"Why couldn't any of us see what was happening?" Peter asked.
"Because we weren't looking, I guess," Jimmy replied. "The devil is a smart man—person—whatever the hell he is!"
They laughed, neither of them spotting the men watching them through binoculars, watching from the reeds of a lake they would soon pass.
"They're following the old cow trail," a man said. "'That means they'll soon take a right, just over the ridge. Toward us."
"And for about thirty seconds, the drag truck will be separated from the others."
"Not much time."
"Enough for what we have to do."
Five minutes later, Sam glanced in his rearview mirror, uttered a low curse, then pulled over, stopping.
Chester walked up to Sam's pickup. "What's wrong?"
"Only four trucks. Jimmy and Peter are gone."
They backtracked over the trail, slowly, nerves tense, looking. But they found nothing. No tire tracks, no sign of a struggle. Nothing.
"Where are they, Sam?" Miles asked.
"On their way to Hell. Come on, let's go."
"SAM, LOOK!" Doris screamed, pointing to a low hill just to their right.
Eyes swung, mouths opening in disgusted horror. A band of disfigured, almost non-human forms lurched down the hill toward them, waving clubs and sticks as they grunted along. They drew closer, Sam and his group recognizing the madness in them, the grotesque disfigurement making them appear almost subhuman.
Sam lifted his Thompson, clicking the SMG off safety.
"You're not going to kill them!?" Tony said.
"What choice do we have?"
"But they're not themselves, Sam! It isn't their fault. It would be wrong."
The slobbering pack of lunatics came closer, grunting, snorting, waving their clubs and sticks.
"That's just fine, Tony," Sam said. "You want to stand here and reason with them?" he pointed to the rapidly approaching band of inmates.
"They're homicidal, Tony," Wade said, "That's why the government sent them here. One of the reasons," he added.
"They're sick people, Wade," the doctor stubbornly held on to his convictions.
Sam leveled the Thompson and squeezed the trigger. The answer yammer of Chester's Greaser d the staccato. The hill was quiet except for a man moaning in pain and a woman speaking in a series of bizarre grunts of agony.
"I'll get my bag," Tony said.
"No, you won't," Sam contradicted. "Not unless you want to stay here with them—alone. We're pulling out."
The doctor met the minister's steady gaze, "You're a cold bastard!"
Sam's grin was tight. "Keep him here, Ches." He walked up the hill and put the escapees out of their multiple misery with single shots to the head.
Sam knelt down beside one of the mutants, studying him. The face was almost non-human, large bumpy nodules growing from the skin. Hands, arms, and upper torso was deformed, the skin a sickly gray color.
"You want to see this, Tony?" he called. "Hell, no, Reverend Balon!" the doctor slurred the "Reverend."
Wade met Sam on his way back from the scene of death. "He's still pretty young, Sam, and more than a bit idealistic about life."
"He'd damn well better get over it. Or he'll never make it through the next few days. I'm not carrying any dead weight."
Peter Canford screamed out his pain, refusing to deny his God. He lay naked on the floor of the parsonage, his hands and feet nailed to the floor.
Jimmy Perkins lay whimpering on the bed in what had once been Michelle's room. Strange music played, covering the now dull screaming of Peter. Heavy Eastern incense filled the room, blunting Jimmy's senses. Nydia lay naked on the bed beside the young man. The room was darkened with heavy drapes, only one small candle burned, illuminating the scene.
Nydia kissed his mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips, slipping her hand to his crotch, fondling him through his jeans.
"Look at me, Jimmy," she whispered, and he cut his eyes to her beauty. "I'm not a bad person. Oh, lots of people say bad things about me—about those like me, but they're not true Have we hurt you, Jimmy?"
"No," he slurred the word, touching her bare shoulder, silky under his hand. His resistance weakened as he thought: No, they haven't hurt me; they've been good to me. Maybe Sam was wrong? Yes, he was pretty sure Sam was wrong.
The strange incense and the hypnotic music worked on his mind.
Nydia lifted a heavy white breast with her hand,
touching the nipple to Jimmy's lips. His mouth closed around the nipple as she stripped him. He lay naked on the bed, aroused and thickening.
"We'll be good to you, Jimmy," she moaned, feigning great pleasure and passion. "I'll be good to you. I won't be like Judy."
"That bitch!" he mouthed, his tongue busy at the nipple. God! This woman was everything he ever dreamed of. To hell with Judy.
"She is a bitch," Nydia said. "She needs to be punished." She stroked him to full erection, slipping down on the bed, taking him in her mouth, asking, "Would Judy do this for you?"
"No. She said it was—dirty."
"This is not dirty. This is good. And if it feels good, what can be wrong with it? It feels good, doesn't it?"
He nodded, unable to speak. The music seemed to grow heavier in his head. The thick incense filled his nostrils, flooding his brain. Jimmy stroked her silky hair, loving the clean feel of it.
"How would you punish her?" Jimmy groaned, as Nydia's mouth worked at him, licking him.
She withdrew, kissing his belly. "Oh, I'd leave that up to you, my love. Anyway you would like, that would be fine."
She straddled him, working his hardness into her wetness, groaning with great passion. "Your God is not real, Jimmy. You can see that now, can't you?"
The words came easy to his tongue. "Yes, yes!"
"He's a fake—denying you real pleasure."
"Yes! He is a fake—He's not real."
The music mingled with the incense, drifting around him, clouding his reason. The woman straddled him, lunging on his maleness, pumping up and down, telling him how perfect he was, how there had never been a man quite like him—ever.
She spoke the ultimate blasphemy, Jimmy repeating the hideous words, as he began believing them. He had never known this much pleasure.
Nydia, impaled on his manhood, leaned forward, touching her breasts to his chest, her mouth working on his. "We'll punish Judy," she whispered. "You and I." And she told him how.
Her mouth moved to his neck, her lips pulling back, teeth bared and needle-pointed as a snake's. Mortal beings knew nothing of this pleasure: the deliciousness of drinking warm, sweet/salty blood while in the throes of a shivering climax. She began to moan in climax as her teeth sank in Jimmy's neck, sucking a small amount of blood from him. She knew he would not notice the slight pain—until it was too late—far too late; until he was her personal servant, to do with as she pleased. Just as Sam Balon would be hers—someday.
In the living room, standing over the sobbing body of Canford, Wilder listened with extraordinary sensories to the witch. His smile was sardonic, evil, hateful. Nydia would go too far someday, he knew. Then he might have to destroy her—if the Master would permit it. But the Master was mildly amused by her antics, and Wilder knew the day would come when he himself would be replaced. And Nydia wanted his position very badly.
He pulled his attentions back to Canford. The fool still resisted, and Black was growing weary of the game. He looked at George Best. 'Take him to the Undead. Tie him securely and leave him for darkness." Best licked his lips. "The young girl you had last evening?"
"Yes?"
"Are you done with her?"
Wilder smiled. Best was obsessed with anal lovemaking, male or female, it made no difference. It was written in the Book, as were the darkest thoughts of every human on earth. "You may have her for a time. After you take care of this matter." he glanced down at Canford.