The Devil's Touch (35 page)

The houses erupted within two seconds of each other, the roaring explosions shaking the ground and sending debris flying in all directions. Sam rolled beside the protection of a concrete block shed and rode out the flaming fury.

From where he lay, he could hear the moaning and whimpering of the wounded and the dying. He jumped to his feet, slung the AK by the leather strap, and was running down the alley, digging in his knapsack for a cocktail. Pausing only long enough to light the

gasoline-soaked rag protruding from the neck of the bottle, he would then hurl the cocktail through a window. He began darting from house to house, skipping every other building. He was successful ten out of twelve times in setting a building ablaze. The winds began roaring, and Sam knew the howling winds were no accident. Soon the entire area around the Giddon House and Fox Estate was blazing, flames leaping into the night sky, fanned by the howling northwest winds, spreading the licking fury onto other homes.

A bullet striking the corner of a building sent painful splinters of wood into Sam's cheek. He jerked back and wiped away the blood.

"There's the son-of-a-bitch!" a woman shouted, pointing in Sam's direction. "Let's get him!"

Sam shot the woman in the stomach with his .41 mag. She slammed onto the concrete of the street and lay screaming her life away, kicking and howling. Her soul went winging into the depths of hell and into the dark arms of the Master she had willingly chosen to serve on God's earth.

Sam picked another splinter out of his cheek, wiped more blood away, and ran down the flaming alley, the AK at combat arms, ready to spit lead death at any who dared challenge the God Sam had sworn to serve.

A crowd of men and women and teenagers picked up the challenge by charging at Sam, waving clubs and guns and knives, shouting their contempt for him.

"Take him alive!" a woman reminded the others. "The Princess wants his seed. Jump on him and drag, him down."

"Not if I can help it," Sam panted. He leveled the Kalishnikov and pulled the trigger, holding it back, fighting to suppress the natural rise of the weapon on full auto.

The flames from the burning homes and sheds were leaping into the air, fiery fingers reaching toward the night sky, devouring everything they touched on the ground that God created and Satan now claimed as his.

A man ran from a burning home, his clothing and hair blazing. His agonizing screaming touched the spine of all who heard him. The man fell face first onto the concrete of the street. He beat his hands in pain and then was silent as his body cooked, the fat from his flesh bubbling as it fried.

"Better get used to the sensation, sucker," Sam muttered. "And you get your feet to working," he reminded himself.

Sam ran across the street, always edging his way back toward the mansion. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, making a seldom seen, very elusive target for the Devil worshippers.

Logandale had a fire department, but it was obvious to Sam that nobody was manning the equipment, for the fires were now out of control, and spreading very quickly, threatening to expand their blistering path of devastation into other areas in that part of town.

Sam lay in the shadows across the street from the raging fires and turned sniper, picking his targets, the AK on semiauto. The roaring of the flames, the cracking and collapsing of structures, the howling of the suddenly rising winds—always out of the northwest, never varying—and the screaming of men and women and teenagers in the grips of pure panic and pain covered his gunfire.

And somebody, or
something,
was keeping the winds away from Fox Estate and the Giddon House, and steadily pushing them toward more heavily populated residential areas of Logandale.

Sam felt he knew who that person was.

Faintly penetrating the roar of destruction from the flames, Sam could hear the sounds of sirens and the shouting of men and women. The fire-fighting equipment was on the way, but for many blocks, it was too late. All the firefighters could do now was set back-fires and hope that would contain the rampaging conflagration.

Sam lay in his well-concealed position and sniped and watched the action unfold before him. His smile was a grim tiger's snarl. He lifted his AK and shot a fireman off a truck, then knocked another down, forcing the men and equipment back. Sam doubted that after this night anyone would mass to march against the small band of Christians at dawn. At worst, Sam had bought them all a day, maybe two days. He hoped for the latter.

Sam slipped from his concealment and ran down the sidewalk, expecting any moment to feel the impact of a bullet in his flesh, for he was starkly outlined against the glow from the flames.

No lead came his way.

We are all that is left, Sam thought. We are the last Christians left alive in Logandale.

He wondered how he knew that.

Then he realized he had not thought it. It had been spoken to him.

"All right, Dad," he panted the words. "I hear you."

He ran past the Giddon House, then did a turnaround and ran back to the locked gates of the great mansion. Behind him, the woods were on fire across the road, the exploding sap from the tall trees sounding very much like a battleground.

Sam leveled his AK at the big picture windows in the front of the mansion and squeezed the trigger, holding it back, working the weapon from left to right, spraying the windows. Someone in the house screamed, whether in pain or fright, Sam could not tell.

He slipped in a fresh clip and let those on the second floor of the mansion know he was present. The falling of broken glass, the shouting and screaming from the second level gave loud and painful testimony that Sam's presence was not at all welcomed by those inside.

Grinning with satisfaction, Sam ran back to the safety of Fox Estate.

Sam had slept deeply and soundly, awakening refreshed. He awakened with a feeling that the battle was, somehow, almost over. When he looked out the window, that feeling was heightened.

Sam dressed and joined the others in the upstairs study. The scene before their eyes resembled a miniature replay of the aftermath of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings of 1945.

"Good Lord," Noah muttered, gazing at the sight from the upstairs study. "Sam, you were a one-man wrecking crew last night."

Sam smiled. "I did play hell with the town, didn't I?"

A full three thousand yards, running from the road well into Logandale proper was now reduced to charred, blackened ruins. Small fires still burned, sending black greasy smoke into the air. Bodies littered the soot-covered streets and sidewalks. The carcasses lay in grotesque, stiffening postures of painful death.

There was no wind. The morning had dawned cool and utterly still.

"There is nothing on radio or TV about this, Sam," Monty said, entering the room. "I don't understand that. But what really bugs me is this: How come we still have power after last night?"

"You'll have to ask my dad about that," Sam replied. He once more felt his father's presence.

"I think I'll pass on that," Monty said. "No offense to your dad intended," he quickly added, casting nervous eyes about the room.

"I'll go along with him," Joe said, jerking a thumb toward Monty. "How can we have electricity? All the damn lines are down! You can see them layin' in the street. It's—hell, impossible."

"Don't question," Father Le Moyne said. "It is best to just accept."

Barbara Morton looked out at the scenes of death and destruction. "I wonder how many died last night?"

"Not enough," Richard Hasseling replied, with considerable heat in his voice. Richard's views toward many things were undergoing a rapid metamorphosis.

"Princess?" Edie Cash approached the young woman sitting in the dark room. "Our people are demoralized. The death count from last night is close to two hundred. All because of one man. One man! And he seemed impervious to injury."

"Sam Balon is mortal," Xaviere replied. "He is just very, very lucky, that is all." But the young woman was not that certain—not anymore. Sam's burst of gunfire had killed Frank Gilbert and seriously wounded Norman Giddon. No one among them had expected such a vicious counterattack from the Christians; nothing like that sudden barbarism from the Christians.

It just wasn't like Christians. Not at all. All during her short life Xaviere had been taught to believe that Christians—for the most part—were all wimps.

The Princess was confused, but not personally afraid. She was a demon-child, so no mere mortal could harm her. But she didn't know what to do.

"I want you people to maintain steady gunfire into the Giddon House," Sam told the group. "We'll alternate those firing to minimize the strain. We've got dozens of boxes of ammunition. We'll work on their nerves. Let them get accustomed to one round every thirty seconds, then pick it up to one round every fifteen seconds. Let them grow used to a certain rhythm, then change it. Work on the most vulnerable spots of the house, and keep the pressure on. Let's do it, gang."

Sheriff Pat Jenkins was the first to fall under the hail of bullets, buckshot, and slugs from the Christians. Richard Hasseling literally blew the man's head apart when Jenkins carelessly exposed himself.

"Chalk one up for God," Richard muttered, then threw up on the floor.

Inside the Giddon House, nerves were beginning to fray under the constant whining and cracking of bullets. Everyone had retreated to the far side of the mansion, seeking safety, but secure refuge was elusive when Sam started using Teflon-coated bullets. The super-slug would drive through half a dozen walls and still have the power to kill.

One of the super-slugs snuffed out Norman Giddon's life as the wounded man tried to crawl to safety.

"Joe?" Sam called. "You and Monty get up on the roof with rifles. You'll have a clear field of fire across the burned area. Knock down anyone who tries to approach. I'll join you in a minute."

This time, Monty showed no reluctance in firing. Using scope-mounted rifles, the men began sniping at anything that moved within range. Both men were expert shots, and soon the area was cleared of all living things. Now dead littered the smoking area.

When Sam joined them, with a 7mm magnum, the sniping took on a new ferocity. Soon, none of the Devil worshippers dared venture anywhere near the burn area.

It became a standoff.

Satan admitted it. He was beaten unless somehow his followers could rally themselves and charge the mansion where the Christians had barricaded themselves.

But the Dark One knew the odds of that occurring were slim.

Damn Sam Baton!

And Satan knew something else the young man did not know. There were whispered comments among Satan's own forces that Sam Balon had been chosen to lead God's fight here on Earth. And it was all the fault of that meddling old warrior. Things had been going so well here on Earth, too. All that lovely pornography; the lessening of ethics in business; younger and younger kids experimenting with dope and fucking around; teenage suicides increasing; morals at an all-time low; swingers clubs popping up everywhere, everybody fucking and sucking and sodomizing; more and more people cheating on taxes; crime on a rampage; race relations deteriorating ... all that good stuff. Everything had been going so smoothly.

Now this.

Shit!

Satan turned his dark face toward the firmament and screamed, "You son-of-a-bitch!"

"Turn on the floodlights," Sam told Noah.

With a
pop,
the outside grounds around the estate were bright as day.

Without electricity producing the current.

Sam keyed his handy-talkie. "Everybody in position on the roof?"

They were.

"Stay alert," Sam cautioned them. "Their last rush will be coming tonight. And don't ask me how I know. I just know."

The firing on the house continued without letup, as it had since seven o'clock that morning. And judging from the occasional screams, the bullets were taking their toll, both mentally and physically.

"Here they come!" Monty called from the roof. "What are we going to do when they shoot out the floodlights?"

"Either change the bulbs or fight in the dark," Sam yelled his reply.

And then there was no time left for conversation. The Devil worshippers made no attempt at fancy maneuvering. Theirs was a straight on, frontal, human-wave type of assault. And they paid dearly for it.

Every weapon in the house had been fully loaded that afternoon; every spare clip had been loaded to capacity. But even with all that going for them, the Devil worshippers came very close, several times, to overwhelming the Christians by sheer numbers. Only the high fence around the mansion prevented that.

After an hour, hearing became impaired from the constant roaring of multiple weapons; shoulders were bruised and sore from the pounding of high-powered rifles and shotguns; eyes were red and smarting from gunsmoke.

And still the devotees to the Devil hurled their bodies at the Christians in a frenzied attempt to overpower them. All thoughts of taking Sam and Nydia and Little Sam alive were gone. Revenge and death were uppermost in the minds of those committed to serving the Dark One.

And if the coven members had given their plan some deeper thought, had carefully considered all aspects of the assault, they could have easily overwhelmed the small band of defenders. But determination and cool heads have many times in the past prevailed over brute force.

And so it was this time.

By ten o'clock that night, the human waves had ceased. An eerie quiet fell over the body-littered land.

"Now what?" Noah was heard to question the stillness.

A clump-thump was heard coming up the street, followed by a shuffling type of step; many feet.

"What the hell?" Monty said.

"The undead," Father Le Moyne said quietly. "They are sending the undead after us."

Sam ran to the rear of the house, calling for Joe to come help him.

"What's up, Sam?"

"Help me make some Molotov cocktails. Bullets won't kill those—things. But fire will."