The Devil seemed extra vindictive. Ashe sat on his work stool across the room from Cybil who lay on the cot. The possessed corpse of Marianne kept watch over them from the corner nearest the door. Only Satan himself could have thought up such a diabolical plot. Even though he wasn’t one hundred percent sure Cybil wasn’t in the Devil’s fold, Ashe still wanted to talk to her, but with Marianne’s watchful eyes, the thought of even innocent conversation stalled.
The eyes that watched them were nothing like his late fiancée’s. These stared like doll’s eyes. Nothing of Marianne lived within the shell of her body. The stiffness in her walk told him that the flesh was breaking down already. Still, there was something guilt inducing about her being there. He gave over to the temptation of Cybil too quickly. Maybe that was what mourning did to people sometimes.
He tried to read the novel Czernobog gave him. Although the movie had scared the daylights out of him as a kid, the novel of The Exorcist didn’t really keep his attention. Many things rattled around in his head though. Holding the book was more to keep Cybil from talking to him than anything else.
“Did he give you that?” Cybil asked, breaking a long silence that Ashe wished would have stayed unbroken.
“Yeah.”
“Quite a sense of humor he has.”
Ashe set the book down. There was no reason to attempt to pretend he still read it. “That’s what I thought when he gave it to me.”
“And he leaves us with her.”
A twinge of guilt twisted inside of Ashe. Why did Cybil have to acknowledge her? Why did the Marianne thing have to just watch them in silence? A roaring ball of emotion threatened to burst from him, when the door opened. The tall black woman he’d encountered at his first Mardi Gras parade, which now seemed centuries ago, stepped inside carrying several colorful garments over her arm. He remembered that before she walked out of a hospital in Birmingham her name had been Heinz. Now he had no idea what her name was.
“The Master wishes for you to pick out a costume for tomorrow evening.” Her voice fell flat and cold to the floor, gray words for bright clothes.
“What if you tell your master I’m happy with the clothes I’ve got on,” Ashe said.
“That is unacceptable,” Marianne said. “The Master wishes for you to wear garments like everyone else will tomorrow.”
“I’m not planning on riding in your death parade,” Ashe said. “I made the deal to build the engram machines, not to toss out beads.”
“The Master demands it,” Heinz said.
“You will do what the Master says.” Marianne shuffled across the room. She took Cybil by the arm. Twisting it, she pulled her to a standing position. “He said that if you did not cooperate I was to deal with her.”
Ashe stared into Marianne’s dead eyes, then to those of Cybil, which held terror inside of them. Heinz’s eyes were as doll-like as Marianne’s. The words he had recorded on the engram device came to him. Smalls told him they should expel evil spirits. He licked his lips ready to say them. Before he started, memories surfaced. Several of the possessed corpses were in the room when he recorded the words. Nothing happened to them. If he said the incantation and it worked, then Czernobog would keep his promise to harm Cybil. Also if the chant hadn’t worked when he recorded it would it work tomorrow night? Maybe it needed to be said louder than a whisper or more frequently.
Cybil sucked in breath between clenched teeth. Ashe stared at her. Marianne twisted her arm more severely. It looked almost like the twist of a pretzel. He couldn’t risk the incantation right now. A blue outfit with silver sequins was on top of the pile Heinz held.
“I’ll take the top one,” he said.
“Very wise choice, Dr. Shrove.” Marianne let go of Cybil. “What color for you?”
Cybil looked at Heinz. Tears pooled in her eyes. “Whatever is next in the stack will be fine.”
“Very good.” Heinz handed Ashe the blue suit and Cybil an orange one below it. “Try them on. If they do not fit, they must be altered. The Master insists.”
“He’s being very insistent,” Ashe said with as much sarcasm as he could pack in the words. He hoped the long damned heretics would still understand that nuance of language even if contractions mystified them.
“All must be perfect,” Marianne said. “The Master insists.”
Ashe held his blue parade costume in his hand. He hoped that things wouldn’t go perfectly for Czernobog. He hoped that his mechanisms would work. If only Smalls could get him a message or he could get one to the priest, his mind might be better settled. As of now, he could only try on his gaudy parade pajamas.
Security Camera: Mobile County Jail, Mobile, AL, 11:00 p.m. CST
Rogers lies on the lowest bunk on the triple-bunk bed. Two prisoners sleep on the bunks above him. Flames flash up from the floor. Czernobog steps out of them, and they die away. Rogers rolls off the bed and onto his feet. The other two prisoners jump down from their bunks. The Devil touches the bars on the door. They smoke and melt away. He steps into the cell.
The two prisoners stumble away from him. A stream of fire like the blast from a flamethrower erupts from Czernobog’s hand. The flash fire burns the two prisoners to a pile of ashes in a few moments. The Devil turns to Rogers. The psychologist backs away until his back is against the bunk. He screams. He claws on the bed trying to get higher up and farther away from the Devil.
Two deputies run to the cell with their weapons drawn. Czernobog turns to them. They press in on him, but he steps up to them. They fire their weapons. Bullets pierce Czernobog in his chest and stomach. They exit from his back. He smiles and extends his arm. Another jet of liquid fire propels from his open palm. The two deputies erupt in flame and smoke. When the flames peter out, only ashes remain.
The Devil turns back to Rogers, who has climbed to the top bed of the bunk. He reaches up and pulls the psychologist down. Rogers appears to bounce on the solid concrete floor. Czernobog picks him up by the hair. With a quick movement of Czernobog’s hand, Rogers’ body crumples to the floor, blood pouring from the gaping hole in his neck. The Devil holds the decapitated head firm in his hand. He shoots fire against the wall and patterns it in the shape of downward pointing pentagram.
Like an illusionist at a children’s party, he disappears in an expanding puff of smoke.