Coven

submerged headlights projected luminous green plumes. It was a Dodge Colt.

“It’s Phillips,” White whispered. The cops drew their guns.

The car faltered through the grove, knocking down tall stalks of perverted plants. The fog came up to the Colt’s windows. Unseen monstrosities howled as Jervis drove over them.

Then the car rose out of the fog, parked on the hillock. Jervis got out and lit a cigarette. Then he hoisted something out of the trunk. Even at this distance they could see that it was a girl, unconscious or dead. Jervis, the body over his shoulder, stood before the black box and…disappeared.

He’d disappeared into it.

Then another, smaller figure emerged from the car, a black, hooded figure. It knelt daintily before the hideous, bulbed plant.

“That’s one of the sisters,” Wade whispered.

Now the sister was plucking things from the plant.

“What the fuck’s she doin’?’ White asked, squinting.

“Eating bugs. Those bitches eat anything.”

“We gotta find out what’s goin’ on here.”

“Chief,” Wade implored. “I can’t put it any more eloquently than this: We have to get our swingin’ dicks the fuck out of this gore hole before those walking meat grinders realize we’re here.”

“Not yet,” White said. “I want Phillips’ ass.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “Hey, cement head. I just got done telling you he’s already dead. You can’t kill him.”

“Shut up, St. John. Go get the binocs out of the cruiser.”

Wade crunched back to the first clearing. He found the binoculars in the console and smiled when he noticed the key in the ignition. Even I’m not big enough a prick to leave them here.

Or was he?

It didn’t matter. A burst of yelling blared from the grove, then gunshots.

Then: “St. John! Start the car! We’re comin’ out!”

The shit’s flying now. Wade turned the engine over and popped open the doors. He scoped down the trail with the binoculars.

Holy, holy shit, he thought.

At least a dozen sisters had converged on the police. Flashes popped, guns were firing right and left. It looked like Custer’s last stand—only Custer, in this case, was White, and he and his men were faring about as well. They emptied their guns as fast as they could fire them, reloaded and fired some more, all for nothing. Hooded sisters fell on them from all angles. Vicious, liquid giggles rose like surf within the grove.

—New pigs!

—Fat, juicy pigs!

Two sisters held Porker up, while another eviscerated him in place. Pale hands delved like cleavers into the tremendous stomach, parting slabs of fat to expose the succulent organs.

—He’s so big!

—Lots to eat!

It happened so fast that the poor jerk just stood there a moment, looking at his opened belly. Fat people were often taken advantage of, but never like this. Blood and fist sized wads of fat flew as the sisters helped themselves. Porker provided a veritable all you can eat feast. The sisters’ hands rummaged and plowed, until nothing remained of the choice merchandise of Porker’s abdominal vault. The sisters fed well. They slaked their appetites and rejoiced, flinging organ scraps in macabre celebration.

That’s what I call losing a hundred pounds the hard way, Wade mused.

Peerce was trying to aim, backing up, with White firing behind him. Peerce’s big .44 Blackhawk jumped in his hand, but each slug was either brushed away or plucked from its trajectory.

Wade did indeed consider leaving. I don’t owe these guys anything, do I? But just because they were assholes didn’t mean he should abandon them. Shit! he concluded. Damn it, shit!

Now Peerce was overrun, flailing amid the besieging sisters. White threw his empty guns at the girls, as Peerce screamed in perfect Deep South terror. —What’s this? one of the big ones asked, and held up the CM tear gas gun. Their giggles pitched as she shoved the barrel down Peerce’s throat and pulled the trigger. There was a damped bang!—the proximity fuse burned out—another bang!—and then Peerce began to expand, quite like a parade float, growing, growing, buttons popping, until he was huge. The sisters marveled at this spectacle. Eventually Peerce burst. Offal flew like spaghetti and sauce—then all was obscured by tear gas.

Wade grabbed the Sentry flaregun in White’s console. He got out and aimed. “Come on, Chief! Run your ass off!”

The brew of sisters didn’t like the CS agent. They staggered, gagging. Chief White clambered up the carcass ridden trail. Behind him, though, a sister emerged from the smoke.

“Duck!” Wade shouted.

White hit the dirt. Without much confidence, Wade discharged the flare gun and watched the projectile burn a line down the trail. Mystified, the sister caught it, looked at it as it hissed out its propellant. The canister exploded, splattering her with ignited magnesium. It stuck to her face, cloak, and sunglasses, bubbling intense neon red. The sister wailed.

Wade jumped back behind the wheel as White lunged in. The car whipped a reckless circle, Wade’s teeth clenched as he steered.

“Goddamn you, St. John, you goddamn bastard!” White blubbered. “You said there were only four of ’em!”

The car shuddered down the logging road. White threw up his hands and screamed. Wade screamed, too, when he saw what White was screaming about.

At least a dozen more sisters blocked the road.

Where the hell did they come from!

“RUN ‘EM DOWN!” White bellowed.

Wade proceeded to do just that. He gripped the wheel hard and trounced the gas. They stood like bowling pins. Wade plowed into them with such impact that the lead sisters exploded jets of black blood from their mouths, inundating the windshield. Wade turned on the wipers and kept plowing. He watched each rank collapse under the bumper, and saw now that they numbered more than a dozen, much more. They were using themselves as barricades—they didn’t care. They just stood there, grinning, as Wade mowed them down. The bodies thumped under the cruiser’s wheels; there were so many of them it was like driving over hay bales.

In the rearview, the sisters, though crushed, were getting back up to run after them. It figures, Wade thought. And in front, the grinning white faces loomed and fell, only to be replaced by more. Then the passenger window shattered.

I have had better days, Wade considered.

Several sisters hung onto the car, snatching at White. White screamed honorably, gouging at their hideous, giggling faces. It’s me they want, Wade realized, not White. But White was in the way, and that was his hard luck. The sisters struggled further to get to Wade, clawing through White. White just screamed and screamed.

At last the car had run over the last of the cloaked women. Wade whipped out onto the Route, but he still had two sisters hanging onto the passenger door. Wade expertly sideswiped a fat oak tree and skimmed them off.

He drove for miles before daring to stop. The grille was pounded in, the fenders crumpled, the hood aglaze in shiny black blood. But White, Wade noted, had come out of this worse than the car. The sisters had pulled his face and scalp off, pulled his arms off, pulled his throat out. What now rode as passenger bore no likeness whatsoever to good old shucking and jiving Chief White. He’d written his last traffic ticket, that was for sure.

Wade idled up to a ravine. “Rest in peace, Chief,” he muttered.

He rolled White’s remains out of the car and took off back toward campus.