Sunday Billy Sunday (17 page)

Mark reached over and tapped on the phone. “We could call the police. Right now. All this ends.”

“
No!
” Phil cried, shaking his head. “We made a
promise
to God. What if this is tied to that? What if by making that promise, we effectively traded Faith and Maia’s lives for ours?”

Mark stared at Phil.

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “When did you start believing in that shit?”

“When somehow, some way, we escaped a homicidal maniac today!” Phil roared, clambering off the sofa. “I’ve been praying ever since. I don’t know why we were spared, but we were. God has a plan for us and I don’t know what it is, but we made one stupid little promise to Him and then –
suddenly
– we were allowed to live when everyone else has to die. What the hell is that?”

“You think
God
had anything to do with that?” Mark cried, setting down his pizza. “No, my friend, that was me, your one friend crazy enough to be able to bullshit his way past a psychopath. Don’t mistake dumb luck and a roll of the dice for the work of the Almighty. We survived because we
didn’t
fall for all this God-shit like all those other now-dead idiots who thought it was the Devil. You want to go back on that now?”

Phil thought about this for a moment, but then turned around and walked to the garage.

“Where are you going?” yelled Mark.

“Back,” said Phil. “I’m going back for Faith. Fuck this and fuck you.”

The rain was a miracle. Within moments, it had saved the woods around Camp Easley, dousing the flames and preventing the immolation of probably hundreds of acres of old-growth forest, the northwestern tributaries of the Big Thicket. It had begun suddenly, emerging out of a weather system that had moved up from the Mississippi River Delta, crossed over into Texas around the Sabine National Forest and finally reached its saturation point just past Lake Carlisle, sending its liquefying payload back to the earth as rain. The storm was brief and well-timed. Besides putting out the fire, the lesser plant life around the lake sorely needed a drink and the area’s water table, while not empty, would need replenishing sooner or later before the fall heat set in and this served that purpose.

On top of that, it began the rotting process for the trees and plant life that fell in the fire that would eventually provide shelter and food to several generations of insects that would, in turn, become a food source to generations of birds and small mammals. The culling of the tallest trees would also allow saplings, long in the shadows, to realize their growth potential as their highest leaves could now stretch to the sun. The rotting foliage would also become fertilizer as it sank into the ground, making the rich soil even richer with nutrients, strengthening the woods as a whole.

The rain, however, did not save Cindy’s campers.

Eighteen died in the first few minutes after they’d left the Jeep, three more died soon thereafter on the road and, half an hour after the fires began, the remaining nine were scattered along the lonely stretch of road, all having taken off in the direction of the camp, only to be overtaken by the smoke.

The last to die had been an unusually strong runner named Jenny Forrestal who actually lived long enough to feel the first drops of rain, but her lungs were too far gone and she breathed her last mere seconds before her clothes were soaked through.

Her body would eventually be found only three hundred yards from the Camp Easley parking lot.

The campers were all dead, but the person who had led them out onto the road in the first place, Cindy, had survived. She had done the impossible, outrun the smoke. And though there was plenty of it still in her lungs, when the rain came she’d gotten the reprieve she needed and made it long enough to reach the camp alive; coughing and choking, but able to breathe.

With the rain puddling around her, her clothes and hands covered in mud, she walked until finally collapsing in a heap in front of the counselor’s cabin, which she’d only left four hours earlier. With wild eyes, she stared up into the dark, wet skies above.

“
WHY?!? WHY?!?!
” she demanded angrily in a strangled rasp. “
WHY?!?!?
”

Why was
she
alive and every last person whose safety and well-being had been her responsibility was dead? It was as if, by allowing her to live, God was making some kind of sick point about the pronounced and absolute nature of her failure and now Cindy wanted answers.

Why a miracle, but too late to do any good?

“
WHY!?!?!
” she roared again, squeezing her fists in anguish, her eyes streaming with tears. “
You bastard!!! WHY?!?!?
”

But the rain continued to pour, as if taunting her from high above, mocking her tears as she envisioned the faces of her dying campers. She had never known anger or anguish quite like this before and felt as if it was driving her just a little mad. That’s when she looked over and saw a light on in the administrator’s cabin, peering through the darkness.

Slowly, she lifted herself up out of the mud and walked over to it. Her shoes and socks were drenched and slowed her down, so she kicked them off and walked barefoot. Her muscles ached and she was still choking out ash, but she kept going. When she reached the porch steps, she tentatively climbed up, barely noticing that the rain was finally beginning to slacken. She reached the door and looked in, seeing Father Billy lying on the sofa completely passed out and oblivious to the world.

She stared at him for a moment, as if not recognizing the man lit only by a small lamp in the window, but then something, somewhere finally made a connection and she nodded to herself.

She opened the door, only a little surprised to discover that it wasn’t locked, and moved inside. At first, she was very quiet, as if hoping not to wake Father Billy, but then saw him staring back at her through the darkness, two tiny, glowing specks of white reflecting from his eyes like those of cat.

“Did I wake you?” asked Cindy.

“No,” replied Father Billy, casually. “I woke up when it started raining.”

Cindy noted a change in his voice. There was something coy, searching, and maybe even feral in there. She instinctively took a step back as Father Billy reached over to a nearby switch and turned on the overhead lights. When they came on, Cindy saw that the bloodstains from the previous night’s attack were now dried on the floor, some even on the sofa under where Father Billy had been napping.

“Oh,” Father Billy said, as if noticing the stains for the first time. “I was so exhausted when I came in, I didn’t manage to turn on the light. Do you know what happened here?”

Cindy thought the first part was plausible, but didn’t answer his question. She nodded to the back door.

“You managed to start your laundry,” she said, the only sound in the room being that of the washing machine clunking along in the background. “Guess you weren’t
too
tired.”

“I suppose so,” he replied, making no effort to explain. “Where are all the campers?”

Cindy had no idea how to answer this succinctly, but as she stared at him, the answer came easily enough.

“You know where they are,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I do?” he asked.

“Yes, because you killed them.”

As the storm made its way across the lake, Maia and Faith took refuge from the downpour underneath a stand of trees. There had been no lightning, so they weren’t afraid of being electrocuted, but, still in their swimsuits, they were starting to get very cold as they couldn’t get dry. Finally, they decided to make their way back to the camp side of the lake, staying as close to the water as possible in case they ran into anybody and needed to make a quick escape.

The biggest problem wasn’t the visibility, but the fact that they wouldn’t even be able to hear someone sneaking up on them so hard was the rain pelting the lake’s surface.

“I’ll bet our clothes aren’t even there anymore,” Faith said, trying to spot the platform through the rain. “Or our books.”

“I’m sure the library’ll cut you some slack,” joked Maia, picking her way over a fallen branch. “And you didn’t take
all
your clothes out, did you? Aren’t there still some in the cabin?”

Faith stopped short. “You actually want to go
into
camp? I thought we were just going to go find a place to hide out.”

“I mean, what else can we do?” Maia replied. “We can’t stay out here in our swimsuits and a quick raid will get us everything we need. I mean, if we’re really careful, I think we should be okay.”

“But he’s probably there right now,” Faith said. “If the fire was to drive everyone back off the road...”

“Well, then, God sent the rain,” Maia said, her tone almost sing-song. “And if He sent rain to stop the fire, then He must be working against the Devil, no?”

Faith thought about this for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. But as soon as we get our clothes, we split, okay?”

Maia nodded. “Definitely.”

Back in the administrator’s cabin, Father Billy looked up at Cindy with genuine curiosity, unsure how she’d come to that conclusion.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, simply.

“Because,” she said. “I prayed and God told me it was you.”

Father Billy stopped short, having no idea what to make of this statement. He felt stung, wondering if it could be true, but then he looked at Cindy and knew it had been a feint, one he’d walked right into.

“So, it’s true?” Cindy asked. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“To make God stop me,” Father Billy said. “And as you just found out on the road, He’s not interested in any of us.”

“Well, He saved
me
,” Cindy replied. “Maybe He wants
me
to stop you.”

“To what end?” Father Billy said, rising to his feet, an incredulous look on his face. “Everybody’s dead. Why kill me now and not yesterday or the day before or the day before that when it could have counted for something? Why would He do that
now?
”

Cindy thought about this, but came back only to her earlier thought that God had a sick sense of humor.

“Well, why else would He keep me alive?” Cindy weakly countered.

“I don’t know,” Father Billy admitted, moving to the center of the room. “But I’m pretty tired of this and am ready to ask Him myself.”

Father Billy raised his hands, as if to indicate that he was no longer willing to fight back.

“Why don’t we test your theory?” he said, nodding towards the coffee table.

Cindy looked down and saw one of the long crucifixion nails on the table and picked it up. She saw dried blood on the tip and looked over at Father Billy.

“How many people did you kill with this?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” Father Billy replied.

Cindy hesitated for a moment, weighed the spike in her hand and then shook her head.

“I guess not.”

With a cry, Cindy launched herself at Father Billy, expecting to plunge the nail directly into his chest. But Father Billy
immediately
sprang into action, grabbing her wrists and twisting her arms around.

“Fuck!” she screamed, trying to pull away from him.

“After all I’ve been through, you thought I was going to roll over and die?” asked Father Billy calmly and mostly rhetorically. “If God is on your side, I want to
know
. Heck, I want to
feel
it.”

Cindy wrenched herself away from Father Billy and punched him in the face, sending him sprawling backwards. He caught himself on a chair, but Cindy was already upon him, slashing wildly with the nail, which sliced into his cheek. As blood dribbled out of the admittedly superficial wound, a surprised Father Billy still flinched away.

“Still thinking God’s not on my side?” Cindy asked, trying to catch her breath.

“If you see even that as miraculous, you don’t deserve to be His vessel,” Father Billy sneered.

“Fuck you,” Cindy replied, swinging at him again and pushing him further back into the cabin.

But then, Father Billy saw an opening and lunged at Cindy, catching her mid-torso and throwing her to the floor. Stunned, she looked up in time to see Father Billy balling up his fist, which he promptly bashed into the side of her face.

“
Gnnh,
” she grunted, realizing that he’d just knocked two of her teeth loose.

The good news was, his punch had momentarily made him shift his weight, which allowed her to angle her arm up and whip the nail around. She plunged it directly into his side, burying the tip a good three inches in.

“Aaaah!!” cried Father Billy, falling back and away from Cindy, his hand pressed against the wound, just below his ribcage. Blood was already bursting out of it.

As Father Billy scooted backwards across the floor, Cindy leaped to her feet and raised the nail. As she walked over to the wounded priest, his blood pumped out of his side, fast and thick.

“Guess God’s on my side,” Cindy said, blood dripping off the nail’s tip. “Time for you to go to Hell, Father Billy...”

“Gladly...” Father Billy whispered and closed his eyes.

But as Cindy brought the nail down in a fast, arcing motion, they were interrupted by what looked like a bolt of lightning blasting in through the open door which struck Cindy directly in the spine. Whether it was lightning or not didn’t ultimately matter as the result was that Cindy was on fire — her back, her hair and soon her face.

“
GAAAAAHH!!!
”
she screamed, dropping the nail as a thick, burning gel oozed across her skin and scalp.

She twisted around towards the doorway as the flames ate through her hair and quickly burned through skin to skull. In the doorway, she saw an emaciated Douglas Perry holding a flare gun, looking terrified.

“Demon!!” he screeched, pointing at Cindy as she toppled over, her hands clawing at the air. “
Demon!
”

When she hit the ground, it seemed to snap Douglas out of whatever trance he was in and he walked inside the cabin, reloaded the flare gun, stood astride Cindy and aimed straight down.