William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

They were camped by a small lake, and ail 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-1, 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 soul-savin' 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'treally 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?

Tuesday - The Sixth Day

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."