The Fourth Trumpet (13 page)

Thor. He snapped savage jaws and sank sharp teeth into the thug’s arm, shoulder, and leg. The young man fought with a viciousness that belied his slight frame. He made repeated attempts to grab Thor’s collar but was no match for the big dog. He screamed again and again. “Get him
off!
Get the freakin’ dog
off
me. He’s
killin’
me!”

Keith struggled to his feet. Leaning forward with one hand pressed against his side, he helped Andrea up then turned to watch the unbelievable fracas in front of them. With a glance at Andrea’s stricken face, Keith stepped closer. “Thor!” he shouted with as much force as his injured ribs would allow. “Thor. Down, boy. That’s enough.”

Thor ignored him.

Andrea gave it a try. “Thor. Good boy. Good boy. Thor, stop. Stop, Thor.” The dog registered her voice and obeyed. He let go of the whimpering punk but circled him, giving guttural barks as though warning him not to try anything else or he’d be back.

“Get up,” Keith told the young man. “Get up, you repulsive piece of shit. And if you even
blink
the wrong way, I’ll sic the dog on you again. Understand?”

The young man mumbled something neither Keith nor Andrea could make out. Keith wasn’t giving the fellow an inch. “
What
did you say?” he shouted like a Marine sergeant. Getting no response, he turned to Thor and said loudly, “Thor.”

The punk threw up his arms to ward off another attack. “No,
please!
I understand. I understand. I won’t try nothin’.”

“Good. Now, maybe, we’ll let you live a few more minutes,” Keith spat.

Keeping a firm hold on Thor’s collar, he motioned for Andrea to lead the way. For good measure, she stooped and picked up the rock the punk had dropped when the dog jumped him. She hefted it from one hand to the other, letting the hoodlum see that she, too, meant business.

In a straight line, they started down the long driveway. Andrea had taken less than a dozen steps when she stopped so suddenly the thug almost knocked her down. Neither the kid nor Keith needed an explanation for her abrupt immobility. A yard or two down the road, four sets of greenish-yellow eyes glowed with demoniac lust.

No one moved or uttered a sound. Even the punk was frozen in abject fear. Thor’s ruff rose. He barked, whined and postured for a fight but didn’t go any closer to the monstrous
things
. Andrea held her breath until her pulse pounded in her ears.
This is it,
she thought, almost detached from the scene.
This is how we’re going to die. Oh, God. Help us.

Wails erupted from the creatures. Their throats opened to vomit shrill screeches, choking snarls, and terrible gnashing sounds. Andrea cringed and covered her ears with her hands. The punk was so frightened he crouched in the middle of the road with leather-clad arms wrapped around his head. Keith stood erect—eyes riveted on the monsters before him. Seconds turned into minutes. They waited, frozen in time, able only to count heartbeats.

They were so close, Andrea actually saw into their gaping mouths. Yellow teeth, dripping saliva and viscous drops of blood, protruded at incredible angles. Long, wet tongues lashed out, lizard-like. The scene was so unspeakable, so unbelievably horrific, that Andrea was sure she’d die before the monsters had a chance to sink their teeth into her puny body.

Keith gasped behind her. “Oh, God.”

“Keith,” Andrea backed up against him, and he put an arm around her quaking shoulders. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

“Shhh,” Keith hissed. “Stand still. Don’t move.”

Andrea couldn’t move even if she’d wanted to. Fear had sucked all strength and energy from her body. She could only lean against Keith and stare in abject fascination at the
things.

Then, suddenly, the front door was flung open and a shadowy figure appeared with a halo of light behind him. Andrea could tell it wasn’t Carrie, and she was positive it wasn’t the priest. Had to be Eleazar. When the old man stepped out onto the porch, Andrea wanted to scream for him to go back inside, hide, lock the door. But her voice was somewhere else and she couldn’t make a sound. Keith was breathing hard, probably having the same problem with prodigal vocal chords.

When the old pastor descended the four steps to the stone walkway, Andrea thought she’d pass out. The monsters were between them and the house. Couldn’t Eleazar see them? He
had
to see them. They were immense, loud, too horrific to miss.

“Children,” the minister called. “Hurry. Come into the house.”

Keith found his voice. “We can’t. The creatures are blocking our way.”

The black man’s voice urged again, “Hurry inside. The creatures won’t bother you.”

“You’re out of your—” Keith began.

An ear-piercing scream filled the infinite night and Andrea and Keith both let out yelps. The monsters gnashed their teeth, spit, then loped off into the darkness. Just like that. One second the things were poised, ready to attack, and a heartbeat later, they were gone.

Andrea let her body sag, and it took both Keith’s hands to steady her so she didn’t fall. She looked up into his haggard face and tried to smile. “Th-thanks.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome. Man, I thought I was going to pass out.”

“Me, too.”

“How’d he do that?”

“I’m past understanding that old man.”

“Dear, God, what next?”

“Yeah. What next?”

Movement beside them had both whirling around. The punk. They’d forgotten about him. The kid had taken his arms from around his head and was pushing himself up. He didn’t try to run away, didn’t say a word, only stared at the old man who waited for them on the front lawn.

Andrea looked at Keith and grinned. “Well. I guess we should go inside. Those
things
could come back, you know. They’re not gone for good.” She exhaled loudly. “That was unbelievable. Incredible. Really, really incredible.”

“That’s the understatement of the century. But you’re right. Let’s go. I’ve had enough terror to last a lifetime.”

Pushing the over-grown bully in front of him, Keith walked down the driveway, the pillowcase once again flung over his shoulder, making him a caricature of Santa Claus. Thor trotted alongside Andrea, who had the shopping bag clutched in her left hand. When they’d made it as far as the front lawn, Keith smiled at the black minister.

“Don’t know how you did that. Don’t think I
want
to know.”

Eleazar shook his cottony head. “Son, I did nothing. Just said a prayer. And, I believe that incident just took twenty years off my life. Sweet Jesus!”

Carrie stepped out onto the porch. “Please. Everybody. Come inside.”

Eleazar climbed the steps to join Carrie on the porch. He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “We are coming, dear child, we are coming. Everything is all right.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t all right. I watched from the window. I saw. I saw those-those beasts out there. They were going to attack Keith and Andrea and—” She stopped mid-sentence as her focus turned to the punk being pushed along by Keith. “Who is
that
?”

SEVENTEEN

It took several minutes to unload their loot, get the punk settled on the floor with his back to a wall, and take quick turns in the bathroom. Carrie offered to make something hot to drink, while Eleazar rummaged in a kitchen drawer for duct tape. Keith wanted the thug secured before they relaxed. Father Joe lay propped on pillows, looking wan and in pain, but wholly interested in the goings-on.

Andrea nearly tripped over a footstool when she heard Eleazar ask the crazed kid if he’d been hurt in the dog’s attack. The punk didn’t answer but the old pastor muttered, “I believe your leather apparel saved you from anything too severe. Blessed be God.”

Biting her lip, Andrea stumbled into the kitchen to help Carrie with the drinks. She didn’t know who to throttle first—the delinquent or the minister.

Finally, they gathered before a generous fire and several candles lit for illumination, each with a steaming mug of chicken broth. Andrea and Keith took turns relating the events leading up to the showdown with the
things
. When they got to the part where the punk attacked them, Eleazar interrupted. “What is your name, son?” His kind eyes rested on the kid sitting hunched over in the corner, back against the wall.

The young man, who’d been sullen and mute the entire time, let go a cuss word. Eleazar, however, showed no outward sign of shock. He continued to look calmly at the thug, his eyes filled with compassion. “I don’t think that word could possibly be your name, son. Care to try again?”

The punk sneered and another word belched up from the sewer of his soul. At this, Father Joe raised himself up and locked his intense blues eyes with the youth’s hooded brown ones. “You,” the priest said just above a whisper. “You are the one who torched my church aren’t you?
Why?”

The deviant tried to look away but found he couldn’t. It was as though the priest were a large cobra and he, a tiny bird. He sneered, coughed, and then a cloud swept across his gaunt features. “Yeah. So what if I did? What’re you going to do about it? Call the cops?”

“No,” Father Joe said. “I’m going to pray for your soul. With the last ounce of energy I have left in me, I’m going to pray for you.”

“And so am I,” the Baptist preacher added.

The young man looked from the priest to the minister as though uncertain how to react to this unheard of thing. He’d been prepared for accusations and threats of vengeance and final damnation, but not this. He shifted, tugged at the tight bindings and snorted. “Oh, thank you!
Thank
you!” he trilled in mock falsetto. “I’ve been
saved!
Praise the Lord! I’ve been saved!”

Keith stiffened and looked ready to slap the punk, but Eleazar stopped him with one eloquent look. The old man nodded at the delinquent. “You have the right idea, my son.”

The kid sneered again. Father Joe made a feeble attempt to push himself up higher but hadn’t enough strength. He collapsed onto the pillows, and the youth snorted derisively. “See? I really
gave
it to the collar. He’s hurtin’ for certain. And I
enjoyed
seeing the church burn. Like the Fourth of July, man. Sweet.”

“You poor kid,” Father Joe murmured. “I am so sorry.”

The old preacher nodded. “Yes, dear Joseph. I agree with your sentiment.” He looked at the punk. “I, too, am sorry, young man.”

“Yeah?” the youth sneered. “What do you have to be sorry about, nigger?”

Andrea and Keith flinched and Carrie blanched, while Father Joe struggled to sit up again. Eleazar, however, just waved a hand and leaned toward the foul-mouthed punk in the corner. “Son, I am sorry you have not learned to love yourself.”

“Huh?”

Father Joe broke in. “You don’t love
yourself
. Maybe you’ve never known what it means to be loved. If that’s so, I’m sorry, and the reverend is sorry, too. We’re so terribly and truly sorry. And I, for one, apologize for every cruel and hateful thing that’s ever happened to you. I want you to know that
I
love you.”

“As do I,” Eleazar said softly.

The kid ignored the minister and stared with contempt at the priest. “You
love
me? Yeah. Right. Wanna sell me the Brooklyn Bridge next? ’Cause I ain’t buying your crap.”

Father Joe grinned. “Yeah. Sounds hokey, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I really care what happens to you, kid.”

“But I torched your freakin’ church!”

“I know. But I still love you and want the best for you.”

“Man, I beat the crap outta you.”

Father Joe winced. “I know. But I still mean what I say. And to prove it to you—what’s your name, kid? Eleazar asked a while back but you never answered.”

“Fang. They call me Fang. I usually have a hunting knife on me that makes Dundee’s look like a kid’s toy.”

“No, your
name
. Not your gang tag. We want to know your real name, son.”

The kid looked down at his bound feet for a moment and scowled. Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “Richard.”

“Richard. My cousin’s name is Richard. It means ‘powerful-brave.’ It’s a good name. Okay, Richard. To prove to you that I mean what I say, I’m going to ask Keith to remove the duct tape. I want you to be free to move around like the rest of us.”

Keith looked ready to protest, and Andrea let out a gasp. Carrie sat, rigid in her chair. Eleazar, on the other hand, smiled contentedly. “Ah, a wise idea, Joseph.”

Nobody moved, however. The priest lifted one bandaged hand and waved at Keith. “Get the tape off him, Keith. Please.”

Scowling, Keith fished in his pocket for his scout knife and stepped over to the punk. The knife open, he raised his hand and held it suggestively over the kid’s spiked head, but a cough from the old black minister had him lowering it again. With a grunt of disgust, he cut the strong, gray tape from around the kid’s hands and ankles. Then he stepped back and glared at Richard, primed to fight should the punk make an attack.

“Keith,” Eleazar murmured. “That is all. Thank you. Now, please help the lad up.”

Keith grimaced but held out his hand. Richard looked at it suspiciously for a second then grudgingly gripped it. Keith hauled him to his feet, stood for a moment, sizing him up, and then let go. He turned and returned to his spot next to Andrea, mouth set in a straight line.

“So. Welcome to our makeshift little family, Richard,” Father Joe said weakly.

“Yes, welcome, my son,” Eleazar smiled.

Keith glanced at Andrea and rolled his eyes. She closed hers and squeezed his hand. Carrie deflated into a passive lump in the folds of her blanket.

“So, son, tell us about yourself,” Father Joe said in a breathy voice.

The punk scowled. “Nothin’ to tell.”

“Yes, there is,” the priest insisted. “Are you from around here or just passing through?”

“I grew up in this shitty town.”

“Did you finish high school?”

“Hell, no. Teachers were full of it. Always orderin’ me around and tellin’ me how useless I was.”

“Sorry.” The priest coughed. “Did you have a job, son?”