CREEKERS.

Edward Lee

Prologue.

Roughened hands disrobed her before the cracked mirror.

"You are the most perfect of all of us," came the equally roughened whisper to her ear. She could feel the heat of the breath, and of the words themselves.

But then more words oozed through her head: So perfect...

So worthy...

So beautiful...

"Yeeeeesss," keened the voice behind her.

So beautiful...for Him.

Only a few crooked candles lit the downstairs parlor. In the mirror she could see herself, and she could see the Reverend standing behind her like a queer, tall shadow in its black raiments and drooping hood which hid his face.

"So beautiful for Him," he whispered.

Beautiful, she thought. Yes, she was. Much more beautiful than the other girls. Clean, they called her, and the few others who were born like her. A clean baby. A clean child. A clean woman. So few were ever born clean...

The Reverend's large hands peeled away her threadbare dress like a shift of rotten cheesecloth. She did not flinch. Being stripped at any given moment was nothing new to her; she was used to it, and she was used to the things that always happened afterward. Now her naked flesh shone starkly in the mirror's dark veins: sleek, womanly curves, unblemished skin, long legs and high, full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Hair shiny and fine as black silk framed her youthful, striking face. Once she asked why the men from town paid so much less for her. "'Cos you're clean, child," she was told. "You ain't all uglied up like most the others. Cain't hardly even tell you're Creeker, 'cept fer yer eyes..."

She never understood this at all. They should pay more, shouldn't they, since she was so much prettier?

But tonight was different. Somehow she knew that. There were no men from town in the house, and something in the air made her skin feel all crawly like that time she fell asleep out near Croll's field and woke up covered with ladybugs.

We've finally done it, after all this time- "-finally," whispered the Reverend.

And then the other voices continued to churn in her head: On-prey-bee!

Us-come-too!

On-prey-bee!

When she'd been fully stripped, the Reverend's hand stroked her raven-black hair, brushing it off her brow. Her eyes gazed back at herself in the mirror...

They were bright and clear, their large irises revealing only the slightest tincture of red...

Next, she was being ushered...up. She felt dizzy and strange. The old wood stairs creaked beneath her feet as the Reverend's hands guided her toward the landing. The hands of the others reached out to touch her as she pa.s.sed.

And the heat of this midsummer midnight drenched her in sweat in moments.

"Yes, you are the most perfect of all of us-"

-so go forth now and bless us.

The door closed behind her. All that lit the long, high room was the moon in the window. She smelled something funny, and as her vision grew accustomed to the dark, she noticed strange shapes inclined on the dusty wood-plank floor.

Then something stirred.

And the man walked out of the great gulf of darkness.

He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Tall and slender, with chiseled muscles, strong arms, st.u.r.dy legs. The kind face looked back at her.

He never said a word.

He was nothing like the men who usually came to her: men who slapped her, pulled her hair, spit on her and bit her nipples till she shrieked. This man was sweet, gentle. His soft hands on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s filled her with warmth, not revulsion.

And when he kissed her...

Visions swam. Sensations. Waves of love more intense than the heat of the noonday sun. His caring hands lay her down on the floor; his smile seemed lit, like a halo. Without ever talking, he told her things. He told her how beautiful she was, how important, and how he loved her more than he'd ever loved anyone. All the things she'd yearned to hear for so long: the dreams buried in dust, the promises that never came true.

But now they were true.

Now...he was with her.

Her pleasures were untold. Her o.r.g.a.s.ms quaked. Each release of his s.e.m.e.n into her s.e.x was a gift to be revered. It filled her to overflowing-with rapture and compa.s.sion and real love. I'm in love, she thought with each beat of her heart, and with his. He delved into her far deeper than any man of her past, and far longer, unlocking sensations of joy she'd never thought possible. At one point, he knelt upright between her spraddled legs, the beautiful p.e.n.i.s throbbing yet again for her. It was huge, curved, and gorgeous. In anguish, her hands reached out to touch the reality of its hardened flesh.

So hot, it nearly burned.

Her eyes pleaded to him. She was crying, she was so happy, so replete in her love. Without words, he a.s.sured her that he would love no other woman but her, ever.

You are the one, he vowed.

She grasped the stout, hot shaft, then guided it down to enter her again. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaved; she gasped aloud, squealing her bliss to the night. Her arms and legs wrapped about the fine, hard body, and pulled him deeper into her.

Give me your love, her thoughts panted.

Oh, yes, his own thoughts answered. I will...

Hours later she lay exhausted in her own ecstasy. Her sweat drenched the warm wood floor beneath her, and his seed trickled from her. He'd rolled off her now, and gently kissed her throat and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Then he moved away...

Her plea sounded powerless, feeble; she could barely speak at all.

"Don't leave me!" she cried out.

He stood near the corner by the window. The sweat on his muscles shined in the moonlight-he looked silver.

He looked like an angel.

Alas, my curse...

Then she noticed the odd shapes again in the corner. What were they? Why were they there?

The door opened quickly. The others came into the room bearing candles, and the meld of voices rushed: On-prey-bee!

Redeemer...

Thanks we give you!

Bless us...

The Reverend stepped forward in his coal-black robe and hood, then knelt before the naked man at the window.

Bless us and sanctify us. Show us your way and keep us whole, we beg of Thee.

Her eyes shined wide in the wavering candlelight as her lover very slowly turned. He seemed to have changed. His radiance-that lovely halo-had darkened to a sour hue, and the beautific muscles turned ruddy now, swollen and coa.r.s.e. The handsome face shifted into corrupt angles, while deep, lumpen furrows grooved the high forehead.

It can't be, she thought. It must be the darkness. Of course, the darkness, her blissful fatigue, and the strange way the candlelight tinted the room.

Give us this day our daily flesh...

The others lifted her up. They were carrying her out of the room now, but not before she was able to finally detect the odd shapes in the corner.

They were- Bodies, she realized. Dead...bodies...

On-prey-bee! rejoiced the twisted voices. Give-ona-us-beg-thee-wee!

Aloft in the others' arms, she stared, caught one last glimpse, then fainted dead away, for in the previous moment, her lover-once beautiful, now hideous-had knelt down before the fresh dead bodies and begun to eat.

One.

Lt. Philip Straker double-checked the cylinder of his Smith Model 65. Paranoid, Phil? he asked himself. What, the rounds are going to disappear? The good fairies going to take them when you're not looking? The stainless-steel cylinder shined, still full of six Remington +P+ .38s. It snapped shut with an oiled click. At least rank had its privileges; everyone else packed Glocks.

Phil was cooking in his Second Chance Kevlar vest, but a guy'd have to be crazy not to wear one on a narc bust. Red night-vision lights bathed the inside of the tac van-they called them "War Wagons"-one wall lined with commo and DF gear, the other with an array of weapons: AR-15s, a sniper rifle with a night-scope, MP-5s, and enough pistols to start a gun show. Two tac guys from S.O.D. waited with him: Eliot, one of the team leaders, and the "shooter," some ex-Marine with the unlikely name Cap, who sat stolid as a carved-wood figure, cradling a 15A2. Phil had heard this kid could pick cherries at 800 yards-a grim a.s.surance tonight-because Phil realized full well there'd probably be some shooting. There always was during a lab bust. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds know they're caught, but they fight anyway. When you shoot at tac men, you die, and the f.u.c.kers don't even seem to care. It was like a VW Bug playing chicken with a D8 bulldozer. The Bug will always lose...

"Commo check, Bob," Phil instructed Eliot. "What's Dign.a.z.io doing all this time-"

"Probably spitting on his d.i.c.k, sir," Cap, the kid-sniper, suggested. "Or consulting Mr. Johnny Black first."

"He keeps stalling, I'm gonna miss the Yankees game."

Eliot pulled a squad communications check. Dign.a.z.io's team was going in first, to block the exits they'd gotten off the building's blueprints. Then Phil would take his guys in the front and break bad. Dign.a.z.io had always ticked him. Probably stalling on purpose just to make me cook a little more in this vest, Phil thought.

Phil Straker, at thirty-five, would be up for captain next month; it went without saying that he'd make deputy chief by forty. He had three valor medals, plus a Distinguished Service, not to mention the half-dozen letters of commendation from the mayor. Hard work on a B.A. in Criminology had taken him out of the depressed, redneck burg he'd been born in and gotten him his dream job with a major metro police department. He'd taken it from there, grabbing his Masters at night, using his brain on the street, and moving up the ranks faster than almost anyone in the department's history. He'd busted his a.s.s for the transfer to District Narcotics, and now he was calling the shots.

Phil hated dope.

Five years driving a beat in District 3 had shown him the truth. Movers and shakers who didn't give a s.h.i.t about anything. Street gangs hiring f.u.c.king lawyers from the biggest firms in the country. Crack stools hung upside down and gutted like deer for spinning, and distro rings addicting six-year-olds to skag. Phil had never conceived of such evil in his life...

"Roger on the commo check, sir," Eliot announced from his perch in the red-lit van. "Sergeant Dign.a.z.io says five more minutes, then they ram the door."

"He's just busting our chops, sir," offered the kid.

"I know," Phil said. "It's because of me. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's had a hard-on for me since the day I met him. I guess I'd be a little ticked myself if it took me nineteen years to make sergeant."

"Word is, sir," Eliot jumped in, "Dign.a.z.io sees it he should've gotten your job."

Phil laughed, reholstering his piece. "Tell me something else I don't know, like gorillas are hairy."

He didn't care. If Dign.a.z.io deserved the promo to luey, he'd have gotten it. I ain't crying for him, for Christ's sake, the busted hump. Maybe if he spent less time drinking and more time busting his a.s.s, then I'd be taking the orders from him "Green light," Eliot interrupted the thought, and dropped the headphones.

They burst out the van's back doors. "Technical Services has already cored the lock. We go in quiet and clean," Phil said, leading his men. "Watch your target acquisition and watch for crossfire. And for Christ's sake, watch for kids."

The U-Street Crew, like all the dope gangs, used kids for spotters and dealing because their testimony wasn't admissible, and they could not be tried as adults. A couple years in juvie and they were right back out on the street again. You had to be careful.

"What if some eleven-year-old points a piece at me?" Cap asked.

"You're an ex-Marine sniper, Cap, not a creamcake," Phil said. The question ruffled his feathers. "You scared of kids?"

"No, sir."

"Then you fire over their heads. Aim for hips and shoulders if you gotta, but don't be killing any kids while I'm running this team. s.h.i.t, Cap, you're wearing a t.i.tanium-plate vest that'll stop a seven- point-six-deuce, and you got one-mile kills in the Gulf War. Ain't no excuse for you to be dropping kids. You gotta problem with that, Cap?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

Then Eliot, charging his Heckler-Koch MP-5, said, "These U-Street a.s.sholes pack Uzis and MACs and all kinds of other s.h.i.t. What about adults?"

Phil stared at him. "This is a PCP lab, Bob. These f.u.c.kers trash lives faster than Dign.a.z.io goes through pint bottles of Scotch. Either of you guys-any adult who even looks like he's gonna point a gun at you, redecorate the wall with his brains."

Cap nodded. Eliot said, "Gotcha, sir."

Then they slipped in through the door.