Keith smothered her words with a kiss. Whether it was her heightened emotions, lack of sleep, or vitamin-D deprivation, Andrea hadn’t a clue. All she knew was what her heart was telling her that moment. Forgetting where they were, ignoring the roiling darkness all around them, Andrea returned his kiss with all the strength left in her.
“Your face is so scratchy,” Andrea murmured when they broke for a much-needed breath.
“Haven’t shaved in an eon,” Keith whispered in her ear then found her lips again.
Finally, after an eternity of heartbeats, Keith pushed her to arms’ length and just looked at her. “Oh, Andy, Andy. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but…”
“I wanted you to do it.”
“And I wanted to do it, too, but, well, this is neither the time nor the place.”
Feeling like he’d just tossed a bucket of ice water on her, Andrea backed away and picked up the shopping bag. “You’re right. Let’s get going. Sorry. Chalk it up to me being a silly, emotional teenager.”
He winced. “No. No, please. You’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Really. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” Keith took a step closer, but Andrea raised a hand. “Don’t. Let’s get out of here. Okay?”
“Right.” He bent to retrieve the pillowcase. “Right. Time to get this show on the road. We’ve gambled with fate long enough. Those things have to be around, somewhere, and we don’t want the folks back home freaking out if we’re ten minutes late. But our conversation isn’t over, Andrea. We have to talk.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it. And six years isn’t all that much. In the grand scheme of things. Right?”
Andrea studied his crooked grin for several heartbeats then smiled. “Right.”
“Okay. Great. Let’s move it.”
They resumed walking at a fast clip. Neither spoke, but it was a congenial silence, not cold and lonely, like before. By the time they reached the driveway, however, Andrea’s hands had just about had it. She didn’t think she could carry the heavy shopping bag with its narrow plastic handles, much farther. It’d felt more like ten miles than just a quarter of one. She was beat.
Keith noticed. “Hey, why don’t put the bag down and go on up to the house. I can make two trips just the length of the driveway. I’ll be okay.”
“Thanks. My hand is killing me. I’ll tell the—”
“Move another inch, and I’ll kill you.” The hoarse voice erupted from the thick blackness.
Andrea froze. Keith dropped the pillowcase and whirled around, looking in all directions. “Who’s there!” he demanded in a guttural voice Andrea didn’t recognize.
Like a phantom, morphing from the netherworld, a human form materialized out of the gloom. It was a young man—a boy, really—dressed in black leather and chains, body pierced in a dozen places. His hair was spiked. It stood straight up like he’d been shocked. He scowled. Ugly. Angry.
“Don’t move!” he screamed at Keith, raising an arm and waving it menacingly over his head. He held something, but Andrea couldn’t make it out. She prayed it wasn’t a gun.
“What do you want?” Keith asked. “We haven’t anything except a few lousy medical supplies. We have someone badly injured up at the house.”
“Yeah? Is that so? I’m crying buckets.” The punk added a string of profanity that made Andrea wince. Aunt Claire would’ve washed his mouth out—or worse. The words made her feel dirty. Apparently, Keith felt the same.
“Watch your language, you punk,” Keith growled. In the next instant, he lay flat on the road, wiping blood from a bludgeoned nose.
Andrea yelped. “Oh, God. Keith.”
“Shut up!”
She glared at the youth. “What’s the matter with you, you Cretin.”
The delinquent swore. “I told you to shut up! Move again or say another word, and you’re both deader than the people back up the road.” He waved the object he was holding closer, and now Andrea could see it was a large rock.
“You killed them? You killed the Martins?” Andrea shrieked. Half-expecting the angry youth to hit her, she cringed in expectation of the hard blow. But he didn’t lift a hand.
“Kill the couple behind the garage? No, I didn’t kill ’em. They was already dead when I practically fell on top of ’em. But don’t get me wrong, baby, ’cause I don’t have no problem with killing when I have to.” He grabbed Keith by the collar. “Get up, ass-hole! You live in the house up this road?”
Keith jerked free of the hoodlum’s grasp and received a knee in the abdomen and a kick in the face for his efforts. Andrea squealed in fear. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him again!”
The punk’s grin was a sneer. “Yeah? And what if I don’t? You going to stop me, honey? That might be a lot of fun. Try it.”
Keith, who was doubled up in agony and trying desperately to draw a breath, protested. “Don’t touch her.” He coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood, and, to Andrea’s horror, a tooth.
That made the thug laugh uproariously. With one sweep of a leather-clad leg, he had Keith sprawled on the highway, facedown for the second time. Andrea made a desperate attempt to kick back at the youth and by sheer luck got him in the groin.
“You bitch. You’re dead, bitch. Dead.” Doubled over, the punk lunged for Andrea. She sidestepped his attack, swung her leg out and tripped him. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Screaming in rage, spittle spraying, he raised a fist. The look in his wild eyes terrified Andrea. Never in her life had she seen a human being so crazed. She knew it was over for her and probably Keith, too. The insane young man would kill them both.
SIXTEEN
The punk lunged for her again. Andrea screamed and kicked out. Keith rolled over and scrambled to get up, but the punk had already grabbed Andrea by the hair and was yanking her to him. Then, leering down into her face, he brought one hand back, ready to slam his fist down on her head. Andrea wriggled and squirmed, but his hold on her tightened. She screamed again.
A deep, throaty bark broke through the scuffling, and the punk let go of Andrea so quickly, she tumbled to the ground. She looked up just in time to see a dark shape fly through the air and land on top of the startled delinquent. Now he was the one screaming in sheer fright and pain.
Thor. He snapped savage jaws and sank sharp teeth into the thug’s arm, shoulder, and leg. The young man fought with a viciousness that belied his slight frame. He made repeated attempts to grab Thor’s collar but was no match for the big dog. He screamed again and again. “Get him off! Get the freakin’ dog off me. He’s killin’ me!”
Keith struggled to his feet. Leaning forward with one hand pressed against his side, he helped Andrea up then turned to watch the unbelievable fracas in front of them. With a glance at Andrea’s stricken face, Keith stepped closer. “Thor!” he shouted with as much force as his injured ribs would allow. “Thor. Down, boy. That’s enough.”
Thor ignored him.
Andrea gave it a try. “Thor. Good boy. Good boy. Thor, stop. Stop, Thor.” The dog registered her voice and obeyed. He let go of the whimpering punk but circled him, giving guttural barks as though warning him not to try anything else or he’d be back.
“Get up,” Keith told the young man. “Get up, you repulsive piece of shit. And if you even blink the wrong way, I’ll sic the dog on you again. Understand?”
The young man mumbled something neither Keith nor Andrea could make out. Keith wasn’t giving the fellow an inch. “What did you say?” he shouted like a Marine sergeant. Getting no response, he turned to Thor and said loudly, “Thor.”
The punk threw up his arms to ward off another attack. “No, please! I understand. I understand. I won’t try nothin’.”
“Good. Now, maybe, we’ll let you live a few more minutes,” Keith spat.
Keeping a firm hold on Thor’s collar, he motioned for Andrea to lead the way. For good measure, she stooped and picked up the rock the punk had dropped when the dog jumped him. She hefted it from one hand to the other, letting th
e hoodlum see that she, too, meant business.
In a straight line, they started down the long driveway. Andrea had taken less than a dozen steps when she stopped so suddenly the thug almost knocked her down. Neither the kid nor Keith needed an explanation for her abrupt immobility. A yard or two down the road, four sets of greenish-yellow eyes glowed with demoniac lust.
No one moved or uttered a sound. Even the punk was frozen in abject fear. Thor’s ruff rose. He barked, whined and postured for a fight but didn’t go any closer to the monstrous things. Andrea held her breath until her pulse pounded in her ears. This is it, she thought, almost detached from the scene. This is how we’re going to die. Oh, God. Help us.
Wails erupted from the creatures. Their throats opened to vomit shrill screeches, choking snarls, and terrible gnashing sounds. Andrea cringed and covered her ears with her hands. The punk was so frightened he crouched in the middle of the road with leather-clad arms wrapped around his head. Keith stood erect—eyes riveted on the monsters before him. Seconds turned into minutes. They waited, frozen in time, able only to count heartbeats.
They were so close, Andrea actually saw into their gaping mouths. Yellow teeth, dripping saliva and viscous drops of blood, protruded at incredible angles. Long, wet tongues lashed out, lizard-like. The scene was so unspeakable, so unbelievably horrific, that Andrea was sure she’d die before the monsters had a chance to sink their teeth into her puny body.
Keith gasped behind her. “Oh, God.”
“Keith,” Andrea backed up against him, and he put an arm around her quaking shoulders. “It’s over, isn’t it?”
“Shhh,” Keith hissed. “Stand still. Don’t move.”
Andrea couldn’t move even if she’d wanted to. Fear had sucked all strength and energy from her body. She could only lean against Keith and stare in abject fascination at the things.
Then, suddenly, the front door was flung open and a shadowy figure appeared with a halo of light behind him. Andrea could tell it wasn’t Carrie, and she was positive it wasn’t the priest. Had to be Eleazar. When the old man stepped out onto the porch, Andrea wanted to scream for him to go back inside, hide, lock the door. But her voice was somewhere else and she couldn’t make a sound. Keith was breathing hard, probably having the same problem with prodigal vocal chords.
When the old pastor descended the four steps to the stone walkway, Andrea thought she’d pass out. The monsters were between them and the house. Couldn’t Eleazar see them? He had to see them. They were immense, loud, too horrific to miss.
“Children,” the minister called. “Hurry. Come into the house.”
Keith found his voice. “We can’t. The creatures are blocking our way.”
The black man’s voice urged again, “Hurry inside. The creatures won’t bother you.”
“You’re out of your—” Keith began.
An ear-piercing scream filled the infinite night and Andrea and Keith both let out yelps. The monsters gnashed their teeth, spit, then loped off into the darkness. Just like that. One second the things were poised, ready to attack, and a heartbeat later, they were gone.
Andrea let her body sag, and it took both Keith’s hands to steady her so she didn’t fall. She looked up into his haggard face and tried to smile. “Th-thanks.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome. Man, I thought I was going to pass out.”
“Me, too.”
“How’d he do that?”
“I’m past understanding that old man.”
“Dear, God, what next?”
“Yeah. What next?”
Movement beside them had both whirling around. The punk. They’d forgotten about him. The kid had taken his arms from around his head and was pushing himself up. He didn’t try to run away, didn’t say a word, only stared at the old man who waited for them on the front lawn.
Andrea looked at Keith and grinned. “Well. I guess we should go inside. Those things could come back, you know. They’re not gone for good.” She exhaled loudly. “That was unbelievable. Incredible. Really, really incredible.”
“That’s the understatement of the century. But you’re right. Let’s go. I’ve had enough terror to last a lifetime.”
Pushing the over-grown bully in front of him, Keith walked down the driveway, the pillowcase once again flung over his shoulder, making him a caricature of Santa Claus. Thor trotted alongside Andrea, who had the shopping bag clutched in her left hand. When they’d made it as far as the front lawn, Keith smiled at the black minister.
“Don’t know how you did that. Don’t think I want to know.”
Eleazar shook his cottony head. “Son, I did nothing. Just said a prayer. And, I believe that incident just took twenty years off my life. Sweet Jesus!”
Carrie stepped out onto the porch. “Please. Everybody. Come inside.”
Eleazar climbed the steps to join Carrie on the porch. He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “We are coming, dear child, we are coming. Everything is all right.”
“No, it isn’t. It isn’t all right. I watched from the window. I saw. I saw those-those beasts out there. They were going to attack Keith and Andrea and—” She stopped mid-sentence as her focus turned to the punk being pushed along by Keith. “Who is that?”
SEVENTEEN
It took several minutes to unload their loot, get the punk settled on the floor with his back to a wall, and take quick turns in the bathroom. Carrie offered to make something hot to drink, while Eleazar rummaged in a kitchen drawer for duct tape. Keith wanted the thug secured before they relaxed. Father Joe lay propped on pillows, looking wan and in pain, but wholly interested in the goings-on.
Andrea nearly tripped over a footstool when she heard Eleazar ask the crazed kid if he’d been hurt in the dog’s attack. The punk didn’t answer but the old pastor muttered, “I believe your leather apparel saved you from anything too severe. Blessed be God.”
Biting her lip, Andrea stumbled into the kitchen to help Carrie with the drinks. She didn’t know who to throttle first—the delinquent or the minister.
Finally, they gathered before a generous fire and several candles lit for illumination, each with a steaming mug of chicken broth. Andrea and Keith took turns relating the events leading up to the showdown with the things. When they got to the part where the punk attacked them, Eleazar interrupted. “What is your name, son?” His kind eyes rested on the kid sitting hunched over in the corner, back against the wall.
The young man, who’d been sullen and mute the entire time, let go a cuss word. Eleazar, however, showed no outward sign of shock. He continued to look calmly at the thug, his eyes filled with compassion. “I don’t think that word could possibly be your name, son. Care to try again?”
The punk sneered and another word belched up from the sewer of his soul. At this, Father Joe raised himself up and locked his intense blues eyes with the youth’s hooded brown ones. “You,” the priest said just above a whisper. “You are the one who torched my church aren’t you? Why?”
The deviant tried to look away but found he couldn’t. It was as though the priest were a large cobra and he, a tiny bird. He sneered, coughed, and then a cloud swept across his gaunt features. “Yeah. So what if I did? What’re you going to do about it? Call the cops?”
“No,” Father Joe said. “I’m going to pray for your soul. With the last ounce of energy I have left in me, I’m going to pray for you.”
“And so am I,” the Baptist preacher added.
The young man looked from the priest to the minister as though uncertain how to react to this unheard of thing. He’d been prepared for accusations and threats of vengeance and final damnation, but not this. He shifted, tugged at the tight bindings and snorted. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” he trilled in mock falsetto. “I’ve been saved! Praise the Lord! I’ve been saved!”
Keith stiffened and looked ready to slap the punk, but Eleazar stopped him with one eloquent look. The old man nodded at the delinquent. “You have the right idea, my son.”
The kid sneered again. Father Joe made a feeble attempt to push himself up higher but hadn’t enough strength. He collapsed onto the pillows, and the youth snorted derisively. “See? I really gave it to the collar. He’s hurtin’ for certain. And I enjoyed seeing the church burn. Like the Fourth of July, man. Sweet.”
“You poor kid,” Father Joe murmured. “I am so sorry.”
The old preacher nodded. “Yes, dear Joseph. I agree with your sentiment.” He looked at the punk. “I, too, am sorry, young man.”
“Yeah?” the youth sneered. “What do you have to be sorry about, nigger?”
Andrea and Keith flinched and Carrie blanched, while Father Joe struggled to sit up again. Eleazar, however, just waved a hand and leaned toward the foul-mouthed punk in the corner. “Son, I am sorry you have not learned to love yourself.”
“Huh?”
Father Joe broke in. “You don’t love yourself. Maybe you’ve never known what it means to be loved. If that’s so, I’m sorry, and the reverend is sorry, too. We’re so terribly and truly sorry. And I, for one, apologize for every cruel and hateful thing that’s ever happened to you. I want you to know that I love you.”
“As do I,” Eleazar said softly.
The kid ignored the minister and stared with contempt at the priest. “You love me? Yeah. Right. Wanna sell me the Brooklyn Bridge next? ’Cause I ain’t buying your crap.”
Father Joe grinned. “Yeah. Sounds hokey, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I really care what happens to you, kid.”
“But I torched your freakin’ church!”
“I know. But I still love you and want the best for you.”
“Man, I beat the crap outta you.”
Father Joe winced. “I know. But I still mean what I say. And to prove it to you—what’s your name, kid? Eleazar asked a while back but you never answered.”
The Fourth Trumpet Page 10
