Chapter 16: Adding up the score

NEWS ITEM: STOCKTON, Calif. -- A 26-year-old drifter wearing a shirt with the word “Satan” on it, opned fire on a schoolyard jammed with laughing children, killing five and wounding 30 before committing suicide.
The gunman, wearing a military flak jacket and earplugs, killed himself with a bullet to the head after firing about 60 rounds from a Soviet AK-47 assault rifle at hundreds of youngsters enjoying recess. There was no apparent motive.
The killer parked his station wagon behind the school. The car burst into flames in a fire possibly set as a diversion. Then the 5-foot-11, 140-pound killer entered the campus through a hole in a fence with the bayonet-equipped semi-automatic rifle and two handguns. He opened fire from the west side of the campus, then moved to the east side and continued spraying the screaming children before turning the rifle on himself.
“He was just standing there with a gun, making wide sweeps, “recalled a teacher. “He was not talking, he was not yelling, he was very straight-faced.”
As police cleaned up the carnage, a large handgun and the assault rifle were seen lying on the ground near a pool of blood. Written on the pistol's handle was the word “Victory.”
“He seemed like a real nice young man,” a next-door neighbor said. The gunman's parents were divorced. He was a loner and a drifter, holding temporary jobs in Memphis, Tenn., Bridgeport, Conn. and Bakersfield, Calif.
____

Screwtape put down the paper and picked up the phone. He dialed the number of the Sub-Chief Demon in Charge of the Western States.
“Score?” Screwtape asked.
“Sir?” responded Sub-Chief Squort.
“How many sweets have you got for me, Squort?”
“Er...you mean from the recent event, sir?”
“Out with it, Squort,” Screwtape snapped. “What's the score? What's the result of this nice, bloody, headline-grabbing mess?”
“Er...one, sir.” How many did he expect? One soul fairly turned, one sweet for the Boss.
“One.” Screwtape's voice was ice. It was bitter cold on the other end of the line.
No answer. Squort breathed in. He breathed out.
“One. You give me one sweet.You give the Enemy FIVE! Five to one!” Screwtape bellowed. “Is that FAIR? Do you call THAT productive? Five to ONE?”
Squort was silent.
“Are you CRAZY? Are all sub-demons CRAZY? Do you all crave to be DEVOURED? I just got off the phone with Glubwart about this very thing!
“The Enemy is giving us our heads on a platter, and you just sit there and smile? Five to one you count as success? You sit back and grin and take it?
“By the way -- that business about heads on a platter -- in MY case, it's figurative -- in YOUR case, I'm afraid, it's quite literal.”
Screwtape made a vulgar smacking sound with his lips. 

Chapter 15: Below quota

 Something was not right. Screwtape had been feeling it for several days now. He felt uneasy; like something was creeping up his spine. It wasn't just a mood; this was bad. This was worse than he had felt when Mahatma Ghandi turned his back on violence; worse even than when the black humans were freed from slavery; when that dear old “Peculiar Institution” faltered.

The last time Screwtape felt this bad was when...was when it all began ... when the Enemy stopped fighting fair; suddenly gave the miserable humans a free lunch -- a ticket out -- that damned carpenter! Talk about a bully! It could have been the end of the Boss' Kingdom right then and there -- lucky not so many of the human stench found out what was going on -- cashed in their winning lottery tickets -- out of Screwtape's clutches forever.

Yes, it was bad -- real bad. This was getting under his scales. Screwtape shivered. A jangling went through Screwtape to his innermost blackness. He shuddered, reached into his secret drawer, and picked up the red phone.

His hot blood stopped pumping, chilled with sudden terror. The boss' voice was bellowing at him, unannounced. No intermediary, no warning. No mock-polite, ominous “The Boss will be speaking with you in a moment, Mr. Screwtape.” The sheer unexpectedness of it, the uniqueness made Screwtape know instantly something awful, terrible was happening.

“SCREWTAPE! the awful voice from the nether regions shrieked. What are you doing up there -- going to mass, church socials and bar mitzvahs? Are you trying to out-goody the goody two shoes? I want jewels, Screwtape, jewels -- and if I don't get them...” a black fist smote Screwtape on the jaw so hard he fell out of his swivel chair. The threat was awesome, potent, palpable.

“Sir, I --”

“Don't suck up to me, Screwtape! Just deliver! If you can't, I'll get someone else who can -- after I've gnawed your bones clean and sucked out the marrow.”

There was black silence on the other end of the line. Screwtape was shaking. He felt weak, ready to vomit. He had felt the Boss' ire before, but nothing like this. Something must really be eating him. Hah. No pun intended. He picked up the phone, dialed and shrieked at Glubwart. “GLUBWART!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Yes, sir, sir, sir,” Screwtape mocked. His voice was shaking with fear and rage. “You're below quota, Glubwart! 

Chapter 14: What dreams may come

A different, darker Mary returned home to Miz Gryder's place.

“What's wrong, child?” Miz Gryder called from the kitchen. She didn't even need to turn around; it was that obvious.

“Nothing, ma'am. I just don't feel good.” Mary went straight to her room and lay down. Miz Gryder followed her, but she stopped at the door when she heard the girl's soft, deep breathing. Mary had dropped into bed and instantly fallen asleep. Miz Gryder frowned, turned and walked slowly back down the hall. She was halfway down the hall when a wave struck and rolled over her, knotting her stomach and frizzing her hair. Her heart was pounding in her chest before the realization came: a single, razor-sharp shriek of anguish had sliced through her heart.

Panicked, she raced back down the hall. Mary's door was locked. She pounded on the heavy wood, scraping the skin off her knuckles.

“Mary!...Mary!...Open up!”

Miz Gryder was growing desperate. “Mary!...Mary! I'm here, child, I'm here.”

Suddenly, Mary was there in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.

“W-what's the matter?”

“What's the matter? Why don't you tell me? You screamed. I thought you was in pain.”

“I-I'm sorry, Miz Gryder,” Mary mumbled, sleep slurring her tongue. I must've been dreaming again.”

“Tell me about it, hon.'“

“It...it was a just a dream; nothing to tell.”

“You'll tell me when you're ready, I reckon.”

Mary slipped back into unconsciousness; into a dreamless void. A jangling noise, followed by Miz Gryder's steps creaking on the hardwood floor brought her back to the land of the living. She heard Miz Gryder's voice muffled through the door, distance and the faint roaring of sleep still in her ears.

Mary struggled to her feet and made her way out into the hall, then down the hall to the living room, past the small table where the black telephone rested on a white starched doily. Miz Gryder wasn't there. Mary found her in the kitchen, eating a late snack.

“Was that the phone just now?” she asked her landlady.

“It was the Langston boy,” Miz Gryder said. “He was calling for you. I told him you was sleeping; he don't have no business callin' this time of night, anyway.”

It was after 10 p.m. Decent folk didn't call after 9 p.m. Miz Gryder finished her cornbread and buttermilk and announced, “Now back to bed! You need a good night's sleep.”

And Mary dreamed...She sat playing beside a small pond, her legs dangled lazily from a log into the water. The water began to glow until the surface was brilliant and sparkling. The light coalesced into a sphere and floated up, detaching itself from the surface of the pond. Suddenly the sky clouded over, dimming the brilliance of the glowing ball. The tops of the trees around the pond began to shake their arms and quiver, and a blast of wind scurried across the pond, darkening the surface with tiny, rapid ripples. Her glowing globe hovered and shook, twisted and careened dangerously. Mary called out...

Mary stayed home the next few days. She said she was sick, and Jim didn't make a stink about her not showing up for work. Miz Gryder thought that was odd, because Jim was not normally one to be considerate of his employees.

“What's the matter, Mary?” It was Joe. “I've been trying to call you for days. Why don't you ever answer?”

Mary didn't want to lie. She couldn't tell the truth. “Joe...I'm not feeling well. Maybe some other time.”

“You're not feeling well? What's wrong? Have you been to see a doctor?”

“It's not like that. Please...try to understand...”

“But I don't understand. You don't feel good, but you won't see a doctor.”

Joe suddenly felt like an alien from another planet. He didn't belong. He didn't understand. It was a female thing.

“How about next week?” He felt like a jerk. An idiot.

“I don't know. Maybe. Goodbye, Joe.”

“Goodbye.”