Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (44 page)

IX

The next day has dawned. The man slept little: he kept seeing the boy, tortured and mutilated, a sacrifice. He awakes to the sound of the door opening. Two men enter the room and yank him from his sleeping position in the chair; they drag him out into the hallway and shut the door behind them. They ascend a flight of steps to a wide corridor with many rooms. They open a door and hurl him inside. He finds himself standing amidst a room illuminated only by burning candles. There is a desk, and behind the desk sits the High Priest. His hair is riled, his eyes are uncanny, his features are chiseled. He waves a hand out towards the man, beckoning him to take a seat. The man looks to the chair and sits down. Dust rises with his weight, gathering in the creases of his dirty jeans. The man leans back in the chair. “My name is Doctor Teasle. I run this… operation.”

The man says nothing.

Teasle leans forward in his chair, opens up a tin case upon the desk. He withdraws a cigarette. The man’s eyes are afire. Teasle smiles and hands it to the man, followed by a lighter. The man lights the cigarette and takes a deep and cancerous breath. The smoke fills his lungs. A beautiful sensation. Teasle shuts the case, leans back in his chair. “I never was one for smoking. It shortens your life by up to twelve years.”

The man smokes and says nothing.

“When all of this happened… When the world turned upside-down… I was a professor of ancient Near Eastern Religion at the University of Florida. I was in Maine at the time, researching in Anthony Barnhart

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my cabin beside the lake. I was writing a thesis paper on the Philistine pantheon, specifically on their chief god, Dagon. When it happened, everything became so clear.”

The man shakes his head. “Every one of you is insane.”

Teasle laughs. “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? Tell me. What do you know of the Philistine god Dagon?”

The man shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Most people haven’t. Our world is…
was
… too modern for such superstitious stories. But let me tell you a story about Dagon. Dagon’s name is a diminutive form, a term of endearment, derived from the Semitic root
Dag
. Essentially, Dagon’s name means ‘little fish’. But don’t let that throw you. Most figurines and idols of Dagon that have been found have been shaped like a fish, yes, but with hands and a head. Ancient Philistine coins—and Phoenician coins, for that matter—Dagon was represented as a composite figure: human on the upper-part of the body, fish on the lower-part.”

Teasle takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. He has rehearsed and given this speech many times.

“Sometime around 700 B.C., some prophets of Dagon gave a prophecy. They spoke of a great time of drought and famine, when Dagon would scourge the earth of life. But some would not fall to this plague, and if they sought to be preserved, they must worship Dagon. The drought and famine, I believe, represents what has happened here.” He splays his hands outward, engulfing the entire world in his grasp. “Dagon has bestowed upon us a plague, and we are the survivors. Now. We have a choice. We can either align ourselves with Dagon and persevere, or leave ourselves to our own devices—and die. Maybe these creatures will overtake us. Or maybe the virus or germ or strain or whatever it is will mutate and affect the survivors. But those who are aligned with Dagon shall be preserved.”

“So that’s what all this is?” the man cooed. “A big worship service?”

“Yes. And no. The ancients worshipped Dagon by sacrificing children. They would take a live goat, disembowel it, place a young child—aged zero to four years old—within the bowels of the goat, and then light it on fire. Some of the great cities had statues of Dagon, with his hands outstretched, forming a platform; and upon this platform, they would sacrifice children. Now. Dagon has not left us with children, so I hope he is appeased by the sacrifices we
can
offer. He desires sacrifices every Full Moon, and we work hard to please him.”

“That’s why you killed the boy. A sacrifice.”

“Right. The only response to this, my friend—”

The man exhaled, cursed: “Don’t call me your friend.”

Teasle’s brow flared, but he continued: “…The only appropriate response to this is worship. Dagon rules now. We must become his servants.”

The man says nothing.

Teasle says: “You have a choice, and I shall have your answer now. Join us, and be in league with Dagon, and taste security… Or be given over unto him as a sacrifice.”

The man smokes his cigarette and ponders his choice.

The men throw the man back into the room with the boy and girl. He staggers and falls against the wall. One of the men looks over at the girl and smiles wretchedly: “Pretty yourself up, Lass. Tonight,
I
will be enjoying
you
.” He laughs and steps out of the room, and they shut the door. The girl stares at the door with hopeless, empty eyes. The man brushes himself off. Adrian, sitting in the chair, asks,

“So? What did you tell them?”

The man is quiet.

Adrian asks again: “What’d you say?”

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The man answers: “What I had to say.”

The boy shakes his head, mumbles something under his breath, and says no more.

X

The boy and girl sleep. The man sits in the corner of the room, his hands clasped together in the corner’s shadow. He works slowly and quietly, keeping his eye on the descent of the sunlight against the far wall beside the bed.
How much longer?
He works even faster. He hears the door clicking and unlocking. He scurries to his feet, deposits it in his pocket, and he stands rigid in the corner. The door opens. Two men stand there. One moves forward and takes the man by the hands. The other wrestles the girl, kicking and screaming, from her sleep. The girl is removed from the room first. Adrian is now awake, and he looks into the man’s eyes: “May you live forever,” he says. The man looks away, and he is led from the room.

Fourteen or fifteen people are gathered together. The pews have been drawn back into the middle of the room, and they take their seats. The man is led to the front of the monastery’s sanctuary, and he stands underneath the shadow of the wooden cross, stained with the blood of its last victim. The High Priest comes forward and takes his hand, smiles. The man doesn’t smile back. People begin cheering as the girl is brought into the room. Two men drag her forward, holding her by either arm; someone reaches out from a pew as she is led past, grabs her shirt, yanks. The fabric tears, and it hangs loose, revealing the crest of her breast. Tears slide down her cheeks. She looks at the man as she is carried past, and she spits into his face, calls him a “motherfucker.” Everyone boos. He looks away. The High Priest brings forth a live chicken; it squawks in his hand; an attendant places a goblet before him, and the High Priest snaps the chicken’s neck and, with his fingernails, flakes away the skin. Blood drains into the goblet. He tosses the chicken aside and lifts the goblet, hands it to the man.

“Drink,” he says, “and become one of us.” The man takes the goblet. In its pallid reflection he can see the girl, her black hair falling before her eyes, hiding the tears; her chest heaves with stifled sobs. The man raises the cup… And slams it across the High Priest’s face.

The High Priest staggers backwards; the goblet has shattered, and shards have embedded themselves in the High Priest’s cheek. The priest claws at his face, the chicken’s blood blinding his eyes; shouts arise as the man draws the crude stone shank from his pocket, and flipping the sharp edge upwards in his hand, drives it forcefully into the priest’s chin. The priest’s body shudders and goes limp, and he slides down to the feet of the man, blood from his throat spilling upon the altar. The crowd is enraged, leaping to their feet; a figure rushes the man from the corner; the man ducks down and swings out his leg, kicking the feet out from under the assailant. The attacker falls upon the altar and rolls onto the floor. The man grabs the 9mm pistol from the folds of the priest’s cloak, and he pulls back the safety and stands, holding it outwards. The assailant on the floor leaps to his feet, and the gunshot echoes; the assailant’s chest fills with blood, and he crumples to his knees, and pitches onto his side. The girl screams as the man swings the pistol in her direction. The men holding her let their faces fall into a look of terror as the gun barks. Both collapse against the wall; one reaches for his own gun, and the man blasts him in the face, chewing away skin and bone and brain matter, leaving only a slimy mess. The girl, covered with their blood, runs towards the man, spinning around, shrieking. The man turns the gun upon the crowd. They scatter over one another, rushing for the back door, Anthony Barnhart

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shouting. The man grabs the girl and they disappear through a side door. The mangled body of the High Priest bleeds, and the chicken’s lifeless eyes stare into his.

Adrian heard the shouting, and he hides in the corner as the door flies open. The man shouts his name. Adrian rushes forward, and they enter the hallway.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Adrian screams.

“What I had to do,” the man says, “to keep us alive. All of us.”

Shouting comes back from the main room. More men with guns are giving chase.

“What are your plans now?” Adrian asks.

The girl is sobbing in the man’s arms.

The man shakes his head. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”

“I recommend running away from the sounds of shouting and curses.”

“Let’s do that.”

They take off down the hallway.

The man curses, stops, turns around. Adrian watches him in shock as he runs down the corridor.

“Where are you going?!” he shouts.

The man doesn’t look back: “They have something of mine!”

Adrian bites his lip, curses, hears the sound of running coming towards them. The man emerges from the shadows, cradling something in his hands.

“What the hell is that?” Adrian asks.

The man grins. “My Russian rifle. I love this thing.”

One of the stained glass windows shatters, and three bodies tumble out. They fall into the skeleton of a bush, knocking snow from its tiny limbs. They roll through the snow in the wan evening light, and Adrian picks up the girl. The man spins around, engulfing his surroundings. They are outside the monastery, facing a large, rising hill. On either side of them are gardens with statues laced with snow, long overgrown with a tangled mess of dead vines and uneaten raspberries swollen in the cold. They hear shouting coming from either end of the building. The man begins running through the snow up the hill, and Adrian follows with the girl on his shoulders.

They are halfway up the hill.

Adrian breaks down, collapsing into the snow.

The man spins around. “Come on!”

The girl is crying, lying immobile.

Adrian snaps, “I can’t carry her on my own!”

“Make her run herself!”

“She won’t!”

“Why the fuck won’t she?” the man growls, making his way down the icy slope towards them.

“I don’t know!” Adrian shouts.

The man falls beside the girl. “Hey. Hey.” He grabs her chin, twists it towards him. “Look at me.” Flecks of snow mingle with her tears, and her cheeks are blotched red in the frigid air. “What’s your name?” She doesn’t answer. “What’s your name?” he asks again.

“Alyssa,” she stammers.

“All right, Alyssa. We can’t carry you. You need to run.”

“I can’t…”

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“Yes, you can. You have to. Or they’ll kill you. Or capture you, which is worse.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” the man asks.

She nods her head.

“Then let’s go.”

They are nearing the crest of the hill, nearly into the woods, when gunshots ring out. Bullets sizzle through the trees, spitting bark, and they smash into the snow, their impacts illuminated by waterfalls of ice. The three figures rush into the trees, and they are lost in the darkness.

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Chapter Fourteen

The 89 Steps

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”

- William Shakespeare (A.D. 1564-1616)

I

The poplars and oaks with their bare trunks fade, and the three fugitives find themselves standing amidst a meadow laden with snow, dry stalks of dead grass poking through the thick layer of snow. The girl complains of being cold. They are atop the hill, and the man spots large building that looks like a cabin sitting against the far tree-line. He and the boy exchange glances, and they move forward, the girl trotting behind. A sign draped with icicles sits before the building with its dark windows and closed doors: SEVEN HILLS LODGE: ICE FISHING, SKI RENTALS, SNOWMOBILE RENTALS. The boy looks up at the sky. The last ribbons of light from the sun mix with the clouds.

“I know,” the man says, following his gaze.

“You chose one hell of a time to escape,” Adrian says.

They shatter one of the windows of the lodge and climb inside. The air is stale and filled with dust. They trample a throw rug and stumble about in the darkness. Couches and chairs. The man finds a doorway and pushes it open. The garage. It is illuminated by shafts of sunlight coming in through the skylight draped with snow. They count four snowmobiles sitting unused. Adrian rushes forward and saddles one. The key is in the ignition. He takes a deep breath and twists. The engine rumbles to life.

“You know how to drive one of those things?” the man asks.

“My brother used to drive them. Until he hit a tree and became a paraplegic.”

“Oh,” the man says. To the girl: “You hold onto me tight, all right?”

The snowmobile descends the long drive covered with snow, the sounds of the engine filling the freezing dusk air. He aims for the highway, and they ramp over a snowdrift and land between several wrecked cars. He spins the snowmobile on its axis, and they head south, towards the city.