'Yes. Those that were called.'
'There are more of those … things?'
'As many as a nonbeliever wishes there to be.'
'Someday—not soon, I hope—I'm going to have a long talk with you.'
The mighty warrior could have told Sam when that time would be, but that was forbidden. Not that the warrior always obeyed the rules, for he did not. But … most of them.
The warrior faded and was gone from Sam's consciousness. But he watched the young warrior stride purposefully down the path. He could not tell him of the pain that awaited him; could not relate the horrors that would confront him. But the warrior felt the young one could cope. He would be bloodied, but with his head not bowed in subservience to that filthy rabble of the Hooved One.
A mile from the cleared ground of the mansion, Sam stopped for a rest, and to prepare some equipment. He carefully checked the old Thompson and his father's .45 pistol. He tested the edge to his knife. He bloused his jeans in his jump boots, retying the boot laces, securing them. He had filled half a dozen small bottles with the highly flammable portable stove fuel, and he checked them for breakage, repacking them carefully. He stood up, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out his black wool Ranger beret, with his old unit crest attached. He settled the beret on his head, took a deep breath, and walked down the path.
He was as ready as he knew how to be.
'He's coming,' Karl spoke to Falcon, utilizing a handheld handy-talkie.
Falcon stood in front of the window of his quarters; Karl was hidden in the timber, waiting with other men to ambush Sam.
Falcon knew where Nydia and the others were, just as he knew his Master had instructed the bitch to watch out for Nydia's well-being, in case Falcon's seed had overpowered Sam's weak flow of semen and she was with demon, as Roma felt her daughter was.
Falcon also knew the fight that Sam was bringing to the grounds was to the death. And the young man was without fear. He was cautious, but not fearful. Falcon had observed, with the help of his Master's all-powerful eye, the young warrior face down the gulon, the creature slinking off into the timber, back to its hiding place.
And the old warrior, the Mighty One's favorite archangel was here, rubbing his hands together, looking forward to a good scrap, spoiling for a good fight with God's most hated enemy.
It had not gone as planned, Falcon sighed. We have a good chance of winning this fight; the odds are still in our favor, but …
He chose not to think of the alternative.
'Be careful, Karl,' he spoke into the handy-talkie. 'The young man is dangerous, and he has been well trained for battle. And something else: he has been tested in actual combat; he has killed, and he will not lose his courage.'
'Bah!' the man dismissed Falcon's warnings. 'He is too young to be that dangerous.'
Fool! Falcon thought. 'Sam Balon's offspring is a combat-tested, ex-Army Ranger, you idiot. With several special warfare schools behind him. Don't underestimate him.''
'We lost him!' Karl's excited voice belched from the speaker. 'He was in sight just a moment ago. Where'd he go?'
'Probably coming up behind you, you clod! The young man is a trained guerrilla fighter.' Falcon opened the window facing the woods just in time to hear the sounds of gunfire. 'Damn!' he muttered.
Sam had been expecting an ambush and had been watching closely for any signs of one. He had spotted the movement of bushes ahead of him and darted off the path, coming up softly behind the men. The young man had been well trained, and terms of surrender was the last thing on his mind. He raised the SMG and blew the men into the arms of their chosen God.
Sam eased his way up to the fallen men. Blood, bits of bone, and gray matter were splattered on the trees and the ground beneath the men. One man was alive; he raised his hand and groaned.
'Help me,' he pleaded.
'Certainly,' Sam said. He shot the man between the eyes.
The Old Warrior smiled grimly, thinking: I have no need to worry about this young warrior. Then he was off, searching the timber, sword in hand, looking for a fight with the forces of evil.
Sam picked up a rifle lying beside one of the bodies and inspected it for damage. The bolt action was a Winchester model 70, .338 magnum, in good shape. He rolled the dead man over and removed a cartridge belt from him, then searched his pockets for more cartridges, finding another boxful in his jacket pocket. Sam left a short- barreled lever-action carbine, and picked up a bolt action .308. The fourth man had been carrying a Weatherby .460.
'Elephant gun,' Sam muttered, grinning as he stood among the carnage he had wreaked. 'I think I'll find me a nice vantage point and do a bit of sniping.'
The first round went through a rear window of the great house, hitting a young woman in the stomach, knocking her backward over a coffee table, the mushrooming slug slamming a hole in her stomach as big as her fist. She lay on the floor, screaming her life away, wailing for her chosen Master to help her … stop the awful pain.
He did not.
'Jimmy!' Falcon roared. 'Come here.'
The zombielike living dead shuffled into his earth-bound master's quarters.
'What is all that noise?'
'Young Sam Balon on the ridge northeast of the house, sir. Got a rifle.'
