'The Undead,' Sam murmured, walking down the darkened hall, letting himself out the back door.
Had he but looked around, he would have seen John Benton staring at him from the office window, eyes wild and red, tongue thick and dark, teeth grown into fangs.
Nine o'clock when Sam reached the area known as Tyson's Lake. It was far out in the Bad Lands, and Sam felt completely alone.
No, he corrected his thinking. I'm not alone. I have God.
Sam had changed into dark twill trousers, a long sleeve shirt, sturdy lace-up Jump Boots from his days in the army, and he had slipped on leather gloves. The .45 was hooked onto a web belt, extra clips in pouches. A big- bladed Bowie knife hung in its leather sheath on his left side.
He had bounced along gravel roads, then dirt roads before reaching his destination. He had, of course, heard of the lake, from Wade and others, but had never been out here. People he had asked to take him had been most reluctant to oblige.
Well, Sam thought, getting out of the truck, let's do it, Balon.
He glanced up at the sky. Clouds covered the moon and stars. An aura of foreboding hung over the land.
Sam stood for a moment by the side of the road. Get yourself under control, he cautioned. Push your anger aside; push Michelle out of your mind; forget the sight of John Benton. Get all your senses working properly.
Jane Ann slid gracefully into his thoughts. Jane Ann of the soft hands and gentle eyes.
'Go on home, Janey,' he muttered. 'You don't want to be out here. Not on this night.'
He jacked a round in the .45, then eased the hammer down, replacing the big automatic in the military flap- type holster. Ignoring the many No Trespassing—Danger—Keep Out signs, Sam climbed the high fence, dropping to the other side. A small scrap of material was securely caught in the fence. Sam pulled it free, fingering the cloth. Denim, he thought.
'Sheriff, she was wearing a western shirt, tennis shoes, and jeans,' Joan's mother had told Addison that day as Sam stood listening. 'Brand new jeans, too. I just got them from J C Penney that day. Come in the mail.'
This is new denim, Sam thought. He put the piece of cloth in his pocket, then walked on through the darkness.
At the bottom of the hill, Sam paused, looking around, getting his bearings. A small stand of timber by a small lake, the water gleaming dully in the night, matching the dull shine of the cross around Sam's neck. The timber was foreboding-looking. He looked to the east, toward the Dig site, a few miles away. Not one light shone in the darkness.
'Must be early sleepers,' he said, knowing they were not asleep—sensing it. He sensed something else, too: Evil.
The man's gaze swept all directions. Not one light shone. No birds sang. The wind sighed for a moment, then was still, as if God's breath were warning the minister with the .45 strapped around his waist.
Sam walked toward the lake, then stopped for another look. He had driven around the area, looking for Lucas's car, then gave up the search. These were Bad Lands, and Lucas had lived here for many years; he would know dozens of hiding places.
Sam touched the flashlight in his back pocket, then moved forward. At the edge of the water, he paused. Standing very still, Sam looked around, all senses working overtime. A fish jumped into the lake, hitting the water with a smacking sound. To his right, in the dark timber, something stepped on a branch, breaking it. A snarl followed.
Sam spun around, in a crouch, right hand on the butt of the .45. His heart picked up in tempo, thudding in his chest. Another growl, an answering growl to the first. This one came from Sam's left, in that part of the timber that gently curved around the small body of water. Whatever was in the timber—man or Beast—there were two of them, at least. The knowledge was not at all comforting to Sam.
Sam stood with his back to the lake, the body of water no more than five or six acres at most. The wind suddenly picked up, blowing from east to west, bringing with it a faint chant.
A chantl Out here? No one lived within miles of this place. Of course! Sam remembered the caravan he had seen; they worship at the Dig site. Again, the chanting drifted to him, faint, but unmistakable. He could not make out the words, but for some reason, they sounded like a warning. But for whom? Or what?
Abruptly as it had begun, the chanting ceased, leaving the night with an eerie silence.
More than that, Sam thought. Not just silence, but evil. I can feel it; sense it all around me, like a foul- smelling assassin draped in a dark cloak.
Sam looked toward the timber. He knew—and the knowledge was not easy to take—he would have to enter that stand of timber. It went against his training. A wise man does not fight the enemy on his own ground, unless you have the element of surprise with you, and he did not have that. They were waiting for him.
The wind shifted, bringing with it a horrible stench. A smell unlike anything Sam had ever smelled. His nose wrinkled in disgust.
Sam took a step forward, the light off the lake reflecting from the cross around his neck. The growling in the timber intensified, the—whatever they were—seemed to sense the power of the cross. And resent it.
Sam felt the things moving closer to the timber line. He could feel their anger, their frustration, their hatred. It was as if they knew, somehow, that Sam Balon had come to harm them.
From the timber came a horrible snarling, a growling, a snap of heavy jaws, followed by a puff of putrid air, assailing Sam's nostrils. For the first time in many years, Sam felt a tinge of fear in his belly.
He moved closer to the timber. 'Lucas!' he called. 'Are you in there?'
The things roared at him, a non-human howling of rage and hate.
Sam felt them watching him. He could dimly make out their shapes in the timber. Huge shapes; misshapen in all their bulk. He could smell the unGodly stench of them.
He heard a human moan. A cry of pain.
Lucas? It had to be.
Whoever it was suddenly screamed in pain. 'Oh, my God, help me, help me!' It was Lucas. 'Lord, my God, give me strength to—' His words cut off abruptly in a choking cry of pain.
Sam knew he could wait no longer. Lucas needed help. Now!
He ran toward the timber, ignoring the snarling and the growling. He raced toward another human being in desperate need, knowing he was running into the unknown. The smell became heavier, more powerful, almost unbearable. Branches whipped at Sam's face, the heavy cross bounced on his chest. A powerful roar stopped him. The smell was sickening. The Beast—and it had to be that—was very close to him.
'No, Sam!' Lucas shouted. 'Run! Oh, my God-SAM, GET OUT!'
The voice was pain-filled, in terrible agony. Sam moved toward the sound, edging his way through the darkness of the timber, his flesh crawling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead of him. He didn't dare use his flashlight; the Beasts would be sure to spot him then.
The stench was making him sick.
Suddenly, something warned Sam; some inner sense for survival he had developed in combat told him to duck—shift direction, hit the ground! Or perhaps, he would later think, it was God warning him. Sam hit the ground, throwing himself to the right, rolling, coming up with his back to a huge tree, on his knees.
A huge clawed hand tore through the air, swiping. Powerful jaws, dripping saliva, snapped at nothing. The fangs, thick, yellow, four to five inches long, gleamed in the dimness of the forest gloom. The Beast, well over six feet tall, stood a few yards from Sam, roaring at him, its stinking breath fouling the air.
For a few heart-pounding seconds, Sam squatted with his back to the tree in total shock.
The Beast was huge, tall, perhaps two hundred and fifty to three hundred pounds, very wide across its trunk. It had massive jaws that slowly narrowed almost into a pinhead at the top. Its body was covered with thick coarse hair, matted with filth. And the face. God! the face. It was the face of all that was evil. It was insane human; cunning animal; crazed night prowler. It was a walking nightmare.
And Sam was in the middle of the waking incubus.
Sam touched the cross on his chest, grasping it, holding it up to the Beast. The grotesque, subhuman howled with fear, jerking its hairy arms up to shield its eyes from the Holy Cross. Its roaring rattled the leaves of the forest.
