Cat's Eye

by William W. Johnstone

  Carl’s eyes were as hard as granite in the faint moonlight. “I can damn sure try,” Carl told him, his words very soft in the bloody, evil night. Then he shot the man between the eyes.

  Carl looked around him. Most of those who had been standing near when the grenade blew were still alive, although peppered with glass and wood and fragments from the grenade itself. They were mangled and bloody but breathing. Carl left them where they lay. Those few who were conscious had quickly guessed from listening to what had just happened, that if they kept their mouths shut and didn’t threaten the young man, they would, in all probability, be allowed to live. They kept their mouths closed.

  Carl deactivated the Jag’s alarm system by pushing a button on a small matchbox-size plastic remote in his pocket, cranked up, and drove off. The night was still very young and the evil he faced was as old as time itself.

  He had a lot to do and not much time in which to do it.

  Jim had called off the patrolling, deciding it was just too dangerous, and had grouped his people in the jail building. He had left a fully charged handy-talkie with those who stayed in the clinic, warning them to use it as sparingly as possible. All power had been cut off to the town, and once the radios were gone, there was no way to recharge them.

  But the Stinson boys had not responded to any of Jim’s radio calls. He had no idea were they might be, but guessed rightly that wherever they were, they were probably in trouble.

  He was right.

  Bubba had gotten separated from his brothers. Rounding a corner, he had suddenly come upon an Old One who had just moments before left the basement of a coven member. The walking ugly evil had grown hungry, and Bubba looked like he would be tasty.

  Bubba had other ideas about being a meal for this ugly-looking bastard. He didn’t know what it was that was facing him, but whatever it was, he guessed it wasn’t nothing of this earth and it sure as hell didn’t drop down from Heaven.

  He shot it.

  The force of the slug pushed the stinking creature backward. A foul-smelling spray of liquid leaked from the bullet hole in the thing’s chest.

  It snarled and howled and held its clawed hands out in front of its misshapen body. Then it began moving toward Bubba.

  Bubba started hollering for his brothers.

  The three of them rounded the corner of the downtown building and came up short, shoe leather sliding on concrete at the sight before their eyes.

  “What the hell you done got treed, Bubba?” Sonny asked.

  “I ain’t got it treed! It’s got me treed! Shoot the son of a bitch, boys!”

  Gunfire split the darkness.

  The devil’s own was knocked sprawling to the sidewalk by the slugs. It promptly jumped to its clawed feet, roaring and howling and moving toward the quartet, the foulness that was its body fluid leaking out of half a dozen holes.

  “I think,” Keith said, “that we done fucked up again, boys.”

  Carl rounded the corner, his headlights picking up the bizarre scene. He pulled to the curb, behind the Stinson boys, and reached behind the seat, pulling out several bottles he had rigged earlier in the day.

  Bullfrog had served in the army; he knew what Carl was holding. “Molotov cocktail,” he said.

  “Fire is the only thing that will destroy these creatures,” Carl told the brothers. The Old One had stopped his advance, sensing that this was the mortal he had been warned to stay away from. “You can shoot these bastards ten thousand times, blow them to pieces, and the pieces would still be alive. They were born in fire, they have to die by fire.” He lit the rag dangling out of the top of the bottle and hurled it against the Old One.

  The hellish creature burst into flames and began howling in fear and pain and panic, beating its hands against the flames.

  Carl threw another bottle against the creature. Soon the beast was a running, squalling ball of flames and pain.

  It took only seconds for the fire to suck the life from the creature of and from the pits. It collapsed in the street and died, howling and beating its fists against the concrete.

  “Get back to the sheriffs office,” Carl told the brothers. “I’ve been listening to the scanner in the car. Jim’s been trying to reach you for an hour.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sonny asked him.

  “Stay out here.”

  “Alone?”

  Carl smiled at him. “Go on. I know how to fight these creatures and people. You don’t.” He walked back to the car and drove off.

  Bubba watched the taillights until the car was out of sight. “That there is either the bravest man I ever met, or a damn fool.”

  Shoe leather scraping on concrete brought the Stinson boys to attention. Faint shapes could be seen moving toward them from far back in the alley. They took off running for their trucks and headed for the sheriffs office.

  * * *

  Wilber Purdy and Ned Rodale had beaten back a half a dozen rushes by howling townspeople they had once called friends and neighbors, and had come close to being overpowered during the last charge. The men and women in the house were red-eyed from the acrid gunsmoke that lingered in the rooms

  “We can’t let them take the women alive, Ned,” Wilber said in a whisper. “They’ll be used badly.”

  “For a fact,” the sheriff agreed. “But I ain’t got the courage to kill my wife. She’s been through enough sufferin’ at my hands and from the other things I’ve done over the years.”

  “Very well. If those outside breech the house—and we both know they will—you buy me enough time to get upstairs. I’ll take care of it.”

  “The next charge ought to do it, Wilber. We got more than enough guns, but they’s just too many of them. You best move to the stairs now. Leave the ground floor to me.”

  “Don’t let them take you alive, Ned.”

  “I wouldn’t give those godless bastards that satisfaction,” the sheriff said grimly. He stuck out his hand and Ned took it.

  Footsteps were heard on the front and back porches.

  “Good-bye, Wilber.”

  “Good-bye, old friend.” The mayor walked up the stairs to defend the women.

  The sheriff laid his shotgun aside and filled both hands with .45-caliber autoloaders. Each semi-automatic held one in the chamber and six in the clip. Ned would do his best to take out thirteen of the coven members. The last round would be for him.

  Upstairs Wilber’s shotgun boomed, and a man screamed in pain in the back yard.

  The front porch filled with stinking men and women, hate shining in their eyes.

  “Come on, you filth,” Ned muttered. “For the first time in my life I feel like I got the love of God surrounding me. I ain’t afraid to die.”

  The front door crashed open and Ned shot a coven member between the eyes. A woman threw herself through a front window. Ned finished her before she could get up off the carpet.

  “Two,” Ned muttered.

  He picked his targets carefully, making each shot a good one, and counted the rounds expended. The back rooms of the big house filled with shouting and howling and chanting people, and Ned knew he had lost the race with the Reaper. A warm, soothing feeling spread over the man as dirty hands reached for him. And he knew that while he was not going Home, he’d be close enough to count the stars.

  “Take him alive!” a woman screamed. “We’ll skin him and listen to him scream.”

  Ned used his thirteenth round to blow a hole in the woman’s head. Above him, standing on the landing, Wilber was blasting away, a pistol in each hand.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” Ned said. He stuck the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger just as friends of the Devil rode him to the floor.

  Chapter 34

  Cats had completely covered the clinic building. They clung to the screens and the outside bricks; they covered the roof, screeching and yowling and scratching, seeking entrance.

  Inside the building, the din was enormous and nerve-stretching. But there was nothing those
inside could do except try to endure it. They dared not open a window or crack a door. The slightest entry point could spell their doom.

  The cats flung themselves against windows, smashing and mangling their bodies, killing themselves attempting to break the glass.

  The sounds of glass breaking in a storage room reached the ears of Tolson.

  “They’ve made it in!” he yelled up the corridor. “Watch the storage room on the south side.”

  A clawed paw rammed its way under the door. Tolson stomped on it with his boot. Another seeking paw got the same treatment. The cats in the room screamed their displeasure at their inability to gain entrance into the main part of the clinic.

  “That door will hold,” Bartlett said. “It’s a metal utility door.” He stuck a key into the lock and turned it, the clicking sound seeming to infuriate the cats inside; the howling and shrieking and scratching intensified in the room. “Dead bolt on both sides. We used to use this room to store drugs. We’ll just have to hang on and try some prayer.”

  “I been doin’ that,” the state trooper admitted.

  * * *

  Deep in the timber of the Conners Woods, Janet was wide awake. She had managed to loosen the rope that bound her wrists. Her belly had grown enormous and sometimes the pain was so intense she had to scream. Her captors had found that very amusing. The humor of it was lost on Janet.

  She knew one thing for a hard fact: There was no way she was going to birth a demon. She was dead either way it went, so why not destroy the monster that was growing within her?

  She had a plan. She wasn’t looking forward to carrying it out, but she knew she had no choice in the matter. She began working harder at the ropes that bound her wrists.

  * * *

  The street in front of both the city hall and the sheriffs office gave mute and bloody respect to the deadly aim of those trapped inside: Bodies lay sprawled in death all around both buildings.

  “Mike?” Jim called. The deputy looked up. “Bump Max on the tach and tell him to get ready to pull out. Sooner or later those heathens outside will try fire. When they do that, we’re screwed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any further word from the mayor’s house?”

  “No, sir. I think they’ve had it.”

  “Damn! I sorta liked Ned the past couple of days.”

  “Chief?” a deputy called. “Here they come with torches.”

  “That’s it, people!” Jim called. He began assigning those who would first make a try for the cars, the others laying down covering gunfire. “We head for the high school building. We can snipe from the rooftop and keep fire danger down to a minimum. Let’s go, boys!”

  * * *

  On the front porch of his daughter’s home, Edgar sat with Terrell, one of the four original men he’d sent into Butler after meeting with Carl and learning what was really happening. “I sure would like to know what’s going on in town,” Edgar said.

  “You want me to take some of the boys and go in?”

  “No. Not yet. We’ll go in at first light.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. We. I’ve been asked to assess the situation and see just how much cover-up is going to be needed.”

  Terrell sat quietly, waiting for the boss to drop the other shoe.

  “I was asked by certain people placed very highly within the Federal Government to do that little thing.”

  “So they are aware of what’s going on and monitoring things?”

  “Yes. They have a man inside the town now.”

  “What?”

  “Certain people within the government realized they had a very serious and rapidly growing problem with this Satan-worship business about eighteen months ago. So they contacted a man who had some expertise in the field and he went to work for them . . . in a manner of speaking.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I have a very good idea.”

  “Carl Garrett.”

  “Right.”

  “But I thought you said he was interested in the job you offered him.”

  “I thought he was. Maybe he really is. I haven’t spoken much about it since we got here. It isn’t the money; I know that much. Carl was checked out very thoroughly by my people. Carl isn’t that interested in money. I think what he wants more than anything is insurance . . . if you know what I mean.”

  “The government doesn’t have the greatest track record in the world for staying loyal to people in its employ who are in high-risk security areas. Believe me, I should know.”

  “Yes. Right on both counts. Carl is a very smart young man. He knows I have many, many government contracts and probably suspects that I do other, shall we say, clandestine work for our government whenever I go overseas. Carl is thinking—and rightly so—that if he ever gets in a jam where Uncle won’t back him, I would. And Uncle couldn’t say a damn thing about it for fear of what I know. And he’s right.”

  “He’s a damn smart man, Mister Conners. And something else: He’s driven. He’s obsessed with wiping out satanism.”

  “I know that too. And the government is obviously limiting him as to what he can use. That’s why he asked me to get those supplies for him.”

  “Naturally. This is good ol’ America, boss. We can’t have hired killers on the government payroll out stalking our streets, blowing away dealers and serial murderers and the like.”

  Edgar snorted in disgust. “God save us from the government, Terrell.”

  A few attempts were made to breech the high school building. Once again, the marksmanship of the cops kept them at bay. The lawn was wide front and back and the parking lots were vast, offering very little cover for the coven members. After two attempts, the lovers of Satan gave it up.

  Carl drove by the sheriffs office and jail shortly after it had been set ablaze. He emptied his 9-mm into the crowd of coven members who had gathered around, chanting and making joyful noises to Satan. At least a half a dozen of them would make no more noises—ever.

  Carl drove far out into the county and went to sleep.

  He awakened an hour before dawn and took a container of water from the trunk to brush his teeth, rinse out his mouth, and wash his face and hands. He drank a small can of tomato juice and ate a few crackers for breakfast.

  He knew, from past experience in dealing with the more violent of coven members (those who had given their hearts and souls to the Devil in return for some odious and oftentimes unhonored deal), that while the previous night had been terrible and bloody in terms of human life, the worst was yet to come. The coven leaders would whip their followers into a wild frenzy and the mindless rampage would begin.

  He had seen it before, although not on this grand a scale.

  He checked his guns and the gas gauge of the Jag. He would have to gas up somewhere. He drove to within a few miles of the still-dark town and found a farmhouse. There were no candles or lamps burning inside the frame house. Using his headlights and a flashlight, he carefully checked the ground for any sign of the large maggots. None. He got out of the car and walked to the house, knocking on the door. He had not anticipated any response and he received none.

  He pushed open the front door and the smell of death assailed his nostrils. He cautiously prowled the small home, the flashlight’s beam guiding the way.

  Carl found the couple on the kitchen floor. They had been hacked to death. Horribly and mindlessly murdered for no other reason than black evil viciousness. He picked up the receiver of the wall phone. No dial tone. He tried the lights. Flicking the switch produced nothing.

  And he didn’t think the coven members had a damn thing to do with the power outage. As had happened in Ruger County years back, he could see the not-too-subtle hands of the Federal Government in this: cut them off and seal them in and stonewall the press for as long as possible and hope for the best.

  “Bastards!” Carl muttered.

  He knew why the government was doing it, but he didn’t have to like it.

&n
bsp; He filled the Jag’s gas tank from the dead farmer’s tank, drove to the outskirts of Butler, parked on the road, and got out. The smell of smoke was hanging thick in the air. He guessed the coven members had torched both the jail and City Hall. From listening to the scanner, he knew that the cops had taken refuge in the high school building and were holding.

  Carl hated what he had to do next. Hated it but knew it had to be done. And he also suspected that there was only one man who could do the job: Carl Garrett.

  He drove to a service station just inside the city limits and parked the Jag behind the building. He slipped into his battle harness, checked to make sure he had everything he would need, picked up his M-16, and silently began his mission, entering the first house he came to.

  The rank odor of the house left no doubt that it was the home of those who groveled at the feet of the Prince of Darkness.

  That knowledge still didn’t make what he had to do any easier.

  He silently prowled the house. It was empty except for a man and a woman sprawled naked and filthy on a bed. The sheets were rumpled and stinking. Various signs and symbols praising Satan were on the walls; an upside-down cross hung over the bed.

  Carl raised the M-16, leveling the muzzle at the couple on the bed. His finger slid to the trigger. Part of his mind silently screamed for him to pull the trigger.

  He couldn’t do it. Had it been some hideous creature from the foulest bowels of Hell, he would have killed it with no qualms. Had the couple on the bed awakened and attacked him, he could kill them. But not under these conditions.

  Now what, mighty earthbound warrior of God? Carl asked in his mind. Now what do you do?

  The heavens did not open and no messages from God reached him.

  A noise on the back porch turned him around, the muzzle of the M-16 coming up. He slipped from the stinking bedroom and walked to the porch. Chris Speed and Father Chuck Vincent were standing on the porch, looking at him. Pastor Speed waved him out of the house. Both of the men were heavily armed. Pastor Speed led them some distance from the house and stopped.