ELEVEN
Nabo knew his son was dead. And dead with a finality that was forever. Curse this place! he silently demanded. This game was supposed to have been easy. It had turned out to be anything but. The stupid do-gooders seemed to be leading a charmed life, immune to anything and everything Nabo threw at them. He should never have brought JoJo, Balo, Baboo and the Dog Man with him. But how was he to know they would turn against him? And with Balo and that snake guarding the boy, Nabo knew he could hang that up. And he also knew that even if he won, his victory would be a shallow one. The allotted time was over.
The taste of defeat left a copper-like taste on his tongue.
Nabo sat in the truck that housed the calliope and cursed God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and anything even remotely connected with them.
If
he won?
If!
He slammed his thick fingers down on the keys, producing a harsh, discordant note.
Everything had turned sour for him. Victory would be very nearly meaningless now. The townspeople who backed him were doomed to the Pits anyway. His Master wanted Christiansâtrue Christians. Not this ragtag rabble of mealy-mouthed hypocrites who thought that just because they attended some church that would guarantee them entrance to ... to ... that
place.
Nabo refused to even think the word Heaven. It was so offensive to him.
And now his last true flesh and blood was dead. Killed by Martin Holland. It just provedâagainâthat God loves His warriors. The genuine article. But, Nabo smiled grimly, he knew that Martin Holland would never attain the highest level. But that was little consolation, because Martin Holland wouldn't like that level anyway. That was reserved for the really wimpy typesâto Nabo's way of thinking.
What to do?
Great men had pondered that very question for eons. And Nabo certainly felt himself to be a very great man. His Master had said he was on the same plane as that other great man, Hitler. Nabo had swelled with pride at that.
His fingers gently touched the keys and played the “Horst Wessel Lied.” Beautiful.
What to do?
What to do?
* * *
The midway was silent, except for the sounds of the calliope. Still. Empty. Brilliantly lighted but without sound. As motionless as the fly-covered dead bodies that lay on the sawdust.
Balo sat with Gary Jr. in the van, King coiled and resting in the back seat. Gary Jr. was sleeping.
JoJo and Baboo and the Dog Man had slipped off into the darkness.
Martin, Frenchy and the others of his group were squatting on the grass, talking quietly.
And Dr. Reynolds was standing in the middle of the road, just inside the city limits sign. He had heard the rattle-bang of the tireless pickup truck long before he caught sight of it. When the vehicles came into view, he held up his hand, forcing them to stop on the other side of the city limits' marker.
“Hi, there, you old geezer!” Holland squalled and clacked, sticking his head out of the truck.
“Look who's calling whom old!” Reynolds returned the yell. “You look like death warmed over.” Then he cackled at his own humor, slapping his knee. He pointed his cane at Sergeant Davidson. “You boys just stay where you are for the time being. Come on in, Holland.”
Before the troopers could stop him, Holland had slammed the old truck into gear and cut around the lead patrol car, crossing over. He parked by Reynolds and got out.
The old doctor stuck out his hand. Holland shook his head. “Best you don't touch me, Doc. What I got is terminal. If you know what I mean.”
“I hate to tell you what you look like, Holland.”
“It'll all change as we cross over for the last time.” Holland stared at his old friend. “You made up your mind that you're going with me, huh?”
“It's time, I think.”
The troopers stood and listened, not really understanding what was taking place between the two men. But they all had a pretty good idea ... and it wasn't thrilling any of them.
“My boy's held his own, hey, Doc?”
“He's done more than his share. You lost a granddaughter and a daughter-in-law, though.”
“I felt it while I was in that hole.
“Corncob Mayfield's boy will be along shortly,” Holland said. “He's a bigshot with the patrol now. I figure we'd wait and brief them all at once.”
Sergeant Davidson took a step toward the two men.
“Hold it, boy!” Doc Reynolds shouted at him. “You just stop right there. You pass that invisible line, and you can't get back out.”
“Listen to him, hardhead!” Holland clacked, holding up a warning hand. “We lose this fight, and we just might lose it, you're in here forever. You'll never die, never rest. You'll just
be
here. Think about it.”
Sergeant Davidson stood very still.
“That's better. Now don't come any closer.”
“Can you come out of there, mister?” Davidson asked Reynolds.
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Because you're really not talking to me, son, that's why.”
Davidson muttered a few obscenities under his breath. He walked around in a tight little circle for a few seconds. Then he lost his temper. “I have put up with just about all of this insanity I'm going to take. I don't know what kind of stunt you're trying to pull. But don't lay any more of it on me. This is all some sort of big joke you old coots are putting down. And I don't appreciate it. I ought to run you both into a cell and you can sit in there and see how funny it is.”
“You married, Sergeant?” Doc Reynolds asked.
“Not anymore. Divorced.”
“Any kids?”
“One. Haven't seen the girl in years. She took her to California and got remarried. Why all these questions?”
“You know where your daughter is?”
“No. She planned it that way. I spent a fortune on investigators; never could find her.”
“So you don't have much to lose, do you, Sergeant?”
“Just my life.”
“What kind of weapons do you have in that car?”
“You name it, mister. What's all this talk leading to?”
“You think this is a joke, Sergeant? Well, you just get all your gear on, and step on in here. But if you elect to do that, don't say I didn't warn you.”
Davidson hesitated, then walked to the rear of his car.
“Sarge? ...” Walton said.
“No!” Davidson was adamant. “Something ... funky is going on in there. I don't kow what. But we got a highway cop in there, and I for one am going in and see about her.”
“Frenchy is all right,” Doc told them. “She's got a lot of brass on her butt, boys. She and Martin Holland . . .” he jerked a thumb, “... his son, have been making goo-goo eyes at each other ever since the boy found out his wife was a demon.”
Davidson fixed a jaundiced gaze at the doctor. “His wife is a
what?”
“The devil's own. A shape-changer. And Martin, like us, has a third eye.”
“Where is it, under his hat!”
Nobody laughed at the try at humor.
Davidson took off his shirt and slipped into body armor, then put his shirt back on. He laid aside his revolver and slipped into a harness that contained a sixteen shot 9mm and half a dozen full clips. He loaded up with shotgun shells and clips for an M-16. Then he turned to face the other troopers.
“I am making this a direct order, boys. You are all, all of you, to remain on this side of that city limits sign and wait for Captain Mayfield. Is that understood?”
It was.
“Sergeant,” Reynolds said. “How many walkie-talkies did you and your men bring with you?”
“We each have one.”
“Turn one on, set it right, and then toss it to me. I want you to see what you're letting yourself in for.”
Walkie talkie in hand, Reynolds backed up until he was nearly out of voice range. He keyed the hand set and spoke into it. He could not be heard nor could he receive transmissions from any of the cops.
Doc walked back to the invisible line. “You see what I mean, Sergeant?”
“I see it. But I don't understand it. I'm coming in.”
Doc and Holland shrugged, Doc saying, “Your choice.”
The sergeant stepped up to the invisible line and stopped. His men could see him, Doc and Holland could see him. But he could see none of them. They all watched as panic etched his broad face.
“It isn't too late, Sergeant,” Doc called. “You can still change your mind. What do you see where you are?”
“Nothing.” Davidson forced his voice to remain calm. “It's black. But shiny, sort of. Where am I?”
“You're very close to truth in that last remark. And you're running out of time. Make your choice and do it quickly.”
Davidson stepped into the town limits of Holland. He was once more visible. He shook his head and blinked a couple of times. “What happens if I try to step back out?”
“You can't. You don't exist. You'll lose your form and eventually you'd be forced back in.”
“Well,” the sergeant stepped up to the men, “I guess I'm in for the duration.”
“You certainly are,” came the reply.
* * *
“See them?” Dick whispered.
“I see them,” Martin said. “Lyle's leading the bunch.”
Dick peered through the darkness, his eyes on the rear of the little group, all spread out behind the livestock pavilion. Mark held the shotgun taken from Dick's truck, Ed the 30-30 lever-action rifle. They were good kids. They would stand.
A chant rose from the large crowd massed together in the night, some one hundred yards from the beleaguered little group of Chosen Ones ... although none among them knew why they personally had been spared.
“What are they saying, Don?” Jeanne asked, kneeling very close to the young cowboy.
“I can't make it out.”
It sounded to Martin as though they were chanting “Torandie.” But that made no sense. He listened more intently, and was then able to separate the words.
“Torture and die!”
“Hear it now, Ned?” he called softly.
“Unfortunately, yes. Martin? I do not profess to have the courage of my Savior. I will not allow them to take me alive.”
“You can't be sure how deep your well of courage is, Ned. Besides, they're not taking anyone, alive or dead.”
“You have more faith than I, my friend.”
“No. I just know what I can do, that's all.”
Martin stared at the high dry grass just in front of the maddened, chanting group. He felt a cold rage take control of him. His eyes changed, burning yellow-amber. The grass exploded in flames, clearly illuminating those who had chosen to follow the calling of the Dark One.
The fires spread just as a slight breeze whipped up, driving the flames toward the knot of evil, pushing them back toward the fence line and away from the livestock pavilion.
Martin maintained his deadly gaze and the flames licked upward, hotly kissing the cool night air as the lethal yellow danced in fury, pushed on by a power that was being applied but not understood by the user.
A man ran from the group, trying to escape into the darkness at the edge of the flames. Ed lifted the rifle to his shoulder, took his time, and squeezed off a round. The man flung his arms into the air and pitched forward on his face, dying without a sound.
Ed swallowed hard and levered the empty brass out and a fresh round into the .30-30.
No one complimented the boy on his accuracy, even though if there ever was a time to kill, that time was upon them.
Sweat was beading Martin's head as his unblinking eyes continued to ignite and push the fires toward the now totally panicked mob of men and women. The crowd now had their backs to the fence, with some trying to climb the fence. Their weight collapsed the chainlink, ripping out several sections. But it was too late, their clothing burst into flames, spreading upward to fire their hair. The screaming overrode the happy sounds of the midway. The smell of cooked flesh drifted back to Martin and his group.
Martin closed his eyes and let his mind rest. Frenchy came to his side and with a handkerchief, wiped the thin rivers of sweat from his face.
“I think we could make it now, Martin,” she said. “The fence has about a fifty foot gap in it.”
The fire had reached several vehicles parked outside the grounds, with guards crouched behind them. The gas tanks blew, sending flames rolling into the night sky and knocking human torches clear across the road, where those still alive kicked and screamed their way into death and into the scaly, pusy, flesh-rotted arms of what awaited them ... forever.
“You go, Frenchy. Take the kids. I have to stay.”
“I'll be right here with you. How do you feel?”
“A little weak. But just like before, recovering very fast.”
“You're not as pale and trembly as you were the first time you did this.”
He smiled at her. “I'm getting the hang of it, I guess.”
She stared at him. “What am I thinking, Martin?”
He looked into her eyes. “That your feelings are very confused about some ol' boy.”
“They are that, ol' boy.”
Martin slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing her gently. Not a lustful or demanding kiss. More a kiss of affection and assurance.
“Dad!” Mark called. “What do we do, now? Nabo is walking toward us.”