Frank, Pete and Gary had not moved; continued to stare at their father.
Martin Holland, behind the wheel of the rusted old pickup truck, was clatter-banging his way closer to the fairgrounds. Only a few more miles.
Billie Watson had awakened from her swoon and managed to push the bloody, battered body of Jim Carrol off her. She had run screaming, naked, into the late afternoon, blind and mindless with fear.
Joyce was only a few yards away from Eddie, who was sitting by himself, away from the main group behind the livestock pavilion. Her daughter, Missy, was with her, both of them on hands and knees, inching closer to husband and father.
“I left your mother in her bed,” Tressalt told his sons. “I dressed her in her favorite white gown and folded her hands across her chest; put her little Bible under her hands. Them hands loved you boys. Changed your diapers, bathed you, held you and loved you.”
“Why don’t you shut your old trap, you stupid old man?” Pete yelled to his father.
Martin cringed at the hateful verbal venom in the son’s tone.
The father slowly shook his head. “Filth. I sired filth. I don’t know why I was punished. Probably never will. But I sired monsters.”
He stepped toward his sons.
“Behind his back,” Ned whispered. “Stuck in his belt.”
“What is it?” Dick returned the low tone.
“A stake. The pistol and that drunk act was just for show. He intends to kill one with the stake.”
The white object seemed to float a few yards closer to the lighted midway. Still too far away for anyone to clearly see.
But Old Doc Reynolds knew what it was. Tressalt’s wife.
Doc swallowed hard. He couldn’t be sure what side the old woman was on. He remained very still in the shadows.
Martin silently prayed that the old man would kill Gary. Martin didn’t want to have to be the one who did it.
Then he felt guilty about the thought. The feeling of guilt passed very quickly as Gary shouted, “So the old pious bitch is dead? Well, good! I thought she’d never kick off.”
“Pitiful,” the father said, his voice strong but sad. “And to think that you were always her favorite.”
Eddie never made a sound as the long-bladed dagger slipped between his ribs and tore into his heart. Mother and daughter stretched the man out on the ground. Missy knelt down and kissed her father on the lips.
His eyes opened. Blinked rapidly a couple of times.
“Sleep,” Missy whispered. “Sleep until we call.”
Joyce and Missy slipped back into the shadows.
The elder Tressalt moved closer to his sons. Only a short distance separated them now.
“What do you want, old man?” Frank sneered at his father.
“I wanted to say goodbye to you boys. That’s all.”
“Goodbye?” Pete questioned. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Except to the grave.”
“Oh, I know that. I’ve made my peace with God.” He had been watching the bright white object move closer. Watched it with dread circling and squeezing his heart.
“Something has frightened the demons away,” Frenchy whispered, her eyes sweeping the concessions. “They’re all gone. Look.”
The game booths were empty. Still brightly lighted, but vacant.
Tressalt took another step toward his sons. The shimmering wavy object behind the three men moved silently closer.
Frank stepped out to meet his father. His face had changed, turning beast-like. Spittle leaked from his mouth. His jaw had swelled with the transformation. Fang-like teeth protruded over his lips.
Tressalt put both hands behind his back and smiled at Frank. “I got to say it, boy: you sure are ugly.”
Roaring, Frank jumped at his father, springing at him with the agility of a great animal. The old man pulled the stake from behind his belt and stood his ground. His son impaled himself on the point. He screamed, blood and pus spraying from his fanged mouth just as the wraith-like object wrapped its near-translucence around Pete.
Gary ran away, howling and ducking between concessions, just as Frank grabbed his father’s throat in one clawed hand and squeezed and jerked, almost decapitating the old man.
Father and son fell to the ground, both dying, as good and evil struggled even unto death. One cursing, the other mouthing silent prayers in his pain.
Pete was screaming in an agonizing rage as the whiteness squeezed tighter. The white soon became stained with crimson as blood dripped from the cloth folds and mother and son sank to the sawdust covered ground of the near-deserted midway.
The righteous wraith increased the pressure and Pete’s howling filled the brightly colored night. The top of his head exploded.
Tressalt and son lay still on the midway, the father’s right hand still gripping the heavy stake protruding from the son’s chest, the point penetrating and ruining the devil’s heart. All signs of the demon within the man had disappeared.
Mother and son lay in a bloody pile on the sawdust. The woman had assumed human form; the son, with intestines forced out of his mouth by the pressure, lay with his arms around his mother.
Old Doc Reynolds, on one side of the midway, and Martin and his group on the other side, watched as the concessionaires, in human form, returned to their booths and began calling out their patter, urging those who had drifted back onto the midway to come and try their luck.
The ferris wheel and merry-go-round began slowly turning and revolving. The music began playing. The night was soon filled with the sounds of false gaiety.
“Come one, come all!” the loudspeakers blared. “It’s fun time! It’s a good time for all. The carnival is in town!”
EIGHT
The people paid no attention to the bodies lying in bloody heaps on the midway. They stepped around them or over them as the crowds milled up and down. They played the games, won prizes and then promptly tossed the teddy bears, plaster chickens, ducks and horses to the sawdust and moved on to the next concession.
Martin and Frenchy slipped around to the Shakespearean Pavilion in time to hear Alicia mouth some lines in a deadly monotone. Then they watched in numbed horror as she calmly stabbed a young man to death: a real knife, real blood, real death.
The crowd applauded politely and yelled for more. Alicia bowed gracefully while stagehands shoved the bloody body to the center of the stage. Nabo’s Geek ran out onto the stage with a knife and began cutting off strips of human flesh, stuffing them into his grinning, foolish mouth while the crowds went wild at his antics.
Alicia screamed obscenities at them. They paid no attention to her. She stalked off the stage in a huff, Mike Hanson mincing along behind her, his robes dragging on the rough wooden floor.
Martin felt eyes on him. He turned his head. Nabo was standing across the large room, smiling at him.
Martin felt the man’s thoughts barge into his head: Enjoying yourself, Mr. Mayor?
Not particularly.
What a pity. What can I do to liven up your evening?
Leave town.
Sorry.
Release the townspeople from this... trance you have them under.
I have them under nothing. Whatever they have become, they have done so willingly. I thought by now you would have guessed that.
Are you saying that the residents of this town are inherently evil?
But of course! Well, not all of them. And not just this town, but all towns. Just one of the reasons I chose to follow in the footsteps of the Dark One. Heaven is going to be so boring. One will have to wander for days just to find another soul to talk with.
I don’t believe that!
Oh, I think you do, Mr. Mayor. You’d be a fool not to believe it. And you are not a fool. Having some mortal being proclaim himself a minister and then mouth some sanctimonious words about being washed in the blood and fully forgiven forever is bullshit—and you know that. I’ve read it in your thoughts. You know, as I know, that one must practice your religion
. Live it. Try with all one’s might. Talk to these people you’ve known all your life, Mr. Mayor. I have them under no spell. They are doing exactly what they wish to do.
Nabo turned and walked away, out of the pavilion.
“I heard it,” Frenchy said.
“You believe it?”
“Yes. It’s discouraging, but I believe his words.”
A man started to walk past them. Martin grabbed the man’s arm. His barber. “Chuck! Listen to me. Look at me. Why are you doing this? Come with us and fight this thing.”
“I’m free, Martin!” the man shouted. “Free, I tell you. It’s grand. Now turn me loose before I kill you.” That was said with absolutely no emotion.
Martin dropped his hand from the man’s arm.
“Thank you,” the barber said politely, and walked out of the pavilion. By the door, without warning, he knocked a young man down and began kicking him on the head. “I hate that long hair! I done told you for years I hate that long hair.” He proceeded to kick the young man to death while those around him nodded their heads in agreement.
“Good, Chuck!” one said.
“Awright!” another yelled.
“Let’s get out of here,” Frenchy suggested.
They edged through the crowd and ducked out a back door. A group of men blocked their way.
“How about some lovin’, baby?” one asked, grinning at Frenchy.
“Back off, David,” Martin told him. “And do it right now.”
“Make me, Holland!” David popped back. He reached out and tried to fondle Frenchy’s flesh.
She slugged him on the jaw and the men surged forward, overwhelming the pair, knocking them down to the earth. Martin tried to get his hand under his jacket, to the Colt Commander. He was pinned helpless. Just before a hard fist slammed into his jaw, he heard the unmistakable voice of Nabo.
“Cover his eyes, and keep them covered.”
A hard burst of pain filled his head, dropping him into darkness.
* * *
The old pickup truck sputtered and shuddered and sparked to a metallic halt. The leathery shell of a man behind the wheel cast his eyes over the gauges. Out of gas. He looked around him; found the dark outline of a house a few hundred yards away, off to his left. He lurched toward the house. Dogs heard his staggering shuffling footsteps, lifted their heads, sniffed the air, and took off, loping across the land, without even a glance back or a single bark.
The shell of a man found a five gallon gas can, filled it from a farm tank, and laboriously carried the heavy can back to his truck. He slopped some gas in the tank, then lifted the hood and poured a small amount into the carburetor. He ground the starter until the old engine roared into life. Raking the gears, the truck rattle-banged and sparked on down the road. He still had about five miles to go. And he knew that once there, he couldn’t just barge onto the midway. He had to find his old buddy, Doc, and the two of them had to make a plan.
He drove on through the night.
* * *
“Something’s happened to them,” Audie said. “I feel it in my guts.”
Shrieks of sudden laughter sprang from the midway. The joyous sounds were coming from the entire length of the brightly lighted strip of rides and games.
“Explain that.” Dick jerked a thumb toward the midway.
“The news just reached them that Martin and Frenchy have been taken,” Don said.
“I agree with you,” Ned’s words were followed by a sigh.
“Now what?” Janet asked.
The adults looked at each other. No one had anything to say.
“Something is wrong with Dad,” Ed spoke in a whisper. “He hasn’t moved in a long time. And I think that’s blood under him.”
The kids cut their eyes, Jeanne saying, “That stain sure wasn’t there the last time I looked at him.”
Eddie smiled wide in his ordered sleep. The kids stared. The man’s teeth were fanged.
Ed put his face in his hands and began silently weeping.
Susan touched his arm. “We got to tell the others. We got to, Ed.”
The boy nodded.
Susan slipped to the knot of adults and spoke softly.
“Dear God!” Ned was the first to whisper a comment.
“Keep that in mind,” Nicole said, picking up one of the iron tent stakes the men had been carrying. “Somebody get Gary Jr. Don’t let him see this.”
* * *
“Anybody heard from Frenchy?” the Watch Commander asked, replacing the phone in its cradle.
No one had.
“Wattsford tried a half dozen times today to get through to Holland. I’ve tried every fifteen minutes since I came on. No dice. Okay. A couple of you guys get over there and check it out. I’ve telexed the sheriff’s office at Harrisville. They haven’t been able to contact their substation in Holland all day. They’re antsy about it. The local P.D. won’t respond to radio or wire. What was Frenchy working on over there?”
“She was pretty vague about it, Captain,” a sergeant told him. “But she did say she was investigating a sudden rash of brutal murders that might be connected to some sort of Satanic thing.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Not one little bit. I want four people over there as quickly as possible. Two cars. Stay in radio contact at all times. Take whatever gear you feel you might need. If you people are out of radio contact for more than half an hour at any given time, I’m coming in full force. Take off!”
* * *
Martin was coming, and he was close. Doc could feel it. But he hadn’t been idle while he waited. He had used his heavy cane a half dozen times, bashing whatever head came close enough to his spot in the shadows. Bodies littered the ground around him.
And the old doctor knew, sensed, that Young Martin had been seized by the Dark Forces. He tried to bring to fore his third eye. But he was old, very old, and his powers were not what they used to be. And he was also tired. His joints aching from the unaccustomed exertion. He knew he should do something; but he didn’t know what, or how.
He was very concerned about young Martin.
* * *
Martin brought himself to full consciousness before he opened his eyes. He still couldn’t see. Then he remembered Nabo’s voice, ordering his eyes to be covered. His hands were tied behind his back, and done very skillfully, by someone who knew knots.
“When are we goin’ to have our way with the Mexican-lookin’ chick?” a man asked.
“Nabo says he wants the mayor to be awake so’s he can listen to the gal getting it.”
“You reckon Holland is shammin’?”
“Naw. I’ve seen guys stay out for more‘un an hour after bein’ popped on the jaw like Lyle hit Holland. He’ll come around.”
“What we gonna do with him after we do the Mex?”
“Nabo says we gonna burn him-slow.”
So it had been Lyle who’d hit him, Martin thought. One more he owed the rancher.
Very carefully, he moved his head, trying to hook the cloth over his eyes on some splinter or nail. He succeeded in scratching his jaw until he could feel the blood run. So much for that idea.
“I’m gonna piss. Be back in a minute.”
Martin heard a chair push back and footsteps walk across a board floor. The boards rattled. A tent floor perhaps? Maybe. The footsteps paused in front of him and a hand shook his shoulder roughly.
“No dice, Smith. He’s still out cold.”
Smith grunted.
One left in the room. If I’m going to do something, it better be now. He pushed his bound hands backward a few inches and touched a support of the knock-together frame. Has to be a hinge here somewhere, he thought. He moved his hands and found metal. Just above that, a nail protruded through. Lifting his hands, Martin began working at the ropes, rubbing them against the nail point. A few strands parted, then a few more. He worked faster. A few more strands of the rope parted and Martin strained against his bonds. Something gave and his left wrist p
ulled free. He shook his right hand free and worked his hands open and closed, bringing circulation back to numbed fingers.
He could clearly hear the carnival sounds just outside the tent. A door opened and the floor shook with the sounds of footsteps.
“I still got the itch just thinkin’ ’bout that Mex bitch, Smith.”
“Well, you better control yourself ’til Nabo gives the word.”
Martin put voices with faces. Smith ran the gas station/convenience store just outside of town. The other man was George something-or-the-other. A carpenter who came to town with a roofing crew after a bad storm several years back and then stayed. Not a very good carpenter, Martin recalled.
George walked over to him and once more put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin grabbed the wrist and clamped down, at the same time turning and twisting like an alligator, his other hand jerking the blindfold off his face.
He rolled to his knees, then his feet, using brute strength to bring George with him. Facing the man, Martin drove his fist into the man’s belly as he propelled him across the room, both of them crashing into Smith. Martin released George, grabbed up a straight-backed wooden chair and smashed it over Smith’s head and neck. Smith dropped like a brick. Martin went to work on George.
He hit him three times in the face: the jaw, the mouth, the nose. George hit the floor. Martin grabbed a gun out of Smith’s belt: his own Colt Commander, then quickly fanned Smith, finding a .44 magnum and a pocketful of cartridges.
He stood over the men. Smith was out cold, his head at a funny angle. Martin knelt down beside the man. Smith’s neck appeared to be broken.
He placed the muzzle of the .44 mag against George’s face and the man’s eyes widened. “Frenchy—where is she?”
“The Mex gal?”
“If that’s how you choose to describe her, yes.”
“What’ll you gimme if I tell you?”
Martin removed the .44 and stood up. Then he kicked George in the face. Teeth splintered and rolled around the floor. George tried to put his hands to his ruined mouth. Martin stomped on one hand before he got it to his face. The fingers and knuckles cracked under the leather.
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