He turned onto Oak at a dead run and saw the shape of the Little Bethlehem Congregational Church looming out of the fog from a block away, its steeple like a finger pointing skyward. As Del drew closer, his flight lost some of its momentum. Something wasn’t right—it looked too . . . ordinary. It was the same backwater church he’d seen countless times, the same white board siding, the same long, thin windows with their dark shutters and frosted panes. It was a singularly plain cottagelike structure that differed from the rest of the neighborhood only in its modest size and needle-like spire. But where was the light, Del wanted to know. Where was the holy aura he’d almost talked himself into expecting, where was the light of God that would surround the place and guard it from the darkness and act as a beacon to all the lost ones out there, the ones who needed His protection? His heart sank as reality came washing in, and it brought with it the memory of his facing Danner, and his use of the cross. And the results. And he suddenly felt very stupid for even coming here. But he approached the church just the same.
Curiosity, perhaps. And where else did he have to go?
The church sat forward on the one-and-a-half acre plot, separated from the street by a semicircle of gravel for parking. Stone walkways led both to the front door and around the side of the building to the even smaller parsonage in the rear. He checked the latter as he approached and found the windows dark, but there was a light burning in the chapel. And there was something else . . . music playing, though not the monotonous groan of the pipe organ. Something familiar and strangely incongruous . . .
Sammy Hagar?
The strains of “Heavy Metal” grew louder as he neared the front door and found it standing open. He stood there on the walkway, staring into the darkness of the vestibule and beyond where the shadows receded and a light burned. A row of pews was in sight, and half the podium. Nothing else. No one.
He stepped into the darkened entryway and through the arch into the church proper. The overhead lights were off; only the track lamps above the pulpit shined, and they cast the lectern and its oversized Bible in a spotlight. The big, impressive crucifix on a pedestal to the rear was nearly as tall as Del and, since it was on the periphery of the light, its shadow was etched dimly on the back wall. The rest of the chapel was in darkness, and an adolescent imagination could easily have peopled those empty pews with twilight faces and parishioners of shadow. But Del’s eyes were focused only on the pulpit as he walked slowly up the center aisle. He saw that Sammy Hagar’s screeching guitar riffs were spilling from a dual-cassette machine sitting on the podium next to the lectern. He was concentrating on it so much that he didn’t see the figure slouched in the first pew until he was right on top of it. Then he shrieked and tripped over his own feet and scrambled crablike across the floor, covering his head.
The figure did not move. Del realized that and jumped to his feet, and every shred of common sense told him to run. It told him that, even as he crept closer.
The position of the body and the circumstance of it were both so outright bizarre that Del could only stand there, gaping. It was male, no doubt about that. It wore a dark T-shirt but no pants or underwear. The legs were splayed wide and one hand was locked around its rigored member while the other clutched a bondage magazine with a big-breasted centerfold and lots of chains and straps. The boy couldn’t identify him; the man’s whole head was hidden beneath a big rubber mask, one which, in the gloom beyond the track lights, looked suspiciously like Tor Johnson. Del knew he would have to lift the mask to be sure. His stomach started doing flips as he crept still closer and looked. The head was tilted just enough to one side that he could see under the edge of the mask. The red puckered impression of a mouth could still be seen on the throat, surrounding two ragged punctures. And a trickle of blood, all that was left, had seeped down to defy the sanctity of the white collar. “Knutson.”
The tape stopped. Midsong. He could hear something behind him. Pages turning. Chuckling. “Shame-y, shame-y. He was a real pee-vert, wasn’t he?”
Del turned to Tommy Whitten, who sat on the edge of the podium platform. His sallow flesh all but glowed in the stark light of the overhead lamps. Behind him was “Fat Larry” Hovi, and Doug Baugh was there as well, cigarette grafted to his lip as always. They were dressed the same as when Del last saw them. Only their throats differed. Whitten had wrapped electrical tape around his neck, while Baugh’s had been stitched shut with a shoestring. Hovi had simply stuffed the ragged tear with a piece of black plastic from a garbage bag. They crowded around while Tommy looked at one of the pastor’s magazines with a smirking, gap-toothed grin, tsk-tsking as he flipped the pages. “Check this bitch,” he said to them, then turned it over so Del could inspect the spread-eagled female. Then he laughed and spit a stream of Knutson’s blood through his teeth.
“You can’t be here,” Del tried to sound firm. “This is a church. Holy ground.”
“Holy ground,” Fat Larry repeated, though in a dead teenager’s mocking tone. He tore a picture of a naked girl from a magazine and dangled it in the air and made it dance and gave it a falsetto voice. “Beat me, whip me, tie me up. It’s okay, we’re on hallowed ground.” He laughed. “You’ve gotta be kidding. You think beating the bishop’s a sacred ritual or something? Look at that fucker. It wasn’t holy to him. Why should it be to us?”
Del thought about making a run for the door but his eyes betrayed him. Before he could even convince himself to move, Doug Baugh jumped ahead of him into the central aisle. His teeth were showing now, a horrific set that made his jaws seem double-jointed. “It’s funny,” Tommy Whitten said, his own teeth bared and lips trembling. “No matter how much I take, person after person, it’s never enough. You’d think you’d get full after a while, wouldn’t you? But I don’t. I just want more. Always more.”
Del backed over to the podium and put the lectern between them. But Tommy growled, knocked it aside, and the three of them came forward, forcing him back even further. He turned, staggered into the pedestal behind the pulpit, heard the base crack under his weight, and the whole thing came loose in his hands. The solid wooden cross, fully four feet tall and three feet wide at the crossbar, was heavy and unwieldy but he still lifted it and held it out against his enemies.
Their response was like Danner’s. They giggled.
“You’ve got to have faith for that to work, Mr. Vincent!” Tommy quoted dramatically. “Didn’t you see Fright Night on HBO last week? Oh, I forgot. You hilljacks don’t have cable. Too bad. Then you would’ve known. You gotta believe, you little dick.”
“I believe.”
“Yeah, sure.” Larry’s jaws unhinged like a feeding snake. The teeth grew larger. He took a step.
“Hold it,” Del ordered. “Three against one isn’t very fair. What the matter, Tommy? Afraid to face me alone?”
Whitten arched an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“C’mon, Tommy. Just you and me. What’s the matter, you afraid?” The three snickered at that, but Delbert didn’t bat an eye. “Well, you should be. Because you know what, Tommy? I do believe. I believe, ’cause there has to be more to this. What kept me going when there wasn’t nowhere else to turn? What brought me in here, even when I knew something was wrong? There has to be more to it.”
Doug rolled his eyes. “Hitch up them pantlegs, buckaroos. The shit’s getting deep.”
“C’mon, Tommy. Put your money where your god-awful mouth is. Touch the cross.”
Whitten’s smile thinned, grew cruel and serious. “I’m gonna make you suffer, punk—”
“Touch the fucking cross!”
Tommy came toward him until they stood an arm’s length apart and only the wooden crucifix separated them. A seed of doubt sprouted in the pit of Del’s stomach—How is he standing so close to it? How?—and he tried to override it by flushing his mind with prayers, any and all that he could dredge from memory. Now I lay me down to sleep . . .
/> Tommy’s face split in two, and the fissure filled with teeth. “You’re dead.”
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .
“Take him, Tommy. But save some for us, okay?”
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
Whitten moved with the abruptness of a viper. His hands snaked out and caught the crossbar of the symbol. Held firm. And nothing happened. Tommy’s smile grew even larger. The others laughed.
A moment later, the screaming began.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Time to come out, Mr. Stiles. We’re waiting.”
Charlie shivered. Nathan Danner’s voice had a ghostly lilt and, beyond that, something more, something that his followers did not share. It was dead-sounding, but neither hollow nor monotone. Instead it was full and rich and masked a malignant core, a creeping malevolence. It was evil that Charlie felt, pure and tangible, and it chilled his flesh like a sharp wind and gnawed straight to the bone. He could imagine how it must have affected old man Danner upstairs—he must be certifiable by now. It was certainly having a like effect on the others. Since Danner had shown up, the five of them—Stiles, Hubert, Jessie, Ida, and himself—had each repaired to separate areas of the parlor and sat in impatient silence, saying nary a word and waiting for the time to creep by.
“Mr. Stiles?” Nathan called again. “We need to talk.”
They all looked to Stiles for a response but there was nothing to read. He sat closest to the window, his back against the wall, but he did not look outside. He didn’t acknowledge the voice at all, not even with a flinch or a turn of the head or a shift of the eyes. Not even when they had toppled over his van on the front lawn a few hours back. His gaze was blank and his mind was elsewhere, another time or place perhaps, far away from the pain that his battered body must have been enduring. Charlie could sympathize; he himself felt like death warmed over, and, except for the broken arm, Stiles was much worse off than he.
Jessie moved over to the couch where Bean reclined. She was looking at Stiles as well. “Do you think he’s all right, Charlie?” He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I haven’t known him very long, so I have nothing to judge his behavior against. He’s got a right to hurt, though, I’ll vouch for that. He’s been through the mill a time or two.”
“I sure hope he’s okay,” she said, looking at him with concern. “I figure that without him, we don’t have a chance in hell.” She looked at Charlie then, and gently touched the injured arm in a sling against his side. “How’re you doing? Hurting too bad?”
The pain reaffirmed itself when his attention was brought back to it. “It’s easing up,” he lied. “The aspirin helped a lot, thanks. But I doubt I’ll be playing the piano any time soon. What time is it, anyway?”
Hubert glanced at his watch again. “A quarter till five. Just a little bit longer. All we have to do is wait.”
“Not quite.” Bean placed one of the Remingtons across his lap. “Now we have to be more alert than ever. Time’s running out and Danner’s not about to let us out of here alive. I figure they’ll storm the place, sooner or later. Before dawn.”
“But how can they do that?” Jessie asked. “We’ve still got Ida’s things in the windows to keep them out.”
Charlie quietly motioned to the recliner near the television set. Ida was resting as best she could. Her eyes had rolled back behind nearly translucent lids and her face had drained of color. Indeed, she looked dead. Only the unsteady rise and fall of her chest told them otherwise. “Those pieces have power just as long as she believes,” Charlie said in a soft, somber voice. “If she doesn’t hold out, neither will they. We have to be ready, just in case.”
“Mr. Stiles,” Nathan called again.
Jessie snorted angrily. “Why doesn’t he just shut up!”
“Mr. Stiles? Listen to this, will you? You may find it amusing.” Then a woman screamed.
The soldier’s eyes suddenly unclouded. He snapped upright, his once-blank face suddenly alive with emotion. Denial. Fear. He turned on the window with the Heckler & Koch at the ready. “Billie . . .”
Danner had her out there, surrounded by his horde, straight out from the parlor window so she would be in plain view. He held her arms behind her back with one hand and pulled her hair with the other, till she bent sideways at a torturous angle and cried out when he applied a little pressure. He was looking past her to the window, waiting for Stiles to appear. “They tell me you know this cow,” he called, “that she means something to you.” Then he smiled and lowered his head over that silken throat and bit into it. Not too hard—just enough to make her scream. Just enough to draw blood. It oozed from the punctures down the taut angle of her neck, down into the cleavage revealed by her open jacket. The vampires ooohed and aaahed, nearly swooning at the sight. And Nathan licked it up with exaggerated gusto, all the while keeping an eye on the window and watching the soldier’s face tighten with rage. “Won’t you come out now, Mr. Stiles?” he said, flicking his tongue at the wound. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Stiles turned to Charlie and the others. The look on his face was terrifying in its own right, a mask of barely controlled fury. “What do we do?” Jessie wanted to know.
He trembled as he said, “You people watch the doors and windows. Stay ready.” He stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
“What?” Hubert was incredulous, as were they all. “They’ll kill you for sure.”
“It’s a chance I’ve got to take.” He laid down the machine gun and turned toward the door. Bean and Hubert made a move to stop him. “No,” he said, halting them with his harsh tone. “Don’t try it. Not where Billie’s concerned. You’ll lose.” He noticed that Ida’s eyes were slightly open for the first time in hours and looking at him in concern. He went to her, kneeled by her chair, and took her hand. “How are you holding up, Grandma?”
“I’m a tough old bird,” she barely managed. “But you . . . you be careful. You hear?” He nodded and kissed her, then headed toward the entry hall.
“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Charlie said as he passed. The deputy picked up the Heckler & Koch, extended the stock, and activated the laser sight. “If you can’t get Billie out, or, well . . . I’ll take care of you. Both of you.”
The soldier said nothing as he left the parlor.
He scooted the leaning front door aside just enough for him to slip out onto the porch. The night air immediately wrapped him in a cold embrace, but he was too pumped with adrenaline to notice. What he did feel, however, were the eyes on him, unblinking, unrelenting, and he noted the increased number of undead gathered around the Shady Rest. There were at least thirty surrounding the porch, lining the front steps, and flanking the yard as well. He was the sole white man facing a tribe of late-show Indians, only these natives were long of tooth and glassy of eye. They became a gauntlet at the porch steps that he would have to pass. If only it were the late show, he wished. Tomahawks would be a welcome fate.
“Let the woman go,” he called to Danner.
“Now, now,” scolded the vampire. “This is my game. I make up the rules. Come here. Join us.” When Stiles didn’t move fast enough he tightened his hold on Billie and forced her to her knees. “Come here,” he barked, “or I drain her here and now!”
Begrudgingly Stiles began his walk. He crossed the porch and started down the steps.
Jack-o’-lanterns lined the way, ghoulish grinning faces that could barely hold back their carnal need for sustenance. Despite their master’s orders, some even grabbed for him, tearing his vest and shirt, raking his flesh with dirt-caked nails. One of them lunged too close and in reflex Stiles caught the groping arm and broke it. Then he swung at the accompanying leer and felt teeth shatter beneath his palm and then the whole mob seemed to fall on top of him. His only defense was to cover his head—blows rained down in torrents, hammering him to the gr
ound, blinding him, filling his vision with starbursts and the shifting colors of pain. The mauling culminated quickly when he felt a singular body pin him to the ground and wrap cold arms around him. He could tell from the shape of the wriggling form that his attacker was female; from the scent of leather, that it was Georgetta Stovall. He felt her face burrow into his shoulder and keep moving, closer and closer and he tried to fight her off but he could not keep her teeth from finding his neck.
The pain of the bite itself was sharp but fleeting. It was the feelings and sensations it brought that repulsed him. There was nothing sensuous about the attack. It was an assault, pure and simple, same as a rat bite, only a rat doesn’t hang on and nurse at the wound like a leech. At least she hadn’t hit an artery—she was sucking too hard for that. It was the feel of that cold, soft-lipped mouth, kneading and working, that made him cry out. That, and the vertigo that immediately clutched at his mind. Stiles felt his strength draining, his will gone, his very life being tugged and pulled, stolen away . . .
The cascade of horrific sensations ended abruptly, as did the attack itself. The hands of the mob were suddenly gone and so was the wet suction cup of a mouth, though he could still feel her hands on him and her squirming weight pinning him to the ground. He blinked his eyes into blurred but compliant sight. Georgetta’s livid face hovered just above his own, mouth stained red and teeth bared, squirming to free her hair from Danner’s iron grasp. He straddled the both of them and held her at bay with little effort. “Now now,” he berated her gently. “I said no one touches our guest. Not yet.”
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