HELLz BELLz (16 page)

James took a deep breath that hurt his chest. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Despite his outward bravado, Josh hung back and let James go first, followed by Barb and Brenda. As they crossed the street, James counted the freaks. There were twelve of them, six males and six females. All naked, all bearing bizarre skin art. They were standing in a formation that resembled a figure eight—the sign for infinity. Chanting in a language James didn’t recognize.

“I don’t like this,” Barb said in a loud whisper.

“Duh,” said Brenda. “You don’t like anything.”

“Shut up,” spat Josh.

James hailed the band of tattooed freaks. “Hey, what’s up?”

A tall man with a skull etched in the skin of his face turned toward them. He held up his hand and the chanting abruptly stopped.

“Oh shit,” said Barb.

“What’re you guys doing?” James asked, trying to sound casual and innocently curious. He wished he were back in his den, sticking it to Brenda. His heart pounded a marching cadence on his eardrums.

A dozen sets of eyes fixed on James. Skull Face grinned and said in a rich baritone, “The Lord’s work, brother.”

James nodded.

Barb muttered, “More like the devil’s work.”

“Those are some bad-ass tattoos,” said Josh, coming to stand beside James. “Are they, like, part of your religion?”

A big-breasted woman with a tattoo of a flayed abdomen on her midsection broke formation and walked toward them, tits bouncing. “The world of flesh is illusion,” she said, smiling. “When the time comes, these ink wounds will become real.”

“Uh-huh,” said Josh, drawing back a little.

Gaining confidence, James said, “What’s up with that bell? Is that why you’re here?”

Skull Face fondled his sagging genitals. “Heaven rings its bell, the Lord’s truth to tell.”

“One of your guy’s ringing it?” asked James, though he knew better.

Skull Face grinned again. “Don’t you get it, brother? No human hand rings Heaven’s bell.”

“Don’t
you
get it?” said James. “That bell’s making people crazy. Don’t you know what’s happening in this town? People are killing each other.”

“God’s will,” said Big Tits. “Their sins are made flesh.”

James didn’t like these freaks. They were too close to his home and he wanted them to go away. “That ain’t Heaven’s bell,” he said. “You ask me, it’s hell’s bell, turning this town into hell on earth.”

“
James,
” Barb hissed at his back. “Let’s go. Leave these people alone.”

Skull Face took a step closer to James. He wasn’t grinning now. “That’s blasphemy, friend,” he said. “You best be careful now. This is the Night of the Bell.”

James could feel his anger building. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do or say next, and that scared him, but he knew it was going to be something outrageous to antagonize this band of freaks.

“So God wants people killing each other off?” Josh asked. “That’s bullshit, man.”

James moved. He strode past Skull Face and Big Tits and made straight for the front of the church. He started shaking the can of paint, the little metal ball inside rattling with angry rhythm.

The bell tolled.

He felt the freaks’ eyes on his back. His fear and uncertainty were gone. This was his town, his street, and he was one righteous dude. He was going to strike a blow for sanity and against these psycho outsiders gathered on the lawn of the abandoned church.

He pulled the plastic top off the can and threw it on the ground. He started as high as he could reach on the stone wall to the right of the door. He sprayed with flair, making big sweeping letters in red. When he was done, he turned to the audience and gestured grandly at his handiwork. “That’s what it is,” he told them.

They all stared at James’s bold graffiti: HELLz BELLz.

Josh shouted: “You
rawk,
Slim Jim!”

“Hell of a speller,” said Brenda, giggling.

Skull Face stalked James, his cock and balls swinging like fruit rotting on the vine. “Blasphemer!” he screamed.

Big Tits followed her leader. “Give me that can,” she demanded.

“Fuck you, psycho,” said James.

As soon as she was within range, she slugged him with a roundhouse left, but like most girls, she didn’t know how to make a proper fist and the blow to the side of James’s head didn’t hurt—it just made him madder. He held the can of paint in front of her face and sprayed. She yelped as a mist of red paint coated her face and went in her mouth. She sputtered and coughed.

Skull Face tried to grab the can away but James gave him a good shot of paint in the eyes.

“Run!” Josh hollered.

The other naked freaks had broken formation and were closing on James. They quickly boxed him in, cutting off any escape route. With his back to the stone wall of the church, James held the can of spray paint like a weapon, menacing them with it. “Come on, motherfuckers,” he taunted, “I got some for all of you. Step right up.”

A big man with disemboweled intestines tattooed on his potbelly said, “Deliver him to the Lord.”

As the freaks advanced on him, two riders on roaring motorcycles sped from behind the church, crossed the edge of the lawn and zoomed up the street. One of them was morbidly obese, and the other was bald, sporting dark glasses.

“The Night Riders,” someone exclaimed.

“God’s Angels,” someone else said.

James took advantage of the distraction and bolted forward. He knocked a skinny woman down and ran toward the street and his home on the other side.

He almost made it, but someone hit him from behind and dragged him to the ground. Then they were all over him, punching and kicking him mercilessly. A young woman with ulcerous sores etched all over her pale body took the can from him and sprayed his face. He choked on the aerosol fumes.

* * *

Gary came at them in a disjointed shamble, his eyes hooded with swollen lids and his jaw hanging slack. The top of his head was gone and part of his brain was visible, glistening in the streetlight’s amber haze. His T-shirt looked like it had been tie-dyed in blood.

Joe stared in awe, amazed that the man was still able to walk.

“Jesus God,” Suzie gasped. “What…?”

Joe pointed his pistol at Gary. His impulse was to shoot the fatally injured man just so he wouldn’t have to look at this dead man walking.

“No,” Suzie said, but Joe wasn’t sure what she was saying
no
to.

As Gary came closer, Joe saw that the top of his skull had been taken off cleanly in a smooth cut. A chainsaw? There was no recognition in his eyes, no sign of a working intellect. The man was moving on motor impulse alone. He was an automaton with no functioning brain.

“Come on,” Joe said. “He’s gone. We have to go.”

Gary came on, closing the distance. He was almost within arm’s reach.

“Gary?” Suzie sobbed.

Joe took her arm and pulled her out of Gary’s path. The walking corpse ambled past them.

“What happened to him?” Suzie asked like a bewildered child.

“Probably some psycho with a chainsaw. Come on. There’s nothing we can do. I don’t think he’s feeling any pain.”

She doubled over and vomited. Stomach-soured margarita splattered the sidewalk. Joe watched Gary lumber down the sidewalk. His ponderous steps seemed to be in sync with the peals of the church bell.

Joe’s stomach rumbled on empty, complaining that it had missed dinner. The back of Gary’s flat head looked like a birthday cake decorated with red frosting. Joe shook off the hallucinatory image and hustled Suzie toward the car. Sara was sitting upright in the front seat with her hands over her mouth, watching Gary shamble by.

He shoved Suzie into the back, slammed the door, and then ran around to the driver’s side and hopped in and gunned the car up the boulevard.

“This is a goddamn nightmare,” said his wife on the edge of hysteria. “Get me out of this.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” Joe put the pistol on the dash. The speedometer registered 65 mph.

Suzie leaned up and said, “Who could’ve done that to him? Why?”

“You know why,” said Joe. “Same reason he killed that kid under his truck.”

“That fucking bell,” she said.

“I don’t believe this,” said Sara. “I don’t deserve this. This is—”

“Stay calm,” he told her. “We have to stay in control if we’re going to get out of this.”

“In control? In
control?
The whole world is out of control.”

“In control of yourself,” he shouted above the music blasting from the CD player. “We can’t go over the edge like them.”

“What?” Sara shouted. “I can’t hear for that crazy-ass music.” She suddenly hit the eject button, yanked out the CD and sailed it out the window.

“Are you crazy? Jesus!” Joe wanted to backhand her across the mouth, but he white-knuckled the steering wheel instead.

“That goddamn racket was making me crazy.” Sara folded her arms across her chest and stared at the road ahead.

“I wish you’d shut the fuck up and stop your bitching,” said Suzie.

“Oh, you do, huh? Well, I wish you’d get the fuck out of
my
car, you fucking cunt.”

Joe exploded: “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! One more word and I’ll put you both out on the street and leave you for the psychos! I swear to God I will.”

Sara started to say something, but wisely bit her lip instead. Suzie slapped the back of Sara’s seat and sat back in a huff.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now find something on the radio. We need some cover noise.”

Sara angrily spun the radio’s dial. Static stuttered and spat from the speakers. She stopped on a jingle for Coca-Cola.

“That’s good,” he said, glancing at the green-lit dial. “That’s a Chicago station, I think. Guess things are normal there.”

Sara tentatively touched his arm. “Joe? May I speak?”

“As long as you’re not bitching.”

“You remember those stories we heard about that preacher who set the church on fire? Before he hanged himself in jail, he said he was trying to burn out the devil? Well, what if he wasn’t crazy? What if he was right?”

“I know,” he said. “We heard some guys in the bar talking about it. One guy said the bell was forged in France hundreds of years ago, but then the jukebox started playing and—”

“You were in a bar? Tonight? With
her?
” She jerked her thumb toward the back seat.

“Yeah. We were—”

“Here we go again,” said Suzie in apparent disgust.

“Cool it,” Joe warned. Then he saw the pickup truck ahead, barreling toward them on the wrong side of the road.

“Shit, they wanna play chicken,” said Suzie, leaning forward again.

“Please God,” said Sara, “don’t let us die on this road. I promise I’ll be good.”

When the truck was no more than fifty yards in front of them, Joe saw a man with a rifle standing in the truck bed, leveling the weapon on the top of the cab and drawing a bead on them.

“Get down! He’s going to shoot!” Joe grabbed the pistol from the dash, pushed the button to lower his window and stuck his gun hand out of it so he could shoot back. He couldn’t properly aim the piece that way, especially not left-handed, but he figured he could at least hit the truck and maybe ruin the rifleman’s shot. It was a lot like shooting from the hip, a question of angles and perceptions. And luck.

He jerked the trigger. Rushed the shot. Missed the truck.

The rifleman fired. The slug smacked the driver’s side mirror, knocking it against the side
of the car. Sara shrieked.

Joe took his foot off the gas pedal, took his time and squeezed the trigger.

The pickup’s windshield shattered. The rifleman ducked behind the cab.

Joe cut the wheel sharply to the left to avoid a head-on collision.

Suzie bellowed: “Boo-yah!”

The truck blew past them.

Joe floored the accelerator. Glanced in the rearview. Saw the pickup’s brake lights flash red.

“Shit,” he said, “they’re coming after us.”

* * *

James fought like a demon—or at least like a man possessed by one—but the tattooed freaks had him down and there were too many of them and he knew he was fucked, choking on the spray paint and bleeding from the nose and lips and he was pretty sure he’d felt a rib snap when the fat guy kicked him with the heel of his bare foot, so he stopped fighting and covered his head with his arms as the blows rained down on him. His left ear was ringing so loud from a punch or a kick that he couldn’t hear anything in it but the internal ringing, but he heard the singing iron of the church bell very clearly with his right ear and it was lulling him into a kind of hypnotic state wherein he no longer cared how badly they messed him up. He thought this must be how you feel when you know you’re done for. His naked attackers had become one many-armed and –legged beast pummeling him into submission and delivering him into the sweaty hands of death.

Darkness deeper than any he’d known enveloped him, wrapped him in cottony strands of numbness. The ringing in his left ear burrowed through his skull and met the iron chimes from his right ear somewhere in the center of his brain, setting off a silent explosion of red in the heart of the deep darkness. A wind whispered around the eaves of his brain:
You didn’t have to come.

Then: a new sound.

A pneumatic whining, a mechanical whirring as from motor-driven fan blades, soothing and familiar. Like the old lawnmower he used to use to cut the grass on those hot summer evenings before Mom sprang for a new Craftsman from Sears, but with a deeper hum beneath the whirring whine, a sort of rumbling, coming on fast, closing in. The naked beast shrieked with many voices and the arms and legs disentangled as it separated into its individual parts, his attackers scattering before the approaching lawnmower from Hell.

James opened his gummy eyes, wiped at the blood and sticky paint and saw the sneering grill between the headlights of the PT Cruiser bearing down on him. It struck a skinny girl with wild hair and knocked her to the ground and ran over her leg. Its horn beeped with a cartoon sound as the comical car skidded over the grass and stopped just inches from James’s hip.

“Get in!” Josh yelled, his head hanging out of the driver’s window. “Hurry!”