Scarecrow Gods (35 page)

Was it his fault he’d busted his daughter’s boyfriend last spring? It wasn’t as if he’d placed the pound of pot in the wheel well of the boy’s Camaro. All it took was a phone call to a DEA agent he’d worked with the year before and the boy was spending the rest of his senior year on probation with enough hours of community service to ensure he didn’t have time for his daughter. She shouldn’t hold it against him, but she did, and let him know at every opportunity that she was moving up to Phoenix, which was three hours away.

Three hours away my ass,
he thought.

The Ghoul adjusted the NVDs to a brighter level. What he lost in depth, he gained in distance. He peered over the edge of the embankment at the Church of the Resurrection. The low dormitory buildings were cast in the same green light as everything filtered through the special lenses of the NVDs. Here and there brighter squares of white lit windows, but they were few at 2 AM. The taller chapel, with its curved mushroom-shaped roof, was dark in the green light. He scanned the rooftops and building edges for any signs of surveillance.

Nothing. It appeared as if he’d go undetected. Although he wasn’t going into the compound, and his agency was able to manipulate warrants more easily than any other, it was just easier if he was allowed to investigate on his own with no one peeking over his shoulder—especially those who were being surveilled.

It was ironic, really. Other than an initial cursory inspection of the compound, The Ghoul hadn’t really concerned himself with the goings-on here. After the Reverend Phillips and his congregation had successfully spirited away one of the cult members, and the ensuing media attention, not to mention the immediate governmental oversight, the Church of the Resurrection had suddenly become more interesting.

In the back rooms of the ATF, agents reminded each other of Waco and David Koresh. State and Federal officials sent recommendations for action, each one cusping an order, but never actually saying—
Shut them down, before it’s too late
. The cult leader had managed to broker his fate with the most valuable coin of the land: fear. Everyone in the area felt it to a certain degree. Especially, after the national news crews had set up in town, titillating the world with the possibilities the new, emerging cult represented.

Yeah, The Ghoul was interested. He’d love to bring the man down and return the misguided children back to their
loving
parents. He knew about alienation. He knew how the best intentions of a parent could result in the hatred of a child. He also knew how those kids could be manipulated.

He couldn’t get the man for manipulation, but there were other things he could be found guilty of. In all the excitement, no one had investigated the explosion that had occurred. The state, county and local police forces were uninterested, especially since the explosion helped a grandmother recover her granddaughter, an event that had made everyone more than a little sappy. So that left The Ghoul to investigate. After all, with the proximity to Fort Huachuca, it was a virtual no-brainer that some well-meaning local soldiers had been involved in the theft of the explosives. And whether it was a .38 Special or a Bazooka, it was his responsibility to determine the origin, sale and manufacture.

The Ghoul made his way back along the rear edge of the compound’s property. His jeans had several smallish tears and other than spotting a few small rodents, the remainder of his slithering, crawling journey to the compound’s back forty was uneventful.

He had a general idea where the explosion had occurred, based on aerial photos provided by his friends at the Border Patrol, so it wasn’t long before his search revealed the jagged edges of a gaping wound in the earth. After five minutes of searching, he came upon a piece of broken, twisted metal.

That was all he needed. He placed the metal piece in his nylon backpack and crawled backwards out of the hole. Keeping an eye out for creatures of the two and four legged varieties, he began making his way back to the road, staying as close to the way he had come as possible. It was time to return to the office so he could put out a trace for some missing U.S. Government Armament.

The two-inch piece of metal he’d found could have only come from an M1A1 Bangalore Torpedo. Dating back to World War II, the torpedo, actually a five-foot explosive-filled tube, had been designed to clear wire obstacles and kill personnel. Although there were tens of thousands in the U.S. inventory, tracing this one would be fairly easy if the supposition that it came from Fort Huachuca was correct. If not, then the trace was
Needle in a Haystack
impossible.

When he neared the place where he’d first seen the Javelina, he paused. He heard something—a rustling, a step, a moan—something. He couldn’t be sure. The desert at night was such a strange place, at times it seemed to amplify everything, making sounds that had been made miles away seem just over a rise. Other times it was as if the ground soaked up noise.

The Ghoul sank slowly to his knees. One hand increased the brightness on the NVDs while the other readied his pistol. He scanned the area. The wind shifted and he smelled the stench of rotting meat. He quickly covered his nose with the sleeve of his windbreaker and tried not to gag.

Javelina—perhaps this was their grotto. It was a good possibility. The place was close to a water source and probably cooler than the rest of the area. The Ghoul began to crawl up the side of the incline, careful to make as little sound as possible. He’d only managed a few feet before a cry pierced the night. The sound trebled his heartbeat. He brought his pistol up, couldn’t tell where the sound had come from. As his head whipped back and forth, the green images in the NVDs smeared. The smell of rot hung in the air.

He turned towards the Javelina grotto. The sound came again, a high-pitched scream—this time cut off rather than trailing off.

He counted to fifty, hoping for another sound. Even a whisper. Nothing. The night was as still as a painting. Crouching, he took a step towards where he thought the sound had come from. The steady tip of his pistol led the way. He tried to step silently, but his feet were more concerned with balance and his boot came down on the long husk of a yucca feeder.

An explosion of action broke open the night as three huge creatures rose from the tall bear grass. The Ghoul fired three times, then rolled to his right. He slid to a stop on his stomach. A feeling began to creep over him as he replayed the events of the last two seconds in slower motion.

“This is Agent Gooly of the ATF. If you’re in there, call out.”

Ten seconds passed.

“If you need help, let me know.”

Still nothing.

“
Fuck
,” he hissed. Sitting up slowly, he shrugged off his backpack. It was awkward to do one handed, but he wasn’t about to lower his pistol. Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled it out. “I say again, this is Agent Gooly of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. If you’re in there, call out.”

Still nothing.

He reached up, turned off the NVDs, unsnapped the goggles from the harness atop his head and placed them carefully in the backpack. Once he’d cinched the backpack shut, he began inching his way to his right. After about five feet he stopped. His left hand flipped on the portable spotlight. His right gripped the pistol.

The Ghoul squinted as the brightness of the real light assaulted his vision. His two-dimensional world of green had been replaced by one with browns and tans and oranges, and the brilliant glistening red of fresh blood. Upon the spot-lit area of matted grass lay the still corpse of a Mexican Eagle, one of the endangered, carrion birds of the Sonoran Desert. With a wingspan of almost six feet, the thing was monstrous in size. Like the lions of Africa, it was hard to believe something so large and majestic ate the refuse of others.

He’d shot a carrion bird, an eater of the dead. What it and the others had been doing there in the dark had nothing to do with the living. The screams he’d heard had come from an animal, probably the Mexican Eagle itself. The Ghoul began searching the area. Then he saw it—the black rubber sole of a military issue boot. Stepping forward, he shone the light full upon the body.

The animals had gotten to what had once been a man—as had the insects and the heat of the desert sun. The left leg was still clothed in blue khaki down to the boot. The right leg was missing. A few lengths of tendon lay limp upon the sandy soil. The tattered shreds of a blue shirt lay like the hurried residue of a ripped-open package. The chest was half peeled, half eaten, the ribs had succeeded in only redirecting the terrible consumption of the man. Long gashes in the bone reminded him of the broad jaws of the Javelina with their fang-like tusks. The great cavity itself was hollow. The man’s neck had been raked clean of the soft meat. Vertebrae was all that kept the head attached. The lower jaw was missing, as was most of the skin on the face. Only small patches of skin remained, like old paper on the frame of an abandoned kite.

This was the smell he’d mistaken for the Javelina grotto. It insinuated itself into his stomach and ripped free his last meal making him heave until gasped for air.

He’d seen dead bodies before, but none the equal to this. Those had been gunshot or knifing victims, or the thirteen souls who’d died of asphyxiation in the back of a U-Haul as they were being smuggled from the border to Phoenix. He’d never seen someone who’d been eaten—never even imagined it.

The light caught a glint of metal upon the tattered shirt. His instinct told him what it was before he saw it and when he did, he understood entirely. It was a badge, which meant that this
body
was what remained of the missing Border Patrol Agent everyone had been looking for. Bet was the man had left town, something about an investigation into improper conduct. By the location of the body, however, it was possible, even probable, that John the New Baptist was involved. The Ghoul would have to call this in. He’d have some explaining to do, but there was no getting around it.

As he stalked back to his van on the side of the road, now taking full advantage of the light to mark his path, he formulated what he was going to say in his report. He wondered if he’d get in trouble for killing an endangered species.

* * *

The Land of Inside-Out

The Land of Inside-Out
was beautiful in its own way. There was no sun. No birds singing. No flowers or vegetation. There were no toys or games. There was no noise. Before this summer when Maxom had introduced Danny to
The Land,
the lack of any of these would have lessened an experience.

But that was before.

Now, as Danny swooped and glided through the silent landscape, his opinion had changed. The great black hole of a moon, the Dark Sun as Maxom called it, was no longer as frightening. He felt its pull as if he were an earthen tide, understanding that it influenced his actions in a small way. He accepted it as part of
The Land
. Although he could never forget it, he was able to ignore it, leaving the bottomless depths unplumbed by his curious mind. There were also times where he actively searched for it and was gratified, like earlier when he’d gone tumbling into a mass of life pads, his first sad attempt at merging.

Unknown to him, those pads were human and forbidden dualities. Instead of the almost magnetically polarized snap Maxom had described, Danny was repelled and, like a cue ball on the break, was sent bouncing back and forth until he eventually ended up alone, dizzy and confused. It’d been the Dark Sun that had brought him back and reminded him who he was and what he was doing.

At first he’d been overwhelmed by the sights of
The Land
. Buildings, trees, even the blades of grass were cast in such harsh relief, as if their edges were sharp enough to cut the most casual onlooker. After only a short time his head had begun to ache. He felt himself returning to his body. It was then that Maxom had stepped in.

You ain’t using the vision, are you?

I can see. It’s just…I don’t know.

You can see, but you aren’t using the vision.

You’re not making any sense.

Sure I am. Pay attention. What you’re doing is what everyone does their first time in The Land.

It hurts to look.

Then stare at the Dark Sun. Think of it as a friend. It’ll keep you pacified until you learn how to look the right way.

So Danny had stared into the darkness of the Dark Sun and listened to Maxom and his teaching on the vision.

Most folks think in terms of the waking world when they’re in
The Land
. They just don’t conceive there could be a difference, so they don’t look for it. The fact is
The Land
is very different. Whoever made it or caused it to be took pains to make it this way. It’s a waste of time not to try and see what it’s supposed to look like. Trust me when I say the vision will decrease your confusion.

Danny stared into the Dark Sun and felt a lessening of the pain. The pure nothing of the black soothed his eyes and mind. Along with the healing, a faint feeling began to build around his consciousness. Like a tiny current of electricity, it flowed around and through him. There was no pain, just the feeling of tiny insects dancing across his skin.