The Devil's Cat

by William W. Johnstone

  "Satan himself is not here, you fool!" Lester shouted. "Not personally. I have been instructed by an angel from the Lord to destroy all the residents of this wicked city. This city has become a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. It is wicked and depraved and sinful. Now stand aside, we are on our way to burn the library."

  "The library?" James blurted. "What's wrong with the library?"

  "Nasty, filthy, wicked, lustful, profane books!" Lester shouted.

  "Amen!" came the chorus.

  "You ignorant redneck," James said. "Dumb white trash, that's all you are."

  "I'll smite you hip and thigh!" Lester shouted, raising a club over his head.

  Lester found both eyes suddenly crossing, as they looked down the barrel of Norris's .357. Man could sure get that gun out in a hurry.

  "Lower that club, you hillbilly," James told the lay preacher. "Or I'll blow your head off."

  "You heathen!" Lester said. But he lowered the club.

  "Now you listen to me," Sam told the leader and the followers. "You're not burning any buildings. The buildings are not our problem. And be advised of this, too: there are lots of people in this town who are not on either side …"

  "If they are not on the side of decency then they are on the side of filth and perversion!" Sister Bertha howled from the crowd.

  "That's right!" Lester stood his ground. "There is no middle road."

  James said it first. "They don't understand, Sam. They're all about three bricks shy of a full load."

  Lester glared at the trooper. "No," he hissed at James and Sam. "It is you who do not understand. Neither of you. Pornography has brought this plague upon us. The filthy words and dirty pictures are to blame. The mark of Cain is on this town, and on its people …"

  "It's not the mark of Cain, Lester," Sam said. "It's the Mark of the Beast."

  "Stand aside!" Those behind the man lifted their shotguns and rifles and pistols.

  Sam waved the so-called religious mob to move on past them.

  They marched on, singing.

  "Now we got that to deal with, too," James remarked.

  "Yes," Sam agreed. "They're so opinionated and prejudiced they don't realize they're wrong."

  "Yeah. But do you realize who is gonna be caught up in the middle of it?"

  "Yes. Us."

  17

  Matt Comeaux and Father Javotte came face to face with a group of young men and women. Among them, Ted Wilson.

  The punk grinned at Matt. "Hello there, Teacher. I hoped it would be me who got to you."

  The wild-eyed group of young men and women could not see the pistols stuck in the back pockets of Comeaux and Javotte; most of them were looking at the stakes in the men's hands.

  "It isn't too late for any of you," Javotte said. "Let us help you, and you can then help us destroy the evil."

  The crowd of young people laughed. Ted said, "Stuff it, Teacher!"

  Javotte flushed, reaching the end of his patience.

  Ted glared at Matt. "You stayed on my back for years, you bastard. You steady picked on me all the damned time."

  "I tried to give you an education, Ted. I tried to make you see there is something beyond high school sports. I guess I failed."

  "I guess you're gonna die, Comeaux!"

  "We're all going to die, Ted." Matt spoke softly, but his words were hard-edged. He stood with a stake in his right hand, a mallet in his left.

  "Oh, my, how profound, Teach." He cut his eyes to Javotte. "You gonna pray for my lost soul, Zorro?"

  Javotte shook his head. "No. I think it's far too late for that."

  "Man's got some smarts, people," Ted said, jerking his thumb toward Javotte. He looked at Matt. "Got any last words, Teach?"

  Matt's smile was rather sad. "You poor young fool."

  Ted was genuinely astonished. "Me! Man, we're in control of this town, and you feel sorry for me? You really are some kind of nut."

  "Just a Christian, Ted," Matt replied.

  Ted lunged at the former principal. Matt lifted the stake and held firm, allowing Ted to impale himself on the sharpened stake. The point of the stake took the unwashed, undisciplined follower of Satan in the hollow of his throat, exiting out the back of his neck, slightly to the left.

  Ted gurgled and bubbled and staggered backward, his eyes wide with the shock of finally realizing he was not immortal. He was going to die.

  Matt pulled a .38 from his back pocket and shot another believer in and practicer of the Dark Arts between the eyes. The range was so close that powder burns were evident around the small hole that leaked blood and fluid. The young man dropped to the ground and kicked and trembled for a moment, then lay still as death took him winging into the foul arms of that which he considered his God.

  Javotte brought his hammer down onto the head of a young man, wincing as he heard the skull pop under the steel head. The young man slumped to the ground, in a kneeling position, sort of like he might be praying in death.

  Both Matt and Javotte seriously doubted that.

  What remained of the gang of thugs and would-be toughs, male and female, split.

  A scream ripped through the hot early-morning air. It echoed around the men, confusing them as to direction. Again, the scream clawed the air in almost mindless terror.

  Javotte pointed. "Over there!"

  Priest and schoolteacher ran toward the shrieking. They ran around the corner of a house just as the screaming ended with a flat bubbling sound.

  R. M. Dorgenois knelt on the ground, sucking the blood from a woman he had pinned to the ground with one hairy and clawed hand. He had ripped the woman's dress from her, shredded her panties, and was attempting to mount the woman, his ragged and filthy suit trousers down around his ankles. The woman managed to scream once more while he sucked her blood from the puncture wounds in her neck.

  "Too late for her," Javotte noted as the woman physically and mentally succumbed to the powers of that which lay beyond the realm of understanding.

  Murmuring a prayer, Matt Comeaux ran up to the old man and lifted a stake high. He brought the stake down hard, driving the point through the man's back.

  R. M. lifted his animal-like head and roared and howled as Matt worked the stake back and forth, pushing forward as he worked.

  R. M.'s strength was enormous. He rose to his knees and tried to arch his back, anything to relieve the awful pain.

  Matt summoned all his strength and pushed the stake further into the man's chest, the point finally reaching the heart.

  A yellowish, sickeningly odious liquid gushed from R. M.'s mouth. He howled an animal-like wail as his clawed hand tried to work its way behind his back to grasp the stake.

  Matt could hear the sounds of hammering but dared not lift his eyes to seek the source. He felt he knew. He held onto the stake and worked it back and forth, enlarged the gaping wound, pushing the stake deeper and deeper into the heart of the spawn of Hell.

  R. M. gave one final shriek of pain and slumped to one side.

  Leaving the stake piercing the dark heart, Matt looked toward the priest. Javotte was hammering a stake into the heart of the woman, whose features were already being altered by the forces of Darkness. Hair was rapidly covering the woman's face and arms, her fingers were resembling claws. Her hands were clutching the stake being pounded into her chest. Blood was pouring from her mouth and chest. She hissed and howled and screamed curses upon the priest.

  The point of the stake penetrated her heart. The woman jerked on the ground, then lay still, her claws falling away from the stake.

  Both Javotte and Matt stood back, sweating and panting, and watched in horror and fascination as the features of R. M. and the woman began to change. In seconds, the man and woman had changed into human form. It was such an unexpected metamorphosis neither could do anything except stare in shocked silence for a long moment.

  Javotte's voice brought the teacher out of his staring.

  "Watch out! To your left!"

  Matt spun
around, reaching for his pistol. Matt paused, again staring in disbelief. He was looking at a huge black panther. No panthers that size in this area for years—more years than Matt had on him.

  "Look at his eyes," Javotte whispered.

  Matt looked. They were human eyes.

  And they were very hypnotic in their unblinking stare.

  So hypnotic, neither man could see the woman slipping up behind them.

  Some primal sensing came to the fore in Matt's head. He turned just as Bonnie Rogers was stepping up behind Father Javotte, a knife in her hand, preparing to plunge the blade deep into the priest's back.

  Matt shot the woman three times in the stomach with his .38. The slugs knocked her back and down to one knee. She came up snarling just as the black panther jumped at Javotte.

  Javotte held up a cross and stood his ground without flinching.

  The sunlight glinted off the gold cross, the reflected light hitting the leaping panther in the face. The panther screamed in rage and fright and disgust at the sight of the gold cross. His front paws clawed at the hot air and the panther twisted to one side to avoid the hated cross. He landed lightly and jumped for the bushes behind the house. Matt fired just as the panther disappeared, but not before the men heard a squall of pain from the great cat.

  They turned to look at Bonnie Rogers.

  She was gone.

  Sam and Trooper Norris were having no luck in seeking out and destroying the Satan worshipers. They had broken into several houses and half a dozen sheds, all empty, or merely filled with frightened and very confused people.

  "Who are they, Sam?" Norris asked, back on the road.

  "In limbo. They'll probably try to stay in hiding until this is all over."

  "Unless Lester and his kooks find them first," the trooper said.

  "Yeah. And speaking of Lester's bunch … look over there."

  Brother Cliff Lester and some of his flock had broken into a small shop that specialized in used books, hardcover and paperback. They were piling the books onto the street.

  "Gonna be a bonfire soon," the trooper remarked, "you want to try to stop it?"

  Sam shook his head. "We've got more important things to do than deal with those bigoted fools. The Beasts and the cats and the coven members will deal with them, I should imagine, in time."

  James looked at Sam, a strange look in his eyes. "We think we're on the side of God, they think they're on the side of God. It's a weird world, Sam."

  Sam smiled. "Stick around, James. It's going to get a lot stranger."

  18

  Brother Luther reported back to Brother Lester. He told Brother Lester about the upside-down crosses he'd seen around the town. The devil's paraphernalia, and such like that there.

  "We've all seen it on the TeeVee," Brother Luther said. "Maybe there is something to what that there Sam Baton's been sayin'."

  "What do you mean, Luther?" Lester asked.

  "Witches and werewolves and the like. Like that thing you and the others seen last night in the alley."

  Brother Lester was interested. Might be something worth listening to here. "Go on."

  "Folks is hidin' in their houses, Brother Lester. Shunnin' God's light of day. What does that mean to you?"

  Lester put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Brother Luther, you are right. If it was good enough for the folks up in Salem years ago, then it's good enough for us today."

  "Uh … what folks up where?"

  Brother lister waved that aside. "Gather the Sisters, Brother Luther. Tell them to drop whatever they are doing and return to the church. Get some fresh-washed sheets and begin making robes for us, in various sizes. We must be pure, Brother Luther, both inside and out." He glanced at his watch. Early. "We'll meet at the church at noon. Tell the men to start gathering firewood and pile it down by that field next to the church."

  "Yes, sir, Brother Lester. Uh … Brother Lester, what are we goin' to do with firewood?"

  Brother Lester's smile was that of a zealot, certain of his convictions, sure his feet were planted firmly on the pathway to Heaven.

  'How does one destroy a witch or a warlock, Brother Luther?"

  Luther thought about that for a moment. He was a good hunter, he was a right good farmer and a fair welder … but durned if he knew how to …

  He grinned, the answer coming to him. He suddenly frowned. "But how do we know we're gettin' the right folks, Brother?"

  "Filthy, trashy, nasty books and magazines, Brother Luther. The wearin' of obscene clothin', and the thinkin' of impure thoughts and the actin' out of impure deeds." The others had gathered around their spiritual leader. "Backsliders, Brothers and Sisters, them folks who has ceased the attendin' of church, who allow their children to run wild, who hang out in bars and the like." He slowly turned, eyeballing each Brother and Sister. He winked and smiled at them. "You all know the types."

  'Amen!" Sister Bertha shouted, and began to get into the spirit, waving her arms and shouting.

  Brother Luther began stamping his feet. "Burn!" he proclaimed. "Burn, burn, burn!"

  The other forty-odd members of Brother Lester's flock began gettin' down, waving their arms and shouting.

  "Burn, burn, burn!" they shouted.

  And the devil began laughing.

  What was left of Dr. Oscar Martin was rubber-bagged and stored. The charred remains of Guy Dorgenois were tossed into the garbage bin outside the clinic. The story of what had happened went through the crowded clinic like wildfire, eventually reaching the children. Only one child had to feign shock at the story; she knew now it was solely up to her. She would destroy Little Sam Balon … that night.

  Salespeople and route men reached the cutoff road leading to Becancour. Minutes apart, they pulled over and stopped, mulling things over in their mind. It was a long, boring drive to Becancour, and one more day wouldn't make all that much difference. One by one, they turned around and traveled on down the main highway. Hell with Becancour.

  Everyone that is except the breadman and the milkman. Everyone has to have fresh bread and fresh milk. They thought about skipping Becancour; thought hard about it. The bread man even turned around twice in his confusion. Turning around, he missed seeing the mail truck as it barreled on right past the turn-off, not even looking at the southbound road to Becancour. But in the end, the breadman and the milkman rolled toward Becancour.

  The milkman and his helper had the windows down and the radio on, turned up loud, the rock and roll music blaring. The bread man had a box of X-rated movies in the truck; he'd picked them up from a friend in Ferriday and was going to have some guys over this weekend for a stag party. Drink some beer and watch some skin flicks.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  The bread and milk rolled on toward Becancour.

  Preacher Earl Morris just didn't feel quite right; hadn't felt right since that night he'd come to under the carport wondering how he'd gotten there. And his neck had hurt, too. Two little tiny marks on his neck. And he'd been having some wild, wicked thoughts … and he enjoyed those thoughts.

  His wife had locked herself in her bedroom … Jesus! when had she done that? He couldn't remember. Last night? The day before? He couldn't even remember why she'd done it.

  "Hey, Ann!" he hollered. "Get on out here, baby!"

  A sobbing sound drifted to him from up the hallway.

  "Stupid bitch!" he muttered.

  Preacher Earl Morris knew he had a sermon to write for Sunday, but right now he didn't give a damn if he ever again even entered a church. Just the thought of doing so was strangely repugnant to him.

  Dark, savage, primitive thoughts roared through the man's head. "Hey!" he shouted. "You gonna come out here and take care of me or not, baby?"

  Get out!" his wife screamed at him. "I don't know you anymore, Earl. Get out and leave me alone."

  Rage filled the man. He jumped from the chair where he'd been sitting for? … He didn't know how long. Hours, surely. Couple of days, maybe. He walked swiftl
y up the hall and kicked in the door to his wife's bedroom. He was screaming and cursing and using language he had never before used in his life.

  She flew at him, striking him with a hand mirror. He wrested the mirror from her and threw her to the floor. Then he did something he thought he'd always wanted to do. He wasn't real sure he'd always wanted to, but what the hell?

  Laughing at her screaming, the man brutally took his wife.

  He looked around at a noise behind him. Mayor Will Jolevare and his wife, Betty, were standing in the doorway.

  "Wanna swap wimmen?" Will asked, his voice odd-sounding to Earl.

  "Hell," Earl said. "Why not?"

  They were running about two hours late, due to their indecision at the crossroads, but the breadman and the milkman finally pulled into Becancour. The bank time and temperature read 11:00 & 96°. The milk truck's radio was blaring rock and roll music as both trucks pulled into the small convenience store where Lester had confronted the assistant manager and Elmer had backslid—so to speak.

  But the store was closed.

  Milkman looked at breadman. "I didn't think this place ever closed."

  "I've never known it to close. Must be an illness in the family, maybe?"

  "Yeah."

  Then the men were conscious of a mass of whiteness moving around them. It momentarily startled them.

  "What the hell! …" the milkman's helper said.

  "Listen to that music," Sister Sally said. "The devil's music."

  "Are you people in a play or something?" the bread man asked Lester.

  Lester looked like a small snowstorm in his white robes. "Why are you here?" he demanded of the route men.

  'We're here to deliver the Liberty Bell, you patty-cake," the breadman said. "What the hell do you think we're here for?"

  "Yeah," the milkman's helper said. "So buzz off, Snow White."

  Lester listened to the music coming from the milk truck. He frowned at the lyrics … those that he could understand, that is. "Satan's music. Obscene. Destroy the radio," he ordered. "Now, you wait just a minute!" the man who owned the truck said.

  He was too late. The music stopped abruptly under the head of a hammer.