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  The Revelation

  Bentley Little

  "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....

  The Revelation

  Synopsis:

  A NAIL-BITING, THROAT-SQUEEZING, NONSTOP PLUNGE INTO DARKNESS AND

  EVIL"-RickHautola 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....

  BENTLEY LITTLE

  ST. MARTIN'S PRESS

  New York

  ISBN 0-312-03922-0

  PROLOGUE

  The shaman stared at the newcomer with thinly veiled scorn. Attired in ceremonial skins that were a slightly altered version of his own, the newcomer was loudly addressing a group of villagers gathered on the far side of the creek. His voice carried clearly on the slight wind that blew from the north. He raised his hands high into the air, his upturned face toward the hot summer sun. Red and blue fire would fall from the skies, he predicted, and soon after, the earth would shake with the footsteps of the dark gods. The assembled villagers gasped and muttered amongst themselves.

  The shaman shook his head in disgust and glanced toward the hogan , where his apprentice was supposed to be studying the patterns of color on two hawk feathers. The young boy was outside the open doorway, staring wide-eyed across the creek. When he saw that his master was looking at him, he quickly bent down to examine again the two feathers on the ground.

  "Go," the shaman said, not bothering to hide his anger. "Come back when you are ready to learn."

  "I am ready--" the boy began.

  "Go," the shaman repeated. He watched unmoving as his apprentice grabbed his belongings and scrambled off. The boy headed away from the villagers, in the opposite direction from the creek, but the shaman knew that as soon as he went inside the hogan, the boy would sneak over to hear what the newcomer had to say.

  The shaman bent down to pick up the hawk feathers and took them into the hogan. When he emerged again into the sunlight, he saw that Nan-Timocha, the village chief, was standing nearby, staring thoughtfully toward the newcomer. He walked slowly toward the chief, who turned to look at him and nodded. The two men were silent for a moment. "What do you think of this new shaman?" the chief asked finally.

  "He is no shaman."

  The chief nodded, saying nothing, as though he had expected the answer.

  "Why do you allow him to continue his stay in our village?" the shaman asked. "He is frightening the people. They are beginning to believe his wild stories."

  "Have you seen his eyes?" the chief asked, staring across the creek.

  His voice was low, troubled. "They are black. The deepest black I have ever seen."

  "You have talked to him?"

  The chief nodded. "He has come to me twice, telling me ..." He shook his head. "I cannot even believe it now."

  "Are you going to make him leave?" the shaman asked.

  Nan-Timochamet the shaman's gaze. His eyes were vague, unfocused, and there was an unfamiliar emotion etched on his features. "I cannot," he said. "I am afraid of him."

  The next night, the fire rained from the skies, blue and red, just as the newcomer had said it would. The shaman remained alone in the ceremonial circle, chanting songs of appeasement to the gods, performing the sacred rituals of protection. He had begun the evening with three assistants, including his apprentice, but all three had run away in fear as the fires fell closer and it was clear that the songs were doing no good.

  The shaman fasted the next day, remaining alone in hishogan , offering the appropriate sacrifices, and that evening all was as it should be.

  But the following night, the earth shook violently, causing jars and pots to rain down on him from their shelved perches as he trembled on the floor in fear of the rampaging feet of the dark gods.

  Quiet and subdued, the shaman brought up the rear of the small party that marched down the narrow path to the base of the Mogollon.

  Overhead, huge black thunderclouds rolled in from the north, casting their shadows on the forest of pines below. To the right, off in the brush, a family of swallows, startled by the presence of the marchers, flew screeching into the air.

  The shaman read the signs as they walked. Next to the path, there were three leafless trees in a row and, farther on, a dead squirrel with its legs pointed toward the Mogollon. The omens did not look good.

  But the shaman said nothing. After hearing what the newcomer had to say, after seeing the accuracy of the newcomer's prophecies, he now doubted his own techniques and abilities. He walked in silence, cowed in the presence of a man with powers far superior to his own.

  Several hours later, the path opened onto a clearing. The sky overhead was dark, and a shifting wind played against them, spraying them with a light mist. The newcomer stopped and motioned for them to remain in place. He took from the small bag he had been carrying a handful of bones and teeth, which he threw down on the dirt. He bent down to examine the positions in which they had fallen and nodded, satisfied.

  Nan-Timocha stepped forward, holding the ceremonial headdress he had been carrying since the start of their journey. The newcomer accepted the headdress and placed it on top of his head. He walked into the clearing, the wind whipping his long black hair and tangling it in the feathers. He began chanting the songs of power, petitioning the gods for courage and strength. Suddenly, his voice changed. The cadences became jerkier, less rhythmic. Harsh words poured out in an unknown alien tongue.

  Nan-Timochaturned to the shaman. "What is he saying?"

  The shaman shook his head. "I do not know the language. I have never heard it before."

  From the surrounding bushes came fluid gurgling noises and strange dry rustling sounds. The chief and the two warriors flanking him, Lan-Notlimand Al-Ankura, grasped their weapons tightly, prepared to use them. The shaman stepped backward, holding the sacred beads around his neck.

  In the center of the clearing, the newcomer had stopped chanting and was now holding tightly to his own weapon, crouched in a defensive stance.

  Though the newcomer had told him what to expect, the shaman had not in his heart believed him. Now he believed. He looked toward the manzanitas, where the noises were now the loudest. The bushes were shaking as though they were alive. He felt the cold sweat of fear break upon his body, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

  The bushes parted.

  And as the rain started to fall he began to scream.

  The Coconino Sawmill,
Randall's lone industry, loomed over the other buildings in town like an angry parent, its chuted conveyor belts and single-stacked smelter silhouetted blackly against the early morning sun. The mill had been the first structure built in the area, the first encroachment of civilization into this part of the wilderness, and the town had grown up around it, spreading outward. In front of the mill's small cluster of office buildings, next to Main Street, rows of stacked lumber were piled fifteen feet high, ready to be trucked out. In back of the buildings, on the other side of the smelter, next to the river, an equal number of freshly cut logs were piled in pyramidal order, waiting to be converted into boards.

  Gordon breathed deeply as he drove past the sawmill on his way to work.

  He loved the smell of the mill; he never tired of it. Even though it worked at only half-capacity during the summer months, its smell, that deliciously rich odor of pine bark and resin, permeated the air along Main Street from the junction of Old Mesa Road all the way to the post office, supplying somehow a hint of winter to the otherwise overbearing heat of August. In both the fall and winter, of course, the mill warmed the entire town, heat spreading outward from its core as though from a gigantic central heating system, the fresh natural smell of newborn sawdust and burning wood chips drifting as far north as the Rim and as far south as Squaw Creek.

  Today the smelter was not operating at all; not a single plume of smoke or flaming speck of sawdust escaped from the black screen that covered the large opening in the top of the stack. He could hear, however, the high-pitched revving whine of the saw blades as they cut logs down to size, and he saw Tim McDowell's blue pickup parked next to the chain link fence that surrounded the sawmill. Nine or ten other cars and trucks were parked nearby.

  Gordon passed the sawmill, waving, though he didn't know whether Tim could see him or not, and swung off Main Street onto Cedar, cutting across a corner of the small dirt parking lot Dr. Waterston shared with the Sears Catalog store. The Jeep dipped and bounded over the sharp ruts and washboard surface of the parking lot before leveling off on the paved road. Gordon glanced at his watch. Eight-fifteen. Not bad. He was only fifteen minutes late. He looked to his right. A young boy in short pants--Brad Nicholson's son--was trying to pedal his Big Wheel through the gravel of his driveway out to the street, and Gordon honked his horn, waving. The boy looked up, startled, then grinned and waved back as he recognized the Jeep. Gordon pulled into the vacant lot on the other side of the Pepsi warehouse next door. He hopped out of the car and made his way through a small forest of weeds toward the boy. "Hey Bozo!" he called. "Your dad in yet?"

  The boy giggled. "My name's not Bozo. It's Bobby."

  Gordon shook his head as though ashamed of himself. "That's right.

  Bobby. I keep forgetting." He grinned. "Your dad here yet?"

  The boy pointed toward the blue metal front of the warehouse. "He's in there. I think he's waiting for you to load up the truck."

  "Thanks,pard ." Gordon waved good-bye and jogged across the gravel to the warehouse door. It was open, but the lights inside were off.

  "Brad!" he called, walking in. "You here?"

  "I'm out back. Come on through."

  Gordon stepped past the couch, chair, and old oak desk that comprised Brad's makeshift office and maneuvered his way through the maze of stacked Pepsi cases toward the rear of the building. He stepped over a stray bottle that had shattered on the concrete floor forming a sticky pond of Pepsi and glass. "How come no lights?" he called out.

  "Too damn hot in here. Goddamn metal walls really soak up the heat. I

  figure if we keep the place dark and shut up it'll stay cool 'til the afternoon."

  The aisle of Pepsi cases opened out and Gordon could see Brad's delivery truck backed up to the loading dock. The rear doors were open. Brad had already started loading cases onto the truck, and there appeared to be about a dozen of them stacked against the far side of the van. Gordon signed his timecard on the small folding table next to the loading door and grabbed his hat from its nail on the wall. He put the hat on. "What're we doing today?" he asked, picking up a case.

  "The boonies?"

  Brad nodded, his thick bearded face moving almost imperceptibly. He spat. "Willow Creek, Bear Wash, all of those."

  Gordon put his case into the truck. "Is Clan going to be helping us today?"

  "No," Brad said.

  Gordon let the matter drop. They could have used the help; the small outlying areas didn't take many cases, but there were a lot of them and they were few and far between, and if they wanted to finish by nightfall they almost had to take two trucks. But he had been working for Brad Nicholson for the past four years, and he knew that if Brad said no he meant no. And that was that. Brad wasn't a bad guy, but he did take a little getting used to. He was-what was the word?--unaccommodating. Unyielding. Clan only worked part-time now, down from half-time, and Gordon wondered whether he had quit, whether he had found a better job, whether Brad had fired him or whether he was just ill and taking the day off. He usually helped out on these trips.

  But Gordon knew that it would be futile to ask Brad anything. He picked up another case of Pepsi.

  "Weirdfuckin ' dream last night," Brad said, changing the subject. He stood there for a moment, pulling on his beard.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." Brad picked up a case and laughed. "You're a college boy.

  Maybe you can tell me what it means."

  Gordon put his case down in the truck. "I'll give it a shot."

  "Okay. Me and my brother are driving through, like, farmland --"

  "I didn't know you had a brother."

  "I don't. This is a dream, all right? Okay, so we're driving along, and the road ends. It stops by this farmhouse that's been painted white and turned into a restaurant. We get out of the car and stand there, and a group of men come out through the front door. They're being led by you. You ask us to come into the restaurant and eat breakfast, and we do. It's like a coffee shop inside. Then this guy I've never seen before comes in and startstalkin ' to you. You walk up to us and tell us that we have to help you search for missing children.

  We walk outside and everybody splits into groups of two, and me and my brother walk across these grassy hills until we come to, like, a canyon. We start walking through this canyon, and all of a sudden we're scared shitless. We hear whispering coming from the rocks. We start to run, and we come to a stand of trees. There're kids swinging in these trees, babies, and they're sitting on these long white swings, laughing to themselves. Only the kids aren't having fun, they're all deformed and crazy. So we run like hell, and then we're back in front of the restaurant. "Let's get out of here," I say, and we both hop into the car. I try to start the car, but nothing happens. The car won't start. The battery's dead. This strange guy walks out of the restaurant, and he'scarryin ' the car's distributor cap in his hands.

  Behind him, a group of farmers comes out. They're grinnin' at me. And they're carrying pitchforks. And then I woke up." He looked at Gordon.

  "All right," Gordon said. "Let's figure this out. You don't really have a brother, but you have one in your dream, right?"

  "Right."

  "And you're driving through farmland?"

  "Right."

  "And the restaurant used to be a house?"

  "Yeah."

  "And the kids' swings were white?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Okay, and the farmers are carrying pitchforks and you think they're going to harm you somehow?"

  "That's right."

  "That dream has deep psychological significance," Gordon said. He tried to maintain a serious expression but failed. He grinned hugely.

  "It means you're a fag."

  A half-moon of white teeth appeared suddenly in the midst of Brad's tangled black beard and he laughed. He picked up a bottle cap from the floor of the truck and chucked it at Gordon's head. Gordon ducked, and the cap missed him, clattering onto the concrete floor of the warehouse. "I should've known bette
r than to tell you, you bastard."

  "I call 'em as I see 'em."

  They both stepped out of the truck and back into the warehouse. Brad picked up a case of Pepsi. He shook his head. "It did scare the hell out of me, though. I thought for sure it was real."

  The rains hit in the late afternoon, making the trip up the Rim Road in Brad's truck almost impossible. Besides having three nearly bald tires, which slid at the slightest hint of wetness, the truck had a faulty clutch--something that Brad kept meaning to fix but somehow never got around to doing. They delivered a half case of Pepsi to the store at Willow Creek, then decided to head back toward town.

  Gordon sat silently in the cab as they turned back toward Randall , listening to the faint strum of Willie Nelson's guitar on the radio, barely audible over the static, and staring out at the passing scenery.

  The rain was thick, almost like winter rain, and only the trees directly adjoining the highway were visible; the others faded impressionistic ally into gray haze. He could see himself as he sat there, staring out the window. To an outsider, he thought, he would appear lost in contemplation, as though seriously mulling over some deep thought or profound idea. But he knew that nothing was going through his head. He was thinking of himself thinking. That was all.

  There was a time, five years ago, even three years ago, when he would have been thinking of something--story ideas, plot outlines, clever word associations. Then he had been fresh out of college, recently married, with dreams like millions of other innocents of becoming a writer. Now he was used to--no, content with--his life. His job had ceased being a simple form of manual labor that freed his mind for complex thoughts, it had become enough in and of itself. He was fairly happy with his life the way it was. And why not? Hell, he had an intelligent, pretty wife, he had good friends, he lived in a beautiful area. What more could he ask for? So he wasn't contributing to the legacy of humanity, so he didn't have either the talent or the inclination to write the great American novel. So what?