The Fourth Trumpet (10 page)

Okay, God, I know I haven’t been your favorite person these last few years and I’ve been mad at You, but, please! Help me. Protect me from whatever it is that has me cornered. Help the person I heard yelling. If it’s Keith, bring him safely back to us. Uh, Amen.

A shout to her right caused her to flinch again. The creeping sounds to the left stopped as the shouts bludgeoned the night. It was a man’s voice. And it sounded like Keith’s. Andrea’s heart replaced the bile in her throat. Springing up, she tensed, waiting for the thing on her left to attack. It didn’t.

“Keith! Keith, is that you?”

“Andrea!” Came the instant response. “Thank God! Where are you? I need help!”

“Keep shouting!” Andrea called. “Keep shouting and I’ll go in the direction of your voice! I can’t see a thing! And there’s something out here with me!”

“Hurry! I’m by a tree with a lightning scar. Can’t give you directions. I haven’t any idea where I am. D’you know the tree I’m talking about?”

“Yes. I think I can find it. Keep talking. Or sing. Anything.”

He sang. The words to
Amazing Grace
rang out in the hideous gloom. Andrea thought his choice incongruous in their situation, but at least it was loud. She moved forward, then a few yards to the right, desperate to find the source of the voice.

“Keith. You’re louder now. Somewhere to my right, but I can’t see you or recognize the tree. Wave your flashlight.”

“I can’t. Busted when I fell. But I see your light. Keep coming straight. A little to the right. That’s it.”

Andrea’s flashlight illuminated two forms. One was a kneeling Keith, the other, a man lying on his back with eyes closed. As she got closer, Keith scrambled to his feet. Even in the poor light, she could see that his face was smeared with mud, his clothes were torn, and he was having difficulty breathing. But he was smiling.

“Thank God. I really didn’t think we were going to make it. I’d about given up.”

Andrea shone the light on the still form. “Who is he? He’s not dead, is he?”

“No, he’s very much alive, but he’s hurt. It’s Father Dunn.”

“Who?”

“Father Joe Dunn, my parish priest. Or, at least, he used to be my parish priest when I went to church. I-I’ve been sort of lax of late.”

“Priest? He’s the Catholic priest over at St. Michael the Archangel’s Catholic Church?”

“Yes.”

“But isn’t that church across the street from Sunrise Methodist on First Street? That’s a long way from here. What’s he doing in
our
woods? Where did you find him?”

“Right here in the woods. And, yeah, he’s a long way from home, but we can’t talk about it now. You point the light so I can see. I have to carry him,” Keith panted as he pulled up on the limp form, hunched over, and lifted the man onto his shoulders. It looked awkward, and Andrea didn’t see how Keith would be able to carry the limp man all the way back to the house. But she didn’t argue. Leading the way, Andrea made sure her light was in front of Keith at all times—leaving herself in the dark to stumble often.

They stopped several times so Keith could rest. When he’d just about reached the end of his strength, they heard the gurgling of the creek. They’d almost made it. Almost, but not quite. Andrea looked at Keith. “We’re just about there. You can do it.”

“Yeah,” he gasped. “I have to.”

Just then, the back door burst open, and two shadowy figures appeared in the rectangle of feeble light. A familiar voice called out. “Hello? Andrea? Is that you?”

Relief washing over her, Andrea waved her light back and forth. “Yes. Yes. And Keith is with me. He needs help with an injured man.”

Eleazar and Carrie must’ve understood, for both of them left the porch. Eleazar had a flashlight in one hand and, thrusting it out in front of him, made his way down to the creek. Despite not having his walking stick, he covered the uneven ground without mishap. Carrie was right behind him. Her face was wreathed in smiles of acute relief.

Between them, Eleazar and Keith were able to carry the unconscious man up the back steps and into the house. They laid him on the couch and covered his still form with a blanket. Dried blood was on his face and hands. Andrea went to get a washcloth and some warm water.

Carrie surprised Andrea by willingly assisting. She took over washing the man’s face and assessing the severity of his cuts and scratches. The one giving the most trouble was a long gash on his forehead. It was still trickling blood so Andrea blotted it, placed a folded piece of gauze over it, and taped it securely. Then she and Carried examined his hands. They’d been burnt and small blisters had already formed—red and oozing. Carrie took over and began swathing them thickly with clean gauze. He wouldn’t be able to use his hands, but at least they’d be protected.

“There,” Carrie said with satisfaction. “That should do it. I have no idea what to do about anything else.”

“How bad do you think he is?” Andrea asked the room in general.

Keith, who’d been in the bathroom with a pan of water, washing up, came into the living room in time to hear her question. “I don’t know. Damned hard seeing in that darkness. By the time I got to him, he was pretty much out of it.” He bent over the injured man, touched his forehead, and felt his pulse. “I guess he’s okay for now. What do you think, Eleazar?”

“Remarkable,” Eleazar said in a low voice. “I think it is simply remarkable that you were able to find him at all in this turmoil. St. Michael the Archangel Church is miles from here.”

Keith looked up and grinned faintly. “Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve got to tell us what happened,” Andrea cut in. “You had us worried sick. We all thought the monsters got you. And Thor? Have you seen him? We sent him out after you, but he never returned, either.”

Keith frowned. “No, I never saw Thor. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess I’ll go heat up some soup or something. And then, maybe, you can fill us in on your adventure. We’re all dying to know.”

Andrea left them, yelling over her shoulder for Keith to stoke the fire. She rummaged through the motley assortment of pilfered canned goods, settling on two large cans of pea soup. By now, she had the manual can opener down pat and removed the lids with no trouble. Emptying the congealed soup into a pan, she added water, stirred until the mess was smooth, the turned up the burner.

From the kitchen, she heard the low voices of Eleazar and Keith talking in the other room. Carrie remained silent.
Poor Carrie, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be expecting a child in this horror. It’s no wonder she’s gone half out of her mind. I’ve got to try to make her life easier. She was a big help with the priest. I should give her more credit. She’s missing her husband.

Andrea slumped against the counter, eyes closed, and thought about her own family. Where were they? How could three people just disappear without her being any the wiser? Wouldn’t she have heard them leave? A light tap on her shoulder roused her and she straightened. It was Carrie.

“Do-do you need any help?” she asked. “I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll do anything if you show me how.”

Andrea tried to squelch the second jolt of surprise and grabbed the spoon to give the soup a vigorous stir. “Uh, yeah, that’d be great. Should we put the soup in mugs or would you prefer bowls?”

“I think mugs would be easier,” Carrie replied. “I’ll get them down. And spoons.”

Together, the girls prepared four mugs of nourishing soup, leaving some in the pan in case the priest awakened. They carried them into the living room and set them, as well as a box of crackers, on the coffee table. Keith and Eleazar each took a mug without a word. The old man smiled and sat back in the recliner opposite Carrie.

“Ah, this is nice. Thank you.” He took a sip, licked his lips in satisfaction, and looked over at Keith, who perched on the arm of Carrie’s chair. “Now then. Tell us your story, Keith. I read the entire Book of Psalms while you were absent.” He chuckled and helped himself to a handful of crackers.

Keith slid to the floor. “Jeez, where to begin?”

“I suggest the beginning,” the old pastor grinned. “We have all night.”

THIRTEEN

Keith cleared his throat, took a long swallow of his soup then set his cup on the table beside him. “Gosh, it all happened so fast. In a dream-like slow motion—if that makes any sense.” He laughed self-consciously. “I went down to the creek, as you know, and was filling the bucket when I heard a cry for help.”

“You heard a cry? From the priest?” Andrea interrupted. “How’d you know it wasn’t made by one of those
things
out there?”

“It definitely was a human voice. For a minute, I didn’t know what to do. I had a flashlight, but no weapon—not that anything would do any good against those creatures,
whatever
they are. I was scared up to the roots of my hair, but the cries kept coming from deep in the woods, and, well, I threw caution to the wind and headed in the direction of the voice. And carelessly tripped over a root. The stupid flashlight sailed out of my hand, landed on a rock or something and, blink, it was out.”

“Murphy’s Law. I wish you’d come to tell us before you searched.”

“Yeah, well, I debated doing that, but it was very clear that this person was in dire straits, like something was after him. I didn’t think I should waste any time. If those
things
did have him, he needed my help right then and in one heck of a hurry. So, I went.

“Man, it was hard making my way through all the underbrush in that foul darkness. Every few feet I’d hear a twig snap or some weird noise and think one of the monsters was going to jump out at me. Talk about
Jurassic Park!
Jeez! It was awful. Anyway, I finally saw a light—really faint, but a light—bobbing ahead of me. It was Father Joe. He was leaning against a tree with a Coleman lantern in one hand, a handkerchief in the other, covered in blood and grime and God knows what else.”

“Were there any monsters around?”

“Not that I could see, but something’d gotten to him because he looked like he’d been beaten up by an entire gang of thugs. Or monsters. Insane.” He grimaced. “Then, as fate would have it or your Murphy’s Law, the lantern flickered, winked and died. Like having the lid on your coffin slammed shut.”

Andrea winced.

Just then, the man on the couch groaned, and all eyes turned to the injured priest. Keith sprang up and went to his friend. Father Joe opened two blackened, partially swollen eyes, blinked a few times in confusion, and then focused on the young man bending over him. “R-Reynolds?”

“Yeah, Father Joe. It’s Keith Reynolds. I’m surprised you remember me.”

The priest, who appeared to be in his early forties, grinned wryly. “Yeah, it’s been a few years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has. How d’you feel? Are you up to having a little pea soup? It’s pretty awful, but at least it’s hot.”

Father Joe grimaced and tried to shift his position. Keith reached to help him sit up. He propped some pillows behind the injured man and covered his legs with the blanket.

“Soup sounds good,” the man sighed. He looked at his bandaged hands and a crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Wh-what?” He looked up at the solemn faces around him, eyes widening as comprehension dawned. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “I-I
remember
.”

“Andrea will get you some soup, then you can tell us your side of it. Try to relax, Father Joe. You’re safe for the time being. This is Andrea’s house—her family disappeared when all this mess started.”

Andrea made a face. “Hi, Father, uh, Joe.”

“And this, here, is the Reverend Eleazar Thomas from Twin Oaks Baptist Church.”

Father Joe smiled up at the old man. “Yeah, we’ve met. At the Christian Churches Reach Out picnic a few years ago. We were partners in crime, if I remember.”

Eleazar beamed. “Oh, yes, that we were, that we were. You are correct. You and I were quite in sync, as I recall. Quite outshone the others, if I am allowed a bit of pride.”

“Yes, we sure did.” The two clerics chuckled but didn’t elaborate. The injured man glanced over at Carrie, who was curled up in her chair, stroking her swollen abdomen, the blanket loose around her shoulders. “And the soon-to-be mama?” he motioned with his head.

“That’s Carrie, my next-door neighbor,” Keith explained. “Her husband, Rob, is also among the missing.”

The priest nodded, face puckering as he processed the implication of what “missing” might mean.

“Okay. Andrea, how about getting Father Joe that soup,” Keith said with a burst of enthusiasm.

Andrea jumped up and in less than a minute brought back a steaming mug for the priest. Keith held it up to the man’s lips so he could take tentative sips. When he’d downed more than half the cup, the priest sank back and released another long sigh. “That was good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” Keith puffed out his cheeks. “Please tell us what
you
know about this crappy nightmare.”

The priest paused for a moment’s reflection then shook his head. “I wish I could. All I know is I was asleep in my bed at the rectory. Something wakened me. I got up to have a look around, and plain didn’t see anything amiss, except I
did
think it was darker outside than usual.” His laugh was sheepish. “I know that sounds hokey. It was night, so of course it’d be dark, but, I don’t know, it just seemed darker, if you know what I mean.”

“
I
sure do,” Andrea said, nodding. Keith and Eleazar murmured agreement.

“Well, anyway, it was so incredibly dark, and I was suddenly struck with the crazy thought that, maybe, I hadn’t remembered to lock the church. I hate doing it—always feel the church should be open 24/7 for anyone who needs to pay a visit. Anyway, I threw on some clothes and took my lantern to check it out.”

A stricken look washed over the man’s face and Andrea thought he was about to break down. He continued, looking over their heads at something only he could see.

“The side door into the church was open. I knew
that
door had been locked so I was afraid something nasty was afoot. And then I saw the flames. The church was on fire and oh, God, I ran back to the rectory to call the fire department but the phone was dead. I thought, then, that someone had cut the wires. I was at my wits’ end. I ran back to the church, went inside—I needed to get the Eucharist if I didn’t do anything else—but the flames were higher than my head. The church was being devoured right before my eyes. Nothing I could do. I tried to get the Blessed Sacrament out, I tried—”