William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

Saturday - The Third Day

Whitfield lay quiet in the weekend sun. No one moved on the streets. To a passerby—if there were any—only the ruined churches would be out of the ordinary. Everything else would seem normal—almost.

Nydia slept soundly, Jimmy sprawled naked by her side. He was—without caring—her slave, hers to do whatever she wished done.

Black Wilder sat in the living room, sipping tea, his thoughts, like the room, dark. Balon and his followers were ruining everything; wreaking havoc in Fork County. They had to be stopped—must be stopped!—but stopped within the rules. But how?

Balon did not behave as a minister should. Just this morning, early, at dawn, Balon had destroyed another ranch, killing all those at the ranch. Then he had, along with the others, methodically and cold-bloodedly shot down another dozen of the inmates from the asylum. Not like a minister. Not like a minister at all. Wilder had to smile. Quite a man, Sam Balon.

Wilder was also aware of the change in Nydia. The silly bitch seemed not to realize that Wilder knew of her communications with the Master. The Master had come to him during the night, in the quiet, telling him of her plans and schemes. And, to the Master's surprise, Wilder had agreed— providing all else failed. He was weary of earth; weary of the game; ready to go home. Let the bitch worry with it. She, too, would soon discover what a tiresome job it was, and how unrewarding.

So Nydia had a plan to make Balon her own, for a few hours, to mate with him, to produce a lemon. All right. So be it. If all else failed.

In homes around Whitfield, members of the Coven were awakening. Fathers were mounting daughters, engaging in grunting incestuous love. Mothers were caressing sons. Sisters and brothers were copulating.

The whimpering cries of those who still clung to the Love of the one God was heard in basements as the day's tortures began.

In the darkness of their homes, the followers of Satan were performing their appointed tasks. Yes, Whitfield was normal. But not by God's standards.

And in the darkness of a basement in a ranch house in Fork County, Peter Canford slept behind a couch, on the dirty floor. He waited for the night to carry out his orders: to kill.

By midafternoon they stood watching the fourth ranch of the day burn to the ground. Paul Merlin's Rocking Chair. Sam and Chester, using M-1s, picked off the Satan-worshippers as they tried to escape the flames. Smoke from the burning buildings spiralled upward in greasy plumes. The prairie winds sighed lonely through the vastness of Fork County.

tried to escape the flames. Smoke from the burning buildings spiralled upward in greasy plumes. The prairie winds sighed lonely through the vastness of Fork County.

Chester squatted on one knee, his face dirty and haggard. "I stopped counting at three hundred. And we still have Whitfield ahead of us."

Sam's rifle barked, a lone figure stumbled, falling to the ground, screaming curses as he tried to get to his feet. He died cursing God.

"Sam?" Jane Ann said, standing by his side. "Tomorrow is Sunday—can we rest then?"

"No. Tomorrow is the one day we can fight them with God guiding us. They can't move on His day, but we can."

They were not the same people as they had been only a few days before. They would never be the same; those that would live through this ordeal. These men and women had toughened—hardened, and their faces bore that fact.

Anita had found some inner strength buried deep within her and had shaken off the shock of the night before. She had killed this day, killed with a determination and cold ferocity that amazed her husband.

She had said, "I know now it's the only way. We can't run from it; we've got to destroy them—all of them, or be destroyed. These people are not our friends; not the people we knew and grew up with. These people are no longer human. They are rabid animals, and you can't show sympathy to a rabid animal."

Sam gathered his people and exited the scene of death and fire and blood. This night, he knew, they would have to be extremely careful, for from dusk to midnight, Satan's followers would come at them with all the force they could muster.

Chester led them to a half destroyed old cinder block house built on a flat plain. The house commanded the prairie from its ridge. By late afternoon, with at least three hours of day left, they had made ready for the night's evil.

Anyone coming for them would have to come to get them. The field of fire belonged to Sam and his people.

The trucks were safely parked behind the walls of the old home. Each person knew his or her position and what they had to do. Cans of gasoline had been placed around the ridge, ready to be set ablaze by Molotov cocktails. Weapons were cleaned and checked. They had all eaten, the fires doused. They napped in the waning hours of day.

They would need all their strength this night.

At full dark, the rolling prairie became alive with evil: on foot, on horseback, in cars and trucks and jeeps. The un-Godly sought out the Godly. The Godless had no tactics except to charge, they did this in waves, running up the hill. During a break in the firing, Chester said, "This takes me back some years, to the Pacific. The Japs would come at us just like this, screaming, in wave after wave. We'd stack them up like cord-wood and still they'd come at us." He glanced at his wife. Her face was streaked with dirt and gunpowder. "You all right, honey?"

She forced a grin. "I'll make it."

"Good girl. Hang in there."

And then there was no more time for talk, as the night filled with two-legged evil, running up the hill, toward the home, straight into the guns of God.

"Hit the gas!" Sam yelled, and cocktails went spinning through the air, igniting the gas cans with dynamite taped to them. The earth shook under the impact.

The air became thick with the acrid stink of gunsmoke, gas fumes, smoke, and the stench of searing, burning flesh. Hearing was momentarily impaired by the booming, yammering, cracking of weapons. Nostrils became insulted, eyes teared and reddened.

Abruptly, an eerie silence fell on the prairie.

"What's happening?" Wade called.

Sam glanced at his watch, the luminous hands glowing. "It's over. It's one minute past midnight. They can't move on God's day."

Sunday - The Fourth Day

"There is something that bothers me, Sam," Chester said, screwing a new barrel on his Grease-gun, discarding the old warped barrel. Breakfast over, the nine relaxed, cleaning weapons, filling old whiskey bottles with gasoline, making Molotov cocktails. Making ready for war on God's day.

Sam looked up from his work. "They have access to explosives just as we do. They could have blown us out of any place we've been. Why didn't they?"

"Because they want me alive," the minister said. "For more than one reason, I think." He didn't elaborate. "It would be quite a coup for them, taking me."

Jane Ann touched his hand. "Nydia?"

Sam nodded. "Yes." He rose to his feet. "Let's take a drive, folks." "Where?" Tony asked.

The minister smiled that grim warrior's smile. "Whitfield."

Up a slight grade, and Whitfield came into view. Sam stopped his little convoy and got out of his pickup, standing in the center of the state road. His group gathered around.

All were visibly nervous, Wade asking, "Are we just going straight in, Sam? There must be two thousand people down there!"

Sam looked down at Whitfield. "We're going in just like the Cavalry. One pass through town. We are going to burn down the town, but not today. We're just going to give them a little taste of what's in store for them."

"And they're going to sit back and let us do it?" Miles asked. "Without a fight?"