The Chosen

even abused in the zeal of certain less-comprehending electees. Such things will happen, he supposed. Now, though, he hoped to earn back his fortune. He grew so weary of this pale and flavorless place. Back to my richest heaven, he thought. Soon, I pray.

All of eternity is a trial…

In the next grotto, several electees fed ravenously, while a third cawed, serving mammoth genitals to a blonde’s oral cavity. Yes, even infinity must have its graces.

He turned his smile to his underlings. “Tonight, we will begin our preparations. The indoctrination…”

««—»»

Talk about the boondocks, Paul dumbly thought.

The blue Pinto’s heater had all but crapped out; Paul drove with gloves on, and his heaviest winter jacket. To make matters worse, the roads were icing up. He’d bought a map of north county back at the quik-stop before he’d left town, hoping to use it in conjunction with McGowen’s address for Vera’s new place of employment, The Inn at Wroxton Hall. Not, he thought. The map proved all but useless; most secondary roads were either too small to read, or had been left off altogether. A minuscule perimeter of red dots outlined Wroxton Estates, but that was it.

Happy hunting, Paul.

State Route 154 unwound for what seemed forever, winding past outskirts of forest and infinite cornfields scratched barren save for the cut stems of last fall’s harvest. Paul had never seen such drab countryside. Even the sky seemed drab as mourning, leading him up toward the northern ridge of the county. Just northwest of Waynesville, he remembered from the map. He’d never heard of Waynesville, and he hadn’t noticed a single roadside indicating he was anywhere near it. This is the pits! I’m never gonna get there, and I don’t even know where I’m going!

Just as he began to fear he’d passed Waynesville, he found himself idling through some little corncob of a town. One main drag, a bar, a general store, a discount clothing shop, and a bank that looked smaller than most broom closets. No road signs had announced the little town’s title which, by now, Paul was not surprised by.

But at the next four-way stop (evidently stoplights were not deemed necessary here), Paul thought: finally! The last store in this one-hundred-yard berg sported a clipped sign reading: waynesville farm supply. At least I know I’m there. Paul felt grateful.

There came no confusion in getting back onto Route 154; the town offered no exits. Paul accelerated, the Pinto’s big 2.0 engine shuddering. The state route wound around a vast forest belt that looked like myraid skeletal extremities. If he’d been driving faster he’d have missed it, the puny wooden sign barely visible in the encroaching winter dusk:

THE INN

I’m here, he realized, nearly not believing it after the grueling journey.

Paul turned up the narrow, newly paved access, and wondered just what he was going to do once he got to The Inn.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER THIRTY}

Vera napped in annoying snatches. With The Inn closed, she decided it might be a good idea to catch up on her sleep, for certainly she’d gotten very little in the past months—at least not good sleep, sound sleep. The effort proved futile. Each time she lay down, she’d waken moments later pestered by lewd dreams. Par for the course, she thought. The fantasy of The Hands was always there, bristling, hot, erotic. Even after she’d awakened, she swore she could still feel their