Devil's Kiss (43 page)

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 try 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.

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?

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.