F Wilson - The Dark at the End

Jack shrugged. “Well, the more the merrier, I guess. I’ll throw some stuff together and we’ll leave this afternoon.”

He had a strange feeling that a circle was closing: the three of them back in Johnson, back in the Lodge. Like old times.

Except the fate of the world hadn’t hung in the balance then.

The cow had calmed herself somewhat, yet remained on the floor, kneeling next to her dead pet. Acceptance had lessened the flow of grief from a gushing cataract to a steady stream.

Was it enough?

He pulled off the blanket and pushed himself up. He straightened his knees and stood-swaying at first as the room rocked and tilted, but he quickly steadied himself.

“Dear God!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I believe it’s called ‘standing.’”

“But you don’t have any clothes!”

He looked down at his body. He had never understood modesty. He had no interest in cattle as sexual partners-he had other appetites-and felt no more embarrassment standing naked before her than would a shepherd before his flock. And even had he suffered from a modicum of modesty, she couldn’t see much of him anyway.

He was more interested in his wounds.

He lightly touched the burns. No more oozing, and new pink skin was maturing in the open areas.

“Sit yourself back down!” the cow said. “Before you fall down.”

He ignored her and took a faltering step, and then another. The room swayed again, but he would not sit down. Not yet.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Fall on your face. See if I care. But you’re not going to stand there naked as a jaybird. I’ll get you some clothes.”

Clothes? Did she expect him to wear one of her housedresses?

She returned a moment later with green twill work pants and a flannel shirt.

“These belonged to my husband. They’re old and musty and they’ll be big on you, but they’re better’n what you got on now. Don’t know why I kept them. Well, yes, I do. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. He had his own closet, you know, and I’ve just sort of left it like it was and…”

Did this woman ever shut up?

He took the shirt from her as she rattled on. The lack of his left hand caused minimal difficulty in slipping into it, but the buttons were an obstacle. Not insurmountable, however. He managed to button one single-handedly and was working on a second when the cow leaned in close.

“Stop fooling with that and help me get you into these pants. Then we’ll tend to your buttons.”

He didn’t want her helping him, but pants were going to be a problem with only one hand. Bracing himself on a table, he stepped into the legs and allowed her to pull them up and button them at his waist. Then she leaned close and began fastening his shirt buttons.

He could see now that once he was back on the mainland and settled in a new abode, he would have to engage someone to dress him. What were they called? A valet? A man’s man? Whatever, it was painfully clear that he could not manage this alone.

He clenched his jaw at the indignity of it: the One needing help to dress himself.

Whoever had done this-and he was increasingly certain that the Heir was responsible-had rendered him dependent. He might not understand modesty, but he understood dignity. And he had been robbed of his-or at least a portion of it.

The Heir, the one called Jack, would pay. He would suffer. But those he loved would suffer first, and he would watch.

Suffering… he sensed less of it here. The cow’s grief had abated. His sudden ability to stand and her assumption of a caregiver role had distracted her from her loss.

She needed a reminder.

“There,” she said, straightening as she finished the last button. “Now you’re decent.”

“Do you want me to help you with your dog?”

“Oh, dear God. Rocky!” Sobbing, she turned and knelt beside the carcass again. “Oh, Wocky-wocks. I didn’t forget about you. Honest, I didn’t.”

“Very sad,” Rasalom said. “Has he been sickly?”

“No!” she wailed. “The vet said he was in great shape.”

“Well, I suppose it was God’s will then.”

“No, not God’s will! It can’t be.”

Rasalom shrugged. “Don’t they say, ‘The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away’?”

“No!” Her voice rose. “God is a giver of life, not a taker. Satan is a destroyer of life. This wasn’t God’s work, this was Satan’s!” She pounded a fist on the floor. “Satan-Satan-Satan!”

Anger mixed with the grief. Even better. He supped.

Rasalom hid a smile. The Judeo-Christian myths personifying what the cattle perceived as “evil” were no closer to the truth than the rest of the world’s religions. He knew the true wellspring of those myths.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Satan did this!”

And so, in a way, she was right.

The sun was low over the bare, snow-covered cornfields and orchards by the time they reached Johnson.

“At least Burlington County hasn’t been paved over yet,” Eddie said.

He’d called shotgun-for old times’ sake-and Jack drove. Weezy had been perfectly happy to have the backseat to herself and the Compendium.

Eddie was exaggerating-plenty of green left, especially with the Pine Barrens sprawling to the east-but Jack got the point. An awful lot of strip malls lining these once pristine country roads.

“Take it slow on Quakerton Road,” Eddie said.

“You mean Q’qr Town?” Weezy said.

“What?”

Jack smiled. “Long story.”

Too long to tell.

“Anyway,” Eddie said, “I want to see what’s changed.”

So Jack did just that. Why not? They weren’t in any big hurry. They’d see what was what at the Lodge and then find a place to spend the night. First thing tomorrow they’d get started on finding that sigil. If it was still to be found.

They crossed the bridge over Quaker Lake-or was that Q’qr Lake?-into Old Town and turned toward the two-story stucco box of the Lodge. Jack was surprised to see a pair of pickup trucks parked in front.

Weezy leaned forward over the back of the front seat and thrust her head between them.

“What’s up? Remodeling, y’think?”

Not good, Jack thought as he parked next to the pickups. He didn’t want company.

As the three of them walked through the snow toward the front door, Jack noticed how the place had gone to seed a little. Not quite rundown, but not as pristine as he remembered. The stucco showed small cracks here and there, the paint needed freshening, the grass was trimmed but the foundation plantings needed weeding.

As ever, the Order’s sigil hung over the pillared front entrance.

Jack noticed something new that hadn’t been apparent from a distance.

“Check out the second-floor windows.”

Weezy looked up and frowned. “Only the first floor used to be barred. Now the second?”

Eddie said, “Why would they do that?”

Jack couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or not.

“Because they were broken into?”

Weezy smiled. “Could be… could be.”

The trucks bothered Jack. Except for sporadic gatherings of the regional members, the Lodge typically remained vacant, often for weeks at a stretch. The only time in memory that anyone had lived there was when the white-suited Ernst Drexler and his assistant-whose name eluded Jack now-had moved in during a crisis involving the deaths of a number of the Order’s local members… deaths precipitated by something Jack and Weezy had dug from a mound in the Pines.

Jack had been counting on that emptiness, because they were going to need time-maybe lots of it-alone in the building if they were to find the sigil.