Nick Cutter - Little Heaven

That’s my boy , he could hear his aunt Hazel say. My Ebenezer, he’s no hog.

“ Git aloooong, little dawwww-gies, git aloooooong ,” he crooned.

The machine rumbled over the rise. The lights of Little Heaven winked in the distance.

“Come on, you bastards.”

The machine rumbled ahead. The wrecked pickup came into view. The windshield smashed, some luckless sonofabitch’s headless body still tilted against its rear wheel. The flares brightened in the wind that scoured the woods. They were there—Christ, he could see them now. Some large, some smaller, all of them hunched and ungodly. He charted the air above, concerned one of them might plummet from the sky, like the one that had mangled his ear. But they remained where they were.

The machine charged steadily toward the gate; it stood less than a hundred yards off, moonlight glinting off the gilded L and H . Eb glanced behind him and saw nothing in pursuit. He had not really anticipated reaching the compound—he’d half expected to be ripped to pieces before reaching the gates, although it had tickled him to picture the track machine crashing through it, propelling his mangled corpse straight to and then through the chapel doors. But he was alive, less-than-miraculously so, and had to step lively now.

He grabbed for the bowie knife. The machine hit a dip, jostling him; the knife slipped from his fingers.

“Shit!”

He stretched for the blade as it clattered on the metal bed. The rope threaded through his belt loops prevented him from bending down any farther. The flamethrower dipped; the scorching nozzle brushed his leg and he let out a screech. The gates were fifty yards away. If he didn’t cut himself free and get into the driver’s seat, the machine would—

His fingers closed on the knife. He sawed through the rope. When he was free, he shrugged off the flamethrower and clambered over the front panel, toppling into the cab just as the machine hit the entrance to Little Heaven, tearing through the gates like Tinker Toys; the iron squealed as they tore off their hinges, crumpling under the machine’s determined progression.

Eb sat up, blinking a trickle of blood out of his eye. The machine was making a beeline for a utility shed. He didn’t see anybody, but figured they should be awake by now, scurrying to the nearest window to see what fresh hell had invaded their midst. It’s the cavalry, you miserable sods!

He grabbed the stick pinning the gas pedal down; it wouldn’t budge. The machine hit the shed broadside, reducing it to matchsticks. He kicked at the stick until it snapped. With no pressure on the gas pedal, the machine slowed immediately. He stomped on the brake pedal. The track machine jerked to a stop.

He crawled up into the bed and hacked the shotgun free from the rope. He swung around with it, ready to blast anything that had a mind to barrel through the gates after him. But the path was empty. Far off, the flares continued to gutter on the forest floor.

He hopped off the tailgate. The spotlights flickered around the compound; some were now going dead for several seconds before struggling back to life. Though he couldn’t see well in the fitful light, Eb could tell that nobody was out. A vague sense of dread zephyred through him. He’d come back. Jesus, what a fool. He palmed blood out of his eyes; it trickled steadily down from the cut on his head. His cigar had remained clamped between his teeth all this time, but it was snapped nearly in half. He tore off the dangly bit.

A restless silence overhung the compound. He stared at the chapel—door open, lights weakly glimmering. A body lay on the grass ten yards from the door, bathed in the jumpy spots. He gripped the shotgun and headed toward it. Ebenezer’s dread intensified with each step. The inside of the chapel came into view.

“Good Christ…”

His feet ground to a halt. The cigar slipped from his lips. What in the name of—

“Ebenezer?”

He swung around to see Ellen and the boy. Their shoulders were carpeted with wood chips.

“What happened here?”

“He killed them,” the boy said quietly. “The Reverend.”

“…Everyone? Micah and Min—?”

Ellen shook her head. “They left after you did. In the afternoon. To search for the missing kids. They went deeper into the woods, moving north. Towards—”

Eb held up his hand. Micah and Minerva’s whereabouts were of less integral importance than what the boy had just said. “The Reverend killed them? Who? How many? How did he—?”

“ All of them, Ebenezer. His entire flock. In the chapel during the sermon.” Ellen ran a trembling hand through her hair. “I’m not sure how he did it.”

“They threw up blood,” the boy said hollowly.

“He must have poisoned them,” Ellen said. “You can almost smell it.”

Poison , Eb thought. The madman poisoned his own people. Part of him wasn’t terribly surprised. He’d sniffed a hint of lunacy in Amos Flesher the first time he’d set eyes on him—the itchy gaze, that switchblade smile. The line between prophet and lunatic was a thin one indeed. And his followers were just that. Every lemming off the cliff. He could see it happening. Yes, all too easily.

“And you didn’t attend the service?” he said.

Ellen shook her head. “I wouldn’t have been welcome. And Nate stayed with me.”

“Tell me what else happened,” Eb said.

“After he killed them, the Reverend came out of the chapel,” Ellen said. “He shot…”

She nodded to the body on the grass but would not say who it was. Ebenezer could guess. Nate didn’t look as if he’d been crying, though his eyes were compassed by swollen red flesh—as if tears were lurking close to the surface, but he was wise enough to know this wasn’t the time to grieve the loss. That, or perhaps he was mildly glad his father was gone. Ebenezer didn’t know the boy well enough to say.

“After that, Flesher shot at me,” Ellen continued. “So I ran. Hid in the woodpile. Nate found me. The Reverend gave up trying to find us. Other things to worry about, I guess.”

“Other things?”

Neither of them answered.

“The children aren’t dead. At least I’m pretty sure,” Ellen told him. “They dragged them out of the chapel.”

“Who?”

“The Reverend’s hired man. The one you beat up this morning.”

“Virgil. He and the Reverend are the only ones left?”

Ellen nodded.

Eb said, “So they dragged the kids out and…?”

Ellen and the boy exchanged a look.

“Something came,” the boy said, his voice nearly inaudible.

“What was it?”

“Out of the woods.” The boy stared at his feet as if he couldn’t bear to look at the chapel. “It… took them. Or…”

“Or what , boy? For Christ’s sake, wh—”

“Or they went with it willingly,” Ellen said softly. “Anyway, they all went.”

“The children?”

Ellen and the boy nodded, neither one meeting Eb’s eye.

“It took the children,” Ellen said.

Something always wants the fucking children , Eb thought. “And the Reverend and Virgil with them?”

More nods. Eb swiped a hand across his mouth; he felt hot, his skin clammy, first signs of the flu. “What took them?”

They did not speak for some time. Finally Ellen said, “It wasn’t human.”

“Or an animal,” the boy said.

“Or one of those things in the woods,” Ellen said. “It was something else entirely.”

Ebenezer’s hands clenched on the shotgun. The track machine’s engine ticking down was the only sound in an otherwise still night.

Not human, hmm? he thought. Well, there’s hardly much surprise in that, now is there? Not a lot of humans left in these here parts. Outnumbered, outgunned. Last of a dying breed. We’ve trapped ourselves in the killing jar, all of us for one reason or another. I may be daftest of all because I escaped, only to fly back in. And something’s pumping in the ether now.