Sam gathered most of the group in the darkened study of the mansion. Mille was standing guard toward the front of the mansion, second level. Nydia faced the rear of the house, also on the second level. Viv Draper, who it turned out was a crack shot, due to Monty's urgings just after they married, was on sentry duty at one end of the house. And Ginny, who really did not know which end of a rifle the bullet came out of, was at the opposite end of the mansion.
"No way we can hold off a couple thousand people, Sam," Monty said.
"I think we can," Sam told him. "If you people do what I tell you to do." He met each person's eyes in the dark room. "My wife, Mille, and Viv are expert shots. The others can keep the spare weapons loaded. We've got enough arms to outfit an entire company. That is exactly why I asked you men to show the non-combatants the nomenclature of all the weapons that first day here.
"It will be a frontal assault. It almost has to be. The woods behind the mansion are too thick and, from what Desiree tells me, the ground too unstable to permit much activity from that area. There will be some action from back there, but most of it will come from the front. I don't think we have to worry much about men coming at us from the direction of the Giddon House. Too much danger of Xaviere getting hurt. So that leaves the front and the west.
"Monty, you and Viv and Joe will man the west side of the mansion. I'll be at the front, with Nydia and Noah. Richard, Desiree, John, Barbara, and Jeanne will take the back. They'll have shotguns. None of them can hit the broad side of the barn with a rifle or pistol, but with scatterguns they can do some damage. Father Le Moyne, Ginny, Mille, and Byron will face the Giddon House. Susie will look after Little Sam.
"Get containers of water and place near your positions. Where there is hot lead, there is danger of fire. Pull down all the drapes. Get rid of everything you can that is flammable. I want you all to gather up your teams and start boarding up windows on the ground floor. Right now. Pile furniture against the doors and up against the windows once you have them boarded up. Fix what I am about to say in your minds and don't forget it: We open this dance. Whenever one of them comes into view, man, woman, or child—shoot! And shoot to kill. Never let a shot go by. The first rule of survival is this: Shoot first and ask questions later. Remember, the lives of all of us depend on each of us.
"This upcoming battle is going to be the worst thing that any of you have ever experienced. And some of us aren't going to make it out alive. But death is better than being taken prisoner by the forces of the Dark One. Bear that in mind at all times. And this: We are all that stands between Satan taking over this community. It's up to us to make a stand."
The ministers of the Baptist, Methodist, and Episcopal churches rose to their feet. Richard spoke for all of them. "I do not believe it is a sin to kill someone who has forsaken God to worship Satan. And firing a shotgun does not appear to be all that difficult or complicated. If the Good Lord will forgive my language at this time, and I feel certain, under the circumstances, He will, you people have my word that I will kill any son-of-a-bitch who tries to overrun my perimeter."
"I couldn't have said it better," Byron said, sticking out his chin.
"Count me in until the end," John said. "I believe—I know—God is on our side in this fight."
"I saw a carbine among the weapons," Father Le Moyne said. "I'll take that and a .45 pistol."
Mille looked at the priest, astonishment in her eyes. Her mouth formed an O.
"Oh, don't look so amazed, Mille," Le Moyne said with a smile. "I was born and reared in the—wilderness, so to speak. Grew up with a rifle in my hands. I have hunted more than my share of venison, believe me. And bear, too."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Richard blurted.
"I rather doubt your being damned, Richard," the priest said. "But if you don't do something about your thoughts concerning Desiree, you're going to have a heart attack."
Richard blushed.
The wind was roaring with a fury when Sam, despite the objections of almost everyone in the house, announced his plans to do a bit of headhunting.
Only Nydia and Father Le Moyne did not object. The priest nodded his head in approval and Nydia kissed her husband.
Sam took his AK and a dozen clips, his .41 mag with two speed loaders, his knife, the knapsack full of cocktails, and a length of rope coiled around his chest and waist.
He stepped out into the darkness and slipped over the fence at the rear of the mansion. He was immediately surrounded by thick brush and timber. The ground felt unstable under his booted feet.
Sam sensed the presence of the Beasts seconds before he smelled them. He dropped to his knees in the brush and began breathing through his mouth to minimize noise. Then the smell came drifting to him. He cut his eyes and saw the wild red eyes searching the night. Three Beasts, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, their long hairy arms almost reaching the ground.
Sam slowly lifted the AK and burned half a clip at the hideous earthbound servants of Satan.
They squalled and howled and flopped obscenely on the ground and died.
Sam was up and moving before the echo of the AK had died away. Staying close to the stone fence, Sam edged his way toward the street and the sounds of men and women shouting and cursing.
"What the hell's all that shooting?" a man called.
Sam reached the end of the fence and cautiously looked around the corner, into the street. A group of men and women stood in the center of the street. Sam lifted the AK and used the remainder of his clip, knocking the knot of people sprawling. In the confusion of the moment, Sam took that opportunity to shoot out the nearest street lights, plunging that section of the street into darkness. The howling winds covered any sounds he made running across the street.
He darted into a shed and smelled the strong odor of raw gasoline. He found a full five gallon can and smiled a warrior's smile. Taking the can, he slipped behind a house and knelt beside a huge tank of heating oil. He opened the can of gas and spilled some on the ground, splashing some more on the tank. He darted to the next house, the can trailing gasoline. There, he knelt beside the heating oil tank and spilled the rest of his gas. Using his big bowie knife, he slashed and hacked at the line leading from the tank to the house. Oil spilled on the ground. He dipped a handkerchief into the gas on the ground, wrapped that around a thick stick, and ran about fifty feet from the house. He lit the rag with his lighter and hurled the blazing stick, hitting the ground the instant the stick left his hand.
The houses erupted within two seconds of each other, the roaring explosions shaking the ground and sending debris flying in all directions. Sam rolled beside the protection of a concrete block shed and rode out the flaming fury.
From where he lay, he could hear the moaning and whimpering of the wounded and the dying. He jumped to his feet, slung the AK by the leather strap, and was running down the alley, digging in his knapsack for a cocktail. Pausing only long enough to light the
gasoline-soaked rag protruding from the neck of the bottle, he would then hurl the cocktail through a window. He began darting from house to house, skipping every other building. He was successful ten out of twelve times in setting a building ablaze. The winds began roaring, and Sam knew the howling winds were no accident. Soon the entire area around the Giddon House and Fox Estate was blazing, flames leaping into the night sky, fanned by the howling northwest winds, spreading the licking fury onto other homes.
A bullet striking the corner of a building sent painful splinters of wood into Sam's cheek. He jerked back and wiped away the blood.
"There's the son-of-a-bitch!" a woman shouted, pointing in Sam's direction. "Let's get him!"
Sam shot the woman in the stomach with his .41 mag. She slammed onto the concrete of the street and lay screaming her life away, kicking and howling. Her soul went winging into the depths of hell and into the dark arms of the Master she had willingly chosen to serve on God's earth.
Sam picked another splinter out of his cheek, wiped more bloo
d away, and ran down the flaming alley, the AK at combat arms, ready to spit lead death at any who dared challenge the God Sam had sworn to serve.
A crowd of men and women and teenagers picked up the challenge by charging at Sam, waving clubs and guns and knives, shouting their contempt for him.
"Take him alive!" a woman reminded the others. "The Princess wants his seed. Jump on him and drag, him down."
"Not if I can help it," Sam panted. He leveled the Kalishnikov and pulled the trigger, holding it back, fighting to suppress the natural rise of the weapon on full auto.
The flames from the burning homes and sheds were leaping into the air, fiery fingers reaching toward the night sky, devouring everything they touched on the ground that God created and Satan now claimed as his.
A man ran from a burning home, his clothing and hair blazing. His agonizing screaming touched the spine of all who heard him. The man fell face first onto the concrete of the street. He beat his hands in pain and then was silent as his body cooked, the fat from his flesh bubbling as it fried.
"Better get used to the sensation, sucker," Sam muttered. "And you get your feet to working," he reminded himself.
Sam ran across the street, always edging his way back toward the mansion. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, making a seldom seen, very elusive target for the Devil worshippers.
Logandale had a fire department, but it was obvious to Sam that nobody was manning the equipment, for the fires were now out of control, and spreading very quickly, threatening to expand their blistering path of devastation into other areas in that part of town.
Sam lay in the shadows across the street from the raging fires and turned sniper, picking his targets, the AK on semiauto. The roaring of the flames, the cracking and collapsing of structures, the howling of the suddenly rising winds—always out of the northwest, never varying—and the screaming of men and women and teenagers in the grips of pure panic and pain covered his gunfire.
And somebody, or something, was keeping the winds away from Fox Estate and the Giddon House, and steadily pushing them toward more heavily populated residential areas of Logandale.
Sam felt he knew who that person was.
Faintly penetrating the roar of destruction from the flames, Sam could hear the sounds of sirens and the shouting of men and women. The fire-fighting equipment was on the way, but for many blocks, it was too late. All the firefighters could do now was set back-fires and hope that would contain the rampaging conflagration.
Sam lay in his well-concealed position and sniped and watched the action unfold before him. His smile was a grim tiger's snarl. He lifted his AK and shot a fireman off a truck, then knocked another down, forcing the men and equipment back. Sam doubted that after this night anyone would mass to march against the small band of Christians at dawn. At worst, Sam had bought them all a day, maybe two days. He hoped for the latter.
Sam slipped from his concealment and ran down the sidewalk, expecting any moment to feel the impact of a bullet in his flesh, for he was starkly outlined against the glow from the flames.
No lead came his way.
We are all that is left, Sam thought. We are the last Christians left alive in Logandale.
He wondered how he knew that.
Then he realized he had not thought it. It had been spoken to him.
"All right, Dad," he panted the words. "I hear you."
He ran past the Giddon House, then did a turnaround and ran back to the locked gates of the great mansion. Behind him, the woods were on fire across the road, the exploding sap from the tall trees sounding very much like a battleground.
Sam leveled his AK at the big picture windows in the front of the mansion and squeezed the trigger, holding it back, working the weapon from left to right, spraying the windows. Someone in the house screamed, whether in pain or fright, Sam could not tell.
He slipped in a fresh clip and let those on the second floor of the mansion know he was present. The falling of broken glass, the shouting and screaming from the second level gave loud and painful testimony that Sam's presence was not at all welcomed by those inside.
Grinning with satisfaction, Sam ran back to the safety of Fox Estate.
DAWN. THURSDAY.
Sam had slept deeply and soundly, awakening refreshed. He awakened with a feeling that the battle was, somehow, almost over. When he looked out the window, that feeling was heightened.
Sam dressed and joined the others in the upstairs study. The scene before their eyes resembled a miniature replay of the aftermath of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings of 1945.
"Good Lord," Noah muttered, gazing at the sight from the upstairs study. "Sam, you were a one-man wrecking crew last night."
Sam smiled. "I did play hell with the town, didn't I?"
A full three thousand yards, running from the road well into Logandale proper was now reduced to charred, blackened ruins. Small fires still burned, sending black greasy smoke into the air. Bodies littered the soot-covered streets and sidewalks. The carcasses lay in grotesque, stiffening postures of painful death.
There was no wind. The morning had dawned cool and utterly still.
"There is nothing on radio or TV about this, Sam," Monty said, entering the room. "I don't understand that. But what really bugs me is this: How come we still have power after last night?"
"You'll have to ask my dad about that," Sam replied. He once more felt his father's presence.
"I think I'll pass on that," Monty said. "No offense to your dad intended," he quickly added, casting nervous eyes about the room.
"I'll go along with him," Joe said, jerking a thumb toward Monty. "How can we have electricity? All the damn lines are down! You can see them layin' in the street. It's—hell, impossible."
"Don't question," Father Le Moyne said. "It is best to just accept."
Barbara Morton looked out at the scenes of death and destruction. "I wonder how many died last night?"
"Not enough," Richard Hasseling replied, with considerable heat in his voice. Richard's views toward many things were undergoing a rapid metamorphosis.
"Princess?" Edie Cash approached the young woman sitting in the dark room. "Our people are demoralized. The death count from last night is close to two hundred. All because of one man. One man! And he seemed impervious to injury."
"Sam Balon is mortal," Xaviere replied. "He is just very, very lucky, that is all." But the young woman was not that certain—not anymore. Sam's burst of gunfire had killed Frank Gilbert and seriously wounded Norman Giddon. No one among them had expected such a vicious counterattack from the Christians; nothing like that sudden barbarism from the Christians.
It just wasn't like Christians. Not at all. All during her short life Xaviere had been taught to believe that Christians—for the most part—were all wimps.
The Princess was confused, but not personally afraid. She was a demon-child, so no mere mortal could harm her. But she didn't know what to do.
"I want you people to maintain steady gunfire into the Giddon House," Sam told the group. "We'll alternate those firing to minimize the strain. We've got dozens of boxes of ammunition. We'll work on their nerves. Let them get accustomed to one round every thirty seconds, then pick it up to one round every fifteen seconds. Let them grow used to a certain rhythm, then change it. Work on the most vulnerable spots of the house, and keep the pressure on. Let's do it, gang."
Sheriff Pat Jenkins was the first to fall under the hail of bullets, buckshot, and slugs from the Christians. Richard Hasseling literally blew the man's head apart when Jenkins carelessly exposed himself.
"Chalk one up for God," Richard muttered, then threw up on the floor.
Inside the Giddon House, nerves were beginning to fray under the constant whining and cracking of bullets. Everyone had retreated to the far side of the mansion, seeking safety, but secure refuge was elusive when Sam started using Teflon-coated bullets. The super-slug would drive through half a dozen walls and still have the power to kill.
One of the super-slugs snuffed out Norman Giddon's life as the wounded man tried to crawl to safety.
"Joe?" Sam called. "You and Monty get up on the roof with rifles. You'll have a clear field of fire across the burned area. Knock down anyone who tries to approach. I'll join you in a minute."
This time, Monty showed no reluctance in firing. Using scope-mounted rifles, the men began sniping at anything that moved within range. Both men were expert shots, and soon the area was cleared of all living things. Now dead littered the smoking area.
When Sam joined them, with a 7mm magnum, the sniping took on a new ferocity. Soon, none of the Devil worshippers dared venture anywhere near the burn area.
It became a standoff.
THURSDAY EVENING
Satan admitted it. He was beaten unless somehow his followers could rally themselves and charge the mansion where the Christians had barricaded themselves.
But the Dark One knew the odds of that occurring were slim.
Damn Sam Baton!
And Satan knew something else the young man did not know. There were whispered comments among Satan's own forces that Sam Balon had been chosen to lead God's fight here on Earth. And it was all the fault of that meddling old warrior. Things had been going so well here on Earth, too. All that lovely pornography; the lessening of ethics in business; younger and younger kids experimenting with dope and fucking around; teenage suicides increasing; morals at an all-time low; swingers clubs popping up everywhere, everybody fucking and sucking and sodomizing; more and more people cheating on taxes; crime on a rampage; race relations deteriorating ... all that good stuff. Everything had been going so smoothly.
Now this.
Shit!
Satan turned his dark face toward the firmament and screamed, "You son-of-a-bitch!"
The Devil's Touch Page 27