The Pact

By: D.A. Madigan

Narrated by: Virtual Voice

DEVIL WITH THE DEAD FLESH ON

The younger fell to its knees. "Will you help me," it begged, its voice very formal now.

The elder traced a long, inhumanly jointed finger over the younger's cheek. The finger ended in a sharp, curved claw. The cheek bled from the caress.

"I shall remove the flesh from your bones," the elder hissed, "leaving only your tongue, which you shall gratify me with for hours."

The younger trembled. "Oh my darling," it whispered, "you truly do love me."

The elder smiled. "Of course I do."

It ripped the younger's throat open, and bent to feast.

* * *

Prologue

The WKBW Accuweather forecast on the 11 o'clock news had called for a cold, hard rain and temperatures in the 40s that night. As usual, they were off a little. The perky blonde in her sleeveless blue dress whose skirt ended three inches above the knee had completely whiffed on the sudden blast of cold air that had swooped down from Canada just after midnight. So the cold hard rain had turned into what the perky blonde would have fulsomely called a 'wintry mix', had she seen it coming, and Mike Drummond was standing there at a crime scene with his parka soaking through to his shoulders and sleet chunking up in his hair and his neat, sandy mustache and goatee.

In addition to Mike's car there was an ambo and a Dixon County Sheriff's car. Only the cop car was running its lights, which meant no live patient to be tended to or transported. Sheriff Ken Sawyer was standing with the local coroner, Ted Haskell, peering down at a body that had been covered by a tarp when Mike had arrived five minutes before. They were both smoking cigarettes, a habit Mikey privately found disgusting.

Mike had tried to ask a few questions -- that was all he needed at this point, a few answers -- but the Sheriff had only been waiting for the coroner to show up and had brushed Mike off.

Of course, he knew who Mike was, he remembered all that stupid shit that had happened towards the end of Mike’s senior year of high school. Way too many people did. It simultaneously made Mike a beloved figure of local mythology, and at the same time, someone nobody really took seriously.

A Chevy Biscayne Mike recognized pulled up and parked as well. The Chevy's driver door opened, and Bob Albrecht got out. Bob Albrecht had been Mike Drummond's best friend since kindergarten. They’d slogged through a lot of shit storms together, including the events occurring at the end of their high school senior year. Funny how the exact same events hadn’t turned Bob into a fucking joke; he was as much a local legend as Mikey, but people had a lot of respect for him.

Don’t get bitter, Mike, it’s not a good look for you.

Mike hustled over to him as Bob slammed his car door shut, shutting off Mick Jagger in mid-plea. Mikey shivered a little; he hated that song. In his experience, the Devil was neither a man of wealth nor taste.

Mike and Bobby shook hands, Bob's eyes widening. "Jesus, Mickey, what are you doing out here in this shit?"

"I'm the on call sitting the suicide desk at RO tonight," Mike replied. 'RO' was 'Richard Olmstedt', a well known mental hospital in Buffalo, thirty miles away. "We got a call at 11:57 that sounded very bad, and they hung up. It traced out to the Layton switch. I heard the squeal driving up so I wanted to make sure..." He shrugged. "But they're much too busy."

Bob clapped him on the shoulder. "Lemme see what I can do," he said. He jogged over to where the other two men were standing.