Devil's Kiss (27 page)

Sam rolled what was once his wife into a thick blanket, then a tarp, securing the bundle with rope. He dumped the foul-smelling thing in the back of the truck, then pulled out the Thompson submachine gun from under the seat, along with a drum and several boxes of ammunition. Walking back to the house, the Steiner's Doberman lunged at him, teeth bared, snarling. Sam kicked the animal savagely in the side, sending it away, yelping and whining in the night.

“Bastard!” the minister cursed, then looked heavenward. “Excuse me, Lord—but these are trying times.”

There was a great feeling of relief in Sam concerning his late wife. It was un-Christian of him, he knew, but on this he could not control his emotions.

In the house, the priest seemed able to read his thoughts. “Think of it this way, Sam, you were never married in the eyes of God. The ceremony was a farce from beginning to end. Put her out of your mind, for she never existed in God's eyes.”

“How do you have the power to get inside my head like that? How did you know what I was thinking?”

Dubois smiled, almost laughed. “Nothing mystical, Sam, I assure you.” He looked very frail, Sam's clothing hanging on him. “I saw the love in your eyes when you looked at Jane Ann this afternoon. Pure love. Good love, as it should be between a man and a woman. You need her, and she needs you. Now you're free to speak to her of your love, and she of hers. It will be a strong union, Sam, for as long—” He stopped abruptly.

“I know, Michael. You can go ahead and say it. I'm not going to survive this fight. I know that. I'll beat the devil here, but he'll kill me in the process. Won't he?”

Dubois's eyes were cloudy.
I—wish, I hope you and Jane Ann produce a son, Sam. There is time; you must!”

“I said something last evening, Michael, after the devil finished his games with me. I remember saying: ‘We'll meet again. Me or mine.' And I don't know why I said it.”

The priest said nothing, just slowly nodded his head, watching Sam feed cartridges into the sixty round drum for the SMG. He smiled. “Good, Sam—good! You're girding your loins for the fight. It will be up to you to lead.”

Sam's gaze was level. “Why me, Michael? And why do you want a son of mine to be born? To be conceived in the midst of all this horror?”

The old priest shrugged. “I rarely question God, son—it's not good business for mortals. I simply believe you've been chosen—by Him. And that is that.”

 

Driving out to the lake, past the darkened homes of Whitfield, the bundle of filth rolling and bumping in the bed of the truck, Sam said, “Michelle could not have been the only one of her kind. There has to be more.”

“Yes, Sam, many of them. Probably in every town and city in the world. But not like Michelle. There are, I believe, relatively few like her—thank the Lord. But those who can be easily swayed into accepting Satan's doctrine of evil? Millions, Sam, millions. Catholic, Protestant, Jew, Moslem. In most cases they don't know they can be—and most would deny it. But if one knows what to look for, they are easily spotted. They are the rumor-spreaders, the gossip-mongers, the profane. They are the hypocrites, the people who condemn others for their faith, or because of their skin, or the slant of their eyes, or, just look at that filth, Hitler, because one is a Jew. They are the vicious, both physically and verbally. I could go on and on, but you know as well as I.”

“I know there are some people in this world who need killing,” Sam said bluntly.

Dubois chuckled. “My, you are a maverick, aren't you? He chose well.”

“What you said, Michael; that takes in about sixty or seventy percent of the population.”

“At least, Sam. Heaven, my boy, will be sparsely populated. And there are going to be a lot of very surprised people come Judgment Day.”

Sam chuckled. “I hope I won't be one of them.”

“You won't.” Dubois said it with finality.

Thank you for that,” Sam said dryly. “Michael, what you said about those types of people; most psychiatrists would argue that those people are just suffering from some type of mental problem.”

Father Dubois again chuckled, darkly. “George Herbert said it best, Sam:
He that lies with dogs, riseth with fleas.' ”

“The company one keeps.”

“Exactly. Most psychiatrists are, in my opinion, grossly out of touch with reality. Most eggheads are. It's very easy—convenient, even—to place a clinical term on a person who is basically just not a fit human being. And never will be,” he added.

“We're entering the age of Liberalism, Sam, and it's going to be awful! ‘Poor little Sammy or Johnny or Susie doesn't know right from wrong' will be the battle cry of the next couple of decades. And that has got to be one of the most ridiculous statements ever uttered from the mouths of so-called educated men. Good heavens! Pavlov taught his
dogs
right from wrong.

“Oh, certainly, Sam, there are people with mental problems. Only a fool would deny that. But as for the others I mentioned—no! You know and I know, Sam, that if we all would be willing to accept just a little less of material things, understand a little more—of those who need and want understanding, that is—what a wonderful place this earth would be. God is the answer, if people would just trust in Him, believe in Him, and do His bidding. But,” again he shrugged, “they won't. Most never have; they never will.”

He looked at Sam. “I've lectured you, Sam. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

When the priest spoke again, his voice was wistful. “I'm ready to go home. I
want
to go home. I'm tired of this earth and all its troubles. Troubles, I might add, as you well know, brought on by its grasping, greedy, ignorant, bigoted, shallow, arrogant inhabitants.

“There will be a Holy War someday, Sam—of sorts. It won't be called a Holy War, but it will be one; it will be the war to end all wars, for it will be directed by God. And it will be a blood bath against the un-Holy.”

“And when it's over?” Sam asked softly.

“God will end the world.”

Sam dragged the tarp-wrapped carcass to the fence surrounding Tyson's Lake.

“Dump it over the fence,” Dubois said.

The body dropped with a plop.

“Beasts of the night,” Dubois called out, and there was a stirring in the dark timber. “Here is your sister. Come see what God's hand has destroyed.”

The Beasts came to the timberline. Sam clicked the Thompson SMG off safety, lifting the muzzle. “How many of them are there?”

“The Lord only knows,” Dubois whispered. “Let them come closer, if they will.”

The night was silent.

“Don't you want to feast on her stinking remains?” Dubois called.

But the Beasts refused to come closer. They prowled the darkness of the timber, snarling and growling. The smell of them drifted to the men by the fence.

“They know—somehow—it's a trap,” Sam said.

Father Dubois looked down at the tarp-wrapped, nonhuman thing on the other side of the fence. “Leave her. Let's go. You're free of her, Sam.”

“To Hell with her!” Sam spat the words.

The priest glanced at him. He smiled. “A very blunt way of summing up a most interesting evening, son. Blunt, but accurate.”

When the men had gone, and the Beasts were sure of that, they loped up from the timber to the carcass. Ripping the tarp and blanket from her, they dragged the body to the timber. There, they feasted.

Jimmy Perkins was waiting at the rectory when Sam pulled in.

“What's wrong, Jimmy?” Sam asked, looking at the young man's pale face.

“Father Haskell. He's dead! Beaten to death.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “When I went to get Doctor King, someone took the body. The body is gone!”

Dubois did not appear stunned or shocked. He crossed himself and said, “We killed one of them, they killed one of us.”

“But they outnumber us, Father Dubois!” Jimmy protested.

“In a manner of speaking,” the priest replied.

“There's more,” the young Chief said.
Someone has just dug up John's body—carried it off with them.” He looked at Sam. “What you said about the Undead; is that true?”

“Yes,” Du is answered for Sam. “They're walking the night.”

Jimmy shivered. “Like in the movies?”

“With one exception,” Dubois said. “This time it's real.”

Sam slept fitfully the remainder of that night, the memory of what had happened to Michelle strong in his mind. He could not shake the recall of that awful evening and her transformation. At dawn, he rose from the couch—he could not bring himself to sleep in either bedroom—and made a pot of strong coffee. He sat on the porch, sipping his coffee.

Waiting.

At midmorning, he called his friends together, drove over to Chester's, and told them all what had transpired the night before. And about the death and disappearance of Haskell.

“Killed her!” Chester blurted. “You and Father Dubois?”

“Oh, my God!” Faye covered her face with her hands.

“What did you do with her?” Wade asked, his tone indicating he wanted to believe but was having extreme difficulty.

Sam told him, bluntly, leaving nothing out.

The newsman closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dear God,” was all he said.

God's name, Sam thought, had been used more in the past few days than in the entire past year. He could not help thinking that in times of great stress, He is the one almost always called upon.

Tony moved to the window, looking out on the street. “Not one person moving.”

“It's too early,” Sam said. “The creatures of the night are still sleeping. Tony? You're armed? Good. Will you stay here with Miles? I want to take Wade and Chester for a little ride.”

 

The watchers let them leave. They had their instructions: let the God-believers prowl all they want. They can't get out of the County; all roads are checked.

The three men rode out to Tyson's Lake in Sam's truck. Noon-hot, the sun blazing down on the earth. The men were all armed. Chester wore a .45 in a shoulder holster; Wade had a .38 belted on. He had offered no objection when Sam told him to arm himself. The skeptic was turning into a believer. But he was not quite there—yet.

Sam drove past Hoge's Pool Hall. “Look on the window, Wade.” He pointed to the upside-down cross.

Wade nodded, the muscles in his jaw bunching.

Outside of town, Sam pointed to the 666 on the side of a barn.

Again, Wade nodded. “I'm getting the message, Sam.”

“I hope so,” the preacher said.

“Michelle is—Michelle is really—?”

“Dead. yes.” Sam spoke quietly, his voice just audible over the hum of tires and the rush of wind through the windows of the truck.

Wade looked out at the passing countryside. He said nothing.

 

“The lightning-blazed tree,” Sam pointed out. “You can still smell it.”

The men stood on the crest of the hill, overlooking Tyson's Lake, and the miles of emptiness surrounding it.

“Listen,” Sam said. “Listen with all your heart and your ears. Be very still, then tell me what you hear.”

The area was absolutely silent. Nothing sang, nothing barked, nothing moved. Wade shuddered.
Not a sound. Sam, I can pick up something. I don't know what it is, though.”

“Evil,” the minister said, touching Wade on the arm. He could feel the man's tension. “Come on. Move quietly, and be very careful. When we get to the edge of the lake, you'll be able to smell them. I believe if the odor is faint, they're in their holes or dens. If the odor is strong, they're out, watching us. Be careful when we get to the edge of the timber.”

“I wish I'd brought my 30-06,” Wade said.

“Are you beginning to believe?” Chester asked. Sam had to smile.

Wade chose not to reply as the men walked down the hill.

Sam stopped them by the side of the water. He pointed to the moist ground. Footprints stood out, like nothing either man had ever seen before. Wade knelt down, inspecting them.

“Bear?” he asked hopefully.

“You know better,” Sam said.

“God!” Chester said. “That smell is awful.”

“Brace yourselves,” Sam said. “We're moving in.”

I'm—not at all certain I want to do that,” Wade rose from his inspection of the tracks.

“Come on, skeptic. I thought you wanted to feel the nail holes in the sides, hands, and feet?”

“That's not funny, preacher!”

“I didn't mean it to be. Thomas didn't find it all that amusing, either.”

“All right, Sam—I'm sorry! Too much has happened too quickly, that's all.”

Sam put his hand on the man's shoulder. “I'm not chiding you, Wade. I just want you to be prepared for what you're about to see in there,” he nodded toward the timber, dark in the midday sun, as if no light could penetrate the evil within.

Sam felt the man stiffen under his hand.
What's wrong?”
What's wrong?”

“I saw something move in there!”

“I saw it, too,” Chester said.

Sam smiled. The man's skepticism was leaving like a jet fighter. “I know. They're watching us.”

Chester took his .45 from the holster, jacked a round in the chamber, put it on safety, and stuck it back in the leather. Sam looked closely at the older man. He could detect no signs of fear.

“Ready to go?” Sam asked.

Wade nodded, his fingers touching the butt of his pistol.

“All right. We'll only skirt the timber this time around.”

Wade's eyes widened. “This time? You mean there is going to be a
next time
?”

“If it's not too late for us, we'll have to come back and destroy them. All of them, if possible. I think I know how—we'll use explosives.”

Wade's expression was a mixture of horror, fear, and utter disbelief. “If it's not too late for us? Destroy them? Explosives?
Dear God!
”

“You must know it by now, Wade—whether you'll admit it or not—they killed your father; caused him to shoot himself. Your dad took his own life rather than become one of . . . Them.”

“Yeah,” the newsman reluctantly agreed. “It fits. All the disappearances over the years fit, too.”

“What disappearances over the years?” Sam asked. “What do you know that I need to know?”

“I was going to tell you part of it, Sam,” Chester said, not taking his eyes off the dark timber. “Wade can tell you the rest. It's something Whitfield doesn't like to talk about. Bums, hobos, wander through town, into this area, and are never seen again. I mean, they're seen going in, but never coming out. A few husbands have run away, leaving their families—they never came back. Other people have just left, not telling folks where they were going. The town never speaks of it. We never wanted any national publicity here.”

“Why?” Sam asked, realizing he was standing close to unraveling yet another mystery of this isolated part of Fork County.

“At first it was because of the . . . tragedy that night. You know, when Wade's father was killed. Then, well, we made a deal with some people in government. Federal government.”

“What kind of deal?”

“About the asylum,” Chester said softly.

“What asylum?”

“You see,” Wade smiled. “You've been here almost five years and you don't even know about it.”

“Then why don't you tell me about it?” Sam planted his booted feet firmly, standing in front of the men. “I repeat: what asylum?”

“It's at the base of Crazy Pony Ridge,” Chester said. “Some of the most rugged country in the state.”

“I've heard of it, but I've never seen it. Never been there.”

“You'd be stopped long before you got there,” Wade told him. “The government leases the land; the government runs the place. Hell, Sam, probably a full ninety percent of the people in Fork don't know what it is.”

“I haven't found out yet,” Sam said, becoming a bit exasperated. “Perhaps one of you would be so kind as to inform me?”

“It's not something we're proud of, Sam. Do you want the story we were originally told, or the truth?”

“Both.”

“The government told us it was a home for the criminally insane; the really bad ones. The ones there is no hope for. We all believed, for a while—those of us who knew about the place—they were sent here from all over the country—to spend the rest of their lives. Well, this much is true, the place is filled with homicidal raving lunatics. Now then, the government, after washing the money through several agencies, pays Fork County—this part of Fork—to allow the institution to remain—hidden away. We have good schools, Sam; the very best teachers. Haven't you ever wondered how Whitfield could afford that?”

“No. Not really. Now tell me the true story.”

“They're mutants, Sam.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mutants. I'm serious. It's a government project that, well—something got fouled up.”

“I'm waiting, friend.”

Wade sighed. “Okay, I'll tell you all I know, Sam. I made friends with a government agent some years ago; about ten years ago, to be exact. During the course of the evening, and a quart of booze, he got a loose tongue and let slip some things about the asylum.

“It was just after the Manhatten Project, but this one was a real beaut. Something went wrong; really wrong. Explosion, and then a lot of people were exposed to—I don't know, Sam! Heavy water, radiation, whatever—massive doses of whatever it was. Those it didn't kill, changed into horribly disfigured lunatics. Madmen and women. It changed their whole body chemistry. Their families were told they were all killed, burned to char. Well, they weren't all killed, and Fork County has them.

“The agent clammed up; wouldn't say anything more about it. I gather that when they all die off, the institution will close its doors, all papers concerning the—whatever you want to call it—will be destroyed, and no one will be the wiser about our government's mistake.”