It had once been a woman, he could tell that much, because its stringy hair fell like soggy bean sprouts over dripping breasts. The eyes glowed with deep, irradiant longing as its pale fingers hooked the metal links. 'Shu- shaaa… kish… treeeez…'
Had the sounds come from that thing's raw wet mouth that gaped too widely to be human? Emerland was studying the vaguely familiar cheekbones and the wide skull that shone like pallid cheese in the moonlight. He suddenly recognized her- no, IT, not HER — as one of the aerobics instructors at Sugarfoot. One that he had shared several rather private workouts with.
No.
This wasn't happening.
Emerland was still looking at the face, looking for the woman who had once worn that skin before… before the Earth Mouth-zombiemaker-worldeater came.
Then the face disappeared as the thunder of Chester's shotgun shredded the thing’s upper torso into a rain of pulp.
'They're out there. I see them coming,' Tamara said in the sudden dead calm that followed the explosion.
Tamara led the way as they ran to the Mercedes. Emerland was frozen to the spot, unable to rip his gaze from the quivering stump of the creature that now sagged to the ground, leaving a viscous trail of fluid on the fence that shimmered in the moonlight. Then he regained the use of his legs and dashed to the car, passing the others and sliding behind the driver's seat of the Mercedes.
'Now do you believe?' DeWalt asked from the backseat. Emerland nodded.
'Let's get the hell out of here,' Chester said.
Chester didn't even have to threaten him with the shotgun this time.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bill hung up the cell phone. He had dialed Nettie's number for the fourth time. No answer at the church, either. She wasn't in her apartment when he drove there to meet her at eleven o'clock. She had stood him up.
After today. After all they’d been through and shared. After Bill had bent his principles. After the sin that didn’t feel at all like a sin.
After he’d said that word love, the clumsiest word that ever passed his lips.
He gripped the steering wheel and looked through the truck’s windshield. The Blossomfest booths were silent, draped with vinyl and canvas and waiting for tomorrow’s crowds. The brick faces of downtown were asleep, the streets black and empty. A police car threaded up the street between the stalls, its headlights washing over the plywood signs and stacked boxes and rigged backdrops.
Bill studied the peeling white of the Haynes House, which would soon be filled with laughing children, and polyester-clad tourists, frowzy-headed college students, and the locals in their overalls and starched pink dresses.
Bill looked at the stage where Sammy Ray Hawkins would be playing tomorrow for the adoring crowds. Bill’s ex-wife would sit smugly at the foot of the stage and search the crowd for Bill's face. Her mouth would be thick with cherry lipstick, her hair cut in a style she had seen in some recent magazine. She would be wearing a poppy red blouse with a plunging vee front, the better to show off her unhindered chest. Her hair would dance across her laughing face, blown by the breeze that always seemed to follow her.
And Bill knew he would lust after her, if only for a moment. But maybe if he prepared himself now, if he prayed for strength, the desire would dissolve along with his hatred. And the scars on his heart where the Lord had healed him would not reopen and bleed fresh pain. It was strange to be thinking of her now when he had Nettie filling him, crowding his skin and mind and memory, filling his inner ear with her soft musical voice, but roots ran deep and vows lingered even when broken.
He only hoped Nettie wasn't regretting the afternoon. He didn't think so, but why hadn't she been at her apartment waiting to meet him as planned?
Bill’s stomach knotted. He was sure that, somewhere down in those orange flickering pits, the devil was laughing at him. What a great joke the devil had played. Gotten Bill to turn away from God and answer the human call of his weak heart. Convinced Bill to commit sin with a virtuous woman, an act that condemned her to damnation as well. He could practically hear the Prince of Lies licking his dry lips in anticipation of torturing Nettie for an eternity.
But, damnit-excuse me, Lord-it hadn't felt wrong or dirty. It had felt real and right and joyful, there on the blanket in the meadow under the eye of God. It felt like love, something that had its own kind of glory, something that no Red-tailed Son-of-a-So-and-So Fallen Angel could taint and twist into something foul. And God damn-excuse me, Lord-any demon or human that tries to come between me and my newfound soul mate.
But the shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. Satan was tricky. Satan could make Nettie pretend that she loved him when she really didn't. Satan could induce her to unbutton her blouse and offer her flesh to him as some kind of ritual sacrifice. Satan could use Nettie to siphon his spirit away.
Why couldn't Satan content himself with Bill's ex-wife instead of seeking to convert the pure? But perhaps that was so much sweeter, a seduction of the innocent, as much a lure to the Damned One as cake frosting was to a child.
And now Nettie could be hiding under her white bedspread in her tiny room, crying in shame at being used. Nettie's stomach could be in knots, she might be praying for forgiveness. Nettie might be nothing more than a helpless pawn of that brimstone-breathing bastard who hoped to rule the world. Or at least hoped to spread a little misery along the golden road that led to eternal salvation.
But if the devil had hurt Nettie, there would be hell to pay. Because Bill would crawl under the earth and grab the goat-faced freak by the throat and wring his sorry neck. Because nobody was going to hurt Nettie as long as he had a breath and a prayer.
Excuse me, Lord. I get a little worked up when it comes to Nettie, in case you haven't noticed. But if it's Your will, I'd like You to bring us together. For our good and Your greater glory.
He looked down Main Street. The town looked dead as four o'clock. He hated to break his word, but he couldn't sit on his rear end, not knowing how Nettie was feeling about this afternoon. The police could watch over things here. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Bill decided to try the church in case Nettie had worked late for some reason. It was a busy time, he knew, with Easter coming. But even the dedicated had to sleep sometime. And Nettie would have called him if she'd had to miss their date. Wouldn't she?
Or had she decided that someone who had already been in a failed marriage was damaged goods? Or that Bill was a serpent-tongued hypocrite out to serve his own desires instead of the Lord’s?
He started his truck. Who could hope to understand the ways of God or Woman?
Crosley eased his cruiser through the trailer park, its tires crunching on the gravel drive. Someone had called in to report a prowler, and Crosley had taken the dispatch himself.
Probably just another fly-blown drunk staggering home late, but at least it gave him something to do besides look for people who might not want to be found. For all he knew, Emerland was dipping his wick in that Leon woman right now, and the Mull fellow was sleeping off a drunk in a whorehouse somewhere. He'd rather deal with something simple and solvable, like a wino to shake down and maybe lock up, or a teenager caught puffing on a joint.
No Incredible Melting Man to deal with, no big mysteries. He didn't blame the mayor for not believing the story. Hell, he didn't half believe it himself, and he'd been there.
He rubbed his belly and thought about pulling another Black Label from under the seat. But he was close to the legal limit already. And he had the feeling that the Virgin Queen was just waiting for a good excuse to bounce his fat ass out of the Police Chief chair. Drunken driving on duty wasn't exactly kosher for a man who upheld the public trust.
But just look at my public. Scraggly-assed white trash who would dry up and blow away-just like the
