He shivered, wondering why, and put his arm around Connie’s waist. He held her close.
“What’s wrong, Mark?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I just feel sort of, well, odd.”
“Yes, so do I.”
“Scared is a better description, I think. But what the hell am I afraid of?”
“I don’t know,” Connie whispered, her voice just audible. “But I’m scared, too.” Again, she pointed into the sand-whipped night. “See them?”
“I see . . . something. Oh, hell, it’s got to be kids playing some stupid game!”
“In this weather? I don’t believe that, Mark.”
One of whatever was out there stepped closer to the house and stopped its circling. It shook a stubby fist at them, and a grunting sound could be heard over the wind and the peck, peck, pecking of the sand against the window.
Suddenly, Mark became angry. He pulled away from his wife, and walked to his study. Unlocking the gun cabinet, he took out a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, chambered for three-inch magnums. He broke it open and loaded it, put a handful of shells into his back pocket. Then he walked back to his wife’s side.
Her eyes widened when she saw the shotgun and the angry expression on her husband’s face. “Mark, those may be college kids out there, from some frat house. You know, they can do awfully stupid things.”
“To hell with them. I’m not going to do a thing unless they—whatever is out there—do something I think is hostile. Damn it, honey, this is our property. It’s all fenced in. Whoever that is has no right to be here, much less after dark.”
Connie shivered, almost uncontrollably. It’s unreasonable, she thought. Why am I so afraid?
In his bedroom, Paul smiled. He was sitting on the floor, the door to his room locked.
Everything was going according to plan. He now had a following among the locals; though they came from so-called “good families,” his followers were trash. The girl was nothing more than a thirteen-year-old whore. Snap your fingers and she’d spread-eagle. But soon his father would be rotting in the grave, although quite susceptible to recall—Paul laughed at that thought. Then he would have his mother all to himself. And he could quite easily manipulate her, have her.
But the boy knew he must not move too fast. Each plan had to be carefully thought out. His true father had told him, and not through Mantine, that he had many enemies. Soon he would be watched, and by his stupid sister, of all people.
Paul found that amusing.
His sister . . . Paul knew he would eventually have to destroy her, whether physically or mentally, he hadn’t decided. But first he would use her, humiliate her, make her scream and beg and cry out for mercy.
The boy listened to the wind and the pecking of the sand against the house.
“Closer,” he whispered. “Come closer. The earth is whirling about you. You are of the earth. You and earth are one. Come closer. Now!”
The wind moaned.
* * *
“They’re coming closer, Mark!” Connie’s words were almost gasped. Her fear was very great. “My God, are they bears?”
He looked, felt his stomach knot up, turn sour. “I don’t think so. Where would that many come from?”
He knew they weren’t bears.
But he didn’t know what they were. Or, worse yet, what they wanted?
Ancient fears rose up within him. Somewhere, buried deep in him, was the truth.
He fought it back, mentally shoved it into ages past. And he gripped the shotgun so hard his hands began to ache.
The wind picked up, moaning and making a crying, painful sound. The sand whipped and bounced off the house, muddying the vision of the man and woman who stood mesmerized by the window, watching . . .
... waiting.
A roar filtered over the drone of the wind and the millions of tiny sand-crashes.
“Nothing human did that,” Connie whispered.
Mark shook his head, freeing himself from an almost hypnotic spell.
“Call the police, honey. Right now. Nine-one-one. Do it, Connie. Hurry!”
The urgency in his voice was transmitted to her. She ran to the phone, punched out the numbers, then asked for help, her voice shaky with fear.
The wind began to moan, as if speaking in some ancient tongue now known only to those who walk on the Dark Side, and threatening death and damnation and eternal agony to all others.
Mark’s eyes went to his wife. She was just hanging up the phone. When he again looked out the window, a cry of fear was choked off in his throat.
It was a scene out of Hell. A surrealistic vision of a madman.
Mark didn’t want to believe what he saw. He had never seen anything like it.
Yes, he had.
It was a ...
... sandman.
Blocky and stumpy and sand-colored. Nonhuman. It stood upright on blocklike legs. There were holes where eyes should have been, a slit for a mouth, holes where a nose would be.
Behind him, Connie screamed.
Mark whirled around, the shotgun coming up. His wife still stood by the phone, staring into the hallway of their spacious home. Mark followed her fixed gaze. A ... thing was standing in the hall entrance. It began to lumber awkwardly toward them, its thick arms outstretched.
Grunting sounds emanated from the hole in its face.
Mark jerked the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled one trigger. The magnum load tore the arm from the creature and knocked it backward, splattering the hallway with bloody . . .
... sand.
Mark stared in horror. “Sand!” he whispered.
Connie screamed. “Behind you, Mark!”
He turned just as the window was smashed, a thick arm reached through, and blunt fingers clamped onto his shoulder. Waves of pain ripped through him as the fingers tightened, but, one-handed, he jammed the shotgun through the broken window and pulled the trigger.
The middle of the creature disintegrated, the legs going one way, the torso another. The legs began to run from the house, but the torso pulled itself along, using its fingers to dig into the sandy earth.
Connie, showing a presence of mind she did not know she possessed, grabbed up a camera, ripped open the case, began to take pictures as Mark reloaded and fired again at the manlike creature now stumbling up the darkened hallway, steadying itself by one arm as it lurched away.
The load struck the thing in the center of its back and sent it sprawling, sand flying in all directions.
Connie spun about to take pictures of the things running in all directions at the back of the house—and of the running legs and the crawling torso.
Sirens wailed in the wind- and sand-lashed night.
Then the storm abruptly ceased.
A flat calm lay over the desert.
Connie ran to the front door and jerked it open. The lead cop gave the camera a very odd look.
Within seconds, policemen filled the foyer. Connie pointed. “There’s one in the hallway and several of them outside, in the back. Follow me.” She started toward the kitchen.
“One what, lady?”
“I ... I don’t know, officer! But be careful, they’re dangerous. ”
“Is it human or animal, lady?”
“I don’t know!”
“It’s a mixture of both,” Mark said, pain in his voice. He was leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Put that shotgun down, sir,” a cop told him. “Right now.”
Mark laid the weapon on the counter, his shoulder contracting with pain. It felt like the muscles were ripped and torn.
“Holy shit!” a policemen yelled from the dark hallway. “Get this thing off me. Eric!” he shouted. Then there was pistol fire, and a wild scream filled with pain and terror.
Three cops ran into the hallway, their .357s drawn.
But they stopped short, momentarily frozen. Not believing their eyes.
A sand-colored manlike creature with one arm and the midd
le of his back blown out was dragging the cop down the hallway.
The three cops fired simultaneously. The reports were thunderous in the hall. The slugs tore into the creature, and its head erupted in a gush of bloody sand.
One cop raced outside to call in for help. His voice was clearly heard by those inside. “Officer in trouble. One down. Shots have been fired. One-twelve Mesa Drive. Respond code three, and send ambulance.”
The officer who was being dragged was abruptly released when the creature’s head exploded.
But at that moment, somewhere out in the desert, dark laughter arose, taunting and evil and deep toned.
Then drums began to pound, beating out a savage rhythm in the night.
Eric looked down at his partner.
Andy’s throat had been torn out. His head was hanging by only a slender piece of flesh.
“Aw, Christ, Andy!” Eric whispered. Then he jacked back the hammer on his pistol as a door opened on the dimly lit hallway.
A little boy stepped through it, his eyes wide. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “I’m scared, Mommie,” Paul said.
Connie ran to him. Stepping gingerly around the dead man and the pool of blood, she pulled her son to her, holding him close; and Paul smiled secretly.
The drums stopped as Eric ran from the hallway and cut to his right. He disappeared into the murk of the night, after stepping cautiously through a shattered glass door.
Mark moved away from the counter, his shoulder aching. He grimaced as he tried to work his arm to keep it from stiffening up.
Flashing blue and red lights now filled the circular drive. Chief Bambridge, wearing civilian clothes and carrying a riot gun, was the first inside.
Mark used his good arm to point to the hallway. “One officer in there, Mike. I think he’s dead. Andy, they called him. The others ran out after the . . . things.”
“Things?” Mike waved the other uniforms on ahead.
“I don’t know what else to call them. They were, well, made of sand, but they bled real blood.” He felt like a complete idiot.
Mike was about to ask if he’d been drinking, but Eric stepped into the room.
“He isn’t kidding, Chief. They were made of sand—and blood.”
“Yeah,” another cop said. He squatted down by the entrance to the hall. “But look at the blood. It’s dark and it’s old and it stinks.”
“Get the lab boys in here,” Mike directed, “and order all available units in, right now. Ask the county for help. But don’t say anything of importance on the air. Remember those goddamn scanners are all over the place.”
“I shot two of them, Mike.” Mark walked over to the chief, massaging his shoulder. “I blew one of the things in two, right out there.” He pointed. “Connie got pictures of it; the legs running off in one direction, the torso dragging itself off in another, using its hands and fingers. The pictures will back me up.”
“I’m not disputing your word, Mark. Maybe this will give us something to go on . . . on another matter.” He shut up.
Most of the townspeople already knew bits and pieces of what had happened at the hospital. Including the sand and scales.
Mark grimaced in pain. He could no longer stand to work his arm.
It was swelling badly, so was his hand.
“You’ll have to go to the hospital for that, Mark. It looks bad.”
“I can’t leave Connie and Paul here alone.”
“I’ll station one man inside and two men outside. As a matter of fact, I’ll stay inside myself. How does that sound to you?”
“Good. I’d feel better about it.”
“Any idea why whatever it was singled you out to attack?”
“I have no idea.”
“A lot of weird things have been happening since—” He’d started to say, since you got back from the islands, but he’d bitten it off.
Hell, Mark didn’t have anything to do with what had been happening.
Mike put that out of his mind.
* * *
The next hour, controlled chaos reigned in the neighborhood, with police and deputies going from house to house, warning people to stay inside and lock their doors and windows.
The cops found several blood trails, all leading out into the desert. Then they stopped. Cold. Not even the most experienced tracker on the sheriff’s department could pick up a thing, and he, born and reared on the San Carlos Reservation, had the reputation of being able to track a snake across a flat rock.
Peter Loneman had not been happy with what he’d seen, or with what he’d felt out on the desert. Peter, whose Indian name was Man Who Walks Alone, had sensed the Indian coming out in him while he’d tracked the . . . whatever in hell they were.
Now, at the Kelly house, Mike looked at Peter and commented, “What’s the matter with you, Pete? You look like you’re about to cloud up and rain. Not that we couldn’t use a good rain around here.”
Pete smiled and shook his head. “I got strange feelings out in the desert, Mike.” All the deputies got along well with the chief and the city cops. It was just the sheriff who still held a grudge, because of his brother-in-law. “Indian feelings. Hard to explain to you, Mike.”
“Mrs. Kelly made a big pot of coffee and a platter of sandwiches, Pete. Let’s go eat and talk this out.”
Connie was with Paul, in his bedroom. Mark had already called from the hospital to tell her he’d be there for a couple of days. And Connie had called Janis, and told her to stay where she was. A sheriff’s deputy was on guard outside Mark’s door, and two city units were stationed outside the hospital. Mike had called all the men in, canceling all off-time and leave time.
Mike chose a ham and cheese. Peter, with a grin, picked up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Never have gotten over my love for them,” he admitted. Then his young face sobered. “I’m an Indian. An Apache. But I’m college educated, so I reckon that makes me a good Injun.” He grinned around his peanut butter and jelly. “You know what I mean. Still, I’m an Indian. My grandfather insisted I go through all the tribal rituals. And some of them are not pleasant. The snake cave. The bear rite. The sweat. Each tribe’s are different. You don’t know what I’m talking about, and I guess it’s better you don’t. Do you believe in spirits, Mike?” Pete dropped that on him quickly.
Mike chewed for a moment. “I’m not from around here, Pete. I grew up in West Texas. My grandfather was Comanche. Full blood.”
“I suspected you weren’t all Anglo. Mike, when you saw that little girl in the hospital, what’d you feel—first thing?”
“Scared. And eerie. A lot of different sensations. What I felt frightened me more than the sight of the girl. I didn’t tell the doctors that, though.”
“That was wise. Well, I felt that way out in the desert tonight. I didn’t lose their tracks out there, Mike.”
The men stared at each other across the table.
“What do you mean, Pete?”
“They became one with the earth, brother. Do I have to tell you what that means?”
“No,” Mike said quickly. “But, needless to say, we won’t talk about this except to each other.”
“Hey-ho, bro! I ain’t no fool.” Pete quickly sobered. “We got big trouble, Mike. And we gotta put a lid on it real quick. I’ll go back to the reservation and talk to some people.”
“Medicine men, Pete?”
“Yeah. But I feel in my guts that they won’t be much help. Know what I mean?”
Mike nodded. He knew. He had that much Indian left in him.
“I’m having those pictures developed right now. The ones Mrs. Kelly took. When will you be back?”
“No later than tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see what the old men have to say. If anything.” He stood up. “See you.”
Mike waved him off. Then he picked up his shotgun and walked outside to check on the men at the front and the back of the house. The wind had picked up again. It was singing songs to him. Songs of times Mike had never known, but th
ey were a part of his soul, were deep in his genes. Some scientists said that was impossible, but Mike knew better.
He stood on the stone patio at the rear of the big sprawling house, listening to the natural sounds of night on the desert. The soft singing of the wind. The flapping of wings as night birds sought food.
Sand things. Sandmen. That was impossible. And even if it were possible, no one had reported any sign of scales, not his people or Connie and Mark.
What the hell! Was this county filled with mysterious monsters?
There had to be an explanation.
But damned if he knew where to find it.
The wind sighed around him. Danger out there, the warning came to him. Something you don’t understand.
And it’s going to get worse.
He felt that very strongly.
He had ordered his people not to talk to the press. He might get away with holding back this time, but if it happened again . . . ?
Panic.
“What are we up against, Chief?” the officer on guard at the rear of the house asked, breaking into Mike’s thoughts.
“I wish I knew,” he replied.
But deep inside, he didn’t want to know, for he sensed there was something horrible out there. Waiting. Watching.
From the earth.
* * *
Stanford woke Leo as soon as the morning papers were delivered to the motel. He pounded on his door.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Leo reluctantly ushered the inspector into his room.
Stanford waved the paper. “I have coffee and sweet rolls on the way, Leo. They struck last night. At the Kelly home. The paper doesn’t say it was the sand people, but I’ll wager my pension it was.”
Leo grabbed the paper, sat down on the rumpled bed, and began to read.
“We’ve got to see the chief, Stanford. Today.” He tossed the paper aside.
* * *
Peter Loneman sat in the medicine lodge of his people and listened to the old men talk. They weren’t being much help. And Pete didn’t blame them.
Chief Bambridge tried to get a few hours’ sleep before returning to work. When he finally did nod off, his dreams were filled with demons and monsters and unspeakable acts—all set in a swirling sandstorm.
Sandman Page 7
