The Devil's Heart

by William W. Johnstone

  But the rest was to be a very short one. Sam had just eased out of the straps of his heavy pack when he heard a sound to his left, slightly behind him. He tensed, thumbing the Thompson off safety. He spun, throwing himself to one side, coming up on one knee, the SMG leveled, on full auto.

  What he saw numbed him momentarily.

  A demon griffin, a winged horror that, until now, had been only a part of mythology. Its ugly head lowered, the creature charged Sam, howling as it came.

  Sam pulled the trigger, a one second burst of heavy, .45 caliber slugs. The griffin screamed, humanlike, and fell to its knees, blood gushing out of the holes in its chest and throat. It kicked on the cold forest floor for a few seconds, then, with a terrible shrieking, it beat its wings and died.

  "What in the name of God is that thing?" Sam asked.

  Only one among them knew the answer to that, but she had no intention of explaining.

  Nydia screamed, Sam whirling around. Rats had encircled the young girl, and Nydia was beating at them with a stick. Linda stood with her back to a tree, her face pale with terror. The rats, much larger and bolder than their earthbound cousins, seemingly had no fear of humans, and no interest in attacking anyone other than Janet. The child was kicking at them with her tennis shoes. One of the rodents leaped at her, yellow teeth snapping.

  Sam slapped it to the ground and stomped on it with a heavy jump boot, smashing the guts from the devilish rodent. He looked up, and only then did he see the white slash on the bark of a tree about fifty yards from their rest stop.

  Fifty yards behind them.

  "Run!" Sam yelled, grabbing up his pack. "Get the weapons and the packs and run. Toward that big oak," he pointed. "Get past it."

  Nydia grabbed Linda and shoved her into action literally forcing her to stop and pick up her pack and the shotgun she was carrying.

  The rats pursued them to the slash-marked tree, but would not attack them once they had passed the line. The rodents raced back into the forest.

  Janet looked at the slash on the tree. Whatever, or whomever had marked the tree had done so with a mighty sword or knife, wielded with awesome power. "Those boundaries you people were talking about? I think we found them."

  Sam lay on the ground sheet, his head resting on his pack. His thoughts were many. It was late afternoon, and turning colder. Already a few flakes of snow had fallen, and it felt as if it might start snowing in earnest at any moment. If that happened, he would have to build a fire and a lean-to. The lean-to didn't worry him, but a fire might bring some unwelcome visitors.

  Why are they waiting? he mused. We are few and they are many, and with their powers, they must know where we are. Surely they can't be that afraid of me?

  "Do not flatter yourself so, young warrior," the voice boomed into Sam's head. "It is I they fear."

  "I wondered where you had gotten off to," Sam spoke, oblivious to the others looking at him, listening to the one-sided conversation.

  "I have been busy. Now hear me, young one: you must be on guard, but you need not fear the evil forces as much as you believe. I will take care of those spawns of hell. They will harass you, worry you, but they won't harm you—if you remain careful and maintain your faith."

  "You mean, I can kill them, but they can't kill me, or us?"

  "I didn't say that."

  Sam sighed, an exasperating expulsion of breath, "Riddles again, huh?"

  "Only if you believe they are riddles."

  "Study your words, huh?"

  "That is correct."

  "Is it against the policy of … Him for you to come right out and say things in an understandable fashion?"

  "How like your father you are."

  "You hedged the question."

  "Correct. Young warrior," the voice held a slight note of puzzlement. "I have spoken to many mortals over these thousands of years, but you baffle me."

  "How?"

  "You aren't afraid of me."

  "Why should I be? You're on my side, aren't you?"

  And if that force that sits by the right hand of God, that force of all that is good and pure and just, could chuckle, it did. "Confidence is good, of course, all great warriors must possess it, but don't allow it to cloud your judgment."

  "I don't intend to do that. But I will tell you this much: as soon as I get some sign from you, or the feeling is right—whatever—I'm goin' to Falcon House and kill every swinging di … uh … everybody in there."

  Again, Sam got the impression the mighty voice was laughing.

  "With the jawbone of an ass?"

  "Did that really happen?"

  "In a manner of speaking, certainly."

  Sam held up the Thompson. "I'll start with this … no telling what I might end up with, though."

  "Live a good, strong, healthy, productive life, offspring of Sam Balon. And when your time on earth is over, I will personally welcome you home."

  "My time on earth could very well be short."

  "That is entirely possible."

  "Tell me something."

  "If it is permitted."

  "Am I really speaking with you? Are you Michael? And will I remember any of this—if I get out alive, that is?"

  "You ask probing questions, young warrior. Inquiries I am forbidden to answer."

  "I won't ask why."

  "Wise of one so young."

  "Instead I'll ask this: when do I start my mission?"

  "You have wards to look after, lives in your care. A flock, if you will. But remember this: sometimes a wolf may disguise itself to enter the flock. And a cabin of evil may sometimes be turned into a fortress of truth. If you desire, you may begin whenever you are ready." The voice faded away.

  "Sam?" Nydia said, watching the young man she loved get to his feet. "What are you going to do?"

  "Start a war," he said quietly.

  THURSDAY MORNING

  The weather had held for the good, and they rested and slept on ground sheets, in sleeping bags. Sam had talked long into the night with Nydia, with her asking all the voice had said.

  "There is only one cabin on our land," she told him. "That I know of, and I think I would know of any others. That's several miles north of the house. Falcon had it built. It's quite cozy."

  Sam glanced at the sun peeking through the tall timber. "If we head due west, we should hit the cabin. With any luck," he added.

  "You think that's what the voice was saying?"

  "Honey, I just don't know. I've studied his words, over and over. That's the only thing I can think of. As for that bit about a fortress of truth … I don't know."

  "Well … I'm ready anytime you are," she said.

  He grinned at her.

  "No way," she said, verbally tossing cold water on him.

  "Ever since we witnessed that … display in the Heavens, Ralph, you've been moody. Out of sorts. What's the matter, honey?"

  "You remember I went into town the next morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I made some phone calls; I made about a dozen phone calls. Charged them on our credit card." He grinned ruefully. "Our phone bill next month should be a real doozie. I called four stargazers in America, one in Canada, the rest overseas and in South America." He looked at his wife. When he again spoke, his words were soft. "All that activity we watched: the sky changing colors, the plumes of dirty … smoke—whatever it was; those odd, unexplainable occurrences … everything. Betty, we were the only ones to have witnessed anything unusual that night. The only ones in … this … world!"

  "That's impossible," she protested. "Ralph, it went on for more than an hour! Somebody, somewhere, has to have seen it."

  He solemnly shook his head. "No one I spoke with. And I talked with the best people in the business."

  "1 … don't understand, Ralph. We certainly didn't dream what we witnessed. That was a heavenly phenomenon unequalled … well, by anything I've ever seen or read of. I'm sorry the camera malfunctioned and we didn't get it."

  "If the c
amera malfunctioned," he said. "Remember, the film I shot back at the observatory came out blank, as well.''

  "The people you talked with … could they be holding back? Deliberately holding back? Maybe to do a paper on the sightings?"

  "I thought of that with the first two I spoke with," he admitted. "But a dozen people? No." He sighed. "So, that brings it right back to us."

  She sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. "You weren't alone in seeing that … sighting several days before this one."

  "No."

  "Why then and not last evening?"

  Ralph was silent for a moment; reflective in his quiet musings. "Don't think me a fool for saying this, Betty, and rest assured you will be the only person to ever hear this from my lips, but … all right, charge ahead and get it said.

  "Betty … we're Christians. Maybe not the best in the world, but we do try. We're believers, let's call it. So perhaps what I witnessed previously … no, not perhaps—I know I saw the face of God. It was magnificent … holy … even though He appeared to be quarreling with … somebody … something. What we witnessed the other night … well, have you given any thought to that being … from the other world?"

  "What other world, Ralph?"

  "Hell."

  By noon, Sam had brought in enough wood to last the women several days. There was plenty of oil for the lamps, candles should they need them, and ample fuel for the portable stoves and lanterns. He took a can of that for his own use. There was plenty of canned food in the cabin. There was no more Sam could do, but he was hesitant to leave the warmth and safety of the cabin … even more hesitant to leave Nydia. Looking at her, sitting quietly in a chair by the fire, Sam realized just how much he loved her, and knew that that love—right or wrong, morally—was growing each day.

  She met his tender gaze. "It's time for you to go, Sam."

  "I know."

  "We'll be all right," she said. "We have weapons, and 1 know how to use them. And," she blinked away sudden tears, "you have a job to do. Time is growing short, I believe."

  "Yes," he agreed, still reluctant to leave.

  "I packed the holy water as carefully as I could. You're sure you have everything else you'll need?"

  He nodded his head.

  "I love you, Sam."

  "And I love you, Nydia."

  "Go with God," she said, her voice breaking.

  Without looking back, Sam opened the door and stepped out into the cold air. He quietly closed the door behind him, jacked a round into the chamber of the old Thompson, slipped the SMG on safety, and walked down the path, heading toward Falcon House. The young man had a mission few would envy.

  To meet the Devil.

  A thousand miles away, the Coven was resting in and around Whitfield. The members, hundreds of them, were, to a person, exhausted after a night of debauchery, torture, and depravity. Their clothing reeked of filth and sin, for none among them had bathed in a week. The stink of the Devil worshipers and the smell of rotting flesh hung over the town like an ominous cloud called into being from the drum and cannon of a depraved rainmaker. The Coven members lay in sleep where they had fallen in exhaustion, stinking breathing heaps of wickedness … who would soon learn the awesome furious power of God's retributive wrath toward those who serve another Master.

  In the Lansky home, the four people sat quietly. They listened to the almost too loud ticking of the old grandfather clock.

  On the porch steps of the Lansky home, the Clay Man was immobile. He waited.

  Jane Ann sat, reading from the Bible, reading the verses the mist that was Balon had directed her to read. She read, gaining inner strength for the ordeal that faced her. Soon.

  And in the firmament, the Ruler of All Things, all planets, gave a rumbling command. A dead star sprang into life, billions and billions of miles from the planet known as earth. The bit of rock began to glow and smoke, and it began its journey slowly.

  A creature from another time, another world, sprang onto the path Sam trod. It roared and clawed the earth. But Sam had studied the words of the warrior and understood at least part of them. He stood his ground, glaring at the gulon, a hideous mixture of the hyena and the lion.

  "You can harm me only if I cease to believe in God's word, God's love, God's power, and God's protection," Sam said to the creature. "And I will never stop believing in Him. So get out of my way and get back to Hell where you belong."

  The creature turned its tail and slipped back into the timber, afraid of this mortal with God's protection against its kind.

  "Personally," the voice came to Sam, "I would have fought the ugly beast of Hell."

  "To each his own." Sam continued walking.

  "The house, the few acres around it, and those who live with evil in it are yours. All else is mine."

  "Going to destroy the Devil's spawn?"

  "Yes. Those that were called."

  "There are more of those … things?"

  "As many as a nonbeliever wishes there to be."

  "Someday—not soon, I hope—I'm going to have a long talk with you."

  The mighty warrior could have told Sam when that time would be, but that was forbidden. Not that the warrior always obeyed the rules, for he did not. But … most of them.

  The warrior faded and was gone from Sam's consciousness. But he watched the young warrior stride purposefully down the path. He could not tell him of the pain that awaited him; could not relate the horrors that would confront him. But the warrior felt the young one could cope. He would be bloodied, but with his head not bowed in subservience to that filthy rabble of the Hooved One.

  A mile from the cleared ground of the mansion, Sam stopped for a rest, and to prepare some equipment. He carefully checked the old Thompson and his father's .45 pistol. He tested the edge to his knife. He bloused his jeans in his jump boots, retying the boot laces, securing them. He had filled half a dozen small bottles with the highly flammable portable stove fuel, and he checked them for breakage, repacking them carefully. He stood up, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out his black wool Ranger beret, with his old unit crest attached. He settled the beret on his head, took a deep breath, and walked down the path.

  He was as ready as he knew how to be.

  "He's coming," Karl spoke to Falcon, utilizing a handheld handy-talkie.

  Falcon stood in front of the window of his quarters; Karl was hidden in the timber, waiting with other men to ambush Sam.

  Falcon knew where Nydia and the others were, just as he knew his Master had instructed the bitch to watch out for Nydia's well-being, in case Falcon's seed had overpowered Sam's weak flow of semen and she was with demon, as Roma felt her daughter was.

  Falcon also knew the fight that Sam was bringing to the grounds was to the death. And the young man was without fear. He was cautious, but not fearful. Falcon had observed, with the help of his Master's all-powerful eye, the young warrior face down the gulon, the creature slinking off into the timber, back to its hiding place.

  And the old warrior, the Mighty One's favorite archangel was here, rubbing his hands together, looking forward to a good scrap, spoiling for a good fight with God's most hated enemy.

  It had not gone as planned, Falcon sighed. We have a good chance of winning this fight; the odds are still in our favor, but …

  He chose not to think of the alternative.

  "Be careful, Karl," he spoke into the handy-talkie. "The young man is dangerous, and he has been well trained for battle. And something else: he has been tested in actual combat; he has killed, and he will not lose his courage."

  "Bah!" the man dismissed Falcon's warnings. "He is too young to be that dangerous."

  Fool! Falcon thought. "Sam Balon's offspring is a combat-tested, ex-Army Ranger, you idiot. With several special warfare schools behind him. Don't underestimate him.''

  "We lost him!" Karl's excited voice belched from the speaker. "He was in sight just a moment ago. Where'd he go?"

  "Probably coming up behind you, you clo
d! The young man is a trained guerrilla fighter." Falcon opened the window facing the woods just in time to hear the sounds of gunfire. "Damn!" he muttered.

  Sam had been expecting an ambush and had been watching closely for any signs of one. He had spotted the movement of bushes ahead of him and darted off the path, coming up softly behind the men. The young man had been well trained, and terms of surrender was the last thing on his mind. He raised the SMG and blew the men into the arms of their chosen God.

  Sam eased his way up to the fallen men. Blood, bits of bone, and gray matter were splattered on the trees and the ground beneath the men. One man was alive; he raised his hand and groaned.

  "Help me," he pleaded.

  "Certainly," Sam said. He shot the man between the eyes.

  The Old Warrior smiled grimly, thinking: I have no need to worry about this young warrior. Then he was off, searching the timber, sword in hand, looking for a fight with the forces of evil.

  Sam picked up a rifle lying beside one of the bodies and inspected it for damage. The bolt action was a Winchester model 70, .338 magnum, in good shape. He rolled the dead man over and removed a cartridge belt from him, then searched his pockets for more cartridges, finding another boxful in his jacket pocket. Sam left a short-barreled lever-action carbine, and picked up a bolt action .308. The fourth man had been carrying a Weatherby .460.

  "Elephant gun," Sam muttered, grinning as he stood among the carnage he had wreaked. "I think I'll find me a nice vantage point and do a bit of sniping."

  The first round went through a rear window of the great house, hitting a young woman in the stomach, knocking her backward over a coffee table, the mushrooming slug slamming a hole in her stomach as big as her fist. She lay on the floor, screaming her life away, wailing for her chosen Master to help her … stop the awful pain.

  He did not.

  "Jimmy!" Falcon roared. "Come here."

  The zombielike living dead shuffled into his earth-bound master's quarters.

  "What is all that noise?"

  "Young Sam Balon on the ridge northeast of the house, sir. Got a rifle."

  Another slug came whining through the mansion, ricocheting off a brick of the fireplace and knocking a jagged hole in the wall.