Cemetery Dance

Chapter 75

Rich Plock stood in the chaotic dark, the cries and shouts of the congregants and protesters mingling with the screams of animals, the hiss of rattles and beating of drums. After the initial thrust into the church, the congregants had rallied for only a brief period and now they were falling back again, many fleeing through side doors into the narrow winding alleys and the maze of buildings that constituted the Ville.

For Plock, it was an unexpected turn and even a bit of an anti — climax. They had successfully liberated the animals — but now he realized there was no place to herd them, nowhere to keep them, and they were running wild, most already having disappeared out the shattered doors and into the courtyard. He hadn't thought ahead about that, and now he felt at a loss for what to do about the vanishing people. His plan had been to drive the residents out of the Ville, but he hadn't quite taken into account what a huge, confusing, rambling place it was; nor had he anticipated that the residents would break for cover so suddenly, fleeing into the depths of the Ville instead of putting up a longer fight during which they could be driven out. They were like Indians of old, melting away from direct confrontation.

He would have to rout them out.

And while routing them, they could also look for the kidnapped woman. Because Plock was beginning to realize that if they didn't save the woman as a way of justifying their foray into the Ville, they might — no, theywould — find themselves in the deep end of the pool when it was all over. They would go through the Ville, purge it, sweep it clean, rout out the butchers, show them there was no place to run, no place to hide — and save the woman's life in the process. If they accomplished that, public opinion would be solidly on their side. And there would be a legal justification, of sorts. If not…

The protesters were still streaming in the shattered front doors of the church, filling up the space, while the last of the Ville residents disappeared. The only one remaining was the leader, Bossong, who stood like a statue, immovable, still bleeding from the forehead, watching the unfolding scene with baleful eyes.

As the last of the protesters packed into the church, Plock mounted the raised platform. "People!" he cried, raising his hands.

A hush fell on the multitude. He tried to ignore Bossong, standing in the corner, staring, projecting his malevolent presence throughout the room.

"We need to stay together!" Plock cried. "The torturers have gone to ground — we need to find them, flush them out! And above all, we must save the woman!"

Suddenly, from the corner, Bossong spoke. "This is our home."

Plock turned to him, his face contorting with fury. "Your home! This place of torture? You don't deserve a home!"

"This is our home," he repeated, his voice low. "And this is how we worship our gods."

Plock felt filled with rage. "How you worship your gods? By cutting the throats of helpless animals? By kidnapping and killing people?"

"Leave now. Leave while you can."

"Oooh, I'm scared now. So where's the woman? Where've you got her locked up?"

The crowd seethed with angry agreement.

"We honor the animals by sacrificing them for the nourishment of — our protector. With the blessings of our gods, we—"

"Spare us that crap!" Plock quivered with indignation as he shouted at the robed man. "You tell your people they're finished, that they'd better move on. Otherwise we're driving them out! You got that? Go somewhere else with your deviant religion!"

Bossong raised a finger and pointed it at Plock. "I fear it is already too late for you," he said quietly.

"I'm quaking in my boots!" Plock spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Strike me down, gods of the animal torturers! Go ahead!"

At that instant there was a sudden movement in one of the dark transepts of the church, a gasp from the protesters, a moment of hesitation. And then someone screamed and the crowd surged back like a rebounding wave, people pressing into the people behind them, shoving them into those farther behind — as a grotesque, misshapen figure lumbered into the wavering half — light. Plock gaped in horror and disbelief at the creature — but no, it was no creature. It was human. He stared at the scabby lips, rotten teeth, broad flat face; at the pale, slimy musculature draped in filthy rags. One hand held a bloody knife. Its stench filled the room, and it tilted its head back and bellowed like a wounded calf. A single, milky eye rolled in its head — then settled on Plock.

It took a step forward, then two, the thighs moving with a kind of slow, creeping deliberation. Plock was frozen, rooted, unable to move, to look away, even to speak.

In the sudden hush, there was a rustle of cloth and Bossong knelt, bowing his head and holding out his hands in supplication.

"Envoie," he said, quietly, almost sadly.

Instantly, the man — thing bounded straight at the platform with a crab — like shuffle, leapt onto it, opened his rotten mouth, and fell upon Plock.

Plock finally found his voice and tried to scream as the creature savaged him, but already it was too late for sound to emerge from his severed windpipe, and he expired in agonizing silence. It was over very, very quickly.