The Revelation

Jim sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "All right. Stay here then." He started down the hall.

"Sheriff?"

Jim turned around. "Yes?"

"What's going on here?"

"I'll be damned if I know."

"Me and Judson were talking about it the other night, and we decided that there's a lot of weird stuff's been going on."

Jim smiled tightly. "You got that right."

"No, I mean really weird stuff. We never told you, but we found little footprints out at the farmer's house. Strange little footprints. And I've been seeing a lot of strange things lately. A lot of people have.

I've heard 'emtalking."

"I know."

"The other night? When you thought you saw something in the back of the building? Judson said he saw it too, only he never told you."

Jim looked at his deputy sympathetically. The young man had been through a hell of a lot lately. "It's okay," he said reassuringly.

"We have it all under control. Hopefully, we'll have all this cleared up by the end of today. You just keep manning the phones there. I'll keep you apprised of all developments."

"Sheriff? If you need any help, you let me know. I don't know exactly what it is you're doing, but whatever it is, I'd be willing to help out."

"I know you would. And if I need your help, I'll tell you. Okay?"

Pete nodded. "Okay."

Jim smiled at the deputy. "Thanks, Pete. For everything." He paused, thinking. "You know Gordon Lewis?"

"The Pepsi guy?"

"Yeah. How about Father Andrews?"

Pete shook his head.

"Well, he's the priest that came to take over for Father Selway . If either of them come looking for me, send them to the back. I'll be in the conference room. And hold all calls." The deputy nodded acquiescence, and Jim walked down the hall toward the conference room.

Behind him, he heard the telephone ring and Pete answer.

Brother Elias was seated in a stiff-backed chair, wide awake, staring at the blank wall opposite him. He did not move as the sheriff entered the room. His eyes did not waver from their fixed point on the wall.

Jim stared at the back of the preacher's head. Technically, Brother Elias was still in custody, and Jim wanted to retain some measure of control over the preacher. Jim knew that he would not be calling the shots today, but he did not feel entirely comfortable subordinating himself completely to Brother Elias. He walked farther into the room and cleared his throat loudly, unsure of what to say, hoping the preacher would speak first.

Brother Elias remained silent.

"I got everything we need," Jim said, trying to make the statement sound as casual as possible under the circumstances. "The hospital gave me several different blood types. They said they couldn't spare a gallon of a single type. They don't have enough on reserve, and in case of an emergency, blood would have to be flown in from Phoenix. I wasn't sure what type we needed, anyway."

"It does not matter," Brother Elias said.

Jim pulled out a chair across the table from the preacher and sat down.

"Where are we going to start looking?" he asked. "How are we going to begin this thing?"

Brother Elias smiled slightly, but his eyes were cold. Jim recalled the nightmare he had had during the night, and as he looked into Brother Elias' eyes, he realized that he was a little afraid of the preacher.

"The others will be here soon," Brother Elias said. "We will talk then."

Jim sat back in his chair, glancing around the conference room. Though he had spent a lot of time in here interrogating suspects, he had never noticed how dingy the walls looked, how much in need of a paint job the room was. He would have to look into that, see if he couldn't get some funds to repaint the entire office. Perhaps make it a more cheerful color, get rid of that ugly grayish green the county had forced on him the last time.

If everything worked out today. If they survived.

"Most people believe that God has a penis," Brother Elias said.

Jim looked up sharply, shocked. "What?"

"Most people believe that God created man in his own image. Man has a penis. Therefore, most people believe that God has a penis."

Jim smiled. "It must be an awfully big one."

Brother Elias did not smile.

The sheriff coughed, embarrassed. "You don't believe God has a penis, I take it?"

The preacher shook his head. "God does not have specialized organs as does man. He does not have a penis, he does not have a stomach, he does not have a spleen."

Jim said nothing. He looked away from the preacher. He assumed that this bizarre conversation was Brother Elias' equivalent of small talk.

He said nothing more, hoping to drop the subject.

There was a knock on the outside of the conference room door.

"Come in!" Jim called.

Gordon stepped into the room, looking pale and a little scared. He was wearing a pair of ripped and faded jeans and an old checkered shirt. Over his shoulder was slung an expensive 35millimeter camera.

He nodded silently to Brother Elias and to the sheriff.

"Grab a seat," the sheriff said.

Gordon sat down to wait. A few moments later, Father Andrews entered the room. The sheriff stood up and motioned for him to take a chair.

He turned to face Brother Elias. "Well," he said, "we're all here."

The preacher nodded slowly. He looked at Gordon, his black eyes clear and unreadable. "I assume you would like to know why you are with us."

"Yes, I would," Gordon admitted.

Brother Elias stood up. "We all have our parts to play," he said. "We must all take the roles for which we were meant." He nodded toward the sheriff. "He is a protector, like his great-grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather before him. The adversary is strong, and there is an element of physical danger in our endeavor. We need his protection." His gaze shifted to Father Andrews. "He is a man of God, blessed with extrasensory ability. We need his ability to communicate with the adversary."

"Why do you need me?" Father Andrews asked. "Why can't you communicate?"

"I cannot," the preacher said simply. P "But you're a man of God as well."

Brother Elias smiled but said nothing. He turned to Gordon. "You, too, are to be a protector."

"But why me? I can't even--"

"Your wife is pregnant. The evil one wants your unborn infant. We need the added insurance provided by your personal involvement."

Gordon tried to swallow but his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He felt as though he was going to faint. He stood up and clumsily knocked over his chair. His legs felt weak. Marina! "I have to go," he said hurriedly. "I have to get her."

The preacher's eyes held him, forcing him to remain still. "You cannot leave."

Gordon willed himself to look away, he rushed to the door. "I have to get her!"

"If you do not come with us now, the adversary will surely get your unborn daughter."

Gordon's hand let go of the doorknob. He turned around.

"We need your strength. Your daughter needs your strength."

"Why?" Gordon asked.

"The Lord," said Brother Elias, "has always chosen special people to carry out his work, be it artistic, intellectual, or spiritual. The BachsandBeethovens , the ThomasEdisons and AlbertEinsteins , the Ghandisand Martin Luther Kings. He places these special individuals in different parts of the world, in different countries. Not all of them survive. In his jealousy and rage, Satan attempts to gather these individuals to him before they are born, to convert them to his own evil purposes, to spite and mock the Lord our God." He looked at Gordon. "Your daughter is just such a person. That is why the adversary is after her."

"You mean," Jim said, unbelieving, "that all of this, all this chaos, happened when Bach was born, when Thomas Edison was born, when all those other people were born?"

Brother Elias shook his head. "The adversary is lucky that the unborn infant is here at this place at this time." He shrugged. "Perhaps he planned it that way. I cannot say."

"I have to call iVIarina and warn her," Gordon said.

The sheriff nodded and gestured toward the door. "Call her. Tell Pete to let you use the phone."

Gordon pulled open the door. He turned suddenly around. "What will my daughter be when she grows up?" he asked.

Brother Elias only smiled.

Gordon ran out into the hall.

Jim stood and looked at the preacher, a mixture of fear and bewilderment visible on his features. "This is the first time this has happened?"

"I did not say that."

"Were any of these . . . special people ever born in Randall?"

"No," the preacher said. "We were not in time. The boy was never born."

Gordon ran into the front office, got the phone from Pete, dialed the number of his house and let the phone ring. Six, seven, eight times.

He waited until the twelfth ring and hung up. Marina had had plenty of time to return home since she'd dropped him off. He was worried, but he knew Brother Elias would not let him drive back home to check on her. Maybe he could convince the others to stop by the house for a few minutes on the way to wherever they were going. He knew they would be heading in the direction of the Rim.

The other three men walked into the front office.

"We must go," Brother Elias said. "It is getting late. Time is short."

Angry as she had been with him, Marina was scared, Gordon knew. She might not have believed everything he'd told her, but she instinctively felt the danger. She had probably already left for Phoenix. She was probably well out of Randall by now.

Yes, he decided, adjusting the camera over his shoulder as he followed the other men out of the office. She was probably long gone by now.

He hoped to God she was.

Marina, taking a hot shower, did not hear the telephone ring.

A line of light orange was just beginning to infiltrate the fading purple of the eastern sky as the two pickups pulled off the paved highway onto the control road. Brother Elias had originally said that he wanted enough pickup trucks for each of them, plus a few extra vehicles just in case. But the sheriff had been able to scrape together only three county trucks and one private vehicle--Carl's. As it turned out, they only needed two of the trucks. Father Andrews could not drive a stick shift and so was forced to ride with Gordon.

And Jim did not want Brother Elias driving by himself. Not with a county truck.

The preacher had said nothing to Jim during the twenty-minute ride to the control road but had instead stared silently out the window at the passing trees. Jim had tried to talk to the preacher, had tried to ask questions, had tried to get some type of conversation going, but Brother Elias had refused to speak, and soon he had given up. He turned on the radio for a brief while, but the only station that came in was an obnoxious rock station out of San Francisco, and he ended up turning the radio off. "You get the strangest stations in the early morning," he said to Brother Elias, but the preacher ignored him and they drove in silence the rest of the way.

Gordon and Father Andrews drove in silence as well, each thinking private thoughts. Gordon had looked at the priest as the truck before them had sped past the turnoff to his house, and Father Andrews, as if reading his thoughts, had smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry," he said.

"She'll be fine." They had driven the rest of the way in silence.

Ahead, the right taillight of the sheriff's truck began blinking slowly on and off, and the truck turned onto the control road. Gordon slowed down as he followed the sheriff's lead. What little light they had had from the not-quite-rising sun was cut off instantly as they entered the low darkness of the forest. Here it was still night. They descended the dirt road down from the highway and wound through a small ravine.

Around them, the trees grew high and tall and close to the road. Even the high beams of the truck did not penetrate far into the blackness.

To their left, past the trees, unseen but felt, rose the huge majestic form of the Mogollon Rim.

The sheriff's truck moved carefully over the one-lane road, taking the sharp turns slowly. The road straightened out, and the truck's red taillights increased in brilliance as the sheriff braked to a stop.

Gordon pulled to a stop as well. Jim came jogging back. He motioned for Gordon to roll down the window. Instead, Gordon opened the door and stepped out. "What is it?" he asked.

"Come here," the sheriff said. He walked briskly forward, past his own truck and stood in the middle of the road. "Look familiar?"

Gordon nodded, feeling the coldness creep over him, the goose bumps rising on his arms. This was where he had been walking in his dream.

He recognized the shapes of specific trees, the convergence of certain silhouettes. Beneath his feet, even the dirt of the road felt familiar. "This was where part of my dream took place."

"Mine too."

He turned toward the sheriff. "What does this mean?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know." He nodded toward the truck. "Our friend there's not talking."

"We are wasting valuable time," Brother Elias said from inside the pickup. "We must start moving. There is much to do." His voice sounded stronger in the forest darkness, even more authoritarian than usual, and there seemed to be a hint of urgency in it.

Brother Elias, his skin the dark brown of a full-bloodedAnasazi , wearing only a loincloth, clutching a spear, standing before a ceremonial bonfire as around him warriors stood hushed.

Father Andrews shut his eyes against the vision, forcing the unwanted picture out of his mind through a sheer effort of will.

"Go back to your truck," Jim told Gordon. "Let's get going." He climbed into his own cab, slammed the door shut and put the engine into gear. Behind him, he heard Gordon's truck start up.

They moved forward. The narrow dirt road was now straight, moving toward the landfill in a direct line through the trees. A doe hopped onto the road, froze for a second in the glare of the oncoming headlights, then bounded off. They saw no other animals. Finally, they came to the open chain link gate of the landfill and stopped.

Before them, blocking the entrance, parked sideways across the dirt road, was a truck.

Brad Nicholson's Pepsi truck.

Gordon got out of the pickup, his heart pounding. The cab was empty, he saw, its door open. The canvas strap used to close the back gate of the truck was swinging gently in the open air.

"Stay back!" the sheriff ordered. He had gotten out of his truck and was advancing toward the gate, gun drawn. Gordon remembered the rifles sitting in the bed of his pickup and he was tempted to grab one, but he remained rooted to the spot, watching as the sheriff moved cautiously forward.

Jim put one foot slowly in front of the other, trying desperately not to make any noise. He glanced from side to side, listening for the sound of movement, prepared to defend himself against whatever might jump out at him. He reached the open door of the cab and cautiously peeked in. Empty. He moved around the front of the truck, still preparing himself for an unexpected attack. From here, he could see the rest of the dump. A reddish orange glow emerged from the smoldering embers of thecumbustible pile in the middle of the cleared area, and he shivered. He scanned the space immediately around him.

Nothing moved. He continued walking around the truck. The canvas strap of the rear door had stopped swinging, and the sheriff realized that there was no breeze. Something must have hit the strap to make it move. His grip tightened on his gun, and he peeked into the back of the truck.

Nothing.

He relaxed. Puzzled, he looked again into the interior of the truck then toward the bright headlights of the two pickups. He shook his head in an exaggerated motion. "Nothing!" he called.

Gordon moved forward and Father Andrews got out of the truck. Both of them approached the gate. "That's Brad's truck," Gordon said. "How did it get here?"

"I don't know," Jim said.

Brother Elias emerged from the cab of the first pickup, clutching his black-bound Bible in his hand. The preacher walked through the open gate of the landfill and moved around to the back of the truck where the others were standing. " "Just as the weeds are gathered and burned with fire, so will it be at the close of the age. The Son of man will send his angels, and they will gather out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and throw them into the furnace of fire."

Matthew--"

"--13:40," Father Andrews finished for him. He looked into the preacher's black eyes, and the preacher smiled.

The sheriff glanced around the dump. The sky was becoming progressively lighter. Although the sky to the west was still a dark purple, to the east it was anorangish blue, almost daylight. The tall ponderosas were no longer black silhouettes but were now identifiable as trees.

Brother Elias focused his cold gaze on the sheriff. "Get the pitchforks from the trucks," he ordered. "Get the rope."

"What about the rifles?" Jim asked.

"We do not yet need them."

Jim started for the pickups and Gordon moved to follow him, but Brother Elias clapped a strong hand on his shoulder. "He will get the weapons," the preacher said. "You move the truck. We must have the way clear."

Jim returned with four pitchforks and the coils of rope. Gordon, to his surprise, found the keys still in Brad's ignition, and he moved the vehicle away from the gate. Glancing down at the seat next to him, he saw an empty can of Pepsi, a few wet drops of the beverage visible on the vinyl upholstery, and he thought of his boss.

He shut off the engine and hopped out of the truck. He saw the sheriff run back to his pickup and pull the smaller vehicle through the gate into the dump. Brother Elias waved for him to park in the center of the landfill, near the smoldering woodpile. Jim stopped the truck, turned off the lights and came running over.

Brother Elias picked up the pitchforks and handed one to each of them.

Gordon accepted the implement and hefted it in his hands. It felt heavy, lethal. The shiny steel of the pronged points captured the first rays of the rising sun and reflected them back at him. He wasn't sure exactly what Brother Elias had in mind, but he knew that as a weapon a pitchfork was good for only one thing--stabbing.

The thought did not comfort him.

Jim and Father Andrews accepted their weapons from the preacher.

'"Take care, brethren,"" Brother Elias said softly, '"lest there be in any of you an evil, unbelieving heart, leading you to fall away from the living God." Hebrews 3:12." The preacher stared hard at each of them, then picked up his pitchfork. "Let us go forth," he said.

After taking her shower, Marina dried off, slipped on a robe and went back into the bedroom. She sat on the unmade bed and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the front of the closet door. The house was silent, she thought, too silent. And she wished, not for the first time, that they lived a little closer to town. Outside, it was still dark. The moon had long since set, and the sun was not yet peeking its face above the eastern horizon. The forest outside the window looked ominous and vaguely threatening.

That was nonsense, Marina told herself. It was the same forest that was out there in the daytime, the same trees she walked amongst in the light. She was just spooked because of what Gordon had told her.

She stood up and moved over to the dresser for some underwear. She would get dressed and drive to Phoenix, spend the day shopping in the bright clear heat of the Valley, surrounded by miles of steel and concrete and people and civilization.

She slipped on her panties and stood still for a moment, listen Was that a scratching noise she heard coming from the kitchen?

No, she told herself. But she did not move, dared not breathe. She listened carefully.

Yes.

Something was out in the front of the house. Something small. She pulled her robe closed, then rushed over and slammed shut the bedroom door. Moving quickly, she pushed a chair against it. She put her ear to the door.

All was silent.

Marina moved over to the window. It was dark and she could not see very well, but she thought she detected movement in the underbrush.

Scared now, she inched her way across the room to the phone, still watching the window. She dialed the emergency number. The phone rang five times before someone answered. "Sheriff's office." The voice was tired, harried.

"Hello," Marina whispered into the phone. "My name is Marina Lewis. Is my husband Gordon there?"

"Gordon Lewis? He went someplace with the sheriff. May I take a message?"

"I think there's a prowler in my house," Marina whispered. "I'm in the bedroom, and I barricaded the door. I heard noises out in the kitchen."

"Stay calm, ma'am. We'll have someone out there as soon as possible.

We're a little understaffed right now, so it may be a while before we can get to you. I suggest you call a neighbor and try to find some type of weapon--"

"I need help!"

"I understand that, ma'am." The voice was clearly under stress.

"I'm pregnant!" Marina screamed. She dropped the phone, willing herself not to cry. The house was still silent, but she knew someone--something--was out there. She could feel it. She moved next to the door and crouched down, pressing her ear against the wood. Never before had she been so conscious of the child inside her, never before had her unborn baby seemed so alive, so in need of protection. She felt an unfamiliar predatory instinct flare up inside her--the instinct of a mother prepared to protect her young against all odds.

Something just outside the door gave a small yelp, and Marina jumped.

She pressed against the door with her shoulder, pushing all her weight against it so nothing could get in. With one hand, she held the chair in place. There was the sound of rough gnawing on the wood outside the door.

"Get out of here!" she screamed.

Tiny voices in the hallway laughed, and there was the sound of little feet running away. Marina began sobbing, still pressing her shoulder to the door.

A rock flew through the window, glass shattering on the floor, and she screamed. She threw open the bedroom door, kicking the chair aside, and looked out into the hall.

Nothing.

She ran across the hall into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it. The shutters Gordon had put over the window were securely in place. Whatever was out there was playing with her, she realized. If it had wanted to kill her, it could have done so easily. She sat down on the toilet and bent over, her hands over her head, her head between her knees.

The four men walked slowly across the gravel of the dump in the early morning half-light, toward the spot where The Selways’ bodies had been found, Brother Elias in the lead, Jim bringing up the rear. The harsh white light of the rising sun shone in bar like beams through the branches of the trees. At the far end of the landfill, the side mirror of a large parked bulldozer reflected back the sunlight in a single concentrated flash.

Brother Elias moved toward the large pile of garbage at the edge of the cliff. He stopped, cocking his head, listening. He began walking forward more slowly now, staring at the ground, his pitchfork held out before him.

The other three followed silently.

Suddenly Brother Elias made a harsh stab into the pile of garbage in front of him. There was an ear-piercing squeal, and the preacher lifted his pitchfork.

Stuck to the points, still squirming, was a fetus.

Gordon turned away, feeling nauseous. Even the sheriff flinched.

Father Andrews stood with his eyes closed, leaning heavily on his pitchfork for support, his lips moving in silent prayer. Though all of them had known, deep down, why they had been carrying the pitchforks, though all of them had known what Brother Elias expected of them, none of them had visualized the experience, had realized just how repellent the actual act would be.

What if Brother Elias was wrong? Gordon thought, sickened. What if he had just stabbed a real baby? But what real baby would be crawling through the dump, through the garbage, at six o'clock in the morning?

The preacher turned toward them. "This is what we are up against," he said. He held his pitchfork forward for them to examine the fetus. The thing was still alive, still squirming, though it did not seem to be in agony. Indeed, it appeared to feel no pain at all. Instead, it struggled furiously to free itself, as though the long steel points protruding from its body were nothing more than a harmless restraining belt. Its face was hideously malformed and was twisted into a malevolent grimace of hate. Thick fur grew on the unnaturally short arms. It stared up at them and spat angrily. There were tiny pointed teeth within its too-red mouth.

Brother Elias nodded toward the sheriff. "Get the blood," he said.

Jim ran off toward the truck.

Father Andrews moved forward gingerly. He was tempted to touch the fetus to make sure it was real. "What is it?" he asked. "I mean, is it alive? I thought these were infants who had died before birth.

Shouldn't they be rotted? Or decomposed?"

"I thought they'd be like ghosts," Gordon admitted. "Not real babies."

"They have corporeal form," Brother Elias said. "But they are not real babies."

The sheriff returned, lugging a box filled with the four quart jars of blood. He set the box down in front of the preacher.

Brother Elias nodded to the sheriff. He lifted the pitchfork, the fetus still struggling on the points, and ran it hard into the ground.

The hideous creature screamed, wiggling crazily. The preacher looked at Gordon. "Get the camera," he ordered.

Gordon ran to his truck and returned a moment later with the camera. He snapped a picture of Brother Elias standing next to the impaled fetus.

The preacher picked up two jars of blood, muttered a short incomprehensible prayer, and walked across the gravel to the smoldering woodpile. Chanting something in a strangely guttural foreign tongue, the words rising and falling in ritualistic cadences, he began walking in a circle around the pile, sprinkling the blood on the ground as he did so.

"What's he saying?" Jim asked.

Father Andrews shook his head. "It sounds like he's repeating some type of liturgy, but I'm not familiar with the language. It's not Latin, I know. And it doesn't sound either European or Oriental." He listened, cocking his head, and his face turned suddenly pale. "I ...

I don't think it's human," he said.

Brother Elias continued chanting until he had completed his circle around the smoldering woodpile. He knelt on the ground and dribbled the last of the blood on the dirt in a peculiar spiral pattern. He waved his hands over the ground, said something in the alien tongue and looked up into the sky. His fingers traced in the air a cross, a spiral, and an unnaturally angular geometric shape.

The circle of blood erupted immediately into flame. Within the circle, the ashes of the woodpile began to burn again until the flames had become a full-fledged conflagration.

The fetus on the pitchfork was now struggling harder and screaming wildly. From other parts of the landfill, other tiny bodies, other babies, other fetuses, pushed their way up through the wet slimy garbage, crawled out from between sheets of metal, and moved toward them. They moved slowly but surely, like large retarded slugs.

"Jesus," Gordon breathed. "How many of them do you think there are?"

"Hundreds," the sheriff said, and Gordon realized for the first time the enormity of what they were fighting against. He felt weaker, smaller, more impotent than he had ever felt in his life. What were they? A ragtag group of four stupid pitiful men fighting an evil so powerful, so organized, so all-encompassing, that it could animate these hundreds of bodies and will the bodies to do its bid ding. There was no way they could hope to battle anything this large. He stared at the small wiggling forms moving toward them across the dirt. This was all part of a long-range plan, a plan that was coming finally to fruition. Something that could do this, that could capture these babies over a period of years, perhaps decades, and save them, hoard them, until needed, could not be fought. Not by them.

Brother Elias grasped the handle of the pitchfork and matter-offactly pulled both it and the impaled fetus from the ground. He shoved the end of the pitchfork into the fire, and the fetus disintegrated in a flash of blood red light. The preacher turned toward them. "Now you know what you must do," he said.

Gordon stared at him. "It'll take us all day to get them all."

Brother Elias' tight lips curled into a smile, and for the first time his eyes joined in. He looked almost happy. "We are not going to get them all," he said. "We are using them for bait." He walked toward another small fetus flopping along the dirt and speared it through with his pitchfork. He shoved the pitchfork into the fire, and the creature disappeared in a squealing flash of red. "Get to work," he said, and his voice was filled with a powerful authority. "We have no time to waste."

Gordon found himself walking toward the large pile of scrap metal to his right. He had seen pink movement against the dull gray and silver of the discarded metal. He stopped in front of the pile. Before him, moving awkwardly toward him, was a hunchbacked creature much smaller than an ordinary baby, about the size of his fist. This, he realized, was one of the fetuses that had been aborted or miscarried early in the pregnancy, not one that had been stillborn. The creature had bent misshapen arms and a thick tuft of coarse black hair atop its pink elongated head. Gordon raised his pitchfork above the fetus, ready to bring it down, but he could not do it. He could not bring himself to stab the creature. Slowly, he lowered the pitchfork. He had never been able to kill. He did not hunt. Hell, he had a hard time getting rid of bugs; he usually took them outside and threw them into the bushes rather than kill them. He realized that these creatures were not exactly alive, but stabbing them felt the same inside as it would stabbing a normal baby.

He looked around. The sheriff, grimacing, was carrying a squealing, squirming infant to the fire, which was still burning as strongly as ever. Even Father Andrews was gingerly holding a tiny creature he had impaled on his pitchfork. Brother Elias was vigorously and enthusiastically spearing infants left and right.

Thoushalt not kill, Gordon thought.

He felt a sharp flash of pain in his foot, and he looked down. The fetus's twisted little hands had clawed a hole through the canvas material of his tennis shoe and were digging into his flesh. He stepped backward, and the fetus crawled toward him. Slowly, grimacing distastefully, Gordon scooped up the fetus, using his pitchfork like a shovel. He held the pitchfork way out in front of him, balancing the still moving creature carefully on the prongs, but before he could reach the fire it fell to the ground. The fetus looked up at him and laughed nastily.

He carefully picked it up again the same way, using the pitchfork as a shovel, but as he approached the fire the creature threw itself off the prongs onto the ground. He was about to pick it up yet again when another pitchfork speared the fetus through its midsection. Gordon turned to see Brother Elias standing next to him. The fetus gave a tremendous screech of rage and agony, way out of proportion to its small size, and the preacher shoved it into the fire where it disintegrated.

"You're too slow," Brother Elias said.

It was a criticism, but Gordon did not care. He could not bring himself to stab anything in cold blood, no matter what it was. He looked up. The sun had risen by this time, and the morning sky was clear and cloudless. The trees on the side of the Rim stood out in green relief against the brown rock cliffs, and overhead a lone hawk circled lazily. Gordon started to walk toward the far side of the dump. He stumbled and looked down .. . and saw, protruding from beneath a leaking shopping bag filled with garbage, a hand. An adult hand.

He pushed the bag aside with his foot, cleared away some rancid food and old newspapers, kicking them off, and found himself staring down at the lifeless form of Brad Nicholson.

Brad.

He was too shocked to even call out. There was a huge ugly gash in Brad's neck, and from the gash protruded a twisted bloody windpipe.

The garbage beneath his neck was soaked red with blood. Brad's eyes were open, staring, and his mouth was contorted in a silent scream.

There was something else in his face as well, some other expression, and though Gordon did not know quite what it was, he did not like it.

He thought suddenly of Brad's son Bobby. Somebody would have to tell him that his dad had died. Had been killed. Had had his throat ripped out, bloody tubes yanked out of his body through a hole torn in his neck. The boy would grow up without a father. He might not even remember his father by the time he turned twenty. Not very well at least. And Connie. Someone would have to tell Connie. She and Brad may not have had the closest marriage in the world, but .. .

By the time Father Andrews and the sheriff had run up next to him, Gordon realized he was screaming.

"Jesus fuck," the sheriff breathed, staring down at Brad's body. Next to Brad's head, he saw a large brown rat, curled into a sleeping position. The animal awoke suddenly and stared into Jim's eyes. The sheriff watched in horror as the rat crawled into Brad's open mouth.

Gordon gasped and turned away. Father Andrews prayed silently.

Brother Elias came up behind them and glanced down at the body. Without speaking, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and touched it to the tattered remnants of Brad's shirt. The blood soaked clothing started to burn, and the air was filled with a sickeningly acrid stench.

"What the hell are you doing?" Gordon said, shocked. He grabbed the preacher's arm. Brother Elias pulled away from his grip. "Let us hope we are not too late," he said.

Gordon stared down at the body of his boss, his friend, and watched the flames lick at the ragged edges of the gash in Brad's neck. The drying blood smoked and turned black, and the skin began to char and peel off.

A tongue of fire leaped from Brad's blazing shirt to his beard, and his beard began to burn. Flames entered his mouth, blackening his teeth.

"We are too late," Brother Elias announced.

Gordon looked up and saw, coming toward them across the gravel, two adult figures.

One of them was Brad.

"Get the Bibles!" Brother Elias ordered. He rushed over to where the coils of rope were lying on the ground. The sheriff ran immediately toward the parked pickup. Suddenly remembering the camera around his neck, Gordon began snapping pictures. He could see the approaching figures even more clearly through the slightly magnifying lens of the camera. He did not know where they had come from or why they had not been noticed sooner. The figure next to Brad was jet black, its features unidentifiable. Brad appeared to be limping and was carrying his.... But Brad's body was burning on the ground next to him.

The sheriff hurried back, carrying the four white Bibles Father Andrews had brought along. "Give them to me!" Brother Elias demanded. Jim handed him the books. "Now pick up the end of that rope!" The preacher looked at Gordon and Father Andrews. "You two walk forward, holding your pitchforks in front of you! You're going to have to use them!"

Brad and the other figure had stopped.

"It's Father Selway ," Jim said softly, picking up his end of the rope.

"The other one's Father Selway ."

He was right, Gordon saw immediately. The black figure was Father Selway. He saw the burnt face smile, teeth a lighter black against the jet skin, and he felt a wave of cold terror wash over him. He looked at Father Andrews, standing next to him, and wondered what the priest was thinking.

Father Andrews was trying not to think at all. Unwanted feelings, outside thoughts, alien impressions were pushing themselves into his mind. He saw the scene before him with unnatural clarity, his brain absorbing every detail, but it was inter cut with other scenes, other events. A group of settlers shoveling deformed infants onto a bonfire.

Naked men and women dancing ritualistically before the unmoving form of Brother Elias in another guise. The blackened figure of anAnasazi woman standing amidst a sea of fetuses. The priest's head was pounding with the pain. He looked at Gordon, grasped his pitchfork tightly and forced himself to move forward, his face a mask of grim determination.

Brother Elias walked forward next to Father Andrews, three Bibles clutched under his arm, one held in his outstretched left hand. In his other hand, he grasped the end of the rope he and the sheriff carried between them.

Jim walked abreast of the preacher, keeping his eyes on the figures in front of him. He felt woefully unprepared, and he wished Brother Elias had told him what they planned to do. He felt extremely vulnerable walking toward these two .. . things .. . carrying nothing but a rope, and he cursed himself for leaving his gun in the pickup. He thought of the four high-powered rifles in the bed of Gordon's vehicle and wished that he had one of them with him. His jaw hurt from gritting his teeth, and his legs ached with nervous tension. This close, he could see the two figures quite clearly. And he did not like what he saw.

Brad Nicholson's face was an inhuman blank, devoid of all thought and feeling. Only the eyes seemed alive. They burned with a piercing intensity not unlike that of Brother Elias'. The body appeared solid, real, though the stench of Brad's burning body singed his nostrils and the air was beginning to fill with the smoke of burning flesh. He could see the figure's skin darkening as Brad's real body burned, and he knew that when the body had been consumed completely by fire the form would be as black as the figure of Father Selway next to it.

Father Selway stood smiling, unmoving. His skin was charred by fire, and his features bore an expression of triumphant evil. The sheriff was unable to look into the hellish face for more than a few seconds.

Brother Elias stopped. They were only ten feet away from the unmoving figures. The other three men came to an abrupt halt. Around them, the wiggling and flopping infants were coalescing into a coherent group, coming from all parts of the dump toward them. Many of the tiny creatures were gurgling or mewing, making tiny sounds of pleasure.

Brother Elias placed the four white Bibles on the ground in front of him, along a straight line.

The figure of Father Selway raised a blackened hand into the air. "Do you really think your pagan rituals can accomplish anything?" The voice was grating, inhuman, filled with a disgusted contempt.

Brother Elias said nothing but passed his hands over each of the Bibles, muttering something in his strange unearthly tongue.

"Gordon," the figure said, turning toward him. "And how is your pretty little wife?" The black smile became wider, crueler. "And your daughter? Your daughter wants to be one of us, you know. She wants to claw her way out of your wife's thin little body and escape. Right now, your wife is coughing blood as her insides are being ripped apart.

Blood is streaming from that pathetic little hole between her legs."

Gordon felt his muscles clench against this verbal assault. Hot anger rushed to his face. His grip tightened on the pitchfork. He felt like shoving it straight through Father Selway's head.

Brother Elias looked at him. "Satan is a liar and the father of lies," he said. "Ignore him. He is trying to provoke a reaction."

Father Selway turned toward the sheriff. "You have strayed from the path, Jim. You have forsaken the path of righteousness. You must be punished." The figure glanced around the dump. Its voice lowered.

"The boy is here, Jim. Don Wilson. His body is burning. He is going to burn in hell for all eternity."

The sheriff smiled coldly. "Fuck you."

"And you, my successor." The figure turned to look at Father Andrews.

"Is this what you were taught by the church? Is the bishop aware that you are taking part in these blasphemous rituals?" The creature laughed harshly. "You are a poor excuse for a priest."

Father Andrews looked away, saying nothing.

The figure of Father Selway lowered its head and, as if on cue, a look of joyous hatred passed suddenly over Brad's blank features. Behind the two, hundreds of infants appeared from nowhere. They were much larger and much more coordinated than the others. They moved forward in ranks, propelling themselves with precision.

Brother Elias stood up calmly. He looked at Gordon and Father Andrews, pointing toward the still-darkening figure of Brad. "He is weak," the preacher said. "Stab him when he comes forward and hold him down, pin him to the ground. The sheriff and I will take care of the other one."

He moved next to Jim, took a deep breath and lowered his head in a position of prayer. "We ask thee for protection, O Lord. We seek only to do your bidding. Do not let us walk alone. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen."

Jim glanced over at the figure of Father Selway , still smiling, still unmoving, as hundreds of tiny infants and fetuses massed together behind it.

"Hold tight to the rope," Brother Elias said. "We are going to tie him up."

The figure of Father Selway said something harsh, guttural, and incoherent. A command. Brad rushed forward. The fetuses and infants swarmed suddenly over the dump in a liquid wave.

Gordon held tightly to his pitchfork as Brad ran toward him, and he pushed the weapon deep into the running figure's dark flesh. Brad let out a cry of rage and frustration, but there was no pain in the sound.

The metal spikes sank easily and deeply into the soft body, coming out the other side. Gordon's weapon went through the stomach and Father Andrews' hit higher in the chest. Both used their weight to force the struggling body to the ground. Brad's arms were flailing wildly, trying to grab the handles of the pitchforks and pull them out, but it was no use. They had the creature pinned.

Jim and Brother Elias moved forward slowly, gripping the rope tightly.

They waded through a sea of tiny bodies, all snapping and clawing at their legs and feet, but the creatures seemed to have no effect on them. The sheriff looked down. He could not see the gravel for the bodies. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the tiny infants were swarming on top of each other. He could see little hands grasping at air, little mouths snapping at nothing. His feet stepped on the bodies as he moved forward. They felt soft, squishy. He could feel small bones snapping as his legs sank deep into the sea of flesh.

Before them, the figure of Father Selway was slowly backing up. It was no longer smiling. A look of hatred--fear?--crossed its features.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, we command you to recognize the power of the Word," Brother Elias chanted. "In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, we command you to bow down before the power of God."

The figure was not moving but was now standing stock-still. It appeared trapped, though Jim was not sure why. They had done nothing.

Was it the prayers?

They walked on either side of the figure and circled twice, pulling the rope tight. The rope sank deep into the black flesh--so deeply that it was no longer visible--but held nonetheless. The figure said nothing, made no sound, and Jim had the feeling that whatever power had been animating the body, whatever had inhabited the burnt form, had left, leaving only a lifeless husk.

Instantly, the form became animate. A hand lashed out and struck Brother Elias full in the face. The preacher fell, letting go of the rope, blood streaming from his nose. The black face grinned, the features filled with an evil intelligence.

"Grab the rope!" Jim screamed, whipping his head around. But both Gordon and the priest were struggling with the now jet figure of Brad, and he knew neither of them could pick up the slack without letting Brad escape.

Brother Elias struggled to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear it. He reached down and grabbed the rope with both hands. Blood was pouring from his nose, which had been crushed. One eye was starting to swell.

"I am very impressed with the power of the Lord," the figure said in its grating voice. A black arm swung out again, but Brother Elias ducked successfully.

"Pull!" the preacher yelled. He leaned backward, using all of his weight to drag the bound figure toward him. Jim pulled as well, putting his strength into it. The black form was heavy, much heavier than its size would indicate.

"Pull!" the preacher yelled again. His eye was now swollen shut.

"Pull hard!"

With one quick yank, they pulled the figure over the line of white Bibles. The body stiffened noticeably, and Jim felt all of the power drain out of it. A look of agonized rage cemented itself onto the burnt features. The Bibles on the ground blackened and burst into flame. A terrible scream of primal pain erupted simultaneously from the thousands of tiny mouths surrounding them. The sound was deafening.

"Drag it to the fire!" Brother Elias yelled. "It can't hurt us now!"

He looked toward Gordon and the priest. "Bring him to the fire, too!"

Behind Jim, Gordon was struggling alone to keep Brad pinned to the ground. Father Andrews' pitchfork was sunk deep in Brad's chest, but the priest himself was rolling on the ground in agony, holding tightly onto his arm. Blood was pouring out from between his fingers. Dozens of little fetuses were swarming around the priest, but they seemed not to notice him. They were squirming blindly, panicked, and the sheriff realized that they were now lost, leaderless. They did not know what to do. A few of them bit into the skin of Father Andrews' arm, causing him to scream in pain, but it was the random biting of dumb mindlessness and not the concentrated frenzy of a few moments before.

"Get him up!" the sheriff called to Gordon. He was running out of breath as he tugged the inert form of Father Selway toward the fire.

"You .. . have to bring .. . Brad to ... the fire!"

"He's hurt!" Gordon said.

"Then you bring him by yourself!"

Gordon looked at the crazed hellish figure struggling beneath him. "I

can't! I'm not strong enough!"

"We'll get it," Brother Elias said. His voice was slurred. He spat blood. He pulled hard on the rigid form of Father Selway . They were almost to the fire now. The flames were still burning bright.

Three more pulls on the rope and they were there. Brother Elias stopped. "We'll have to push!" he said. He dropped his end of the rope and moved next to the sheriff. He grabbed Jim's arm, leading him behind the unmoving form. This close, Jim could smell a faint sulfurous odor underneath the powerful scent of burned flesh.

"Push!" the preacher said.

The body was soft, like raw dough. Jim felt his hands sink deep into the black form. The squishy flesh pressing against his skin was cold.

It felt as though his hands and arms were being absorbed by the body.

He pushed as hard as he could without meeting anything solid, anything substantial, but the push must have been enough. The black figure toppled forward into the fire.

"Stand back!" Brother Elias ordered.

The charred blackness melted off the figure, and inside Jim saw something white and shiny and vaguely translucent. The body disappeared in a long, sustained flash of red, and the entire fire suddenly turned the color of blood. A shock wave of foul-smelling heat rolled outward from the blaze.

Fifteen feet away, Brad's struggling body suddenly went limp. Gordon held the pitchfork in place for a moment, but when the figure did not move again he let up. Jim came running over, and both of them picked up the body, carrying it to the fire and throwing it in. There was another flash of light, this one not as long, and the body was gone.

Blood was still streaming down Brother Elias' face from his crushed nose and eye, dripping down onto his suit. The preacher was standing before the blaze, hands outstretched, speaking loudly in his alien tongue. The red flames lent an unearthly tint to his features, highlighting the liquid redness of the blood on his face. The flames flared suddenly then died down to nothing. The fire devolved to its original smoking embers, and the burning ring of blood surrounding it went out completely. A thick wave of oppressive black smoke poured out from the now dormant woodpile.

Gordon looked down at the camera around his neck and saw that it had been broken. The lens was smashed, and light was leaking into the camera through a crack in the body, ruining the film. None of his pictures would come out.

The smoke was spreading upward, carried by an unfelt wind, blocking out the rays of the morning sun, covering the sky. Though the fire had died and there was nothing left to burn, the smoke continued to pour forth in great gusts. Gordon looked up and saw that the tip of the smoke cloud had formed a clawed hand.

Brother Elias picked up the box with the remaining jars of blood.

"There's more to do," he said. "It's not over yet." He carried the box to the car. "Come on. We must go."

"To Milk Ranch Point," the sheriff said.

"To Milk Ranch Point," Brother Elias agreed.

Gordon moved toward them, supporting a weakened Father Andrews on his arm. "One of them jumped up and attacked him," Gordon explained.

Brother Elias grabbed the priest's arm and squeezed it tightly. Father Andrews screamed, but when the preacher removed his hand the bleeding had stopped. "You must be strong," Brother Elias said. "God needs you now,"

The four of them walked back to the trucks.

"We'll all go in the same truck," Jim said. "It'll be a little tight, but we can't afford any accidents."

Brother Elias nodded. As the other three piled into the cab of Gordon's truck, the preacher picked a stray piece of paper off the ground, took out his lighter, and set the paper on fire. He dropped it on the ground. It spread to another piece of paper and then to a dried tree branch. He got into the truck and Jim started the engine.

"Are you just going to let that burn?" Gordon asked.

The preacher nodded. "Rangers will spot the fire when it has done its work. They will put it out."

The fire reached the body of a mindlessly squirming infant and engulfed it.

The truck backed out, tires squishing bodies beneath them, small bones breaking. None of them even winced at the terrible sounds or at the bumpy feel of the truck as it drove over the tiny bodies on the way out of the landfill.

Before they reached the highway, they heard a massive explosion as the flames reached Brad Nicholson's Pepsi truck.

Marina searched frantically through the bathroom, looking for a weapon. She opened the medicine chest and quickly pawed through its contents, throwing the discarded and rejected items onto the floor. She held the can of Right Guard deodorant for a moment. She had seen a character in a movie once use an aerosol spray can as a flame thrower, holding a lighted match in front of the spray. But she had no match, no flame whatsoever. She threw the can onto the floor. A small pair of scissors was lying in the top drawer under the sink, amidst various makeup containers and old curlers. She picked up the scissors, but rejected the idea immediately. Too small.

There was nothing she could do.

She sat down on the toilet once again. She had panicked at first, crying uncontrollably and screaming at whatever was outside the door.

Then she had forced herself to adjust to the situation, forced herself to calm down and think rationally. The creatures outside the door had taunted her. Something large had been thrown against the door. Small rocks had been thrown against the shuttered window from the outside.

Marina stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was disheveled; mascara ran down her cheeks in twin rivulets. Her lips were dry and cracked. She buried her face in her hands.

Outside the door, something small chuckled evilly to itself. Other voices joined in.

"Get the hell out of here!" Marina screamed.

The bathroom door rattled as something tried to turn it. Marina held her stomach protectively, acutely aware of the defenseless baby within her. She knew that whatever was out there was only toying with her, playing games with her. They would tire of her soon, and then she would find out what was really in store.

Several small voices, in and around the house, outside, on the roof, babbled crazily in unison, and were suddenly silent. She held her breath.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.

Marina stood up, pressing her ear to the door, listening.

Nothing.

She moved over to the shuttered window.

Nothing.

Slowly, cautiously, she opened the wooden shutter. Several shards of broken glass fell into the bathroom. She peeked outside, but there was nothing, no one, no sign of life. She walked back across the bathroom and carefully opened the door. The hallway was littered with broken glass and china. Two chairs had been dragged out from the kitchen and were overturned next to the bedroom door. An antique porcelain lamp, given to her by her grandmother, had been smashed against the wall.

But there was no sign of life.

Marina opened the door wider. She saw nothing and moved slowly out into the hall. The china cracked under her feet. She stepped over an overturned chair. She moved toward the kitchen and stepped through the kitchen door.

Something pink, moving at lightning speed, dashed out from under the table and knocked her backward to the floor. Her head hit hard against a smashed plate. Small fingers grabbed her arms and legs and spread them wide.

Marina screamed as the point of an ice pick was driven through her right hand. Her head whipped around and she saw two small malformed infants pressing the pick through her hand into the tile floor. She screamed again as steak knives impaled her other hand and her feet, but though she felt dizzy and weak she did not pass out.

Scores of tiny infants, all hideously deformed, were moving around the floor of the kitchen, cackling to themselves.

She closed her eyes in pain and disbelief. She opened her eyes to see a large evil-looking baby clutching in its hand her good carving knife.

The creature smiled. Morning sunlight glinted off the polished metal of the knife, and Marina realized that the knife was going to be used to cut her open and kill her unborn daughter.

Screaming, she blacked out.

The truck moved slowly up the winding highway that switch backed up the face of the Rim. From this vantage point, they could see the forest below them. Jim saw that the clouds of billowing black smoke were still spreading upward from the landfill, now augmented by the more natural gray smoke of a forest fire. Farther south, the morning sunlight glinted off the buildings of Randall, a small whitish patch in the sea of green trees.

Jim wondered what was happening back in town. He should have given Pete more explicit instructions. He should have brought along some type of two-way radio so he could communicate with the office and find out what was happening. He shook his head. There were a lot of things he should have done.

At least Annette and the kids had gotten out safely.

He looked at Gordon and felt immediately guilty. He should have allowed Gordon to check on his wife. It would have only taken an extra ten minutes or so. She was the one who was really in danger, anyway.

He should have overridden Brother Elias and allowed Gordon to drive by his house. It was very stupid of him not to. What if something happened to her? Gordon met his gaze, and Jim glanced guiltily away, concentrating his attention on the j road.

"We need to go faster," Brother Elias said, "or we will be too | late.

The adversary knows now that we are here. He knows we are f coming for him and he will be prepared."

"I have to use low gears here," Jim explained. "We'll be able to go a lot faster once we get to the top."

Brother Elias said nothing, staring silently out the front windshield.

Gordon turned to look at Father Andrews, leaning against the door. The priest was forced into an uncomfortably tight position, but his eyes were closed and he was sleeping. He was exhausted.

The pickup finally reached the top of the Rim, and Jim shifted the truck into third, flooring the gas pedal. The vehicle shot forward.

The road wound through the forest, following the lay of the land. The two-lane blacktop skirted especially thick stands of tall trees and wound through gullies, finding the easiest route through the rough terrain.

Ahead, Jim saw the small brown Forest Service sign that marked the turnoff to Aspen Lake and he slowed down. He rolled up the truck's window and turned onto the dirt road. Once again, he sped up, and soon the pickup was flying over the innumerable bumps in the road, sailing past the close-growing trees.

Fifteen minutes later, the pines began to be replaced by aspens, and he could see the blue of the lake through the trees. "We're almost there," he announced.

He slowed down as they reached the lake, searching for the old dirt path that led to Milk Ranch Point.

"There it is," Brother Elias said, pointing.

Jim followed the preacher's finger. Several newly cut aspens were piled across the path, barring the truck access.

"Something doesn't want us back there," Gordon said.

Brother Elias nodded. "We'll have to walk."

The truck braked to a stop, and Father Andrews blinked open his eyes.

"Are we there?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jim said. He opened the door and got out, stretching his tired muscles. Above, the sky was darkening, gray rain clouds from the north intermingling with the heavy black smoke still streaming up from the landfill below the Rim. A warm wind had sprung up from somewhere, and it brought to his nostrils the odor of burning flesh.

Brother Elias stepped out of the cab, carrying the box with the last two jars of blood. He moved to the back of the truck and put the box down on the ground at his feet. He drew from the rear of the pickup a small canvas bag containing the four crosses he had requested, and he dropped the bag into the box.

He pulled out one of the rifles and a box of ammunition.

"Does everyone know how to use one of these?" the preacher asked.

Gordon looked at Father Andrews, and both men shook their heads.

"You won't need one," Brother Elias said to the priest. He looked at Gordon. "You will." He handed Gordon the rifle and threw another one to the sheriff. "Show him how to use it," he said.

Father Andrews watched as Gordon and Jim walked to the front of the truck, grasping their rifles. He turned his attention to Brother Elias, who was staring at him with that black unflinching gaze. "Come," the preacher said. He put a strong arm around Father Andrews' shoulders and led him to the makeshift barrier that was blocking the trail to Milk Ranch Point. This close, the priest could see that the felled aspens had not been chopped down. They had been gnawed on. By tiny teeth. He felt suddenly cold.

"How strong are your ties to your church?" Brother Elias asked.

The priest stared at him. "Why?"

"What I will ask you to do goes against everything you have ever been taught. It runs contrary to the very tenets of your faith." Father Andrews smiled slightly. "So what else is new?"

"This you will not be able to rationalize. What I will ask you to do is specifically prohibited in the Bible. It is considered blasphemous before the eyes of God." He paused for a moment, his gaze focusing upward on the gray clouds and black smoke creeping across the sky above them. The air was hot, humid, uncomfortable. "Good and evil are not abstract concepts," he said finally. "They exist and they have always existed."

The priest frowned. "I have always thought so."

"They exist outside and independent of any religion. Religions, all religions, are merely crude attempts to explain their existence.

Religions are created to label and categorize powers they do not understand."

Father Andrews looked at the preacher. He could feel the evil of this place. It suffused the trees, the bushes, the very ground they stood upon. Corruption thickened the air they breathed, and he felt almost overwhelmed by nausea as the evil pressed in upon his senses. He felt his arm, now healed, and that too seemed wrong somehow. His eyes met those of Brother Elias, and he looked away, frightened.

The preacher pointed up the trail before them. "This is an evil spot," he said. "It has always been an evil spot. The power that is here has always been here and always will be here." He paused, and his voice lowered as if he were afraid of being overheard. "In the countless centuries before man, animals brought their young here to die. Deer that were born crippled were dragged here and left by their mothers.

Bears that were undersized and would obviously not survive their first winter were brought here and abandoned. The evil was fed, and its power grew."

Father Andrews paled. He knew where the conversation was headed.

"The first men also left their unfit young here instinctively. But as cultures evolved, reasons were needed for continuing these practices.

Elaborate rationalizations were concocted by men. Sacrifices were incorporated into emerging religions. This was considered the home of the dark gods, and sacrifices of infants, healthy or unhealthy, were supposed to appease the deities and keep their anger at bay." He looked at the priest. "Always, the evil of this place was recognized."

Father Andrews licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. "So what happened?"

"The evil fed on the bodies, on the blank innocent energy of the infants. But rather than appease the evil, the sacrifices added to its power until it began to expand, until it had grown far beyond its traditional confines." He smiled, but there was no joy in it. "This is the lake of fire."

Father Andrews nodded dumbly.

"Religions, as they changed, abandoned the sacrifices and no longer condoned them, but the sacrifices were still practiced surreptitiously by the people of this area. Stillborn infants were brought here and abandoned. Unhealthy babies were dropped off to die. The people forgot the reasons why they brought the infants here, but the reasons had not mattered to begin with. They were only rationalizations." He looked again at the darkening sky, then down at Father Andrews.

"Infants are still brought here to die," he said.

"It's not possible. Not in this day and age."

"Aborted fetuses are brought here by doctors. Dead babies are stolen from their rightful graves and deposited here. The people often do not know what they do or why, but the evil is strong and it demands to be fed. It stretches outward as it grows, exerting more influence as its power increases." There was the sound of one gunshot, then another, as behind them Jim and Gordon practiced shooting. The sound echoed like thunder in the wilderness. "There is nothing we can do to stop any of this. The evil exists and it will always exist. We can only keep it contained, diffuse it when its power begins to grow. This is why we perform the ritual."

"Why are you telling this only to me?" Father Andrews asked. "Why aren't you telling the others too?"

The preacher once again put a firm hand around the priest's shoulder.

"Because you need to know. They do not. We all have our roles to play."

"And what exactly is my role?"

"You must communicate with it. You must allow it to speak through you and to hear with your ears while I recite the words of the ritual."

A wave of terror passed through Father Andrews as the import of the preacher's words struck him. Panic flared within him, and he pulled away from Brother Elias. "You want me to let it possess me? I'm supposed to willingly let myself be possessed by some ..." He could not find the word to finish his sentence.

"It's not dangerous," Brother Elias said. "If we do everything right, there will be no danger to you whatsoever."

Father Andrews felt the lie of the preacher's words. "I don't believe you!" he shouted. He glared at Brother Elias, his eyes wide with fright, his head pounding. "You're lying!"

Brother Elias stood unmoving as a warm wind blew around him. He looked at the priest but said nothing. His eyes were unreadable.

As Brother Elias talked in low tones to Father Andrews, Jim gave Gordon a crash course in firearm use. After showing him how to unlatch the safety, how to aim and fire the rifle, he shot a pine cone lying on the ground. The pine cone was blown into tiny fragments. He then coached Gordon through a shot of his own. Gordon aimed at a blue logger's marking on a tree, but the bullet whistled harmlessly through the nearby branches, missing the tree completely.

"That's okay," Jim said. He then showed Gordon what he had done wrong, demonstrating how to hold the rifle properly and how to sight by tilting his head and not the gun. After several more tries, Gordon was finally able to hit one of the wider trees. He shot the rifle twice on his own, with no help from Jim, and he hit the tree both times.

"That's good enough," Brother Elias said, walking over to them. "You don't need to be any more precise than that. Your target will be big."

"How big?" Jim asked.

Brother Elias did not answer.

Behind the preacher, Father Andrews came shuffling forward. His face was ashen, his walk slow and stilted. He looked from Jim to Gordon, but his eyes were blank. His hands were clenched into trembling fists.

"We must start walking," Brother Elias said, stepping to the back of the pickup. He picked up a box and put it down at his feet, drawing something hidden in a greasy rag from the rear of the truck and dropping it into the box. "I hope we are not already too late."

The four men climbed over the hastily made barrier of downed aspens, Jim and Gordon shouldering rifles, Brother Elias carrying his box.

Father Andrews followed close behind the preacher, carrying nothing, lost in silence.

The warm wind that had been blowing around them grew stronger as they walked. It whipped around them in strange and unnatural currents, sending strings of round aspen leaves fluttering in tiny whirlwinds, blowing against their faces from first one direction then another.

Above them, the clouds and smoke were slowly encroaching on the sun.

Ahead of them, the trail was already shadowed.

Brother Elias walked fast. He was obviously used to walking, and even wearing a suit and dress shoes he strode quickly and purposefully over rocks and ruts, pushing his way pastmanzanitas and mimosas. There was a trace of urgency in his movements, a hint of desperation in his long-legged stride. The trail they followed wound gradually upward, climbing a graded slope, but the preacher did not seem to notice. He did not slow down as he climbed but maintained a consistently even pace.

Ahead, the trail widened into a dirt semicircle. It was here that the off-road vehicles able to navigate the rough trail parked. Beyond this point there was only a small narrow footpath. Brother Elias did not even slow down as he came to the trail's end. He stepped purposefully over the low border of intentionally placed boulders and continued walking.

The climb was much steeper now. They were walking almost straight uphill, and both Gordon and Father Andrews were soon gasping for breath. Even Jim was having a difficult time. In addition to the rigorousness of the climb, the altitude was quite high and there was a noticeable lack of oxygen.

But Brother Elias seemed not to notice any of this. If anything, his gait became quicker, surer. He continued forward at a rapid pace, undaunted by either the steep climb or the thin air. He did not even bother to look back to make sure the others were following him.

Finally, all four of them reached the top of the hill. Here the path ended. Around them, the top of the rise was flat, the trees spaced widely apart. To their left, down through the forest of aspens, they could see the shimmering blue of the lake.

Brother Elias strode along the hilltop, never glancing to the side, never looking back, sure of his destination. The other three followed, trying to keep up. The wind was blowing wildly. Although very few trees or bushes were moving, the four of them were being buffeted by extremely strong gales. It was as if the wind was sentient, alive, and wanted only toharrass them. Gordon looked up. The sky was now almost completely overcast, the sun effectively blotted out.

Suddenly Brother Elias stopped. He pointed in front of him.

Protruding from the tall weeds and grasses were scores of small white crosses. Gordon shivered, feeling his knees grow weak.

Brother Elias put down his box and turned toward them. His face was set in an expression of grim determination. "We are here," he said.

Marina slowly came to her senses. The first thing she felt, before she even opened her eyes, was the sharp agonizing pain that burned through both the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet.

"Marina," Dr.VVaterston said softly. "Marina."

She tried to stretch, but she could not move, and the pain ripped through her hands and feet like razor blades, flaring up through her body. She screamed in agony, opening her eyes wide.

Before her, standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at her, was the charred and blackened form of Dr. Waterston. He was burned horribly, and he smiled, his teeth unnaturally white. "We have been waiting for you to awaken," he said.

Marina noticed that her robe was wide open. Her panties had been ripped off.

"We wanted to make sure you could see and enjoy what we are about to do," Dr. Waterston said.

The evil-looking fetus with the large carving knife moved between Marina's legs.

"NO!" she screamed.

Brother Elias motioned for the rest of them to file past him into the unholy graveyard. The wind was howling wildly now; the sky was black.

The preacher clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder as the sheriff moved past him. "You are a good man," he said. "I know you will protect us well, as your family always has." There seemed to be a note of regret in his voice, a hint of apology. His hand clasped Gordon's shoulder as Gordon walked into the field of crosses. "You, too, will be strong," he said.

"For us as well as for your wife and daughter."

His black eyes met those of Father Andrews as the priest filed past.

"Are you ready, Father?"

Andrews nodded silently.

He looks scared, Gordon thought.

Brother Elias drew from the box he had placed on the ground before him the two jars of blood. He opened the jars and passed his hands over the mouths of both, chanting quietly to himself. He took a small sip from each. Standing straight, his short hair blowing in the hard wind, he began walking slowly around the unseen perimeter of the makeshift graveyard, dribbling the blood on the ground as he did so. The wind was strong, but it was not strong enough to scatter the blood, and the heavy red liquid fell straight to the earth and weeds below.

Gordon did not think the supply of blood would hold out, but Brother Elias finished the entire circle and returned to them. From the box, he drew something small wrapped in a greasy rag.

He pulled open the sides of the rag to reveal the dried body of a long-dead fetus.

Gordon looked at the sheriff, who returned his troubled gaze. Both men watched silently as Brother Elias took the four small crosses from the canvas bag. He embedded three of the crosses in the ground at his feet, and immediately the wind doubled in strength. A tree branch cracked, falling to the ground. There was a low roaring rumble beneath their feet.

"Come closer!" Brother Elias shouted over the noise.

The other three moved next to him, holding their ground against the wind.

"The time has come!" the preacher shouted. "We must eat of the body, we must drink of the blood of power!" He looked at Gordon. "Give me your arm!"

Hesitantly, unsure of what the preacher was going to do, Gordon held out his arm. Brother Elias pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and drew the sharp edge of the remaining crucifix across Gordon's arm in a series of three quick slices.

Blood welled from the wounds, but Gordon felt nothing. His mind was shocked into numbness. He stared down at his bare arm, watching the rivers of red flow and grow.

Brother Elias raised the dried form of the fetus to his lips. He bit off the tiny head, chewing and swallowing it down before bending to Gordon's arm and licking clean the top cut, lapping up the blood.

Gordon did not even flinch. He stared in shocked silence, feeling nothing. It was as if the entire ordeal were happening to someone else. When Brother Elias raised his head, Gordon could see that the top wound had completely disappeared.

"Now you!" the preacher shouted, nodding toward Jim. He held forward the remainder of the fetus's body.

The sheriff's arms and hands were shaking with fear and revulsion, but he found himself, almost against his will, bending down to take a bite of the tiny dried form. His mouth closed upon the upper torso of the unborn infant, and the torso snapped cleanly off. He could taste dust and dirt and mold. He found himself chewing.

"Drink!" Brother Elias commanded, guiding the sheriff's head toward one of the freely flowing cuts on Gordon's arm.

Jim opened his mouth and began licking the blood. He had prepared himself for the worst, but he found to his surprise that the blood had no taste at all. As he lapped it up, he felt a warm strength settle inside him. Beneath his tongue, Gordon's wound healed.

He straightened up, looking first at Gordon's blank face, then at the approving countenance of Brother Elias. His gaze shifted to Father Andrews, and his heart lurched in his chest. Next to the priest, wavering and unclear but becoming ever more distinct, was a familiar white human form. As he watched, the form came into focus, taking definite shape.

Don Wilson.

He stared at the boy, meeting his eyes, trying to make contact, but Don did not seem to see him. The sheriff glanced quickly back at Brother Elias, but the preacher only nodded silently.

Now Gordon was taking a bite of the fetus, chewing upon the dried dusty body. As he swallowed, a light came back into his eyes, his face once again became animated.

He followed the sheriff's gaze and saw the form of the boy coming into focus. The boy was wearing the same clothes he had worn in Gordon's dream. His eyes snapped back to Brother Elias, but the preacher was already stepping toward Father Andrews.

"It's your turn!" Brother Elias shouted above the wind. "Hurry! We are almost out of time!" The priest looked up. No. He could not. He had watched both Brother Elias and the sheriff participate in this sacrilegious inverse of the Eucharist. He had seen them act out this unholy ritual, and though he felt intuitively that Brother Elias knew what he was doing, he could not bring himself to follow suit. It felt wrong to him.

It felt evil.

A small hand gently grasped his own, slender fingers intertwining with his own larger thicker fingers, and he looked down to see a boy, not more than eleven or twelve, looking up at him. There was an innocent radiance in the youngster's face, and Father Andrews felt the negative resolve fade away within him. He glanced toward Gordon and the sheriff and was shocked to find them staring at the boy next to him. They saw him too!

But that was not possible. Even as he felt the boy's hand squeeze his own, he realized that the figure was not real.

"It is your turn," Brother Elias repeated.

Moving as if through water, hardly aware of what he was doing, allowing the gentle pull of the boy's hand to guide him forward, Father Andrews bent down to accept the last portion of the fetus's body. He opened his mouth to accept the small dried legs.

He licked the blood off Gordon's remaining wound.

The figure of the boy faded slowly from sight.

Brother Elias placed the final cross, the one he had used to cut Gordon's arm, into the ground at his feet next to the others. The earth lurched beneath them. "I must now confront the adversary!" he announced. He gestured toward the ring of blood surrounding the field of crosses. "We are protected against any nonphysical manifestations as long as we remain within the circle." He looked at Gordon and the sheriff. "But we are not protected against anything physical. The adversary knows this. So whatever it attacks us with will be real." He pointed toward the white crosses. "Shoot whatever comes up there.

Shoot the hell out of it. You must protect us until the ritual is over or we will fail."

He bowed his head. "Let us pray."

There was a high-pitched shrieking, but they all ignored it, bowing their heads. The preacher recited the Lord's Prayer and the rest of them mouthed the words. Immediately after, with their heads still bowed, Brother Elias chanted a prayer that was harsh, guttural, and entirely inhuman. He raised his head and traced in the air before him a cross, a spiral, and a geometric shape.

Gordon looked at the preacher, whose eyes seemed to be filled with an unfamiliar emotion--Fear?

He pointed to the left side of the graveyard. "You station yourself there," he told Gordon. He spoke quickly, urgently. "You stay there,"

he told Jim, pointing to the opposite side.

Both men ran to their positions.

And the ground split open, the white crosses falling over.

"Jesus!" Gordon screamed.

Clawing its way up from the ground was a gigantic infant, easily as big as a large cow. Its skin was rotted and peeling, a disgusting bluish gray. Gordon could see exposed veins throbbing in its temples. A portion of its face had rotted away, leaving only skull. This was not one of the clearly supernatural creatures they had encountered at the dump. This was obviously a corpse that had been reanimated, a dead baby that had been allowed to nurture and grow in the ground underneath Milk Ranch Point for decades. Huge fingers, dripping with slime and dead skin, grasped the crumbling ground.

Jim aimed his rifle and shot the huge infant full in the face. The bullet passed through the monstrous head, sending shattered fragments of bone and skin flying. Black blood began to ooze from the wound.

Jim reloaded, aimed and fired again. And again. And again and again and again.

The huge creature fell, its head a shattered mass of pulpy flesh. The ground was littered with black blood.

Another huge infant pushed its way up from the ground on the far side of the graveyard and another crawled over the dead and bleeding body of the first.

Were these the babies who had been buried here? Jim wondered. He thought of his great-grandfather, Ezra Weldon, whom he had never met.

Was this what had happened last time?

He loaded his rifle and fired again.

By this time, Gordon had regained his senses and was firing his own weapon at the monstrous creatures. They can be killed, he kept repeating to himself. They are real. They are physical beings. His first bullet missed, but the rest found their marks. The targets were too big not to hit.

Brother Elias and Father Andrews stood staring at each other as the ground erupted around them and the living corpses of the gigantic infants pushed their way to the surface. Hot wind whipped against their faces, bringing with it the rotten odor of decay. The priest closed his eyes as he felt an unwelcome and unfamiliar power pressing in on him, straining against his closed senses, trying to find a crack in the psychic block he had constructed in his mind.

"Open yourself!" Brother Elias commanded.

The priest closed himself off tight, protecting himself. The air around him was thick and heavy with the force of power. He could feel the evil closing in on him, and the monstrousness of it made everything he had ever felt before pale by comparison. He began to shake, feeling the pressure increase around him.

"Open yourself!" Brother Elias screamed.

My time is near, Father Andrews thought, recalling the verse from the Bible. I am ready to sacrifice myself. And then .. . and then he was strong! His weak and vacillating will was bolstered by an infusion of iron determination; his numb and tired brain expanded instantly to encompass a knowledge vast and limitless yet perfectly ordered.

And then he was drowning, fading, crushed and overwhelmed by the power of this new force, which drained away his being, sucking him into itself and growing stronger still. He heard himself cry out somewhere amidst this turmoil, his voice, his thought, shrinking, going, gone.

And then the power was no longer bodiless, no longer a disassociated will working imperfectly through other vessels out of necessity. Hot and burning, all-knowing, strong with the forsaken lives of so many beings, the power was now free, now possessed of a form it could use, a form it could control perfectly and utterly. The power looked through seeing eyes, experienced through living senses, the world around it.

And the creatures opposing the power seemed suddenly so weak, so insignificant.

"BOW DOWN BEFORE YOUR NEW GOD."

The voice was so powerful, so awesome, that both Gordon and the sheriff turned to look. Even the monstrous babies crawling out of the fissured ground stalled for a second in their movements.

"I COMMAND YOU TO BOW DOWN BEFORE ME."

The voice was clearly that of Father Andrews, and it was obviously coming out of the priest's slack open mouth, but it was amplified beyond all possibility.

Brother Elias lunged forward and grabbed the priest's shoulders, holding tight. He shoved his face right next to the priest's. At the top of his lungs, he screamed the alien words of the Ritual of Banishment, but even his powerful voice sounded small and impotent next to that of Father Andrews.

The priest's horrible laugh drowned out his chanting words. The noise was deafening, echoing across the hills and into the blackened sky.

"YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME."

Brother Elias spoke faster, the strange words tumbling out, as if he had only a certain amount of time in which to speak and that time was almost gone. "... The Lord our God," he screamed clearly in English, and then he was thrown away from the priest, his body tumbling back over itself until it landed against a large gray stone twenty feet away. He stood up, shook his head to clear it and immediately began chanting again, the inhuman words rushing out of his mouth at an auctioneer's pace. He walked toward the priest, hands and arms extended, his fingers tracing symbolic outlines in the air.

And Father Andrews began to change.

His body expanded outward, bloating, the skin pulling taut across his face and hands, his clothes ripping open.

"No!" Brother Elias screamed, and there was panic in his voice.

The hair on Father Andrews' head began streaming out, growing at the rate of several feet per second, reaching the ground. At first it was brownish blond, the color of the priest's natural hair, but it instantly darkened into jet. A distorted fist of bone punched its way through the priest's stomach. Two huge black eyes pushed the old eyes out, sending them sliding slimily down the taut fat cheeks. The priest's hands jerked off in a spray of blood, and two red whipcord arteries protruded through the newly made openings, thrashing blindly around. The legs split, divided, multiplied.

Brother Elias, still chanting madly, ran forward and grabbed the four gold crucifixes that were embedded in the ground before the metamorphosing body of Father Andrews.

The priest's body began to split down the center, streams of inky liquid blackness escaping through the torn opening.

"I AM GOD," a new voice said through Father Andrews' mouth as the head began to split apart.

And Brother Elias shoved the first crucifix into the center of what was left of the priest's body.

Pain and a sudden loss of vital energy. Awareness of a power equal to or greater than its own.

Comprehension.

Fear.

There was an audible rush of air as the cross withered and blackened.

Father Andrews screamed in rage and agony, and both Jim and Gordon put their hands over their ears to block out the terrible noise.

The preacher shoved another cross into Father Andrews' distorted body, this one through the forehead. The body fell to the ground. Repeating over and over again the final words of the ritual, Brother Elias shoved the last two crucifixes into the priest's abdomen.

The power retreated back from whence it had come, its knowledge suddenly gone, its ambitions forgotten, its seemingly endless strength rapidly depleting. It pulled into itself. All that mattered now was survival.

Bolts of black energy erupted outward from the crosses, draining color from the surrounding earth and air. The crucifixes melted, their metal twisting into whirling spirals. The bolts of energy, growing increasingly weak, dissipated into the dark clouds above.

Two of the oversized infants were still moving, and Jim fired several rounds into each of them, killing them both. The bodies dissolved into the ground, leaving only a grayish slimy mulch.

The hot wind tapered off to nothing, and Gordon and the sheriff looked at each other, breathing deeply, their hearts pounding wildly in their chests. They said nothing as they moved across the broken ground toward the spot where Brother Elias lay unmoving in the dirt.

Screaming crazily, the black figure of Dr. Waterston burst into flames. The charred skin flaked off, and in the second before the figure was engulfed entirely, Marina saw something shiny and white and wormlike.

The flame disappeared as quickly as it had come, and the fetus between her legs dropped the knife it was holding. It fell to its knees, as though it had suddenly lost what coordination it had.

All of the creatures in the kitchen were suddenly crawling around in dumb mindlessness, and Marina realized that, though she still could not move, she was safe.

She began to cry.

Brother Elias was just sitting up groggily as Jim and Gordon reached him. They helped him to his feet, each holding onto an arm as he stood unsteadily. The preacher smiled at them, a real smile, an open smile.

"You did well," he said. "You both did well."

His smile faded as he stooped to look at the remains of Father Andrews.

The hideous mutations that had torn apart the priest's body at the end had disappeared, reversing themselves, and the bloody remains, though mutilated, were undeniably human. The crosses had disintegrated completely. "If we had been here sooner, he would not have died," the preacher said. He gestured toward the bloody form before him. "We will carry his body to the truck and wrap it safely in the tarp," he said. "We will give him a Christian burial."

"Is that it?" Gordon asked. "Is it over?"

Brother Elias nodded. "It is over," he said. "This time."

Gordon looked around at the ground of Milk Ranch Point. Trees had been uprooted, grass and weeds flattened, rocks overturned. There were huge holes in the gaping earth. Only a few of the white crosses were still standing. Everything was covered with a sickly pale mulch. Gordon looked at his arm. There was no sign of any of the cuts. He could still taste a disgusting musty dryness in his mouth, however, and he spit. He looked over at the sheriff, and both of them smiled.

Above them, the sky was clearing. Silently, Brother Elias picked up Father Andrews' arms. Without being told, Jim and Gordon each grabbed one of his feet.

They started down the hill toward the truck.

Gordon stood with Brother Elias in the crowded lumberyard of the sawmill, watching as teams of men shoveled the tiny dead bodies of hundreds of fetuses into the furnace of the smelter. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the western sky. The men worked hard, using large flat sawdust shovels to remove the fetuses from the pickup trucks. The sheriff was standing on the stump of a log, coordinating the effort, telling the men exactly what to do.

Several regular posse members as well as firemen and workers from the mill were helping to dispose of the bodies. Keith Beck stood nearby, taking photos for the newspaper and talking to various people, writing down their quotes in a small notebook.

He wondered what Beck would write.

Several dozen people stood outside the chain link fence of the sawmill, staring in. Many of the parents had taken their children home, not wanting them to view the horrible scene. Gordon looked out at the crowd. He could see Char Clifton pressed against the fence, and, next to him, Elsie Cavanaugh from the drugstore. Just like he had in his dream.

He looked over at Brother Elias. The preacher's face was bandaged, but he did not look tired or worn out. There was a strange gleam in his eye. He fixed Gordon with his black gaze. '"Just as the weeds are gathered and burned with fire, so it will be at the close of the age.

The Son of man will send his angels, and they will gather out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and throw them into the furnace of fire." Matthew 13:40."

Gordon shivered and turned back to the smelter. Black foul smelling smoke billowed out of the single stack. Many of the workers were wearing surgical masks to protect themselves from the effects. Gordon glanced into the sky, half expecting the smoke to have coalesced into some type of coherent shape, but the black cloud was formless.

He looked at the pickup trucks filled with tiny bodies. He still did not know where all of the fetuses had come from. There seemed to be thousands of them. He found himself wondering how long it would take before all this happened again, and whether anyone then would remember this day. He watched the workers throwing the bodies into the fire, the sheriff shouting orders.

Toward evening, the smoke became so thick that all of the workers were forced to wear masks. Those who had no masks and all of the bystanders had to go home.

The sunset could not be seen for the smoke.

The black smoke hung over Randall for three days, like fog, until a long-overdue rainstorm washed it away.

It was another three days before all of the soot was cleaned off the streets.

EPILOGUE

Fall was coming. Temperatures were beginning to drop, and leaves on some of the trees were already starting to change color. Staring out the office window, Jim could see a small patch of orange and yellow on one of the trees lining Main Street. Farther to the north, near the sawmill, several trees were starting to change. The sheriff stared out at the town, thinking silently. It looked remarkably normal, amazingly untouched. There were no demolished buildings, no flattened homes.

There was a large chunk of forest at the base of the Rim where the old landfill used to be that was now scorched and burned, but on the whole, the damage had been much less severe than he had expected. Most of Randall, in fact, had been cleaned up within a few days.

Of course, who knew what the long-range consequences would be?

Jim moved over to his desk and sat down heavily. He picked up the newspaper and threw it into the metal waste can near his feet.

Eighty-five. The final death toll was eighty-five, counting theSel way family and the first two farmers. A lot of those had been self induced or the result of panic, but a goodly chunk of them were not attributable to anything so rational.Deke Chandler had been torn apart, portions of his body switched. Three ranchers had been drowned in the blood of their farm animals. The coroner had found their lungs suffused with blood. Jeff Tilton and old ladyPeltzer had been brutally stabbed to death. Tilton's face had been stabbed so repeatedly that it was unrecognizable.

He and the coroner had agreed to list the deaths as accidental.

Surprisingly, the TV stations in Phoenix and Flagstaff had mentioned the incidents only briefly. There had been a more thorough article in The Arizona Republic, but even that newspaper had glossed over the facts, instead laying its faith in a bizarre theory put forth by an uninvolved member of the state police. Only the Randall paper had told the real story, had gone into it with any depth. There had even been photos of the burnings on the front page.

The rumor was that Beck was trying to sell the story to the National Enquirer.

Jim smiled. He'd probably sell it. Those people ate up that shit.

Through the open window, the sheriff heard the pealing of the church bells, calling people for the noontime Sunday services. The staggered ringing carried clearly through the still, fresh air, and the sound was pleasant music to the sheriff's ears. He listened carefully, but he could not hear the tones of the Episcopal church bell.

Apparently, the bishop had not yet appointed another replacement.

The phone on his desk buzzed, and Jim picked up the receiver, punching the lighted button for line one. "Hello," he said. "Weldon speaking."

"Jim."

He softened at the sound of his wife's voice. "Hi, honey. What's up?"

"I was wondering if you were coming home for lunch. Thekids're at Timmy Wharton's house, and we could have a nice private little get-together. Just me and you."

He smiled. "Sounds romantic."

"When will you be home?"

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Okay," she said. She paused. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

He hung up the phone, and his eye fell on the empty holster on the hat rack. Carl's. He would have to start advertising for a replacement soon. And replacements for Pete and Judson. Both had given him their notices. Both had also agreed to stay on until he could find new men.

Pete, he knew, was planning to apply for a job at the post office. He wasn't sure what Judson had planned.

Jim stood up and grabbed his hat from the rack. He put it on and stepped out of his office, walking down the hall toward the front desk.

He smiled and nodded at Rita, operating the switchboard. "Hold all my calls this afternoon, will you? I'm going to be gone the rest of the day."

Rita smiled. "Supervisor Jones is going to have your ass for this, you know. She's already mad at you."

"Fuck her," Jim said. He waved good-bye and stepped outside into the warm, fresh open air.

He got in his car and drove home.

Gordon and Marina sat next to each other on the couch, watching an old Fred Astaire movie on the new television Gordon had charged while they were in Phoenix. The old TV had been smashed. A commercial came on, and they turned to look at each other. They kissed.

She was getting prettier, Gordon thought. Maybe that old line about expectant mothers having a special glow was true. He reached for her hand and held it. He could feel the stitches in her palm.

They had not talked about what had happened. The subject was taboo, although Gordon was not sure why. They had not even decided not to discuss it, they simply did not mention it, although they had gone down to Phoenix for more tests.

All the tests had been normal.

Gordon looked down at Marina's slightly swelling abdomen. He wondered what their daughter would grow up to be.

The movie came back on, and Gordon turned toward the TV. They could afford the TV now. They could afford the baby. After Brad's death, ownership of the Pepsi franchise had reverted to Connie.

But Connie knew nothing about distribution or delivery, and she had hired Gordon on as manager or foreman--they weren't quite sure of the official title yet--at twice the salary. Marina would teach for a few months, but her students would have a permanent substitute for most of the year.

Gordon was still not entirely comfortable with what had happened. He still had a lot of questions, but no one seemed to have any answers. He and the sheriff had talked quite a bit, but the sheriff was just as much in the dark as he was.

God knew where Brother Elias had gone.

Perhaps that was why he had started the novel. Loose ends were tied up in novels, everything had an easy explanation, pieces fit together logically. There were reasons for why things happened.

Actually, he was fairly proud of himself. He had started the novel less than a week ago, and already he had forty pages done. Forty good pages. He had never written so fast or so well before, and he had hopes that the book might find a publisher.

It was a horror novel.

Fred Astaire was dancing in front of a long line of turret guns on a navy ship. Gordon put his head in Marina's lap. He felt good.

Marina, he knew, was still having a lot of problems. She was depressed much of the time, and she was very worried about the baby, but that was understandable. Both of them were going to counseling now, and he had faith that they could work through their troubles. He pressed his ear to Marina's abdomen, and imagined he could hear, within her, the soft beating of another heart. He looked up at her. "How do you feel?" he asked.

She smiled. "I feel all right."

"All right? Just all right?"

Her smile grew wider. "Okay, then. Pretty good."

He kissed her stomach, and she ran her fingers through his hair. He kissed her again, his arm moving around her midsection. He grinned up at her. "Want me to kiss you somewhere else?"

She looked down on him, feigning innocence. "On my forehead?"

"Lower."

"On my lips?"

"One pair of lips."

She laughed and hit him on the head.

"Ow." He sat up, looked at her for a moment, then glanced at the TV.

"It's a boring movie anyway."

"I like it. I want to find out what happens."

"Fred gets the girl and they all live happily ever after."

"The girl?"

"Okay, the woman."

Marina pretended to think for a moment, then stood up. She switched off the TV. "Come on," she said. She grabbed his hand.

They walked toward the bedroom.

The preacher stood next to the on-ramp of Black Canyon Highway, holding out his thumb, smiling. His suitcase, photo album, and a bundle of pamphlets lay at his feet. His black-bound Bible was clutched under his arm. Although it was fairly warm out, he was wearing a gray business suit, complete with jacket and tie.

He continued smiling, infinitely patient, his black eyes watching the road for approaching traffic.

Several cars and trucks passed him by before a tan BuickLeSabre , heading west toward Los Angeles, stopped to offer him a ride.