Devil's Kiss (42 page)

Addison turned to one side in his pain and Sam lunged at him, driving a stake into his chest.

A wretched screeching cut the night, an un-Godly sound from the mouth of a man who had forsaken his God, his Maker. Sam worked the stake deeper into his chest, forcing the man to the ground, pinning him there until he was dead.

Addison trembled as the evil in him died.

Forms scurried away, ratlike in the darkness, hissing as they ran.

Miles capped the canteen, then looked at the container.

“Powerful stuff,” he said dryly.
I wonder what would happen if you drank it?”

Whitfield lay quiet in the weekend sun. No one moved on the streets. To a passerby—if there were any—only the ruined churches would be out of the ordinary. Everything else would seem normal—almost.

Nydia slept soundly, Jimmy sprawled naked by her side. He was—without caring—her slave, hers to do whatever she wished done.

Black Wilder sat in the living room, sipping tea, his thoughts, like the room, dark. Balon and his followers were ruining everything; wreaking havoc in Fork County. They had to be stopped —must be stopped!—but stopped within the rules. But how?

Balon did not behave as a minister should. Just this morning, early, at dawn, Balon had destroyed another ranch, killing all those at the ranch. Then he had, along with the others, methodically and cold-bloodedly shot down another dozen of the inmates from the asylum. Not like a minister. Not like a minister at all. Wilder had to smile. Quite a man, Sam Balon.

Wilder was also aware of the change in Nydia. The silly bitch seemed not to realize that Wilder knew of her communications with the Master. The Master had come to him during the night, in the quiet, telling him of her plans and schemes. And, to the Master's surprise, Wilder had agreed-providing all else failed. He was weary of earth; weary of the game; ready to go home. Let the witch worry with it. She, too, would soon discover what a tiresome job it was, and how unrewarding.

So Nydia had a plan to make Balon her own, for a few hours, to mate with him, to produce a demon. All right. So be it. If all else failed.

In homes around Whitfield, members of the Coven were awakening. Fathers were mounting daughters, engaging in grunting incestuous love. Mothers were caressing sons. Sisters and brothers were copulating.

The whimpering cries of those who still clung to the Love of the one God was heard in basements as the day's tortures began.

In the darkness of their homes, the followers of Satan were performing their appointed tasks.

Yes, Whitfield was normal. But not by God's standards.

And in the darkness of a basement in a ranch house in Fork County, Peter Canford slept behind a couch, on the dirty floor. He waited for the night to carry out his orders: to kill.

 

By midafternoon they stood watching the fourth ranch of the day burn to the ground. Paul Merlin's Rocking Chair. Sam and Chester, using M-l's, picked off the Satan-worshippers as they tried to escape the flames. Smoke from the burning buildings spiraled upward in greasy plumes. The prairie winds sighed lonely through the vastness of Fork County.

Chester squatted on one knee, his face dirty and haggard. “I stopped counting at three hundred. And we still have Whitfield ahead of us.”

Sam's rifle barked, a lone figure stumbled, falling to the ground, screaming curses as he tried to get to his feet. He died cursing God.

Sam?” Jane Ann said, standing by his side. “Tomorrow is Sunday—can we rest then?”

“No. Tomorrow is the one day we can fight them with God guiding us. They can't move on His day, but we can.”

They were not the same people as they had been only a few days before. They would never be the same; those that would live through this ordeal. These men and women had toughened—hardened, and their faces bore that fact.

Anita had found some inner strength buried deep within her and had shaken off the shock of the night before. She had killed this day, killed with a determination and cold ferocity that amazed her husband.

She had said, “I know now it's the only way. We can't run from it; we've got to destroy them—all of them, or be destroyed. These people are not our friends; not the people we knew and grew up with. These people are no longer human. They are rabid animals, and you can't show sympathy to a rabid animal.”

Sam gathered his people and exited the scene of death and fire and blood. This night, he knew, they would have to be extremely careful, for from dusk to midnight, Satan's followers would come at them with all the force they could muster.

Chester led them to a half destroyed old cinder block house built on a flat plain. The house commanded the prairie from its ridge. By late afternoon, with at least three hours of day left, they had made ready for the night's evil.

Anyone coming for them would have to come up to get them. The field of fire belonged to Sam and his people.

The trucks were safely parked behind the walls of the old home. Each person knew his or her position and what they had to do. Cans of gasoline had been placed around the ridge, ready to be set ablaze by Molotov cocktails. Weapons were cleaned and checked. They had all eaten, the fires doused. They napped in the waning hours of day.

They would need all their strength this night.

 

At full dark, the rolling prairie became alive with evil: on foot, on horseback, in cars and trucks and jeeps. The un-Godly sought out the Godly.

The Godless had no tactics except to charge, and they did this in waves, running up the hill. During a break in the firing, Chester said, “This takes me back some years, to the Pacific. The Japs would come at us just like this, screaming, in wave after wave. We'd stack them up like cordwood, and still they'd come at us.” He glanced at his wife. Her face was streaked with dirt and gunpowder. “You all right, honey?”

She forced a grin. “I'll make it.”

“Good girl. Hang in there.”

And then there was no more time for talk, as the night filled with two-legged evil, running up the hill, toward the home, straight into the guns of God.

“Hit the gas!” Sam yelled, and cocktails went spinning through the air, igniting the gas cans with dynamite taped to them. The earth shook under the impact.

The air became thick with the acrid stink of gunsmoke, gas fumes, smoke, and the stench of searing, burning flesh. Hearing was momentarily impaired by the booming, yammering, cracking of weapons. Nostrils became insulted, eyes teared and reddened.

Abruptly, an eerie silence fell on the prairie,

“What's happening?” Wade called.

Sam glanced at his watch, the luminous hands glowing. “It's over. It's one minute past midnight. They can't move on God's day.”

“There is something that bothers me, Sam,” Chester said, screwing a new barrel on his Greasegun, discarding the old warped barrel. Breakfast over, the nine relaxed, cleaning weapons, filling old whiskey bottles with gasoline, making Molotov cocktails. Making ready for war on God's day.

Sam looked up from his work.

“They have access to explosives just as we do. They could have blown us out of any place we've been. Why didn't they?”

“Because they want me alive,” the minister said. “For more than one reason, I think.” He did not elaborate. “It would be quite a coup for them, taking me.”

Jane Ann touched his hand. “Nydia?”

Sam nodded. “Yes.” He rose to his feet. “Let's take a drive, folks.”

“Where?” Tony asked.

The minister smiled that grim warrior's smile. “Whitfield.”

 

Up a slight grade, and Whitfield came into view. Sam stopped his little convoy and got out of his pickup, standing in the center of the state road. His group gathered around.

All were visibly nervous, Wade asking, “Are we just going straight in, Sam? There must be two thousand people down there!”

Sam looked down at Whitfield. “We're going in just like the Cavalry. One pass through town. We are going to burn down the town, but not today. We're just going to give them a little taste of what's in store for them.”

“And they're going to sit back and let us do it?” Miles asked. “Without a fight?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “They'll fight. They're on home ground and they can. So let's be quick about this. Hit hard, then get out. Cut, slash, and run. Don't bunch up, but do stay in a convoy.”

“We scare them,” Chester said. “Show them we're not afraid of them. Is that it?”

“Exactly, Ches.”

“I feel as though someone, or some thing is watching us,” Doris said.

“We are being watched,” Sam affirmed her suspicions. “Just remember this, those ... things down there are very much afraid of us. We've taken everything they can throw at us, and we've shoved it right down their throats. Now we're taking the fight to them, so let's do it.

“I'll take the lead truck, with Janey driving. Wade, you and Anita second. Miles and Doris third. Chester, you take the drag with Faye driving and Tony up front. Okay? Let's do it.”

The convoy rolled into Whitfield at forty miles per hour, turning Royal Street into fire and smoke. They cut north, up Branford, tossing Molotov cocktails and dynamite, the gas-filled bottles exploding against houses, on automobiles parked along the road.

But Sam was unable to toss the cocktail at the parsonage. Wilder stood on the steps, Nydia at his side, and some force from their eyes prevented him from hurling the gas bomb. They stood smiling at Sam, Wilder's arms folded across his chest, quietly acquiescing to the minister's move. The eyes of the witch and the warlock seemed to say: Very well, this round is yours, Balon. But the fight is a long way from being over.

Sam's neighbor and onetime friend, Max Steiner ran into the street, screaming curses at Sam. The preacher tossed the cocktail at him, engulfing the man in a ball of fire.

The convoy had stopped in front of the parsonage, all of them seemingly mesmerized by Wilder and Nydia. Chester emptied a full clip from his Greaser at them, but the bullets seemed not to touch either of them. They laughed at him.

“I don't believe this!” Chester said in astonishment. “To hell with both of you!” Then he smiled at his words, his grin fading as Nydia arrogantly waved at him.

Chester could not resist giving them the middle finger.

They burst out laughing.

The convoy rolled on, up Cottonwood Street, leaving behind them death and fire. The Satan-worshippers ran into the street and the convoy rolled over them, leaving crushed bodies and a trail of crimson from the tires.

“Let's get out of here,” Sam yelled. “Don't stop for anybody or anything. Head for the Dig site.”

Jane Ann drove the pickup expertly, dodging and weaving through the possessed town. “What do we do there?” she shouted.

“Stakes!”

 

“The foolish, brave man,” Wilder complimented Sam. “What I would not give to have him with us.”

Nydia cupped her breasts with her hands, feeling the nipples grow in excitement. “I will have a son by Balon. What a demon he would be—strong and fearless.”

“That, my dear, is a very good idea. I must warn you, Nydia: I have heard your conversations with the Master.”

“And I yours, Black.”

And the devil then spoke, “You will, Black, if necessary, give your life to see that her wish is fulfilled. I
will
have offspring from Balon's seed. I have spoken.”

“You heard?” Wilder asked.

“I heard. Black? He is going to destroy the site.”

I know.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing. This is God's day.”

 

The nine went from trailer to trailer at the Dig, until the area was filled with the putrid odor of Undead finally dying.

They drove their stakes into sleeping demons. It was a grisly morning in Fork County as the stakes pierced the hearts of the Godless, the howling cries echoing over the rock circle with its carving, over the valley of The Digging. Blood splattered the walls as heavy strokes from hammers drove the wooden points into flesh, past bone, slashing into pumping hearts, ending the evil. Wailing of the damned ripped into living ears as sweat from the Godly dripped onto the Godless, the perspiration hissing as it touched anathematized flesh. Bloody hands gripped the stakes as they were driven into chests; stinking breath fouled the musty air of the closed trailers.

Outside, the devil's rage was vented in the sky as lightning flashed across the suddenly darkened sky. Thunder boomed in cascading waves. The stink of sulphur lay about the fenced-in Dig. The Believers had to shout to be heard.

“The tablet?” Wade yelled.
Where is it?“

“Not here,” Sam returned the shout. “I'm sure of that. Wilder would have it well hidden.”

“SAM!” Jane Ann screamed.

The preacher spun around. Beasts and lunatics were moving across the Dig. The Beasts could move on this day, for they knew nothing of God, their tiny brains incapable of comprehending something so vast.

The Beasts and the lunatics died on this day.

In the pouring rain, under the cover of low, dark clouds, during the blinding pops of lightning and the rolling crash of thunder, Sam's people picked up their guns.

The smell of the Undead dying was soon overpowered by the stench of gunsmoke as they emptied weapons into the charging forces of Satan. The Beasts and the crazed possessed snarled and snapped and howled until they were driven away, leaving behind their dead.

Sam and Chester followed them, recklessly close, firing their automatic weapons. A few of the Beasts and the lunatics made their escape.

As abruptly as it began, the carnage was over. The sky was clear and clean, as if it had been swept by the hand of God. The blazing ball of sun beat down on the site, steaming the puddles of water.

The nine carefully checked the trailers for any Undead they might have missed. They were all dead, lying in grotesque, misshapen, nonrecognizable lumps.

They looked for the tablet for over an hour, finally giving up their search.

“Let's go,” Sam said. “Let's get out of here.”

An hour of daylight left on God's day. Three ranches had been destroyed this afternoon. Sam and his people were bordering on exhaustion.

“Sam?” Chester called. “There's some ... thing in this shed. One of Them, I think.”

The minister picked his way through the bodies littering the back yard, the muzzle of his SMG still emitting a faint finger of smoke. Carefully, he eased open the door to the shed. He recognized the boots protruding from behind a stack of boxes. Peter Canford.

“Get me a stake,” he told Chester.

“Sam?”

“There is no other way, Ches. He's an Undead, now. Keep the others away from here.”

The screaming from the shed filled the air. The hard pounding as Sam drove the stake into the chest of what had been his friend cracked under the late afternoon sun. The now familiar stench drifted out the open shed door.

Silence.

Sam stepped from the shed, his hands and shirt stinking from the corruption that had erupted from each hammer stroke. He looked up at the sky.

“God, give us the strength to finish this fight. For we are tired, God. We are so tired of killing.”

They walked to their trucks, exhaustion evident with each step.

They did not see the eyes that followed them as they drove away. They did not hear the heavy breathing or the low snarling from the man hiding in the ravine behind the ranch house.

In their weariness, they had left someone alive.