Devil's Kiss

There are only four towns in the entire county, the largest being Whitfield. Fork County is huge, and sparsely populated. If one wanted to hide, or be alone, or perpetrate an evil, Fork County would be ideal. Not because of the people, but because of its aloneness, its isolation.

Whitfield sits almost in the direct center of Fork County, and while its chief law enforcement agent is called Sheriff, he is really a sub-sheriff, the elected sheriff having his offices in Atwood, some sixty miles away.

Whitfield is not an easy place to reach; it has few visitors. One road in, one road out. State roads. There are several winding county roads, but most of them lead nowhere, or in a circle, and at times are impassable.

A native of Fork once told a weary salesman who was attempting to get to Whitfield, 'You can't get there from here, partner. You got to go somewhere else to start.'

He was only half joking.

Fork County.

Standard number of churches in Whitfield, standard mix of religion as found in any small town. The young people leave as soon as they can, unless they plan to ranch with their fathers. Whitfield has no industry. The ranches have passed from great-grandfather to grandfather to father to son. Old brands. Foreign investment in Fork County is nil.

Only one Jewish family in Whitfield, Miles Lansky and his wife Doris. The Lansky's walk a fine line. They live in a community full of cowboys and out-doorsmen. A community full of the Plains State's version of the Southern Good Ole Boy. A less refined term is Redneck.

'Them Jews is funny, you know that, boy? They ain't like us.'

A statement that surely brings great joy to the Jews.

Miles owns a very profitable department store. His best friend is Sam Balon.

In Fork, cowboys still ride horses on round-up, still carry guns. The six-guns, though, are usually carried in the saddlebags, not belted around the waist. Quick drawing is something that can now be seen at the County Fair. Amuses the kiddies.

Sport. Occasionally, someone emulating Wes Hardin will shoot off his toe. Amuses the adults.

The one newspaper in this part of Fork, the Fork County Crusader, is conservative Republican, owned by its editor, Wade Thomas. The newspaper was passed on to him by his father, and to him by his father, who came to what is now Whitfield in the 1860s. The newspaper is published weekly, serving the eastern half of Fork County. Due to a range war in the late 1890s, the western half of Fork does not get along with the eastern half. Memories die hard in Fork County.

The Crusader is a good, solid, small-town newspaper.

Whitfield had, until recently, a radio station. The airwaves would alternate painfully between the nasal honkings of country music and the primal gruntings of the newly discovered rock and roll.

Sam, a lover of the classics, did not listen to the local station. It was not that Sam did not like some country and some rock and roll; for some reason, listening to the local station made him very nervous. He assumed it was only his imagination and thought no more of it.

In June of 1958, the radio station abruptly went out of business and off the air, to the sorrow of many and the almost total relief of the few music lovers in Whitfield.

The Crusader made a few polite inquiries about the archaeologists working around what was always presumed to be an ancient Indian burial ground and the often laughed-about home of some kind of monster. Nervous laughter. Almost everyone in Whitfield believed it was a burial ground; almost no one believed it was the home of any type of monster. Still, though . . .

No one knew the site of the Digging was linked to natural tunnels to the stand of timber at Tyson's Lake.

'It's weird out there, partner,' is the standard when one asks about the strange formation of rocks out in the Bad Lands. 'It's hard to get to and there ain't nothing out there when you get there. Stupid circle. Indian mumbo jumbo. Big deal. Now, I ain't been out there in years. I ain't goin', either.'

No one goes 'out there' after dark. Very few go 'out there' during the day. Even before the archaeologists put up a fence to keep people away from the circle, no one went 'out there.' Down through the years there have been reports of deaths 'out there.' Rumors of horrible creatures 'out there.'

Yes, Whitfield and that part of Fork County has had its monsters for hundreds of years—according to stories handed down. The legend is they are fanged and clawed creatures, with enormous strength and a vile stench about them.

Scary.

But no one has seen them. And, no, the creatures have never been known to venture into Whitfield.

Not yet.

The people of Whitfield and that part of Fork don't like to speak of the monsters—and don't. It is a close community, and outsiders are carefully scrutinized before being accepted into the fold—if they ever are.

The Project Director of the Dig, Doctor (Ph.d) Black Wilder, had refused to allow any pictures to be taken of the Dig, or of himself, or of any of his people. That irritated Wade Thomas. Wade, a typical reporter, took some shots, anyway. They didn't develop. Bad film, he concluded, and put the Digging out of his mind.

Really, the archaeologists made for pretty dull copy. Wilder had insisted upon using words so technical Wade didn't know what he was talking about, and if he didn't understand them, he knew perfectly well his readers wouldn't.

But something about the Dig nagged at Wade. Something—intangible—bothered him. Something about Wilder bothered him, too. And his workers—they rarely came to town. When Wade tried to talk with them, they answered him in monosyllables. They were not rude in their brevity, they just didn't have a damn thing to say. They would smile, nod their head, and walk off.

'Arrogant bunch of eggheads!' Wade muttered.

But if they were a bit strange—to small-town philosophy—they were well-behaved. They bought their supplies in Whitfield, paid in cash, were polite—standoffish, some said—and caused no trouble for the local law.

It was Sam who noticed they all wore the same kind of medallion around their necks. And they did not attend church—none of them.

But Sam kept his suspicions to himself.

And Wade kept his to himself.

And Jane Ann kept hers to herself.

All of them almost waited too long before bringing their suspicions to the attention of what few friends they had left.

Three

The archaeologist, at first, viewed the stone and the writings upon it with mildly concealed humor, believing some of his fellow workers were having a joke at his expense. But when he carbon-tested the stone and the edge of the cutting in the tablet, his smile faded abruptly. The stone tablet was thousands of years old. He double-checked his findings. When he finished the second testing, the young man sat in silence, smoking his pipe, looking at the tablet, his eyes not quite believing what was in front of him.

'Impossible,' he said.

He then began the task of translating the ancient symbols cut deeply—and perfectly—into the stone. When the translation was complete, the young man shivered as he read the words. He simply could not believe what he was reading.

But there it was, in front of him, on the workbench in his small trailer/lab. Again, he checked his findings. The symbols cut into the stone were perfectly formed. They could not have been cut with any tool known to exist five thousand years ago—or more. Then, how?

The supernatural entered his mind. He shook his head at that. 'No, that's not possible.'

Or, was it?

He read again the translation. HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

What did it mean?