They Thirst (16 page)

Solange opened her eyes and said quietly, "It's moving again." Wes looked back to the board. The planchette moved to the T again, then to other letters, faster and faster. 'THIRST," Solange said. The planchette had begun spelling out THEY again. "THEY THIRST is the message. It's repeating the words now . . ."

Wes said uneasily, "What's it supposed to mean?"

"Do you have more to tell . . . ?" Solange began, and suddenly the planchette stopped. She narrowed her eyes, and for an instant Wes saw something there that seemed a mix of bewilderment and fear. "Bobby?" Solange asked. "Who's there? Who wants to speak?"

And slowly, with terrifying purpose, the planchette spelled out a new word.

"FOOLS," Wes said. "Now what in the name of God is that s. . ."

Solange gave out a piercing scream. The planchette darted from beneath her fingers and came up off the Ouija board, its sharp, triangular point flying like a missile at Wes's right eye. He was able to throw up a hand in time; the planchette struck his palm and bounced off, then fell to the carpet like the dead piece of plastic it was. Someone else in the room screamed, the scream was echoed from two or three more throats. Solange leaped to her feet. "Wes! Are you all right?"

"Sure," he said nervously. "Sure. I'm fine." He stood up on shaky legs and stared down at the thing that had almost gouged out his eye. "Little bastard tried to get me, didn't it?" He laughed and looked around, but no one else even smiled.

"I think . . . I'm going to be . . . sick," Missy said, her pretty face having taken on a yellowish cast. She stumbled toward the bathroom, and her boyfriend followed.

"It . . . moved!" Martin was saying, shaking his head back and forth. "It really did move!"

"That's enough." Solange took Wes's hand and massaged his palm. "You wanted party games, and that's what you got."

"Yeah." Martin looked around for a drink. "Party games."

Soon the life drained back into the party, but it wasn't the same. Already people were leaving. A cold wind seemed to be trapped within the living room, trying to batter its way out through the walls. The stereo came thundering back, Alicia Bridges begging for some body heat. But nothing was the same as it had been.

"I'm okay, baby," Wes said and kissed Solange on the cheek; her skin tasted of pepper and honey. She was looking into his eyes, her high brow furrowed, and he could feel her shaking. "Martin," he said finally, "you sure know how to fuck up a good party. Now why don't you get your ass out of here?" Wes felt like stomping on the planchette, breaking it into a hundred pieces of cold plastic. But he didn't; he didn't because for just an instant it looked like the white head of a cobra there on the floor, and no way—
no way!
—
was he ever going to touch that sonofabitch again.

Solange bent down, touched it tentatively, then picked it up and returned it to the Ouija board.

The music stopped, the guests left, and very soon the party was over.

The last of the big green trucks had hauled away Saturday's litter, and now the gently rolling knolls oyerlooking the green swan pool near Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle gleamed with bright droplets of dew. White rocket boosters aimed toward cold stars from their pads in Tomorrowland; the Sky lift was still; the Mark Twain Riverboat lay at the dock, dark water as smooth as a mirror beneath its hull; on flower-festooned Main Street gas lampposts burned low, casting just enough golden light for an occasional security guard in his electric cart to see by. It was just before three o'clock in the morning, and the huge Disneyland complex lay silent.

Except for the muffled noise of footsteps at the center of Fantasyland. A thin shape moved through the darkness, pausing for a moment alongside the docked Peter Pan Pirate ship, then moving away toward the high, white concrete Matterhorn Mountain. It was a dark-haired young man wearing a black velvet suit, black Gucci loafers, and a light blue Beach Boys T-shirt. Though his sharply chiseled, fine-boned face was unlined, there were subtle swirls of yellowish white in his hair, particularly at the temples and running along the neat side part. The whites of his eyes were the color of old yellow dust, veined with red. He was very thin and slight, standing several inches under six feet; he looked like a seventeen-year-old boy made up to play Henry Higgins in a high school production of
My Fair Lady
except that the pupils of his eyes were as green as Pacific Ocean shallows and slitted like a cat's. A network of blue veins throbbed slowly at his temples as he regarded the strange wonders of Fantasyland.

He crossed the path and stood staring at the dark, octopuslike ride, the arms of which were connected to grinning Dumbo elephants. He thought it looked sad and unnatural in its stillness, all the magic drained out of it.

He made a quick circle in the air with the index finger of his left hand, and the pupils of his eyes narrowed in concentration.

An engine began to whine. Sparkling white lights stuttered once and then flickered brightly. The machine began to turn, the grinning Dumbos bouncing gently up and down in the air. He smiled, entranced, wishing that someday he could meet the one who had built this magnificent place; he thought that if he owned this place, he would never grow tired of playing here, not in the whole eternity of existence that lay before him. But after a few minutes of watching the machine turn, his attention wandered. The white bulbs dimmed and went out; the Dumbos slowed and finally stopped. There was silence again.

He walked along the path toward the Matterhorn, peering up at it, thinking of home. The false mountain looked cold, coated with thick snow, and there were concrete icicles clinging to some of the ledges. They made him yearn for the blizzards of his youth, for the wild, screaming winds that drove the snow along craggy passes where no human dared to walk. It was too hot here in this land called California, too full of the sun; but he had vowed to walk where his teacher called, and there would be no turning back. He closed his eyes; a quick whirlwind of icy air shrilled around him, refreshing him before it died.

He had come out here from the city to be alone, to think about Falco. The man had aged. It was time to come to a decision because Falco was now unsteady and tired; and worst of all the spark of remorse Falco had carried within him for almost fifty years had now burst into the gnawing flame of despair.
Falco is like all the others,
he thought as he moved reluctantly away from the Matterhorn.
As he grows old, he grows soft and seeks an escape, and now in his bed he wonders whether praying will save him. If he prays,
the boy decided,
I shall kill him. Like the others.
The boy didn't want to think about that; his head had already been stung once this night by the name of God, spoken in a whisper from the mouth of a fool.

His skin suddenly tingled as he neared a cluster of trees on the far side of the Matterhorn. There were a couple of brightly painted benches beneath those trees, and in the darkness the boy could see the Headmaster sitting on one of them, waiting for him. He stopped and stood perfectly still; he realized with sudden shame that his brain had been too clouded to sense the presence of his Lord, his King, his strong and willful teacher.

"Conrad," the thing on the bench said in a soft, velvety voice. "One comes seeking from the south. You have called him, and he answers."

The boy closed his eyes for a second, concentrating: he distantly heard the roar of an engine, smelled oil and hot pavement. "The snake man," he said, opening his eyes when he was sure.

"Yes. Your lieutenant. He has come a very long way, following your command. Soon it will be time to act."

The boy nodded. "Our circle grows now." His eyes were bright green and luminous with eagerness. "We're stronger every night."

The thing on the bench smiled faintly and crossed one leg over the other; it folded a pair of hands like black talons on one knee. "I've spent much time with you, Conrad. I've taught you the arts of the ages, and now you stand poised to use your knowledge in my name. The world can be yours, Conrad. You can stride across it like Alexander."

Conrad nodded and repeated the wonderful name, "Alexander."

"Alexander had a marvelous thirst, too," the thing whispered. "Your name will be written in the history books of a new world.
Our
world."

"Yes. Yes." His gaze clouded, the problem of Falco streaked through his brain. "Falco is old now, much aged since we talked last. He knows too many of my secrets, and he grows weak."

"Then find another to aid you. Kill Falco. There's one near you now who has broken his ties with humanity, hasn't he?" In the darkness the thing's eyes, like white-hot circles, bored into the boy's face.

"Yes," Conrad said. "He brings the offerings of flesh."

"And in so doing, betrays his race for the sake of the new world yet to be. You are his king, Conrad; make him your slave." The thing regarded him in silence for a moment, a grin splitting its face. "Tread surely, Conrad. Use what I've taught you in my name. Carve your legend in the annals of the new race. But be wary—there are those in this city who know your kind, and you must strike soon."

"Soon. I swear it."

"In my name," the thing prompted.

"In your name," Conrad replied.

"So be it. Faithful servant, student, and right hand, I leave you to your task." The thing, still smiling, seemed to melt away into the darkness until all that was left was the mouth, like the grin of the Cheshire Cat; then it too vanished.

The boy shivered with delight. Touched by the Headmaster! Of all of his kind who walked the earth or hid in mountain caves or stalked in city sewers, he alone had been touched by the Headmaster! He concentrated on the snake man now, the one the Headmaster had told him long ago would be perfectly suited to the task ahead. He turned inward to search and saw the snake man on his motorcycle, reaching the distant limits of the great sprawling city. He thought, COME TO ME, and then visualized the black castle—so much like his own far away— perched on its cliff above Los Angeles. He was putting together a picture of the mountain road in his head when suddenly headlights blazed behind him.

Conrad whirled, hissing. A man driving an electric cart shouted, "Hey! What're you doin' here, kid?"

The security guard suddenly stomped on the cart's
brakes and screamed in terror. The kid wasn't there anymore; he had changed into something large and horrifying that leaped into the sky with a leathery rustle of black wings. The cart skidded along the path and left tire marks on the newly cut grass. The man's bladder quickly drenched the inside of his trouser legs. He gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, his teeth chattering. When he finally got out of the cart and looked around, there was nothing there at all, nothing. The place was silent and dead, just like any other Sunday morning at Disneyland. Suddenly his nerve broke like a frayed line; he leaped back into the cart and drove as if he'd had an early glimpse of something from Hell.

Kobra could barely see straight; his head felt like a blacksmith's anvil being beaten with a hammer. Somewhere at the center of his brain pulsed the red-hot, fading echo of the voice that had roared through him a couple of miles back—COME TO ME. He'd heard it distinctly, shatteringly. It was like standing right in front of the booming speakers at the Stones show at Altamont. He had been flying northward on the Santa Ana Freeway, keeping his speed just under sixty, when the voice had hit him. He'd opened his mouth and shouted in surprise, and the black chopper had veered across two lanes before he could get a handle on the bastard. Now, roaring across the dark network of streets in Buena Park with Disneyland just behind him, he knew he was going to have to pull off soon for some coffee, whiskey, speed, or whatever he could find to quiet the thunder between his temples. There seemed to be something burned on his eyelids, too, because when he blinked he thought he saw a picture outlined in electric blue against the darkness—some kind of big fucking cathedral, a place with towers and stained-glass windows and doors that looked like nine-foot slabs of redwood.

He thought he had to be flying on nervous energy because he'd been on the road now for ten hours straight with just a barbecue sandwich and a couple of ampules of amyl nitrate to keep him going. But he didn't care now whether he was hallucinating or not; below and around him there were scattered fireflies of lights, an occasional blinking neon sign or amber traffic signal. Ahead there was a dull yellow glow in the sky that meant the end of his journey.
Or maybe,
he told himself,
it was really just starting. Going to see what Fate, that phantom on a golden Harley chopper whose face can look in all four directions at once, has in store for old Kobra. Going to race that grinning sonofabitch to the finish line.

The steady blink of red neon off to the right of the freeway caught his eye: MILLIE'S—FINE FOOD-STEAKS—BREAKFAST SERVED 24 HOURS.
Get me some eggs and coffee,
he thought as he took the next exit,
get my fuckin' head to stop ringing. Maybe pick up a little traveling cash, too.

Millie's was a square little box of white-painted brick with cactuses growing underneath the windows. The air in the parking lot smelled greasy from a thousand steaks, bowls of chili, and plates of eggs passed over a chipped Formica counter. But there were two old Harley-Davidsons parked in the lot up close to the building's side, and Kobra took a minute to inspect them before he went in. They both bore California plates, and one of them had a red swastika painted on the gas tank.