"I'll drive the truck," his partner said. "Follow you."
A mile down the road, the deputy turned to the right.
"Aren't we going the wrong way?" Joan asked.
"Short cut," the deputy said.
He drove to an old fishing camp in the back country, near a lake in the Bad Lands. There, ignoring her screaming, the men took turns raping her.
Just before dawn, while Joan lay sobbing on the dirty floor, a car pulled up outside the shack. "Walter," a deputy said, looking out the boarded-up window.
"Sink the truck in the lake," the acting-sheriff told them, his eyes taking in the lushness of the teenager's body. He knelt down and squeezed a soft breast.
"No!" Joan screamed. "Please help me!"
Walter beat her into submission, then raped her. When he had finished, he tied her securely, put her in the back seat of his car, and drove to Tyson's Lake, dumping her over the fence. He backed off, up the hill, watching the Beasts lope toward the girl. They dragged her into the timber. Her screaming lasted a long time as the Beasts took turns mounting her.
Then the timber was silent.
Walter knew the girl had become one of Them, a rapid metamorphosis taking place after she had been bitten on the neck, the infection spreading through her. Walter knew this because the Master's agent had told him how it was done. Then he had taken the acting-sheriff to meet the Beasts.
That encounter had been one of the less pleasant experiences of Walter Addison's life.
Addison drove back to Whitfield, to his apartment. He showered, shaved, put on a clean uniform, and went to his office, waiting for the call from anxious parents. He was very solicitous as he talked with the parents of Joan and Larry, promising them he would do everything he could to find the missing kids.
After hanging up the phone, he looked at a couple of his deputies. They all wore medallions under their uniform shirts. "Some kids disappeared last night," he said. "Parents are all worked up about it."
And they all laughed.
Two
The corruption that almost completely destroyed the town of Whitfield did not occur swiftly. Rather, like a slow-moving cancer, it worked with stealth, insidiously spreading, until the knife could but momentarily halt the propagation, not cure it. Only death would check the dispersion of evil.
The purulence-filled cavity of disgust leaked over into the light one day, dribbling just enough filth to alarm one man and one young woman who loved that man. To jog their sense of outrage. To move them into action.
The minister, Sam Balon, and the woman, Jane Ann Burke.
The forces of evil must have screamed their hatred when Sam began to gather facts, spreading them out in his mind, sorting them into neat little piles of truth.
Most men do not know their limits, their capabilities, their own minds. Sam Balon did. The devil despises the Sam Balon's of the world, and would prefer to stay away from them.
Sam was no lace-pants preacher. He'd been tested many times, and was as tough as wang-leather, understanding the temptations of this world. He had tasted the bittersweetness of evil, and knew that all humankind was susceptible to enticement.
The devil is wary of these kinds of ministers. For these types of men are tough. The Sam Balon types, upon seeing that prayer will not work, will ball their fists and come in swinging. This type of minister does not set himself up as a paragon of virtue, for all to follow their example. They know they are human.
The Sam Balon's of Christian ministry are rare breeds. They enjoy a cold beer after mowing the lawn. They might smoke a pipe or a few cigarettes a day. They enjoy wine with the evening meal. They understand changing times, moving with the flow, not against it. They are not pulpit-pounders or screamers. The young people usually like them.
The devil hates them. For as attractive as Satan makes sin, the Sam Balon's are almost always impervious to it. They cannot be possessed, so they must be destroyed. And the devil sits and scratches his head, wondering—How?
Satan cannot destroy the Sam Balon's at the outset: that would anger God, and the devil knows onlv too well the wrath of God. Satan has felt God's boot on his butt too many times, and that has made him wary. So the devil must work quietly; he must work around the Sam Balon's, hoping the man will not discover the evil until it is too late—until the man is alone, almost defenseless.
In Whitfield, the devil almost succeeded.
"I guess the kids just took off," Walter Addison told the mothers of the missing teenagers. "They will do that, you know. We've had an APB—that's an All Points Bulletin—out for more than a month."
"I know you're doing all you can, Walter," the mother of the missing girl said.
"Well," the sheriff said, standing with his cowboy hat in his hand, "I hate to say this, but kids do funny things nowadays. I personally think it's all that rock and roll music they've taken to listening to. It's got something to do with it. I just don't know, ladies. There is gettin' to be so much sex in the songs and in the movies. No tellin' what it'll be like twenty years from now." He shook his head, a humble man, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. "We'll keep trying, ladies, I can promise you that."
Sam had stood listening. Walter had ignored him, refusing to speak to him.
Crap! the minister thought, watching the sheriff walk away. Pure undiluted cow chips.
5am said goodbye to the ladies and then stood for a moment on the corner of the street.
You're a liar, sheriff! Sam mused. You said you called the FBI, and the FBI came in and looked around, investigating a possible kidnapping. But the FBI never came in here, never questioned anyone, because you never called them. And I'd like to know why.
I know they didn't come in here, sheriff, because Joan was a member of my church, and they didn't question me. Larry worked part-time for Chester, and they didn't question him. Larry belonged to the Episcopal Church, and they didn't question Glen Haskell. The principal of the high school, Bill Mathis, said they talked with him, in his office at school. But Jane Ann said the day they were supposed to have talked with him, he was out of town, at a meeting in Lincoln. So add that all up, partner, and that makes you a liar, and it makes Bill Mathis a liar.
But why?
And why all the recent grave robbing? Where are the bodies? And there is something very strange going on at Glower's Funeral Home. I've heard whispers. Even Doctor King is suspicious,although he won't talk with me about it. Not yet.
And the people in this town. They've become . . . different, somehow. What's going on, Sheriff?
"You're deep in thought, Sam,? the voice jarred him out of his musings. He looked into the violet eyes of Jane Anne Burke, and a warm feeling spread over him.
"Yes, I am," he smiled at her. "Or was."
She looked up at her minister. He was almost a foot taller than her five four. A big man, Sam Balon, who did not in any way fit the minister stereotype.
Sam looked more like a mercenary; a soldier of fortune; a pirate. Dark brown hair, almost always unruly. Massive shoulders and barrel chest. Heavily muscled arms. Huge wrists. There were scars on his knuckles and two faint scars on his face, one just above his right eye, the other on his chin. She'd heard he got one scar in a barroom brawl in Kansas City, the other scar in a free-for-all in a bar in Korea. Sam had emerged from that war a much-decorated hero, but he never talked about it.
She'd heard that Sam had been part of of an experimental combat unit in Korea. Something called Special Forces—guerrilla fighters.
Jane Ann was in love with her minister, and she knew he knew. But she was very careful never to be alone with him. If they were seen together, it was always in public places.
"How is Michelle?" she asked.
"Just fine."
That was a lie and they both knew it. Michelle, Jane Ann thought, is a bitch! The whole town knew Sam and his wife were having problems. They didn't even sleep together. Lately, it seemed lots of people in Whitfield were having problems, mostly with their faith. Church atten
dance was way down.
"Ministers aren't supposed to tell fibs, Sam," she gently scolded him.
"Ministers aren't human," he returned the smile, thinking, Oh, boy, are we human. Jane Ann, if I weren't a minister . . .
An old lady hobbled by on arthritic legs, greeting them. "Jane Ann. Reverend Balon."
He smiled and nodded.
Sam did not like being called Reverend. He maintained there was only one Reverend person to ever walk the earth, and He had been crucified. Call him Sam, call him preacher, call him brother, but please don't call him Reverend.
Walter Addison drove by, and Jane Ann watched her minister's eyes narrow as they followed the sheriff's car down the street. Addison had not waved at them. It was almost as if he was deliberately avoiding them.
"He was a member of our church for as long as I can remember," Jane Ann said. "Then suddenly he stopped attending. Strange."
"Yes. it is—among other strange things happening in Whitfield." Sam swung his gaze to Jane Ann "I'd better be going. Got to get back home."
Back to your slut wife! Oh, Sam, everybody in town knows she's running around on you. "I'll see you Sunday, Sam."
"Yes. Fine." He started to walk away, hesitated, and then said, "Jane Ann?"
"Yes, Sam?" she almost called him darling.
"Be careful."
"That's an odd thing to say. Why did you say that?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Forget it, Janey."
She watched him walk away, arms swinging by his side. A huge, powerful man. A very handsome man. Not the pretty-boy type; the rugged type. Not at all a follower of fashion, Sam Balon. he wore what pleased him, not some men's fashion designer. This was crew-cut or flat-top country. But Sam wore his hair longer than most. Chester Stokes had told her that Sam was once asked about the length of his hair—that it was out of style. The man doing the asking had said it with a smirk. Sam's reply was, "If you don't like it, jump in and try to change it, partner. Watch ihis ex-doggie bite."
Not your average preacher type, Sam Balon.
Sam had turned more than one woman's head, causing them to think very unchurchly thoughts of the minister.
And I'm one of them, Jane Ann smiled.
Fork County is one of the largest counties in America—larger than some states. Thousands of square miles of sand hills, ridges, Bad Lands, valleys, hollows, and hundreds of small lakes. Some of the finest timber in the state can be found in Fork County. The land is dotted with cottonwoods and box elders. Very little farming in Fork County, mostly cattle ranching in the rolling hills and plains.
There are only four towns in the entire county, the largest being Whitfield. Fork County is huge, and sparsely populated. If one wanted to hide, or be alone, or perpetrate an evil, Fork County would be ideal. Not because of the people, but because of its aloneness, its isolation.
Whitfield sits almost in the direct center of Fork County, and while its chief law enforcement agent is called Sheriff, he is really a sub-sheriff, the elected sheriff having his offices in Atwood, some sixty miles away.
Whitfield is not an easy place to reach; it has few visitors. One road in, one road out. State roads. There are several winding county roads, but most of them lead nowhere, or in a circle, and at times are impassable.
A native of Fork once told a weary salesman who was attempting to get to Whitfield, "You can't get there from here, partner. You got to go somewhere else to start."
He was only half joking.
Fork County.
Standard number of churches in Whitfield, standard mix of religion as found in any small town. The young people leave as soon as they can, unless they plan to ranch with their fathers. Whitfield has no industry. The ranches have passed from great-grandfather to grandfather to father to son. Old brands. Foreign investment in Fork County is nil.
Only one Jewish family in Whitfield, Miles Lansky and his wife Doris. The Lansky's walk a fine line. They live in a community full of cowboys and out-doorsmen. A community full of the Plains State's version of the Southern Good Ole Boy. A less refined term is Redneck.
"Them Jews is funny, you know that, boy? They ain't like us."
A statement that surely brings great joy to the Jews.
Miles owns a very profitable department store. His best friend is Sam Balon.
In Fork, cowboys still ride horses on round-up, still carry guns. The six-guns, though, are usually carried in the saddlebags, not belted around the waist. Quick drawing is something that can now be seen at the County Fair. Amuses the kiddies.
Sport. Occasionally, someone emulating Wes Hardin will shoot off his toe. Amuses the adults.
The one newspaper in this part of Fork, the Fork County Crusader, is conservative Republican, owned by its editor, Wade Thomas. The newspaper was passed on to him by his father, and to him by his father, who came to what is now Whitfield in the 1860s. The newspaper is published weekly, serving the eastern half of Fork County. Due to a range war in the late 1890s, the western half of Fork does not get along with the eastern half. Memories die hard in Fork County.
The Crusader is a good, solid, small-town newspaper.
Whitfield had, until recently, a radio station. The airwaves would alternate painfully between the nasal honkings of country music and the primal gruntings of the newly discovered rock and roll.
Sam, a lover of the classics, did not listen to the local station. It was not that Sam did not like some country and some rock and roll; for some reason, listening to the local station made him very nervous. He assumed it was only his imagination and thought no more of it.
In June of 1958, the radio station abruptly went out of business and off the air, to the sorrow of many and the almost total relief of the few music lovers in Whitfield.
The Crusader made a few polite inquiries about the archaeologists working around what was always presumed to be an ancient Indian burial ground and the often laughed-about home of some kind of monster. Nervous laughter. Almost everyone in Whitfield believed it was a burial ground; almost no one believed it was the home of any type of monster. Still, though . . .
No one knew the site of the Digging was linked to natural tunnels to the stand of timber at Tyson's Lake.
"It's weird out there, partner," is the standard when one asks about the strange formation of rocks out in the Bad Lands. "It's hard to get to and there ain't nothing out there when you get there. Stupid circle. Indian mumbo jumbo. Big deal. Now, I ain't been out there in years. I ain't goin', either."
No one goes "out there" after dark. Very few go "out there" during the day. Even before the archaeologists put up a fence to keep people away from the circle, no one went "out there." Down through the years there have been reports of deaths "out there." Rumors of horrible creatures "out there."
Yes, Whitfield and that part of Fork County has had its monsters for hundreds of years—according to stories handed down. The legend is they are fanged and clawed creatures, with enormous strength and a vile stench about them.
Scary.
But no one has seen them. And, no, the creatures have never been known to venture into Whitfield.
Not yet.
The people of Whitfield and that part of Fork don't like to speak of the monsters—and don't. It is a close community, and outsiders are carefully scrutinized before being accepted into the fold—if they ever are.
The Project Director of the Dig, Doctor (Ph.d) Black Wilder, had refused to allow any pictures to be taken of the Dig, or of himself, or of any of his people. That irritated Wade Thomas. Wade, a typical reporter, took some shots, anyway. They didn't develop. Bad film, he concluded, and put the Digging out of his mind.
Really, the archaeologists made for pretty dull copy. Wilder had insisted upon using words so technical Wade didn't know what he was talking about, and if he didn't understand them, he knew perfectly well his readers wouldn't.
But something about the Dig nagged at Wade. Something—intangible—bothered him. Something about Wilder bother
ed him, too. And his workers—they rarely came to town. When Wade tried to talk with them, they answered him in monosyllables. They were not rude in their brevity, they just didn't have a damn thing to say. They would smile, nod their head, and walk off.
"Arrogant bunch of eggheads!" Wade muttered.
But if they were a bit strange—to small-town philosophy—they were well-behaved. They bought their supplies in Whitfield, paid in cash, were polite—standoffish, some said—and caused no trouble for the local law.
It was Sam who noticed they all wore the same kind of medallion around their necks. And they did not attend church—none of them.
But Sam kept his suspicions to himself.
And Wade kept his to himself.
And Jane Ann kept hers to herself.
All of them almost waited too long before bringing their suspicions to the attention of what few friends they had left.
Three
The archaeologist, at first, viewed the stone and the writings upon it with mildly concealed humor, believing some of his fellow workers were having a joke at his expense. But when he carbon-tested the stone and the edge of the cutting in the tablet, his smile faded abruptly. The stone tablet was thousands of years old. He double-checked his findings. When he finished the second testing, the young man sat in silence, smoking his pipe, looking at the tablet, his eyes not quite believing what was in front of him.
"Impossible," he said.
He then began the task of translating the ancient symbols cut deeply—and perfectly—into the stone. When the translation was complete, the young man shivered as he read the words. He simply could not believe what he was reading.
But there it was, in front of him, on the workbench in his small trailer/lab. Again, he checked his findings. The symbols cut into the stone were perfectly formed. They could not have been cut with any tool known to exist five thousand years ago—or more. Then, how?
The supernatural entered his mind. He shook his head at that. "No, that's not possible."
Or, was it?
He read again the translation. HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
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