"Bastard!" the minister cursed, then looked heavenward. "Excuse me, Lord—but these are trying times."
There was a great feeling of relief in Sam concerning his late wife. It was un-Christian of him, he knew, but on this he could not control his emotions.
In the house, the priest seemed able to read his thoughts. "Think of it this way, Sam, you were never married in the eyes of God. The ceremony was a farce from beginning to end. Put her out of your mind, for she never existed in God's eyes."
"How do you have the power to get inside my head like that? How did you know what I was thinking?"
Dubois smiled, almost laughed. "Nothing mystical, Sam, I assure you." He looked very frail, Sam's clothing hanging on him. "I saw the love in your eyes when you looked at Jane Ann this afternoon. Pure love. Good love, as it should be between a man and a woman. You need her, and she needs you. Now you're free to speak to her of your love, and she of hers. It will be a strong union, Sam, for as long—" He stopped abruptly.
"I know, Michael. You can go ahead and say it. I'm not going to survive this fight. I know that. I'll beat the devil here, but he'll kill me in the process. Won't he?"
Dubois's eyes were cloudy. "I—wish, I hope you and Jane Ann produce a son, Sam. There is time; you must!"
"I said something last evening, Michael, after the devil finished his games with me. I remember saying: 'We'll meet again. Me or mine.' And I don't know why I said it."
The priest said nothing, just slowly nodded his head, watching Sam feed cartridges into the sixty round drum for the SMG. He smiled. "Good, Sam—good! You're girding your loins for the fight. It will be up to you to lead."
Sam's gaze was level. "Why me, Michael? And why do you want a son of mine to be born? To be conceived in the midst of all this horror?"
The old priest shrugged. "I rarely question God, son—it's not good business for mortals. I simply believe you've been chosen—by Him. And that is that."
Driving out to the lake, past the darkened homes of Whitfield, the bundle of filth rolling and bumping in the bed of the truck, Sam said, "Michelle could not have been the only one of her kind. There has to be more."
"Yes, Sam, many of them. Probably in every town and city in the world. But not like Michelle. There are, I believe, relatively few like her—thank the Lord. But those who can be easily swayed into accepting Satan's doctrine of evil? Millions, Sam, millions. Catholic, Protestant, Jew, Moslem. In most cases they don't know they can be—and most would deny it. But if one knows what to look for, they are easily spotted. They are the rumor-spreaders, the gossip-mongers, the profane. They are the hypocrites, the people who condemn others for their faith, or because of their skin, or the slant of their eyes, or, just look at that filth, Hitler, because one is a Jew. They are the vicious, both physically and verbally. I could go on and on, but you know as well as I."
"I know there are some people in this world who need killing," Sam said bluntly.
Dubois chuckled. "My, you are a maverick, aren't you? He chose well."
"What you said, Michael; that takes in about sixty or seventy percent of the population."
"At least, Sam. Heaven, my boy, will be sparsely populated. And there are going to be a lot of very surprised people come Judgment Day."
Sam chuckled. "I hope I won't be one of them."
"You won't." Dubois said it with finality.
"Thank you for that," Sam said dryly. "Michael, what you said about those types of people; most psychiatrists would argue that those people are just suffering from some type of mental problem."
Father Dubois again chuckled, darkly. "George Herbert said it best, Sam: fHe that lies with dogs, riseth with fleas.' "
"The company one keeps."
"Exactly. Most psychiatrists are, in my opinion, grossly out of touch with reality. Most eggheads are. It's very easy—convenient, even—to place a clinical term on a person who is basically just not a fit human being. And never will be," he added.
"We're entering the age of Liberalism, Sam, and it's going to be awful! 'Poor little Sammy or Johnny or Susie doesn't know right from wrong' will be the battle cry of the next couple of decades. And that has got to be one of the most ridiculous statements ever uttered from the mouths of so-called educated men. Good heavens! Pavlov taught his dogs right from wrong.
"Oh, certainly, Sam, there are people with mental problems. Only a fool would deny that. But as for the others I mentioned—no! You know and I know, Sam, that if we all would be willing to accept just a little less of material things, understand a little more—of those who need and want understanding, that is—what a wonderful place this earth would be. God is the answer, if people would just trust in Him, believe in Him, and do His bidding. But," again he shrugged, "they won't. Most never have; they never will."
He looked at Sam. "I've lectured you, Sam. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
When the priest spoke again, his voice was wistful. "I'm ready to go home. I want to go home. I'm tired of this earth and all its troubles. Troubles, I might add, as you well know, brought on by its grasping, greedy, ignorant, bigoted, shallow, arrogant inhabitants.
"There will be a Holy War someday, Sam—of sorts. It won't be called a Holy War, but it will be one; it will be the war to end all wars, for it will be directed by God. And it will be a blood bath against the un-Holy."
"And when it's over?" Sam asked softly.
"God will end the world."
Sam dragged the tarp-wrapped carcass to the fence surrounding Tyson's Lake.
"Dump it over the fence," Dubois said.
The body dropped with a plop.
"Beasts of the night," Dubois called out, and there was a stirring in the dark timber. "Here is your sister. Come see what God's hand has destroyed."
The Beasts came to the timberline. Sam clicked the Thompson SMG off safety, lifting the muzzle. "How many of them are there?"
"The Lord only knows," Dubois whispered. "Let them come closer, if they will."
The night was silent.
"Don't you want to feast on her stinking remains?" Dubois called.
But the Beasts refused to come closer. They prowled the darkness of the timber, snarling and growling. The smell of them drifted to the men by the fence.
"They know—somehow—it's a trap," Sam said.
Father Dubois looked down at the tarp-wrapped, nonhuman thing on the other side of the fence. "Leave her. Let's go. You're free of her, Sam."
"To Hell with her!" Sam spat the words.
The priest glanced at him. He smiled. "A very blunt way of summing up a most interesting evening, son. Blunt, but accurate."
When the men had gone, and the Beasts were sure of that, they loped up from the timber to the carcass. Ripping the tarp and blanket from her, they dragged the body to the timber. There, they feasted.
Jimmy Perkins was waiting at the rectory when Sam pulled in.
"What's wrong, Jimmy?" Sam asked, looking at the young man's pale face.
"Father Haskell. He's dead! Beaten to death." He ran a shaking hand over his face. "When I went to get Doctor King, someone took the body. The body is gone!"
Dubois did not appear stunned or shocked. He crossed himself and said, "We killed one of them, they killed one of us."
"But they outnumber us, Father Dubois!" Jimmy protested.
"In a manner of speaking," the priest replied.
"There's more," the young Chief said. "Someone has just dug up John's body—carried it off with them." He looked at Sam. "What you said about the Undead; is that true?"
"Yes," Dubois answered for Sam. "They're walking the nignt."