Animal (Chapter 18 - Part 2)

John stands in the doorway, wind and sand passing around his form and into the church, gaze focused upon Father Peter. Peter stares down at him, the smile wiped from his lips. The family stands between them having not yet taken the stage. John's hands drift away from his weapons. He nods towards the priest. Peter nods back. A hush has fallen upon the believers. No one speaks. Their eyes lock upon the newcomer.
John takes his place in an empty pew at the far back.
Peter swallows hard. His hands shake. He glances around at the unfocused eyes of his followers, shifting from John to himself, their attention scattered. They will not follow his words, cannot accept the strike upon the family as it is.
He lets his hands drop and carefully closes his bible, tucking it in the pocket of his robes. He speaks.
"My friends, I’m afraid a chill has come over me. My head feels light. I must retire for the rest of the sermon, which means we must cut this mass short."
Whispers follow. Groans of sadness spill from the lips of his believers.
"I am so sorry, truly I am, but I must retire. I promise I will be well by the evening and we shall continue where we left off."
He steps down from the podium and makes his way to the front of the church, guided by the hands of his followers and their whispers and prayers for his safety. He smiles, accepting each word and praising their love, yet his face remains set forward, eyes heavy, shadows forming beneath their lids. He watches John and John stares back. He stands as the priest nears.
Peter passes through the doorway and out into the street with John close behind. The two walk side by side, neither speaking. John's hat has blown away somewhere across the street, disappeared with the sand. They move through the alleys towards the saloon where the family stays.

* * *

John and Peter sit across from each other, waiting patiently for their server. The saloon owner places a set of glasses filled with water before them. A large stomach hangs over his belt, not quite covered by the apron he wears. Two faded menus tuck underneath his arm, not used in some time, brought out on the rare occasion someone as distinguished as Father Peter choose to dine in his tavern. Peter turns to the owner with a fake smile plastered across his face.
"Thank you, Richard."
"My pleasure, Father," the man replies, humbled by respect, "may I get you anything else?"
"No, I think I'm fine."
Peter nods towards his guest. "What about you, John? Is there anything you need?"
"Nothing," John replies, not bothering to shift his attention away from the priest.
"Alright, you just call me if you need anything. I'll be right over there."
The owner turns and waddles away clutching the menus close to his chest, disheartened by the preacher’s decision to not sample his wears. He rounds the corner and resumes setting up shop.
Peter raises the glass to his lips and partakes the icy water. He sets it down and exhales, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"Now that is a fine drink, clean and pure.”
His eyes travel down his opponent's form, ending upon the silver revolvers tucked securely in his holsters.
"I should have known you wouldn't be far behind, you seemed most set in your pursuit of my master. Perhaps it would be best if you attended to your own needs, leave matters concerning me and my affairs well enough alone."
"You serve Varlyn, that means your affairs are mine as well," John says.
"Is that the way it is to be?"
"It is."
Peter reaches into his robes and removes his bible, setting it upon the table.
"I trust you've at least heard of this book.”
"I've read it my fair share of times."
"Then you know what happens to those who go against a servant of God,” Peter says.
"I wouldn’t call you that."
"Then we are in disagreement."
"So it seems."
Peter leans back in his seat, arms crossed.
"What would you consider me, John, if not a servant of God, a tool of the Devil? Is your mind so black and white?"
"No, I don't consider you a servant of the Devil. I consider you nothing more than Satan himself. You are a part of him, broken off from his side like so many pieces scattered across the earth."
Peter chuckles, waving his hand in grandiose fashion as he tries to regain his composure.
"Good analogy, but if I am Satan, how can you hope to defeat me?"
John's hand drifts down to his side. His fingers drum across the butt of his revolvers.
"I was thinking of shooting you in the head," he says.
"And how would that work out? Would you kill me here in cold blood, cut me down like a blade of grass? How far would you get?"
Peter nods in the direction of the portly saloon owner who stands behind the bar attending his wares.
"You've seen the way Richard looks at me. Such light in his eyes. He would die for me, can you not see it? He’s not even among my strongest followers. Would you risk killing me simply to save a family you do not know? Because if you drop me it will be the end of you and your quest to stop my master. The people of this town will not allow you to leave, on that I can assure you."
John grabs the glass of water with his free hand and drains it in one smooth motion.
"Then what do we do?"
The doors to the saloon swing open. Robert enters holding his son's hand as Jesse follows closely behind. He approaches John and Peter while Jesse leads his boy up the stairs.
"How are you feeling, Peter?" he asks.
"Much better, thank you."
"I hope you’re well enough to preach tonight."
"As do I. I wouldn’t worry though, I am quite certain I shall be."
Robert offers John his hand. John accepts.
"I don't believe we’ve met. My name is Robert."
"John."
"You live here in town, John?"
"No, just passing through,” John replies, “Taking care of some business on my way out."
Peter raises a hand to cover the laugh that rises in his throat. Robert doesn’t seem to notice.
"You a believer?"
"I have my faiths," John replies.
"Well I hope you're able to attend one of Father Peter's sermons before you leave. They'll change the way you view faith."
"I'm sure of that."
Robert laughs. He tucks his hands in his pockets and glances upstairs to where his family waits.
"Well, I must be going, Benjamin gets antsy whenever I’m out of sight too long. It’s been nice making your acquaintance.”
"Pleasure was all mine."
John watches as Robert makes his way up the stairs and into his room. Peter follows his eyes. He taps his fingers along the tabletop.
"You would risk yourself to save them?"
"I would.”
"Then perhaps you would do best to leave my presence. I don't believe we have anything further to discuss."
The two rise in unison. John nods curtly. His hands tighten at his sides.
"You're not a servant of God, Peter, you're trying to twist His people into your own image. You should be careful. You can't just call yourself one of His soldiers and then wash your hands of the things you've destroyed.”
Peter returns the bible to his pocket and passes from the table without another word, moving through the doorway and out into the street.

* * *

Peter’s three closest believers surround him as he walks the familiar path towards his church. He lets them follow for some time, until certain that no prying eyes fall upon them. He speaks to the men, assuring them of his wellness and strength.
"Don't worry over me, my brothers, for I will return. It is time for us to prepare. We must ready ourselves for what is to come. There are snakes in our midst. Just as Father Maxwell slithered in so have these people. They take the form of outsiders, and we know what must be done with outsiders."
Peter motions for the men to prepare. As they separate he grabs one by the arm. His bulky form assures Peter of his abilities. The man listens intently to the preacher’s words, not wishing to betray his faith.

* * *

John leans back in a creaky chair and studies the saloon that sits across the street. The room he sits in is empty and dark, part of a building long vacant. Cobwebs litter the corners and floors. Dust floats in the air, illuminated by the soft light that spills through the boarded windows.
No traffic passes through the lifeless saloon. It's as if the town has died without the sermon of the church. Inside, the saloon owner returns untouched glasses to the cupboards and prepares to close for the night.
John slides his shirt up and checks his latest wound. The stitch job holds. The wound is light, inconsequential, yet it burns beneath his touch. The scarred bullet wound in his gut remains sore as ever.
The sun continues to fall, now halfway over the other side of the earth. John crosses his legs and waits, the rifle he received from the Comanche clasped in his hands.
An attempt will be made upon the family's life, but when? John fidgets in the chair. Darkness spreads across the land, reaching out with the falling sun.
John draws a rag from his pocket and lays it across his lap. He dismantles the rifle the way his father taught, sliding a second sheet against the steel of the weapon to clear away the dust and dirt from its metal frame. He works in silence, halting his process at the sight of movement.
The family emerges from the saloon with the owner close behind. Citizens of the town exit their houses and move down the now crowded street, each dressed in fancy clothes sewn of fine silk. The women carry gaudy parasols to shield themselves from the wind. The men don neatly pressed suits, kept close to their families, pushing their distracted children forward.
John tracks the band. The clamber of the townsfolk drowns out the quiet steps of the believer who approaches from behind.
"He's going to kill them during the sermon," John whispers.
Across the ground, a shadow moves. John stands. The dissembled rifle slides from his lap. A string of wire loops around his neck. John raises his hands up, blocking the razor line from cutting into his throat, and pushes back slamming the believer who holds him against the wall. The wire digs into his palm. Blood trickles down his hands as he fights, kicking out and driving the man back a second time.
John's hand burns. He scans the room for anything of use. A rusted nail juts from a loose board in the wall. John twists to the side and pushes his attacker's back into the nail.
The follower shrieks in pain, the wire going slack against John's throat. John pushes forward, lifting the wire up and freeing himself from the man's hold. He spins and goes for his revolver but the man falls upon him, grabbing a handful of hair and bashing his head into the side of the rotten wood. A flash of white obscures John’s vision as he latches onto the follower's shoulders and slams his forehead into the man's nose, shattering it.
The attacker stumbles back, eyes watering, and strikes blindly, hoping for a lucky shot. John ducks the blow, head spinning and vision blurred, and lands a shot across the man's cheek. His jaw cracks with a satisfying crunch and the man crumbles. John passes the rifle and stumbles out into the street.
The road is empty. The light in the church ahead blazes. They're inside.
John manages two more steps before he sinks to his knees, black spots dancing across his eyes. His temples throb. He tries to stand only to lose his balance and drop to the earth, the world around him passing from sight.

* * *

Peter dresses for his sermon, staring into his mirror once more. The shining blade rests inside his pocket, bible in his hand. He removes a black box from the cabinet and flips it open, spilling its contents; two formless shapes wrapped in cloth. He unravels one revealing a black revolver, the weapon he used to hunt the damned. He checks the chamber. Six bullets. He slides the weapon into his robe and breathes deep, reveling in the near silence, alone with his thoughts. Nothing will go wrong tonight. The clamor of his flock awaits him. John is dead, the family will soon follow.
Peter runs a hand across his face and wipes sleep from the corners of his eyes. He exits the room and walks into the light. The whispers of his followers die on his approach. He calls for silence and they obey.
Everyone is present. The runaways, his followers, even Mrs. Carlyle, her head slightly bowed and eyes deep red. She meets Peter's gaze and smiles. She has fallen to his will. All have fallen. It is time.
"I offer my apologies for cancelling this morning's sermon. Thankfully, whatever illness wronged me has since vanished. It is time that we begin the cleansing. Tonight, the Bell family will be washed in the waters of the Lord and all will be well. Arise, my friends, arise and take the stage."
Robert stands and ushers his child forth. Jesse follows close behind. Peter glances to the back where two of his followers stand awaiting his signal. With a quiet clank they bar the doors of the church and follow the family. Peter turns to Robert, his false smile bright.
"Who shall be washed first?"
Robert stoops before his son.
"I'll go first, Ben, stay with Uncle Jesse."
He rubs his son's cheek and turns to face the priest.
"I will.”
"Excellent."
Robert approaches Peter and takes his place upon the stage. He faces the crowd.
"Get down on your knees," Peter commands.
Robert complies. Peter stands behind him. He opens his bible and begins the rite.
"Ye who shall be washed in the blood of the lamb, do you accept Him?"
"I do," Robert says.
"Ye who are tainted with sin, do you allow Him into your heart?"
"I do."
"Ye who are his servant, are you prepared to give yourself to your Lord?"
"I am."
"Close your eyes."
Robert shuts his eyes. Peter takes the handle of the bucket from a member of his flock. He leans Robert's head back, smoothing his hair and pouring the water down his body. The water spills across Robert, soaking his clothes and covering his form.
"My friends, a day ago Father Maxwell cautioned us to be on watch for snakes in our midst and that if we were not careful these snakes would take hold of us and drag us to our deaths. Do you not recall?"
They remember. Mrs. Carlyle watches Peter with narrowed eyes.
"A tragedy has befallen us. Father Maxwell and Father Gabriel are dead."
A hush falls upon the crowd, followed by screams. People faint. Women weep. Worshippers shout denials at random.
"It is true. Returning to this town they were slain upon the outskirts, burned alive. Who could have done such a thing? Surely not one of us, no one who is faithful to this church, am I correct?"
The people shout their furies, fists raised, drinking in every word.
"No, no one here, but what of an outsider?"
The bucket empties. The final drops fall upon Robert's face. He opens his eyes.
"What of an outsider? What of a family who came into our town days before they died? Would these be the snakes in our midst? They are!"
Robert shakes his head and begins to rise. Peter pushes him down, hand locked around his shoulder. He glances down at the confused man.
"They are to blame. The people you see before you are the snakes poor Maxwell warned us of. And like all snakes they must be stopped. They must be stopped before they can poison us further. Their blood must be spilt."
Peter lets the bible fall from his hands. It lands against the wood of the podium with a soft thump that pierces the silence. He reaches into his pocket and draws from his robes the curved blade still stained with Maxwell's blood. Jesse starts forward but the men pull him back. Ben turns from his father to the man standing over him, screaming in protest. Robert shouts back.
"Shut your eyes, Ben. Look away, please!"
Ben buries his face into his uncle’s chest. Jesse holds the boy in his arms, his face white, watching his brother with unspoken terror. The roars of the believers echo throughout the church, spitting and screaming, calling for blood, lost in rage. Mrs. Carlyle watches with tears in her eyes, finally knowing what is to be done, finally understanding.
"Take care of him, Jesse," Robert whispers.
Robert glances up at Peter, his neck bared. He has no words for the priest. He smiles as if in defiance. Peter whispers in the man’s ear as he positions the knife.
"They shall join you presently."
Peter slides the blade across Robert's throat. A wide gash opens and blood sprays forth, fountaining down Robert’s chest. He watches Jesse hold his son and scream his name, hears the cries of the crowd before him. He does not raise his arms to his throat for he knows nothing can be done. His vision slides away, his life spilling down his shirt. He wishes he could comfort his boy, leave him with some parting words of love and wisdom, but he’s already reached his end. If only there was more time.
Robert bows his head, closes his eyes, and surrenders to the black. He falls aside, legs thrashing, blood pooling, twitches once more and is done.
Peter raises his blade high, stained anew, red dripping from the end. His smile reflects in the bloodied steel, his true form revealed.
"They are clean,” he says.
He turns to Jesse and Ben. The smile returns.
"Bring me the boy."

* * *

John has returned to the room. His clothes are new once more, white and vibrant. The room stinks of death but something has changed.
The mirror is reformed. The bed restitched, blood vanished. The bulb hangs clean. A familiar voice calls to John and he turns to meet it.
His reflection has returned, cracked at the edges but mostly whole, the black robes that cloak its body neat and pressed. It approaches John without hesitation, determined and clear in message. It grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him furiously, bits of glass crumbling from its fingers.
"You cannot be here, John. Wake up. Wake now!"
Shadows spread around them. The reflection grabs hold of the hanging switch and pulls, filling the room with pitiful light. The darkness presses in, threatening to swallow them both.
"I cannot hold it. Go!"
The reflection shoves John into the abyss. He flies backwards, pulled from the world. The reflection grabs hold of the bulb and shatters it, sparks and glass spilling over its body, the darkness complete.

* * *

John wakes with a gasp. He rises to his feet, mind fuzzy, trying to focus upon the vision. The light still blazes in the church. The sun has just passed beyond the horizon.
There’s still time.
John sprints down the now familiar path towards the church, leaping over rock and ditch. The wind burns in his ears. He mounts the steps and pulls against the door that blocks the entrance to the church. Locked.
John draws his revolver and fires three times into the doorway, shielding his eyes from the flying debris. The bolt cracks with a resounding clang. He kicks hard into the door, boot connecting with all his force. The door bursts open and John enters the church, the eyes of all upon him.

* * *

John approaches with revolver raised, focused on the podium. Peter stands upon the stage, the child between him and his enemy. He holds the blade steady. His eyes shine dark. He lets out a shrieking laugh as his adversary nears.
"That's far enough, one more step and I bleed him."
Peter slides around the boy, moving from the left to the right, always keeping the boy ahead, his knife pressed against his neck. He studies his adversary, licking his lips.
"Go ahead, John, kill me, but remember what I told you. If I die you will never leave this town."
He pushes the edge of the blade to the boy's throat and draws a thin trickle of blood. Just enough. The child moans, his eyes stained red with tears. Jesse kicks and fights, spewing curses from his lips, elbowing one of his captors only to have the wind knocked out of him by the other.
The crowd shrieks at the insult of the outsider’s presence. People begin to rise and move towards the intruder. John draws his second weapon and scans the believers, daring them to act.
"Release them, Peter."
"I am! I've let one go already and I shall finish the job!"
Robert lies dead on the steps, throat slashed open, blood pooled below. John's grips the weapon between damp palms.
"I drop my gun, you let the boy go. I think Varlyn would be pleased to hear you've captured me. You've got who you've came for, let the other two go."
"And you would die in their place?" Peter asks.
John stares at the whimpering boy. He sees Samuel. He sees Ezekiel. He sees Jane and Rose and his family.
"I would."
"Very well then."
Peter shoves Ben forward. The child falls from the stage and hits the ground hard, crying out in pain and fear. Jesse tears himself from the grip of his captors and runs to his nephew, gathering him up in his arms. He moves between the pews, eyes focused ahead, ignoring the jeers and shouts of the crowd.
He pauses before John.
"Thank you.” He passes on and out through the front of the church.
John lets his weapon drop, holstering the other, and lowers his arms. He is ready. Peter pulls from his robes the black revolver, polished to a blazing sheen, his hellish face reflected in the cold metal. He cocks the hammer and raises the weapon, aiming for John’s heart.
"I return you to the earth.”
"No!"
A shot rings out.
Silence falls over the church.
A member of the congregation screams. Peter gasps. A spring of blood spits forth from his chest, soaking his robes and gathering at his feet. He drops his weapon and scans the crowd.
Mrs. Carlyle stands atop her pew, the single-shot pistol in her hands. Her eyes open wide, face transformed from fear to fury. She hurls the weapon to the ground and takes her place beside the newcomer. John kneels, his mind blank with shock, scooping up his weapon and holding it loose in his hands.
Peter touches his wound. His hand comes away slick with red. He lets out a soft chuckle. His legs buckle and he sinks to his knees, breathing out a harsh stream, falling forward over the podium to the ground below. He stares up at the lights of the flickering candles. No light burns within him. Only darkness shrouds his mind.
"You killed him," a church member whispers.
The crowd begins to rise, some rushing forth towards Peter and weeping over his lifeless body. Others spit venom as they advance upon the two traitors. John lifts his weapon and draws his second in turn. A hand falls upon his arm. Mrs. Carlyle stands behind.
"We need to go.”

* * *

John and Mrs. Carlyle burst through the church entrance and sprint down the road. The shouts and screams of the flock follow. John glances back. They're no more than a hundred feet behind. Most follow with hands bare, hoping to beat and savage Peter’s killers. Others race to their houses to procure weapons.
They turn the corner, the saloon close. Jesse stands readying the carriage, prepping his escape. He turns, jaw dropping at the sight of the swarm behind them.
"Jesus Christ, move!" he shouts, grabbing hold of Mrs. Carlyle and lifting her into the carriage where Ben sits. He clambers to the top and gathers the reins.
John enters the abandoned building and snatches up his rifle. He sprints to his horse and returns the weapon to his bag, cutting the tethering rope and mounting the creature. A deafening burst of gunfire follows. A bullet whizzes past.
"Go!" he shouts, firing a warning shot that scatters the band.
The carriage rolls forward at a frightening speed. Angered cries and damnations follow them. Bullets bounce off the carriage and send chunks of wood flying. John rears his horse back and takes off, leaving Garrison forever in the dust.