Best followed his eyes. "May I—?"
"If you wish."
Best smiled.
Thirty minutes later, Peter Canford, bent over and tied, was screaming out his pain and humiliation at this insult to his masculinity.
As the caravan drew nearer to the Sorenson ranch, signs of the devil's influence became more obvious. They saw strange carvings on trees, upside-down crosses, blasphemous writings on stones, and hideous stone statues of demons.
"No wonder Karl kept this place under fence and heavy guard," Jane Ann said. The caravan had passed through a half dozen chain-link fences and guard posts just getting onto the huge ranch property.
The guards lay dead under the summer sun. They had been careless, and Sam was a master of the ambush, showing the others he could be a cold killing machine.
The guards on the close perimeter of the ranch house fell to Sam's knife, one by one, as his friends lay on a low ridge, watching him work.
"Why don't we just blow up the place?" Miles asked. "Like you all did the first ranch?" he looked at Chester.
"Sam wants to inspect the Sorenson house. He thinks this is the Cult headquarters; where it began."
Gunfire stopped the conversation, followed by a series of explosions. They watched the bunkhouse disintegrate under the fury of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Nothing inside could have lived through that destructive blast of TNT.
"Let's go!" Chester yelled, running for the trucks.
But it was almost over by the time Sam's group reached the yard. The minister had been a one man death squad. He had gunned down the people in the house as they ran into the yard after the first explosion.
"You!" Sorenson spat the word at Sam. He glared up at the preacher through eyes that mirrored hate. His hands clutched at his stomach, perforated with .45 caliber holes.
''Me," Sam said calmly.
'They'll get you," Sorenson spat up blood, "You can't kill us all."
'I can try," Sam lifted the muzzle of the Thompson and squeezed the trigger. He looked at Chester. "You people stay loose. Anything that moves, shoot it. I'm going in the house. I've got a bad feeling about that barn, so wait for me before you try going in."
He walked into the house, knowing what he would find. He was not disappointed. The home was a repository for everything evil. Chains and whips and torture instruments lay everywhere. Contrivances of sexual perversion could be seen in every room. Huge artificial penises, torture racks, and much more. The sight disgusted Sam. He went from room to room, setting the house on fire.
As smoke billowed around him, Sam stepped out on the porch, watching Chester. The man moved from body to body sprawled in the yard, a .45 in his hand, putting one round in the head of each devil worshipper. Sam glanced at Wade, watching the man work. The editor's lips were pressed together, his face pale.
Sam knew Wade had never killed before this day. He stepped off the porch. "Don't leave any alive. Kill them, then burn them." He walked toward the barn.
"Wait!" Wade called. "I'm coming with you."
The minister's eyes were cool, a half-smile on his lips. "Then be well cautioned, Wade. What you'll probably see in there, if they are in there, is something you'll have to live with for the rest of your life."
"aking everything into consideration," the man retorted, "that might not be all that long a time."
"Then come on."
Wade looked behind him one more time. He looked a little ill; he could not take his eyes off Chester, or the manner in which the head exploded as the .45 caliber slug smashed through brain. The bodies seemed to dance on the ground under the impact. He had known Chester all his life, considering him to be one of the finest men in Fork County. An elder in the Church.
"You get used to it after a while," Sam said "At least, I did. And I think Chester did, too. In World War II. It's something every combat vet has to live with. Once a person has learned how to survive, and what must be done, that instinct lies just below the surface, very thinly covered with civilized veneer."
Sam swung open the doors to the barn. A stale musty odor struck them. The odor of evil. The barn was dark.
"God!" Wade said.
"Godless," Sam corrected. "Like those people lying dead in the yard."
"Why don't we just burn this barn down?' Wade asked, as the men stepped into the darkness.
"Because I want to meet those inside. And beat them."
Outside, Chester had moved his people around the barn, covering all exits. Only one of the :men stood at ready: Jane Ann, with the slug-loaded shotgun in her hands. Faye, Anita, and Doris had received a couple of hours of instruction in the use of firearms, but they were not yet mentally ready to use them. Killing is entirely a state of mind, with very little physical effort required, and with most people, it takes time to prepare the mind for what society deems wrong. The women were still in a mild state of shock at the sight of so many dead bodies, and the seemingly ruthless manner in which Chester had disposed of the wounded.
Sam handed Wade his stake, picking up a pitchfork. His smile was hard. "This won't leave much room for doubt."
Wade moved to his left, away from Sam. A bit of hay and dust suddenly drifted down the loft. An almost inaudible creak of timber.
The barn doors slammed shut behind the men, plunging the barn into darkness. Only a few shards of dusty sunlight leaked through cracks in the barn walls.
"Sam?"
"I heard. Coming." The minister walked through the gloom. At Wade's side, he looked up at the disturbed dust filtering from the loft. "Back up," he whispered, lifting the Thompson.
When Wade was out of the way, Sam pulled the trigger and held it back.
Splinters flew in all directions. Dust poured down from the loft as the slugs ripped through thin wood flooring. A howling, once-human form hurtled downward, crashing on the barn's lower level. The thing lurched to its feet, screaming, its yellow eyes glowing in the semidarkness. Still-smoking bullet holes leaked putrid odors from the body.
There was no blood left in Glen Haskell.
"Father Haskell!" Wade shouted.
The thing offered no sign of recognition. Haskell's hands resembled claws as he moved toward the men, his mouth open, exposing fanged teeth, a thick red tongue. Unable to push words out of its mouth, the creature uttered animal sounds. Haskell howled, then charged.
Sam lifted the pitchfork chest high and the ex-priest ran into the tines, the needle-sharp points driving through lungs and heart and out his back. Filth flew from his mouth as clawlike fingers wound around the wooden handle.
Sam forced the Undead to the floor and savagely drove the pitchfork in and out of its body. Haskell died on the manure covered floor, wallowing in animal excrement. His mouth opened and closed, teeth snapping, snarling sounds from his dying throat fading away into silence.
"SAM!" Wade yelled.
The minister spun around. "Open the doors," he shouted. "Chester! Open the doors—let the light in!"
In the murkiness of the barn, before Chester could throw open the doors, Sam saw Wade backed up against a wall, a small Beastlike creature stalking him, heavy, hair-covered arms held up, claws working as the editor fumbled for the gun at his side.
Sam tore off the cap from a canteen of Holy Water and hurled it at the Beast. The creature screamed in anguish as the blessed water hit its body, searing the hairy flesh. It spun, and Sam recognized it.
Max Steiner's youngest boy, Ralph. "Dear Lord!" Sam said, disbelief in his eyes. The Steiner boy was half a Beast, from the waist up, as if the transformation had somehow failed to work.
The results were hideous to look upon.
The doors to the barn were thrown open, light pouring into the cavernous building. The half-Beast screamed at the raw light from God, throwing up its arms to protect its eyes.