CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paul Traylor awoke to darkness and the smell of damp earth. But no, darkness wasn’t exactly what he was seeing. He knew somehow that the space he was in was without light, and yet he could see. Traylor sat up. He was in a wide, long space, interrupted every once in a while by wooden supports. The ground below him was dank, dark earth.

And he wasn’t alone.

He could see the forms of other prone bodies lying all around him. He couldn’t tell if they were sleeping, drugged, or dead. How had he ended up here? It all came back in a rush. He had been tied to a chair in a room in one of the outbuildings at that church. Claire had been there as well. Then Lynn had come in and he had thought she was going to help him, and she had grinned and he had seen...

Her teeth. Oh God, her teeth. Lynn had shown Claire and him a mouthful of sharp teeth, like porcelain daggers. And then she had leaned over him, his little girl, and he had felt those teeth at his throat and he had screamed and then... nothing. Only darkness. Then he had awoken here in this dark, vile-smelling place. And he was hungry. God, but he was hungry.

Traylor heard footsteps above him and then a crack of light appeared in the ceiling. The crack grew wider and Traylor realized someone was opening a trap door. The light flooded in and Traylor noted that it didn’t hurt his eyes. That seemed wrong somehow. Two men were looking down at him from the rectangle of light. One was Fry, the man who had kidnapped him. Traylor didn’t know the other man. He was somewhat chubby, with a round jowly face and a mostly bald head.

“Come up, Brother Paul,” the bald man said. “Three days have passed since you were given the Lord’s blessing and like Him you have arisen from the grave. Come up, son, and give thanks to He that has delivered you from the darkness into eternal life.”

Come up? How the hell was he supposed to come up? The trap door was a good ten feet above him. Weren’t they going to throw down a ladder? Traylor got to his feet, and somehow, without really thinking about it, leaped up through the trap door, landing in a crouch on the floor above. He was in the sanctuary of a church.

“Well done, son,” the bald man said. “The spirit is strong within you.”

Traylor looked at the man. “What... what happened to me?”

“Like I said, Brother Paul, you were given the gift. Now you can join my flock. I am the Reverend Lazarus Cotton, and the Lord has worked through me to bring you into his Kingdom on Earth. ”

Traylor was suddenly aware of Fry. The man seemed to be radiating heat. Traylor could feel it coming off of him and he could feel something else. Not just feel it. Taste it. Smell it. The man was full of what Traylor hungered for. Traylor took an involuntary step toward Fry and the man swept a long, black spike into view. It seemed to be made of iron and in contrast to the warmth he felt emanating from Fry, the spike seemed to burn with a cold, blue fire.

“No, Brother Paul, no,” Cotton said. “Fry is one of the faithful. We never drink from the faithful, but only from those who dwell in sin.”

“I’m hungry,” Traylor said.

Cotton said, “Of course you are. You have fasted for three days and now you have come back to the world, but it is a far different world than the one you left, because now you are one with the Lord. And the Lord will provide, Brother Paul. Ask and it shall be given. Come. Walk with me, son.”

Cotton turned and started toward the front of the sanctuary. Fry closed the trap door and slid a heavy rug over it. Cotton stopped in front of the pulpit. A man lay on the floor in front of a small railing, which circled the front of the church. His hands were tied and he had a wad of cloth jammed in his mouth and secured to his head with a strap. His eyes were wide and full of fear. Traylor could smell the man’s sweat. More importantly he could smell the blood in the man’s veins.

Reverend Cotton said, “This man is an unbeliever. A sinner and one who has turned his back upon the Lord. But even men such as he have a place in the kingdom of God. Come, Brother Paul. Kneel here beside me and take communion with me.”

Cotton dropped to the floor next to the bound man with surprising agility. The man began to struggle and his eyes grew even wider. As Traylor watched, Cotton opened his mouth and it seemed the reverend’s lower jaw distended farther than should have been possible, and within that gaping maw, Cotton’s teeth grew long and sharp. Cotton drew his head back and then lowered it quickly, closing those knife-like teeth on the throat of the struggling man. The man gave a muffled scream and jerked around in agony as blood began to spurt from around Cotton’s mouth.

Cotton lifted his head and looked toward Traylor. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth and he said, “Drink ye of this, for it is my blood, which is shed for many for the remission of sin.”

Traylor could smell only the blood now, see only the blood. He hunched forward, and felt his own mouth gaping impossibly wide. The bound man’s struggles were growing weaker and Traylor lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the torn flesh of the man’s throat.

Through the roaring in his ears, Traylor could hear Cotton speaking. “This cup is the new testament in my blood. This do ye as oft as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

Traylor drank deeply.

* * *

The night was ending soon and there was much that needed to be done. Lazarus Cotton stared at the church and shook his head, felt his lips press together with an anger he hadn’t actually felt since he’d come back from the dead.

Oh, that had been a glorious revelation indeed. He did not lie when he said he’d been a sinner. He most assuredly had. Whoring, drinking, gambling, beating down anyone who crossed his path, stealing. His was a litany of sins that stretched across years, possibly even decades.

His father had been a grafter, and Cotton was born into the family business. The only reason his father kept him initially was because a man with a baby automatically won a certain amount of sympathy. To this day he did not know how his mother had died – though he had a few suspicions and most of them revolved around his father’s temper – but he’d heard a hundred different tales of woe that his dear daddy shared with anyone who was willing to listen and especially the occasional lonely housewife. After all, the old man sold bibles door to door. How could he possibly be a bad man when he sold copies of the Good Book? Oh, how easily Cotton had lied back in those days. How easily he’d ignored the word of the Lord and the many opportunities he’d been provided.

To look at Cotton these days few would know that in his day he’d been a womanizer. He had forsaken that life of course, and even if he hadn’t there was no desire for fornication left in him. The need to share his seed with women was gone, taken when he was given a second chance at life. That seemed to be the case with most of the brethren. He felt that was merely a sign of righteousness.

Oh, yes, he’d lived a life of sin.

Cotton wandered the perimeter of the church, sniffing the air and taking in the scents of the vile men who had come here and tried to hurt the faithful. They had not made it to the brick buildings where he kept the uninitiated. That had now been handled. There were no new acolytes left. All had been given the blessings of the Lord. Can you say Amen?

They were resting now, would continue to rest in their safe places until the appropriate time had passed and the essence of the Lord came into them. Three days his namesake had been dead. Three days Jesus Christ rested in His tomb. How could anyone expect less time in the darkness than that?

He’d been in Savannah, Georgia, when he was saved. Four days on a drunken binge, and he’d lost everything he had to a group of men who wanted to take what was his without permission. He fought, he lost. And while he was crawling in the mud near the edge of the Savannah River, bleeding from a deep wound in his stomach and two more in his back, he begged God for another chance. Perhaps a chance at revenge, but most assuredly another chance at living, a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the Lord.

And the Lord answered. The Beggar that came upon him was a thin man, pale and wretched, surely the exact sort that Jesus took to his breast and said would inherit the Earth.

The wretch looked at him and said, “Thank you for this. I love you.” And then he attacked. And three days later the man who renamed himself Lazarus Cotton arose from the deep muck near the river. The world that had been so unkind in his last years was new to him. He could see as never before, could understand the beauty of the world as he never thought possible.

The Beggar waited for him. Told him what he needed to know, and then left. He never saw The Beggar again.

But he found the men who took from him.

They were the first to fall before his wrath. They had fallen upon another, a woman this time, and they’d had their way with her. The pigs were still having their way when Lazarus came upon them. They did not finish their vile works.

Seeing her broken, bloodied, and crying in the alleyway, Lazarus understood what he was supposed to do. He gave her the same glorious offering of Christ that he had been given. He offered her salvation. She accepted gratefully.

Sometimes Sister Hope still wrote to him. She spoke of the great work she was doing in the Lord’s name down in Mexico. He was glad of it, grateful to her and to God Above for the blessings offered to him that he then shared. She wore the habit of a nun, because the Catholic faith was prevalent in Mexico, but she preached the truth, same as he did.

The Lord was kind.

Still, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. It was time to make a few changes.

He thought of the craven Sheriff who would not step from his house when Lazarus came to see him. He thought of the man named Griffin, who had led the Sheriff to the church. Griffin had not been home when Lazarus had dropped by.

A mere trial offered by the Lord. Another obstacle for the righteous. God offered tests and Lazarus Cotton did all he could to pass those tests and show that he was worthy of the blessings bestowed upon him by his Savior.

They were as ready as they could be. The sun was coming up.

Fry would have to be elsewhere. So much to do.

So very much to do.

“Praise the Lord. Praise Jesus. Amen.” Cotton’s fists clenched together with enough strength to bend steel. The bones within his thick hands creaked from the force but he never noticed.

The Lord had taken away the pain that he and the brethren suffered.

The Lord was kind that way.

Amen.

* * *

“Griffin, it’s Martha Lewis,” the voice on the phone said. Martha was a waitress at The Biscuit House, a local greasy spoon. “You know that guy you said to watch out for, the one called Tadpole? He’s here now.”

“Is he alone?”

“No, got a couple of folks with him. Looks like a mother and daughter. I don’t know them.”

Griffin said, “See that it takes a while to serve them. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll put Denise on their table. Takes her forever to do anything.”

Griffin turned off the phone and checked the time. Coming up on four in the afternoon. He could be at The Biscuit House in ten minutes if traffic was good. He hurried to the garage and was soon trundling down Highway Five. He kept the windows up and the AC blasting in the truck. Humidity level was like ninety-six per cent. If they didn’t get some relief soon people were going to start drowning in the open air.

Griffin recognized Tadpole’s SUV as he pulled into the parking lot of The Biscuit House. Putting Martha on watch had been a good plan. He had also alerted several other people at local eateries. Guy like Tadpole, in his role as procurer, would start by trying to get in good with a potential young target’s mother. Take her to lunch. Buy her some gifts. Make her think he was interested. Step two would be to start spending a lot of time at the target’s house. Just like he had done with Irene Chandler. But Tadpole wasn’t going to get to step two this time.

Griffin got out of the truck and crossed through the humid air to the front door. Once inside he ignored Martha Lewis so that no one would know she was his source. He spotted Tadpole in a booth near the back of the place. He was sitting by a slightly heavy blonde woman and across from a younger, slimmer version of the same woman. He was grinning at the girl, probably telling some tall tale. The grin faded when he saw Griffin.

Griffin walked up to the booth and slid in beside the young girl. He said, “Hey Tadpole. How goes things?”

Tadpole sat very stiff. He licked his lips and said, “What do you want?”

“Who the hell is this?” the blonde woman said in a high-pitched voice.

“Oh I’m a friend of Tadpole here, ma’am,” Griffin said. “Well, friend might be too strong a word. Saw him sitting here and just had to come over and say hi.”

Tadpole said, “Well now you’ve said it. You can go.” He was trying to sound tough and failing.

“Tadpole,” Griffin said. “Is that any way to talk to me? I go out of my way to be friendly and this is what I get. So, were you telling these ladies about your hobby?”

“What hobby?” said the older blonde.

“Oh you know. The one where he cons underage girls and their mothers and then sells the girls to low-rent brothels to have sex with older men.”

“Let me out of the booth, Tadpole,” the woman said. Her eyes had gone wide.

“Don’t listen to him Lisa. The guy’s out of his mind.”

Griffin said, “No, do listen to me Lisa. Tad wants to fuck your daughter, then turn her out so lots of other men can fuck her. He’s done it to plenty of other girls before.”

The girl beside Griffin had started to cry and Lisa was trying to get past Tadpole and out of the booth. She said, “Let me out you sick bastard! Let me out!” She managed to get past, and Griffin slid out of the booth to let the daughter go, keeping an eye on Tadpole as he did so. The man wasn’t likely to be carrying a gun, but ‘not likely’ got you killed in Griffin’s line of work. Lisa grabbed her daughter’s arm and practically dragged the girl toward the door.

“Pete’s going to kill your fucking ass.”

“Pete’s not here, Tad,” said Griffin.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I was considering shooting you and dumping your body in Tatum’s Swamp.”

Tadpole’s eyes widened and Griffin could see sweat beginning to slide down his face. “You wouldn’t do that in here. There are witnesses.”

Griffin smiled. “You have to leave here sooner or later. But don’t worry. It’s too hot and you stink too damn bad, so for now I’m just going to keep seeing that you don’t recruit any more girls.”

“Pete ain’t going to like this,” Tadpole said.

“I’m counting on that.”

Griffin walked back toward the door, ignoring the stares of the startled diners and keeping an eye on Tadpole. Tadpole sat very still. Pete Blankenship would indeed not like this. He’d already shown his displeasure at Griffin twice. Be interesting to see what he would do now. Griffin hadn’t meant to get involved in any of this. All he had wanted to do was find Lynn Traylor. But that was before he had seen what Blankenship and his people did to girls like Irene Chandler. He still hadn’t saved her, but he wasn’t going to let a piece of shit like Tadpole victimize anyone else. He was still trying to do things Carl’s way. But if that didn’t pan out, there was always Tatum’s Swamp.

* * *

Six in the goddamned morning and the phone rang. The thing about being sheriff, about working any sort of emergency work, is that you are seldom off duty. You never know when an emergency is going to pop up. Lot of people took that with a grain of salt. Carl did not have that option. And those who worked for him and failed to respond properly to emergency calls often found themselves either unemployed or wishing desperately they hadn’t pissed off the Sheriff of Brennert County.

He saw Tammy’s name on the caller ID. “Yeah?” His voice was raspy.

“Carl?”

“It’s me, Tammy.” Who the hell else would it be? Mike Perkins? Was that the name of prick she cheated with? It had been a long time ago and he’d been trying to forget. Trying and mostly failing.

“I need you.”

“You have an emergency situation, call the office, Tammy.” He sat up in bed and felt his stomach twist and turn and seethe. How could she do that with a damned phone call? How could she cripple him that fast? How in the name of God had he ever given her that sort of power over him?

“I don’t need a sheriff, Carl. I need you.” Her voice broke and his heart echoed the gesture. Damn her.

“No, honey, you don’t. You made that real clear to me.” His voice shook and he hated that sign of weakness almost as much as he hated her at that exact moment. Almost as much as he loved her.

“I do. I was wrong. I do need you.”

He closed his eyes and kept them closed. “Well, that really sucks. I’m sorry, Tammy, I am. But I guess maybe I’m over you. I’m done with this.” He ended the call and then turned his phone down to mute.

The sun was not up, but it was heading in that direction. Carl got dressed in his running shorts and t-shirt and then pulled on his sneakers. He made it to the driveway before he saw the headstone parked in his yard, lined up with the six-foot threat, but in comparison to some of the other shit going on in his world, it just wasn’t that scary.

Unless someone had dropped a body in there. Yeah, that got the blood running a little colder.

“Shit. Now I gotta go check.” He sighed the words and then walked carefully over to the hole, looking cautiously down into the depths. Nothing. Just dirt. He breathed a bit easier.

The jog was off. Instead he went back inside, called the office and told them he needed another CS unit to come print the headstone, just in case anyone was dumb enough not to wear gloves. On the one hand it was only vandalism, but on the other it was also an implied threat against a government official and despite not wanting to, he had to take the threat seriously.

Bullshit and more bullshit. There was always something. Still, he needed to not think about Tammy. And there was that whole congregation of dead people wanting to eat living people to consider.

Yeah.

That needed to be attended to. So he called Wade.

Wade answered on the second ring. “You up?”

“I am now.” Cranky. Wade was being cranky. That was allowed.

“Need to go back to that place we were at yesterday. I have a few things to discuss with you in private.”

Wade was not stupid. He got the idea. “See you there in around an hour?”

“We can meet and head over there together if you prefer.”

“I’ve got a few things to finish up with, Carl. Let’s meet there in an hour.”

“You got it.”

They met an hour later. Wade looked like maybe he’d slept a little less than usual. That was nice. Carl hated to feel like he was ahead of the curve.

Wade walked over carrying a bundle in a blanket. The bundle made metallic rattling noises.

Carl nodded and pointed to the bottles he’d filled with gasoline. While the two of them chatted, he took the lids from the bottles – carefully separated within a crate – and stuffed rags in their tops. He worked with evidence gloves on his hands, because you never know.

“Thought we might have a barbeque.” Carl looked toward the church as he spoke.

Wade unrolled the blanket, revealing the machetes inside. The blades had recently been sharpened. “Thought we might need a little something. Just in case.”

Carl nodded and then thought about Tammy and spat. “Ready for this?”

Wade looked at the building that sat like a bloated toad in the sunlight. “Nope. So let’s get going.”

Carl reached for the crate of bottles. “Got a light?”

Wade nodded. Neither of them smoked. Both of them normally had a lighter. Because, really, you just never know when you might need a fire.

* * *

Griffin fished the lighter out of his pocket but then stopped short of handing it to Carl. When Carl shot him a puzzled look, Griffin said, “It’s the Traylors. I’m wondering if they’re here somewhere.”

“If they’re in that church you know what they are now,” Carl said. “Best thing we can do for them is put them out of their misery with the other poor bastards.”

“Yeah, but what if they’re still alive? They could be in one of those outbuildings.”

“I suppose so. Guess we better have a look. But let’s make it quick, Wade. I want to get this over with.”

“Same here,” said Griffin. Together the two men crunched across the gravel parking lot. The day was turning into another scorcher. Griffin could hear the buzz of insects in the surrounding woods, an incongruous sound, too normal by far considering their errand.

As they passed the church Griffin saw that a new chain and lock had been put on the door. Good. Maybe that would make things easier. They rounded the corner and came to the first of the two outbuildings, the one built like a dorm. Griffin figured if the reverend had any living guests, this was where they would find them.

The front door was closed but not locked. Griffin hefted his machete, then swung the door inward and stepped into the dim hallway. Even as he entered, Griffin knew they wouldn’t find anyone. The building felt empty, the way an abandoned house feels empty. Still they made their way through the place, looking in all the rooms. The building was definitely a dorm. Many of the rooms held cots and chairs and small tables. None of the rooms were occupied.

They left the building through a side door and checked the other structure. That took even less time as they could see right off that the place was mostly used for storage.

“Satisfied?” Carl said.

“Yeah. Let’s do what we came here to do.”

They walked back to Carl’s truck and Griffin handed Carl his lighter. For a moment Griffin wondered why Carl had bothered with the Molotov cocktails when Griffin could have brought some more serious explosive, but almost as quickly he realized the answer. There would be no tracing a bunch of broken bottles. Anyone could make one of these deadly little missiles. And they were about to break the law. Again.

“I’ll light and you throw,” Carl said. “We want to hit the place with several of them quick.”

Griffin nodded and pulled on a pair of cotton gloves. Carl lit the first cloth fuse and Griffin grabbed the bottle, whirled, and sent the cocktail straight through one of the dark stained glass windows. In rapid succession he threw four more, each spinning through a window. The fifth he lobbed at the front of the church in case anyone tried to come out that way.

The first would-be escapee lurched through one of the windows Griffin had broken. He was a tall, lanky man with brown hair. That hair was ablaze and the man was howling as he stumbled away from the church.

Griffin said, “You ever decapitate anyone, Carl?”

“No.”

“Not as easy as it looks. These machetes are very heavy and should get the job done, but you have to strike hard and fast. Best if you can get a slight downward arc to the swing.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“No, you don’t.” Griffin rushed toward the lanky man. The man heard him coming and looked up. He hissed, showing a mouthful of teeth like razors. Griffin lunged and made a cut just like the one he had described to Carl. He felt the blade shudder as it hit bone, but he twisted his hip, getting his weight behind the stroke. The vampire’s head rolled from his shoulders and the body toppled.

“There’s another one!” Carl yelled.

Please don’t be a kid. Please.

A second man came weaving out of the acrid smoke. Griffin could feel the heat washing off the church in waves. All that old wood was going up fast. Griffin leaped at the second man, aiming at the side of his neck. The second vampire must have seen Griffin coming because he jerked aside at the last moment.

Griffin’s cut came in at a bad angle and though the machete bit deep, the head wasn’t severed. It dangled at an impossible angle as the vampire aimed a backhanded blow at Griffin’s face. Griffin rolled with it, but the impact still sent him sprawling.

The vampire staggered after him, eyes gone pale and jaws working spasmodically. A second later Carl drove his own machete into the same spot Griffin had hit and this time the head rolled.

Griffin scrambled to his feet. “Thanks, man.”

Carl gave a short nod. He stared at the machete as if unable to believe what he had just done.

The old church was blazing high now and Griffin thought he could hear a high pitched screaming over the roar of the fire, but that might have been his imagination. He hoped it was. He kept thinking of those people, sitting in the pews in their Sunday best. He and Carl watched for a long time, but no one else came out of the church.

Carl walked as close to the fire as he could get and tossed the last of the Molotov cocktails into the blaze, turning his head as the homemade bomb went off. Then he stripped off his gloves and threw them into the flames. Griffin did the same.

“Think that did it?” Carl said.

“We can only hope. Charon seemed sure that fire would kill a vampire.”

“Doubt if we got all of them. I’ve got a bad feeling that Cotton wasn’t among his flock,” Carl said.

Griffin said, “Still got most of them. That buys us some time.”

“The gravel will keep the fire from getting out of hand, but I’m going to call the closest fire department. When they get here, you and me were out for a ride and we saw the smoke. When we got here we were too late to do anything.”

“That works,” Griffin said. “What about the bodies?”

“What bodies?” said Carl nodding to where one of the vampires had fallen. Nothing there now but a pile of ashes that were swiftly being dispersed by a fire born-wind.