Night Of The Beast (21 page)

"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.

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.

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.

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.