(Wrath-08)-Evil In The Darkness (2013) Page 8

  Ellie fell onto the grass, sitting on her legs. “Angels don’t have wings, Mom.” She shook her head, evidently tired of the conversation.

  Caelyn turned back to the potatoes. Three mid-sized russets lay cut up in the bowl. A couple of cucumbers were still left in the garden. The family wouldn’t go hungry, but none of them would be overly full after dinner tonight.

  Caelyn and her daughter were sitting on the sunny side of the house. It was early afternoon and the sun had passed its peak. Ellie had on a jacket and Caelyn had on a sweater. The wind had shifted out of the north, bringing a cold chill. Caelyn heard the backdoor open and looked over her shoulder to see her mom leaning against one of the white pillars that supported the porch roof. She was staring past the line of trees that formed the windbreak fifty yards from the house. After a long moment Gretta called out, “Miller!” She whistled, her fingers in her mouth, looking for the old dog.

  Caelyn turned to the empty fields. She didn’t hear anything, but she could tell her mother did. She followed the older woman’s eyes.

  Her mother whistled again, this time more loudly.

  Far off in the distance, she heard the dog bark.

  Gretta called again, “Miller! Miller, come on!”

  Caelyn stood, peering toward the trees. There, in the wind, she heard it, barking and snapping. The dog was out there, past the tree line, beyond the pasture, down toward the hayfields where they had moved the cows.

  Her mother cocked her head. “Someone’s down there!” she said in fear. “Someone’s in the herd.”

  Caelyn stood up. “Are you sure, Mom?”

  Gretta nodded toward the highway. “I saw some trucks go past the house, heading north.”

  “What kind of trucks? How would they be working?”

  “Big farm trucks. All of them were really old.”

  Caelyn stood and moved toward her mother, keeping her eyes on the fields beyond the row of poplar and cottonwood trees. The sound of the barking dog carried toward them on the wind, clearer now, more vicious, more constant.

  Then she heard a sudden short, loud pop. The sound echoed against the house.

  Her mother’s hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide, her hands trembling with fear and anger.

  Gunshot? Caelyn wondered, cold fear settling over her heart.

  Another pop.

  And then silence.

  Gretta started to run.

  FIFTEEN

  East Side, Chicago, Illinois

  Sam stood in the apartment courtyard, taking in the darkening twilight. The sun was over his right shoulder and his outline cast a long shadow to the east. Luke was well enough to travel, so they had gathered up all of their available supplies. Tonight they were going to leave the city, and he was eager to get on with it.

  It was cold and getting colder with every passing moment. He watched his shadow grow, marking the passing of time. Funny, he thought, how it was all so distorted now. The shortening of days. The shortening of time. Everything seemed to crash together.

  Sara watched, then moved to his side. “What is it, Sam?” she asked him, sensing his mood.

  He acted as if he didn’t hear her, keeping his eyes on the littered street that ran south. It reminded him of something from medieval London during the height of the plague: garbage, human waste and dead bodies in the street. He shivered, staring down the crowded avenue. Worthless cars and buses, a pile of old clothes—where had that come from?—broken sacks of garbage trampled by angry people.

  The sky was clear of rain now, the heavy clouds having moved off to the east, and a faint red tint began to glow in the west as the sun moved toward the building-lined horizon. He sniffed, smelling the fires. He couldn’t see them, but he knew that several flaming towers were consuming downtown one high-rise building at a time. The smoke filled the sky with an inky cloak of gray that seemed to drip like hazy fingers toward the ground. An army of people filled the streets, some of them fleeing the fires, some heading toward the ugly smoke, hoping to be entertained. Nothing was quite as exciting as the end of the world, Sam had learned, and the anarchists gathered to watch the destruction with drunken glee. The streets were full of them: drunk, jacked up, an orgy of narcissism, as if it hadn’t yet occurred to them that they were going to die, too. “What?! I’ve always been against the war. I invented anti-globalization. What do you mean, there isn’t any food?!”

  He looked carefully at the fools around him, who, he had decided, included pretty much everyone. There were so many now it scared him. How could he not have realized? How could he have been so blind as to what so many of his fellow men believed in, what they really were inside? Even in his worst expectation, he was completely unaware, but there they were, laughing and cursing and dancing as they waited for death out on the street. “OK, I’m going to die, but so are you. So come on, dig the show. Pass the peace pipe, eat your last meal, then come on out and take off all your clothes.”

  His hand moved toward the canvas holster at his side. When he felt the cool metal of his handgun, his mind flashed back to the evening he’d said good-bye to Bono back at Langley Air Force Base. He thought about him often, wondering if he, his wife and little girl were OK.

  Sara watched her son, then reached out and placed her hand on his arm, gripping his bicep gently. “Sam, are you OK?”

  He stared without replying.

  “Sam,” his mother pressed.

  He stood another moment, then shook his head and turned toward her. “I was—I don’t know—I was thinking about Bono.”

  Something in his face worried her and she squeezed again. “Bono?”

  “My friend from—”

  “I know who you mean. Do you think he’s in trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I see his face all the time now. I see his wife and little girl. Seems I can’t get them out of my mind.”

  Sara hesitated, brushing a strand of fine hair from her eyes. “You should pray for them,” she told him.

  He kept on staring, watching the smoke drifting closer to the ground.

  “Pray for them,” Sara repeated, pulling on his arm. “Sometimes that’s all you can do—but sometimes it’s enough.”

  SIXTEEN

  Four Miles West of Chatfield, Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee

  Gretta and Caelyn crawled through the high grass and weeds along the ditch that ran behind the trees. A barbed wire fence stretched before them on the other side of the trees. Beyond that lay a large field of hay, grazed down to the nubs, another fence, then a field of brown grass. Caelyn lifted her head above the weeds and peered out. A gravel road ran north and south between the two fields. Three old farm trucks were parked along the road. Beyond the strip of reddish-brown, their herd of mother cows moved about, watching the trucks suspiciously. A dozen men moved around the trucks, maybe sixty yards away. She watched them carefully. Most of them were armed. Shotguns. Short-barrel rifles. A few pistols sticking out from jacket pockets. Two young women waited inside the nearest truck. Their dark hair was tightly braided and they stared ahead, seemingly paying no attention to anything going on outside the trucks. The men were dark-skinned and bushy-haired, but there was something else about them, something unfamiliar, something out of place. Caelyn thought a long moment as she watched from the cover of the grass; then her heart began to race. It was clear now: the cowboy boots and heavy clothing, the checkered shirts, drooping mustaches, and long black hair. She glanced at the farm trucks—models she’d never seen before. Old. Rusted. Huge, rounded fenders. Like something from a foreign movie. She picked up some of what they were saying, the sound drifting across the open fields, and cocked her head to listen. What she heard wasn’t the Spanish of the border or the Spanglish she had picked up out in California. No, these men came from farther south. Mexico City. The mountains of central Mexico. Someplace far away.

  Her mother moved a little closer to her, and Caelyn dropped her head again.

  “Do you recognize them?” her mother whispere
d.

  Caelyn shook her head. Her mother’s eyes were not as good as they used to be.

  “It’s not that group from out near Baylor—”

  Caelyn raised a hand to cut her off.

  “Can you see them? Do I know them?”

  “No, Mom, you don’t know them.” Caelyn pushed a clump of brush away, hoping to see a little better. “They’re not from around here.” She swallowed a knot of fear and lifted her head above the grass again.

  There were a couple of old men among the group, with graying hair and fat bellies, but most of them were young. All of them had the same dark, tough and mean look. Hard lives. Hard men. Men who didn’t care. As she watched, the oldest of the men moved toward their hiding place. Stopping, he looked directly over their heads, staring at the country house behind them. Caelyn’s heart skipped. Ellie was back there, playing in the yard! Had she seen her mother and grandmother run over here? Would she follow her mother across the fields? She gulped again in fear.

  The stranger lifted a hand and motioned toward the house. Another man came and stood beside him and they both laughed.

  Beside the old trucks, one of the men snapped the bolt on his rifle, pointed toward the herd, settled on a target, and raised the gun. A loud shot thundered toward the women, far more powerful than the first sound they had heard. The thunder echoed across the open field, seeming to carry on for miles. The nearest heifer fell to her front knees, bellowed once, her back legs stiff and straight, then wobbled and fell over, her head thrashing blood and spit. Caelyn stifled a sudden scream. Another shot rang across the open fields. The young cow jerked once more from the impact, then was still.

  Caelyn lowered her head, her mother trembling at her side.

  Another shot burst across the open air. Caelyn lifted her head above the grass. Another cow was down, the animal bellowing as it jerked its neck from side to side. The two women in the front seat climbed out of the ancient truck. Caelyn stared at their clothes, outfits from a different world: thick, multicolored dresses hanging to their boots; suede jackets with long sleeves rolled up past their elbows; floppy hats against the breeze. The women walked toward the downed animals, long knives in hand. The larger of the women stood over the first cow, pushed its head back with her boot, leaned over, and slit its throat with one long stroke. The ground turned dark red, almost black, from the spilling blood. The second cow let out a final dying bellow, thrashing its legs in pain, bloody-red froth spitting from its mouth. The other woman walked toward it, knelt across its head to hold it down, and expertly slit its throat as well. Near the old green truck, the shooter dropped his rifle to his side, satisfied. Two of the younger men immediately started fighting for his gun. Caelyn could hear their shouts, which at first were merely angry but rapidly grew angrier. The larger of the young men prevailed, pushing the smaller boy back. Turning, he hoisted the rifle and raised it toward the herd. Aiming quickly, he shot, but he missed, and his father yelled at him, words Caelyn couldn’t understand. The young man aimed again and fired, bringing down another cow. Another shot. Another cow down. Caelyn hid her head.

  “They’re going to kill them all!” she whispered in anguish. “It makes no sense!” Her heart sank into despair, a thick blackness all around.

  Amid the darkness, Caelyn felt a stab of anger. “Heavenly Father, is this really the way You want it?” she prayed desperately. “If they kill our animals, we will starve to death! Are You going to beat me down until I have to fail? Is this supposed to keep me humble? Believe me, Lord, You’ve got me on my knees. Why have You left me here alone, without my husband, having to take care of my parents and my little girl?”

  The thoughts came crashing even faster, a rush of hopelessness.

  “Can You hear me, Heavenly Father? Are you there? This is more than I can handle. I want to crawl into a hole.

  “I have always believed, even from the time I was a little girl, that You were out there and that You loved me, but I don’t know if I believe that anymore. How else am I to read this? You don’t love me. You don’t love Ellie. You don’t care about us anymore.” Rolling onto her back, she brushed away tears and frustration. “Heavenly Father,” she whispered finally, “are You really there?”

  The doubts gathered deep inside her and she stopped praying, falling into silence. Her mother watched her, reaching for her hand.

  Caelyn thought the doubt and desperation that tumbled from her were coming from her soul, but the seeds were something different, something much more dangerous, more severe.

  And though she felt him, she didn’t recognize the blackness that was near.

  “Heavenly Father,” she repeated slowly, “are You there?”

  SEVENTEEN

  “No, he’s not there!” Lucifer sneered as he paced behind Caelyn, taking delight in her despair. “Don’t you know that you’re alone here? He’s not going to save you. Miracles are only for other people. He’s not going to help you now!”

  Lucifer smiled as he spoke. This was when he was at his best. Get them scared. Get them to take fear in the future. Weaken their faith, and it was an easy step to convince them that God didn’t love them anymore. So he kept his focus on her, twisting her natural apprehension into faithless fear.

  Beside him, Balaam watched, a tiny turn of his thin lips toward his eyes. Other dark angels danced behind them, not as talented, less determined, but still willing to participate in any scene of despair. And their delight was usually full now. So many scenes of horror filled the world.

  To Balaam’s right, a group of female spirits leaned toward the two women who were working over the cows. These evil spirits, Balaam trusted, for he had heard their cunning lies. Lucifer’s male servants were far too clumsy, too abrupt and demanding to entrap the women in their deceptions. But their dark sisters were much more patient and subtle in their words. He shivered as he imagined the deceits that were coming through their lips. “No one loves you. You have nothing. Do what your man tells you and don’t ever say a word. Don’t complain. Don’t stand up. You are lucky, you ugly fool. What other man would even have you?” Balaam smiled maliciously as he thought of their lies. “You are worthless. You are different. You’re not worthy of anything but indifference and disdain.”

  Such were the lies the fallen women were whispering to the mortals, so effective over time. And the evil sisters knew them well, for they were the same words Lucifer spoke to them every day.

  Balaam studied his wretched sisters, closed his eyes, and shivered.

  Lucifer focused his attention on Caelyn, his dark whispers so overpowering they bled despair into her heart.

  Behind him, the lesser angels continued crying and shouting as they danced around the dying animals. Their lust for blood was nearly overpowering. Blood. Flesh. The human touch. All things of the body. The ache for such things they would never know or experience was all-consuming in their dark and bitter world, and there was constant glee in the killing of the gift they’d never have.

  Balaam watched, disgusted at their ignorance. There was no reason for their shouting. He hissed, a snakelike sound emitting from his throat. Walking toward the other angels, he brushed them away with a violent motion of his hand, then, turning to the mortal men, he spoke in their minds. “Kill the entire herd,” he prompted in a whisper. “If you let the animals live, the Anglos will butcher them, providing food for the long winter. But if you kill their cattle now, they will starve to death. So kill the entire herd. Leave them nothing but rotting flesh. After what the Anglos have done to your people, they all deserve to die.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Caelyn’s stomach turned, the muscles in her chest growing tighter with every breath. Her mother grabbed her arm, her eyes red with fear and sadness. “Can you see Miller?” she whispered. “Your dad will die without him. Can you see him? Is he there?”

  Caelyn shook her head. “No, Mom, I didn’t see him.”

  “But did you look?”

  “I didn’t see him, Mom.”

  �
��My eyes aren’t good enough to see anymore, especially in this dying light.”

  Gretta glanced fearfully toward the darkening sky. Where had all the light gone? What had happened to the sun? The afternoon had grown so dark so quickly, she didn’t understand. But even she, an unbeliever, felt the evil of the black soul standing near. She didn’t have a name for it, but she felt Lucifer’s cold chill of his soul and shivered. She looked at Caelyn now, scared and uncertain at the sudden dying light. Reaching out, she touched her daughter’s arm. “Will you please see if you can see him? Your dad will have to know.”

  Caelyn waited, then carefully lifted her head and looked out, her eyes scanning the ground around the men. Looking closer, she saw the dog, halfway between the trucks and the grass where they were hiding, a mound of brown fur stretched out in the dirt. She stared, then started crying, warm tears falling down her cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry, Mom.”

  Her mother clenched her arm, her fingers digging painfully into the soft skin, then raised her head and peered through the cattails that were rustling in the wind. “They didn’t have to do that,” she whispered angrily. “They didn’t have to kill him.”

  Another shot rang out across the darkening sky. Another cow bellowed out in pain. The herd startled at the gunshot but still they didn’t move—too dumb and domesticated to understand their own fear.

  Caelyn almost retched in pain and fear. “Please don’t kill them all!” she prayed again.

  One of the fat men who’d been leaning against the old truck yelled and darted forward to pull the rifle from the shooter’s hands, cursing all the time. Peering over the tall grass, Caelyn watched as he slapped the younger man upside the head. He was the leader of the gang, she could see that, his chest puffed with pride. Even from a distance, she could see that his arms were darkened with tattoos. His hair was a wild mat, his Wranglers® tight around his thighs, his gut spilling over the front of his jeans, a huge silver buckle flashing on his leather belt. Swearing again, he pushed the butt of the rifle against the younger man’s chest. The kid wobbled—was he drunk?—swept his hands in a wide arc, gesturing toward the herd, and stepped back. The leader frowned, spoke as if he needed to instruct him, raised the rifle, and shot again, downing another cow.