Part 26 (2/2)

And dead men didn't walk either. McNeely looked at the corpse lying on its side and noticed with relief that its clothing was still on, that no dead shriveled thing protruded from the front of the pants. At least, he thought, she had not been penetrated.

But what of her mind? It would have been better for the thing actually to couple with her and leave her mind untouched than to have her remain in this comatose state. ”Gabrielle,” he called softly. ”Oh, Gabrielle, please, please hear me. Come back. . . .”

”Christ.” Wickstrom stood in the doorway, a hand still pressed to his bleeding head. ”What happened?” His voice was dazed, and McNeely feared his sanity was on the line. ”What's happening to us?”

If he could get Wickstrom to help, get him doing something, perhaps he'd come to himself. And there was something that McNeely had to do too. ”Kelly,” he said, ”take care of Gabrielle. Just hold her. I've got to . . . I'm going to take this out of here so she won't see it.”

”Did it . . . come up . . . on its own?” Wickstrom asked in childlike awe.

”Yes,” he said coldly. ”On its own. Take her.” Wickstrom knelt obediently and cradled Gabrielle in his arms. ”And don't follow me,” McNeely ordered. He dragged the corpse through the open cellar door and pushed it ruthlessly down the stairs, following its flopping descent. One foot awkwardly on the bottom step, the other limbs beneath its torso, it looked like nothing human as he reached down again and hauled it for a third time into the corruption-rich air of the wine cellar. Then he slammed the door shut and ran across to the entrance of the fire chamber.

”Where are you!” he hissed.

There was no face present, but the voice was there. It seemed thin, airy. Here.

McNeely entered the room and closed the door behind him so that Wickstrom would not hear in the kitchen. ”Leave them alone.”

When it answered, it sounded almost weaker, as if compelled to retreat by his ferocity. Then serve us.

”f.u.c.k!” McNeely spat out. ”You did that? With Kelly?”

Yes.

”And with Gabrielle ...” His voice broke. ”Did Neville get away from you again?”

He did not get away. We turned him loose.

”Oh you ...”

Her mind is not gone. Nor Wickstrom's. Not yet. There was a small appreciative chuckle. Neville f.u.c.ked her well. It was the first in a long time for him.

”He didn't!” McNeely snarled. ”Didn't rape her ... I saw.”

You saw what eyes can see.

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Where are you?”

Everywhere.

”I can't see you.”

We wish to be unseen.

McNeely could only stand, breathing heavily, wis.h.i.+ng for something to kill.

Will you serve us now?

”Serve you?”

What happened to Wickstrom and the woman was nothing to what we can do. Do you think she would like to see the child she had aborted? Have it speak to her and call her Mama? Would she like to see you with Jeff? Or with that Senegalese boy, the one whose b.u.t.tocks were so tight ...

”Stop it!”

How old was he? Thirteen? Twelve? Younger? But you were high on kif, not really responsible.

”Shut up, G.o.d d.a.m.n you!”

Would she like to hear how he whimpered, how he cried? Would she like to feel what he felt at your hands?

”Shut up, shut up, shut up ...”

Then serve us.

”No! Go ahead and tell Gabrielle. Show her whatever you want. You want to kill the world, and if I serve you, you'll do it, so why should I care? Either way we die, all of us. Why should I care?”

It's a dying world, dying for decades. We only wish to speed the process.

”Why?”

To pay our debts! There was a pause, then a low laugh, as if it were amused at McNeely's childishness. The earth is dying every day, from a hundred different diseases. Would you have it die slowly, from a mult.i.tude of cancers? Or would it not be more n.o.ble, more heroic, for it to hold a gun to its head and pull the trigger? Do you not value heroism?

”It's our choice, not yours,” McNeely replied, his voice firm. ”It's for the living to decide, not dead things. Besides, there's still hope. We've not given up yet.”

There is no hope. That we lie, you know. The Father of Lies. But this much is true: Earth is dying, and there is no hope. So the choice is yours. Serve us and die with the cataclysm. Or die now.

McNeely opened his lips to speak, and there was fire in his eyes.

Before you speak, think well, the voice interrupted. If you choose to die now, you will stay here.

”Stay here ...”

With us.

”Am I ... so evil then?” The fire dimmed to a spark.

Every man has evil within, but often the good overbalances it. It is different here. We are too strong for you to escape. Too strong for anyone who dies here to escape. You will be with us, part of us, for eternity.

Eternity. The word echoed inside McNeely's head. He had known this place was h.e.l.l, but he had not known he would be one of the d.a.m.ned. He struggled to find a mental path out of the dark wood, but could only spy a barely comforting rationalization. ”If I served you,” he said calmly, ”I'd be yours anyway. Either way ... I'm d.a.m.ned.”

A murmuring noise came back to him, as if the thing had not considered that point of view. Then came the words that pinned McNeely to the wall: But she is not.

”She . . .”

Your death means hers. She will be with us. It would be interesting to have a guest with so much goodness in her. Mr. Fish would be delighted. And M. de Sade. And her husband. Especially her husband. He will make her realize how long eternity is. And she will learn that among us there are enough different . . . needs to fill eternity quite easily.

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