Devil's Kiss

Fifteen

Sam slept fitfully the remainder of that night, the memory of what had happened to Michelle strong in his mind. He could not shake the recall of that awful evening and her transformation. At dawn, he rose from the couch—he could not bring himself to sleep in either bedroom—and made a pot of strong coffee. He sat on the porch, sipping his coffee.

Waiting.

At midmorning, he called his friends together, drove over to Chester's, and told them all what had transpired the night before. And about the death and disappearance of Haskell.

"Killed her!" Chester blurted. "You and Father Dubois?"

"Oh, my God!" Faye covered her face with her hands.

"What did you do with her?" Wade asked, his tone indicating he wanted to believe but was having extreme difficulty.

Sam told him, bluntly, leaving nothing out.

The newsman closed his eyes and shook his head. "Dear God," was all he said.

God's name, Sam thought, had been used more in the past few days than in the entire past year. He could not help thinking that in times of great stress, He is the one almost always called upon.

Tony moved to the window, looking out on the street. "Not one person moving."

"It's too early," Sam said. "The creatures of the night are still sleeping. Tony? You're armed? Good. Will you stay here with Miles? I want to take Wade and Chester for a little ride."

The watchers let them leave. They had their instructions: let the God-believers prowl all they want. They can't get out of the County; all roads are checked.

The three men rode out to Tyson's Lake in Sam's truck. Noon-hot, the sun blazing down on the earth. The men were all armed. Chester wore a .45 in a shoulder holster; Wade had a .38 belted on. He had offered no objection when Sam told him to arm himself. The skeptic was turning into a believer. But he was not quite there—yet.

Sam drove past Hoge's Pool Hall. "Look on the window, Wade." He pointed to the upside-down cross.

Wade nodded, the muscles in his jaw bunching.

Outside of town, Sam pointed to the 666 on the side of a barn.

Again, Wade nodded. "I'm getting the message, Sam."

"I hope so," the preacher said.

"Michelle is—Michelle is really—?"

"Dead, yes." Sam spoke quietly, his voice just audible over the hum of tires and the rush of wind through the windows of the truck.

Wade looked out at the passing countryside. He said nothing.

"The lightning-blazed tree," Sam pointed out. "You can still smell it."

The men stood on the crest of the hill, overlooking Tyson's Lake, and the miles of emptiness surrounding it.

"Listen," Sam said. "Listen with all your heart and your ears. Be very still, then tell me what you hear."

The area was absolutely silent. Nothing sang, nothing barked, nothing moved. Wade shuddered. "Not a sound. Sam, I can pick up something. I don't know what it is, though."

"Evil," the minister said, touching Wade on the arm. He could feel the man's tension. "Come on. Move quietly, and be very careful. When we get to the edge of the lake, you'll be able to smell them. I believe if the odor is faint, they're in their holes or dens. If the odor is strong, they're out, watching us. Be careful when we get to the edge of the timber."

"I wish I'd brought my 30-06," Wade said.

"Are you beginning to believe?" Chester asked. Sam had to smile.

Wade chose not to reply as the men walked down the hill.

Sam stopped them by the side of the water. He pointed to the moist ground. Footprints stood out, like nothing either man had ever seen before.

Wade knelt down, inspecting them.

"Bear?" he asked hopefully.

"You know better," Sam said.

"God!" Chester said. "That smell is awful."

"Brace yourselves," Sam said. "We're moving in."

"I'm—not at all certain I want to do that," Wade rose from his inspection of the tracks.

"Come on, skeptic. I thought you wanted to feel the nail holes in the sides, hands, and feet?"

"That's not funny, preacher!"

"I didn't mean it to be. Thomas didn't find it all that amusing, either."

"All right, Sam—I'm sorry! Too much has happened too quickly, that's all."

Sam put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm not chiding you, Wade. I just want you to be prepared for what you're about to see in there," he nodded toward the timber, dark in the midday sun, as if no light could penetrate the evil within.

Sam felt the man stiffen under his hand. "What's wrong?"

"I saw something move in there!"

"I saw it, too," Chester said.

Sam smiled. The man's skepticism was leaving like a jet fighter. "I know. They're watching us."

Chester took his .45 from the holster, jacked a round in the chamber, put it on safety, and stuck it back in the leather. Sam looked closely at the older man. He could detect no signs of fear.

"Ready to go?" Sam asked.

Wade nodded, his fingers touching the butt of his pistol.

"All right. We'll only skirt the timber this time around."

Wade's eyes widened. "This time? You mean there is going to be a next time?"

"If it's not too late for us, we'll have to come back and destroy them. All of them, if possible. I think I know how—we'll use explosives."

Wade's expression was a mixture of horror, fear, and utter disbelief. "If it's not too late for us? Destroy them? Explosives? Dear God!"

"You must know it by now, Wade—whether you'll admit it or not—they killed your father; caused him to shoot himself. Your dad took his own life rather than become one of . . . Them."

"Yeah," the newsman reluctantly agreed. "It fits. All the disappearances over the years fit, too."

"What disappearances over the years?" Sam asked. "What do you know that I need to know?"

"I was going to tell you part of it, Sam," Chester said, not taking his eyes off the dark timber. "Wade can tell you the rest. It's something Whitfield doesn't like to talk about. Bums, hobos, wander through town, into this area, and are never seen again. I mean, they're seen going in, but never coming out. A few husbands have run away, leaving their families—they never came back. Other people have just left, not telling folks where they were going. The town never speaks of it. We never wanted any national publicity here."

"Why?" Sam asked, realizing he was standing close to unraveling yet another mystery of this isolated part of Fork County.

"At first it was because of the ... tragedy that night. You know, when Wade's father was killed. Then, well, we made a deal with some people in government. Federal government."

"What kind of deal?"

"About the asylum," Chester said softly.

"What asylum?"

"You see," Wade smiled. "You've been here almost five years and you don't even know about it."

"Then why don't you tell me about it?" Sam planted his booted feet firmly, standing in front of the men. "I repeat: what asylum?"

"It's at the base of Crazy Pony Ridge," Chester said. "Some of the most rugged country in the state."

"I've heard of it, but I've never seen it. Never been there."

"You'd be stopped long before you got there," Wade told him. "The government leases the land; the government runs the place. Hell, Sam, probably a full ninety percent of the people in Fork don't know what it is."

"I haven't found out yet," Sam said, becoming a bit exasperated. "Perhaps one of you would be so kind as to inform me?"

"It's not something we're proud of, Sam. Do you want the story we were originally told, or the truth?"

"Both."

"The government told us it was a home for the criminally insane; the really bad ones. The ones there is no hope for. We all believed, for a while—those of us who knew about the place—they were sent here from all over the country—to spend the rest of their lives. Well, this much is true, the place is filled with homicidal raving lunatics. Now then, the government, after washing the money through several agencies, pays Fork County—this part of Fork—to allow the institution to remain—hidden away. We have good schools, Sam; the very best teachers. Haven't you ever wondered how Whitfield could afford that?"

"No. Not really. Now tell me the true story."

"They're mutants, Sam."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mutants. I'm serious. It's a government project that, well—something got fouled up."

"I'm waiting, friend."

Wade sighed. "Okay, I'll tell you all I know, Sam. I made friends with a government agent some years ago; about ten years ago, to be exact. During the course of the evening, and a quart of booze, he got a loose tongue and let slip some things about the asylum.

"It was just after the Manhatten Project, but this one was a real beaut. Something went wrong; really wrong. Explosion, and then a lot of people were exposed to—I don't know, Sam! Heavy water, radiation, whatever—massive doses of whatever it was. Those it didn't kill, changed into horribly disfigured lunatics. Madmen and women. It changed their whole body chemistry. Their families were told they were all killed, burned to char. Well, they weren't all killed, and Fork County has them.

"The agent clammed up; wouldn't say anything more about it. I gather that when they all die off, the institution will close its doors, all papers concerning the—whatever you want to call it—will be destroyed, and no one will be the wiser about our government's mistake."

"If they escaped—?" Sam asked, allowing the question to fade.

"It would be a disaster," Wade said. "But there is no chance of that happening. It's—like a small, well-stocked, hotel for the guards— including women for them. The guards are changed—so I was told—every six months, they never leave the grounds. The place is small, Sam, and it's partly underground. A person could walk right up to it and not see it. I mean it. The pay is really good, insuring silence from the guards."

"Does the government ever come in to inspect?"

"Rarely, Sam. The place is fully staffed with a couple of military doctors; the whole bit."

"How do they get the men in here?"

"The guards and the girls? By car and light truck. At night. The sheriff knows about it."

"Addison, too?"

"Sure."

"Leases the land, you said. From whom?"

Wade was silent for a moment, then his face paled. "Karl Sorenson."

"Do you know when the last crew came in?"

"Last month."

'How convenient," Sam said dryly. "I wonder if they were wearing medallions? Well, the Prince planned this one to the letter, didn't he?"

"Im beginning to think so," Wade admitted. This time, there was no doubt in his voice.

Sam looked at the dark timber. "Let's go. Wear your crosses outside your shirts."

As they approached the timber, Sam said, "We'll stay just to this side of the timber." He glanced at Wade. "You'll be a believer once this day is over."

"I'm a believer now," the editor replied tightly. "Believe me, I am."

"Chester?"

"I never doubted you, Sam."

Carefully, slowly, the men drew nearer. As they came closer, Sam took his .45 from leather, jacked a round in the chamber, then eased the hammer down, the weapon off safety.

"How many rounds did it take you to stop one?" Chester asked.

"Too many," the minister said tightly.

"Crazy people have enormous strength, don't thev?" Chester asked.

"Yes, so I'm told."

"And if they were possessed . . . ?"

"It would be awesome," Wade answered for Sam. He was convinced.

At the Dig, Wilder smiled as he listened to the voice of his Master. He told Nydia, "Balon put it together about the asylum. He's a smart one. Most intelligent. I would enjoy sitting down with him; discussing things that really matter. Just two well-read men opening their minds to philosophical ruminations."

"I'd like for him to fuck me!" Nydia said.

"Vulgar bitch!" Wilder glared at her. "Your brains are located between your legs."

She laughed at him.

The stench around the edge of the timber was raw, an affront to human nostrils.

"Whew!" Chester wrinkled his nose. "I've never smelled anything like this."

The men stood just on the fringe of the timber. A low growl came from the murkiness. Jumpy, Wade grabbed for his pistol. Sam's hand stopped him.

"Wait," he said, removing the cross from his neck, holding it close to the timber. The Beast screamed in terror and anger, its breath fouling the summer air.

"I didn't believe it," Wade muttered. Beads of sweat hung on his face.

Sam put the cross around his neck just as another Beast screamed. This one was much closer to the men. Sam could see its red eyes glaring at them. "Look at that," he said.

Chester stood with his hand poised near the butt of his .45, hanging butt-down in the shoulder holster.

"I see it," Wade muttered, edging from the timber line. "Let's get out of here."

"Where is your journalistic inquisitiveness, Wade?" Sam smiled. He was rubbing it in a bit.

Wade said, before he thought, "Sam, don't be a smart ass!"

The minister chuckled. With one fluid motion, he jerked the .45 from leather, jacked back the hammer, and shot the Beast in the face, dead center between its tiny eyes.

The Beast screamed in pain, as crimson leaped from its shattered head. It fell forward, crashing to the ground, just at the edge of the timber, its huge clawed hands digging into the soft earth.

"One less," Sam spat on the ground in contempt.

Wade threw up his lunch as the stink from the dead Beast filled his head and his eyes took in all its horror. It didn't help a bit when Sam said, "Think what it must be like in the caves where they live."

Wade wiped his mouth with a shaky hand. "Thanks, Sam. I really needed that last crack."

"I think we'd better get out of here," Chester said. "We're not heavily armed enough to fight many of them."

'Do it slowly," Sam cautioned. "Don't run. Walk straight up the hill. I'll bring up the rear and keep an eye out."

Wade led the way up the hill without any further urgings, Chester behind him, Sam bringing up the rear. Wade's heart was pounding in his chest. He was sweating and panting, and he was amazed and just a bit angry to see his minister so calm.

"Let's watch," Sam said, squatting down, "let's see what happens."

"Sam!" Wade said, exasperated.

"We've got time, Wade. Relax. Give me a cigarette."

Chester was mildly amused at Sam's calmness. He thought: I can understand how he won all those medals.

"Sam!" Wade repeated. "We've got to get to town. We've got to warn the others. We've got to call the authorities."

Sam glanced up at him, amusement in his eyes. "What authorities do you suggest we call?"

"Why—why—" The newsman was silent for a time, realizing there was no one to call; that Father Dubois was right. They were in this alone.

The men stood on the hill and watched some . . . thing drag the dead Beast into the timber. Wade said, "We've got to call the government, Sam. I know that for a fact. We have to tell them about what's happening. They'll send in troops to cover the asylum, at least."

Sam rose to his feet. "I'm sure you have the number right at hand," he smiled. "And the operator will allow your call to go through?"

Wade sighed in resignation. "Yeah. Right. I feel like a mouse in a box; nowhere to go. All right, Sam, but we can still run—I think. Can't we?"

"We've been all over that, Wade." Sam fished in the editor's pocket for a Pall Mall. He lit it, then said, "How many ways in and out of Whitfield?"

"There are still county roads we can use."

"I don't think so. We're being watched. They would never allow us to leave." Wade faced the minister on the hill. "But that's just part of it, isn't it, Sam? You don't want to leave, do you? You want to make a fight of it, don't you?"

"Yes," Sam admitted. "I do." "So do I," Chester said. "I'm not running." "Then think about the women!" Wade protested.

"I have thought about them," Chester said. And of the elderly. I know Sam has, too. And it makes him just as sick as it does me. If we stay we can't help them; if we run we can't help them. Look, Wade, I've talked this over with Faye. She's afraid, yes, but she said where I go, she goes. Whitfield is our home, and we're not running." The editor looked at Sam. The minister nodded. "That's the way it is, Wade."

"All right," Wade nodded. "All right!" He seemed to grow taller; to suddenly have more rage. "Then let's do it." The men walked down the hill to the fence.

At the Dig, Black Wilder smiled. "A most formidable enemy," he said to the wind, and the wind sighed. "Yes, indeed a most formidable enemy. I shall enjoy this fight." Nydia, the beautiful witch, looked at him. "I will have Sam Balon, Black. You'll see."

"Perhaps," the man said. "Perhaps."

The men drove back to town, silent at the start of the drive, for each man's thoughts were busy. Sam, planning the next move, attempting to race ahead of the devil, wondering what was next. Wade, trying to force his mind to digest all that had happened and wondering if they were all just a bit insane? Chester, mentally reverting to the Marine Corps, his mind busy with defense tactics and what weapons he had in the store they could use.

Sam spotted a huge oak tree just off the road. He slowed, then stopped.

"Something wrong?" Wade asked. "Other than the obvious, that is."

Sam shook his head. "Ches, there's a small axe wrapped in a tarp in the bed. Get it, please, and that machete, too. We may as well do this—get it over with while we have the time."

"Do what, Sam?" Wade asked.

The minister's eyes were bleak. "Come on."

At the tree, Sam cut off half a dozen branches, then cut those into smaller lengths, each about two and a half feet long. Using the axe, he fashioned a crude point on one end of the stakes, leaving the other end flat.

Wade watched him work, standing back out of his way, remaining silent. Finally, he could no longer contain his curiosity. "What are you doing, Sam?"

"You know anything about a Coven, Wade?" Sam whittled as he spoke.

"Almost nothing."

"Then imagine a circle within a circle within a circle. The outer circle is composed of, in this case, the Beasts. They can fall prey to anything that can kill a mortal. I don't know why that is, I have a theory; because they are Beasts, and human; they do not have the intelligence to grasp the devil's powers. That's my theory, anyway. Inside the next circle, closer to the devil's agent, you have—well, let's call them workers, stooges, whatever. They, too, can be destroyed by anything that would kill a mortal. A bullet, a life, a club. At least, I hope I'm correct in that hypothesis. Inside the last circle, the smallest circle, we'll find the real evil." He looked at his friends. "Like Michelle. And there is only one way they can be killed." He held up a sharpened stake.

"Just like in the movies," Chester said, without any mirth. His voice was tight with emotion as he looked at the stake in Sam's big fist.

'What about this tablet?" Wade asked.

"I think if we can find it, and destroy it, we'll have whipped him—at least in Fork. But I don't hold much hope of finding the tablet. It will be well hidden."

'Well, let's storm the Dig site," Chester suggested. "You've got the Thompson, I've got my Greaser. We can get some dynamite—make some Cocktails. We can blow them back to Hell!"

Sam shook his head. "Too many of them, Ches. We've got to take those in power out first—one at a time. And now, we've got that asylum to worry about. And don't think for a minute Satan didn't figure on it, too." Sam had two dozen stakes lying on the ground. "Help me with these, please."

Arms full of stakes, the men walked back to the road, dumping the stakes in the bed of the truck.

On the way back to Whitfield, Wade asked, "Tell me the truth, Sam, do we have a chance?"

"I believe so. A little less than even."

"Sixty-forty, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Those are not the greatest odds I've ever heard," Chester commented.

"But we have something on our side they don't," Sam grinned.

"I'd be very much relieved to know what that is," Wade said.

Sam very briefly met his gaze. "God."

Just before reaching the outskirts of Whitfield, Wade said, "Glen Haskell, Sam. His body, I mean. Is he—?"

"One of them, I would imagine. I know John is."

Chester shuddered.

In front of the drive-in, the county road was blocked by milling teenagers and their cars and pickup trucks. The three men watched as a young man openly and carelessly caressed the buttocks of a teenage girl. The young man cupped both cheeks of her denim-clad rump. The girl giggled obscenely, rubbing against his crotch.

"That's the new preacher's daughter," Wade said. "Margaret Farben."

"I know," Sam replied, cutting his eyes to the side of the drive-in. "Look at that."

A teenage boy had a young girl, Laurie Conway, backed up against a car, her Levi-clad legs spread wide, the boy between them, hunching, crotch to crotch.

"I believe," Sam said dryly, "if memory serves correctly, we used to call that dry-fucking."

"Sam!" Wade was shocked. He knew his preacher was a maverick—everybody knew that, But not this much a maverick.

"Pardon my bluntness," Sam said. "But what would you call it?"

Wade shook his head. A light, airy sensation had overtaken him at the sight of all this sexual lay. He felt a slight erection begin to grow. He could not clear his head.

"SAM!" he shouted the word.

"Steady, Wade," the minister cautioned him. Fight it. All this is being done for our benefit, It's a stage show, set up by the devil. Fight it!"

Wade closed his eyes, erasing the sight. "He never gives up, does he?"

"No. Are you all right?"

"Be quiet, preacher—I'm trying to pray."

Sam grinned. His friends would all resist; they're strong in their faith.

"Let's try to get through them without trouble," Chester suggested.

But the young people would not let them through. Their profanity was shocking. They shouted things at the men Wade would not have believed had he not been sitting in the truck listening to the verbal garbage.

Chester merely shook his head in disgust.

"Mother fucker!" a boy shouted at them. A young girl, perhaps fifteen at the most, leaned against the truck. She winked at Sam. She also smelled bad. "Want some pussy, preacher?" She opened her shirt, exposing young braless breasts to him.

Sam averted his eyes, looking straight ahead. Suddenly, as if on some hidden cue, the crowd of young people parted. The road was empty, the kids returned to the drive-in. Sam looked behind them. A car, bearing out-of-state plates drove slowly down the road.

"They know," Sam muttered. "I don't know how, but somehow all of them knew that car didn't belong."

"Sam! Let's stop that car and tell the people about—"

"No!" Sam cut Wade off in midsentence. "Do you want more innocent people to die?"

"No," the editor whispered.

"Then just calm down. I want to see what these kids do after this car passes."

When the out-of-state car had gone, turning onto highway 72, out of town, the kids returned to the road, blocking it as before.

"Interesting," Sam observed. "It's as if they receive a signal. But I don't know how they receive it."

A burly young man, in his late teens, leaned against the truck, blocking any movement. Wade stuck his head out the window. "Roy! Get the hell out of the way!"

The young man looked at him, his face reflecting pure insolence. "Don't get all worked up, Thomas. You don't own the fuckin' road."

Sam's smile was sad and knowing, as was Chester's. Both men said nothing.

"I can't believe this," Wade said, his voice trembly. "I taught his Sunday School class for five years. I don't believe he said that to me." Then he became angry. "I ought to get out of this truck and kick his butt!"

"Let it slide, Wade," Sam said. "Besides, are you sure you can kick it?"

The editor grew even angrier. "Look, Sam, I'm forty-one years old. I—"

"Smoke a pipe and two packs of cigarettes a day," Sam cut him off. "And have for years." He watched the young people mill about in the road. "And you don't get enough exercise. Look at that kid—he's hard as a rock."

"You sound as though you might be afraid of him, Sam?" Wade spoke before he thought, and was instantly sorry he did.

Sam glanced at him. Wade realized, then, that he did not know his minister as well as he thought he did. There was no fear in Sam's eyes; just a calmness and a certainty that he could and would cope with any situation that might confront him.

"Sorry I said that, Sam."

"It's all right, Wade. You're under a strain. I understand. No, I'm not afraid of him—I'm not afraid of any living man. I've killed men with guns, knives, grenades—and my bare hands. I've forgotten more about fighting than most men could even comprehend, much less physically achieve; not that it's anything to brag about. But en if I were not a minister, it would do no good for me to manhandle that young man."

Realization filled Wade's eyes. He nodded. "It's a game, isn't it, Sam? Just a damned game! An evil game between Christianity and Satanism." Several of the young men began to rock the light truck back and forth. They were not attempting to over turn it, just playing a game with the men inside.

"You stood up to the devil," Wade said. "But you knew he wasn't going to kill you, didn't you? Didn't you? He can't kill you, can he, Sam?" The minister shook his head in agreement. "Yeah," Wade said, "that's what I thought. Now I get it. That would bring the wrath of God down on him, and he doesn't want that, does he?"

"The key word is not yet; he can't kill me." Sam's words were soft.

"But he got Glen! Why Glen and not you?"

"I can't answer that, Wade."

"Do you feel you've been—Chosen, Sam?"

The truck continued to rock.

The minister met Wade's gaze. "Dubois seems to think so."

"That's not what I asked, Sam."

"Yes, I do. I don't know why He picked me, but yes, I believe He did."

"ALL RIGHT—BREAK THIS UP!!" Jimmy's sharp voice cut a warning through the crowd. "You people get out of here—right now!"

Jimmy stuck his head inside the cab. "Things like this have been going on all over town. For the past two-three hours. But almost no one calls in a complaint."

"No one, Jimmy?" Chester asked. The young people had backed off the road, but were still congregated around the drive-in. The looks they gave the men were of hate. Dark hate.

"Only two people, Mr. Stokes. Mr. Word, and old lady Dornak. Some kids almost scared her to death. This same bunch of kids—some of 'em, anyway. Slipping around her house, howling like animals. When I confronted them and told them to stop, they told me to get fucked!" He glanced at 5am. "Excuse me, sir, but that's what they said. Doctor King came to the Dornak house to look after her. She was pretty shook up. The same bunch called Tony some pretty rough names. I'm telling you, this is scaring me!"

"Have you tried for outside help?" Wade asked.

"Yes, sir. I've had a call in to the Oberlin County Sheriffs office for more than two hours, now. But I can't get through."

"What were you going to tell them?" Sam asked.

Jimmy smiled, a sad, scared smile. "Nothing. I wanted to see if I could get through. I'm being followed wherever I go. By the men I'm supposed to lead as Chief. Miles told me a few minutes ago that he's being followed. They're not going to let us leave, and we can't call out. We don't have to wait for the roads to be closed, Sam—we're cut off now."

"You wish me to do something?" Nydia asked.

Wilder smiled. "Tonight, Nydia. Kill the old priest."

Her answering smile was full of the evil of a thousand years. "How?" she asked, knowing full well what his reply would be. They had played this game for centuries.

Wilder's eyes were savage. "Why, dear, have a stake driven through his heart, as Balon plans for us."

They chuckled together, the sound a dark blending of Satanic evilness, a cacophony of horror.

"And Balon?" she questioned. "When may I have him?"

Wilder turned his old but ever-young eyes upon her. "Do you really feel you can seduce this man of God?"

"When the time is right, yes. Have I ever failed?"

"Two centuries ago, I recall. In Plzen, I believe it was. That young student—"

"Bah! You tricked me that night. That was your doing, Black."

And the devil's agent roared with laughter. "Yes, well, be that as it may." His smile vanished. "Perhaps you can seduce this man, Nydia, but it will not be easy. It may have to be done with coercion. You must be patient."

"He is but a mortal man," the witch scoffed. "And I can do tricks with my body mortal women can only dream of doing."

Wilder shook his head. "Mortal, yes, Nydia, but—" he hesitated, his dark eyes seeking something in the distance. "Balon worries me. He isn't afraid. He has no fear."

She was not convinced. "I will have him, and then he will die like any mortal."

"Perhaps," Wilder said. "Perhaps. But at what price?"

"What's all that?" Wade asked, looking at the bottles and jars Sam had carried in. He had been to the rectory, picking up Father Dubois and what Dubois had waiting for him.

"Holy Water," the old priest said. "And you'll need every drop of it. Now I must return to the church."

"Wait!" Tony said. "What do we do, Father?"

"Fight. All of you. Follow Sam's direction. His way will be pointed out, with God's help." He turned to leave.

"Where are you going, Michael?" Sam asked. The priest looked at him, a very faint smile on his lips. "Home."

"I'll drive you," Sam said, not yet catching the subtle meaning of Dubois's words. "No." Dubois stopped him with a wave of his hand. "I want to walk. I want to smell the flowers, the grass, look at the trees. I want to feel the sun on my face."

Sam felt horror fill him as the full impact of Dubois's words hit him. The old priest was going to die—and he knew it.

Dubois cautioned Sam with a quick glance. A quick brushing of the eyes that said: Don't alarm the others. Rally them. It's all up to you.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Father, Tony said.

"Yes," the priest said. "Tomorrow."

Dubois walked back to the rectory, slowly, enjoying the sights and smells of nature in full bloom. He showered, changed into clean clothes, then sat down in his favorite chair in the small living room, reading his Bible. Each time the clock would chime the hour and half hour, he would look up.

He waited.

Dubois read his Bible, savoring each familiar word, occasionally nodding his head in agreement, sometimes saying aloud, "Yes, yes."

He read for hours, the clock ticking, chiming. At full dark, a "bird flew against his window, smashing the glass, killing itself, dying with a horrible screech.

Dubois raised his head. "So you've finally come," he whispered. "Well, come on."

"So you wish to play games with me, eh?" he said. "Very well, then listen to this." He began to read aloud. "Yea, though I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—"

A hissing drifted through the house, reaching Dubois's ears. An evil hissing came from his back door. A thin scratching sound as the door was pushed open. A shuffling sound as feet dragged across the tile.

"Ah," Dubois smiled. "You don't like that, eh? Well, listen to this: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"

"Die!" the one word was spoken from out of darkness.

"The Lord is the strength of my life, Dubois read to the darkness facing him, "of whom shall I be afraid?"

"Die!" the voice spoke.

"But I will die only once," the priest said, "You are the living dead."

The voice laughed insanely; a voice Dubois knew. He strained to place the tones. No! It couldn't be. But he knew it was. "That is true," the voice said. "The Lord is my strength and my shield," Dubois said, a small finger of fear touching him. You're only going home, he reminded himself. And the hollow, evil voice laughed at the words. "I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him I will trust." The lamp beside the priest suddenly shattered, plunging the room into semidarkness, the only light a small night light in the hall.

"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night . . ."

John Benton stepped into the room, his dark burial suit rumpled, white shirt dirty from the grave.

Dubois rose in shock. "Get away!" He held a cross up to the figure.

Benton shuffled across the room, his pale, bloodless face shining in the dim light. A hideous face, with staring, unblinking eyes. "Do not forsake me now, my God," Dubois prayed.

Benton raised a stake, shuffling closer. The cross Dubois held had no effect on the living dead. The priest backed away, back, until he bumped against the wall. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Dubois reached for a vial of Holy Water on the table by his chair. His shaking hands knocking the vial to the floor, the glass shattering on the tile.

Benton came closer, his walk a staggering, awkward gait. His smile was hideous.

"John!" Dubois cried. "John Benton—can't you hear me? Don't you know me?"

"I know you," the living dead spoke. He raised the stake.

The last sound Father Michael Dubois heard was his own praying as the stake plunged into his chest.