Quickly he took an antipersonnel mine and “closed the back door,” also stringing some wire and setting out a pair of M49-A1 trip flares, which would illuminate any unwanted sneaker-peekers who chose to attempt penetration of his nighttime defensive perimeter. Cross his turf and fifty-thousand-candlepower illums would spotlight you for the minute or so necessary to dispose of you. A two-pound pressure or a cut of the wire would fire the devices, and you would be very, very sorry you had come to call.
He removed his belongings from the car and covered everything in a car-size cammoed bush-net he would use later, after the car was painted, and—mindful of the dry cold—began to cut sheets of the brown paper to mask off the windows and grillwork. Then he saw the edge of a concrete blockhouse, and the thrill of the find shivered through him.
He chopped his way through the multifloral rose bushes and poison ivy, impervious and invulnerable to either thorn or itch, and accessed a small door. It took him a few moments to realize what he'd found. The sound of a 75-horse outboard starting rumbled from him as a coughing laugh escaped his innards.
The adjacent field, not tillable, had been empty for a purpose. Once upon a time it had been a parking lot for cars. Doubtless there would be a couple of entrance/exit through-ways somewhere to the south of him on the other side of the neighboring field.
He was too pleased to fool with the painting. He decided he would postpone that job until the morrow. He unpacked the space heater from his duffel and began cleaning out the inside of the long, thin concrete shelter.
Within the hour Chaingang Bunkowski was eating dinner inside his comfy, cozy new hideout: what had once been the concrete block projection booth for Briarwood's Tinytown Drive-in Theatre.
It is a cold but clear morning and Chaingang is up early, stiff from the night's sleep inside the abandoned projection blockhouse that was by turns suffocatingly hot or freezing cold. The space heater left something to be desired. The stiffness has settled in his lower groin.
Sunrise was a streaked palette of reds, golds, and powder blues. The air was crisp and clear. The birds were singing. He was so horny, he'd fuck a bush if he thought a snake might be in it. Chaingang horny: every woman's worst nightmare come true.
He uncovers the car, still unpainted, camouflages his belongings, checks and resets his perimeter security after having moved the vehicle, and takes off in the direction of Waterton.
His strange mindscreen rushes many things past his awareness: memories of isolation and sleep deprivation, long vigils and torturous fasting, abstinence and celibacy. Silence and hunger. He feels the warmth in his loins. In his computer he watches himself:
A slave candidate, both arms extended, is gripped by the elbows. He steps into his own shadow. Narco-hypnosis. “I am the lamp of darkness. Flame of the Illuminati. “Debilitating fear. An altar built of human skeletons—ah, yes! CRUCIFIX AND AMULET. PUDENDA BOUND IN STRING. Ritualistic pleasures recalled.
He remembers alkaloids and henbane. Symbolism and ceremony. Stimuli and exhortations. The turn-on of a sex slave sacrifice. Sabbath eve at the gate of death. Chaingang's mind sees these things.
His computer prints out the date for him. It is Halloween. All Souls’ Day is coming. Dia de los Muertos—Day of the Dead. A closed tribunal of the Imperial Chamber. The Blockula Sabbats. The path of the rose. Night of convocation. Moon of diamonds. Court of the Holy Vehm. It excites him to remember.
In his mind he drinks from a bowl of blood. Sniffs the overpowering fragrances of myrrh, cinnamon, calamus cassia, olive oil, aloes, storax—the rich incense of sudden death. Death itself can enjoy a fantasy.
“In the name of the cruciform, I swear to sever all blood bonds ... Astarot, Beelzebub, Beliar, Bhowani, Baal Ammon of No, Himavati, Kumari, Priestess of Shiva, Kali the black one, Menakshi, Rabbana ... Benedictus Deus qui dedit nobis signum. Kiss the maiden of iron."
A beautiful woman, head shaved, eyes blindfolded, nude on an altar in a pentagram of flame, bleeding into a bowl. All sustenance derives from water, fire, sap, waste, and odor. “I pollute with my semen.” Foreplay. The beast once dabbled in the occult arts.
No wonder he must have a woman. It is Halloween. How the memory of an absurd ancient ritual amuses him, but also hardens his need.
The sky eye is temporarily forgotten. He is rolling down Oak, turning on Jefferson—the main drag of the town Waterton, turning again on Maple and again on Park. He has seen a woman lock her car. She is young. It is broad daylight, but Chaingang cruises her. He waves. She enters a small shop. Waterton Pharmacy.
He parks. Out of the Regal and waddling in after the woman. He sees her now, doing something behind a counter. Long, shiny hair, huge earrings, too much lipstick. But a long neck and wide mouth.
Whatever fog or incapacitation had been rendering him inarticulate appears to completely burn off in the sexual heat of the moment. He is almost back to his old self again.
“G'morning,” she says, in a loud, chipper voice.
“Happy Halloween,” he says. He moves back in the direction of the long drug counter, where he senses another human presence. Peers into the sanctum sanctorum. A man in a white smock sees him.
“Can I help you?"
“Can I get datura stramonium or metaloides without a prescription?"
“What's that now?” He is nearer. Chaingang's huge hand is on the private door. The pharmacist is used to being in charge. He has never seen this man who is already inside the private area.
“Please—"
“Do you have any almond-wood or essence of tantic Himavati?” He plays with the man and chain-snaps him before he can answer. Turns instantly as the druggist falls in a heap, moving back out the door—which he can barely squeeze through—saying loudly in the direction of the unconscious man, “—appreciate it. I'll be back to get it in a minute."
Smiling. The smile a frightening mask. Waddling up to her.
“Hi.” Friendly bear. “Are you going to have a big Halloween?"
“Nope. We're gonna stay home this year.” Says something about her daughter.
“I've seen you around town before,” he says. “What's your name?” A big smile.
“Trish Clark,” she says. Trying to hold her breath so as not to have to inhale any of the foul reek of body odor that is so stingingly strong on the man.
“How much are those, Trish?” he asks politely, as his eyes scan the street for watchers. She turns to see what his big finger is pointing at and sees nothing more. A shower of black, blue, red, and golden stars explodes inside the blindness of her mind, die as they are extinguished in inkiness.
He has her long hair, dragging the inert body back to the back. Dragging her over her employer's form. Now returning to lock the door and turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
Checking the register first. Surprised at what he finds. He can dump the Buick and buy a nice used car.
She is very sexy, even in her slack-jawed position, and he pulls her to him to bestow a serpent's kiss with teeth meant only to wrest meat from bone.
“Trick or treat,” he says, lowering his bulk onto her.
18
SOUTH OF WATERTON
It took a three-way clearance to get past the guards at the control center: one had to pass visual, palm-print, and spectrographic ID checks, and as the honcho liked to say, “everything from a metal detector to a bullshit detector.” There were detection devices visible as one made one's way past the armed guards in the hallway, but neither the visible detectors nor the visible guards were the ones with the real teeth.