The Devil's Heart

"Come on up," Sam shouted. "Let me see you!"

And one Beast did just that. A young Beast, lacking the caution of age, leaned forward, just a few feet from the cave opening. It roared at the young man, its breath stinking. Sam shot it between the eyes, then stood smiling as the dead creature tumbled backward. It would not be wasted. Its relatives would feast on the cooling flesh and still-warm blood, sucking marrow from the bones.

"One less," Sam said, spitting contemptuously on the ground. After he walked away from the rancid hole, a huge old Beast stuck its head out of the den. He had been on this earth for many hundreds of years, and was old and wise, as Beasts go. He had never known a human without fear—until now.

Growling, the Beast slipped back into the earth to warn the others of this human; tell them to stay away. For he was not like the other humans: He had been touched … by the Other Side.

by William W. Johnstone

THE DEVIL'S KISS (2109, $3.95)

As night falls on the small prairie town of Whitfield, red-rimmed eyes look out from tightly shut windows. An occasional snarl rips from once-human throats. Shadows play on dimly lit streets, bringing with the darkness an almost tangible aura of fear. For the time is now right in Whitfield. The beasts are hungry, and the Undead are awake.

THE DEVIL'S HEART (2110, $3.95)

It was the summer of 1958 that the horror surfaced in the town of Whitfield. Those who survived the terror remember it as the summer of The Digging—the time when Satan's creatures rose from the bowels of the earth and the hot wind began to blow. The town is peaceful, and the few who had fought against the Prince of Darkness before believed it could never happen again.

THE DEVIL'S TOUCH (2111, $3.95)

The evil that triumphed during the long-ago summer in Whitfield still festers in the unsuspecting town of Logan-dale. Only Sam and Nydia Balon, lone survivors of the ancient horror, know the signs—the putrid stench rising from the bowels of the earth, the unspeakable atrocities that mark the foul presence of the Prince of Darkness. Hollow-eyed, hungry corpses will rise from unearthly tombs to engorge themselves on living flesh and spawn a new generation of restless Undead … and only Sam and Nydia know what must be done.

Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, Dept. 2110, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. Residents of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.

BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP

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are published by:

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Copyright © 1983 by William W. Johnstone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Fifth printing: May, 1992

Printed in the United States of America

To A. E. J. and C. W. J.

Stay with me God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark of courage dies. The night is long; be with me God, and make me strong.

—Poem found on a scrap of paper in a slit trench in Tunisia during the battle of El Agheila—1944.

• December
  
• Prologue
  
• ONE
  
• TWO
  
• THREE
  
• FOUR
  
• FIVE
  
• SIX
  
• SEVEN
  
• EIGHT
  
• NINE
  
• TEN
  
• ELEVEN
  
• TWELVE
  
• THIRTEEN
  
• FOURTEEN
  
• FIFTEEN
  
• SIXTEEN
  
• SEVENTEEN
  
• EIGHTEEN
  
• MONDAY AFTERNOON
  
• MONDAY NIGHT
  
• ONE HOUR BEFORE DAWN TUESDAY
  
• TUESDAY MORNING
  
• TUESDAY NOON
  
• TUESDAY NIGHT
  
• MIDNIGHT
  
• WEDNESDAY MORNING DAWN
  
• WEDNESDAY NOON
  
• THURSDAY MORNING
  
• THURSDAY NIGHT
  
• FRIDAY MORNING
  
• NOON, FRIDAY
  
• FRIDAY NIGHT
  
• THREE A.M., SATURDAY
  
• DAWN
  
• FIVE O'CLOCK, SATURDAY THE LAST DAY
  
• THE FINAL MOMENTS
  
• EPILOGUE
  

The town of Whitfield no longer exists. Very little of the northwestern part of Fork County exists, except in the memories of those who might once have lived there and were fortunate enough to be gone when the great fireball struck, searing the land for miles.

Scientists were stunned by the suddenness of the huge fireball, for it seemed to materialize out of the heavens, traveling at such a tremendous speed it was almost beyond calculation.

Where had it come from? the scientists were asked by a stunned population.

From straight out of the sun was the reply.

And you could not have predicted it?

No.

Why?

The scientists hedged that question, for many of them were sworn, avowed atheists. But finally, one man from an observatory in California who was not an unbeliever did reply, although not to the satisfaction of all his colleagues. His reply brought laughter from more than a few of his fellow scientists.

"How does one predict when the hand of God will fall? And how hard the blow will be?"

If indeed it had been, as the scientist said, "the hand of God," it had been a mighty slap from Him.

By the time various Spies in the Skies satellites picked up on the cannonading mass of fiery destruction, it was already on top of the satellites, through them, burning them before they could photograph more than a one-second shot at best, and transmit that to earth. Those pictures that did make it back to earth were immediately ordered seized by presidential order. They would be released for public viewing … sometime. At a date that would be set … sometime.

"Why?" came the immediate one-word question from the press.

The president did not tell them the real reason for his order. He did not tell them because he did not want them to think he was nuts. He did not tell them for a number of reasons, but chiefly because he could not think of a reasonable way to tell people that he had been visited by someone ... or something ... in a dream (or was it a dream?) who had forewarned him of the terrible, cataclysmic fireball of death. So he put the monkey on the backs of the military, telling the press it was in the best interest of the nation that the matter not be discussed for a time. It had to be studied and all that. Probably for a very long time.

And the president warned that should there be any leaks—any leaks at all—the leakee would spend the rest of his lengthy tour of duty attempting to hand-carry snowballs between Fort Myers and Miami, along the Tamiami Trail, without benefit of insect repellent.

There were no leaks.

The ball of fire that leveled Whitfield and parts of Fork County was, some scientists said, more than a mile wide and about three miles deep. Some said it was shaped like a Star of David. Others said it looked like an artist's conception of God's face; a striking resemblance. The president told the scientists to shut their damned mouths, too, or face the prospects of never receiving another dime of government money—for anything. But many people witnessed the strange blue lights that preceded the crash of the . . . whatever the hell it was, and they asked about those lights.

But suddenly, all was quiet about the mighty ball of fire, except for speculation, and that soon began to fade as other news pushed the holocaust out of the headlines. Only the insurance companies were left to ponder over the crash and dole out large sums of money to the relatives of those who had been killed.

An astronomer in California thought he knew what had happened. But he kept his mouth shut. Not out of any fear of the government, but because he felt it was the right thing to do.

One investigative fellow did put some rather interesting and curious events together after a bit of prowling. But since he was a career army reservist and did not wish to spend his summer obligations to Uncle Sam cleaning up gooney bird shit on Guam, he kept his mouth shut. Someday, maybe, he'd write a book about it. Maybe. But only if he could be assured the protection of the Dalai Lama in some cave in Tibet.

What he had pieced together was this: at almost the precise moment of fiery impact with earth, a series of fires leveled a huge mansion in Canada. And just before that, something had been seen leaving earth, moving toward the heavens, traveling at tremendous speed. No one knew what that thing was. Or if they did, they weren't talking. And there were people who still remained unaccounted for after the fire at the mansion. One of them was a young man named Sam Balon King, whose stepfather had been a doctor in Whitfield, and whose mother had once been married to a minister … in Whitfield. And that minister had died under very mysterious circumstances, back in 1958, when another disaster had befallen that tragedy-ridden community.

But the investigative reporter wisely closed his journal on both disasters … for a time, at least.

It had been abnormally hot for this late in the season.

By this time in northwestern Nebraska there was usually a lash of winter's approach in the air, a bite that brought color to the cheeks of pedestrians, urgently but softly speaking of the harsh winter just ahead.

But the winds that blew across the plains and rolling sand hills had a torrid touch, oppressively so, bringing a sudden surliness to the people of this sparsely populated county, turning most tempers raw and confusing a few as to why.

The many knew why. The few would learn too late. And out in the badlands, some miles from Whitfield, inside a fenced-in area where horror sprang to life back in the late 1950s … something stirred. A creature cautiously stuck its head out of a hidden cave and looked around, viewing its surroundings through evil, red eyes. The Beast had felt the hot fingers of the wind pushing through the cave entrance as a probing hand might do, signaling those which serve another Master that it was time.

The Dark One was near.

The wind grew in strength and heat, the Beast snarling in reply. The manlike creature rose from its sentry position to crawl out of the filthy hole, rising to stand like a human, bits of dust and twigs and blowing sand striking its hairy body. But to the Beast, it was a signal of love, a gesture of welcome. The Beast roared, its breath foul. It held its huge arms upward and shook its fists toward the sky, roaring its contempt for that God who occupies a more lofty position than the Master of the Beast. For the creature knew but one God: the Prince of Darkness; the Lord of Flies; Ruler of all that is Evil.

From behind the sentry came a guttural sound, as other Beasts rose from their long sleep, surly and hungry. They craved meat, and the sweet taste of blood.