Bentley Little - The Revelation

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"A nail-biting, throat-squeezing, nonstop plunge into darkness and evil. I guarantee, once you start reading this book, you'll be up until dawn." --Rick Hautala
"Grabs the reader and yanks him along through an ever-worsening landscape of horrors...a terifying ride with a shattering conclusion."--Gary Brandner
DIVINE PROPHECY. HOLY TERROR
Strange things are happening in the quiet town of Randall, Arizona.
The local minister vanishes, his church defiled by blasphemous obscenities scrawled in blood....A crazed old woman in her eighties becomes pregnant. Herds of animals are discovered butchered in a field. And one by one, the good folks in town are falling victim to the same unspeakable fate. Now an itinerant preacher has arrived spreading a gospel of cataclysmic fury.
Darkness is falling on Randall, Arizona. The smell of fear lingers in the air. And stranger things are yet to come....

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The large bold letters on the cover of the pamphlet said: "SATAN is using YOU! HE is here NOW!"

He did not even bother to read the leaflet. He crumpled the paper up and deposited it in the ashtray of the table next to him.

He got to work on the insurance forms.

It was nearly four o'clock when Marina finally emerged from behind the swinging double doors, a different nurse wheeling her out. Gordon, who had been situated in a chair by the front window, staring at the doors and waiting for Marina's return, stood up immediately and went over to her. She looked tired, but she was smiling, and she stood up from the chair as soon as she saw him. "Good news," she said.

"Really?" He could not believe it. He had been preparing himself for the worst, and her announcement took him by surprise.

"I think so. The preliminary tests look good. But it'll be tomorrow before we know for sure." She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling.

"Better start thinking up girls' names."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I lied."

"I mean, it really looks promising?"

She laughed. "It looks that way."

He hugged her, squeezing her close. They kissed. "Let's celebrate," he said, pulling back. "Let's go out somewhere to eat. Somewhere expensive."

Marina shook her head. "I'd rather not. I don't really feel all that well. Some of those tests, you know ..." She shook her head and rolled her eyes in an expression of un believability leaving the sentence unfinished. "Let's just get home."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay overnight in the Valley and drive back up tomorrow?"

"You have to work tomorrow."

"I'll call in sick. Brad won't care."

She looked at him as if he'd just said something outrageous. "You're joking, right?"

He smiled. "All right."

"Besides, we need to save all the money we can. We're going to be proud parents."

He thought of her earlier ideas about an abortion and wanted to ask her what her thoughts were now, but he decided against it. "I get the hint," he said, smiling. He offered her his arm and she took it. "We'd better get started if we want to get back before dark."

They walked out of the lobby into the parking lot. Although it was late afternoon, the temperature was still well over a hundred and the sun was high in the clear blue, cloudless sky. There were no monsoons to relieve the heat in Phoenix. They got into the Jeep, leaning back into their seats slowly. The vinyl upholstery of the car felt hot even through their clothing. Gordon rolled down his window and turned the air conditioner on full blast, trying to drive out the hellishly heated air. He was already sweating.

"Thank God we don't live here," Marina said.

"That's a fact."

They pulled onto Washington Avenue, heading west toward Black Canyon Highway.

A few minutes later, they passed Brother Elias, calmly standing by the side of the road in his business suit, hitchhiking. The preacher smiled directly at Gordon and waved as they drove by THE REVELATION /

How did be know my car? Gordon wondered--but Gordon continued driving and stared straight ahead, ignoring him. He thought he could feel those intense black eyes cutting through the glare of the windshield and boring into him. Marina did not notice a thing.

On the way out of Phoenix, they stopped at a Dairy Queen where they each got a sundae for the long trip home.

Old Mrs. Perry was going to have a baby.

Phil Johnson, director of the Randall Rest Home, shook his head and tossed a twisted paper clip into the wastebasket as he reread the doctor's report. It was inconceivable. The woman was well over eighty and just this side of senile. On her best days she was barely coherent. On her worst days she was little more than a blubbering overgrown infant.

Sighing, he stood up and folded the report, placing it in the top drawer along with several file folders. He flipped off the desk lamp and walked down the sterile white-lighted hallway to Mrs. Perry's darkened room. Slowly, quietly, he pushed open the door and looked in, staring down at her sleeping form. Her cadaverous chest rose and fell visibly with each rasping breath. Her back, propped up by a series of pillows, only accentuated her rising belly. His eyes shifted to her face. A thin line of mucus stretched from her small nose across the wrinkled mustached skin to her dried cracked lips. Even in sleep, he noted, her expression was not peaceful. Her brows were furrowed; her mouth curved down in a painful grimace.

He shook his head again. How could she be pregnant?

Who the hell would sleep with her?

The question was never very far from his thoughts. Who would sleep with her? What kind ofsicko would want to have sex with an eighty-year-old woman?

And how in God's name had she gotten pregnant? She was long past menopause. It should have been physically impossible for her to conceive.

But Dr. Waterston had checked her over thoroughly. Several times.

That rising midsection was not caused by overeating, malnutrition, some disease, or any of the other countless possibilities he had first considered. It was caused by the growth of the living fetus inside of her.

Phil quietly left the room, closing the door behind him, and started down the hall to the coffee machine in the kitchen. It was his fault things had gone this far. He should have noticed earlier, he should have kept a closer watch on her, he should have.. ..

But there were other patients in the rest home who also required constant supervision. Too many of them. And he was so hopelessly understaffed that it was a miracle there were not more problems.

Now it was too late for an abortion. In his report, Dr. Waterston said that such a procedure would almost certainly be fatal for the mother as well as the fetus at this stage of the pregnancy. Mrs. Perry's age and precarious physical health made it not only more dangerous but genuinely lethal.

Phil walked into the kitchen, got a Styrofoam cup from the half unwrapped bag on the counter and poured himself some coffee. The room was dark, and he did not bother to turn on a light. A diffused refracted light entered the kitchen through the open hallway door, and the edges of the room were bathed in shadow. He shuddered as he looked into the darkness and thought of what the poor baby would probably look like.

Years ago, as a medic in the army, he had assisted with the birth of an infant to a similarlyove raged woman in a small town in Italy. It had not been a pretty sight. The baby had emerged horribly disfigured, almost indistinguishable from the bloody afterbirth, and had died almost instantly. He had had nightmares about it for years afterward.

He downed half a cup of the lukewarm black coffee and poured himself some more. He looked up at the broken wall clock above the refrigerator, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight coming through the partially open kitchen curtains. The clock said two thirty. He mentally subtracted an hour, then added ten minutes. One-forty.

Another four hours and twenty minutes until Mrs. Stowe needed her medication. He could catch a little sleep.

He finished off the coffee then passed through the back of the kitchen to his bedroom. He set the small alarm on the nightstand for six a.m.

and sat down on the edge of the bed. He started to take off his shoes.

The scream rent the air of the rest home like a harsh and high pitched siren.

He jumped up, startled, scared. The scream came again; a hideously inhuman shriek of pure physical pain. He ran into the hallway. The instinctive fear left his body as quickly as it had come and was replaced by a trained sense of professional duty. The scream had come from Mrs. Perry's room, and he rushed over to her door, flinging it open.

The old woman sat straight up in her bed, her face contorted with agony. Unchecked tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks, and her mouth was wide open, screaming continuously without stopping for breath.

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