The Burning Time (22 page)

He lowered his arms and leaned forward against the lectern; across from him, five hundred bodies mimicked his action.

“But beware,” he said in a softer voice. “For there are those in our community who refuse to believe, who mock our ways, our Gods. Look around. See who fears to enter our House. Find them, for they are the snakes in the grass, the scorpions in the shoe. They want to bring us down, take away our faith. But will we let them?”

“No!” cried the assembled throng.

“No!” Christian said, his voice rising above theirs. “For we will not be denied!”

“This is our time!” the crowd responded.

“Go!” Christian pointed toward the doors. “Go and spread the fury of the Gods!”

“Praise Cthulhu!”

Christian stepped away from the lectern and nodded as the people rose and headed out of the church, their faces identical masks of angry determination. He watched them for signs of hesitation or fear, signs someone was resisting his subversion of their minds.

He saw none.

In the empty church, the signs of Chaos were evident everywhere, beginning with the eight-foot-high wood and plaster crucifix that overlooked the church from behind the altar. Gray slime streaked the once-clean surface, and patches of mildew created demented Rorschach patterns on the wall around the cross. On the altar, the linens lay in moldy tatters and the chalice looked as if an archeologist had just unearthed it from an eons-old burial ground.

Christian breathed deep of the musty, dirty smells of rot and decomposition, savoring each spore of decay. Gone were his fears of faltering in his ultimate goal for Hastings Mills. The absence of John Root played no small part in the resurgence, as there was no longer an opposing force of good to contend with.

I wonder if he knows how much he’s hurt his own cause just by leaving. And for what? Some herbs and potions that in the end will matter no more than a fart in a tornado.

The phrase, which he’d overheard that cretin Billy Ray Capshaw say one afternoon, pulled a hearty chuckle from Christian, a true expression of humor he rarely allowed himself.

Outside, six dead crows fell from the sky onto the front steps of the church.

*   *   *

Angela Parisi stopped short as she entered her living room. The sight of her good-for-nothing husband sitting on the sofa in a stained T-shirt and ragged boxer shorts, eating cheese puffs and getting sticky orange powder all over everything, was a bucket of cold water on the inspired feelings she’d carried with her since leaving church.

“What the hell are you doing?” She put as much venom in her voice as she could, thinking it might cut through the layers of sloth he’d built over the years.

“Huh?” George looked up at her with his mouth open, exposing teeth coated in orange paste. “I’m watchin’ the game, same’s I was when you left.” He shoved another fistful of snacks into his mouth.

Angela pursed her lips and frowned. Each
smack-smack
of his lips sent needles of pain into her skull. “I don’t suppose you’re planning to move your lazy ass and fix the back steps, like you said you would.”

George sipped a beer, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

“Well?” Angela asked.

With a sigh, he looked away from the game. “I said I was gonna do it, and I will. Soon as it cools off. It’s too hot out right now.”

“That’s been your excuse for the past month.”

He shrugged. “Can’t help it if it’s been a bad summer.”

Unaware she was clenching her fists so hard her nails had pierced the skin, Angela fought to keep from screaming. No reason to broadcast their problems to the neighbors. “I suppose it’s too hot to get a job, too?”

George wiped his hands on his t-shirt, leaving neon-orange tracks across older, yellow stains. “Summer’s a tough time to find work, babe.”

“You’re a mechanic, for R’Lyeh’s sake! There’s always work!”

“Whatever.” He turned away from her. “Give it a rest, will ya? I’m tryin’ to watch the game.”

Angela opened her mouth to tell him where to put his game, and then remembered Reverend Christian’s closing statements.
Snakes in the grass.

Those who didn’t believe.

George never goes to church. That’s the real problem.

Without another word, Angela left the living room. She doubted George even noticed. She went to the kitchen, where she slid her largest knife from the cutting block, a nine-inch blade they only used for carving holiday roasts and turkeys. A reflection in the polished steel caught her eye. Not her own face, but rather Reverend Christian’s, his black eyes filled with determination. His mouth opened and closed, and she stared hard, trying to read his lips.

“Spread the fury of the Gods.”

Yes. It was time for George to make a choice.

Returning to the living room, she stood behind her husband. “George, I think you should go to church with me from now on.”

Without turning his head, George uttered a short laugh. “Church? That’s your thing, honey. I ain’t stepped foot in that place since we got married, and that’s how it’s gonna stay. I got better things to do on a Sunday afternoon.”

“This is your last chance.” She raised the knife.

“And this is your last chance to leave me alone, for Chrissake.”

“So be it.”

Angela plunged the blade into his neck, stabbing as hard as she could, putting her shoulders into it. George let out a wet, choking cry and dropped his beer into his lap; blood spurted out and mixed with the beer, creating a red foam that covered his shirt and waist. Angela twisted the knife, severing the tendons in his neck and causing his head to flop to the side. She gave it one more turn and then pulled it free, revealing a gaping hole that exposed grayish tubes and thick muscle amidst the geysering blood.

For a moment she stood there, wondering what to do with George’s twitching, jerking body. Then it came to her. The Women’s Auxiliary potluck dinner was next week. She got her recipe book and quickly turned to the page for pulled pork.

“Let’s see,” she murmured to herself, oblivious to the red smears she was leaving on the pages. “Place 3 pounds of pork into crock pot and cook on low for eight hours.”

Angela glanced at George’s body, which lay on the floor like a beached whale.

“I think I’m going to need more crock pots.”

*   *   *

Ken Olsen crossed the parking lot toward the entrance to Rosie’s Diner, wondering how in the hell it had gotten so hot between his last stop and Hastings Mills. As he opened the door, he braced himself for the welcoming rush of cold air from the diner’s air conditioning.

Instead, a wave of stifling heat washed over him, riding on twin wings of grease and body odor.

Doing his best to ignore the unwelcome atmosphere, Ken headed for the cashier’s counter, where Millie, the usual Sunday clerk, sat on her stool, cleaning her long fingernails with a letter opener. He always tried to be nice to her; she reminded him of his own daughter, too chunky for her height, but with a pretty face just waiting to blossom.

“Hey, Millie. Is Rosie around? I got a delivery.”

Millie rolled her eyes, let out a sigh, and put down the opener. She stared at him long enough that he started to grow uncomfortable, wondering if he’d done something to offend her the last time he’d been by. Finally, after what seemed like a full minute of silence, she opened her mouth.

And spat a huge gob of stringy saliva on his shirt.

“There’s a delivery for ya,” Millie said, and then let loose with a vicious laugh.

“What the...Millie, what the fuck’s your problem?” Ken grabbed some napkins and wiped at his shirt.

“Hey, don’t go talkin’ to Millie like that,” a rough voice said.

Ken turned around and saw three burly men getting up from their booth. “Did you see what she did? She spit on me. I don’t need that shit.”

One of the men stepped forward. Ken expected him to continue the argument, or perhaps even say something to the belligerent counter girl. So he was caught completely unawares when the man lashed out with a softball-sized fist. Stars exploded in Ken’s head and he crashed into the counter, knocking over a tip jar and a basket of mints in the process.

“Maybe that’ll teach you keep yer mouth shut.”

Ken held onto the counter with one hand and rubbed his bruised jaw with the other. His first thought was to swing back; the other man was larger, but didn’t look to be in great shape. Then he saw the way the other two locals had tensed up, fists clenched and eyes narrowed, and he understood he’d be fighting three against one.

“All right, I’m leaving. I —FUCK!”

Hot fire flashed through Ken’s hand, the one on the counter. He turned and saw Millie’s letter opener sticking up from his hand. “Jesus Christ! What—”

Something hard hit him in the stomach, doubling him over. As he gasped for air, he saw a blue shape heading for his face. He tried to turn, but the knee caught him dead on, splitting his lip and knocking his nose to the side with a
crack
that seemed to echo in his head.

Ken collapsed to the floor, struggling to draw a breath past the blood pouring from his mouth and nose. A dusty steel-toed workbook came down on his elbow, and once more the sound of breaking bones filled the air. Someone grabbed his head and smashed it into the glass of the counter front. The same hands pulled him out again and threw him against the wall. He tried to crawl for the door, but two pairs of legs, looking as wide as tree trunks in their faded denim, blocked his way.

“Hey, mister,” a voice said.

He looked back and saw Millie standing beside him, her foot raised in the air. Before he could say anything, her three-inch heel came down on his back, all her considerable weight behind it.

When the plastic spike penetrated his kidney, Ken found the air to scream.

*   *   *

Cyrus Christian leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply of the loathsome energies swirling through Hastings Mills. Like fertilizer on plants, they saturated peoples darkest thoughts and helped rage, jealousy, hatred, and fear blossom into murder, rape, and violence.

Things are finally coming to fruition.
The roots of Chaos had taken hold, and now they were sprouting angry vines of black and red.

Time to take care of some unfinished business.

It hadn’t been hard to locate the Anderson bitch and her cowering brother. Holed up in their house like mice behind a wall, hiding from the big, bad cat waiting on the other side. As he’d expected, Root had cast wards all around the house. As long as they didn’t leave, the Andersons were safe. And neither Christian nor anything he might call from the Otherworlds could enter.

But there were ways around that problem.

The reverend laughed. Sometimes the best solution was the easiest. He took out his grimoire and searched through the pages until he found the spell he needed.

Simple, but oh so effective.

*   *   *

Danni Anderson was pouring a glass of ice tea when something struck the house with a loud
bang,
causing her hand to jerk and sending ice tea across the counter.

“What was that?”

“I dunno.” Mitch got up from the table and moved toward the front window.

“Wait!” Danni hurried after him, drying her hands on her shirt. “Remember what John said.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “He said don’t open the doors or windows. As long as we stay inside, nothing can hurt us, right? So it can’t hurt to look out the window.”

“That’s what John
said.”
Danni trailed behind. “But what if he’s wrong?”

“He...Holy crap!”

Danni pushed Mitch aside and peeked between the curtains. At least ten people stood in front of the house, making piles of stones on the ground. “What are they doing?”

Her question was answered a moment later when one of the trespassers hefted a golf-ball sized rock and threw it at the house.

Bang!

“Assholes!” Danni went to the front door. “Who the hell do they think they are, coming here and —“

“Danni, no!” Mitch slapped her hand just as she was reaching for the doorknob. She turned, an angry retort on her lips, and then one hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she’d almost done.

“Shit. I got so pissed I forgot.”

Mitch nodded. “I think that’s the idea.”

Danni’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. We’ll deal with them another way. I’ll just call the police.” She grabbed the phone.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Mitch said. “One of the guys out there is wearing a police uniform.”

Danni put down the phone, a nervous expression on her face. “Dammit. The phone’s dead.”

“They probably cut the lines. I hope they don’t —” He stopped as the ceiling fans went off. In the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked a few times as its motor shut down.

“The power’s out.” Danni tried a light switch, turning it on and off several times before giving up.

“That’s what I was afraid of. They’re gonna try and sweat us out.”

Danni looked at her brother, saw her nervousness reflected in his frown. “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this. Let’s have some ice tea while there’s still ice.” She put her arm around his shoulder and guided him away from the window.

Another stone banged against the house, and they both twitched.

John, where the hell are you?

*   *   *

John Root stood at the bottom of his basement stairs and surveyed the destruction Christian had wrought. It was worse than he’d imagined. Entire shelves had been turned over. Broken bottles, jars, and flasks covered the floor, their contents congealing in multi-colored puddles on the cement. The air reeked from the combination of herbs, oils, and solutions.

As he stared at his ruined storage room, a sick, angry knot formed in John’s stomach.
Over two hundred years of herbals and potions. The ingredients for every spell known to the Root family, ruined.
Many of the items would be almost impossible to find again: talismans from other countries, ancient artifacts, waters from a dozen different healing springs.