Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

  On Zachary's left arm, just under the elbow, the skin broke and something black and leathery slithered out. The Reverend tried to lift his head and watch it. Grant followed his eyes and saw it a second too late. It struck, fast as a cobra, lassoing itself around his neck and tightening.

  Grant gagged and released one hand to grab the whip.

  Zachary shouted and pushed him off while swinging his arm around and yanking Grant to one side. Gasping, the Reverend held out his arm and seemed to direct the thing to extend and further coil itself around Grant. It slithered around his ankles and tripped him and then moved toward his arms.

  But Grant reached out and caught a section of the thing. His hand flared again and the cord burst, spouting a spray of greenish liquid. Zachary howled and fell backwards as the split appendage weakly slithered back into his arm.

  And Grant went to back work, burning away the ones still coiled around his neck. He moved to his ankles, glancing at the Reverend every few seconds. Zachary was on his side, holding his arm and mumbling. He was trying to stand. His head was smoking and there appeared to be red handprints on his temples.

  Grant tossed the leaking creatures away and got to his feet. He felt his blood coursing with the foreign agent, sweeping through every cell and every muscle, changing – morphing, augmenting – everything in its path. He held up his arms and saw the mutating ripples.

  Okay, Reverend. Time to meet your god.

  As he advanced on Zachary, he felt his skin splitting, the things winding their way out; he experienced being one with every appendage, sensing and feeling what they did.

  In the rush of sensation, he almost missed a thought that edged in, a thought emanating from behind him.

  Grant spun, snarling.

  And saw the silhouette in the doorway. Dark and hunched, it limped out.

  Oh no, Grant thought, and started to run toward Lloyd. Forgot about him.

  The assassin lifted the Uzi at his side, flicked the safety, and held the trigger down.

  Grant saw the tongues of flame an instant before the slugs ripped through his body, cutting into his animated flesh, splintering his bones and piercing his organs. A phosphorescent light tinged the blood that gushed from the holes after the gun had quieted.

  But Grant kept moving. Staggering at half speed, snakes swaying drunkenly from his arms and shoulders, the glow around his hands flickering.

  "One... hundred forty-seven," he said as Lloyd removed the clip and slammed another one in.

  Grant took another step, reaching for Lloyd. Time... to land the plane.

  Lloyd screamed and aimed at the librarian's skull, but was pushed off balance slightly by the recoil. A few bursts went wide. Grant lurched for him – one last, desperate attempt – but Lloyd dodged out of the way and steadily emptied the rest of the clip into Grant's head.

  When it was over, the librarian was nearly decapitated and the upper half of his body resembled nothing human. He twitched once more before lying still, and the leathery snakes drifted to the ground and dissolved into the earth.

  Lloyd released the gun. He hugged his shoulders and started to rock back and forth, shaking his head. This was his first encounter with a true demon, and he had defeated it. He was relieved to see the Reverend slowly getting to his feet. Holding his head and limping, Zachary stumbled over the broken glass toward the tower.

  "Burn that," he said, pointing to Grant. "And then take some of my followers and go to the library."

  A moment later, Evelyn came running out. She caught the Reverend and helped him inside, leaving Lloyd alone with the grisly corpse.

  The moon slid gracefully into a clouded pocket, and a sheath of darkness enveloped the land.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They were still in Grant's office when the alarm went off, a muted crash echoing like drumbeats through the desolate library. Audrey was the first to react. She ran to the door, glanced down the dark hallway.

  Nick cursed. "Our weapons are out there!"

  Audrey pointed at Stan's holster. "What is that thing? A .38?"

  "Yes ma'am." Slowly he drew it out of the holster. "You want it?"

  "No. Keep it." She glanced out the hall again, and thought she heard sounds, heavy footsteps in the library. "You're going out first. You have to cover us – wait!" She noticed a metal plate in the wall behind Grant's desk.

  "Nick!" she pointed to the fuse box.

  Nick ran to it, stood on a file cabinet and pulled the hatch open.

  "Bingo!" he said, displaying the rows of switches behind the plate. "We've got the lights."

  "Okay," Audrey whispered. "We're going to the end of the hallway. Give us five seconds, then throw every switch."

  Stan started to sweat. The gun trembled in his hand as he slipped out the door.

  Audrey met Nick's gaze. "Then count another... ten seconds. That should be enough for me to reach the table, get the weapons and take cover. Flip the switches back on. All of them. Then come out cautiously. See you out there," she said, and ducked into the hall.

  Nick slowly counted to five. He took a deep breath; memorized the layout of the room, the location of the door. Then he flipped the switches, five at a time.

  Plunged into darkness, Nick held his breath and began counting again.

  At the end of the dark hallway Audrey reached back and touched Stan's arm.

  "Let's go," she whispered. "Up the stairs, and then split up. You're going right. Get some cover before Nick hits the lights."

  Then she was gone, two soft footsteps creaking on the stairs. Stan paused to give her time to make it up before he started to move. In the darkness he reached the top of the stairs, felt for a bookcase and slipped along between two rows. He was making his way down a cramped aisle, hoping to get a prime vantage point, when the lights switched back on and painfully stabbed at his eyes.

  He was at the edge of the shelves, a step away from the main area. Near the door, fumbling ineffectively with the light switches, Roger Morris stood, a worried expression on his face. He gripped a shotgun tightly with both hands.

  And not less than a yard away, his back to Stan, stood John Frakes. He also held a shotgun, pointed at the floor.

  Stan wasted no time. He lunged forward, grabbed John by the shirt and yanked him back between the bookcases. Before John could shout, Stan brought the butt of the .38 down on the back of his skull; the grocer crumbled wordlessly. Stan ripped the shotgun out of John's limp hand and held it with one hand, aiming between the bookcases. He backed up slowly, the shotgun shaking worse than the .38.

  He was nearly at the end of the shelves. At eye level on his right was a shelf full of Tom Clancy novels. Stan took another step back, impatient for someone to appear in his line of fire. Where was Roger? Surely he saw, surely–

  A sound. Behind him.

  Stan whirled, bringing the shotgun over his shoulder in a graceful arc.

  Roger crouched in the space, pointing his shotgun, both barrels poised and deadly. His face was expressionless, exactly as it had been when he stoned his own wife.

  The same mask, Stan thought as he pulled both triggers at once. Roger fired at the same time, the recoil bringing him to a standing position in time to take the full brunt of Stan's shotgun blast. He flew backwards into the wall, his chest and neck a dark crimson stain.

  The recoil had knocked Stan to one side and saved him from the worst of the blast. Pellets stung and tore through his right side, biting into his ribs and down to his leg. He cried out and fell against the shelf.

  It teetered and creaked, then toppled over with an enormous crash into the next shelf which cracked and split and threw books in every direction as it fell onto the next and last shelf.

  His ears ringing, Stan tried to rise among the fallen books. He saw a shape running toward him.

  Stuart.

  Stan pointed the shotgun, but Stuart quickly jumped out of sight, behind one of the remaining shelves.

  "Sonofabitch!" Stan screamed and fired anyway – r
ipping into a shelf and a dozen books. "Audrey!" he yelled. "There's one more! He's got a pistol. Comin' your way!"

  Silence.

  Groaning, Stan pulled himself up to one knee. He placed the .38 back in his holster and leaned on the shotgun for support. On his feet again, he touched the tiny red holes in his side. He grimaced and pressed his hand tight against his ribs. He glanced at the blood-stained wall and the smear that led to where Roger sat, legs spread, head lolled to one side, eyes glossy and vacant.

  Stan shook his head. He turned and almost tripped over the unconscious grocer.

  Movement ahead. A scuttling metal sound. Stan cursed and stepped beyond the last shelf, pointing the shotgun.

  Audrey was at the weapons table, holding a finger to her lips. She was crouched behind a chair, one of the nastier-looking pistols in her hand.

  Stan slid around the shelf, his back to the wood. He pointed toward the rear of the library. Toward the staircase.

  Where's Nick? he mouthed to Audrey.

  She shook her head and cocked the hammer on her gun, waiting.

  Nick almost made it to the first door – the children's room – when gunfire erupted upstairs. He bolted into a run, not certain exactly what he planned to do. Weaponless, he was less than dead weight up there. But he couldn't just stay here and let Audrey and Stan face the danger alone.

  He was running when he reached the corner. If he had been a second faster he might have caught the man off guard and had a chance, but Stuart was only halfway down the stairs when Nick barreled around.

  Stuart leveled the gun at Nick's chest.

  "Don't move, demon."

  "Lay down your weapons!" Stuart shouted as he walked back up the stairs. He had an arm around Nick's throat and the barrel of the .45 against his temple. He was less than gentle. His heart was pumping madly, his veins coursing with charged energy. He felt an elation greater than any he had ever known.

  He had captured the demons. Not Lloyd. Stuart grinned and took the final step onto the landing. Lloyd had done nothing; he probably would have botched the job. But Stuart had handled it with ease. And when he returned to the Reverend bearing these gifts, oh how he would be rewarded.

  It was only what he deserved, he realized. He had served the Reverend many years faithfully, his loyalty unquestioned. This was the culmination of his service, his greatest success.

  Nick struggled, but Stuart jammed the muzzle against his skull. "Don't try it. If your friends cooperate, you'll live long enough to beg the Reverend's forgiveness."

  Nick relaxed and let himself be dragged forward with Stuart.

  "Lay down your weapons!" he shouted again, and this time, saw the sheriff peeking around a bookshelf.

  "Drop the shotgun!" Stuart yelled. "Or he dies now!" He slid around the shelf, stepping over Roger's corpse. He was in full sight of the sheriff now.

  Stan raised his hands.

  "Drop the gun!"

  Nick tried to shake his head.

  Stan swallowed hard and let the shotgun fall from his fingers. His right hand moved to his waist, where the .38 was hidden.

  Stuart smiled. This was easier than he'd hoped. "Get down on your knees!" he ordered. Stan got down.

  "Hands over your head. Face down."

  Stan complied, muttering.

  Stuart walked over the piles of books, leading his captive into the open foyer. After he had taken care of the woman he would wait until John woke up and together they would tie up these prisoners and travel back to the church. And, if Lloyd showed up in the meantime and attempted to take credit for this, well – Stuart might just have to shoot him. He could always say the assassin died by the sheriff's hands.

  And then, Stuart thought, he would once again be alone in the Reverend's favor.

  He scanned the library's main floor. "Where is the woman?" Increasing the pressure on Nick's throat, he shouted, "Show yourself now! Or he dies!"

  Nick squirmed. "Run Audrey! Forget me!"

  Stuart pulled the fiend's head back by his hair. "Shut up!"

  "Why?" Nick asked. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"

  "I said shut up!" Stuart felt his control slipping. Where was the woman? There were too many uncertainties. Suddenly he was sure she was right behind him, aiming at his head; he spun around, jerking his captive along with him.

  No one.

  "Getting a little paranoid?" Nick asked.

  Stuart could feel his captive shaking. He liked instilling this fear in a demon; it made him powerful, and he drew on it to calm himself.

  But where was the woman?

  Her back against a row of thick hardcovers, Audrey waited and held her breath. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  "Run Audrey. Forget about me!"

  She heard the fear and desperation in his voice.

  Forget him? Not a chance.

  She tightened her grip on the handle of the 9mm. No turning back. This was what she had been trained for.

  This is what would have made her father proud.

  With a short prayer, she spun around the bookshelf, dropped to one knee and straightened her firing arm, holding the wrist steady with her other hand.

  Stuart's back was to her momentarily and she had a clear shot.

  But she hesitated a second too long. She knew this was a case where she had to kill the target. Couldn't risk him pulling off one shot...

  –had to kill him.

  Grant's words came back to her: You wouldn't kill me. I saw that. Afraid to kill...

  Stuart turned around and saw her. Immediately he slid behind Nick, keeping the .45 visible against his captive's head.

  "Drop it, bitch!" he yelled.

  "No!" Nick screamed, louder. "Shoot the bastard."

  "Shut up now!" Stuart choked harder and Nick gagged and began to turn white. "Throw down your weapon and put your hands up or watch your friend's brains paint the floor!"

  Audrey took a deep breath, sighting along the barrel. Three inches to the left of Nick's eye, she had a shot of Stuart's head.

  Stan, lying face down, looked back at her, wide-eyed.

  "Audrey–" Nick gasped. His eyes darted back and forth. "Take... him..."

  Stuart's face moved another inch closer, his weasel-like eye peeking out nervously. "I mean it!" he shouted. "He's dead!"

  Come on, Audrey thought. Give me a shot. Help me out, Nick.

  The air in the library was tangible, thick and soupy. A book slid off the top of the fallen stack and clattered noisily to the floor.

  Audrey watched Stuart's eyes dart to the volume, and then back.

  Another missed chance, she thought, and again wondered if she could do this. She couldn't do it back at the cabin, but that was when only her life was threatened. Maybe her life wasn't worth trading in for another's, but this time someone else depended on her. One that needed to live at all costs. This went beyond her job assignment, beyond all fears and values.

  Beyond the guilt-induced promise she had made to herself years ago.

  She held her breath, blinked a droplet of sweat from her eye. Please, Nick.

  The .45 at Nick's head trembled. And Nick's eyes made contact with Audrey's. A shared signal, a mutual understanding.

  Audrey's finger tightened. Just like at the target range...

  Nick jabbed an elbow in Stuart's ribs and ducked his head a few inches.

  It was enough.

  Audrey squeezed the trigger. A circle of red burst between Stuart's shocked eyes. Something bubbled from his lips – blood mixed with a gagging sound.

  She shut her eyes, waiting for the second blast, the reflexive shot that Stuart might have squeezed off at the moment of death.

  She heard only the sound of a body crumpling to the floor, followed by the clattering of a dropped pistol.

  When she opened her eyes, Nick was rising off his knees and running to her. Still holding the gun, she held her arms out to him. In a daze she counted the steps he took before reaching her and pulling her off the floor
and into his arms.

  She held him tight, her heart hammering so hard she thought it would bruise his chest.

  When she looked up, she saw a dark figure in the doorway, behind the glass frame.

  Petrified, unable to react, she watched as the figure lifted an automatic weapon. Under a near-hairless head, Lloyd's face was a mask of cold fury.

  There wasn't enough time to move–

  A thunderous gunshot erupted, unlike the rapid fire sound of an Uzi.

  Stan was on his feet, pumping round after round through the door. The first blast tore the glass door apart in a dazzling storm of shards. Lloyd ducked back, out of range as the second and third shots tore into the wall.

  "Run!" Stan screamed.

  Nick grabbed Audrey's arm and pulled her through a long column of books, toward the stairs. "Come on, Stan. Out the back!"

  They reached the stairs. Stan was backing up, firing again as Lloyd popped his head in view. Then Stan turned and ran around the shelves to the stairs.

  Audrey pushed Nick and Stan away when they were halfway down. She turned and knelt on the fifth step, the 9mm held in both hands, balanced on the floor. "I'll hold him off. Get going. Start the car." She didn't look to see them leave.

  "Come on, you bastard. Step into my sights, please."

  Having sent her first victim into the jaws of death, now she felt no regrets about killing a monster like Lloyd. She imagined Nick's parents, their bodies tortured and broken, burning in the flames of their own home.

  Glass shards crunched under heavy feet.

  She couldn't quite see the path to the door. One shelf was still in the way.

  Silence.

  Her pulse had taken up drumming in her throat, an overpowering noise. Would Lloyd hear it? Was he that good?

  A dark shape whipped around the far end of the shelf.

  Audrey squeezed off two rounds, turned and didn't wait to see if any hit. She jumped to the bottom of the stairs and slipped around the corner just before the wall buckled under a relentless burst of gunfire. She raced down the hall as fast as her legs would send her. A rush of adrenaline carried her to the door before she heard the chilling click of another magazine slipping into place.