Devil's Kiss

Thursday - the First Day

Sam watched the five cowboys ride toward the ridge where they were hiding. He had put aside his Thompson, replacing it with one of Chester's M-ls. Chester held an identical .30-06 military rifle cradled in his arms.

"You take the two on the right," Sam whispered. "I'll take the other three."

"How do we know they're possessed?"

"We don't. Want to invite them up the hill and ask them?"

Chester shook his head. "I'll pass on that. They're wearing medallions around their necks. Guess that settles it."

Five seconds later, there were five empty saddles.

The men walked down the hill to the still-writhing men. Sam pointed the muzzle of the M-1 at a cowboy's head.

"Give me a break!" the man begged.

"Sure," Sam said. "Just like you would have given me a break."

"Fuck you!" the cowboy snarled, spitting at Sam. The foamy red spittle hit Sam on the leg of his jeans.

Sam squeezed the trigger, then went to the next man, with Chester following suit. Watching from the ridge, Wade shuddered, "I wouldn't want either of them for an enemy.''

Back in camp, Sam said, "Let's pack it up and move it. Ches, you said you knew where there was some dynamite."

"Right, and some gasoline while we're there . Over on the Cherry Creek range. They've been doing some blasting. Ever handled dynamite, Sam?"

'"No. In Korea we used plastic. Easy to handle."

"So's dynamite. Before I bought the shop, I worked with explosives."

"Where is the blockhouse?"

"Right on the edge of the range. But for sure it'll be well guarded."

Sam nodded absently, spreading a map on the hood of a truck. "Wade, you take the people here," he pointed to a mark on the map, then glanced at his watch. "Ches and I will get the dynamite and fill up the extra gas cans and meet you there at noon." He looked hard at the editor, "Don't take any chances, Wade. Shoot first and ask questions later."

Wade swallowed, then nodded his agreement, "All right, Sam."

The minister glared at his friend. "I mean it. I'm not going to dick around with you or anybody else. Jane Ann's safety is in your hands. Can you do it?"

"Yes!" Wade replied hotly.

"You'd better," the warrior-turned-minister turned warrior said.

"Let's ask God's help," Faye said, breaking the silent tension between the two friends. "Let's all join hands."

It was a strange sight on the prairie, in the rolling hills of Fork County. These people praying within sight of five men they had just killed. Chester prayed, asking God to help them, to give them strength to combat the evil that surrounded them, that faced them all.

The circle broke up, the Christians walking back to their trucks. Sam stopped Wade. "Any route you take is going to be dangerous, Wade, it's up to you. But I believe moving is the only way we're going to stay alive."

"I know, Sam," he clasped the minister on the shoulder. "And don't worry, I'll do my part. I don't believe we have a choice any longer. I'll shoot first, apologize later. I'm going to cut across Sugar Ridge and down into Winding Creek, follow the creek bed. It's dry this time of year."

The men shook hands, wishing each other luck. Chester spent a few moments with Faye; Sam with Jane Ann.

"I'm not usually the weeping type, Sam," she said, her lips just brushing his. "So I'll see you in camp in a few hours."

Sam smiled. "Behave yourself around Tony—he's a good-looking young stud. Makes a lot more money than a preacher."

"You have hidden talents, Sam," she winked at him.

He touched her face with his strong, blunt fingers, then left her, walking to Chester's pickup, stopping along the way to get his Thompson and a length of wire with small pieces of wood attached to either end.

"What is that thing, Sam?" Miles asked.

"It's a garrote, Miles. We used them in Korea."

"Silent killing."

"Very. But you have to know how to use them. If you come around too hard, the victim is decapitated, then you've got a headless body flopping around on the ground, making noises with his feet. Destroys the silent operation."

Miles' face was a little pale. "That ever happen to you, Sam?"

"Only once. It was quite a sight to see."

The prairie was silent after Wade led the little caravan off, with only the wind to keep the two men company.

"Sam? When we've got the dynamite, what are we going to do with it?"

The minister's eyes grew cold as a snake's gaze. "We"re going to destroy Whitfield and the outlying ranches. Hopefully, we're going to kill every Godless bastard in this part of Fork."

Chester chuckled. "Preacher, your language is shocking.

It was the longest half hour Chester had spent since combat in the Pacific. He thought Sam would never return from the blockhouse. His nerves began working on him, causing him to jump with every sound of nature. A songbird twittered happily above him and Chester almost blew it into the next county, holding back firing the .45 caliber Greasegun just at the last second.

The next county, he thought, is where I wish we all were right now.

He thought of Sam. The man has more cold nerve than any man I've ever seen. Miles was right: he is looking forward to this fight.

He almost soiled his shorts when Sam touched him on the shoulder. He leaped to his feet, heart pounding. "JESUS CHRIST!"

"Every direction is your perimeter when you're alone, Ches," Sam gently scolded him. "You're forgetting your good Marine Corps training. I came up behind you."

"No shit! Now you tell me! My heart is hammering." He looked in the direction of the blockhouse. "How many men are there?"

"None, now."

"How many were there?"

"Two. They were easy. Come on."

The sight of the dead men did not bother Chester; he had seen much, much worse in the brutal fighting in the Pacific. But if ten days ago, if someone had told him his minister would slip past armed guards and slit their throats, Chester would have called him a liar. The guards lay sprawled in death. One had been strangled with the garrote, the other had his throat cut.

Chester broke the lock on the blockhouse with a tire iron from his pickup's toolbox. It was dark and cool in the shed. "Get those boxes of caps over there," he told Sam. "Be careful with them." He looked around. "There's enough dynamite in here to blow up half of Fork County. This is good grade stuff, too."

"Did you see those medallions on the guards?"

Chester nodded, carrying a box of dynamite to his truck.

'We have to assume everyone at Cherry Creek ranch is one of them. We'll take them out first. Then work around the county, ranch by ranch."

"Saving Whitfield for last?"

"Exactly," Sam put another box of caps in the back of the truck. He sat them down roughly.

Chester winced. "Sam! Please be careful. The caps are more dangerous than the dynamite. I've seen them blow when you least expect it."

"Sorry," Sam grinned. "I wasn't thinking."

"How do we take the ranch, Sam?"

"By surprise. Just like Cowboys and Indians. Let's fill the gas cans and we'll drop them off, pick them up on the way back. I'll tell you along the way."

"You mean, just the two of us?"

"That's all we need, old friend. Providing everything goes as planned, that is."

The men were a mile from the ranch, hidden in the trees by one of the hundreds of small lakes in the county. Chester was busy arming sticks of dynamite.

"You're certain you can tell within seconds when each stick will blow?" Sam asked.

"Positive." Chester did not look up from his work. "You want six explosions, eight to ten seconds apart, but you want us to be on the other side of the ranch before the first charge blows? And all the charges concentrated on this side of the ranch?"

"Right. The first charge will draw them out of the ranch house. The other charges will, hopefully, hold their attention and cover the sound of our coming in until we're on top of them. Can you do that?"

"No sweat," Chester said, measuring and cutting lengths of fuse. He armed the sticks, inserted the fuses—each a different length—and stood up. "I'll plant them about two hundred feet apart."

The men sat in the pickup, on the other side the ranch, waiting for the first charge to blow hoping, the long fuses had not gone out. Chester had armed a dozen more sticks of dynamite, inserting five to ten second fuses in each stick or bundle of three sticks taped together. Sam held a half dozen sticks in his right hand, a Zippo lighter in his left hand. He was softly whistling a light tune: "The Happy Wanderer."

Chester glanced at him and shook his head in disbelief at the whistling. He looked at his watch. "Thirty seconds to Fire in the Hole." He slipped the pickup into gear.

"We clean out the first nest of filth," Sam said quietly, just as the first charge blew. "Be ready to change directions when I yell," he cautioned his friend.

"I will admit this," Chester said. "I'm scared." He let out the clutch.

The minister changed his whistling tune: "Pistol Packing Mamma." "You're incredible!" Chester said.

The ranch yard filled with men and women, most of them naked or half naked. The second charge blew, locking their attentions in the direction of the blasts.

"Roll it," Sam said.

Chester floorboarded the truck, roaring toward the ranch yard filled with Satan-worshippers. As the last explosions faded, the pickup shot into the yard. Three sticks of dynamite sputtered in Sam's hand. Chester was sweating as he stole a glance at the lighted charges. Sam appeared calm. He casually tossed the dynamite in the middle of a startled group of men and women.

"Hard left!" he yelled, and Chester spun the wheel.

The explosions rocked the truck, sending bits of dirt and rock flying around them, along with various parts of human bodies. Sam tossed more dynamite as Chester completed the circle, returning to the scene of confusion, dust, and death.

The yard was in chaos, the moaning and yelling and deafening eruptions confusing the men and women. Sam let fly four more sticks of dynamite, blowing a half dozen members of Wilder's Coven to Hell—to the arms of their newly-adopted Master.

"May you live in eternal agony," Sam mutered, then yelled, "Hard right! When you get to the far out-building, stop—we'll go it on foot."

"Yes, Sergeant York," Chester mumbled, spinning the wheel.

The yard was a smoking, dusty deathtrap. At the out-building, the men jumped out, automatic weapons yammering, singing a metallic death song set in .45 caliber tempo.

They left no survivors. Sam went to each downed, moaning, cursing person, ending their life here on earth, sending them to their dubious pleasures.

Then the yard was silent, the stink of death heavy/sweet in the dust.

The house was noiseless as Sam looked at it.

"There will probably be at least one of the Undead in there," he said, touching a stake shoved behind his belt, "hiding in a dark place. Get a vial of Holy Water from the truck, Ches. I'll check the other buildings before we go into the house."

With a fresh clip in the belly of the Thompson, Sam carefully checked the large garage, the barn, and the bunkhouse. All empty of any kind of life. Back in the yard, a half-naked woman, stunning and cursing, crawled toward a pistol on the ground, beside a dead man. She looked up at Sam with eyes that burned black hate. She cursed him loudly.

Knowing he was allowing a small meanness to grow in him, Sam let the woman crawl until her hand touched the butt of the gun. A half-second burst from the SMG lifted her off the ground, turning her, twisting her sideways, slamming her back, dead in the dirt, her bare legs spread obscenely.

The yard was silent, the air filled with the odor of blood and the sharp stink of relaxing bladders. "I'll go in," Sam said, refilling the clip with cartridges from his pockets. "Get this over with. We've got to get out of here. Those explosions will surely draw some unwelcome company this way.

"You want me to go with you?"

"No. You watch for company. I'll do this."

Sam slipped into the house, walking carefully from room to room, inspecting all the closets, all the bedrooms—nothing. In the kitchen, he found the door to the basement locked.

He knew, then, where he would find the Undead, and Sam was not at all happy at the prospect of venturing down into that darkness.

Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door with his heavy Jump Boots, then fumbled on the side wall for the light switch. The basement burst into light, flooding the darkness with brilliance. Sam moved slowly down the steps, his eyes shifting from side to side, taking in all he could see of the cluttered basement. Behind a packing crate, in the far corner of the dirty basement, he saw legs protruding from behind the crate. Sam touched the stake in his belt and moved toward the legs.

The lights went out, plunging the basement into darkness.

A hiss and a moan from behind the crate, and Sam knew he was almost out of time. The Undead had sensed danger, coming to life in the dark as his Master turned out the lights. Sam heard the sound of feet shuffling on the floor. He fumbled for his Zippo, sparking the lighter into flame. The Undead hissed at the flickering glow, moving toward Sam, its mouth open, exposing fanged teeth and a blood-red tongue, grotesque in its thickness.

Sam sat the lighter on a box, lifted the Thompson, and pulled the trigger, holding it back. He started the burst at ankle level, the rise of the weapon lifting to the creature's face. Sam fought the Thompson, attempting to keep the line of fire from going too far to the right, the natural rise of the weapon in the hands of a right-handed shooter.

Sam literally blew the Undead to bits. Its left leg was shredded, dangling. One shoulder was gapped, pieces of meat and bone scattered about the basement. Half its face, its jaw, was missing from the impact of the heavy slugs.

And still, Bill Mathis, the high school principal, dragged its macabre being toward Sam, hissing and snarling and yowling, the hands outstretched, fingers working.

Sam fumbled for the canteen hooked onto his web belt, practically tearing the cap off in his haste. He doused the thing with Holy Water, and it screamed in pain as the water, blessed by Father Dubois, boiled on impact with Godless flesh, searing the dead meat, exposing the whiteness of bone.

Sam dropped the empty Thompson on the box, jerked the stake from his belt, and ran toward the thrashing creature, driving the stake deep in its chest. A horrible howling ripped from the mouth of the Undead. A stench filled the dark, musty basement as pus erupted from its throat, spraying Sam with foulness. Using both hands, Sam worked the stake deeper, until he pierced the heart. The un-Godly squalled in pain as it fell back against a wall, moaning and kicking as it died.

The lights came back on.

Sam stood panting, his chest heaving from fright and rattled nerves. He watched the metamorphosis take place as Bill Mathis finally died, the creature working its way back through time-only God and Satan knowing just how far back. Within seconds, only a rotting pile of stinking rags marked the spot where Godless met Godly.

Sam picked up his Thompson and his Zippo, bending down to ignite the pile of newspapers, watching them roar into flames. He walked up the steps, his back tingling, as if expecting a blow. He met Chester at the top of the stairs.

"I never heard such howling in my life. What in God's name was that?"

"Bill Mathis. He was one of them. Like Michelle."

"Might account for so many of the kids going over Satan's side."

"Yeah." His eyes touched Chester's. "I know, Chester.. I stink. Come on, let's drag these bodies into the house. Burn them. That way we'll know they can't become what I just destroyed."

So they dragged the twisted, mangled, broken bodies into the smoky house, Chester said, "I wish there was some other way. Can't people like these be helped, Sam? Isn't there some way we can undo what has been done to them?"

"I don't know how to exorcise an entire county, Ches. I really don't understand exorcism to begin with. But I do know it's got to be done one on one." He piled another bloody corpse in the living room. The floor was beginning to get hot from the flames in the basement. "Unless God intervenes, I'm afraid this is the only way."

Outside, the men stood away from the house watching it explode into flames, the roof caving in.

"Don't feel sorry for them, Ches—they knew what they were doing; what they were accepting They had a choice. It's nobody's fault but their own."

"Maybe somebody will see the smoke,' Chester said, watching the smoke soar into the sky. "Come to help us."

"No," Sam said. "Nobody will see it. A plane could fly a hundred feet off the ground, right over it, and would not see it. Their Master has taken care of that. We're in this alone, Ches. Better accept that fact."

Driving away from the smoking ruins, Sam said, "Yes, Ches, they can be helped—but they've got to want that help. God does not expect man to be perfect, but He does expect man to try. Our God is a vengeful God, Ches. It's not wise to cross Him."

"After we pick up the extra gas cans," Chester said, "we'll stop at that old dump, pick up a couple dozen empty whiskey bottles. They make dandy Molotov cocktails."

"Yeah," the preacher smiled. "Mix a little with the gas and you've got homemade napalm."

"I don't like the idea of you going out alone and—headhunting," Wade said. "I think it best we stay together from now on."

Late afternoon in Fork County, the shadows beginning to paint the rolling hills and prairies with a darker brush, the deepening gray reminding them all that night would soon be on them, and the evil that would surface with the darkness.

"I agree with Wade," Miles said. "I think we'd be safer in a—a—"

"Wolf pack?" Sam finished the sentence.

"Yes," Tony said. "If that's what you want to call it."

Sam rose from his squatting position, a freshly sharpened stake in his hand. "None of you realises what you're in for—what you're saying, But perhaps you're right. We'll do this together." He searched the prairie in all directions.

"What are you looking for, Sam?" Jane Ann asked.

"Some of the Undead. They're out there. I can feel them."

The small group looked around them, fear touching each heart, brows wrinkling with concern. Hands unknowingly went to weapons, as if the lethal steel or the smooth stock or butt of the weapon would somehow comfort them.

"I don't feel anything out of the ordinary," Jimmy said, but his hand did not leave the butt of the .38 belted around his waist.

"That pistol won't do you much good against the Undead," Sam told him. "I put thirty rounds of .45 caliber ammunition into Bill Mathis. I literally blew him to bits with this Thompson. But he kept coming. They are not human, you all must remember that. They are not human, and they are not animal—they're dead people walking upright. I want you all to keep a canteen of Holy Water with you at all times. And a stake." His eyes touched them all. "We took the fight to them this morning; we hit them where they live, and they can't allow us to get away with that. So they'll be coming at us tonight. For now, you all had better get some rest. Go on, I'll take the watch."

He walked up the small hill above the cottonwoods where they made camp. He stood alone on the hill.

"I feel as though I should be up there with him," Jane Ann said. "But I also feel he would send me right back down here."

"He would," Anita agreed. "Sam looks upon this as his battle—his fight. We're just his soldiers."

"You should have seen him this afternoon.' Chester spoke from the shade of his pickup. "He moves like a cat. I did some work with Marine Raiders once; Sam is as good and probably better than those guys. I didn't believe anyone could come up behind me without my knowing it, but Sam did. And damn near scared me out of my pants doing it. But Wade is right: we're going to have to stay together."

One by one they drifted off to sleep in the late afternoon. Jane Ann was the last one to slip into the silence of deep rest. When she finally closed her eyes, the thing she remembered was the outline of her man, alone on the hill, with his weapon, his stake, his Holy Water, and his God, watching over them all. Sam, calm, sure, strong—waiting for the night to bring the fight to him.

And the thought came to her: Sam would willingly die to save them.

She slept restlessly.

Sam touched her on the shoulder, bringing her out of sleep, her heart pounding. Full dark on the prairie. She could see only the bulk of him.

"They're coming," he told her. "I've told the others. Get ready." He was gone into the night.

Sam had changed clothing, into black, to blend into the night.

"We're awake, Janey," Faye said. "I saw Sam, I'll be darned if I saw where he went when he left you. The man moves like a ghost."

A scream cut the night. A horrible choking sound; a cry of pure anguish, tapering off into a blubber of pain. Silence. They heard Sam laughing in the darkness.

"He's deliberately goading them!" Peter said. "He's killing them, then taunting them."

Miles suddenly ran to the edge of the camp, a stake in his hand. "They're all around us!" he shouted. He stepped into the blackness.

A hissing in the night. A coughing thud. The thump of something heavy falling to the ground.

"MILES!" Doris shouted.

Screaming from out of the darkness, ending with a strangling sound. Miles backed into his circle of friends, his hands shaking.

"I killed one of—Them!" he said. "Oh, my God!"

The yammer of Sam's Thompson split the night. Things ran away into the blackness.

Silence.

Sam walked back into the camp, as calmly as if he had done nothing more exciting than duck hunting. He built up the fire, then looked at the body lying between two trucks. A long stake protruded from its chest.

"I don't know this one," Sam said, walking over to drag the carcass out of sight. The face was pockmarked and rotted, and the stench was the worst he'd smelled thus far.

Sam picked up a foot and began to drag the Undead from their camp. The leg came off in his hands.

Behind him, Jane Ann began screaming. "That's my father!" she shrieked. "My father!" She fell unconscious to the ground.

Tony gave her a shot after Sam carried her to their sleeping bags. "This will keep her out the rest of the night and probably most of next morning. She needs it, Sam. That was a hell of a shock she just had."

Sam pulled a blanket over his wife, then walked back to the fire with the doctor. He poured a cup of coffee as Miles said, "Mr. Burke has been missing for years. His flesh was—" He swallowed hard. He shuddered. "Rotted," he managed to say. "Where do they stay? Are there more of them?"

"I guess they sleep, Miles," Sam picked up a sandwich from a covered plate. "And, yes, I'd say there are probably a lot more of them." He chewed slowly.

Wade looked at him with his face mirroring shock. He wondered: How can he do it? How can he sit there and eat! There was blood on the front of Sam's shirt.

"Were you people this calm when you did your jobs in Korea?" Wade asked.

Sam glanced at him. "Usually." He stood up, wiping his hands on blood-stained trousers. "I'll get Janey and put her in the truck. Let's break camp. I've got a feeling our luck's run out in this spot."

They had carefully reconnoitered the dry creek bed, some ten miles from where they had been attacked. They made camp in the dark, Sam gently placing the sleeping Jane Ann on blankets, covering her. He softly touched her face, wondering, as he caressed her cheek, how much time they had left together?

Walking to the group, eating cold sandwiches as they huddled in the dark in the dry creek bed, Sam told them, "This is the way we stay alive. We eat, then move. We sleep, then move. We do not stay in one spot for any length of time. We pick our spots at night, and make them come to us. During the day, we take it to them, cut, slash, and run. How far are we from the Sorenson ranch?"

"About fifteen miles," Jimmy said. "To the east."

Sam smiled his warrior's smile. "Tomorrow, we destroy them."

His friends looked at each other in the night. Only Chester returned the smile.

Black Wilder glanced out a window into the night, a disgusted look on his face. "One man," he said. "Just one man stands in our way. Kill Balon—possess his mind—and his little group falls apart."

"Perhaps our people did just that this night?' Nydia said.

"No, they failed."

"Then let us take him," Nydia suggested, hopeful tone in her voice. She wanted Balon. Wanted to make love to him. And wanted him for another reason. A demon son from Balon's seed would be a force to reckon with.

Wilder slapped her on the face, knocking the witch sprawling on the floor. His eyes burned at her. She did nothing, did not move from her reclining position, for she was too afraid of Wilder and his awesome powers.

"Stupid bitch!" he hissed at her. "You know that is our last resort. You must know the rules of the game! You should, I've been patiently explaining them to you for centuries! Foolish woman, do you want to feel God's hand on your backside? Do you wish to spend the next thousand years crawling the earth as a bug? We don't break the rules. Send everything we have at Balon—yes. We can tempt him. We can try his patience; as you are trying mine. We can kill his friends. Then, after we've done all that, if he still fights us, and only then, with our Master's permission can we confront him. Only then, Nydia—do you understand?"

He glared down at her, his eyes yellow with rage. "You are beginning—again—to forget just who is in charge here. Perhaps you need a lesson to remind you, Nydia?"

"No!" she screamed, remembering the last time, two centuries ago, when Wilder had her punished. While Satan rocked with laughter, the witch had been placed in a convent in France, to remain there for years, conforming to the Sisters' teachings.

It was altogether the most disgusting, degrading thing that had ever happened to her.

She still had nightmares about it.

Nydia crawled to her knees. "Please. No! Black, you are my Master here on earth. I'll do anything you ask. Anything."

Theirs was a most peculiar relationship. At times Nydia loved him. Other times, she hated him.

He wound his fingers in her black hair, twisting her head cruelly. "Don't interfere with me, Nydia. I won't tolerate it. Our Master must have a place here on earth. Those are his orders. Whitfield must be taken by us, for him. Nydia, you must learn to control your rashness. You are not a child."

"I know, Black. And I will." She unzipped his fly, fondling his penis, huge even in its softness.

"No," he pulled away, pushing her back. "Not you. Not this night."

"Please!"

"Find me a young girl. One who is soft and unskilled in love making. I would have her. Now, go!"

She rose to her feet, slipping silently through the door, blending in with the night, a black cloak wrapped around her dark gown. She was lucky to have received only a verbal scolding from the Master on earth. She knew that was true. It could have been much, much worse. Nydia recalled one rebellious witch who crossed Black Wilder. He had her powers taken from her and she was given to the Beasts.

She shuddered as she glided through the night seeking a proper young girl for the Master on earth.

She passed several homes, finally selecting one, entering without knocking. The occupants froze death-like in the darkness of the smelly home, for they knew the witch was second-in-command of this Coven. And the witch had powers none of them understood.

She took a young blonde girl by the hand, leading her to the door. "You should all be joyful." she said to the girl's parents. "This night she will please Wilder."

The mother and the father smiled and nodded their pleasure, for that was good. Their eyes glowed with pride. Their only regret was that they would not be permitted to see the penetration. In what had once been the parsonage of the Christian Church of Whitfield, now the residence of Black Wilder and Nydia, the Master of the Coven smiled as he thought of what Balon would think once he learned his home was now the home of Satan's agent. He laughed aloud, looking up as Nydia entered with the young girl. He nodded his approval at her selection. ''I remember her, Nydia. You did well." The witch smiled at his compliment. All had been forgiven.

"Make her ready to receive me," he ordered, "Let me see you work. Amuse me, Nydia—you do it so well."

Nydia dropped her robe on the floor, and the girl stared at her beauty. The heavy, rose-tipped breasts, the flat stomach, the thick, dark bush. Nydia stripped the girl, knowing this was what Wilder enjoyed—among other things. Long before this night was over, before the dark softened into day, the young girl would know full well the power and perversity of Black Wilder.

She slowly removed the girl's clothing, smiling at her high, not-yet-mature breasts. She licked her lips at the blossoming pubic hair. Wilder's eyes glowed with a yellowish light of desire as he took in young beauty.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Keri."

"Do you love me, Keri?"

"With all my heart, Master."

"Good," Wilder smiled. "Very good." He looked at Nydia. "Continue."

She pulled the girl to her, a young mouth closing around a nipple. Nydia slipped her hand over the girl's flat belly, caressing her. Her hand found the opening between her legs, wetting her.

"Take her to a bedroom," Wilder ordered. "I'll be along after a time. In the interim, Nydia. you may love her as you wish."

The witch smiled.

When they had gone, Wilder picked up the phone, and gave the operator the number of the asylum. "Loose the idiots," he said. "Then get out." He replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat for a time, smiling. This would give Balon something new to combat.

Later, Wilder entered the bedroom, standing over the bed, smiling as he listened to the moans and cries from the young girl. Nydia's hair was fanned out over the whiteness of the teenager's belly, the witch's mouth busy between widespread legs.

Wilder undressed, his huge penis dangling between his thighs, beginning to stiffen with desire. He rudely pulled Nydia from the girl and climb onto the bed.

"You know what to do," he told her.

She slipped around to the teenager's head, pinning the girl's slender arms to the bed. As Wilder began his push forward spreading the wet wetness, the girl screamed in pain.

Nydia and Wilder laughed at the child's wailings. Wilder's hugeness pushed further, ignoring the thrashing beneath him, loving the agony that writhed under him, the slender young legs jerking, flashing white in the darkness.

And one could almost hear Satan's howling.