The Satan-lovers died screaming and chanting their love of Mephistopheles and their hatred of God Almighty.
At dawn, the small band of Believers slumped to the ground. Their shoulders ached from the pound of high-powered rifles and shotguns. They stank of nervous sweat. Their eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness.
As they dragged the dead to a pile, to burn them, Sam wondered how much more any of them could take?
TUESDAY—THE SIXTH DAY
Just past dawn, already hot on the plains, Sam lay looking over the town of Whitfield, Chester by his side.
“They love Satan and his fiery pits so much,” Sam said, with a hard grin, “we’ll give them a taste of what’s in store for them.”
“Six gas stations in town,” Chester said. “And one bulk plant. The wind is blowing north to south. Perfect!”
Chester had yet to say one word about his dead wife. But there was a recklessness in him that worried Sam.
We’ll fire everything on the north, east, and west. Let the flames work inward. We’ll be in position on the south side of town, waiting.”
“Let’s do it.”
They synchronized their watches to the second. Working with this much dynamite and gasoline, ten seconds off any watch could mean trouble, for a gallon of gasoline is equal to a half dozen sticks of dynamite as far as explosiveness and the damage it can do.
Sam’s gaze touched them all. “Everybody understand what to do?”
They nodded.
“Then let’s roll.”
They hit the town in a rush, starting the gas pumps running at full volume, then planting the fire bombs directly in the path of the rushing gasoline, each person praying their pickup would not choose this time to stall on them.
The wind, as if under the direct command of God, picked up, blowing hard from the north.
“We’ve lost it,” Wilder said to Nydia. They stood in the living room of the parsonage. “Whitfield will soon be a raging fire storm, and there is not one thing I can do about it. Damn Balon!”
“What do we do?” there was a touch of fear in her voice.
“Get out, of course, silly woman! Oh, Nydia, you still have much to learn.” He shook his head. “Tonight, we loose what we have left upon them. But they’ve beaten us. My time is almost over. Soon it will be up to you.”
“The tablet?”
He told her where he had hidden it, and she smiled. Wilder shook his head in sorrow. “As our Master’s senior agent, I warned him about this place. I begged him to send Michelle after another man of God. I warned him of Balon’s strength and courage. But,” he sighed, “perhaps it will work out in the end.” He took her hand. “Come, my dear, while there is still time.”
They walked through the house, Wilder stopping at a picture of Jesus Christ on the wall. He spat at the artist’s conception of Christ, the spittle sliding down Christ’s serene face.
They walked out the back door and vanished into the air, leaving no trace of their ever being there. Jimmy Perkins, confused and addled, found himself standing on the prairie, alone one second in the bedroom, the next second with Wilder and Nydia on the plains.
Wilder gave the witch a disgusted look. “I thought we left this simpleton behind?”
“He amuses me. Besides, I need a servant.”
“Lazy bitch!”
The booming, jarring explosions rocked the town of Whitfield, as thousands of gallons of gasoline detonated, sending flaming balls of fire hurtling over the town, to drop in massive globes of conflagration.
As the Godless ran screaming from the inferno, they were met by preset backfires. Those who escaped the flames were confronted by dynamite, Molotov cocktails, bullets and buckshot. A few escaped, but most died.
Beaten back by the intense heat that engulfed the town, the eight regrouped, Wade saying, “You’re sure, Sam, that no one will see this smoke or fire?”
“I’m sure,” the minister said. “By now, you should all know the power of Satan.”
Miles looked heavenward, a slight smile on his lips.
“We have one more night, one more day, and about five hours of another night. Until midnight of the seventh day,” Sam said.
“It took God seven days to create all things,” Anita said.
Yes,” the minister said. “Sevens again. It’s just another example of Satan’s humor—mocking God. He’s been doing it for thousands of years. And we won’t stop him. Hopefully, we can run him out of this area, but we won’t beat him; he’ll just move on to another place. Or, perhaps return here.”
“You’re the most pessimistic man of God I’ve ever seen,” Wade complained. But Wade, like the others, knew there were some devil worshippers who got away.
The eight stood on a small rise overlooking Whitfield, watching the town burn itself out, hearing the faint screaming of the Godless as they became part of Satan’s inferno, drifting into his domain, scorching and smoking.
It was noon of the Sixth day.
That night, not knowing what Wilder might hurl at them, the eight ran for their lives, their very souls, finally, at one o’clock in the morning, barricading themselves in a farm house for an onslaught that never materialized.
Wilder had very few people left to command, but he did have some tricks still up his sleeve.
“No!” Chester screamed out the one word of protest. “No! Damn you-NO!”
Eyes went to the moonlit yard. Eyes filling with horror at the sight before them. John Benton stood with Faye Stokes, the woman covered with dirt from her newly-exited grave. Together, they grinned a ghastly smirk at the house. Benton lifted her funeral dress and fondled her.
Chester went beserk with rage.
It was all the men could do to restrain him, pinning him to the floor.
“It’s a trap, Ches!” Sam yelled. “Don’t fall for it. They’re trying to suck you outside.”
But Chester, with the strength of the maddened and angry, threw the men from him. He jumped to his feet and ran weaponless outside.
“Chester,” Faye called, opening her arms to him. “Come to me.”
Sam tackled the man, dragging him to the ground, trying to pull him back into the house. Chester broke free and ran to his wife’s side.
Benton and Faye were on him instantly, biting him, sucking the blood from him. Sam grabbed a canteen of Holy Water and ran to the macabre scene, hurling the blessed water on the trio.
The three of them screamed their pain. It was too late for Chester.
“Stakes!” Sam yelled. “Hurry!”
As the Godless writhed in pain, attempting to escape the burning water, Sam drove a stake into Benton’s chest with one powerful thrust. Wade slammed a stake into Faye, filth from her mouth spraying him, sickening him, the slime dripping from his shirt.
Sam emptied his pistol into the changing body of Chester, hoping that would stop him, hoping he would not have to commit the ultimate act on his friend. But he knew it was too late as he watched the heavy slugs drive his friend back, but not stop him.
Chester came on, grinning, his tongue blood-red, teeth changing with each step, eyes shining with newfound evil.
Sam, a dozen feet from the man, hurled a stake at him, the point burying in the man’s chest. Chester’s hands clutched at the shaft, pus running over his thickening tongue and pale lips. He swayed for a moment. Sam stepped forward and pushed the stake into his chest, hitting the heart. Chester fell forward, the impact driving the point through him, jutting out his back.
The prairie was quiet under God’s moon, the pale white orb illuminating the specter of death around the house. Inside the old home, the sounds of weeping drifted out to Sam. Men and women breaking under the pressure, their emotions lashing out.
Sam stood for a time looking down at what remained of his friend, wondering if the price they were all having to pay was too high?
A few more hours, he thought. Just a few more hours.
Then, finally admitting what he had known all along: It will
be my turn to meet the Prince of Darkness.
WEDNESDAY—THE SEVENTH DAY
Sam was down mentally this day, the others sensing his depression, but not understanding it.
“We’ve beaten them, Sam!” Wade tried to lift his minister’s mood. “We can coast now.”
Sam shook his head. “No, Wade, that’s not true. You don’t understand the rules of the game.”
“Game?” Miles said. “Game? Dear God, this has been a game?”
Sam looked around. The others were asleep. “Come on, I want Tony to hear this.”
They walked to where the doctor stood on guard. “Now all of you listen to me,” Sam said. “Very carefully. If—today I make a decision that seems—rash to you, don’t try to stop me. I know what I’m doing.”
Tony looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, Sam.”
“It’s all over at midnight tonight,” Sam explained. “So all rules are off—gone. Satan’s dream of a glorious reign in Whitfield has, for now—and remember the word: now—all been destroyed. By us. More specifically, by me. It’s me he wants; or something from me, and I think I know what it is. Anyway, don’t question what I do this afternoon.” He glanced at Tony. “Take care of Jane Ann.”
What?”
“You heard me. She’s pregnant. Don’t ask me how I know that for a fact, I just do. It will be a son. Help Jane Ann raise him. He’s going to have to be awfully strong.”
Sam walked away, leaving three very puzzled men. He walked to the top of a small rise, to stand there alone, looking up at the Heavens, talking softly with his God.
“He knows,” Wilder said. “He’s made up his mind. Balon is making his peace with his God, now.”
Nydia felt desire well up in her. “Then I’ll have him?”
“If all goes well.” He willed his thoughts to be heard by his Master, and the Master listened and agreed.
Wilder’s smile was bittersweet as he listened to his Master lay down the new rules of this game.
“What does our Prince say?” Nydia asked, irritated because she was excluded from the conversation.
“You get your wish, Nydia. The Prince has looked into the mind of Balon.”
“And?”
“Him for me.”
“I wish I could say I’ll miss you, Black,” her smile was full of mockery.
“You obviously have forgotten the pain of birthing a demon, Nydia.”
“No. I haven’t forgotten, Black. And I don’t know if I shall survive the birthing—I’m older now. But whatever price I have to pay, it will be worth it. For both of us.”
“Nydia,” Wilder’s voice softened, and she looked at him. “We have never really cared for one another, but we have worked well together—most of the time. Altogether, you are probably the most beautiful witch I have ever seen. Thoroughly disgusting at times, but that is part of a witch’s nature. I must warn you of this: Balon’s mate is with child. A boy child. And you know he will be strong, as well as blessed—blessed as much as a mortal can be, that is.
“Remember this, Nydia, and remember it well, you will have but a few hours to seduce him, and Balon is a strong-willed man.”
“I won’t fail, Black.”
“I hope not.” He took her hand. “Come, it’s time.”
“Sam?” Jane Ann called. “There are two people walking toward the camp—out on the plains.”
“I see them,” Sam was calm. “I’ve been expecting them.”
“There is someone else lagging behind them,” Miles said, peering through binoculars. “It’s Jimmy!”
Sam said nothing.
“Hello the camp!” Wilder called, stopping a few hundred yards from the small band of Believers.
“My God against your Master?” Sam returned the shout.
“Something to that effect,” Wilder’s voice boomed over the rolling grass effortlessly. “But nothing so dramatic as that. That would be the war to end all wars. And then our Gods could not play their little games with each other. What would they then do to amuse themselves?”
“I may assume I’m to be one of the protagonists in this little drama?”
“Singular, Mr. Balon.”
“And if I win?”
“You make me laugh, sir. You can do nothing but lose.”
Sam shook off Jane Ann’s restraining hand and walked out to Wilder and Nydia. He stopped by Tony’s side on the edge of the camp. “Remember what I said, Tony.” He walked out of the camp without looking back.
Sam faced the warlock. “I can’t win? Perhaps you’d better explain that?”
“Surely, sir. You see, Mr. Balon, your God doesn’t make deals. With your God it is all or nothing. Not so with my Master. By now, sir, you must know that all previous rules no longer apply. I can destroy you all with a snap of my fingers.”
Sam smiled. “But not me, Mr. Wilder.”
“Not I, sir, is correct. But grammatical faux pas need not concern us this day. However, you are correct in your assumption that I cannot harm you—yet.”
“And your proposition—?”
For a very brief moment, Wilder’s look was of admiration. It passed quickly. “You are a man of honor, are you not, sir?”
“I like to think so.”
“And if you give your word?”
“I keep it.”
“At all costs?”
“Right.”
“How marvelously human. Now hear me, Mr. Balon, I can kill your friends—all of them—in a most disgusting manner. I can turn them into roaches. Remember, sir, we are playing under a new set of rules. I can whisk the women away from this place and have them on their backs as whores before you can blink. I can do anything I wish—with them.” He glanced at Jane Ann, alone in the distance. “I will have her first. I will take her in every way known. I will enjoy her wailing as I mount her from the rear. After I have done with her, I shall give her eternal life—as a whore. Do you want that to happen?”
“You know I don’t,” Sam said gently.
Wilder glanced at Nydia. Her smile was mocking. He sighed. “The moment I knew would someday come, and someday is now.”
“There have been others, Black,” the witch said.
“I assure you, my dear, that is but a small consolation.” He looked at Sam. “Well, sir, here it is: Me for you.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Oh, my, sir! You are a suspicious man, aren’t you?”
“Come on, Black—what’s the catch?”
His smile was not pleasant. “I allow you to destroy me. That is my Master’s wish.” He shrugged. “It is a small thing, I assure you. No matter how you go about it, I won’t die. I’ll just leave here to join my Prince.”
“Get to the point, Black.”
This time, Wilder’s smile was genuine. “Then, sir, you will be hers,” he cut his eyes to Nydia, “to do with as she desires—until midnight.”
“I can resist if I choose?”
“Oh, my, yes! I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Nydia’s face darkened with anger. “Damn you, Black!” she spat the words venomously. “That wasn’t in the deal.”
His smile broadened. “It is now, my dear.”
“You son-of-a bitch!” she cursed the warlock.
Laughter sprang from his mouth. “Of course, I am. Who do you think birthed me, the Virgin Mary?”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Sam said. “You two carry on your war.
“We’ve been doing just that for centuries,” Wilder stopped the minister cold.
Sam turned. “Centuries?”
“How old is sin, young man?” Wilder asked.
“Very old.”
“Then so are we.”
Sam walked to the camp, picking up a stake. He looked at Jane Ann. “I’m not going to kiss you or touch you, honey. If I did that, I’d want to stay—and I can’t. I love you, don’t forget that. And I know you’re carrying my child—our child. Stay with Tony when this is over. You two have a lot in common. He’
ll help you raise our child—our son. Make our son a man, Janey, a real man. Instill in him virtue, but don’t make him a pansy. I want him to appreciate fine music, the arts, and I want him in the military to pull his hitch. That’s important, Janey. I want him in a tough outfit; a hard-assed special unit. He’s going to need all the training he can get.”
“Sam!” she was crying.
Be still and listen to me.”
But the words would not form on his tongue. Words of more warning; of things he knew would come in the future would not pass his lips. The minister struggled to speak, but found he could not.
All right! Sam silently spoke to God. Have it Your way. But You will help my son by Jane Ann when he meets my son from Nydia?
How weak you must think you are! His voice boomed in Sam’s head.
I’m a mortal! Sam returned the silent shout.
No more booming filled the minister’s head. But as his voice returned to him, he heard a whispered reply: I will help!
“Goodbye,” Sam said to his wife, to his friends. He walked into the prairie.
Wilder’s eyes touched the stake in Sam’s hand. “Oh, you would choose that method,” he said disgustedly.
“May we talk for a few moments?” Sam asked.
Wilder looked at Nydia, then cut his eyes to Jimmy, standing a few yards away, picking his nose. “Get that buffoon out of here.”
And Jimmy was gone.
Sam blinked.
“Of course, we may chat for a few moments, sir,” Black said. “You may be sure I am in no frantic rush to return to Hell. It’s a dismal place, at best. Depressing.”
“The Church of the Fifteen—it will continue to thrive?”
“Certainly! Everywhere there is a cult—of any kind or type. My Master already has plans formulated for the 1970s. It should be interesting.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Sam said, lifting the stake. “Not just this—all of it.”
Wilder chuckled. “There is nothing terribly complicated about it, sir. It’s a game. A high-rolling crap shoot between the biggest players at the table. Your shooter gambles on the hope of Love winning for Him. My shooter gambles on what you call Sin winning for him. I can tell you this, sir: A little water and a better class of residents and there would be no difference between Heaven and Hell.”
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