Cat's Cradle (24 page)

2

The guard had brought them their supper. A loaf of bread, a jar of mustard, and some assorted cold cuts. He looked in on them and said, “Nighty, nite, kids. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Hell with you,” Mille said.

He laughed and said. “Lights out at nine. Be good and you might get breakfast.”

“You mean we won’t have to look at your ugly face again tonight?” Mille asked.

“ ’Fraid not,” he replied with a sardonic grin and closed the door.

As soon as he left they went to work on the old cane-bottomed chair they had found in a pile of junk in the corner. When they finished, they both had clubs, about three feet long. They sat down, fixed sandwiches, and waited for the deep night.

* * *

The farmer and his wife sat watching television. As far as the man was concerned, the program was about as interesting as watching cows chew cud. His attention kept wandering off. He wished they’d put something good back on TV. Gunsmoke or Rawhide or Wagon Train.

He stirred in his chair.

“Don’t say it,” his wife said, never taking her eyes from the screen. She knew what he was about to say. She’d heard it many times.

“I don’t see how you can sit and watch this junk,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled. She knew what would be next.

“I think I’m gonna get me one them dishes and stick it out in the front yard.”

“Over my dead body. All you want to do is watch naked girls.”

“All I want to do,” he said, “is watch a good cowboy gunfight every now and then. I wouldn’t know what to do with a young girl if one come dancin’ across the living room.”

She laughed at him, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. This was a game they played often. Not much else to do with the kids and grandbabies long gone and living way off in the cities. Work a little garden, sit out on the porch and rock, and watch some TV at night. And play the game, arguing about the quality of programming.

This would be the last night for them to play the game.

The man looked at the rerun on TV and wished that stupid boat would sink. Didn’t old people ever take cruises? Was the entire world made up of young people? It sure seemed that way.

Their old hound dog began barking. The barking suddenly tapered off into a choking, painful bubbling. Husband and wife looked at each other.

“Turn it off,” he said, pointing at the TV.

She rose and clicked off the TV while he went to the closet and got his shotgun. He broke it down and loaded up both barrels. “Stay in the house.” He put a handful of extra shells in his pocket.

The old man stepped out onto the back porch. He could see what was left of his old dog in the moonlight. Bits and pieces of Buck. Blood all over the places, glistening darkly, wetly, under the moon’s light. The man felt sick to his stomach. Old Buck was, or had been, more than a dog; he was, or had been, a member of the family.

The man cussed, low and long.

“What is it?” his wife called.

“I don’t know. It’s bad, though. Something’s killed old Buck.”

“What?”

“If I knew, woman, I’d tell you. Don’t come out here. Get that four-ten of yours and load ’er up. Do what I tell you, now.”

The man’s nose wrinkled in disgust as something foul drifted to him, floating heavily on the light night breeze. He had never smelled anything like it.

Yes, he had. Death! It smelled like death.

Then something else struck his mind. Pete didn’t drive back that afternoon. He’d seen Pete drive down the dirt road, like he did everyday, ’cept Sunday, to check on them cattle of his. But today he never came back. And Pete would have had to come back on the dirt road. Only one way in, and one way out.

But he didn’t come back.

And he knew he hadn’t missed him. ’Cause it was a regular thing between the two men. Pete would laugh and honk and wave. Water would return the wave from his rocking chair on the porch.

So where the hell was Pete?

An alien night sound spun him around, his damned old bad knee almost giving way on him. It was rough getting old. What the blazes was that . . .
thing
moving over there by the corner of the house?

Walter stepped closer, gripping the shotgun tightly, lifting the double-barrel.

“Phew, Walter! ” his wife said. “What in the world is that awful smell?”

“I don’t know.” That thing he’d seen was gone. “You load up that four-ten?”

No. There it was. But what the hell is it?

“Yes. And I feel like a fool holding this thing.”

“Better to feel like a fool for a few minutes than be forever dead, mother.” There that thing was again. God! it was
horrible
looking.

“It’s probably a bear. Mable told me there was some sightings last week.”

“No bear, mother. Not this time.”

“But? . . .”

“Hush up.” His eyes had not left the thing by the corner of the house. It began to move, slowly. Kind of shuffling movement. But what in the good God almighty was it? He strained his eyes, peering into the ivory-tinted gloom. The damn thing looked ... well,
slick.

Slick?

He stepped closer. The thing growled at him. But it was not a growl like any growl he had ever heard before. It was—he didn’t know what it sounded like.

“What’s all that growling?”

“Goddamnit, mother, I don’t know!”

“You watch your mouth, old man.”

The thing came closer, shuffling as it came. Then it stepped into the light from God’s moon.

“Jesus Christ!” the old man shouted, the shotgun in his hands forgotten. Fear numbed his mind. Froze his feet to the ground.

“Walter! What’s wrong?”

“Lock all the doors, mother! And call the law!”

The man remembered the shotgun in his hands. The weapon felt strange. He looked down. The shotgun was melting in his hands, the metal white hot, the barrels drooping, the wood blazing with fire. His hands were blistered from the heat. When he released the weapon, the heat was so intense it took pieces of flesh from his hands. He screamed in pain.

The creature’s eyes glowed in the night. The old man felt himself being pushed backward by some invisible force. His feet sailed out from under him and he fell heavily to the ground, landing on his bad knee. He felt the old bones give way and break. He yelled in pain.

“Walter!”

“Stay inside,” he called weakly. “Call the law, mother. Don’t come out here. For God’s sake, don’t come outside.”

The woman ran to the phone and dialed the sheriff’s office. She quickly told the dispatcher what she knew and told them to please hurry. She slammed the phone down, picked up her shotgun, and ran toward the back porch.

She looked out, saw her husband writhing on the ground. She jerked open the back door and ran onto the porch. The Old One turned at the disturbance. Its hideous face crinkled in what was, for the Old One, a smile.

The woman pointed her shotgun at the creature. The Old One laughed. Its eyes glowed. The woman screamed as her shotgun was torn from her hands, breaking several of her fingers as it was wrenched away. The shotgun sailed from the porch to the man on the ground. The butt of the weapon smashed Walter’s head, again and again, caving in the man’s skull. The sounds of his skull cracking filled the once peaceful night. He screamed once, then fell into darkness. The retired farmer’s blood and brains stained the earth he had loved and worked all his life.

The woman tried to run back into the house. The back door slammed shut. The doorknob would not turn. She screamed and hammered at the door. She felt her feet jerked out from under her. She fell heavily to the porch, knocking the wind from her. She felt herself being dragged by some force off the porch, to the ground, her head banging on the steps as she was dragged, screaming and kicking and trying to dig her fingers into the wood of the porch.

She was lifted off the ground, high into the air, screaming as she was flung about. The force smashed her to the ground, landing her on her head. The sound of her neck popping was like a gunshot. She was conscious, but could not move from the neck down. She could only move her eyes, and she wished she could not see what was happening. She lay on the ground and watched the hideous-looking creature squat down and begin eating her husband.

It did not take the Old One long.

Then it was her turn.

* * *

“I beg your pardon, Father?” Dan asked.

“I cannot undo what has taken place,” the priest said. “I can only attempt to help those who want help. I cannot halt the birthing of Satan’s Old Ones—his minions. You spoke of placing a dynamite charge down the hole. You could put a hundred charges of explosive down there and it would do no good. Only God can kill Satan and his minions. The Old Ones must be driven back into the earth, reburied. Once that happens, conditions here in Ruger County will return to normal. The spell over the animals will be broken. Those unfortunates who are infected ... I’m afraid they must be killed. They can be forgiven, for what they have become is not their fault.” He sighed. “I might be able to stop the Old Ones. And I stress might. What . . . you people, and the others in this county, are about to witness, be a part of, will be a living nightmare. But do not think your God has forsaken you. He has not. He had nothing to do with this. He is not testing you or your faith. These things ... happen, that’s all. It is not punishment, as some preachers will loudly proclaim.”

“Father Denier, shall we include the other religious leaders of this community in . . . whatever it is we are going to do?” Dan questioned.

Denier smiled at that. “By all means, Sheriff. Do call the local Baptist ministers and tell them that a Catholic priest is about to perform the rite of exorcism on Ruger County. They would all get a good laugh out of that.”

Vonne got tight-lipped at that remark, not reading any of the priest’s humor in what was said. “That’s a rather smug statement, Father.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, Mrs. Garrett,” Denier said. “Indeed, many priests don’t believe in exorcism. Many of the new, young priests don’t even believe in Satan. Really. I have no quarrel with any church. Just think what a marvelous thing it would be if we could all get along. Think of what wonders we could perform if we spent our time helping instead of constantly bickering and back-biting and criticizing the other’s religious choice. Do you know what I believe? I don’t think it makes one whit of difference what church a person attends. Just go to some church. Believe in God. That’s what is important. Be all that one can be. Try to practice what the Bible teaches. Turn the other cheek if possible. If it isn’t possible, get in the first punch and make it count. Now do you see why I was, and am, in constant hot water with the Church hierarchy?”

When the laughter had died down, Vonne smiled and said, “You are an unusual priest, Father Denier.”

“I am merely a human being who has spent his entire life in the study and worship and praise of God, Mrs. Garrett. I despise ignorance.”

“Do we include the other religious leaders?” Dan persisted.

“We would be remiss in our duty if we did not,” Denier said. “A few will probably believe us. Very few. But we have to try, for there are many who would not believe any but their own preachers. But,” he held up a warning finger. “Please consider the panic it will cause, if we are believed. Where would the people go? And is this a county-wide concern-at this moment-or centrally located right around this town, as I believe is the case? You have ten thousand residents in this county. How many churches? Fifty? That is where the people will flock. In panic. Blind, stupid, panic. All of them. For as in combat, Sheriff, there are no atheists in the foxholes. The churches could not contain the people. They would be fighting to get in, rioting in the streets. The churches would collapse under the weight of the people.”

Dan stood up. “ Well ... but ... Goddamnit, Father!” He lost his temper.

Denier chuckled at the man’s embarrassment. “It is a dilemma, is it not, Dan?”

“Well,” Dan said, sitting back down. “Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better be getting to it. It’s full dark outside.”

“What does that have to do with our situation?” Denier asked, that slightly amused look on his face.

“Well,” Dan said. “The
night
belongs to Satan, doesn’t it?”

The priest shook his head. “All things belong to God, Dan. It makes no difference to Satan whether it’s day or night. For in this particular situation, the Dark One is all-powerful. The Old Ones will rebirth. One is already free of the womb. The others are still struggling. But they’ll make it.”

“What is that one doing?” Taylor asked, curious and fearful of the priest’s answer.

Denier met the man’s eyes. He saw both fear and strength in the man. “Eating,” he said.

The trooper leaned forward, not sure he’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon, Father?”

“The Old Ones will be very hungry. Ravenous. They will be killing humans and eating them.”

“Jesus Christ!” Dodge blurted. “Like that thing out at the hole did?”

“Yes.”

Dodge shuddered.

“How many of . . . uh, the Old Ones are there?” Dan asked.

“Six, probably,” Denier said. “Satan is very fond of sixes.”

Chuck did some fast counting. He breathed easier when the number in the room exceeded six.

Denier had watched the chief deputy. Mountain boy, he thought. Tough as wang leather. He’s spooky, but he’ll stand firm.

“When you blessed the house and grounds,” Dan said. “I mean . . . I’m not Catholic. I don’t understand what you did.”

“I blessed the house and grounds and asked God to protect those inside. Like a Jewish friend of mine is fond of saying, ’It don’t hurt!’ ”

They all laughed at that. Dan thought: this Father Denier is a character. But I’m glad he’s here.