Ray Garton - The New Neighbor

Laughter came from Lorelle's house. When they turned toward it again, she was gone and the window was black once again… but undefinable shapes moved in that blackness and laughter rang out now and then as if a party were going on, as if toasts were being made and jokes were being told…

"If they don't want to be with us," Mr. Weyland said, "why should we go in there and get them"

Everyone spoke at once and their voice blended into an incoherent babble, but the tone was unmistakably one of angry agreement.

"Wait a minute, please !" Pastor Quillerman shouted. "You're not hearing me!"

"We hear you fine!" someone sneered. "You're just not worth listening to!"

"Wait, please, aren't there any Christians here?" Quillerman asked.

Several voices rose affirmatively.

"But," Mrs. LaBianco said, "being a Christian doesn't mean I have to sit still for that woman, that-that… whore in there! She doesn't have any of my family with her, but I've been married for thirty-one years and I don't take kindly to some bitch coming into my life and screwing up my marriage!"

"But you allowed her to!" Quillerman said.

"Yeah," a woman replied angrily, "just like my husband is probably allowing that slut to do god knows what with him in there right now!"

Quillerman spread his arms and cried, "But most of you here allowed her to do these things! How can you pass judgment on -"

A heavy black flashlight flew out of the darkness and struck Pastor Quillerman with a sharp crack across the bridge of his nose. He fell back against the pickup and released a whimpering sigh as he slid limply to the ground.

George and Robby knelt beside him and George shouted at the crowd, "He was just trying to help you! Why did you do that ?"

Quillerman, stunned and bleeding, rolled his head back and forth slowly as he groaned.

No one responded to George's question. They simply stared at the fallen pastor, moving their flashlight beams over him as they whispered and hissed to one another conspiratorially.

"That's probably going to need stitches," George muttered.

Robby whispered, "Dad, I don't like this. I'm scared. These people are getting… well, mean ."

"I know." George looked around at them, snapping at one another and arguing. He tried to make out what they were saying.

" – should've listened to the pastor."

"I've been a Christian all my life, I don't need some lunatic telling me -"

" – say we just go over there and bring them out."

"Hey, I've got a can of Kerosene in the garage," Weyland said, "we can take it over there, empty it on her house and -

" – but what about all the others in the house with -"

"Fuck 'em if they want to be with her. What was that the old guy said? Something about wearing the armor of righteousness? Well, there's nothing righteous about anybody who wants to be with her !"

"My god," George breathed, closing his eyes. "This is insane, completely insane."

"Dad, what should we do ?" Robby hissed. "Mom's in there, and these people are talking about burning the place down !"

George turned to the pastor, who was trying to sit up. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to Quillerman, then asked, "You gonna be okay, Pastor?"

Quillerman nodded and waved him away with one shaky hand while pressing the handkerchief to his bleeding nose with the other.

George stood and looked around until he spotted Jen. She was standing in the middle of the street, staring at Lorelle's house. Quiet sobs shook her shoulders. George gripped Robby's arm and said, "I want you to get your sister, go into the house and wait there, okay?"

Robby nodded.

"Don't come out unless I call you and don't let anyone else but me into the house, got it?"

Another nod.

George patted Robby's back and the boy hurried to his sister and led her out of the street toward the house. Once they were inside, George looked around again, this time looking for nothing in particular… except, perhaps, for something to say to them, something that might get through to them. He spotted Alana and got an idea.

After jumping up on the pickup's hood, George shouted. "Hey, everybody, listen to me."

Silence. Shadowed faces looked up at him.

"What you're thinking of doing," he said, "is wrong. I understand how you feel, but it won't work. See these people over here?" He pointed at Alana and Will. "Well, they're reporters and they've got a television camera. If you torch that house with these people inside, it'll be on videotape. You’ll be on videotape.”

Alana stepped forward and said loudly, "The camera is rolling now. We have all of this on tape. Would anyone care to comment?"

There was a sudden stir as Mrs. LaBianco plowed through the crowd growling, " Aaarre yooouu stiilll heeere ?" She shot out of the crowd with both enormous, flabby arms outstretched and -

– Alana screamed as Mrs. LaBianco threw herself on her and -

– that was the beginning of the bloodshed.

Mob

With no moon or stars in the thickly clouded sky, the neighborhood was shrouded in a darkness so dense it appeared artificial, as if the entire neighborhood were nothing more than a set on a Hollywood sound stage with false fronts and rolled-out lawns, plastic hedges and empty car bodies parked in the driveways. The scene was made even more surreal by the small crown of people standing in the street, sending up a loud chorus of approval as Betty LaBianco threw herself on Alana Carson, knocked her to the pavement and began to beat her relentlessly with fleshy white fists.

Alana's screams rose above the voices of the neighborhood's residents as she kicked and hit at the fat woman who straddled her and pummeled her face and chest.

Will lowered his camera immediately, rushed forward, hooked his left arm around Betty's neck and began heaving backward to pull her off Alana, shouting, "Help me, somebody help me!"

George was already on his way. He grabbed one of Betty's arms and pulled along with Will, but she continued to hit Alana with her free fist, now slick with blood, and growled through clenched teeth, "Fucking reporters can't find your keep your fucking noses out of -"

She stopped long enough to swing her fist up and punch George in the groin.

He doubled over and hit the ground hard with both hands clutching his groin. He gagged as he rolled over the pavement, his eyes stinging with tears, stomach burning as if it were tearing open.

"Stop, Betty!" Pastor Quillerman shouted in a hoarse voice. "Please stop , Betty!" He struggled to get to his feet, but the spinning in his head kept sending him back to the ground. Frustrated, his face streaked with blood, Quillerman looked up to see four men break away from the crowd and rush toward the scuffle. Quillerman leaned back against the pickup, relieved that the reporter was going to get some help, but -

– each of the four men took hold of Will, pulled him off of Betty and slammed him to the ground. His camera crunched and chittered as it slid over the pavement, scattering broken pieces in every direction. The men hunched over Will and began to beat him with their fists and their flashlights, to kick him and stomp him.

As he kicked Will, Mr. Weyland spat, "Fucking reporters've ruined this whole fucking country is what they've done!"

George rose to his hands and knees, teeth still clenched so hard that his jaw throbbed. He recognized Weyland's voice, although it sounded distorted and foul, and he looked up to see the men hammering their fists and kicking wildly. As he watched helplessly, the deep burning ache that radiated from his testicles into his abdomen was joined by a sickening fear that crept all the way up into his throat. Something was happening around him. The texture of the night was changing. The very air was suddenly charged with a malignant electricity that stiffened the hairs on the back of George's neck and made his skin crawl. Groaning at his pain and nausea, he got up and staggered to find his balance as -