Bentley Little - The Burning

The shadows rushed over to where the thick drops congealed on the ground, and began licking them up.

The semen disappeared.

It was impossible, it made no sense, but Henry did not question it, was not even surprised. His penis had finished, was now starting to shrink, but he took it in his hand and milked a few last drops, watching as the semen fell onto the sand and the twins' shadows gobbled it up.

Were the shadows more solid now, less ephemeral? He thought so, but he could not be sure.

The dark flat figures continued to swirl about him, and there was a hunger evident in their movements, a craving he sensed and felt and that frightened him to the core.

He turned and fled.

It was an instinctive reaction and a stupid one. He'd been close by the Jeep and the only place to go was away from it, but that meant he was abandoning his only hope of getting out of the canyon and back to the real world. It didn't make any difference, though. The shadows refused to follow him, and when he looked back, he saw them retreating the way they'd come, looking like two predators on the prowl.

Where were they going now?

The seductive sensuality they'd exhibited around him was gone, and once again their purposeful glide seemed menacing, predacious. He waited until their dark forms had blended with the blackness of the canyon before he ran back to the Jeep, jumping in and driving out of there as fast as he could go.

What had happened? What had he done? He was filled with the unshakable certainty that he had helped them, had given them strength. Whatever occurred from here on in, he was part of it; he was involved. He thought of Laurie, of the dead woman in the workroom. In his mind Henry saw once again the sickening spectacle of the shadows hungrily devouring his semen. He felt tired, drained, frustrated, scared and, most of all, used. And as the Jeep bumped over the rounded sandstone he had to blink back tears so he could see the way back to the road.

Nine

The Keep, Missouri

It was long after midnight, but Hank Gifford lay awake, his eyes on an infomercial promoting some type of kitchen gadget, his mind on the mud pits out back. Next to him, Arlene snored loudly in her sleep, drooling on the edge of his pillow. He would have pushed her back to her own side of the bed, but that might wake her up, and the last thing he wanted to do was listen to her meaningless talk in the middle of the night.

The mud pits had him worried because he wasn't there to watch them. It was unavoidable. He couldn't monitor the situation twenty-four hours a day. But what if one of them got out when he wasn't looking, when he was asleep? He imagined a spindly shriveled form slinking along the trails of the garden, sneaking into the museum, working its way up to the house.

Of course, if he saw one of them out, he'd shoot it and stuff it. That would be a great addition to The Keep.

Except ... what if he didn't see it? What if he was asleep when it got into the house? What if he awoke with the sulfur smell of the pits in his nostrils to see a skeletal figure climbing atop Arlene, ripping her face off and turning toward him with a terrible grin of malicious glee?

That's what worried him; that's what kept him up.

Hank picked up the remote control from the nightstand and pressed the mute button, listening. The house was silent. Good. He turned the sound back up a little. He was tempted to go out and check on the mud pits, but while he'd gone there with his flashlight at night many times before, he was afraid to do so now.

They're rising again.

He'd been telling that to the customers, and it was true. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. They were rising, all of the heathens and unbelievers who had been fed to the pits. He had no idea how many of them were down there, their bodies sunk in the muck-no records had been kept of such things-but his daddy had told him all those years ago that every last one of them had been taken care of by the men of the towns, that after the purges none had been left in this part of Missouri.

That could mean ten.

It could mean a hundred.

He'd always known they would rise again. His daddy had told him that, too. One of the infidels had apparently sworn it with his last breath-at least that's how the story went-and the men of the towns had believed him. Even as good Christians they'd recognized the truth behind the heathen curse, and-

The bedroom's south wall exploded as though hit with a battering ram.

Arlene awoke screaming, and Hank scrambled out from under the blanket, off the bed. The right leg of his pajama bottom got stuck on the stray wire that stuck out from the side of the box springs, but he pulled hard, ripping the material, and continued his frantic escape. They're out, he thought wildly. They're attacking. Debris was flying all about; dust was everywhere. A piece of brick zoomed by his head, smashing the mirror on the dresser. He hazarded a look back, beheld a gigantic black form larger than the house. It wasn't them, he saw. It was a train. Even through the cloud of dust, he could make out the headlight on the front of the locomotive, the slanting grille that protruded through the hole in their wall. Only ...

Only it wasn't a train. Not really. It was ...

Something else.

But he didn't have time to think about that. The house was collapsing around his ears, and Arlene had been pinned to the bed by a fallen beam. The end of the rabbeted board lay embedded in her back, and blood gushed from her mouth onto the pillow- his pillow -each time she tried to cry out. He knew he should try to help her, but he turned without pause and attempted to run out of the room, away from the big black form that looked like a train but was not a train. The wall in front of him dropped, the doorway disappearing in a hail of plaster and wood as structural support gave way, and he staggered backward only to be slammed from behind by something that was at once hard and soft, something sticky and mushy but backed by a substance as hard as steel. He was knocked sideways to the floor as the bed fell atop him, Arlene's crushed and bloody body mashing hard against his own, her lifeless lips dripping into his ear. For a brief second, behind her, above her, in back of the broken bed, he could see the massive object that looked like a locomotive.

There was a noise, a roar, as of a hundred people screaming in unbearable agony.

And then there was death.

Ten

Flagstaff, Arizona

Angela had high hopes for date number four.

The third date had gone well. The jazz concert had been pretty nice, even though the music was more her parents' speed than hers. Brian had obviously felt the same way, because he suggested they skip out at intermission, and they ended up walking along the sidewalks of the campus at night, talking about their pasts, their futures, their visions of the world. The evening was chill, fall beginning to creep in after sunset even though summer still ruled the day, but that only made them pull closer and gave a pleasant edge to the otherwise tranquil stroll. They'd ended up at his dorm, doing what people usually did at the conclusion of a successful date.

This time they decided to try a rock concert.

The auditorium was packed. They arrived early, but still the parking lot was jammed, the lines were long, and inside there was standing room only. The buzz was all about the band, none of the usual small talk by friends and couples, and Angela eavesdropped on the closest conversation, a gaggle of high school girls who couldn't seem to decide who was cuter: the guys in Hoobastank or the members of Lightyear, the band playing here tonight. Ordinarily, that would have been ( the death knell for Angela's interest in the group, but : on the other side of her, two older male music majors were speaking admiringly in measured tones about the band as well.