Devil's Kiss (39 page)

Silence.

Sam walked back into the camp, as calmly as if he had done nothing more exciting than duck hunting. He built up the fire, then looked at the body lying between two trucks. A long stake protruded from its chest.

“I don't know this one,” Sam said, walking over to drag the carcass out of sight. The face was pockmarked and rotted, and the stench was the worst he'd smelled thus far.

Sam picked up a foot and began to drag the Undead from their camp. The leg came off in his hands.

Behind him, Jane Ann began screaming. “That's my father!” she shrieked. “My father!” She fell unconscious to the ground.

 

Tony gave her a shot after Sam carried her to their sleeping bags. “This will keep her out the rest of the night and probably most of next morning. She needs it, Sam. That was a hell of a shock she just had.”

Sam pulled a blanket over his wife, then walked back to the fire with the doctor. He poured a cup of coffee as Miles said, “Mr. Burke has been missing for years. His flesh was—” He swallowed hard. He shuddered. “Rotted,” he managed to say. “Where do they stay? Are there more of them?”

“I guess they sleep, Miles,” Sam picked up a sandwich from a covered plate. “And, yes, I would say there are probably a lot more of them.” He chewed slowly.

Wade looked at him with his face mirroring shock. He wondered: How can he do it? How can he sit there and eat? There was blood on the front of Sam's shirt.

“Were you people this calm when you did your jobs in Korea?” Wade asked.

Sam glanced at him. “Usually.” He stood up, wiping his hands on blood-stained trousers. “I'll get Janey and put her in the truck. Let's break camp. I've got a feeling our luck's run out in this spot.”

 

They had carefully reconnoitered the dry creek bed, some ten miles from where they had been attacked. They made camp in the dark, Sam gently placing the sleeping Jane Ann on blankets, covering her. He softly touched her face, wondering, as he caressed her cheek, how much time they had left together?

Walking to the group, eating cold sandwiches as they huddled in the dark in the dry creek bed, Sam told them, “This is the way we stay alive. We eat, then move. We sleep, then move. We do not stay in one spot for any length of time. We pick our spots at night, and make them come to us. During the day, we take it to them, cut, slash, and run. How far are we from the Sorenson ranch?”

“About fifteen miles,” Jimmy said. “To the east.”

Sam smiled his warrior's smile. “Tomorrow, we destroy them.”

His friends looked at each other in the night. Only Chester returned the smile.

 

Black Wilder glanced out a window into the night, a disgusted look on his face. “One man,” he said. “Just one man stands in our way. Kill Balon—possess his mind—and his little group falls apart.”

“Perhaps our people did just that this night?” Nydia said.

“No, they failed.”

“Then let us take him,” Nydia suggested, a hopeful tone in her voice. She wanted Balon. Wanted to make love to him. And wanted him for another reason. A demon son from Balon's seed would be a force to reckon with.

Wilder slapped her on the face, knocking the witch sprawling on the floor. His eyes burned at her. She did nothing, did not move from her reclining position, for she was too afraid of Wilder and his awesome powers.

“Stupid bitch!” he hissed at her. “You know that is our last resort. You must know the rules of the game! You should, I've been patiently explaining them to you for centuries! Foolish woman, do you want to feel God's hand on your backside? Do you wish to spend the next thousand years crawling the earth as a bug? We
don't
break the rules. Send everything we have at Balon—yes. We can tempt him. We can try his patience; as you are trying mine. We can kill his friends. Then, after we've done all that, if he still fights us, then, and
only
then, with our Master's permission can we confront him. Only then, Nydia—do you understand?”

He glared down at her, his eyes yellow with rage. “You are beginning—again—to forget just who is in charge here. Perhaps you need a lesson to remind you, Nydia?”

“No!” she screamed, remembering the last time, two centuries ago, when Wilder had her punished. While Satan rocked with laughter, the witch had been placed in a convent in France, forced to remain there for years, conforming to the Sisters' teachings.

It was altogether the most disgusting, degrading thing that had ever happened to her.

She still had nightmares about it.

Nydia crawled to her knees. “Please. No! Black, you are my Master here on earth. I'll do anything you ask. Anything.”

Theirs was a most peculiar relationship. At times Nydia loved him. Other times, she hated him.

He wound his fingers in her black hair, twisting her head cruelly. “Don't interfere with me, Nydia. I won't tolerate it. Our Master must have a place here on earth. Those are his orders. Whitfield must be taken by us, for him. Nydia, you must learn to control your rashness. You are not a child.”

“I know, Black. And I will.” She unzipped his fly, fondling his penis, huge even in its softness.

“No,” he pulled away, pushing her back. “Not you. Not this night.”

“Please!”

“Find me a young girl. One who is soft and unskilled in love making. I would have her. Now, go!”

She rose to her feet, slipping silently through the door, blending in with the night, a black cloak wrapped around her dark gown. She was lucky to have received only a verbal scolding from the Master on earth. She knew that was true. It could have been much, much worse. Nydia recalled one rebellious witch who crossed Black Wilder. He had her powers taken from her and she was given to the Beasts.

She shuddered as she glided through the night, seeking a proper young girl for the Master on earth.

She passed several homes, finally selecting one, entering without knocking. The occupants froze death-like in the darkness of the smelly home, for they knew the witch was second-in-command of this Coven. And the witch had powers none of them understood.

She took a young blonde girl by the hand, leading her to the door. “You should all be joyful,” she said to the girl's parents. “This night she will please Wilder.”

The mother and the father smiled and nodded their pleasure, for that was good. Their eyes glowed with pride. Their only regret was that they would not be permitted to see the penetration.

In what had once been the parsonage of the Christian Church of Whitfield, now the residence of Black Wilder and Nydia, the Master of the Coven smiled as he thought of what Balon would think once he learned his home was now the home of Satan's agent. He laughed aloud, looking up as Nydia entered with the young girl. He nodded his approval at her selection.

“I remember her, Nydia. You did well.”

The witch smiled at his compliment. All had been forgiven.

“Make her ready to receive me,” he ordered. “Let me see you work. Amuse me, Nydia—you do it so well.”

Nydia dropped her robe on the floor, and the young girl stared at her beauty. The heavy, rose-tipped breasts, the flat stomach, the thick, dark bush. Nydia stripped the girl, knowing this was what Wilder enjoyed—among other things. Long before this night was over, before the dark softened into day, the young girl would know full well the power and perversity of Black Wilder.

She slowly removed the girl's clothing, smiling at her high, not-yet-mature breasts. She licked her lips at the blossoming pubic hair. Wilder's eyes glowed with a yellowish light of desire as he took in young beauty.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Keri.”

“Do you love me, Keri?”

“With all my heart, Master.”

“Good,” Wilder smiled. “Very good.” He looked at Nydia. “Continue.”

She pulled the girl to her, a young mouth closing around a nipple. Nydia slipped her hand over the girl's flat belly, caressing her. Her hand found the opening between her legs, wetting her.

“Take her to a bedroom,” Wilder ordered. “I'll be along after a time. In the interim, Nydia, you may love her as you wish.”

The witch smiled.

When they had gone, Wilder picked up the phone, and gave the operator the number of the asylum. “Loose the idiots,” he said. “Then get out.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat for a time, smiling. This would give Balon something new to combat.

Later, Wilder entered the bedroom, standing over the bed, smiling as he listened to the moans and cries from the young girl. Nydia's hair was fanned out over the whiteness of the teenager's belly, the witch's mouth busy between widespread legs.

Wilder undressed, his huge penis dangling between his thighs, beginning to stiffen with desire. He rudely pulled Nydia from the girl and climbed onto the bed.

“You know what to do,” he told her.

She slipped around to the teenager's head, pinning the girl's slender arms to the bed. As Wilder began his push forward spreading the wet tightness, the girl screamed in pain.

Nydia and Wilder laughed at the child's wailings. Wilder's hugeness pushed further, ignoring the thrashing beneath him, loving the agony that writhed under him, the slender young legs jerking, flashing white in the darkness.

And one could almost hear Satan's howling.

Jane Ann awakened in Sam's arms, for a moment not remembering where she was or what had happened to bring her to this much confusion. She felt drugged.

And then she remembered the sight of her father. His rotting flesh. His stink. His dying with a stake through his heart. Sam's holding of his leg.

She trembled, and Sam tightened his arms around her. “We'll make it, honey. With God's help, we'll make it.”

“My father—”

“He's gone, now. You have to believe he did not voluntarily become one of—Them. You have to believe he's with God.”

“God's on our side, Sam? Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Don't ever doubt it.”

She kissed him, pushing the ugliness of the previous night from her mind. “What happens today, Sam?”

“You're going to have to be strong, Janey. We're few and they are many. I need you. Today? We're going to destroy the Sorenson ranch. I think it all began there, years ago. I think Sorenson founded the cult and somehow began communicating with Satan.” He slipped from her, standing up, stretching. “Anything out there, Tony?”

“Nothing, Sam. It's almost eerie with nothing moving.”

“Don't worry,” the minister assured him. “There will be plenty moving in a few hours. Straight to Hell!”

 

The caravan moved slowly through the prairie, Sam in the lead truck. Jane Ann sat beside him, by the open window, her shotgun at the ready.

Tough lady, Sam thought, stealing a glance at her profile. I hope we have a son.

Peter and Jimmy had the drag position this morning, and they were lagging a bit behind. The morning seemed so peaceful.

“Why couldn't any of us see what was happening?” Peter asked.

“Because we weren't looking, I guess,” Jimmy replied. “The devil is a smart man—person—whatever the hell he is!”

“They laughed, neither of them spotting the men watching them through binoculars, watching them from the reeds of a lake they would soon pass.

“They're following the old cow trail,” a man said. “That means they'll soon take a right, just over the ridge. Toward us.”

“And for about thirty seconds, the drag truck will be separated from the others.”

“Not much time.”

“Enough for what we have to do.”

Five minutes later, Sam glanced in his rearview mirror, uttered a low curse, then pulled over, stopping.

Chester walked up to Sam's pickup. “What's wrong?”

“Only four trucks. Jimmy and Peter are gone.”

They backtracked over the trail, slowly, nerves tense, looking. But they found nothing. No tire tracks, no sign of a struggle. Nothing.

“Where are they, Sam?” Miles asked.

“On their way to Hell. Come on, let's go.”

“SAM, LOOK!” Doris screamed, pointing to a low hill just to their right.

Eyes swung, mouths opening in disgusted horror. A band of disfigured, almost non-human forms lurched down the hill toward them, waving clubs and sticks as they grunted along. They drew closer, Sam and his group recognizing the madness in them, the grotesque disfigurement making them appear almost subhuman.

Sam lifted his Thompson, clicking the SMG off safety.

You're not going to kill them!?” Tony said.

What choice do we have?”

“But they're not themselves, Sam! It isn't their fault. It would be wrong.”

The slobbering pack of lunatics came closer, grunting, snorting, waving their clubs and sticks.

“That's just fine, Tony,” Sam said. “You want to stand here and reason with them?” he pointed to the rapidly approaching band of inmates.

“They're homicidal, Tony,” Wade said. “That's why the government sent them here. One of the reasons,” he added.

“They're sick people, Wade,” the doctor stubbornly held on to his convictions.

Sam leveled the Thompson and squeezed the trigger. The answer yammer of Chester's Greaser joined the staccato. The hill was quiet except for a man moaning in pain and a woman speaking in a series of bizarre grunts of agony.

“I'll get my bag,” Tony said.

“No, you won't,” Sam contradicted. “Not unless you want to stay here with them—alone. We're pulling out.”

The doctor met the minister's steady gaze. “You're a cold bastard!”

Sam's grin was tight. “Keep him here, Ches.” He walked up the hill and put the escapees out of their multiple misery with single shots to the head.

Sam knelt down beside one of the mutants, studying him. The face was almost non-human, with large bumpy nodules growing from the skin. Hands, arms, and upper torso was deformed, the skin a sickly gray color.

“You want to see this, Tony?” he called.

“Hell, no, Reverend Balon!” the doctor slurred the “Reverend.”

Wade met Sam on his way back from the scene of death. “He's still pretty young, Sam, and more than a bit idealistic about life.”

“He'd damn well better get over it. Or he'll never make it through the next few days. I'm not carrying any dead weight.”

 

Peter Canford screamed out his pain, refusing to deny his God. He lay naked on the floor of the parsonage, his hands and feet nailed to the floor.

Jimmy Perkins lay whimpering on the bed in what had once been Michelle's room. Strange music played, covering the now dull screaming of Peter. Heavy Eastern incense filled the room, blunting Jimmy's senses. Nydia lay naked on the bed beside the young man. The room was darkened with heavy drapes, only one small candle burned, illuminating the scene.

Nydia kissed his mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips, slipping her hand to his crotch, fondling him through his jeans.

“Look at me, Jimmy,” she whispered, and he cut his eyes to her beauty. “I'm not a bad person. Oh, lots of people say bad things about me—about those like me, but they're not true. Have we hurt you, Jimmy?”

“No,” he slurred the word, touching her bare shoulder, silky under his hand. His resistance weakened as he thought: No, they haven't hurt me; they've been good to me. Maybe Sam was wrong? Yes, he was pretty sure Sam was wrong.

The strange incense and the hypnotic music worked on his mind.

Nydia lifted a heavy white breast with her hand, touching the nipple to Jimmy's lips. His mouth closed around the nipple as she stripped him. He lay naked on the bed, aroused and thickening.

“We'll be good to you, Jimmy,” she moaned, feigning great pleasure and passion. “I'll be good to you. I won't be like Judy.”

“That bitch!” he mouthed, his tongue busy at the nipple. God! This woman was everything he had ever dreamed of. To hell with Judy.

“She is a bitch,” Nydia said. “She needs to be punished.” She stroked him to full erection, slipping down on the bed, taking him in her mouth, asking, “Would Judy do this for you?”

“No. She said it was—dirty.”

“This is not dirty. This is good. And if it feels good, what can be wrong with it? It feels good, doesn't it?”

He nodded, unable to speak. The music seemed to grow heavier in his head. The thick incense filled his nostrils, flooding his brain. Jimmy stroked her silky hair, loving the clean feel of it.

“How would you punish her?” Jimmy groaned, as Nydia's mouth worked at him, licking him.

She withdrew, kissing his belly. “Oh, I'd leave that up to you, my love. Anyway you would like, that would be fine.”

She straddled him, working his hardness into her wetness, groaning with great passion. “Your God is not real, Jimmy. You can see that now, can't you?”

The words came easy to his tongue. “Yes, yes!”

“He's a fake—denying you real pleasure.”

“Yes! He is a fake—He's not real.”

The music mingled with the incense, drifting around him, clouding his reason. The woman straddled him, lunging on his maleness, pumping up and down, telling him how perfect he was, how there had never been a man quite like him—ever.

She spoke the ultimate blasphemy, Jimmy repeating the hideous words, as he began believing them. He had never known this much pleasure.

Nydia, impaled on his manhood, leaned forward, touching her breasts to his chest, her mouth working on his. “We'll punish Judy,” she whispered. “You and I.” And she told him how.

Her mouth moved to his neck, her lips pulling back, teeth bared and needle-pointed as a snake's. Mortal beings knew nothing of this pleasure: the deliciousness of drinking warm, sweet/salty blood while in the throes of a shivering climax. She began to moan in climax as her teeth sank into Jimmy's neck, sucking a small amount of blood from him. She knew he would not notice the slight pain—until it was too late—far too late; until he was her personal servant, to do with as she pleased. Just as Sam Balon would be hers—someday.

In the living room, standing over the sobbing body of Canford, Wilder listened with extraordinary sensories to the witch. His smile was sardonic, evil, hateful. Nydia would go too far someday, he knew. Then he might have to destroy her—if the Master would permit it. But the Master was mildly amused by her antics, and Wilder knew the day would come when he himself would be replaced. And Nydia wanted his position very badly.

He pulled his attentions back to Canford. The fool still resisted, and Black was growing weary of the game. He looked at George Best.

“Take him to the Undead. Tie him securely and leave him for darkness.”

Best licked his lips. “The young girl you had last evening?”

“Yes?”

“Are you done with her?”

Wilder smiled. Best was obsessed with anal lovemaking, male or female, it made no difference to him. It was written in the Book, as were the darkest thoughts of every human on earth. “You may have her for a time. After you take care of this matter,” he glanced down at Canford.

Best followed his eyes. “May I—?”

“If you wish.”

Best smiled.

Thirty minutes later, Peter Canford, bent over and tied, was screaming out his pain and humiliation at this insult to his masculinity.

 

As the caravan drew nearer to the Sorenson ranch, signs of the devil's influence became more obvious. They saw strange carvings on trees, upside-down crosses, blasphemous writings on stones, and hideous stone statues of demons.

“No wonder Karl kept this place under fence and heavy guard,” Jane Ann said. The caravan had passed through a half dozen chain-link fences and guard posts just getting onto the huge ranch property.

The guards lay dead under the summer sun. They had been careless, and Sam was a master of the ambush, showing the others he could be a cold killing machine.

The guards on the close perimeter of the ranch house fell to Sam's knife, one by one, as his friends lay on a low ridge, watching him work.

“Why don't we just blow up the place?” Miles asked. “Like you all did the first ranch?” he looked at Chester.

“Sam wants to inspect the Sorenson house. He thinks this is the Cult headquarters; where it all began.”

Gunfire stopped the conversation, followed by a series of explosions. They watched the bunkhouse disintegrate under the fury of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Nothing inside could have lived through that destructive blast of TNT.

“Let's go!” Chester yelled, running for the trucks.

But it was almost over by the time Sam's group reached the yard. The minister had been a one-man death squad. He had gunned down the people in the house as they ran into the yard after the first explosion.

“You!” Sorenson spat the word at Sam. He glared up at the preacher through eyes that mirrored hate. His hands clutched at his stomach, perforated with .45 caliber holes.