Phantoms (57 page)

“It’s dying,” Lisa said aloud, although no one was close enough to hear her. “The Devil is dying.”

 

Bryce crawled on his belly the last few—almost vertical—feet of the pit wall. He reached the rim at last and pulled himself out.

He looked down the way he had come. The shape-changer hadn’t gotten close to him. An incredibly large, gelatinous lake of amorphous tissue lay at the bottom of the pit, pooling over and around the debris, but it was virtually inactive. A few human and animal forms still tried to rise, but the ancient enemy was losing its talent for mimicry. The phantoms were imperfect and sluggish. The shape-changer was slowly disappearing under a layer of its own dead and decomposing tissue.

 

Jenny knelt beside Tal.

His arms and chest were marked by livid wounds. A raw, weeping wound extended the length of his left thigh, as well.

“Pain?” she asked.

“When it had me, yeah, a lot. Not so much now,” he said, although his expression left no doubt that he was still suffering.

The enormous bulk of slime that had erupted from the Hilltop Inn now began to withdraw, retreating into the plumbing from which it had risen, leaving behind the steaming residue of its decomposing flesh.

A Mephistophelian retreat. Back to the netherworld. Back to the other side of Hell.

Satisfied that they weren’t in any immediate danger, Jenny looked more closely at Tal’s wounds.

“Bad?” he asked.

“Not as bad as I would’ve thought.” She forced him to lie back. “The skin’s eaten away in places. And some of the fatty tissue underneath.”

“Veins? Arteries?”

“No. It was weak when it took hold of you, too weak to burn that deep. A lot of ruined capillaries in the surface tissue. That’s the cause of the bleeding. But there’s not even as much blood as you’d expect. I’ll get my bag as soon as it seems safe to go inside, and I’ll treat you for infection. I think maybe you ought to be in the hospital for a couple of days, for observation, just to be sure there’s no delayed allergic reaction to the acid or any toxins. But I really think you’ll be just fine.”

“You know what?” he said.

“What?”

“You’re talking like it’s all over.”

Jenny blinked.

She looked up at the inn. She could see through the smashed windows, into the dining room. There was no sign of the ancient enemy.

She turned and looked across the street. Lisa and Bryce were making their way around to this side of the pit.

“I think it is,” she said to Tal. “I think it’s all over.”

Fletcher Kale was no longer afraid. He sat beside Jeeter and watched the Satanic flesh metamorphose into ever more bizarre forms.

Gradually, he became aware that the calf of his right leg itched. He scratched continuously, absentmindedly, while he watched the truly miraculous transformation of the demonic visitor.

Restricted to the caves since Sunday, Jeeter knew nothing about what had happened in Snowfield. Kale recounted what little he knew, and Jeeter was thrilled. “You know, what it is, it’s a
sign
. What He did in Snowfield is like a sign tellin’ the world His time is comin’. His reign is gonna begin soon. He’ll rule the earth for a thousand years. That’s what the Bible itself says, man—a thousand years of Hell on earth. Everyone’ll suffer—except you and me and others like us. ’Cause we’re the chosen ones, man. We’re His apostles. We’ll rule the world with Lucifer, and it’ll belong to us, and we’ll be able to do any fuckin’ outrageous thing to anybody we happen to want to do it to.
Anybody
. And no one’ll touch us, no one, ever. You understand?” Terr demanded, gripping Kale’s arm, voice rising with excitement, trembling with evangelical passion, a passion that was easily communicated to Kale and stirred in him a dizzying, unholy rapture.

With Jeeter’s hand on his arm, Kale imagined he could feel the hot gaze of the red and yellow eye tattoo. It was a magical eye that peered into his soul and recognized a certain dark kinship.

Kale cleared his throat, scratched his ankle, scratched his calf. He said, “Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I really do.”

The column of slime in the center of the room began to form a whiplike tail. Wings emerged, spread, flapped once. Arms grew, large and sinewy. The hands were enormous, with powerful fingers that tapered into talons. At the top of the column, a face took shape in the oozing mass: chin and jaws like chiseled granite; a gash of a mouth with thin lips, crooked yellow teeth, viperous fangs; a nose like the snout of a pig; mad, crimson eyes, not remotely human, like the prismed eyes of a fly. Horns sprouted on the forehead, a concession to Christian myth-conceptions. The hair appeared to be worms; they glistened, fat and green-black, writhing continuously in tangled knots.

The cruel mouth opened. The Devil said, “Do you believe?”

“Yes,” Terr said in adoration. “You are my lord.”

“Yes,” Kale said shakily. “I believe.” He scratched at his right calf. “I do believe.”

“Are you mine?” the apparition asked.

“Yes, always,” Terr said, and Kale agreed.

“Will you ever forsake me?” it asked.

“No.”

“Never.”

“Do you wish to please me?”

“Yes,” Terr said, and Kale said, “Whatever you want.”

“I will be leaving soon,” the manifestation said. “It is not yet my time to rule. That day is coming. Soon. But there are conditions that must be met, prophesies to be fulfilled. Then I will come again, not merely to deliver a sign to all mankind, but to stay for a thousand years. Until then, I will leave you with the protection of my power, which is vast; no one will be able to harm or thwart you. I grant you life everlasting. I promise that, for you, Hell will be a place of great pleasure and immense rewards. In return, you must complete five tasks.”

He told them what He would have them do to prove themselves and please Him. As He spoke, He broke out in pustules, hives, and lesions that wept a thin yellow fluid.

Kale wondered what significance these sores might have, then realized Lucifer was the father of all disease. Perhaps this was a not-so-subtle reminder of the terrible plagues He could visit upon them if they were unwilling to undertake the five tasks.

The flesh foamed, dissolved. Gobs of it dropped to the floor; a few were flung against the walls as the figure heaved and writhed. The Devil’s tail dropped from the main body and wriggled on the floor; in seconds, it was reduced to inanimate muck that stank of death.

When he finished telling them what He wanted of them, He said, “Do we have a bargain?”

“Yes,” Terr said, and Kale said, “Yes, a bargain.”

The face of Lucifer, covered with running sores, melted away. The horns and wings melted, too. Churning, seeping a puslike paste, the thing sank down into the floor, disappeared into the river below.

Strangely, the odorous dead tissue did not vanish. Ectoplasm was supposed to disappear when the supernatural presence had departed, but this stuff remained: foul, nauseating, glistening in the gaslight.

Gradually, Kale’s rapture faded. He began to feel the cold radiating from the limestone, through the seat of his pants.

Gene Terr coughed. “Well . . . well now . . . wasn’t that somethin’?”

Kale scratched his itchy calf. Beneath the itchiness, there was now a dull little spot of pain, throbbing.

 

 

It had reached the end of its feeding period. In fact, it had overfed. It had intended to move toward the sea later today, through a series of caverns, subterranean channels, and underground watercourses. It had wanted to travel out beyond the edge of the continent, into the ocean trenches. Countless times before, it had passed its lethargic periods—sometimes lasting many years
—
in the cool, dark depths of the sea. Down where the pressure was so enormous that few forms of life could survive, down where absolute lightlessness and silence provided little stimulation, the ancient enemy was able to slow its metabolic processes; down there, it could enter a much desired dreamlike state, in which it could ruminate in perfect solitude.

The concept of its own death was so new that it had not yet adjusted to the grim reality. In the geological substructure of Snowtop Mountain, the shape-changer continued to slough off diseased portions of itself. It crept deeper, deeper, across the underworld river that flowed in Stygian darkness, deeper still, farther down into the infernal regions of the earth, into the chambers of Orcus, Hades, Osiris, Erebus, Minos, Loki, Satan. Each time that it believed itself free of the devouring microorganism, a peculiar tingling sensation arose at some point in the amorphous tissue, a
wrongness
, and then there came a pain quite unlike human pain, and it was forced to rid itself of even more infected flesh. It went deeper, down into jahanna, into Gehenna, into Sheol, Abbadon, into the Pit. Over the centuries it had eagerly assumed the role of Satan and other evil figures, which men had attributed to it, had amused itself by catering to their superstitions. Now, it was condemned to a fate consistent with the mythology it had helped create. It was bitterly aware of the irony. It had been cast down. It had been damned. It would dwell in darkness and despair for the rest of its life
—
which could be measured in hours.

 

 

Kale rolled up his trousers and looked at the calf of his right leg. In the lantern light, he saw two small red spots; they were swollen, itchy, and very tender.

“Insect bites,” he said.

Gene Terr looked. “Ticks. They burrow under the skin. The itchin’ won’t stop until you get ’em out. Burn ’em out with a cigarette.”

“Got any?”

Terr grinned. “Couple joints of grass. They’ll work just as well, man. And the ticks’ll die happy.”

They smoked the joints, and Kale used the glowing tip of his to burn out the ticks. It didn’t hurt much.

“In the woods,” Terr said, “keep your pants tucked in your boots.”

“They
were
tucked into my boots.”

“Yeah? Then how’d them ticks get underneath?”

“I don’t know.”

After they had smoked more grass, Kale frowned and said, “He promised us no one could hurt or stop us. He said we’d be under His protection.”

“That’s right, man. Invincible.”

“So how come I’ve got to put up with tick bites?” Kale asked.

“Hey, man, it’s no big thing.”

“But if we’re really protected—”

“Listen, maybe the tick bites are sort of like His way of sealing the bargain you made with Him. With a little blood. Get it?”

“Then why don’t you have tick bites?”

Jeeter shrugged. “Ain’t important, man. Besides, the fuckin’ ticks bit you
before
you struck your bargain—didn’t they?”

“Oh.” Kale nodded, fuzzy-headed from dope. “Yeah. That’s right.”

They were silent for a while.

Then Kale said, “When do you think we can leave here?”

“They’re probably still lookin’ for you pretty hard.”

“But if they can’t hurt me—”

“No sense makin’ the job harder for ourselves,” Terr said.

“I guess so.”

“We’ll lay low for like a few days. Worst of the heat will be off by then.”

“Then we do the five like he wants. And after that?”

“Head on out, man. Move on. Make tracks.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. He’ll show us the way.” Terr was silent for a while. Then he said, “Tell me about it. About killin’ your wife and kid.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everythin’ there is to know, man. Tell me what it felt like. What was it like to off your old lady. Mostly, tell me about the kid. What’d it feel like, wastin’ a kid? Huh? I never did one that young, man. You kill him fast or drag it out? Did it feel different than killin’ her? What exactly did you
do
to the kid?”

“Only what I had to do. They were in my way.”

“Draggin’ you down, huh?”

“Both of them.”

“Sure. I see how it was. But what did you
do?”

“Shot her.”

“Shoot the kid, too?”

“No. I chopped him. With a meat cleaver.”

“No shit?”

They smoked more joints, and the lantern hissed, and the whisper-chuckle of the underground river came up through the hole in the floor, and Kale talked about killing Joanna, Danny, and the county deputies.

Every once in a while, punctuating his words with a little marijuana giggle, Jeeter said, “Hey, man, are we gonna have some fun? Are we gonna have some fun together, you and me? Tell me more. Tell me. Man, are we gonna have some fun?”

Bryce stood on the sidewalk, studying the town. Listening. Waiting. There was no sign of the shape-changer, but he was reluctant to believe it was dead. He was afraid it would spring at him the moment he relaxed his guard.

Tal Whitman was stretched out on the pavement. Jenny and Lisa cleaned the acid burns, dusted them with antibiotic powder, and applied temporary bandages.

And Snowfield remained as silent as if it were at the bottom of the sea.

Finished ministering to Tal, Jenny said, “We should get him to the hospital right away. The wounds aren’t deep, but there might be a delayed allergic reaction to one of the shape-changer’s toxins. He might suddenly start having respiratory difficulties or blood pressure problems. The hospital is equipped for the worst possibilities; I’m not.”