Squalling, Jobert turned around and literally ran right over Brother Lester, knocking the leader of c.r.a.p sprawling, amid the beer cans and whiskey bottles.

The huge Beast stepped into the alley. He was still fifty feet or so from Lester, who was trying to get up.

Brother Lester lost his religion for a moment. "G.o.ddammit!" he hollered. "Do I have to do everything all by myself?"

The Beast stepped closer. Brother Lester got to his feet and turned around just as Brother Benny and Sister Alma reached him. They saw the Beast at the same time.

"What in the blazes is that!" that!" Brother Benny said. Brother Benny said.

Sister Alma took one look at the Beast and let out a shriek that rattled windows. Before the echo of squalling had died away, Brother Lester, Brother Benny, and Sister Alma had cleared the alley and were rapidly closing in on Legionnaire Jobert, who, considering his age, was moving quite well.

All four of them ran into Lula's Love-Inn.

The altar was a heavy oak door placed on concrete blocks and covered with black fabric. Torches, which would be lighted later, were placed in a circle around the altar. A few of the faithful had begun to gather. All around the edges of the open field, animal eyes stared unblinking at the scene.

And beyond the cats, on the fringes of the swamp, staying together, many of the Beasts had gathered. They stayed together, not trusting the hundreds of cats that ringed the field, not really understanding why the little furry things were here at all. As a food supply, the cats were quite tasty, but not the favorite food of the Beasts.

When they did eat, the Beasts much preferred human flesh. With a single thought of food, thick ropes of stinking saliva dripped from the ma.s.sive jaws of the Beasts, the saliva dripping onto the great hairy chests, dribbling through the thick mat of hair.

The Beasts and the cats and the few human servants of the Lord of Flies who had gathered in the field patiently waited. It was nearly time for the Black Ma.s.s to begin.

"Oooo!" the boys around Mrs. Wheeler's home called out in the night. This was good fun, they had all agreed. And it would be even more fun when they grabbed the old witch and tortured her to death. "Oooo!" they hooted and called, believing they were frightening the old lady.

Mrs. Wheeler clicked her shotgun off safety and took a firmer grip on the old wood of the stock. If those c.r.a.p-headed, spoiled, pampered, and good-for-nothing punks out there felt they were scaring her, they had a very large surprise waiting in store for them, she thought.

And those in the houses close to the home of Mrs. Wheeler listened to the sounds of the night. Many of them were still in limbo, mentally and physically undecided as to what path to take: Light, or Dark. All over the small town, those humans who were wavering between worlds were being forced to choose. Only the very strongest would be able to choose the path of truth and light and freedom.

The majority would bend to the will of Satan.

"Die, old woman!" a girl called from the night-shrouded side yard of Mrs. Wheeler's home. "Now you die!"

As she waited, the retired schoolteacher began remembering bits and sc.r.a.ps of conversation she'd heard as a little slip of a girl, sixty-five or so years back. She knew that nearly everything one heard, saw, or read was retained in the brain, but seldom brought forth. So she did not struggle to pull the words from her mind; just let them surface naturally.

"... them things out in the swamps ain't G.o.d's work," she recalled some long-forgotten friend of her parents saying.

"They belong to the devil," her mother had said. "My grand-mere said they've been here forever."

"Oooo! Oooo! Oooo!" the young Satan-worshipers in the yard called.

"h.e.l.l with you," Mrs. Wheeler muttered, and forced herself to recall more of the long-forgotten bits of conversation.

"... priest said Satan is always very near to his place."

"... notice how funny a lot of cats were actin' the other night? Priest said the poor animals didn't have no choice in the matter. They follow the actions of their owners."

"Why not the dogs?" That had come from Mrs. Wheeler's father.

"Don't know."

Mrs. Wheeler reached down beside her and lifted her old cat to her lap. She looked at the cat looking at her. "Is that the way it is, Hector?" she softly whispered to the cat.

The cat purred and briefly snuggled close to the old woman. Mrs. Wheeler smiled and shooed the cat inside the house. "You stay in there, Hector. Things are about to get tough out here."

She heard the punks coming closer. Too eager, she thought. This will be a piece of cake. Her heart was beating faster, and she knew her blood pressure was up, but that was normal, she thought, considering the circ.u.mstances.

"Die, you old witch!" a young man shouted, jerking open the screen door.

Without rising from her chair, Mrs. Wheeler lifted the shotgun and blew half the punk's head off. The Satan-lover was flung off the steps and to the ground. The old lady shifted the barrel position and pulled the trigger at a flash of movement in her yard. A horrible, choking scream cut the hot air. Footsteps ran in the night and faded from the old lady's ears. A car was cranked up, tires spinning on the concrete.

All was still.

Mrs. Wheeler rose from her chair, replaced the sh.e.l.ls in her shotgun, and went into the house for a drink of wine.

"Going to be a long evening," she said to Hector.

"Now!" The call was shouted at the drive-in. "Get them!"

Trixie screamed as several dozen young people rushed the drive-in's kitchen and office. Janson slammed and locked the front door, yelling for the kitchen help to lock the back door.

Laughter greeted his command. Angry, Janson turned around, the screaming of the carhops a raging ma.s.s of confusion in his head.

Young George Lemare stood in the kitchen door, a butcher knife in his hand. He was grinning at Janson.

"This is gonna be fun," George said.

Janson picked up a pot of coffee from the burner and tossed the scalding liquid on George.

Add George's horrible screaming to the confusion.

A brick slammed through the gla.s.s-enclosed office, shards of cutting light hurled about; Janson felt a trickle of blood from a small cut on his neck.

Janson picked up a broom, broke off the handle, slammed the wood onto a young man's head. Blood spurted from the cut and the young man dropped to the floor.

The front door was kicked in, the small room filling with the stench of unwashed bodies. Janson could see Trixie. Her uniform was ripped from her and boys were holding the screaming girl's legs apart, while another kid was raping her.

"Run, Sheri!" Janson yelled at another waitress. "Run for help!"

George was on the floor, on his knees, both hands to his scalded face. He was moaning and crying in his searing, horrible pain.

Sheri ran out into the night, stopped, and turned around, deciding she could not leave her friend, Trixie, alone back there. Sheri picked up a two by four from a pile of sc.r.a.p lumber and ran back into the enclosure, through the open kitchen door. She smashed the two by four onto a boy's head, hearing the skull pop like a small firecracker. She almost puked when she saw the boy's gray-looking brains as he hit the floor.

Swinging the lumber from side to side, Sheri cleared a path through the confusing ma.s.s; she smashed heads and shattered arms and hands and faces with the lumber. Mr. Janson was fighting with half a dozen boys near the front door, and doing a pretty good job of it, too. Mr. Janson told her once that young people often make a very bad mistake with a lot of older people, 'cause, Mr. Janson said, "Us old dudes don't fight fair."

But Sheri could tell he was losing simply because of sheer numbers.

Sheri smashed the two by four onto the back of the boy who was raping Trixie then, following through, she hit one of the boys holding her flush in the face with the lumber. The boy's mouth shattered in a gush of blood, several of his teeth flying out of his mouth. Sheri grabbed Trixie's hand and jerked her toward the kitchen just as Mr. Janson went down under a crushing ma.s.s of young men.

The girls ran out the back door into the night.

And with a roar of anger and hate and decades of pent-up evil, Bob Savoie pushed the last bit of earth from him and rose from the casket.

14.

Elmer had seen the four people running up the street, but he was a long way from them and didn't really understand what was going on. Whatever it was, it sure had caused them all to shove it in overdrive.

But who was them two guys staggering up the street toward him? Elmer peered through the artificially lighted gloom of night. Why ... G.o.dd.a.m.n! he thought. That looks like that young fellow works over at Dr. Livaudais's clinic. But what the h.e.l.l was wrong with him-was he drunk?

The two men lurched closer. Elmer fought to keep the fried chicken he'd had for supper down. That other guy was tore all to h.e.l.l and gone. Jesus Christ! half his face was missing.

The orderly and the torn man spotted Elmer. They stopped in the street.

Elmer willed his feet to move, please move, but they seemed rooted to the sidewalk. Elmer could see the orderly's face clearly now. Jesus G.o.d! what was wrong with the man's eyes?

The torn man opened his mouth, a low growling sound rolling from his throat. He held out his arms to Elmer, waggling his fingers, beckoning Elmer to come to him.

"Out of my way, you!" Elmer found his voice and the ability to move. He took off across the street at a flat lope. He could see the lights of Lula's Love-Inn. He'd never been in a honky-tonk in his life, but by G.o.d, he was goin' to one now.

Just as he pushed open the front door, he could hear Sister Alma squalling. Elmer stepped inside the foul smelling, dimly lit barroom and his eyes widened in shock.

Jobert had his rifle leveled at a crowd of men and women, holding them at bay, cursing in French and English and German. He'd told Elmer once that a lot of German used to be spoken in the Legion.

Sister Alma's clothing was half-ripped from her, her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s exposed.

Brother Benny's mouth was b.l.o.o.d.y and there was a red mark on his cheek; looked like somebody had popped him pretty good.

For the first time in Elmer's memory, Brother Lester stood speechless, his mouth hanging open.

Elmer looked at the barroom full of men and women. He knew everybody there, grown up with nearly all of them. But there was something ... different about them, now. They all, to a person, looked ...

... evil.

"Now you're all ours," Elmer heard ol' Rich Manion say.

"That's your a.s.s!" Jobert told him.

Sister Alma let out another shriek as a cat jumped on her, clawing the woman's face and neck. Elmer grabbed the cat and flung it across the room. The animal hit the wall, fell to the floor, and was still.

"What the h.e.l.l is goin' on in this town?" Elmer yelled. One local good ol' boy jumped up and reared back to take a swing at Elmer. Jobert b.u.t.t-stroked the good ol' boy with his rifle, the man dropped to the floor without making a sound.

"Stand real still," Jobert said, his voice calm and free of any traces of slurring. Jobert was stone cold sober.

"The next man or woman that moves gets shot." Brother Lester appeared to be in some sort of shock. "That dead orderly from the clinic is right outside the door," Elmer said. "Along with some fellow that's tore up too bad to live. They look like zombies."

"That's what they are," Jobert replied, without taking his eyes from the crowd of unwashed. "Guess what my daddy tole me was true. The dead are walking."

"Uh ... uh ... uh ..." Brother Lester said.

"That makes about as much sense as anything you ever said," Jobert told the lay preacher.

Elmer silently agreed with the man.

Brother Benny didn't know what to say, what to do, or what to think.

Sister Alma was crying, making no attempt to cover her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Cover yourself, woman!" Jobert said. " 'Fore someone decides to give you a feel."

Grunting sounds were heard just outside the barroom door.

"We have time to deal with you later," someone in the crowd said. "But not now. We're being called."

And on some silent signal, the barroom emptied, the men and women and teenagers exiting out the back door.

The grunting outside the door faded as lurching footsteps sounded on the sidewalk.

"What the h.e.l.l? ..." Elmer said, looking around the empty, still foul-smelling barroom.

"Anybody know where the Christians are gathering?" Jobert asked.

"What?" Brother Lester finally found his voice.

"Satan is among us," Jobert said. "The dead are walking. There's gonna be a noir messe noir messe somewheres close. Bet on it." somewheres close. Bet on it."

"A what?" Lester said.

"Black ma.s.s," Brother Benny said.

"Ridiculous!" Brother Lester spat out the word."The poor wretched souls in this den of evil were just drunk, that's all. As dark as it is in here, they've probably been watching filthy movies. It's proven that those types of things can cause strange behavior."

"Gets a feller excited, that's for sure," Jobert said. "First few times you watch one. After that, it's boring."

"It's sinful!" Brother Lester shouted.

"Lester, I ain't got time to mess with a fool like you," Jobert replied. "I repeat: does anybody know where the Christians are gathering?"

"What do you think we we are?" Brother Lester shouted. "We're Christians!" are?" Brother Lester shouted. "We're Christians!"

Jobert shook his head. Time was wastin'. "No, Lester, you're not. What you are is a hypocrite. And if I have to explain that to you, well, then you're a bigger fool than I think you are."

"The Dorgenois house," Elmer said, before Brother Lester could get cranked up and start preaching.

"Which one?" Jobert asked.