Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  “Nice,” she muttered, stroking him. “Very nice.” She bent her head to kiss his cheek, her tongue licking him like a cat. “Don’t be afraid, Herman,” her words were soothing. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. Just let us pleasure you. We’ve waited so long.”

  Herman nodded, thinking, I’ll play their game until I get a chance to run, then I’ll cut out.

  With that, he doomed himself forever.

  Pat’s daughter, Jean, joined the group on the porch. The fifteen-year-old was naked. Herman, despite his earlier feelings of disgust, felt himself thicken at the sight of the teenager. Pat’s hand increased her stroking of his maleness.

  The mother licked Herman’s ear, whispering, “Look at her, Herman. Isn’t she lovely, beautiful?” The mother reached out and up to fondle her daughter’s pudendum. The girl moaned, kneeling beside her mother and the prostrate cowboy. The girl kissed him on the mouth, wetting his lips with her tongue.

  “Isn’t that nice, Herman?” Pat asked him, her breath hot on his face. “Aren’t her lips soft?”

  The woman and the girl touched the cowboy, stroking him, caressing him. Herman groaned, his penis hot and hard in the woman’s soft hand.

  “I’m going to have Pip untie you, Herman,” Pat said, as Jean swung one leg over his waist, her slim hand guiding him into her wet softness. Herman’s hands, free, drifted about the girl’s waist, gripping young bare flesh as she settled into a moaning, sweaty rhythm, moving on his hardness, working him deeper.

  As Pat’s lips touched his mouth, Herman felt something leave him. The mother’s mouth on his, the daughter’s silkiness trapping him, Herman listened as the departing thing left his body and mind, winging away. As lips worked on his, a darkness overtook him, and the evil that is in all humankind rose to the surface, driving out the goodness that is in all humankind, but not buried so deeply as the evil.

  Herman screamed in the darkness as an almost unbearable wave of pleasure/pain gripped him. Soon, the pain was gone, leaving only pleasure.

  “One more,” he heard the woman say. “We have one more for you, Master.”

  And Herman began laughing, his voice sounding savage pushing past his lips.

  The girl jammed him full inside her, yelling her pleasure to the ever-moving winds of Fork County, the cry blending with the night.

  TWELVE

  Sam parked several blocks from Glower’s Funeral Home and walked the remaining distance to the buildings, on the outskirts of town. His followers of that afternoon were gone, as if they had been deliberately pulled away from watching him. He walked toward the building, the weight of the .45 a comfort against his belly.

  The business was dark as he slipped around the building, all his senses working, alert for any human sound. Cautiously, his hand found the door knob in the rear of the establishment. Unlocked. He slipped into the dimly lit funeral home, quietly shutting the door behind him. The sweet odor of death hit him as he walked the dark length of the hall, checking each small room. There was no one in the building; at least, no one alive, that is.

  Sam found the room containing the body of John Benton, the chief of police resting in a satinlined coffin. Sam took a small pocket knife, opened the blade, and, lifting Benton’s right hand, made a small cut on the wrist. Blood leaked from the wrist.

  Intent upon his work, Sam did not see Benton’s eyelids flutter.

  “Not embalmed,” Sam muttered, placing the hand inside the casket.

  Sam slipped from room to room in the funeral home, until he was satisfied that no one had been embalmed in this place of business for a long time. There was not one drop of zinc chloride, arsenic, or mercuric chloride to be found. The workroom equipment was stiff from disuse.

  “The Undead,” Sam murmured, walking down the darkened hall, letting himself out the back door.

  Had he but looked around, he would have seen John Benton staring at him from the office window, eyes wild and red, tongue thick and dark, teeth grown into fangs.

  Nine o’clock when Sam reached the area known as Tyson’s Lake. It was far out in the Bad Lands, and Sam felt completely alone.

  No, he corrected his thinking. I’m not alone. I have God.

  Sam had changed into dark twill trousers, a long sleeve shirt, sturdy lace-up Jump Boots from his days in the army, and he had slipped on leather gloves. The .45 was hooked onto a web belt, extra clips in pouches. A big-bladed Bowie knife hung in its leather sheath on his left side.

  He had bounced along gravel roads, then dirt roads before reaching his destination. He had, of course, heard of the lake, from Wade and others, but had never been out here. People he had asked to take him had been most reluctant to oblige.

  Well, Sam thought, getting out of the truck, let’s do it, Balon.

  He glanced up at the sky. Clouds covered the moon and stars. An aura of foreboding hung over the land.

  Sam stood for a moment by the side of the road. Get yourself under control, he cautioned. Push your anger aside; push Michelle out of your mind; forget the sight of John Benton. Get all your senses working properly.

  Jane Ann slid gracefully into his thoughts. Jane Ann of the soft hands and gentle eyes.

  Go on home, Janey,” he muttered. “You don’t want to be out here. Not on this night.”

  He jacked a round in the .45, then eased the hammer down, replacing the big automatic in the military flap-type holster. Ignoring the many No Trespassing—Danger—Keep Out signs, Sam climbed the high fence, dropping to the other side. A small scrap of material was securely caught in the fence. Sam pulled it free, fingering the cloth. Denim, he thought.

  “Sheriff, she was wearing a western shirt, tennis shoes, and jeans,” Joan’s mother had told Addison that day as Sam stood listening. “Brand new jeans, too. I just got them from J C Penney that day. Come in the mail.”

  This is new denim, Sam thought. He put the piece of cloth in his pocket, then walked on through the darkness.

  At the bottom of the hill, Sam paused, looking around, getting his bearings. A small stand of timber by a small lake, the water gleaming dully in the night, matching the dull shine of the cross around Sam’s neck. The timber was foreboding-looking. He looked to the east, toward the Dig site, a few miles away. Not one light shone in the darkness.

  “Must be early sleepers,” he said, knowing they were not asleep—sensing it. He sensed something else, too: Evil.

  The man’s gaze swept all directions. Not one light shone. No birds sang. The wind sighed for a moment, then was still, as if God’s breath were warning the minister with the .45 strapped around his waist.

  Sam walked toward the lake, then stopped for another look. He had driven around the area, looking for Lucas’s car, then gave up the search. These were Bad Lands, and Lucas had lived here for many years; he would know dozens of hiding places.

  Sam touched the flashlight in his back pocket, then moved forward. At the edge of the water, he paused. Standing very still, Sam looked around, all senses working overtime. A fish jumped into the lake, hitting the water with a smacking sound. To his right, in the dark timber, something stepped on a branch, breaking it. A snarl followed.

  Sam spun around, in a crouch, right hand on the butt of the .45. His heart picked up in tempo, thudding in his chest. Another growl, an answering growl to the first. This one came from Sam’s left, in that part of the timber that gently curved around the small body of water. Whatever was in the timber—man or Beast—there were two of them, at least. The knowledge was not at all comforting to Sam.

  Sam stood with his back to the lake, the body of water no more than five or six acres at most. The wind suddenly picked up, blowing from east to west, bringing with it a faint chant.

  A chant! Out here? No one lived within miles of this place. Of course! Sam remembered the caravan he had seen; they worship at the Dig site. Again, the chanting drifted to him, faint, but unmistakable. He could not make out the words, but for some reason, they sounded like a warning. But for whom? Or w
hat?

  Abruptly as it had begun, the chanting ceased, leaving the night with an eerie silence.

  More than that, Sam thought. Not just silence, but evil. I can feel it; sense it all around me, like a foul-smelling assassin draped in a dark cloak.

  Sam looked toward the timber. He knew—and the knowledge was not easy to take—he would have to enter that stand of timber. It went against his training. A wise man does not fight the enemy on his own ground, unless you have the element of surprise with you, and he did not have that. They were waiting for him.

  The wind shifted, bringing with it a horrible stench. A smell unlike anything Sam had ever smelled. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Sam took a step forward, the light off the lake reflecting from the cross around his neck. The growling in the timber intensified, the—whatever they were—seemed to sense the power of the cross. And resent it.

  Sam felt the things moving closer to the timber line. He could feel their anger, their frustration, their hatred. It was as if they knew, somehow, that Sam Balon had come to harm them.

  From the timber came a horrible snarling, a growling, a snap of heavy jaws, followed by a puff of putrid air, assailing Sam’s nostrils. For the first time in many years, Sam felt a tinge of fear in his belly.

  He moved closer to the timber. “Lucas!” he called. “Are you in there?”

  The things roared at him, a non-human howling of rage and hate.

  Sam felt them watching him. He could dimly make out their shapes in the timber. Huge shapes; misshapen in all their bulk. He could smell the unGodly stench of them.

  He heard a human moan. A cry of pain.

  Lucas? It had to be.

  Whoever it was suddenly screamed in pain. “Oh, my God, help me, help me!” It was Lucas. “Lord, my God, give me strength to—” His words cut off abruptly in a choking cry of pain.

  Sam knew he could wait no longer. Lucas needed help. Now!

  He ran toward the timber, ignoring the snarling and the growling. He raced toward another human being in desperate need, knowing he was running into the unknown. The smell became heavier, more powerful, almost unbearable. Branches whipped at Sam’s face, the heavy cross bounced on his chest. A powerful roar stopped him. The smell was sickening. The Beast—and it had to be that—was very close to him.

  “No, Sam!” Lucas shouted. Run! Oh, my God-SAM, GET OUT!”

  The voice was pain-filled, in terrible agony. Sam moved toward the sound, edging his way through the darkness of the timber, his flesh crawling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead of him. He didn’t dare use his flashlight; the Beasts would be sure to spot him then.

  The stench was making him sick.

  Suddenly, something warned Sam; some inner sense for survival he had developed in combat told him to duck—shift direction, hit the ground! Or perhaps, he would later think, it was God warning him. Sam hit the ground, throwing himself to the right, rolling, coming up with his back to a huge tree, on his knees.

  A huge clawed hand tore through the air, swiping. Powerful jaws, dripping saliva, snapped at nothing. The fangs, thick, yellow, four to five inches long, gleamed in the dimness of the forest gloom. The Beast, well over six feet tall, stood a few yards from Sam, roaring at him, its stinking breath fouling the air.

  For a few heart-pounding seconds, Sam squatted with his back to the tree in total shock. Nothing he had ever seen or done or read could have prepared him for this. The Beast glared down at him, hate shining blood-red in its small evil eyes.

  The Beast was huge, tall, perhaps two hundred and fifty to three hundred pounds, very wide across its trunk. It had massive jaws that slowly narrowed almost into a pinhead at the top. Its body was covered with thick coarse hair, matted with filth. And the face. God! the face. It was the face of all that was evil. It was insane human; cunning animal; crazed night prowler. It was a walking nightmare.

  And Sam was in the middle of the waking incubus.

  Sam touched the cross on his chest, grasping it, holding it up to the Beast. The grotesque, subhuman howled with fear, jerking its hairy arms up to shield its eyes from the Holy Cross. Its roaring rattled the leaves of the forest. The Beast’s hate and anger finally overcame its fear, and it moved toward Sam, huge bare feet shuffling through the undergrowth.

  Sam clawed the .45 from the holster, jacked back the hammer, and shot the creature twice in the chest, the heavy slugs slamming the creature back, blowing holes the size of quarters. It shook itself, screaming in pain, then charged. Sam leveled the automatic and squeezed the trigger twice, shooting the Beast in the face, the slugs going into its open mouth, clipping off a fang, then traveling up into its tiny brain, blowing out the back of its head. The Beast flipped off its feet and fell backward, slumping against a thick tree trunk. It quivered, its bowels relaxing, then was dead.

  Sam’s chest was heaving as he got to his feet, standing over the dead Beast. He was almost numb with shock. He had never seen anything like this.

  Suddenly, he remembered there were two of them, at least. Surely the other Beast would come to avenge the death of its friend or mate. Sam ejected the half empty clip, put it in a pouch, and pushed in a full clip, jacking in round, leaving the weapon on full cock. He waited.

  Some . . . thing was stumbling toward him, through the dark timber, its breathing harsh. Whatever it was, it moved closer.

  Sam lifted the .45, steadying the butt with the palm of his left hand, finger on the trigger. Sweat ran into his eyes. His finger tightened, taking up slack on the trigger as the thing moved nearer. Sam almost screamed as the bushes parted and the creature stepped out into the small clearing.

  Lucas Monroe.

  Sam lowered the .45, easing the hammer down with his thumb. “Lucas! My Lord, Lucas—what happened to—” His words stuck in his throat as clouds moved past the moon, giving light to the scene on the ground. The Godly, the dead Godless, and the bloody old man.

  Lucas’s left arm was ripped and blood-stained. His face and bare chest were claw-marked, dark and shiny-black in the moonlight.

  “Oh, Sam, Sam—I tried to stop them.” His words were strangely harsh. “Foolish of me, I know. I’m too old; don’t have the strength. Sam, there’s too many of them. You young fool! Get away, get out!”

  Sam stepped toward the Methodist minister. “Come on, Lucas. We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  “NO!” he backed away from Sam, shaking his bloody head. “Too late, Sam. It’s too late. For me, maybe not for you. Don’t touch me.” His words were painful to hear. “Kill me, Sam. For the love of God—kill me. Use your weapon. That’s all I ask.”

  Sam took another step toward him. Lucas held up his hand, and Sam heeded the warning. “Stay away, Sam. I’m warning you, son—don’t you understand? You’ve got to kill me before I—become one of—Them!” he cut his eyes to the dead stinking Beast.

  Sam heard movement behind him; a quiet rustling of the leaves. The second Beast was stalking him through the timber. With the pistol hanging by his side, Sam gently eased the hammer back to full cock.

  “Tell me about the Beasts, Lucas.”

  “Sam, I—don’t have much time. It’s—working in me right now. Son, I don’t have much longer in this form. Please, when the time comes, give me the dignity of dying a whole man—a human being. Give me that much.”

  The Beast moved closer to Sam, slipping stealthily behind him. The stench grew stronger. Sam wondered if Lucas knew the Beast was stalking him? If the minister—what was left of him—was stalling? He decided not.

  “I’ve got to know about them, Lucas.”

  “Have Wade show you Duhon’s journal, Sam. It’s among those he got from Father Dubois. That will tell you all you need to know. For the love of God, Sam, you’re a merciful man—kill me!”

  The Beast behind Sam stopped moving. “They’ve bitten you, Lucas. They’re rabid? Is that it?”

  Lucas shook his head. His face seemed swollen, seeming to change with each second.

 
The Beast behind Sam took a cautious step, then was silent in the timber. Waiting to pounce.

  “No, Sam. Not in the way an ordinary animal is rabid. These are the Beasts mentioned on the tablet.” He moaned, almost a snarl.

  Sam had to know more, although he hated to put Lucas through this. “I don’t understand, Lucas—but I’m trying. How did the Beasts get here?”

  “Sam, they’ve always been here. I believe they’ve been here since God expelled Lucifer from Heaven. I know they’ve been here since the first Sixth Day.”

  “The FIRST Sixth Day!” the words exploded from Sam’s mouth.

  “Listen to me, Sam. Listen to me very carefully. I’ve only time to say this once, then for the love of God, you’ve got to kill me—for your own safety.

  “I can’t really explain them; I don’t believe any mortal can. They are part human; part animal-all evil. I heard you calling out for me; it enraged them. They have to be killed. Wiped from the face of this earth! Oh, Sam, nobody knows how many times God tried to make man in His own image—or woman. We don’t even know what His image is! The Beasts breed, with anything, Sam—anything! keeping their species alive. Sometimes, Duhon found out, as did Dubois, they capture humans and breed with them. But they can sleep for years, Sam, with only a chosen Sentry awake on guard. They can do that because they answer to Satan. I don’t have to explain that to you!

  “They’re God’s failures, son. The devil took them, made them his own. Don’t ask me how—I can’t answer that. I’m just a man. Or was.” He snarled, the sound coming from his mouth chilling Sam.

  “I don’t have much time, son. Sam, the Bible doesn’t make reference to God’s mistakes—naturally. Who was around to record them? Confirm them?” Lucas began to slobber, his jaws growing thicker, the saliva, a stinking drool, began dripping from his mouth and thickening lips. The transformation of this gentle man was horrible to witness.