7:17
Linda angrily looked over each book, one by one, that had been removed from the bookshelf before dropping them onto the dining room floor. She knew exactly where she’d left the scripture. A woman in her position would not forget a thing like that. It was too important.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered to herself, “What the hell?”
Her hand clamped into fists. She kicked at the pile of papers and books at her feet.
Someone has been here.
She was almost sure that she knew who had taken it.
“You little bitch, I’ll kill you.”
Linda walked to the window, peering into the side yard. The empty house next door was dark inside. She could see no movement. She rushed to the front room and carefully spied through the blinds, taking care not to touch them.
The officer’s unmarked sedan sat quietly, collecting snow. Her granddaughter was no where in sight.
Damn it.
Linda didn’t need the scripture. Every line of the ritual, every phrase, was inside her head. She knew it all by heart. All the magic that would be needed would flow off of her tongue effortlessly. The text wouldn’t be required until after tonight’s task.
Linda knew that her granddaughter would be there. Sally was going to try and stop them.
Walking into the kitchen, the old woman checked the clip. One bullet would top it off. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a shell. It felt smooth between her fingers, as she looked it over closely. It was a high velocity hollow tip.
At close range, it would practically rip Sally’s head off.
7:18
Linda set the green oven door aside, onto the linoleum. With the top rack removed, the stove had room for her friend’s upper torso. She looked down at Betty’s blank stare. Her skin was pale, bluish-white. A wide gash hung open across her neck, exposing the fat and muscle.
“Jesus Betty. You need to lose some weight,” she grunted, dragging her neighbor across the slick floor.
Linda rolled her over and lifted her up, into the oven. She glanced inside making sure the pilot light was out before setting Betty’s head and shoulders on the bottom rack. The body was up on its knees and bent down, facing the oven floor. Linda backed away slowly, taking in the image.
She grinned, “God Betty, you look just like me.”
The long plastic charcoal lighter was in her hand. She clicked the button and a small flame popped out the end. She held it up in front of her face, gazing into the twitching fire. Her index finger relaxed and the flame disappeared with a click.
“Lights every time,” she said, approaching the oven.
7:19
Linda stepped out the front door, onto the slick surface of the porch. She turned and locked the dead bolt. Her car had been warming up for fifteen minutes. As she looked out at the windshield she saw that the defroster had melted most of the snow and ice. She carefully made her way down the steps and out to the hatchback.
Officer Nichols pulled up in the alley. Looking at the clock on the dash, it read 5:52. He tried Robbins on the radio, “Twelve, this is seven, over.”
There was no response. He tried again. Nothing.
He called to the station, “Control, this is seven. I’m on location. I’m not getting an answer from twelve, over.”
A woman’s voice cracked over the CB, “Maybe there’s something wrong with his radio. I’ll send a patrol by.”
“Ten-four, control. Seven out.”
Linda drove her care carefully down the street and to the highway. The patrol car passed her going the other direction. When he arrived he saw Robbins’ unmarked vehicle, covered in snow. He didn’t bother to find a parking spot. He stopped in the middle of the street. Opening the door he saw Robbins lying over in the bench seat. “Hey man, you sleepin’ on the job or what?”
He bent down to see into the car.
“Shit!”
He ran back to the patrol car with his hand over the pistol at his side. He ducked into the vehicle and grabbed the microphone.
“Officer down! Officer down! I need backup and an ambulance now!”
Nichols almost spilled his coffee when he heard the transmission over the radio. He stepped out of his car, unholstered his weapon, and headed for the back of the house. He could see a light on in the kitchen and the dining room.
As he kicked the door in he said, “Fuck surveillance. I got probable cause.”
When it broke open the window smashed into a thousand shimmering pieces, raining down on the floor.
“Police! Come out with your fucking hands on top of your head!”
He stepped into the kitchen. The smell of gas was thick in the air. The oven and the stovetop had been on full blast for almost twenty minutes, after the pilot flames had been blown out. The whole room was stagnant with fumes.
Looking down he saw a woman on her knees with her head and shoulders inside the oven. The fold down door had been removed. It was setting on the floor next to her.
Jesus. She’s trying to kill herself.
He rushed over, grabbed hold of her around the waist and pulled.
The entire kitchen and dining rooms roared in a magnificent explosion. The heart of the blast was directly in front of the policeman. He was dead almost instantly.
The woman in the oven, Mrs. Betty Anderson, had been deceased for hours. Unlike Officer Nichols, it had not been the fire that had ruined her afternoon.
Her day had gone to the dogs at three O’clock.
7:20
The highway was all but deserted. The snow had been coming down so thick that visibility was almost nil. Many motorists had given up their travel, pulling over onto the shoulder, hoping the storm would subside. The heavy blanket of white across the road had camouflaged its surface. It was difficult to tell where the pavement ended and the ditch began. The few cars left on the stretch of highway between Canon City and Penrose were not going more than ten miles per hour. That made the twelve-mile distance, for those who did not find themselves in to ditch, take over an hour. Linda had left town twenty minutes before. Her car had just warmed up enough to begin to sooth her aching hands.
She hated driving in that kind of weather but she had no choice. It was happening tonight. Everything she’d worked for the last twenty-five years had all come down to now. She knew, no matter how much she hated the storm, it did seem appropriate for their task. The beginning of the end of this ill-conceived world would start with a storm to end all storms.
The blizzard had sent most to their homes, desperately hiding from its anger. And those caught in its wake would cower fearfully under it, and some would even die. But not Linda. She wasn’t afraid of its power. She fancied herself a part of it and smiled at its glory. She knew full well where she was going and would walk to her destination if she had to. The snow and ice wouldn’t stop her. It was protecting her.
It was almost as if the world itself knew what needed to be done to bring it all to an end. Linda imagined that it grew tired of its own existence and was as anxious for it to be over as she was.
The earth and heavens were crying out for a new beginning and she was about to answer their call.
7:21
The ever-thickening layer of snow on the tall elm sparkled in the glow of the street lamp. The tree’s arms hung low under its weight. A long branch high up at the top creaked under its extra sixty pounds of punishment.
A loud crack announced to the surrounding parking lot that it could take no more. As it fell down through the other branches shimmering white clouds exploded at each impact. The last collision sent it spinning into the lines, ripping them down to the ground. The branch came to rest on the icy pavement, but not before denting the hood of the squad car. Inside, Officer Montoya spoke into the receiver that had just gone dead.
“Hello?”
He looked up at the switchboard.
“Shit.”
Pulling the curtain back, he peered out into the storm. The cold air slowly seeped in around the metal frame. He squinted through the raging white flakes, cupping his hands around his eyes against the icy glass. The phone wires hung from the far pole and led down into the grass by his car. A single branch lay on the nearby pavement collecting snow. He quickly went back to the board.
He plugged in numerous cords, checking each one, “Damn it.”
He picked up the CB microphone.
“Patrol five, this is control. Do you copy?”
“10-4, control. Go ahead.”
“Yeah. A tree branch just took out the phone lines. There are no office lines. 911 is out too. We’ve got nothing, over.”
“That a 10-4. I copy that.”
“Stop at a phone and call the Sheriff and the phone company.”
“You got it. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks five. Over and out.”
7:22
Jack listened nervously to Sally’s narration of the forbidden prophecy. It was almost 8:00 p.m. They were running out of time. Killien would come by midnight at the latest. The metal chair and nylon rope was ready in the center of the room. He looked down at his wrists. The rope burns he’d received the previous night were sore.
Sally glanced up every few sentences to make sure he was all right. She wanted to be positive it was Jack she was reading to, not Killien.
“The male and female spirits are different sides of power. The soul of a man cannot bind together with the body of a woman. A woman’s soul shall not bind with a man’s body. The power will always remain opposite.”
Jack leaned in close looking at the upside down words across the counter from him,
“So men and women aren’t just physically different. We’re spiritually different too.”
Sally kept going, “At birth, the child assumes the visage of the parent of the same gender. Only after seven years have past will the spirit develop to individual.”
Her eyes left the page, “What the fuck does that mean?”
Jack understood, “It means until a child reaches seven years old its astral signature is identical to its same sex parent.”
“Huh?”
“For instance, my son Christopher is six years old. Until he reaches seven he’ll have the same exact astral signature as…” Jack realized that the words that were coming out of him meant something terrible. “…me.”
Fearful horror washed over Jack’s face. The tears flowed.
“Oh God, no.”
7:23
Linda turned off the headlights and put the car into park. The heater fan was on high and she held her aging fingers in front of the hot air.
Across the street a porch light faintly glowed behind the white blast of sparkling flakes. The wind was gusting up to forty miles per hour and the temperature was at ten below.
She watched the dark sky above the house. She was waiting for it.
The signal.
They would come soon. It wouldn’t be long now. The last twenty-five years of her life would mean something, finally.
An anxious smile curled the corners of her lips into the shadows of her cheeks. Her eyes were glazed over with anticipation of what he had promised her.
A single tear escaped the corner of her eye. It ran down past her nose and into her mouth. She could taste it.
A slight variation in the night sky. Then another. Then rumble started in low, almost unobservable. But it was getting louder. The twisting entities in the pitch black were nothing to the untrained eye. To Killien they would be a beacon in the storm, calling him. To Linda, they were a starting gun.
It was happening. He was coming. It was time for her to begin. Her smile was big now; she was shaking with excitement.
Praise the new God. Hallelujah.
7:24
The trial came quickly after his capture. With the families of the victims demanding justice, prosecutors did not want any time wasted. Killien sat calmly in the courtroom with his shoulder bandaged and right arm in a sling. A confident smile occupied his lips most days as lawyers pointed cold fingers at him, calling him a murderer, a Satanist and a psychopath. He did not flinch once, even when they leaned closely over him, shaking fists of outrage. He only grinned.
He knew they were right, of course. He was a murderer. He was proud of that. It made him feel powerful to know that no one else in that room could have done the things he’d done.
Now, he hated the word Satanist. He couldn’t stand it in the least. It conjured thoughts of people chanting out weak spells and sacrificing chickens. He in no way wanted to be associated with that kind of behavior.
It also implied that he worshiped Satan. That was so far from the truth that it was almost laughable. Sure, he had been using the tools Lucifer had provided for him, but not once had he ever prayed to him or thanked him for such opportunity. Killien imagined that the devil would soon be thanking him.
And how about psychopath? Well, he loved the word psychopath even more than murderer. It was the kind of word that said, I’ll not only kill you, but I’ll do it in a creative and unusual way. Oh yes, that pleased him very much.
As the prosecution gave their closing statement to the jury, as the young lawyer went on about atrocities and crimes against humanity, Killien smiled quietly.
As the man in the designer suit, black tie and freshly shined shoes reminded them of the overwhelming physical evidence, Killien paid no attention to what was being said. He was busy with more amusing thoughts. He was not concerned about the jury’s decision or what punishment he could look forward to. Those things were obvious. He was guilty. Any fool could see that. His punishment would be capital. There was no doubt in his mind.
He did not fear death. It would only be an inconvenience to him, at best. He’d be back, and when he did return he wanted to remember the faces that had convicted him. The lawyers, members of the jury, the judge. He’d return for all of them. He had already decided their fates.
Death waits patiently for everyone. The people in the courtroom that day were willing to help Mr. Killien along to his. And he, in turn, was willing to help them find theirs, in the most creative and unusual way possible.
He began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle under his breath, but soon turned into a gaping howl. The lawyer stopped speaking. Every eye in the room glared at him in shocking surprise and horror.
The judge banged the gavel thunderously, yelling, “I demand quiet in this court of law or I’ll find you in contempt!”
The laughing ceased immediately. The calm was like a dark, black vacuum in space. He looked into the judge’s eyes as if seeing right through them and out the other side. Killien whispered into the center of the silence, scratching it like sandpaper.
“Contempt…indeed.”
copyright ©2002 Brian Holtz
All rights reserved