Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  Anyone coming for them would have to come up to get them. The field of fire belonged to Sam and his people.

  The trucks were safely parked behind the walls of the old home. Each person knew his or her position and what they had to do. Cans of gasoline had been placed around the ridge, ready to be set ablaze by Molotov cocktails. Weapons were cleaned and checked. They had all eaten, the fires doused. They napped in the waning hours of day.

  They would need all their strength this night.

  At full dark, the rolling prairie became alive with evil: on foot, on horseback, in cars and trucks and jeeps. The un-Godly sought out the Godly.

  The Godless had no tactics except to charge, and they did this in waves, running up the hill. During a break in the firing, Chester said, “This takes me back some years, to the Pacific. The Japs would come at us just like this, screaming, in wave after wave. We’d stack them up like cordwood, and still they’d come at us.” He glanced at his wife. Her face was streaked with dirt and gunpowder. “You all right, honey?”

  She forced a grin. “I’ll make it.”

  “Good girl. Hang in there.”

  And then there was no more time for talk, as the night filled with two-legged evil, running up the hill, toward the home, straight into the guns of God.

  “Hit the gas!” Sam yelled, and cocktails went spinning through the air, igniting the gas cans with dynamite taped to them. The earth shook under the impact.

  The air became thick with the acrid stink of gunsmoke, gas fumes, smoke, and the stench of searing, burning flesh. Hearing was momentarily impaired by the booming, yammering, cracking of weapons. Nostrils became insulted, eyes teared and reddened.

  Abruptly, an eerie silence fell on the prairie,

  “What’s happening?” Wade called.

  Sam glanced at his watch, the luminous hands glowing. “It’s over. It’s one minute past midnight. They can’t move on God’s day.”

  SUNDAY—THE FOURTH DAY

  “There is something that bothers me, Sam,” Chester said, screwing a new barrel on his Greasegun, discarding the old warped barrel. Breakfast over, the nine relaxed, cleaning weapons, filling old whiskey bottles with gasoline, making Molotov cocktails. Making ready for war on God’s day.

  Sam looked up from his work.

  “They have access to explosives just as we do. They could have blown us out of any place we’ve been. Why didn’t they?”

  “Because they want me alive,” the minister said. “For more than one reason, I think.” He did not elaborate. “It would be quite a coup for them, taking me.”

  Jane Ann touched his hand. “Nydia?”

  Sam nodded. “Yes.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s take a drive, folks.”

  “Where?” Tony asked.

  The minister smiled that grim warrior’s smile. “Whitfield.”

  Up a slight grade, and Whitfield came into view. Sam stopped his little convoy and got out of his pickup, standing in the center of the state road. His group gathered around.

  All were visibly nervous, Wade asking, “Are we just going straight in, Sam? There must be two thousand people down there!”

  Sam looked down at Whitfield. “We’re going in just like the Cavalry. One pass through town. We are going to burn down the town, but not today. We’re just going to give them a little taste of what’s in store for them.”

  “And they’re going to sit back and let us do it?” Miles asked. “Without a fight?”

  “No.” Sam shook his head. “They’ll fight. They’re on home ground and they can. So let’s be quick about this. Hit hard, then get out. Cut, slash, and run. Don’t bunch up, but do stay in a convoy.”

  “We scare them,” Chester said. “Show them we’re not afraid of them. Is that it?”

  “Exactly, Ches.”

  “I feel as though someone, or some thing is watching us,” Doris said.

  “We are being watched,” Sam affirmed her suspicions. “Just remember this, those ... things down there are very much afraid of us. We’ve taken everything they can throw at us, and we’ve shoved it right down their throats. Now we’re taking the fight to them, so let’s do it.

  “I’ll take the lead truck, with Janey driving. Wade, you and Anita second. Miles and Doris third. Chester, you take the drag with Faye driving and Tony up front. Okay? Let’s do it.”

  The convoy rolled into Whitfield at forty miles per hour, turning Royal Street into fire and smoke. They cut north, up Branford, tossing Molotov cocktails and dynamite, the gas-filled bottles exploding against houses, on automobiles parked along the road.

  But Sam was unable to toss the cocktail at the parsonage. Wilder stood on the steps, Nydia at his side, and some force from their eyes prevented him from hurling the gas bomb. They stood smiling at Sam, Wilder’s arms folded across his chest, quietly acquiescing to the minister’s move. The eyes of the witch and the warlock seemed to say: Very well, this round is yours, Balon. But the fight is a long way from being over.

  Sam’s neighbor and onetime friend, Max Steiner ran into the street, screaming curses at Sam. The preacher tossed the cocktail at him, engulfing the man in a ball of fire.

  The convoy had stopped in front of the parsonage, all of them seemingly mesmerized by Wilder and Nydia. Chester emptied a full clip from his Greaser at them, but the bullets seemed not to touch either of them. They laughed at him.

  “I don’t believe this!” Chester said in astonishment. “To hell with both of you!” Then he smiled at his words, his grin fading as Nydia arrogantly waved at him.

  Chester could not resist giving them the middle finger.

  They burst out laughing.

  The convoy rolled on, up Cottonwood Street, leaving behind them death and fire. The Satan-worshippers ran into the street and the convoy rolled over them, leaving crushed bodies and a trail of crimson from the tires.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sam yelled. “Don’t stop for anybody or anything. Head for the Dig site.”

  Jane Ann drove the pickup expertly, dodging and weaving through the possessed town. “What do we do there?” she shouted.

  “Stakes!”

  “The foolish, brave man,” Wilder complimented Sam. “What I would not give to have him with us.”

  Nydia cupped her breasts with her hands, feeling the nipples grow in excitement. “I will have a son by Balon. What a demon he would be—strong and fearless.”

  “That, my dear, is a very good idea. I must warn you, Nydia: I have heard your conversations with the Master.”

  “And I yours, Black.”

  And the devil then spoke, “You will, Black, if necessary, give your life to see that her wish is fulfilled. I will have offspring from Balon’s seed. I have spoken.”

  “You heard?” Wilder asked.

  “I heard. Black? He is going to destroy the site.”

  I know.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing. This is God’s day.”

  The nine went from trailer to trailer at the Dig, until the area was filled with the putrid odor of Undead finally dying.

  They drove their stakes into sleeping demons. It was a grisly morning in Fork County as the stakes pierced the hearts of the Godless, the howling cries echoing over the rock circle with its carving, over the valley of The Digging. Blood splattered the walls as heavy strokes from hammers drove the wooden points into flesh, past bone, slashing into pumping hearts, ending the evil. Wailing of the damned ripped into living ears as sweat from the Godly dripped onto the Godless, the perspiration hissing as it touched anathematized flesh. Bloody hands gripped the stakes as they were driven into chests; stinking breath fouled the musty air of the closed trailers.

  Outside, the devil’s rage was vented in the sky as lightning flashed across the suddenly darkened sky. Thunder boomed in cascading waves. The stink of sulphur lay about the fenced-in Dig. The Believers had to shout to be heard.

  “The tablet?” Wade yelled. Where is it?“

  “Not here,” Sam r
eturned the shout. “I’m sure of that. Wilder would have it well hidden.”

  “SAM!” Jane Ann screamed.

  The preacher spun around. Beasts and lunatics were moving across the Dig. The Beasts could move on this day, for they knew nothing of God, their tiny brains incapable of comprehending something so vast.

  The Beasts and the lunatics died on this day.

  In the pouring rain, under the cover of low, dark clouds, during the blinding pops of lightning and the rolling crash of thunder, Sam’s people picked up their guns.

  The smell of the Undead dying was soon overpowered by the stench of gunsmoke as they emptied weapons into the charging forces of Satan. The Beasts and the crazed possessed snarled and snapped and howled until they were driven away, leaving behind their dead.

  Sam and Chester followed them, recklessly close, firing their automatic weapons. A few of the Beasts and the lunatics made their escape.

  As abruptly as it began, the carnage was over. The sky was clear and clean, as if it had been swept by the hand of God. The blazing ball of sun beat down on the site, steaming the puddles of water.

  The nine carefully checked the trailers for any Undead they might have missed. They were all dead, lying in grotesque, misshapen, nonrecognizable lumps.

  They looked for the tablet for over an hour, finally giving up their search.

  “Let’s go,” Sam said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  An hour of daylight left on God’s day. Three ranches had been destroyed this afternoon. Sam and his people were bordering on exhaustion.

  “Sam?” Chester called. “There’s some ... thing in this shed. One of Them, I think.”

  The minister picked his way through the bodies littering the back yard, the muzzle of his SMG still emitting a faint finger of smoke. Carefully, he eased open the door to the shed. He recognized the boots protruding from behind a stack of boxes. Peter Canford.

  “Get me a stake,” he told Chester.

  “Sam?”

  “There is no other way, Ches. He’s an Undead, now. Keep the others away from here.”

  The screaming from the shed filled the air. The hard pounding as Sam drove the stake into the chest of what had been his friend cracked under the late afternoon sun. The now familiar stench drifted out the open shed door.

  Silence.

  Sam stepped from the shed, his hands and shirt stinking from the corruption that had erupted from each hammer stroke. He looked up at the sky.

  “God, give us the strength to finish this fight. For we are tired, God. We are so tired of killing.”

  They walked to their trucks, exhaustion evident with each step.

  They did not see the eyes that followed them as they drove away. They did not hear the heavy breathing or the low snarling from the man hiding in the ravine behind the ranch house.

  In their weariness, they had left someone alive.

  MONDAY—THE FIFTH DAY

  Jane Ann turned in her sleep, pressing close to the flesh of Sam under the blankets, loving the feel of him next to her. Through sleepy eyes, she watched Tony outlined against the pink horizon, the butt of his carbine resting on one hip. She kissed Sam on the cheek, then eased from him, dressing in the coolness of dawn. She walked to the fire, where Faye was making breakfast. The smell of coffee drifted about the camp, rousing the others.

  “I don’t believe I would have liked the life of a pioneer woman,” Faye smiled a good morning. “Give me a modern kitchen anytime.”

  They were camped by a small lake, and all longed to wash away the stink of yesterday.

  After breakfast, they took turns in the lake, ladies first, with men standing guard, then the men took a quick bath. Back in camp, Jane Ann noticed gray in Sam’s hair, gray that had not been there a week before.

  “How many more ranches in this part of Fork?” Sam asked.

  “Four. And one farm. After that we will have completed the circle.”

  “Then we destroy the town,” Sam said.

  One rifle shot rang out, the slug catching Faye in the center of the back, severing the spinal cord. The slug splintered off into several pieces, hitting lung and heart. She pitched forward, dead in the dirt.

  Screaming out his rage, Chester grabbed his M-l, running to the edge of the camp. He triggered off a full clip, eight rounds. A faint moaning could be heard from out in the plains, a hundred yards from the camp.

  Sam wrapped the woman in a blanket as he listened to Chester curse. The man was striking someone—or some Thing. He walked back into camp, half dragging and half carrying his daughter, Ruby. She screamed at her father, fighting him, until he backhanded her to the ground. She crawled to her knees, shouting curses at him. Chester hit her with his fist on the point of the chin, knocking her to the ground, stunned.

  The man was openly weeping. “It was Jack,” he sobbed. “He killed his own mother.”

  “Pray!” Ruby laughed at Sam as he stood over the shallow grave of Faye. “Pray, you mother fucker!”

  Sam tried to ignore her, continuing his prayer for the soul of Faye Stokes.

  Ruby screeched her laughter, shouting profanities at the diminishing band of Believers. “Hey, Preacher! When you get through with soulsavin’ shit, come over here for a minute. I need a good fuck!”

  They all tried to ignore her.

  Sam uttered the last Amen, then picked up a shovel. “I don’t like this, Ches. She should be cremated. You know what might happen.”

  “No! I won’t have her burned.”

  Shaking his head, knowing all too well what would probably happen with the body, Sam covered the grave with earth.

  The earth patted in place, making but a small mound on the prairie, Chester turned to look at his daughter, bound at ankles and wrists. “Help her, Sam,” he asked.

  “I don’t know if I can.” He wanted to add: I don’t know if I really want to.

  “Please try.” There were tears in the man’s eyes.

  I don’t know the rite of exorcism, Ches. All I have is prayer and Holy Water. If that doesn’t work, then what?”

  “I’ll kill her!” the father said. “I won’t have that,” he pointed to his daughter, “walking God’s earth.”

  “Hey, Doc King—Tony, baby,” she called. “You’re a good-lookin’ guy. You don’t have a woman out here, do you? Untie me and I’ll show you what my God says is good. I’ll give you some pussy, baby.”

  Tony shook his head in disgust. “I remember my father treating her for mumps. I can’t stand this.” He picked up his rifle. “I’ll take the watch.”

  Sam knelt down beside her, knowing in his guts it wasn’t going to work. This was no cult full of amateurs; this was the real thing, with the devil overseeing every move.

  He put his hand on her forehead and she jerked away from his touch, trying to bite him, white teeth flashing. Her screaming drowned out Sam’s first attempt at prayer.

  Chester knelt down. “Ruby? Ruby, won’t you try to help us help you?”

  “Fuck you!” she snarled at her father.

  Sam touched her forehead with a tiny bit of Holy Water. She screamed in pain as the blessed water hissed and bubbled on her flesh.

  Sam prayed.

  The girl threw herself about, straining at the ropes that bound her. Filth sprang from her mouth, matching Sam’s intensity at prayer.

  He sprinkled Holy Water on her forehead, wincing at her screaming.

  Still she cursed him.

  At the end of an hour, Sam was near exhaustion and no closer, he felt, to expelling the demons from the girl. She showed no signs of giving in; still as strong as when they began.

  Sam rose to his feet, his knees aching. Ruby lay on the ground, cursing Sam, her father, God, and everything connected with Christianity. She spat at Sam and her father.

  “I can’t do anything more, Ches. I just can’t.”

  Ruby laughed at them. An evil, mocking laugh.

  Her father knelt down. “Ruby, you’re part of me. Won’t you please t
ry to help yourself?”

  She spat in his face and laughed at him.

  Chester pulled his pistol from leather, his face, dripping with saliva, was dark with rage.

  Sam stopped his gun-held hand. “That won’t do any good, Ches. They’ll still have her soul.”

  The father’s eyes were both sad and grim. You mean—?”

  Go on. Take the people out of here. I’ll do it. Jack, too.”

  “Leave Faye alone, Sam.”

  “All right, if you say so. Go on.”

  The prairie was quiet after Chester and the others left. Sam stood over the teenager, a stake in his hand. She looked up at him, but her eyes were not afraid.

  “Last chance, Ruby.”

  “Hey, preacher—wouldn’t you like some young pussy? I give good half and half, too. Half fuck, half suck.”

  Sam lifted the stake, praying for guidance, hoping God would guide his hand. The sky darkened, clouds dipping close to the earth.

  The minister drove the stake into the chest of the girl. Lightning flicked across the sky as Sam pushed the stake deeper into her, piercing the young heart held captive by Satan.

  Ruby lay dead on the ground, her hands clutching the shaft of the long stake.

  Sam looked at the grave of Faye Stokes. “I’ll see you again, Faye—but you won’t really know me.”

  He walked into the prairie, looking for Jack’s body. When he left the sea of rippling, knee-high grass, a stake had been driven into the chest of Jack Stokes. The body still writhed on the ground.

  Four ranches, a farm, and a dozen more inmates from the asylum went down that day, as Sam and his group worked full circle around Whitfield. Only the town remained. If they could but live through this night that was falling around them.

  Sam and the others dug deep trenches around their positions, placing dynamite and gas-filled cans in the closer trenches.

  All were near exhaustion.

  Wilder sent his subjects out in force that night, covering the prairie, seeking out Balon and his few Believers. The night ran red with blood.