Authors: Bentley Little
He pulled out of the driveway, driving slow, trying to see through the small curved rectangle of clearness created by the single wiper blade.
The road curved next to the river, now brown and muddy because of the rain, and crossed the water on the east side of the sawmill. Through the windshield he could see the billowing smoke of the smelter, fighting bravely against the rain. There was a sharp flash of red, and he braked to a stop.
What was that?
The flash came again, a crimson light that flashed over everything and turned even the trees a blood red.
Lightning. It was lightning, and Father Andrews stared out his windshield in wonder. He had never seen red lightning before. There was another flash. And another. And another.
He took his foot off the brake and started moving again. There was something strange about the colored lightning, something he didn't quite like, something that disturbed him. But he concentrated on the road, not letting his mind dwell on the extraordinarily loud thunder or the lightning flashes that were now almost constant.
He turned right on Main and headed for the sheriff's office. He parked the car as close as possible to the door and dashed through the open entry way. He stomped the water off his feet and wiped his shoes on the entrance mat, shaking the rain from his hair. He smiled at the pretty receptionist staring at him. "I hate this weather," he said.
The receptionist smiled back. "We like it around here. The monsoons make things a lot easier for us." She stood up and moved to the counter next to him. "May I help you?"
"I'm supposed to see Sheriff Weldon. My name's Donald Andrews."
"Father Andrews! The sheriff's been expecting you. Come with me." She pushed through the swinging gate that separated the back of the counter from the front and led the way down a wide corridor. "They're in the conference room." She stopped in front of a door and pushed it open, sticking her head in the room. "Father Andrews is here," she announced. She held the door open to let him in.
The sheriff stood up from a chair, offering his hand. "I'm glad you're here, father."
Father Andrews shook his hand, but his attention was focused on the business-suited man sitting on the other side of the table in the center of the room. Brother Elias. He walked forward slowly, looking into the preacher's face. BrotherEllas ' eyes, the pupils glaringly black, stared back unflinchingly.
The sheriff worked his way around the table and sat next to the preacher. He motioned for Andrews to sit down as well. The priest pulled out a chair opposite the sheriff and sat. He pushed his chair closer to the table. From this vantage point, he could see that Brother Elias' tie clip was a small gold crucifix. His cufflinks were also in the shape of crosses.
The sheriff took off his hat and placed it on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat loudly and nodded toward Father Andrews.
"You said you'd heard about Brother Elias," he said. "What exactly have you heard?"
Father Andrews looked at the preacher. He felt awkward talking about him in the third person, as if he weren't there. "Not much," he admitted.
"Rumors."
"Like what?"
"Some of my congregation members have been talking about him. They said he's been preaching around town, making predictions --"
"The predictions," Jim said, nodding. "Have you heard those predictions?"
Father Andrews shook his head.
"He predicted that churches would be burned," the sheriff said, his voice low. "And they were burned. He predicted there would be red lightning. And there is red lightning." He paused. "And he predicted there would be an earthquake."
"And flies," Brother Elias added, smiling slightly.
"And flies," Jim agreed. He stared at Father Andrews. "What do you make of this?"
The priest shook his head. "I don't know yet. What should I make of it?"
"Talk to him," Jim said. "See if you can make any sense out of what he says."
The priest turned to Brother Elias. "Why are these predictions coming true?" he asked. "The adversary is among us," the preacher said.
"The evil one is here."
Father Andrews leaned forward. "What do you mean the adversary is among us? Do you mean that Satan is here? Actually, physically, here?"
"Satan is here," Brother Elias said. "And he is recruiting disciples to help him accomplish his work."
"But where is here? Do you mean here on earth? Or do you mean Randall specifically?"
Brother Elias' black eyes bored into those of the priest. "He is here," he said, hitting the table with his forefinger to punctuate his words.
"Here in this town. He is recruiting disciples in preparation for the coming battle with the forces of the Lord. This is to be the battleground."
Jim stood up, running a tired hand through his hair. "What makes you think he's here?" he asked. "Churches in Phoenix have been desecrated, too. How do you know he's not down there?"
"He is here."
"Why?"
"Who knows why Satan does what he does, why he goes where he goes? It is enough to know that he is here among us, that he is gathering together his army in preparation for the final battle, the battle that was foretold--"
"Look," Jim said loudly. "I've had just about enough of this crap." He glanced toward Father Andrews. "I'm not sure I believe all this end-ofthe-world shit he's spouting, but it seems pretty obvious to me that he's involved in all this. I don't know how. Maybe he's crazy, and maybe I'm crazy too, but I think he knows what's going on here.
What do you think?"
The priest nodded.
"All right, then. Now what I want is specifics. What, where, and when. Don't give me this vague crap about visions and prophecies."
Brother Elias smiled. "You are just like Ezra," he said. "Just like your great-grandfather."
Jim looked exasperatedly at Father Andrews for help. "You try to talk to him, Father." He began pacing around the room. "Jesus fuck." He glanced quickly and shamefacedly at the priest. "Sorry,"
Andrews smiled, shaking his head, signifying that no apology was necessary. He turned his attention back to the preacher, seated across the table from him. There is something wrong with this man, he thought, something basically and fundamentally wrong.
Something inhuman. He stared into the preacher's calm face and felt the fear rise within him. He could sense, beneath the surface calm, an inner twistedness Outwardly, Brother Elias' suit was neatly pressed, his hair combed to perfection, his.. .. Andrews bent forward, squinting, not believing what he was seeing.
On Brother Elias' earlobe was a small cross. It had been tattooed on.
He looked closer. No, not tattooed. Carved. The cross had been carved into his flesh. Andrews looked at the preacher's other ear. The skin here, too, had been savagely marked with the carving of a crucifix.
The door to the conference room opened, and Rita let Gordon in. He stood by the doorway for a moment, taking everything in, unsure of what to do.
"Sit down," the sheriff told him. "We're just getting started."
Gordon nodded politely to Father Andrews, but his attention was focused on Brother Elias. The preacher, likewise, was staring at Gordon. "I was wondering when you would arrive," he said.
"Let's get back to the questions," the sheriff said. "What exactly is Satan doing here in Randall?"
Gordon looked up at the sheriff, but he knew enough not to interrupt or ask any questions. He would just follow along with the conversation and ask questions afterward, if he had to.
Brother Elias continued to stare at Gordon. "He is recruiting disciples for the coming battle--"
"How is he recruiting them?" the sheriff demanded. "Who is he recruiting?
And where is he getting them? From the prisons? From the bars? From the people who don't go to church or don't believe in God?"
Brother Elias stared at him as though he had just said something profoundly stupid. "Where is he getting them? He is getting them from the womb. He is gathering to him the babies."
The babies.
Gordon looked at the suddenly pale faces of the sheriff and Father Andrews, knowing that his face must appear even more shocked and scared. He tried to lick his dry lips, but the saliva had fled his mouth.
Brother Elias picked up a black-bound Bible from the floor next to his chair and opened it to a marked page. "Revelation 20:14," he said, and his voice was filled with calm authority. '"Then Death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. This is the second death, the lake of fire; and if any one's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire."" He looked up and repeated the last portion of the verse in a softer voice. ""And if any one's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.""
There was silence after the preacher had finished speaking.
Brother Elias closed the Bible and put it back on the floor next to his chair. "The lake of fire is hell," he said. "And those who are not written into the book of life, those who are not born, those who are aborted or miscarried or stillborn, are cast into the lake of fire to become the disciples of Satan. These unborn infants are blank slates, neither good nor bad, but Satan captures them in his web, forcing them to do his evil work, converting them to his evil purpose."
Father Andrews shook his head. "You're wrong," he said. "You don't know what you're talking about. The lake of fire is not hell, and the book of life is not life. Any seminary student could tell you--"
"Go not by the interpretations of the past," Brother Elias said. "For they are incorrect."
"You have no idea what--"
"The Lord," Brother Elias said calmly, "has spoken to me in a divine vision. He has shown me what must be done." He looked from Gordon to Andrews to the sheriff. "And you are to help me."
"Why do you need us at all?" Andrews asked. "You obviously know what needs to be done and how to do it, why don't you just do it on your own?"
"The adversary is crafty. He is a liar and the father of lies, and he can call forth his minions to aid him. He will do everything in his power to stop me from doing my duty."
Jim sat down heavily in the chair next to Brother Elias. He thought for a moment, then sighed. "I don't know what to believe," he admitted. He looked at the preacher. "I believe you know what's going on here, but I'm not sure you're telling us the truth. Or all of the truth. I need more proof. I need proof before I can act on any of this. I can't just take your word for it all."
Brother Elias fingered the gold cross of his tie clip. His black eyes were bright and alive. "By tomorrow, you will have your proof," he said.
"If you wait any longer than that, it will be too late."
Tim McDowell, armed only with a flashlight and a kid'swalkie talkie, walked for the thirteenth time that day across the water-cut path that dissected the ravine at the north end of Aspen Lake. A low drizzle had started several hours ago, burgeoning into a full fledged storm, and most of the searchers had since gone home for the day. A few others were waiting out the monsoon in their cars, parked along the dirt road next to the lake, staring out their windshields at the flashes of alternately red and blue lightning, perplexed. Only he and Mac Buxton and Ralph Daniels were still trudging around and actively looking. He knew that the odds were against finding anything, particularly in this ravine, which had been covered more than any area save the campground itself, but he was determined not to give up the search until he found out about Matt. One way or the other.
Several of the other searchers had tried to hint gently that it was possible the boys were dead, and he knew, intellectually, that they were probably right, but emotionally he felt otherwise. He had a feeling, a gut feeling, that Matt was alive, only lost or hurt.
"Matt!" he called. "Matt!"
No answer.
His voice was getting hoarse, and his arms and legs were aching, but he didn't care. He pulled a wad of chaw from hisSkoal can and put it between his cheek and gum. The tobacco tasted good. He spit, wiping the excess off his beard. He took off his CAT hat and squeezed some of the water out of it before putting it back on.
The walkie-talkie crackled, and he held it up immediately next to his ear, but it was only another false alarm. He put thewalkie talkie down and looked back toward the lake. Through the natural green of the ponderosas he could see the red and blue metal of pickup cabs. Ron Harrison and Joe Fisk were in one of those trucks. Drunk, probably. He spit in disgust. How could they sit there when their kids were still missing? What kind of fathers were they?
"Shitty," he answered himself. He looked around, walking forward, trying to spot a shirt, a shoe, something. "Matt!" he called.
The walkie-talkie crackled. He held it up to his ear.
"Tim. I've found something."
His heart stopped. His lips were dry in spite of the rain. He held down the "talk" button with his finger and took a big gulp of air. "Is it ... Matt?"