Not all however. Some of them had time to prepare for their emergence, protecting themselves against the light by whatever desperate means they could. Their invention was in vain. The pyre was sealed: gates guarded, walls manned. Unable to escape skyward with wings and heads covered against the sun, they were driven back into the conflagration.
In other circumstances Eigerman might not have allowed himself to enjoy the spectacle as openly as he did. But these creatures weren’t human that much was apparent even from a safe distance. They were miscreated fuckheads no two the same, and he was sure the saints themselves would have laughed to see them bested. Putting down the Devil was the Lord’s own sport.
But it couldn’t last forever. Night would soon be falling. When it did their strongest defence against the enemy would drop out of sight, and the tide might turn. They’d have to leave the bonfire to burn over night, and at dawn return to dig the survivors out of their niches and finish them off. With crosses and holy water securing the walls and gates there’d be little chance of any escaping before daybreak. He wasn’t sure what power was working to subdue the monsters: fire, water, daylight, faith: all, or some combination of these. It didn’t matter. All that concerned him was that he had the power to crack their heads.
A shout from down the hill broke Eigerman’s train of thought.
“You’ve got to stop this.”
It was Ashbery. It looked like he’d been standing too close to the flames. His face was half-cooked, basted in sweat.
“Stop what?” Eigerman yelled back.
“This massacre.”
“I see no massacre.”
Ashbery was within a couple of yards of Eigerman, but he still had to shout over the noise from below: the din of the freaks and the fires punctuated now and again by louder dins as the heat broke a slab, or brought a mausoleum down.
“They don’t stand a chance!” Ashbery hollered.
“They’re not supposed to,” Eigerman pointed out.
“But you don’t know who’s down there! Eigerman! You don’t know who you’re killing.”
The Chief grinned.
“I know damn well,” he said, a look in his eyes that Ashbery had only ever seen in mad dogs. “I’m killing the dead, and how can that be wrong? Eh? Answer me, Ashbery. How can it be wrong to make the dead lie down and stay dead!”
“There’s children down there, Eigerman,” Ashbery replied, jabbing a finger in the direction of Midian.
“Oh yes. With eyes like headlamps! And teeth! You seen the teeth on those fuckers? That’s the Devil’s children, Ashbery.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“You haven’t got the balls to believe that, have you? You haven’t got balls at all!”
He took a step towards the priest, and caught hold of the black cassock.
“Maybe you’re more like them than us,” he said. “Is that what it is, Ashbery? Feel the call of the wild, do you?”
Ashbery wrested his robes from Eigerman’s grip. They tore.
“All right…” he said, “I tried reasoning with you. If you’ve got such God-fearing executioners, then maybe a man of God can stop them.”
“You leave my men alone!” Eigerman said.
But Ashbery was already half way down the hill, his voice carried above the tumult.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Lay down your weapons!”
Centre-stage in front of the main gates he was visible to a good number of Eigerman’s army, and though few, if any, had stepped into a church since their wedding or their baptism they listened now. They wanted some explanation of the sights the last hour had provided; sights they’d happily have fled from but that some urge they’d barely recognize as their own kept them at the wall, childhood prayers on their lips.
Eigerman knew their loyalty was only his by default. They didn’t obey him because they loved the law. They obeyed because they were more afraid of retreating in front of their companions than of doing the job. They obeyed because they couldn’t defy the ant-under-the-magnifying-glass fascination of watching helpless things go bang. They obeyed because obeying was simpler than not.
Ashbery might change their minds. He had the robes, he had the rhetoric. If he wasn’t stopped he might still spoil the day.
Eigerman took his gun from his holster, and followed the priest down the hill. Ashbery saw him coming; saw the gun in his hand.
He raised his voice still louder.
“This isn’t what God wants!” he yelled. “And it’s not what you want either. You don’t want innocent blood on your hands.”
Priest to the bitter end, Eigerman thought, laying on the guilt.
“Shut your mouth,” faggot he hollered.
Ashbery had no intention of doing so; not when he had his audience in the palm of his hand.
“They’re not animals in there!” he said. “They’re people. And you’re killing them just because this lunatic tells you to.”
His words carried weight, even amongst the atheists. He was voicing a doubt more than one had entertained but none had dared express. Half a dozen of the non-uniformed began to retire towards their cars, all enthusiasm for the extermination drained. One of Eigerman’s men also withdrew from his station at the gate, his slow retreat becoming a run as the chief fired a shot in his direction.
“Stand your ground!” he bellowed. But the man was “M” away, lost in the smoke.
Eigerman turned his fury back on Ashbery.
“Got some bad news,” he said, advancing towards the priest.
Ashbery looked to right and left for someone willing it to defend him, but nobody moved.
“You going to watch him kill me?” he appealed. “For ill God’s sake, won’t somebody help me?” If Eigerman levelled his gun. Ashbery had no intention of attempting to outrun the bullet. He dropped to his knees.
“Our Father…” he began.
“You’re on your own, cocksucker,” Eigerman purred. “Nobody’s listening.”
“Not true,” somebody said.
“Huh?”
The prayer faltered.
“I’m listening.”
Eigerman turned his back on the priest. A figure loomed in the smoke ten yards from him. He pointed the gun in the newcomer’s direction.
“Who are you?”
“Sun’s almost set,” the other said.
“One more step and I’ll shoot you.”
“So shoot,” said the man, and took a step towards the gun. The tatters of smoke that clung to him blew away, and the prisoner in Cell Five walked into Eigerman’s sights, his skin bright, his eyes brighter. He was stark naked. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his chest and more wounds besides, decorating his body.
“Dead,” Eigerman said.
“You bet.”
“Jesus Lord.”
He backed off a step; and another.
“Ten minutes maybe, before sundown,” Boone said. “Then the world’s ours.”
Eigerman shook his head.
“You’re not getting me,” he said. “I won’t let you get me!”
His backward steps multiplied and suddenly he was away at speed, not looking behind him. Had he done so, he would have seen that Boone was not interested in pursuit. He was moving instead towards the besieged gates of Midian. Ashbery was still on the ground there.
“Get up,” Boone told him.
“If you’re going to kill me, do it, will you?” Ashbery said. “Get it over with.”
“Why should I kill you?” Boone said.
“I’m a priest.”
“So?”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re not?”
Ashbery looked up at Boone.
“The?”
“There’s lace under the robe,” Boone said.
Ashbery pulled together the tear in his cassock.
“Why hide it?”
“Let me alone.”
“Forgive yourself,” Boone said. “I did.”
He walked on past Ashbery to the gates.
“Wait!” the priest said.
“I’d get going if I were you. They don’t like the robes in Midian. Bad memories.”
“I want to see,” Ashbery said.
“Why?”
“Please. Take me with you.”
“It’s your risk.”
“I’ll take it.”
From a distance it was hard to be sure of what was going on down at the cemetery gates, but of two facts the doctor was sure: Boone had returned, and somehow bested Eigerman. At the first sight of his arrival Decker had taken shelter in one of the police vehicles. There he sat now, briefcase in hand, trying to plot his next action.
It was difficult, with two voices each counselling different things. His public self demanded retreat, before events became any more dangerous.
Leave now, it said. Just drive away. Let them all die together.
There was wisdom in this. With night almost fallen, and Boone there to rally them, Midian’s hosts might still triumph. If they did, and they found Decker, his heart would be ripped from his chest.
But there was another voice demanding his attention.
Stay, it said.
The voice of the Mask, rising from the case on his lap.
You’ve denied me here once already, it said.
So he had, knowing when he did it there’d come a time for repaying the debt.
“Not now,” he whispered.
Now, it said.
He knew rational argument carried no weight against its hunger, nor did pleading.
Use your eyes, it said. I’ve got work to do.
What did it see that he didn’t? He stared out through the window.
Don’t you see her?
Now he did. In his fascination with Boone, naked at the gates, he’d missed the other newcomer to the field: Boone’s woman.
Do you see the bitch? the Mask said.
“I see her.”
Perfect timing, child. In this chaos who’s going to see me finish her off! Nobody. And with her gone there’ll be no-one left who knows our secret.
“There’s still Boone.”
He’ll never testify, the Mask laughed. He’s a dead man, for Christ’s sake. What’s a zombie’s word worth, tell me that?
“Nothing,” Decker said.
Exactly. He’s no danger to us. But the woman is. Let me silence her.
“Suppose you’re seen?”
Suppose I am, the Mask said. They’ll think I was one of Midian’s clan all along.
“Not you,” Decker said.
The thought of his precious Other being confused with the degenerates of Midian nauseated him.
“You’re pure,” he said.
Let me prove it, the Mask coaxed.
“Just the woman?”
Just the woman. Then we’ll leave.
He knew the advice made sense. They’d never have a better opportunity of killing the bitch.
He started to unlock the case. Inside, the Mask grew agitated.
Quickly or we’ll lose her.
His fingers slid on the dial as he ran the numbers of the lock.
Quickly, damn you.
The final digit clicked into place. The lock sprang open.
Of’ Button Face was never more beautiful.
Though Boone had advised Lori to stay with Narcisse, the sight of Midian in flames was enough to draw her companion away from the safety of the hill and down towards the cemetery gates. Lori went with him a little way, but her presence seemed to intrude upon his grief, so she hung back a few paces, and in the smoke and deepening twilight was soon divided from him.
The scene before her was one of utter confusion. Any attempt to complete the assault on the necropolis had ceased since Boone had sent Eigerman running. Both his men and their civilian support had retreated from around the walls. Some had already driven away, most likely fearing what would happen when the sun sank over the horizon. Most remained however, prepared to beat a retreat if necessary, but mesmerized by the spectacle of destruction. Her gaze went from one to another, looking for some sign of what they were feeling, but every face was blank. They looked like death masks, she thought, wiped of response. Except that she knew the dead now. She walked with them, talked with them. Saw them feel and weep. Who then were the real dead? The silent hearted, who still knew pain, or their glassy-eyed tormentors?
A break in the smoke uncovered the sun, teetering on the rim of the world. The red light dazzled her. She closed her eyes against it.
In the darkness, she heard a breath a little way behind her. She opened her eyes, and began to turn, knowing harm was coming. Too late to slip it. The Mask was a yard from her, and closing.
She had seconds only before the knife found her, but it was long enough to see the Mask as she’d never seen it before. Here was the blankness on the faces she’d studied perfectly perfected; the human fiend made myth. No use to call it Decker. It wasn’t Decker. No use to call it anything. It was as far beyond names as she was beyond power to tame it.
It slashed her arm. Once, and again.
There were no taunts from it this time. It had come only to despatch her.
The wounds stung. Instinctively she put her hand to them, her motion giving him opportunity to kick the legs from under her. She had no time to cushion her fall. The impact emptied her lungs. Sobbing for breath, she turned her face to the ground to keep it from the knife. The earth seemed to shudder beneath her. Illusion, surely. Yet it came again.
She glanced up at the Mask. He too had felt the tremors, and was looking towards the cemetery. His distraction would be her only reprieve; she had to take it. Rolling out of his shadow she got to her feet. There was no sign of Narcisse, or Rachel; nor much hope of help from the death-masks, who’d forsaken their vigil and were hurrying away from the smoke as the tremors intensified. Fixing her eyes on the gate through which Boone had stepped, she stumbled down the hill, the dusty soil dancing at her feet.
The source of the agitation was Midian. Its cue, the disappearance of the sun, and with it the light that had trapped the Breed underground. It was their noise that made the ground shake, as they destroyed their refuge. What was below could remain below no longer.
The Nightbreed were rising.
The knowledge didn’t persuade her from her course. Whatever was loose inside the gate she’d long ago made her peace with it, and might expect mercy. From the horror at her back, matching her stride for stride, she could expect none.
There were only the fires from the tombs up ahead to light her way now, a way strewn with the debris of the siege: petrol cans, shovels, discarded weapons. She was almost at the gates before she caught sight of Babette standing close to the wall, her face terror stricken.
“Run!” she yelled, afraid the Mask would wound the child.
Babette did as she was told, her body seeming to melt into beast as she turned and fled through the gates. Lori came a few paces after her, but by the time she was over the threshold the child had already gone, lost down the smoke filled avenues. The tremors here were strong enough to unseat the paving stones, and topple the mausoleums, as though some force underground—Baphomet, perhaps, Who Made Midian was shaking its foundations to bring the place to ruin. She hadn’t anticipated such violence; her chances of surviving the cataclysm were slim.
But better to be buried in the rubble than succumb to the Mask. And be flattered, at the end, that Fate had at least offered her a choice of extinctions.