of course. "Don't worry, I've got a little something put away."

The sheriff, uncomfortable as hell, turned to go. "You'll be moving into Doc's quarters, back of the parlor?"

"That's correct."

"Fine."

Bates stepped out into the blistering sunlight, glad to be back on his rounds. Jason paid his bill and followed, lugging his battered brown suitcase. Polson wondered: What's he got in there that's so damned heavy?

"Hiram?"

Louise. Upstairs, rolling around in her wheelchair. Hi Polson sighed. "Yes, dear," he called. "What is it this time?"

"Why don't you wheel me into the kitchen, sweetie? I'll fix us a nice lunch. It's such a beautiful day."

Well, I'll be damned
, Hiram thought.
Sounds like she's in a pretty good mood, all of a sudden.

"I'll be up in a few minutes, honey."

He began dusting and straightening up the lobby. Within minutes, he found himself whistling. Louise was absolutely right. It was a beautiful day.

Out on the cracked sidewalk, Jason Smith literally bumped into young Beth Reiss. Her pert, pointed breasts nudged the front of his shirt. She excited him. Jason had seen Beth dozens of times, and she still reminded him of Karen. He badly wanted to fuck her while she lay dying.

"Excuse me," he said quietly.

Beth was off-balance and supporting her blind father, so Jason stole a few extra seconds before stepping out of the way. Meanwhile, Elmo Reiss adjusted his thick sunglasses. He tapped the cement with his cane.

"Who's there?" Elmo asked pleasantly. "Did I slip or something? You'd think I would have memorized every pothole and pebble in this whole blasted town by now."

Beth Reiss was thirteen years old, sharp as a tack. She shot Jason a dirty look.
Just another creepo, trying to cop a feel. Yuck.

To her blind father, in a normal tone of voice: "Not your fault, Dad. It's Jason Smith, Doc Tyler's guy." A sneer. "He tripped."

As a child she was as tender as Karen, Jason thought. She saw no mark. Yet now that I barely have one, she scorns me. She is bleeding. She's nothing but a student whore. But Dog, she is beautiful.

Elmo's white cane rapped the pavement like a gavel. "Good day to you, Mr. Smith," Reiss said. "And how is Doc?"

"He left last night," Jason explained. "I shall be taking his place." He felt his eyes begin to drift towards Beth Reiss and her lush breasts, then tore them away as if Elmo could see. Perhaps, in a way, he did. The social climate grew decidedly chilly.

Mr. Reiss snorted. "Well, that crotchety old bastard always said he'd up and do it. Congratulations, I guess."

"Thank you."

As Jason turned to leave, Beth startled him by waving and calling out. "Bobby, we're over here!"

Robert Reiss. The sight of the young seminary student struck Jason like a physical blow. Something deep inside him snarled and tried to back away. He generally found it intolerable to be within more than a few feet of the man.

"Hey, Dad. Beth."

Robert began jogging through the dust. Jason's forehead darkened. His birthmark started to throb. He ducked his shoulder and tried to leave, but Robert arrived just in time to grab his free hand.

"Hey, Jason," Robert said. The warm simplicity dancing in his clear blue eyes infuriated the smaller man. "What's happening? How you doin'?"

"Fine," Jason mumbled. His fingers were twitching. "I take it you are on leave from school?"

"Nearly finished," Robert said proudly.

The handsome young minister was always graceful, and his face betrayed none of his revulsion.
Poor twisted little man,
Robert thought.
His scar seems to be getting worse again. The Lord certainly gave him a cross to bear
. Robert tried to pull his hand back, satisfied he'd delivered a friendly Christian greeting. He couldn't break contact.

For one elongated second, it felt as if he and Jason Smith had each palmed magnets of opposing polarity. Something crackled in the dry desert air and passed between them. To Robert, the sensation was like sticking his fingers into a tall anthill; hundreds of tiny stings rolled up and down his flesh in painful waves. He grimaced.

Jason pulled away, his palm now as red as that hideous birthmark. He managed to nod politely, then excused himself and darted off towards the mortuary.

"Odd fellow," Elmo Reiss said. He was perceptive, even in his world of darkness. "Can't say I care for him."

Robert just stared after Jason, shaking his numb hand. What a strange experience. Finally, he shrugged the uncomfortable tension from his memory and shared a hug with his sister. "Let's get something to eat."

Jason's mind was racing. It was happening. There was a White force on the way. A storm was brewing; perhaps the final battle was upon them at last. He could sense it, smell it on the wind: the stench of fallen soldiers, decaying in putrid heaps.
What are you willing to do?
But in order to find his proper place in the scheme of things, he had to summon Dog. He would need advice and counsel. But would Dog come again, at long last?

What was he doing wrong? He who had been abandoned, yet had kept the faith; taken great risks, studied and given his all?

Safe behind the wooden doors of the funeral parlor, Jason Smith managed to slow his pounding heart and concentrate. He had done what was asked, died and been resurrected. He knew he was close, look what he'd already accomplished.

So easy — everyone had believed him. Even the killing had been simple; pulling slowly on the strand of barbed wire while the old man thrashed and kicked and whimpered. Doc had been too drunk to resist. At the last, his bowels had emptied. Jason had mopped the floor and then dragged the corpse, with its ghastly frozen expression, into the embalming room. He had use for it.

He had read the books carefully, one final time. He had drawn the pentagram last night, immediately after the murder. Now Doc Tyler lay sprawled across it as an offering. His flesh had already begun to decompose in the sweltering desert heat. Some dim part of Jason's brain wondered:
Did I need to do any of this? Maybe I'm just fucking psychotic and this is all in my mind. What difference does it make, either way?

Jason unpacked his books. No, in truth, it did not matter what was true or false, not anymore. He would worship regardless. He would believe. Dog would listen in, come to him. Perhaps he would not. It had been so very long.

Jason knelt, naked, in the center of the inverted Pentagram. He faced the Seal of Belial, drawn backwards in Doc Tyler's blood upon the dusty wooden floor.

"
Besticitium consolatio veni ad me,"
he cried
. "Adonay, appear instanter! Eloim, Ariel, Aqua, Tagila, Varios
!"

Had the ground shook, or only his legs?

Again:"
Besticitium consolatio veni ad me!"

The foul smell of Doc Tyler's body seemed to grow worse, although it could have been Jason's imagination.
I am mad, I am truly mad
. Did the room now reek of sulfur, as well as moldering meat?

Nothing happened. Dog had refused him yet again.

Jason continued, but sensed he had already failed. Only the usual phenomenon manifested; sudden blasts of what felt like steaming vapor, tiny insects that grouped in Doc's blood. Arcane signs, but not the puppy's master. Not the Beloved one, The Beast.

Jason's birthmark flared and burst into flame. He screamed as it bored into his forehead like a cattle brand. The pain seemed very, very real.

The pain vanished. Jason knew he had come closer than ever before. The answer was near. He would call on Great Abaddon, leader of the Angels of The Bottomless Pit, for protection. He blew out the sacred candles; rose up, his knees weak. Perhaps Dog would never return. Perhaps, which was even more frightening a prospect, he had never existed.

But no, Dog was real and he was coming soon. Jason could feel it in his bones.

Jason dressed himself with weakened fingers. Should he leave Doc's meat where it lay, to bless the room for his next attempt? No, it was useless, now. He would feed it to the animals.

I am so weary, so empty from waiting. What must I do, Master? Tell me. And then it came to him, all in a rush. Jason Smith grinned in the gloom.
Of course. More offerings…

The new Sour Candy album was almost finished. Peter Rourke had spent all of the previous night and morning doing what he hated most: sequencing the songs, mastering and then suffering through gut-wrenching second-thoughts about each of his decisions. Back home, he opened his laptop, checked his email and found it backed up to Cleveland.

"Fuck this," he sighed. He deleted everything and then crashed like a 747 around three in the afternoon. It was a dreamless, exhausted sleep. When the alarm went off just after sunset, he almost cried. It's nine PM, Rourke, let's get up and at 'em. Jesus H. Christ, what a way to make a living.

I exist in the dark, he thought suddenly; work in it, wake up to it. I don't see the daylight anymore, never feel the heat of the sun on my skin.
I miss the desert, the mountains. I need to go home
. None of this is what I thought it would be when I ran away from Two Trees. Careful what you pray for, as someone once said. You just might get it.

Oh, bullshit, Uncle Jeremy said in his mind. It's your own damn fault. You've become what you always hated.