Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  In the medicine lodges on the reservations, a drumming began. A warning beat, to anyone who understood it; to those who knew that on this borrowed earth, anything was possible. That there were Gods many—most—did not recognize or accept.

  But after this night and those directly following it, there would not be so many skeptics.

  No, there would not.

  Satan laughed.

  God frowned.

  Michael raged and shook his mighty sword.

  God told him to sit down. This fight was ageless. The faithful would survive it. They would live and be the stronger for it.

  The rest would fall.

  God smiled at the ageless mercenary of Angels. He would have to keep an eye on this mightiest warrior of them all.

  When it came to getting into a good scrap, Michael could be sneaky.

  * * *

  And in the bunkhouse, Old Jake opened his bloodshot eyes. Something had awakened him. But what?

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  He reached down toward the sack on the floor beside his bunk and found a half-pint bottle. He looked at the contents. Just about one good slug left.

  He uncapped and gulped it down. Coughed. There, that was much better.

  That sound again.

  Jake hauled himself up in the bunk and looked out the dirty and fly-spotted window. His eyes widened in shock. He blinked a couple of times.

  No. By God, that just couldn’t be.

  But there it was.

  There was Andy, buck-assed naked, stumbling and—Jake struggled for the right word—yeah! lurching toward the corral, a saddle in each hand, the stirrups dragging the ground as he walked. His bare feet kicked up little pockets of dust.

  Old Jake slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Andy was dead! Everybody knew that. It was in the newspapers. He’d even heard it on the radio.

  But wait a minute . . . if Andy was dead like everybody said he was . . . what was that out yonder?

  Shore looked like Andy.

  Old Jake cut his eyes to the back door of the main house, as it opened.

  What appeared in it really got his attention and held it.

  Mary. In all her glory. Except for her neck, which was gory with blood.

  Blood! Jake looked closer. Blood.

  She didn’t have a stitch on.

  What was goin’ on around this crazy place?

  Jake lay back on the bunk and tried to reason things out. Came to the conclusion that he needed a drink. He felt under his bunk. He always kept a spare bottle there—for emergencies. And he figured this was an emergency for sure.

  He leaned so far out of his bunk he lost his balance and fell over the side, onto the floor, landing on his belly, the wind knocked from him.

  But he found the spare bottle of rye. A pint. Full. The seal unbroken.

  Hands shaking, Jake fumbled through the dust and cobwebs, and pulled the bottle to his chest, cradling it like a baby for a moment.

  He peered under the bunk and came eyeball to eyeball with a small scorpion.

  “Find your own bottle, you ugly son of a bitch!” he muttered.

  The scorpion scurried away, disappearing through a hole in the floor.

  Jake broke the seal and took him a long wallop.

  Felt better.

  His nerves calmed, he capped the bottle and, pulling himself to his feet, chanced another look out the window.

  Nothing out there. The corral was empty. The wind kicking up little dust devils in the dirt and sand.

  “Naturally,” Jake muttered. “My old eyes was playin’ tricks on me, that’s all.”

  He took another swallow, capped the bottle, and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Then he got to thinking. And just on the off chance that Mary was wanderin’ around out there in her birthday suit . . .

  Jake stepped outside and looked warily around him. Nothing in sight. Then he heard a slight shuffling sound, and stepped quickly around the corner of the bunkhouse. He peeked out around the rickety building.

  And almost lost it.

  Mary and Andy were coming out of the lean-to that served as a stable for the horses. Both of them were still buck-assed naked.

  But Mary’s nudeness produced no feelings of lust in Old Jake. Not now. He could see much better than when he was looking through the dirty window of the bunkhouse. And what he saw almost scared him to death.

  Mary’s throat and neck were a bloody mess.

  Jake’s stomach turned sour as Andy and Mary walked closer and he could make out what appeared to be bite marks on her throat.

  Bite marks?

  He squinted his eyes.

  Yep. No doubt about it. Bite marks was what they were.

  All kinds of horrible thoughts ran through Jake’s alcohol-soaked brain. Of vampires and zombies and werewolves.

  He pressed closer to the bunkhouse wall, just part of his face and one eye sticking out as he watched the awkward-moving naked pair.

  The horses were saddled up now. And Mary and Andy stood in the center of the corral. They seemed to be communicating with each other. But no words were coming out of their mouths. Weird!

  Jake’s legs felt so weak he knew he didn’t dare risk stepping away from the side of the bunkhouse. He didn’t think his legs would support him without help.

  A drink. He needed a drink. Bad.

  Jake carefully pulled the bottle out of his back pocket, uncapped it. He took a long pull.

  Easing the bottle back into his pocket, Jake chanced another peek around the corner of the bunkhouse.

  Andy and Mary were in the saddle, riding off toward the west, into the sunset, just like in the movies. But the only way this thing was gonna have a happy ending was if Jake could get gone and never see them two again.

  He hobbled toward the lean-to. Managed to saddle his own horse, and swing into the saddle. He bumped his head coming out of the low-roofed building and lost his hat. But he didn’t want to try to retrieve it; he might not be able to get back into the saddle.

  He walked his horse to the open corral gate and stopped, uncertain as to his next course of action. He didn’t know whether to follow Andy and Mary or hightail it into town and tell the cops what he’d seen.

  But sweet Jesus! Who would believe him?

  Jake’s mind was made up for him as the sounds of hooves striking the ground came to him. He looked up, fear in his eyes.

  Andy and Mary were galloping toward him, coming out of the sun.

  When they drew close enough for Jake to see the savage looks on their faces, he got into action. He slapped his boot heels against his horse’s sides and wailed in fright. He yelled the only phrase that came into his mind: “Hi-yo, Silver!”

  The horse tore out of the corral and through the open gate, Jake holding on for dear life. The pint bottle of rye whiskey in Jake’s back pocket impacted against the cantle and busted. Shards of glass dug through Jake’s jeans.

  He chanced a wild-eyed look behind him. Andy and Mary were not fifty feet away.

  Jake could see the unnatural red of their lips and tongues. And their teeth were so very very white in the fading sunlight.

  Fangs.

  They were grinning at him.

  Jake screamed.

  Andy and Mary began to laugh.

  Then they moaned in unison behind him, their ghostlike mouthings reaching Jake’s ears over the pounding of hooves and the pounding of his heart.

  Jake was a drunk, all right. He had never denied that. And maybe he wasn’t as good a hand as he used to be. But the one thing he’d always prided himself on was keeping a good horse. And his paint pony, Cochise, was just that.

  And drunk or sober or in-between, Jake could always sit a saddle.

  “Jake!” Andy called.

  “Come back, Jake!” That was Mary.

  “No way!” Jake yelled over his shoulder.

  The naked couple were close. Jake could almost reach back and touch their horses’
noses.

  When Andy and Mary closed the distance, Jake looked to his right. Mary was beside him, grinning at him.

  She reached for him.

  Jake let out a squall of terror, and the paint pony gave a jump that would have been the envy of any horse that ever ran in the Derby.

  Jake could see the faint glow of the lights of Tepehuanes, miles away. He knew the main highway was only a couple of miles away, straight ahead.

  “Go, Cochise!” Jake yelled.

  They galloped on into the fading light of dusk.

  “Sweet Jake!” Mary called. “Please come join with us, Jake.”

  “Leave me be. Please leave me be,” Jake muttered.

  “Join us, Jake!” Andy moaned.

  Jake leaned over, his face pressing against the horse’s neck. “Cochise, you get me outta this mess and I’ll fix you up with that filly over at the Two-Rivers Ranch.”

  The pony seemed to understand. It lengthened its stride, pulling away from the naked man and the bloodied woman.

  The cries and moaning began to fade.

  A mile later, Jake slowed his pony and twisted in the saddle, looking behind him. His ghostly pursuers had given up the chase. They had turned around and were heading the other way.

  Jake walked his horse on, letting it cool down; then he stopped and let the animal blow and rest for a few minutes, always keeping a wary eye on his darkened surroundings. When he came to the highway, he waited. Finally, spotting a deputy’s car coming toward him, he dismounted and flagged it down. It hurt him when he moved. The glass from the broken whiskey bottle was now firmly embedded in his flesh.

  The deputy walked toward Jake—everybody in the county knew Old Jake—then stopped abruptly after taking a deep breath. He fanned the air and backed up.

  “I know I don’t smell like no rose, Deputy. But you just listen to me for a couple minutes.”

  “I’ll listen, Jake. But you ain’t getting any closer than you are right now.”

  The deputy had been briefed as to what was going on in and around Tepehuanes. But as he listened, he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, his eyes wide. He finally waved Jake silent, and walked back to his car to call in.

  “I hate to think what the sheriff is gonna say about this,” he muttered.

  * * *

  Father Gomez had come and gone from the Kelly house on Mesa Drive, leaving a blessed cross hanging around Linda’s neck. It was utterly dark now, and a heavy oppressive feeling lingered, thick in the air. Almost tangible was its touch on the flesh.

  “Evil,” Melissa said, after stepping outside and quickly returning.

  The girls had all gone out, accompanied by the boys. They had all felt the same thing.

  Paul had returned. “Lovely evening,” he’d announced to them all. “The air has a nice touch to it, doesn’t it?”

  They had just stared at him.

  And he’d laughed.

  Before going to his room and closing the door, he had noticed the crosses around the necks of the young people, and had smiled.

  Bing’s and Roy’s parents had called, asking the boys to come home.

  But neither boy had wanted to leave.

  Their parents had insisted. Come home. Now!

  The boys had protested. “But Linda’s here with us. We’re all right. Honest.”

  Now!

  * * *

  Bing and Roy walked slowly through the invisible murk that had settled over the streets of the town.

  “The girls are gonna get in on all the action,” Roy complained.

  “Yeah. But there’s some big doings at the country club tonight, and the day wasn’t a total bummer.”

  “This night sure is, though.”

  “It isn’t over yet.”

  A block away from the Kelly house, Bing and Roy walked into an ambush.

  “Hi ya, punks!” Lisa called out, stepping from the shadows.

  “Oh, no!” Roy muttered.

  “You wanted some action,” Bing reminded him.

  Both boys noticed that the ranks of her gang had swelled. There were two more girls, Sally and Maggie, and three more boys, Red and Dave and Clark. All of them thirteen or close to it.

  Bing and Roy looked at one another. Nine to two was lousy odds any way you cut it.

  “Get out of the way, Lisa,” Bing told her. “Tell your people to move and let us pass.”

  His voice sounded flat in the strange evening air.

  She laughed at him, her laughter seeming even more evil in the strange oppressiveness that clung, invisibly, around them. “And if I don’t? If we don’t wanna move? What do you think you’re gonna do about it?”

  Both boys touched the hafts of the hunting knives on their belts.

  Lisa noticed the movement, and grinned at them. Her teeth seemed unusually white in the gloom. “I think they’re lookin’ for trouble, gang. What do you say we just give it to them.”

  “Yeah,” Sally said, excitement in her voice.

  More laughter in the thick night. Evil laughter. Not a trace of nervousness in it. Hard, dangerous laughter from the mouths of the Unforgiven. The Damned. Worshippers of the Night. Young people who had willingly given their souls to the Prince of Filth. The Master of Darkness. They had been born to serve him. The bad seed implanted into the genes of their ancestors hundreds of years back.

  A foul odor sprang up from the invisible murk.

  “What’s that smell?” Roy asked.

  “Smells like rotten eggs to me,” Bing told him.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you two?” Lisa challenged. “That smells good!”

  At first, both boys thought she had lost her mind. Then they knew why the rotten-egg smell was good to her.

  And knowing terrified them.

  Lisa grinned, the nastiest grin either boy had ever witnessed. “Wouldn’t you guys like toget to know us better?” she asked.

  “No thanks,” Bing and Roy replied in unison.

  Lisa’s face tightened as she realized she was being rejected.

  “We’re not good enough for them, Sally,” she said, her words venom-laced.

  “Let’s get ’em!” Maggie whispered hoarsely.

  Lisa’s gang began to slowly encircle Bing and Roy. Clubs in their hands. Their eyes were flat and hard looking, an odd light shining from their depths.

  When they got close, Roy suddenly kicked out, the toe of his tennis shoe catching Clark in the crotch. The boy cried out and doubled over, gagging and puking as pain rolled over him.

  Rex jumped at Bing, club in hand, raising it to strike. He screamed as Bing’s knife, honed to razor sharpness, flashed in the murky night, then dripped crimson. Rex wailed as he dropped the club, his arm hanging useless, cut from elbow to wrist.

  Then bright lights from a car caught them all in a blinding glow. Red lights flicked on, adding color to the scene. And the squawk of a police radio could be heard.

  “Run!” Lisa shouted.

  She and her gang split, leaving Rex and Clark moaning and bleeding on the sidewalk.

  Peter Loneman jumped out and ran up to the scene, made eerie by the revolving red and blue lights from the police car. The city cop who’d been riding with him raced after the kids. He lost them. Smaller and quicker, they vanished into the night.

  “Stinks out here,” Peter said.

  “Hell,” Bing told him.

  The deputy looked up from where he was doing some fast emergency work on Rex’s arm. “Beg pardon, son?”

  “That smell. It’s from Hell.”

  Peter said nothing. Personally, he felt the boy just might be right.

  The city cop returned, panting, and called in, alerting the hospital that their ETA was about ten minutes. Two kids hurt.

  The city cop rode in the cage with Rex and Clark. Bing and Roy were up front with Peter.

  “Janis and the girls are alone with Paul,” Bing whispered. “Well, not quite alone. Linda is with them for a few days.”

  “Who
is Linda?”

  “Marlson,” Roy told him. “We got to go home, Deputy. Our parents are expecting us.”

  “Yeah,” Bing added. “We don’t show up pretty quick, we’re gonna get it.”

  “Don’t sweat. We’ll call from the hospital and I’ll clear it for you,” Peter assured them. “Which one of you cut the kid and why?”

  “I did,” Bing confessed. “And you know why.”

  “Maybe. We’ll talk about it later. Just relax; you’re all right. You’re not in any trouble.”

  “Maybe not in any legal trouble.” The boy spoke softly.

  “I know.” Peter’s words were just as soft.

  “It’s a funky night,” Roy said, looking out the window. “Something is really bad wrong in this town.”

  And going to get worse, Peter thought. He did not put that into words.

  He didn’t have to. They all felt the same way.

  “You can’t do a goddamned thing to me, pigs,” Rex shouted from the back seat. “I’m just a kid.” Then he laughed and laughed, holding his cut arm.

  His words and laughter caused the short hairs on the back of Peter’s neck to rise.

  “Yeah,” Clark piped up. “We’re minors. You can’t do a thing to us.”

  Peter gritted his teeth and said nothing. He slowed to avoid a drunk staggering across the street. He had never before seen a drunk in this elegant part of town.

  A whiskey bottle smashed against the side of the police car. It was followed by an obscene yell from out of the darkness.

  Peter did not brake to see who might have hurled the bottle. He gritted his teeth and drove on.

  “It’s going to be an interesting evening,” the city cop said from the back seat.

  Rex and Clark laughed almost insanely.

  THREE

  Sheriff Sandry sat in Mike’s office and stared at Jake. The man smelled like a sewer, but he was completely sober as he retold his story.

  Sandry sighed heavily and looked at Mike.

  The chief said, “Take him to the hospital and get that glass dug out of his butt. They may want to keep him. If so, post a guard outside his room.”

  “I know what I saw, Chief,” Old Jake said. “I was tight when it all started. But by God, I was sober when it ended. And you can believe that.”