Night Of The Beast (42 page)

Rourke got to his feet. He stepped over the bodies and out into the night. The power had failed again, left him standing alone in the dark. He stared up at the sky, silently pleading for answers. No one responded.

It was time.

Time.

But who?

Rourke dropped his blocking and probed. "All right, you son of a bitch," he shouted. "Yes! Let's go!"

Something tugged at the sleeve of his talent.

He followed.

Smith, his mind still aloft in the web, stiffened.
White has escaped. He is coming, closing fast.

He felt a tremor of anxiety. Thought:
So what? The holy war will at last begin.
Jason released his tension. The warlock felt fully prepared. There was nothing to be concerned about. The Master would protect him.

He had only to wait.

Peter Rourke pounded along through the storm, slime popping at his heels, right into the jaws of the nightmare. He looked like a little stickman, sketched in by sporadic flashes of lightning on the barren, hostile horizon.

A flurry of images formed in his head: The dismembered dog, the gaping bullet holes in Gladys, Michael's brains on the wall, poor Glenn Bates sprawled in a doorway — And all of those random screams and flickerings.

Rourke paused, gasping, to lean against a tree trunk. He was suddenly aware of an odd pulse in the air — the rhythm of a darkness within the darkness. His stomach cramped savagely. He half expected to look down and see his innards sprawled in a colored mass at his feet.

For the first time, Rourke realized where he was headed. He swayed and weakened.

The graveyard. The mortuary.
Of course, because it must be in the place most likely to inspire terror in human beings
. Bass had mentioned Jason, a "creepy little fucker," worked at the mortuary.
But he'll see me coming…
He debated going down to the creek bed, through the running water and then up the drive. The rain was pelting his skin, stinging; tiny diamonds of ice formed on goose flesh.

"Mister Rourke!"

Timmy Baxter, here?

"Timmy?"

The boy threw his arms around Rourke's legs and hugged him tight. He clutched at Peter, gasping. Rourke heard racking sobs, felt the frail chest heaving against his thigh. He squeezed Timmy's shoulder.
It knows what frightens us the most….[…]
The bloody stakes tucked into the kid's belt and the hideous graphics flickering behind his eyes told Peter the whole, gruesome story. This child would never be eight years old again.

Timmy cried himself sane and faced the mortuary. "Is it comin' from up there? All the bad stuff?"

"Yes," Rourke said. "And from inside of us all."

"Lemme help you. Please?"

Rourke smiled and shook his head. "Thanks anyway Timmy. I have to do this on my own. It seems to be set up that way. Maybe this was all worked out a long, long time ago."

Timmy looked him square in the eyes. "Okay," he said. "But if you get beat, I'm gonna be right behind you. We've gotta stop what's goin' on here, Mister Rourke. We just gotta."

"Yeah. I know."

Rourke worked to gather himself. It wasn't easy. Timmy noticed, cocked his head and tried again. "You sure there's nothin' I can do?"

Peter sighed. "You could pray, Timmy. Shoot me some good thoughts. I just might feel you sending them, and that could help a lot."

A quick hug.

"You got it. Be careful."

Rourke stepped away from the boy. He turned, gripped his rifle and trembled. "I will," he croaked. He moved off, barely hearing the last few words thrown his way.

"You can do it," Timmy shouted into the wind. "But you gotta believe, Mister Rourke! Remember that, okay? Never let them get inside and lie to you. Just don't listen. You gotta believe!"

The voice faded, fear returned.

The graveyard sucked him closer. It inhaled, pulling Peter forward. The gate yawned and creaked, flapped in the wind like the eyelash of a dragon. The cemetery waited, as it had always waited.

It was time.

He walked. He could no longer run.
Cross through
, Rourke told himself
. Don't think, don't imagine, just go through. See if Bates was right, if Maggie is here. If the one called Jason has her. Be logical. Hold on.

Rourke was on his way to the gallows. He could almost hear the mob and the click of the trap. The gate swung open, picket-fence fingers wriggled. Tall branches seemed to bend and reach down to hook his flesh. Leaves winked, glittering in the wet.

Tombstones: Row after row of gleaming gray teeth, his shadow their licking tongue. Rourke stepped inside the gate. Hinges chuckled.
Hahhahhauuhahhau.

The wind stopped.

The sudden silence was more terrifying to him than any shriek of nature. He looked up in despair, but the moon had become the grinning skull of his captor.

MELISSA ROURKE.

Suddenly, the wind returned; puffed its cheeks and blew him backwards. Dead trees leaned like radar screens. Rourke held his ground until, from behind him, there came a scratching. A clawing at the earth... from beneath the earth.

Fear painted his mouth with iodine. He tasted himself: Guilt and cloying sin.

A breeze scuttled along the tombstones. His talent fed him a smell. Something spoiling, like an untended wound.

A rustle of dirt, sliding away. A rattling sound. Rourke looked down. His feet were rooted to the spot by fear. The rattle was the barrel of the rifle, clattering against the buckle of his belt. His arms began to twitch. He felt his senses enlarge and the moment froze in time. His body would not stop shaking.

Dry, bleached bones: Something rose up behind him and tried to whisper in his ear.

A lot of ground to cover, a lot of ghosts to pass. This cannot be, therefore it is not happening. He clung to the phrase desperately:
This cannot be, therefore it is not happening.

Walk, damn it.

A hand touched his shoulder. Rourke turned without meaning to, wishing in mid-action that he could faint, simply cease to think. He did not, and he did turn around.

Emptiness mocked him.
[…from somewhere else, jason cawed a harsh raven's chuckle and the little man broke wind…]

The gate, still flapping in the breeze. The path was empty. Peter tore his eyes away. He willed himself to look down. The grave was untouched, her tombstone cold as a block of ice. Sage caressed the back of his mother's name; brushed up against the battered marble like an alley cat.

He turned and began to walk. Again the shadow rose behind him, and again it whispered. Rourke tried to ignore it. How long have I been here, he wondered. How long did I stand there and put myself through that?

This time he made himself look directly at the name. He searched its letters for a sign, for anything at all.

JEREMY SHARPE.

He was amazed to feel so little, only a vague sense of regret. Rourke lost himself. He was just a little boy in a maze full of mirrors, seeing life from too many angles. He realized it was his turn to speak. Finally he said: "It's a shame we never knew each other, Jeremy. We both missed something."

The grave grunted.
Moved?
No.

The wind rose and pushed. He lost his balance, fell against the stone, toppled it over and crashed to the ground. The stars whirled above him, and the moon's pitted face seemed amused. Rourke clawed his way back to his feet and righted Jeremy's stone. He found his rifle and checked inside the barrel for clumps of mud. Satisfied, he turned to leave.

A transparent shape now blocked his way.

He shook his head and blinked. He could see the graves beyond it; look right through it, yet it was there. Something bulky, suspended only a few feet above the pathway. He probed
[this cannot be, therefore it is not]
and stepped into it, joined with it, stared right into the eyes. A face hovered; still, as if carved from white oak. It was pleading.

The face tried to speak, its eyelids like tiny lips flapping. Rourke understood. The memory was being superimposed over reality — two different negatives blended together to form one photograph. A freakish event, an illusion; perhaps also an opportunity.

Something was cut loose, from deep in his soul. It fell away like old stitches. The pain was brief, relief instantaneous. He began to cry. "Forgive me," he said.

Only silence.

"I'd do it again, Gramps," he said aloud. "I know you'd want me to. Forgive me."

More raindrops fell, but this time to cleanse. The thing became mist and was gone. Rourke was alone. GO!

Walk
[Maggie]
Run!

Stumbling, straightening, picking up speed: Finding his pace. Rourke raced through the rows of dead strangers, clumps of emaciated brush and clutching briars. He ran away from the bottomless pit within himself, and the tempting insulation of madness.

Jason, watching, drew in his breath with a hiss of respect. Down below, the half naked rat was working his way through the very best of traps. He's improving steadily, Jason thought with a ripple of unease. But Rourke does not yet realize that he has the true power. If he dies quickly, he will never know.

"Bravo, Mr. Rourke," he whispered, rubbing his sandy eyes. "Most impressive."

Jason stepped back from the window. He turned away, hands clasped behind his back: a little Napoleon, deciding the fate of his army. He began to pace, nervous now that the end game was near. A faint noise distracted him.

The woman. In the open coffin, so brave before but now mewing like a kitten at the two un-dead watching over her. Jason found her amusing. Her eyes were dull with shock. She was rolling her head back and forth, like someone observing a brisk game of ping-pong. She could not accept what she was seeing.
Just wait, bitch. There's more to come.

Jason grinned, his discolored teeth sharp and wolfen. He spun on his heels and peered out into the long, dark tunnel of the night. The man stood, frozen, by the nearest gate. Jason laughed. The sound, loud and grating, bounced from the torn red plastic couches. It filled the plush interior of the coffin Maggie lay trapped in; had begun to believe she would die in.

This silly little rat
, thought Jason Smith.
First he's afraid to enter the maze, and now he's afraid to leave it.

Rourke clung to the fence. He felt dizzy; wet, weak and small. He raised his head. The funeral parlor crouched on the hill, waiting to pounce. He could almost see its claws. The porch light came on, as if to taunt him. Here I am
[we are]
, it said. And she is here with us.

His rifle was now more of a cane than a weapon. He leaned forward like a cripple and continued the seemingly endless climb.

He glanced back over his shoulder. A shaft of moonlight emerged from the clouds. It gleamed, reflected by something that teased his talent.

Above his Grandfather's grave stood the small comfort of a crucifix. Rourke walked over to the tombstone, lifted his rifle and smashed down with the stock. The little concrete cross broke off and fell to the ground at his feet. Peter picked it up and stumbled back to the path. He held the crucifix tight in one fist, clinging to a vague hope for some kind of strength from outside himself. He had been introduced to Christianity in his childhood, but it now meant nothing to him. Perhaps that was about to change.

This time he barely paused at the gate. The night had wrung itself dry. It was now clearly alive, immune to any interference by man. Rourke felt as though he were entering an air pocket. His ears popped. The faint odor of burning sulfur drifted down through the stillness to singe his nostrils.

The mortuary was creaking and complaining with the sound of warping wood, of rusty nails pried loose from splintered beams by enormous pressure from within. Rourke paused on the steps to tuck the small concrete cross into the waist of his jeans. He clutched the rifle, then kicked the huge door. The booming echo of his assault ricocheted through the depths of the building. The portal slowly opened. He blocked his thoughts and stepped through.

An ugly little man with a distorted face and grey hair stood in the hall, less than ten feet away. He smiled pleasantly. Peter aimed the rifle at an imaginary dot right between those obsidian eyes.

"You're Jason."

The warlock mocked Rourke with a bow. "The same. And you of course, are dead."

"Why haven't I seen you before?"

Jason giggled. "You weren't looking in the right direction."

Rourke heard the doors slam behind him. It was suddenly very quiet. "Give me Maggie Moore," he said, feeling theatrical and foolish.

"Or?"

"Or I'll kill you."

Jason raised his eyebrows: Bugs curling to avoid a flame. His strawberry birthmark twitched, as if in amusement.