by Stephen King
Mark had uttered a high, keening scream and threw himself at Barlow without thought.
"And here you are!" Barlow had boomed good-naturedly in his rich, powerful voice. Mark attacked without thought and was captured instantly.
Callahan moved forward, holding his cross up.
Barlow's grin of triumph was instantly transformed into a rictus of agony. He fell back toward the sink, dragging the boy in front of him. Their feet crunched in the broken glass.
"In God's name--" Callahan began.
At the name of the Deity, Barlow screamed aloud as if he had been struck by a whip, his mouth open in a downward grimace, the needle fangs glimmering within. The cords of muscle on his neck stood out in stark, etched relief. "No closer!" he said. "No closer, shaman! Or I sever the boy's jugular and carotid before you can draw a breath!" As he spoke, his upper lip lifted from those long, needlelike teeth, and as he finished, his head made a predatory downward pass with adder's speed, missing Mark's flesh by a quarter-inch.
Callahan stopped.
"Back up," Barlow commanded, now grinning again. "You on your side of the board and I on mine, eh?"
Callahan backed up slowly, still holding the cross before him at eye level, so that he looked over its arms. The cross seemed to thrum with chained fire, and its power coursed up his forearm until the muscles bunched and trembled.
They faced each other.
"Together at last!" Barlow said, smiling. His face was strong and intelligent and handsome in a sharp, forbidding sort of way--yet, as the light shifted, it seemed almost effeminate. Where had he seen a face like that before? And it came to him, in this moment of the most extreme terror he had ever known. It was the face of Mr Flip, his own personal bogeyman, the thing that hid in the closet during the days and came out after his mother closed the bedroom door. He was not allowed a night-light--both his mother and his father had agreed that the way to conquer these childish fears was to face them, not toady to them--and every night, when the door snicked shut and his mother's footsteps padded off down the hall, the closet door slid open a crack and he could sense (or actually see? ) the thin white face and burning eyes of Mr Flip. And here he was again, out of the closet, staring over Mark's shoulder with his clown-white face and glowing eyes and red, sensual lips.
"What now?" Callahan said, and his voice was not his own at all. He was looking at Barlow's fingers, those long, sensitive fingers, which lay against the boy's throat. There were small blue blotches on them.
"That depends. What will you give for this miserable wretch?" He suddenly jerked Mark's wrists high behind his back, obviously hoping to punctuate his question with a scream, but Mark would not oblige. Except for the sudden whistle of air between his set teeth, he was silent.
"You'll scream," Barlow whispered, and his lips had twisted into a grimace of animal hate. "You'll scream until your throat bursts!"
"Stop that!" Callahan cried.
"And should I?" The hate was wiped from his face. A darkly charming smile shone forth in its place. "Should I reprieve the boy, save him for another night?"
"Yes!"
Softly, almost purring, Barlow said, "Then will you throw away your cross and face me on even terms--black against white? Your faith against my own?"
"Yes," Callahan said, but a trifle less firmly.
"Then do it!" Those full lips became pursed, anticipatory. The high forehead gleamed in the weird fairy light that filled the room.
"And trust you to let him go? I would be wiser to put a rattlesnake in my shirt and trust it not to bite me."
"But I trust you...look!"
He let Mark go and stood back, both hands in the air, empty.
Mark stood still, unbelieving for a moment, and then ran to his parents without a backward look at Barlow.
"Run, Mark!" Callahan cried. "Run!"
Mark looked up at him, his eyes huge and dark. "I think they're dead--"
"RUN!"
Mark got slowly to his feet. He turned around and looked at Barlow.
"Soon, little brother," Barlow said, almost benignly. "Very soon now you and I will--"
Mark spit in his face.
Barlow's breath stopped. His brow darkened with a depth of fury that made his previous expressions seem like what they might well have been: mere playacting. For a moment Callahan saw a madness in his eyes blacker than the soul of murder.
"You spit on me," Barlow whispered. His body was trembling, nearly rocking with his rage. He took a shuddering step forward like some awful blind man.
"Get back!" Callahan screamed, and thrust the cross forward.
Barlow cried out and threw his hands in front of his face. The cross flared with preternatural, dazzling brilliance, and it was at that moment that Callahan might have banished him if he had dared to press forward.
"I'm going to kill you," Mark said.
He was gone, like a dark eddy of water.
Barlow seemed to grow taller. His hair, swept back from his brow in the European manner, seemed to float around his skull. He was wearing a dark suit and a wine-colored tie, impeccably knotted, and to Callahan he seemed part and parcel of the darkness that surrounded him. His eyes glared out of their sockets like sly and sullen embers.
"Then fulfill your part of the bargain, shaman."
"I'm a priest!" Callahan flung at him.
Barlow made a small, mocking bow. "Priest," he said, and the word sounded like a dead haddock in his mouth.
Callahan stood indecisive. Why throw it down? Drive him off, settle for a draw tonight, and tomorrow--
But a deeper part of his mind warned. To deny the vampire's challenge was to risk possibilities far graver than any he had considered. If he dared not throw the cross aside, it would be as much as admitting...admitting...what? If only things weren't going so fast, if one only had time to think, to reason it out--
The cross's glow was dying.
He looked at it, eyes widening. Fear leaped into his belly like a confusion of hot wires. His head jerked up and he stared at Barlow. He was walking toward him across the kitchen and his smile was wide, almost voluptuous.
"Stay back," Callahan said hoarsely, retreating a step. "I command it, in the name of God."
Barlow laughed at him.
The glow in the cross was only a thin and guttering light in a cruciform shape. The shadows had crept across the vampire's face again, masking his features in strangely barbaric lines and triangles under the sharp cheekbones.
Callahan took another step backward, and his buttocks bumped the kitchen table, which was set against the wall.
"Nowhere left to go," Barlow murmured sadly. His dark eyes bubbled with infernal mirth. "Sad to see a man's faith fail. Ah, well..."
The cross trembled in Callahan's hand and suddenly the last of its light vanished. It was only a piece of plaster that his mother had bought in a Dublin souvenir shop, probably at a scalper's price. The power it had sent ramming up his arm, enough power to smash down walls and shatter stone, was gone. The muscles remembered the thrumming but could not duplicate it.
Barlow reached from the darkness and plucked the cross from his fingers. Callahan cried out miserably, the cry that had vibrated in the soul--but never the throat--of that long-ago child who had been left alone each night with Mr Flip peering out of the closet at him from between the shutters of sleep. And the next sound would haunt him for the rest of his life: two dry snaps as Barlow broke the arms of the cross, and a meaningless thump as he threw it on the floor.
"God damn you!" he cried out.
"It's too late for such melodrama," Barlow said from the darkness. His voice was almost sorrowful. "There is no need of it. You have forgotten the doctrine of your own church, is it not so? The cross...the bread and wine...the confessional...only symbols. Without faith, the cross is only wood, the bread baked wheat, the wine sour grapes. If you had cast the cross away, you should have beaten me another night. In a way, I hoped it might be so. It has been long since I have met an oppone
nt of any real worth. The boy makes ten of you, false priest."
Suddenly, out of the darkness, hands of amazing strength gripped Callahan's shoulders.
"You would welcome the oblivion of my death now, I think. There is no memory for the Undead; only the hunger and the need to serve the Master. I could make use of you. I could send you among your friends. Yet is there need of that? Without you to lead them, I think they are little. And the boy will tell them. One moves against them at this time. There is, perhaps, a more fitting punishment for you, false priest."
He remembered Matt saying: Some things are worse than death.
He tried to struggle away, but the hands held him in a viselike grip. Then one hand left him. There was the sound of cloth moving across bare skin, and then a scraping sound.
The hands moved to his neck.
"Come, false priest. Learn of a true religion. Take my communion."
Understanding washed over Callahan in a ghastly flood.
"No! Don't...don't--"
But the hands were implacable. His head was drawn forward, forward, forward.
"Now, priest," Barlow whispered.
And Callahan's mouth was pressed against the reeking flesh of the vampire's cold throat, where an open vein pulsed. He held his breath for what seemed like aeons, twisting his head wildly and to no avail, smearing the blood across his cheeks and forehead and chin like war paint.
Yet at last, he drank.
TWENTY-ONE
Ann Norton got out of her car without bothering to take the keys, and began to walk across the hospital parking lot toward the bright lights of the lobby. Overhead, clouds had blotted out the stars and soon it would begin to rain. She didn't look up to see the clouds. She walked stolidly, looking straight in front of her.
She was a very different-looking woman from the lady Ben Mears had met on that first evening Susan had invited him to take dinner with her family. That lady had been medium-tall, dressed in a green wool dress that did not scream of money but spoke of material comfort. That lady had not been beautiful but she had been well groomed and pleasant to look at; her graying hair had been permed not long since.
This woman wore only carpet slippers on her feet. Her legs were bare, and with no Supp-hose to mask them, the varicose veins bulged prominently (although not as prominently as before; some of the pressure had been taken off them). She was wearing a ragged yellow dressing gown over her negligee; her hair was blown in errant sheafs by the rising wind. Her face was pallid, and heavy brown circles lay beneath her eyes.
She had told Susan, had warned her about that man Mears and his friends, had warned her about the man who had murdered her. Matt Burke had put him up to it. They had been in cahoots. Oh yes. She knew. He had told her.
She had been sick all day, sick and sleepy and nearly unable to get out of bed. And when she had fallen into a heavy slumber after noon, while her husband was off answering questions for a silly missing persons report, he had come to her in a dream. His face was handsome and commanding and arrogant and compelling. His nose was hawklike, his hair swept back from his brow, and his heavy, fascinating mouth masked strangely exciting white teeth that showed when he smiled. And his eyes...they were red and hypnotic. When he looked at you with those eyes, you could not look away...and you didn't want to.
He had told her everything, and what she must do--and how she could be with her daughter when it was done, and with so many others...and with him. Despite Susan, it was him she wanted to please, so he would give her the thing she craved and needed: the touch; the penetration.
Her husband's .38 was in her pocket.
She entered the lobby and looked toward the reception desk. If anyone tried to stop her, she would take care of them. Not by shooting, no. No shot must be fired until she was in Burke's room. He had told her so. If they got to her and stopped her before she had done the job, he would not come to her, to give her burning kisses in the night.
There was a young girl at the desk in a white cap and uniform, working a crossword in the soft glow of the lamp over her main console. An orderly was just going down the hall, his back to them.
The duty nurse looked up with a trained smile when she heard Ann's footsteps, but it faded when she saw the hollow-eyed woman who was approaching her in nightclothes. Her eyes were blank yet oddly shiny, as if she were a wind-up toy someone had set in motion. A patient, perhaps, who had gone wandering.
"Ma'am, if you--"
Ann Norton drew the .38 from the pocket of her wrapper like some creaky gunslinger from beyond time. She pointed it at the duty nurse's head and told her, "Turn around."
The nurse's mouth worked silently. She drew in breath with a convulsive heave.
"Don't scream. I'll kill you if you do."
The air wheezed out. The nurse had gone very pale.
"Turn around now."
The nurse got up slowly and turned around. Ann Norton reversed the .38 and prepared to bring the butt down on the nurse's head with all the strength she had.
At that precise moment, her feet were kicked out from under her.
TWENTY-TWO
The gun went flying.
The woman in the ragged yellow dressing gown did not scream but began to make a high whining noise in her throat, almost keening. She scrambled after it like a crab, and the man who was behind her, looking bewildered and frightened, also darted after it. When he saw that she would get to it first, he kicked it across the lobby rug.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Hey, help!"
Ann Norton looked over her shoulder and hissed at him, her face pulled into a cheated scrawl of hate, and then scrambled after the gun again. The orderly had come back, on the run. He looked at the scene with blank amazement for a moment, and then picked up the gun that lay almost at his feet.
"For Christ's sake," he said. "This thing is load--"
She attacked him. Her hands, hooked into claws, pinwheeled across his face, dragging red stripes across the surprised orderly's forehead and right cheek. He held the gun up out of her reach. Still keening, she clawed for it.
The bewildered man came up from behind and grabbed her. He would say later that it was like grabbing a bag of snakes. The body beneath the dressing gown was hot and repulsive, every muscle twitching and writhing.
As she struggled to get free, the orderly popped her one flush on the jaw. Her eyes rolled up to the whites and she collapsed.
The orderly and the bewildered man looked at each other.
The nurse at the reception desk was screaming. Her hands were clapped to her mouth, giving the screams a unique foghorn effect.
"What kind of a hospital do you people run here, anyhow?" the bewildered man asked.
"Christ if I know," the orderly said. "What the hell happened?"
"I was just coming in to visit my sister. She had a baby. And this kid walks up to me and says a woman just went in with a gun. And--"
"What kid?"
The bewildered man who had come to visit his sister looked around. The lobby was filling with people, but all of them were above drinking age.
"I don't see him now. But he was here. That gun loaded?"
"It sure is," the orderly said.
"What kind of a hospital do you people run here, anyhow?" the bewildered man asked again.
TWENTY-THREE
They had seen two nurses run past the door toward the elevators and heard a vague shout down the stairwell. Ben glanced at Jimmy and Jimmy shrugged imperceptibly. Matt was dozing with his mouth open.
Ben closed the door and turned off the lights. Jimmy crouched by the foot of Matt's bed, and when they heard footsteps hesitate outside the door, Ben stood beside it, ready. When it opened and a head poked through, he grabbed it in a half nelson and jammed the cross he held in the other hand into the face.
"Let me go!"
A hand reached up and beat futilely at his chest. A moment later the overhead light went on. Matt was sitting up in bed, blinking at Mark Petrie, who was struggling in Ben's arms.
Jimmy came out of his crouch and ran across the room. He seemed almost ready to embrace the boy when he hesitated. "Lift your chin."
Mark did, showing all three of them his unmarked neck.
Jimmy relaxed. "Boy, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Where's the Father?"
"Don't know," Mark said somberly. "Barlow caught me...killed my folks. They're dead. My folks are dead. He beat their heads together. He killed my folks. Then he had me and he said to Father Callahan that he would let me go if Father Callahan would promise to throw away his cross. He promised. I ran. But before I ran, I spit on him. I spit on him and I'm going to kill him."
He swayed in the doorway. There were bramble marks on his forehead and cheeks. He had run through the forest along the path where Danny Glick and his brother had come to grief so long before. His pants were wet to the knees from his flight through Taggart Stream. He had hitched a ride, but couldn't remember who he had hitched it with. The radio had been playing, he remembered that.
Ben's tongue was frozen. He did not know what to say.
"You poor boy," Matt said softly. "You poor, brave boy."
Mark's face began to break up. His eyes closed and his mouth twisted and strained. "My muh-muh-mother--"
He staggered blindly and Ben caught him in his arms, enfolded him, rocked him as the tears came and raged against his shirt.
TWENTY-FOUR
Father Donald Callahan had no idea how long he walked in the dark. He stumbled back toward the downtown area along Jointner Avenue, never heeding his car, which he had left parked in the Petries' driveway. Sometimes he wandered in the middle of the road, and sometimes he staggered along the sidewalk. Once a car bore down on him, its headlights great shining circles; its horn began to blare and it swerved at the last instant, tires screaming on the pavement. Once he fell in the ditch. As he approached the yellow blinking light, it began to rain.
