Out of the bottom of the burning pile crawled a charred, smoldering baby. The infant was blackened almost beyond recognition, but Gordon could see that even if it had not been burned, the baby would have been horribly deformed. Its bones were heavy and oddly formed, and as it crawled out from under the fire, pulling itself over stray pieces of garbage, it smiled, revealing unnaturally long and crooked teeth that stood out in white relief against its scorched skin.
The baby looked up at Gordon "Daddy," it said.
Without thinking, Gordon jumped to his feet and grabbed a long broken stick from the pile on which he was standing. He shoved the pointed end of the stick with all his might into the center of the infant's back. He could feel the point piercing the tiny body. The baby emitted one long loud shriek of sudden pain, jerked once and was still.
Gordon looked up and saw in the fire the wavering figure of Marina. Her face was unclear and indistinct, but it seemed to him that she was crying.
He glanced around and saw, to his surprise, a ring of people surrounding the fire. Some of them were holding long sticks similar to his own. Many were not. He recognized among the faces Father Andrews and the sheriff. Standing next to the sheriff, looking up at him with something like admiration, was a young teenage boy with dirty clothes and greasy unkempt hair.
The boy from his previous dream.
He stared at the youngster and the boy smiled at him, nodding in recognition.
Gordon walked across the gravel toward the boy and the sheriff and grabbed both of their hands. Across from him, he could see the face of Char Clifton, and, next to Clifton, Elsie Cavanaugh from the drugstore.
Something large rose up from the fire .. . and Gordon was standing before the black metal smelter of the sawmill. He was alone. Around him, the wind whistled and howled, driving the dried leaves on the ground into a frenzy. The door to the smelter slowly opened.
And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.
Gordon sat bolt upright in bed, a scream caught in his throat.
Marina held tight to his shoulders, hugging him close. "It's okay," she murmured reassuringly. "It's all right. It's just a dream,"
He clasped her hard and said nothing.
She let her hands wander up and down his back then lightly caress his sleep disheveled hair. "Are you okay?"
She felt him nod against her shoulder, but still he said nothing.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He pulled back from her and looked her full in the face. His eyes were worried, scared. "You have to leave," he said. "You have to get out of here."
She held him and said nothing.
"You have to get out of here," he repeated. "Before morning."
"I'm not leaving," she told him.
"I'm serious."
"I'm serious, too," she said. She sighed and kissed him lightly. "Look, let's get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about it in the morning."
Gordon started to protest, but she pulled him to her, holding his head tightly against her breast. In a few moments he was fast asleep, and she carefullylayed his head upon the pillow. She stood up slowly, so as not to disturb him, and moved in front of the window, not exactly sure why she suddenly felt so frightened and alone.
Something large rose up from the fire, and Jim was standing before the black metal smelter of the sawmill. He was alone. Around him, the wind whistled and howled, driving the dried leaves on the ground into a frenzy. The door to the smelter slowly opened.
And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.
Jim awoke gasping into his pillow, his hands clutching the pillow's fluffy edges, his mouth opened against the cotton material of the pillowcase. He was drenched with sweat. Beside him, Annette still slept, though she tossed fitfully. He was tempted to wake her but decided against it. She would be leaving early in the morning and needed all the sleep she could get.
They had argued long and hard over her leaving, and finally she had said, "I'm not setting a foot out of this house until you tell me what this is all about. Are you in danger? I don't want you pulling any High Noon crap on me."
"I just want you to leave town for a few days," he'd told her.
She'd just stared at him. "Why can't you at least have enough respect for me to level with me, to tell me the truth instead of treating me like I'm one of the kids?"
That had gotten to him. He'd apologized and meant it, then had lied to her and told her that they were closing in on the murderers, a cult, and that as the family of the sheriff, she and the kids might be prime targets. She'd seemed to buy the story, or at least had realized that the children probably were in real danger, and she'd agreed to visit her sister for a few days.
She'd made him promise that he would be careful, that he would let someone else play hero, and he had lied again and said okay.
He pushed a wisp of hair from her face. He felt isolated, alone, in the quiet darkened house. But he was isolated neither by the quiet nor the dark. He was isolated by his knowledge.
He closed his eyes, trying to will himself back into slumber.
Across town, Father Andrews slept peacefully and without dreams.
Brother Elias stared at the bare wall of the lighted conference room, wide awake.
Gordon awoke well before the alarm went off at four. Next to him, Marina had kicked off the covers and lay unmoving, her face half buried in the pillow, her arms resting at her sides. He watched her back move slowly up and down as she breathed. He should have made her leave. He should have forced her to go.
But she did not want to go. And trying to force her would have made her all the more stubborn.
He had to convince her to get out of town, to at least go down to Phoenix for the day and shop. What he and the sheriff and Father Andrews and Brother Elias were going to do was dangerous. There was a strong possibility that one, or more, of them might be injured. Or killed.
Gordon thrust the thought from his mind. He didn't want to think about that possibility. He wasn't one to believe in self-fulfilling prophesies, but on some superstitious level he didn't feel comfortable dwelling on such thoughts. Perhaps if he didn't think about it, it might not happen.
He looked down at Marina. She seemed to be sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. His hand touched her back, and she jerked awake.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
She opened her eyes, rubbing them. She stared blearily at him. "What time is it?"
"Almost four."
She sat up on one elbow, looking at him. "I'm sorry about last night."