Thursday, Oct. 30, 1997 | 10:01 a.m.
The "Halloween Fetish and Fiends Ball" was in full swing, as women in catsuits and men in capes chewed on caramel apples and gossiped about the splendid spread.
It was the opening night at the enchanting new Purgatory mega-resort with its otherworldly theme, and "Buck" O'Rama, the legendary Irish mogul, was determined to put on a show.
Buck, dressed up in a natty suit to portray his hero, the late Bugsy Siegel, surveyed the Spook-O-Rama Ballroom, proudly reveling in the fruits of his vision.
It hadn't been easy, he thought. Sure, the tearing down had gone smoothly, but construction on Purgatory had been plagued from the start, with devilish little spills and accidents -- seemingly without logical explanation -- driving up costs.
Then there was that most unfortunate incident when runaway scaffolding had flattened his architect and spooked his whole staff, despite his pooh-poohing their fears.
O'Rama hadn't told anybody about those recurring dreams where that poor Skip Whatchama-Call-Him The Second fellow had come after him with an electric buzz saw.
Certainly not Angie, his soulless, social climbing wife, who once peddled cigarettes at the Dunes and made change for the Sands slots. That was long ago, when those hotel relics mattered.
He had no illusions about his wife. She was a slick, sexy opportunist who would have delighted in his discomfort over his nightmares. The naked contempt she showed for him in private chilled his soul.
But she was one hell of a trophy wife in public. Their marriage was a business deal, plain and simple.
And so what? At last, here he was in Purgatory, the shining product of his -- well, not really his -- blood, sweat and tears.
Buck O'Rama left Angie -- phony smile plastered on her face as she chatted up the councilman -- and strode purposefully up to the podium. With his perfunctory, "Ladies and Gentlemen," the crowd quieted instantly, paying their respect.
But before he could launch into his speech thanking his mother, his agent, and his bookie for making it all possible, the microphone in his hands suddenly began hissing and writhing like a cobra possessed, then went limp.
While Buck was busy slapping the microphone against the podium and screaming for his hapless assistant Lefty, outside the hotel, the lights on the giant neon billboard began to flicker.
In the corner, unseen by any of the invited guests, lurked the shadowy figures -- floating ominously a few feet off the ballroom floor -- of Mr. Sands and Mr. Dunes.
"The lights," Mr. Sands whispered creakily.
"Yes," Mr. Dunes groaned back. "It's beginning."
Mr. Sands and Mr. Dunes flashed back to a vision of opening nights of the past, the starlets, the martinis, the smell of hope -- and cash -- in the air.
Then their thoughts blackened, skipping ahead to final painful memories of the jubilant crowds counting down to their destruction, the boom, the flames, the smoke, the ashes, the crumpling, the ruin, the pain.
Suddenly, the Spook-O-Rama Ballroom went pitch black. Out of the darkness rose a gut-wrenching cacophony of screams, and the T-H-U-M-PPPPP of a body as it hit the ground.
Then a rrrrrrumble. The distant, yet unmistakable echo of an implosion.
Mr. Sands and Mr. Dunes giggled wildly, then faded away, as chaos descended.
Outside, the brisk night air was suddenly pierced by the screeching of tires as a jet black sports coup sped off, merging into the darkness.
* In the musty office of Silver State Power Company, the alarm button on Chuck Golightly's control panel began to flash madly.
"Not now!" Chuck groaned, putting aside his copy of "BioElectroMagneticRadiowave Theory Today."
He was the only one left in the office tonight, refusing to participate in the local festivities, which, in his eyes, involved dressing in some hideous disguise, being made to bob for apples, and suffering other indignities.
Leave that to his insufferable ex-wife, Angie, who was probably sweet-talking her short-tempered Prince Buck this very minute.
Bitterness swelled up inside of him like bile. "They deserve each other," he spat out under his breath. "Damn them."
Chuck scanned his computer system, seeing the abnormally high reading coming from a little-used gauge marked "Hoover Dam."
Just then the phone jangled. On the line: Skip Flowingly III, Hoover Dam's head engineer, and his old college buddy.
Skip's family was practically an institution. His grandfather, Flowingly Sr., had been one of the dam's earliest designers, back when it was still a pipe dream. His dad was one of Las Vegas' most respected architects.
Skip had told him some dam tales so creepy, Golightly still shuddered every time he went down there.
Like the one about that 50-pound rat they had found feeding off the generator's water supply ... Or the ecstatic moans that could be heard from behind the concrete, said to be of construction workers who'd squandered all their money in Block 16, the old red light district ...
Ghastly stuff.
But Skip had been even more unbalanced lately.
His behavior turned positively creepy after losing his dad -- whom that despicable ol' money-bags Buck O'Rama kept calling that poor Skip Whatchama-Call-Him The Second ("no respect!" Skip Jr. would rail) -- in that "accident" at the Purgatory construction site this year.
Then his grief-stricken grandfather, the Dam legend Flowingly Sr., died of a stroke the following day. The famous family was in ruins.
Skip had gone off the deep end, hiding out in the dam and vowing his revenge. He'd even hinted that he'd seen his grandfather's ghost wandering the tunnels.
Before Golightly had a chance to get out a word on the phone, Skip said cryptically: "You want to know what's going on? You better get down here -- now."
Then there was a click.
Golightly stormed out of the empty office building, jumped in his truck, and whizzed out along the curving road heading towards Arizona.
He quickly realized how different the route was after dark. Even Boulder City's main drag was deserted, save for a few trick-or-treaters wearing dingy sheets.
The winds whispered eerily along the Black Canyon walls, and the gleaming eyes peeping out from the side of the road unsettled him, even after he realized they were just curious Big Horn sheep.
He found Skip Flowingly III in his office, oddly calm, snacking on a bowl of candy corn on his desk. "Love this stuff," he said, grabbing one last scoop, then snapped: "Follow me."
He handed Golightly a yellow hardhat and a flashlight, and beckoned him down the hall.
They stepped into the metallic freight elevator, and screeched to a stop far below the surface, where the damp, dank tunnels led into the darkness.
"What is going on?" Golightly demanded.
"Well," Skip started to say, as they stepped out into the tunnel.
Just then, there was a bright flash, and the two whirled around...
"Well ... the ... gang's ... all ... here," said a strangely hollow voice, each word inflicted like a knife wound.
A stunned pause hung over the tunnel, as figures slowly emerged from the shadows.
Then ... three words shattered the awful silence:
"Welcome to Purgatory ..."
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