Table of Contents

- INTRODUCTION

- Preface

- PART ONE "THE INTERFACE"

- 1  ROURKE

- 2  JASON

- 3  ROURKE

- 4  VARGAS

- 5  JASON

- 6  ROURKE

- 7  TWO TREES/THE REISS FAMILY

- 8  JASON

- 9  ROURKE/ROBERT REISS/THE BAXTER FAMILY

- 10  ROURKE

- 11  TWO TREES

- 12  VARGAS

- 13  ROURKE

- PART TWO …"THE OFFERINGS"

- 1  ROURKE

- 2  GLADYS PIERSON

- 3  JASON

- 4  GLEN BATES

- 5  EDITH

- 6  PETER ROURKE/THE BAXTERS

- 7  JAKE

- 8  VARGAS & CHALMERS

- 9  ROURKE

- 10  LANGSTROM & JASON

- 11  MAGGIE

- 12  SHERIFF BATES

- 13  MAGGIE/LOUISE/LANGSTROM

- 14  CANDACE & BERT

- 15  GLADYS

- 16  SPATS

- 17  ROURKE

- 18  THE BAXTERS

- 19  SPATS

- 20  JASON/VARGAS

- 21  ROURKE

- 22  MARTONI

- 23  VARGAS

- 24  ROURKE/TWO TREES

- 25  JAKE

- 26  THE VAMPER

- 27  TWO TREES

- 28  MAGGIE

- 29  SPATS

- 30  THE BAXTERS

- 31  MARTONI

- 32  MARTONI/URICH/BATES

- 33  THE POLSONS

- 34  LANGSTROM

- 35  MAGGIE & MICHAEL & ROURKE

- 36  ROURKE & MICHAEL

- 37  BATES

- 38  THE POLSONS

- 39  THE BAXTERS

- 40  ROURKE & MAGGIE

- 41  GLADYS & EDITH

- 42  CANDACE & BERT

- 43  CHALMERS & VARGAS

- 44  BATES & MICHAEL

- 45  ROURKE & MAGGIE

- 46  JASON

- PART THREE

- 1  ROBERT REISS/VARGAS

- 2  THE POLSONS/TWO TREES

- 3  CANDACE & BERT

- 4  PETER & MAGGIE

- 5  GLADYS & EDITH/TWO TREES

- 6  VARGAS

- 7  THE POLSONS

- 8  JASON

- 9  VARGAS & CHALMERS

- 10  GLADYS & EDITH

- 10  THE BAXTERS

- 11  ROURKE

- 12  LANGSTROM

- 13  BATES

- 14  GLADYS & EDITH

- 15  TWO TREES

- 16  THE BAXTERS

- 17  TWO TREES

- 18  JASON

- 19  BATES

- 20  SPATS

- 21  MAGGIE

- 22  TIMMY

- 23  BATES

- 24  MICHAEL

- 25  VARGAS

- 26  ROURKE

- 27  JASON

- 28  ROURKE & TIMMY

- 29  JASON

- 30  THE END OF THINGS

- Acknowledgements

- ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NIGHT OF THE BEAST

A novel by

HARRY SHANNON

© 2011 Harry Shannon

INTRODUCTION

This novel is actually a golden oldie.

Why? Because I'm ancient enough to remember plastic 45-rpm records, the first drive-through hamburger stands, and the launch of Sputnik. I grew up on horror comics that served up serious morality tales, and super-hero fiction about men who wore masks and tights without exposing themselves to public ridicule. I devoured the dark pulp fiction of Mickey Spillane and John D. MacDonald. Also those old Gold Medal Books, Matt Helm spy tomes written by some guy named Donald Hamilton, and especially — oh, God how I loved them — those cheesy, two-sided Ace Books containing TWO FOR ONE original science fiction and horror novels by Andre Norton, A.E. Van Vogt and several other pioneers. You'd finish one tale, then flip that sucker over and start reading the other book from the back. Damn, I ate 'em up like popcorn.

To be honest, "Night of the Beast" is something of a tribute to those halcyon days and those wickedly entertaining little books. Additionally, it salutes the huge paperback explosion that followed the pioneering work of geniuses like Richard Matheson, Robert Bloch, William F. Nolan, Rod Serling and culminated in the arrival of guys like Stephen King, Robert McCammon, Joe R. Lansdale and Dean Koontz. It's omniscient, relentless, rapid-fire, messy, loud and hopefully more fun that having your dick nailed to a burning building (sorry, but that's my favorite Joe R. Lansdale line of all time). It's a put on of sorts, just plain fun.

The bottom line is, high literature it ain't.

Also, you should know that this manuscript arrives in your hands after a long and very arduous journey that began one drunken summer evening around forty years ago. For reasons I cannot explain (other than a vague and irritating urge to write) I grabbed my battered old Royal portable typewriter and banged out several macabre pages. I remember that they concerned an alcoholic sheriff in a tiny desert town who was trying to deliver two corpses to the mortuary on a dark and stormy night. That scene, nearly word for word, appears late in this version of the novel. I managed to scare myself, but unfortunately I didn't have the slightest idea what to do next. The pages went into a drawer.

Over the next few years I typed other scenarios, more or less as they occurred to me. All were intended to take place in the same Nevada town on the same stormy evening. I was unconsciously working backwards from the climax, in a hopelessly disorganized way, but I also knew that something intriguing was beginning to take shape. Meanwhile, I was writing songs with some success, making money, getting married, buying houses and sharpening an absolutely top notch drug and alcohol problem.

In the early eighties, my marriage and career began to fail and my chemical dependency problem reached its zenith. The horror boom was on, thanks primarily to Mr. King, and unfortunately I got it into my head to quit my job, live on credit cards and finish my Great American (Spooky) Novel.

Not too sharp a move, you know?

Yet somehow I found a New York literary agent of some reputation, completed a version of the manuscript and came very close to a hard cover sale on more than one occasion.

Then the horror boom popped, and so did my illusions of invulnerability.

A couple of years later, abruptly bankrupt and divorced but finally clean and sober, I went back into the entertainment industry. I worked in films while concurrently pursuing an MA in Psychology. I eventually settled into a nice, peaceful career as a therapist, re-married and had a baby. When the bug hit me again, I started writing the short horror and noir stories that were eventually assembled into the collection, "Bad Seed." I got a new agent, then spent more than a year on a mystery novel intended to be the first in a genre series.

But one night in 2001, for reasons unknown, I elected to search my cat-hair infested, malodorous, extremely cluttered garage and found the yellowing, rubber-band-encircled manuscript that had nearly kicked my butt in the mid-eighties. I took it down from the shelf and started to read it.

And hey, it wasn't chopped liver!

Actually, it read pretty damned well, despite being overly complex and a tad obese. Now I could see several of the flaws I hadn't perceived all those years before. I had a sense of what needed to change. And even better, to my utter delight, reading it brought back memories of my beloved "airplane books." You know the ones I mean, right? The gory, aggressive kind I'd buy in the shop at LAX for a business trip, and by the time I reached London I'd have read three of them suckers.

The problem was that the one telephone book-sized manuscript was all I had to work with. I had lost the word-processing disc (from the typist I'd employed) and didn't even have another copy of the book. Since I'm a moron about such things, I asked around horror circles. Eventually, I managed to find a guy back east who scanned that one precious copy for me, page-by-page, back into a Word file.

He mailed me a disc, and I set to work again. I cut an awful lot, which will seem hard to believe once you get into the book. I also added the "wrap-around" and the legend of Orunde before finally showing the finished novel

Like I said, it's been a long, strange trip.

To summarize, "Night of the Beast" (original title "Jason's Eye," then also briefly known as "The Talent") just turned thirty this year. It has sections written drunk on my ass, or wired out of my mind on cocaine in the 1980s (a lifestyle I do NOT recommend for creative or any other reasons) and other scenes carefully composed over a cup of coffee with my toddler daughter tugging at my jeans. It's homage, farce and an affectionate rememberence.

Yes...This novel is a tribute to every damned comic, movie, paperback book and campfire horror story I have ever read, heard, seen or told; also to Richard Matheson, Robert McCammon, Joe "Mojo" Lansdale, Richard Matheson, Roger Corman and especially early Stephen King and..and...you get the idea. Those who have scared the crap out of me for years.

Folks, whatever else "Night of the Beast" may be, it is a labor of love. And because of that, I'm absolutely thrilled to see it finally between two covers and in your warm, hopefully friendly hands.

I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.

Harry Shannon

Los Angeles, California

May, 2002/March 2010

PS. By the way, this novel is dedicated to Dennis Kelly, my English teacher at John Marshall Jr. High School in Pomona, California, 1963…Wherever he may be.

Preface

Oh, it has many, many names.

It has always been and always will be…

The Native Americans who first roamed this forsaken, barren land called themselves the Horse Humans. They were wise about the Nevada wilderness. They knew hunting and fishing, could create shelter from the chest-deep winter snow, learned where to find water and how to deal with scorching days and bitterly cold nights. And so the Horse Humans flourished and multiplied.

One summer the tribe noticed that the weak and the sick began to vanish, for no apparent reason. They found no track, spoor, or unusual scent to explain these disappearances, just the eviscerated bodies. When some of the very young and helpless were taken, nothing was found but their bones, picked clean of marrow. The wise elders met to share smoke and discuss the situation. They realized that something unknown and unseen now fed upon them.

The Horse Humans called the thing Orunde. They came to believe that Orunde lived deep in the ground, near the root of the tallest cactus, where the lone Two Trees grew; and that its dark hungers were as numerous as the blistering grains of sand. Orunde scattered skeletons about the desert, created thunderstorms to drown men and drought to parch their lips. It haunted the nightmares of their children, and left the Medicine Ones wailing from terrible visions. The people sacrificed to Orunde, so that it would not punish them. They tortured their enemies to death, and then made totems made of arm bones and fingers, wrapped in the hair from a horse. These things they offered unto Orunde, and they stayed on the land.

The legend had it that one blinding, hot summer Orunde was bored and hungry and wanted something to play with. It decided to twist the minds of all of the Horse Humans at one time, to see what would happen. The things that took place that night were beyond description. Bare skin was burned with forbidden symbols from a civilization long dust, and then flayed from screaming victims to be read aloud as they lay dying. Things were said, things were read and unspeakable things were done while Orunde fed upon the horror, smiled and fed again. It was a Night of Nights that seemed to last forever.

Come the morning, there were no Horse Humans left in the valley. Only a handful lived to tell the tale, and the tribe then ceased to be. Orunde saw this, and was pleased. Its hunger had been satiated. It went to sleep for a long, long time to digest what it had eaten.

Hearing of the disaster, the other desert tribes avoided the lands of the Horse Humans, calling it the Valley of the Bones. It was treated as burial ground. They marked and rode around it.

Generations passed.

Some white soldiers in blue coats arrived, but when told the legend of Orunde they did not stay. A band of hunters rode in searching for buffalo, but hearing the eerie night wind they broke camp and fled. Three decades later, settlers on the way to California rode wagon trains through the valley without ever pausing to rest.

Even the wild animals learned to avoid the Valley of the Bones, this place of the damned. In time the sands rolled over it and took its shape away.

Many years passed before anyone dared return. But then some ranchers saw the Two Trees and the grove of giant cactus. They dug a well to put down roots and a town was born.

By then, the legend had long been forgotten…

PART ONE

"THE INTERFACE"

"I have the direct experience

that in my essence

I am something apart

from the mental habits

that spin out my personality

and the current soap opera

of my life."

— Ken Keyes, Jr.

"the hundredth monkey"

"Appearances are evil, but they

are everything."

— Nietzsche

"Six hundred years of pain…The devil's reign."

—Peter Rourke, "Sour Candy"

"What color is the card I'm thinking of?"

"I don't know."

"Guess then."

"Green?"

"Try harder. Use the talent. Stop fucking around."

"I'm sorry. I am trying, honest."

"What number?"

"Twelve."

"Right, very good. Now the color."

"Red?"

"Wrong."

"Blue?"

"Shit. Pay attention, will you?"

"Brown. I see it now. It's like a reddish brown."

"Yes. Perfect."

"Can we stop for dinner?"

"Three numbers."

"I don't hear them."

"Then see them."

"I can't."

"No dinner until you try."

"But when it doesn't, it just doesn't, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Three numbers."

"I get colors better."

"That's why I'm leaning on numbers, stupid."

"I know! One, two, three."

"Yeah. Now, is that simple enough for you?"

"I looked in the wrong places."

"Then don't. I'm going to play some music. Tell me something about who composed it."

"That's not fair."

"I don't have to be fair. I'm your father."

1

ROURKE

Peter Rourke eyed the musicians packed into the tiny recording studio like a prisoner peering out at a lynch mob.

"This sucks," he moaned.

"Maybe the song sucks," Bryan Friedheim replied. He straightened his beret and flicked

some imaginary lint from his puffed sleeves. Then, observing the genuine anguish in Peter's eyes, the gay engineer campily waved one wrist in the air. "But then again, so do I."

Rourke smiled wanly and said: "Turn it down, Bryan."

Friedheim's hands danced over the computer keyboard and then the master faders on the console, and the seething band members beyond the thick pane of glass became a pantomime act. Peter spun in his padded swivel chair and rubbed weary, work-reddened eyes. Rourke was a big man, with auburn hair and a penchant for guitars, torn jeans and cowboy boots. He hummed the lead riff to himself and frowned.

"What's wrong?" Friedheim asked.

"Woodley can't quite cop the hammer-off feel, damn it," Rourke said. "He sounds like

he's faking it."

"He is. Look, why don't you go in and play it yourself?"

"No way," Rourke said. "Woodley's the guitarist, not me. I realized the week I hit L.A.

that my best shot was writing and producing songs, not playing and singing them. There's more talent per square inch in this town than anywhere else in the world."

"Ah, humility."

"Brains."

Friedheim shrugged. "At least go in there with the group for a while. Help Billy Joe get

a handle on it."

"You been smoking your jogging socks again? Come on, Bryan. That would humiliate

the guy."

A musical racket ensued. The natives were growing restless. Peter held up two fingers,

signaling that he wouldn't be long. Someone took charge, and Sour Candy used the spare moments to run through a troublesome modulation leading into the final chorus. The section still felt lethargic.

The engineer dusted the impressive-looking new mother board. "One of these days, I'll

talk you into digital," Freidheim said. Rourke shook his head. "I doubt it. Music sounds better dirty than clean."

"Your public seems to agree with you."

"I'm burned," Rourke said. "Got anything?"

Friedheim raised an eyebrow. "Does the Pope shit in the woods? Is a bear Catholic? But

you should sleep, man. You've been up since the millenium celebration."

"I can't spare the time. Lend me some rainbow."

A frown. "I know you're shot, Pete," Friedheim said. "But shit, you've put half of Aspen

up your nose since noon."

"I didn't mean coke."

The engineer sighed. "I don't have to tell you that the rainbow takes you down as well as up, do I?"

Rourke, too exhausted to control himself, snapped back: "You got a better answer, Tinkerbell? I can't think straight anymore, and Sour Candy needs a hit. Like yesterday."

A long silence between old friends. The little engineer scratched his chin, then came out with it. "Look, this song just isn't a 'Devil's Reign,' Pete. Give them a rest. Hell, give yourself a rest. It's not a hit tune if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you," Rourke said. "Now, what about some help?"

"Try No-Doz."

Peter sighed. "I have. Not only are they a bitch to cut, but the chunks stick in the straw."

Friedheim collapsed with laughter. He reached into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out a tiny vial. "Just call me the toot fairy," he grinned. "But there's Oxycontin in here, and meth, and coke, and a fuck of a lot of other colors in the rainbow, so take it easy, dude. Okay?"

"Okay."

Rourke gratefully snorted some chemical assistance, rubbed his nostrils and leaned back to enjoy the effect. His eyes rolled back in his head and he twitched spasmodically for a moment. The engineer was busy snorting his own line, and failed to notice. But then Rourke stopped breathing.

[…he watches the doorknob carefully. it is brass, and the head reflects the compressed image of a table lamp. the reflection is moving, the knob turning, the closet door opening; it whispers along the nappy surface of a little throw rug, all spotted with freshly spilled blood...]

"I thought jocks from Nevada didn't do that kind of shit."

Rourke shuddered and breathed again. Bryan hadn't noticed anything amiss. Rourke sat up, sweating. Thought: Where the fuck did I just go? His mind cleared, and he winked to cover his fear.

"As my Uncle Jeremy always said, jocks from Nevada shouldn't run over budget on album projects."

B.J. Woodley, Sour Candy's hyper guitarist, was staring into the booth. He seemed desperate for approval. B.J. had chosen to wear flaming yellow sweats to the session, and the studio's sound-proofing was blood red. Rourke thought Woodley looked like a pudgy canary in the cat's mouth.

Peter tapped the talk-back button and heard his voice echo through the other room. "Good one, guys," he lied. "But I'd like another take, just to be on the safe side."

Groans in harmony. Lime Pauley, the drummer, started clacking his sticks together to set the tempo. He raised his voice over the din: re-tuning, whining and squeaky butts shifting on padded stools. The down side of recording live.

"Jeez dude," Lime sputtered, "I thought that was pretty good. Besides, Dee's gonna be here soon. If she gets in there with you, we'll end up fucking around all night."

John Hubbard, piano: "You got that wrong, Lime. Rourke's gonna end up fucking around all night."

Good-natured laughter.

Peter, his head still pirouetting from somewhere over the rainbow, was tempted to join in until Gordie Easton crossed his mind. Music Work's owner, and Rourke's boss, had a bad case for Dee Jennings. He viewed their sometime affair as a meaningful relationship instead of a career-driven hook-up, but Sour Candy's sultry lead singer obviously had a mind of her own. In short, Gordie would not have been amused.

Peter Rourke liked his job. Sure, the work wore him down; nudged him towards drugs and strained his nerves. It was also starting to make him rich in his twenties. Wealthy enough to put a redneck past behind. He thought it a fair enough trade.

"Knock off the bullshit," he barked. "Let's get on it. If you clowns would play the changes right, we could all go home early for once."

"Fuck you."

Thank God dirty looks don't kill, he thought with a grimace. That was out of line. The guys are trying. It's just not jelling, goddamn it, and that's more my fault than theirs.

"One," Lime counted. "Two. You know what to do..."

Before Peter could apologize, a pissed-off Sour Candy had launched into another take. Ironically, their resentment translated into fire and ice.

The song began to work.

Hubbard instinctively held back a little, then altered one synthesizer's voicing to a low growl at the top of the chorus. That prompted Joe Shane to start popping his bass, rap style. B.J. Woodley reacted in kind, stomping down on the volume pedal and crashing into his solo section like a tank springing from ambush. Real, on the spot musical feedback. They were zinging, driving, locking into it. Lime Pauley found something extra, too; by the end of the take he was whacking out an impossibly hip extra back-beat on the floor tom. Live music at it's unpolished best, rock as it once was.

Bryan Friedheim shook his head. He pursed his thin lips and reached for the rainbow vial again. "Well, I'll be fucked."

Rourke glanced over at the huge, rolling reels of the 24-track recorder. What was old was new again. He had always resisted going digital, and time had finally proven him right, but tape had risks attached. "You will definitely be fucked if we run out of tape."

"Promises, promises," Bryan lisped. He checked the computer's counter. "No sweat, Pete. According to my reliable little buddy here, we'll just make it."

And make it they did. Four seconds of absolute silence, with everyone holding his breath with the last note, in anticipation of Rourke's reaction. Then the tape rolled flap/flap/flap off the reel. Nail biting: Another one of the hazards of working the old-fashioned way.

Peter grinned and flashed a thumbs-up through the glass. Cheers erupted. He tapped the talk-back button.

"Fucking awesome!" he called. "Nice going. You're all released under your own recognizance, pending trial."

"Hell you say," Hubbard barked. "We know our rights, and we want to hear this one."

Bryan adjusted the equalization slightly, then rolled back to the start of the tune, as the musicians gathered in the booth. Peter told him to play the take at killer level, max honk. Hell, they'd earned it. This was probably one of the best cuts Sour Candy had ever laid down. It was bad, it was sixties, it was as snarling and as sprightly as something by the early Beatles.

Listening, Rourke felt confident that they had their follow-up to "Devil's Reign." He knew he was lucky. This time a hit would be due more to the band's playing than to his own songwriting.

Lime palmed Friedheim's vial and they all shared some rainbow to celebrate. The drug was catching on fast. It was a mind-ripping mixture of several different uppers and downers in powdered form. B.J. Woodley almost sneezed three hundred dollars worth into the console when Johnny Hubbard stepped out into the hall and called: "Red alert! This is not a drill."

Gordie. Christ. Peter began to straighten his clothing and tried to clear his bleary mind. The musicians ran for cover, suddenly got busy as hell. They started packing up while Friedheim rubbed his nose vigorously to remove any trace of the precious multi-colored powder.

Gordie Easton, the dictatorial owner of Music Works, had two serious problems when it came to relating to modern rock: He didn't understand the music worth a shit, and he disapproved of drugs. Still, he fully expected his staff to keep impossibly long hours in order to complete a project on schedule.

The door creaked open and Easton strode in. Gordie was nearly as tall as Peter, easily six feet; bald as a cue ball and cultivating a long, drooping moustache. He loved Hawaiian print shirts. Peter Rourke was the only employee able to look him square in the eye without laughing.

"Gordie, you surprised me. Funny, I should have heard your clothes coming."

"You got it, cowboy?" Easton barked.

Rourke nodded. "Think so. As a matter of fact, I'd probably bet my ass it's a hit."

"You just did," Easton said. He showed his wide teeth in a thinly veiled snarl. Rourke wondered if Gordie already knew about his hooking up with Dee Jennings. If he could have, Gordie Easton would have written "screwing no one but the owner" into Dee's recording contract.

"Kiss my ass."

"What did you say?"

"I was right about 'Devil's Reign,'" Rourke said defiantly. "Close to double platinum now, aren't we?"

Gordie didn't answer. He does know, Peter thought. But for the moment pride has to take a back seat to profit. Jesus, what a strange business.

"Wanna hear it, Gordie?" Friedheim chirped, figuring it was worth a shot. Easton shook his head, then turned and left without closing the door.

Bryan reached over with one graceful hand and sealed the booth. "Charm school grad," he explained to an unseen audience. "Went to school to study manners. Pretty smooth, huh?"

"He's a prick."

Friedheim shrugged. "There's that, too. Hey Pete, answer me something. You've got a monster hit, right? Your contract's almost up. Why you still gonna work for him?"

"Because he pays me so fucking much money."

Bryan considered. "Not a bad reason."

They stared at one another. Don't say it aloud. I need the girl, Bryan. I don't understand it myself, but I do. Nothing personal, but just let it be.

"When's Dee due in for her vocals?" Friedheim asked, casually. He fiddled with a pencil and eyed the clock. His face betrayed nothing.

Rourke glanced at his platinum Rolex. "Right about now. Why don't you go set up? Then maybe we'll have time for a break."

"Sure."

"Leave me another."

Disapproval? Bryan slipped Peter the rainbow, then split to adjust the mikes for Dee Jennings. Alone, Rourke took another long hit up each nostril, closed the vial and leaned back. Rainbow always made him feel dizzy.

He felt tired, so very tired. It had been a long project, and the stress of carrying on an affair right under Gordie's nose was draining as well. Rourke wondered what Gordon might have up his sleeve to retaliate. [... he was a little girl taking a long, scary walk home through the desert carrying a basket full of eggs; something was circling in the darkness, snuffling and drooling and edging closer…] Damn it, what's wrong with me tonight?

Peter gasped as a hand clutched his shoulder. He sat up in the chair and spun around. Dee Jennings kissed him and laughed. "Wow, you're jumpy. How much you been doing, cowboy? Long lines?"

"Yards," Rourke said. This is just the rainbow, he thought desperately. It can't be coming back, not after all this time. This has to be the drug. I've got to stop, get back to normal.

The drug could be triggering something dangerous. I don't want to be like I was before; open that way.

But then he lost himself in Dee. Quick peek down the hall; a tug on the door handle, the sound-proofing popping his ears. He kissed her long and deep, massaged her full breasts. Dee rubbed his crotch. "I think Bryan's watching us," she whispered with a shameless leer.

"Let him," Peter said. "He's gay."

"So?"

"We're probably boring as hell."

"Fat chance."

Footsteps. Gordie?

They pulled apart, Dee smoothing down her Sour Candy sweatshirt. It was the kind sold during the band's most recent tour; ash grey, with a mushroom cloud design and "The Devil's Reign" spelled in blood-red letters across the front. The title seemed to shimmer and gnaw at Peter's subconscious. People were taking the band, and the tune, so seriously. He'd only been screwing around when he wrote it. They weren't Satanists for Chrissakes. Harmless fun, right?

His skin began to hump and writhe. He looked away, swallowing bile. It's the rainbow. Friedheim is right, I'm doing way too much of this shit.

[please, god, don't let it come back]

When Gordie Easton returned to the booth, Dee Jennings embraced him. Rourke, flushed with helpless jealousy, managed to remain calm. His career was at stake. Besides, Dee had made no promises. Gordie left, and Rourke ran Dee through her lead vocals. The short brunette was her usual professional self. Four or five warm-ups, six great takes; enough for Friedheim and Rourke to finish the record over the weekend.

By that time the entire complex was empty. Music Works was located in a large, twenty-story office building that towered over a dark and foreboding parking center. Friedheim was uncomfortable walking out to his car alone, so Rourke left Dee waiting in his office and rode down in the elevator with his engineer.

Bryan unlocked the door to his garish pink 2003 VW. He gave Peter a quick hug. "Nice job, man," he said. His reedy voice echoed through the deserted underground garage like a jazz clarinet. "You done good."

"You too."

Bryan started his car: Thunder in Carlsbad Caverns. He rolled down the window, just as Peter began to walk away, and whistled sharply.

"Pete?"

"Yo?"

"You got to stop it, man."

Rourke tried to keep things nice and light. He spread his hands innocently. Grinned. "Stop which?"

"Both, sweetie," Bryan said. "She'll bust your nuts, sure as the dope. You know that. And Gordie Easton is not generally considered to be a tolerant man."

"Yeah. I hear you."

Bryan sighed. "Then you may as well hear this, too. You don't fit here, Peter."

"Why is that?"

"Really want to know? You're too nice a guy to be doing this shit. This business will eat you alive if you don't have a pretty healthy ego and some emotional walls to keep the bullshit out. Go home, man. You've made good money. Go home and get your shit together and start another life."

"I'll think about it. Honest."

"Good."

"Good night, Bryan." A pause. "Thanks."

The little engineer drove away. Peter started back toward the glass doors encompassing the elevators. His reflection was distorted; elongated and shimmering. That eerie feeling of disorientation began to return, and the paranoia with it. Reality took a hike, and Rourke found his imagination running wild.

He fancied that someone was following him. He could almost hear an extra set of footsteps bouncing off the walls. As if they remained only a fraction of a second behind, nearly matched him step for step. Then there would be breathing, too; harsh and ragged. Hunhhh. Hunhhh. It could be some demented fan, maybe; some maniac stalking Dee Jennings.

Or perhaps he was "remembering" some future time and place.

Rourke walked faster, his heart thudding in his chest. Okay, life is good. Look, nothing is out there. This is just me. Too much partying. Got to cool it. It is not the talent returning. That's never going to happen. Never. I don't have to go home to know that, do I? No, but I want to go home. I really do.

He was relieved when the doors closed safely. The elevator rose with a whoosh and took him to the seventh floor.

When he got back to his office, Dee Jennings was spread like a nude centerfold across the papers on his desk. Soft jazz whispered from the stereo, and the lights were turned down low. She was stroking herself with two fingers.

"Gordie?" he asked, slipping out of his shirt.

"He went home," Dee purred. "I said we'd be working late. He believed me. Gordie always believes me."

Rourke skulled something (warning) from very far away. A glimmer of his old gift, twitching. But Dee was right there, warm and inviting. The sinister voice disappeared the moment he was inside her. They rolled like the ocean, and after an impossibly long time exploded into a nova. Rourke passed out.

He woke up alone, in blinding sunlight, sprawled on the plaid couch in his office. The hangover was bone-crunching. Two enormous, yellowing potted plants seemed to be leaning down as if to claw at his face. This is suicide, he thought. I'm killing myself. He made a pot of strong coffee, booted up his laptop and checked his huge stack of emails for anything of real importance. It took a while.

Tinkling harmonies, discordant whines. The band was already in the studio, preparing for the next recording session. I've got to get back to work, Rourke thought. Feel jagged, strung out. Shit. He washed up in the rest room, patted his muscular frame with paper toweling and dressed in the same old clothes. I need to get some real sleep. I need to see the sunshine.

A little grass took the edge off, and Friedheim had brought a fresh supply of rainbow, so the day went pretty well. Much like the day before, and all the days before that. Except for this droning, persistent voice. Peter Rourke couldn't seem to drown it out; no matter how loud the music, how strong the dope.

You're dying, it whispered, dying and you don't care. You can't control yourself. Why is that?Do you even know what you're running from any more? Maybe Bryan is right. Maybe it's time to go home.

2

JASON

When Jake Lewis noticed the ugly little man in the faded jeans, he was sitting on his battered brown suitcase, staring at the remains of a dead dog. How he'd ended up here in Two Trees, Nevada was anybody's guess.

Jake wouldn't have paid him no mind, but strangers were rare as hens' teeth these days, what with the new highway and all. Besides, the man was on foot. Must have hitched his way to the turnpike, then walked a tad under six miles through the scorching heat. Had to be half blind from the sun and thirsty as hell, and yet he was just parked there, only a few hundred yards from Jake's battered old gas station, studying that stinking pile of bleached bones and stretched skin like some kind of Pygmy witch doctor.

Takes all kinds, Jake thought. He'll come beg a drink when he's ready. And with that, he went back to work.

Meanwhile, the ugly little stranger fiddled with the twine that held his suitcase together and stared down at the desiccated animal. His name was Jason Smith, and he was remembering; travelling back in time to recall the dog who had brought him Karen. The scruffy little brown mongrel, who had brightened his miserable days at Saint Augustine and connected him to another human being for the first and only time in his life. Dog had limped past the gates of the orphanage, whining, while Jason was hiding from some bullies near a stack of rusty garbage cans.

A little girl crossed the playground, and both spotted the mutt at the same moment. Jason had seen Karen around, but he'd never found the courage to talk to her. After all, he knew he was unattractive and small; the mirror reminded him every morning. His long, ragged red birthmark taunted him far more effectively than the bigger kids ever could.

"He's hungry," Karen said softly. "Hello, boy."

Dog lowered drooping jowls to his bleeding front paws and managed a feeble bark. The children giggled. When Karen faced him with a frank stare, Jason felt his stomach tie itself in knots. But she didn't flinch at his disfigurement. In fact, she smiled.

"He looks a lot like you," she said.

Jason surprised himself. "Heck, he's a lot prettier."

Laughter. Karen flashed a clean, slanted grin that dimpled her chin and wrinkled her freckles. Jason Smith thought: She don't care I'm ugly. He went all warm inside. Adults were full of crap. Kids could fall in love, just like anybody else.

Jason fumbled through the garbage cans and found a bone with a few shreds of meat still attached. He tossed the offering through the gate. The mangy puppy fell on it with a ravenous growl. Karen moved closer to take his hand, and Jason's heart skipped and twirled.

"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 long 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 country, 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."

"Fuck off," Rourke said, rising to his feet.

Turi's grin slipped a bit. "I beg your pardon?"

"Trying to get what word out? Don't try to pin that bullshit on me. What I was trying to do was make a buck."

"But, I…."

"Your five minutes are up," Rourke said. He stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him. He went back into the studio.

4

VARGAS

"The Devil's Reign

Reign

Reign…

The bartender got all kinds. His video saloon on Selma Avenue in Hollywood drew skinny punks with body piercing, bizarre hair and thousand-yard stares; con men, pimps and gum-chewing young hookers. He got your bikers, faggots and undercover cops. All kinds. But there was something different about this dude. And it was something really fucking scary.

"Storm clouds gather

In a bleak, grey sky

And mushrooms blossom

In a demon's eye..."

Dipshit. Kept playing that same freaky rock video, like he'd gotten married to it and his wife had just split. Sexy stuff, but pretty sick, with black magic symbols popping out of a girl's tits and some asshole carving her up with a knife. T&A with a little blood thrown in.

The bartender wiped some watermarks off the bar with a smelly orange rag. The handsome stranger listened to the music and soaked up the video. It had been like this for nearly an hour, now. Two men in different universes. The guy was so bizarre, when someone else wandered in they'd sit through a rotation or two and then leave again rather than ask him to knock it off, play something else for a change.

Weird taste, the burly bartender decided. Loves end-of-the-world songs.

A really good-looking Latino dude, though; movie star looks. He seemed totally hung up on that Sour Candy thing. The bartender found it depressing, himself. Pissed him off whenever his kids played the sucker at home. Nothing but noise. Junk food for the ears.

The dark man sipped some whiskey, his piercing brown eyes glued to those flickering neon tubes above the jukebox. He began to smile. Wickedly. The bartender flinched, reached below the bar and fingered the sawed-off baseball bat he kept handy for emergencies.

"6-6-6 hundred years of shame

First the thunder and the lightnin'

Then the Devil's Reign..."

There she was again, that spooky broad with the big tits, Dee Jennings: The bartender had seen her on the other music videos his kids watched all the time. He had to admit she sang her ass off, and what an ass it was, too. The band was easier to watch than most, but Tip still hated this fucking tune. Now more than ever.

"The Devil's Reign

Reign

Reign..."

He wished somebody else would come in, another customer. The bartender was not a cowardly man. He'd whipped some drugged-up, drunken ass in his time. But this character was starting to get under his skin in a very big way.

Hey, Ricky Martin, he thought miserably, welcome to tinsel town. You're in L freaking A, man. Go take the Universal Tour. Check out how they make movies. Maybe spend some money on a blow-job down the street. Just beat feet the fuck out of here. Okay?

"If Mid-east meets West

There'll be nowhere to hide

When mushrooms blossom

In a demon's eye..."

A nasty grin spread across the stranger's sculptured features. It looked like the snarl of a barracuda. The bartender felt perspiration dripping, forming icy saucers under his hairy armpits. Get lost, goddamn you. What is this, Halloween?

"6-6-6 hundred years of pain

First the thunder and the lightnin'

Then the Devil's Reign..."

Almost over, thank God. The bartender quietly emptied the change from the cash drawer into one pocket of his stained apron. Decided: Sonofabitch asks for more change, he ain't gonna get it. Fingered the weapon and waited.

"The Devil's Reign

Devil's Reign

Devil's Reign..."

The handsome stranger stared at the credits as if memorizing the name of the producer, Peter Rourke, and the publishing and record companies who owned the master recording. He nodded to the empty air, but as if to someone sitting nearby. He went over to the pay phone and ripped through the telephone book. He looked something up and snickered. He searched his pockets for more coins, but came up empty.

Scraatch/hiss/click.

The video monitor shut down, and the sudden silence was deafening. For one long beat the graceful stranger sat by the telephone, perfectly still, then slowly and silently he slowly rose to his feet, like a puppet on strings. He seemed to glide across the floor without moving his feet. The room grew cold. The bartender had a strange flash from childhood. He was small and helpless again, hiding in the closet while Daddy played monster: Grrrr — Gonna getcha — Grrrrr.

The slim, dark man left in a hurry, as if he'd just remembered an important appointment. He left the door open and he didn't leave enough money to pay for his drinks.

The bartender didn't give a shit. He closed up shop and went home.

5

JASON

Less than six months after Karen's adoption, little Jason Smith was called into Sister Jane's austere office for a conversation with George and Betty Nelson. They had grim faces and red-rimmed eyes. A lump formed in his throat as he intuitively realized Karen was dead. Betty Nelson ah-hemmed and stuttered past her grief to form some words. "We'd like to take you home with us after all, Jason. To be our little boy. She asked us to."

"Betty…"

"But first, I'm afraid we have some bad news..."

"You killed her," Jason spat.

George Nelson, his puffy skin ashen, recoiled like a garden snake. The scar on the kid's forehead had turned beet purple all of a sudden. It hadn't looked that bad when he'd first walked into the room. "Now, you listen here."

Sister Jane, soothing. "That's not true, son. Karen was sick. It's nobody's fault. She had a very bad disease."

Jason, eyes brittle and flaring with suppressed rage, remained silent. His skull was throbbing. "Look at the boy," George Nelson mumbled to his wife. "The shrinks are right, he's fucking crazy."

"Did you touch her?" Jason snarled. "Did you?" Nelson cringed.

"She talked about you all the time." Mrs. Nelson was close to tears. "George and I, we thought maybe —"

"You killed Karen," the boy shrieked. "Well, now you'll die!"

Sister Jane slapped him. Jason flew backwards and reeled into a huge potted fern. He fell, head ringing, onto the glossy hardwood floor. His voice dropped to a low, throaty growl that terrified everyone in the room. He growled like an animal and got up on all fours. He sat up and barked like rabid dog. The adults were petrified. Suddenly Jason Smith laughed and got to his feet.

"You'll both die. That's a promise," he said, and then he tried to attack George Nelson. It took a number of people to subdue him.

His time in the hospital was a blur: Blood tests, MRI, EKG, tapping and thumping and head shrinkers galore. "Paranoid Schizophrenic," they said. "Amazingly young to be this severe, isn't he?" One called him a manic depressive instead, and prescribed a number of medications. Jason lost weeks to a pharmacological haze. Once released from care, he refused to take his meds and wound up at a state facility in a white canvas jacket. Finally he stabilized and returned to St. Augustine.

Sneaking out of bed. Listening at the door: "He seems to have what Otto Kernberg called a malignant narcissism," one fat shrink said. "He may be dangerous, even sociopathically violent someday. His grandiose personal visions are more appealing to him than the real world; his fanatasy relationships more signifigant than his connections to other humans." Fantasy? Real? What did those words mean? Karen was dead. If that is reality, then fuck it. And fuck them.

Jason voiced the challenge: "You'll both die. That's a promise."

Even now, almost twenty years later, Jason Smith still relished the pallid, fearful look Sister Jane had given him when she heard about the accident. A head-on collision with a gasoline truck, only a few miles from Saint Augustine, had incinerated the Nelsons. No one had been able to reach them in the blazing wreckage. The shrinks said: "Obviously some kind of macabre cooincidence, but unfortunately it has now deepened the boy's delusions of granduer."

But word spread quickly, and as of that moment the local bullies left Jason alone. In fact everyone avoided him, even the staff. Cupped palms, glazed eyes, whispers of evil in the flesh.

In the chapel, late at night: Jason, overjoyed, slipped out of his pajamas and stood naked in the dark. He used a box of stolen matches to light two of the towering church candles. Flickering light, shadows dancing, ears ringing from far-away peals of laughter. Jason was not aware that he was humming and rocking…

"Thanks," the boy said softly. "Now I belong to you. Whatever you are. I guess that's okay, but when do I get to see you?"

You have, said a deep bass voice. It was in his mind. It said: You know me, Jason.

"I do?"

I am in the mirror, on your forehead. I am written on your skin, but you cannot yet ken my sign. I was also near the gate, by those cans of rotting garbage. You have seen me.

"I have?"

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

"I…I guess so."

What are you willing to do?

"Anything. Have I really seen you?"

Yes. And now you shall again.

Gooseflesh: The floor began to vibrate, the sky boomed thunder. It seemed impossible for everyone else at Saint Augustine to go right on sleeping, but they did. Am I really insane? The noise was earthshaking. Violent. But no one else heard. And Jason began to bleed, in an obscene parody of religious stigmata; first from the ears and then from his nose and mouth. Crimson droplets splattered the boy's trembling hands and bony knees.

He was very much afraid. What are you willing to do, boy? Are you willing to die? And he wanted to change his mind, but knew instinctively it was far too late for that…

"H-h-help me," Jason cried. His feeble whine was muffled by a low rumble as the building began to dance along its foundations. And yet he was still alone. No one had awakened. No one else had come to investigate.

Look at me!

Jason realized that his eyes were squeezed shut. He urinated and shook his head fiercely. He was too terrified.

Obey, the creature demanded.

No. Please.

Look at me, puppy. Looook at me!

He looked.

It was huge. Long, yellow canines drooled strange milky fluids. A giant tongue lolled and lapped at him, unrolling like a red carpet from its cavernous mouth. Jason saw thick grey fur, mangy and ripped away in places, revealing scarred patches of rotting flesh. The eyes were flaring coals above a long, black snout and the wide, wet nostrils bubbled with foul-smelling mucus.

The evil being barked. I am your saviour, it said.

"Dog," Jason whispered, shaking like a leaf. "Geez, but you're dead!"

I never die. And neither will you, if you serve me well. Do you understand, puppy?

The boy nodded. The truth was he didn't understand, but he wasn't about to risk saying no. How could Dog still be alive, much less so big? But the proof was right in front of him. Barking. How could so much be happening without anyone else hearing a sound? Yet it was, and he was witness to it.

What are you willing to do?

Jason turned away from those hypnotic eyes, his stomach churning with acid. He was now bleeding from every orifice. Amazingly, there was still no pain. Only the fear, terrible and paralyzing. He had made a terrible mistake. Dog reached for him. His massive paw seemed to stretch and get smaller at the same time; turn from a furry pipe into a hairy garden hose. Claws lightly raked the boy's face, smearing fresh blood across his hated disfigurement.

Jason got an erection.

You wear my mark, Dog said. The booming voice turned gentle. Jason's bleeding slowed, then stopped. But so did his heart. The red muscle ceased to beat in his chest and clenched like a fist. Panicked, the boy desperately tried to breathe; he pounded his own ribs as he dropped to his knees. He fell over, and the world began to slip away. What are you willing to do?

Die. He was willing to die. And he did.

Moments passed, perhaps hours.

Blessed silence, except for the giggling whispers…

A long, deep gasp of air. His heart kicked. Dog said: You are mine. Jason fought back and got to his knees. He stared at the vision. He was now certain that he had indeed gone completely insane, but he did not mind. The spectre began to dissolve and twist into smoke. Jason continued to stare, his mouth hanging open.

Leave this place, Dog's fading voice instructed him. Wander in the desert and seek me.

"The desert? Which desert?"

The North American deserts. Wander. Wait until I appear to you again. Have faith, for the time is coming. You will then repay me one-thousand-fold for my charity. Seek me and remember.

"How am I gonna find you?"

I will find you, Dog said. In the desert.

"Hey wait!" But he was gone. So was the past.

So in the present, in the dying town known as Two Trees, Nevada, Jason Smith thought grimly: He is gone, and here I am still searching in yet another place. He checked the hotel closet for anything he might have forgotten. No, his books were packed; so were his notes, extra shirts and jeans. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door to room sixty-six behind him.

Hi Polson waited at the front desk, his normally cherubic face lined and haggard. Hi had not been sleeping well. His crippled wife Louise was acting more like a shrew than a former evangelist. Hiram was glad this little stranger was checking out. The man seemed to sneeze trouble, and the Polsons kept catching the flu.

Sheriff Glen Bates suddenly filled the doorway. Hi Polson breathed a sigh of relief. Bates always made him feel safe. Hell, when the man walked you could hear his balls clank. He was a decorated veteran and a career peace officer. The town was lucky to have him, especially with so many folks packing to leave.

Including, Polson thought with a shake of his head, Doc Tyler. Now, ain't that a bitch?

"Mornin', Hiram," Bates said curtly. "Gladys Pierson called. She told me Doc left during the night. You know anything about that?"

Hiram shrugged. "We was drinkin' a bit, Glenn. He gave me and Jake his usual speech about finding a place where there were more people to kick the bucket. I guess this time he meant it."

"Why?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

Bates blew on his badge, polished it. He was so weathered he almost squeaked like a holster when he moved. The sheriff looked around. "Where's the little guy?"

The elevator doors slid open and Bates turned. Jason Smith stood quietly, suitcase in hand, staring at him. With that fading scar half in shadow he looked oriental, almost VC. Bates shook the thought away, his skin crawling. That's all behind you now. Discipline.

He nodded. "Jase."

"Sheriff," Jason said. "You've heard the news, I suppose. Would you like to see the note Doc left me?"

Bates accepted the folded piece of paper. It didn't say much. Tyler'd had himself a belly-full of working in a dying town. He declared Jason Smith qualified to take over as mortician, then closed with a cheerful goodbye to his drinking buddies Jake, Hiram and Spats.

Glenn returned the note to Smith. For some damned reason he couldn't look the little fart in the eye. He needed a drink.

"Guess you got yourself a job," Bates said. He scratched his head. "I reckon it's for the city, since Two Trees owns the mortuary. Pay won't be much. How you figure to eat?"

"Between jobs, you mean?" Smith was joking, of course. "Don't worry, I've got a little something put away."

The sheriff, uncomfortable as hell, turned to go. "You'll be moving into Doc's quarters, back of the parlor?"

"That's correct."

"Fine."

Bates stepped out into the blistering sunlight, glad to be back on his rounds. Jason paid his bill and followed, lugging his battered brown suitcase. Polson wondered: What's he got in there that's so damned heavy?

"Hiram?"

Louise. Upstairs, rolling around in her wheelchair. Hi Polson sighed. "Yes, dear," he called. "What is it this time?"

"Why don't you wheel me into the kitchen, sweetie? I'll fix us a nice lunch. It's such a beautiful day."

Well, I'll be damned, Hiram thought. Sounds like she's in a pretty good mood, all of a sudden.

"I'll be up in a few minutes, honey."

He began dusting and straightening up the lobby. Within minutes, he found himself whistling. Louise was absolutely right. It was a beautiful day.

Out on the cracked sidewalk, Jason Smith literally bumped into young Beth Reiss. Her pert, pointed breasts nudged the front of his shirt. She excited him. Jason had seen Beth dozens of times, and she still reminded him of Karen. He badly wanted to fuck her while she lay dying.

"Excuse me," he said quietly.

Beth was off-balance and supporting her blind father, so Jason stole a few extra seconds before stepping out of the way. Meanwhile, Elmo Reiss adjusted his thick sunglasses. He tapped the cement with his cane.

"Who's there?" Elmo asked pleasantly. "Did I slip or something? You'd think I would have memorized every pothole and pebble in this whole blasted town by now."

Beth Reiss was thirteen years old, sharp as a tack. She shot Jason a dirty look. Just another creepo, trying to cop a feel. Yuck.

To her blind father, in a normal tone of voice: "Not your fault, Dad. It's Jason Smith, Doc Tyler's guy." A sneer. "He tripped."

As a child she was as tender as Karen, Jason thought. She saw no mark. Yet now that I barely have one, she scorns me. She is bleeding. She's nothing but a student whore. But Dog, she is beautiful.

Elmo's white cane rapped the pavement like a gavel. "Good day to you, Mr. Smith," Reiss said. "And how is Doc?"

"He left last night," Jason explained. "I shall be taking his place." He felt his eyes begin to drift towards Beth Reiss and her lush breasts, then tore them away as if Elmo could see. Perhaps, in a way, he did. The social climate grew decidedly chilly.

Mr. Reiss snorted. "Well, that crotchety old bastard always said he'd up and do it. Congratulations, I guess."

"Thank you."

As Jason turned to leave, Beth startled him by waving and calling out. "Bobby, we're over here!"

Robert Reiss. The sight of the young seminary student struck Jason like a physical blow. Something deep inside him snarled and tried to back away. He generally found it intolerable to be within more than a few feet of the man.

"Hey, Dad. Beth."

Robert began jogging through the dust. Jason's forehead darkened. His birthmark started to throb. He ducked his shoulder and tried to leave, but Robert arrived just in time to grab his free hand.

"Hey, Jason," Robert said. The warm simplicity dancing in his clear blue eyes infuriated the smaller man. "What's happening? How you doin'?"

"Fine," Jason mumbled. His fingers were twitching. "I take it you are on leave from school?"

"Nearly finished," Robert said proudly.

The handsome young minister was always graceful, and his face betrayed none of his revulsion. Poor twisted little man, Robert thought. His scar seems to be getting worse again. The Lord certainly gave him a cross to bear. Robert tried to pull his hand back, satisfied he'd delivered a friendly Christian greeting. He couldn't break contact.

For one elongated second, it felt as if he and Jason Smith had each palmed magnets of opposing polarity. Something crackled in the dry desert air and passed between them. To Robert, the sensation was like sticking his fingers into a tall anthill; hundreds of tiny stings rolled up and down his flesh in painful waves. He grimaced.

Jason pulled away, his palm now as red as that hideous birthmark. He managed to nod politely, then excused himself and darted off towards the mortuary.

"Odd fellow," Elmo Reiss said. He was perceptive, even in his world of darkness. "Can't say I care for him."

Robert just stared after Jason, shaking his numb hand. What a strange experience. Finally, he shrugged the uncomfortable tension from his memory and shared a hug with his sister. "Let's get something to eat."

Jason's mind was racing. It was happening. There was a White force on the way. A storm was brewing; perhaps the final battle was upon them at last. He could sense it, smell it on the wind: the stench of fallen soldiers, decaying in putrid heaps. What are you willing to do? But in order to find his proper place in the scheme of things, he had to summon Dog. He would need advice and counsel. But would Dog come again, at long last?

What was he doing wrong? He who had been abandoned, yet had kept the faith; taken great risks, studied and given his all?

Why hast thou forsaken me?

Safe behind the wooden doors of the funeral parlor, Jason Smith managed to slow his pounding heart and concentrate. He had done what was asked, died and been resurrected. He knew he was close, look what he'd already accomplished.

So easy — everyone had believed him. Even the killing had been simple; pulling slowly on the strand of barbed wire while the old man thrashed and kicked and whimpered. Doc had been too drunk to resist. At the last, his bowels had emptied. Jason had mopped the floor and then dragged the corpse, with its ghastly frozen expression, into the embalming room. He had use for it.

He had read the books carefully, one final time. He had drawn the pentagram last night, immediately after the murder. Now Doc Tyler lay sprawled across it as an offering. His flesh had already begun to decompose in the sweltering desert heat. Some dim part of Jason's brain wondered: Did I need to do any of this? Maybe I'm just fucking psychotic and this is all in my mind. What difference does it make, either way?

Jason unpacked his books. No, in truth, it did not matter what was true or false, not anymore. He would worship regardless. He would believe. Dog would listen in, come to him. Perhaps he would not. It had been so very long.

Jason knelt, naked, in the center of the inverted Pentagram. He faced the Seal of Belial, drawn backwards in Doc Tyler's blood upon the dusty wooden floor.

"Besticitium consolatio veni ad me," he cried. "Adonay, appear instanter! Eloim, Ariel, Aqua, Tagila, Varios!"

Had the ground shook, or only his legs?

Again:"Besticitium consolatio veni ad me!"

The foul smell of Doc Tyler's body seemed to grow worse, although it could have been Jason's imagination. I am mad, I am truly mad. Did the room now reek of sulfur, as well as moldering meat?

Nothing happened. Dog had refused him yet again.

Jason continued, but sensed he had already failed. Only the usual phenomenon manifested; sudden blasts of what felt like steaming vapor, tiny insects that grouped in Doc's blood. Arcane signs, but not the puppy's master. Not the Beloved one, The Beast.

Am I mistaken to believe?

Jason's birthmark flared and burst into flame. He screamed as it bored into his forehead like a cattle brand. The pain seemed very, very real.

I am your savior. Jason, seek me. The time is nearly right.

The pain vanished. Jason knew he had come closer than ever before. The answer was near. He would call on Great Abaddon, leader of the Angels of The Bottomless Pit, for protection. He blew out the sacred candles; rose up, his knees weak. Perhaps Dog would never return. Perhaps, which was even more frightening a prospect, he had never existed.

But no, Dog was real and he was coming soon. Jason could feel it in his bones.

Hold fast to your faith. There is much more to do here.

Jason dressed himself with weakened fingers. Should he leave Doc's meat where it lay, to bless the room for his next attempt? No, it was useless, now. He would feed it to the animals.

I am so weary, so empty from waiting. What must I do, Master? Tell me. And then it came to him, all in a rush. Jason Smith grinned in the gloom. Of course. More offerings…

6

ROURKE

The new Sour Candy album was almost finished. Peter Rourke had spent all of the previous night and morning doing what he hated most: sequencing the songs, mastering and then suffering through gut-wrenching second-thoughts about each of his decisions. Back home, he opened his laptop, checked his email and found it backed up to Cleveland.

"Fuck this," he sighed. He deleted everything and then crashed like a 747 around three in the afternoon. It was a dreamless, exhausted sleep. When the alarm went off just after sunset, he almost cried. It's nine PM, Rourke, let's get up and at 'em. Jesus H. Christ, what a way to make a living.

I exist in the dark, he thought suddenly; work in it, wake up to it. I don't see the daylight anymore, never feel the heat of the sun on my skin. I miss the desert, the mountains. I need to go home. None of this is what I thought it would be when I ran away from Two Trees. Careful what you pray for, as someone once said. You just might get it.

Oh, bullshit, Uncle Jeremy said in his mind. It's your own damn fault. You've become what you always hated.

Peter fumbled his way to the bathroom without turning on the lights. He stepped under the lukewarm shower. Everything hurt, each muscle and tendon and nerve ending chanted its own litany of complaint.

He felt his body with shaky fingers. Excess fat was beginning to appear. His slightly arthritic ribs were still sensitive from old football injuries, and one badly damaged knee stiffened up on him every week or so. He'd been warned an ulcer was fast approaching. He was probably an addict. I'm only thirty-two years old, he thought suddenly. Why am I doing this? Because I love music, writing songs? This isn't music, it's suicide.

Hey, I didn't invent the business, I just work in it. Give a guy a break.

Rourke jerked the shower handle all the way to the right. He screeched as an assault of icy needles riddled his flesh. Oh, shit, so cold. He hopped from one foot to the other, forcing himself to endure the torment. A few moments later, he looked in the mirror with the lights on. Cruel pockets had begun to sag and darken under his blood-shot eyes.

Suicide. Can't hack this much longer. Screw the money.

Peter opened the medicine cabinet with trembling hands, looking for a little chemical assistance. He had to get himself up for one last vocal session. And then there's Dee, he thought as he searched around behind the bottles of aftershave for some drugs. That's got to stop, too.

No more rainbow?

His heart kicked. Rourke swallowed and tried to calm himself. There had to be some of the shit hidden somewhere around the apartment. He always kept a small stash for emergencies, and tonight's session definitely qualified. He had two battles to win: First track the final tune with Dee, and then find a nice way to cool things down between them, before it was too late.

He glanced around his expensive condo, suddenly feeling foolish and artificial. Fake plants, bland furniture, pastel colors. Plastic, Peter thought. I live in the dark and the fucking world's made of plastic.

The phone rang. Rourke rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to the nightstand. He noticed the little folded packet of waxed paper lying next to the clock radio. Of course. He'd saved half a gram of Rainbow from the day before, just in case. Praise the Lord. He answered the phone with one hand and groped for a shortened straw with the other. Which drawer, damn it?

"Yeah?"

"This is your wake-up call," Friedheim said. "Would you like me to send up our continental breakfast?"

"Huh?"

"It's two gay Frenchmen who are very well read."

"Not funny, Bryan."

"That's not meant to be funny. It's what I was dreaming about just a minute ago."

"Hope you had fun. What time is it?"

Bryan waited a beat. "Nine-fifteen in the evening, Mr. Producer. And we're almost finished."

"From your mouth to God's ears."

"See you there what, around eleven?"

"Yeah," Rourke said. "That will give Dee and I some extra time to run over the song."

Transparent as a sandwich bag. Still, Friedheim was tactful. "Okay, boss. I'll meet you at the front."

Rourke hung up. He found a short straw and inhaled two scoops, then two more. When the phone rang again, he was giving serious thought to the idea of doing the entire stash.

"Maker of stars. Whatcha want, Tinkerbell?"

"Rourke," Gordie Easton said, "shut up and listen." His voice sounded slurred. Peter could hear nightclub noises in the background: shrill feminine laughter, the pounding pulse of a live band. Here it comes, he thought. I'm fired.

"All right, Gordie. You have my full attention."

"And I've got your contract," Easton said. "You wanna go cut a garage band out of Omaha?"

Rourke winced. "You're drunk, Gordie."

"And you're fucked up on the latest thing. I figure that makes us even."

"Fair enough. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"

Gordie lowered his voice. Peter was shocked at the real agony hiding behind the words: "Call it off. I want you to stop seeing Dee."

"Gordie, I…"

"You think I don't know, Rourke? Shit, I've always known. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Look, she's young and pretty, so I let her have a fling now and then. Why? Because I'm not young, and I've never been pretty. But I love her, so it's over between you. You got that, Pete? Am I getting through?"

"I care about her too, Gordie."

"Well, I fucking care more," Easton said. He's bluffing, Rourke realized. My God, he's almost begging. "You hear me? I care more."

Maybe you do.

Rourke sighed. "For what it's worth," he said, "you don't have to try and blackmail me. I can't handle her anymore. You're safe, Gordie. She'll never choose a songwriter over the head of a label. Dee's too smart for that. To tell you the truth, I don't think she loves either one of us."

"I know that too," Gordie Easton said. Then his voice broke, and so did a bit of Peter's heart. "But I need her. Do we understand each other?"

"We do," Rourke said.

"Do I have your word?" "You do.

"End of subject."

"Goodnight, Gordie."

Dial tone.

Peter Rourke sat on the edge of the bed for a while and thought about his life. It did not make him feel any happier. He flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet and went out to brew some strong, hairy coffee in his plastic L.A. kitchen.

At a quarter to ten, Rourke was on the Hollywood Freeway approaching the Vine Street exit. He was thinking about going home. Not back to his furnished apartment, but to Nevada; to Two Trees. He hated the city more with each passing hour. An empty throb of mourning made his leased black Mercedes feel like a hearse.

Peter wanted to stop somewhere, trade the huge hog in on a jeep Ranger and just head North and East. Maybe drive straight through until there were no more tall, skeletal buildings cocooned in smog; only awesome blue mountains and open stretches of yellow-brown sand. He recalled the tangy smell of fresh sage, and the fantasy brought tears to his eyes.

The parking garage was deserted, but packed with expensive cars left by some patrons of the musical theater located just around the corner. Concrete shimmered with reflected neon. Peter shut off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the darkness.

Which chuckled and fell on him.

Shadowy corners cracked gnarled knuckles and whispered (..am I skulling?…) He walked faster, ordering his imagination to shut down. It had to be that damned rainbow again, bringing on little flashes of paranoia. The talent wasn't coming back. It couldn't be coming back. But it's happening way too often now to be an accident, he thought. That can't be. Oh sweet Jesus, is it all happening again? No, that's ridiculous. It's the dope, that's all. You just have to try and kick for good.

Wise saying: Drugs are nature's way of telling you you're making too much money. Okay, and death is nature's way of telling you to slow down? Funny, Rourke. You know what you need? You need to go home, back to the high desert and the mountains. You need to start your life over again…and do things right this time.

Footsteps. Someone else? No. Just his own sounds, careening off the concrete walls. His vision blurred from looking down at the grinning row of chrome fenders and blank windshields of tinted glass. As the well-lit lobby area swam closer, Rourke fought to suppress his panic. That tears it, he decided. I'm signing up for rehab. I'm off that shit for good.

He stepped inside the waiting area and pressed the elevator button. A feeling of disorientation struck him while he waited for the car to arrive, a creeping sense of madness. For a long moment, it was as if he'd slipped into another man's skin — someone violent and cruel. His stomach churned.

The elevator slid open. Rourke jumped for the safety of the metal coffin before his knees could buckle. He pressed 7. Only after the doors closed, locking him in, did he begin to relax.

Home to Two Trees. It would be good to feel the desert sun. Easier to stay off the dope, too. There was usually some Mexican laughing tobacco around, and always lots of booze, but not the varied, seductive powders that passed for currency here in Hollywood. He could think things over, dry out, get rid of this insanity once and for all. The idea was comforting.

Ping. Seventh floor.

The hallway was dark, and once again Peter sensed the trace of some twisted presence. He shivered and flicked on the lights.

When he entered the lobby of Music Works, the track he and Dee Jennings were working on was playing. The music was coming from somewhere in the back of the complex, probably his own office. Dee was already waiting for him. That knowledge, plus the loud sound of aggressive rock and roll, helped to reassure him. He was becoming sexually excited, despite himself.

"Dee?"

No answer, but then the amps were cranked to the max. Peter could feel his speaker cabinets vibrating against the walls. Dee liked to listen that way. What rocker didn't? She was probably singing along, bouncing around, laughing.

God, she's going to be hard to give up, Rourke thought. Half of her seemed worth any two other women. But Gordie was right, and Peter knew it. Dee belonged to Easton and her all-important career. There was no way. Besides, he couldn't accept being a diversion, not any longer. It had become too painful.

"Dee?"

Peter dropped his briefcase on a secretary's desk, now sure what she was up to; both loving and hating it. A little quickie before the record date, huh? He felt himself harden in anticipation, but didn't enjoy the feeling. After his sad talk with Gordie Easton the sexual excitement made him feel guilty. It crossed his mind to say no, but just for a moment.

He opened the door. Dee was lying across his desk, naked and waiting for him with her legs spread wide. But her stomach had been sliced open, her mouth was frozen in a silent scream and she was very, very dead.

Rourke gagged. The music pounded like angry fists.

Gore was splattered everywhere. Dee's eyes were glazed over, locked forever in a gut-wrenching expression that shrieked out the pain and terror of her final moments. She had been tortured; tiny burn holes freckled her lovely skin, and the office stank of scorched flesh. Peter recoiled. He tried to cover his eyes before he saw the words, the words he suddenly knew would be there, but it was too late. They were on the far wall, printed in his woman's dried blood:

FIRST THE ThundEr & LigHTNing

thEn THE DEVILS RAIN!

Rourke stared and stared at his own lyrics in crimson smears. He mumbled, shook his

head and fell back against the wall. He dropped away into nothingness.

[...images ripple and dart through his mind like piranhas in a pool, snapping and ripping away: dog, someone calls quietly, dog? see his friend robert reiss crucified and wearing a crown of thorns, while below on golgotha a little man with twisted features steals down the side streets of an ancient city of antediluvian gables, thatched roofs and smoldering ruins, hears the wails of victims and the joyous cry of a crowd /burn/witch/burn/ in another place, some unspeakably awful place, something immense, coiled like a pile of reeking intestines, rears its fanged snout and rushes for him...]

"Oh, my God!"

Bryan Friedheim. But he was not on the same plane, he was elsewhere; touching Rourke's body, looking as Robert Reiss had. Were there tears in his eyes? How strange to see tears there. Rourke twisted around on the carpet and knew he was dying.

"Forgive me," Peter whispered. "Please."

"Operator, get me the police and an ambulance. Hurry!" [ ...am i moving? yes, rolling from side to side but i am not alone in my own mind, that thing knows where i am and it is watching. waiting...]

"He's really out of it."

Someone was talking, barking orders. A rustle of linen, the bitter scent of antiseptic. He was rolled onto a stretcher. Something bit into his arm like an angry insect. He saw a bottle floating in the air above him, trailing a tube roped with white surgical tape.

"Help me," Rourke said, or tried to say. But he growled instead and snapped his jaws like an animal.

"Fucker bit me!"

"Jesus, he acts like he's on angel dust and meth, or something."

"Maybe that rainbow shit?"

"Damn. Could be. Should we stick him with some norepinephirine?"

"Probably safer to use Narcan. What's his pulse rate?"

"Through the fucking roof."

Bryan:"Will he be okay? What's going on? Can somebody tell me what the fuck is happening?"

[... he smells fetid breath that reeks of sulfer, hears a soul screaming in torment, his grandfather's voice, the words to his own song: six hundred years of shame, first the thunder and the lightning oh, i'm so sorry dee, so very sorry...]

"Got it. Start the drip."

"That ought to do it. Jesus, what's this guy been doing? Give me some more light, I want to check his skin for needle marks."

Darkness and sweet release.

7

TWO TREES/THE REISS FAMILY

"It's getting late," Beth Reiss said. "I'd better be on my way."

Candace Stone closed her test booklet and smiled. "You're a fine student, Elizabeth."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Wait," Candace said. The stoic, greying teacher reached behind her tattered blue couch. She produced a small basket filled with barnyard straw and covered with a clean, red-and-white checkered dishrag. "Take these nice fresh eggs to your poppa."

Beth slipped into her old brown coat. The afternoon had turned cold. She accepted the basket with a curtsy, since old folks like Miss Stone seemed to like that crap. People over twenty were weird. Beth wanted to run away and get some tattoos, or pierce her navel or something. But she smiled instead.

"Thanks again, ma'am," Beth said sweetly. She opened the screen door and was gone.

Candace Stone called after her. "You give my best to Elmo, hear? Say hello to your Pa!"

"I will."

The desert floor was a smear of dark enamel, glittering in the sunset. A chuckling blackness began crawling down out of the mountains as Beth Reiss, thirteen years old, made her way home.

Beth was thinking about boys. Wasn't a whole lot to think about, since there were hardly any left in Two Trees. Still, the thought of boys made something nice happen low in her belly. Her brother Robert would have disapproved, but she found the sensation wonderful.

As Candace Stone's porchlight retreated into the murky evening, Beth flicked on her flashlight. She didn't want to trip and break the eggs. Paw loved his fresh eggs.

And Beth loved her Paw. But it didn't seem fair to be young and pretty, well at least a little, and have to look after a blind grownup. Especially in such a boring, hick town. Beth Reiss dreamed of following Robert. Oh, not to a nun school, her brother could keep all that religious stuff, just to one of those big cities, where really exciting things happened. The places she had occasionally seen on satellite television, where people danced and laughed and went out at night just for the heck of it. Where they didn't need a flashlight to find their way around, because the whole place was alive and kicking. And there were lots and lots of boys.

Shoot, Beth thought. Damn, I wanna grow up.

Craaaack. Twig snapping? Wait.

Might be a coyote. If one of Miss Stone's eggs were already cracked, the animal would smell it. But a coyote wouldn't jump her; she was far too big a target. Beth relaxed. She walked on, swinging her basket.

Bobby was coming home soon. He'd be a real preacher and everything. Maybe she could get him alone for a while and ask to spend the summer with him. They could go someplace nice together. Robert was a decent enough guy, for a preacher. Mostly because he was still so young.

Naw, then who'd take care of Paw? Elmo Reiss was a tough old buzzard who got around pretty well on his own, but somebody had to stick by him just in case. He could maybe fall and get hurt, not be able to reach the telephone. But heck, with fat old Gladys Pierson running the system there was no telling whether anybody'd answer anyway.

Beth sighed dramatically and swept the ground with the beam of her flashlight. I guess I'll just be stuck in this one-horse town for the rest of my life, she thought. How tragic. Someone should write a book about it. I mean, this would make a movie that'd tear your heart out.

Craaaack. Something else. Rattler?

Pebbles, sliding down the edge of the rock face in that small gully by the side of the road. Oh, Jeez. Something was trailing her after all. Maybe a bobcat or a badger, probably because of the eggs. Beth walked faster, swinging the basket, a tiny dust devil spinning merrily in her wake. Unforgiving night spread across the empty desert like an ink stain and swallowed her whole.

Meanwhile, Elmo Reiss sat quietly by the fire in his private darkness. He was listening to a scratchy old Tex Williams single: Yuuuuuuur cheeeeetin' ways, are gonna break my heart…

Elmo waved one hand near the blaze. It was dying, just like Two Trees. Time to throw another log on the fire. But where was Elizabeth? If the wood had burned that far down, she was more than an hour late. Elmo leaned back in his armchair and fumbled for the telephone. He figured he'd best call Candace Stone and ask after his daughter. He went to ring for Gladys.

Footsteps on the front porch.

"Beth?"

"It's me Paw," she said. The door, closing behind her with a click. "Sorry if I worried you. Miss Stone and I got to talking, and you know now how she is."

Elmo chuckled. "Indeed I do. Gimme a hug, girl."

Bare feet crossing the carpet. Bare feet? Why? The whisper of soft flesh on ragged wool, sliding away from him. "In a minute, Paw. I need to wash up a bit first."

"Fine, sweetheart. What's for dinner?"

"A big surprise."

Elmo leaned forward and started the record again: You'll cry and cry, the whoooole night thruuuuu... Gawd, they just didn't write 'em like that anymore. That kid Peter Rourke, off doin' so well, by God he could have been even bigger with a few lessons from ol' Hank.

Elmo grew impatient. "What kinda surprise?"

"You'll see."

Humid breath on his cheek. Elmo jumped half out of his overalls. She was standing right behind him, and he hadn't even heard her move.

"Girl, you scared me half to death. You been sneakin' up on little boys?"

"What boys?" Beth said. Elmo read the pout in her voice. It disturbed him. He reached for her hand but she was gone again. I grabbed only air; a suddenly cold patch of air.

"I know it's been rough on you honey, tendin' to a useless old man. Things are bound to get better once Bobby comes home."

Your cheeeetin' ways, are going beak my heart... She went to wash up? There wasn't any water running in the bathroom. Where was she?

"Beth, honey?"

Silence descended. Now, old Elmo Reiss had been sightless for more than ten years and he was pretty much used to it. Still there were times when a raw, spooky hollow grew in his insides and he got afraid of the dark. Times like this.

"Don't you tease me, child. Beth?"

"In the kitchen, Pa. I'm fixing your surprise."

Whoosh of relief, a slower pulse. Elmo became aware of a scratching sound that kept repeating itself rhythmically, something like a woman doing her nails with a cardboard file. His old record player. He reached over to turn it off.

It wasn't there anymore.

"Beth, did you move my old record machine away?"

No answer.

"Honey, I can hear it goin' round and round. That'll mess up my record collection. Could you please shut it off?"

"Sure."

She was right at his ear again. Elmo jumped, his weak ticker nearly skipping a beat. A pain clutched at his left arm. He rubbed himself. Said: "What's that terrible smell?"

"What smell, Daddy?"

Sniff. "Don't know. Like rotten eggs. You bring some home from Candace?"

"Uh, huh. That must be it. One of 'em's bad."

"Awful."

"Not really, Daddy. Here, have another whiff. I kinda like it myself."

His stomach heaved. "Don't do that, honey. That's not nice and it's not funny."

"I've been meanin' to tell you a few things, Paw."

Elmo swallowed. His heart felt unsteady, mouth dry as a cotton ball. "Like what?"

"This."

They were nose to nose, her face was only inches away. Elmo Reiss realized with horror that the stink was coming from her breath. She stank of the grave.

"I'm tired of bein' nice," Beth said. "I'm fucking sick and tired of being your servant, your nurse and your goddamned babysitter."

His left arm went numb and a giant fist smacked into his bony chest. Christ, the pain! Elmo clutched himself and groaned. He heard something wicked hiding in Elizabeth's thin, reedy laugh. She whispered of sin and corruption.

"I want to get fucked and sucked, Daddy. You hear me? You still there?"

The pain. God help me, the pain! Elmo wept for his daughter.

Fingers pinched his nostrils tight, and one hand plopped over his mouth like a gag. The skin was cold and clammy. Elmo fought to breathe and began to thrash about like a beached whale. He could barely endure the agony. His frantic heart pounded and pounded. He was dying and he knew it.

"Come with me, Daddy," the Beth-thing snarled. "It's time to go."

Twinkling lights. Christ, I can almost see again. Am I dead? But no, his heart still hammered. Only this wasn't his heart anymore, it was someone knocking.

Elmo collapsed on the rug, gasping for air. The pain…

"Elmo! Goddamn you, open up!"

A huge, ham-like fist thudded into the wood one last time, and then Glen Bates just kicked the front door down. He stepped inside, knelt by Elmo Reiss and felt for the old man's pulse.

"Elmo, can you hear me?"

Reiss managed a weak smile.

"I'm all right, Sheriff. I got dizzy. Really. Just help me up." God, Beth, I won't betray you. I will not tell. No matter what. But why did you do a sick thing like that?

"Elmo, I want to take you over to Polson's for the night."

Back on his feet. Tiny pinpricks, left arm still numb. "Glenn, I'm fine. I just fell. Beth will look after me."

Small hairs rose, as if from a static charge. Bates wasn't responding. Reiss felt himself slipping over the edge. Oh no, Beth. No. He realized Bates had been speaking for some time. Elmo shook his head and tried to concentrate.

"It must have been some maniac from out of town, Elmo. Everyone in Two Trees has been accounted for."

A pause. "I'm sorry."

Elmo wavered. Bates caught him.

"What are you saying?"

"Someone murdered your daughter. Out by the highway, probably less than an hour ago. I found the body myself. At least it was quick. Her neck was — Elmo?"

Weary heart a jackhammer, blood roaring in his ears. Fuck it. The peal of distant laughter; a voice that was Beth's, but not Beth, mocking him. Falling.

And then Elmo Reiss was dead.

8

JASON

Jason Smith carefully placed the two bodies side by side on twin aluminum tables. He covered their faces with clean white sheets. He looked sad.

"I'll take over from here."

Glen Bates was grateful for an excuse to escape the cloying air of the embalming room. The stench of ammonia was overpowering. Smith had obviously just finished scrubbing everything down.

"Fine," Glenn said. The doors hissed shut and his footsteps faded away.

Alone, Jason howled and stripped off his clothing. Two fresh offerings. Most importantly, he had now eliminated the last human being to whom he'd felt connected. By murdering Beth, he'd symbolically sacrificed Karen. Dog would most certainly be pleased.

Jason sliced Beth's right wrist open, then hastily scrawled a bloody pentagram on the newly polished floor. He opened a metal file drawer and removed his candles. Hands shaking, he placed one at each point of the sign. Please master, look upon me with favor. Come.

He began with a silent chant.

Wind slapped sage against the side of the building: Many hands, clapping their appreciation. In time, the air turned thick and foul.

Now!

"I adjure thee, O Spirite, by the power of the grand ADONAY to appear instanter, besticitium consolatio veni ad mi!"

Gold sparks collected above the corpse and became entangled in her hair. She began to glow and writhe like a prone Medusa.

Jason smeared himself with her blood and stepped back again. "I offer these chattel to Thee, oh grand Beelzebul, by the names ABADDON the dark angel, and by ASTAROTH,

ISHTAR and BAAL. I call BELIAL to open The Gate for Thee; to speak unto me, and to accept this tribute to the honor, glory and power of Thy Name, which is superior to all spirits!"

Thunder from within. A presence was coming. His ears popped. Ecstatic, Jason rolled on the floor. He was now completely covered with blood.

"Grand one, vouchsafe to receive these acceptable offerings. BELIAL, speak! Come hither! E Mortuis Revoco — from the dead, I summon thee!"

A shrill giggle.

Beth Reiss sat up on her slab. She yawned and stretched. Jason had loosely fastened her neck together with fishing twine. Some of the stitches complained. The head spun slowly, like a ventriloquist dummy's, to face him. Jason, despite himself, felt his skin crawl. His first reaction was to shrink away, but then he shouted for joy and jumped to his feet.

The dead child's features split into a ghastly grin, but her eyes stayed flat, cold and lifeless. She spoke to him with a man's voice.

"Thou art persistent," the demon said. "Lo, I am here. Why dost thou disturb my repose? Smite me no more with thy dread commands."

Jason, naked and filthy, bowed low. "I shall not," he said respectfully, "should you choose to obey me."

"So, human… why hast thou summoned us?"

"For knowledge."

"What dost thou wish to know?"

"All."

"All?" the thing laughed, its voice dropping even lower. It caused the girl's body to shake, and her pretty head fell off with a rasp of popping stitches. Jason swallowed as the skull bounced briskly across the floor and landed near his feet. It stared up at him and winked lewdly. Am I crazy, really crazy, is that all this is?

"Approach me!"

Jason hesitated. "If I leave this pentagram, my soul will be lost forever."

Beth's severed head, the white neck tendons twitching, laughed again. "Dost thou wish to meet The Beast?"

"Dog? Yes!"

"Then kiss me."

And so he did. The head went still and the eyes closed peacefully. Jason waited in uneasy silence for the next manifestation. It seemed to him that the entire world was like a gigantic clenched fist, compressing the very air he breathed; squashing the building he worshiped, murdered and lived in... Then one shadowy corner split in two. Something stepped out of this rip in the fabric of space.

Dog.

Smaller this time, but still with an impossibly long tongue. His fur seemed healthy, but the deep-set red eyes burning above the long, wet snout were exactly the same. They bored into him and fondled his soul.

Fool, Dog said in his mind. You looked everywhere for me, but I was right there inside you all along. Watching. Waiting for my chance.

"Chance?"

And now you are mine. I am The Dark One, puppy. The Beast who lives backwards, in parallel time. I hunger to enter this world. You shall assist me.

"I don't understand..."

Black Son, I selected you over twenty years ago, far in the distant future. It is yours to open The Gate and Feed me. You must do combat with white, so that I may at last ascend the throne. That is why I brought you here, to this desolate place.

Jason Smith began to comprehend, for the first time, the enormity of what he had unleashed. He barely noticed that his hated birthmark was receding, vanishing. His mind was already racing ahead.

He trembled.

9

ROURKE/ROBERT REISS/THE BAXTER FAMILY

"You think you're ready to go back out there again?"

"Yes."

"And maybe back home to Nevada?"

"I think so."

"So do I," Dr. Noah Silverman said. He produced a thin smile. "But I want to hammer something into you one last time." His gentle brown eyes pinned Rourke to the couch. "You've suffered a psychotic episode, Peter. I want to stress to you that modern medicine still knows very little about the long-term effects of a complex narcotic agent like rainbow. We don't know exactly what it does to the brain."

"Easy," Rourke said. "It fries your wiring, probably for good."

Silverman shrugged. "Maybe. It seems to have left you with a lot of grandiose illusions about having psychic abilities, even some false memories from childhood."

False? If you say so, Rourke thought. Whatever gets me the fuck out of here.

"Look, I know I can't touch the stuff again, or anything else for that matter. I realize what it did to me."

"I hope you do. Because although there is no doubt seeing Dee's body triggered that terrible meltdown experience, I feel certain the severity of the psychosis was directly linked to drug abuse."

"No argument here."

"And it could happen again."

A heavy pause. The curly-haired psychologist tapped the metal ashtray with his fingers. He has too many nervous habits, Rourke thought. The man's under stress. Jesus, I'm starting to think like him.

Silverman: "This problem owns you, Peter. For the rest of your life you'll have to worry when you take an aspirin tablet. Understand?"

Rourke nodded. "I understand." He had endured weeks of private counseling, A.A. and group therapy, plus voluntary hospitalization to get to this point. He wasn't about to blow it. "Noah, I've had enough. I mean that."

"I hope you do," Silverman said. Tap, tap. "You're exhausted, hyper-tense and dangerously fragile. Another experience like that could kill you."

"I believe you."

"Have the police made any progress?"

Rourke shrugged. "Some demented fan," he sad, sadly. "At least I think they're still operating under that assumption."

"They'll get him eventually."

"I hope so."

"We do have some more tests that we'd like to run. Are you certain it's not possible for you to return from time to time, just to cooperate with the program?"

Peter shook his head. "Sorry." Psychological testing made him extremely uncomfortable. One of the highly-trained specialists, given enough time, might stumble upon the truth, uncover his talent. He couldn't allow that.

"What will you do now, go home to Nevada?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. Not right away."

"Well, I hope I never see you again." Silverman winked.

"The feeling's mutual, Noah."

The two men shook hands and it was over.

Peter Rourke had spent nearly three months at Templeton Hospital under close observation. He hadn't seen the outside world since discovering Dee Jenning's butchered corpse, but now he was a free man. Free of everything, that is, except himself.

Within days of his release, Peter moved into a cheap apartment complex and changed his phone number. He swapped his fancy car for a plain green Nova and some cash. He had royalties to live on, but no job; Gordie Easton had seen to that. The two men hadn't spoken. It would have been far too painful for them both.

All Rourke wanted was time to relax, think and decide what to do with the rest of his life. And to put Dee out of his mind. Meanwhile, the band members found a new producer. Bryan Friedheim just drifted away. The little engineer left Music Works for a better gig with EMI, and after a few well-intentioned but lame telephone conversations he simply stopped calling. There was nothing else to say.

Peter slept a great deal, as instructed. He stayed clear of alcohol or drugs of any kind. Time passed, without a single craving for alcohol or drugs, but the numb ache remained. He had anticipated violence — could he have done something to prevent it? That part of the pain was private; Rourke had to carry it alone, along with a stack of other guilts. He exercised relentlessly, read voraciously and tried to heal.

Sour Candy continued to record, but without Dee Jennings they were just another band. The group was destined to collapse after one turbulent tour. Meanwhile, Peter Rourke saw a new face in the mirror each morning, a troubled young man haunted by old ghosts and unanswered questions. At times he saw his Uncle Jeremy's stern features glaring back at him in disapproval. Two needs grew: To work again, and to go back to that place he'd been so eager to escape from — Two Trees. Nevada sunshine, flat, open land dotted with pale blue sage.

I will try to write a different kind of song, he thought. One that can't be twisted. Perhaps a lot of songs — who knows? But not here, not in California.

Home. Once again, the call to return was the only clear voice in his head. Soon it captured him completely. He hadn't been back since his eighteenth birthday, more than fifteen years before. Despite the sad memories he knew he'd awaken, Peter suddenly longed to see his Uncle's redwood cabin. His old friends, his past. He needed to make peace with it.

Los Angeles was cruel like the desert, but impossible to fathom. It was skyscrapers, crowded streets, neon lights and the stench of freeways.

Just do it. Why not now?

One August morning he hurriedly packed his guitar and some clothes, locked up the boring little apartment, jumped in his new car and ran like hell. He found himself swerving in and out of traffic, impatient to be out in the open.

The Hollywood Freeway looped in dizzying circles, but in time sent him on into the arms of the pitted and bumpy San Bernadino Freeway. He passed Pomona, Hemet, the outskirts, then the state line into Nevada. He ripped North and East, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth on his skin.

The desert greeted him warmly. He loved the smell of the sage and the squint-inducing brightness of the sunlight. He kept going, even turned on the radio until the California music dissolved into obnoxious static. He stopped to stretch, then took off again.

Less than three hundred miles from Two Trees, he stopped for gasoline. The convenience store was the only building for miles. For the first time, he noticed a car directly behind him. The driver was Latino, strikingly handsome. He drove past without looking and stopped by the pay phone. At the pump, Rourke felt a strange flutter of alarm. He brushed it away. Just nerves, that's all.

As a skinny, pock-marked kid began to scrape dead insects from his windshield, Rourke walked over towards the bubbled phone booth for a look at the far horizon. The handsome Latino was now inside the booth, gripping the receiver tightly. He seemed to be listening to someone, yet his lips were moving. Something about the man disturbed Peter, but he could not quite place it. Then it struck him: The man was reciting the lyrics to Peter's hit, "Devils Reign." What an odd coincidence.

"Hey, mister."

Rourke turned, only half caring. "Yeah?"

The kid scraped some squashed gunk from the tinted glass and winked. "What's the last thing goes through a bug's mind when it hits your car on the highway?"

Peter shook his head.

A proud grin. "Its asshole."

The olive-skinned man in the phone booth glanced at Rourke, but quickly looked away. He had stopped moving his lips. Another flicker? No, Jesus, take it easy.

"Asshole, get it?"

The kid seemed delighted with himself. He cackled and returned to work. Rourke eyed the mountains and replayed parts of his childhood on an inner screen. He sensed someone behind him and spun around.

"That you, Peter?"

Rourke tracked the familiar voice. The man was lean, about his own age. He wore faded jeans and a cheap red-and-white cowboy shirt. His features were partially obscured by a full beard and moustache, but the eyes gave him away. Inocent to a fault; childlike, direct and honest. Peter grinned and stepped forward, extending his hand.

"Well I'll be damned. Robert?"

They hugged. Robert Reiss produced a shy bark of restrained, nervous laughter. The two men looked each other over, remembering. Peter couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"Good to see you, Bobby."

"Likewise."

Two beats, then: "What brings you up this way, Pete — slumming?"

"Escaping, I hope."

A penetrating look. "Explain that, please."

"Just had to get away," Rourke continued, uncomfortable. "Homesick, I guess. What about you? What's been happening?"

Robert scuffed the toe of one frayed boot in the gravel. "Guess it won't come as a shock that I became a minister."

"Nope, not hardly."

"Well, I travel a lot now, which I like. I get to take kids all around the country in a tour bus. You know, kids with no home or family. I show them places. It's neat work, man. But I don't get to visit Two Trees too often. I'm on my way back to see Dad and Beth, just as soon as I make a stop in Elko."

"They know you're coming?"

Robert shook his head. "I was out of touch for quite a while, so I'm planning on a big surprise."

"That's nice," Rourke said.

"I found Beth the prettiest dress in Salt Lake City, and I got Dad another batch of those classic country records. Real whiny. He'll love 'em."

"Has the town changed a lot?"

"Getting smaller."

"Really?"

"There's almost nobody left, Pete. No one I feel close to anyway, except for Dad and Beth. Maybe Louise Polson."

"What about the Andersons?"

"Moved away."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope."

"Do the Wilsons still have their spread over in Clover Valley?"

"Gone. It's bizarre, man. Just about everybody we grew up around is splitting, like there's a plague or something. Maybe you shouldn't even go, Pete. It won't be the way you remembered."

Rourke considered turning around, but realized that there was nothing behind him he cared to see again. "Memories stay," he said softly. "Speaking of fixtures, how about Martoni and Urich?"

"Oh yeah," Robert chuckled. "They'll go down with the ship. Hey, ignore me. It might do you good to breathe some air you can't see."

The kid at the gas pump whistled that Rourke's car was ready. The Latin Lover was still on the phone, mumbling. Peter waved to the attendant. "Be right there."

Robert Reiss grinned. "Well…"

"It's good to see you, Bobby. We'll get together again in a few days, maybe. When you pull in to town."

"Listen," Robert said, unwilling to let go of the moment. "I hear you're really doing great. I've caught that Sour Candy single on the radio. My kids all love it."

Rourke blanched. "Thanks. Well, I should get moving. I'll still be around when you get there."

He started away. Robert paced him, still chatting. "I always wanted to ask you something. Did you lift that 666 stuff from the Bible, or the movies? Very hip."

Peter didn't answer at first. Finally said: "The movies, actually. I don't read the Bible much, as you'll recall."

Reiss impulsively placed one hand on Rourke's shoulder. A clumsy silence made Peter edgy. Don't read me correctly, Robert. Please.

"Has it been a downer lately, man?"

"You could say that."

"You seem like you're in a world of hurt. Can I help?"

"No, but thanks for the thought."

"These are rough times. The millenium was nothing special, but that doesn't prove anything. I'd like to talk to you about that when we get a chance. Maybe as soon as I'm back from Elko."

"Robert, you lost me."

"I know." Reiss stepped back. "I'll just say this. You've got the look of a soul that's being tested, Pete. Hang tough, choose careful and don't ever give up. Believe it or not, that's an honor. The Lord doesn't waste His time checking out those who haven't got much to offer."

Rourke shrugged indulgently. "Sure. I guess so."

"We'll talk," Robert said.

They exchanged goodbyes. Uncomfortable, but touched, Peter Rourke watched the preacher walk away. Then he got back into his car, gunned the engine and started the long haul up to Two Trees. Funny, he thought, I dreamed about him during my breakdown but now I couldn't wait to get away from him. I ran like hell from Nevada, and now I can't wait to get back. It's like something I promised I'd do, and I won't sleep right until I keep my word.

The highway sang a duet with his tires. Lazy buzzards circled above something small that lay dying in the low foothills.

Perhaps forty minutes later Rourke spotted a huge recreational vehicle parked by the side of the highway. A woman, dark haired and smallish, was waving for help. Flat tire. Rourke pulled over and rolled to a stop a few yards from the cab. Two children, an energetic young boy and a frail, slender teenaged girl, were bouncing a tennis ball against the side of the RV.

Rourke got out of the car and strolled over to their mother. She seemed in her middle thirties, with soft features and gentle eyes. He gave her a nod and his name. The woman smiled and introduced herself as Paula Baxter. She lit one cigarette from the butt of another.

"I've got to quit," she said, more to herself than to him. "I'm chain smoking. Thanks for stopping, Mr. Rourke."

"Peter," he said. "Tire?"

"Uh-huh. I can't seem to figure out how this jack works or I'd change it myself."

Rourke dropped to his knees and examined the tool. The boy seemed bright, energetic and exceptionally curious. He was maybe eight or nine years old. He rushed over to watch. His face bore a wide smattering of freckles and he had unruly brown hair. The sister, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, approached more cautiously. She seemed meek or perhaps a bit aloof, and looked very much like her mother.

"My son, Timmy, Peter Rourke. And this is my daughter Julie."

"Hi, kids."

Julie held back, but Timmy moved closer. "Hi Mr. Rourke," the boy said. "Nice to meetcha."

"Likewise," Peter smiled. "Dude. Are you going to give me a hand with this?"

Excitement. "Sure thing!"

Paula Baxter smoked one cigarette after another while Rourke guided Timmy through removing the hubcap and some of the lugs on his own. The job was done in a matter of minutes. Peter stayed for a can of cold soda. Paula seemed pleasant — simple and direct, although a bit jumpy — and he enjoyed the boy's company immensely, but his mind was elsewhere. He was going through the motions. He did learn that the Baxter clan was headed North, into Rourke's old territory. He suggested a few scenic stops and mentioned a favorite place to fish.

"Why don't you come with us, Mr. Rourke?" Timmy asked.

"I wish I could," Peter lied. "But I've got things to do."

"You can if you want to," the boy said. "See, my Daddy ran off with his secretary."

Paula Baxter cringed and studied her shoes. She was crimson with embarrassment. Peter grinned. "Some other time, maybe. I have a few things to do in town first."

Timmy looked disappointed. He hesitated. "Mr. Rourke, are there vampers in these woods?"

"Huh?"

"You know, vampers. Monster things that drink blood."

Paula shook her head ruefully. "Those trashy old comic books he reads. Horror stories his father gave him. He means vampires, Peter."

Rourke waved the thought away. "No, Timmy. We don't allow any vampires around Two Trees. It's against the law."

"Good. Because I know all about 'em. How they can't come in unless you invite 'em and they hypnotize people and stuff and have to be killed with a stake — WHAM! — right through the heart, just like that."

"Timmy," Paula said patiently, "how many times do I have to tell you there's no such thing as a vampire? That's just something somebody made up. It's all make-believe, not real."

"Oh, I know that Mom."

The boy didn't seem convinced. Rourke rose, stretched and scanned the horizon. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd better be on my way. How long do you plan on staying?"

"I don't really know. Maybe a few weeks."

"Well, then I'll probably see you again. It's a tiny town."

"Gee," Timmy gushed. "That would be great!"

"Goodbye," Julie said softly. It was the first time she'd spoken. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Julie. So long."

As Rourke drove away Paula Baxter glared at her son.

"Timmy?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

Innocence. Kids. Paula shrugged and lit another cigarette.

"Oh, never mind."

Julie, now that the nice young man had gone, became animated and whiny. In short, herself again. "Momma, I've got a headache. Are we going to sit here all day?"

Paula got behind the wheel. The kids blocked each other's way; delayed entering and staged an elaborate sight gag. Timmy ducked low, slipped under his sister's outstretched arms and tumbled over into the rear seat with a triumphant whoop. Julie followed, pouting. Their befuddled mother started the engine and pulled out onto the long stretch of empty highway.

Paula inhaled deeply and puffed white clouds of acrid smoke. Her fingers began to goose-step along the dashboard. Meanwhile her son slouched down, extended his short legs and opened a comic book.

"Ghouls and Goblins? Oooh, how gross!"

Timmy ignored his sister. He was accustomed to the nagging and her superior attitude. His mother told him Julie only behaved this way because she wasn't well. That she needed their patience and understanding. She had made him promise to try his best, and so he did. Still, Julie often pushed her luck a little too far... Like now.

"You're a dummy," she declared. "You can't even say 'vampire' right. 'Vamper'? Jeez, how embarrassing."

Timmy flushed, but calmly turned the page. This was the neat part, when all the dead people started sitting up in their graves. He wished his sister would shut up so he could enjoy the scary stuff, the way he usually did. But Julie noticed the pink in his cheeks, and she had never been one to back away while she was winning.

"Creepo," she said. "You are so immature."

"Mom, make her cut it out."

Paula smoked and fiddled. She was far away, thinking about Karl. The way he'd walked out after sixteen years of marriage, most of them good. Why hadn't he talked about it? Shared? She'd never had a fighting chance. Bastard. He hadn't even said goodbye.

"Timmy," Julie whispered. "Do you still think there's something in your closet? Well, you know what I'm gonna do tonight?"

He turned the page, ignoring her, but the hair on his scalp quivered and came to attention. It was not a cool kind of scared.

"I think I'll just hide in the closet and wait until you're fast asleep and dreaming. Then I'll jump out and —"

"Mom! She's picking on me!"

Paula reacted swiftly. "That's enough, Julie," she snapped. "Lay off, or you'll end up with a spanking you won't forget."

Julie nodded politely. "All right, Mom." She was no fool. Besides, time was on her side.

Timmy focused on the story again, because now all the dead folks were walking around, real creepy, looking for the bad guy. He lingered on the ending, frame by frame, in no hurry to finish. The next tale, the worst one, was about a girl vamper that killed her whole family. It was

kinda fun, but awful spooky. Like that book by a guy named Douglas Clegg that a buddy at home had let him look through. Whew!

Julie elbowed him. "The closet," she whispered.

Timmy flinched, unable to control his reaction. Julie grinned and repeated the threat. "The closet, Timmy. I'll be hiding in the closet tonight."

"Mom!"

"Damn it, Julie!"

"Oh, Mom. I hate this trip. There won't be any movies and nothin' to do, no malls or shopping, I just hate it!"

"Julie Baxter, you shut your mouth this minute."

Ooops. Mom had used the dreaded last name. That meant it was time to straighten up and fly right. Timmy gave his sister a dirty look. He stuck out his tongue, but failed to provoke her. Julie was quite adept at assessing her mother's moods, and usually knew when to quit. She'd won this round, anyway.

Timmy decided to skip the vamper story. He'd have enough trouble getting to sleep tonight just because she ran her mouth about the darned closet.

Miles of sand went by, each one much like the last.

10

ROURKE

Further up the long, black ribbon of highway Peter Rourke was pushing his Nova past seventy. He had classical music playing on the cassette deck. Suddenly the strong sounds warped, his vision blurred and he heard electric guitars and Dee Jennings:

"Storm clouds gather

In a bleak grey sky..."

Panicked, he yanked the tape from the machine's mouth and immediately lost control of the car. The Nova began swerving all over the road, new tires belching smoke. I'm having another hallucination, he thought. This is not real. That did not happen. I only imagined hearing the song.

Rourke slowed. He was breathing hard, sweating fiercely. He forced himself to relax, turned the radio on and —

"Storm clouds gather

In a bleak grey sky..."

Christ!

Peter felt a wall of sheer energy, and solid as a block of dry ice. His foot slammed on the brake and the car wheeled 180 degrees, peeling rubber. Had he encountered a palpable force — something powerful enough to trigger his latent talent? Perhaps. Or maybe, he thought, I've just gone crazy again. Either way, I lose.

He felt too exhausted to continue. He leaned back and closed his eyes to rest for a moment. The world went away, and all music with it.

11

TWO TREES

Late afternoon: Blistering heat, flowing up towards a crimson sunset. See them? All the people of Two Trees, Nevada stand gathered in prayer; a dusty clump of human beings in ill-fitting suits and faded dresses, murmuring about mercy…

The caskets were closed. Sheriff Glenn Bates ordered Jason to seal them. He saw no reason why the others should bear witness to the horror lacquered on Elmo's sightless eyes, much less the ghastly mess that had been made of pretty little Beth Reiss. It was the worst sight Bates had seen since Viet Nam.

Let's get this over with, the Sheriff thought grimly. It's hot. They'll be starting to stink soon. What the fuck is happening to this little town? He nodded to old Martoni, the grocer, who hit play on his small cassette player. Bagpipes played "Amazing Grace."

Preacher Louise Polson, feeling like a hypocrite, said: "Now let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads. The grey-haired former evangelist dropped the Bible into her broad lap and shifted her weight abruptly. Her wheelchair began to move forward. Her husband Hiram, gasping, grabbed for the handles. He was barely able to stop her from rolling down through the parted lips of soil and into the mouth of the double grave. Louise would not have cared. Whatever faith I had left, she thought grimly, is being buried with that poor, innocent child.

Louise had been chosen by default. Robert Reiss was too grief-stricken to form a rational sentence. He stood nearby, head bowed and blue eyes streaming tears, struggling to grasp how his God could have allowed such a thing to happen. Thought: My sweet Lord, I cannot bear this.

Louise continued. "Jesus, we bring these two departed souls to You in their human imperfection. We pray You will show them mercy. Take them in Your loving arms for all eternity — You, who are the Resurrection and the Light. Amen."

"Amen," said the town.

The Murphys, hard-scrabble alfalfa farmers until less than one week ago, turned and walked briskly towards a battered tan station wagon piled high with their belongings. They'd had their fill and were moving south. Jack and Helen Younger, a couple in their sixties, followed.

A cloud of swirling dust, and Two Trees was smaller still.

Spats Rafferty, his breath sharp with liquor and his mind fogged, stood waiting with Jake Lewis. They'd been appointed by Glenn Bates to fill in the graves. Spats hated work, but had been afraid to say no to the Sheriff. Old Martini stopped the tape and handed the cassette to his friend Urich. They walked away, heads down.

Hiram rolled Louise closer to Robert Reiss. She patted his hand wordlessly, and then the Polsons left for their hotel. Soon, no one remained behind but the confused young minister and his two reluctant gravediggers. Jake spat on his hands and hefted the shovel, impatient to get started and get it over with.

Jason Smith watched from the second-floor window of the mortuary, a thin smile carved on his gnarled features. He fingered his birthmark, which had now all but vanished. The Beast was pleased with his sacrifice. The time was coming. Jason closed the drapes.

Robert: Father, please help me to understand. Thy will be done, but soothe my rage so that I carry no hatred towards the man who caused this. Ease my guilt, my gnawing pain; still the shrieking voice that insists I should have been here when it happened. Bless Elmo and Elizabeth Reiss, Heavenly Father. Bless me. I must leave. I can't stay here any longer. Something wicked has entered this place. Guide me, Lord, that I may be Your servant. Amen.

The bearded young man glanced up at the mortuary windows. Had the closed curtains rustled? Probably just the wind. He should come to the service, Robert thought with a burst of resentment. Smith knew my family well enough. He lives in Two Trees. It's disrespectful of him to remain indoors. He's the mortician, for heaven's sake. How can he stay away?

But then again, perhaps the pitiful sight of Beth's ravaged corpse might have disturbed the strange little man; sickened him, despite his professional training. Robert knew that Smith had nurtured a crush on his sister. Tending to her body, he thought, must have cost Jason a great deal.

Forget not your charity.

Spats Rafferty belched, shuffled his feet and began knocking his shovel against a small mound of clay and pebbles. Jake elbowed him sharply, but Beth's brother heard and understood. He sighed.

"Amen," Robert whispered. "Rest in peace." And then he walked away.

Moments passed. A steaming wind pirouetted across the parched, yellowing hillside. The afternoon grew hushed and still. Alone in the scorching heat, with the sun just beginning to sink behind the towering mountains, Spats Rafferty and Jake Lewis shared a drink of whiskey. Jake coughed and wiped his mouth.

"May as well get started."

Rafferty decided to keep his mind on the twenty bucks Bates was paying. A lot of sauce for an hour's work. Spats lifted the shovel, dug deep. Grunted.

The first shower of earth rattled along the top of Beth's coffin like the Rockettes breaking into a tap routine. Jake Lewis shuddered. He hated that sound, and dreaded the day when it rained down on his head. He prayed the dead could not hear it. He bent to the work, the shovel snickering into the dirt and rising skyward.

Sundown, soon. Night wind rising.

The two men dug feverishly, neither one admitting his fear to the other. Darkness approached on velvet paws.

Jake fought to keep his mind a blank. For some damn reason he kept flashing on that old rusty tractor he'd always meant to repair. All those things in life, in fact, that he'd developed the habit of puttin' off. Elmo's death made him feel old, regretful of the stuff he'd never gotten around to.

Spats Rafferty, for his part, drank as much as he dug. He'd lift two shovel-fulls of the thick, parched earth, slam them down onto the cheap wooden coffins whuuuuuump and then whuuuuuump, and steal a nip.

Spats couldn't keep his mind off that pretty little girl Elizabeth. He'd had his share of lustful thoughts about the child, and now they returned. She whispered to him from beneath the pile of dirt:

Want to look under my dress, Spats?

Whuuuuuump.

You always wanted a peek, didn't you? Come back later. It's okay. Really. You can do anything you want. I'll never tell.

Whuuuuuuump.

Open me up, Spats. Come say hello.

Whuuuuuump.

Jake paused for a breather, shaded his eyes and swore under his breath. The sun was almost down. They'd have to hurry. No man in his right mind liked being in a goddamn graveyard at night. Jake said: "Let's pick it up, Spats." Louise Polson's voice echoed through Jake's mind: Let us pray. I don't fuckin' know how, Jake thought. I never learned to believe. Wish you could tell me what it's like, Elmo. What do you see? Is it still dark for you over there, like it was here? Is life worth the trouble?

Elmo's corpse said: Open it up, Jake. Want to see what happens when you check out?

Whuuuuuump.

I know all the answers, now. Why we live and why we die.

Whuuuuuump.

Hey Jake. Hey Spats. Come see…

Jake reeled back after one particularly nasty vision, his stomach squirming and his soul in turmoil. "Spats, he whispered hoarsely, "Let's wrap this up tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay by me."

But Jake eyed the sunset, the ominous shadows crawling towards them. He looked into the hole in the ground and gnawed his lower lip. He was tempted to think about quitting, leaving the job half done, but that just wouldn't be right.

"Naw, fuck it. We finish," he said curtly. He forced his old bones to move faster. Dig, lift. Whuuump. "Hey, Elmo," Jake grinned, I got an idea — you'd like this. "Listen." And he sang tunelessly: "Your cheatin' ways, are gonna break my heart…You're lyin' eyes are tearin' me apart…"

Spats heard Beth: My legs are slim and smooth, she said. I am not wearing underwear. My skin is sweet, it hasn't even started to rot away yet. And Spats, you really oughta taste my nipples.

"STOP IT!"

Startled, Jake dropped his shovel. "What in tarnation is the matter, Rafferty? You scared the be'jeezus out of me!"

"I got to leave now, Jake. Got to."

"We're almost done," Jake said. The air was turning chilly and night was almost upon them. An evening breeze began moaning, low and fierce, through the nearby gullies and ravines.

Whuuuuuump.

Jake had raised the earth to within inches of its proper level. Only a shallow depression remained. Rest in peace, Elmo. Maybe I'll bring you flowers, he thought. A country record or

two. Somethin' nice. We can do the rest tomorrow. You won't mind, will you, Elmo? How about I plant a little sod, some green to grow you a blanket. This desert gets cold at night.

"Mmmm..."

Jake spun around. Spats Rafferty was shaking all over, standing in a pool of shadow with drool running from his mouth. Jake lurched back, his flesh icy. Goddamn, he thought. I've never seen a man so fucking scared.

Rafferty whimpered.

"Let's go Spats," Jake said gently. He walked over and took the smaller man's elbow. "That's good enough."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Spats whined. The tramp sounded like a small child. He was shaking his head back and forth, like he'd just peeked in a magic mirror and couldn't hack what he'd seen. Graveyards can do that to a man.

And so the old codger and the town drunk strolled away through the cemetery, down towards the rickety wooden gate. They walked arm in arm, almost like they were out on a date, trying to act like they weren't scared shitless.

12

VARGAS

Night. Silence, except for the macabre shriek of the wind as it whipped through the barren desert. Dried sage scraped like claws in the dirt. And his mind kept on singing…the devil's reign…

The handsome Latino known as Vargas had ditched the useless stolen car in a narrow ravine, overgrown with brush. Its water pump was gone. Tumbled boulders and clumps of dried sage had helped him bury the Ford deep. He'd scattered dirt clods and sand to make it look like an abandoned wreck. He was right where he had been instructed to be, and totally on his own.

But now what?

Confused, his head full of haze, the crazed Latin man reeled through the undergrowth trying to get his bearings. He had killed again, and recently. The memories were still sharp and clear [...fresh blood, familiar words scrawled on the wall of the suite reserved for the casino's high rollers, the thing!...]

I'm running, he thought. That's right. There are men after me because of what I did a few hours ago in Las Vegas. I remember the clatter of roulette wheels, the clank of small change dropping into tin cups. The stench of watered whiskey, thick smoke, expensive sex — and the burning, her flesh burning. I did the thing to her, the thing, but someone came in right at the end, someone saw me…

Vargas tripped on some stones and fell with a curse. He fell to his knees in the dirt and sniffed the air like an animal, searching for clues. Nothing. Someone saw me…and I stabbed him, too and ran. But that second bodyguard was right behind the first one, and he followed me.

Help me, voices. I have to hide for a while. Where should I go? How was I supposed to know who she was, what she was?

…Vargas had gone crashing through the doorway and down into the casino stairwell, his footsteps booming off the corridor walls. The other man was close behind, right on his ass, screaming for him to stop; a handsome face blotched with rage and grim with determination. That young bodyguard had fired a gun BOOM, and then he'd moved like a panther, leaping over railings, closing the gap. So loud, everything had been so loud, even the rasp of their breathing. Jesus, I knew that beautiful icy, Italian bitch belonged to the Cosa Nostra, and that if I got caught I was dead — no trial, no chance, and that I was gonna die slowly, begging for mercy, just like the woman herself. So why did I do her? They almost had me, almost. Then the bodyguard tripped in the stairwell and almost knocked himself out and Vargas was saved and he kept on running…

[…the devil's reign, reign, reign….]

Vargas looked around the darkening desert, his heart beating faster. He could sense that young bodyguard was still on his trail. He's in the same boat; he doesn't find me, they kill him instead. Mafia, he thought grimly. I really did it this time.

[...oh, but the thing had been so wonderful...]

Help me, voices. I have no water, no map. I'll die out here all alone. I'll do anything you want, just help me.

There: A collection of tiny lights, far in the distance. A town of some kind. The man walked that way, stumbling and panting. He had covered several hundred yards before it hit him. He couldn't go into a town. Too risky. There might be law, or worse, like someone connected, who might have his description. There had to be another choice. The man snarled in the night, a trapped carnivore. His perfect teeth flashed. He turned in slow circles, delicate hands curling into claws.

First the thunder, then the lightning…The devil's reign, reign, reign…

One light.

A solitary lantern, perhaps two or three miles away. Someone lived out here. That meant food, shelter, a place to hide. He could check things out, maybe kill the owner and then lay low for a while.

As he fingered his knife, a sexual thrill ran through his genitals.

Thank you, voices. Thank you.

13

ROURKE

Peter, exhausted, had pulled over intending to rest his eyes. He'd fallen asleep instead. When he jerked awake it was late at night and there was a creature standing on the open highway, in front of his parked car. It was an old man, waxen and pale, almost transparent. Veins and arteries pulsed just under the skin, like some complex, multi-colored roadmap. Tubes and wires stuck out from his frail body, pointing in all directions like rows of plastic tentacles. He knew who this was, but refused to accept what was happening.

Is that you Grandpa? What are you trying to tell me?

Peter sat up slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. The apparition stared at him for a moment through blank, rheumy eyes and then vanished. Suddenly here was nothing in front of him but starlight and the last few miles of road leading to Two Trees, Nevada. Rourke glanced at his watch. He knew he could be home by sunrise.

He shook his head and rubbed his weary eyes. His mind sang, in many voices: Soon is the Night of the Beast.

Rourke started the car and pulled out onto the highway. There was nowhere to go but forward, now. He'd left his laptop computer, his business obligations and his old self behind in LA. Whatever he had been running from all these years had finally won the war. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, he pressed down on the accelerator.

It was time. Time to go home.

PART TWO

…"THE OFFERINGS"

A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!"

"I know," replied the universe. "However,

the fact has not inspired in me a sense of

obligation."

— Stephen Crane

"I believe that much unseen is also here."

— Walt Whitman

"Song of the open Road"

"If you gaze long enough into an abyss, it will gaze back at you."

—Nietzsche

1

ROURKE

Dawn.

The long-suffering town of Two Trees looked like short rows of cardboard boxes, painted pastel and left abandoned on the cruel surface of the high desert. Shiny tinfoil covered many of the spider-webbed windows. Sheet metal, cracked bricks and bleached tiles dangled from the walls and patched, sloping roofs. Meanwhile, the harsh, uncompromising Nevada sun threw down waves of heat like shards of broken glass.

Peter drove over the top of the rise, past the two tall cactus trees and whipped to the side of the highway in a spray of sand. His eyes were burning, his skin felt fried and gritty, but for better or worse he was finally home. He got out of the car and looked at the town; the mounds of rock around it, the mountains, so blue and green, above and beyond it. He tucked his blue work shirt back into his jeans, scuffed his boots on the blacktop. Thought: The prodigal son has returned.

Movement. The long barrel of a shotgun moved slowly through the low dunes like a periscope. The head and shoulders of an old man appeared. He wore blue overalls and a billed railroad cap.

"Good morning, Jake," Rourke said.

The wizened figure jerked, startled, and swung the weapon around. Rourke flinched. "Easy," he laughed. "I didn't come all this way to get shot by a friend."

Jake, squinting in the morning sun, studied the tall, wide shape before him. He placed the familiar voice and lowered his gun.

"Pete Rourke? That you?"

"Was the last time I looked, Jake."

"It's been years, boy! What you been up to?"

"Working my ass off down in good old Hollywood. Figured it was high time I came back."

Jake dug for fresh words, came up empty. "Pete. Hot damn. Well, how the hell are you?"

"Just fine, except I may have to change my shorts now. What are you hunting with that cannon?"

A wide grin creased the old man's features. "Badger, I reckon. Somethin's been gettin' to Candace Stone's chickens of late. She asked me to nose around, since her fella's been so downright useless."

"Fella? I thought she'd be living alone out there forever," Rourke said, walking closer.

"She's with Bert, now. No accountin' for taste."

"You've had twenty and some years to speak up, Jake. You telling me you're jealous?"

"Not a bit of it, you young punk! Course, she sure can cook up a storm, Candace. I'll miss the meals."

"Nail the critter, then," Rourke said. "It's bound to earn you a free supper."

"That's just what I'm doin', Pete. You stop by and see me, hear? Glad you're back."

"Thanks. Glad to be back."

Amazingly, he was; more so each passing moment. He returned to his car and waved. The thin old man wandered off, doggedly scanning the ground for badger tracks. Peter started the engine, humming to himself. He drove down the curving slope into town.

The town seemed to balloon sideways and fill the windshield. At least, he thought, this is one place where nothing ever changes.

The railroad tracks, long unused, still crossed from east to west like stitches. A thin carpet of powdered red clay covered them like a strip of filthy gauze bandage, and they were littered with bleached fists of dried tumbleweed. At the southern end of Two Trees stood a concrete tunnel. One summer, long ago, Rourke and his cousin Rod had painted skull and crossbones above it as a prank, after finding an old Indian burial cave. The outline was still visible on the chipped cement, the work of bored children. It said something of the town of Two Trees that it had never occurred to anyone to bother to remove the crude design. It had simply become a part of this place and its heritage. So am I. Rourke drove on in, straight down Main Street.

Hiram Polson's ancient adobe hotel still dominated the town square. A glimpse inside the lobby would have revealed cracked, peeling walls and rows of silent slot machines that waited patiently for tourists who no longer came. Hi and Louise Polson could never bring themselves to sell it, and now there were no buyers.

Jake's gas station hunkered, oily and bright with reflected sunlight, in the far corner of the square. A rush of memory: Rourke could smell the engine parts in the garage, see the decrepit old John Deere tractor that stood rusting, year after year, out behind the station's single restroom. Jake, who had somehow inherited it, always said he'd get it running one fine day. Actually, Jake tinkered but rarely fixed anything or managed to turn a profit. He smoked cheap cigars, drank Nehi orange soda by the gallon and read cheap paperback novels about the old West. Jake's knuckles were mangled from years of toil as a mechanic, his hands stained with thick, green grease. He still wore that American Legion pin on the chest of his worn, patched overalls. No, nothing ever changed in Two Trees.

Rourke tried the radio, moved the tuner around, but heard nothing appealing. He turned it off again and continued his slow drive, whistling a Beatles song. He felt safe, which struck him as ironic.

Safe, where he used to have to hide. Where he'd tried to run away, again and again, to escape his father; slid through mud and under houses, crept down alleys and across small vegetable gardens, hoping to make it to the highway and somehow bum a ride. But he'd had Grandpa, then, to even out the score. God, how he'd loved the man. Hey, Rourke thought, turning the wheel. Do you suppose — I don't believe it. Am I that old?

Uncut weeds. The dusty outline of a once-green field and a pair of empty, splintered bleachers. No buildings; they'd probably all been hauled away for scrap.

The entire high school was gone.

Now this was a heartbreaker. Even for a guy like Rourke, who had seen Two Trees football as a dreary social obligation, one a big, strapping kid couldn't wriggle out of, not unless he limped convincingly. Nobody plays on that grass anymore, he thought. It's all dead.

Dead as Two Trees was dying.

Punt. I need to hear an old, familiar voice.

Peter drove past the sheriff's office and parked in the dirt near Martoni's Market. His back felt stiff. He slid out of the car, tried to crack his neck and caught sight of his reflection in Martoni's front window. He saw a big man in his mid-thirties with decent Irish features and a smattering of freckles. The eyes a little colder, maybe; reddish-brown hair now long and unruly. But all in all, not that different from the boy this town remembered.

Martoni's screen was stuck. Rourke tugged it open and got a puff of dust in his eyes. He entered the cool, dark grocery store. The bell rang, the door slammed behind him and: [Uncle Jeremy shoved the long hunting rifle into his small, reluctant hands. "Aim high and left. Drop the bastard with your first shot, or you'll be chasing a wounded deer for hours. Always respect what you kill," Jeremy had said. "Be clean. Quick."]

Rourke shook the memory away.

"Mr. Martoni?"

"You don't gotta yell, kid."

"You've got good ears for an old fart," Peter grinned.

Martoni appeared from far in back, behind the butcher counter, his body embraced by a stained white apron. Brown hair greying at the temples; blood-darkened hands and irregular teeth in a warm, soft face. He shook his wet fingers and sprayed the wall with crimson droplets.

"Good ears? My wife died years ago, kid. My hearing came back something remarkable after that. So you're home, Pete. I'm glad. It's been a while." Martoni, the gruff old man who'd once given refuge and fresh oranges to an odd little boy he hardly knew. Small-town grocer, unwitting savior.

"It's good to see you," Rourke said. He meant it.

"Quick, now! Swipe an apple while my back is turned."

Peter approached the fruit counter, boots clumping on the wooden floor. He chose an apple and crunched a bite. This had once been something of a joke; but now it felt sacred, a ritual that slowed and twisted time.

The grocer nodded in satisfaction. "I missed you, Pete," he said. "Years too long."

"Likewise, sir. Decided to come home for a while. Maybe I'll work a bit, maybe not. We'll see."

Martoni smiled. "The music and everything, we're all proud of you. I've got some of your CDs here in the back of the store."

Rourke blinked. He finished the apple and flipped the core into the trash can below the book rack. "I'll need to stock up for a few days," he managed. "Beans. Flour, meat. Some coffee and soft drinks. That's for starters."

Martoni ended up filling several cardboard boxes with provisions. Each time Peter took one out to the car, the heat tried to knock him down. When the back seat was full, he went into the store and found Martoni busying himself at the shelves. The grocer handed Rourke a pencil and a scrap of paper. Straight-faced, ignoring both the cash in his pocket and the check book in his car, Rourke wrote out an IOU for $129.50. This was another old ritual, denoting mutual trust. Martoni dropped the note into the drawer of his register without even looking at it.

"How long will you be staying, Pete?"

"A couple of weeks, I guess. Maybe longer."

Martoni struggled with himself. "Don't spend too much time alone, kid," he said. "You always did that. But since… well, it never was a good idea. You know?"

Rourke winced. "I'll be okay, Mr. Martoni. Relax."

Peter returned to his car. He considered stopping by the cemetery where his mother and Grandfather were buried, but decided against it. He was rationalizing, but figured he'd be around long enough to make a lot of graveside visits. Perhaps some older ghosts could finally be laid to rest.

Rourke spun the vehicle in a wide half-circle, completely around the weathered grocery store. He parked again, then jogged to the sheriff's office and tapped on the door. Glenn Bates, his skin smooth and compact as a leather saddle, emerged from within. Though a bit younger, the sheriff still had the bearing of Rourke's late uncle Jeremy. That same Marine Corps toughness. Bates wore his usual starched tan uniform. His badge gleamed in the sunlight; polished so often the engraving had begun to wear flat.

"Welcome home, Rourke," Bates said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Didn't bring any dope into my quiet little town, did you?"

"I'm fine, Sheriff. Thanks for asking. And you?"

"Don't cause me trouble, Rourke. Or I'll make you sorry you did."

Rourke sighed. "I just wanted you to know that I was here, Glenn. I didn't want you to think someone had broken into my cabin. I'd hate to have you blow my ass away when you drop by to check on it."

"That would be a shame, wouldn't it."

"In my opinion," Rourke said.

Bates nodded. "Glad you stopped by, then. Have a nice visit."

Bates closed the door in his face. Peter shrugged. He started back towards his car. A cold rush of fear ran through him and icy lashes brushed his spine: Jesus, am I skulling? [...something rancid, evil...] Before he could locate or define it, the tingle vanished. He shook himself, numb with shock. No drugs this time. Some trace of stray emotion, perhaps. Another memory, or perhaps a premonition.

Please, God, he thought. Don't let this start again.

The world swam into focus. Hi Polson, rocking quietly on the front porch of his dilapidated hotel, waved and smiled. Rourke waved back.

"Howdy, stranger," Hiram called. "How's life?"

"Good enough, Hi. What have you and Louise been up to? Business must be hard to come by."

"We're making do," Polson said. "Making do. Oh, that Reiss boy, young preacher Robert, he was asking after you the other day. I said I'd say howdy. Terrible thing, wasn't it?"

"What?"

Polson blanched. "Why, Beth and Elmo. You didn't hear?"

"No."

As Hiram explained, Rourke sagged. The sickness of the city, mindless violence, had spread this far into the wilderness. Man and his deeds.

"They have any ideas?"

"Bates thinks some drifter done it," Hi Polson said. "State Police agreed."

What a tragedy. Poor Robert, he thought. This was a terrible thing. "Tell him I'd like to see him," he said.

"Will do, when I hear something," Hiram said. "Pete, you drop by sometime."

"Sure."

Peter shelved the depressing news. He found the old green house on autopilot, parked in the shade of the overpass and whistled sharply between two fingers. Nothing. He whistled again.

A whine of recognition, mock growling. Paws thumping the earth. Monday came racing around the corner of the porch, barking joyfully. Peter wrestled the big shepherd, laughing, and ended up prone in the dry grass. He remembered right away, bless him, Rourke thought. A lot of dogs would have snubbed me after this long.

He went up the steps of Agatha's house and peered in through the closed screen door: Lace, old lady dust and empty chairs. A sudden gust of wind entered the deserted living room, thumbed through the pages of a magazine and moved on like a restless spirit.

"Hello?"

"You must be Peter Rourke," said a soft, precise female voice.

She stepped up onto the end of the porch, a pert woman in her middle twenties. She had large, alert eyes, a pouting mouth and raven-black hair. Her elbows and knees were dark with freshly turned soil from the garden. She wore cut-off blue jeans and a faded work shirt several sizes too large for her, as if hoping to disguise the taut muscles and round curves of her lithe, strong body. Rourke thought briefly of Dee. The girl did not remind him of the singer in any concrete way, but struck a similar chord of physical appreciation. The moment was crystal clear; luminous and quite sensual. He suddenly realized that she was appraising him too, and that it had been an embarrassingly long time since she had spoken.

"Sorry. Yes, I'm Peter Rourke."

She strode forward, extending her hand for a solid Midwestern shake; eyes locked on his, shoulders back and face open for inspection. Someone had taught her to project strength, self-confidence and sexuality, but perhaps a bit too well. There were no rough edges or worn spots; this was all rehearsed. Stiff. Meanwhile, someone timid and guilty crouched low behind a barricade, hoping to remain undiscovered.

"I'm Maggie," she announced. "Agatha's niece."

"She passed away?"

"Yes. It was a blessing, actually. She couldn't look after herself any longer."

"She was a nice old woman," Peter said sadly. "I'll miss her."

"So will I. She left everything to me, the sweetheart. I came here intending to spruce things up a bit and sell the house, but now I can't decide."

Rourke smiled. "I guess Aggie told you that I might be coming to check on my dog sometime soon."

"Yes. Monday's such a dear. How old is he?"

"He's getting up there. Not only that, he's the son of another shepherd I had when I lived here. Needless to say, it's been a while since I've been home."

Maggie nodded. "By the way, why is he called Monday, anyway?"

The shepherd barked gleefully at the sound of his name. They laughed. Rourke seized the opportunity to move a bit closer. He and Maggie knelt on either side of the dog, as if unaware of the sparks beginning to fly back and forth between them.

"We called his Mom by the same name, because Monday was the day we found her wandering by the highway."

"I admire you," Maggie said.

"Why?"

"For leaving a dog out here in the country, where he belongs, and not dragging him off to L.A."

"Not one dog, Maggie. Two generations worth. And you know something? It wasn't an easy choice."

"I believe you," she said.

"But…Fair is fair."

She nuzzled Monday. "He's wonderful."

"I've missed him as much as my uncle's cabin."

"But how come you know each other so well?" she asked. "You said you haven't been back home in years."

Rourke scratched the dogs muzzle. "My Uncle Jeremy used to visit me pretty often, and he always brought the dogs. First the Mom, then both of them and finally just this guy. I used to meet them halfway sometimes, like in Vegas. He left Monday with me in L.A. for a few months when he was about a year old, but that was downright cruel. A country dog in a bullshit L.A. condo, you know? It seemed immoral, or something."

She laughed. "Sounds like," she said. Rourke decided he liked her laugh. A lot.

Maggie rose, dusting herself off. "Hey," she grinned, "Would you like a drink or something? Want to come in?"

Those eyes roamed over him, and her gaze felt seductive. Peter deliberated, then reluctantly shook his head. Said: "Thanks, but I really should go unpack. It'll be dark soon as it is. Another time?"

He turned at the foot of the steps, but couldn't read Maggie's expression. Her face was cloaked in shade. Had he offended her? He stretched for something to say. The woman had suddenly made him feel clumsy and adolescent.

"Maggie, I..."

"We'll have to talk," she purred. "I've never met a songwriter. I play semi-pro tennis, myself. Perhaps we could have a game sometime."

He winced. "I'm awful. Would you believe football?"

She clapped her hands. "I'm a born jock, Rourke," she chuckled. "We'll debate who was better, Marshall Faulk, Simpson, Eric Dickerson or Gayle Sayers. Just name the time and place."

Peter nodded as if coming to a momentous decision. "You and me, Maggie," he intoned, "are going to get along."

Monday raced to the car and sat patiently by the passenger door until Rourke let him hop inside. The shepherd barked again, excited to be returning to the mountains.

"Let me get settled," Rourke called. "I'll drop by. Maybe Mr. Urich over at the drug store will sell us a quarter lemonade."

"I doubt it. Inflation."

"We'll see. He still was doing it six years ago, when I came up here for my birthday."

He slid into the car and began to drive away. Maggie waved, then went off to resume digging in Agatha's garden. Rourke scratched Monday on the neck and studied Maggie's shapely behind in the rear view mirror. Very nice. Maybe you can go home again, after all.

2

GLADYS PIERSON

Gladys Pierson pulled her bulky body up and out of bed, her stomach demanding bananas and milk with brown sugar. Damn her friend Edith and that stupid ouija board. Out so late, feeling so foolish; sitting there in that dark room, waiting for some fool piece of wood to move on its own. Lord, how two silly old women can carry on.

"It might be the end of the world, Gladys," Edith had said. "We can learn all about it, too. I've read books." Foolishness, all of it, but what are friends for? Besides, suppose something really did happen some night.

Gladys decided that she would need a big breakfast to keep up her strength. Her routine had been the same for more than twenty years, and she found it a comfort.

A blue jay called from its perch in the tree right outside her bedroom window. The harsh grating laughter rolled up and down two octaves. The racket pleased her. Why, that jay must be as old as I am!

Gladys wrapped a giant green terrycloth bathrobe around her obese frame and padded into the kitchen, cooing to her houseplants. She opened her back door. Five large cats were waiting on the steps.

"Good day."

A sudden sound, like gravel spraying down onto a tin roof. Purring. Gladys opened a box of dry food and poured each animal a neat little pile of kibble. She didn't care for the odor of a cat box, so she rarely allowed the amiable little creatures inside. If only they didn't need to "go."

Pity.

Gladys Pierson: a lonely, chubby old woman, talking and giving comfort where she could. Gladys never made herself a burden, never sought company with that hidden desperation that so often only ends up driving other people away. She was well-respected, always friendly. A born gossip.

Gladys was the nearest thing Two Trees, which was an impossibly anachronistic town, had to a telephone and telegraph company. Once seated at her tiny switchboard, she could patch one caller through to another with easy familiarity. One long ring for the Polsons over at the hotel; two for Sheriff Bates. Three shorts for Anthony Martoni. Two longs and one short for young Peter Rourke, now that he was around again. Just like the old days; the late forties and fifties of her youth.

Every year or two, a dapper gentleman or lady would come through Two Trees offering Gladys modern dialing equipment, new-fangled cable modems, internet setups and all kinds of other gizmos for her telephone office. She always rejected the upgrades, saying the town had little need for the items and no money. That was partly true, of course, but the real reason was personal.

No one would have needed her, then.

Gladys Pierson would have become obsolete, been lost without all the trivial little conversations that gave her an existence outside of herself. No, the old ways were best. At least this way Gladys was thought of, talked to — and she could still listen in, just a bit, now and then. Not enough to do any harm, of course. Out of curiosity.

Gladys turned on her old color television set and adjusted the rabbit ears. A tired-looking man in a neat, grey business suit was talking about news from San Francisco. They cut away to a piece of film taken by helicopter. Somebody had committed suicide, jumped off one end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Gladys made a cup of instant coffee and lowered herself into a kitchen chair. So much had changed in the world, and so little of it for the better. She turned the television off with a sigh.

When the big highway had passed by Two Trees and the town had begun to shrink and disappear, she had been glad. It meant less interference from the outside. Fewer strange faces. With the whole country going to hell in a handbasket, Gladys felt downright grateful for that. It's just those of us who live here, she thought. As it should be. My little family; passing each other on the street, occasionally calling one another on the party line.

Gladys guarded the information she obtained by eavesdropping with admirable restraint. If a person had trouble, the secret was safe with her. But oh, back in the old days! If someone was getting married then, or having a baby, the gossip would spread through her network almost as quickly as it reached the intended listener.

Good news should travel fast, Gladys figured. There is too much bad news in the world already.

She poured milk over her bananas and brown sugar. In her own way, she considered this a vegetarian diet. It was designed to help her lose the surplus eighty pounds she had been carrying for more than twenty years now. The fact that each day generally began with an entirely different "diet" never occurred to her. There were times when Gladys decided she could eat nothing but ice cream and still lose weight, but by dinner she'd switch to steak and potatoes.

Gladys finished her breakfast and dressed for work. She pulled a baggy, black and white polka-dot dress over her head, then wrapped the bright beads she had bought at the Woolworth's in Reno around her wrists and neck.

Gladys Pierson left her house at exactly seven-thirty for the brief walk to her office. She passed Hi and Louise Polson's adobe hotel and looked up to find Louise waving at her from the top floor window. Gladys returned the cheerful greeting.

Spats Rafferty, town handyman and resident drunk, doggedly began to sweep the front porch. Oh dear, Gladys thought. That looks like another hangover.

"Mornin'," he croaked.

She passed him with a knowing smile.

Two Trees seemed old. Gladys had been noticing it more and more lately. Main Street was cracking, yet nobody ever thought to have the pavement repaired. But then, who would they go to? The town didn't even have a Mayor. The only authority left was Glenn Bates, and no one would have dared to confront him with something so trivial.

It didn't make her sad. This seemed the natural way of things. After all, Gladys Pierson was old. Why shouldn't her town be too?

She opened the door to her little office with its antique switchboard. Cool night air, trapped inside, flowed past. It made her aware that she had already begun to perspire.

Gonna be a hot day, she thought. Real hot.

3

JASON

Jason screamed and clutched his face. The birthmark writhed beneath his

stiffening fingers. Pain had flared suddenly, without warning, as if in response to that one passing car. He dropped the insects he'd collected and stumbled out of the cave to sink to his knees in the blistering sand. Harsh sun blinded him; endless motes of dust, prancing down strands of spun gold.

The agony lessened. Sobbing with relief, Jason blinked back tears and fought to slow

his pounding heart.

White had arrived.

There is still time, he told himself, it is not too late to run. I could pack and leave this

place forever. Dog need not know of my treachery. I am still in control. His inner eye had shown an enemy who was still feeble and undisciplined. White was riddled with self-doubt. But such power slept within him! This man must never be allowed to awaken, Jason thought. I should kill him now, despite Dog's orders.

He stumbled towards a skeletal clump of blue-green sage and sat on a low pile of rocks.

It was bewildering to find himself intimidated by such a pathetic, guilty man.

What did you expect? He is your eternal enemy.

"Dog?"

The sage burst into flame and crackled orange in the afternoon air. Acrid rings of

smoke rose upward. Jason felt ashamed. Terrified.

"But ... But I did not summon you."

Fool, I appear when I choose. Betray me, and you will suffer beyond imagining. I rule

you. Thus it has always been and ever shall be.

LOOK, PUPPY!

[...a moonless, torturous network of filthy alleys and blood-soaked streets. this is victory; the spoils of war; a conquered people. he is Yoth, the leader of his kind, and in the mood for a woman. she will be draped in virgin white, her hands and face stained red by the butchered flesh of her husband and children....a pagan monolith in the soggy green hills. Yoth orders its priests drawn and quartered. he drains their life to renew and refresh his own.

...disorientation, falling through inner space. Rome? yes, this is the capital. blinking in the bright sun, raising his trident high in salute to the emperor, he twirls and dances and clowns for the screaming mob. he is heavily favored, the most savage of gladiators — a towering hulk of muscle and bone. a strawberry birthmark sprawls like a jellyfish across his snarling features...ancient Cathay, Crete, Macedonia and Thrace unroll before his eyes as if on an ornate scroll. he sees Persia and Africa in rich detail. the taste of gritty Spartan wine scalds his tongue. he pictures the coming conflict; perceives that it has happened time and time again; understands that this is one battle he must win...]

Humbled, he lowered his head. "Master, I did not know."

Do not think to escape me, puppy. You are mine, as you have always been. You wear my mark.

"I did not know. I am sorry."

The revelation had been breathtaking, black and glorious. I am not insane, I am the Chosen One! Stunned, Jason Smith panted more apologies. He wrung his hands and chanted for forgiveness.

And The Beast said: You have always been my favored son. Always. Remember that this patch of dirt, destined to become The Gate, gave birth to White. Have no fear, but pay him his proper respect.

"What should I do?"

Dog said: Train new soldiers at once. Find fresh converts, helpers from the world of men. Torment their dreams until they join us.

I go now.

"But..."

The fire went out. The untouched bush wriggled sensuously in the breeze. Silence fell like a knitted quilt. A few must be nearer the edge than others, Jason thought. I will begin at once.

Dog had commanded, he dared not disobey. I will not wait for the Night of Nights, as originally planned. I will find fresh offerings. And I will torment them, I promise you. They will turn towards the dark with a vengeance.

4

GLEN BATES

Bates. See him? Just last night, all alone in the dark:

There he was, the sheriff of Two Trees, seated in his police car: Spine ramrod straight and shoulders back. Thinning closely cropped hair, well-polished badge gleaming a toothy grin in the gloom. Glenn Bates watched its reflection, green from the dashboard lights, dance along the windshield. He was cleaning his pistol.

Bates loaded all six chambers and looked out at the uncaring stars. He began to sob; raised the gun and slid the long, icy barrel past his lips. As it filled his mouth, he felt the blunt sight scratch the tender flesh of his throat. He cocked the hammer. One squeeze, bubba — BOOM! Grey mud and pink froth all over the car. Curtains.

Bates started to tremble. After a moment, he lowered the revolver and gently eased his thumb down to disarm it. You're drunk, he thought miserably. Worn ragged from lack of sleep. You need some rest, that's all.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the steering wheel. He knew exactly what would happen if he let go. He'd end up right back there, just like before; smelling, feeling and tasting it. Living the war again, as if time had slipped a gear. The dreams were that real, that scary. They sent him into the past and left him stranded with a lot of nasty, unfinished business.

Bates was afraid to fall asleep. But staying awake for too long could also drive a man crazy. He'd seen that, been through it once in 'Nam. Hallucinated, heard things, gradually lost track of reality. Weird shit, to say the least.

You probably shouldn't be fighting it so hard, he thought. Maybe you're making things worse by trying to keep the lid on. The shrinks said to give it a little air now and then.

Nothing could be as bad as the dreams. And they had been so much worse of late.

Glenn Bates had always liked his liquor, but the Big Green had turned him into a drunk. Anybody in his right mind was scared to death of the bush; stepping into that confusing maze of jungle, booby traps and foul-smelling rice paddies. Bates had started to carry scotch in a spare canteen after he watched a draftee die horribly, legs neatly sheared away by a buried mine. A trip wire had been stretched across the trail. One false step and the kid was wasted; a rare steak, screaming for morphine and mother.

Bates drank, and because of the drinking he doubted his manhood. He suffered through night terrors that refused to be blotted out. Liquor kept him going, helped him stay halfway glued together.

Little Ngo had been his only friend, after all.

Ngo: "I nose Charley. He cook fish. Two klicks, maybe. This nummah one day meet VC, Bates. Nummah one."

He was right.

Fuck it. Let it be, will you? Bates, back in the present, began to lecture himself. Want to think about the service? What about discipline, the pride and loyalty it molded — men confronting violence together as one unit, a team? Discipline is salvation. You're under fire, he thought. You need mental toughness and emotional discipline. Now more than ever.

He would escape. There would be a new job, another chance. Bates had long ago submitted applications to the police departments in several Nevada cities. He'd just have to be more persistent. It would come. There would always be a need for experienced, dedicated law enforcement officers.

When you get right down to it, Bates reasoned, the bottom line is always discipline. He put the gun away, started the engine and drove home to sleep off the booze.

5

EDITH

Also just the night before: Let the small whine of an errant wind carry you down an alley, past the gas station and up to the window of a splintered old one-bedroom home. Peer inside at the dark wooden dining room set, and in the dim lighting: Do you see her…?

Edith, friend to telephone operator Gladys Pierson, was a gaunt, stern-looking old woman who generally wore a black dress and flat black shoes. She stared intently at the cards on the table before her; eyes wide, expression serene. The cards were from an antique Tarot deck. Edith was about to take a peek into the future. Her black dress rippled as she placed her first choice, indicating present position, in the center. Sideways, across the first, she placed another. This second card would indicate the house having the most immediate influence.

She slowly worked her way through the ritual. Three for destiny. Four for the distant past. Five for the recent past. Six led into the future. Seven: the question. Eight would indicate environmental factors, and nine the relevant inner emotions. Ten, the last, would show the probable result of any considered action.

She began to read. Within moments she frowned, puzzled. This pattern was unlike any she had ever drawn before. Its most likely interpretation was ominous, rather exciting.

Death.

The old woman shuffled the deck and began again. She created the proper pattern, concentrated, and flipped the cards in their new sequence. Her heart began to pound. There was absolutely no doubt. Some wild destiny was approaching, and at a rapid pace. The Tarot had spoken, and its message chilled her blood.

The Devil threatened violence, rage and bondage. The Tower sang of calamity — a great disturbance. The Hanged Man meant a terrible sacrifice. The card of Strength: mind over matter. There would certainly be death — and, for someone, a strong test demanding great courage.

Edith shuffled again, paused to catch her breath, then drew a final time. Once more, on behalf of the little town of Two Trees and its rapidly shrinking population.

Death.

She dropped the card as if it had caught on fire, her fingers twitching in shock and dismay. The odds against such a thing happening three times in a row were astronomical. This was no accident, it was a warning. She began to pace, her old bones creaking like the ancient boards in the hardwood floor.

What were the dead trying to tell her?

6

PETER ROURKE/THE BAXTERS

Peter had spotted the Baxters' familiar RV from the highway just as he was about to leave the main road and turn off into the mountains toward his cabin. He'd rolled the wheel and started in their direction, gunning his engine to climb to the top of the grassy knoll. Timmy had been overjoyed to see Rourke show up again. A kid could trust a guy who kept his promises. And now he'd spent the whole day with them, playing croquet and throwing a football.

As the afternoon faded, Peter seemed to be enjoying their company. Timmy made up his mind. He had to find some way to get Peter Rourke to be his dad. Although he couldn't have explained it, the boy knew instinctively that what needed to happen between Rourke and his mother wasn't going to happen. He'd have to think of something on his own.

Rourke had now spent hours with Timmy, taught him to play a chord on the guitar, make his own fishing pole and some real neat secrets about the woods — how to find north and stuff like that. Rourke was tall and strong — kind of a cowboy, and real smart. He made up whole songs all by himself. Jeez, the guy was perfect! Timmy concentrated fiercely, determined to figure an angle. Heck, he just couldn't let a chance like this slip away.

Rourke had tried to leave earlier, saying that he wanted to get to his cabin before dark, but they'd all ganged up on him and talked him into staying for supper. Then to sing a couple of tunes. Afterwards the four gathered around the comfort of a blazing fire. They stuck marshmallows on straightened coat hangers and chatted as they nibbled.

Timmy wedged himself in between Rourke and his dog Monday. He sat quietly, petting the dog; feeling safe, warm and protected. His mother lit another cigarette.

"Paula," Rourke said, "you're absolutely right. You smoke too much."

"I know," she sighed. "They say that's half the battle — admitting you've got a problem."

Peter winked. "I understand more than you'll ever know. Unfortunately, they also don't tell you it's the easy half."

Timmy patted the dog and reached up to tug on the sleeve of Rourke's thick hunting jacket. "Peter, can I ask you somethin' important?"

"Sure you can."

"I know you wouldn't lie to me, not on purpose, but is there any chance you're wrong?"

"About what, Timmy?"

"You know," the boy mumbled. He seemed embarrassed.

"I do?"

"Yeah. Well, about there bein' any vampers in the woods and stuff. Could you be wrong, even a little bit?"

Paula groaned. "Damn it, Timmy! Peter, I'm sorry about this foolishness. It's those horror comics."

Julie was making faces and giggling. The boy ignored both his sister and mother. He locked eyes with Rourke. He was serious, and he wanted a serious answer.

Peter remembered the feeling from his own childhood. He spoke to Paula first, without turning his head or looking at Timmy.

"No, relax," he said. "I don't mind. We've all got our own special monster, Timmy."

"Really?"

"Really. Now, here is the truth. I've spent most of my life in the high desert and these mountains. I've hiked alone, sometimes for days at a time. I have never once seen a vampire, or talked to anybody who claimed to have seen one. Never heard so much as a rumor. Cross my heart."

Timmy sighed with relief and snuggled closer. "Okay, sir," he said. "Thank you."

Julie stuck out her tongue and jumped up. "I gotta go," she announced, walking away towards the tree line. Paula, puzzled, called: "Julie? Use the toilet in the camper, honey. It's pitch black out there."

"No," her daughter replied. "It stinks, mother. Take it easy. I'll be right back."

"Kids," Paula grinned. She yawned, stretched and started to light another cigarette but stopped in the nick of time. She and Rourke exchanged smiles.

Timmy adores him, Paula thought. He needs a father figure, somebody very much like Peter. Well, maybe a bit older. Hell, Paula, she told herself, you could use a man too. Handy item to have on a cold night. I'll bet you'd be able to cut down on the smoking then, space case. Too bad there's nothing going on between us. Aww, that would be robbing the cradle.

Her son had closed weary eyes and fallen asleep with his head resting on Rourke's leg. Peter seemed oblivious; he was staring at the fire, lost in thought. Paula pierced another marshmallow and held it high above the leaping flames. She wandered, too. A thousand nagging questions filled her mind. She wondered how long it would take for the hurt to heal with Karl gone. Whether she'd ever be able to allow someone to get that close again. She began to feel drowsy. She popped the marshmallow into her mouth, closed her eyes and dozed.

It was Timmy who broke the spell. He woke up with a huge yawn and looked around.

"Mom, where's Julie?"

Paula and Peter jumped to their feet, suddenly aware that the fire had burned down near embers. Far too much time had passed. Something had to be wrong. Rourke ran over to his car, opened the trunk and dug around.

Monday sensed trouble brewing. He growled low and began to pace the clearing in a near perfect circle. An occasional questioning whine interrupted his fierce, throaty threats to the unseen enemy. Rourke clipped a leash onto his collar and started tugging.

Paula had stationed herself by the small path leading off into the trees. Her heart was thudding with alarm. She cupped her hands.

"Julie? Are you all right, Julie?"

Bleak, tormenting quiet.

Rourke joined her, carrying a tire iron and a red plastic lantern. He ordered Monday to sit, gave the leash to Paula, then sent a beam of light forward to scan the night. A thin ribbon of dried pine needles crisscrossing the trail seemed to sag from what could have been footprints. It was a place to start. Paula choked back a sob.

Peter squeezed her hand. "Keep Monday here with you," he said. "Call her name and look after the boy. I'll work my way up the path in figure eights. Your voice will be giving Julie her beacon, Paula, so don't break down."

He faded into the shadows before she could say a word.

Paula motioned Timmy to her side. She gave him the leash and control of the big, sweet-tempered dog. "We're going to take turns," she said, fighting back the tears.

Her son nodded gravely. He imitated his mother, cupped his palms and shouted.

"Julie!"

Peter thought he heard something moving through the woods. Seconds crawled by as he held his breath. Nothing, just leaves rustling in the breeze. He moved lengthwise up the hill, eyes searching.

The blackness attacked, began to close in from every angle. It turned shallow gullies into steep cliffs; transformed a harmless mound of boulders into a crazed ax murderer. Suddenly Rourke, only a short distance from camp, was completely lost. He felt isolated and trapped, as if he were picking his way across the floor of some gigantic, deep cavern. He moved quietly, every fiber of his being on red alert. He knew he should have been making as much noise as possible — to help the girl relocate the trail, in case she'd only gotten lost — but he couldn't convince himself to be loud. He was suddenly far too frightened.

His talent awakened and began to probe. The sensation caught him off guard and the talent broke free long enough to implant a few murky images; disconnected scraps of sound and shadow that further disturbed him and fed his growing anxiety. He dropped to one knee and sprayed the beam of light along the path, then out to explore a clump of brush and pine.

Something white, like the girl's blouse?

A small piece of fabric, probably ripped away by thorns. As Peter moved higher to examine it, he became conscious of the worried voices coming from below: Paula and Timmy, calling for Julie. They were starting to panic. He checked the area carefully, trying to guess what might have happened to the child, and edged a little further from the trail.

Soft earth gave beneath the toe of his boot.

He managed to step back before losing his balance and used the flashlight. It was a sheer drop, perhaps ten feet, with loose dirt near the rim. The perfect way for a confused child to knock herself unconscious. He slid to the bottom of the short cliff, tire iron at the ready, and listened.

A soft moan, the sound almost lost in the wailing echo of Paula's latest cry. He crouched low and peered into the woods.

There, right in front of him. No more than a few yards away. Julie, sprawled face down in a pile of leaves and neatly camouflaged. Rourke would probably have missed her if she'd remained silent.

The girl was bruised and dazed. She seemed to be coming around. Her eyelids fluttered and she looked right at him, but couldn't focus.

Rourke gently moved her limbs. Satisfied that Julie hadn't broken any bones, he gathered her up in his arms and started back. He noticed that her right wrist was bleeding slightly and paused to tie his hanky around it.

A tingle — his talent again. Danger? Jesus Christ, no doubt about it. Something was coming right at him; steady as hell and closing fast. It sounded large and low to the ground; sleek, like a big cat, with a smooth and even stride.

In seconds, Peter duck-walked around the girl to put himself squarely in the way and screen her off. What the hell is that? He experimented quietly with the tire iron, knees shaking, and tried to keep his muscles loose and free. Goddamn it, he grimaced. Now, when I could really use a little help, my talent takes a fucking coffee break.

The stalker slowed, then stopped as if to observe him. Hot rush of alarm: Had it moved, had he lost it? Jesus, if he'd allowed it to outflank him, he and Julie were in deep trouble.

Something burst from hiding and charged.

Peter swung the iron rod in a vicious arc. He put everything behind the blow, for he knew he might not get a second chance. He nearly went through with it, but somehow managed to twist himself to one side at the last second. He dropped the tire iron, swearing, and reached down. No collar. Monday had been so determined to follow Peter into the woods he'd slipped free of his leash.

"Idiot," Rourke whispered. "Don't ever do that again." He looked around. "Come to think of it, let's both never do this again."

A tingle, sharp and clear: [something else is out there]

You're spooked; jumping at branches and seeing ghosts from the badlands of your head. [tingle?] Be a rational adult and stop worrying.

"It's nothing," he said aloud.

Peter flinched and spun around. Monday had started growling. The dog felt it too; something vile and wicked, floating through the thin night air. It was leering down at him, amused. Rourke shuddered. The short hairs on the nape of his neck came to attention.

Peter started back down towards camp, Julie cradled in his arms. He didn't like turning his back to those dark, damp woods. Neither did Monday, which made things even worse. It just didn't add up. Why was Julie lying so far from the RV? Hell, she'd only gone out to avoid using the chemical toilet, yet he'd found her over a hundred yards away and in a totally different location. Looking battered, as if she'd been running through the forest.

When Rourke stepped into view with Julie, Timmy cheered. Paula cracked. She began to sob helplessly as Peter carried her little girl into the large mobile home. He had to duck to avoid whacking his head against the low ceiling.

"Which bed, Timmy?"

The boy rushed into Julie's room. He peeled back the blankets and sheets and fluffed her pillows. Peter eased Julie down onto the bed and covered her up. Her wrist had stopped bleeding. He loosened the knot and removed his handkerchief.

Paula knelt beside the bed, clutching Julie's hand. She murmured a soft prayer of thanks when her daughter responded.

"What happened, baby?" Paula asked.

Clouds rolled through Julie's eyes. She shook her head and frowned. "I don't know, Mom."

"Well, you're safe, thanks to Mr. Rourke. That's all that matters."

Julie looked unusually pale. Peter was puzzled. The girl couldn't have lost a great deal of blood.

Julie began to toss her head around on the pillow. "I must have passed out, Mom," she cried. "Why don't I remember anything? Am I going to be sick again? Even when I was real sick, I could always remember. How come I can't now?"

"You bumped your head," Rourke said. "That can do funny things to people. You'll probably be fine in the morning."

"Will I?"

"I'm no medicine man, but I think so, I don't see any sign of a concussion. Does your head hurt?"

"Nope."

"Then go to sleep," Rourke said. "You should be okay after a good night's rest."

Paula fussed over her daughter. Rourke seized the opportunity to sneak outside and warm himself at the fire. Timmy followed a few moments later, Monday happily strolling at his side. Rourke scratched the big dog's ears and smiled.

"Monday seems to enjoy your company."

"It wasn't Mom that let him get away, sir. It was me. I tried real hard to stop him — honest — but he's strong."

"Forget it," Rourke said.

"I sure love him," the boy grinned.

"Just about everybody does, Timmy. He's a good old dog."

Monday curled up at Peter's feet and yawned.

"He's sleepy," Timmy said.

Rourke rubbed his temples. "So am I. Maybe I'd better crash in the car."

"Promise you'll wake me up to say goodbye?"

"I promise."

Timmy gave Rourke a quick hug and raced inside. Peter sat with Monday and pondered unanswered questions. When Paula Baxter emerged from the recreational vehicle, she joined Rourke by the fire. He joked with her and stayed up long enough to help her regain her composure.

Meanwhile, back in her darkened room, Julie Baxter began to lick the dried blood from her wrist.

7

JAKE

The crusty old mechanic sits by himself in the dark, ruminating. That fucking badger, she'd stumped him again. Clever little bandit; most likely a bitch with a litter to feed. He still hadn't a clue how to find her den.

Shitfire, Jake thought, why did I promise Candace Stone I'd shoot it? Man's got to keep his word. I swear, if she didn't keep losin' chickens all the time I'd say there wasn't any varmint. Can't find hide nor hair of it, not a blessed trace. Given me the slip twice now. Smart as hell, that one.

Jake Lewis double-checked the lock on the warped wooden door of his ramshackle room behind the gas station. The ancient cowboy had put his rifle away, sailed his boots into one corner and sprawled out on the floor. Now he pulled his hat down low over his rheumy eyes and relaxed.

Jake liked to feel the whole world moving beneath him. He considered himself an uninvolved observer, did his best to remain stationary. Jake couldn't have articulated his position, but he knew in his heart that if he did not participate, he bore no risk. The man who never enters a race will never lose one.

Jake had survived to near dotage by doing little. Actually, that was his secret, his special, greedy little sin. He knew he should have felt guilty for sleeping through life — never having committed, chosen, or participated where he could avoid it — and he did carry a small bundle of regrets; but he generally examined them only in his blackest moments. Questions and "what if" thoughts: What if I'd proposed to old Candace Stone someplace along the line? How would it feel, not sleeping alone?

But those games depressed and bored him. They seldom stayed on his mind for very long. Besides, every now and then, when he really poked and prodded the wounds, the sorrow became a different feeling altogether... A sick sense of triumph. Like getting away with doin' somethin' dirty, back when he was small.

Yeah. It felt like not getting caught.

And he hadn't been so far. Jake just bided his time, closed as a safe, and listened to the years roll by. In one long-ago memory, he was a young boy on a merry-go-round. A shy, cowlicked little farm kid who never grabbed for the brass ring. He might miss it and be noticed, singled out, perhaps obligated to try again.

Jake Lewis is a microcosm of the withering town of Two Trees; submerged in old age and waiting calmly for death to come calling.

But first, may as well get some sleep.

8

VARGAS & CHALMERS

Listen…It is like this:

White hot sun; the sky a stiff, starched collar. The desert rolls away to the edge of the world like an endless strip of sandpaper. Low yellow dunes, shifting constantly, trace the shape of the wind. Lines seem to carve themselves in the sand, slicing up and down and in spirals. Sharp edges, deep cuts in the red meat of the infertile earth. This is monotonous violence and constant motion; dry, sweltering heat. No moisture. No shade. The brain bakes, the spirit withers…

The shack was splintered and patched, open in places to the full force of the wind. It was impossible to guess its age; the structure had been repaired too many times, built too long before. The two men who shared it were unlike others of their kind.

See this large, misanthropic man? His name is Chalmers. He had chosen a hermit's life. He'd been unhappy to find he had a new companion. Still, the hours crawled by, same as before, and Chalmer had come to accept the slim Latino as part of the landscape. He'd had to. Nobody in his right mind would have tried to say no to Anthony Vargas.

Neither man cared much for idle conversation. Sometimes they didn't speak, just passed a bottle back and forth on the porch and listened to the insects. Days had gone by.

Billy Chalmers was a big, wide man with reddish hair, vacant brown eyes and a thin mouth that seldom cracked to smile. He was low on teeth. Chalmers was raw and tough, a mean drunk. One too many scrapes had landed him in prison, and he'd spent five long years there. Came out different, all right — reformed, if you had a mind to call it that. He'd split for the sticks and settled in the high desert to stay clear of hassles. Killed his own food, minded his own business. Things had gone along peacefully enough. That is, until a few days ago, when Vargas showed up.

Chalmers had started to object, really meant to kick some ass but ended up not saying a word. It was because of those eyes, mostly. Vargas had snake eyes, cold as marble. There was no feeling left in them, not even an instinct for survival. Tony Vargas didn't give a shit one way or the other.

Chalmers had known the type in stir. Cons, already in for life, who'd rape and kill for a pack of smokes. You didn't mess with a man like that, you just backed away. So Chalmers hadn't complained, and Vargas wound up staying. He'd never say what he was running from, but Billy knew better than to ask. The man had his reasons. Chalmers didn't pry, didn't care for those who did.

The big man stepped out onto the porch, shading his eyes with the brim of his sweat-stained cowboy hat. It would be sundown soon, time to gather some dry brush and firewood for dinner. He trudged out into the sage. There was no sign of Vargas as usual. The slim Latino was probably down there in that damned old mine shaft again, pecking away like he really expected to find something. Chalmers had decided that for Vargas it was just a way of keeping sane. He never came up with much, maybe a trace of gold flake here and there, but the hope seemed to spark him. Chalmers didn't want to see Vargas pissed off. He was a crack shot, but even better with a knife. Impossibly quick. Billy had seen it with his own eyes, watched Vargas flick his wrist and slice off a rattler's head just as neat as you please.

Anthony Vargas was the only living soul Billy Chalmers had ever met who paralyzed him with fear. There was just something about the way Vargas held a knife, like it got him off to stroke it. Billy didn't care much for blades. They scared the shit out of him. Guns were one thing, but to use a knife a man had to enjoy killing from real close in, like an animal.

So fuck it, if Vargas yelled "jump," Chalmers knew he'd ask how high and how far. He'd keep right on jumping, too, until Tony said he could stop. That fact made him feel sort of sick, but there it was.

Chalmers stacked the wood and brush and built a fire. He located his battered old coffee pot and a bottle of bourbon and hunkered down, rubbing his hands. Nights have always turned cold fast out here, he thought, but lately it's worse than ever. He glanced to the right, at the black mouth of the abandoned mine shaft. No sign of Vargas. He poured himself a stiff one and settled down to wait.

A scowling, thirsty green lizard crawled through some boulders at the foot of the mountain and started down into the mine. It immediately retreated from the noise and vibration below.

Look, now: A distant light, bobbing and weaving. CHINK. CLANG. A hammer striking, splitting grey rocks.

The handsome Latino called Anthony Vargas held up his find. He raised the lantern and took a closer look. Gold? Maybe, maybe not. It was always a blind guess in the cool, dark belly of the mine. It was frustrating to carry so much useless rock out into the sunlight for inspection, but then again it was something to do. It kept him occupied.

He had to bide his time, let things cool off a bit. After all, the Mafia was nothing to fool around with, right? He'd just outlast those Italian bastards, lull them into a coma before emerging from his hiding place to strike again [...the cigarette burned, smoke-drilled a small red hole in her soft, round breast and she tried to scream but she choked on the gag and he knew then that he had become her whole world, first the thunder and the lightning...]

"Damn!"

He had a skill. Vargas knew he was handsome; dark and slender, lithe as a panther. He undersood that all women wanted him on sight, but quickly lost their passion and knew horror. Because he was also all ice and frozen fire. There was an odd glint to his eyes, like the reflection of a sharp steel blade — and behind those remote, calculating eyes, dark things bristled. They bit and clawed, fighting for release. He had taught himself to control them, but every now and then [...the mafia princess, she tried to beg for release from her agony, but the gag — a pair of torn pantyhose — slipped deeper into her throat. she swallowed furiously, her insides convulsing, and began to shake. he smiled; strong teeth, white teeth, shark teeth. first the thunder, then the lightning, then the devil's reign...]

Vargas tore his thoughts away and smashed down with the hammer. Stupid, so stupid. He'd left a trail, clues to his identity, and now it wasn't safe to do the thing anymore — perhaps not for a long, long time. [...666 hundred years of pain...] It was his own damn fault, and he'd have to live with that, but the urgent need still smoldered. It burned and sometimes overflowed, like a boiling hot poison. [...mafia! that damn bodyguard, chasing him relentlessly...] This was like starving to death, not being able to do the thing for days. Staying out of sight, living in the middle of nowhere with that fucking hobo Chalmers.

Vargas was explosive, clever and quick. He had gotten away with doing the thing many times, but not that night, not with that woman. Bitch. Tramp. Whore. [...that rock singer, dee jennings, her body jumped and trembled, outraged. she thrashed around and coughed up a kind of ragged shriek as the room filled with the odor of roasting flesh — oh good so very good — and he let her struggle for a while before grabbing her by the neck, squeezing with his hands; before the knife, using the beautiful blade of his knife...] Stop.

No sense in getting too excited, thinking about any of those girls. The way it was, how it felt to be God. I'm restless and impatient, Vargas realized. I don't want to slip up.

He knew he should wait, but he was beginning to have trouble controlling himself. He felt summoned, like something big was going on out there, something strange and wonderful. A war. He could smell it, taste it, wanted to be a part of it. An army was on the move — Vargas fancied he could hear a rumble in the earth like the sound of distant cannon. The air was full of ashes and the odor of spoiled meat. Violence was approaching; a black thunderhead, stuffed with reckless bolts of human lightning.

[...devil's reign, reign, reign...]

Vargas didn't want to miss the big event.

He dropped the rock sample into the sack tied to his belt and examined the bumpy surface of the wall for traces of gold or silver. He began hammering again — face impassive, soul on fire and itching for a fight.

A thin tendril of vagrant wind dove into the mine and rubbed itself against him like a hungry cat. It was a cold night, bone-chilling. He packed his things and started back towards the entrance to the cave: Chalmers, a fire, some decent food and whiskey. Another day crossed off the calendar, endured and put behind him. Tell me what you want me to do. Please!

It is also like this:

Moonrise. Pale, anemic light filters through fine silk while coyotes howl and worship the goddess. Tireless wind, shifting sand, stars so clear and bright they seem to lean down for a closer look at the planet. The night falls like a curtain. Insects begin to chatter among themselves, rustle about in the creaky, twisted sage; they brag, rattle and raise a royal fuss.

And the desert? It just keeps moving.

9

ROURKE

Peter awoke to the tantalizing smell of smoking bacon frying in the cool mountain air. He accepted Paula Baxter's offer of strong coffee and a hearty breakfast; he was dragging his feet anyway, waiting for Julie to awaken. But the girl remained inside the RV. She was still groggy and couldn't remember anything of the previous night's events.

Rourke said his good-byes, paying special attention to little Timmy, then drove towards the low mountain range, heading for home. He managed to cover the remaining distance in record time, his excitement steadily increasing. So many years, and now the last stretch.

He had a bit more trouble than he'd expected negotiating the small dirt road up the hill, but then he was a little out of practice. The car complained, thumped its muffler on some half-buried rocks, but kept on covering ground. The dust became foothills, and then mountains. The time flashed by. Rourke had the strange feeling he had left his addiction behind, once and for all, as if it had only been a feeble substitute for nature. He remembered something a theologian had written; that alcohol and drugs were just "cheap" holy grace.

He yanked the wheel; skidded around the corner and suddenly he was there. Rourke shut off the engine. Monday was panting on the seat beside him. He opened the door and the dog ran off to amuse himself.

Peter leaned back and closed his eyes. The hiss of steam escaping from the radiator mingled with a faint sigh of breeze murmuring through the tall pines. Rourke gorged himself on the heady, potent fragrance of fresh, mountain greenery.

He opened his eyes and took in the sight of the little cabin, all redwood and glass, nestled back among the trees. There were no neighbors within miles of the place. It was comfortable and equipped with every modern convenience. Finally, no outside voices. No intruders to shove their way into his hiding place. No talent, no skulling.

Rourke carried in box after box of supplies, feeling more cheerful by the minute. The cabin seemed a trifle dusty, but he was home. He flipped on each of the lights and checked the plumbing. Uncle Jeremy hadn't approved of his adding electricity and a telephone. He called Peter a city boy, a punk. But by then Rourke had grown accustomed to Jeremy's gruff mannerisms. He'd gone ahead with his plans, even modernized the kitchen, though he'd left the cabin just as it was. Why change it? The building was special.

Long, wooden beams angled down towards a large fireplace in the center of the living room. The furniture was all antique, from his Grandfather's ranch. Off in one corner stood a battered old upright piano. He'd composed his first song on it, nearly twenty years before, and discovered a haven in music.

Rourke trotted upstairs to explore the bedrooms. All of the windows were intact, nothing was missing. A sudden tension grabbed his innards. Memories hit him in a flood: Jeremy. This room. Hiding in the night, under the covers, afraid to describe his visions or the nightmares about the death of his Grandfather.

Peter had loved these mountains, but he'd often prayed that Jeremy would just let him be. Not drag him off to shoot something, test his strength or try to make a "man" out of the boy. Jeremy seemed amused at the idea of a special psi talent. He thought he had to set his little nephew straight. Actually, all Rourke really needed was a little peace and quiet and a chance to heal. Fortunately, over the years Jeremy had grudgingly come to accept Rourke's desire for long periods of isolation. He'd perceived it as manly, and that silence had given the child precious time to experiment with various methods for blocking — shutting out the mental dissonance by walling it off from within.

Jeremy had worried constantly that there might be something wrong with a boy who would rather tinker with instruments and meditate than hunt or fish, so Rourke had learned macho games and sports in order to keep the peace. He'd been young, unstable and inexperienced. Nothing had come easy.

But now Jeremy was four years dead and gone. I'll never be able to thank him, Rourke thought. Tell him that I finally understand.

Jeremy had done his best, taught Rourke what he could of the things he'd gleaned from life. And he had helped to strengthen Peter, as well as inadvertently inspire his nephew's search for an effective way to shield his wild talent. First, he just pretended it wasn't there. Then he practiced willing it away. Then he wrote the law.

The law was BFS, Block for Survival. Protect your sanity. As he grew up, Rourke had gradually become more controlled. He'd begun to use his talent sparingly, by choice, never from reflex. He learned to exist in mental silence, like everyone else, and soon came to enjoy it — skulling less and less often until he was seldom troubled by the talent at all. He'd won, managed to smother it. And, except for that bleak period surrounding Dee Jennings death, he'd more or less controlled it…until recently. The strange flashes he had experienced back in Two Trees and while searching for Julie Baxter began gnawing at his mind again. Damn...

Peter Rourke didn't blame his father anymore, though his mother had never stopped hating the man. It was all so long ago — far away, as if seen through a thin strip of rice paper. Two bright orbs: Coke-bottle eyeglasses. Acrid pipe smoke, the antiseptic odor of cheap mouthwash. Shouting, criticism, corporal punishment. He could still recall the twin traces of spittle — one would appear at each corner of his father's mouth whenever he worked himself into a rage.

["Skull harder! Think!"]

They'd been living in Reno then, close to the university. Melissa Sharpe had enrolled in school looking for a husband. Thomas Dooley Rourke taught there, lectured on abnormal psychology while he dreamed of making a major scientific breakthrough.

Their son Peter was forced to walk, talk and read early. His toys were test objects used to assess psychic ability. Thomas Rourke had pummeled the boy until he was virtually a lab animal. Although Melissa remained silent, she came to despise her husband for turning her perfect little darling into a carnival freak.

In addition to his paranormal abilities, Peter also displayed a marked proclivity for music, languages and vocabulary. His growing body seemed to belong to someone else. A bookworm by nature, he suffered terribly from the pressure and began to bend inside; cut off from his peers, uncomfortable within his own family. He began to dread going home.

["What color is the card I'm thinking of?"

"I don't know."

"Guess, then."

"Green?"

"Try harder. Stop fucking around."

"I'm sorry, I am trying. Honest."]

Peter's talent proved to be a disappointment in the end. It was often unreliable. He seemed to have no control over when he would be able to perform certain feats, predict events, or suddenly achieve a staggeringly high score on one of the tests.

His father was always angry with him. His mother was always angry with his father. There had been a trial separation. Thomas eventually followed Melissa and the boy up to Two Trees, where the problem got completely out of hand. Divorce was inevitable, and Peter Rourke never saw his father again. When his mother died, he went to live with Jeremy.

Overwhelmed and guilt-ridden, he withdrew even further, went deeper into himself, cursing his talent for the damage it had done to his family. Rourke had concentrated, experimented, and finally caused his gift to vanish. He threw himself into music and sports.

Rourke went back down the stairs and began to stuff groceries into the kitchen cabinets. His mother was now resting next to his Grandfather in the town's small cemetery. Had she forgiven him for being such a problem? Had Grandpa forgiven him for…doing that? He walked outside and removed his shirt. He was chopping wood when Monday returned from a romp in the forest. As the ax rose and fell, the sound of his labors echoing through the empty woods, his dark mood lifted.

There had been good times, too. Everyone had been so much younger. The residents of Two Trees had held picnics in the cool shade of a rock face; improvised enthusiastic square dances to the pulsating whine of Spats Rafferty's rusty harmonica and the rhythmic clapping of callused hands. He remembered the pleasant odor of bourbon, thick clouds of cigar smoke; hiding behind a boulder, eavesdropping, as grizzled farmers swapped tall stories around a roaring fire.

Now and again saintly evangelist Louise Polson would drop by to collect her man Hiram. The liquor disappeared, cigars were crushed under boot heels and four letter words were choked off. Louise had been a tolerant preacher before the accident. She'd had a marvelous sense of humor. She would quote the Bible as if in disapproval, then down a slug of whiskey and join the party. Yes, there had been good times.

Occasionally Grandpa had reminisced about the old days, when he and his father had first come to Nevada. How they'd bought too much land at first, yet made things work by befriending and hiring the local Indians.

Jeremy would tell of fighting the Nips on Tarawa: Bloated bodies, American and Japanese boys, floating for days in the sea, their putrid skin blackened by the cruel sun. People said his uncle had been a hero, but Jeremy seldom discussed the war — except when the liquor was talking. He'd described horrors beyond imagining. Fat leeches, hideous disease, pointless sacrifice and senseless slaughter. The others always heard him out, as if by unspoken agreement. In retrospect, it seemed a kind of group therapy. There was only one firm rule — no one remembered a word come the morning sun.

Fascinating stuff for a creative young boy.

The drug use and abuse now seemed a million miles away, and Rourke could barely remember why he'd once been in a hurry to leave. He played a few soft chords on his guitar and fell asleep with his head near the fire.

10

LANGSTROM & JASON

A pickup truck by the roadside. See the truck bed, packed with camping gear and easels? There sits the man, near an empty gulley…

The painter's name was Fred Langstrom. He sat quietly before his easel, waiting for inspiration to strike. He had painted sunrise, sunset, sage flowers, dried sage, sand swirls, a mirage and almost anything else that had struck his fancy. The aging hack, now retired and living out his dream. He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them again there was something new in the painting. The black shadow of a man, encroaching on his sacred space. A chill ran through Langstrom, for he had no memory of having put it there. He shook off a feeling of dread and painted over the black patch…

Hahuhahuhahuha

…Jason chuckled and then withdrew from Langstrom's mind. He relaxed and allowed himself to drift. Before long he found himself daydreaming of Karen.

See her? The beautiful little girl is smiling down on Jason Smith like a Goddess. She presses her bleeding finger against his and kisses him lightly on the cheek…

"Friends, Jason. Forever and ever."

…NO! And then Karen collapses inward; wasted by disease, her lovely skin crinkling like sandwich wrap; shrinking into a fine, powdery dust that layers the white bone of her grinning skull. Jason stares into her haunting, bottomless eye sockets and screams and screams...

Jason wakes up, gasping. Am I insane? They said I was some kind of a paranoid schitzophrenic. Maybe it's true. Is any of this real; ANY of it? What if Karen is still alive somewhere, and I'm mistaken? What if I just imagined it all? How can I ever be sure?

No! Karen was dead. He had loved her. She belonged to the long ago of memory. And now, no human feeling must remain to torture him, confuse his sense of purpose. Jason Smith was a child of destiny — with a mission; to pave the way for the Night of the Beast.

11

MAGGIE

Maggie Moore kept hearing the blood zinging through her veins, making a high-pitched whine like a horde of mosquitoes. She slugged her pillow and turned, but it was useless. She could not sleep. I'm soaked, she thought, just plain soaked with sweat. This is ridiculous, girl. Christ, nothing really happened! Well, nothing you could put your finger on anyway. Still, that face. Those weird eyes.

...Late that afternoon, around four o'clock: The sky had just begun to thicken, cloud up and turn into nightfall. Maggie was looking through some old magazines when she felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to rise. She whipped her upper body around to face the screen door and discovered a wide, hulking shadow just beyond.

"Hello, honey," he said.

"You startled me."

"I'm sorry about that."

He didn't sound sorry. Maggie even fancied she detected a note of satisfaction in his voice. Why would he want to scare me?

The man stepped closer and the sunlight redesigned his shape. He wasn't a monster, huge enough to rip down the wall; in fact, he was rather slight. Latin, perhaps. Damn good-looking in his own arrogant fashion. There's nothing to be afraid of, Maggie told herself. But her knees remained weak and wobbly and it was tough to manufacture a smile.

He was staring at her in the strangest way, as if she were a slab of beef instead of an attractive young woman. There's nothing sexual at all in his look, she thought. That's precisely what's giving me the creeps. Christ, Rourke, bring your dog back here — fast.

"I assume you're not selling Girl Scout cookies," she heard herself say. "So, what are you doing on my porch?" Not bad, Maggie. Show a little backbone.

"My car overheated," the stranger said. He smiled and she thought of a shark. His teeth were that white; too long, too perfect. He wants to fuck me, so what. Maggie said: "Try the garage down the block."

"Just need to beg a little water, lady."

"There's a hose out there on the lawn, then," she said. "Help yourself."

He leaned forward casually, against the frame of the screen door. "Hey, it would sure bail me out if I could borrow your phone for just a minute. I need to tell a friend I'm running late."

I don't want to let him in, but be honest. If he wanted to, he could be inside in no time. There's nothing there but a screen, he could bust right through that door. You're being silly. Come to think of it, do you want to risk pissing him off over something as harmless as using the phone?

"I guess its okay," Maggie said as she unhooked the screen. She held her breath like a kid on a roller coaster, and then let it out with her name. "I'm Maggie Moore."

He winked. "Call me Tony."

"There's the phone," she said, gliding towards the safety of the kitchen. "Care for some iced tea?"

"That would be great."

Maggie felt a perverse sexual excitement growing, fueled by the element of risk. It made her feel slutty, unclean. Her old voices called her sick for reacting physically to the thought of a dangerous man. Years of therapy rendered useless. So far, she thought, this guy has absolutely made my day — goddamn him.

Maggie prepared the iced tea standing sideways, half-facing the living room, without once turning her back. She wanted to keep an eye on him. Still, it took quite a while for the real horror to penetrate.

She stirred the tea and watched "Tony" fumble with the telephone, her mind a blank. He replaced the receiver and lifted his hands. Maggie had a mild notion that something wasn't right, hadn't been right (okay, what's wrong with this picture?), but she managed to keep on twirling the spoon, whipping the tea to death.

The hands. The way he'd kept one cupped and motionless on the table. Most people didn't do that, she realized. It was like he'd been holding the buttons down, keeping the line closed. Pretending to make a call.

Enough, she thought. That's it fella, drink your tea and split. She flashed on something else: Tony couldn't have made a phone call without going through Gladys Pierson, but he'd never spoken to her. He probably would have faked that, too — if he'd known that Dry Wells still had a party line. She reached into the drawer and grabbed the handle of a knife. He wasn't calling anyone. He had only wanted to get inside, close to her.

Maggie shuddered. She slipped the knife into the waist of her jeans, under her blouse. She decided to try and tough this out, act as if she hadn't noticed anything unusual. Don't get him upset, just get him the hell out of here without violence, if possible. And no letting on that you almost wet your pants a second ago.

When she gave him his glass of tea, the ice cubes started clattering. Her hands were shaking. That seemed to please him.

He started at her again, and Maggie really did wet her pants a little. He took her clothes off, sure he did, but the awful part came after... when she could see that he'd already imagined her naked. She realized that there was another lust inside of him, something unspeakable. It struck her numb with horror. She leaned against the wall, hands behind her, tense fingers on the handle of the knife.

She'd let a monster in, a real one; allowed him to walk right through her door and even served him a tall glass of iced tea. Jesus Christ, how long would he take to drink it? Was he going to leave, or was she already dead?

Tony shocked her further. He gulped his drink, set it down on the coffee table and turned to go. Like he was just some everyday guy with a busted down car, and Maggie had drummed the whole thing up in her head. Maybe suffered an anxiety attack. She let go of the knife and smoothed her blouse.

Tony walked out onto the porch and thanked her in a perfectly normal tone of voice. He strolled away, humming tunelessly.

But without touching the garden hose.

And on foot.

If he did have a car, he'd parked around the corner. Because someone might have noticed a strange automobile in front of Agatha's place? Maggie knew she was reaching, but what if he'd stashed the car to keep his options open? Never can tell when the urge might strike you. She could have had on a bathrobe, for example, and accidentally flashed him some skin. Or had the top of her swimsuit come loose; been wearing tight shorts and bent over at the wrong moment (cut it out!) The way he'd stared at her (stop this!) had done something foul, left her feeling filthy. Maggie put the knife away and took a long, hot shower. She did everything she could to clean herself, to scrub his expression from her body, but it lingered. In her clothes, on her skin, inside her head...

...And now here she was, well after midnight, going over it again. Rolling around on damp sheets, still spooked half out of her mind, listening to her pulse race and her tense blood sing opera. Damn it to hell, nothing happened. Nothing.

But, like a lot of other citizens of Two Trees, she didn't fall asleep until the reassuring warmth of dawn began to pierce her drawn curtains.

12

SHERIFF BATES

He is in Vietnam, a million years ago:

Corporal Glenn Bates is twenty years old. He sniffs and smells pot. Someone is passing a large joint down the tense, dark line of helmeted men. The last kid burns his lip, eats the roach and belches. A deafening roar: The whirling blades of Big Huey pumping. It's like this is fucking real, is actually happening again. Bates watches as the squat, muscular Captain, timing his move, motions with a clenched fist. The chopper shakes, then begins to hover and sway. The ramp drops away CLANK. It is replaced by a smear of blue sky and white clouds.

The pilot leans into a turn. They all feel their stomachs shift and start to squirm. The inexperienced replacements turn as pale green as their ponchos. All is clattering and banging and the metallic taste of fear. Every eye is on the deck, everyone's whole beaucoup puckered.

The drop zone is just beyond these mountains, a few klicks into the bush. As the fields, a jagged file of ruined brown and green teeth, looms closer, Bates feels his fingers tighten to grip the cold barrel of his rifle. He wishes he'd brought more booze along. Two shiny Cobra gunships streak by, all rainbow haze and roaring racket and dense smoke. Another abrupt turn. The ground — looming larger, rushing closer, oh shit…!

"Let's go!"

Out into an awesome air wash that blows the yellow grass flat. Assholes and elbows ahead of and behind him…Bates runs with no pattern, no predictable destination. Ngo is there, pacing him, a welcome and comforting sight. Fuck fuck fuck fuck…

Into the tree line; the stifling, smothering wet heat of the jungle. Jesus, it stinks in here. Over the shoulder: The Heroic Air Cav flies up, up and away in my beautiful balloon. No firing, nothing to react to for the moment. Deploy, sweat spreading wide wet stains under the armpits. Try to catch a breath. Wait, eyes constantly roving the solid, ominous wall of foliage, while the Captain struggles to figure if they are where they are supposed to be or somewhere else, somewhere deadly.

The bush is a reckless fucking mess, a child's finger painting, a riot of overlapping color. There's the mottled green phallus of a tree, covered with sickly grey moss. Fat brown spiders pirouette down trembling white threads. Icy blue streams, dark leeches, the constant buzz of whispering men. The bush can decide to explode at any time. Worse, it can be infuriatingly patient and do nothing.

POP POP crack crack POP!

Men fall flat or dance like hillbillies, spun around twice by bullets. Large crimson dots blossom on their already dirty uniforms. Bates tumbles into a tangled mess of thick roots, heart booming, and swallows a salt tablet. He peers up into the dark, can't find anything to shoot at, shoots anyway — screaming, demanding courage from hidden places. Corporal Rodriguez looks baffled, amazed that one hand is missing. He starts to say something to Bates, but then his lips fly away. Now there is only drool there at the lower part of his face, a gob of red and white froth. Bates curls up, shaking. God damn it!

Suddenly Ngo is there, tugging at his sleeve, forcing him to follow. They crawl away before it's too late.

And run.

Bates trips and falls. His nose sinks into the foul-smelling mud. In a flash, Ngo is beside him, tapping him on the back. The thin, diminutive Vietnamese points up the jungle trail toward a tall wall of vines. Bates, breathing through his mouth, remains frozen in position. One of the vines moves.

The VC point man steps out, a shadow in black pajamas. He sniffs the wind like an animal, his coal black eyes sweeping the clearing. The scout grunts softly. The sound carries across the rice paddy, a flawless imitation of a wild pig.

Bates adjusts the sights on his M16. Ngo tightly grips the detonator wires leading to the Claymore in his small, brown hands. They wait. Four other VC drift silently through the vines. They carry a variety of weapons, some of them American. Ngo mates the two wires, touches them together ever so gently, and Bates goes deaf.

A roar and a flash, the mine explodes. Arms and legs go flying. The moist ground buckles beneath them. Bates, half blind, fires steadily in the direction of the enemy. Then it is silent. Ngo gets up and trots over to make certain the VC are dead. He seems calm, barely breathing.

They are cut off from their patrol. Small arms fire, mixed with American voices and screams, has convinced them that they are now on their own.

The sense of elation wears off. Bates begins to tremble. It took no more than five VC to wipe out an entire platoon. Where are the rest?

Ngo begins to back away from the bodies, and Bates follows. They crawl in reverse for more than a hundred yards. Ngo hops up and begins to jog. Bates stumbles along behind him, half expecting to be shot at any moment. The jungle remains silent, except for the chirping of a few birds grown accustomed to the sounds of war.

As the two men run for their lives, it seems to Bates that everything he does makes an astonishing amount of noise. He feels his innards cramp from a sudden attack of dysentery but pushes on, trying to will away the need to defecate. Suddenly Ngo drops to his knees. He has his back to Glenn.

Bates stops too, unable to wait any longer. They must have put at least a mile between themselves and the ambush by now. He lowers his trousers; squats, groans and squeezes burning acid from his bowels. Ngo remains motionless.

Finally, it is over. The cramps ease. Glenn cleans himself with clumps of grass and stands, buckling his belt. He looks around, chest heaving. He notices that Ngo has still not moved. My God, Bates thinks in panic, he acts like he's lost. He approaches the Vietnamese.

Ngo is making a hissing sound from between his clenched teeth. It sounds like "shhh," an admonishment to be quiet. Bates listens, hears nothing. He glances at the Vietnamese, who is still kneeling. Can't see his feet.

Because he isn't kneeling.

The sharp punji stakes in the shallow little pit have impaled Ngo in a standing position. His lower torso is below ground, butchered. The boy's forehead is creased. He's pouring sweat and weeping softly from the pain, an agony so intense his eyes are bulging like a frog's ... Yet he hasn't made a sound, hasn't given Bates away. Those tortured eyes roll to face Glenn. They are pleading. The slim young soldier's body is shuddering and quivering. He is begging silently for release.

"I can't," Bates whispers.

The eyes: Wider. Ngo makes a gagging sound, as if trying to speak. Bates pulls his knife. He slits his friend's throat.

Bathed in a pumping spray of crimson, he moans and crawls away. He turns back once, barely able to bring himself to look into Ngo's staring, sightless eyes...

No!

Glen Bates, the aging sherrif of Two Trees, woke up screaming. Outside the sky was black as death itself. It wasn't even eleven; the morning would be a long time coming. Bates had a strangle hold on his pillow. He could hear himself making small, harsh whimpering sounds. He forced himself to think about the coming dawn, when sunshine would be streaming in through the window. He tried to ignore the gleeful howl of the desert wind outside. He was shaking.

Bates went into the kitchen. He poured himself a drink and gulped it down, then decided to keep the bottle near him. He sipped until he was able to fall asleep again.

13

MAGGIE/LOUISE/LANGSTROM

Maggie Moore was cooking supper, a heaping plate of freshly steamed vegetables straight from the garden. She sat on the couch and tucked her legs under her body. The old television set splattered weak black-and-white images around the room, and nondescript people did indecipherable things to loud theme music. The satellite dish was broken and the reception was miserable. She had tried to read one of her aunt's old large-print condensed novels, but her mind refused to cooperate.

In truth, Maggie found herself a bit frightened. Everywhere the house whispered of Agatha. For the first few weeks she'd had Monday around to keep her company, but now she felt lonely and small.

Photographs of Agatha and her ancestors dangled from the walls like bats sleeping in a cave. They seemed to stare down at Maggie from the splintered oval frames, their dead eyes all blank and shiny.

She would have to replace that collection. These walls were pages in a scrapbook, full of people long dead. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but what if they rose up at night? If poor Aggie did? What if there really were avenging night-creatures who came to punish bad little girls?

Maggie knew she was a bad little girl. The awareness was seldom more than a heartbeat away. Her formidable intelligence spoke to her of an old neurosis, sexual guilt from a long-ago molestation; she had paid a therapist thousands to relieve her of those symptoms, and for a time she'd been healed.

But now the voices were back.

She thought of Peter Rourke; the cautious look on his face, how strikingly intense his eyes were. They had pierced her defenses and warmed her blood. Maggie wanted him. His hands on her, his weight [dirty] his breath a humid mist stroking her cheek. Just when she had begun to wonder if she would ever feel desire again, this man had attracted her. And perhaps that fact alone had reawakened her tenacious insecurities.

Maggie Moore had been an athlete for as long as she could remember. Her body was supple and responsive, but she had started playing tennis far too late in life. The winning edge, that little extra ounce of endurance necessary to peak at the right time, was missing. Promising finishes led to dashed hopes. She went out on the low-paying semi-professional circuit, serving as a kind of opening act; a warm-up for better players who always won the big money.

The constant humiliation had eventually forced her to look elsewhere for a sense of worth, and men had always wanted her. So…Party time: Rooms crowded with strangers who laughed too loud and far too often. Desperate for something to hold on to, Maggie ended up in the arms of a series of nameless, faceless men. She was soon in a prison of her own making, behind bars created by an abusive childhood. She wanted to go back to college for a Masters, she wanted to change careers, but she did nothing but party. There seemed to be no way out.

Michael had come to visit. He'd read the signs immediately, and convinced her to drop out of the tour. He had yelled and screamed and cajoled and pleaded and eventually even slapped her back into reality. She withdrew from competition, enrolled at University of Nevada at Las Vegas and started a new life.

Maggie and Michael always took care of each other. She had lied once to keep him out of prison when they were younger, and he came through in her time of need. Michael covered the bills until she could think straight, and still sent money occasionally. There were alternatives now. She had a plan for the future, to teach English and PE, and….

[what?]

The wall had changed color.

Maggie blinked and put her plate of vegetables aside. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Funny, she loved this house during the day, when the sun was scorching the ground. But at night, with the desert wind howling [..?..] Maggie rubbed her eyes. For a moment she'd been positive there was a blanket on her lap, fuzzy and covered by a pattern of little square boxes. How bizarre. Agatha hadn't owned such a blanket, had she? Maggie knew she'd never bought one. She cautiously walked from room to room, but everything seemed normal. Typically drab; nine o'clock and all's well. What an imagination, kiddo, she thought. You're just projecting some of your mixed feelings. It's a spooky night.

Maggie had been ambivalent about remaining in Nevada at the start. She had come hoping to unload the house she'd inherited on another resident... But there were so few residents! Besides, she'd fallen in love with the place at first sight. She'd seriously considered staying, but soon changed her mind again. There was nothing in the town of Two Trees but slow decay.

And now that she realized how unlikely it was that she'd ever be able to sell the property, Maggie felt trapped. She had just enough money left to buy some time to think, and she wanted to avoid borrowing more, except perhaps for student loans. Maggie owed enough to Michael already. She didn't like the feeling.

She was not alone: Two blocks away, in her room at the top of the old adobe hotel, Evangalist Louise Polson was thinking about the debt she owed her husband Hiram. She didn't care for the feeling, either [..?..] Maggie decided she must have caught the flu. She felt all weak and spacy; numb, like her feet were half asleep.

Neither woman realized she'd been linked, briefly, to the other. It was a fluke, a tangential oddity, created by the paranormal energy concentrated on the little town. Emotional impulses had touched; found rhythms compatible and synchronized. The wrinkle in reality abruptly vanished.

Louise Polson straightened the checkered blanket, covering her useless legs. The mysterious illusion of youth and vigor drained away, and an arctic chill coursed through her body. It came to rest in the marrow of her bones.

So cold.

Hiram was out there somewhere, swapping lies with his old crony Jake. Louise estimated they'd be pretty looped by now, their moon faces bright red from howling at the same stale jokes. Hi Polson was bound to suffer come morning. He'd have a head full of broken glass and the belly of a seasick poodle.

Still, it wasn't all that bad. Louise knew that weeks would go by before the next one. This was just something Hi needed to do to blow off steam. It made him happy, and he'd earned the right to be happy. He didn't get that many chances.

Though her husband would be home soon enough, Louise found the waiting lonely. She hated being cooped up inside, stuck in her wheelchair, listening to the clock ticking and her heart beating. Hiram had asked her if she wanted to go along, but the love behind his offer had given her the strength to say no.

The elderly woman felt a familiar tug of longing: The ache to return to her life as Louise Morgan, healer and minister of the Lord. She'd once been a tower of confidence and strength.

Louise rolled her squeaking wheelchair over to the writing table, her palms slipping on the slick rubber, and located the tall stack of memorabilia. She pulled a large scrapbook into her lap and caressed the worn leather cover with thin, arthritic fingers.

She opened the door and entered the past.

People had been in awe of her, back then. The faithful were speechless in her presence. They'd flocked to hear her preach, to witness the miracles that so often occurred with the laying on of hands. Sick children made well, cripples whole — and all by a touch, at a whisper. From the raw energy that flowed through her prayers.

Louise Morgan never claimed to be a saint. She had thrived on adulation, craved more and more attention, felt dishonest acting modest. Pride was her weakness, her private sickness. It had been her favorite sin.

Louise Polson could see the truth now, looking back over her shoulder, but Louise Morgan had refused to face it. She had been a junkie, addicted to her own ego. Perhaps if she'd only —

Louise clutched her precious scrapbook. She turned to a photograph of herself and her first husband William. Some church picnic, long ago: Sunshine, filtering down through thick branches; young families at play in the summer-green grass. Sweet William looked so handsome and practical, so sure of his future. That optimism had been captured here forever, sealed under clear plastic. He had one strong arm around her narrow waist and his smile was toothy, friendly and wide.

Her eyes filled, surprising her. But it was guilt, not grief, that made her turn to the next page. Hiram was her husband now — William had been dead and gone for more than twenty years. Hi was a good man; gentle, loyal and considerate. She knew she was fortunate to have him, for theirs was a chaste friendship of a marriage. Far less than a virile man deserved. Poor William belonged in the past, surrendered to memory [screaming/blood everywhere/calling out to God] — but it was difficult to let him go.

She sighed and glanced at the temperature. Nearly seventy-four degrees. Then why on Earth did she feel as if she were freezing to death? [William] Perhaps it would be wise to return to bed. Louise grabbed the wooden post of her headboard and pulled herself up onto the quilt, dragging her lower body behind her. The old woman lifted her legs and shoved them under the covers. She tried to rest, but kept seeing that night.

They had been driving, arguing bitterly. A huge truck suddenly appeared from the right. William, cursing and fighting the wheel... the screech of tortured metal... a crash. Throbbing pain, distant voices. Holding her husband's crushed, leaking head in her lap and knowing he was gone.

Louise could not help herself. She'd worked desperately to heal him, bring him back to life. She had poured her force into that gory corpse — and felt it twitch. Saw the eyes open and the nothingness behind them.

Heard it whine and moan...

Louise realized what she had nearly done; saw, with horror, the grey brain matter scattered on the ground. She stopped reaching for her husband's soul and released him. But then, when she had tried to stand, she'd found she could not. Louise Morgan was paralyzed. She had committed an unholy act, a blasphemy, by attempting to raise the dead. God had taken her legs to punish her. Or was she suffering because she wished to?

A knock.

"Mrs. Polson?"

Fred Langstrom, their only guest. He now lived in the hotel. A retired businessman, Mr. Langstrom had moved to Two Trees to paint desert scenery in his declining years.

"Yes?"

A pause.

"I just wanted to see if you needed anything."

Louise, still lost in her memories, missed the hollow lonliness in his tone.

"No, thank you, Fred. I'm fine."

"Well ... Good night, then."

"Sleep well."

She listened intently, but could barely hear Langstrom move away down the hall towards room 66. Such a quiet little mouse of a man, Louise thought. No trouble to anyone.

It was so cold. She wished Hiram would come home. She needed someone to hold her, someone she could talk to…

…Ironically, Fred Langstrom was every bit as desperate for someone to talk to. He was frightened half out of his wits. He paced, cursing himself. He'd been too shy to ask Mrs. Polson if he might come in and talk for a while. He now felt too humiliated to go back. Langstrom understood himself. Communicating would be even more of a problem in the morning. Waiting always made these things worse. No, he thought, I'll just have to wrestle through alone.

He sat on the edge of his bed, wondering where to begin. The brick walls his mind kept hitting — blank spots in his memory — scared him stiff. So did whatever horrors were lurking behind them; things he obviously found too terrible to remember.

There had been a powder-blue tint to the long, seamless sky. Langstrom had climbed the ridge shortly after noon, lost in the majesty of this land that never changed. He had no idea how long he'd remained entranced before unpacking his things and setting up the easel.

Retirement agrees with me, he thought. I like this state of mind. I may never be a great painter, but that doesn't matter. I've already been more fortunate than most.

Perhaps he would send a gift to Tammy. He'd heard she was living in Phoenix now, working as a waitress. It wasn't right, their not speaking. A man his age needed family. Hell, a woman her age might need an occasional Daddy. She probably remembered him as aloof and cold, but a painting might break the ice. Get them back in touch. Langstrom decided he'd like that.

He waited, sketch pad in hand. Two hawks began to dive in elastic circles, wing to wing. He scratched furiously with his charcoal; trying to feel the lines, not just see them. His concentration had been good, he remembered. He'd been able to hold fast to the images until long after his models had flown. When he'd finally looked up again, the light had changed.

The time! The sun was setting over his shoulder. Langstrom had hurriedly packed his things, worried he'd get lost in the dark. That was an easy thing to do in open country.

He'd been slow upon the rock face. It had taken him the better part of an hour to reach solid ground. The night was thick and oily by then, black as squid ink. There were no other sounds, nothing to mask the racket of his clumsy passage through those hidden gullies packed with sharp stones.

How had it started? Langstrom became anxious just remembering:Steadily increasing tension, the disturbing sensation he was being watched. An unsteady, unfamiliar rhythm to his pulse.

Something was following him.

His legs had gone out of control. He had run for his life, tripping and stumbling but picking up speed, racing along as if twenty years younger. Christ, then it had hit him in the face like a bucket of cold water; the absolute conviction he was out of time, that he wasn't going to survive.

Soon he was slowing. The same amount of effort only gained him half the ground. His body had worked miracles, but he was sixty-six years old and burning out.

Living through it all again, Langstrom heard someone retching and calling for help from somewhere far away. It was his own voice. The world was hoarse panting, racing blood and thumping heartbeats. Oh God, please give me a break. Keep me safe until I catch my breath. I'll do anything, just let me have a minute to —

A clatter: Something behind him, closing fast. Langstrom tried to run again, but all he could manage was a limping jog. He could see the lights of town winking up ahead. He wasn't going to make it.

Langstrom thought of Tammy, the daughter he would never know; the little girl he still remembered. She would go on, for the rest of her life, looking out through a stranger's eyes. He had to do that painting for her, for Christ's sake. He had to leave her with something nice to say about her Daddy.

He was finished. His legs were turning into tree stumps. He thought about playing golf on an autumn day, the taste of roast beef sandwiches with ice-cold beer. The way Tammy had looked, all wrinkled and red, the very first time he'd seen her. Jesus, Langstrom had sobbed, I'm really going to die.

Noise up ahead of him. He was boxed in. Tammy, he thought. I'm sorry. Those birds were the best I was ever gonna do in my life, but I just didn't know that then.

Langstrom was cornered there, in the rocks, in the dark: Oh God, what is it? Why is this happening to me? The stench. That awful stench. And then someone stepped forward. Langstrom's mind refused to accept the information. He froze, his intelligence in neutral.

The first time, he had regained his senses less than a block from the hotel. This time the cobwebs cleared quickly. The unspeakable was real. It could be on its way to his room that very moment.

He remembered most of what had happened now, enough to be sure of two things: It had been a kind of rape... And he was never going near that place again.

14

CANDACE & BERT

The next day. Scorching white, sparkling sand…

There is no escape, no hiding place. Not here, out in this awful, endless open: The outskirts of town, rim of the world, edge of the end of things. Sweltering heat pressed down, blistering exposed, tender skin. Flesh already pink and beginning to turn white, peeling away in defeat. Aging flesh.

Candace Stone, schoolteacher, had just entered her fiftieth year with a whimper of despair. She was brooding, moving slowly through the landscape to conserve energy and moisture. Candace was small and rather quiet. A trifle plump, perhaps, but pleasant enough to look at. One of the true meek, this woman — the soft, accepting kind. Waiting to inherit the earth, as promised, or at least something of lasting value.

Hers was a crisis of the spirit: a sudden, unexpected journey that had caused her to doubt the value of existence. It had inflicted wounds. And so she walked; alone, except for the smear of a shadow that trailed along behind her like a pet wisp of smoke.

Fifty years old, Candace thought with a fluttering gut. Now the kids are gone, and my life is draining away. I can feel myself running on empty. Why was I born?

The human is the only creature that knows it must eventually cease to exist. Most, like Candace Stone, don't discover the truth until late in life — that they have kept death cloaked in abstractions and well-hidden from the soul.

Fifty.

Candace walked, sorting through a mental attic full of discarded junk, seeking new answers. She had hoped to find hers in the eyes of another, the arms of her lover.

Bert had been cold to her during lunch, almost rude. It hurt, this strange distance of his. Left her feeling lost, aching with need at the worst of times.

Why was Bert so far away? Right now, when she'd been just about to ask him, to come right out and say it? This wasn't fair. Bert suddenly seemed like someone else, no longer the person Candace had fallen in love with. And, for no apparent reason, he was abandoning her.

Candace Stone wanted to put things right. The realization had burst open like a ripe blister: She and Bert had been living in sin. Their behavior was contrary to the teachings of the Bible and the words of Jesus Christ. Candace had never wanted anything this badly, been so certain that something was right. Well, not exactly. Something was wrong.

Candace paused and leaned against a boulder. She shaded her eyes against the glare to scan the hills.

It was noon, and she was fifty years old.

Cheer up. You'll drive yourself crazy. Don't you have anything else to worry about?

Oh sure, she thought bitterly. My chickens. Those poor, sweet, harmless little babies. Now there are four of them missing, probably slaughtered by that darned badger. I'll just brighten up my day by concentrating on the way the darling little bundles must have died.

Candace scowled and rubbed her palms together. Drat. Blast. Jake had promised her he'd kill it, sworn he'd save the rest of her flock from that murdering beast, but he hadn't tracked it down yet. Another hen was gone, taken during the night. How many more?

She remembered Rourke, that young fellow — Peter, wasn't it? Candace had heard that he was really something with a rifle. Maybe Jake could ask him to lend a hand. She barely knew the boy, just well enough to say hello to on the street. She couldn't possibly ask him herself, but Jake... No, she thought, then Jake would be insulted. I can't be rude when he's offered to help. It wouldn't be proper.

Candace Stone always tried to do the proper thing.

Candace stepped absently to one side to avoid the cracked, bleached bones of a dead cow. She strayed, without noticing, onto an unfamiliar trail that led into the mouth of a narrow ravine.

Perhaps, as Louise Polson had suggested, Bert was simply not destined to be her husband.

Candace blushed, remembering her painful conversation with the crippled evangelist. Oh, Louise hadn't shown disapproval or been judgmental. She had done all she could to comfort Candace. But Mrs. Polson had advised her not to try to second-guess God, and she'd put her finger right on the heart of the problem.

Where was the man who'd courted Candace? That Bert had vanished into thin air. He'd once been so witty and charming, kept her in stitches day and night with his impulsive sense of humor. Bert had made her feel sensual and desirable back then. He had erased her lingering doubts about her physical appearance, that mole on her cheek she disliked so much. The man had been wonderful. He'd filled her with joy and self-confidence. The Bert she lived with now — well, she hated him.

Wished him dead.

Candace blinked and looked around to discover herself in a strange, gloomy clearing. She was surrounded by low, jagged cliffs and mounds of sharp rock. Candace couldn't believe what she'd been thinking and feeling. Those nasty bursts of resentment, she hadn't really meant them. This place had affected her subconscious. It was depressing.

I couldn't hate Bert, she thought. Why, I've never hated anyone.

But the violent rumble from within continued. Her stomach felt queasy and acid rose in her throat. She took an involuntary step backward, suddenly feeling very frightened. She had to get out of this oppressive, evil place.

And then she saw it. The body.

Candace nearly vomited. She was unable to tear her eyes away from the awful sight. Invisible hands gripped her skull and forced her to look at the horror: That pathetic bundle of feathers and dried blood, hanging from a branch only a few yards up the trail.

One of her lost hens, gutted; flesh rancid and decaying, the remains at least a week old. There, on display, hacked apart in an almost ceremonial fashion. The little leg bones had been crushed together and one pronged foot left on top like some kind of voodoo totem. The mess was tied together with some kind of long animal hair. Candace moaned, startling herself. No badger had done this. A different kind of animal…Man.

It was senseless, hideous. Candace spun, faced the other direction and ran. She stumbled and cut her knee, but raced out into the sunshine. Color slides were thrown up against the inside of her eyes: Ducking low, entering the cool of her chicken coop. The way the hens eyed the basket in her hand with dull suspicion, clucking to one another and bobbing their heads. Wings flapping, loose feathers falling in the fresh straw. Gathering eggs, feeding her birds, changing their water.

Tears blurred her vision. Candace tripped again, but bounced right back to her feet. Her knee was bleeding badly. She willed herself to ignore it.

Bert was out on the porch in his rocking chair, as usual. He was staring towards town. Candace called to him but he didn't seem to hear. She slowed to a walk, sobbing. You... bastard, she thought. You don't even notice I'm hurt. You'll give me that blank look, like always.

Candace stopped crying, anger blazing in her belly. Limping, she approached the house. Bert turned, his head revolving slowly. The effect was eerie. Candace saw a balding skull with the stiff, wooden smile of a puppet.

"You okay?"

He didn't sound as if he cared. This was a recording, made a long time ago, of some other man's voice. Candace ignored him. She dragged herself up the steps and entered her house through the screen door leading to the kitchen. She ran some water, found a clean towel and began to wash her knee.

A high-voltage charge of black emotion shocked her. Smoke rising: Betrayal. Bert would never do the right thing and marry her. He would just go on, indifferent and unloving. He was cheapening Candace, causing her to suffer the threat of eternal damnation. She doubled over the sink, gasping. The room spun like a top; faded, then reappeared. It's all his fault, the rotten, lousy —

She wanted him dead.

Candace burst into tears. Bert, still as a statue on the front porch, could hear her anguished sobs. He did not come to her, didn't even react.

For Bert, too, was at war with himself.

15

GLADYS

Gladys, the obese telephone operator, was still in bed. Gladys had tossed and turned all night, unable to stop thinking about what she had overheard. She felt excited, concerned and quite disturbed. But with whom could she share such information? She was not supposed to have listened in on a personal call. What to do?

The first man's voice had been so warm; such a nice, round baritone: "Hello," he said. "Do you know who this is?"

The second man had replied: "I think so. Do you want to talk to the two of us, or just to me?"

"Just you ,for now," said the first man. "Both, in good time."

"Yes. In good time." At this point, Gladys reached for the telephone jack and nearly disconnected herself from the call. But there was something in the first man's voice, something delightfully…sexy.

"Have you told her what we are planning to do to her? The delightful surprises we have in store?"

Gladys felt her breath catch in her throat. She covered the mouthpiece of her headset with one palm, to make sure she didn't give herself away.

"She only knows we are talking. She does not yet know that there will be more than one," the first man said. He chuckled. "She is going to be stimulated, to say the least."

"Here is what I have been thinking," the first man said. And he went on to describe actsthat made Gladys feel a bit queasy. Her face burned bright red her eyes grew wide, her mouth dropped open. She felt like little Shirley Temple in an old video, girlishly crying "Oh, my goodness" to the camera. The men spoke of dildoes and whips and handcuffs and masks and oils and ointments and…it went on and on. Finally the first man said: "And is she listening right now?"

Well, Gladys could have died. Her heart stopped.

"I think so, said the second man. "In fact, I'm sure she is."

Oh, my word! Gladys broke the connection. How could they have known she was there? Or perhaps she had misinterpreted the whole thing, somehow. No, she was certain she hadn't. Who could these perverts be? She considered calling Mr. Bates, the local policeman. She started to write down the telephone numbers of the two callers, and then her heart stopped a second time. She checked the numbers again.

One was for a ranch in Starr Valley that had been disconnected. In fact, the house had been empty for years. The other line did not even exist. How bizarre!

And so Gladys Pierson had tossed and turned, but could not sleep, not even a wink until the sun came up.

16

SPATS

Spats Rafferty was yanked from the comfortable void of a drunken stupor by a sharp kick in the ribs. He whined and began to thrash around beneath his stack of magazines and cardboard boxes.

"Up you fucking hobo! Off your worthless ass!"

Spats fought his way past the confines of the makeshift shelter, red eyes watering. He found himself looking up into the eyes of Glenn Bates. His mouth went dry. Spats was well-acquainted with the sheriff's violent temper. He cringed like a puppy, full of hatred and resentment.

"On your feet, damn it!"

Rafferty crawled away from the trash bin and out into the alley. He managed to get to his feet. "Morning, Sheriff," he mumbled.

Bates sneered, disgusted. Spats detected the pungent odor of bourbon on the big man's breath. He's afraid he's just like I am, Spats thought. That's what makes him want to kill me.

Bates regained control of himself. "Sleep in a bed like a man," he said. "Not here in the garbage like an animal. Find some work or get out of Two Trees. You hear me, Rafferty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't let me catch you again."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Relieved, Spats staggered towards the street before Bates had time to reconsider. He'd been lucky, very lucky. He paused to chug down some cheap red wine. That fucker is crazy, he thought. Hell, I got my rights. I live here like everybody else. Spent years balin' hay for the Andersons over in Clover Valley before they went belly up. Why should I have to leave? This is my town, too. I wanna die right here in Two Trees. No goddamn boozer with a badge is better than me just 'cause he thinks so... Screw him. Screw 'em all.

He still needed a new place to sleep it off. Some safe spot, where he wouldn't be hassled. The tramp moved on, heading for the edge of town, temples throbbing in time with his bruised ribs. Exhausted, he rolled into the cool shade of a clump of sage. He promised himself he'd wake up before dark; find another bottle, maybe someone to talk to.

And fuck the sheriff, anyway.

Spats Rafferty passed out for the second time.

17

ROURKE

Rourke was swearing in front of his piano, searching for a decent rhyme. No such luck. Everything that came to mind seemed embarrassingly tired. He paced the cabin, sipping lukewarm coffee from a tall, brown mug.

Stumped.

When a song was going well, Rourke almost enjoyed these little hitches. Writing both words and music felt akin to assembling a huge crossword puzzle. This one would work, damn it, once he'd said things properly. The melody was already the shit, and drugs — rainbow— hadn't even crossed his mind.

Well, screw the problem for the moment. Peter decided to wander around. He tucked a rifle under one arm and stepped outside. Guns show such a perverse side of my nature, he thought. I despise the act of killing, just can't see it as a sport, yet I do have this thing for rifles. Well, maybe it wasn't all that much of an oddity. Probably just a phallic thing. He'd finally resolved the conflict within himself by blasting away at piles of junk and brush. It was hard to get all worked up over killing an empty soft drink can.

Monday was barking down the slope, probably in hot pursuit of a jack rabbit. Rourke strolled off into the tall trees, sawgrass whispering at his boots. It was an exceptional morning.

Peter impulsively climbed to the top of the rock spire overlooking Clover Valley and stood, panting, at the tip of a bleak knoll. He looked down. The wind buffeted him and he had to watch his footing. It was worth it. A seemingly endless spread of blue-green pine lay swaying beneath him, like a watercolor painting set in motion.

Rourke stretched his body flat against the stones and lay still, staring over the edge of the sharp drop at the gully far below. He raised his rifle and casually sighted on a clump of brush. He took his time, squeezed the trigger gently. The bullet whined off a rock face a little to the right.

You're rusty, he thought. Let's try that again. This time he allowed for the wind whistling down from the north. The brush jumped high in the air and flew apart. Peter thought of antlers.

[Jeremy: "Hit him once. Clean."]

...They had ridden up into the high country, starting long before sunrise, Jeremy on Blackie and Peter astride a gentle horse named Blaze. Rourke wore a floppy, sweat-stained cowboy hat given him by his Grandfather and a red-and-white dime store bandanna. Flies tried to cling to Blaze's neck. He kept twitching his broad muscles in an effort to dislodge them. Peter brushed the insects away whenever they landed within reach, and the horse seemed grateful.

Later, a wasp dive-bombed the boy. Its sting raised a huge and painful welt on his left wrist. As the day wore on, the exposed skin began to sizzle like crisp bacon in a frying pan. Jeremy pretended not to notice when Rourke nudged Blaze over to try to hide in his uncle's long shadow.

Occasionally, Peter would ache to be like this man, to be as thin and rawhide tough. He would love to have made such an easy compromise with the nature of guns, blood and death. Rourke envied Jeremy his slow, steady eyes and the starbursts of wrinkled skin surrounding them. They were evidence of a lifetime spent riding in this hot, dry country under a working man's sun.

They left the horses two miles below the ridge and climbed, hand over hand, the rest of the way. Peter's ribs hurt and his palms bled, but he managed to keep up. Jeremy settled himself.

"Now we wait, Pinky."

Only Grandpa had called him Pinky. It disturbed him when his uncle used that nickname.

"This may bother you some."

The boy blinked, not understanding.

"It being your first kill."

Peter's mouth went dry. His stomach seemed to tie itself into a large knot.

Time passed.

Hours later, Jeremy elbowed him and pointed to the left. Rourke saw his first buck; so tall, brown and majestic it took his breath away. The animal's thick antlers were a work of art.

No recollection of aiming. He must have taken a deep breath, let half of it out and started to squeeze. Jeremy tapped his shoulder and he fired from reflex, as if the beautiful creature were just one more tin can on the back fence.

CRAAAK!

A pitiful bleat; dazed, clumsy steps forward. The handsome buck toppled over, kicked once and lay still. Peter found himself crying. He could not eat the meat. "Buck fever," Jeremy called it.

He couldn't have known the truth. Rourke had skulled the animal, purely by accident, just as his bullet buried itself in that tortured flesh. He'd read all the confusion; the pain and fear it felt; suffered until he could summon enough strength to shut his talent down. That's why he'd cried. Rourke had joined with the buck, tasted the horror of death first hand...

[….]

Peter snapped back to the present. He skulled something evil. This time he was able to cling to the sensation, refused to let it slip away. He closed his eyes and saw visions, portents, things black and vicious: A pentagram drawn by a roaring fire and deep, harsh voices demanding freedom; murder on wings, merciless and brutal; a huge door of some kind, hidden in a dark cavern, with a smell seeping through from beyond it: Corruption.

The surface bent as if being punched hard from inside. Rourke was stricken with terror. He was certain that door must never be allowed to open, that it led to the lair of an unspeakable monster. He caught a glimpse of a fetish of some kind; human arm bones in a tight cluster, wrapped in horse hair, fleshless fingers extended like talons. It seemed familiar…

[someone?]

[nearby]

…A presence: Malevolent and enormously powerful. It sensed him, noticed his probing. Peter could feel its hostility. He blocked. With a howl, the creature rushed closer. Hahhauuhah…

Rourke shut down, gasping. He found himself curled in a ball like an infant. He had never in his life felt so afraid. The sensation departed slowly, and left him wondering if he'd gone momentarily psychotic; perhaps a flashback from the drugs?

Monday appeared and began whining with concern. Rourke held onto the dog, savoring the animal's life force. When he felt strong enough to get to his feet, he used the rifle as a walking stick and slowly made his way back down to the cabin. He was struggling to keep his thoughts like an empty movie screen, blank and impossible to read. Whatever he had brushed against had nearly invaded him. He wanted it to think of him as harmless, at least until he could make up his mind about what to do next.

Because he knew there might be another meeting. The creature could come looking for him again, if for no other reason than because he had very nearly seen its face. Jesus, what the hell was that?

18

THE BAXTERS

Timmy's mother was worrying again, maybe thinking about the mean way Daddy had left her all alone. She tried hard to hide it, but he could tell by the way she was playing. She barely bothered to look up at the hoop. The boy enjoyed winning, but not when it was just 'cause his Mom had somethin' heavy on her mind. That took all the fun out of it.

Timmy scouted the turf, swung his mallet and tapped the striped wooden ball right through the metal hoop. Smack into the pole — a perfect shot. His mother reached for her cigarettes.

"Mom, what's the matter? You worried about Julie?"

Paula smiled. "I guess."

"She looks okay, doesn't she? I mean, she's tired and stuff, but isn't that what happens?"

"Huh?"

"Isn't that what happens when people get lost and fall down in the woods?"

She laughed and waved him closer. A hug. "You're right, Timmy," Paula said. "It's very natural. Julie is all worn out and still a bit scared. That's probably all it is."

Her cigarette streamed fluffy white in the sunshine.

Timmy figured he'd push his luck, dig a little deeper. He sat next to her, spread his arms and placed his tiny palms flat in the grass.

"Julie was real sick once."

Paula seemed elsewhere. "Yes."

"Before I was born?"

"Just after, Timmy. You were less than a year old."

"You never told me what she had. It must have been awful. Is that why you're so scared right now?"

Paula puffed her cigarette. "She caught something very bad, son. Something with a long name that's hard to pronounce. It knocked her flat for several months. Julie had a tough time with everything — eating, sleeping, even going to the bathroom. She'd get better for a while, and then she'd have a relapse. We'd be right back where we'd started from. It was rough on all of us. Even you."

"Me?"

She kissed his forehead. "Well, you screamed for your dinner when it was late. And it was late pretty often, I'll tell you. For a while, we thought your sister was dying."

"Gosh."

"Yup. But then she went into what they call a remission, and the problem just went away. I couldn't believe it."

"You still don't believe it, do you?"

Paula blinked. "Hey, wise guy, you're a pretty smart kid."

Timmy beamed and adjusted his Dallas Cowboy T-shirt. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have big, wide muscles and broad shoulders. He wondered how tall he'd be when he was a grown-up. Would he be able to play football, like Peter Rourke, or would he be too small? He hoped he wouldn't be short, like his Daddy — or end up that fat.

"You haven't worn that shirt in ages," his mother observed. Timmy looked away and blushed.

"Mister Rourke said he played football in school. That made me think of it again. Is it okay?"

"Oh, sure it's okay," Paula laughed. "I was just asking. I thought that might be the reason."

"I like him, Mom."

"So do I. He's a nice guy."

Timmy hesitated, then plunged in with both feet. "Is there some way I can have him as my Daddy?"

Paula shook her head slowly. "No, son. I'm sorry. He's still your friend, though."

"That's not the same thing."

"I know. But I guess it will have to do, won't it?"

"They should make a law."

"About what?"

Timmy slipped down and worked his way under her arm. He felt a need to snuggle. He listened to the rhythm of her heart. His mother's heart, the first he'd ever heard.

"Never mind."

"No secrets," Paula said. "Come on, what's bugging you?"

"Daddy," he ventured, cringing a bit. "I just wish we had a new Daddy, that's all. Not our real one. I hate him and I hope he never comes back. But somebody. Know what I mean?"

Boy, do I, Paula thought. Instead: "Those things take time, son. People need time to get to know one another. Getting married is a big commitment. It will be the most important decision you'll ever make in your whole life."

"Blah," the boy said. He made a face to signal his lack of enthusiasm. "I don't like girls. They're a drag."

Paula exploded with laughter. "You are in for a surprise, big fella," she said. "One fine morning you'll wake up with an entirely different attitude, I promise you."

Timmy liked to hear his Mom laugh. It made him feel good. But then all of a sudden she looked sad. Gee, adults were sure hard to figure out.

"I think Mister Rourke is a lot nicer than Daddy."

"I agree with you," his mother said.

"Then why did you marry Daddy?"

Paula gently pushed him away and gripped his hands. She spoke to him as an equal. "That's a tough one, kiddo."

"I know. Here comes the part where you tell me I'm too young or something. I'll understand when I'm older, right?"

She frowned. "Wrong. I want to give you a straight answer, Timmy. It's just not easy to explain."

He was so quick. So adorable. Paula took a deep breath: Oh, please don't let me screw this up. "Listen close, now. First, there are no such things as 'grown ups,' no matter what people tell you. Everybody goes right on learning new things, even when they're older, only it doesn't show as much once we stop being kids. It turns more inside than outside. Change is a private thing, so quiet we sometimes forget it's happening. Are you with me so far?"

Timmy nodded vigorously. He was zeroed in like a launched missile. "Yes, ma'am."

"Now, since we keep changing, we have to be very careful who we choose to spend the rest of our lives with. Because people have to work hard at trying to grow together. If they don't, they lose their friendship and become strangers. But that happens slowly, damn it. We don't even notice, at first, that anything's different. Understand?"

"Sort of. Is that what happened with you and Daddy?"

Paula looked away. Her eyes were damp. He's such a brave little man, she thought. He deserves the truth. "All of a sudden I was alone, even when we were together. We were living in the same house, but we didn't really know each other anymore. We just fell out of love, Timmy. Only it took much longer than falling in love. We lost whatever it was that drew us together."

"He made you cry. I hate him."

"No," Paula whispered. "Don't do that. We're both to blame. I guess I let go of my end, too. Remember that, okay? There are two sides to any argument."

"Mommy?"

It was Julie, out of bed and dressed. She was standing on the steps in the shade of the awning, blinking. Her eyes resented the sunlight. She looked thin and still pale, but at least she was on her own two feet. Paula composed herself, pleased to see her daughter come alive again. Julie had to care about being healthy, put up some kind of a fight, or she would never get well.

Paula stood, smiling, and stole a peek at her son's expression. Timmy was quietly absorbing what she'd told him, not at all confused or upset. Paula thought: He'll be a fine man.

Julie had expected more of a fuss after her grand entrance. Bugged, she cranked up the volume. She could always use her illness as a defense.

"MOMMY!"

"I'm coming," Paula chirped, electing to ignore the provocation. "Julie, I'm so happy to see you up and around."

Drooping head, primitive grunt: I'm still pissed off, that's not enough.

Paula swallowed salvo number two. She was willing to barter.

"Come on," she said, taking her daughter by the hand. "Let's go for a walk. Just the two of us."

Julie, appeased, came out of her shell. She even squeezed her mother's arm, which was an encouraging sign. Of course Timmy might as well have been a birdbath.

It was a short walk. Julie tired quickly. When she began to whine about the heat, they turned for home. Paula set the pace, looking for shortcuts. She was dreading the probable outcome of her daughter's mood. She could feel her nerves jumping.

Julie babbled along until she landed on the expected topic: How much she hated getting a sunburn. Paula squirmed. A child as frail as Julie was bound to suffer from a certain amount of hypochondria. It was important that a parent remain available to soothe her fears.

Unfortunately, Julie's present train of thought inevitably led to one particularly loathsome fantasy. Her mother found it revolting. Listening had become a kind of slow torture for Paula. The subject matter triggered a phobia of her own.

Still, she'd been instructed never to display a negative reaction if Julie chose to discuss a disease. The illness even Mom found too disgusting could quickly become the one Julie would manifest symptoms of in times of stress. Instant trauma.

So Paula gulped, her stomach churning, and faced it all over again.

It was a chilling vision of terminal sunburn. There would be permanent peeling: The afflicted person would shed layer after layer of dead skin, feeling like some hideous snake in a zoo display case. She'd grow uglier and uglier, until horror was all her family would have to remember her by. There would be terrible pain that increased steadily, and finally became more than sanity could bear. Towards the close, raw nerves would meet coarse bedding, open air — and each other.

In Julie's nightmarish view, it would only end when there just wasn't enough... wrapping paper left. Nothing to bind the body together and keep her internal organs in place.

Yechhhh!

It was just a phase Julie had to go through. It would pass eventually. But until then, Paula Baxter was not about to run any risks. I'll just wait it out, she told herself as the two arrived back at the RV. I mean, I'm the grown-up, aren't I?

Don't answer that question, it's a trap!

Julie went directly to bed. Saved by the bell, Paula thought. Odd, when you get right down to it, Julie is the morbid one, not Timmy. Yet he's the horror freak. So go figure.

Paula forced the grisly tale (and the entire topic of burns) from her mind. She began to prepare supper. Things were lovely — for a couple of hours. It was a warm, lazy afternoon: no telephone ringing, no problems, no children screaming for attention...

"Mommy!"

So much for that.

"Mommy!"

Was there a different edge to Julie's voice? Paula dried her hands on a dishtowel and started down the narrow hall. The screen door flapped as Timmy entered. He fell into step behind her.

His sister had the curtains drawn. Her room was gloomy, hot and weird. At least Timmy thought it was weird. His Mom didn't say anything.

"It hurt me," Julie cried.

"What did?"

"The sun. It burned my skin real bad."

Timmy switched on the bedside lamp so his mother could have a look. He winced in sympathy. Wow. For once, no joke. She had red skin in every place she hadn't covered up.

Funny. Now that Julie had every reason to play sick, she was a trooper. She just sat there looking mad, shaking her head like she couldn't believe this had happened.

"I'll get some cream," Paula said. She hurried to the bathroom. The kids heard her opening drawers and moving stuff around on the shelves.

Julie stared at Timmy in a creepy way that made his tummy flutter. She purred like a cat and started to pose, so he knew she was gonna hit him for a favor. If he'd had a trillion guesses what it was, he still would have missed by a mile.

Julie? Never. She flashed her most winning smile. "If I've got to stay in bed, I'll need something to read. May I please borrow a few of your comics?"

The boy left the room with his mouth hanging open. He selected some of his favorite stuff, the real scary ones. He added a few of the silly kind, too. Better play it safe.

Timmy took the pile back to Julie. He never did say a word to her about it. Not that night, not ever.

Paula had opened a tube of burn ointment. She smeared it over her daughter's singed flesh, recoiling at every whimper and twitch. Christ, she thought. The sun must be fierce in these mountains. My poor baby hasn't been rash. She barely went outside.

Julie began to shuffle the comic books around, almost like she was looking for something. She raised her head and winked at her brother: We got a secret, me and you.

Timmy felt scared all of a sudden. He backed up a few steps, closer to the door.

And daylight.

19

SPATS

A little boy, about seven. School sweater and a baseball cap. He's sobbing, tears streaming down those cocoa cheeks. The most beautiful black child Spats Rafferty has ever seen is standing only a few yards away; helpless and alone, no one else in sight. Spats steps out onto the trail.

"Take it easy, son. What's the matter?"

The kid jumps, stops crying.

"It's busted."

"What's busted?"

A bright red bicycle, on its side in the dirt. Rafferty squats and spins the wheels. "Looks like the chain snapped, that's all. No big deal."

Soft brown eyes full of hope: "You mean you can fix it for me?"

"Sure I can."

Pretty lips part to form a smile. The flash of even, white teeth in a tantalizing mouth. "Gee, thanks, mister!"

"Call me John," Spats says. "What's your name?"

He's shy. Delicious. "Owen, sir. My friends call me Scooter, though. I think Owen sounds dumb, don't you?"

"That depends, Scooter. You might like it when you're older. Come on, let's stand this thing up so we can roll it."

Spats grips the handlebars, heads for cover at a brisk pace. The boy remains behind, his gratitude suddenly soured by suspicion.

"Sir?"

Rafferty stops. "John."

"Where are you goin', John?"

"My place," Spats replies. "It's not far, just over this hill." He deliberately waits a beat, lets it dawn on him. "I see. Hey, give me a break, Scooter. You know anybody who takes a box of tools with him every time he goes for a walk?"

"I guess not."

"Relax. Tell you what, if you're really that worried about coming along you can wait here. But you'll be all alone, and I'm not sure how long this is going to take."

The man holds his breath, the boy ponders.

"You mean like an hour?"

"At least. Maybe two or three. Listen, I understand. I'll work as fast as I can and come back. Just be careful, and watch out for the snakes."

Snakes? Scooter runs to catch up, opting for the lesser of two evils. Spats continues chatting, acting casual, weaving his web. "Where are your folks, kid?"

"Down by the highway."

"Do they call you Owen or Scooter?"

A grin. "Scooter most of the time, unless they're mad at me. Then they call me Owen."

Rafferty laughs, pleasing the youngster. "Well, I promise I won't. Cross my heart."

He has never been so turned on. Spats feels separate from his body, an observer as well as a participant. He keeps the conversation going without having the faintest idea what he's saying. Their voices seem blurred, coming from somewhere far away. He starts to stray from the path, leading the boy deeper into the woods.

"John?"

It takes him a moment to react to the name. The boy is clever. He notices the hesitation. Spats is so charged up, so electric, he can almost read the kid's mind. Scooter has finally realized he's in big trouble.

The whole thing has been one lie after another: Repairing his chain. Tools. Call me John. Watch out for snakes.

Spats lunges forward, but Scooter ducks under his arms and races away. Spats trips over the bicycle, falls, loses a few precious seconds. He chases the boy, running hard, legs pounding the earth, knees pumping. He closes the gap and pulls the kid down. Spats feels angry now, as if he has been betrayed. He slaps the kid silly. A thin trickle of blood appears at the corner of Scooter's mouth, that pretty little mouth [no! not this close to the trail!] and he can't wait any longer.

He hugs the dazed child, strokes the curly black hair, kisses his cheek. "Why did you have to go and make me lose my temper like that, Scooter? Huh? I don't want to have to hurt you. I just need a bit of loving, that's all."

The soft brown eyes are vacant: Nobody home. The boy is barely conscious. Spats opens his fly, freeing his engorged penis, intending to brush it against those pouting, moist lips. He is throbbing, boiling hot, hungry to enter.

Something enters Spats, twists its way into his ear. Something round and hard; like a cock, but cold. Ice cold.

"Freeze, motherfucker. Don't even blink."

A large black hand appears, grabs Scooter by the collar and tugs him out of sight. Shaking with terror, Rafferty remains motionless. He watches his gigantic hard-on droop and shrink, trying to find a place to hide.

"Please..."

"Shut up, pervert. Turn your head and face me. Nice and slow."

Spats does, skin crawling, bowels threatening to open. The barrel of the pistol scrapes his cheek and taps his nose. It hovers in the air before him like a bottomless pit; one long, dark tunnel to hell.

"Suck it."

"Please. I'm sorry. I'm sick, see. Sick."

"I said shut up. Maybe I'll blow you away, maybe I won't. Now make like I'm a dentist, asshole. Open wide."

Rafferty closes his eyes. He allows the barrel to slide into his mouth. It gags him. Unable to control his bladder, he wets his pants. Time grinds to a halt and hangs suspended. An eternity passes from one tortured heartbeat to the next. God. Oh God, make this a bad dream. Let me wake up. Please let me wake up.

CLICK!

The man has thumbed the hammer, cocked the gun, [i have to wake up before it's too late — sweet jesus, please let me wake up!] but when Spats opens his eyes he can see nothing, nothing at all. The world has vanished. He is staring into a blank, colorless, never-ending void. He knows he must now float forever and ever in this silent empty —

He heard himself scream...And found his body.

Light comforted him with color, shape and dimension. It was later the same day. Nothing was wrong. Spats Rafferty moaned and sat up. It had all seemed so real. He'd never experienced such a vivid nightmare.

He remembered reading somewhere that people could actually die from a dream if they didn't snap out of it in time. It's really true, he thought. I couldn't have cut it any closer.

Strange. I'd never treat a kid like that. Shit, I'm no queer. I don't like boys.

Goddamn nightmare.

When he realized he was erect, Spats was shaken to the core and forever changed, yet some part of him remained unwilling to accept the truth. He told himself comforting lies. It was those lies that left him open for Jason. He rolled over in the sand and tried to sink back into the soothing cotton fog of sleep.

20

JASON/VARGAS

An imperceptible splinter of time later, on the opposite side of the same second: Jason's talent pierced through tons of tightly packed dirt and solid rock to watch a frenzied soul, all alone in the dark, scratching signs and hammering senselessly on the wall of a cave. The very first male he had possessed was even more receptive than before. He was hostile, so badly damaged, free of any White force. So beautiful.

Jason Smith explored, and he was greatly pleased with the progress that had been made. This had always been a greedy human, a savage with voracious appetites, but he was stronger now that he had been touched again. Jason could appreciate the untapped potential in such a man. He gathered the particles of electrical energy that were varied thoughts and images; willed them substance, then began to knit that nothingness together into a vision…

Jason gave Anthony Vargas the tantalizing taste of an alternate reality, a haven for the wild and violent. He revealed a world with no laws, no restrictions, where extremes would be encouraged and any pleasure permitted.

[...vargas, the thing could then be done again and again with no one to interfere. yes, go on. hurt her, cut her, bathe in her blood until it bores you. the dawn of chaos will put an end to your bondage. the thing! you would never have to hide that proud, animal nature again. never again...] And the weak soul was captivated, throbbing with desire.

He believed.

Jason caused Vargas to awaken, aroused but unfulfilled. The man was furious, very nearly out of control. Jason withdrew, leaving madness in his wake.

21

ROURKE

Peter Rourke kept straining to steer his mind away from the horror he had skulled up on the mountain. He knew he had to make a decision, at least to stay in Two Trees or leave; knew he was postponing the inevitable, but he simply couldn't do anything but block. Something unutterably wicked had touched him, and Rourke felt lucky to have escaped with his soul. The presence was always there, like some flicker of movement caught from the corner of his mind's eye. A warped power, growing stronger each day — as if it were feeding on fear.

The image of a fetish of human arm and finger bones wrapped in horse hair kept returning. Then Peter saw a cold, alien visage peering out through a black hole in space. Somehow he knew that its dark hunger was insatiable; a lust for blood, bone and pain. He wanted desperately to be wrong. Green things still grew, the sun rose and set, clouds shaped and re-shaped themselves. How could such a thing be? Yet his own unwillingness to go near that imaginary door was enough to prove that the danger had substance. Whatever it was, it had scared the hell out of him.

Then, hours later, his talent left again and with it went the blind, unreasoning panic he'd been carrying around. Rourke gained perspective and some courage. Maybe it had moved on, whatever it was, to do evil somewhere else. Perhaps the problem would solve itself, somehow. One could always hope. Or maybe it had just decided to leave him alone for the time being.

Human bones; forearms, clustered together with the wrists bent and the fingers spread like talons, wrapped in horse hair. He knew he had seen that totem before, but where? And then it came to him. When Rourke was a boy, he and his cousin Rod had been exploring the low cliffs perhaps four miles outside of Two Trees to the west. They had come upon some Native American artifacts near the mouth of a cave. One was a cluster of bleached bones with a hand at the top.

He remembered Rod asking: "I wonder how they kept them together."

It was as if he were possessed. Rourke locked Monday in the cabin, but took the hunting rifle and a flashlight. He got in the vehicle and sped down the hill, his chest tight and his mind racing. The drive down the mountain to the desert floor went by in a blur, reality flickering in and out like a strobe light. He turned right on the highway and searched for the correct trail. He tried to probe, but his talent had gone dormant again. He was on his own.

The land hadn't altered much in twenty-five years. The cliffs were the same, and the dark, low cave entrances still there; the first two, however, had long-ago collapsed. Rourke wiped perspiration from his brow, shifted the rifle to his right hand and moved higher up into the rocks. He shaded his eyes and looked around. A wooden shack of some kind had anchored itself in the sand perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was the only building in sight, and seemed to be deserted. Peter skipped from boulder to boulder and looked around again. He was about to give up when he accidentally kicked some sage with his boot. The large clump rolled away to reveal a cave opening.

Rourke dropped to one knee. When he leaned forward into the cool darkness, a fly buzzed his face, startling him. He swallowed and tried to relax. It seemed like the same cave. He remembered, now, that he and his cousin Rod had painted a skull and crossbones on the railroad trestle in honor of the cluster of those bones. He couldn't recall why no one from Two Trees had ever gone up to investigate their discovery; he supposed that the two little boys had simply not been believed. The bones they'd found were probably thought to have been from an animal, and the hand the overactive imagination of two young teenagers with too much time to kill on a hot summer day.

He knew he had remembered for a reason, and that the skulling had brought him back to this place. Rourke fingered the rifle and considered driving back down to locate Glen Bates. But what the hell could he tell the Sheriff at this point, that he'd had some kind of a vision?

Peter sighed and crawled into the mouth of the cave. He didn't know what he was looking for, but the vision he'd had on the mountain had contained something from this place. Perhaps a look around would tell him why. He inched forward on his forearms, trying not to imagine his own arms being chopped off and bound together with the bony fingers extended. Trying not to wonder if the victim had been alive and aware when this was done.

Claustrophobia took him immediately, and his heart kicked like an angry mare. He closed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. When he opened them again, he could still see very little. He used the flashlight, and noted with irritation that the batteries were weak. He crawled forward.

Now that he was a grown man, the cave seemed tiny. It was hard to believe he'd ever crawled through it with a spirit of adventure. As the light behind him faded, he felt small and defenseless. The rifle was trapped at his side; using it in such a confined space would probably deafen him anyway. He turned the flashlight off to preserve it. He moved further into the dark.

What is that smell? He stopped, struggling to control his breathing, which now seemed absurdly loud and a bit too rapid.

Shit, and not from cattle or birds. The shit of a meat eater, a predator.

Or man.

Rourke didn't want to ponder who or what might have been living in such a place, or risk a meeting. He shook his head at his own foolishness, decided to edge backwards toward the daylight. On impulse, he used the flashlight one last time. The shadows on the far wall seemed deeper, as though the cave expanded at that point. He ran the beam of light along the dirty floor. Thought: What are those?

Symbols of some kind. The odd designs were scratched and scrawled on the floor and the far walls of the cave. The characters were entirely unfamiliar to Rourke, and seemed ridiculously out of place. They were from another time and culture, perhaps a kind of Aramic or even Egyptian. But one looked exactly like the totem he had seen as a child; a bundle of human bones with a hand sticking out, wrapped around with hair.

God, that stench.

And then it finally hit him. He moved the beam around. The designs were drawn everywhere, all over the cave, the ceiling walls and floor. And they were not scrawled in mud or dirt, but excrement. Probably human excrement.

He left the flashlight on and backed out of the cave mouth as rapidly as possible. Someone had gone completely insane, out here all alone. Perhaps a hobo, a paranoid shizophrenic lost in his own world of filth and madness. Rourke didn't breath easily until he was outside again, in the oppressive sunshine. His clothing was soaked through with sweat. That must be what I saw, he thought. Someone demented, seriously ill, living out here in the middle of nowhere. I skulled his madness and paranoia.

The thought brought him some comfort for the first time in hours. Of course that's all that had happened. He had momentarily entered the mind of a madman. It was only natural that he'd been shaken, even overwhelmed. Perhaps he'd tell the Sheriff the next time he saw him; let Bates know that someone had taken up residence out at the edge of the flats. Someone who, though probably harmless enough, was quite mad.

On the way back up the hill, he found himself smiling. By the time he hit the dirt trail up into the mountains he was singing, comforted by having found a reasonable explanation.

He was sitting on his haunches in the grass, stroking Monday, when the old-fashioned wall phone jangled. Two longs and one short, his code on the town's archaic party-line. Peter went inside to answer, stumbled over a chair and banged his knee against the coffee table. He swore as he limped over to the phone.

"Peter? Gladys. How are you?"

"Fine, Gladys."

"You don't sound fine, Peter. Are you well?"

"I just hit my goddamn knee."

"Don't swear," she admonished. "It's Sunday. Peter Rourke, I demand to know why you haven't stopped by to see me."

" I apologize, Gladys. I've been writing."

"So? You never stop?"

He grinned. "I guess this means I'd best drive on in this afternoon and explain myself."

"Darn right," she chuckled.

"Carrot cake?"

"Carrot cake, Peter. All you can eat."

"You've got a date, honey."

She giggled. "Don't say things like that. At my age the reaction could be fatal!"

Rourke laughed, choked and froze. His talent had stirred. Oh, no. There. Again. Soft, and as difficult to ignore as a lover's insistent whisper. He tried to brush it aside. Wise words, Gladys. Reactions can indeed prove fatal, but age is not necessarily a critical factor. He let the conversation drag. They traded lame jokes and clumsy pleasantries.

Another twinge, low but powerful.

He had to get off the telephone. Fast. What if it ballooned, just erupted and took over the way it had when he was a kid? Peter had no idea what he might do or say. He had never actually lost control in someone else's presence.

But as he and Gladys exchanged goodbyes, the restless murmur faded away. Rourke went to the kitchen sink and threw cold water on his face. He began to accept the maddening truth.

Things had reversed themselves, and his talent was probably back to stay. Well, if that was the case then would have to work with it; teach himself to handle it again. He really had no choice, regardless of what had triggered it after so long a time and despite the omnipresent fear. Maybe this is why I had to come back here. Why I felt I had to come home again.

How strange. While the uneasy sensation had passed like the distant thunder of a wayward storm, it had almost seemed... alive.

22

MARTONI

Two Trees was quiet, still enough to be painful.

Old Anthony Martoni rested his elbows on the meat counter and sighed. His eyes wandered to the front window of his grocery store, where swirling dust wove geometric patterns in the scorched air. Martoni was wishing that the little bell above his door would ring, that someone would come in. That something, anything, would happen.

I feel dizzy, he thought. Gotta try and get some more sleep. Jeez, but all these horny dreams out of nowhere. Too much for an old fart like me to handle.

The grocer opened his top drawer. A handful of greenbacks covered the tall stack of I.O.U. notes. He shifted the small pile of bills to one side and took out a faded, black-and-white photo of Helena.

She was wincing at the camera, the sun's glare causing her to crinkle the little folds of skin at the outer edges of her eyes. Martoni's wife had been a diminutive, shy woman who hated to have her picture taken. Once, during the War in Europe, he had received a photograph. It was folded in newspaper and bent in four places. Helena had allowed her father to take it. There she stood, stiff and pale in a knee-length black dress, brown hair pulled back into a tight, modest bun. Her eyes were closed, and her smile looked like she'd practiced in front of the mirror for days.

He had treasured that photograph for what it must have cost her. He'd lost it when he was wounded for the third time, but by then it didn't matter. They sent him home.

Helena's phobic reaction to cameras had been a running joke throughout their twenty-five years of marriage. Full of beer at a picnic, more than a decade ago, he had snapped another picture. Martoni had sent it away to be developed; then hid it, intending to surprise Helena on their anniversary. She'd had her stroke and it was too late. Helena just slipped away, as quiet as ever, still no trouble to anyone. Helena, the human being he'd valued more than life itself.

All that time together, he thought. And yet when you come right down to it, I barely got to know you.

He replaced the photo and closed the drawer, feeling very much alone. Martoni sat back and closed his eyes. Just another old man, napping. His last thought before dropping off to sleep was sad. A moment of utter clarity, within which he truly comprehended how much of life gets wasted. Why dissect a mistake when it's already been made, he thought. Or worry about a future you can't possibly predict? We never seem to learn to live in the present, while there's still some future left.

Martoni slept. He had a dream, and in that dream the past became the present. He clasped it, held onto it. Anthony Martoni was young again; with Helena, and happy. They made love urgently, over and over again, and never got tired.

zzzzzzzzzzzz

Martoni was unaware of the incredibly large horde of flies that suddenly gathered on his screen door as if sent for him. The crowd of crawling, buzzing insects continued to grow until it blocked the light of the sun. A black-robed ominous chorus, come to whisper a warning.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Martoni slumbered on, contented.

So the flies flew away. They stayed low to the ground in a dense cluster, as if sharing one mind. There was a sinister tone to the sound of their wings, a ragged whine — the howl of a surgeon's bonesaw splitting the top of a skull.

The formation began to collapse just as it reached the Interstate a few miles outside of town. Whatever had controlled the flies abruptly released them, left them milling about in confusion and veering toward all points of the compass…

23

VARGAS

…If the insects had remained in a cloud for a few moments longer, Vargas would have seen them. He would have considered it a sign meant for him.

He was that ready. Baking in the heat, parched and dazed; standing out there on the lower lip of nothing, by a narrow strip of highway. Alone, without a clue to where he was or why he'd come.

Vargas, too, had experienced impossibly potent visions. His were dreams of absolute power, untamed lust. He was drunk on the wine of corruption; stuffed full of raw, pink flesh carved at the table to The Beast. He now understood that the thing would be his, over and over, whenever he wished to do it. Moreover, that the pleasure could be increased a thousandfold. Vargas was offered tantalizing peeks, tormentingly sensual promises meant to tease and inflame him. They did. He'd already lost more than half of his mind, and all but a fragment of his soul.

The nights were wonderful, but when he opened his eyes in the morning he was filled with despair; crushed to find himself a mere mortal again. He ached for his fantasy to take root and flower into reality. He had begun to believe that it would. Someday soon.

But when? What must he do to make it happen — and why was he here, in the middle of this fucking desert?

Something moved in the far, purple hills. It shimmered like a mirage and then took shape at the end of the highway. The thing crept along, turned his direction; inched closer, like a shiny black beetle. Vargas finally heard the engine. He stood watching as the car grew larger. A brand new Cadillac, dark as printer's ink, sparkling in the blistering warm. He raised his arm and stuck out his thumb, certain he'd been on this ride all of his life.

An hour, a millisecond: Glare of chrome, layered wax. The stench of gasoline and rubber, jarring after the flat, pure desert air. The brakes squealed. A horn honked, and his heart jumped.

Vargas approached the magical, glittering vehicle, his pulse racing. It seemed insulated, protected by an energy field. He was unable to see who, or what, was inside. No matter how he bent his head or turned his eyes, he was constantly blinded by daggers of light. He nearly ran away.

The imposing black Caddy squatted there, toad-like, and purred like a satisfied panther. The door to the passenger side swung open.

Faint music beckoned and sucked him closer. Vargas held his breath and ducked down, then hopped onto the leather front seat and into the future. He fixed his gaze on the plush carpeting that pillowed his throbbing feet.

"Close it," said a voice. The door. He yanked hard, yet it whispered into place. The Caddy crouched and leaped out onto the blacktop to cruise at blurring speed. Vargas gathered his courage and faced the driver.

He was shocked to find a human being. A big man, around Chalmer's size, but otherwise unimpressive. Visibly puffy, out of shape. A wimp who wore thick prescription glasses.

His stomach sank, went acid with disappointment and flickering rage. He'd tried to be patient, settled for scraps and vague promises, but no more. Anthony Vargas had played the fool long enough. Now someone would pay.

"You're pretty quiet, aren't you?" the driver said.

Vargas made himself belch. "Guess I don't feel so good," he responded. "Too much sun. Think I'm gonna be sick."

"Jesus, don't!"

In a flash, he'd pulled over and parked by the side of the road. Vargas weighed his choices, still pretending to gag. He opened his door as if to vomit.

"Careful!"

"Sorry."

"Hey, just get away from the car, okay? Toss your cookies and get it over with. Don't worry, I'll wait for you."

Vargas extended his hand and smiled disarmingly. "Nice of you, man. I appreciate that."

The huge eyes hiding behind the dense lenses were a puppy-sweet brown, guileless and trusting. The clumsy cream puff looked like an owl caught in the beam of a flashlight. He clasped Vargas' proffered hand and pumped mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He was distracted by the awful thought of stains on the upholstery of his brand new pride and joy. The man withdrew his grip, leaving Vargas close up and unencumbered.

Vargas curled his fingers, tensed his hand, bent his wrist back. He cocked his arm and took aim, then whipped the base of his palm — all of his strength behind it — under the man's nose. Gore splattered and gristle cracked, bone drove straight up through the brain. Limbs twitched. Breath rattled. The man was dead, but his body didn't know yet: Ruined face, shattered glasses, pathetic expression of surprise.

Vargas snaked an arm around behind the corpse to unlock the door. He pushed the body out and dumped it, unceremoniously, onto the scorching hot desert highway. Next, he stripped the man of clothing, jewelry and identification. Just in time, too — the stranger farted, emptied his bowels and stopped breathing altogether. Vargas shaded his eyes. He looked to the clouds for some kind of sign. He was holding fast to his new faith; a true convert, a believer.

"For you, master!" he shrieked. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine and rolled in reverse for several hundred feet. He was laughing.

"For you!"

He gunned the Caddy and deliberately ran over the naked corpse, nearly losing control of the vehicle when its tires bumped the immense form stretched out in the road. Vargas slammed on the brakes. He put the car in reverse and backed over the body a second time. Then into drive, across it a third time. The man was now just a mass of blue organs and red meat. Vargas threw the car into park, jumped out and threw several large chunks of the sacrifice into the pristine trunk.

He felt consumed by a kind of sexual ecstasy.

Vargas swung the big car around and started back towards the mine. He cranked the radio, found some good jazz, played bongos on the steering wheel. This felt good, really good —like with the thing in a way, only better. Richer. Vargas was nuclear, a stud. A wild man with a license to kill, traveling in style.

Soon it was calm again, quiet. Drooling vultures began to circle high above. The bolder males, cautious at first, eventually landed and began to peck at the steaming feast…

…Perhaps an hour later. We are beneath the earth, now. Footsteps echo with grunts and heavy breathing. Gooseflesh. Rotting damp, eerie dark. Two voices:

"Goddamn you, Tony, stop fucking around and tell me!"

"I will."

"I mean it, Vargas. You've got me spooked. I wanna know where that brand new car came from."

"Gotta show you something first."

"The fuck?"

"Come on, Chalmers, it's only a little further down. Right around this bend here. Chicken?"

"I don't dig small places or dark ones, Vargas, and this damned hole is both."

"You'll get used to it."

"Like hell I will. Now, where did you heist the car from? What did you go and do, Tony?"

"As soon as we get to the end of this tunnel I'll explain. Now, how do you feel?"

"Dizzy."

"That's all? Nothing else?"

"It stinks down here, man. You been shitting down here or something?"

"Tell me what you feel, Chalmers. Tell me!"

"Well..."

"It's important. Say it."

"Crawly, like. Jumpy."

"Yes. Oh, yes. Go on."

"I dunno. Sort of charged up, the way you are when there's a storm coming and the air gets static. Makes those sparks happen when you touch somethin' metal. I kind of like it, though. Is this a test?"

"In a way, Chalmers."

"Talk to me, Tony. Now."

"Follow me down. I'll fill you in as we go. I think you're going to find this very interesting."

"Gawd, you have been shitting down here. Hey, where are you?"

"Here. Come on, use your lantern."

"Quit on me just now. Busted, I guess."

"Stay close, then. I know the way by heart."

"I don't like this..."

"Just a little further."

"Only if you —"

"Sure. Why not. Okay, Chalmers, I killed a man today."

"What? Jesus, Tony!"

"I sacrificed him, actually, but it doesn't matter. You'll see."

"Doesn't matter? Have you wigged out?"

"Watch your step here. There's a drop. Look, let me start at the beginning, from when I was down in Los Angeles and felt it for the first time."

"But…"

"Look. There."

Chalmers gagged and spat. "Fuck, Tony! What did you do to him!"

"You listen, Chalmers," Vargas said softly. "Then, when I get to the finish, you can call me crazy if you want to." The two men ventured deeper. Their words careened from wall to wall. The sunlight could not follow them, and soon the tunnel swallowed them. Soon, it was as if no one had passed that way in years.

24

ROURKE/TWO TREES

"Edith is such a precious person," Gladys said. It was hard to understand her when she had a mouth full of carrot cake.

"You two are still friends?"

"Friends? Why, of course we are!"

They were seated in the plump woman's garish kitchen. The wallpaper was flocked. Peter had to make an effort not to glance down at his watch. He didn't want to appear rude, but the time was dragging by.

"Well," he said, "the last time I spoke to you she was driving you crazy with all of that astrology and Tarot bullshit."

"Edith is an old woman," Gladys intoned, as if she herself were not. "Old women get lonely and make things up. We're still good friends."

"I'm glad."

She startled him by asking if he intended to pay a visit to his mother's grave... since it was Sunday.

"Yes," Rourke replied. "I guess I will."

The very thought made him go hollow inside. He got to his feet and praised her carrot cake by patting his full belly. "Time for me to be moving on, Gladys."

She made a childish face. He kissed her on the forehead. Her voice betrayed her loneliness.

"See you soon?"

She was still waving goodbye from her kitchen window as Rourke honked his horn and drove away. He thought about the dead.

[grandfather]

His imagination flashed on dirty grey cement tombstones, covered with sweet, fresh-cut flowers that had long ago turned to weeds. Then below to cold, naked bones. Worms and maggots. Long snarling yellow teeth, laid bare by rot. Peter shuddered. The talent had unhinged him a bit. Something had bent too far and nearly broken.

He coasted down the alley behind Jake's garage — past that ancient, rusting tractor — and headed for Agatha's house. He was following an instinct as basic and as reliable as a bat's radar. When Maggie Moore opened the door, he was delighted to see honest pleasure in her eyes.

"Peter!"

"I believe I owe you a trip to the soda fountain," he said. "Let's go see if there's anything there that still sells for a quarter."

"If there isn't, we'll go dutch."

They walked in silence.

Dry air crackled like tin-foil around the faded walls and split wooden fences of the little town. Evening, silent as a cat's paw, slithered out onto the floor of the desert and moved forward. At the drug store, Peter held the screen door open for Maggie, then closed it gently behind.

Urich brought them two cold drinks. Unlike Martoni, the elderly druggist wore an air of aloof detachment. He smiled slowly at the two of them, the quarters Peter handed him, and as expected said: "Payment enough, I reckon."

The old man left Maggie and Peter alone, moving about efficiently, as if they were but one small table in a room full of impatient customers. As though he still had a business that meant something.

"You loved somebody." Maggie said. Observation, not intended as a question. He answered anyway.

"It didn't last long."

"She played around?"

"She died."

Maggie recoiled slightly.

"That was some time ago," he lied. "It really doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, it does," Maggie said.

"Whoa, girl. Ease up."

"It just makes me sad. She doesn't seem to have left you with very much. You hide it pretty well, but I think deep down you don't know who you are."

He met her frank stare. "That goes way back, long before I met her. I did drugs, too. I'll tell you all about it someday."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Satisfied, she sipped her drink. Urich returned to see if they needed anything. He cleaned the already spotless table and changed the empty ashtray.

"Glad you came home, Peter," he said quietly. "I missed you now and again. So did Anthony."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

Urich shrugged. "Caring is all people got, ain't it?" He vanished into the back room, a gaunt scarecrow in a spotless apron.

Through the door, into swirling dust; slow steps down a shattered sidewalk. Maggie stumbling, bumping into him. Body language.

"I'm not usually this forward," she said.

Rourke groped for a response. "I hadn't noticed." Great, Rourke. Smooth as silk.

"I'm insulted."

"Okay, I did notice. I just didn't think you'd want me to admit it, that's all."

She straight-faced him. "You mean I was that obvious about it?"

He threw up his hands and surrendered.

"I'm lost," he said.

"Are you embarrassed?"

"Hell, yes. I'm humiliated."

A cascade of giggles. "Are you always this pathetic with women?"

"Are you kidding? This has been one of my better days."

"Then you're hopeless."

"Never said I wasn't."

Something passed between them. Rourke felt it and blushed. Maggie, unable to meet his eyes, turned away to face the town square.

"Peter, what's that over there?"

Flames licked at the sunset. Swirling ashes, logs snapping.

"Listen," he said.

Raucous sound of home-grown country music. The Two Trees special was in progress, an impromptu social gathering. Lonely folks with nowhere special to go on a chilly Sunday evening. Whistling the light away.

"Come on," he whispered, taking Maggie by the hand. "You'll enjoy this."

Most everyone was here — slapping knees, clapping hands, playing whatever instrument they could. It seemed to Rourke that God was running a home movie twenty years old: The erratic glow from a roaring fire. Townsfolk, full of kinetic energy and certain of their immortality. Even poor, crippled Louise Polson had chosen to come outside and share in the fun. She looked lovely in the shadow and smoke, as if she were still capable of jumping to her feet and joining husband Hiram for a dance.

Moving closer, Rourke thought the wild celebration had an aura of desperation about it, a sense of gloom beneath. The shrill laughter of a tribe of aborigines attempting to frighten away some evil spirit.

Hiram cut loose on his jaw harp, striking up an infectious rhythm. A distant harmonica joined in as town drunk Spats Rafferty elected to participate. Spats remained hidden off in the rocks somewhere, probably with his bottle close at hand. He played "Dixie" like a virtuoso, but something unnatural kept resonating through the reeds of his harmonica. It came wailing out to put a grating edge on the wheezing, tinny chords. Peter felt his skin crawling. He thought he heard cries for help and grunts of lust; a bizarre assortment of cluttered sounds, all colliding within the music.

Super, he thought. Not my night.

Rourke surveyed the crowd. Sherrif Glenn Bates was not present, nor was Robert Reiss. The preacher was probably parked above the Grand Canyon at that very moment, having a blast with a noisy band of youngsters. Peter did spot telephone operator Gladys Pierson chattering with her moody friend Edith, but he wanted to settle somewhere a bit more private. Have Maggie all to himself and wait, with childlike excitement, for her nova of a smile.

Damn, Rourke, he thought. You may be in trouble.

He paused to say hello to Candace Stone and her droll man, Bert.

"How are the chickens?" he offered.

"Not good," Candace shrugged. She appeared nervous, her eyes haunted. "We've had a little problem with a badger."

Bert interrupted, scowling. "Still have," he said.

Candace, flustered, went on. "Well, that's true. You see, Jake's been hunting it for us. We keep losing stock, maybe one or two a week. But other than that, things are fine at the school. Just fine. How about you?"

Rourke, puzzled, nudged Maggie forward. "Can't complain. Candace, Bert, I'd like you to meet Maggie Moore, our newest resident. Maggie inherited Agatha's house."

Candace rose and clasped Maggie's hands. "I'm so pleased to meet you," she said. "It'll be nice to have a new woman around to gossip with. Come by and see us, Maggie. Any old time. Really."

Bert had tuned out, fixed on the sparks thrown high by the blaze. Tiny comets, doomed to flare and fall; return to blacken and smear the parched earth. Candace covered without losing a beat. "Bert's a bit tired. The invitation stands, Maggie. I'll look forward to it."

Maggie, oblivious, responded with enthusiasm. She flashed her most appealing grin. "So will I," she said. "A pleasure meeting you."

Bert grunted, his face sallow and rigid.

"Peter. Peter Rourke!"

Rourke was enveloped in a sweaty bear hug. Hotel owner Hiram Polson, with his stoic Louise's tacit approval, had pickled himself for the evening. Hi was generally a good-natured drunk, playful and affectionate, though sometimes reckless. Peter chuckled, remembering one disastrous stunt jumping onto a bareback horse from a hayloft. Poor Hi had ended up prone for a week, his jewels the size of bowling balls.

"Hi Polson, Maggie Moore."

Hiram sighed. "If I was just a few years younger and a bachelor again, I'd give this ugly Irishman a run for his money. Lass, you're a real beauty."

Maggie patiently allowed him to kiss her hand. She helped him to steady himself when he lost his balance.

"Nice party," she said. "Don't you miss anything, Mr. Polson."

"Damn right!" Hi replied. He looked down briefly, then growled and stomped his foot like a trained mare. "Goddamned spiders," he mumbled. "Nice meeting you, ma'am. Peter is one lucky son of a bitch. Oh, I'm sorry."

He stumbled off, about to cross over into the promised land. Candace Stone forced him to accept a sandwich and a cup of black coffee. She gently steered him over to a redwood stool next to his wife's wheelchair. Polson began, sheepishly, to nibble at the food. Louise patted his hand indulgently, her eyes twinkling with amusement. There would be moans and aspirins come morning.

Urich, having closed up, arrived with a bottle of red wine. The thin, dignified druggist shortly found himself performing some clumsy square dance steps with Gladys Pierson. The grossly overweight telephone operator ran him ragged. It was an amusing spectacle. Cheers and whistles encouraged the clowning couple, and they continued until their legs were rubbery from exhaustion. Peter almost wished he'd brought his guitar.

They looked for Martoni, but the grocer was absent. Rourke and Maggie made the rounds, nodding and smiling, politely refusing a sip of corn liquor or a can of beer. They finally hunkered down near the fire next to a quiet stranger. Rourke extended his hand and introduced himself.

"The confused woman to my left is Maggie Moore. I don't believe we've met."

"No," the man said. He faced the ground, Peter's shoulder, Maggie's knee.

"What's your name?" Maggie asked.

"Langstrom," the man whispered. "Fred Langstrom. I stay over at the Polsons."

Rourke felt a chill and the urge to back away. There was so much loneliness and despair. This man was an imploding star, a black hole. Maggie, unaware, pressed on. "What brings you here, Mr. Langstrom?"

"I... I paint. Things. Desert things."

"So you love the desert, then?"

Langstrom considered. He might have turned pale, though it could have been a trick of the light. "Like I said, I paint things. Whatever I see here, I paint it."

"Oh."

Maggie became aware of the absurdity and of Rourke's subtle tugging at her sleeve. She smiled brightly. "Good luck with your work."

"Uh-huh."

A few steps later, she made a comic face. Peter broke up.

"Are they always like this, or is it the homemade booze?"

"They're just trying to make the best of things," he said. "Stretching life."

She giggled. "Nice phrase. You should try writing lyrics someday."

They left the strangely subdued revelry behind them and ambled slowly down the sidewalk. A long spell of silence, except for the gentle tapping of shoe leather. Their breath created small puffs of cold mist.

"You know," Maggie said, "we could end up with the whole town all to ourselves. That is, unless Michael comes to visit me."

Peter felt a pang of jealousy stab through him like a sliver of broken mirror. She saw his face and laughed. "Hey, Rourke. Michael is my brother. Don't get mentally irregular, okay?"

He reddened and found several interesting things to examine on the pavement. Maggie seemed pleased and proud of herself. Rourke felt like an idiot.

The sky was now a darker shade of blue, and a few stars freckled the horizon.

"We've got some time before dark," he said. "Would you like to come with me to confront some of my demons?"

She didn't answer, just fell into step beside him like a soldier on the way to the front.

The graveyard was empty, still as a sculpture. Evening breeze caressed fragrant sage and carved a pathway through tall, bleached blades of yellow grass. They jumped over the rusty iron fence. Inside, Maggie hugged herself.

"It's like boot hill," she said.

Rourke looked down. She'd gone white. The flesh around her pretty mouth was pinched and dry.

"Sure you want to tag along?"

She nodded. They walked up the narrow path towards a group of headstones.

MELISSA ROURKE.

"My mother," he told her.

"When did she die?"

"Several years ago. Uncle Jeremy brought her back to be buried next to my Grandfather."

"Your uncle?"

Rourke pointed to the next headstone: JEREMY SHARPE. He put his arm around Maggie and pulled her close, "Jeremy was rough, but more of a father to me than my real Dad. He practically raised me."

"Where is your real father?"

"I don't know. We stopped talking when my folks split up. Mom lost touch with him."

"He must have been a louse."

"No," Peter said softly. "Just another fool."

Maggie thought for a moment. "'Rourke' was your father's last name?"

"Yes."

She pointed to the oldest of the carved markers.

PETER SHARPE.

"My Grandfather," he murmured. "A great man in these parts, as they say. I loved him very much."

Ghosts rose in his guts.

"They're gone, Peter," Maggie whispered. "How can they still torment you?"

"I'd rather not answer that, Maggie," Rourke said. "I think I do want to tell you, just not right now. Okay?"

Maggie had her own secrets to protect. She hugged him. "Sure."

Dark drifted down from the sullen sky and settled all around them.

25

JAKE

It was pitch black, only moments after sundown. Jake, the mechanic, was well and truly pissed. He knew he was going to miss the fucking town party. He was hungry and tired, and worse yet he was fucking lost. He had finally found the spoor of a badger near five o'clock and started trailing the critter home. The damned varmint had led him one hell of a merry chase. But Jake, for once, didn't plan on giving up. He wouldn't have quit if his life depended on it.

Somewhere in the corner of his mind he'd realized he was getting awfully far away from Candace and her chickens. It wasn't even likely he'd found the right badger, since they tend to stay pretty close to home. But at least he'd found one. Flushed out something he could shoot. After the frustration of the last several days, that was an accomplishment.

Hell, he'd take Candace any badger. She'd be happy and Jake would be off the hook. He'd get himself a little revenge, too. So what if it wasn't the real culprit. Next time some other poor fool could set out on a snipe hunt. Never again, not even for one helluva good home cooked meal.

He knelt down and cocked his head to study an erratic, layered depression in the sand. A fight, he thought. The badger had run into something her size or a mite bigger. Most likely a bobcat, down from the hills.

Jake had paced in lazy circles until he found her tracks again. A few drops of blood shadowed the trail straight up a draw towards the foothills. Shitfire, he thought, it's nearly dark. I wonder how far away she'll be. Probably not more than a mile. It wasn't like a badger to stray.

Then he'd gotten screwed up somehow. Now, Jake had lived around Two Trees all his life. He hadn't been lost since he turned ten years old. Yet here he was, suddenly, on another planet. Walking across the surface of the moon. Nothing looked familiar, not for miles in any direction.

And then something else happened. A thing Jake could not recall having witnessed before, and this wasteland was his home: The night fell like a curtain. All at once. The desert just went black as coal, right before his eyes.

At first, things looked as unreal as on some fucking movie set. He couldn't have been more than a mile or two from town, but Jake didn't spot a single landmark. And then, when it was time for sunset (which would have given him West clear as a bell) there was no sunset. Bingo, lights out, nothing but ink.

Whatever was going on here, Jake was damn glad he had his gun with him. Because this was downright wrong. All out of whack. There were different shapes and sizes every place, as if some big sonofabitch was strong enough to shuffle the mountains like a deck of cards. Either that, or he was seeing things.

Or maybe, Jake thought with a chill, bein' made to see things. What some asshole wants me to see.

I shoulda known better, shoulda stuck where I belonged. Sat right there at home like I've always done before. The one time I give in, and look at the cow paddy I've gone and stepped on. I don't fuckin' believe this. I sure can't stay out in momma desert, going around in circles. I'll die that way. If this bastard won't come to me, maybe I gotta go to him.

Dark like the boogey-man's heart. I've never known it to get this dark before. Ain't natural. Somebody's screwing around out here. Maybe government scientists?

Jake tensed. Some atavistic instinct sent a new signal to his brain. One part of him still wanted to find some answers, but another voice began to scream for him to run; get as far away from Two Trees — and this eerie patch of desert — as his tired old legs would carry him. This black night was bad news.

He caught a whiff of an odd odor. It was coming from his left, floating down from the rise just above the foothills.

For some reason the foul smell filled him with revulsion, and panic loosened his bowels. Well, Jake thought dryly, I've had crazier hunches in my time. At least it's an idea.

He'd be stupid to freeze, hoping something would change. And only an idiot would go crashing around pointlessly until he got his ass jumped.

Jake sniffed the air like a hound. He started quietly up the slope feeling blind, clumsy and scared. He'd been dealt some shitty cards, but he'd have to play them out.

He couldn't see three feet in front of him, but the odor wasn't difficult to locate. It was overpowering, disgusting — and somehow familiar. Jake couldn't quite place it, but the closer he got to that stink the more it terrified him.

Given any alternative, he'd have been long gone. This was so unlike him, to be deliberately closing in on a hassle, he could hardly believe it was happening. To Jake, The World's Greatest Avoider?

Something moved in the brush a few yards away. He fell prone with his rifle raised; found himself humping pebbles before his conscious mind reached a decision.

Jake felt better. At least here was a solid enemy, not some damned boogey-man from his own head. Whatever this thing turned out to be couldn't be any worse than the crap his imagination kept cooking up.

More movement: Something was coming down the hill, making very little effort to be silent. An animal, Jake decided. He cocked his rifle anyway. Only a damned fool wouldn't on a night like this. Any second now...

The brush parted and Jake almost squeezed the trigger. That would have been pretty dumb, since it would have announced where he was and what he was packing.

Of course. Murphy's Law, right? The man almost laughed out loud. The badger grunted in surprise; snorted, huffed and backed away. Jake lowered his rifle with a sigh of relief and a chuckle of appreciation. This was a good one, darn it. Funny as hell. A story to tell Hi Polson over a cold beer. But then something registered. Just as the badger had emerged from the brush, he'd noticed a flickering.

There was a campfire up there on the next slope. A campfire meant people.

That smell could be anything, he thought. It's not a skunk — a dead cow, maybe. Or a horse. I got to go, and that's a fact.

Jake started up the hill. He told himself a few jokes, the ones that always got old Hi to laughing once he'd had himself a few. He added up some numbers, just for the hell of it, then subtracted them again. Jake wasn't any too good at math. That's why he was doing it.

As he got to the top of the rise, he finally identified the horrid smell. It was rotting meat. The odor of a battlefield in the hot sun, or a packing-house where the beef has spoiled.

Death.

The orange ballet of a small campfire twinkled, warm and inviting. Jake paused for a moment. Why would anyone choose a place like this to cook dinner? Worse yet, who would roast and eat rancid meat? He considered turning back.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," said a soft voice. Jake stretched his ears, straining to locate the source. It seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right of the blaze.

"Care to tell me why?" Jake managed.

"You have been chosen, my friend."

"Come again?"

A figure stepped out of hiding. A small man, pale and skinny. He held something in his hands, something that looked like a cluster of human bones and fingers. Jake aimed his rifle squarely at the middle of the bastard's chest. He felt a squirming in his belly, a fluttering mixture of curiosity and sickening dread.

"I know you. Don't I? Well, don't I?"

A laugh, thin and screechy: "In a manner of speaking."

"What the hell is this? What's going on here?"

Jason spoke again. "You should feel honored, Jake. You have been summoned here because this night is sacred to the ancient ones."

"Who?"

"An tribe of Native Americans who were once called the Horse People. They are no more, unfortunately."

Jake blinked, not sure if he should laugh or run away. "Is that so. Sacred, you say?"

"Yes, sacred. And you, Jake, will now become an offering. You see, this event had to occur somewhere outside of town for the sake of... delicacy, shall we say. The element of surprise is essential to our plans, yet there are certain initial rituals we are commanded to perform."

"Okay, that's it. Good-fucking-bye, friend," Jake said.

He kept the gun pointed at ugly little Jason Smith and began to back away from the fire. That's when he saw It step from behind a pile of rocks. The boogey-man.

It was huge, shaggy and filthy; so deformed and nightmarish his initial impulse was to laugh. Count 'em folks, he giggled. How many arms? Legs? Can you shoot a thing like that? Hell, I wouldn't know where to start. Like which brain, for Chrissake. Hah-hah. And which heart — does it even have a fuckin' heart?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Jake thought. This was the cause of that terrible stink. But —

The first blow broke his neck and nearly severed his head from his body. Mercifully, he felt no pain. It broke off his arms, one by one. What happened next was unspeakable.

26

THE VAMPER

Night brought blessed relief, savage appetites and obscene promises. Where there had never been lust, there was suddenly lust beyond measure. The teacher had come, taught and shared until the student ached with impatience, begging to be taken.

It was pointless to resist. Why deny the glory of that sacred, melting moment? The raw explosion of merging together; when hearing sharpened, nostrils flared and sight, smell and sound became one. All creation viewed from a new within: Through dark eyes, shadow eyes. Where blackness meant home and safety. That and much, much more — the pulse of rich, warm blood abounding.

The student woke. Craved, but did not yet comprehend.

Teacher?

It matters not, Jason said.

What matters not?

Any question you may ponder. From this night forward, cease to learn and begin to unlearn. Hear me: Self Is All. Create, from moment to moment, as a god.

It's time?

Yes. Go now. You may hunt alone, or with another of your kind. As you wish.

Should I leave here?

It matters not.

But if I stay —

Hear me: Self Is All. Do both. Choose to be seen, if need be, where your body is expected to lie resting. You are the hunter.

And your word?

I shall keep it. Here is my goodbye present, to welcome you to evil.

And Jason did place the thirst upon his student for all eternity. He caused that thirst to strike deep, be harsh and demanding, grow more unbearable by the second.

Then flew away.

The student left a version of its body behind and slipped quietly into the night, followed the fresh spoor of prey. Instinct lent stealth and cunning. Its movements were barely noticeable; escaping even the wide, orange eyes of an owl perched in the skeletal branches of a nearby tree. Excitement, anticipation. The creature felt reborn.

Thirsty.

There came a faint crackle: Brittle leaves, breaking beneath tiny paws. The hunter crouched and sniffed. The rabbit knew and trembled. Two seconds, frozen solid as a block of ice.

Brush exploded. The tiny animal, screeching high and shrill, made a try for the safety of its warren. It ran hard, hoping to cross the field and reach the jagged rocks beyond.

Suddenly the hunter was not only behind, but also up ahead. Blocking the way, cold eyes glittering. The rabbit howled and cut sharp corners, evasion its only means of defense. It dashed to and fro, never breaking stride, yet somehow wound up facing death no matter where it turned. Dim flare of intelligence: Something was not right. The eyes saw, but the nose did not smell, several of the enemy. Which were false?

Floppy ears twitched and sought information as the little ball of fur continued to race along at top speed, squealing like a baby, and —

Weight, impossible weight.

Arms clutched, squeezed, crushed the helpless animal. Ribs broke, and so did the spirit. It lay still, resigned.

The hunter, ironically, was now at a loss for what to do. She tried fingernails, sticks, and even the jagged point of a sharp rock before finally chewing the rabbit's neck open with her blunt, cruel teeth.

A ripping sound, a spray of blood. A whimpering, bestial and greedy. Mindless slurping and swallowing as the hunter drank for the very first time.

Once the initial urgency had abated, the hunter sat back on her haunches. She wiped her lips and made a face at the moon. The taste was not at all the way it had been in her dreams. Real blood was thick, flat and sour — pretty awful, in fact. But it was done, and she would drink. That was the price.

Now I can walk the night forever, she thought. I'm a queen. I've got the power of illusion. I can just go on and on for as long as I want to, without even catching a cold. Never getting a sunburn, either — ever again.

I can't get sick anymore, she giggled silently. Not unless I puke the blood.

But the real surprise had been the incredible high of making the kill. Julie Baxter smiled and touched her sticky fingers to her front teeth. Would they eventually grow longer and get sharper, or just stay the same?

It didn't matter.

Julie tugged the last small, fuzzy leg from its socket and examined it. Raw meat was good. It satisfied.

She continued feeding.

27

TWO TREES

Shhhhh…Hear it writhe, hear it grunt and snuffle? It lives beneath the tiny town, and now it is fully awake again after generations of slumber. And all this occurred, too, as the thing called Orunde worked dark magic…

Sheriff Glenn Bates swam in an ocean of sweat, clawed by his nightmare of war. Horrified, but unwilling to part with it; awake, yet still dreaming…

...Gladys the telephone operator sipped white wine with her daffy friend Edith Evans, patiently listening for the fiftieth time to an explanation of how to read Tarot cards…

...Grocer Anthony Martoni moaned in his sleep. The photograph of his wife came to life again. She made love to him, her hips pumping like a young woman's. Martoni wouldn't have known the meaning of the word Succubus if he'd heard it — nor cared, nor chosen to stop the dream…

...Old Louise Polson stared up at the ceiling and searched for a way to recover her lost spiritual faith…

...Fred Langstrom began painting like a lunatic. He worked on through the night with no thought of food, drink or rest…

...Teacher Candace Stone slipped out of bed and walked barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen. She had to get away from Bert, the man who slept beside her, for his sake as much as her own…

...Far from Two Trees, in a national park, Robert Reiss woke up worried about his children. The young minister felt a crushing burden fall upon him. It brought tears to his eyes, anguish to his soul. Something was going sour, piling up everywhere, like poorly stored poison gas just waiting to explode. Robert had a difficult time getting back to sleep, despite a lengthy period of prayer…

...No one who lived in the heart of Two Trees chose that exact moment to step outside. If they had, they might have noticed the slim, ugly little man walking down Main Street in the wind. He had his hands behind his back and he was whistling. Peter saw him, could not help but see him. He sat up straight in his chair at the cabin and skulled Jason, watched him stroll across the fireplace screen like a blurred reflection from a color television set. A tiny man; arrogant, cruel and reeking of evil…Who is that? Where is he?

The spectre dissolved, but the whistling sound remained a moment longer as if to taunt him. Rourke frowned and shook himself, trying to clear his head.

28

MAGGIE

Maggie heard the keening whistle at Agatha's house, but it seemed tuneless. She assumed it was only the wind. She began to draw a bath, and then sat for a while on the edge of the tub thinking about Peter Rourke. She imagined his face, all kindness and weary intelligence. It was hard to picture him fooling around with drugs. He had such nice auburn hair. Sad eyes, too. Clear yet deep and melancholy.

She wondered: Am I falling in love?

More wind, half-human. Maggie shuddered, left the bathroom and went over to the ancient record player in the den. It was definitely time for some music. She felt a strange bitter cold bite deep into her flesh; the chill of the dead, wafting up from boot hill. She walked through the old house, flicking on the lights, and returned to the bookshelf nearest the record player. Nothing but old 45s.

Tommy Dorsey, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra. How stimulating. Her fingers raced through the dust to nab a cover that had caught her eye. How bizarre, Agatha.

Maggie giggled, blinked and looked again. Wow, she thought, this is a whole lot more than something to pass the time. It was songs from an album produced by Peter Rourke: "SOUR CANDY." She'd heard the hit single but knew little else about the group. Rourke must have sent it. She supposed he'd had an acetate, or old-fashioned disc, made as a present to Agatha.

If Maggie had made a wish just moments ago, it wouldn't have been for much more: A kick-ass record, a quiet night and a chance to peek inside an attractive man's head. She put the record on the turntable, her eyes dancing. This would be fun. Perhaps she'd learn something about Peter from his work in the studio.

Her bath was ready. The aggressive opening vamp to the long version of "Devil's Reign" was in full swing as Maggie dropped her robe and slid down into the tub.

Odd. The music now seemed violent, not at all like the person she knew as Peter Rourke. It sucked her in and blurred reality. Her skin broke out in little furry bumps.

"6-6-6 hundred years of pain

First the thunder and the lightnin'

Then the Devil's Reign..."

The piece terrified her. Maggie felt as if she'd entered the mind of a borderline psychopath. A man was slowly losing control of his sanity. The verses had never seemed this intense before, so drenched with morbid humor. She almost laughed.

The water had turned cold. Maggie sighed and rubbed her arms. She added more hot water to the bath and settled back with her eyes closed. Dumb, she scolded herself. Go for a walk in a graveyard, come home alone to a house that's still strange to you and then listen to an album like that? Dumb!

Peter was good. Too good. Maggie figured she'd best think about something else.

She scrubbed herself. The music was still blasting in the living room. The machine must have played one side of the record a dozen times by now, she thought. But I don't remember hearing a note after that first song.

Maggie stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a large green towel. She began to brush her hair.

A long look out the window. These nights were too damn weird for her taste. Nothing moved. Nothing dared. It seemed so cold and empty, so... dead. She wished she could hold a man. She felt a wave of shame pass over her. She remembered the endless discussions with her therapist about the molestation. That it was never the fault of the child. That the adult was always to blame, but often the poor kid carried the burden for a lifetime. She soothed herself.

Off with the record player and most of the lights. Maggie jumped into bed like a cranky little girl. She turned over on her side, finally feeling warm and safe, and dropped into a deep sleep.

Hours? Minutes? Maggie opened her eyes, blind in the eerie black, her pulse racing. Something is in the house. [go back to sleep, you're dreaming] No. Something is in the house. [agatha?] Something. No. Stop this — it's childish. The door is locked. Hardly anyone lives here, much less stops here. No one is in this house.

Click.

Maggie slipped out of bed onto her knees and pressed her back against the bedroom wall. She peered up over the edge of Agatha's thick quilt at the dark nothingness.

She thought she heard a whisper of fabric. The door, sliding over the worn carpet? Opening? Oh God, it's opening!

Hinges whined and the latch clicked. The door closed behind something cautious, silent. Had Maggie not already been awake and frightened half out of her wits, she might have slept right through it.

She imagined that strange man Tony waiting in the hall with an ax. She saw Glenn Bates, the big sheriff, and fancied she could smell bourbon on his breath. She wondered which one had come to rape her…or worse. Not without a fight then, goddamn it. Not this time.

Maggie crawled to the foot of the bed, trying to decide if she could make it to the kitchen. She kept her sanity, but felt four years old and lost. She inched forward on her knees and elbows, fighting to control her panic. Paused in the doorway, listening.

Something was near the living room sofa. Maggie slid into the kitchen, amazed to find herself wishing that she'd worn more clothing to bed. She hated the idea of her body being found in panties.

A metallic sound she didn't recognize. A knife? A gun?

Maggie let her fingers feel their way along the front of the cabinet near the sink until she found the correct drawer. She slid it open, groping with her right hand. Her fingers closed around the handle of a huge meat cleaver. Now, at least, she could put up some kind of fight.

The cleaver made a slight clattering sound as she removed it from its resting place. Someone responded in the living room by shifting position. Maggie listened again. There... Feet across the carpet. Bare feet? Yes. Socks, no shoes. Being quiet on purpose.

She retreated to the back door and located the lock. Maggie paused. Whoever was in the other room had heard her by now, knew she was up and moving around, yet appeared content to hold back. What if there was a second man outside? She imagined a crashing, pell-mell, half-nude flight into the gloom; rocks cutting her feet, brush whipping her flesh to ribbons. Then, perhaps, two arms reaching out to snare her.

She'd keep her back to the wall and wait.

Maggie suddenly felt calm. She knew she had probably gone into shock, but she was grateful for any kind of release from the crawling horror. She tried to envision the large cleaver hacking into a human body. How would it feel? Could she do it? Yes, she thought, I can do it. Just like chopping up a steak. It's only meat. You come at me and you're dead, motherfucker.

[what if it's not flesh?]

Stop that!

Goosebumps: What if some rotting thing had followed her home from the graveyard? A being all twisted and stinking and filthy, right out of her nightmares? Maggie's mind struggled for balance. It's just association, she told herself, that's all. You heard that song and now your imagination is feeding pictures back at you. It had to pick a lock and turn the door knob. That's solid enough.

CRASH!

Something sailed into the kitchen, bounced off the icebox and struck the floor. Maggie stifled a shriek. No! Don't let it know where you are, that's what it wants. Be still.

The object rolled over and came to rest at her feet. Maggie jumped and banged her head against the door. She reached for it, then jerked her hand away. She made herself try again, but she was too afraid to touch it. She kicked out with her foot. The thing hopped away. It sounded as if it had landed on the little orange throw rug near the sink.

Her calm began to dissolve, terror returned. Our Father, Who art in Heaven... What if it was Peter? What if he really was a maniac, and he'd come to...

Maggie began to whimper. That's when she heard the footsteps crossing the carpet, moving in her direction.

Someone turned on the lights.

Half blind and dazed, Maggie could only focus on the barrel of the gun. It was pointed at her head. It seemed huge, as empty as the mouth of a killer shark. Then she saw the outline of a man, his body in perfect shooting stance, both hands clasping the pistol, arms extended, feet slightly apart. She threw the meat cleaver in his direction, but he stepped aside with ease. Broken, Maggie fell apart. She began to cry.

The man lowered his gun.

Maggie suddenly took it all in. The object by the sink, the thing that had struck her foot, was a tennis shoe. The man in the doorway was speaking, walking towards her. Apologizing.

It was Michael.

"Jesus, sis," he gasped. "I'm sorry. I was scared shitless!"

It took fifteen minutes for Maggie to complete her first rational sentence, a well-constructed string of insults and curses directed at her beloved brother.

While outside, in the night: Vargas slapped the grass with his palm in rage and frustration. He silently melted away to become a different kind of dark.

Some other time, bitch…

29

SPATS

That same, wicked night…

The curious snake slithered out from beneath a flat rock to observe the huge life form slumbering nearby. Spats Rafferty pursed his lips to dislodge an insect. He rolled over and slept again. He was not aware that it was still night, or that he was lying only a few feet from the path leading to the cemetery.

Later, Spats woke up and brushed the clinging sand from his creased, bronzed face. He located his bottle of wine and drained it. The sun had fallen deep into the mountains, and it was pitch black. The moon was hiding behind a thick blanket of storm clouds. Spats cowered. He did not like to be alone late at night, especially sober.

When he groped around, his knuckles rapped the picket fence behind him. Jesus, the graveyard! His hackles rose and he jumped to his feet. Far in the distance a lone coyote started howling.

Rafferty whimpered. Someone was moving his way, coming through the cemetery. Footsteps crunching dead grass and pebbles.

A pair of glittering eyes, low to the ground. Fascinating eyes, soothing eyes; Spats found it impossible to look away from them, even for an instant. Someone he'd met, but didn't really know? Shit, he thought, I'm hypnotized or somethin'. Who's gonna believe me when I try and tell 'em about this?

"They have wronged you greatly."

Spats flinched. The voice was loud. It seemed to come from inside his brain. "Yeah," he said bitterly. "You bet your ass they have."

"I understand this, Mr. Rafferty. I can help, if you wish."

"Help me what?"

The eyes twinkled. A chuckle, hollow as an empty tomb. "Take your revenge."

Revenge? On fuckers like Bates? The concept pleased Spats. He smiled. The lonesome coyote wailed again, and Jason's voice continued. "Do you love the creatures who kill? They are beautiful when they sing."

Rafferty became ecstatic. "Yes," he said. "Oh, yes."

He saw the eyes float closer, grow even larger.

"You wish things. I can supply them. Would you like that?"

"Yes."

"Sex. Liquor. Freedom from loneliness?"

"Please."

"The death of your enemies? All of your enemies?"

Spats began to drown in those eyes. It felt nice. Like getting drunk on good, hard whiskey. He craved more.

"More? Look, then," Jason hissed.

Young Beth Reiss, her long brown hair flowing down over smooth, pink shoulders. How fucking weird, Spats thought. I ain't seen Elizabeth since before she and Elmo was buried together.

[whuuump!]

Yet she was here. Now. Floating towards Spats like a transparent porno shot, stark naked. He felt young again. His penis began swelling. She placed his hands on her breasts, opened his pants and dropped to her knees. She reached out to him in her mouth. Spats moaned and stuttered.

Elizabeth had suddenly become the beautiful little black boy.

Something hungry shambled closer, slobbering. It smelled terrible. Rafferty opened his eyes. He jumped away from the erotic vision, just as it dissolved, and saw the truth.

His mind broke.

30

THE BAXTERS

"Julie, for me?" Paula Baxter pleaded. "Try. You've got to eat something, baby."

Her daughter turned the page of the horror comic. "Not now," she said. "I'd just throw up again."

Paula frowned and placed the bowl of cereal on the nightstand next to the bed. Poor Julie was suffering. What a rotten coincidence; sunburn and then stomach flu. Could her awful fantasy, that deep fear of peeling, have caused this illness? No, she was too calm. Children bounce back, Paula told herself for the tenth time that morning. Julie had always been frail.

Christ, Paula thought. What should I do; cut the vacation short and see a doctor, or wait this out?

"Oh, Mommy," Julie sighed. "Take it easy, will you? I'm okay. Really. I just gotta rest until my tummy settles down."

Paula got to her feet. "At least let me pull the drapes and open a window. We've got to got some fresh air in here."

"NO!"

Paula Baxter became a statue. Julie was that formidable. She glared at her mother, flames dancing in her steel blue eyes. Paula felt dominated, rooted to the spot. It was as if she were facing a total stranger. But then the moment shattered; sailed away on the wings of a quick, cool breeze.

Hallucination, a brief burst of paranoia. There was little Julie, all rumpled and yawning, just cranky from the flu and a sunburn. No reason to freak. Jesus, Paula, she told herself, maybe you need to get laid.

"Mom?"

She shook the creepy feeling. "Yes."

"I know it's morning, but good night."

Julie blew her mother a kiss and rolled to one side. She spoke again, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Don't get upset, huh? I'm gonna be fine. I'll grab a bite later tonight. Go enjoy yourself."

"Sure."

Paula watched those eyes close, studied every inch of her daughter's face. Normal, absolutely normal. And yet...

What?

Paula Baxter walked down the RV's cramped hall, carefully and quietly. She stepped through the door and out into the reassuring warmth of sunshine.

Timmy was perfecting a fast draw. He was in his gunslinger stance: cowboy hat at a jaunty angle, legs bowed. Whipping that little plastic gun from its holster with a soft POW! and then starting all over again. Paula was staggered by a sudden rush of love for her son. She decided to take a little hike, alone, and try to put things back together. She tucked her filtered pacifiers into the pocket of her checkered blouse.

"Hey, Mom," Timmy shouted. "Let's play croquet!"

No response.

"You wanna?"

But his mother must not have heard him, 'cause she just sorta wandered off.

31

MARTONI

Anthony Martoni thought Two Trees was a lonely place to die. Hell, even the mortician was gone. Doc had vanished right after the State changed its mind about that new highway. He went off to Chicago looking for more people to bury, the selfish bastard. Up and left the town without a real undertaker, except for that kid Jason Smith. Because Smith wasn't a friend, someone who could give an old man a decent burial. There's no dignity in it this way, Martoni sighed. Just don't seem right.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. When he looked around, he felt only mildly curious to find himself sitting right where he'd been all of the previous day. He was even wearing the same rumpled clothing. Had he gone to bed? He could not remember. Old fool, Martoni grimaced, you are goin' senile. So weak, so drained.

God, I miss you Helena. I dream you back to life each night. I can feel your fingers on my skin, smell the fragrance of your perfume.

Flies landed on the front window.

A sudden gust of wind raised a dust devil. It whirled past the store like a miniature tornado before disappearing into the flat, heavy air. Anthony Martoni rubbed his bleary eyes. For a moment the yard seemed carpeted with wildflowers. He almost saw her, heard her laughter. So many years ago...

I was selfish, he thought. I always found some way to avoid the subject of children, and look at me now. We shouldn't have deprived ourselves of that, Helena. It was my fault. I wanted you just as you were, with no marks, no sagging in your tender flesh. I was stupid and unthinking. I could have had a small part of you with me, living on after I'm gone. Is that why I keep dreaming we're making love? Amazing, at my age.

His head felt heavy, so he lowered it. And that's how Rourke found him: Behind the counter like a wax dummy, twitching in his sleep.

When Peter shook him, Martoni opened his eyes. His skin was pale and he was breathing in short, rasping gasps. Rourke used the talent to probe, gingerly. He found an incredibly weary mind filled with lazy images from the distant past. Martoni was oblivious to his own pathetic condition.

"You're sick."

Martoni shook his head and tried to speak. Rourke had to lean forward to hear him.

"No, just tired. Not sleeping right. Dreams, always these funny dreams. I'm fine."

"Yeah? You look like hell."

Rourke touched his friend's forehead, expecting to feel the warmth of a fever. He stepped back. Martoni's skin was as cold as ice. "I'm putting you to bed."

Martoni tried to raise his voice to argue, but it wasn't worth the effort. He shrugged. Rourke carried him through the back of the store and into the bedroom, wondering why there was so little heat left in the frail, old body. Martoni felt frozen to the touch. His skin was like worn parchment; it seemed ready to crack beneath the pressure of Rourke's fingers.

Peter's scalp crawled. He skulled weirdness, a shudder thing. It was hiding in Martoni. A parasite, eating the man alive.

He eased the grocer into bed. Martoni immediately went back to sleep. His room, in direct contrast to the neat little grocery store, was a mess. Half-eaten pieces of blackened fruit littered the floor, along with scores of empty soft drink cans. Rourke opened a window, almost gagging at the stench of decay.

The bathroom was a wreck as well, the tiles piled high with unwashed clothing. There were traces of dried vomit around the rim of the toilet bowl. Peter threw the dirty clothes in the hamper and started a bath. The closest thing Two Trees had to a doctor was now Urich, the druggist. He'd have to go and fetch him.

Rourke found a thermometer in the medicine chest and shook it down. He placed it in Martoni's mouth, watching carefully to make sure that the old man didn't bite down. Three minutes: No fever.

[inside him... something foul. it's in his mind, his soul. i can almost hear it laughing..]

Martoni slept through the bath and having his clothes changed. Rourke shook him; forced him to stay awake long enough to swallow some beef broth and a few vitamin pills. He closed the window tight and covered Martoni with extra blankets.

The grocer looked up at Rourke with the helplessness of a small child. "I'm embarrassed."

"Don't be," Peter grinned. "I seem to remember you wiping my ass more than once when I was a kid."

Martoni drifted off again.

32

MARTONI/URICH/BATES

"I'm no doctor," Urich whined. The druggist was afraid to shoulder the responsibility.

"Neither am I, but I'm sure it's serious. Please." Urich finished dusting his already spotless counter. "Sounds to me like you've done everything possible for the time being. I'll stop by this evening and see how he's doing."

Rourke's temper flared. "I thought he was your friend, Urich. You don't seem very fucking concerned for his welfare."

Urich sighed. "He's old, Peter. There's nothing we can do about that. Now, don't climb on me with spurs for stating a fact." He turned away. "Pick me up around six. I'll see what I can do."

Glenn Bates was in his office, cleaning a rifle. He had dark circles under his eyes and seemed wound tighter than a Swiss watch. He acknowledged Rourke's presence with a vague grunt.

"Glenn, I need a favor."

Bates waited silently.

"Martoni is sick. I cleaned his place and got him to eat something. Urich's going over a little later on, but do you think you could check on him during the night?"

"Sure."

He went back to work as if Rourke had ceased to exist.

Peter took his cue and left. Jesus, he thought, Bates too. Going sour, something a little bent down deep inside. He's fighting for his life, and the battleground is deep within his own mind.

What the hell is on the loose around here?

33

THE POLSONS

Louise Polson gripped the thick oaken bedpost. She tugged her useless legs into a more comfortable position and adjusted the pillow. It was hot, the air rolling over her skin like warm syrup, and she had fallen asleep again. She'd been talking to her first husband, William. He'd dropped by for a visit. Louise had forgotten most of the conversation, except that she'd been quietly attempting to convince him that he'd have to stay dead.

She laced her fingers to pray.

Heavy boots thumped against the worn carpet and began to climb the stairs. Hiram. His slightly clumsy gait told her he'd been drinking again. It wasn't like him, not this early in the day. Not so often.

"What's wrong, Hi?"

Her husband seemed morose. He sat facing away, shoulders slumped and eyes on the rug. He chuckled without mirth.

"What could be wrong? Hell, we even got us a second guest today. Big fella, red hair. I put him in room 66 just a minute ago. You know, where that little pecker Jason used to stay. Time we used the room again." He fell silent.

Louise waited, giving him space. Hiram circled the bed and stretched out flat at her side. He slid an arm under her head and hugged her. "I reckon I've been into the bottle a bit too much of late."

"That's okay, but why?"

Thoughtful wrinkles. "I don't know exactly. Guess maybe I'm starting to see how you feel, always stuck in here. Trapped. This town makes me sad. It's gonna dry up and blow away any day now, you know what I mean? We're all gettin' old. Oh, ignore me. I'm just depressed."

"Listen, Hi..."

Hiram startled her by leaping to his feet. He stomped the floor with the heel of one boot. "Goddamn spiders," he swore. "I hate those suckers."

Calming down, Hi took her hand. "I was born here, Louise, and I've spent my whole life here. But pretty soon it'll all be gone. Just sand and some sticks of wood and maybe the damn bugs. That hurts."

"I know," she said softly. "I understand."

He sighed. One solitary tear trickled down his tanned, lined cheek. He sought her eyes, an answer. "Babe, did you ever figure it out? Why God does things?"

She shook her head. "No. Nobody knows all that much about God but God."

"And He's not talking, right?"

Louise smiling. "Oh, He's talking. I'm sure about that, Hi. We're just not listening."

Hiram straightened and pulled his arm away. He stared at Louise, perplexed. "You sound pretty darned certain. I thought your faith was shaken."

"It was."

"You said you might have lost it, Lou."

"Maybe I did, or could be it left me for awhile. It might even have had a good reason. All I know is that something is stirring again, something that was hibernating for a long, long time. And faith is all we have to fight it with, Hi. All we have in the whole, wide world."

34

LANGSTROM

Down the hall, Fred Langstrom sat motionless before his easel. He was working on a painting of the desert sunrise. He chose his colors with care and gently mixed them together near the edge of his palette.

Beautiful.

Langstrom turned back to the canvas. He gasped. Something new was in the center of his painting: Once again, it was the coal black shadow of a man. He seemed almost deformed; hunched over and ominous. It was larger than before, and Fred Langstrom could not remember having put it there.

35

MAGGIE & MICHAEL & ROURKE

Michael Moore bore a great resemblance to his sister. He had Maggie's deep, warm eyes and fine features; even a similar smile. But he moved like a caged cat, always restraining himself as if denying some violent impulse. He was a young-looking thirty, very muscular and quick. When Peter met him, Michael was wearing blue-jeans, a brown shirt and tennis shoes with no socks. As he bantered with his sister, Rourke found himself enjoying the Moore's rich irreverence.

Maggie came back from the kitchen carrying a tray of soft drinks. She sat on the carpet between them. "It isn't funny," she chided. "You scared me half to death last night."

"Scared you half to death? I was terrified! First I have to ask hordes of dense farmers for directions to even get near this godforsaken place, and then my car breaks down for no reason just after dark. I have to walk for miles before I see some lights. I find the house, figuring I'm going to surprise and delight my sister, and knock on the door. Nothing. Okay, so she's out on a date or baying at the moon. I use the damned key she mailed me and let myself in, but then I hear somebody sneaking around inside." He chuckled and paused to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.

"You've got to picture this. I go into this routine, like I'm in some old detective movie. I throw my shoes around — smart, huh? — to try and get the bad guy to move so I can spot him. Believe me, I almost messed my pants before I recognized her and turned on the lights."

Maggie flushed, remembering. "Me too," she said.

"My kid sister in the buff with a meat cleaver. Incredible."

"I'll bet it was," Rourke said. "Shame it was wasted on you."

Michael gave him a broad wink and a winning smile. "Oh, I'll admit that I experienced a certain amount of artistic appreciation. But other than that, you're right."

Maggie threw a magazine. Quick and graceful, Michael dodged out of the way and returned to his former position. "And I'll tell you something, she was going to use that fucking cleaver."

Rourke glanced at Maggie, trying to picture her becoming violent. "Somehow I doubt that," he said.

Michael snorted. "Don't underrate Maggie," he said. "She's got brass ovaries. For the unititiated, that's female balls."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"I'll say. When we were younger, I got myself in some serious trouble one time."

"Serious trouble?"

"It's a long story, but Maggie came down to talk me out of robbing a casino."

Rourke blinked. "That's serious, all right."

"So I'm inside loading wads of cash into a canvas sack, and I hear something, so I'm thinking it's the security guard or something. I turn around, and it's my goddamned sister, telling me I'm in trouble and to get on home!"

Rourke grinned. "You broke in too?"

Maggie nodded and then shook her head sadly. "I was an idiot to do that."

"Well, to make the long story shorter, the cops do show up. We're cornered and pretty well fucked, see? But just as I'm about to give up, Maggie stands and puts up her hands like she's in a hand forties movie and says 'you got me, copper."

Rourke gaped at Maggie. "You didn't."

"I kid you not," Michael said. "She turned herself in while I slipped out the back, and took the fall for something she didn't do."

Maggie looked uncomfortable. "I was seventeen and he was twenty," she said. "I did a couple of easy months and got out. They would have been a lot harder on Mike."

"Like I said, brass ovaries. So I knew Maggie would use the cleaver. I damned near fell backwards trying to cover my balls."

"Michael!" Maggie protested, clearly embarassed.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed. "It's only funny because we were both so freaked out."

"When I saw the gun," Maggie moaned, "I almost died."

"Gun?"

Michael shrugged. "I've been working nights as a security guard. I'm used to carrying it with me."

Peter raised his hand, palm forward. "Peace, no explanation necessary. These are the times that try men's souls."

They heard Monday barking in the distance, chasing a rabbit through the sage. Michael tapped his fingers along an LP resting flat on the coffee table.

"So you're a musician, huh? I admire that."

"And he's good," Maggie stated emphatically. "I listened to some of that Rock Candy album last night, Pete. You're terrific, is what you are."

"My turn to blush."

Michael belched. He ignored a disapproving glare from his sister. "My sister and I grew up loving books," he said. "Reading a lot helps us pretend we're intelligent."

Maggie laughed. "What was it Kissinger said? The best thing about fame is, now when I'm boring, people think it's their fault."

"You two should give me a few pointers," Rourke smiled. "I've been trying to fool everyone about my brains for years, now."

"Oh, it's easy," Maggie said. "Michael and I have played this game for years. Whenever some sophomoric idiot lays a quote on you, spout the other point of view."

"Such as?"

Michael snapped his fingers. "A cliché, please. One mundane platitude, my man."

"Okay. 'There is no sin but ignorance...' Christopher Marlowe, I believe."

"Ignorance is bliss," Michael said. "Thomas Gray. See?"

"Sure. 'Turn the other cheek' from Jesus."

Maggie jumped in. "'Walk softly and carry a bit stick' Teddy Roosevelt."

"My turn, Rourke," Michael said. "Let me think... 'No evil can happen to a good man.' Plato."

"'Nice guys finish last.' Leo Durocher."

Michael and Maggie both roared. Michael slapped his knee. "Beautiful! One more. Ah... 'Nothing endures but change.' Heraclitus."

Rourke mused. "Alphonse Karr: 'The more things change, the more they remain the same.'"

"I rest my case."

"And if this act grows feeble?"

"Diversify into the most obfuscating philosophers - Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard."

"Works every time," Maggie said. "They're guaranteed to confuse anybody."

The three were soon deep in a debate on the meaning of individual responsibility. Maggie was a fan of Schopenhauer and his quasi-Buddhist ramblings. Michael interpreted the great French writer Sartre as having suggested that we are each our own universe and may make our own rules. Peter countered with his personal belief that human beings must interact with both the universe and themselves, and are thus bound by a structure that amounts to natural law.

"Look," he said, "here's how I see it. Things happen all around us, some we control and some we don't. You know the Crane quote?"

"The universe replied that it does not feel a sense of obligation."

"Right. It simply is, and we act on it and react to it according to our ability to make choices based on free will."

Maggie yawned in mock boredom. "It's getting pretty deep in here," she said. "I can see you two have something in common. Pete, can you stay for dinner?"

"I'd love to."

"Good."

"Wait. Anthony Martoni is ill, and I want to drop by his place before too long. Will that work out okay?"

Maggie gave him a thumbs-up. "Hamburgers and salad, coming right at you."

After supper Michael volunteered to do the dishes and get the hell out of their way for a little while. He vanished into the kitchen. Maggie and Peter felt like two teenagers, stealing kisses on the couch. It was fun.

"I've got to go."

Maggie nibbled his neck and pulled him closer. "Want me to come along?"

"No, thanks," Rourke said. "He's a proud man. He'd be embarrassed to let a strange woman see him like this. I'll come back later."

"You'd better."

Racket from the sink: The sound of breaking glass and a curse. Rourke called to Michael. "Hey, butterfingers! I have to go check on my friend. Want to join me?"

"Anything," he replied. "Just get me away from this shit."

Maggie jumped to her feet. "Take him, Pete. Please remove him before he destroys my entire kitchen. I'll do the dishes and wait for you."

Monday stayed behind to keep her company.

36

ROURKE & MICHAEL

Urich's place was locked and dark when they arrived. Rourke found a note taped to the door. The druggist had decided to walk over to Martoni's, and Peter was to meet him at the grocery store. They drove.

On the way there, Michael broke a silence. "You really care about this old man, don't you?"

"He's done a lot for me."

"Sounds like I could have used the guy," Michael sighed. "Maggie, too." Something appeared to have saddened him for a moment. "So what are your intentions for my sister, anyway?"

Rourke started to answer, then realized Michael was joking. He pulled over to the curb and put the car into park. They got out. Rising wind bit through their clothing with needle-sharp teeth.

The lamp in Martoni's bedroom was on, a fluttering beacon in the murky dark. Rourke felt the first ripple of alarm run up his spine, a discomfort so basic that Michael noticed it as well. He shot a puzzled look Peter's way.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't know."

They stepped inside. The sensation grew stronger. Rourke felt a crazy urge to run. He looked up, realizing that he hadn't heard the bell. Its frame was bent upwards, as if struck a violent blow. The door now easily cleared it.

"Wind?"

"Maybe."

The two men walked on, their footsteps incredibly loud in the resonant silence.

"Mr. Martoni? Mr. Urich?"

Michael slipped away into the shadows. He slid cautiously down the hall towards the bedroom and the flickering light. Rourke had an overwhelming impression that they were being observed by someone, or some thing. He swallowed and went directly to the bedroom door.

The light inside was blinking on and off. Wind was shaking flaps of tattered shade, and the bulb seemed loose. The resulting effect was like standing under a weak strobe lamp or watching an old, grainy black-and-white film.

Anthony Martoni was sitting on the bed, grinning. He still looked pale, but some of the tension seemed to have vanished from his features.

"Jesus," Rourke said. "Why didn't you answer me?"

Martoni went on grinning. Peter turned, and there was Urich posed primly in an armchair. His eyes were wide with horror. Rourke's skin crawled. He spun around to see what Urich was so frightened of.

Martoni. Calm, smiling... dead.

Rourke turned again. Urich's face remained the same, his features locked by rigor mortis, frozen forever in a final reaction to something unspeakable. Rourke noticed the druggist's fingers. They had clawed at the upholstery. His nails were bloodied, like those of a man who'd been buried alive.

Michael came over to hover at Rourke's side. "Christ," he whispered. "They're both wasted, and it wasn't long ago."

Peter closed his eyes to mourn. He kept his talent carefully shielded. The enemy was there, watching them, and he did not want to give away his only advantage. Not this early.

"Maybe someone went out through the window," Michael said. "Did you shut it when you left?"

"Shut it and locked it."

"Well, it's open now."

Rourke continued to play innocent. He tried to shut poor Urich's eyes, but they resisted, as if the old man still had good reason to be afraid. Michael examined the window.

"I take it back," he said. "It's not open, it's fucking gone. Blown right out of the frame."

"Still locked from the inside?"

Michael nodded.

"We'd best call the law, Pete."

37

BATES

The bitter wind wailed and moaned. It strained against the side of the building, trying to get in. Sand splattered the remaining windows and the broken lamp continued to flicker on and off. The air felt heavy and oppressive.

Glenn Bates kept weaving from left to right like a cobra in a sleeveless undershirt. A bottle of bourbon dangled from his clenched fist, well on its way to empty. Michael was leaning against the wall, watching and waiting. Whatever had been spying on them was gone. Rourke had felt it change shape and dissolve, turn to smoke and twist away.

"They look fucking scared to death," Bates said. Something flashed across his features for a moment. "This town, a night like tonight..."

Michael spoke. "Want to know how I figure it?"

"By all means, Sherlock." He's slick, Bates thought grimly. Just a little too damned slick for my taste.

Michael walked over to the door. "The other guy, Urich? He comes in. He talks to Martoni for a few seconds, looks him over, then sits down in that chair."

The lights went out. When they winked on again, Michael was standing by Urich, apparently oblivious to both the corpse and its ghastly expression. "I figure they were waiting for Pete to get here. Urich was talking to the grocer. Suddenly it hit him that the man he was speaking to was dead."

Bates smiled. "Just like that?"

"Probably. He was old and sick, right? Anyway, this Urich is just a small town druggist. He's not a doctor. He panics. All he knows is that he's alone in this room with a stiff. It's a freaky night and the lights keep going out. He has a heart attack, a stroke maybe, and dies too."

Bates considered. "Neat," he said, "but what about the front door and the window?"

"Could be poor Mr. Urich didn't close it all the way and the wind blew it open. Old bell, strong wind."

The sounds outside grew in intensity. Something struck the side of the house with a loud thump. Bates downed a slug of whiskey and stared at Michael. He appraised the younger man rudely. Give me one good reason, he thought. I think you're dirty.

"As far as the window goes, you got me," Michael said.

Bates took a deep breath. "Let's cover them up with something."

Rourke found Navajo blankets in the closet. Soon the two old men looked like furniture packed in a warehouse. Somehow they seemed more menacing that way, as if they might become animated again at any moment.

Glenn Bates took a third blanket and wrapped it around his bare shoulders. He drained the last of the whiskey. "Got to look around," he said.

"We'll all go, Glenn. Let me see if I can find some kind of light we can carry."

They located a lantern and one large hunting flashlight with weak batteries. The ominous night seemed to chortle, daring them to come out and play. All three men felt it, but staying indoors with the bodies would be no picnic either. Bates led the way.

The sand stung their eyes and the lantern was too weak to do much good, but they worked their way along the outside wall until they came even with the shattered window. Something crunched beneath Rourke's heel. He raised the lamp. Broken glass, sprayed all over the yard. It reflected the lantern's glow back at him, winking and blinking in the gloom.

"Here," Bates called, urgently. He sounded relieved. He held something up for Michael and Peter to see.

"That's the foot stool from Martoni's bedroom," Rourke said. "It goes with the easy chair."

Michael seemed to relax. "That's it then," he said. "Urich freaked out and threw it through the window. Look, here's a jewelry box of some kind."

Bates was satisfied. "Urich went berserk. Maybe he was totally in the dark for a while, who knows. He lost his head and started throwing things. I've seen men lose control and forget their discipline in combat. He couldn't see, probably thought he'd never get out. Wham! Stroke."

They trudged back inside. Bates walked over to the liquor counter. He stole a pint of whiskey without bothering to check the brand. "You two gentlemen can go on home now," he said. "I'll toss 'em in the squad car and escort them to the parlor. I think we've cleared things up."

Bates watched their taillights as they drove away. He kept running Michael's logical scenario through his mind. It all made perfect sense, and yet he couldn't shake the suspicion that there was something else involved. I don't like you, Moore, he thought. He shook himself like a hound and drank, savoring the warm glow in the pit of his stomach.

Martoni wasn't heavy. The grocer had wasted away to a loose bundle of sticks and flesh. Bates hoisted the corpse over one shoulder. A hip bone, protruding sharply from the emaciated form, dug at his neck through the heavy Indian blanket. He opened the rear door of the squad car and eased the old man onto the back seat, behind the wire partition. Just another prisoner, Bates thought. He nudged Martoni's legs, then remembered that he had a second stiff to worry about.

Bates grunted at the sky. He drank and then, with grisly black humor, elected to prop Martoni up in a sitting position. He left the body covered from head to toe by a blanket and went back into the darkened store. The light was still flickering. Bates walked slowly, unsteadily, towards the room death had just visited.

The shadow of the thing in the chair danced across the wall as the lamp cut in and out. Bates had a sudden vision of Ngo with that gaping wound in his throat. He belched, gorge rising. Discipline, he thought. He went in and grabbed Urich without looking. The druggist was far more difficult to handle. I've had too much to drink, Bates thought.

God in heaven, but the corpse was heavy. Glenn stumbled and almost dropped Urich. Easy, he thought, keep your back in it. He straightened, stiffened his legs and made it to the car. Shit, wrong side! His heart was thudding now. Bates opened the door and pushed the lumpy body onto the back seat. He let Urich slip, and the two dead men leaned against each other like lovers at a drive-in.

Bates got in, slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. The big police car roared to life and he regained some of his composure. He sped away from the grocery store, leaving the stench of rubber and long tracks on what was left of the asphalt.

At least most of the street lights still work, he thought. I can see the fucking road. The car drifted from side to side. He tried his best to stop it, but he was too drunk. He turned at Jake's gas station and drove towards the cemetery.

The funeral parlor loomed over him as he rolled into the long driveway, its yellow porch lamp a cyclops' eye in the gloom. He forced the car up the road, jerking the wheel back and forth, singing what he could remember of a filthy marching song from the Marine Corps. (When he was a kid he'd pronounced it "corpse"... Marine Corpse.) The car shuddered to a halt and stalled. Bates turned the ignition off and had another drink. He saluted the rear view mirror, then dropped the bottle with a gasp.

Martoni was smiling at him, leaning forward against the wire mesh, a thin line of spittle coming from his gray lips. Bates fought against the locked car. He kicked and thrashed his arms. His heart jumped to the bars of his rib cage.

"Jesus Fucking Christ!"

Wait. Of course, of course. The bumps coming up the drive: The blanket sliding down, the body forward. From the pounding. These eyes that had seemed to glare at him were dead. Very dead.

He laughed for a long time. But it was a thin, reedy bluff of a laugh, and tears followed. Bates got out of the car, stumbled a few paces, and vomited in the dirt.

When he was through, he became acutely aware of the cold cutting through his thin shirt. He'd lost his own blanket somewhere, probably while carrying one of the men to the car. He stood up, dizzy. Got to get this done.

Bates forced himself to take Martoni first, grabbing the dead face in his big hands and pulling the body towards him. He threw the bundle over his shoulder. The man felt slightly lighter [as if the body is alive again?]. Stop that shit. Just getting stiff.

He went up to the big wooden doors of the mortuary and pushed. They opened, hinges squeaking a little, bottoms grating against some gravel and dirt blown up by the storm. He fumbled for the lights. There's something wrong with this dimmer switch, he thought. Can't seem to make it any brighter in here.

The chairs and couches were all a garish red, their coverings split with age. In some places the torn plastic had been patched together with black electrical tape. Glenn carried Martoni to a table and set him down gently. He tugged the multi-colored Navajo blanket over the face, covering that horrid grimace.

He went back, got Urich and stumbled by the steps again. This time he called out: "Jase? Jason?"

No answer. Strange son of a bitch. Let him find his guests in the morning, over breakfast.

Bates placed Urich in an armchair, making sure the druggist's face was hidden. He was almost sober and he wanted to go home. There was a cluttered desk in the far corner. He walked over to it, his footsteps echoing in the empty room, and found some writing paper.

He scribbled a note to Jason Smith, aware that he was hurrying. Something was creeping up his spine and the air felt heavy and damp. It stank. Bates wrote of the need for funeral arrangements, said he'd call in the morning. His signature was illegible. He left the note where Jase couldn't miss it. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning as if the building were on fire and he'd been inhaling thick smoke. He turned.

No.

Urich had moved. God, was that the armchair he'd been in before, or was it the other one — the one nearest Martoni? Bates almost screamed. He walked slowly to the entrance, a display of courage to hold back the horror. Discipline, he thought. Your imagination's running wild. Too much to drink.

The doors opened on their own, with a sound like fingernails screeching down a blackboard. Bates faced the dark night, not even daring to look at what might be lurking right behind him.

He went down the steps, shoulders straight, a soldier on parade. He walked towards his car. The doors closed.

Wind. Just the wind.

Glenn got in and grabbed for his keys, but they slipped through his hand and landed in the puddle of liquor on the floor mat. He found them after a few panicky seconds and stepped on the gas pedal, still not able to look up. The car started.

He spun away, narrowly missing a tree. Branches clawed at the windshield like bony arms. Bates roared down the road, tires squealing. He looked in the rear view mirror, but he couldn't see the funeral parlor at all.

Because the porch light was off.

38

THE POLSONS

Hiram was snoring again.

Louise, unable to sleep, rolled over. She tugged her numb legs after her. The bed was piled high with blankets and quilts, yet it was still cold. She opened her eyes.

Sweet William stood before her. He seemed to be hanging in the moonlight, his body nearly transparent. Louise gaped, goosebumps marching up her arms. He drifted closer to dangle, suspended, near the foot of her bed. He was both there and not there.

He smiled, his lips drawing back slowly to expose discolored, rotting teeth. Louise could smell the reek of corruption on his breath. She grabbed her Bible from the nightstand, moaning, and began to pray. She begged for faith, prayed that she would prove capable of believing in the power of prayer.

"Touch me," William said. "Touch me again. Please."

"Begone, spirit," Louise whispered. "You are not welcome here."

The apparition vanished, as if it had never existed. But Louise Polson wept. She knew it had, and also that it was bound to return.

39

THE BAXTERS

Timmy Baxter decided that his mother was right about those darned horror comics. They hadn't seemed to bother his sister much, but he'd read one just before turning out the lights and now he couldn't fall asleep. He told himself how silly it was, that it was his own fault and he oughta know better.

But he was still afraid of the closet.

Timmy eased one eye open a crack and took a look at it. The door was closed, but he just knew that the closet was full of monsters. It seemed to be staring right back at him, toying with the idea of setting those monsters loose. Letting them all rush out with a huge growl to tear him limb from limb. It was up to the closet to decide. The closet held the power.

He shut his eyes and pulled the blankets over his head. His father had told him that monsters couldn't chew through sheets and blankets, but he'd never believed that. Monsters were different. They didn't have to obey rules like people. Monsters did whatever they wanted, pretty much, and hardly anybody knew how to stop them. You really had to read a bunch of stuff, and work at remembering it, if you were gonna fight one. Timmy knew all about those kinds of things. He'd had to learn in self-defense. He was scared of vampires and monsters.

Of that dang closet, too.

He tried to imagine something pleasant: Cotton candy, Monday, the county fair. Pinball machines, video games and kids he liked. Going bowling. Catching a matinee at the theater down the block. Horses, kittens, ice cream —

Creak!

The boy sat up instantly, terrified, already beginning to stream with perspiration. He faced the closet. Steeled himself…

There came a tapping at his window.

Timmy Baxter curled in upon himself like a snail. Mr. Rourke had promised this wasn't gonna happen. There weren't any such things, at least not up here in these mountains. Badness, go away. Get lost.

Tapping.

He opened his eyes and turned, clutching at the blankets. It was a dead man, wearing tattered old clothes like a hobo. He had sick-looking grey skin and keen, animal eyes. The man touched Timmy's mind — invaded, all slimy and gooey. Things got fuzzy. The boy shut his eyes again. He wished for morning sunshine/Mom/breakfast smells to prove this was a nightmare [got to check and see for sure, you can do it] and then he peeked.

It was peering into the window, standing only a few feet away from his bed.

A vamper.

The worst had happened. The sight was chilling, yet less scary than it should have been, probably because there were no surprises. Everything was just as he'd imagined it, down to the last detail. It looked familiar, like he'd actually been through this before or had seen it in some movie. As if an image had been yanked from his head to freak him out, only the copy wound up a little too perfect.

The vamper got into his brain. He spoke without talking, but it was impossible to keep from listening. This was the voice of a big snake, a thin, hissing moan; like a tiny fart, or maybe stale air leaking from a punctured tire.

Please let me in, the man said sweetly. Open the window. I won't hurt you, little boy.

"No," Timmy fired back. "Get away from here!"

Then come out and play with me, Timmy. I would really like that, if you'd come out and play. We'd have fun together.

"No, vamper. You can't fool me!"

The man's clothing flapped and fluttered in the light breeze. Timmy could practically see right through him; he was so thin, so empty...So thirsty.

The comics said a vamper couldn't just enter a home. Not unless somebody gave it the okay and opened the door. Well, then? Timmy's life-long curiosity about such things began to dilute his terror. He flipped the covers to the side, leaned forward and pressed his face against the windowpane. The man drooled. His eyes flared red as hot coals and he floated closer to the boy. Their faces met at the window, separated by less than an inch of wire mesh and glass. Timmy dared to meet those terrible eyes. The vamper's pale, blue lips slowly parted; drew back in a grotesque imitation of a smile, exposing long, vulpine front teeth.

Vampers, the comics said, could hypnotize people and get them to do things they wouldn't normally do [like let them in]. The wraith snarled, showing still more of its curved, yellow fangs.

Open this window, it barked. Now!

Timmy shook his head. He wished he had a cross, something to defend himself with. But this was crazy; he had to be dreaming, having one real doozy of a nightmare. He tried to yell for his mother. His body refused to obey the command.

See? That proves this is just a dream [or that you're getting hypnotized, dummy. You know what that means!]

"Go away," Timmy croaked. The words emerged in a hoarse whisper that sounded foreign to him. Like someone else was talking, somebody funny in the head.

Hey, Timmy, come with us. This is all so different. I think it's really fun.

Julie? But that didn't make any sense. His sister was sleeping just around the corner, and she sure wasn't dead. She couldn't be one of them, a vamper. Naw, it was just trying to fool him again. Switching to a different sales pitch.

Buzz off, Timmy thought. I ain't gonna go for it. Never in a million years.

The hollow, evil man drifted away, carried along by the wind. He shot Timmy one last, hungry look. Just as he hit the tree line and was almost out of sight, he reached for something. Something that reached back.

A white arm.

Another vamper, Timmy gasped. A lady one, since the hair was so long.

This was nuts. Bananas.

But there they were, the two of them. Off in the distance, sliding away into the dark woods; clasping hands like high school lovers on the way home from a date. The boy shook his head, stunned. He did his best to study the other one, the lady, even though she was awful far away. It was real dark, too dark to be sure of anything, but Timmy saw enough.

He forgot all about the monsters in the closet, his horror comics, even the shock of confronting the vamper. His whole body jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. Hair rose, palms went damp. His spine turned to ice. The second one, the vamper with the long hair.

She looked a lot like Julie.

Eight years old, but wiser than most, Timmy did the hardest thing he'd ever done in his whole life. He gathered his courage, which took a little while, and swung his feet around. He set them down on the cold floor of the camper and got out of bed. Feeling like a helpless baby, Timmy swallowed and crept down the hall. He tip-toed past the ominous closet to the edge of his sister's bunk.

Julie was there. He could hear her breathing.

Timmy returned to his own bed. He climbed in and buried himself under the blankets. Morning would come, and he would wake up and know for a fact that it had all been make believe. Just a sicko nightmare from reading those stupid magazines. Nothing more, just another dream.

Like the one about the closet.

Still, his feet felt cold. He had really gotten up to check on Julie. But so what? That didn't mean anything, except that he'd been awake near the end. There was no way to prove it had happened, no evidence. It sure wasn't worth trying to explain this to Mom, and she would probably never believe him anyway.

Besides, he didn't want it to be real.

40

ROURKE & MAGGIE

Rourke tossed and turned fitfully, unable to find a comfortable position on Maggie's couch. He was too restless to sleep. Monday, napping nearby, offered a small, sympathetic whine. Peter massaged his aching temples. He had begged his talent to shut down, but this was a night filled with old ghosts and pleading voices. Rourke was unwilling to let go to grief and afraid to extend his senses. He fought against skulling, but some leaked in despite his efforts; enough to shake him to the core. He no longer believed in a rational, ordered universe.

How the fuck do you explain this to someone? That some walking nightmare was loose in the world, and reality was being distorted to suit its whims. It would soon seek him out. It would have to. How do I convince someone, and then what would we do about it?

Bare toes on carpet, the smell of perfume. He could just make out her shape, there in the doorway, all rounded flesh and pale blue lace.

"Peter, are you asleep?"

"No."

She came to him. Maggie's presence muted most of the shrill static in his throbbing head; submerged it in more tactile sensations. Her soft breasts pressed against his forearm as she knelt beside the couch.

"Just a minute," she whispered. She went back and closed the bedroom and hall doors, anticipating his need. She enfolded him, stroked his face and kissed him. Rourke's little boy, always pressured to achieve and endure, pushed the grown man aside. Said in a tiny, clear voice: I hurt.

He felt himself beginning to cry for the first time in many years. The release was wonderful. Maggie held him, urging him on until sorrow had run its course. She shifted her body and lay beside him on the couch.

Maggie caressed and awakened him, tugged at his trousers; hitched up her nightgown and placed them together. Quiet murmurs, quickening flesh. She locked one leg above him and held on like a woman drowning, her lips moving against his neck. Her body was hungry, damp and willing. When he finally let go and poured himself into her, she said ahhh softly, happy to absorb what she could of his pain. When Rourke and Maggie at last released each other, they noticed that Monday had begun to snore. They giggled like small children at the little wheezing noises he made.

Maggie waited silently until Rourke began to speak. He told her everything he had experienced or guessed, beginning with the murder of Dee Jennings.

At first she didn't fully understand what he was saying. He began to explain about the evil he had first sensed up on the mountain, in the cave, and that wicked, watchful presence in the back of Martoni's store. Then she knew, because she had felt it too.

"What... What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," Rourke said. "But it's ancient and powerful. It's got us all at war with ourselves. Do you believe me?"

Maggie thought of 'Tony' and shuddered. "Yes, Pete. I believe you."

"This thing that's happening, it feeds on the negative emotions or something. I think it can blur fantasy and reality, until someone like Martoni can't tell the difference anymore. It just keeps on growing. When it takes someone over or kills, it gains even more power."

"But how…"

"It knows what we secretly fear, Maggie. That's the source of its strength."

"Why did it choose Two Trees?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps it's always been here. Or maybe because this is a dying town, and there's nobody here who can put up much of a fight." Or, he mused silently, it might be after me. Christ.

Maggie said: "Peter, let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?"

He looked at her, and his sad concern broke her heart. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have taken you away earlier."

"Because..?"

"Maggie, we're stuck in the Two Trees area. I can sense it won't let us leave this place. Not now."

Maggie trembled. "Is Michael safe?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but probably. He just got here, so it hasn't had time to work on his mind. Not yet."

"If we can't leave town, then what can we do?"

"I honestly don't know, but I'm working on it. Let's go up to my cabin tomorrow. Maybe it will be weaker from a few miles away. It's worth a try, and then we'll see how things go from there."

"I have an idea." Maggie shifted position and took his hand. "Pete, listen," she said. "You said it knows what we're afraid of."

"I think so."

"Then talk to me, Rourke. Please, for your own sake. Tell me about your demons. The graveyard. Get it out in the open, understand?"

"I see what you mean."

"Let's take away its power before it can hurt us."

She was right. And so he did.

"My Grandfather's name was Peter Sharpe," he said. "He was one of the first ranchers to become successful in Nevada. A tough act to follow. I was born on his birthday, named after him and expected to be like him. He called me Pinky when I was a kid, because I had his bright red hair.

"Grandpa smelled of cigar smoke and hard work. He ruled Two Trees with an iron hand and no one, not even my uncle Jeremy, talked back to Peter Sharpe. Yet he was gentle, too; he took great joy in being alive. I loved him, Maggie. When my father got crazy, it was always the thought of Grandpa that kept me going.

"He ran that massive ranch on his own. He kept the books, juggled the debts, even forecast the good and bad years with remarkable accuracy. I can understand that part of it, now. He had the talent. But since no one believed in that stuff when he was young, Grandpa just considered himself lucky.

"When I was eleven years old, he suffered a stroke. Nobody was prepared for what happened. Hell, he seemed indestructible, like he'd live forever. And now he was totally paralyzed, couldn't move or talk. My family brought him back to the ranch.

"Jeremy slaved over the books, but he just didn't have his father's gift. We began to lose money. It was costing a lot to keep Peter Sharpe alive and at home. Prize breeding stock was sold, men were let go, but I was barely aware of all that. I was watching my Grandfather being destroyed.

"You see, they hired this nurse. She'd put him on the toilet with a hoist whenever it seemed like a logical time for him to take a crap. He'd be hanging in this swing, and she'd pull his pajama bottoms down and set him on the potty as if he were a child. Worse yet, she would baby-talk him like he was retarded. She didn't mean any harm, but it must have been torture for Grandpa.

"Jesus, how he suffered.

"I still dream of his eyes sometimes, Maggie. They used to light up when I came into the room. I knew he was aware and alive within that prison of a body, because by then I could touch his mind. It was our little secret; my father would have driven me insane if he'd suspected. He had no idea how gifted I actually was.

"Grandpa had a second stroke. This one left him hospitalized and on an I.V. rig. They couldn't even force his mouth open to feed him. I went over to his bed and I watched him lying there, flat on his back. He was on some kind of life-support system for his lungs; depressed, lonely and so stuck full of needles and tubes he looked like a space creature. I told him a joke, something stupid about the lung machine.

"He looked at me, Maggie.

"It must have taken everything he had, but Grandpa tried to communicate with that fucking machine clicking and whirring and working to keep him alive. Everything got... strange, then crystal clear. I kissed his hand. I can still smell the disinfectant on his fingers.

"'Yes, Grandpa,' I said. 'I hear you. And I do love you that much.' I reached down behind the machine that was keeping him breathing, gripped his hand — and pulled the plug."

Maggie was sobbing. Rourke sighed and held her. "The hardest thing was that I locked with him at the last moment, and he was afraid. But it was too late. I had to yank my mind away from his or I would have died with him. I plugged the machine back in and left. I think my mother knew, though. Somehow. Because she never spoke to me again."

"You did right," Maggie whispered.

"I hope so," he said.

She pulled him closer. Rourke lost himself inside her, suddenly as full of life as he had been of death.

41

GLADYS & EDITH

"Hi, there! Are you excited about this evening?"

Gladys Pierson looked up from the switchboard, startled. Edith, cloaked in her customary occult black, was standing a few feet away. Gladys tapped her heart with her fingers. "You really frightened me," she croaked. "Don't you ever knock?"

Edith laughed lightly. "I just pass through doors," she said. "It's a very spiritual thing to do, you know."

Gladys reluctantly unplugged the line. She'd been eavesdropping on one whopper of a conversation: An irate Sheriff Bates had just been turned down for a job as a security guard at Harrah's Tahoe. Edith stepped around the desk. She was attractive, sparse and small-boned. Born thin, thought Gladys. A lucky woman.

"Practically everyone is going," Edith continued. "Everyone still left. But I don't know if I want to go or not."

"Neither do I," Gladys said, although the thought of a full picnic basket made her stomach rumble. "It's like we're all trying too hard, you know? It's so soon after the other night. It makes me sad that we're all trying to act so happy and all."

"I know. But me, I really am happy!"

"Goodness, why?"

"Goodness has nothing to do with it!."

Edith turned a straight-back chair around. She perched like a blackbird on a telephone wire. "Gladys," she smirked, "you know I'll go along with whatever you decide to do. I won't force this on you, dear."

Oh, wonderful, Gladys thought. It's the two of us and some more séance nonsense, either way. What else is there to do in Two Trees?

"I really enjoyed last night," Edith bubbled. "We got some marvelous responses from the ouija board."

"You got some marvelous responses. I just got sleepy."

Edith looked amused and complacent. She smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. "I'll make a believer out of you tonight, Gladys. Have you heard about poor Mr. Urich and Mr. Martoni?"

Gladys had been listening in on Bates all morning, but she pretended ignorance to give her friend the thrill of passing along some juicy gossip. "No," she said, leaning forward. "I've been working."

Edith proceeded to tell her, embellishing the gruesome saga with a few imaginative details of her own. After milking every possible ounce of enjoyment out of the exchange, both women agreed that it was a sad and terrible event. Edith's face took on a self-satisfied look. She folded her arms across her chest. "Now, Gladys. Didn't I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Edith became dramatic. "The Tarot cards. They said evil was coming here, remember?"

Gladys felt uneasy all of a sudden. Edith seemed... wicked. Again. "You said that's what they meant, but you always say things like that."

"You'll see later on," Edith intoned. "Tonight is the night I convert you. You'll believe, I promise you. The spirits know everything before it happens."

Gladys cringed in fear. The minute Edith left, she located and began to inhale a candy bar. Food always made her feel safe. She was being foolish. What in the world had poor Edith done? They were old friends, for God's sake. She licked the wrapper, crushed it in her fist and tossed it out onto the sidewalk. A playful gust of wind began to bounce the crumpled ball of paper down the street towards the outskirts of town.

42

CANDACE & BERT

Candace Stone had begun to fear for her life. Often, just out of the corner of her eye, she would catch Bert staring at her. His features seemed twisted and ugly; the face of a stranger. But that ghastly expression would vanish the moment she turned to confront him. It was as if she were going psychotic.

They each went through the motions: Small talk at the dinner table, splitting chores, watching television together. But it was all a travesty. Neither trusted the other. As the horror grew, she began to picture sick, nasty things; images her conscious mind tried to shove aside. Ways to kill Bert, before he could murder her.

But then, as quick as the flip of a coin, Candace would ache with a desire to marry him. To have a legal, binding relationship before God. Almost like that was the answer. It was kind of crazy, she knew that, but so was the alternative. Going on with things as they stood.

Why couldn't they sit down and talk it over? What in God's name had come between them?

Bert was rocking silently, as usual, his attention focused on town. Candace gathered up her knitting and went out to join him. Time crawled by. She was searching for words of her own when Bert finally spoke to her, his voice surprisingly warm.

"Maybe you'd best get away," he said. "I think something's wrong with me, Candy. Can't explain it, don't understand it."

Candace felt as though a hundred pound rock had just been lifted from her shoulders. "You don't need to explain, Bert. I'm not myself, either."

He lowered his head. "I get these bad ideas. I keep wanting to hurt you, Candy. Really hurt you."

"I know," Candace said.

"You do?"

"Yes. I feel it, too."

"Life just ain't worth a damn to me no more," Bert mumbled. "I don't even know if I wanna go on."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"I surely do."

"That's good. That's good."

They didn't talk again for quite some time, just rocked back and forth together on the porch.

43

CHALMERS & VARGAS

Meanwhile, in another life: The day hung suspended, as if from a pendulum — bright and shiny and waiting for a push. Chalmers looked out through the cracked glass of the hotel window and wished that something, anything, would move. The fucking place was incredible. Normally the big hermit enjoyed peace and quiet, but this was different. Not like the desert, that wide-open stretch of beige he was accustomed to. Hell, Two Trees was supposed to be a goddamn city. Life in it, people moving around. Voices, dogs barking, cars. This felt like it wasn't real, just some damn oil painting.

The claustrophobia and stifling heat combined to make him feel drowsy. He went to the sink, twisted the rusty handle and threw cold water on his face. I'm losing my edge, he thought. Vargas wouldn't like that. He'd get pissed off.

Chalmers lay facedown on the floor and did some pushups to clear his mind. He experienced a sudden jolt of confusion and fear. Someone buried deep within him struggled, briefly, to regain control; tried to structure him as he'd been... before. Way back in the beginning.

But then it didn't seem important anymore. Chalmers relaxed. He stretched and yawned. Shit, things would be okay. He returned to his place at the window, dreading the view and the eternal day.

He watched as a tall man wearing a badge crossed the street. Chalmers took the Sheriff's measure. Strong, loose and limber in his walk. Military background. Someone to stay clear of, most likely.

44

BATES & MICHAEL

Sheriff Bates went up onto the splintered sidewalk and into the afternoon shade. Behind him, his shadow mated. Michael Moore stepped through the swinging doors of the hotel casino, finishing a beer. The two men eyed each other. They were natural enemies, and knew it. Something tense crackled between them.

"I took another look this morning," Bates said. "It must have gone down about the way you figured. I was a little drunk, but I sorted it out all right."

"Town's lucky to have you, Sheriff."

Bates showed his teeth. "You know something? Now that I'm sober, I don't think I like you very much."

"Don't worry. I won't be around long enough to bother you. Don't feel obliged to do anything about it."

"You best be telling me the truth," Bates said. He seemed a bit mollified. Michael noticed more than a hangover. The Sheriff's eyes were darting about nervously. He had slept poorly.

"All the bodies get where they belong?"

He was not prepared for the white-lipped glare Bates threw him. Michael took a step back, readying himself for a fight. Bates looked away and loosened up.

"Took 'em over to the mortuary. Must admit it made me a tad jumpy."

Michael grinned disarmingly. "I guess it would do that to anybody. I sure as hell wouldn't have had the balls."

Bates grunted, nodded and walked away.

Yeah, Michael thought. There it was, the key to Glenn Bates. Tell him he's a brave man, so he won't feel obligated to prove it.

45

ROURKE & MAGGIE

The day was slipping away. For some reason they both were feeling lighter, happier. They were in the cool of Agatha's living room. Rourke was lying with his head on Maggie's lap, strumming guitar chords.

"Can you feel anything?"

Rourke shook his head. "Everything has been quiet for the last few hours."

"That's good?"

"That's really good."

"What is your new song about?"

"Can't tell you."

Maggie slapped him on the bridge of the nose with the tip of her finger. She scowled. "Hey. What do you mean you can't tell me?"

Peter kept his eyes closed. "If I talk about it too much I'll never write it, that's all. Simple. You'd better get used to the idea if you're going to marry me."

She jumped. "Marry? Who the hell said marry?"

"Not me," Rourke chuckled. "I must have listened in."

She pretended to strike him and they wrestled a bit. He put the guitar down and told her that he'd begun fooling with an idea for a concept album about ecology. "You can hear a few tunes once I've polished 'em. Deal?"

"Deal."

Rourke lay still while Maggie gently stroked his forehead. She assumed he was resting. He saw no reason to worry her by telling her otherwise. But Peter was skulling, probing cautiously at the evil gathered all around them. He was hoping to locate its heart, before it found his…

[a hole in the heavens, a crack in time and space…a totem of bones and fingers and hair from a horse…JESUS!]

Rourke collided with a solid mass, the outer edge of something. He bounced back, horrified. This was pure evil, foul and wicked. Cruel impulses rose up, writhing and rolling, intertwined like slimy cables leading to a massive source of dark energy — a collective brain of unprecedented size and strength. Rourke whimpered aloud, then caught himself.

"Shhh..." Maggie whispered, brushing back his hair. She was at peace, still unaware that in a short while her worst nightmares were destined to come true. That this would happen to the entire town of Two Trees, Nevada.

46

JASON

Jason sat silently, playing chess with himself. He slashed the black queen across the board, neatly amputating a white knight with one smooth stroke. He studied, ruminated… switched sides and moved a white piece. His blood was singing and the fever was high. Madness or not, fact or not, he had manifested his destiny. It would soon be time to sieze control.

A thump echoed through the empty room. Shadowy fingers splayed across the wooden floors: Night approaching, darkness scratching. Soon is the Night of the Beast.

Jason raised his eyebrows and twitched his nose, sniffing black, moist things. His eyes burned like twin coals in their pitted sockets, and his sullen face moved in clumsy lumps. Lips twisted back from stained teeth. He smiled.

I know all, I am all, he thought. Deeper than a charnel pit, higher than a rising cry of pain. I cleanse, refresh and renew. He whooped and laughed, rolling on his back like a beetle. Chess pieces flew and clattered onto the floor.

Abrupt silence.

How odd. I am tired, yet it is only now I come fully alive, that I rise up and feel tall. Jason slid to his knees, stood up and walked to the window. He pulled back the drapes. He watched the last sunset the world would ever know. Saw it scream in silent pantomime as it dripped fresh blood down onto the distant mountains.

"It is done."

Jason began to whistle. He replaced the chess pieces neatly and shut the board. He

growled like a panther and spun around as the door opened.

"I told you never to come here unless I summon you," he said.

It bowed. "Master, I could not wait."

Jason squatted, petulant. "You dare to disobey me?"

It blanched and withdrew a step. Miserable, but gaining strength, It went on to roar its demand. "I hunger!"

Jason waved a hand. "The game is all but ready. It will begin soon. You should remember that you are but one small piece on the board."

"That which I am is weakened, that in which I live is empty. I hunger."

"You are spineless," the little man said cruelly.

"My will is firm. I only hunger."

"Could you have been seen?"

It shook its head. "I came down the stream bed. I was not seen."

Jason Smith sighed like an annoyed parent and picked at his filthy fingernails. He shrugged and found something upon which It could feed. Then, ignoring the smacking sounds, he replaced the chess game as it was and resumed playing. The night arrived with a chill. He turned to It and smiled.

"Stay here after," he said, almost gently. "I will have need of you."

"Has the time arrived?" It asked, snuffling and chewing. "Will this be the Night?"

Jason nodded. "It will," he said. "It will indeed."

PART THREE

"NIGHT OF THE BEAST"

"When the senses are shaken

and the soul is driven to madness

Who can stand?

When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle

and sails rejoicing in the flood of death;

When souls are torn to everlasting fire,

and friends of Hell rejoice upon the slain -

O, Who can stand?

O, Who hath caused this?

O, Who can answer at the throne of God?"

— William Blake.

"Of whom much is given,

much will be required."

— St. Luke.

1

ROBERT REISS/VARGAS

The sun was setting in the far hills, the air was growing chill. The Night of the Beast was upon them.

"Why, of course I fear death," said the soft-spoken, bearded young man in denim. "I'm mortal. Pain frightens me. But so does the evil men do when they turn away from a brother in need. When they abandon a helpless child to fend for itself, without protection or guidance. Or destroy their bodies with alcohol and drugs. In short, I believe that we must never help the Devil do his work."

The handsome stranger turned, almost arrogantly. He permitted himself a second, more leisurely look around. The gigantic, impressively furnished tour bus was parked near the deserted highway. There was an altar and a modest podium near the back of the huge vehicle, and a beautifully carved crucifix on the wall. A large group of polite children were quietly amusing themselves nearby. Some seemed to be waiting for dinner.

"I respect courage," the stranger said. "I also respect a man with convictions, whether I share them or not. I salute you, friend. Or should I call you Preacher?"

A smile. "I'd prefer friend any day. Unless you'd like to call me Robert?"

"Robert, then. I'm Anthony."

The two men were seated in a swing under a large awning attached to the side of the bus, watching the sunset. Robert Reiss was enjoying himself. He worshiped children, but found it a pleasure to spend an hour or two in idle conversation with another adult. It was a welcome change of pace.

"Now, if you're worrying, Anthony," he said, his blue eyes twinkling, "please relax. I'm not out to convert anybody. I don't care for the hard sell. That's not my style."

"I didn't think it was, Robert."

"Bless you. Anyway, as you can see, I like kids. These youngsters really react to attention, know what I mean? They haven't had much, and they truly appreciate it. That turns me on. Gets me high, man. It's real, solid love. You can almost touch that when it happens."

"So you take them places and let them see the country?"

Robert grinned. "Every chance I get," he said. "And I'll bet I have almost as much fun as they do. Besides, this puts a little God back into the world."

"Say what?"

"Never mind. I'd better not get started."

"No, I'm interested. Really."

"Well. You see, I believe that we are witnessing the events set down in the Book of Revelations as The Last Days. I know that's a tired old schtick for a Bible thumper, but I'm dead serious. We may see the appearance of the Anti-Christ within our lifetime. Remember, the selection of a millenium date was highly arbitrary. It is arguable that the true millenium has yet to take place."

"I see."

"And I think that never before in history has the issue of free will been as critically important as it is today. When judgment comes, we shall be measured by two things: what we chose, and how we lived with those choices."

"Hmmm..."

"I'm boring you."

"Not at all," the stranger replied. "Go on. Is there actually such a thing as the Devil?"

Robert nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes. I believe The Beast, as he is named in Revelations, is a psychic manifestation of our animal nature. If we summon him, he will come unto us." The earnest young man blushed. "I'm just another sinner, Anthony. But I swear to you, sometimes I can actually feel it. We are all in grave danger. And so it follows that every time we love, each time we perform a small act of kindness, we strike a blow against evil."

A cheap red plastic ball bounced to the ground a few yards away and rolled to a stop in the dust. Robert, smiling, threw it back to his waiting flock.

"Can we have dinner soon, Robert?"

"I'll cook in a few moments, kids."

Anthony said: "So you have your own little church right here inside this bus?"

"Why, yes."

The stranger got to his feet and strolled towards the vehicle. "Come," he said curtly. "Show me around."

Robert, suddenly uneasy, followed him in. "There's really not much to see," he stammered. "I've had everything but the kitchen and the plumbing torn out to make room for the children. I'm afraid it's stuffed full of couches, beds and sleeping bags."

"And that."

Large wooden cross, modest altar.

Robert unconsciously dropped his voice to a reverent whisper. "Of course. And that."

The man searched for a light switch, since the room was nearly in shadow. Robert turned the lights on. Anthony approached the cross, at first taking long strides to better weave his way through the bunks and the piles of clothing that lay strewn about the floor. But then he stiffened and stopped. Robert became aware of a strange rattle, a sound not unlike the clicking of Spanish castanets. With a jolt of fear he realized what it was.

The stranger's teeth were chattering.

Something was terribly wrong. Oh, my God the children…Robert Reiss began to pray. He started to back away as quietly as possible, his nostrils suddenly filled with the scent of burning sulfur. The stranger heard the footsteps. He whirled, snarled. He was on the poor preacher in a blink of an eye. A forearm smashed down to crush his windpipe, and Robert thrashed about like a beached fish, unable to breathe. As the world grew dim and cold and went very far away, he thought of all his lambs.

[our father who art]

Chaos followed sunset. The mindless violence lifted Vargas to a state of unholy grace. Naked in the new darkness, his body sticky with the blood of the innocent, he began to meditate. After a time, he raised his splattered head and turned to stare at his surroundings.

The tour bus was a shambles; altar upside down, floor littered with the torn and brutalized bodies of several young children. The large wooden cross was tilted at an angle. The nude corpse of Robert Reiss hung facing it, buttocks jutting, an obscene parody of Christ.

Vargas examined his red hands. He heard distant laughter and blinked. The far corner seemed to ripple, like the surface of a dark pool. A shape emerged; ugly, twisted and small. A man with a port wine stain on his face stepped into the room as though from some other dimension. Anthony Vargas knew true panic for the first time in his life.

"You seek my master, human?"

Vargas felt a flutter of doubt deep in his gut, but found himself nodding. "If he is the one who haunts my dreams, then, yes, I do."

A chuckle.

"Will you serve Him always?"

"I... I will."

"In all things?"

"I swear it."

"Come here," growled Jason Smith. "On your knees, man."

Vargas knelt down and shuffled towards the little warlock, surprised to find himself enjoying the humiliation. "Are you The Beast?" he asked, voice trembling and eager.

Jason laughed with many voices. The noise was loud, painfully loud, and Vargas was compelled to cover his ears. "No, but I am the Chosen one. The Keeper of the Gate. Dog speaks through me."

Vargas reached an open area, a point between the desecrated altar and the sneering apparition.

"Stop!"

Vargas did. He was now gasping with excitement, his entire body charged with perverse sensuality. Jason directed his attention to Robert. He spat upon the corpse, into the wretched, bearded face now pressed against the center beam of the wooden cross. He pointed to the bare buttocks.

"Kiss this Jesus! Kiss his ass for love of The Beast. Do it!"

Vargas pressed his lips to Robert's cold, hairy skin and felt a tiny piece of his soul vanish. Jason dropped filthy trousers, exposed his own cheeks. "Now me, pig," he said. The voice, as heard by Vargas, was awesome and irresistible — one being with many tongues. He kissed Jason's unwashed ass with a feeling close to sexual passion.

More laughter. Vargas cupped his ears, closed his eyes and trembled. The voice came from within his own brain: You are mine, now. Obey me, and you shall be rewarded beyond measure. Fail me, and you burn alive forever.

Vargas felt a hand touch his smeared forehead. He looked up into a hideous birthmark and two glaring eyes, only inches away.

"Feed him," Jason said. "Help him grow. Tonight, at the exact moment chosen, you will kill for him again. But only upon my order."

The warlock grabbed Vargas by the shoulders. His grip was astonishingly powerful for someone his size. "And we shall free him!"

Vargas, twitching, squealed for joy. "Free him? Free The Beast?"

"Yes!"

The gnarled little form curled, blackened like ash and tucked inward; dissolved into minuscule particles and winked out. Vargas, his senses bombarded, fell to the floor in a dead faint.

He slept in Hell... Then found himself roaring down the black highway, high beams on, radio blasting, driving a car he'd never seen before. He was fully dressed and feeling normal, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He half believed he'd imagined the entire experience. It was only when he noticed the blood caked beneath his fingernails that he began to accept the reality of the bargain he'd just struck.

Vargas was brimming over, filled with a tremendous sense of purpose. The dream had come true. His life had meaning. Wild. Even all spaced out like this, somehow he just knew what he was supposed to do. No sweat, no strain, no pressure. It was almost like flying on autopilot.

Vargas chuckled and licked his lips. Now the coming storm, when chaos will be born, and I am called to do murder for the master.

2

THE POLSONS/TWO TREES

Hiram Polson moved slowly, carefully balancing the tray with one hand. He carried it across the shadowy hotel kitchen and nudged the door open with his foot. The night's barely begun, and yet it already feels so bitter and cold.

Hi was terribly worried about his wife. Louise had taken to reading the Bible again, right out of the blue, for the first time in years. That was all fine and dandy, but not from dawn till dusk. She never left their hotel anymore. Her faith had become an obsession. Too much of a good thing. But what was he supposed to do, complain?

He assumed a cheerful attitude and entered the bedroom. Louise barely noticed. Hiram lowered the tray of food and placed it on the table near her bed. He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat.

"Lou?"

"We have to go," she said. "We have to get away from here."

Caught totally by surprise, Hiram sat on the edge of the bed. "I don't understand."

"It's cold," Louise said, like that would explain everything. "I'm always cold of late. Something is wrong, Hi. I can feel it. I have seen things."

He spread his arms wide. "Lou, something is always wrong someplace."

She grabbed his hand. "Listen," she said, "I've never been so certain of anything in my entire life. There is a wickedness in Two Trees, something that is an abomination unto God. We have to run, before it's too late."

Hiram held her close. Her entire body was trembling.

"Anything you say, Louise," he whispered. "We'll go, if that's what you want. Right now, tonight."

She locked eyes with him. "You feel it too," she said. "I know you do."

"I'm sick of this hotel, that's all."

"No, that's not all. Don't start fibbing to me this late in the game, Hiram Polson. You're scared."

He looked away. "Yes."

Louise nodded. "So am I. Scared to death, so scared I'm like snow and ice inside. Do you remember when you said God wasn't talking?"

"Sure. You figured that maybe we just weren't listening."

"Let's listen this time, Hi."

3

CANDACE & BERT

It was easy, really. They watched the beginning of the gorgeous sunset together, and then went inside the house. Bert used his key ring to open the glass cabinet. The two shotguns were perfectly matched, gold-plated and engraved. They sparkled, strangely beautiful in the fading sunlight. Bert slid shells into each weapon. He handed one to Candace.

She smiled.

They had agreed on a count of five. It was actually six beats, for each paused briefly and took one last, loving look before pulling the trigger.

Then they blew each other to pieces.

4

PETER & MAGGIE

Rourke opened the door. A bolt of lightening ripped through the fabric of the evening sky to fling a white trident at the far horizon.

Monday jumped outside, barking furiously. Peter and Maggie watched as the shepherd tore straight up the steep slope and through the tangled undergrowth like a greyhound in a money race. The woods were painted with the colors of the sunset, but shadows were starting to spread.

"He's liable to run right into a tree," she said. "The mutt's not even watching where he's going."

"No chance. He knows every twig and rock around here."

Maggie was looking at the cabin, her eyes wide and reflecting her appreciation. She hugged Peter's arm. The green of the trees seemed to be melting down into the stained redwood slats and curtained windows.

"You're right. It's beautiful."

They slid out of the car together. "I'm glad you like it, princess."

Rourke led her up onto the porch. They leaned against the railing for a moment, enjoying the last of the sunset. Rourke had decided to continue to act as if nothing was wrong.

"Let's go in," he said. "Before it gets too cold."

It took an effort for Maggie to tear her eyes away from the sun sight of the setting on the flowing, green forest. She seemed enchanted, despite the rumble of approaching thunder. Rourke felt a rush of affection welling up inside. Good, he thought. I need for you to love this place.

He turned on the lights and walked her through the cabin, jabbering like a lonely little boy. "It's all redwood outside and along the walls. I love those beams in the ceiling, don't you? Jeremy and I painted the kitchen ourselves. I chose yellow enamel. He hated it until we were through, but it makes the whole place a bit brighter, don't you think?"

He realized what he was doing and ground to a halt, embarrassed. Maggie grinned.

"Absolutely," she said. "Much brighter."

Rourke ran his hands along the top of the old upright piano. "I wrote my first song on this. The keys stick and it's sadly out of tune, but it has a spirit all its own. I'll play it until it falls apart."

Tour completed, they sat near the fireplace waiting for fresh coffee to perk in the kitchen. Maggie tucked her legs under, yoga-fashion. The remaining sliver of sun bothered her a bit, so Peter closed one of the curtains. They listened to the distant thunder and they talked… half in shadow, half in light, like two squares on a chessboard.

"It's about time it was your turn," he said. "Tell me in detail, what's a Maggie Moore? The suspense is killing me."

"It's killing me, too."

"You played tennis, right? Let's start there."

"I tried to play. My problem was a lack of motivation. It takes a lot of drive to be a professional, Pete. I guess I always knew I didn't want it badly enough. You keep going through the motions anyhow, unless you've got a second dream. But losing always hurts, especially when it's in front of an audience."

He winked. "Me, I'm lucky. When I bare my soul, I generally get a few takes and time to re-mix. On top of that, I'm seldom around to get rejected in person. The bands do that for me."

Maggie didn't laugh.

"It got depressing," she murmured. "You know how it is. You said you used drugs."

"Used to, yeah."

"Well... I went a little crazy for a while. Did some major partying. Naturally, that only made things worse. It wasn't long before I could barely play. Michael snapped me out of it. He gave me some money and got me headed in the right direction."

"He sounds like a pretty good brother."

"Funny, we weren't that close when we were children. But once I stuck up for him during that casino robbery...Look, Michael is a bit reckless and very stubborn. He's a tough cookie, never mind how he looks. He's always had some rough edges, and lately he's seemed even more distant than usual."

"Life give him a few kicks in the teeth? He's pretty wound up."

Maggie nodded. "Oh, yeah. Listen, when he first got out of the service I thought he'd gone a little crazy. It changed something inside of him, maybe forever." She sighed. "But then we've all changed, haven't we?"

"No shit." Pleasant sounds and smells intruded.

"Well, the coffee's ready. Allow me to serve you, my lord and master."

"Sexist."

Maggie uncoiled and walked off, her hips swaying gently. Rourke watched with a good deal of interest until he heard a familiar whine at the front door. He let Monday back inside. The big dog was panting. He pawed at Rourke's leg, then flopped down near the piano for a snooze.

Peter glanced at the sky. "Would you believe it still smells like it's going to rain?"

"Sounds like it, too. Strange for this time of year, isn't it?"

He closed the door. "Yeah. It is. And now Michael is stuck in town without a car."

"That's okay, as long as you think he's safe."

"Like I said last night, he probably is, Maggie," Rourke said, following her into the kitchen. "He hasn't been here long enough to be infected, if that's the right word." Peter put his arm around her waist and nibbled her neck. "But I hope he doesn't mind being by himself."

She poured the coffee into two brown mugs. "Mind? He likes it. Michael comes and goes when he pleases, and he doesn't need to be entertained. He'd probably resent the intrusion if we went to get him. He's very private."

"I'm glad."

Something rumbled in the distant hills. "You're right," Maggie said. "Sounds like the thunder is getting closer."

He took his cup. They sat at the small, round table. "Could be dry. It's been so hot lately, I hope it does rain."

"Dry?"

"Slang. Dry thunder is just noise and a little wind. Maybe a drop of water here and there, but it passes you right by."

"If it does rain, some people are going to be pretty angry."

"You mean because of the second picnic?"

"Isn't that what passes for a big holiday in these parts, a second picnic?"

"I guess so, but those folks won't mind. They're too salty to get all puffed up over a little thing like a picnic."

Rourke felt his soul go tense. […] His talent stretched to touch something nearby. Again, that peculiar feeling... as if the entity had dissolved into thin air. He shook his head. Maggie took him by the hand.

"Hey," she said. "Are you all right? Were you sensing something?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure what that was. I couldn't scan anything more than a force of some kind. It was even more powerful than in town, for some reason."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

"I know."

Thunder, closer now. They both flinched as windows rattled in their frames. Monday barked defiantly from his haven near the keyboard. "Settle down, hero," Rourke called. The dog turned in a circle and resumed his nap.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really afraid."

"I am too, Maggie."

"You've stopped talking about this — whatever it is. The danger. That bothers me, and so does the way you try to pretend it hardly ever crosses your mind. What's really going on?"

"I'm probing," he admitted. "Reaching out, trying to find out where it's coming from. Not that I'll know what the hell to do if I find it."

"It might find you first, right?"

"I won't lie, Maggie. It could."

She went a little pale. "And you're still convinced that it would single you out?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He tried to explain. "It must have a vulnerable area, some kind of a weak spot. And since I am probably the person most likely to find that weakness, I'm a threat."

"What if it did come after you? Could you protect yourself?"

"Probably. Maybe. I'm not in a hurry to find out."

She crossed her arms for warmth. "Maybe you can still avoid trouble. Maybe just refuse to fight."

Rourke did not respond. He was certain he'd have no choice. If he didn't face it, and soon, it might be too late. Lying, he said: "Could be. Who knows."

"Damn. Can't we just leave now, get Michael and go?"

"No," he said. He looked down. "Like I said last night, I'm pretty sure it would not allow that."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning staying here is the lesser of two evils."

"But how could it stop us?"

Rourke took her hand. "It could stop us in a heartbeat. It's in our minds now, Maggie. It can make us see and experience things. You know what it can do, right? You said you had been feeling it too."

She shuddered. "So what do we do?"

"Tonight? We just live," he said. "We love and try to be happy. Believe it or not, I think that may help."

She sat in silence for a few moments, then brightened a little. "Okay, then. Are you hungry, Mr. Rourke?"

"I am."

"Then I shall prepare an elegant repast. Steak, salad and a baked potato for my mountain boy. We will act like lovers without a care in the world. Sound good?"

"Sounds great. Meanwhile, I'll build a roaring fire and try to create a fantastic setting within which to seduce one Maggie Moore."

Rourke began to stack wood onto the metal grate. He felt a sudden chill, heard more thunder. Monday was now under an end table, chin resting on his front paws. Peter snapped his fingers and the dog came to join him. He scratched the pointed ears playfully.

"Relax, pal. Only more thunder."

Jesus, it's cold.

Rourke spread the dry kindling, mixed it with newspaper and stacked some logs. He took a match from the box near the fireplace and started the blaze. Dry wood crackled, smoke rose. He slid the screen back into position and went to pull the drapes.

The sky looked like a ball of steel wool. Huge black thunderheads were rolling in from high above the mountain peaks. A big storm was coming, all right. He started to close the curtain and stopped. Had something moved? Rourke probed, but wasn't sure his talent was working properly. He watched for a while. All was still, the damn weather pressing down. Soon he couldn't see the tree line any longer.

Live, love and be happy…

He closed the drapes, locked the front door and turned off the lights. The glow from the fireplace painted the living room a soft orange. Thin shadows began to bob and weave on the high beam ceiling. A pleasant warmth crept into his loins.

Back in the kitchen: "Miss Moore?"

Maggie, caught off guard, almost dropped the salad bowl. She juggled for a moment, then secured it with a huge sigh of relief.

"Don't do that!"

Rourke took the bowl from her hands. He kissed her and nudged her back towards the fireplace, tugging at her clothing. We live and love and try to be happy.

"How about I do this?"

Screw it. Dinner could wait.

5

GLADYS & EDITH/TWO TREES

See them? Two foolish old women, the obese telephone operator and her friend who flirts with the macabre?

As the unkind darkness spat rain, it became obvious that even more foul weather was approaching. Thunder roared across the evening sky to slap the house like an angry parent. Furniture rattled and glass clanked against china in the cupboard. Gladys, startled, cried out.

"My, that's loud!"

Old Edith moved slowly through the room, confidently gathering up her tokens, icons and props. "The board told us that evil was coming," she said. "Evil does not enter quietly."

Gladys hugged herself. "You're frightening me, Edith. It isn't necessary to frighten me."

Edith considered. "I'm sorry. We're safe, dear. After all, we were warned."

"I don't feel safe."

"You will."

Edith cleaned the coffee table. She reminded Gladys of a preying mantis: body hunched over, skinny arms and bony fingers hanging. Her nails rapped and scraped the wood. This must really be an occasion, Gladys thought. Edith is wearing her very best black dress.

Gladys eased her obese body deeper down into the cushions of the old plaid couch. She eyed the bare, spartan living room. By day, all polished oak and patterned lace; gay antiques, rainbow curtains. But at night, with the candles lit, with the Ouija board in place…

Thunder.

Gladys jumped, fluttering her hands. Easy does it, that's only rain. Lord knows we could use a little rain around here. Nothing is going to grow without it.

Edith finished. She sat primly, her wide eyes glittering. "There we are," she said. "All set. Oh, would you like some tea before we begin?"

"I'd love some," Gladys replied, stalling for time. I'm a lonely old woman, she thought. When did I become so lonely, so old? Why am I spending this strange night with another old woman who believes in ghosts? Because there's nothing better to do, I guess. Still, sometimes I feel sorry for the both of us.

They sipped their tea. Flickering forms danced the wallpaper. Edith broke the peace. "Tonight," she intoned, "I believe we should hold a seance."

Wonderful.

"Couldn't we just play cards?"

"Hush," Edith said, taking Gladys by the hand. "Don't be frightened. Spirits are nothing to be afraid of. Not if you understand them and talk to them. They like someone to talk to, just as much as you and I."

More thunder. Rain struck the windowpane like oily bullets. Gladys gulped her tea. "Biscuit?"

"I believe I will."

Gladys watched Edith butter a roll. Her wrinkled face seemed somehow girlish as she prepared to take a bite. I feel strange. What is wrong with me? Things looked funny, blurry. All distorted. Edith chewed her biscuit. One end opened and snarled at Gladys: A yawning, pasty-white mouth drooling butter.

"Oops," Edith giggled, wiping her chin.

"There's a station in Reno that stays on the air until late," Gladys croaked. "It's running a Doris Day movie tonight."

Edith loved Doris Day. Now, there was a temptation to rival buttered biscuits. She smiled. "Then we'll stop early and watch. Is Tony Randall in this one?"

"I think so," Gladys said. She was barely able to disguise her disappointment.

Edith began to clear the table. Gladys sighed and shifted her bulk on the couch. At least she wouldn't have to go home right after being scared. She'd stay and watch the movie, then pretend that the rest of the evening had been a bad dream.

What is so fascinating about terror, anyhow? Why do we stand in line for hours just to see a scary movie, when we know we won't be able to sleep all night because of it? People are odd, Gladys reflected. Including me. Here I am, actually starting to look forward to this.

"I wonder why," she said aloud.

"Why what?" asked Edith. Her figure dim but visible in the doorway: Black on black.

"Nothing. Ready when you are."

Edith moved slowly through the candlelight, like a spider in a corner tracking food.

6

VARGAS

Corridors/Passages/Fugue state:

Anthony Vargas seemed to be floating through tall, thick wooden doors and into a large room full of red furniture and squirming dark. He was present, yet not present. He raised one arm and found he could see right through it, straight on down to the scuffed floor perhaps a yard below his transparent feet.

A rancid odor, a belch of flame. Smoke fingers in a fist, digits fanning out and opening. Jason Smith appeared and stepped down from the massive palm. He addressed Vargas in that many/voice, the one that hurt the ears; bored in and burrowed deep.

"The Night of the Beast is upon us," he crowed. "We who prepare the way have unhinged the dreaded Gate to Hell. Once we have caused a precise number of deaths to occur in sequence, He shall be free!"

Jason began to pace. "Mark me well," he said. "Every human here has been summoned to this place, and each for a sacred reason. There is magnificence, Vargas. Design. Do you understand?"

Fervent grunts, tears of joy.

Jason stole his sight, sealed his vision. Said: "See?" [and Vargas did behold a man, a house, the other man. this and more: that woman, the thing!] and he howled like a wolf as he was given back his eyes.

"I understand. Oh, thank you."

"Kill only the men I have ordered you to kill, no others. And when this is done, leave immediately. Come directly back to me."

Assent.

"Go now."

Vargas could feel himself returning to his body. The tiny warlock pointed a crooked, dirty finger at his vanishing form.

"Vargas... Do not fail. The penalty would be unspeakable."

Jason kept his mind locked, his concentration fixed. He heightened the intensity, and the evil net tightened. More humans strangled spiritually; felt primordial, unspeakable terror rise up like ripe sewage and begin to seep through their consciousness…and sensed the presence of death.

7

THE POLSONS

Hi Polson flushed the toilet, checked the bathroom cabinets one last time and turned out the lights. He cursed the turbulent storm raging outside the hotel, a threat he and Louise would have to pass through in order to reach safety. Their suitcases and boxes were already in the pickup, strapped down with clothesline, and the gas tank was full. Hi walked into the naked living room.

"Hurry," Louise said. She was white with fear, her fingers continuously tapping the rubber wheels of her chair. Hi pushed her through the door. He gently guided her down the steps, through the lobby, and out into the night. The elements had gone mad.

After a few false starts, Hiram was able to maneuver Louise onto the specially designed electric lift below the passenger door. He ran around to the driver's side, started the truck and pressed the lever. Louise drifted up from the murky black. Hi pulled her body onto the front seat, returned to fold the chair, then slammed and locked the door. They drove away from the hotel they had owned for more than forty years.

Hi could barely see ten feet in front of the vehicle. Dust swirled, scratched and scraped the paint. Wind buffeted the pickup to and fro. He gripped the wheel tightly, swearing, fighting to maintain control. Louise began to read her Bible aloud by flashlight.

Louise and Hiram Polson left Two Trees behind them. They were heading north. Abruptly, the weather cleared. Open highway stretched out before them, beckoning. Hiram breathed a sigh of relief.

The engine started to whine. It was straining, like the truck had been chained to the town. Hi floored the gas pedal. Some invisible force was tugging at them from behind, refusing to let go. Louise continued to pray.

They broke free and sped away.

Louise thanked God, but Hiram knew that the engine was now badly overheated. Perhaps a broken hose, or a crack in the radiator. He had an uneasy feeling they were being toyed with. He slowed, wondering silently how long they had before the loss of water would force him to stop and allow things to cool down.

Steam, hissing. Clattering and clanging.

Hi pulled over. He was sweating, growing anxious. "We'll have to wait here for a minute," he said.

Hiram couldn't help himself. He began flicking the headlights on and off every few minutes, just to have a reassuring look around. Before too long he realized that he might be weakening the battery, so he and Louise sat quietly in the eerie dark, not even daring to whisper. Hours and days crept by. It was pure torture. Finally, they could wait no longer.

Hi started the engine and turned on the lights.

Louise screamed. Hi joined her.

A squirming brown carpet now covered the road and stretched in every direction. It surrounded the truck, constantly in motion. Something landed on the roof and bounced off again. Small, tan rocks began sliding down the windshield. They crawled across the hood as if searching for a way inside.

Tarantulas. Thousands of them.

Hi shrank back in disgust and disbelief. Arachnids often came out onto the scorched blacktop after nightfall seeking warmth, but he had never heard of a horror such as this. The bastards were everywhere — mandibles clacking, furry legs clutching for purchase.

They were attacking the pickup, an entire army of them. He shifted into drive and moved forward.

The crunching sounds were sickening.

The crazed, suicidal tarantulas gradually managed to work their way up and into the body of the vehicle in numbers sufficient to jam the belts. Hiram heard his truck sputter and whimper. It ground to a halt again. More and more of the hairy insects propelled themselves at the vehicle with all of their might. Soon the racket was deafening; every window covered with writhing legs and fat, round bodies.

All things considered, Hiram Polson comported himself rather well. He kept it all together, despite his gibbering fear; that intense revulsion he'd carried his entire life, for bugs. Until something bit his leg. Hi shrieked, kicked and squashed the maddened thing against the floor mat.

"Spiders! Jesus Christ, spiders!"

Frantic, he began trying to close the air vents. It was impossible. Yet, they were all jammed — open. Louise was crying, praying for salvation, but she knew in her heart it was hopeless. So did her husband. The unthinkable had happened. His worst phobia had come to torment him, and Louise could do nothing to assist.

They fought for as long as they could. Hiram killed many of the invaders. But the relentless horde just kept on coming, wave after terrible wave.

Screaming, crying. Snapping... Bleeding.

Mercifully, Hiram suffered a massive coronary. He groaned, clutched his chest and dropped into a deep state of shock. Tarantulas covered him in moments, chewing and squeaking. Louise looked away from the terrible sight. It was her turn. She saw her first husband, William, standing in the glare of the headlights. He was grinning, motioning for her to join him. He spoke, the words hissing past rotting teeth.

"Come touch me, Louise. Touch me."

No, she thought. You will not have us. Not Hiram, not me. Never.

Louise brushed a spider from the cover of her Bible. She closed her eyes, whispered one final prayer...And opened the door.

8

JASON

He stood on the railroad trestle, directly above the skull and cross-bones Rourke had painted as a boy. He raised his stubby arms, laughing. A snarl of yellowed teeth, some guttural words in an inhuman language. He took a rusty nail and scrawled symbols on his bloodied skin. The sky roared approval. The weather answered his command. Hot needles of rain poured down from the bleak, grey sky. So I'm mad, am I? Hahahhuaaahahahuha!

"Lord of Flies," Jason cried, "I consecrate this ground unto thee! They are prepared for thy coming. I have made thee welcome!"

Thunder rumbled.

He looked down. The dim street lamps showed pulsating jets of water and whirling dust devils, tiny tornadoes skipping down the street. Sage crackled with electricity and smacked into houses. Tall trees bent, groaning under pressure.

A snap, like ribs breaking. Lightning flashed and left a huge, ragged scar on God's belly. Two Trees blinked black, then white. The town went patchy amber: Sticks in a dying fire. Lights flickered and power returned. Jason crowed like a bantam rooster. So I'm mad, am I? Well, look and see what madness has achieved!

"Lord of Flies," he called. "Come to the feast. Walk among your children! The pattern is nearly complete!"

9

VARGAS & CHALMERS

Storm raging, blood demanding blood.

The assassin drove a block with the lights off, then parked and got out of his car. He felt eager, excited. He wondered if he'd be able to restrain his lust when it came time to take her. Naturally it was a privilege just to be of service, to perform any task for The Beast, but this assignment was special. He'd been promised a reward for his efforts.

"When your work is through," Jason had said, "then you shall own the girl, Maggie Moore. You may do whatever you like with her. To her."

[the thing]

It had only been a few days, yet it seemed like an eternity since Vargas had been permitted to please himself. He had howled when Jason first revealed that lush young body — showed him the taut curves, pink flesh and strong legs; exposed every detail of her most sensitive and private places. The sight had driven Vargas wild, maddened him with a desire to do sexual violence. Maggie set his loins ablaze with twisted fantasy. He'd wanted her for a long time, and now he would have her. He would take things easy, too. Go slower than he'd ever gone before. Make it last.

Vargas walked down the dark, empty street, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. There were only a handful of functional street lamps; he easily avoided them. The storm was approaching rapidly. Right above us pretty soon, he thought. Lots of noise, lots of cover. Good: In and out, clean as a whistle, with no hassle. Wham, bam.

And after the fucking songwriter and his buddy…Maggie, the woman.

He stopped by the darkened casino. A disquieting feeling swept over him. This town was weird. There were so few lights on. Empty houses, no people on the sidewalks, and it wasn't even all that late.

[night of the beast]

Vargas shook his head. He tried to clear his mind. He had to do exactly as he'd been instructed, and make no mistakes. Jason had demanded flawless execution. Execution. Funny choice of words.

He slipped on the pavement. There was a large crack in the cement, possibly decades old, that no one had bothered to repair.

A ghost town... [the thing] This was like that time, years ago, when he had trailed the stunning teenage girl through a crowded amusement park. Vargas smiled. He had been so inexperienced, so clumsy. He'd killed only once before that day, taken his first sweet princess. This girl would be the second. He'd been so tense and nervous he'd nearly lost her in the teeming throng of tourists. But churning need and red urges had directed him somehow, and he had finally managed to isolate her.

There, in the ghost town.

It had been a mother of an orgasm, perfectly built, arriving just as he'd yanked hard on the wire around her dainty neck. The body had remained undiscovered for more than a week, until the park finally investigated numerous complaints of a stench coming from somewhere in the saloon.

Vargas felt his hair stiffen with static. The downpour would most likely begin within minutes. He walked on, choosing the stability of the street over the crumbling sidewalk. He was searching for the hotel, for Chalmers.

There.

The lobby was deserted, with only one desk lamp burning. Vargas crossed the threadbare carpet, avoided a huge potted cactus and moved gracefully up the stairs. He found the right number and knocked.

The door opened. Inside, Chalmers lowered his pistol with a stoned, lazy smile. Vargas entered the room. He motioned for Chalmers to leave the lights low.

"He still here?"

Chalmers nodded and replaced the gun in his belt. "We got him, Tony. You say the word, he's dead meat."

Vargas closed the door. "Don't be an idiot," he snarled. "We haven't got him until he's buried. This is important, Chalmers. Very. Whatever you do, don't get cocky."

They walked over to the window and looked out. A reading lamp was glowing in the Sheriff's office, burning slim laser yardsticks through the slats of his closed wooden blinds. But that building stood alone, off in a long row of dark, abandoned houses. Only a few other lights were on, and those more than halfway down the block and to the south. The town seemed deserted.

Chalmers grinned. "The fucking town is a morgue," he said. "It's all perfect."

Vargas grunted and studied the terrain.

"Well, ain't it?"

"Sure. Perfect."

Vargas spun and grabbed Chalmers by the neck. He twisted the collar of the bigger man's shirt. His grip was powerful. "Damn it," he whispered, "I got to get this through to you. We don't know a thing about these dudes, man. They might be good, maybe even real good. So don't underestimate them. If you do you'll make me nervous, and I'll end up all pissed off."

He let go. Chalmers, face white with fear, backed away.

"Sure, I get you, Tony. You made your point."

"Fine."

Vargas stared outside, at the night, as if he had nothing but time on his hands. He considered the options. Chalmers cleared his throat, spoke gently. "How long you wanna wait?"

"I already know all about the house," Vargas replied. "I've been inside. Let me fill you in, and then we'll put our ears back and go get him."

10

GLADYS & EDITH

The lights went out. Gladys gasped and clutched her immense chest. The gloom made her feel trapped. She would have sworn in court that the walls were starting to move closer together.

"Oh, damn!" Edith spat.

They sat in the darkness, waiting.

Gladys found it difficult to speak. Her mouth was dry, her body damp. "I'm awful scared," she said. She wheezed and swallowed: Taste, and points of pain, like thumbtacks.

"There's nothing to be frightened of, dear," ventured Edith. The tremor in her voice gave her away. She could feel it too, dense and sticky — something unholy, penetrating and sniffing the air.

The lights returned to normal. Gladys didn't. "I don't want to do this anymore," she said. "Let's just watch the movie."

Edith's face darkened. "We can't stop now! We haven't learned what's going to happen yet. How about a compromise. We'll have more tea, first."

"That's not a compromise," Gladys whispered. "That's you getting your way. Listen, I mean it. I don't think I can go on."

Edith got up. She lurched off into the kitchen to boil water. "That's nonsense, Gladys. Have courage. Why, I even heard a spirit speaking to me."

Gladys sat back on the couch.

Everything seemed so distorted. She began to lecture herself: Gladys, you're just losing track of what's real, that's all. Calm down. Stop taking this seriously. It's just power lines blowing in the wind. There's no sense in losing your head over a simple thing like that, now, is there? Certainly not.

Edith brought more tea.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes."

"We'll go on in a few minutes. This is going to be fun. We're very close, you know."

"I know."

Gladys sipped. "Well," she said, "I guess as long as we can still watch the movie."

The far horizon rumbled and groaned.

10

THE BAXTERS

Julie still hadn't shaken the flu, but Paula Baxter now suspected that the problem was a lot more complicated than sunburn and a common virus. Julie, curtains drawn and blankets piled high despite the heat, had been sleeping almost around the clock. She'd barely set foot outside the RV, and then only after sundown. Meanwhile, Timmy was having bad dreams again. The poor boy had dark circles under his eyes. Finally, as if that weren't enough, there was something going on between the two kids. They kept glaring at each other like a couple of Samurai, psyching up for a fight to the death.

Face the truth, Paula, she told herself. This vacation has been an unmitigated disaster from the start. I should have known that nothing would heal itself just because we went on a trip. The real problems always hitch a ride, like it or not. And now the children have picked up on my vibes.

Especially Julie.

Paula sighed. She closed the book she'd been pretending to read and switched off the lamp. No more excuses, she thought. You can't keep ignoring what's right in front of you. There's no denying it, woman. Something is wrong with your daughter.

Well, maybe it is only psychosomatic. But that sure as hell doesn't mean it isn't serious. After all, she's gone through a tremendous amount of emotional upheaval. Separation and divorce are pretty foreign words to a child. Julie has sunk into a flat, lethargic depression, Paula.

And the fact is, so have you.

That does it, she grimaced. I'll give us one more day to get our shit together. If we're all still behaving like this, it's off to the nearest doctor. Screw the damn vacation. Doctor, hell. Why not a shrink? Sure, I'll find a good shrink, too. Maybe we all need help. And some sleep.

A few moments later, when the vampers returned for a second try, they found Timmy Baxter ready and waiting. The boy had used his pocketknife to sharpen two croquet stakes. He had them under his pillow.

Come out and play, hissed the voices. We're waiting for you.

It would be so easy, Timmy. There is no pain, just a blank spot. You won't remember. And then you will be just like us, Timmy. A child of the black hours, forever young. Think of it, boy. Forever young!

Don't listen, dummy. That's how a vamper gets you, by telling lies. They take over if you let them. Just steal a guy away by talking him numb. You gotta be strong, real strong, like Mr. Rourke. Sure of yourself and everything.

Timmy wondered if heroes ever got scared, ever felt half as afraid as he did right now.

Go away, his mind said. Before I get mad.

Hollow chuckles, smacking lips. Thirst.

Timmy, look at me.

It was the female vamper, the one who sounded so much like his sister. Heck, she'd almost fooled him the first time. But vampers were shape-changers, he'd checked on that; read through all the back issues of Horror Magazine. They could make themselves look almost any way they wanted to. Be loose as a fog, turn rock solid. It was a sneaky trick they had, another way to get at you.

Timmy, it's me. Look.

Don't look, he told himself. Don't.

But he did. He swallowed and raised his head slowly, like a puppet on a string. She was right outside his window, sort of swaying back and forth like a circus balloon. Real, yet not-real.

It was Julie. He felt his blood thicken to cough syrup and clog his veins. Blood they wanted, she wanted.

Timmy smelled the foulness of her breath, the reek of the other one's clothing. He looked at his sister, his heart full of sorrow.

Come on, she hissed. This is strange and wonderful and I feel great. Honest.

He choked and shook his head. No, Julie.

You're my kid brother. Okay, I pick on you but I love you lots. I wouldn't lie. It's super.

No, I won't do it. Won't.

Silly, she said, it doesn't hurt. You just start being... different. Days feel all stuffy and hot and the sun is a drag. But at night, oh at night, you hear and see and feel like you can't imagine. I wouldn't fib, not about something like this. Open the window and let me in.

He grabbed the croquet stakes and lifted them. Julie growled low and mean, from the back of her throat.

You're stupid, she said. You don't know what you're missing.

Timmy placed one stake on its side and formed a crude cross. Julie immediately covered her eyes. As she moved back, a silent howl echoed through his mind. Her body seemed to bulge, distort and ripple. It broke apart, like a reflection in a pond that gets shattered by a series of small waves. For a split second he saw a different Julie, and this one was far less fearsome. She looked mad as heck, but like his sister and not some devil girl.

Timmy wondered how much had actually happened and how much had been forced into his head. What vampers could actually do, or only fool you by pretending to do.

What's the difference, he thought. Either way, they scare the heck out of me.

The other vamper was watching from off in the trees. He seemed to say something. Julie raised her right arm. She held a butcher knife, stolen from the kitchen, in her fist. She spoke to Timmy from within, her tone cold and menacing.

Put the cross down, Timmy.

No.

Then I'll have to hurt you — Mommy, too.

I'll still have the stakes, he reasoned, terror washing over him. I can put them back together in no time. Why not stall?

He separated the pieces.

Good, she said. Peace pipe?

Timmy nodded quickly.

All right, then. But don't you dare try and tell on me.

Huh?

I mean it, punk. You keep your damn mouth shut around Mom, hear me? I'm not sure I want to leave yet.

A distant bell, a tiny click: Wait a second, how come she's worried? Mom would never believe me, not about this. Heck, last time Julie made it back to bed before I worked up the guts to check on her. So why does she care? Why?

Oh, I might tell, Timmy threatened. You couldn't stop me, either.

Better not. I'm warning you.

Give me one good reason.

Julie was suddenly back at the window. She'd gone all sticky and hollow, as if her skin were made out of clear sandwich wrap. It was horrifying. Her nose seemed to strain itself right through the screen, like a thin cloud of fog. Her eyes were murderous.

Here is one good reason, she hissed.

Julie raised her pale upper lip and bared fangs. Were they real? Timmy didn't want to find out. He felt exactly like what he was, a little boy trying to bluff a monster with a couple of croquet stakes. She let her fangs drag along the side of the camper. They made a soft, raspy sound — teeth against metal, one equally as strong as the other.

Fffffffffffft. Click.

Fffffffffffft. Click.

Timmy shuddered. It wasn't hard to imagine what those could do, how they'd rip into a body and tear the meat to shreds.

But vampers didn't keep promises or stick to deals. Some night soon, whenever the mood struck her, Julie would attack. Should he gamble, then? In the movies, the creature always needed a while to change back again. And Julie was outside.

"MOM!" Timmy screamed. He formed the cross, a shield of sharpened stakes. "Mom, hurry!"

You'll pay, Julie barked. She called her brother nasty names. He felt her rage, white hot, like the blast from an open furnace. She coiled, faded, and began to shift. Timmy gulped, his mouth dry as a sack of cat litter. Well, it's a race. Jeez, come on. You gotta hurry!

"Mom! Mom!"

Better get here fast, he thought. Before Julie has time. If you don't this will all be for nothing, 'cause she'll just fake you out again.

"Mom?"

"What the hell is it?"

Paula stumbled into the room, still tying the belt to her robe. The boy took a quick peek outside. The night seemed calm and empty. Timmy crossed his fingers for luck and yanked on his mother's sleeve. He dragged her down the hall, past the dreaded closet and over to Julie's bed. He felt around for a moment, located the light switch...

And there was Julie, sound asleep.

He'd lost. There was no sense trying to fight it, she'd won this round. He'd better stay quiet, at least for now. Until he found a new angle.

Timmy apologized. He blamed his yelling on a terrible dream, then softened things even further by claiming that Julie had been a part of his nightmare. That she'd been in danger. He'd felt scared silly, really worried about her.

His mother accepted the story immediately, and her trust disturbed him. He had to suppress a bubble of guilt, the urge to confess.

"Hey, Timmy," Paula said, gently stroking her daughter's hair. "I think she's getting better. She seems stronger now, don't you think?"

That was true enough. Julie wasn't pale anymore. In fact, she looked absolutely radiant.

11

ROURKE

It's still night.

Something woke me.

What?

The dog, scratching, begging Rourke to let him go outside. Maggie lay naked in the firelight, fast asleep. Sleepily, Peter padded over to Monday. He opened the door and was blown backwards by the raw force of a howling wind.

Monday slid past his legs and out into the darkness. Rourke had to lean his full weight on the door to close it again. He walked to the fireplace, pulled the screen, placed fresh wood on the glowing embers. The room grew brighter. He wondered how Maggie could sleep through such a storm. The floor shook beneath his feet with each new roll of thunder.

Peter couldn't pull his eyes away from Maggie. So brave, so intelligent, so loving. He felt a sense of awe. How delicate, he thought. Her long lashes, the tiny flutter of thin blue veins in her neck, those sensitive, pillow-soft breasts. How vulnerable we are, in spite of ourselves.

She looked lovely in the firelight.

Shrill bells: Two longs, one short. Maggie sat up, groggy, and covered herself with Peter's shirt. He went to the phone, spoke into the antique mouthpiece.

"Gladys?"

His voice echoed and caused subtle motion, as if thrown down a long, wet sewer full of crawling things. Hahhahhuuahhauuhah…"Hello?" There was no answer. Rourke hung up, hid a tremor of concern and began to get dressed.

"Who was that?"

"Wrong number."

Maggie made a face. "How the hell can you get a wrong number with so few to pick from?"

Rourke met her gaze, willing himself to look calm. "Damned if I know, but some clown did it. Let's get dressed."

"Hey," Maggie said as she pulled on her jeans. "Want your dinner yet?"

"Sure. Make mine rare."

"Peter, what's the matter?"

"I don't know. It's not unusual to have a problem with the telephone in bad weather, but suddenly I'm worried about Gladys."

"How do you know it was Gladys? Maybe Michael was trying to get through to see if we're okay."

He patted her fanny affectionately. "Because the call would still have to be routed through her office, dummy. Go cook." Maggie realized he was right. She thought of Tony again and immediately reached for her clothing.

Peter cranked once, for Gladys. He tried several times before replacing the phone in its cradle. "Maybe the lines are down because of the storm. That could have happened just as she called me, but somehow I don't think so. There's something wrong."

Maggie looked back over her shoulder. "Oh, Jesus."

"Yeah. It may be back again."

"Let's not stay, Pete. Let's hurry up, have our dinner and then drive on back to town to get Michael. We should all be together."

"Yes, maybe we should," he said. He smiled. "You have a deal."

She put the steaks on to broil and went to the sink. Another gigantic blast of thunder. Maggie peered through the kitchen window. "Damn, this is a big one."

Rourke was looking for his socks. The floor was cold. "Yeah," he said. "Worst I can remember."

Maggie gasped and put both hands to the front of her neck. "Peter, something's moving around in the yard!"

"I let Monday out while you were sleeping."

She sighed and leaned on the counter for support. "God, that spooked me. I guess I saw his shadow."

"Shadow?"

She missed the fear in his voice.

"It looked taller than the dog," she said, "but too small to be a man. Probably just the lightning playing tricks."

Rourke skulled. The skin at the base of his neck grew taut, and tiny hairs bristled.

"Wait. I don't like this, Maggie."

She whirled, moved closer. "Anything clear?"

"No, nothing clear…but there is something out there. It's all around us."

She nodded furiously. "I can feel that, too. I thought it was my nerves."

Rourke took a look outside. The night stared back, sullen and indifferent. "No, this is an energy field of some kind. Negative energy." [evil] He opened the closet and slipped on a heavy hunting jacket. "Maggie, I'm going to get the dog. I shouldn't have let him out. I wasn't thinking."

"Peter?"

"Hush. Whatever it is, it might be happy just to keep us in sight and out of the way."

"Don't go too far," Maggie said, her voice husky. "Monday should be fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"I'll go armed, lady love. Heavily."

He took a rifle from the gun rack and loaded it. The front porch: Wild wind, pelting rain, everything slightly out of phase. His lovely little valley smelled like decaying meat. It conjured and taunted — dared Rourke to step down, move closer.

The wind died, and so did someone he knew/not far/close. A bad death, an ugly death, with more to come.

Rourke, fragmented by panic, stalled. He had never experienced such power. He'd been totally blocked, yet it had broken through. The night itself felt alive, a cruel and cunning enemy. Peter thought he heard barking to his right, up the hill, and started in that direction. His feet seemed to be sinking into thick pools of mud; hot, sticky tar that weighted him down and clutched at his ankles. Everything rolled in slow motion. He walked and walked, but didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

An illusion. A try at breaking him down.

He probed lightly. His vision cleared. He was at the foot of the slope after all. Only his mind had remained near the cabin.

"Monday? Here, boy!"

Thunder.

Vicious hail, heavy rain. Another death. No, two. Rourke retreated a step. Self-hate rose up with a vengeance: [coward! you'd kill a helpless old man, but you won't try to save your own dog? jeremy thought you were a coward. prove him wrong]

Tune out. Shield yourself.

[waiting for some rainbow, chickenshit? a little grass? step forward, come on!]

His head began to pound, picked up speed until it clattered like a jackhammer. It took an enormous effort of will, almost everything Rourke had, just to stand his ground. To take the blows.

[toot wanna little rainbow wanna little toot?]

"Stop it," Peter whispered. The voice droned on.

A savage bolt of lightning struck the earth, came close enough to drive him to his knees.

Maggie, trying to see out through the kitchen window: She went rigid with terror. A presence, behind her in the living room. Maggie felt eyes boring into her neck, but couldn't bring herself to turn around. The world shifted slightly. She heard a warped version of her own voice, and began to wash her hands. They would not get clean, so she washed them again.

[what do monsters do, i wonder, come and find dirty little girls who deserve killing?]

Maggie scrubbed her flesh, scrubbed until it began to bleed; over and over, afraid to look up or look back, even to breathe.

[get in that car, just go... leave her, leave the dog. fuck them. you've always lived alone] Rourke blocked with all his might and stole a moment to gather his wits.

"Monday! Here, boy!"

Something moved on the hill. Please mutt, let it be you. The shape came closer. Instinct made Peter throw up his rifle.

[first the thunder and the lightnin' then the devil's reign ... reign ... reign]

Rourke began to back away. No more, he thought. You've shown me your stuff and it's good. Strong enough to make me think twice about another confrontation on your terms.

Maybe another time, in some other arena.

He fumbled with the latch and stepped inside, slammed the door and bolted it with a sigh of relief. Maggie was still at the sink. He returned his rifle to the gun rack and entered the kitchen. "I couldn't find him," he said. A frigid wave, high frequency: [dirty i'm so dirty i'm so] "Maggie?"

She spun to face him. Spray of dish water; soap bubbles pink with her blood. "Get away from me," she cried. "I'm not clean. I hate you for wanting to fuck me. Oh God, I see now I won't ever feel clean again. I'm so dirty!"

He slapped her, gripped her hands and held her close. They melted together, trading strength for weakness. "Shhh. You'll be all right, Maggie," Rourke said. "It's not you, it's what's all around us. The force we talked about. This thing is huge. Do you remember what I said? About how I thought it preyed on people? Remember?"

"Y-y-yes."

"That is what you're feeling. It is a lie. This thing is not human. And I think it is something that has always been here in Two Trees, deep in the bowels of the earth. It feeds on human misery and pain. That's what fuels it and keeps it growing. I think it has driven everyone within miles out of their minds. Some folks are already dead. Try not to listen to it, Maggie. Talk to me instead. Maybe we can help each other."

Maggie managed a wan smile. Rourke returned it and felt a tickle.

The phone rang. He answered. Something spoke.

It was alive, but not human. It crept down the wires; a sinister whispering, low chuckles, macabre grunts and inaudible words. A clattering freight train in that long, booming tunnel of a dead line. Chants, curses and incantations that mingled with the sobbing of an eerie, rising wind. Hhhahhahhuuuahhahhhhhaauhaa….Rourke smiled and nodded to the air.

"No problem," Peter said. "Really. We'll drive in right away. 'Bye."

He left the phone dangling, so it couldn't ring again, and took Maggie by the arm. "Gladys is a little upset by the storm, so we're going back to town to be with her. We'll get Michael, too. Okay with you?"

Maggie sighed and sagged with relief. "Okay? Peter, all I want from life is just to get the hell away from this town."

"Then maybe it's time we did."

Something wailed outside, its cry intense enough to slice right through the weather. Something tortured. Maggie pulled away, jammed knuckles into her mouth and slid down into a corner. Jesus, Rourke thought, it wouldn't.

But of course it would. It meant to punish Peter, and also set off an uproar of emotions he'd be unable to suppress. The evil was feeding on him. Enjoying how much it galled Rourke to have that happen.

[not the true dog haha not the true dog]

Screams ripped from a lost creature raving in unbearable agony. It went on and on. "Christ!" Rourke spat, grabbing his rifle. The shrieks wounded him, tore at his heart, set his talent on fire. So forlorn and betrayed, so pitiful; too much pain, with no release.

Rourke stepped out into the wicked, sadistic dark. He heard Maggie emit a high, primal scream of her own. A grieving sound. It provided him with a few precious seconds of peace by drowning out the keening wail of torment.

She stopped when she heard the shot.

Sweet Mary and Joseph, Maggie thought. No.

"Peter!" she called. "Peter!"

He stumbled back into the cabin, hands covered with blood, clothes dripping wet. Maggie almost lost her mind, but Rourke was not physically hurt. He was crying.

He went directly to the sink to wash up.

"Peter?"

"Monday is dead," he said. "I shot him. Something cut him open. It took his back legs off. He was calling me for help, Maggie." She held him while he mourned.

"You have to pull it together," she said. "We have to get out of here, and I mean now."

Rourke nodded, his face rubbing against her sweater. They raced for the car. Peter started the engine and flicked on the headlights. Maggie couldn't help but see the mutilated remains of the dog. Pieces lay strewn about the yard.

Rourke, in a rage, probed and got lucky; zeroed in by accident. Pure image: A smallish man, standing on the rise [in the rise?] above the cabin, observing their panicked flight with great amusement. I'll find you, motherfucker, he thought, before he could stop himself; then Peter floored the gas pedal. He ran for his life, for Maggie's life.

12

LANGSTROM

Fred Langstrom, ex-advertising executive and would-be artist, experienced his final moment of sanity. The storm flicked the lights on and off, snapping him out of some kind of spell. He turned in a wide circle, gaping. Room 66 was stuffed with unfamiliar paintings; disgusting works depicting torture, rape, suicide and mass execution. A phallus and a vagina both hideously deformed. He saw starving children in rags, graphic scenes of war; an odd totem of arm bones and horse hair…and weird signs in some arcane language. He recognized the signs, because he had also recently carved them onto his naked skin with a razor.

It was night. It was time.

Somehow he knew exactly what was expected of him. Langstrom opened his closet to remove something. He got a chair, stood upon it and groped at the ceiling. He knotted the rope around his neck, then kicked away his support and dropped. His neck did not break. Fred Langstrom spun slowly, tongue extended and face turning purple. He grabbed at the rope, but it had dug deeply into the soft tissue and he could not dislodge it. His tongue protruded and his throat whistled thinly. His lungs began wheezing for air.

The lettering on his naked skin pulsed with engorged blood and almost came alive. Orunde fed, and fed, and fed….

It took him nearly five minutes to strangle to death.

13

BATES

Glenn Bates emptied the last ashtray, leaving the room spotless. He carried his baggage out into the front hallway and set it down next to the screen door. He cursed the storm. Shit weather for night driving, but what the hell.

May as well have a drink.

He started to open the cabinet, then remembered that he'd packed every drop but the small bottle of bourbon in the side pocket of his jacket. It occurred to him, as it did now and then, that he drank too much. As soon as I'm away from here, he thought, things are gonna change. Who wouldn't drink in this town?

Bates stretched his body flat on the couch. He set the pint of liquor on his massive chest and eyed the ceiling.

The screen door thumped.

He sat up, wary: Is something out there? No, it's only the storm. Nothing is ever out there.

He lay down again. Someday soon life would be different. No more of this small town crap. He drank and thought of Ngo in mid-swallow; a sharp, clean image of the little Viet on his knees, eyes wide and staring. Bates choked, liquor spilling down the front of his shirt. He sat up, coughed and swung his feet to the floor. His head was swimming, stomach churning. He watched the floorboards move while guilt coursed through his veins like acid.

Bates fumbled for his bolstered revolver. He checked the gleaming silver chambers. Six shells, full up.

This time for real.

It could all end right here, in this little desert town. The boredom, the shame. The memories.

It. Would. All. Be. Over.

No fuss, just one click and a brief flash. No one would notice the bang, not in this weather. His hand began to shake. He raised the gun to his temple and tightened his finger on the trigger. This time for real.

The wind howled with glee. Shutters clapped their hands in appreciation.

Bates carefully replaced the pistol in his jacket, using only the tips of his fingers. Another night, then. Before too long.

He gulped from the bottle, swallowed until he stopped to gasp for air. His stomach filled with the pleasing liquid fire, Bates belched comfortably and leaned back against the wall.

Hell, there were lots of ways to die.

14

GLADYS & EDITH

Edith gently placed the tips of her white, wrinkled fingers on the ouija board. She touched it lovingly, stroking the numbers and letters as though she expected them to purr. The board was passive at first, but then the pointer jerked, hopped and began to wander. It paced back and forth, like a wild animal exploring the boundaries of its cage.

"Almost ready," Edith said. The mountains snarled.

Gladys became aware of a strange new smell in the room, an odor that reminded her of rotten eggs. She wrinkled her broad nose in disgust. The stench had affected the taste of her tea. She lowered her cup and heard it rattle against the delicate china saucer. Her hands were shaking.

Edith raised glazed eyes from her beloved board. "Are you ready, dearie?"

"I suppose so."

Gladys forced herself to participate. She reached forward. Her fingers sank slowly, reluctantly, as if the air surrounding the ouija had thickened. It seemed to resist her approach and push back. Gladys thought of swamps, quicksand, of plunging her arms into a slimy pool of polluted water. She was about to say something to Edith, had just shaped the first word, when it was over. Her fingers were resting on the board.

Very active imagination tonight, huh? Well, cut that out. Take it easy, everything's normal — except for that odor.

"Can you smell it?"

Edith looked blank. "What?"

"Never mind," Gladys said.

She took a deep breath and almost gagged. Was the stink worse? "Come on Edith, let's get this over with."

She felt an intense, totally irrational urge to run that kept growing, despite her efforts to ignore it. Gladys concentrated on allowing the ouija to drift. Be sensible, she told herself. The sooner you let something happen, the sooner Edith will be content. Then we can stop this nonsense.

But the dizzy, spacy perspective reappeared and brought another anxiety. It was crazy, childish nonsense, but Gladys couldn't lose the feeling.

She was afraid of Edith.

Breath, clocks ticking. The whisper of fabric on wood. Both women kept their hands and eyes glued to the ouija; Edith because it fascinated her, Gladys from sheer terror. But the little felt-lined pointer rambled on past various symbols, numbers and words without stopping.

Big evening. What am I so jumpy about?

"Isn't this fun?" asked Edith, her voice quavering with excitement. "Well, isn't it?"

The pointer moved.

NO.

Edith laughed. "You did that on purpose."

Gladys shook her head, which felt as if it might soon come off and drop right into her lap. The feeling of disorientation worsened, triggered taller and taller waves of suspicion. She was drowning. It almost looked like underwater; everything shimmered and seemed wrenched out of perspective. Her eyes began to mist over. Noises came from far away. She could no longer control her hands.

The pointer continued to move.

"Edith, what's happening to me?" Gladys mumbled. Her voice sounded strange, as though her mouth were changing shape.

Edith sat back, all crafty and calm. "It's just the spirits, dear. You're feeling the spirits."

Gladys sighed. "I'm very tired," she whispered. "Sleepy all of a sudden."

Edith smiled, her false teeth gleaming like polished piano keys. "Good. We must be very close."

The candles flared. Gladys straightened in her chair. I've been asleep, she thought. I wonder how long? She felt like she was experiencing everything for the very first time. She became sharply aware of the fat on her body, the size of this prison she lived in.

My God, was there something in the tea? Did Edith put something in my tea?

The candles shrank to oily smoke, and then the rest of the lights went out.

Jason was gloating, looking in through the window, his squashed figure contorted with laughter. Lightning popped like flash cubes: Another power failure. The battered plant groaned, faltered and strained to restore electricity.

The thump of a chair falling over. A woman started to babble, her voice high and shrill. A table crashed to the carpet. More sounds: Breaking china, a struggle, cries of pain.

Jason stepped away from the window, greatly pleased. He stood by the side of the house, basking in the Night of Nights. Something shattered glass and struck the ground nearby.

The ouija board.

The woman began to plead — a sobbing wail. Violence, the dark beauty of flowing blood. Death sent out invisible rings of raw emotion, like ripples on the surface of a pond. The screams began to die down. The lights came up.

A grunt. The POP of gristle and bone. Something being pulled apart...

Another object flew through the window, bounced and crunched on the broken glass. Jason Smith kicked it and grinned. It rolled a few feet away before coming to a stop. He walked on. The severed head stared after him, sightless and mindless, open mouth frozen in an eternal plea for mercy.

15

TWO TREES

Michael Moore stiffened and looked up from the note he was writing. Somebody was approaching the house. He palmed his gun, went over to the curtain, nudged it to one side and peered out at the stormy night.

Glaring headlights entered the driveway. Car doors slammed. There they were, running up the steps; obviously spooked about something, because Rourke was carrying a fucking rifle.

"I thought you'd find the rain romantic," Michael joked.

Peter shoved him aside, just pushed right past him. Michael kicked the door shut, a trifle harder than necessary. Maggie went straight to the fireplace. She began to feed it wood. She was afraid she might never feel warm, or safe, ever again. Rourke propped his rifle against the dining room table and glared at the wallpaper.

"You look terrible," Michael said. "What happened?"

"Something got my dog. It almost got us."

"A big cat?"

Peter snapped at him. "I said something, Michael, and I meant it. Not animal, not human. I don't know what the fuck it was."

Michael seemed amused. "Give me a break. Maggie?"

"Mike," Maggie whispered, her gaze still fixed on the comfort of the fire. "You've got to believe me. Just accept this, okay? Peter has some sort of a gift. He can see what we can't. He senses things. Don't argue."

"What,like he's a psychic?"

"Close enough," his sister answered.

"Oh, come on…."

"Please trust me, and trust Pete. We're all in deep trouble. I felt it too, Michael. It was real and it was horrible."

Michael stared at her, then shrugged. "I was leaving you a note anyway," he said. "I need to borrow your car, sis. It's time for me to be off."

Maggie pivoted on her knees. "No. Not tonight, Mike. Don't go out there."

"Look Pete, I'm sorry about Monday but what's all the panic about?"

Rourke stared at him. He read something and shook his head sadly.

"You know, don't you? Your instincts are telling you to run."

Michael grimaced at the note he'd intended to leave. It was funny, light — and phony as hell. Now, with Rourke right in front of him, he felt embarrassed. He clenched his fist, squashed the note into a tiny ball and bounced it in his palm.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I've got a good sense of self-preservation. That's why I'm going, Rourke. Self-preservation."

Peter skulled and snapped something elusive in Maggie's brother. "Michael, could you have brought something with you when you came here? No. You were following someone!"

They faced each other. Michael blinked first. He tossed his farewell note into the blaze. "I don't understand."

"I think you do," Rourke said softly.

"Well, fuck you."

Maggie raised her voice. "For the love of God, Mike. If you know anything, please tell him!"

"I don't," Michael lied. With a barely discernible shake of the head, he indicated that he wanted to speak to Rourke in private, away from Maggie. Peter nodded his agreement. He went to warm his hands by the fire.

Michael hid his feelings well, but Rourke could sense the turmoil raging within him. It felt a lot like the storm now assaulting the house — a churning, whirling mass of trapped energy. Michael was volatile, as potentially dangerous as a chunk of plastic explosive. And connected, somehow...

[help me]

A jolt: Distant, desperate, motivated by terror raw enough to have created a subconscious connection. How could a person without the talent be this powerful? [wait! help/oh/ please/oh] Too fast, too far away. Rourke couldn't hold on to it.

Who was that?

Jesus.

I'll have to find a way to shut down, Rourke thought. I can't help anyone if I'm crazy or dead. Too much static and he'd end up in a padded cell wearing a wrap-around dinner jacket. He could not handle everything he happened to tune in. The noise alone will destroy me.

Still, that probe had been incredibly strong. And from a person in serious trouble. Someone he knew well enough to have made the link possible.

Damn, Peter thought, there's nothing I can do. I'd like to help, but I've lost you.

16

THE BAXTERS

Poor little Timmy Baxter. He never had a chance. It was that quick.

Timmy had moved his croquet set over to the side of the bed, just in case Julie showed up at the window. He tried to stay awake, but dozed off somewhere close to midnight. Not for very long, but long enough.

Someone was knocking on the door. The RV squeaked, then swayed to the left, as his mother went to see who it was. Timmy, still half asleep, imagined that Peter Rourke was outside. He'd come to rescue them. That fantasy died the instant the boy heard the start of the conversation.

"Who is it?"

"Open the door, Momma."

"Julie? What in God's name are you doing out there at this time of night?"

"Let me in. I'll explain."

Timmy found his voice. "Don't, Mom! Wait!"

A click: The lock, turning. The door opened. Timmy heard his mother grunt, as if surprised by a sneaky punch. Twice. Three times.

The butcher knife.

A vase slid from the dining room table and shattered on the floor. Wheeze... Gurgle... Sob. Then a loud thump, as his Mom collapsed, all loose and clumsy like a rag doll. Timmy could feel his heart trying to climb up through his throat and run away. An empty throb of mourning filled his stomach.

He was much too frightened for tears.

Julie had never intended to wait. She'd planned it this way from the beginning. She was so wicked! Paula couldn't have realized what was going on, what it meant to open that door and invite her own daughter into the house. She'd had no reason to be suspicious.

And now Mom was dead.

That was horrible enough, especially for an eight-year-old boy all alone in the dark. But then, in a matter of seconds, it got worse.

Those awful slurping, sucking sounds.

His sister was feeding, draining her own mother. His mother. Timmy's mind reeled, unable to accept what it was experiencing. He remained motionless, struck dumb.

"Are you ready, Timmy?" Julie chortled. "You're next. I'll be coming for you soon." Her voice suddenly sank down to a raspy baritone. "Know what, little brother? I think I'll take you in that closet, where you'll be the most afraid, so it's as bad as it can be for you."

Those sickening sounds again, even louder than before.

Timmy walked quietly down the hall in his bare feet. He flicked on the lights and stood there, docile as a lamb, hands behind his back. Julie stopped slurping and looked up. She had no super-long fangs, just normal teeth, and somehow that made it even worse. She only thought she was a vamper, but now her face was smeared with Paula's blood. A long string of pink drool hung from the corner of her mouth.

Timmy spotted the butcher knife; she'd tossed it carelessly into one corner. He went all grey and flat inside.

"What is it? Are you curious now, brother dear? Wondering how this feels, and whether it's a better choice than dying?"

Her own voice, instead of a man's. Timmy knew he was being played with. The worst thing he could do would be to give it his fear. He would surrender nothing. He owed his mother that much.

The creature giggled. She pointed to Paula's body with stained, wet fingers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Julie said. "How rude of me. Would you like something warm to drink?"

That did it.

He'd kept his hands behind his back, but now he brought them into view. He had a sharpened stake in one and a croquet mallet in the other. He threw himself at Julie, wailing like a banshee, stabbing and swinging. Julie held her ground and made no effort to defend herself. Timmy feinted with the stake and launched a wild haymaker with the hammer. He gave it all he had, heard it whistle towards her head; guided it in with his eyes...

And missed.

But he couldn't have missed.

He tried again and again; continued to flail away at the empty air, too enraged and grief-stricken to realize he was playing the fool. He never once saw her move, but somehow in-between his blow and her body Julie managed not to be there anymore. She always ended up just inches out of reach. She started laughing, and that's what tipped him off. He was behaving exactly the way she wanted him to. She'd made him crazy for a reason, not just for the fun of it.

Julie had been feeding off him. Drinking his feelings, instead of his blood.

Timmy stopped in his tracks so abruptly he startled the thing. A tiny, hairline crack appeared in her composure. He got a look at what lay hidden below the surface; behind the mind games, the bullying and the illusion she was such hot stuff. He saw soft spots. Weaknesses.

She's afraid, he thought. That means I really can destroy her. But of course I can! All I gotta do is remember that; believe, and don't let her get control of me again.

That's all there is to it.

Timmy moved in with the stake. Everything changed, just from what he'd figured out. He felt a whole lot stronger. He jabbed and stayed aggressive, gradually forcing Julie into the corner farthest from the abandoned butcher knife. As she slithered back and forth to avoid the stake, her actions seemed clumsy, almost comic. He closed, waiting for his best shot.

Julie began to panic. She ducked low, hoping to slip beneath his arm and out the door. Timmy reacted at once, launched himself through the air. He landed right on top of her, with every ounce of his weight behind him.

And the sharpened stake thrust forward.

It didn't make a bit of difference that he'd seen it in a dozen movies; Timmy was totally unprepared for the grim reality, for how it actually felt to shove the point deep into her chest. That brief resistance, then the slippery give. What it was like to puncture rubbery muscles, crack through brittle ribs, twist and turn and push while you tried to ignore the screaming. That awful screaming.

Julie thrashed and bellowed. She begged him to stop, in that wheedling tone of voice he used to hate so much. Hearing it now almost broke his will. No. Show no mercy. Just twist and turn and push with everything you've got.

She swore, snapped, nearly bit his face. She clawed at his skin, his eyes. Timmy, sickened and weary, raised the mallet. He poised himself to strike, to get this bloody, smelly, nasty nightmare over with before he lost his mind.

Julie went berserk at the sight of the wooden hammer. The vamper exploded and began to buck like an unbroken colt. She rose impossibly high off the floor, her spine wrenched double, then slammed down. She arched her back, shook and twisted and finally threw him. Timmy sailed backwards, off balance, and tripped over his mother's body. The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay gasping for air, his face only inches from Paula Baxter's wide, surprised and very dead eyes.

Julie was growling — dying like a vamper, too.

Timmy wanted to get back up onto his own two feet, but he kept slipping and sliding in the huge lake of fresh blood. Maybe that helped, because he got mad all over again.

Julie, the gory stake protruding from her torn chest, had made it as far as the doorway. She had even opened the latch. She was going out for a walk, as if she were really still his sister and none of this had actually —

She had slaughtered Mom, wanted to live forever.

Julie seemed to know she wasn't going anywhere, that he would never let her get away. She was badly wounded. She began to whimper in her own voice, then just hung there, clinging like a bug to the screen door.

Timmy didn't hesitate. He went right at her, swinging the croquet mallet. Hammered and pounded. Pounded and hammered. Again and again and again. He didn't stop until the stake had gone right through her and the point was sticking out of her back. He released her and stood panting a few yards away, watching his sister die.

Julie crumpled up like a tattered ball of newspaper. She slid to her knees, fell through the door, rolled down the steps and out onto the grass. The gory corpse twitched a few times in the porch light, almost rose up again, but then was still.

Raindrops? Thunder in the distance. A big storm, and pretty close by.

Timmy hated the thought of going near Julie again, but he had to retrieve his stake. Just in case. He bent over and tugged hard. Pulling it out felt even worse than pounding it in. He vomited in the dirt before returning to the silent RV.

He could hardly bear to look at Paula, face those staring eyes. The sight of her body kept reminding Timmy of how horribly she'd died. He decided to drag his Mom into the bathroom. After several minutes of tugging and shoving, he'd only covered half the distance. He'd have to settle for the closet.

Timmy allowed himself to cry just a little bit, then reluctantly pushed her inside and closed the door. His overloaded nervous system was shutting down and charging back up again. It didn't know what to do, and neither did he.

There were real monsters outside, prowling around in the dark. He was all alone.

He had no telephone, no neighbors.

Alone.

Timmy Baxter, eight years old, sat motionless in a pool of blood, clutching his stake and mallet. His heart ballooned; felt swollen as a ripe, red blister. His mouth went all dry and tasted awful. He'd just had a horrible thought.

What about the other one, the male vamper?

He was out there plotting something. Timmy was sure of it. He would probably want revenge for Julie's death. He'd have to make his move soon, though, before the sun came up.

Hey, stupid. How do you know it's gonna be morning soon? Timmy sighed. He had no idea what time it was or how many hours he'd have to wait. His mother wore a wristwatch, but he couldn't face the idea of opening the closet to steal it from her body. There was a clock in the cab, on the dashboard, but then he'd probably have to go outside. Too dangerous. Besides, he was pretty sure his mother had complained about that clock, said it wasn't running right.

No.

Yes. A rustling sound, like brush rubbing against something more solid. It had come from somewhere close, real close. Timmy got to his feet. He clutched his weapons tightly, did his level best to sound tough.

"Come on, then. I'm ready!"

To keep from freaking out, Timmy thought about sunshine; the way the whole world springs into life at dawn. He imagined fresh fruit, ripe for the picking, and wild flowers blooming on a hill. Tall pines rocking gently in an afternoon breeze. Daylight.

He'd be safe, then. Free to go.

Sure, but where? He had no idea how to find Peter Rourke, or anyone else for that matter. There was a town nearby, Mister Rourke had told him so. It was called Two Trees. But how would he find it all by himself, with no directions? He'd never learned to drive the camper. If he did leave, and he didn't find the town before it got dark again —

Wait, they gotta have some street lamps. I could find it that way. But then I'd have to go out before dawn. Bad news.

Huh?

That noise again. A faint sound, like someone moving around nearby. Pay attention, dummy. Try to pin it down. Where's that coming from?

It stopped.

They're playing with me. Well, I'll just ignore it. I won't give them what they want. Listen, God, wherever you are. Please. I have to ask you for a couple of things, okay? If I live through tonight, could you at least let me know why this awful stuff had to happen? Maybe not right away, since I'm still a kid, but someday? I'd just feel better if I knew it made sense. And if I don't make it, please help me take the other one with me.

There. Again.

Timmy began to tremble. Oh, God, I want to be a hero, really I do, but I can't stop feeling scared. Can't help it. If that's not okay, I'm sorry. Show me how to act and stuff, and what I'm supposed to do. I can't even let myself think about what happened tonight, because I might give up, let go of things and... leave. And that feels bad, like I'd never come back again.

"Ohh. Mmmm..."

Not that, God.

"Ooohhh..."

He was slipping out of himself, hanging by a shred of raw nerve, tottering on the brink of a deep canyon.

Scrape. Rattle.

Timmy held himself tight and he rocked back and forth and he hummed little pieces of songs. This is not fair, he thought. I'm only eight years old. I don't know how to handle this, what to do or how to be brave enough. It's just not fair.

"Mmm? Oooh..."

Rattle, rip, scraaape —

He couldn't pretend any more, couldn't ignore it any longer. This was real. The knob was brass and the head reflected a compressed image of the table lamp. The reflection had moved. The knob was turning. Slowly. Turning.

The closet.

The door was being opened.

From the inside.

A sing-song phrase, running through his mind: (...not fair, God, not fair, not fair, not...)

"Timmy, who ever told you that life was fair? Certainly not me. I can't imagine where you got such an idea."

The boy moaned, eyes glued to the closet, mind tottering and ready to fall. Fall, and never hit bottom.

The door slid open, whispering along the nappy surface of the little throw rug. It had been his mother's favorite rug, an antique. She had bragged about it to everyone, how she'd bought it for such a cheap price, told them it was special and —

Paula, her neck slashed wide open and her clothing shredded and bloody from stab wounds, stepped from the closet. She located her son.

Grinned.

Drops of blood fell in thickened clumps to splatter on the precious antique rug, the one she'd loved so much. Timmy returned from the edge, the welcome heat of anger building in his belly. This was not Paula Baxter. It was hideous; raw wounds, white bone and naked tendons. It kept weaving like a drunk, as if whatever had just entered the corpse didn't quite have control. The lips twitched, peeled back like slices of fresh, wet tomato.

"Timmy," she croaked. "Come give your Mom a kiss."

She started towards him, still clumsy, her arms spread wide in simulated affection. They had violated his mother, dirtied her and made her into a monster. He could not allow this to happen. She deserved to rest in peace.

"Timmy?"

The baritone.

His skin crawled.

Timmy reached down and took a magazine from the rack by the couch. He grabbed one of Paula's many cigarette lighters and set the pages ablaze. The creature made the familiar hissing noise and began to retreat on stiff, reluctant legs. Timmy waved the fire. He led the obscene thing along the wall, finally forcing it back into the closet. It growled, but the legends were true. They couldn't stand fire.

Timmy couldn't bear the thought of using the stake and mallet. Not on his mother's body, especially after that sickening struggle with Julie. So he started kicking a stack of his prize horror comics and some old newspapers into the closet with her. He kept the creature pinned inside by continually waving the flaming pages in his hand, sometimes touching them to its pale, sensitive skin. More newspapers, the remaining comic books. The beast feared him — and, of course, the flames. It cringed and shrank away whenever he threatened it.

He was ready.

Timmy tossed his burning torch inside, onto the stack of dry, volatile paper. He slammed the closet door and locked it.

She howled and kicked, but the blaze roared up and consumed her almost immediately. Smoke filled the room, choking Timmy and making his eyes water. He found his croquet stakes and mallet, threw on a jacket and walked out into the unholy night.

The camper would burn for hours. There was no turning back. He would have to climb the slope, spot the lights of Two Trees, then make his way there as quickly as possible. If he ran into more trouble, so be it.

He zipped his jacket, gripped his weapons and trudged along the winding trail. It was the same one Julie had used the evening she'd disappeared, but that fact barely crossed his mind.

17

TWO TREES

Orunde howled with pleasure and then drove the wind harder…

Pieces of Two Trees were tumbling like dominoes. Four dilapidated storm shutters, blown loose from the front of Martoni's grocery, sailed several yards through the air and struck the building across the way. Each hit with the impact of a mortar shell, cracking beams and plaster. The noise was lost in the cacophony of clatters, bangs and eerie metallic shrieks parading through the streets and alleys of the little town.

Vargas crawled along after Chalmers, feeling cool and detached. Unless, of course, he slipped and allowed himself to think about the girl. Touching her, hurting her. That fantasy was dangerous. It turned the whole world upside down and set off a violent blast of mushrooming lust that threatened to engulf him. Maggie Moore would have to wait.

He followed Chalmers onto the porch of a deserted home. The bigger man pointed to a brightly lit house across the street.

"He's in there," Chalmers said in a low voice. "We got three in all, if you count the other dude."

Vargas chuckled dryly. "You bet your ass we'll count the other dude. That fucker owes me, and I want him."

Chalmers looked puzzled. Finally: "Tony, I don't like to bug you with too many questions, but this whole thing's got me confused. I mean, what's goin' on here? And why tonight, like it just couldn't wait?"

Vargas hesitated, then decided to toss Billy a bone. "I don't know a hell of a lot more than you do," he said. "Tonight is a real special night. There might never be another one like it. That's why we've gotta follow orders and do exactly what we're told to do. Nothin' less, nothin' more."

"Whatever you say, Tony. Any idea what's so goddamn special about this first guy?"

Both men were squinting, their eyes stinging from the constant spray of pebbles and dust. Vargas ran out of patience. The wooden porch was uncomfortable, and splinters kept pricking his arms and elbows. He brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. "Jason wants him dead, Chalmers, and I want the other one. That's all you need to know."

"I can take a hint."

"One good thing," Vargas said. "Nobody's gonna hear us. We could have a war with all this shit going on. The storm is perfect cover."

He took a few moments to recall the layout of the house. Satisfied, Vargas nudged Billy. "Let's get 'em," he said. "Go around and cover the back, but don't start anything yet."

Chalmers got to his knees, shielding his face with one hand. His clothes began whipping in the wind like laundry on a line. He ducked low again. "Wait a second. You could pick one off through the window, and I might not even notice from there."

Vargas thought for a moment. "If I do, I'll come and yell. If there's anybody else around, they can't hear any better than we can."

Chalmers' teeth flashed. "Be careful, though. I'd hate to shoot you by mistake."

"Get going," Vargas said.

Chalmers lumbered down the alley, around the side and towards the back of the house. Vargas considered moving in a bit closer, but decided he'd be at too poor an angle if he were pressed to take cover. He could get himself wasted before he made it back to the safety of the porch.

"I'd rather see your face," he muttered. "Spit right in your eye when I do it. But the little man said no unnecessary chances. Besides, I got the chick to look forward to."

Movement.

Vargas sighted quickly. He was just starting to squeeze the trigger when he saw a mop of red hair, reflected in the light flowing from the living room. Chalmers, getting into position. Wait. Yeah, somebody inside was walking past the window. He took aim again.

And felt his arms melting like wax, his guts clenching, a white-hot surge of desire welling up from his balls. Maggie Moore was everything he remembered. She was only visible for a few seconds, but to Vargas it seemed an eternity. Jason had shown him all her secrets, revealed her naked body with his cold, cruel eyes. Oh, but this would be a night to remember.

[666 hundred years of pain, first the thunder and the lightnin'...]

Behind the house: Something was there, in the alley. Chalmers jumped and homed in on the target. Easy boy, he told himself. Remember what Tony said. Just the two men, nobody else.

A woman. Jesus, he'd nearly blown it; shot holes in some old broad who only had one oar in the water. Tony woulda gone nuts. Chalmers felt a chill crawl up his spine. He slid a little further into the shadows. Shit, that was close, he thought. If I fuck up, I'll have to answer to Jason himself. No way, Jose. All I need to know about that mean little motherfucker is that I don't wanna get to know him. Anybody bad enough to scare Vargas ain't on my map.

The woman passed within a few yards of his hiding place. Her eyes were glazed. She stumbled out into the middle of the street and just stood there, hopelessly lost. Goddamn bitch, Chalmers thought. Get the fuck out of here, you're right in the line of fire.

Hey lady, would you mind moving? I'm trying to kill somebody.

Finally, after deciding on what appeared to be an intriguing destination, the old woman wandered off. Chalmers watched her go, wondering what the hell was wrong with her, and when he looked back he slammed his fist in the dirt. Damn, he'd missed a chance. Someone had been moving around inside the house.

Michael.

Maggie's brother grew restless. He started complaining of claustrophobia, going on and on about how much he hated feeling caged. Rourke could almost see the current wriggling in his aura; felt an emotional charge pulsating and demanding release.

"Damn," Michael shouted, "I'm bananas already! Is this ever gonna let up?"

He jumped to his feet and went to the window.

The first bullet hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. Maggie screamed when he threw himself on the carpet. A lamp exploded as the shot that was meant to finish Michael blew it off the table. The room was plunged into darkness, with only the kitchen light still burning.

Michael cursed and pulled a pistol from his belt. He'd tucked it under his shirt, behind his back, to keep it out of sight. Rourke wanted, very badly, to know why.

"Oh, shit," Michael whispered, his lips white with pain. "I didn't think they'd find me here."

Rourke grabbed his rifle and crawled across the floor. Maggie, still near the fireplace, started to go to Michael's side. Her brother stopped her in her tracks. "Stay right there," he said. "Away from the windows."

Peter examined the injured shoulder. The large, blue puncture looked serious. He tore away a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound. "There. Now talk, Michael," he growled. "What the hell have you gotten us into?"

Michael winced. "This can't be happening, man. There's no way anybody could have traced me here. I not only covered my tracks, I left them believing I was dead."

"Michael, tell me."

"Let me put it this way. Some of the people I've worked for play rough. They eat a lot of pasta, look like they were born with a broken nose — you know the type. Anyhow, I tapdanced and usually steered clear of the serious shit. I figured the less I knew, the easier it would be to split. Wrong. Turns out nobody gets to walk. These guys are rigid as hell about that, it's their code of honor. But I wanted out, Rourke."

Peter felt his face stiffen. "And so you came to visit your goddamned sister?"

Michael snarled back. "Give me a fuckin' break! I never mentioned I had one, much less where she was."

"Then what happened?"

"I was looking after Nicky Perelli's mistress in Vegas. Cushy gig, right? Well, some asshole got to her, and carved her up but good. Left her open like a Thanksgiving turkey. I almost had him, but he got away. That left me in some real deep shit."

Carved her up, Rourke thought. Jesus, that's what happened to Dee Jennings. He frowned. "And?"

"I bribed a cop in Vegas and a junkie morgue attendant. They fixed it so a John Doe drowning wound up with my wallet and a positive I.D. In short, I'm stone dead for all they know."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Maggie sagged, as if she'd been drained of something vital that could never be replaced. Her disappointment hurt Michael as much as the wound in his shoulder. He glanced at Rourke, hoping for support, but Peter was gearing up for a look outside.

[now]

He raised his head, probed, then dropped to one knee. Another bullet shattered the rest of the window directly above him. Rourke curled into a ball until the shower of broken glass stopped falling. Wind began to whip the patterned curtains around and more moisture drifted in to fog the already gloomy room.

"I'm sorry, you guys," Michael was saying. "I never dreamed I'd drag you two into this. I was sick of it, Maggie. I just wanted to walk away."

Rourke gripped his rifle. He probed again. Strange, he thought, there's some kind of interference. It's like snow on a rolling picture tube. Still, he managed to learn a little.

"There are two of them," he announced. "They have... protection, I guess. A barrier of some sort. It keeps me from reading any more than that."

Michael turned to Maggie, his mouth hanging open.

"Christ, you mean he's for real?"

"He's for real, Michael."

Rourke skulled again, but ran into the same jamming technique. An advanced gift was at work. He'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even when he was a kid and competing with others like himself. Only a master talent could have constructed this elaborate a defense.

"We're dealing with a whole lot more than two maniacs out to shoot somebody, Michael. We're also up against whatever killed my dog tonight. A force that brought us all here. It's been destroying this entire town, bit by bit, for months."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Rourke straightened up. "For instance, you'd better not take it for granted that they're just after you. It might be me. I'm beginning to get the feeling there's a price on my head."

"I'm lost. Why?"

"Consider what I just described," Peter said. "Now, why would an abnormally strong psychic, for lack of a better word, bother to build a complicated ectoplasmic shield to keep you out? You haven't the slightest glimmer of E.S.P., as far as I can tell."

Michael grimaced. "Yeah, but you're a whole different story. I get your point. So it's the both of us?"

All of us, Rourke thought, but he dipped his head casually. He didn't want to alarm Maggie any more than necessary. "That's my guess, yeah. I don't know why."

"Are you good with that? The rifle?"

"I'm good, Michael. I'm also scared enough to be ruthless, if that's what you're wondering."

Michael Moore smiled. "Yeah, you read minds all right. In a situation like this, my friend, to hell with fair play and the Ten Commandments. We go for broke. We didn't start it, but the fact is we're at war."

Yeah. [compression: A grotesque bulge in the coiled intestine of present time] You don't know the half of it, Michael. I'm in the middle of this. I've somehow gotten my ass into two wars at once. There's a different kind of assault coming soon, I can feel it. It wants to erode my confidence.

Christ, maybe I'm better than I ever realized. Why else would someone go to this much trouble to pick me off? He kept his thoughts private.

"Hey Pete, I mean it. We're in a war."

"I know that, Michael. I heard you."

"Okay, stay here. I'll get a chair and set myself up to guard the back door. Maggie, you just lie flat and cover your head. They'll be coming in after us sooner or later."

Peter crawled to one side of the window and stood up. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, hoping to improve his night vision. Michael crawled across the floor, grunting from the pain in his shoulder. He went into the kitchen and out of sight.

Maggie began to talk to herself. Rourke cringed when he heard the words. "I'm dirty," she mumbled. "I'll never be clean again."

He clenched his teeth. One enemy at a time.

Peter considered for a moment. The first shot had come in high, the second maybe a foot lower. The man was probably on the porch across the street; shooting up, at an angle. Rourke risked another look. The expected bullet hummed by, but this time he saw a little ball of flame. It was across the street and level with the porch, as he'd guessed. He took a deep breath, whirled and whipped the rifle to his shoulder. He fired once, straight and true. Maggie shrieked at the CRAAAAAAK of the shot.

Peter sensed fear. He'd flushed the man out, but he was still alive. Rourke went flat against the wall, his face wet with rain, hands blue and clumsy from the cold [such a fucking coward, always have been] Those voices again. In his head, in Maggie's [wanna little rainbow, wanna little?] No!

Rourke blocked, shoved back with everything he had. He fired again, as much to drown out those whispers as to hit anything. It wants me dead. I must be good, have talents I've never used, latent abilities that could help Maggie and Michael.

But how the hell —

Something nicked his ear and struck the wall behind him with a dull thwaaaack. Maggie had crossed the room to collapse in the rocking chair. She started rocking back and forth before the fireplace, her hands wrapped around her knees. Rocking and humming in an anxious, girlish falsetto. Rourke ached for her. He put steel in his voice.

"Maggie!"

She rocked and hummed and rocked and hummed. Her sanity was standing on the edge of a cliff, tottering and about to go over. This thing would not stop until it had them all dead or insane.

"Damn you, Maggie, answer me this minute!"

She located herself and regained control. The short jaunt to nowhere wound up straightening her out; it scared Maggie just enough to stiffen her resolve. She composed herself, back in the room where she belonged.

"Can I help, Pete?"

"Yes. By lying down and not getting shot. Maggie, please give me one less thing to worry about. It could end up meaning a hell of a lot to all three of us."

She worked her way closer and did as he'd asked. Rourke raised no objection. As long as she was lying down, one spot was as safe as another. Besides, Maggie never failed to give him strength, and he needed every ounce he could muster. He had two battles to fight, and each would drain a different part of him. Losing either meant a death sentence for Maggie, her brother and countless others.

Rourke froze. How clever he was, this little man. His foe. What a subtle thing he'd done by sending a gunman. He'd caused Rourke to think of bullets, instead of talents; rifles, instead of minds. He was very advanced, far better than Peter. He knew exactly what Rourke was capable of, and he wasn't taking any chances. Why give him even a few hours within which to develop? Pin him down with gunfire, and arrange things so that he's with his lover. That should make him frantic to protect her, and much less concerned with the conflict going on outside. This nightmare about to explode into the world.

He's worried, Rourke thought. He thinks I have the potential to become a genuine threat. Hell, what if he's right? He skulled: There was logic here, the outline of some geometric pattern, but the parts kept overlapping and misleading his talent.

Maybe I'm not good enough.

Maybe you're not. But you can be, or he wouldn't have gone through all these machinations just to deceive you. [you're better than you think you are, pinky. why else would he be afraid?] Yes.

Rourke fired at a vague ripple in the ocean of ink, then flattened against the wall. He steadied his breathing and closed his eyes. It was time for a crash course in pushing the limits. His stomach tightened. If he lost his way, he might never find his body again.

But if I don't try, he thought, we're all dead.

GO!

Rourke probed up, then out: He tried to spread thin, slide under the doorway onto a plane he'd often sensed but never reached and [...] touched a fresh spectrum, a dimension incredibly vast, wider than he'd ever dreamed possible. Alien ELF and EHF pulsations, colors, id forms. Peter tested himself. He re-arranged mass and density, even dared to skip along the fabric layering the corridors of time. He did foolish things and brave things and […] He'd broken through to another somewhere. On the very first try, flying blind.

I see, now. Jesus, I didn't know. He opened his eyes again. He felt a little dizzy, but excited. Good. Terrific, in fact. Charged with new energy and self confidence.

Maggie had just given Rourke a concerned look. "Peter? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Remember, don't listen to it. Don't let it have any power."

"I'm fine, now," Maggie said. She relaxed and faced the fire. I believe I will marry that woman, Peter thought. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do with the next forty or fifty years.

Now, for a way around that shield...

Meanwhile, Michael Moore was parked in a kitchen chair. He kept his bleary eyes fixed on the back door.

Remember the Alamo, as it were. That guy they'd found in his nightshirt, all shot to pieces. Jim Bowie? Not sure. Gawd, he thought, I'm a bundle of hurt. The pain stabbed through him again, and he had to clamp down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.

Moore, you're a total fuck-up.

Total? That number with the stiff and the cop wasn't too shabby. It didn't even cost me much. Yeah, well now they're out there, schmuck. You are likely to buy the farm. I'd call that a tall price.

No shit, you really think it's curtains?

It do seem like it 'bout over, massah. Oh, lawdy... Swing low, sweet chariot.

Optimistic bastard, aren't you? Big help.

Oh, no.

What?

Dumb fucking question.

What?

How about the fact that I'm fading in and out like a wino and bleeding all over this fucking table? Sitting here having a real knock-down, drag-out debate... with myself?

We always were a little strange.

'Fraid so, stallion. Give some thought to stuff we ought to apologize for, will you? We'd best have that handy from here on out.

Glimpse of light, reflected by metal: Heads up! Don't lose him, don't even blink. Ready? Here he comes. A quick, darting movement through the pools of shadow: Tall fellow, "Z" pattern, in a rut and doesn't know it. Thinks he's on television.

Michael fired, right through the back door. He heard a grunt of surprise and pain. He fired again, keying off the sound this time. Bingo! Stood him right up, boy. He was large, light-haired, outlined by the flickering street lamps. Michael put two in the chest and blew him away like a target in a shooting gallery.

"One down, Rourke. A big guy with red hair. Stay by the front, and be careful!"

"Got it."

Maggie winced at her brother's casual attitude. One down, Michael? That's all, it's that easy for you? No, she thought. I'm way out of line. What the hell gives me the right to judge? I'm not clean, never will be. Not inside where it counts.

[...something about the man out there, part of a pattern...]

Rourke gripped the rifle. His palms were slippery with sweat. He swung, fired and ducked. A sliver of glass stung his cheek. It left a tiny, dripping red ditch just below his right eye.

[...the man outside connects to me, then michael…what else?...]

Maggie steeled herself. Her brother was in trouble and needed her. Rourke needed her. She remembered taking that fall with the cops, facing their guns for the sake of her brother, doing his time. She located her own strength and nodded grimly. I can do this, she thought. Called: "Pete?"

"Yes?"

"If the back way is clear, I can run and find Gladys. Call for help, bring back some kind of first aid for Mike."

"Forget it, Maggie."

"It doesn't really care about me, Pete."

Yes, it does, he thought. It wants all of us, and in a particular order. But why?

"No, Maggie," he said. "Don't be a fucking fool. Please listen to me."

Maggie, nerves frayed, swore inaudibly. "You can't stay here and play guns all night, can you? Then it wins by default!"

Rourke ducked as splinters of wood sprayed his face. He spun and fired three times, rapidly. His talent awoke […this man. the thing dee and michael...]

"Damn it Maggie, please just sit over there," he snapped. "I can't afford to be worrying about you. Not now."

[...there is a pattern...]

Maggie stepped back quietly, out of his line of sight. She hesitated, sensing the evil that lay coiled and waiting, then scrambled towards the kitchen door. Stopped, checked. Pete had turned away. I don't need any man to look after me, damn it. I won't let my brother die.

She bolted, her mind whispering: first street, on the left, brown and white house, won't take long. Rourke caught the motion from the corner of his eye. Too late. He screamed: "Michael, stop her!"

Maggie burst through the kitchen door, a blur of clothing and wild eyes. She was gone before Michael, now weakening, could react.

"Shit," Rourke hissed. And then it came to him, all in a rush. […666 hundred years of pain, first the thunder and the lightning…] He understood, knew exactly how it had all started. Yes, he man lurking outside was after all three of them, but for very different reasons. He had sparked Rourke's coming home to Two Trees, for this killer had murdered Dee Jennings, as well as Michael's female client in Las Vegas. Now he was here to slaughter them all. He worked for the little man with the talent, the one creating all of this chaos. Probably had worked for him all along. He was, first and foremost, a ruthless killer of women.

And now Maggie was out there with him.

Alone.

18

JASON

Dog had taken command of the elements. The climax was near. The rest was not up to him. Jason accepted this. He had begun to understand his place in the scheme of things, how much he did not — could not — know. And if he was indeed insane, there was now ample evidence that his insanity had real, true power.

Jason knew he was again a conduit, with a crucial function: Supervise and relay. He would feed the emotional stimulus through to The Beast in timed pulsations, until a critical mass was reached. An enormous backflow of power sufficient to blow open The Gate. This was his assignment — and, of course, to defend against White. But there appeared to be little to worry about, he'd already seen to that.

Jason crossed his arms and left the hardwood floor.

Levitating, he released his id and allowed it to become one with the black web of violence closing in on Two Trees.

So glorious. He was everywhere, all at once, helping to tie the loose ends together.

19

BATES

When Glenn Bates regained his senses, he found himself kneeling by the bed with his hands over his ears. His throat felt raw and strained. He'd been screaming Ngo's name, over and over again.

The room was torn to pieces. All of the glass in the liquor cabinet had been smashed, and most of the furniture was broken. Bates felt as if he'd been thrown through the blades of a high-speed fan.

I'm crazy.

My God, I've really gone crazy.

A padded thump... Outside. Bates knew that sound. He'd made it himself, a million times, whenever he came home a little drunk and forgot about that loose board on the front steps. Shoulders, bumping into wood.

Footsteps?

Something was circling the house, trying to find a way in. Bates cowered, making small, unfamiliar noises in the back of his throat. What the hell was going on? Easy, take it easy. Discipline. He took his gun out and checked for ammunition. You're acting like a kid, he thought. There's nothing out there. Get yourself together.

He tried to stand up, but his body betrayed him. His knees weakened and he fell back against the wall. He took a deep breath and made it on the second try. Got to get out of here. Now.

Bates stumbled towards the door, tripped over his luggage and cracked his head on a chair. The hurt sobered him. He welcomed it. He grabbed a suitcase in each hand, held tight to the nagging pain and let it dig deep.

The storm was roaring. He closed his eyes and pushed against the screen door with his foot. It didn't budge. Jammed?

He opened his eyes and found himself facing Urich. The dead man gaped at him, skin pale as fish belly. Bates could see the imprint the screen had made on one ruined cheek: a little red spider web. The corpse was leaning against the door, looking in.

Bates whimpered as one foul-smelling hand began to inch, crablike, toward the latch. He backed away, fascinated. Death reached out for him.

Bates snapped. The way out is through.

He gathered himself and ran straight at the door, thinking past the target, smashing through it. Urich's body fell flat on its back in the yard. The door burst from its hinges and crashed to the ground with the sound of splintering wood. Bates raced right over the druggist, who lay pinned beneath the frame, and sprinted for the squad car.

Behind him, the corpse made a clumsy attempt to get to its feet.

Bates slammed the car door, locked it, fumbled through his pockets for the keys. Jesus, had he forgotten the keys? Found them — cold metal, reassuring to the touch. Keep your discipline. The thing that had been Urich was now on its knees. It stood up and winked. Bates shuddered. He started the car and glanced in the rear-view mirror.

Martoni was in the back seat, right behind him. The grocer's face was pressed tight against the wire mesh. He was grinning wickedly.

Bates threw himself out of the squad car, rolling, and bounced up. He moaned and backed away from the wretched sight, shaking his head in despair.

Urich just stood there, buffeted by the wind, his unblinking eyes fixed on Bates. The car door opened. Martoni, grotesque and clumsy, started to get out.

Glenn Bates ran screaming into the night.

20

SPATS

Spats couldn't believe his eyes. A little boy, about seven. School jacket, no cap,

thick hair fluttering in the breeze. Right there, near the cliffs… the most beautiful white boy he had ever seen.

It was Julie's brother. The child he'd thirsted for was alive.

The kid must have escaped somehow, left his family behind to burn. A gutsy boy. Too bad he couldn't be allowed to get away.

Spats Rafferty willed himself invisible and began to work his way closer to Timmy. Spats now didn't remember how he'd become what he was. All he knew was that he served Jason, and that a great thirst came upon him at nightfall.

But now something else throbbed within him; the vague memory of a different kind of need, not unlike the thirst. A need that caused the compulsion to possess and penetrate. The feeling brought dim remembrances: sights, smells and sounds. Traces of what had once been human sexuality.

Spats wanted Timmy Baxter, and for more than the slaking of the thirst. For something else, half forgotten.

Timmy had turned around. He was walking deeper into the forest, searching for the trail that led down into Two Trees. Spats changed shape and color slightly, in order to match his surroundings. He adjusted for the wind and followed.

Another flicker of memory: This wasn't the correct way to stalk such lovely game. This would be too easy, not the exciting experience it deserved to be. He would show himself, he decided. Yes. The thrill of the chase, the capture —

And what? Something else, some physical action. Before killing, before drinking.

Spats, now visible, crouched low in a clump of bushes. He felt close to the answer. It was maddening to be unable to pin down what was missing.

No matter. Perhaps it would come to him during the pursuit. In any event, the boy must die. Those were Jason's orders, and Spats had to carry them out. Timmy Baxter would quench his thirst, then cease to be. But why not make the hunt more pleasurable for the hunter?

He would let the lad see him, create some terror before closing in for the kill. Perhaps by then he'd know what it was he craved so desperately.

Timmy heard something, spun around.

Saw a vamper.

He disappointed Spats Rafferty by just standing his ground. Waiting. Spats played with the boy's eyes. He popped up in unexpected places, altering his shape and size.

No reaction.

The boy was strong. If he was frightened, he managed not to show it. Spats tried every trick in the book, but Timmy refused to give an inch.

Rafferty reached into the side pocket of his filthy jacket. He fingered the scissors he'd use to open the boy's throat. The thirst was upon him with a vengeance, had him smacking his lips in greedy anticipation. Besides, the boy was boring him.

Spats lost patience and crashed closer. He came to a halt only a few feet away and tore into Timmy with all the supernatural force of his mesmerizing eyes. Since the kid wouldn't play, he would have to be broken. Spats set out to dominate Timmy. He wanted to brutalize the boy, smash his psyche into rubble.

Timmy met his eyes. Come and get me, he seemed to be saying. I don't care anymore.

Spats increased the pressure. He was aching to nibble this soft young flesh, to sip of the hot, sweet blood. The thirst was almost out of control.

But it was demanding more than drink. Much more. And then he remembered; swelled and hardened. And somewhere deep inside it struck him odd that he could still feel such a human passion. So much life for a dead man.

The boy's eyes were glazed. He appeared to be in a passive state, under control. One part of Spats was impatient to drink, but the other insisted that its needs be satisfied first. He rubbed his crotch.

"Take off your clothes," he growled.

Timmy obediently unzipped his jacket. He moved tantalizingly, irritatingly slow. Spats nearly sliced the pretty neck open and began to drink, but the warm glow in his genitals held him in check. No, he thought, this one has to be enjoyed first.

Timmy froze in position, passive as a lamb. He seemed to have forgotten his instructions. Damn, Spats thought. I'll have to be careful about this. If I get too carried away, I could lose control of him. Still, he looks harmless enough. And he's so fucking beautiful...

"On your knees," he whispered.

Timmy dropped to the ground and Spats stepped closer. The kid's silence was reassuring. He could think of nothing else, suddenly, except the boy's warm mouth. It was all that mattered, that mouth. It was everything. He felt ready. He started to form the words, to order the kid to —

Pain. Excruciating pain.

"Aaaah!"

Spats stared down at his chest. The gushing fountain of blood, the wooden stake. He screamed again.

Timmy swung the mallet a third time, a fourth. The stake was driven deep, impaling Rafferty. The cruel point pierced his heart, then split the spine and popped out through his back. Spats gagged and collapsed.

Timmy kicked the vamper's body. He felt good. It had taken courage to wander, and to offer himself up as bait. But it had worked. He'd finally done it, killed the one that had started it all by biting Julie.

It was over.

He retrieved the stake and set out to find Peter Rourke. The wind was rising, raindrops beginning to fall. Thunder rolled through the mountains.

Down below, in Two Trees, the storm was raging.

21

MAGGIE

She waited for a crash of thunder to cover the sound of her footsteps, then dashed away from the side of the house. Maggie jogged through the rain and the mud. She passed the dead man in the yard, but barely glanced at the huge hole in his chest. Violence was becoming familiar. I can do this, she thought. I can fucking do this.

She reached the cover of some nearby trees, took a careful look around, then sped away.

Maggie ran. She ran until her stomach hurt and her lungs were on fire, down dark and empty streets, past old abandoned houses. She stopped in a doorway to catch her breath. Gladys wouldn't be home, Peter had said. She'd be with her friend Edith, on First Street. That must be close to the corner, near Jake's gas station. Maggie braced herself.

Another block, then hang a right.

She checked both ways for movement. The town seemed lifeless. Abandoned.

She ran again.

Maggie came to the end of Third Street. Lightning flashed, allowing her to see the numbers on the mailboxes, the colors of the houses. Icy rain caused her leg muscles to cramp as she stumbled around the corner.

Someone was coming. Maggie stopped in her tracks, terrified. The next flash of lightning revealed Glenn Bates, running along the gutter, his huge feet sloshing through the muddy water. Thank God!

"Sheriff?" Maggie called.

No reaction.

She yelled, straining to be heard above the storm.

"Sheriff Bates!"

He turned, eyes strange, gun hanging loose in one hand. Maggie fell to her knees in the water, relieved. Her side hurt and she was panting. Bates seemed to snap out of his stupor. He trotted over to her.

"Have you seen them?" he asked. "Are they still around?"

She nodded, trying to regain her wind.

"I ran from them," Bates said. "But I'm not going to run again." He was soaked to the skin, his hair matted. His voice was hoarse, his big hands jerking spasmodically. Maggie barely noticed at first.

"They have Peter and Michael pinned down in the house," she said. "I got away."

Bates stood there, trembling in the rain. "I'll kill them again if I can," he sighed. "But I'm not really sure how. Can they really be killed? Do you know how to kill them?"

Maggie rose slowly, horror creeping through her. Glenn Bates was totally insane.

"I'm glad you've seen them too," he said. "I'll go. I'll try and kill them again. What are you going to do?"

She stepped to one side. "I'm going to get Gladys to phone for some help."

Bates rubbed his chin. "I don't think the lines are working, but I suppose you ought to give it a try. Your house? They're at your house?"

Maggie nodded. She began wading backwards through the cold water to get away from him. "Yes. They are trying to hurt Peter and my brother Michael. Stop them, okay? They are all outside the house."

"I'm going then," he said. "I'll try to kill as many as I can."

He took off, boots splashing.

What the hell is going on around here? Maggie moved on, searching for the brown and white house. By the time she found it, her sides were burning and she was exhausted. She slipped climbing the front steps, caught herself, knocked on the door. It swung open.

She gagged. A headless corpse lay flat on the carpet, one hand clutching at the air. The body was a mass of stab wounds. The room smelled foul, wet; it stank of emptied bowels and fresh blood. Jesus, I have made a big, big mistake. I need to find Peter.

Maggie slammed the door and rocketed away, driven on by revulsion and panic. This was beyond understanding, all of it, and an instinct as old as time was shrieking a warning. Maggie longed to be with Rourke and knew that she had to get back to him as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Jason watched her from the alley. He was smiling.

She ran right by him, within touching distance. The little man stayed in the shadows, looking up at her with his twisted grin. He watched her go, whistled tunelessly and followed a few yards behind.

The exhaustion took its toll. Maggie tripped, fell face down in the gutter and swallowed some of the filthy water. She toppled over onto the pavement, sobbing for air. Get up, get up.

There was a break in the storm. She heard footsteps. [dirty] Slow, shuffling footsteps. Maggie was paralyzed with fear, couldn't move an inch: [do monsters come for dirty little girls? do they pick the ones who deserve killing?] As if in answer, the footsteps stopped.

Maggie raised her head slightly. She saw bare feet. Two pairs of bare feet.

She caught a whiff of something that smelled rotten, long dead.

22

TIMMY

Timmy arrived in the town square just moments later. He was astonished by the violence of the storm. The boy began a random search through the deserted streets for Peter Rourke. Jason did not see him. He was occupied with Maggie and unaware that Timmy Baxter had survived.

23

BATES

Survival. That's the name of the game, Bates thought. The idea is to make it, get short and stay healthy; fly your happy ass back to The World.

Bates kept low, close to the ground, and eyeballed the house. Just like 'Nam, he thought. He edged forward, hearing the mud sucked at the knees of his soiled uniform. Just like fucking Viet Nam: Wet and miserable, terrifying — and exciting.

He lay still in the shadows. When he had to go, he pissed in his pants.

Just like 'Nam.

Scared...

Waiting in the rain for the enemy.

24

MICHAEL

This is not good., Michael Moore thought, calnly. Not good at all.

He fought to raise his head. He felt terrible, old and wrung out. How much blood had he lost? He looked down. There was a thick pool of sticky red at his feet.

Well, shit.

Don't relax, don't you dare let go.

You're all right, Moore.

You've got the balls of a bull elephant and brains to match. You're too pretty to die. Whoa, got to hang on, Sloopy, Sloopy hang on...

Hmmm — Whoops! Careful, man. You're holding up the rear, so stay awake.

Michael shifted position.

Heard Peter fire.

25

VARGAS

Vargas rolled, cursing a blue streak. He'd nearly been hit, goddamn it! The bastard was dangerous. Jason had said to expect the unexpected, but he'd also scorned Rourke as weak, indecisive and not much of an opponent. Well boss, Vargas thought, you'd better think again. As a matter of fact, you ugly little shit, why don't you come on out here and trade places with me?

His anger sagged. That was dumb, Vargas. You never know when he might be listening. Keep your mind on the job, where it belongs.

[... first the thunder and the lightning...]

He began to crawl away from the porch. If I wait here, he thought, this sniping crap could go on for hours. Chalmers must be out of the game.

Time to take it to him.

Vargas sprinted for a few yards, then fell prone again. He hadn't been seen. He slid through the mud on his belly, using his elbows to drag his body forward, and started working his way towards the back of the house.

He was pleased to hear Rourke take a shot at his old position.

Just a little further.

[... devils reign, reign, reign...]

In the harsh glare of the porch light, Vargas spotted Chalmers' body. It was covered with dark stains; sprawled out in the yard like some hooker in a porno rag. He sighed with annoyance and a touch of regret. Billy, I guess you gave it your best shot, he thought. Sayonara, motherfucker.

See you in Hell.

He got to his feet. In one smooth motion he was off, running hard, crouching and weaving. Vargas heard Rourke fire another blind shot at the empty porch. Safe, for the moment. Better still, the second man wasn't firing at all; he either didn't see Vargas or was also out of the game. Okay. That's how he'd like it, he decided. Just him and Rourke.

And then the woman [oh that woman, the rock singer, hadn't that been grand? 666 hundred years of pain...]

Maybe he'd keep Rourke alive for a while, just so he'd know what was going to happen to his new girl. Let him see some of it, this time. He would get Maggie to believe he might spare her man if she was nice enough. Sexy enough. Hey, force Rourke to watch them for a while, then blow him away. Jason didn't seem to give a shit how it got done, as long as Rourke wasn't breathing when the party started.

No problem, boss.

Vargas approached the back door soundlessly. He kicked it open and went in low, perfectly balanced. The fucking Mafia bodyguard who'd chased him lay face down on the kitchen table in a lake of blood. How lucky can one man get? Vargas grabbed a kitchen towel and wound it around his pistol to muffle some of the noise.

Michael moaned and moved slightly. He opened his eyes and saw Vargas.

"You?"

His slick, pink hands began to fumble for his own weapon. "Sorry pal," Vargas whispered. "You blew your chance back in Vegas."

Two muffled metallic burps: Popcorn in a saucepan. The back of Michael's head flew away and hit the kitchen wall. It left a smear of grey and pink matter when it fell. His body jerked and lay still.

Vargas stepped gingerly to the opposite side of the room. He could see about half of Rourke — the left side from the doorway. The songwriter was bigger than he'd remembered. Rourke was facing forward, not quite flush to the window, the rifle loose in his hands. He looked intense as hell, deep in thought. There was no sign of Maggie Moore. She was probably hiding in one of the bedrooms. How convenient.

Vargas didn't like the angle. It was good enough for a kill, but too risky for anything else. Rourke was a damn good shot. On top of that, he was supposed to be special; sort of weird, like Jason. Vargas could be fairly certain of wrecking his leg, blowing open an artery, but what if Rourke was fast enough to get one off before the pain hit?

But the girl, the thing, the excitement after —

[666 hundred years of pain...]

Okay, try for the thigh. Cripple him. Two or three quick ones, then hit the floor. That rifle won't stop for a kitchen wall, not from ten feet away.

Wait a minute, he thought. What am I doing? Am I really gonna risk everything for a chance to fuck around this guy's head? Kill the bastard.

Vargas inched to the right and found the best possible position. He brought his gun up, felt rain slap his neck... Rourke wasn't there anymore.

Something struck him in the back. Hard.

Suddenly his arms felt like concrete posts. Vargas lowered them, puzzled. The next bullet hit him in the leg, an amusing coincidence. The kitchen seemed to pull away in revulsion, as if disgusted to be near him. No, that wasn't it; he was falling; collapsing from the leg wound.

I'm outside in the yard, he thought, lying on my side. I can taste mud. Funny, there's not much pain. I'm just numb all over. Cold.

Dying wasn't such a big deal.

[oh, no?

So I'm dead. So what.

[ahh, but now you have failed us, vargas, we who never forgive…now you will pay…]

He felt fear for the first time. Vargas coughed. Blood poured from his nostrils and bubbled into froth on his lips. Hey, last request. Gotta see who shot me. He summoned enough strength to roll over: A man, bobbing and weaving, playing it safe. At least I'll know, he thought. For some reason it mattered who ended it.

[first the thunder]

Jesus, this is like being too high on some baaad shit! Damn. The man was tall. Rourke? But Rourke had been in the house, Vargas felt sure of that. And then he put it together. He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

[and the lightning]

What a fucking joke. The Sheriff, for Chrissake.

[then the devil's reign ... ]

Must have done fifteen, maybe eighteen girls. Had a blast, always got out clean, only tangled with the law one time. I do this gig for Jason, and I get wasted by the Sheriff. A trigger-happy cop with bizarre eyes, who probably thought I was ripping off a stereo. I don't believe it; this is too […welcome to hell, vargas…] much, just too much.

Oh fuck, I've let them all down, the dark ones, what are they going to DO to me now, what are they going to…?

Glenn Bates blew his face apart before he could finish the thought.

26

ROURKE

Rourke, still inside, heard the shot and wondered what the hell was going on. He hadn't moved since skulling the danger; in fact, he'd barely been breathing. He'd been totally paralyzed, glued to the rug, as blind and as helpless as an infant.

The talent had deserted him again.

He'd sensed Dee Jennings' killer behind him just in time to save his own life; but since then, nothing. He had been deeply concerned about Michael, but was suddenly unable to probe through the wall. He couldn't even scan for Maggie to see if she'd reached Gladys safely. And when he heard the shots, he hadn't a clue who'd been hurt, or how badly. The blackout sickened him, left him horrified.

The talent had now become an integral part of Peter. At that moment, he fully appreciated just how much he'd come to depend on it. A few tense minutes with only normal sensory equipment had driven the point home.

"Rourke?" It was Glenn Bates. He was standing at the back door.

And the talent returned.

Rourke walked out into the kitchen. He took a quick look at Michael and turned away. Poor Maggie. Bates tapped on the screen and pointed to Vargas, a corpse wearing too much lipstick. And so it ends for you instead, Rourke thought. I hope Hell takes revenge for Dee, and the others you butchered.

"I got this one," Bates said. "I guess Michael must have picked off the big guy with the red hair. You seen any others?" Glenn Bates had a strange look in his eyes. His body was jumping and twitching; facial features like a solid lump of rock. Peter followed the sheriff outside. He was careful not to make any sudden moves.

"Others, Glenn? What do you mean others?"

Those eyes.

"Oh, I've seen some," Bates said in a hollow, cramped voice. "I think there are more. Maybe a lot more."

Rourke probed, shuddered and withdrew. Writhing madness. He spoke gently, as if to a child. "I'm pretty sure there were only two, Glenn. Here, anyway."

Bates kicked Vargas. "This one will stay dead," he said. "Head shot. But there are at least two more walking around that won't stay dead. We've got to get them, too. Head shots work best."

Won't stay dead?

"We'll get them," Peter soothed. "But first I have to find Maggie."

"I saw her just a little while ago."

Rourke grabbed his arm. Bates didn't notice. "Where, Glenn? Where is she?"

The sheriff tried to remember. "On her way to find Gladys, I think. That's what she said. Are you sure she's not one of them?"

"One of them? What are you talking about?"

Bates assumed the coy manner of a crafty child. "I'll bet there are lots and lots," he giggled. "More than we know about. Dead men, walking around. You can tell if you pay attention. You can smell them."

Rourke probed again. This was real enough to have driven a man over the edge. Bates believed in what he'd seen, and was now a man obsessed. "Glenn," Peter said. "Listen, I know Maggie isn't one of them. You hear me?"

Bates looked relieved. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want to have to shoot her. Your friend Martoni, he's one."

Rourke blanched. "What?"

Thunder rumbled beyond the mountains. "He's dead, but I've seen him walking. I never would have believed it either, Rourke, but it's true. Urich is with him. They're both back."

He began to shake. Peter pushed him out of the way. "I'm going to go look for Maggie," he said.

"I'm tired, but I'll come with you."

They jogged across the yard, past the bigger man's corpse, Bates trying to find a soldier's rhythm: Don't think, just keep moving. He was weary, wet, covered with mud and blood, but finally something of a hero to himself.

Rourke was nearly overcome by despair. He had a gut hunch that Maggie was in trouble. It wanted him, and the little man would surely know that holding her would draw him out. He had let her leave, walk right into its lair. He had to find Maggie. Quickly.

Glenn Bates and Peter Rourke ran through the empty town in the pelting rain. The power faltered again and lights flickered all around them. Their legs pounded, mud splattered.

Bates stayed with him, stride for stride, while Rourke probed. Where are you, Maggie?

Edith's house: For one horrendous second, Rourke thought the corpse he saw was hers. He thought of Dee Jennings and howled like an animal. Bates was waiting in the street, bent double and fighting to catch his breath.

"Dear God!" Peter choked. "What is going on around here?"

Bates straightened, madness in remission for the moment. "You feel it?" he said. "I do. It's bad. Unholy. I saw those bodies walking, Rourke. I know I did."

Peter believed him, told him so. It seemed to help. "Maggie, Glenn. Where else would she go?"

"Hell, I have no idea. There may not be any place to go. I think just about everybody's dead, except for you and me — maybe Gladys and Jason."

"Jason?"

"That creepy little fucker that works over at the funeral parlor. I haven't seen him all night."

"Maybe Maggie found Gladys. Come on."

Rourke set out again, holding his rifle in one hand. Bates fell into place beside him. They crossed First Street and turned up the main road, heading for the telephone office. Bates tripped. Rourke heard him fall, but didn't slow. By the time the sheriff managed to rise again and follow, he was quite some distance behind.

The light was on. Rourke opened the door and stepped inside. Gladys was seated at the switchboard. Her torn clothing was soaked and her make-up looked a mess.

"Peter," she said. "I'm glad you came. I've been trying for a line out, but I can't seem to get one."

He rushed around the counter, vaguely aware that his talent had begun to murmur. "Listen to me, Gladys. Have you seen Maggie? The girl from Aggie's house?"

Gladys shook her head. "I haven't seen anyone at all."

"Shit!" He paced. "I've got to find her."

She got to her feet, big hands behind her back. "Now, how many times have I asked you to watch your language."

Bates appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame for support. "I'll bet she's one of them, Rourke."

"Easy, Glenn. It's only Gladys."

But the sheriff had that crazed gleam in his eyes again. He brought his gun up. "She's one, like Urich and Martoni."

Peter moved to stop Bates. He felt split into fragments; worry over Maggie, concern for Gladys and the itch of his talent trying to tell him something important.

"Put it down, Glenn."

Gladys shrieked. She came at Rourke with astonishing speed for a woman her size. She was brandishing a long carving knife. He threw himself over a table and cracked his head against the wall. His rifle slid to the floor. Things got hazy.

Bates shot her. A red dot blossomed on the front of her dress. Gladys went after Glenn, knife raised. He fired again and hit her in the lower stomach. She paused to look down. Bates took careful aim at the center of her forehead, squeezed the trigger.

And heard a click.

"Oh, hell," he said. The memory of Ngo popped into his mind; Rourke shared it with him. When Bates sank to his knees he was feeling relieved, almost grateful. Then Gladys slit his throat from ear to ear and he died.

Rourke recovered and grabbed his rifle as Gladys spun around. She was covered with gore, but still smiling. He shot her in the chest two more times. The roar in the tiny room was deafening. How could she stay up? How? Then he shot her in the head. Her skull shattered and Gladys flew back against her desk. She slid down into a sitting position, then fell over and lay still. A rattle, a wheeze. Rainwater, blood and brains.

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.

[...patterns...]

Time.

[...vargas to dee to rourke to michael to chalmers to beth reiss to elmo to robert to edith to bates...someone had put this all together…]

But who?

[someone put all of this together, someone here in two trees…]

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.

27

JASON

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.

28

ROURKE & TIMMY

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.

[don't think, damn you. walk!]

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.

[sweet jesus!]

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

[scratch! scratch!]

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

[scratch!]

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.

[don't think! walk!]

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.

[scratch! scratch!]

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.

[yes, grandfather, i love you that much]

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.

29

JASON

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.

30

THE END OF THINGS

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.

"Kill me?"

"Yes."

"You really don't understand, do you?"

Cold hands stroked his brain. […..] Rourke pushed back and blocked the probe. "You have a fine, strong mind," Jason said. "Reconsider. We could use you." Peter fired BOOM. The little man hopped to a spot several feet away with the ease of a garden spider.

"No games," Rourke said. "Give her to me."

Jason growled. He bent into himself; folded and was gone. Peter skulled, but Jason was nowhere to be found. From deep within the building there came a thin whistle. And something else. A whimper?

"Maggie!"

He moved forward, aching with concern. He studied the enormous room. Torn furniture, patched with strips of electrical tape. A desk, long shadows. The parlor seemed to hide shifting forms in its black corners. Crouching, slavering things.

"I wield the power," cried Jason. Rourke turned full circle, like a child's top.

No one was there.

"This is the Night Of The Beast!"

The universe fluttered and took on a new look. Jason stood before him. Rourke sighed and dropped his weapon on the floor. Said: "Tell me something, Jason."

"But of course."

"What was the fucking point of all this?"

"The point?"

Jason attacked. The onslaught felt like an electric drill entering his temple. Rourke clenched his teeth and somehow managed to push it away. It was like arm wrestling for several long moments; two men, evenly matched. Then Peter gambled, did the one thing he could never have been expected to do. He took advantage of the opening and slipped through. Rourke entered Jason's mind.

And he nearly lost his own: [blur of imprints: hundreds impaled on sharpened stakes. showers pumped full of poisoned gas as millions of naked, shrieking jews fight to find an exit… bodies on an ancient Mongol battlefield... a huge pile of severed heads... the inquisition: faceless monks watch the skin being peeled from a sobbing, pleading young woman] Peter Rourke searched for why his own death seemed so essential to Jason's plans, wanted to grasp that, but then he stiffened. [a presence, hideous beyond description; bloated like some engorged leech and ready to explode. it focuses on his id and coils to strike] Rourke withdrew and found his skin crawling. He heard it howl with rage at having missed.

There was a parasite in Jason's brain.

Here was a thing beyond even Jasons' imagined Master, the so-called Beast.

Rourke had been correct. This was an ancient creature, a monster that devoured human suffering and drank up the darkest of fears. It had broken through from beyond real, creating a series of events that linked the nightmares of the humans it required, making those nightmares come alive. Making them seem real, real enough to kill. Jason thought it was all to complete some kind of brilliant mathematical formula. He was wrong. This creature had used Jason Smith, in all of his psychotic grandiosity, to implement its own plan…

Which was merely to feed.

And now only Peter Rourke stood in the way of completing the meal. He moaned. Both he and the deformed little man were shaken by a mental struggle that seemed to have taken hours. Do I tell him he's a pawn, or just get Maggie the fuck out of here? What does it matter what he thinks?

Jason wiped his brow on a dirty shirt sleeve. "Perhaps you are a worthy opponent after all," he said.

"Let her go. You don't need Maggie any more."

The little warlock shrugged, his scarred face a blank. "True. She caused you to enter the house of The Beast. That was her purpose."

"Then let her go."

A sneer. "You perceive yourself as being in a position to bargain, Rourke. You are not running things."

Rourke smiled sardonically. Said: "I think that's true of both of us."

Jason blinked, as if disturbed by that thought. He grimaced, then concentrated. Steam escaping: A mirage, high in the air behind Jason's shoulder, a ball of blue fire that flew past him and struck Peter in the chest. Rourke dropped to one knee, unable to breathe, his nerve endings searing with pain. He could smell his flesh roasting; see it blackening beneath his shirt. He began to lose consciousness [beneath my shirt?] Not real. Cannot be, therefore it is not happening.

And reality was without pain. No burns, no blisters. Jason's eyes changed, turned metallic with anger. His mark darkened. He raised a hand and clenched his fist.

It's illusion, Rourke told himself. Most of this is only as real as I allow it to be. Timmy was right — you just gotta believe. Jason doesn't even realize it, doesn't know it's all so much bullshit; all coming from his own, tormented psyche. He has the talent, but he's psychotic. He believes everything he's saying.

Jason opened his fist, closed those eerie eyes and concentrated. Peter blocked, his temples throbbing from the effort, but still nearly buckled under the strain of fending off the probe. He could not prevent a few sick, disturbing tremors from occurring. They shook the foundations of his being. He knew he would not be able to defend himself forever. He'd have to do more than just resist.

Jason chose that moment to change tactics. He whistled sharply, then leaned casually against the wall. He wore a satisfied smirk that curled slowly into a sneer as he studied Rourke's reaction. He reached behind him and brought something up from the floor.

Human bones, the fingers formed in a claw; tied around with horse hair. The totem. Peter shook himself, remembered that awful cave; the odor of dried human feces. But wait, the strange smell was here and now, in the mortuary. It was an atrocious stench, the reek of the grave. Peter recoiled. He heard clumsy noises, animal sounds. They were coming from the back of the building.

His initial impression was of something only a short distance away, right around the corner. But then the noises got louder, closer. He realized how large it had to be to make such a racket.

It emerged from the back room, drooling, talons curved.

"I hunger," It said.

Jason pointed to Rourke and smiled. "Then eat, my servant. Fill your belly and feast!"

Peter cringed. It shuffled towards him and he thought: […poor jake is gone…] Jesus Christ, the last thing he ever saw had to be this sick distortion of flesh, blood and bone? This is what they left him when he died?

He started skulling as hard as he could, but the shaggy lump kept coming: salivating, clenching and unclenching those filthy claws, closing the gap. No matter what he did, the abominable whatever-it-was kept looking taller and wider and uglier, making him feel smaller and more and more helpless.

It couldn't be meant to end this foolishly; with some gross, hairy implausible being ripping him apart like greasy fried chicken. What was he missing?

It was Jason, he realized. Jason was shielding the thing, betting that Rourke's inexperience would make him doubt himself; think he wasn't good enough, not up to Jason's speed. Well, let's just see about that, shall we?

He pushed harder...

Harder still —

[…]

And the monstrous thing became almost comic. It began stopping and starting, turning this way and that, like some harmless wind-up toy. Peter hadn't the slightest idea how he had done it, but he'd somehow stretched his talent to dominate the creature. He had circumvented Jason's barrier in milliseconds.

"Eat!" the little man bellowed. "I command you in Dog's name!"

It lurched in Peter's direction. He effortlessly nudged it back towards Jason, this time willing It to hear no voice other than his own. He won. Jason sputtered, enraged. He raised his stubby arms, mumbled a few arcane phrases and closed his eyes. It vanished. A whiff of sulfur, a grudging nod of respect.

"Give me Maggie, Jason," Rourke said. "I'll stay, but she goes free."

Jason grinned, yellow on pink. His mark danced. "You would do that? Stay?"

"If you'll let her leave."

"You make things interesting. I shall consider your offer most carefully."

"Jason," Rourke said. "I think I understand, maybe even more than you do. But I want to hear it from your lips. Why? Why did you do this?"

Laughter. "You did not enjoy raping my mind, White? If you had stayed a trifle longer, you might even have joined us. That irony would have been wonderful indeed. Why? That's a stupid question, from such a gifted man. For power. Feel it?"

And Peter did: A band of pressure around his head. Temperature climbing, muscles cramping.

"This is the final step, Peter Rourke. I must have you to complete the equation. You shall help me throw open The Gate which keeps my master in bondage."

"That's just stupid. Why are you so fucking special? Why me?"

"We are chosen. You were doomed the day you were born, for that's when you first stood against us. We were destined to meet, you and I."

What a fool. There was no point in arguing with him. "Look, Jason, why did you come down so hard on that poor little boy?"

"Because he's actually a part of you. Didn't you sense that?"

He was weakening. It was difficult to keep fighting back, every single second, with no rest. Peter dug his nails into his palms and bit his lower lip. The pain centered him, brought back a measure of control. I've got to buy some time, keep him talking.

"And why Two Trees?"

Jason seemed surprised he would ask. "You were born here, weren't you? Besides, this place was chosen by the Lord of Flies. It is not for us to question his judgment."

Rourke spat on the floor. "You're an idiot, Jason. This place chose you!"

"What do you mean?"

"Just that," Rourke said. "This place chose the both of us. It's built on an ancient evil and you're nothing but a pawn. There is no Beast, Jason. Not one that has annointed you, anyway. And there will be no kingdom come, no rich reward. You and I are nothing but…food."

They stared at each other. Jason smiled warmly. Rourke almost liked him in that moment. Almost.

"Rourke?"

"Yes."

"It's time to die."

JESUS CHRIST, he's caught me unprepared! Rourke threw every inch of what he had into his talent; watching, horrified, as an ax materialized in Jason's hand. The ugly little man swung it, hefted it for balance, then began to speed up his metabolism faster/faster/faster/ until he was only smoke to the physical Rourke, literally invisible to the human eye, moving in accelerated time: In. For. The. Kill. Hacking. With. The. Ax.

An idea.

A frantic flip through some pictures, glimpsed but once, from within Jason's memory bank. And, in the same half-heartbeat, falling flat on the floor — desperately rolling and twisting away, hoping to get lucky. To outguess the blur that was Jason, the certain death in his hands, just long enough to try one thing; to see if he could be hurt by emotions long discarded.

No more time. He's going to cut you!

NOW!

Both men froze, Rourke almost as surprised as Jason when it actually materialized. The warlock stopped in his tracks, his mouth hanging open. The magic blade split into dust.

Robert Reiss.

Rourke's boyhood friend, so solid and true he brought tears. Robert was hanging from a large wooden cross, wearing a crown of thorns, looking exactly as Rourke had pictured him. He opened his serene eyes, gazed down upon Jason with devastating kindness, and pronounced those intolerable words...

"I forgive you," Robert whispered. "For you know not what you do."

Jason cried out. The sight forced him to cover his face with his hands. Then he scowled, veins pulsing in his mottled forehead, and used his own will to make the figure go away. He tried to resume the battle. But Rourke was the aggressor, now. He immediately sent a second projection to gather and hang in the bleak, magnetically charged atmosphere. It was a perfect choice: A sharp, crisp construction of a little girl with innocent features. She looked at Jason Smith with a disappointed ache painted on her eyes and said something about forever and ever...

"Karen!" Jason gasped. He swallowed, then dismissed this vision as well — but with far less authority. Peter had rocked him badly. His eyes bored into Rourke; his mind tried to follow, but Rourke pushed back. He'd found new reserves of strength.

A stalemate.

"Dog!" Jason shrieked.

Thunder. Footsteps. Shapes, emerging into the light. Peter stiffened, dug deep and reinforced his resolve. He probed; skulled empty rooms and empty bodies. The forms behind Jason were slowly revealed as men, but nobody lived here any longer.

Rourke couldn't help himself, not this time. He wasn't up to looking Martoni's corpse right in the eye, as if he saw this kind of shit every day. These shambling bodies — one a beloved friend — were not an illusion, a fantasy. They were real.

And coming for him.

Urich opened his mouth. Foul gas emerged. "Peter," he said in a garbled voice. "Join us." Rourke gave a step or two. He knew he was fueling Jason by feeling, so intensely, what the warlock wanted him to feel — what creatures such as this fed upon. Horror.

Martoni's decomposing body clutched at Peter. The motion disturbed the grocer's ragged clothing. Threads came loose, and scraps began to fall. That was bad enough, but it disturbed the putrid flesh as well. Clumps of rotting meat began to slap the wooden floor.

That was too much. Just too damn much. Rourke faced the decaying corpses as they angled in to take him, their arms outstretched. Their skin was grey, pocked and oozing in spots; twitching from the reluctance of the discarded hulks to be reanimated. This flesh just wanted to lie down. Forever.

[PETER?]

Maggie, screaming in her mind, knowing he was somewhere near. She was trying her best to send him strength and love. Rourke stared into Martoni's flat, dead eyes. Had his talent detected something, a faint glimmer of life?

[PETER!]

Maggie again, loving him in the midst of her terror. Rourke thought of Timmy Baxter's rare brand of courage. That inspired him to reach for — and offer up — the cross. The cross: It had begun to glow, like a sparkler on the fourth of July.

He was certain he was right when Urich hissed and tried to back away. Martoni leaned an inch or two closer, that tiny glimmer still trying to communicate. It didn't need to anymore. Peter understood. The mortified flesh wished only to rest, the soul not to be shamed. Rourke held out the cross. He let the flickering white touch Martoni. The wretched face relaxed, the twitching ceased. The corpse began to crumble into powder, and Anthony Martoni flew away.

Rourke marched towards the cowering, rotting insult to the memory of Urich, the cross extended. The air before him folded, creased and became Jason. Peter faked to his left, then cut right. He stepped around the little warlock and sent Urich's soul away. The deed was done before Jason had time to shift his clumsy feet and wheel around.

The air yawned empty.

Jason bellowed his rage. The mortuary shook and the storm outside strained to smash right through the walls. Rourke walked forward at an even pace, the glittering cross held high.

"What foolishness is this?" Jason growled.

"Just a little something from my Grandfather's grave," Rourke said. "Perhaps he has forgiven me. Do you think so, Jason?"

"Stupidity. A token. A talisman for savages."

"You know something," Peter said, shaking his head in amazement, "I used to think that myself. I'll bet there isn't a man on this earth, no matter how rock-solid his faith, who hasn't had that thought from time to time. But it's not really true."

Animal grunting from a long-buried trunk: A flashbulb of pulsating, frustrated evil. For a gut-wrenching moment, it seemed to plunge both men straight through the floor, deep into the belly of The Beast. Jason's imaginary master had begun to hammer on the locked door. His screams of rage, blistering threats directed at Jason, were deafening. Rourke knew that he was at last turning the tide.

Jason paled and wrung his hands.

"Well," Rourke smiled. "You've got one sick-fuck imagination, don't you Jason? You created this thing, and now you've failed to satisfy it. I guess you're in a heap of trouble, aren't you?"

Jason went wild. He began frothing at the mouth and howling, unable to accept defeat. An icy sweat of fear erupted from his sallow flesh and began to soak through his stinking clothing.

"Impressive," Rourke said.

"You!"

Jason crouched, flint glinting in his evil eyes. He took Rourke's measure, tensed himself and sprang. Peter struck him with the cross. Their collision was a nova; it left a smoking crater in the skin of Jason's left shoulder. His birthmark nearly imploded. Jason cried out and dodged into a corner to think things over. He was still making carnivore sounds, but now with a trace of whine in them. Peter chatted as if they'd just been introduced at a dull party.

"This could be a Star of David, couldn't it?" he said. "Or a Saint Christopher medal, a Buddha. Hell, anything, right? Doesn't have to be religious. Garlic, silver bullets, whatever. All that's important is that I believe in it more than you, Jason. In myself more than you."

"Damn you, Rourke!"

"You're nothing, Jason. And your so-called Master is nothing, assuming he even exists. Like I said, you are a pawn. You have both been serving something older than yourselves; something that wanted to feed on us all, on this whole sick enterprise. And it's something that will leave you to die, now that it has finished with you."

And he went on like that, while searching the rooms; rubbing it in as The Beast lost His power and Jason began to wonder what would be done to him as punishment for his failure. Rourke stayed calm and level-headed, until he found Maggie in the coffin. Then he was so outraged that he struck Jason with the cross a second time.

Maggie sobbed with relief as Peter untied her. She held on to him, shivering with joy as much as fear.

"You lose, Jason," Rourke said.

"Lord of Flies, strike them!"

Nothing happened. Rourke shook his head. "You really don't get it, do you? There was never anything out there, Jason. It was all in your mind, except for your psi talent. We've both been toyed with. Something wanted to feed on us all, on our terror and your greed and rage."

"Fuck you, Rourke!"

Peter picked up the rifle and shot Jason in the leg. Jason fell with a startled gasp. He stared at his own blood, unable to accept that he'd actually been wounded.

"You…shot me?"

"See? You're nothing now. Nothing."

"One round, Rourke," Jason hissed. "You know as well as I that this is not over. It is never really over."

Rourke snarled. "Fuck off," he said. "It is for us." He started to go. A keening wail exploded from the tiny warlock, the hint of a plea: "Kill me, then! Come on, finish it!"

Peter, flushed with anger and disgust, was happy to oblige. He raised the rifle for a second time and drew back the bolt. Maggie remained wooden, but then spoke in a sweet, soft voice. "Don't do it, Pete. Don't sink to his level."

Rourke scowled. A nerve twitched: Finger on the trigger. [squeeze, jeremy said. that's the boy, squeeze] Tighter and tighter...

But suddenly Rourke lowered the weapon with a huge sigh. Oddly enough, he felt a melancholy kinship with Smith.

"No," he said.

Jason Smith whined. "I ... I'm begging you to make it quick. Please, damn you. We are brothers, you and I."

"Sorry, Jason," Rourke said. He actually felt pity. "I'm afraid that's not your fate."

A cracking sound.

Bones.

Jason, his ruined face a mask of pain, flipped over onto one side. His skin tightened, wrinkled and began to peel. Hair came loose and slid from his scalp; it floated to the floor in a thin shower of silver thread, right before his horrified, helpless eyes... Bloodshot eyes, each suddenly a roadmap of broken veins.

"AAAAaaahahhhHHHHAaaaa" he cried, like a tortured prisoner.

For it was as if his skull were caught in a vice, or in the grip of two gigantic, taloned hands. They pressed and pressed until his eyeballs enlarged; slowly ballooned out in an almost comic way, their pupils stretched and showing the strain to the point where dots were visible, the dots that had connected to form the color of those eyes — and POP they exploded. Jason produced a throaty grrrrr sound. Rourke spoke to him in a voice both urgent and kind.

"You've been used," he said. "And now you're all used up. You see, it's full. It doesn't need you any more."

"K-k-kill me!"

"I can't," Rourke said. "It wouldn't let me."

"W-w-why not?"

"Because you're dessert."

The warlock thrashed like a fish on the dock and blood splattered. Maggie gulped and turned away. Jason continued to disassemble, his panic increasing as his body failed him. There was a ripping and rending of flesh, of tendons, muscles and tormented organs being smashed and sucked inward. He was aging, old and then ancient. [jason heard the screeching of vultures, swooping low over spoiled carrion reeking under a scorching, black sun. carnivore and prey joined in a cacophony of agonized howls wrenched from heaving lungs... his lungs…and he saw vargas there, another prometheus, and knew that they were both doomed to the eternal agony of evisceration…]

When Maggie looked back, Jason Smith had withered completely. He was jagged shards from a crumbling skeleton and some scraps of dirty cloth. Rourke imagined he heard one last, faint cry. But perhaps it was only the wind.

The wind. Easing? Yes. Silence, except for the patter of rain on the roof above and the sound of their breathing. The storm was lifting.

Rourke led Maggie through the tall wooden doors and out into the clean, fresh air. Friendly dark: Soothing breeze tickled their flesh, parted stubborn wisps of cloud to reveal the night sky. They heard cheering and laughing.

Timmy was waiting just beyond the splintered picket fence. He was jumping up and down and waving. Rourke collected the third member of his new family and they returned to Agatha's house to get his car. Maggie drove, for Peter was exhausted.

Behind them, the lights flickered and sparks flew.

"Look!" Timmy shouted, pointing back through the rear window. They were on the rise above Two Trees. The power lines had fallen, and fires were springing up all over town. Flames seemed to race towards the mortuary as if directed by an unseen hand. It felt right. This way, nothing would remain of the battlefield but ashes.

People have to be warned, Rourke realized. Oh, not tonight — it could wait a bit — but someday. The truth: Jason was probably right, it was never really over. Whatever did this might rise again.

We cling too desperately to the sunshine, Peter thought. We never seem to learn. Look at any city: Millions of lights, every color of the rainbow — street lamps, porch lights, neon signs and billboards. Bright as day, and all left on until the break of dawn. Why? Because man is afraid of the dark.

With good reason.

EPILOGUE

Come…Join us.

Sail down from the hills like a red-tailed hawk, float over the lunar landscape that is this barren, sunken valley. See what was Two Trees, far below? Now only the blackened skeletons remain: Piles of wood that once were buildings, sheets of metal that once protected homes, signs that once meant something to the humans who lived here. Two Trees is now a ghost town, in more ways than one.

It is finished. The bodies have been identified where possible, and buried. The police officials and the scientists came and took copious notes, but in the end they understood nothing. Officials whispered of a government facility located twenty miles away, a place rumored to produce chemical and biological weapons. Perhaps something unseen had escaped a glass container and been borne on an errant wind; perhaps someone infected by an agent had run rather than die horribly on a television monitor, all alone. We'll never know now, they said; not for sure.

Whatever had struck down the tiny town of Two Trees had come without warning and vanished with the sunrise. It was not spoken of, nor read about, again. In fact, the entire tale was soon forgotten and became as legend.

Look, down below…

Many years have passed. Someone has improved the water supply, planted green grass and many new trees, and started building tract homes with cable access and instant, high-speed internet service. Trucks are arriving, ramps are dropping, furniture slides along the sidewalk; children begin to laugh and play and run through hissing sprinklers.

It is time for a fresh meal.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank Nick Dollak for his time and attention. If he had not cheerfully scanned the original version of this manuscript (written nearly twenty years ago) onto a workable computer file, this book would not exist. Fellow Irishman and author Kealan-Patrick Burke then proofed the entire book and thus saved my sorry ass.

My eternal gratitude to my wife, Wendy, and my daughter, Paige Emerson, for their continued patience and support.

I offer another nod to the collective members of the esteemed Horror Writers Association. Also, to so many supportive authors and editors including, but not limited to: William F. Nolan, Ed Gorman, Graham Masterton, my dear friend Richard Matheson Sr., the diabolical Eddie McMullen of Feo Amante.com, Joe R. "Mr. Mojo" Lansdale, Owl Goingback, Tim Lebbon, Douglas Clegg, Robin Spriggs, Scott Nicholson, Mike Oliveri, Jon Merz, Edo van Belkom, Bruce Ballon, Gina Gallo and Brian Keene.

I am grateful to John Turi of Medium Rare Books.com, his lovely wife Shawn, the talented Ms. Christina Crooks and to all those who criticized, commented on and just plain slogged through reading the preceding pages so that someone, someday might enjoy them. That list must include (from days of yore) Ms. Candace Lake, Dr. Linda Segar, Jane Cushman and Joan Bellefontaine. Thanks so much.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harry Shannon is a former Emmy-nominated songwriter, music publisher and film studio executive who is now a counselor in private practice. His first collection, "Bad Seed, 2nd Edition," received numerous HWA "Stoker" Award recommendations and is available through Medium Rare Books.com. Harry has published fiction in Twilight Tales, Blue Murder, Alternate Realities, Crimestalker Casebook, Terror Tales, Futures, Sinisteria and several other magazines. He can be reached via his website, the predictably eponymous www.harryshannon.com.