The Reality Conspiracy (15 page)

He screamed.

"Grab him!" LeClair shouted.

Sister Agnes maintained her grip on his hand and tugged him forward. Fangs of broken glass tore at his delicate skin.

But she had him. He was safe. "Thank you, Lord Jesus," she whispered and made the sign of the cross.

When Father Sullivan moved to stand beside Sister Elise, the old man's sudden cry stopped him in his tracks.

"Sister Elise," LeClair snapped at the little nun beside him, "quickly now, bring me some sedative."

Three more old men, two dressed in cassocks, the other naked, found their way into the room, perhaps attracted by the shouting. All three stood by the door, shaking with an uncontrollable palsy. One spat on the floor. A lengthening cable of drool flowed from the naked priest's toothless mouth. It shimmied, groping downward, until it attached itself to his pale flaccid stomach.

Sullivan had to look away. Father LeClair stood up to face the newcomers. "Fathers, please go back to your rooms. I beg of you."

Docile, they turned and stumbled back into the corridor, leaving behind the oppressive reek of sweat and bodily waste.

"Good God," Father Sullivan said to no one. He felt his pulse quicken as he slipped into the hail. His racing thoughts were of Father Mosely, lying helpless and alone, unprotected in his coma.

An unfamiliar man in a cassock was stretched facedown in the dark hallway. He crawled along the floor like a broken grasshopper, using his elbows and forearms to drag his useless legs. In his hand the old man clutched a photograph of some smiling children.

Sullivan froze momentarily in an overwhelming sadness. Where is that peace that comes with old age? He shook his head, trying to throw off the bitter thought. Then, in motion again, he sprinted along the corridor.

He threw open the door to Father Mosely's room.

Inside, all was exactly as he remembered. The ancient, hollow-faced priest was in the same position, his shrunken body pulled into its perpetual "S" shape. Father Mosely stared senselessly from the single clouded eye. The thumb of his skeletal hand had found its way to his mouth and had crawled in. He sucked it silently, his lips flexing ever so slightly.
Thank God he's safe
, Sullivan thought.

Sullivan sighed heavily and took a seat on the rock-hard ladder-backed chair next to the old priest's bed. Screams and terrified cries resounded in the hail outside. Father Sullivan's vision blurred as moisture filled his eyes. He prayed, concentrating deeply, trying to direct his mind away from a dreadful and selfish certainty: one day I too will become as these dear creatures are now.

Unaccountably, he felt as if the same sinister force that had destroyed these men of God was slowly working its fearful magic on him, trying to break him, make him its prisoner. In his memory he was a boy again, hanging like a fat apple on a limb. His taunting classmates screamed and whistled. But Father Mosely could not come to his rescue.

Sometime later, Father Sullivan heard a strange tapping outside the old priest's hospital room. The tapping changed to a scratch, then to a tapping again.

Sullivan concentrated on the sound, almost recognizing it, but still unable to identify it for sure.

Curious, he was about to get up and look in the hail when the door to Father Mosely's room opened slowly. Sullivan kept quiet as the tip of a thin white stick whipped back and forth against the floor tiles, scratching between the open door and its frame. Sullivan held his breath, watching in silence.

A dark form entered the room. Father Lemire. Sullivan recognized him by his white cane.

Father Sullivan watched in silence as the blind priest made his way across the room. The old man was mumbling, his singsong cadence sounded like quiet prayer. All the while he searched for objects and barriers with his scratching cane. A rosary dangled from his left hand.

Puzzled, Sullivan remained quiet and observed.

As the blind priest's cane connected with the metal frame of the bed, he stopped. His left hand patted the linen sheet, apparently searching for Father Mosely's body.

He discovered Mosely's inflexible arm, wrapped the rosary around the knotted hand, mumbling as he worked.

Although nearly fluent in French, Sullivan was not up to translating these mumbles and half-pronounced syllables. Still, he was able to recognize a word now and then, "No time . . . Coming. Lazarus. Dead. Not dead."

Careful not to startle the blind priest, Sullivan prepared to speak softly. Before he found the right words, he saw Father Lemire raise his cane and bring it down swiftly against Father Mosely's temple.

"Stop!" Immediately, Sullivan was on his feet. He grabbed the blind priest from behind, one arm around his chest, the other raised, holding the cane, preventing Lemire from delivering a second blow.

"Let me go," the old priest cried. "Do not stop me. You do not know the trouble you cause."

Sullivan tried to be gentle as he forced the cane-wielding hand downward. The old man fought like a captive animal. "They come. They are near! Can you not feel? Look what they do. Look!"

The cane clattered to the floor. From behind, still restraining Father Lemire with a bear hug, Sullivan backed away from the bed.

"No! You do not understand. It gets stronger. Can you not feel it? Can you not see? It is here! It comes for the old ones! It wants our deaths. Our souls. Oh, mon Dieu! It is here now!"

"There, there, Father Lemire. Calm yourself, please. It's all right. Everything is all right. I will not harm you." Sullivan felt the old man's chest heaving rapidly up and down like an overworked bellows; he felt the heart pounding within the bony chest. Still Father Lemire fought.

"Not you, not you." The old priest was in tears, nearly hysterical. His frail body twitched and thrashed. "It is the others. The bad ones. They are getting stronger. Can you not feel? Can you not see? They are as Lazarus. They grow strong. We must end it. Here. Now."

The blind priest's back arched in a mighty heave. Then the strength seemed to leave him. He softened, collapsed limply in Sullivan's arms.

Gently, Father Sullivan lowered the old man to the floor. He checked the scrawny neck for a pulse. Finding none, he lowered his ear to the old man's chest.

No heartbeat.

Sullivan shouted, "I need help in here! Quickly!" He tore Father Lemire's white shirt away. Then he began to pound the old man's chest.

By the time Sister Beatrice came into the room, Father Sullivan was finishing his prayer for the dead.

St. Albans, Vermont

L
ucy Washburn wasn't in the spotlight. Instead, she was tucked away in the darkness, way far up inside their head. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. All she could do was watch through the two eyes, twin portholes that all of them shared.

The Mean One was in the spotlight. He'd been there for—Jeez, it seemed like days! Didn't he ever sleep? Didn't he get tired?

How come he wouldn't let anyone else take a turn?

Lucy wanted to come out for a while, feel the sunshine, pick the flowers. Too bad she had given up control—though she couldn't remember doing it. Now the Mean One wouldn't even talk about giving it back.

Still, she could see everything. Even the things she didn't want to see. And if the Mean One got hurt, Lucy would feel the pain; he wouldn't.

Lucy was the only one among them who could feel pain, everyone's pain.

And what was he doing with their body? Where was he going? Where was he taking her?

She saw their hand reach out and pick up a newspaper from the rack in front of the drugstore. And then they were running away. Running fast. So they wouldn't have to pay for the newspaper.

Then they were in the park, hiding behind a big green trash barrel. She could see the bandstand, and the historical society, and the big churches with their tall steeples.

The Mean One didn't let her look around for long.

They dashed from barrel to bandstand.

Their hands pulled away that secret loose board that worked like a door, admitting them to the crawl space under the bandstand. On hands and knees they crept underneath. Lucy didn't like it there. It smelled musty, and the earth always felt damp against her hands and her bare knees.

Lucy was sure there were worms and spiders crawling all around her. Maybe even snakes. She hated those icky crawly things. But the Mean One didn't hate insects and snakes. Maybe, Lucy thought, insects and snakes were the only things the Mean One liked.

Sun shown brightly through the wooden lattice around the bottom of the bandstand, making crisscross patterns over the newspaper as the Mean One spread it out on the damp musty earth.

"Look, Lucy," the Mean One whispered.

Lucy looked hard, and she too could see the print:

ST. ALBANS MAR KILLS FAMILY, SELF

ST. ALBANS—In an unexplained shooting incident last night, Edmund Washburn, 36, a cable company employee, apparently shot and killed his wife Winona, 36, and their 6-year-old son, Randy. Then he turned the weapon on himself, officials theorize.

Police Chief Michael Couture was the first on the scene responding to a neighbor's telephone call after hearing gunshots. Couture said there is no known motive for the slayings. "In fact," the visibly shaken policeman stated, "I just can't believe Ed did something like this. Why, him and me went to school together. I've known him all my life."

One family member, 12-year-old Lucine Washburn, was not accounted for at the crime scene. Couture suspects she was not present at the time of the shootings. "At least I hope not," the distraught official told this reporter. "Maybe she escaped and ran away. Or worse yet, maybe she came home and discovered the bloodbath. Either way, if she ran off, it might not be so easy to find her."

Neighbors were questioned long into the night. Area police and firemen have been contacted to search for the girl.

(Cont. Pg. 4: Slayings)

Lucy couldn't read any more. If she had had the eyes, she would have wept. If she'd had the mouth, she would have screamed. But the Mean One had the body now, and he was laughing.

Hobston, Vermont

Sunday, June 19

A
lton Barnes woke up screaming.

Sweating like a fat man in a steambath, he swatted away the clinging covers, as if they were restraining him. Hyperventilating, wheezing, chest heaving, he sat bolt upright in bed and looked around. His bedroom was dark and that disappointed him; it meant there was still a long uneasy time until morning. Hand trembling, he groped for the bedside switch, found it, flicked it on. A comforting incandescence filled the room. Alton tried to control his breathing as his gaze darted from corner to corner, inspecting the shadows, examining the furniture, trying to detect any motion that might suggest he was not alone in the old house.

For a moment the dream was clear in his memory:

Footprints.

Bloody footprints in the snow.

Alton following them. Crusty snow crunching underfoot. Up a hillside to the domed top of the bluff.

Oddly, the footprints end. They simply . . . stop.

Alton feels the wind, the strange strong wind that rushes upward from the ground itself. Now, he too is leaving the ground. Flying. Can't stop. Can't resist.

Far below, he sees where his own foot marks—like those beside them—stop. Far, far below.

He looks up, way above him in the sky. There, like a dazzling monstrous sun, he sees a face. A giant bearded face, big as a mountain, its mouth saying NO. NOT YOU. NO.

And he's falling away. Speeding toward the ground. He screams as he falls, screams at the anticipated impact, screams as the blood-rain splatters on his face and hands. And he's tasting the blood. He knows whose blood it is, and the huge face, looking down . . . with something in its mouth. Something kicking and screaming and flailing in its mouth.

The picture is fuzzy.

It's fading now.

And he screams until he wakes himself up, sweaty and hoarse, from his nightly ritual.

As he screamed—just like last night and the night before—the dream was already fading from his memory.

Within a few minutes Alton had no idea what had frightened him. The ghastly images had fled like an intruder, leaving him alone, terrified without reason. The only reminders were his racing pulse and a dreadful shortness of breath.

The alarm clock beside his bed told him it was 2:49 A.M. The middle of the night.

Even as he tried to relax, his ears strained against the silence of the house. Of course there were noises, many noises, but none that were unfamiliar to him: a sprung shutter way in the back of the house slapped against the clapboarding with each passing breeze; the water pump cycled off and on because of that leak in the bathtub; mice skittered within the plaster walls.

Any of those noises could be easily eliminated, forever, if only Alton would put in the effort. A nail, a washer, a trap. But why bother?