Devil's Kiss (36 page)

Doris pulled him back, toward their truck.

Survival gripped them all, shoving civilized mores to the rear.

Otto ran screaming into the night. “Kill them! Kill the men. We want the women!”

The mob moved forward, chanting,
Die Die Die!”

“Roll it!” Sam shouted, and the eleven ran for their trucks. “You drive,” Sam told Jane Ann. He reached for the Thompson, jacking a round in the chamber. “Don't stop for anything. Just roll right over them.”

Sam!”

Do it!” he shouted.
Move!
”

She jerked the transmission into gear and roared into the night, toward the growing mob of devil-worshippers at the end of the street. Fifty yards from them, Sam leaned out the window and pulled the trigger, the SMG on full auto. The slugs sparked through the night, slamming men and women and teenagers backward, to lie jerking on the street.

And still they came.

Jane Ann gripped the wheel and roared into the crowd, shutting her mind to the crunching and breaking of bones and the slick pop of mauled flesh. Several of the possessed climbed onto the truck, in the bed, on the hood, on the running boards. Sam hammered at them with his big fists, slashing at them with his big-bladed knife, finally jerking out his .45, firing at point-blank range.

“Hard left!” he shouted.

She spun the wheel, sending the man in the bed of the truck flying through the air. He landed on a spike of a wrought-iron fence, the point impaling him, driving through his chest. He died screaming, dangling from the fence, his legs jerking.

The little caravan was clear of one street. “Head for the south Bad Lands!” Sam yelled.

They roared through town, past burning churches and bonfires filled with Bibles and church hymnals and pews. They screamed past blockades set up by the Satan-worshippers, cutting across yards and down side streets. Sam glanced behind him. Everyone was with him. For now.

“Sam!” Jane Ann screamed. “The road is blocked.”

A deputy crouched behind a patrol car, grinning at them in the headlights' glare, his teeth yellow and fanged. Sam leveled the .45 and shot the man/thing in the face, blowing away part of his head. The deputy fell backward, but he would not die. Appearing as a terrible apparition, the bloody thing staggered to its feet, lurching in front of the truck, arms outstretched, fingers working in killing anticipation.

Roll over it!” Sam yelled. “Smash it!”

Jane Ann felt sickness well in her throat. She fought it back and floor-boarded the truck, hitting the creature with the front bumper, rolling over it. The others did the same, until the man/thing was a bloody, smashed smear in the street.

But it would not die.

As the caravan roared into the night, clear of Whitfield, none of them witnessed the hideousness pull itself to the curb and slide disgustingly into a gutter opening, leaving a trail of crimson behind it. In the darkness of the sewer, it hid itself, under the town of Whitfield, to wait, to heal.

The caravan was out of Whitfield, heading for the Bad Lands. Five vehicles, eleven people, racing into the unknown, running from horror.

 

The town soon became an open pocket of death as the possessed went from house to house, searching out those not of themselves. Only a few would escape. They would crouch in their basements, in the darkness, with their fear. Only a few, hiding.

The Beasts roamed the streets, slobbering, howling, following the direction of the appointed Coven leaders. Many of the elderly were the first to die. And the Beasts feasted. Old man Word held them off for several hours with a rifle, until he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. He died not believing his eyes.

“Sam should have warned me,” he muttered, as life left him. Then he remembered what the preacher had said as they stood in the door of the church that Sunday. “He did try to warn us!”

The grunting sounds of rape and degradation filled the night air, as men and women of all ages were passed naked from Coven member to Coven member. Some would join the Satan-Worshippers; some were given to the Beasts. They were mounted, mated, and bitten. Where there had been only a few Beasts, soon there would be many.

Crude crosses were fashioned, and some who would not renounce their faith were nailed onto the timbers. Others were tortured for hours.

Evil was the name of Whitfield this night.

Balon got away,” Wilder raged at Addison. “Because you could not keep your people in line. I warned you, Addison.”

“But, Master, they can't get out of this area.”

“This area, idiot, is thousands of square miles!”

“But all roads are blocked. Every range is covered. Our people are everywhere—watching. They can't get away.” A sly gleam slipped into his eyes. “I couldn't control them, Master, because they wanted to serve you. They love you.”

“Yes, yes!” Wilder was impatient with Addison, wanting to be rid of him. The man was useless; a fool. “Nydia,” he called, “come. This man has served us well, and he has lusted for you. Take him, and pleasure him.” He smiled at the Raven-haired witch, a silent message passing between them.

Addison felt an erection growing as he gazed at Nydia, to him, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In the midst of all the carnage that night, with the screaming of the dying drifting around them, she took Addison's hand into her incredibly soft hand, leading him to a nearby home, into a bedroom.

Quickly, Addison stripped, standing naked before her. She opened her robe, allowing him to view her body. She was woman in perfection, without blemish, everything any man—all men—have dreamed of. Addison sucked in his breath as she dropped the robe to the floor.

Nydia sat on the bed, allowing Walter to fondle her breasts, her belly. She lay back, opening her legs, and he fell on her in his haste. He pushed his erection inside her, groaning as she took him. In his heat, he did not notice her mouth working at his neck; did not notice her teeth sharpening into fangs, and felt only a second's pain as she bit him, sucking a few drops of life's blood from him.

Nydia sucked at his neck as he humped on her, giving her no pleasure except the taste of his blood. In his rush to have her, he climaxed quickly, rolling from her, to lie panting on the side of the bed. He felt dizzy and weak. His mouth felt strange, as though his teeth and tongue had grown larger.

Then, as the infection spread through him, he knew what he had become. He looked up at the woman standing over him, still naked. But he felt no lust for her, only a wish to serve her. As the contagion settled into his brain, suspending all his once-human reasoning, Walter Addison, who had plotted with the devil to kill Sheriff Marsh, became a member of the Undead.

“You,” Nydia said, pointing a finger at him, “will join the others. Find Balon and his followers. You will kill the others, make them as yourself—if possible. But you will not harm Balon. I want him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Nydia.” His voice was strange, a hollow sound pushing past a swollen tongue, fanged teeth, and bloodless lips.

“Go! But remember, you must seek shelter at the first hint of light. Go!”

She licked her lips as she watched him shuffle out the back door, into the night, red-tinged with what was left of the fires from the churches. It was not often Wilder allowed her this pleasure, and her bloodlust had been aroused, but not appeased, Blood. She wanted blood.

Slipping into her robe, its color blending with the darkness of the night, the vampiress began her hunt. For blood. For the sweet/salty taste of life.

A child, a boy, not more than ten or eleven, ran past her in the night, screaming out his terror at all he had seen. Nydia twisted her fingers in his hair, throwing him to the damp earth and grass, pinning him with arms made strong by centuries of evil.

She bent her head, her dark hair fanning over his face, and opened her mouth, sinking her teeth into his neck, holding the child as he jerked and whined. She drank deeply, then threw back her head and howled at the sky.