Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  “They’re cunning, Sam. They survived the Flood and everything else God did in His attempt to destroy the evil on this earth. He failed there, too. I don’t know why, or how, but He did. You know God rules the Heavens and Satan rules the Earth.” He growled. “The Beasts belong to Satan—they answer only to him.” Lucas screamed; a roar, the slobber spraying from his lips.

  “Only a moment more, Sam, then you have to do it. I’ll be brief. No! Don’t come any closer.” His voice had deepened, the words slurring, hard to understand. “Be very careful, for there are many more towns like Whitfield around the nation, around the world. The Beasts can lie dormant for hundreds of years. Yeti? Sasquash? I agree with Michael—yes. Probably, but of a higher intellect than these foul things.” He snarled, his face changing into a horror of man/beast. “I’m all out of time, Sam. God . . . bless . . . you.”

  The Beast behind Sam charged, just as Lucas roared, the once-human moving toward Sam, his mouth open, fanged teeth snapping. Sam shot what was once Lucas. Shot him in the chest, then between the eyes. He spun, dropped to one knee, leveled the .45, and shot the charging Beast coming up behind him, emptying the .45 into the creature. The Beast was slammed backward. It stumbled, fell, and began its death quiver, dying at Sam’s feet.

  In the midst of all the carnage, the stink, with the knowledge that all he had heard and seen this day and night was true; knowing he had killed his friend, a man of God, and wondering why He had not protected Lucas, Sam’s mind could take no more. Automatically, survival taking over, Sam could not remember changing clips in the .45. He looked at Lucas. All trace of the man who was was gone. The minister was a Beast. A small silver cross lay on the matted hair of its chest.

  Sam sank to his knees and wept.

  He wept until his chest ached from exhaustion. The clouds that had kept the night dark blew away, and the moon shone with all its brilliance. When Sam opened his eyes, red-rimmed, and wiped them free of the last tear, he looked at the shining image of the cross on the ground, just to his left. The moon, hitting the branches of a tall tree, formed a cross on the cool earth of the forest. A shining silver-white rood on God’s earth.

  Sam did not see the Beasts watching him from the cover of the timber. Wanting to attack, but fearful of the light of the moon and the power of the cross their Master hated, and had warned them of.

  Sam rose to his feet, the .45 in his hand. He put the big automatic in leather, then drew his knife. Careful not to let any blood from the Beasts touch his skin, Sam hacked the heads from the Beasts with his Bowie. Using his shirt, he fashioned a crude bag for the dripping heads. He left Lucas—or what was once Lucas—lying on the ground.

  Looking at what was left of Lucas, Sam said, “God, this was a good man. A true and loyal servant of Yours. He deserved much better than this. Take him—take him home.”

  Sam walked out of the timber boldly, unhurriedly, carrying the bag of stinking heads. He walked past the small lake, up the hill. At the crest, he stood alone, in the moonlight. He was not afraid. His chest bare, flecked with mud, his clothing stained with blood.

  He stood with powerful legs spread, fists clenched. He looked down into the blackness of the timber. “All right, Prince of Darkness, Lord of Flies, Ruler of the Night, hear me well. I have my God, and a few people I know are good, and who, for whatever reason, have resisted you and your Coven.

  “I’m but a mortal man, and I know I can’t destroy you, but I’m going to beat you this time around. You want a fight?” He held up the bloody bag of heads. “Come on—here I am.”

  Lightning danced across the sky. A phenomenon seen that night by only Balon and Wilder. The devil’s agent stood outside his trailer at the Dig, watching his Master play with the minister.

  Sam laughed at the lightning. “Is that the best you can do, Master of Filth?” He knew he was deliberately antagonizing the devil. He didn’t care.

  The lightning danced closer.

  Sam laughed on the hill. “No, Ruler of Evil. My God won’t let you kill me—not yet. First you must meet me face to face. I want to look at you.”

  A savage burst of lightning seared a tall tree nearby. Sam could see the explosive heat from the blast.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. He had not flinched when the tree exploded, the sap igniting. “I know your power, Captain of Rats, but you don’t frighten me—not any longer. Now you listen to me, a good man went down tonight, by your hand, then by mine. And you’ll pay for that—believe it!”

  A violent crack of thunder momentarily deafened the minister. “Yeah, yeah, Drinker of Pus, you’ll probably kill me in time. I realize that.” Sam could not hear his own words through the rolling, crashing, seemingly endless cascade of thunder. The lightning came in flickering bolts, dancing as a snake’s tongue through the sky. “But it won’t be tonight, you evil bastard!”

  The sky hissed as Sam removed the cross from around his neck, holding the silver to the sky, arm extended upward. The lightning abruptly ceased, thunder now silent as a gentle rain fell on the fenced-in area known as Tyson’s Lake. The rain fell there, and nowhere else in Fork. The moisture picked up in intensity, falling in glistening sheets, the color of the torrent matching the shining of the cross.

  “God’s way of cleansing the earth,” Sam said, slipping the chain over his head, the cross resting on his bare chest. His hearing slowly returned. He looked down into the darkness of the timber. “We’ll meet again,” he said. “Me or mine,” he added, not knowing why he said that.

  Sam walked through the rain to the fence, climbed it, and went swiftly to his truck, the bloody bag of heads swinging by his side. He was driving toward Whitfield, under the blanket of billions of stars, when the other Beasts emerged from their cover in the timber. They growled at the downpouring of water, disliking it, for their way was of filth, and they knew the moisture came from a God they were aligned against.

  Snarling and snapping, they dragged Lucas and their headless comrades into the holes in the earth, into their caves, pulling the carcasses far below the surface of Fork County, hundreds of feet below the timber, past the ever-present Sentry watching from his post.

  There, they ate the dead, stripping the flesh, breaking and sucking the bones. Nothing would be wasted in their feast. Now, Lucas Monroe no longer existed except in the minds of his friends.

  Later, when one of the Beasts squatted to defecate, a small silver cross would lodge in his rectum, causing the Beast some small discomfort before he could pick it free. The Beast tossed the cross into the darkness of the cave, bouncing it off a wall. It glistened briefly, then the light faded and died.

  THIRTEEN

  Sam drove to the rectory, pulling around to the rear of the building. He banged on the door. Father Dubois answered the pounding, looking at Sam without speaking; at the minister’s bare chest, a pistol belted around his waist, his stained trousers, and the sack in his hand, dripping stinking crimson. The old priest nodded his understanding.

  “Come in, Sam. I’ll find you a shirt. It might be a bit snug, but it will cover you. Father Haskell’s here with me. We’ve been waiting for your return.”

  In the priest’s small living room, Sam spoke to the Episcopalian, then slipped into the shirt Dubois handed him. He was unable to button it over his massive chest, but was grateful for the warmth.

  “Could I have a small glass of wine, Michael?”

  The priest smiled. “How about a couple ounces of bourbon, Sam?”

  Sam returned the slight smile. “Better. Thanks.”

  He knocked back the bourbon in two gulps, chasing the fire with a glass of water. The glow of the whiskey spread through him, warming him, calming him.

  Haskell’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell coming from the makeshift bag. “What’s in the sack?” he asked, his face pale.

  “Heads of the Beasts,” Sam opened the bag, the heads rolling out, exposing the stench, the red staring eyes, the opened fanged mouths. Their awfulness drew gasps from Dubois and Haskell. The
Episcopalian was suddenly, violently ill. He ran to the bathroom, the sounds of his vomiting drifting to the living room.

  Haskell walked back into the room. I—I’m sorry. I was not prepared for—that!” he pointed to the heads on the floor, shuddering as he looked at them.

  “Don’t touch them without some protection on your hands,” Sam said. “They are highly infectious.” He sat down, weariness overtaking him. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  The minister opened his eyes when Dubois asked, Where is Lucas?”

  “What is left of him is dead,” Sam answered. “Only God knows why he went—out there,” he gestured with a big hand.

  “Dead!” Father Haskell said numbly.

  “He went because he said you’d go after—Them,” Father Dubois poured himself and Haskell a glass of wine. “Lucas said he had to give you an edge—somehow. He said you had the courage of a gladiator, but you wouldn’t stop to think things out before committing yourself. I guess he was right. How did he die?”

  “When I found him,” Sam’s words were tinged with weariness, those . . . things had been at him.” He looked at the heads on the floor.

  “Had they touched him?” Dubois asked.

  “Clawed him and bitten him. He was bleeding badly.” Sam looked at Dubois. “I think you know the rest.”

  “You killed him.” It was a statement.

  “Yes.”

  Haskell clasped his hands together and silently prayed.

  Dubois poured Sam a short bourbon, then covered the heads with a towel from his kitchen. Tell us what happened, Sam.”

  Sam was exhausted. He put his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He had told the men everything, telling them of John Benton’s condition, and God and Satan fighting on the crest of the hill, everything that had occurred that night. Now, he felt drained.

  Dubois said, “You did the right thing, Sam. It was the only thing you could have done. I believe I would have done the same. I like to think so. God has forgiven you. I will expect you to do the same if they come for me. And some . . . thing will.”

  Sam met the older man’s eyes. “You seem awfully sure, Michael.”

  “Oh, they’ll come, Sam. Some . . . thing will destroy me. I’ve been preparing myself for that day. Ever since I felt them surface—drawing breath.”

  “Michael, there are many things I do not understand,” Sam confessed, wanting, seeking answers to questions filling his head.

  “There are many things I don’t understand,” Dubois smiled. “When I was a young priest in Montreal, I thought I knew it all. But, of course, I did not. About the Beasts, Sam—did Lucas call them God’s mistakes?”

  “Yes.” -

  “I’ve always felt it best not to question God. The Beasts might be His mistake. I don’t know. If they are—” The old priest shrugged, his eyes cloudy.

  Sam realized he would not get much more from Dubois concerning the Beasts’ survival or creation. The priest felt very close to death; perhaps he did not wish to antagonize God this close to meeting Him.

  Sam said, “Lucas told me—he said the devil calls out the Beasts when he needs them. Why, then, have people around here been seeing them for years? Or so they claim. Seeing them, and smelling them?”

  “I argued with Lucas many times over the years, Sam. We did not agree on the Beasts. I—I believe the people heard and smelled the guardian of the Beasts. The Sentry, if you will. I believe Duhon and my ancestor, Father Dubois, saw the Sentry. He killed them.”

  “But the tablet remained hidden until recently?”

  “Yes. I’ll say this much, Sam, it was Lucas’s belief that over the past hundred and fifty years, God and Satan fought out near the Dig site. I disagreed in part with him. I’ve been out there hundreds of times over the past thirty years. I used to go out there and spend entire afternoons, just feeling the powers move silently around me. No, Sam, I believe God and Satan have fought out there for thousands of years. Obviously, if one studies the ancient carvings and drawings on the stones at the Dig, I will not be alone in my belief. Why they fought there?” he shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t believe any mortal will ever know.”

  “Until death?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Answer this, Michael, why has there not been some reputable archeological teams in here to study the site?”

  “I can’t answer that, Sam, other than to say the people in this part of Fork County never speak of the site. I never heard of it until I went prowling one day. It was—I suppose, that night of terror after Wade’s father was killed that closed people’s mouths around here.”

  Sam nodded, rising to his feet. He would get no more from Dubois. “I’ll go home, now.” The exhaustion in him was visible.

  “Will you attend John’s funeral tomorrow?” Haskell asked.

  “Such as it will be, yes. Is there nothing we can do about John’s condition?” he directed the question at Dubois.

  “Not yet,” the priest replied. He glanced at the towel-covered heads. “I’ll dispose of those.”

  But Sam did not drive straight home. Instead, he drove the streets of Whitfield—looking. For what, he didn’t know. Just looking. Then it came to him while he drove: not one person was out this night. No one. And for a Saturday night, that was odd.

  He drove by Margie’s Cafe. Closed and dark. Normally, it would have been far too early for that. The theatre was closed. The drive-in, where the kids usually congregated, was shut down tight. Homes were dark, foreboding, but Sam could feel eyes on him as he slowly prowled the streets.

  Strange,” he muttered. It’s as if the town has died, and I’m the only one left alive.”

  He knew that was not true, but he had to fight down the panic that suddenly grew in him.

  He drove past the town’s taverns. All dark.

  Dark. Matching the night.

  As Sam slept that night, he dreamed of Jane Ann. He tried to push her from his dreams, but her presence was too strong. He dreamed of making love to her, awakening with a guilty conscience.

  From the pulpit, the church appeared cavernous to Sam. Only a handful of people sat in the auditorium. With the exception of Wade and Anita, Chester and Faye, and Jane Ann, all others were elderly. Michelle was not present. She had not returned to the parsonage when Sam had left for church, and he had no idea where she might be.

  He really didn’t care.

  He looked out and down at Jane Ann. Their eyes met. Sam smiled, more to himself than at her. So, this is love? he thought. How ludicrous! The town is facing destruction from forces so evil as to be unspeakable; I’m not sure what can be done about it; and yet here I stand, grinning like a schoolboy with his first infatuation.

  Sam began speaking extemporaneously, for he had prepared no text. He spoke calmly and firmly, trying to soothe the old people, for they were afraid, he could see it and sense it. They were facing an unknown, and Sam really did not know how to calm them. He did know he could not tell them of the evil that was near—they would either go into a panic or think him a fool.

  He did not know what to do about them, and he had given it much thought. They were going to suffer, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  That thought shamed Sam, but he had to face it. In the fight he knew was coming, the strong—as many as possible—had to survive, even Father Dubois admitted that. The strong faithful had to survive; they could not face the threat of extinction protecting those lives that had very nearly run their course.

  It was a cruel and ugly choice, but Sam knew it had to be. He hoped God would forgive him his ugly decision.

  Some of them might survive, but—

  Sam spoke of the glory of God; His love for mankind, and of the peace that awaited them all when they finally reached the safety of His arms.

  But it was not enough; not really what they wanted to hear; not really what Sam passionately wanted to tell them. The elderly wanted their fears allayed, and Sam could not do that. He felt sick because of it. His cl
ose friends, Chester, Faye, Jane Ann, Wade, and Anita; they felt his vocal inadequacies, and their hearts went out to their minister.

  Sam thought of the agony Miles and Doris must be experiencing.

  Somehow, he struggled through the sermon, cutting it short. Finally, he stood at the door, shaking each hand, pitifully few of them. His heart was sad as he shook the old, withered hands. They work all their lives, he thought, believing in God, and their minister deserts them in their most grave time of need.

  Dear God, forgive me!

  “It’s all this rock and roll music,” an elderly lady told him. “That’s what’s driving the young people away from God.”

  “I’m sure that has something to do with it, Mrs. Findley,” Sam smiled. Tell the old people what they want to hear, Sam. Lie! Stand here in the House of God and lie.

  “It’s just a shame and disgrace!” Mr. Woodward said, taking Sam’s hand.

  “What is, sir?”

  “Someone killed off every one of my chickens last night. Tore the heads off of ’um. Shame and disgrace to do that to an old man like me.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  “Uh! I called the sheriff, all right. Said he’d come right out. Never did show up.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Woodward. Is there anything I can do?” You can tell the truth, Sam. But he knew he could not do that.

  “Don’t expect so, preacher. ’Less you got the power to bring all my hens to life.”

  “Just the hens?”

  “That’s what so funny ’bout it. They never touched a one of my roosters.”

  Because the devil is afraid of a crowing cock. “Call me if there is anything I can do, sir.”

  Where is Michelle this morning?” an elderly lady asked, in a not-too-subtle stage whisper. Twenty heads swung around, forty ears straining.

  In normal times, Sam would have told a small fib. Today, though, he didn’t care. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Mrs. Hardison.” He wanted to add: and really, I don’t give a hoot where she is.