Night of the Beast Page 3

  "We oughta keep him," she whispered.

  "Can't. Sister Jane don't allow no pets."

  "We could sneak him in, maybe hide him somewhere. Oh, come on Jason. Chicken?"

  He puffed up his little chest. "I ain't chicken."A blink."Hey, you know my name!"

  Karen looked shy and scuffed her heel in the gravel. "I've kinda noticed you places. My name is..."

  "Karen," he finished. "I seen you too."

  It was love. Had to be.

  The adventure that ensued lasted nearly a week. The children hid Dog everywhere; in closets and cardboard boxes, behind dumpsters and under beds. There were chases down the long, booming corridors and through crowded schoolrooms. The other kids seemed amused, but they were impressed enough by the pair's daring to cooperate and keep silent.

  Near misses: Sister Jane peeking out through tall, foggy windows with gnarled brass handles and icy panes of thick glass; knowing something was up, but not what. Doors opening, slamming shut. Much laughter in the night.

  And then it all ended...

  Dog squealing in a pet carrier, saliva running down his matted muzzle. Wet brown eyes filled with terror, hopelessness and longing saying: Keep me! Please, keep me!

  Whaaaaaaaack.

  "Oww!"

  Karen crying, her pretty face all distorted, desperately trying to pull her hand away. The ruler coming down on her reddened knuckles, again and again. Jason, hatred scalding his rolling guts, helpless to intervene.

  Whaaaaaaack.

  "Sister Jane," Jason shrieked. "It was all my fault, not hers. Don't hit Karen!"

  "You'll get yours too, mister." Whaaack! "Don't think I don't know the devil in a boy when I see him!" Whaaack! And Karen, just crying and crying.

  Later, forced to pray silently in the chapel, he and Karen had rubbed their bloody fingers together in an oath. They'd sworn to be the best of friends, forever and forever. Never before, or since, had Jason Smith felt such warmth…

  The heat, the sunshine, the thirst: He was back in Two Trees, Nevada.

  Dog wasn't dead, Jason Smith thought with a grin. They believed they'd killed him when they sent him off to the pound to be destroyed, but they were wrong.

  The desert sun was hammering down now, nearly blinding him.

  Jason wiped his filthy brow and idly kicked at the white stack of bones. Oh, no, you're alive, Dog, he whispered in his mind. You can still bite, and so can I. We're together, forever and ever.

  So hot.

  "Jason Smith, you settle down!" Chaos: Jason snarling and spitting and tripping over furniture in Sister Jane's Spartan office, while snow gathered on the frosty windowpanes and his blood ran wicked.

  "No! They can't take Karen away from me!"

  His birthmark was dark as spoiled strawberries, pulsating like an over-ripe blister. He could feel his entire forehead throbbing. Sister Jane caught up to him. She twisted his ear viciously and bent low, hissing like an alley cat.

  "Now you hush, boy. I'm going to talk to the Nelsons."

  None of it was fair. Bassad grown-ups. But Jason was curious, and in pain. He nodded.

  Sister Jane left the room, a rustling black gown and the smell of lavender soap. Jason tiptoed over to the door to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  "You think I'm crazy?" the man called Mister Nelson said. "I heard the ruckus, that kid's a caution. He's some kind of damaged nut case who just mumbles to himself all day. Besides, he's ugly as sin."

  Jason clenched his fists in frustration and bit his lower lip to keep from screaming. Karen, I love you!

  "They've been together for months now," Sister Jane was saying. Pleading. "They're like brother and sister. He's just upset at the idea of being separated from her, that's all. Please consider taking both children, Mr. Nelson." Another angle. "Mrs. Nelson? Surely you, as a woman, can see the logic in what I'm saying."

  Mrs. Nelson made a chirping sound, but the man's voice interrupted.

  "I wear the pants in this family, lady. Only the little girl. I'm sorry, but we just don't have the room for them both."

  I'll kill you, Jason thought. You can't do this to us. It's not fair. Can't!

  Ah, but they did. They surely did.

  So hot…

  Back in Two Trees, Jake Lewis was busy fucking around with his tractor, thinking about an ice-cold beer, when he heard an eerie voice wheezing right behind him. He turned off the engine.

  "Where am I?"

  It was that dude who'd been sitting up the way, staring at them bones. Where am I? What a dumb question for a guy in the middle of nowhere. Jesus, Jake thought. I almost pissed my pants. "Two Trees, Nevada." He stuck out a grimy hand. "Name's Jake. Thirsty?"

  The shake was brief, limp. Gave Jake the willies. "Jason," the tiny man said. "I would appreciate some water, yes."

  The odd stranger followed Jake up onto the creaking wooden porch. He accepted one tall jelly glass full, then two. Held the glass out for more.

  "Easy," Jake said. "You'll toss it up again."

  The little man nodded. He wiped the dirt from his brow and Jake noticed an ugly, wine-stained scar. Poor fella, Jake thought. He looked away quickly, inadvertantly telegraphing his disgust. Jason smirked.

  "Could I find some food, a place to stay?"

  "Further in," Jake managed. "Don't know why you'd want to stay here, though. This place is dying faster than my rhubarb patch."

  "Thanks," the man said."But I rather like it here." Jake watched him go, bewildered. Come out of nowhere, goin' nowhere, for no good reason at all.

  He started to return to work, then caught the wide, checked flash of Candace Stone's pretty red and white dress from the corner of his eye. She was walking some kids home from that makeshift school she ran, out near the edge of town.

  "Howdy, Jake," Candace called. Jake smiled and tipped his stained hat. He'd had a crush on Candace for nigh on forty years. One of these days, he'd do something about it, too.

  Color, motion, children's voices. Jason Smith, halfway down the dusty main street, turned to watch the plump hen and her noisy brood pass by. His pulse thumped at the sight of one little girl with long blond hair and a quick, easy smile. A smile very much like Karen's.

  The woman said: "Elizabeth Reiss, you keep up now!"

  They had lied to Karen, Jason thought, when she was that young and innocent. They told her she was only going away for a while. They didn't even let me kiss her goodbye. First they tried to kill Dog, and then they stole Karen. Fuckers. He sat down in the dirt. His eyes rolled back in his head. He drifted away again, into a fugue state…

  Childhood: Well after midnight, he had slipped from his bunk, past the other kids, and crept down the hall towards the chapel. The lovely little church was hushed, dark and still; all murky stained glass and plaster saints, painted up like Japanese whores. He knelt, weeping, and whispered the first honest prayer of his life.

  "Please, I'll do anything, but gimme Karen and say I ain't crazy. I love her. You angels know that, you're supposta know. Answer me. Am I okay? Can I get Karen back?"

  God was silent. Anger flared in his belly.

  All right, damn it. Then fuck God.

  "I know somebody's gotta be listening. Look, I'll give you anything, okay? But gimme back Karen."

  Jason thought for a moment, cringed and then spat out the rest in a rush. "Even if it's you, the freakin' Devil. You can have me when I'm dead. I want Karen."

  Or what?

  "Or I wanna get even."

  huhahuhahuh...

  A chuckling sound. Just the breeze, squealing past on rusty hinges? Still, perhaps it was a sign of some kind. Better than nothing. Or I really am crazy…Again: "I meant every word, cross my heart and hope to die. Give her back, or lemme get even."

  The world…changed, somehow. Another gust of wind caused a claw of emaciated branches to lean down and rap the ornate window above his bowed head. Am I going nuts? Is this really happening, or am I really crazy like they say I am?Does it even matter, in the lon
g run? From somewhere far up and away, soft raindrops fell and whispered vile promises. Dark corners wriggled, then came alive with something…hot. A being both amused and terribly hungry. Or was this just another hallucination?

  If it is, then I would rather be insane, Jason thought. Besides, it seems real enough right now. And what is real anyway?

  "I meant what I said. That's it for you, God," the boy said. He turned his back to the altar and farted in scorn. "Up yours."

  Huhahuhahuha, again.

  When Jason noticed the nearby bowl of holy water, he pissed in it. That made him feel better. He thought he heard something. This: What are you willing to do, boy? Are you willing to die?

  …Heat and thirst: Nevada.

  Back in Two Trees, while town hobo Spats Rafferty and old Doc Tyler were trading dirty jokes in the shade outside Urich's Drug Store, some odd-looking new guy walked right up to them, calm as you please, and asked for a job.

  Spats was pretty drunk, nearly as drunk as Doc. He pointed one shaky finger at the band of children Candace Stone was herding down a dusty sidestreet. A racking cough. "Well," Spats said, "Maybe ol' Candace would pay you to watch over her kids. Some of them girls is old enough to bleed, and that's ripe enough for me!"

  Spats broke himself up. Doc Tyler didn't find him funny, and neither did the stranger. They were looking at each other like long-lost relatives. Tyler seemed to be trying to tear his eyes away from the smaller man's ugly face. He couldn't.

  Doc finally spoke, his voice mushy and slurred from the vodka. "What kind of work you done before?"

  "All kinds."

  The man has a funny way about him, Spats thought. Can barely hear him, but you can't help tuning in.

  Spats: "Look, Doc, I don't think..."

  The little man interupted him. "Until recently, I was employed at the City Morgue in Paris, Texas."

  Doc's mouth gaped. He had a cowboy with a broken neck all laid out on the table, ready for gutting. Ranch owner wanted him buried proper. And he was too drunk to do the job himself, now. Doc considered, drank and wiped his eyes. "I can use you," he decided. "Startin' today, matter of fact. I reckon kind of part-time, though. Few bucks a week. Only fair to tell you, I may be leavin' town soon."

  "That's fine. But why leave?"

  "Hell, boy, undertaking's a living. Problem is, there's not enough folks around here to do the dyin'."

  Spats folded. Even the stranger smiled at that one.

  "I don't mind," he said. "My name's Jason Smith."

  Doc and Spats introduced themselves. Doc allowed as how he was Two Trees' only physician, as well as its mortician. Spats described himself as a man of leisure. After asking where he might find lodging, the disfigured little man strolled away. It was if the air had been sucked out of that area of the street. Doc blew out his breath like a horse rode hard and put up all wet. He looked terrible, of a sudden.

  "Strange little fucker," Spats said, shaking his head. "How come you hired him? Shit, you got no business left as it is."

  "I don't know," Doc replied, honestly. He shook his head. "Now pass me some of that, you greedy sumbitch." And they went back to drinking and swapping lies, just like that.

  Jason Smith shaded his striking grey eyes against the glare and located the Polson Hotel, an old adobe structure a bit farther down the street. He shifted his suitcase full of books to the other hand and continued on. A dust devil followed in his wake, as if on cue…

  He's missed Karen, but he'd lived. He had learned to conceal his rage, and his visions, from the medical consultants. After a while his birthmark had begun to improve, then almost come and go. Some days were worse than others, but overall it seemed to be receding. No one else noticed, and Jason took this as a sign. For weeks, he continued to steal into the chapel at night to pee in the holy water or smear excrement in hidden places. These acts gave him great pleasure.

  Father Thomas lectured all the boys on what to do if they ever got hard down below, but Jason already knew. He did not rush off to take cold showers and pray for guidance. He'd discovered how good it felt to play with his thing; stroke and rub it and watch it get bigger. Masturbation became his second favorite nocturnal activity and this, too, always took place in the church. Sometimes, just at climax, he thought he heard Dog barking outside. Calling; straining to get in, to be with him.

  Singing: What are you willing to do, boy? Are you willing to die?

  …Jason entered the old Two Trees hotel. Sultry shade.

  "I need a room," he said.

  "For how long?"

  "A night or two, most likely. Then I'll find something else."

  "Sure thing."

  Folks were nosey out here in Nevada. Balding, pot-bellied Hi Polson smiled as best he could, then flipped the register around for the new guest to sign. Hi had gotten pretty good at reading upside down.

  Jason Smith. Probably a bullshit name. Made sense a man might come here if he needed somewhere to hide, though. Who'd come looking?

  "Hotel's not exactly crammed," Polson joked. "I think we can find you something."

  "You have six floors?"

  "That's right, Mr. Smith."

  "Jason. Could I perhaps have a room on the highest? I enjoy the desert sky, especially at sunset."

  Polson shrugged and reached into the drawer. "How about sixty-five?"

  "Is that the very last one in the row?"

  Polson went back to the drawer. Jason held his breath. It seemed to take an eternity, but then the magic key was in his hand. Maybe he was being superstitious, but maybe this was actually…the right one.

  "Room sixty-six," Polson said. "Sixth floor. Elevator's not working, but the stairs are right over there. You want a hand with that bag?"

  "No, thank you," Jason said softly, a wry smile creeping across his twisted features. "I can manage. Right now I just need a long, hot bath."

  "I know the feeling. Tub is right down the hall."

  In the staircase, Jason released a deep sigh of satisfaction and leaned back against the peeling green wallpaper. So far so good, Dog. Perhaps my long journey is over. Make me mad, kill me again, I don't care. Just use me up, set me free, and tell me truth.

  Was it here that the battle would take place?

  3

  ROURKE

  "Where do I look?"

  "The camera is right here, beside me."

  Peter sighed with a mixture of apprehension and irritability. It seemed silly to have interrupted his busy work schedule to be interviewed, especially by a bald horror movie junkie who dressed all in black and had shirt buttons shaped like little silver skulls. It seemed to make even less sense now that he realized there was no camera crew, no makeup or lighting personnel, and that the whole thing was live over the internet. He stared at the small, phallic piece of blue plastic and sighed.

  "That's it?"

  John Emory Turi smiled and nodded. Turi had a back-alley, "hey meester, you want to see some dirty pictures?" kind of smile. It seemed appropriate considering his profession. He was the host of a weekly shock-rock talk show called "Grisley Gab." Rourke's young, orange-haired publicist swore the show was very trendy and just exploding in popularity. Peter made a mental note to fire the publicist.

  "Well, let's get started," Rourke said. "I have a lot on my plate today."

  "Believe me, I understand," Turi said. "And I do appreciate your taking five minutes out of recording the next Sour Candy CD to be with us today." Rourke realized the man was already broadcasting live, and he'd started off on the wrong foot. He forced a smile.

  "Excuse me for being abrupt," Peter said. "I'm under a lot of pressure."

  "Can you tell us a little about the new CD, Peter?"

  Rourke filled him in on some of the technical aspects; why he was choosing to record on old 24-track machines, using out-dated analog technology in an attempt to recapture what was once fresh and exciting about rock and roll. He suffered through the usual questions about his redneck background, his love of the high desert c
ountry, and how he had first discovered rock. But Turi seemed impatient, so he kept the explanation brief and waited for another question.

  "Can you give us a little hint as to the theme of this CD?"

  Theme? Rourke cringed inside. Suddenly the skull buttons made sense. Turi was expecting some kind of macabre, well-orchestrated lyrical structure, as had been the case with "Devil's Reign."

  Peter tap-danced around the query as best he could.

  "Well, let me just say that we'll be breaking new ground this time," he said. "There will be some stuff for our old fans, certainly, but I've been experimenting with some new directions as well. I'd rather not say more than that, at least at this point."

  "Are you personally aware of the impact your lyrics have had on an entire subculture in America, Peter?"

  "What?"

  Turi leaned forward. His breath was terrible; it reeked of sushi. "Your work not only sold a great many records, making it an unqualified financial success, but it also inspired an enormous underground following, Mr. Rourke. Practitioners of the occult, the dark arts, death rock fans, Goths, you name it. Everyone with an interest in horror seems to have been drawn to this record like moths to a flame." Turi snickered at his own, lame anology. "Why, I've heard of Goth's getting married to 'Devil's Reign' in San Francisco."

  Rourke blinked and sat back. "I'm not quite sure what to say to that." He had been promised the interview would only last five minutes. He checked the clock on the office wall. One minute to go.

  Turi adjusted the small desk camera. He raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. He, too, had obviously made note of the time. He wanted to get something dramatic or die trying.

  "You were honestly not aware of this, Peter? Your intent, was clear enough, but you have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams as to how far and wide you have spread your message."

  "Message?"

  Turi smiled again. Rourke suddenly thought of a barracuda. "The message of the End Times," Turi said, as if stating the fact of gravity. "You were trying to get the word out."