“You guys should get over to the Community Center,” Dennis told Hudson. “That’s where most of these things are going.”
“Way ahead. What about you?”
“I gotta clean off some graffiti,” Dennis said. “Trust me. It’s high priority.”
“As you say.” Hudson tossed his .44 to Dennis and unslung his night-vision-equipped hunting rifle for Bernard.
* * * *
“I see ’em!” Hudson, leaning out the window, handed his bullpup to the driving deputy. “Hand me the scope.”
On the opposite side, leaning out from the rear, Pedro squinted into the wind and rain, scanning for would-be ambushers.
Hudson raised the rifle and scanned for the most feasible target. “Looks like they’ve all mostly converged on the Community Center like Dennis said.”
He fired, then turned to smile at Pedro. “Got one!”
“Lemme have a turn.”
“It’s not a game, Petey.” Hudson re-chambered. “Get one of those grenade launchers ready.”
Pedro ducked into the vehicle and found the fitted M4A1 among the weapons aligned on the seat.
As he rose, Hudson leaned in. “Gun it, Astin. Those things are about to get into the building, if they haven’t already.”
As Deputy Astin accelerated, Hudson yelled at Pedro. “Start shooting as soon as you see the whites of their eyes.”
* * * *
As they crested the hill and came to Bennington’s towering obelisk tombstone, Bernard stopped in the driving rain to lean on his knees and catch his breath. “Damn you…Barcroft boys,” huffed Bernard. “You’re determined to kill me on this very hill.”
Dennis took a bandana from his back pocket and trekked to the obtrusive grave marker. He ripped away the plastic sheet Violina had made him place over the summoning sigil and scrubbed the blood mark until it was a brownish blur.
By then, Bernard had caught his breath and gone to work kick-cleaning the circle Violina had cast, reducing it also to a meaningless mess.
He and Dennis exchanged a triumphant smile, as the storm began to quickly subside.
“We get a medal or something now, I guess,” said the rocker.
“A paid tropical vacation would be better,” said Bernard. “But finishing October without any more Sam Raimi–type shenanigans will suffice.”
Dennis took a bag of candy corn from his jacket pocket, ripped it open, tossed a few pieces at the base of Wilcott Bennington’s grave and sat on the wet stone base, holding the bag out to Bernard.
“Hey, is that harvest mix?” asked the engineer/chemist/warrior.
* * * *
McGlazer’s grimace of pain vanished when he saw the new storm pattern setting in and the blast of green lightning staking its claim on the sky and against the hate-fueled pumpkin mutants.
This wasn’t a warning. It was an announcement.
The horrid, human-esque faces of O’Herlihy’s displaced followers withdrew.
It was hardly a relief; the smaller squashes remained inside the Center, undeterred from their slaughterous directive.
McGlazer barely had the strength to raise an arm against the toothy terror that rocketed toward him. The next one would find his throat or heart, or whatever it wished.
He looked toward Timbo, hoping for the tried-and-true, last-second salvation of hot lead.
The rifleman was swinging the empty weapon like a cricket bat, mostly hitting nothing.
Kerwin swung his board at the crawling creepers as Stuart raised and dropped the ten-pound dumbell repeatedly onto each foe that got close enough.
DeShaun bashed the rushing pumpkin spawn with his push broom. But each thrust was less effective as the strange creatures grew more savvy and savage. They were quickly learning to dodge to the side and around the oncoming bristled bludgeon.
DeShaun dropped the broom to duck as two of the little bastards sailed toward his face. Pockets and his young troops rushed to protect him, blitzing the sentient spheres. Their blows missed, landing sharply on the hard wood floor, leaving their young bodies exposed to snarling, flying counterattacks.
The children screamed in pain and terror, breaking ranks.
McGlazer wished for the nostalgic hopefulness of two minutes earlier, when they had only the overlarge adult creatures and their just-too-short tentacles to contend with.
Chapter 38
Trapped Like Rats
Settlement era
“You all saw it,” whispered John-David Pewter, his face nearly as white as the skull of the demon that lurked outside. “That was the Lord’s angel.”
“We were wrong…” said Nicholas Weber. “We were led astray by Conal. And now the Lord has judged us.”
Farrady stared at the hole in the door, shaking his head. “But…how? We worship the one true God. Bennington would have us devote ourselves to whatever god we wish. Like heathens.”
“Do you really think a man can know the truth of God in a single lifetime?” asked Schroeder. “We are mere children.”
He drank deeply from the jug of his poisoned liquor. “In this moment, I pray only for oblivion.” He lifted a fresh jug and tossed it to Pewter. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“You…sought to poison us tonight?” asked Farrady.
Schroeder issued a bitter laugh. “Call it a mercy.” He took another deep swallow, finishing with the jar, then set it aside and lay down like he was taking a brief doze. “There’s enough for all of you.” He interlaced his fingers and straightened his neck. “Or you have only to step outside, if you prefer.”
Farrady beheld the matchlock in his hands as if it was a mere toy. “God’s will is not to be hindered by powder and ball shot, I suppose.”
Weber had stared at the jug since catching it. Now he uncorked it, drank deeply, took a breath and drank again. “I renounce my own soul.” He handed the jug to his nearest comrade and knelt, staring at the useless barrier of the door almost placidly. “Thy will be done.”
Farrady leaned over to check on Schroeder and found that he was not breathing. “I say we fight the demon.”
“Fight the Reaper?” someone responded. “May as well fight God Himself.” The man went to the crate and took up the jug of tainted whiskey. “He’s given us a choice in Schroeder’s elixir. Quiet, eternal sleep…” He motioned to the door. “Or the cold edge of the scythe.”
He uncorked and drank, swallowing mightily, then handed the jug to Farrady. “It was
