Sam walked out of the timber boldly, unhurriedly, carrying the bag of stinking heads. He walked past the small lake, up the hill. At the crest, he stood alone, in the moonlight. He was not afraid. His chest bare, flecked with mud, his clothing stained with blood.
He stood with powerful legs spread, fists clenched. He looked down into the blackness of the timber. 'All right, Prince of Darkness, Lord of Flies, Ruler of the Night, hear me well. I have my God, and a few people I know are good, and who, for whatever reason, have resisted you and your Coven.
'I'm but a mortal man, and I know I can't destroy you, but I'm going to beat you this time around. You want a fight?' He held up the bloody bag of heads. 'Come on—here I am.'
Lightning danced across the sky. A phenomenon seen that night by only Balon and Wilder. The devil's agent stood outside his trailer at the Dig, watching his Master play with the minister.
Sam laughed at the lightning. 'Is that the best you can do, Master of Filth?' He knew he was deliberately antagonizing the devil. He didn't care.
The lightning danced closer.
Sam laughed on the hill. 'No, Ruler of Evil. My God won't let you kill me—not yet. First you must meet me face to face. I want to look at you.'
A savage burst of lightning seared a tall tree nearby. Sam could see the explosive heat from the blast.
'Yes, yes,' he said. He had not flinched when the tree exploded, the sap igniting. 'I know your power, Captain of Rats, but you don't frighten me—not any longer. Now you listen to me, a good man went down tonight, by your hand, then by mine. And you'll pay for that—believe it!'
A violent crack of thunder momentarily deafened the minister. 'Yeah, yeah, Drinker of Pus, you'll probably kill me in time. I realize that.' Sam could not hear his own words through the rolling, crashing, seemingly endless cascade of thunder. The lightning came in flickering bolts, dancing as a snake's tongue through the sky. 'But it won't be tonight, you evil bastard!'
The sky hissed as Sam removed the cross from around his neck, holding the silver to the sky, arm extended upward. The lightning abruptly ceased, thunder now silent as a gentle rain fell on the fenced-in area known as Tyson's Lake. The rain fell there, and nowhere else in Fork. The moisture picked up in intensity, falling in glistening sheets, the color of the torrent matching the shining of the cross.
'God's way of cleansing the earth,' Sam said, slipping the chain over his head, the cross resting on his bare chest. His hearing slowly returned. He looked down into the darkness of the timber. 'We'll meet again,' he said. 'Me or mine,' he added, not knowing why he said that.
Sam walked through the rain to the fence, climbed it, and went swiftly to his truck, the bloody bag of heads swinging by his side. He was driving toward Whitfield, under the blanket of billions of stars, when the other Beasts emerged from their cover in the timber. They growled at the downpouring of water, disliking it, for their way was of filth, and they knew the moisture came from a God they were aligned against.
Snarling and snapping, they dragged Lucas and their headless comrades into the holes in the earth, into their caves, pulling the carcasses far below the surface of Fork County, hundreds of feet below the timber, past the ever-present Sentry watching from his post.
There, they ate the dead, stripping the flesh, breaking and sucking the bones. Nothing would be wasted in their feast. Now, Lucas Monroe no longer existed except in the minds of his friends.
Later, when one of the Beasts squatted to defecate, a small silver cross would lodge in his rectum, causing the Beast some small discomfort before he could pick it free. The Beast tossed the cross into the darkness of the cave, bouncing it off a wall. It glistened briefly, then the light faded and died.
Sam drove to the rectory, pulling around to the rear of the building. He banged on the door. Father Dubois answered the pounding, looking at Sam without speaking; at the minister's bare chest, a pistol belted around his waist, his stained trousers, and the sack in his hand, dripping stinking crimson. The old priest nodded his understanding.
'Come in, Sam. I'll find you a shirt. It might be a bit snug, but it will cover you. Father Haskell's here with me. We've been waiting for your return.'
In the priest's small living room, Sam spoke to the Episcopalian, then slipped into the shirt Dubois handed him. He was unable to button it over his massive chest, but was grateful for the warmth.
'Could I have a small glass of wine, Michael?'
The priest smiled. 'How about a couple ounces of bourbon, Sam?'
Sam returned the slight smile. 'Better. Thanks.'
He knocked back the bourbon in two gulps, chasing the fire with a glass of water. The glow of the whiskey spread through him, warming him, calming him.
Haskell's nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell coming from the makeshift bag. 'What's in the sack?' he asked, his face pale.
'Heads of the Beasts,' Sam opened the bag, the heads rolling out, exposing the stench, the red staring eyes, the opened fanged mouths. Their awfulness drew gasps from Dubois and Haskell. The Episcopalian was suddenly, violently ill. He ran to the bathroom, the sounds of his vomiting drifting to the living room.
Haskell walked back into the room. 'I—I'm sorry. I was not prepared for—that!' he pointed to the heads on the floor, shuddering as he looked at them.
'Don't touch them without some protection on your hands,' Sam said. 'They are highly infectious.' He sat down, weariness overtaking him. He closed his eyes for a moment.
The minister opened his eyes when Dubois asked, 'Where is Lucas?'
'What is left of him is dead,' Sam answered. 'Only God knows why he went—out there,' he gestured with a big hand.
'Dead!' Father Haskell said numbly.
'He went because he said you'd go after— Them,' Father Dubois poured himself and Haskell a glass of wine. 'Lucas said he had to give you an edge—somehow. He said you had the courage of a gladiator, but you wouldn't stop to think things out before committing yourself. I guess he was right. How did he die?'
'When I found him,' Sam's words were tinged with weariness, 'those . .. things had been at him.' He looked at the heads on the floor.
'Had they touched him?' Dubois asked.
'Clawed him and bitten him. He was bleeding badly.' Sam looked at Dubois. 'I think you know the rest.'
'You killed him.' It was a statement.
'Yes.'
Haskell clasped his hands together and silently prayed.
Dubois poured Sam a short bourbon, then covered the heads with a towel from his kitchen. 'Tell us what happened, Sam.'
Sam was exhausted. He put his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He had told the men everything, telling them of John Benton's condition, and God and Satan fighting on the crest of the hill, everything that had occurred that night. Now, he felt drained.
Dubois said, 'You did the right thing, Sam. It was the only thing you could have done. I believe I would have done the same. I like to think so. God has forgiven you. I will expect you to do the same if they come for me. And some . . . thing will.'
Sam met the older man's eyes. 'You seem awfully sure, Michael.'
'Oh, they'll come, Sam. Some . . . thing will destroy me. I've been preparing myself for that day. Ever since I felt them surface—drawing breath.'
'Michael, there are many things I do not understand,' Sam confessed, wanting, seeking answers to questions filling his head.
'There are many things / don't understand,' Dubois smiled. 'When I was a young priest in Montreal, I thought I knew it all. But, of course, I did not. About the Beasts, Sam—did Lucas call them God's mistakes?'
'Yes.'
'I've always felt it best not to question God. The Beasts might be His mistake. I don't know. If they are—' The
