The men were a mile from the ranch, hidden in the trees by one of the hundreds of small lakes in the county. Chester was busy arming sticks of dynamite.
'You're certain you can tell within seconds when each stick will blow?' Sam asked.
'Positive.' Chester did not look up from his work. 'You want six explosions, eight to ten seconds apart, but you want us to be on the other side of the ranch before the first charge blows? And all the charges concentrated on this side of the ranch?'
'Right. The first charge will draw them out of the ranch house. The other charges will, hopefully, hold their attention and cover the sound of our coming in until we're on top of them. Can you do that?'
'No sweat,' Chester said, measuring and cutting lengths of fuse. He armed the sticks, inserted the fuses— each a different length—and stood up. 'I'll plant them about two hundred feet apart.'
The men sat in the pickup, on the other side the ranch, waiting for the first charge to blow hoping, the long fuses had not gone out. Chester had armed a dozen more sticks of dynamite, inserting five to ten second fuses in each stick or bundle of three sticks taped together. Sam held a half dozen sticks in his right hand, a Zippo lighter in his left hand. He was softly whistling a light tune: 'The Happy Wanderer.'
Chester glanced at him and shook his head in disbelief at the whistling. He looked at his watch. 'Thirty seconds to Fire in the Hole.' He slipped the pickup into gear.
'We clean out the first nest of filth,' Sam said quietly, just as the first charge blew. 'Be ready to change directions when I yell,' he cautioned his friend.
'I will admit this,' Chester said. 'I'm scared.' He let out the clutch.
The minister changed his whistling tune: 'Pistol Packing Mamma.' 'You're incredible!' Chester said.
The ranch yard filled with men and women, most of them naked or half naked. The second charge blew, locking their attentions in the direction of the blasts.
'Roll it,' Sam said.
Chester floorboarded the truck, roaring toward the ranch yard filled with Satan-worshippers. As the last explosions faded, the pickup shot into the yard. Three sticks of dynamite sputtered in Sam's hand. Chester was sweating as he stole a glance at the lighted charges. Sam appeared calm. He casually tossed the dynamite in the middle of a startled group of men and women.
'Hard left!' he yelled, and Chester spun the wheel.
The explosions rocked the truck, sending bits of dirt and rock flying around them, along with various parts of human bodies. Sam tossed more dynamite as Chester completed the circle, returning to the scene of confusion, dust, and death.
The yard was in chaos, the moaning and yelling and deafening eruptions confusing the men and women. Sam let fly four more sticks of dynamite, blowing a half dozen members of Wilder's Coven to Hell—to the arms of their newly-adopted Master.
'May you live in eternal agony,' Sam mutered, then yelled, 'Hard right! When you get to the far out-building, stop—we'll go it on foot.'
'Yes, Sergeant York,' Chester mumbled, spinning the wheel.
The yard was a smoking, dusty deathtrap. At the out-building, the men jumped out, automatic weapons yammering, singing a metallic death song set in .45 caliber tempo.
They left no survivors. Sam went to each downed, moaning, cursing person, ending their life here on earth, sending them to their dubious pleasures.
Then the yard was silent, the stink of death heavy/sweet in the dust.
The house was noiseless as Sam looked at it.
'There will probably be at least one of the Undead in there,' he said, touching a stake shoved behind his belt, 'hiding in a dark place. Get a vial of Holy Water from the truck, Ches. I'll check the other buildings before we go into the house.'
With a fresh clip in the belly of the Thompson, Sam carefully checked the large garage, the barn, and the bunkhouse. All empty of any kind of life. Back in the yard, a half-naked woman, stunning and cursing, crawled toward a pistol on the ground, beside a dead man. She looked up at Sam with eyes that burned black hate. She cursed him loudly.
Knowing he was allowing a small meanness to grow in him, Sam let the woman crawl until her hand touched the butt of the gun. A half-second burst from the SMG lifted her off the ground, turning her, twisting her sideways, slamming her back, dead in the dirt, her bare legs spread obscenely.
The yard was silent, the air filled with the odor of blood and the sharp stink of relaxing bladders. 'I'll go in,' Sam said, refilling the clip with cartridges from his pockets. 'Get this over with. We've got to get out of here. Those explosions will surely draw some unwelcome company this way.
'You want me to go with you?'
'No. You watch for company. I'll do this.'
Sam slipped into the house, walking carefully from room to room, inspecting all the closets, all the bedrooms—nothing. In the kitchen, he found the door to the basement locked.
He knew, then, where he would find the Undead, and Sam was not at all happy at the prospect of venturing down into that darkness.
Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door with his heavy Jump Boots, then fumbled on the side wall for the light switch. The basement burst into light, flooding the darkness with brilliance. Sam moved slowly down the steps, his eyes shifting from side to side, taking in all he could see of the cluttered basement. Behind a packing crate, in the far corner of the dirty basement, he saw legs protruding from behind the crate. Sam touched the stake in his belt and moved toward the legs.
The lights went out, plunging the basement into darkness.
A hiss and a moan from behind the crate, and Sam knew he was almost out of time. The Undead had sensed danger, coming to life in the dark as his Master turned out the lights. Sam heard the sound of feet shuffling on the floor. He fumbled for his Zippo, sparking the lighter into flame. The Undead hissed at the flickering glow, moving toward Sam, its mouth open, exposing fanged teeth and a blood-red tongue, grotesque in its thickness.
Sam sat the lighter on a box, lifted the Thompson, and pulled the trigger, holding it back. He started the burst at ankle level, the rise of the weapon lifting to the creature's face. Sam fought the Thompson, attempting to keep the line of fire from going too far to the right, the natural rise of the weapon in the hands of a right-handed shooter.
Sam literally blew the Undead to bits. Its left leg was shredded, dangling. One shoulder was gapped, pieces of meat and bone scattered about the basement. Half its face, its jaw, was missing from the impact of the heavy slugs.
And still, Bill Mathis, the high school principal, dragged its macabre being toward Sam, hissing and snarling and yowling, the hands outstretched, fingers working.
Sam fumbled for the canteen hooked onto his web belt, practically tearing the cap off in his haste. He doused the thing with Holy Water, and it screamed in pain as the water, blessed by Father Dubois, boiled on impact with Godless flesh, searing the dead meat, exposing the whiteness of bone.
Sam dropped the empty Thompson on the box, jerked the stake from his belt, and ran toward the thrashing creature, driving the stake deep in its chest. A horrible howling ripped from the mouth of the Undead. A stench filled the dark, musty basement as pus erupted from its throat, spraying Sam with foulness. Using both hands, Sam worked the stake deeper, until he pierced the heart. The un-Godly squalled in pain as it fell back against a wall, moaning and kicking as it died.
The lights came back on.
Sam stood panting, his chest heaving from fright and rattled nerves. He watched the metamorphosis take place as Bill Mathis finally died, the creature working its way back through time-only God and Satan knowing just how far back. Within seconds, only a rotting pile of stinking rags marked the spot where Godless met Godly.
Sam picked up his Thompson and his Zippo, bending down to ignite the pile of newspapers, watching them roar into flames. He walked up the steps, his back tingling, as if expecting a blow. He met Chester at the top of the stairs.
'I never heard such howling in my life. What in God's name was that?'
'Bill Mathis. He was one of them. Like Michelle.'
