Slowly, with great care and no great hurry, he sat up. Then he stood up and righted his chair, sliding it back toward the table. He bent and picked up his textbook and set it on the table, then went over to the cupboard above the sink and got down the big bottle of Advil. Mom had bottles of it all over the house. He popped off the cap and shook six geltabs into his palm and popped them into his mouth, washing it down with two glasses of tap water. Then he went back to studying.
(2)
Tow-Truck Eddie came in from his part-time job and threw his hat onto the chair by the door, unbuckled his equipment belt and hung it over the back of the chair, and walked across the living room to switch on the TV. It was tuned to a religious station, but he used the remote to prowl around until he found the local news station, broadcast from the student-run TV studio at Pinelands College. Mayor Terry Wolfe was speaking to a group of reporters. Flashes popped so fast it looked like Wolfe was standing in a strobe light. From what he could tell it looked like the press conference had just started and Eddie stood there, fascinated, hanging on every word. He had always respected the mayor. It always seemed to Eddie that Wolfe shone with a very bright, very pure inner light despite his being a Jew. Of course, he knew from town chatter that Wolfe hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue in years, so maybe the Light of Truth had broken through for him. Eddie hoped so. He liked the mayor and would hate to see him swept away when God cleansed the world.
Thinking that, Eddie glanced at the calendar thumb-tacked to the wall by the kitchenette. Eddie had circled the 31st of October with many red rings that had gone round and round until they had cut through the glossy paper. He had torn off the pages for November and December because they wouldn’t be happening now. The world was going to end on what the pagans called Halloween. That was what God had told him, speaking in his head day after day.
Into his mind flashed an image of the evil imp disguised as a boy on a bicycle that God in His glory had revealed to Eddie as the Antichrist. The Beast. All day yesterday Eddie had prowled the roads in his wrecker looking for the Beast, certain that he would find him, and he had found nothing. When he had come home late last night to change into his police uniform, he wondered if his belief that he would find the Beast was a prideful thing, and if so, maybe it was that sin that had resulted in his failure to do so. He prayed for forgiveness and for strength to aid him in his search.
He closed his eyes for a moment so that he could recall the passage from John 2:18, “Dear children, this is the last hour; and as you have heard that the antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have come. This is how we know it is the last hour.”
Every chance he could he took his wrecker out and prowled the roads looking for the Beast, and each time he found nothing. Not a single trace, and no hints or guidance from above. Why was it so hard? It had to be some kind of test, he was sure of it. Sitting there while the press conference rambled on, Eddie picked up one of his Bibles and searched for passages about arrogance and pride, trying to burn the words into his brain. He swore to his Father that he would never let pride overcome his judgment. Next time he would make sure the Beast was dead. Dead for good and all. Opening the way to God’s promised thousand years of peace on Earth. He smiled.
Eddie turned back to the TV screen and continued to smile at Mayor Wolfe’s face. Yes, here was one who could be saved, and he recited from Romans 13: “The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.”
Thinking this, he stripped off his clothes so that his own armor of light would glow from beneath his skin and shine throughout his house, and then he went upstairs to pray.
(3)
When Terry left the press conference he had every intention of just driving home, popping a handful of Xanax, and climbing back into bed. He did get into his car and did drive away, but just as he braked at the stoplight a voice next to him said, “Everyone respects you, Terry. Everyone likes you.”
He turned and looked at Mandy, who was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, her large green eyes filled with light, her pale heart-shaped face framed by masses of red curls—a brighter red than Terry’s darker reddish brown. Terry gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the leather cover creaked within his fists. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then popped them open, hoping that it would have cleared his vision of the sight of her. Mandy was twirling a strand of hair around one finger. The front of her green dress was slashed and hung in red tatters down her chest.
“You have to leave me alone,” he said.
Mandy sighed. “Everyone in town loves you, Terry. They trust you.”
“Go away.”
“They rely on you to try and make things right. That’s what you do.” Her voice was Mandy’s but the diction was that of the adult she had never lived to become. “If you keep doing this then you’re going to let everyone down.” She reached out with a blood-caked finger and touched his sleeve. Terry whimpered at the touch and jerked his arm away. The streetlight turned green and the car behind him tooted its horn. “If you keep doing this you’re going to hurt everyone—”
“Stop this, goddamnit! You’ve got to stop saying this stuff—”
“Terry…if you keep trying to fight it, you’re only going to lose. You know that. It’s getting stronger, Terry. He’s getting stronger. You’re falling apart, and when you break down it will take over.” Mandy leaned toward him and he cut a look at her face. There was nothing childlike in those green eyes, nothing innocent in the harsh curl of her lips as she said, “You’re going to be just like him and you know it!”
Screaming in denial, Terry stamped down on the brakes and at the same time swept a backhand toward her. Not to hit her, but to drive her back, to drive away what she was saying. His hand met no resistance until it thumped against the backrest of the empty seat.
With trembling hands he dug in his pocket for his pill case, fumbled it open, and popped a blue 1-milligram Xanax tab into his mouth. There were only three more in the case, and only one of the 4-mg Risperdals—not that the antipsychotics were doing him any good. The Xanax was better because it just mellowed the edges of things. As soon as he could trust himself to operate the car, he drove straight to the pharmacy to get his prescription refilled.
(4)
Mike Sweeney sat on the edge of his bed holding an ice pack to his face, wondering why he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. Vic had hit him a good one and Mike was an expert on bruising. He could always predict how big a bruise would follow a certain kind of hit, how much it would hurt, when it would fade. This one should have been a solid seven on his pain scale, and he should be feeling a dull ache at the base of his skull. Whiplash was another old comrade, but even though there was redness and swelling, it wasn’t half of what he expected it to be. Maybe not a quarter as bad.