Splintered: The Labyrinth, Book 3, page 12
“Now it’s your turn to snap out of it,” Sarah interrupted.
“Sorry.”
Sarah crouched over, picked up a discarded napkin, and tore it into pieces. She then wadded those up and stuffed them into her ears.
“Spin your partner round and round,” Clyde sang, “and laugh like hell when they fall down!”
The crowd followed the instructions, spinning one another in circles and then abruptly sending their partners careening into each other. Purturabo repeated his earlier move, grasping the arms of two ecstatic partners and whirling so fast that they became a blur—until he launched them up into the air. They soared, arms and legs flailing, high over the bandstand and the treetops before crashing back to the crowd with sickening thumps.
“Go,” Sarah said, running toward the bandstand. “I’ll handle Clyde. I never cared much for country music anyway.”
“Be careful,” LeHorn urged, raising his voice so she’d hear him.
“You, too.”
She hurried off across the hill, and LeHorn noticed with some relief that she had the presence of mind to avoid going into the crowd. Turning his attention once more to the chaos, he was distressed to see that the violence was repeated throughout not just the park, but on the streets and yards beyond. Worse, Purturabo began to widen his attacks, mowing down more and more people in quick succession, and carving a bloody swath through the throng. LeHorn whimpered in horror as he saw a newborn infant tossed like a beach ball. Then something else got tossed into the air. Sausage links? No, he realized. Not sausage links. Intestines. Both their owner and the baby were reduced to pulp beneath the stomping feet of the revelers. LeHorn’s hands curled into fists, and he shook with sickening rage.
He took a deep breath, shuddering as he exhaled.
“Okay, you son of a bitch. Let’s dance.”
SARAH CREPT along the edges of the crowd, repulsed and terrified by the gruesome carnage unfolding all around her. Despite everything she’d been through—all the atrocities she’d witnessed during Behemoth and Leviathan’s reigns of terror on two different worlds – this was somehow worse. Maybe it was because the concertgoers seemed to be willing participants, gleefully stomping each other underfoot while waiting their turn to be butchered by Purturabo. The worst part was that there were no screams. Had this been like any other crowd stampede, or any other case of mass violence – a shooting spree or a vehicle barreling into the revelers – there would have been panic and shrieks punctuating the bloodshed. Instead, there were cheers and laughter, and the endless, driving beat as the glassy-eyed band played on. The slaughter was made even more surreal by the fact that it was occurring to a country music-styled boogie. The frenzied violence reminded her of the mosh pit at a hardcore music show, but instead, it was set to the perky strains of a banjo, steel guitar, and fiddle.
The music was the key. If she could silence Clyde and the other musicians, then maybe she’d also silence the horrifying sounds of celebration that rang out with every clawed face, gouged eye, punched jaw, kicked groin, stomped head, broken bone, crushed throat, impaled abdomen, and severed limb.
She made her way to the rear of the bandstand. The crowd was virtually nonexistent here, save for two young women and two children. One of the adults and both kids lay prone on their backs, sprawled in the grass. The other woman straddled one of the latter, her hands around their throat, squeezing so tightly that her fingers weren’t visible against the flesh. Sarah faltered to a halt, wide-eyed. The woman stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she glanced up at Sarah, and grinned.
“Come dance with me. My girlfriend won’t mind. We’ve already finished.”
Sarah held up her hands. “No thanks.”
The woman muttered something in response, but the napkin scraps stuffed in Sarah’s ears muted the words. Regardless, the woman’s intent was clear. She pranced toward Sarah, and her grin grew wider.
“Stay back,” Sarah warned. “You’re not yourself, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But I want to hurt you! And I want you to hurt me.”
“Take another step and you’ll get your wish.”
Laughing, the woman rushed her, arms outstretched. Sarah sidestepped the charge, grabbed her opponent’s ponytail, and yanked her backward. Instead of shrieking in pain, the woman’s laughter grew louder. Sarah gave her a savage twist, wrenching her head back, and then shoved her to the ground.
“Stay down. I don’t want—”
The woman leaned forward and bit her ankle. Yelling, Sarah jerked her foot free and kicked her opponent in the face. A sickening thrill came over her as she felt the woman’s nose burst beneath her shoe—a fluttering in her stomach not unlike arousal. She reared her foot back to kick again, but then staggered backward. The woman crouched on hands and knees, blood gushing onto the grass. Shaking her head, Sarah turned and fled.
Reaching the bandstand, she clambered up a small set of stairs and onto the stage. The band had their backs to her, oblivious to her presence, and the crowd were too engrossed in murdering each other to notice. She caught sight of Purturabo, whirling and spinning among them like a buzzsaw ripping through trees. Then she studied the array of equipment to her right—speakers, amplifiers, and a bewildering cluster of cables and power cords. Then Sarah noticed something else—an electrical box mounted to a pole in the far corner of the stage. She ran to it and pulled open the metal door. Inside were dozens of fuses. She reached out with both hands and quickly switched them all to the off position.
The band continued playing, but only for a moment—faltering one by one as they realized the amplification was gone. So, too, did the crowd.
The music stopped.
Silence descended upon the town.
Then, the screams began, and things got worse.
From her vantage point, it looked to Sarah as if the townspeople were waking from a collective nightmare. They gaped around them in horror, weeping and shrieking over their dead or injured loved ones. On stage, the musicians stared out at the crowd and then at one another in confusion. Shaking his head, Clyde glanced at his fiddle, and then back at the soundboard. Locking eyes with Sarah, he frowned.
“She unplugged us. Earl Harper’s friend. She’s messing with our set!”
Sarah held up her hands. “Hold on, now. You don’t understand…”
“I understand you killed the power.”
“I didn’t kill shit.” Sarah gestured at the crowd. “Are you blind? If anybody killed anything, it was—”
A new outcry of panic and terror swept through the park. Both Sarah and the band turned their attention back to the masses and saw Purturabo standing alone in the center of the crowd. The townspeople encircled him but gave the entity a wide berth. He held a teenage boy over his head. As they watched, helpless, he wrenched the child at the waist, twisting until the victim’s flesh ruptured and his insides spilled out, showering the monster. Then, Purturabo flung the still twitching corpse into the nearest group, knocking them to the ground. He turned to the stage and pointed one long finger at them.
“Keep playing!”
Despite her fear, Sarah couldn’t help but marvel at how clear and powerful the entity’s voice was. Purturabo sounded as if he was standing right next to them, rather than halfway across the park.
Clyde stammered in confusion. “W-wh…what is happening here?”
“You did this,” Sarah explained. “Maybe you knew what you were summoning or maybe you were just a pawn, but it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is stopping him.”
The crowd stampeded, running for the perceived safety of their homes and businesses. Like before, all civility and empathy for each other was discarded, but where that violence had previously originated by the music spell, it was now driven by pure panic. They pushed and shoved, running overtop each other. Sarah’s stomach lurched as she watched people sink beneath the throng and disappear. The chaos extended to the perimeter of the park, as well. Food trucks revved their engines and squealed tires in a race to get away. A van sideswiped a pickup truck. A massive recreational vehicle drove right overtop a red Volkswagen Beetle, crushing the smaller car beneath its bulk. The driver of the RV flung open his door, clambered down to the pavement, and ran away. Further in town, thick clouds of black smoke rose into the sky. Something near the Ponderosa exploded.
“Jesus Christ in a sidecar,” the banjo player moaned. “What is happening?”
The drummer jumped to his feet, knocking his stool over. “I got to get home! Janey’s at home with the grandbaby. I got to make sure they’re okay.”
“I wouldn’t go down there right now,” Sarah cautioned.
Ignoring her, he fled down the stairs, retreating to the rear of the park.
Growling, Purturabo stalked toward the stage, knocking frantic townspeople aside in his wrath.
“Oh shit,” Sarah muttered.
Trembling, Clyde watched Purturabo, and then turned back to Sarah. He put a hand to his chest. “That tall fella is coming to kill us, I think.”
Sarah nodded.
“Is he…is it the Devil?”
“No,” Sarah replied. “From what I understand, he’s something much worse than that.”
“Lady, there ain’t much worse than the Devil.”
Sarah glanced around for something to use as a weapon. “I think you’re about to be proven wrong.”
A volley of gunshots rang out from somewhere in town. Car horns blared. Sarah grabbed a microphone stand and tested its weight, finding it a satisfactory weapon. Then she turned her attention back to the chaos. Purturabo marched determinedly toward them, cutting a swath through the frightened townspeople. His countenance blazed with fury, and when they locked eyes, Sarah found herself unable to look away.
This must be how a mouse feels when the snake is approaching, she thought.
“Miss?”
It would be easier just to kill myself now. That’s way better than what he’ll do to me when he gets up here.
“Miss? We got to skedaddle.”
Blinking, Sarah shook her head and turned away. The banjo player tugged at her sleeve.
“W-what?”
“I said we ought to scat before that mean fella gets up on this here stage.”
Clyde and the other remaining musicians nodded emphatically.
“No,” Sarah said. “You’ve seen what he can do. Do you really think he can’t find you guys? Once he’s killed you, he’ll kill your families and your friends. He’ll kill this whole fucking town. And then he’ll move on to the next one. And the next one. And he’ll keep going. We’ve got to stop him before that happens!”
“And just how are we supposed to do that?” Clyde asked, still slowly massaging his chest.
“I’ve got a friend out there in the crowd somewhere who’s supposed to be working on that.”
“Begging your pardon, but if your friend was in that crowd, then there’s probably little chance of that now.”
Sarah frowned, thinking. LeHorn had said there was a possibility that—for reasons unknown—Purturabo was susceptible to Judeo-Christian rituals as well as binding and banishing rituals tailored to the Thirteen. Would prayer work against him? Maybe?
“I will make your bodies my instruments,” Purturabo yelled, closing in on the pavilion. “Your screams will be a new song!”
Sarah tightened her grip on the microphone stand. Then, she got an idea.
“Do you guys know any hymns?”
They gaped at her with expressions as if she’d just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.
“Only about fifty or so,” Clyde replied.
“Start playing! And put your hearts into it.”
Clyde blinked. “Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter! Just pick a fucking song.”
She ran across the stage to the power box, while the old men gathered their instruments, debated for a moment, and then launched into a song. As they did, Purturabo reached the bandstand and began to clamber over the side. He grinned, drooling, and small wisps of steam rose from where the droplets of his saliva fell.
“What a friend we have in Jesus,” they harmonized, even though their voices faltered in fear, “all our sins and griefs to bear…”
Sarah fumbled open the hatch, flipped all the switches, and the equipment powered up again with a squeal of electronic feedback. Immediately, the vocals grew louder.
“OH, WHAT PEACE WE OFTEN FORFEIT, OH WHAT NEEDLESS PAIN WE BEAR…”
Roaring, Purturabo recoiled as if he’d touched a hot stove. He toppled backward from the stage, landing in a pile of sticky, spilled gore. Quickly, he clambered to his feet, faltered, and then turned and fled, rushing back into the frightened masses.
“Keep playing,” Sarah yelled, snatching up the microphone stand. “Don’t stop for anything!”
“Where are you going?” Clyde asked.
“I’m going after the son of a bitch.”
Clutching her weapon, Sarah leaped into the fray.
AS THE TINY river town descended further into chaos, LeHorn found himself overwhelmed. Swept up in the fleeing mob, he couldn’t prepare an attack against Purturabo or even a defense from the entity’s machinations. It was all he could do just to avoid falling beneath the mad crush as the townsfolk raced along in blind panic. He glanced around frantically for Sarah, but it was impossible to see over the heads in the crowd. Still, he surmised that she had been at least partially successful in her mission. Clyde’s band had stopped playing for a moment, and when they started again, they’d switched to old time hymns. The spell that had been cast over the crowd with Purturabo’s arrival had seemingly been broken by the transition. No longer were they gleeful participants in the orgy of violence. Instead, they tried to escape the atrocities. And perhaps the dawning horror that they themselves had taken part in them. That was evidence that Purturabo’s power over the masses was connected to that one particular song, but LeHorn reasoned that it was still anecdotal as to whether or not Judeo-Christian workings had any effect on the entity. What was currently happening might not be connected to the hymns, after all. It was possible the spell could have just as easily been broken had the band played Elvis or the Beatles. Regardless, it was a promising sign, and right now he needed that spark of hope.
LeHorn smiled as ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’ transitioned to ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. The songs reminded him of the past—of singing them in church with his family, in the years before the bad times. Despite Purturabo’s threat to this level, and his own personal peril, LeHorn was filled with a sudden deep and powerful longing—a heartbreaking nostalgia nearly crippling in its intensity.
As he ran across the grass, feeling the crush of people on all sides, a new round of screams erupted from somewhere behind him. LeHorn didn’t dare risk a glance backward. Even a second’s delay could lead to him being crushed in the stampede. He needed to get free of the mob and find a place where he could work. The tide headed toward a food truck which had been knocked over on its side. Fumbling, he managed to snatch up a fallen plastic saltshaker from the wreckage before being buoyed onward. Judging by its weight, the container was full. He stuck the object in his pocket.
Spotting a line of porta-potties ahead, LeHorn squared his shoulders and pushed against the tide, struggling to reach them. Three times he shoved forward and to the right, and each time he was rebuffed by the tide. On his fourth try, he not only reached the units, but was smashed face-first against them. He struggled to breathe as his face was mushed against the hard fiberglass. He rammed an elbow backward, jamming his faceless antagonist in the abdomen, and then, he was suddenly free. LeHorn jumped, catching the lip of the roof with his fingers, and then scrambled for purchase. He quickly pulled himself up, and then stood atop the porta-potty, surveying the carnage. His eyes grew wide, and he gasped in distress.
While Purturabo’s hold over the townspeople had indeed been broken, it hadn’t lessened the slaughter. The entity danced through the throng, ripping and smashing and tearing, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake, like some obscene, murderous lawnmower cutting down human blades of grass. His form had changed. He still held his human traits, but he’d grown taller, now towering over the others. His arms had lengthened, as well, and his fingertips now sported black, curved talons. His eyes were black, smoking holes from which wisps of dark energy flowed. His dance of death seemed directionless—first to the left and then the right, then a hop backward and a skip forward, but each move ended in another dismemberment or death.
LeHorn spread his feet and locked his knees. He took a deep breath, focused, and then exhaled. Yanking the saltshaker from his pocket, he poured a circle of salt around himself. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and charged the circle, channeling some of his energy into it. Then he opened his eyes, dumped the remainder in his pocket and tossed the empty shaker into the crowd below. He muttered a prayer while pondering how best to bind the entity. Johann Scheible’s method from the 1849 edition of Das Kloster would probably work, but it required the blood of two white doves and other ingredients that he lacked. So did most of the other spells that were more likely to succeed. Realizing that he would have to rely on powwow, LeHorn quickly searched his memory, trying to recall the appropriate text from The Sixth Book of Moses. LeHorn held his hands high in supplication and called out in a loud, commanding voice.
“I, Nelson LeHorn, a servant of God, exorcise you, Purturabo! By the blood sweat of—”
He faltered as Purturabo stopped dancing, and whirled around, fixing him with a malicious glare.
“B-by his divine love,” LeHorn continued, “mercy, providence, omnipotence, and immensity, and by all good works, and by these most sacred and terrible words. Hagios! Tetragrammaton! Ischyros—”
Seeming to grow even taller, Purturabo sprang into the air, leaping over the heads of the crowd and crashing into the figures streaming by the porta-potties. He loomed, standing eye level with LeHorn, and his form blocked out the sun.
