Anathema (13 page)

Kill him!

Russell's eyes glazed over, and although he tried to resist, he couldn't help but pick up the shoe box-sized stone next to him. Emotionless, he raised the stone above his head.

Vincent began to cry, but the tears only fueled the anger and hatred Russell already had for the boy.

"Whatcha gonna do,” Russell mocked in a voice that sounded hauntingly like Vincent's. “Run home and cry to mommy?” Russell let the stone drop.

And while the parishioners at Travis Anderson's funeral sang “Nearer My God to Thee,” Vincent Mardell was getting closer to his.

The first time Jim Anderson saw it was when he was in the middle of singing the second verse of “Nearer My God to Thee.” He thought it was just the way the sunlight shone through the stained glass windows. Then he figured it was his mind playing a cruel trick on him. He hadn't had any sleep since his son's death. Fatigue coupled with insurmountable grief had caused the hallucination. But now, as he stood and listened to Pastor Timothy's Benediction, he saw the delusion again.

His son's coffin was dripping blood. It dripped like water from a leaky faucet and pooled on the floor in a red pond.

Drip ... Splash ... Drip ... Splash ... Drip.

Jim's legs turned to rubber. He gripped the back of the pew in front of him until his knuckles turned white. What was happening? Why was his son's coffin bleeding? How was such a thing possible? Oh, dear God, was he losing his mind?

Suddenly, the casket cover blew off. A geyser of gore erupted from the inside. The pillar of blood reached to the vaulted ceiling of the nave and rolled across it like red storm clouds.

The clouds burst, and a rain of blood fell upon the congregation. Gore streaked their faces, ruined their clothes. It puddled around their shoes, and like a flooding river, rose above their ankles.

The parishioners didn't notice. Their eyes were closed as they listened to Pastor Timothy recite the final prayer.

Open your eyes,
Jim wanted to tell them.
Open your eyes and look around you! Can't you see what is happening around you? Don't you care!
Then he realized this show was for his eyes only.

Just as Moses had parted the Red Sea, the ocean of blood separated as a sickly green mist swirled up the center aisle. The fog stopped at the altar, and the three dead whores walked out of it. From their mouths came the cries of a million tortured children.

The whores moved across the altar, one of them actually moved
through
Timothy, and gathered around the coffin. Then, one of them plucked Travis from it and kissed him full on his lips.

Leave my boy alone!
Jim wanted to scream, but when he opened his mouth, not a sound came out of it.

The embrace terminated, Travis's head creaked on his shoulders. Milky white eyes stared at Jim.

"I've been damned, Daddy,” the dead thing croaked. “I've been damned to Hell."

Jarvis squeezed Jim's trembling hand. “It's not real,” he whispered. “None of it. Close your eyes, and it'll go away."

But the images played against the back of his eyelids like a movie in a haunted theater.

What had he done?

Russell Harvey stared at the rock in his hand. It was black with gore. Hair and skin clung to it. Bits of brain and tissue hung from it like pieces of tape.

The front of his shirt was saturated red, as were the front of his pants and the tops of his new Nikes. His face and hands were sticky with blood. The air was thick with its metallic stink.

Russell looked down at Vincent, or at least what was left of him. Viscous fluid, glistening in the morning sun, bubbled from the pulverized brain like warm chocolate. Shards and slivers of bone looked like bits of ivory floating on a piece of red velvet. An eyeball, nerves still attached, stared upward from the sand. Green-bodied flies landed on the congealing blood, dipped their proboscises into it, and drank.

Russell had only intended to teach Vincent a lesson. Rough him up a bit. Let him know he'd had enough of his torment. He never intended to do ... to do
this
!

But the stone was right there, and the voices in his head were so approving. The anger inside him was so powerful that it made everything so easy.

And it felt good.

Russell looked at the rock, wrinkled his face into a mask of agony, and dropped the stone as if it burned him. He fumbled in his pocket, found his inhaler. He gave himself a blast. Then another. And another.

God in Heaven, what had he done?

On the rim that overlooked the quarry stood the children. They were smiling. They were well pleased.

Chapter 17

About the time Pastor Timothy recited the Benediction over the Anderson funeral, Herve Wojciehowski was nearly plowed down by Seymour Standish and his Delta Eighty-eight. Thick black smoke rose from the pavement as Seymour hit the brakes, screeching the huge car to a halt.

The sacks of groceries Herve held slipped through his arms and crashed to the street with the mushy sound of broken eggs.

Seymour rolled down the window of the Oldsmobile, stuck his head out, and said, “Get the hell out of the street, you stupid, old Pollock."

Herve stared at Standish, his fear replaced with anger. He was old. Eighty-three was hardly a spring chicken, but Seymour himself was almost as old as dirt. And it was true he was Polish. With a name like Wojciehowski, his nationality was never a question. But he was far from stupid.

Stepping on the fallen bag of eats, Herve popped the top off the plastic gallon of milk, spraying the chrome of the car. “There,” he croaked, “how'd you like them apples, you bastard."

Seymour swung the door open, and in his haste, almost fell out of the car. He scrambled to retain his balance. Eyes wild, hair poking out from under his dirty baseball cap, Seymour shuffled to the front of his car.

"Look what you did,” Seymour said. The milk was already drying into a sticky, white goo.

"You damned near ran me down with this tank.” Herve kicked the bumper.

"You'll pay for that, you crazy fuck!” Seymour walked to the rear of the vehicle and popped the trunk.

Herve followed. “Oh, so now I'm crazy
and
stupid!"

Standish picked up the tire iron and turned. “I'll teach you to fuck with me."

He raised the iron above his head and, with a grunt, brought it down hard against Wojciehowski's face.

Sounding somewhat like a baseball bat connecting with a ball, Herve's jaw snapped as the iron crushed his chin. Blood sprayed from his nostrils, sprinkling Seymour's face like red rain. One of Herve's eyeballs popped from its socket and dangled on the ends of its nerves.

The old man crumpled to the pavement like tissue paper.

Seymour kicked Herve with the heel of his boot, breaking the old man's ribs and puncturing his lungs. As he kicked him a second time, Herve's frail body twitched as damaged nerves tried in vain to send a message to his brain. Gore trickled from the corner of his twisted mouth. His tongue, swollen and purple, poked from between his broken lips like a piece of spoiled meat.

Seymour pulled off his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow with a corner of his shirt. Then he wiped the blood from his face and tire iron. He tossed the iron into the back seat.

Standish slid behind the wheel and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. The whole ordeal had sparked one helleva headache. Maybe he'd stop at the Stumble Inn for a cool one. Maybe it'd make him feel better.

Shifting the Olds into DRIVE, Seymour Standish roared down the street, leaving Herve Wojciehowski bleeding in the gutter.

Russell Harvey staggered into town. He had been crying, and his tears washed away some of the dirt in long, jagged streaks. He took a blast from the inhaler, but tasted only the bitter flavor of camphor. The medicine was long gone.

Russ swaggered past the Stumble Inn. The tavern's door was open, and he saw the silhouettes of drinkers that lined the bar. Raucous laughter spilled into the street. The smell of beer, cigarettes, and urine lingered outside.

Old man Standish appeared in the doorway, a mug of cold beer in his hand. He saw Russell stagger past the tavern. The old man smiled, raised his mug in the air, and smiled.

"Way to go, kid,” Standish croaked.

Russell staggered past Cal's Gas-n-Go. The building was dark; the pumps turned off. Russ remembered hearing something about a funeral today. That would explain why the station was closed. Cal must've gone to the service. Russ wondered how many people would come to his funeral when he died. He didn't think it would be very many.

He sucked on the inhaler again and, at last, realized the small cylinder was empty. Russ tossed the useless device into the street. It rolled to the gutter, then disappeared down the storm drain.

Russell limped across the street and pushed open the door of the police station. He collapsed before he crossed the threshold.

An officer with bushy brown hair and a mustache that looked like it belonged on a walrus looked up when the door opened and almost leaped over his desk as Russell fell, face first, to the floor.

Officer Andy rolled Russ onto his back. The boy's chest rose and fell with fierce intensity. His breathing was short, labored, and raspy. Andy searched for the boy's inhaler.

"Russ, where's your medicine?” the officer asked as he plunged his hands into the pockets of the suffocating boy's jeans.

"Gone. Empty. Not important,” Russ croaked, forcing the words from his shriveling lungs. “Listen ... Quarry ... Dead."

"Who's dead? What're you talking about?"

"Mandell ... Vincent Mandell ... At the quarry.” Russell wheezed. “I killed him ... accident ... sorry."

A choking noise gurgled from the boy's throat, his eyes rolled back into his head, and one last breath whistled from his nose. Russell's body went limp. His hand, which rested on his belly, slid to the floor. His knuckles sounded like marbles when they rapped the linoleum.

"I'll call for an ambulance,” Chief Ebert said, getting to his feet. Just then, the phone rang with shrill urgency. He picked it up. Listened. “I'll send someone out right away.” The police chief spoke calmly and evenly into the mouthpiece, then hung up. “That was Pete Underdahl. I need you to go down to Second and Main. Apparently, Seymour Standish beat the shit out of Herve Wojciehowski."

"Seymour and Herve? They play cards together every Saturday night at the Grange. They're best friends.” How bad could this be? Both men were a couple of geezers. The most damage they could probably inflict on each other would be a hangnail. But Ebert's solemn face told him differently. “Sheriff, what the hell's going on here?"

"Trust me, Andy, you're better off not knowing."

Chapter 18

Edna Hapcord walked through the front door of Sew What! with about as much finesse as a bulldozer. She plunked her beaded purse down on the counter and frantically rang the bell for service.

You would think there'd be someone at the counter at all times.
She banged the plunger on the chrome school bell. Her time was much too important to be spent standing at the counter of some second-rate fabric shop.

Lily came out of the back room buttoning her blouse and tucking the shirttails into the waistband of her slacks. At first, Edna was appalled by the vulgar display, but she then realized that was just the way
those
people were.
They
didn't care what anyone else thought. All
they
wanted to do was push their ways onto the rest of the world. It was a sickness, that's what it was. Edna was a righteous woman and it wasn't her place to judge. That was in the Lord's hand.

"Either you or the other one called me about my special order,” Edna said. She tried to look away, but she couldn't help but notice the size of Lily's chest. It looked like she had a pair of cantaloupes stuck under her blouse.

"That would've been me,” Lily replied. Then, without explanation, she flashed her breast at Edna and ran her tongue across her parted lips. “I saw how you were looking at my titties."

Edna's mouth dropped open. She should've been shocked—turned around and ran for the door—but instead, there was a stirring in her loins she hadn't felt for a very long time. She wanted to reach out and grab Lily's supple breast. She wanted to feel the soft flesh yield between her fingers.

Go ahead,
a voice inside Edna's head said.
You know you want to. You're no more righteous than the rest of them. You're the same.

Yes, she was just like them. She wanted to pinch the nipple until it...

Go ahead, Edna. Go ahead. Lezzie.

...bled.

Lily gave Edna a wink, walked around the counter, and brushed against Edna's rear as she went to lock the shop.

Edna quivered and groaned. She felt flushed. Desire that had been dormant inside her for years suddenly had been awakened. And it was hungry.

Lily twisted the window blinds closed, turned around. “Would you like to touch my titties?” She opened her blouse to display her ample bosom. “Would you like to suck my nipples?"

Edna nodded, and when Lily approached her, Edna put her wrinkled hands beneath the shopkeeper's breasts, feeling the weight of them in her small hands.

"Suckle me,” Lily commanded.

Edna did as she was told, burying her face in Lily's chest. Her moist tongue poked at the silky flesh, tasting the woman's sweat.

Lily pushed herself forward, and Edna wrapped her mouth around Lily's dark, large nipple. “Your fabric's in the back,” Lily cooed. “Should we go have a look?"

Edna nodded again.

Taking her hand, Lily led Edna through the aisles of fabrics and notions. Lily opened the door to the back room and stepped to one side.

Edna's eyes widened with a show of fascination, wonder, and fear.

When Lily ordered Edna's Italian silk, she ordered a few other things as well. The back room had been transformed into an S&M playpen.

The walls and ceiling were covered in black vinyl. Shelves that once held bolts of colorful cloth now displayed dildoes of all shapes and sizes. Some were so enormous in length and girth that, if used improperly, they'd rip a woman's insides to pieces. There were jars and tubes of lubricants, and bottles of massage oils with such names as Flaming Passions, Night Eternal, and Virgin Flower. There were whips and chains.