Summer of Night (59 page)

The dogs would not go in. They whined, pulled at the rawhide thongs, and showed the whites of their eyes.

"They'll go after the movin' dead ones all right," said Cordie, tying them to a stanchion just outside the door. "It's what's in here they don't like. Don't like the smell."

Dale didn't like the smell either. The main warehouse space was twenty-five or thirty yards long and three stories high, the ceiling crisscrossed with wooden and iron crossbraces. It was from a row of those beams that the carcasses hung.

Cordie played her flashlight beam across the flayed things hanging there while the boys pulled their shirts over their noses and mouths and advanced slowly, blinking at the stench. The air was filled with the swarm-sound of flies.

When Dale first saw the carcasses-the ragged flesh and raw bone of them-he'd thought they were human. Then he recognized a sheep… then a calf, strung by the hind legs and hanging head down, the neck impossibly arched and gaping in an obscene smile… then another sheep… then a large dog… a larger calf… there were at least twenty carcasses hanging over the long trough made of split fifty-gallon oil drums.

Cordie stepped close to the calf, set her hand on the nearly severed neck. "See what they done? I think they hung 'em up here before they cut their throats." She pointed. "Blood goes downhill here… through that pipe… out through that gutter over there so they can load up without havin' to carry buckets of the stuff outside."

"Load up?" said Dale, then realized what she meant. Someone had used the trough to transport the blood outside to the loading dock… to what? Where did they take it?

Suddenly the stench of decomposing flesh, the overpowering smell of blood, and the high hum of a million flies made Dale dizzy and sick. He staggered to a window, forced the old latch, lifted a movable pane there, and gasped in fresh air. The trees closed in darkly outside. Starlight reflected on rusted rails.

"You've known about this place?" Mike said to Cordie. There was an odd, flat note in his voice.

The girl shrugged, moved the light along the beams. "A few days. One of the things got one of my dogs t'other night. Followed the blood here."

Harlen was trying to use the top of his sling as a mask. His face above the black silk was very pale. "You've known about this and haven't told anyone?"

Cordie turned the flashlight on Harlen. "Who's I supposed to tell?" she said flatly. "Our ol' school principal maybe? That dipshit Barney? Maybe our justice of the peace, heh?"

Harlen turned his face away from the light. "That'd be better than telling nobody, for Chrissakes."

Cordie began walking down the row of carcasses, shining the powerful flashlight first on ribs and flesh, then on the rusted and blood-coated trough beneath. The blood looked black and thick as molasses in the flashlight beam. The trough was so coated with flies that it looked as if the metal were moving. "I told you, didn't I?" said Cordie. "It's what I found here today made up my mind to tell somebody."

She had come to the end of the line of carcasses, far in the rear of the warehouse space. She moved the flashlight up.

"Jesus fuck!" said Harlen, jumping back.

Mike had been carrying the pistol at his side since coming through the door. Now he lifted it and moved forward.

The man hanging there had been strung up like the animals-legs tied together by a wire looped over an old iron hook-and at first glance his body was very similar to the sheep and calves: naked, ribs outlined against white flesh, throat cut so thoroughly that the head had come close to being severed. Dale thought that the neck looked like the mouth of some great white shark with ragged bits of flesh and cartilage in place of teeth. The underside of the man's chin was so streaked that it looked like someone had upended bucket after bucket of thick red paint on him.

Cordie walked up to the trough and, while still keeping the light steady on the corpse, grabbed it by the hair and pulled the dangling head forward.

"Jesus," gasped Dale. He felt his right leg begin to vibrate of its own accord and he set a hand on his thigh to steady it.

"J. P. Congden," whispered Mike. "I see why you couldn't tell the justice of the peace."

Cordie grunted and let the head hang free again. "He's new," she said. "Wasn't here yesterday. Come here an' look at somethin' though."

The boys shuffled forward, Harlen holding the sling to his face, Mike still keeping the gun high, and Dale feeling as if his legs were going to fold under him. They lined up along the trough like thirsty men at a bar.

"See here?" said Cordie, grabbing J. P. Congden by the hair again and pulling forward until the corpse was leaning out into the light and the wire creaked above them. "See?"

The man's mouth was open wide, as if frozen in a shout. One eye stared blindly at them but the other was almost closed. The face was streaked with caked blood from the throat wound, but there was something else. It took Dale a minute to see it.

The former justice of the peace's temples were flecked with wounds and his scalp was half-dangling, as if Indians had started to scalp him and then thought better of it.

"Shoulders too," said Cordie, still speaking in flat but vaguely interested tones, sort of the way Dale imagined Digger's dad or a pathologist talking during an autopsy or embalming. "See on the shoulders there?"

Dale saw. Holes. Cuts. It looked like someone had poked him a few dozen times with a sharp, perfectly round blade-certainly not enough to kill him, but terrible all the same.

Mike understood first. "A shotgun," he said, looking at the other two boys. "He just caught the edge of the pattern."

It took Dale a minute. Then he remembered. One of the men running from the campsite directly at the spot where Mike had been hidden. Then the blast of Mike's squirrel gun. The man's cap flying off and him going down in the grass.

Dale felt sick again and he walked back to the window, hanging on to the dusty sill to steady himself. Flies whizzed by… more on their way inside.

Cordie let the corpse hang free again. "I just wondered if his own people done that, or if someone else is fightin' these things."

"Let's go outside," said Mike, his voice suddenly shaky. "We'll talk."

Dale had been staring outside at the dark trees, taking long, deep breaths and letting his eyes adapt to the darkness there, when suddenly the night exploded with light and noise. He threw himself away from the window, landing on the rough boards and rolling.

Mike grabbed the flashlight from Cordie, killed the light, and dropped to one knee, pistol raised. Harlen started to run, hit the trough, and almost fell into it, his good arm going deep into the caked blood. A million flies took wing.

The room was suddenly illuminated by the flare-bright bursts of light from outside-first phosphorous white, then bright red, then a green that made the dangling carcasses look covered with a brilliant mold. The burst of light would come through the dusty panes and then the sound of the aerial explosion, forcing its way through the pane Dale had opened. Only Cordie Cooke remained precisely where she had been-her round face scrunched up as she squinted at the light. Outside, her dogs were going crazy.

"Aw, shit," breathed Harlen, rubbing his hand on his jeans. The blood came off in brown smears. The explosions outside redoubled in number and intensity. "It's only Michelle Staffney's goddamn fireworks."

There was a general sighing and slumping. Dale got to all fours, turning to look into the shadows and watch the carcasses as they came into existence and then disappeared with the vagaries of light from the skyrockets-green and red, pure red, the naked flesh and protruding ribs and slit throats, blue, blue and red, white, red, red, red… Dale knew that he was seeing something that he would never forget as long as he lived. And something that he would want to forget as long as he lived.

Saying nothing to each other, resetting the metal bar and padlock behind them, they went back out into the night and took the road back to town.

THIRTY-TWO

Friday the fifteenth of July had no dawn. The overcast was low and heavy and the cloudy sky merely paled to a lighter shade of gray as night turned to morning. While the clouds stayed low and threatening all day, the promised storm did not arrive. The moist heat lay over everything.

By ten a.m. all the boys were congregated on the low slope of Kevin Grumbacher's front lawn, staring at Old Central through Mike's binoculars and talking in low tones.

"I'd like to see it myself," Kevin was saying. His expression was dubious.

"Go ahead," said Jim Harlen. "I'm not going. There may be more corpses there by now. Maybe yours'll be added to the lineup."

"No one's going," Mike said softly. He was staring at the boarded windows and doors of the old school.

"I wonder what they use the blood for," said Lawrence. He lay on his stomach, head down the slope. He was chewing on a piece of clover.

No one ventured a guess.

"It doesn't matter what they use it for," said Mike. "We know that thing in there… the thing disguised as a bell… needs sacrifice. It feeds on pain and fear. Read them that part in the book you got from Ashley-Montague, Dale."

Harlen snorted. "Stole from Ashley-Montague is more like it."

"Read it, Dale." Mike did not lower the binoculars.

Dale thumbed through the book… "Death is the crown of all," read Dale,"so sayeth the Book of the Law. Agape equals ninety-three, seven one eight equals Stele six six six, sayeth the Apocalypse of the Cabbala…"

"Read the other stuff," said Mike. He lowered the glasses. His eyes were very tired." "The stuff about the Stele of Revealing."

"It's sort of a poem," said Dale. He tugged his baseball cap lower to shade his eyes.

Mike nodded. "Read it."

Dale read, his voice falling into a faint singsong rhythm: "The Stele is the Mother and Father of the Magus, The Stele is the Mouth and Anus of the Abyss, The Stele is the Heart and Liver of Osiris; At the Final Equinox The Throne of Osiris in the East Shall look to the throne of Horus in the West And the days shall be so numbered.

The Stele shall demand the Sacrifice, Of cakes, perfumes, beetles, and Blood of the innocent; The Stele shall render unto those Who serve it.

And in the Awakening of the Final Days, The Stele shall be created of two Of the Elementals-earth and air, And may be destroyed only by the Final two.

For the Stele is the Mother and Father of the Magus; For the Stele is the Mouth and Anus of the Abyss."

The kids sat in a circle. Finally Lawrence said, "What's an anus?"

"You are," said Harlen.

"It's a planet," said Dale. "You know, like Uranus?"

Lawrence nodded his understanding.

" "What are the other two whatchamacallems?” said Harlen. "The other two elementals. The ones that could destroy the Stele?"

Kevin folded his arms. "Earth, air, fire, and water," said Kevin. "The Greeks and the guys before them thought that these were the basis of everything. Earth and air creates the thing… fire and water could destroy it."

Mike took the book and held it in his hand, as if trying to pull something else from it. "As far as Dale and I can tell, that's the only mention of the Stele of Revealing in this book."

"And we only have Duane's notes to suggest the Stele has anything to do with anything," said Harlen.

Mike set the book down. "Duane and his Uncle Art. And both of them are dead."

Kevin glanced at his watch. "OK, so what good does this do us?"

Mike sat back. "Tell us about your dad's milk truck again."

Kevin's voice took on some of the same lilt of litany that Dale's had held. "It's a two-thousand-gallon bulk tanker," he said. "The shiny tank is all stainless steel. My father takes the truck out every morning… except Sunday… and picks up the milk at the bulk tanks on the dairy farms. He leaves early… usually about four-thirty in the morning… and has two routes. He does one every other day. Besides transferring the milk to the plant, he samples it, weighs it, does a quality check, and actually handles the pumping.

"Our truck's got a centrifugal pump that works at eighteen hundred rpm-it's a lot faster than a positive-feed pump that uses an electric motor. They only get about four hundred rpm. Dad can transfer about seventy-five gallons a minute from the bulk tank on the dairy farm to his tanker. He needs a two-hundred-thirty-volt outlet to do it, but all the dairy farms have one.

"He's got a sample tray and liquid coolant in the compartment at the rear of the truck. That's where the pump is, too. The hose fits on those red compartments on the side… the ones that look sort of like the side of a firetruck.

"Sometimes I ride with him, but he usually doesn't get home until about two in the afternoon and I have chores to do, so I get my allowance by scrubbing out the tank, cleaning the truck, and gassing it up." Kevin paused for a breath.

"Show us the gas pump again," said Mike.

The five boys walked to the north end of the house. Mr. Grumbacher had built a large tin shed there to house the truck, and between the huge double doors and the house were the gravel turnaround and the gas pump. Dale had always thought it sort of neat that his neighbor had his own gas pump.

"The milk plant helped pay to put it in," said Kevin. "Ernie's Texaco isn't open early or on weekends, and they didn't want Dad going all the way to Oak Hill to gas up."

"Tell us again," said Mike. "How much does the underground tank hold?"

"Twelve hundred gallons," said Kev.

Mike rubbed his lower lip. "Less than the tanker."

"Yeah."

"There's a lock on the pump," said Mike.

Kevin tapped it. "Yeah, but Dad keeps the key in the right-hand drawer of his desk. The drawer's not locked."

Mike nodded, waited.

"The filler cap's set in the ground there," said Kevin, pointing. "It's got a lock, too, but the key's on the same ring as the pump key."

The boys were silent for a moment. Mike paced back and forth, his sneakers making soft noises on the gravel drive." "I guess we're set then." He did not sound convinced.

"Why Sunday morning?" asked Dale. "Why not tomorrow… Saturday morning? Or today?"

Mike rubbed his hand through his hair. "Sunday's the only day that Kevin's dad stays home. It's too busy around here in the afternoons… we need it to be early. Just after sunrise is best. Unless some of you want to do this at night."

Dale, Kev, Lawrence, and Harlen looked at each other and said nothing.

"Besides," continued Mike, "Sunday seems… well, right." He glanced around, a sergeant assembling his troops. "In the meantime, we get ready."

Harlen snapped his fingers. "That reminds me, I've got a surprise for you guys." He led them around front to where his bike was sprawled on the lawn. There was a shopping bag hanging from the handlebars; Harlen removed two walkie-talkies from it. "You said this might come in handy," he said to Mike.

"Wow," said Mike, taking one of them. He touched a button and static rasped. "How'd you get them away from Sperling?"

Harlen shrugged. "I went back to the party for a minute last night. Everyone was out back eating cake. Sperling'd left these sitting on one of the tables. I figured that anybody who doesn't watch after his stuff better than that doesn't really want to keep it. Besides, it's just on loan."

"Uh-uh," said Mike. He opened a panel and checked the batteries.

"I put new ones in this morning," said Harlen. "These things work pretty well up to a mile. I tested it out with my mom this morning."

Kevin cocked an eyebrow. "Where did she think you got these?"

Harlen smiled. "Door prize at the Staffney party. You know rich folks… big parties, big prizes."

"Let's try it out," said Lawrence, taking one of the walkie-talkies and jumping on his bike. A minute later he was out of sight down Second Avenue.

The boys lay on the grass. "Home Base to Red Rover," Mike said into the radio. "Where are you? Over."

Lawrence's voice was tinny and static-lashed, but quite audible. "I'm just goin' past the A and P. I can see your mom working in there, Mike."

Harlen grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Say 'over." Over."

"Over-over?" came Lawrence's voice.

"No," growled Harlen. "Just over."

"Why?"

"Just say it when you're finished talking so we know you're finished. Over."

"Over," said Lawrence between gasps. He was obviously pedaling hard.

"No, you dope," said Harlen. "Say something else and then say 'over." '

"Hey, drop dead, Harlen. Over."

Mike took the radio back. "Where are you?"

Lawrence's voice was getting fainter. "Just gone past the park, goin' south down Broad." After a moment's silence. "Over."

"That's almost a mile," said Mike. "Pretty good. You can come on home now, Red Rover." He looked at Harlen. "Ten-four."

"God damn it!" came the boy's small voice.

Dale grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Don't you swear, damn it. What's wrong?"

Lawrence's voice was very tiny, more like he was whispering than the signal was being affected by distance. "Hey… I just found out where the Rendering Truck is."

It took less than thirty minutes to finish filling the Coke bottles with gasoline. Dale had brought the rags.

"What about the gauge on the pump?" said Mike. "Doesn't your dad keep track of the gallons used?"

Kevin nodded. "But since I do most of the fueling for him, I keep the log. He won't notice these few gallons." Kevin did not look happy at the deception.

"All right," said Mike. He crouched to draw in the dirt behind the Grumbacher shed as Dale and Lawrence carefully set the Coke bottles in a partitioned milk crate Kev had provided. "Here's the deal," said Mike. He drew Main Street, then Broad going south past the park. He used the twig he was holding to sketch in the circular drive of the old Ashley-Montague place. "You're sure the truck was back there?" he asked Lawrence. "And that it was the Rendering Truck?"

Lawrence looked indignant. "Sure I'm sure."

"It's in the trees there? The old orchard behind the ruins?"

"Yeah, and it's all covered over with twigs and a net and junk. Like the whatchamacallit the soldiers use."

"Camouflage," supplied Dale.

Lawrence nodded vigorously.

"OK," said Mike. "Now we know where it's been. It makes sense, too, in a weird sort of way. The question is, are we all agreed that we do something about it today?"

"We already voted," snapped Harlen.

"Yes," said Mike,"but you know how risky it is."

Kevin squatted and picked up a handful of gravel and dirt, letting the dust filter through his fingers. "I think it'd be riskier to leave the truck alone until Sunday. If we go ahead with our plans, the truck can always intervene."

"So can the underground things," said Mike. "Whatever they are."

Kevin looked thoughtful. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about them. If the truck's gone, that's an important variable eliminated.”

"Besides," whispered Dale, his voice as flat as flint on steel, "Van Syke and that goddamn truck tried to kill Duane. It probably was there when he died."

Mike used the drawing twig to scratch his forehead. "All right, we voted. We agreed. Now we do it. The question is where and who. Where the rest of us wait and who are the decoys."

The four boys leaned closer to look at the crude map of the town that Mike had drawn.

Harlen's good hand came down on the spot representing the Ashley-Montague mansion. "What about just getting it where it is? The house there's already burned to shit."

Mike used the twig to deepen the hole in the dust. "Yeah, that's OK if the truck's empty. What about if it does what we think it might?"

"We can take it there," said Harlen. "Can we?" Mike's gray eyes locked with his friend's. "There are trees in the front and the orchard in back, but could we get set in time? How do we get in… down the tracks? We've got a lot of junk to carry. Plus, the ruins are right on the edge of town, just a block or so from the fire house. There're always a couple of volunteers out front, chewing the fat."

"Well, then, where?" said Dale. "We've got to think of the decoys."

Mike chewed on his thumbnail a moment. "Yeah. It's got to be a private enough place that Van Syke will make his move. But close enough to town that we can get back easy if things go wrong."

"The Black Tree?" said Kevin.

Dale and Mike emphatically shook their heads at the same second.

"Too far," said Mike. The memory of the previous morning's close call was obviously still sharp and clear to him.

Lawrence used his finger to extend the line of First Avenue north. He sketched in a lump on the west side of the street just where Jubilee County Road came in. "What about the water tower?" he said. "We could go out across the ballfield and move up through this line of trees here. It'd be easy to get back."