Cemetery Dance

Aaaaaiiihhuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

came the groan, nearer now.

…We beg you, Lord, banish the deadly power of the evil one. Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…

At the far end of the vaulted space something moved in the fetid dark. A low, creeping form — shadow against shadow — slunk between the farthest set of tombs. D'Agosta pulled the flashlight from his pocket. "Ready?" he whispered.

Hayward trained her weapon ahead in a two — handed combat grip.

D'Agosta aimed the flashlight toward the distant archway and switched it on.

There it was, caught in the beam: pale, crouching, the palm of one hand splayed flat on the stone floor before it, the other gripping its side, where the rags were stained by a growing spread of crimson. Its one good eye rolled wildly toward the light; the other was ruined and black with hemorrhaged blood, leaking fluid. Its lower jaw sagged loosely, swinging with each movement, and a heavy rope of saliva hung from its dark and swollen tongue. It was scratched and filthy and bleeding. But its injuries did nothing to slow it down or decrease its sense of terrible purpose. With another hungry groan it leapt toward the light.

Whang! went Hayward's gun. Whang! Whang!

D'Agosta switched off the light to reduce their chances of being targeted. His ears rang from the explosions and the ragged scream of the protesters behind them.

The sounds of the gunshots rolled away in the underground passageways, and silence resumed.

"My God," Hayward breathed. "My God."

"Did you get it?"

"I think so."

D'Agosta crouched down, listening intently, waiting for the ringing in his ears to die away. Over his shoulder, the screams subsided into racking sobs. Then there was no other noise save Hayward's gasps of breath.

Had she killed it? He waited another minute, then another. Then he turned on the light and shined it around the spaces ahead. Nothing.

Dead or alive, this was enemy territory and they had to keep moving. "Come on," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

D'Agosta scooped up the two protesters, got them on their feet. Moving rapidly, they traversed the forest of tombs and reached the archway in the far wall. He cast the hooded light around the nearby floor. A few drops of fresh blood and nothing else. Stepping beneath the archway, he beckoned them to follow him into the large storeroom beyond.

"Careful," he whispered. "There's a deep pit in the center of the room. Keep to the walls."

As they began to make their way through the heaps of moldering leather — bound books and ancient decomposing furniture, there was a sharp hiss from one side. D'Agosta turned, raising the light, just as the thing shot out of the darkness, leaping toward them, muddy mouth wide, broken black nails raised to rend and tear. Hayward brought up her gun but it was on her in a flash, sending her crashing to the floor and the gun spi

Suddenly the storeroom filled with a violent orange light. D'Agosta turned toward it; Bossong stood in the opposite doorway, a huge burning torch held high in one hand. His face was bloodied but he had lost none of his forbidding, almost regal bearing.

"Arrêt!" he cried, his deep voice reverberating through the subterranean chamber.

The creature paused to look up, cringing, jaundiced eye lolling.

D'Agosta noticed that Hayward's gun was lying mere inches from the community leader's feet. He made a move toward it but Bossong immediately swept it up and pointed it at them.

"Bossong!" D'Agosta cried. "Call it off!"

The leader of the Ville said nothing, aiming the gun at them.

"Is this what your religion is about? This monster?"

"That monster" — Bossong spat out the word—"is our protector."

"And this is how he protects? By trying to kill a police officer acting in the line of duty?"

Bossong looked from D'Agosta, to the zombii, to Hayward, and back to D'Agosta.

"She did nothing! Call it off!"

"She invaded our community, defiled our church."

"She came here to rescue me, rescue these others." D'Agosta stared at the leader. "I've always thought you were just a blood — thirsty cultist, killing animals for some perverse, fucked — up pleasure. Come on, Bossong — prove me wrong. Now's your chance. Show me you're something more. That yourreligion is something more."

For a moment, Bossong remained motionless. Then he drew himself up to his full height. He turned toward the zombii. "C'est suffice!" he cried. "N'est — ce envoi pas!"

The thing made an inarticulate slurping groan. Saliva boiled in its throat as it stared upward at the priest. Its hold on Hayward's throat loosened and she wriggled free, coughing and gasping. D'Agosta pulled her to her feet and together they backed away.

"This must stop!" Bossong said. "The violence must end."

The man — thing jerked and twitched in an agony of indecision. It looked from Hayward to Bossong and back again. As D'Agosta watched, he saw a mad hunger flood over it again. It crouched, leapt at Hayward.

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. The creature, caught midair, spun around, then dropped to the floor. With a howl of pain and bestial rage it rose to its hands and knees, blood pouring from a second wound in its side, and began shambling — faster and faster, with a horrible new purpose — toward Bossong. The next bullet hit it in the gut and it buckled forward, gurgling horribly. Unbelievably it tried to rise once again, blood spurting from its wounds and from its yawning mouth, but the third bullet caught it in the chest and it fell again to the ground, rolling, shaking, and jerking uncontrollably. D'Agosta tried to catch it, but it was too late: writhing and groaning hideously, the thing half toppled, half spasmed over the edge of the well. It let out a wet gargling shriek that — after a dreadfully long second — ended in a faint splash.

Slowly, Bossong lowered the smoking gun. "So it ends as it began," he said. "In darkness."

Chapter 84

Esteban stepped inside the cell and paused. Which one first? But he was not one to agonize over a decision, and he stepped over the girl's body and strode up to the bloody form of the FBI agent. He in particular deserved to die.But of course, Esteban thought, smiling wryly, he's already dead, or mostly so. It was going to be a mess, and the sound of the pistol in the confined space would leave his ears ringing. He ran through the steps he'd have to follow as he reloaded the magazine. He'd have to bury his own clothes with the bodies and guns — no problems there. Blood was impossible to eradicate these days, what with the powerful chemical tools now at the disposal of crime — scene investigators; but the cellar room itself could be walled up with nothing to show it had ever existed. All the bodies could go in here. Perhaps in the coming days there would be people snooping around here, looking for the FBI agent. He may have even told someone where he was going. But there was no clue he had ever arrived: no car, no boat, nothing.

He slapped the magazine in, racked a round into the chamber, and raised the gun with one hand, the other training the flashlight carefully on the still form.