Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s always the same,” Wilder said to Nydia. They watched their newest convert from a window of the parsonage. “The play never changes, only the characters. Humans never change. They always want what is forbidden them by their God. Centuries of it is beginning to bore me. Of course, he’ll sodomize her next. How droll.”

  And Jimmy did just that, pulling his ex-girl friend to her knees, mounting her. She screamed out her pain at his sudden intrusion.

  “That’s why they are humans, is it not?” Nydia asked moodily. “And is that not the reason we are here?”

  Wilder looked at her, irritation in his expression. Must I endure another of your deathless lectures on human behavior?”

  The witch laughed, a dark brooding bark of little humor. “I seem to recall you enjoy the rear passage, Black.”

  “But of course,” he smiled. “Our Master does not condemn it.”

  “Now who is lecturing whom?”

  His smiled broadened as Judy began enjoying the sensation of pain/pleasure.

  “Animals,” Wilder said. “All humans are but a cut above the animals.”

  “You bore me, Black. Perhaps you’ve been here on earth too long?”

  “I was thinking the same thing, my dear.” And then he was gone, vanishing without a trace.

  Wilder was much older than Nydia, and much more proficient at his craft, but Nydia was no longer afraid of him. She had a plan. And she had talked with her Master about that plan, and he had agreed, chuckling.

  She walked into her bedroom, leaving behind her the muffled sounds of pain and pleasure in the front yard, being witnessed by a crowd of Satan-worshippers that had gathered to watch. They urged Jimmy on.

  Sitting on her bed, the witch projected her thoughts to the Master, and he, laughing, gave her permission, adding some thoughts of his own.

  “Balon!” she licked her lips. “But how is it possible?”

  All things are possible, the deep rumblings filled her head.

  “But, Black—?”

  He wishes to return to me, so let him be destroyed and have his wish. Balon will do it. Oh, what a coup this will be! What a child will spring from it!

  And the rumblings changed into dark laughter.

  “But how?” Nydia questioned. “When? And afterward?”

  I will tell you, he spoke to her.

  And she smiled at his words filling her head.

  The caravan had come upon yet another band of roaming lunatics from the asylum, blocking the trail to Little River Ranch, waving clubs and drooling nonsense at the trucks and their occupants.

  Then they attacked, leaving the men and women no choice. They opened fire. Doctor King reluctantly raised his carbine and squeezed the trigger. Afterward, he openly and unashamedly wept.

  “We’ll pay for this,” he said to no one in particular. “In some way, someday, we’ll pay.”

  And the caravan moved on, leaving the prairie to deal with the lumpy bodies sprawled in the knee-high grass.

  The trucks seemed to snarl out of nowhere, hitting the Little River ranch house at three o’clock in the afternoon. Herman heard them coming, roaring in. He rose from the bed where he had been loving the young girl, Jean.

  What’s that?” the teenager questioned, still jerking on the bed. Come back! Don’t leave me yet—I got to come!”

  Herman ran naked to the front door, kicking sleeping people out of his way. Those in the throes of fornication did not look up. He threw open the door in time to see a sputtering stick of dynamite taped to a quart bottle of gasoline come at him. It was the last thing he witnessed on this earth as the gas and dynamite exploded, ripping the cowboy to shredded meat, demolishing the living room, setting the house on fire.

  Pip and Mack ran out the back door and were met by Chester’s yammering Greaser. More dynamite was thrown through the windows, and the house turned into crumpled ruins.

  Using Molotov cocktails, Sam set every building on the grounds blazing. Anything or anyone attempting to escape was shot.

  Pat Zagone ran screeching from the burning bunkhouse, where she had been entertaining a half dozen men. Her long hair was on fire. A thought wormed its way into Sam’s brain: If the devil rules a fiery pit, why then, are these servants of his screaming from the flames?

  He had no answer.

  He shot her.

  A Beast lunged from the burning barn. Jane Ann lifted the shotgun, booming off three rounds, stopping the creature flat in its clawed tracks, flinging it backward, to lie flopping and dying on the ground.

  The teenager, Jean, slipped from the back bedroom of the destroyed home, running naked through the creek, screaming curses at her attackers. She ran through the grass, fleet as a young colt, running out of rifle range.

  No one noticed just who it was, her cursing not audible above the crackling flames and the rattle of gunfire.

  The heat from the burning buildings drove Sam and his followers back. They stood on a low hill, watching the buildings burn to the ground.

  Jean lay panting in the grass, a half mile from the scene of destruction, cursing at her attackers, snarling low. She had a feeling in her guts that she had better find a place to hide until this was over, one way or the other. She could always come back, pretending she had been taken away against her will.

  She smiled, her face pressed against the earth. Yes, that was the way to handle this.

  Yes, a voice filled her head, and she knew who was speaking to her. That is the way. Hide, until I call you. There will be another day, another time.

  Sam looked around him as the sun began its sinking for this day. It was over. His group looked at one another, each one aware of the evil that would soon be searching for them—in the night.

  “Let’s camp at the falls,” Chester suggested. “It’s the one place I can think of that’s easy to defend. And it’s not far away.”

  “Let’s roll it,” Sam said.

  Sam made love to Jane Ann as if this were their last time together. They were far from the others, behind the tiny falls, letting the spray of mist engulf them as they lay naked, locked together.

  After a time, they were still in each other’s arms, listening to the pounding of their hearts gradually slow. They bathed and soaped each other in the cool water of the falls, gentle in their touchings.

  “Sam?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “You made me pregnant this time.”

  “You can’t know for sure.” But there was pride in his heart at the thought.

  She smiled. “Yes, I can.”

  Just as full dark enveloped the land, they walked back to the half circle of trucks, slowly, holding hands as they walked.

  “The lovers return,” Doris said with a smile. She was frying meat over a campfire, and both Sam and Jane Ann realized how hungry they were.

  Squatting down beside the small fire, Sam asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “I’ll make it,” she said. “But Anita—” she shook her head. “I don’t know. You can only live with so much terror, Sam. After that—” She shrugged.

  Jane Ann fixed a sandwich. “I’ll go sit with her.” She walked off toward the woman sitting alone by a pickup.

  “Point is, Sam,” Doris said, spearing a piece of meat with a fork, putting it on a piece of bread, handing it to Sam, “How are you holding up?”

  “Better than most, I imagine,” Sam replied. “Now that I have the rhythm of what we’re doing.”

  “Explain that, please.”

  Others had gathered around the cook fire, to eat and to listen to the minister.

  “It doesn’t take one long to slip back into a combat role. Survival is the most basic of all human emotions. Throwback to the caves, I suppose.”

  “Do you enjoy combat, Sam?” Tony asked.

  Sam chewed in silence for a moment. He rose to his feet, picking up his Thompson. “I understand it,” he said, then walked into the darkening night.

  The Godless were becoming much more cautious in their
approach. Only a dry whisper of movement warned Sam they were coming. That, and his own senses, working overtime. Sam smiled his grim smile, anticipating combat; another showdown.

  The pickups had been pulled into a half circle, front toward the prairie. The falls and the high ground behind them. The Godless had to come at them from the front. Each pickup had, in addition to the regular headlights, spotlights. The women each carried long, six-cell flashlights. They all crouched by the trucks, waiting.

  “They’re out there, aren’t they?” Jane Ann whispered.

  “Yes,” Sam caressed her arm. “Get ready for a rush.”

  The dry movement rustled closer, the night breeze bringing the sounds and scent of Them to the half circle. Nerves became tighter, breathing shallowed. As is always the case—and a combat-experienced person can pick it up—there was a slight pause before the charge.

  “LIGHTS!” Sam yelled, and the prairie was suddenly bright with harsh light.

  The Godless were caught by surprise. Less than fifty yards from the tight circle of trucks, the worshippers of Satan were momentarily blinded.

  “FIRE!” Sam shouted.

  The night was torn with gunfire: the stutter of Chester’s Greasegun and the powerful roaring of Sam’s Thompson. The sharp crack of high-powered rifles, and the booming of shotguns.

  The attackers were armed, but they had been too anxious, caught by surprise. They were cut to bloody shards by bullets and buckshot. Medallions sparkled in the artificial light. Evil eyes flashed hate at the Godly. Blood leaped from gaping chest wounds and torn stomachs, smearing the night with thick stickiness.

  Sam had told his people: “Don’t try to be a hero. Fire at the thickest part of the body, between the neck and the waist.”

  Hoarse bellowing filled the night; painful cries penetrated the gunfire, adding a period to a life sentence.

  “Finish them!” Sam yelled. “Shut them up!” He put aside his Thompson for an M-l. Chester did the same.

  The others stood quietly, watching the minister and the church elder finish the grisly night’s work.

  Then the prairie was silent.

  “Lights out,” Sam ordered. “Check weapons. Stand easy but ready. They’ll be back as soon as they regroup.”

  “Colonel Travis speaks,” Doris quipped, easing the tension.

  Sam grinned at her courage and pluckiness.

  “Miles?” Sam said. “You take the left perimeter. I’ll take the right. The rest of you people, take a break, try to relax.”

  “Sam?” Miles said, exasperation in his voice. “What in the hell is a perimeter? I was in supply, not in the Commandos.”

  The preacher chuckled. “I’ll go into combat with you anytime, Miles. A perimeter is your designated watch area. Anything to the left of that big tree is yours; to the right is mine.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “Audie Murphy, he ain’t,” Doris said.

  “Silence, woman!” her husband warned.

  “Yes, dear,” she laughed. “My, isn’t he becoming assertive?”

  The good-natured bantering ceased as Anita began shaking uncontrollably, sobbing into her hands.

  “Shock,” Tony said. “I’ve been waiting for her to break down. It was just a matter of time. Wade, put her in the back of your pickup. Wrap her up in blankets, elevate her feet, and stay with her.”

  “I can’t take anymore of this!” Anita screamed out. Dear God—let’s run. Just get away from here!”

  Anita fought the hands that tried to help her, striking out at anyone until her husband and Tony managed to pin her to the ground, wrap her in blankets, and place her in the bed of the pickup. Wade stayed with her, holding her.

  Sam looked at his wife, her profile beautiful in the moonlight. “How are you doing?”

  “I’ll make it,” she touched his face. “But I know how Anita feels. I just haven’t allowed myself the luxury of breaking down.”

  He bent down, kissing her mouth. “Get some rest.”

  She looked up at him, all the love in the world shining through her eyes. “Will they be back?”

  “Yes. This time it will be the Undead. Their tactics don’t change.”

  She shuddered in the warm prairie breeze.

  Miles’s shotgun blasted the night. Four quick booms.

  Lights!” Sam yelled, grabbing a stake, running toward the firing.

  Walter Addison staggered to his feet, thrown on his back by the slugs from the shotgun. Smoking holes covered his chest. He grinned grotesquely, making grunting noises past a tongue that seemed too large for his mouth. His face was pale, eyes shining yellow with evil.

  Sam held out his silver cross. Addison hissed at him, his foul breath corrupting the air. The Undead stepped toward Sam, unafraid of the cross.

  Chester was locked in a deadly struggle with another of the Undead. Wade ran to help him, shouting for Jane Ann to watch over Anita.

  Miles ran to Sam’s side and tossed a canteen of Holy Water on Addison. The creature howled in pain. Miles looked at the canteen of blessed water. “Stuff works,” he said.

  Addison turned to one side in his pain and Sam lunged at him, driving a stake into his chest.

  A wretched screeching cut the night, an un-Godly sound from the mouth of a man who had forsaken his God, his Maker. Sam worked the stake deeper into his chest, forcing the man to the ground, pinning him there until he was dead.

  Addison trembled as the evil in him died.

  Forms scurried away, ratlike in the darkness, hissing as they ran.

  Miles capped the canteen, then looked at the container.

  “Powerful stuff,” he said dryly. I wonder what would happen if you drank it?”

  SATURDAY—THE THIRD DAY

  Whitfield lay quiet in the weekend sun. No one moved on the streets. To a passerby—if there were any—only the ruined churches would be out of the ordinary. Everything else would seem normal—almost.

  Nydia slept soundly, Jimmy sprawled naked by her side. He was—without caring—her slave, hers to do whatever she wished done.

  Black Wilder sat in the living room, sipping tea, his thoughts, like the room, dark. Balon and his followers were ruining everything; wreaking havoc in Fork County. They had to be stopped —must be stopped!—but stopped within the rules. But how?

  Balon did not behave as a minister should. Just this morning, early, at dawn, Balon had destroyed another ranch, killing all those at the ranch. Then he had, along with the others, methodically and cold-bloodedly shot down another dozen of the inmates from the asylum. Not like a minister. Not like a minister at all. Wilder had to smile. Quite a man, Sam Balon.

  Wilder was also aware of the change in Nydia. The silly bitch seemed not to realize that Wilder knew of her communications with the Master. The Master had come to him during the night, in the quiet, telling him of her plans and schemes. And, to the Master’s surprise, Wilder had agreed-providing all else failed. He was weary of earth; weary of the game; ready to go home. Let the witch worry with it. She, too, would soon discover what a tiresome job it was, and how unrewarding.

  So Nydia had a plan to make Balon her own, for a few hours, to mate with him, to produce a demon. All right. So be it. If all else failed.

  In homes around Whitfield, members of the Coven were awakening. Fathers were mounting daughters, engaging in grunting incestuous love. Mothers were caressing sons. Sisters and brothers were copulating.

  The whimpering cries of those who still clung to the Love of the one God was heard in basements as the day’s tortures began.

  In the darkness of their homes, the followers of Satan were performing their appointed tasks.

  Yes, Whitfield was normal. But not by God’s standards.

  And in the darkness of a basement in a ranch house in Fork County, Peter Canford slept behind a couch, on the dirty floor. He waited for the night to carry out his orders: to kill.

  By midafternoon they stood watching the fourth ranch of the day
burn to the ground. Paul Merlin’s Rocking Chair. Sam and Chester, using M-l’s, picked off the Satan-worshippers as they tried to escape the flames. Smoke from the burning buildings spiraled upward in greasy plumes. The prairie winds sighed lonely through the vastness of Fork County.

  Chester squatted on one knee, his face dirty and haggard. “I stopped counting at three hundred. And we still have Whitfield ahead of us.”

  Sam’s rifle barked, a lone figure stumbled, falling to the ground, screaming curses as he tried to get to his feet. He died cursing God.

  Sam?” Jane Ann said, standing by his side. “Tomorrow is Sunday—can we rest then?”

  “No. Tomorrow is the one day we can fight them with God guiding us. They can’t move on His day, but we can.”

  They were not the same people as they had been only a few days before. They would never be the same; those that would live through this ordeal. These men and women had toughened—hardened, and their faces bore that fact.

  Anita had found some inner strength buried deep within her and had shaken off the shock of the night before. She had killed this day, killed with a determination and cold ferocity that amazed her husband.

  She had said, “I know now it’s the only way. We can’t run from it; we’ve got to destroy them—all of them, or be destroyed. These people are not our friends; not the people we knew and grew up with. These people are no longer human. They are rabid animals, and you can’t show sympathy to a rabid animal.”

  Sam gathered his people and exited the scene of death and fire and blood. This night, he knew, they would have to be extremely careful, for from dusk to midnight, Satan’s followers would come at them with all the force they could muster.

  Chester led them to a half destroyed old cinder block house built on a flat plain. The house commanded the prairie from its ridge. By late afternoon, with at least three hours of day left, they had made ready for the night’s evil.