Dan stepped out of character and said, “You’re a sorry excuse for a human, Lamotta!”
Lamotta laughed in Dan’s face. “Yeah, I know. Now, Sheriff, you run along and play cops and robbers. Stay out of my business.”
Inwardly fuming, Dan said, “How about the parents of the dead kids?”
“Tell them their kids took off. We’ll take care of the car. That’s the story. You stick with it.”
Dan and the others hung around until the OSS lab team made their appearance, arriving in a few minutes, exiting the back gate to avoid any curious eyes. Dan and his people, Dodge with him, walked away from the body-bagging being carried out by the OSS people. They stepped into the scrub timber, looking for the source of that odor Emily had spoken of.
But one of the new OSS people pulled in had already found it, and he was about to regret—briefly—his discovery.
7
The agent knelt down by the pool of red, foul-smelling liquid that bubbled out of the ground. The stench was so foul, even the blood and guts-hardened OSS man could scarcely keep his breakfast down.
He couldn’t figure out what the liquid might be.
Looking around, he found a stick and stuck it down into the pool, about six inches deep. He was careful not to get any of the liquid on his hands. This stuff smelled terrible.
The stick was jerked out of his hands.
The agent fell backward, startled, landing on his butt. “What the hell?”
The hole from which the liquid bubbled, now more than a foot wide, bubbled and seemed to sigh.
The agent looked at the pool. “It’s talkin’ to me! ”
The agent found another stick, a heavier one, and getting a good grip on the stick, jammed it down into the liquid and worked it around, in and out, with short, savage, jabbing motions. The stick struck something solid . . . sort of. He’d jammed a stick into a jellyfish once-it was kinda like that. Squishy/solid.
The agent jammed the stick deeper. The sighing from the hole changed timbre, becoming more of a groan, then changing into a low murmuring of anger.
“What is this?” the man said aloud. He tried to pull the stick out. He could not. He would pull the stick out only a few inches, then something would haul the stick back into the thick, crimson, foul-smelling liquid, almost jerking the man off his feet.
The agent got mad.
“Why, you—” he yelled, his face getting red from anger and exertion. He pulled on the stick, gaining a few more inches. “Gotcha, you creep!”
He was again almost jerked off his feet as the stick plunged deeper into the liquid-filled hole in the earth. He lost the stick and stood, watching the stick disappear, being pulled into the foulness. It was, he thought, almost as if someone, or something, with superhuman strength was hiding down there.
“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered.
“I’ll fix you,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a clasp knife. He found a pole this time, sharpening one end of it. Returning to the hole, he jammed the sharpened end into the hole with all his strength.
A furious howl of pain and rage erupted from the liquid. The agent stepped back, for the first time, fear touching his features.
The protruding end of the pole, almost five feet of it, waved and trembled. The agent stepped back to the hole and once more grabbed the pole. He jammed it again and again into the hole.
“Take that, and that!” he shouted, sweat running from his face.
He laughed.
Something from down under the liquid laughed.
“Naw,” the man said. “That’s impossible.”
He did not notice the webbed, slightly humanlike hand slowly inching its slick and slimy way out of the liquid. The adjoined fingers were dark and wrinkled, the end of the fingers curved claws. The hand clamped around the man’s ankle.
The agent screamed as the hot wet fingers closed around his ankle and jerked, flinging him to the ground. He struggled to free himself. He could not. The hand was too powerful. He squalled his panic.
He dug his fingers into the earth as he felt himself being pulled backward, toward the stinking hole. “No!” he screamed. “God! Help me! Please!”
Laughter bubbled out of the liquid.
The foot, then the ankle, finally the leg, up to the knee, was slowly immersed into the thick red liquid. A chewing, smacking sound rose out of the bubbling matter.
The OSS agent began shrieking in agony.
The grotesque hand once more appeared out of the liquid, followed by a thick, scaly, hairy wrist and forearm. The clawed fingers inched upward, to the agent’s thigh. They dug in, through the trousers and into flesh. Blood squirted out of the punched fleshy holes.
The man’s screaming echoed through the scrub timber, the larger trees, the brush, and the pastures. His was a howling of anguish.
The clawed fingers dug deeper and deeper into the flesh, pulling, ripping long strips of bloody meat from the man’s thigh. The pale, bloody pieces and hunks disappeared into the hole. More chewing and chomping sounds emanated from beneath the bubbling matter. They were followed by a lip-smacking sound of satisfaction.
The agent’s struggling became weaker as shock and loss of blood took its toll. He was slowly, from beneath the ground, twisted and repositioned above ground, then steadily pulled down into the hole, his hip bones cracking as his body was forcibly dragged through the too-small opening. His upper torso was now all that was visible above the ground.
More chewing sounds sprang from the bubbling ground.
The agent, through his hideous pain of being devoured alive, found a root growing above ground and hooked his arms over and under the root.
The spawn of the devil beneath the bubbling surface of the earth pulled on the agent. But the man had died, in death, his arms locking him above the surface, around the thick tree root.
“God!” Taylor yelled. “Where was that howling coming from?”
“I can’t tell!” Langway yelled. “I couldn’t get a fix. That way, I think.” He pointed.
“Jesus Christ!” they all heard Trooper Forbes yell. “Holy Mother of God!”
Then the sounds of Forbes’ screaming reached them all, chilling them.
The cops began running toward the now-defined sound.
It took them several minutes to reach the scene.
They all, to a person, froze momentarily at the sight.
Forbes was covered with cats, only his boots visible as the snarling, clawing, spitting, biting felines rode him to the ground. As he fell to the ground, unconscious, some of the cats were knocked from him. The cops could see the irreparable damage.
Forbes’ face was gone, his eyes gone, his lips gone, his ears torn off.
Captain Taylor crossed himself, lifted his shotgun, and put Virginia Highway Patrolman Forbes out of this world. Taylor emptied the Remington, knocking bloody pieces of cats spinning and hurtling through the soft early summer air.
The remaining cats seemed to melt into the landscape.
The cops looked at the bloody rags that once was Trooper Forbes. All knew Taylor had done the only thing that could have been done.
“If you hadn’t, I was going to,” Langway told the captain.
But the captain wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the OSS agent.
They all looked through horror-filled eyes. They heard the nerve-jarring and mind-numbing sounds of the breaking of bones. They watched as the agent’s torso was slowly pulled into the too-small bubbling hole in the ground. The man disappeared, the foul-smelling liquid covering his head.
The man’s arms were all that remained above ground, pulled out of their sockets. They gripped the root in death.
“Jesus Christ!” Lou said, panting up to the site. He could do nothing but stand and stare in horror at all that remained of his agent.
The cops walked slowly up to the hole in the Virginia earth. The sounds of chewing and the cracking of bones grew louder, then faded away.
“It ate him,�
� Hawkes said.
“Whatever it is,” Dan said.
The liquid bubbled. “Uhhrupt! ” the hole belched.
The agent’s shoes and belt were puked up, to land on the surface.
The cops stood in silence, staring at the bubbling hole.
One of the OSS lab people came running up, nearly out of breath.
“You ...” Lou had trouble speaking. He cleared his throat, finding his voice. “You get a sample of that liquid. But Jesus God, be careful doing it.”
“Where’s the rest of Randall?” the lab man asked.
“Whatever’s down in that hole ate him.”
The lab man looked at Lamotta, then at the hole. He put his kit on the ground. “Forget it, man!” he said. He turned and walked off.
Lou didn’t say a thing. Just watched him go for a moment. Then he lifted his M-16 and shot the man in the back, knocking him sprawling, dead on the ground. Lou looked at the cops. “That ought to prove to you pansies I mean what I say.” He looked at one of his men. “Get another lab boy out here and get a sample. Move.”
“You don’t have to do that,” the female voice came from behind the men.
Emily stood beside a deputy, looking at the scene.
“I can tell you the composition of that liquid,” Emily said. “In all probability,” she added.
“And that is? ...” Dan asked.
“Stale, putrid blood.”
“Oh, gross!” Susan said.
The hole belched again. The agent’s car keys were spat from the bubbling matter, to fall with a small thud on the earth’s surface.
8
The farmer, what was left of him, lay a dozen yards from his pickup truck. His bones gleamed white under God’s sun. He had been eaten down to the bone. Not one scrap of flesh remained on him. Nearby, a hole bubbled and spewed its noxious stench. Beside the hole, a small creature sat. It was hideously grotesque, slick and slimy from its passage through the life-sustaining liquid. The creature had arms and legs and a head. It was vaguely human-appearing. Its hide was all scales and hair. The head was huge, the mouth wide, with long misshapen teeth. The toes were webbed, as were the hands, clawed hands and feet.
The Old One belched, a foulness springing from its mouth. It scratched itself and stretched. It was still tremendously hungry. It rose to its feet, the legs still shaky. The arms hung down almost to its feet. It took a few steps, walking back and forth. It was neither male nor female. It was all things—all things evil.
It walked away from the permanent bubbling womb.
* * *
Dan and Taylor were shown, by Doctor Goodson, the engineer. Neither man could disguise his shock at the ... thing’s appearance. Both were glad to be out of the mummy-like man’s sight. It was unnerving.
Goodson had then shown them Deputy Bowie; or more specifically, what Bowie was becoming.
The men stepped back outside, into the sunlight. Grateful for that light.
“Did you leave guards at the hole?” Goodson asked.
“Lamotta did,” Dan replied. “A safe distance away.
“That goddamn Lamotta fed the body of the man he shot into the hole,” Taylor said. “Said he wanted to see if whatever was down there was still hungry. It was.”
Goodson was silently stunned at the OSS man’s callousness.
“What does he have on you, Doctor?” Dan asked.
Goodson told him, speaking quietly. He ended with a question. “How do we break out of this ... hold he has on us?”
“I’m working on that,” Dan told him, and would say no more on the subject. “How about the sample taken from the hole?”
“Just what Mrs. Harrison said it was. Very old blood. But the cells ... well, I’ve never seen anything like it. Never. I ... can’t describe them to a layperson. I don’t mean to belittle your intelligence, but I’d be talking over your heads. It’s even above my head.”
“Try to simplify it,” Taylor urged. “Good God, man! Give us something tangible.”
“Gentlemen, I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself. The cells are not human. They are not animal. They ... I don’t know what they are. And neither will anyone else . . . on this earth.”
None of the men wanted to pursue that last remark. But they all silently agreed with the doctor.
“The cats taken from my yard?” Dan asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Goodson said. “But they’re not rabid. That’s about the only bright spot in this. . . mess.”
“How are they controlled to attack? And why?” Langway asked.
“I don’t know,” Goodson said calmly, while inside he trembled with fear. “But I’ll say this, and I never thought the words would leave my mouth.” He met the eyes of the men. “You’d better get some religious people in on this.” He took a note pad from his pocket and wrote a number on it. “The man’s name is Father Michael Denier. He lives in Richmond. He is still a priest, but not active in any church. He’s ... he was forced into an early retirement about five years ago. If there is an expert in this world on the devil, Denier is it.” He gave Dan the number and walked away.
The men looked at one another without speaking. Dan put the paper into his pocket. Finally, Taylor said, “Are you going to call him?”
“Yes,” Dan said.
The cops had carefully looked around the terminal, wanting to see if they could spot where Mille and Kenny were being held. They could not. The terminal had several large buildings and half a dozen smaller ones. The pair might be held in any one of them. Or, the thought had crossed their minds, they could be a hundred miles away.
Lou had watched the eyes and faces of the cops, an amused look on his own face. He knew what they were doing. He had already shoved the memory of the dead trooper far into that back of his mind. He’d lost people before. Two more didn’t bother him. He just wanted whatever might be lying beneath the bubbling brew. And not for revenge. Lou’s mind was working hard; he felt he had found the ultimate weapon. Now the problem was in harnessing it; controlling it for study and experimentation.
If the U.S.A. could harness it, and Lou felt they could, America could put the commies on the run; wipe out the Red bastards. Once and for all. Just turn the cats and that other ... thing loose in Russia and let it go to work. Maybe the lab boys could take whatever it is in all that smelly goo and make a whole bunch of them. Turn it loose on the Reds. Let it eat them all up. Men, women, and kids.
Lou laughed aloud, watching the wimpy cops leave the area. He imagined himself at the White House, the president giving him the Medal of Freedom. Hot damn! Wouldn’t that be a kick?
* * *
“The Bureau is not at all happy with the OSS, Dan,” Dodge told the sheriff. “They’ve ordered a team into this county. They’re supposedly in here now, working very quietly.”
“I don’t recall seeing any strangers lately,” Dan said.
Dodge shrugged. “That’s just what I was told, Sheriff.”
“Oh, it’s fine with me. But I think we’re going to have to go a little higher than the FBI before this is all over.”
“To the president?”
“Higher than that.” Dan pointed heavenward.
“You’re really serious?”
“Yeah.”
* * *
By the time Dan had notified all the parents of the dead kids, lying again, telling them their kids had probably run away from home, it was mid-afternoon. The phone on his desk rang. His private number.
“First motel on the right coming from the north,” the voice said. “Rooms twenty-eight and thirty. Backside. How do we play this thing, Dan?”
“Carefully,” he told Gordon. “Lamotta’s got eyes and ears all over the place.”
“More than you know, buddy. Lamotta’s playing the national security bit for all it’ll stand on this one. But his high-handed tactics are wearing some folks’ patience mighty thin. Some high-up folks in Foggy Bottom are getting edgy with the OSS. They think it might be time for them to pul
l in their horns. And the Bureau has a team working in the county. Construction or surveyors or something like that. The OSS really blew it this time, and I think this may well be the end of Lamotta. The OSS will always be around. But after all this coverup, their role will be sharply reduced.”
“Reading between the lines, ol’ buddy, I’m getting the impression we have to let this play all the way out.”
“That’s it.”
“Wonderful. Well, we have to talk in depth, but damned if I know where or how.”
“I’m IRS, Dan. As soon as Lou checks me out and finds my I.D. holds up, he’ll back off. Not even the OSS wants to screw around with the IRS. I always check in with the local police and sheriff’s department whenever I use the IRS bit. Courtesy call. I’ll see you in about fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I’ll sure be here.”
Dan felt his office had been penetrated. He couldn’t prove it, but he felt certain Lou had gotten to one of his people. But which one? He didn’t know. Intimidation from the OSS was how, he felt sure. And he was equally certain it had not been a subtle approach. One of his peoples’ kids had been threatened, their mother or father or wife or husband. But which deputy?
His intercom buzzed. “Pat Leonard to see you, Sheriff.”
“Send him in.” Dan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
Seated, Pat looked at Dan. Dan waited. Pat cleared his throat and said, “Some jerk named Lou Lamotta came to see me, Dan.”
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