“Don’t shoot!” Bowes told them. He only had three men left now. Many more had poured into the street, but were cowering well away from the beast and his appetites.
He’d told them not to get too close, by Christ he’d told them…
The posse had been butchered. There were four men in the street, ripped open, their stuffing scattered in all directions. The remaining members were vomiting.
The beast was in the doorway of the undertaker’s again. It slipped through, taking the fifth man with him.
“That’s my brother!” someone yelled. “It’s got my brother for the love of Christ!”
But not for long.
As the remaining gunmen and a few interested civilians slowly approached Spence’s, there was a crash and an explosion of splintered glass blew out at them. The fifth man’s broken body came out with it.
Bowes kneeled by it. “Dead,” he muttered. The neck was broken, probably before he was launched through the window. The beast hadn’t the time to properly maul the man, but he killed him for the sake of appearances.
“C’mon,” Bowes told his men.
With them at his back, he charged into the undertaker’s.
19
Perry was one of the last to arrive.
He did what he could for the injured men which was little more than pray for them. Most were dead when he got there. His brain just dead tired and worn to threads from all the killing and bodies and blood, he went into Spence’s and viewed the carnage. Had a tornado slipped through there, it could have been no more complete. Cabinets were shattered, chemicals spilled. Vats overturned. Walls smashed to debris from the passage of the beast. And mixed in with that refuse, was what remained of Wynona Spence.
Jesus.
Perry remembered Marion upstairs.
Steeling himself and pressing a hand to his back, he went up. Went up those creaking, narrow stairs and into the apartment above which smelled of incense and wood smoke. Their was a slightly sickening stench of lilacs, as if Wynona had been spraying perfume liberally.
It didn’t take him long to find Marion.
Took him even less to realize that she’d been dead for years. Her skin was tight and flaking, gray as cement. The lips blackened and shriveled. The eyes sunk into dark, hungry pits. The fingers were shrunken into fleshy pencils. Wynona had embalmed her, turned her lover into a mummy she could covet and coddle for years and years.
Perry, sobbing, went back downstairs. “Oh, Wynona,” he said. “Oh dear Christ, what happened to you?”
The locals would feed off this like leeches. Wynona’s father had been a good man and Perry thought that, down deep, she was a good woman. Yes, she had a body up there. But she had harmed no one. Never slandered or hurt a soul.
Perry fired up an oil lantern and got it burning bright.
Then he shattered it against the wall. Flames engulfed the room and, eventually, they would take the entire building. And that was a good thing. For fire purified and Wolf Creek was long overdue.
20
Next, Perry went to see Claussen.
Something dangerous was brewing with that man.
Perry had a syringe with him, loaded with morphine. This one wasn’t for himself, however (he’d already had his taste and was swimming in an exotic sea), but for the madman who’d once been a reverend. A madman who now thought himself a pagan priest of some new, yet ancient blasphemous order.
Perry’s head was full of fog, but he had a duty and he would perform it.
From all over town he could hear screams and gunshots. He paid them no mind and mounted the church steps. Inside, he stopped. There was a smell in the air. One that told him to run while he still had breath.
“Claussen?” he called. “Are you here?”
“The beast,” a voice in the darkness said, “the beast.”
Perry followed the voice and found the reverend slouched in a pew. He was pale, his face beaded with sweat. He looked terrible.
“Are you all right, Claussen?”
The reverend smiled, his chin wet with drool. “He returned as I knew he would.”
It was dim in the church, a few feeble rays of light bled in through the stained glass windows. Dust motes danced in the beams, thick, clotted. Perry looked around, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He swallowed dryly. There was only that smell, that gagging perfume of putrescence.
“I think you should come with me now,” Perry said calmly.
“Where?”
“To my house. I can care for you there.”
Claussen laughed shrilly. “Leave?” he said in a congested voice. “Leave? This is my church! The house of God! I can’t leave here…you see, God has come, he’s here now…”
Perry scowled slightly. “Yes, of course. Spiritually he—”
“Not him! Not that one! Not that false shepherd who I’ve prayed my soul out to and has yet to honor me with so much as a word, a sign!” Claussen was trembling now, his eyes rolling. “He has come! The Lord of the High Wood! The beast!”
“Stop this, Claussen. Come away with me.”
“No!”
“You can’t worship a mindless beast.”
Claussen laughed. “Such blasphemy. You should be quiet about such things…if he hears you…”
“He won’t.”
The smell was strong now; violent, offensive. A brutal odor.
“Won’t he?” Claussen seemed confused.
“Of course not, he’s just an animal.”
“Heretic! “Claussen cried, springing to his feet. “He is here! He is here now! He came and I made sacrifice to him!”
To prove this, Claussen pulled his hand from the pocket it had been thrust in…except there was no hand. Just a stump wadded up with red-stained cloth bandages. The man was bleeding to death. Slowly…but dying all the same.
“Christ, Claussen, how—”
“Don’t say that name in here!”
Perry knew that now, more than ever, he had to give Claussen the injection. Unless the man was drugged, he’d never get him away from this place. The question was: How could he hope to subdue a crazy man even for the few precious moments it would take to empty the hypodermic into his arm? Perry, despite the painless dream-life morphine gave him, was in poor shape. His back was twisted, incapable of supporting more than his own fragile weight. It was in no condition to take the kind of abuse needed to overpower another man. And his age, too, was a factor. The doctor never would again see the good side of seventy.
Claussen hobbled away up to the altar. Perry followed.
“Blasphemy,” Perry said.
Claussen smiled. “It has to be rebuilt, this altar, retooled with new and greater meaning.”
The altar had been smashed and rent. Boards were pulled up, statues of the heavenly fathers broken into fragments, prayer books were freed of their pages. The altar cloth had been shredded. It was even worse than the other day.
“This is his church now, Doctor.”
And indeed it was. This was the sort of obscene shrine only a demon of savage appetites would or could appreciate.
“I must commission new artworks,” Claussen said, “in his image. Busts of the finest stone, paintings in livid colors…perhaps blood…”
“Where is he, Claussen?”
“I can’t tell you that. Not yet. Know only that he is close…”
Perry scowled. “What you’ve done is blasphemy, Claussen. Disgusting.”
“You’re a fool, Doctor. This is his house now.”
“In the name of Christ, man, get a hold of yourself.”
Claussen grabbed Perry violently by the arm. “You shall not revere the names of false gods in this holy place.”
“Fantasy…”
“Really?”
“Yes, I…”
Claussen cackled with laughter. “Behold,” he said, “he stands at the door and knocks.”