Showdown Read online

  Paul left the study without another word.

  Billy glared after him and turned to find Darcy staring at him. “What?”

  “You have a problem with him suddenly?” she asked.

  “He just irritates me suddenly,” he said.

  “It’s the tunnels.”

  “Yeah, well I hope he runs out of fuel and a bunch of centipedes get to him or something.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t that be something.”

  The idea grew on Billy. Maybe, if they were so fortunate, one of the big worms or a big leech or something would suck the blood from his head.

  “We should follow him and lock him into a tunnel,” Darcy said.“Let him starve.”

  “What? You have a problem with him suddenly?”

  She smiled. “He just irritates me suddenly.”

  “Touché.What do we do?”

  She looked at the desk. “Write?”

  Billy sighed and walked to the book. He sat down, picked up his pen, and let his mind fall into the story. The world around him faded. Every word he wrote swallowed his senses entirely, leaving nothing left for distraction. He forgot about Paul; about the monastery; about the study; even about Darcy, until she plopped down beside him, knocking his arm.

  He grunted and looked at her. Oh, it’s Darcy. And then he went back to drawing his pen across the paper.

  For a long time the only sounds he heard were sounds of heavy breathing and the scratching of pens. Those and the voices from his story in which he’d lost himself.

  Billy filled a page and turned to the next, dabbing his pen in the inkwell as he did. He used red because red was the color of blood and blood brought life. And death.

  A scream echoed faintly in his mind and he thought, The people in my story are screaming. He pressed his pen more firmly into the paper. The screaming grew louder, and he absently wondered if it was from pleasure or pain, because he couldn’t tell by the sound alone. He would have to see their faces. He smiled at that.

  The scream ripped through his skull like a blaring siren and he jerked upright. He swung to Darcy and saw her wide eyes. She’d heard it too. As one they spun to the door.

  Paul stumbled up to the gate and pulled up, panting. He’d lost his torch. Black streaks ran down his bared chest. He gawked at them with round eyes.

  Then, as if a film director had called “cut!” he straightened, grinned, and walked into the study.

  Paul stood there in the flickering light, breathing hard and smiling stupidly. Something wet matted his hair and leaked down onto his face.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Billy just stared. He should be writing instead of babysitting this hyperactive punk.

  “Where you been?” Darcy asked. Billy heard annoyance in her demand too.

  “Around.”

  Billy felt his mind drifting back to the story he’d been writing, but then he remembered that Paul had come screaming down the hall like a maniac, and he thought maybe it would be interesting to find where the bugger had been. “What did you find?”

  “I found some stuff to eat,” Paul said, holding out his hand.

  Billy and Darcy stepped forward and looked into the outstretched hand. The same gooey substance on his chest filled his palm.

  “What is it?” Darcy asked.

  “It’s like honey,” he said, raising his hand to his mouth. He licked at his palm slowly, not bothering to remove his eyes from them as his tongue dipped into the mucus and withdrew back into his mouth. He swallowed and smiled.

  “Honey.” He held out his hand. “Try some.”

  Looked familiar, but Billy couldn’t place it. He impulsively reached out, rolled his index finger through Paul’s open palm, and brought the honey to his lips.

  Only it wasn’t honey. Tasted like nothing. He swallowed it, wondering where Paul had found the stuff. It didn’t taste too bad, really. He reached for another helping as Darcy went for her first.

  The room seemed to shift around him. He blinked and stared around. The furniture moved to the dancing flames.

  “Wow. It’s like a drug.” He looked at Darcy who was smiling and nodding like a reflection in a distorted carnival mirror.

  He turned back to Paul. “You lost your torch.”

  “Yeah. Can I write with you guys?”

  Billy was too amiable to disagree. He shrugged.

  There wasn’t enough room for three at the small writing table, so they made Paul move to the coffee table, where he dropped to his haunches and opened one of the journals. They answered his questions about the story but finally told him to shut his mouth and just write something. He frowned in protest. But he did shut his mouth.

  An hour passed before Darcy’s voice interrupted Billy’s stupor.

  “The light’s dying.”

  He jerked his head up. The flame was indeed waning. Billy grabbed the torch from the wall.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He led them back down the hall at a jog. If the flame died, there would be no way to relight it, and he didn’t fancy stumbling through pitch-black tunnels.

  He glanced at the wall and saw one of the worms throbbing in the light. Worm hall.We’ll call it Worm Hall. He looked at another oozing that familiar gel.

  An image of Paul smiling, holding out an open palm, popped into his mind and he slid to a halt. Paul and Darcy ran past and then pulled up.

  “What?” Darcy asked, breathing hard.

  Billy brought the flame closer to one of the worms. Its excretions oozed down the wall, a thick mucus reeking of week-old socks. That same odor he’d come to love. But something else tugged at his mind.

  “Paul?”

  Paul stood smiling at the worm, eyes flashing in the flickering flame. He walked past Billy and scraped his fingers along the wall, through the worm’s trail. His hand came away dripping with the mucus. He sniffed his hand, sampled the creamy gel, and stuffed what remained into his right pocket.

  He looked up to Billy. “We should take some of this up with us, don’t you think?”

  For a moment Billy didn’t know what to think. On one hand, the mere thought that he had ingested these gargantuan slugs’ droppings revolted him. On the other, he felt an odd craving for the taste. And then Darcy walked over to the wall, swiped a wad of goo from the worm’s trail, and shoved it into her blouse.

  “I suppose it would be okay.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PARADISE

  Friday

  FOR THE first time since Marsuvees Black came to town, Johnny began to feel the deadening effects of the poison.

  The sluggishness hit him as he ran behind Smither’s Saloon and angled for home by way of the back alley. On his right, Katie’s Nails and Tan shifted. He pulled up and caught his breath.

  The building looked normal, but he could have sworn . . .

  The wall on his right shimmered, then returned to its solid state.

  Johnny began to run. His head pounded with a dull ache. What was happening to them? Whatever it was, things were getting worse. Why wasn’t anyone coming in from Delta? They might still be in some kind of storm, but wouldn’t anyone notice that there were no calls or anything coming out of Paradise?

  Then again, hardly anything ever came out of Paradise.

  He stopped by the back door, settled himself, and looked back toward the alley. Seemed normal enough now. Except for the wind and dust and leaves and the constant dusk, even though it was midday—but at least he was seeing normal.

  He pushed into the house and stood stock-still. Howling wind outside, total silence inside.

  “Mom?”

  He hurried to her room, dreading what he might find.

  Sally was still in bed, sheet pulled over her head. He had to make another decision. Either Black was who he claimed to be, a minister of truth sent by God to save Paradise, or he wasn’t. If he wasn’t . . .

  Johnny stared at his mother’s prone form and thought about that. If Black wasn’t who he claimed to be, then he was the
opposite. A liar, a snake, the devil himself maybe.

  Whoever he was, the people of Paradise were following him like lambs, either to safer pastures or to the slaughter. But which?

  A shaft of pain ran through his head. Johnny pressed a hand against the spot and strode up to his mother’s bed. The frustration pent up in his chest boiled over. He tightened both hands into fists and yelled at her.

  “Mom!”

  Sally groaned.

  Again, long-winded this time.

  “Mommmm!”

  This time she jerked her head up and twisted it around. “What?” Her eyes were round and lost, surrounded by dark circles.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Looking at her haggard face, Johnny was at a loss for words.

  “What do you think you’re doing standing at the end of my bed like some crazy bat?”

  Bat?

  “Get out of here, Johnny!” She thrust her finger at the door. “Get out of my room.”

  “It’s going crazy,Mom. Do you know what time—”

  “What’s going crazy? You’re going crazy, boy. Out!”

  Johnny felt trapped. Betrayed. Frantic. He nearly turned and ran.

  Nearly.

  “Listen to yourself.” He stepped forward, not back. “I’m your son and you’re yelling at me like I’m a crazy bat! You were dreaming of bats, weren’t you? Only it was Black who was the bat, not me.”He tapped his chest. “This is Johnny, not a bat. You’ve been sleeping for over fourteen hours and your eyes are glazed over and you’re yelling at me when all I’m trying to do is wake you up because the world is falling down around our ears!”

  Sally stared at him, taken aback. Then she turned and dropped on her back, hands on her face. She exhaled forcefully and groaned. “Sorry . . . I don’t know what my problem is. I . . .” She stalled.

  “I do. It’s that stuff Katie gave you yesterday. And I don’t think that’s all. Black’s destroying our town.”

  “Please, Johnny, not this again.”

  “Take a look. Just look outside and tell me it’s all fine.”

  She propped herself on her elbows, stared at him with dazed eyes, and finally agreed. “Fine.”

  Thirty seconds later they stood at the front door peering out into the dust-whipped dusk-at-midday. She’d see it now, Johnny was sure of it.

  His head hammered with pain, then settled into a numb buzz. The sky brightened. The wind eased; the dust settled; the sun broke through. For a few inexplicable moments Paradise seemed less in the clutches of a dark storm than weathering a common summer wind. Johnny lost track of time.

  A musty scent filled his nose. Tastes like nothing. He wouldn’t mind tasting that nothing.

  “And?” Sally said. “So we have a storm.”

  Johnny swallowed and his vision cleared. More accurately, he cleared his vision. Or had he? Somewhere in the back of his mind his mother’s voice echoed softly.

  And . . . So we have a storm.

  Not the response he was looking for. But this new mystery swallowed his mind.

  He blinked and stared out at the street, relaxing, searching for what he’d just seen. Again the air cleared. Again the wind eased. Again the sky lightened. His concentration faded, but he forced himself to focus.

  The facade vanished. Dark clouds hung low overhead.

  Was that what his mom was seeing?

  This is what his mom was seeing.

  They didn’t see what he saw! They were somehow blinded to the true nature of the darkness that had settled over Paradise. So then Black’s drug not only opened their eyes to things that weren’t really happening, but it blinded them from seeing what was happening!

  Unless all of it really was happening. Worst case.

  Or unless Johnny was seeing Paradise as dark and terrible when it really wasn’t.

  “A little wind never hurt anyone,” Sally said, leaving Johnny by the door.

  He turned inside. “How dark is it out there? I mean . . . are the clouds black?”

  “Dark? It’s a windstorm, not a rainstorm.”

  “But there’s clouds in the sky, right?”

  “Sure. So what?”

  “How many clouds?”

  “Johnny, please . . .”

  “I just want to know what you’re seeing. Because when I look out I see endless low black clouds, worse than I’ve ever seen.”

  Her eyebrows met. “You’re not serious, right?”

  “That’s what I see.”

  “Then you’re seeing things again. It’s overcast, but not black.”

  So, he was right.

  Then again, who was seeing the sky as it really was, he or his mom?

  “Mom, would you do something for me if I begged you to do it? Something that may seem stupid but to me is real important?”

  She sat on the couch and leaned her head back. “What?”

  “Don’t drink any more water. And don’t leave the house or touch any more of that stuff Katie’s drinking.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. But she didn’t answer. Johnny thought she might be going back to sleep.

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Hear what?”

  Wind whistled by outside. He closed the door and repeated himself.

  “Sure, Johnny. Whatever you say.”

  Johnny’s head began to throb again, but he kept focus.

  “Promise me.”

  Sally’s eyes closed and her mouth parted slightly. She was lost to the world.

  Fine. Johnny would just make sure she didn’t drink any water. They had enough pop and milk to hold them for a couple days if they were careful.

  He left his mother sprawled on the couch and went in search of the water main.

  THE MUSIC drummed through his mind. That incredible, haunting music that Peter and his father and Chris had been lurching to.

  Roland had seen his mother leave the house and make her way in the direction of the church. His father was gone—probably at the bar. That left him alone in the house.

  Last night he was frightened by all of Johnny’s talk and seeing Black pull his lip off his face. This morning he felt a continuing sense of dread as they headed out in search of Peter. But something had changed in the theater.

  He was furious when Claude took after Peter and beat him. But when he got so close to them, and when he heard Claude ask if he’d brought anything, his anger changed to curiosity. So freaky.

  Cool freaky.

  Peter’s father didn’t look mean or angry. He just wanted something and he wanted it bad. He looked like a boy asking for an ice-cream cone.

  Only it wasn’t an ice-cream cone he wanted. He wanted what was on that TV. And Roland had seen what was on that TV. He couldn’t really remember the details, but he thought he might want it too.

  Roland watched the street for nearly an hour after Johnny headed home, thinking things through,working up his courage. They hadn’t come out of the old theater yet. At least not that he’d seen, and he’d only gone for a drink once and to the bathroom once, and even then he’d been watching as best he could.

  What they could possibly be doing in there, he had no idea, but he was vacillating between sneaking back to the theater for a look and staying put. His dilemma had cost him three fingernails so far.

  The weather was starting to ease up. Less wind, not so dark.

  Johnny was right about one thing—that juice of Black’s did something to people. It had done something to Fred and Peter, and frankly he wouldn’t mind knowing a little more firsthand.

  Still no sign of his mom or dad. They were probably out getting juiced up. What if he was the only one out of luck? He thought about going to Johnny’s but immediately decided that was the last thing he wanted. No, he wanted to find out exactly—and by that he really did mean precisely, as in been there, done that—what Peter was up to.

  Roland let his mind drift. Time seemed hazy. Once he l
ooked at his watch and it was one o’clock and the next time it was two, but he was sure a whole hour hadn’t gone by.

  Three ghosts walked out in the waning dust storm. Three blind mice, wandering from the big building to the small building. One big mouse, one medium-sized mouse, and one—

  Roland jerked his eyes wide. Claude, Chris, and Peter had come forth. They seemed to float from the old theater toward his father’s saloon.

  All alive. All pretty mellow. All walking straight.

  Roland lost sight of them as they exited the front window’s field of view. He ran to the bathroom and picked them up again. They walked right up the steps, pulled open the saloon door, and disappeared inside.

  For a long time Roland just stared at the empty landing. An image of Claude pouncing on Peter skipped through his brain. He swallowed. Freaky, man. Just plain freaky.

  He began to pace. His head buzzed. He could/should just go and check it out, of course. But he shouldn’t/wouldn’t just go and check it out.

  Johnny was yelling in one ear telling him to go bury his head under a pillow and not drink the water.

  Roland was yelling in his other ear telling him he wasn’t Johnny.

  Could/should shouldn’t/wouldn’t freaky. Way freaky.

  Another hour passed. He had to go. Could/would. He was missing out.

  STEVE SMITHER walked along the back alley toward his saloon, carrying five more sticks under his arm. He’d already taken eight stakes into the saloon and hidden them under the bar. He wasn’t sure when he’d taken them there—the hours were running together now like the letters of a foreign alphabet. Like Chinese letters. But he knew it was way past noon now, and he thought it must be Thursday. Or Friday. Maybe even Saturday. No, it couldn’t be Saturday.

  His dream kept popping in his mind, like a jack-in-the-box. Only it was Black-in-the-box, jumping up to say, Surprise, Stevie! Oh, I’m sorry, is this your wife?

  Yeah, well, I’ve got a little surprise for you myself. He smiled wryly. Somewhere out there Paula was probably wondering where he was. But she would find out soon enough,wouldn’t she? And then she would thank him.

  He reached the saloon, mounted the steps, and dug for his keys. One of the stakes dropped to the ground and he swore. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled the key ring out, and bent for the fallen stake. A muffled bang filtered through the door, and he snapped upright.