The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) (5 page)

Max didn't wait to see what was going to come out of the box. In screaming panic, he threw himself to the side of the pit where the floor beam had landed and used the beam to launch himself out of the hole. He grabbed the floor above and scrambled to pull himself up. The horror of that thing grabbing his legs gave him a burst of frantic strength and speed.

He finally got himself all the way out and onto the wooden floor. Below him, only partially illuminated by the flashlight still sitting in the dirt, the white corpse continued to struggle to get out of the coffin. Max jumped up and ran out the front door, screaming the whole way. He left a glittering trail of gold as he stumbled out of the building into the fading light and fled to his car. He jumped in his car and looked down to find his keys. He screamed anew when he saw a hand and upper arm, loosely clad in sagging white flesh, still clutching his shirt. He tried to pull the hand off by grabbing the protruding ulna, but he couldn't get it off. He fell out of the car, ripped his tee off, and threw it to the ground. He leapt back into his car, fired it up, and sped away down the pock marked hundred-foot drive. This time, he didn't even notice the potholes. He hit 40 by the time he got to the broken gate.

Fortunately, there were no cars coming as he fishtailed onto the country road that led back to town. Unfortunately, a patrolman watched in disbelief as Max careened from the county road onto the highway and tore off at high speed.

Three days later, Max was released from jail. He’d fled through town at about 95 mph. After a spending night locked up for attempted vehicular homicide, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest, he paid the enormous fine, and then he went on a two-day bender. The second time he woke up in the little jail cell, his head was pounding, his ears were ringing, his mouth tasted like someone had peed in it, and his stomach was threatening rebellion. The worst was the smell: nasty, sour, and stomach churning. When he discovered that it was coming from him, it had an oddly focusing effect. Time to sober up.

A short while later that morning, the reed thin policeman, Officer Jacobs (who had arrested Max both times) let Max out of his small cell. He led Max out to the main room of the station, where a be-muscled, and crisply uniformed officer sat squished uncomfortably behind a much-too-small desk, scribbling furiously. Max had the feeling that this man did everything furiously. His meaty hands made the pen he was holding look like a little swizzle stick. The officer had a military buzz cut and was the widest and furriest man Max had ever seen. He looked up when Jacobs escorted Max up to the desk. “Chief Wayne, here is the prisoner, sir.”

Chief Wayne scowled at officer Jacobs for some reason and then turned it on Max where he stood quietly, drowning in his own stink. Max waited in anxious, quiet misery as Chief Wayne examined him from his desk. A conversational carnivore, Chief Wayne got to the meat of the conversation quickly. “Mr. Faust, I think you and I are not going to get along. In fact, I know it. You northern Yanks come down here with your money, and your fame, and you think you can do whatever the hell you please—endangering citizens of this fair town with your Noo Yawk drivin’ and gettin' all drunk and disorderly, disturbin’ my peace and ruinin' my digestion. It makes me unhappy. You understand me, boy?”

Max miserably nodded his head. “Yes, Sheriff.”

“I ain't no namby-pamby, ass-whipped Sheriff! You will call me Chief Wayne, you hear me?”

Max nodded like a bobble-head doll.

“Okay then. I'd like nothing better than to tar and feather your skanky northern ass and run you out of my town, but I want ya to know that I am a man of fairness and tolerance. So, let me tell you this. If you go creatin' a public nuisance of yourself again, I will crush you like a bug, scrape up the juice, and mail you back to Noo Yawk where you belong. Do we have an understandin’?”

Max nodded. “Yes Sh... Chief Wayne, I understand.”

Wayne looked at the officer beside Max and unsuccessfully attempted to conceal his grimace before saying, “Lootenant Jacobs, please release this man with extreme prejudice.”

That had worried Max for a moment, but the Lieutenant just escorted him to the door and said with no apparent irony, “Have a nice day sir. I hope you enjoy our town.”

After the Chief's warm southern welcome, Max staggered a few blocks and made it back to his room in the “Five Star, Quaint and Charming, Dixie Motel”. After a shower and a handful of ibuprofen, he was cleaner but still miserable. He threw his clothes out through the front door and collapsed on his creaking “Dixie-King-Sized Bed.”

He lay there miserably, staring at the ceiling, with his butt firmly centered in the undoubtedly “Specially Prepared, Dixie Butt Divot.” With his hands behind his head, he tried to think through the lingering, but familiar, pain and nausea—always the last to leave after a long and hard party. (Often accompanied by guilt). He fell asleep.

The music flowing through him was pure fire. It ignited the crowd—his crowd—and they returned its burning power to him ten-fold. He was cast into the heavens, shining like a rogue star. The driving beat of “Damned if You Do” became his heartbeat. His fingers moved through the frantic counterpoint on his guitar without hesitation or error. His backup singers filled out his own voice with the raw power and anger of the song. Tonight was his and no one here would forget this perfect moment. He pounded out the final beats and the crowd went wild—crying for him, worshiping him, desperate to drink of his fountain of music. The roar of love and approval surrounded him and filled him with life and purpose.

He threw his arms out and tried to embrace the world “Thank you people! Thank you! I love you!” And he did. He loved every last one of them, just as they loved him. He bowed and struted and slowly the noise of the crowd turned into a chant. Soon the entire
stadium was filled with

this new chant. “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!...”

Max’s strut faltered. Sarah’s song. They demanded Sarah’s song, but he couldn’t play it. It wasn’t his it was…

***

Max awoke to silence. The roar of the crowds was gone, consumed by the silence. His ears rang with it, and his heart struggled to beat against it. It was all lost. He had lost it, had betrayed every one of those people. He’d betrayed the sacred music and he could never play it again. He couldn’t bear to think about it for a moment longer so lifted himself out of bed, got dressed, and headed back to the house.

Now Max sat in his car, filled with fear and loathing. He wasn't looking at the house, but at the desiccated arm still lying on the drive obstinately holding on to his shirt. He couldn't believe that he was back–that he was seriously doing this. There was stupid, and then there was Ape-Shit-Stupid a. k. a. ASS. He swore to himself, “Jesus...” He caught himself as Lucian's words rang through his conscience, “you nail his son to a cross, and you throw his name out like some piece of trash” “Cr... Shit!” That little exhibition used up the little anger left. Resigned, he reviewed his logic, hoping to come to another conclusion. Did he really have to be here?

In the time since his fall, he had done a lot of thinking. He had finally admitted to himself that yes, he had known there was something askew with his deal with Lucian. After striking it rich and releasing hit after hit, finally culminating in “Sarah's Song,” Max knew deep down that he was doing something wrong, riding high on someone else's talent and giving them no credit. His actions had driven Norman Denning, the unknown and oddly ignored composer, to his death. Norman had written the song for his dead wife, Kathy. He had poured his soul into that song of love and loss. He hadn't even tried to sell it because it was so personal and dear. When he discovered that the song had skyrocketed Max into international fame and Max had even changed the name from “Kathy's Song,” he couldn't handle it.

Now a brilliant, tortured, soul was dead—burning in Hell if the Catholics were right about suicide. Just gone if Lucian wasn't lying.

There was evil in that house and all he wanted to do was run from it. But he couldn’t. Dealing with this was part of his penance. He couldn't just run away and let this go, even though the thought of it made him want to vomit. (Of course, that may have just been the lingering effects of the hangover.)

He had to be here. One of those kids who had visited that house might come back and get eaten, or worse. In fact, given Max's life, it was sure to happen. One death on his conscience was enough, so he had to do something about it. He'd made a list of options and their probable outcome in his head:

1. Tell Chief Wayne about it... and get sent to the loony bin and read about the string of senseless stoner murders at the Faust place.
   

2. Burn down the house... and take out the entire dry, hot state.
   

3. Sell the house to the local chapter of the KKK, and let them use it for their meetings. He was still looking for the downsides to this one.
   

4. Call Ghost Chasers... and watch them end up as undead chow on national television.
   

5. Arm himself for bear, and go kill that thing... and end up personally as undead chow.
   

6. Call friends and family to come help. Unfortunately, all the “friends” he had made as a star had deserted him; he had not talked with his childhood friends for years, and an 88 year old, dead mother would not strike fear into the hearts of any monsters.
   

Three was his first and favorite choice, but practicality convinced him to discard it. He had no idea where the deed was or how to find the KKK, and selling it to anyone would take a lot of time—time for someone to get eaten on his watch.

Similarly, numbers one and two were right out. After One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, he'd rather dig his own eyes out with a dull spoon than risk a mental hospital, and even though he didn't like Mississippi so far, he felt that burning the state down would be a bad thing.

He thought long and hard about Ghost Chasers, but he was done with having other people pay for his mistakes. Besides, he liked the show. He would feel terrible if he were responsible for taking it off the air.

That left him with number five. At least if he got eaten, he wouldn't have to feel guilty about all the others getting eaten after him.

A short while after that fateful decision, sitting in the car and staring at the desiccated arm where it lay on the driveway pathetically clinging to his abandoned shirt, he dusted off number one again. Maybe the loony bin wouldn't be as bad as all that...

Visions of Nurse Kratchet, or Ratchet, or whatever her name might be, quickly informed him that four was the only way to go. He sighed. He was neatly trapped.

Well, at least he came prepared. He got out of the car while carefully watching the arm and opened the trunk to get to his newly gathered monster hunting kit. He hadn't been able to get any of the major firepower he truly wanted because of some stupid law about needing to wait three days to buy a large caliber assault weapon and a state driver's license, but he felt he’d done all right.

He considered the pile for a moment, grabbed his steel-club flashlight, then the chainsaw, and ran out of hands.

“Fuck!” He’d forgotten one very important piece of equipment – a backpack or fanny back. He scanned the ground around himself as if he might find a conveniently discarded pack. Finding nothing, he thought longingly about calling the whole thing off, but he knew he probably wouldn't be able to force himself back here. He'd gotten here this time only because he had been actively trying to convince himself that it had all been... er... something other than real. The arm in the driveway had crushed that forlorn attempt at self-delusion.

 Crap. Okay, first things first. He needed light, so he took the flashlight and stuffed it into his belt on his left side.

He eyed the chainsaw and put it down. He’d have to carry that. Next, he considered the shotgun he’d purchased from a boy of about 15 for $500 along with twenty boxes of shotgun shells. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was having second thoughts about carrying it. He seemed to remember that Vampires could only be hurt by silver bullets or stakes but wasn’t sure. Instead, he grabbed his super-soaker full of holy water (procured from St. Anthony's) instead and stuffed it in his belt on his right side. He had to loosen the belt to make room for it, but he finally got it to stay.

Next, he donned three necklaces: the silver cross, the Star of David, and the twenty-five bulbs of garlic. After that, he grabbed the hunting knife and said a little thank you to the designer when he found its belt loop had a snap. Two of the dozen shuriken he’d purchased (because he thought they were cool) got stuffed into his right front jean’s pocket.

After another moment’s consideration, he leaned in and grabbed the bat. A sharp pain in his leg caused him to jerk back. The shuriken had punched a hole in his leg and several more into his jeans. It took him a few minutes and a lot of contortions to get the throwing stars out of his pocket. Once he had them, he threw them away, pulled his now bloodstained jeans back on and re-equipped himself. This time, he stuffed the bat into his belt and carried the flash.

The cleaver, he stuffed into the back of his pants. A couple of power bars from the case he’d purchased, and a dozen shotgun shells went into his pockets.

He eyed the remaining items. There was no way he could carry the gallon of gasoline, the holy bible, the book of church hymns he’d requisitioned, or any of the other stuff, so he would have to leave them here.

Eventually, he found himself back at the open front door looking into the house. He was sweating and hot except for the cool trail down his right leg where he was being blessed by the super-soaker.

The house’s black interior was in no way inviting or beckoning. No beckoning was good. He could live with that. The Chainsaw, shotgun, and light were carried precariously in his hands. His left hand still had stitches and was tender and sore. He put down the chainsaw and the shotgun so he could shine the light into the front entrance way. The darkness beyond seemed to consume the light. Max wondered if the darkness was some sort of ghost, or curse, or something. At this point, he was ready to believe anything. He briefly considered waiting a few hours for the sun to pass overhead and shine into the front door but gave that up after considering that it only left him about six hours of daylight to do his deed. There was no way he'd be here past sunset.