Then David was beside him, firing his revolver three times—BLAM—BLAM—
BLAM—and three zombies went down. It was the space they needed, and the Reverend pushed David back through the door, sending him ass over heels a few steps down the stairs, then the Reverend was clutching the knob with one hand, pushing the Navy into his sash with the other, then he had both hands on the knob, and up came David, grabbing at the Reverend's waist, serving as an anchor.
A zombie's hand was stuck between door and jamb, stopping the closing, and the Reverend, grunting, giving it all he had, and David doing the same, pulled, and the zombie's fingers cracked, snapped, and fell like little sausages onto the top step, and the door went closed, David leaping up to throw the little, weak-looking latch.
Safe.
For a moment.
The door rattled fiercely.
"Single-minded, ain't they," David said.
The Reverend nodded.
"It won't hold them will it?"
The Reverend shook his head, found the lamp and matches on the shelf beside the door, and lit it.
The door rattled steadily.
"We're dead meat, aren't we, Reverend?"
"If we can hold until daylight, we've got a chance. Can't be much longer."
And then he thought: "But how much longer do they need?"
"Come on," he said, "let's go down."
At the bottom of the stairs, the Reverend climbed on top of some crates and leaned toward the curtained window. He flicked back the curtain. The window, like the others, was barred. There would be no sneaky escape route. They were trapped like rats in a flooding ship.
But a flickering of hope surged through him. He could see the first pink rays of morning.
He let go of the curtain and climbed down.
"Only way out of here," he said to David, "is the way we came in. But it's almost sunup.
We might make it."
The Reverend loaded his revolver with the remaining rounds in his coat pocket.
Altogether, he managed five rounds. "One short of a full house," he said. "And you?"
"Empty," David said hollowly.
The Reverend handed David the Navy.
"No," David said. "You're better with it. I do okay with a shotgun or pistol at point-blank range—but—well, you keep it. And Reverend. Don't let me end up like them— know what I mean?"
The Reverend nodded grimly.
The door stopped rattling.
David and the Reverend looked up the stairs.
"Have they gone away?" David asked.
The Reverend glanced toward the curtain. From where he stood, he couldn't see daylight, only the light of the lantern he had set on a crate.
"I don't think so," the Reverend said.
Then there was a bang like the end of the world. The door at the top of the stairs had split apart, and the tip of the great cross that had hung on the wall poked through.
The cross was pulled out and came back with a terrific wham! The door split completely open and fell away, except for a fragment that swung out on the one remaining hinge at the top.
The Indian stepped into the doorway, holding the cross. His hands were spilling forth white smoke where he held the cross. Even his boots where they touched the hallowed ground boiled smoke.
But the Indian was smiling. And perched on his shoulder like some terrible parrot, chattering like a monkey, was the little girl with the doll.
Behind the Indian and the little girl, the dead pushed forward, licking their lips, moaning eagerly.
"They're mine," hissed the Indian, and the dead moved back.
The Indian stared at the Reverend for a long moment, as if to show him that the cross and the church were not enough. "Greetings from hell, preacher man," he said, and he tossed the huge cross at the Reverend and David.
The cross struck the floor where the Reverend had stood, and the end of it came slamming down on the last two stair steps, shattering them to splinters.
The Reverend jerked up the Navy and fired, hit the little girl in the forehead, sent her flying from the Indian's shoulder. Her doll came clattering down the stairs.
"How noble," said the Indian. "Saving a little child from hell." Then stretching out the words:
"But who will save you?"
The Indian started down the stairs.
Perhaps it was instinct, the desire to do something, even if you knew it was futile.
The Reverend shot the Indian through the forehead. A hole appeared, but the Indian continued down the steps.
The Reverend saw the spider-thing birthmark on the Indian's chest and knew that this was prophecy of his dream come true. In the dream he had been devoured by the spider-thing, and in a symbolic way, that was about to become a reality.
The Reverend found his eyes latched to the spidery marking, and he felt the terror of the dream again—the long boat with the boatman in black, poling into the spidery maw of doom.
And then a thought came to him. Perhaps, if the Lord had revealed his evil through a symbol in a dream, he had also revealed the evil one's Achilles' heel.
He fired a shot into the spider-thing on the Indian's chest.
But no. The Indian laughed.
Then the Indian moved, like a flash of lightning he moved, and he had the Reverend by the throat with one huge hand, lifting him off his feet, to look him in the eyes.
And behind the dead eyes of the Indian were the blazing fires of the demon, and the Reverend saw the bullet holes in the head, the little pieces of lead shot from Matt's shotgun puckered there, and the rope burn on the neck, and the spider-thing on his chest—the spider-thing that seemed to crawl in the darkness.
The Reverend's breath came in gasps. His tongue protruded. His feet kicked. The gun hung limply in his right hand, plopping uselessly against something in his pocket—
THE LITTLE BIBLE.
Holy objects, if you believe in them, Doc had said, if you believe in them they have power.
Tossing the revolver to his left hand, the Reverend pulled the Bible free with his right hand and pushed it into the Indian's face, calling upon the God almighty in his head, since he had neither the wind nor the tongue for it.
Upon contact with the Indian's face, the Bible blazed, burned out the big man's right eye.
Growling, the Indian twisted his head, and his cheek sent the Bible flying across the room, where it struck a crate and fell in a smoking ruin to the floor.
Smoke curled out of the Indian's eye socket, and a sudden cairn came over him. He smiled at the Reverend and said, "Little, little man."
The Indian opened his mouth. His jaw came unhinged.
All of this had happened in seconds, and for part of it David had stood frozen, mesmerized, but now he moved, hammered against the Indian's legs.
The Indian, with a brush of his hand, sent David spinning roughly into a crate, as if he were nothing more than an annoying dog trying to hump his leg.
David rolled to his feet and pulled his jackknife from his pocket. Opening it, he rushed forward, slammed it into the Indian's leg.
The Indian swatted David with his free hand again, this time the blow was so vicious, it knocked the boy against a crate with such force he seemed to drip down the side of it.
The Reverend was losing consciousness. He could see the great mouth opening and the impossible teeth growing, could smell the odor of death churning up through the tunnel of doom—covering him with its stink as if it were an oversized nightcap.
And then, just before all went black, he saw out of the corner of his left eye, a ray of sunlight—just a tiny needle of light, but light, just the same.