Denny noticed the small canteen hanging on McCauley’s belt. Instinctively he reached down and unhooked it. “We’re close to the lake. I’ll go fill this up, we can use the water to clean up the cuts as best we can, and then we head back.” The others just looked at him, too exhausted and hurt to speak. Denny took their silence as assent and turned toward the lake. He moved quickly through the dark. There were no crickets chirping, no owls hooting, no bats screeching. The rain had started in earnest and the drops smacking the leaves were the only sounds. Then another sound broke the quiet. Voices! Denny stopped, frozen in place, moving just one finger to click off his flashlight. A moment later, another light bobbed toward him, floating like a ghost through the trees. Friend or foe? Denny glanced back and saw only darkness. Robert must have heard the voices too and shut off their light. Denny nearly called out but something kept him silent. Denny could only make out two silhouetted shapes as the light moved slowly through the trees thirty or forty yards closer to the lake. Exactly where I would be if I hadn’t heard them, he thought.
The light stopped moving and Denny heard muffled voices. When the gunshot broke the unearthly silence, Denny sprang to action. Keeping his own light off, he moved toward the lantern-light. Behind him, he heard Chris and Robert also moving. In front of him, the sounds of a scuffle erupted and a voice he finally recognized called out in anger and fear. “Crawford! No!” Another gunshot rang out and Denny sprinted toward Father McCarthy.
What he saw in the small circle of light thrown by the lantern in the old priest’s hand froze him for a second. Chief Crawford was straddling another man, strangling the life out of him. When the impossible fact that the other man was Paul Greymore finally registered, Denny moved without thinking. He ripped the lantern from McCarthy’s hand and swung it in a sweeping arc, connecting with Crawford’s head in a blinding explosion. Crawford’s screams shattered the night and he rolled off of Greymore. His head and torso were completely engulfed in flames! Still screaming, he turned and ran, a human torch heading for the lake.
Denny and McCarthy went to Paul. He was alive, breathing, but his skin was icy to the touch. Denny finally remembered his own light and snapped it on. Crawford’s screams echoed in the distance as McCarthy opened Paul’s eyes one at a time and shined the light in them “His pupils are reacting, that’s good.” Denny held the light while McCarthy quickly looked for signs of injury. When he lifted Greymore’s shirt they both saw the damage. Amid the scars stood an angry row of red welts in a line across Greymore’s chest. The mark of the beast.
Denny heard the others behind him and was once again stunned into silence. Robert was standing there holding Julie in his arms, Chris next to him. But coming behind them were Billy and Mossy. Denny broke his paralysis and ran to them, leaping into an embrace of relief and love. The three stood clinging to each other for a long moment. Then Denny grabbed Mossy by the hand and led him to Paul, shining his light on the line of red marks. He locked eyes with Mossy and incredibly, Mossy was grinning.
“It’s like a sedative, it isn’t fatal. He might be out for a while but he’ll be fine.”
Denny felt too many emotions at once to react. Then he frowned. “But it took him, that thing in the caves took him in the water…” Mossy’s grin stretched wider.
“I think I can explain that too…”
Another scream exploded, barely human. At first Denny thought it was the weird acoustics that made Crawford’s scream sound like it was behind them and not down by the lake. Then the sound of running steps crashing through the brush behind them made them all turn. It was Dale Crawford running at them holding something… The gunshots came quickly as Crawford ran straight for them screaming. Bodies flew, and Denny didn’t know if they were hit or just diving for cover. But he stood his ground and by the time Crawford was close enough to see the insanity in his eyes, the gun was clicking on empty chambers. He stopped in front of Denny and dropped the gun. The rain poured down as the two faced each other. Crawford reached into his pocket and pulled his knife, the blade snapping to life with the touch of a finger. “Let’s dance,” and he giggled crazily.
Denny heard the sounds of the others getting up. At least they’re not all dead, Denny thought without emotion. His world consisted only of Crawford and that knife. That goddamned knife that had started all of this. Crawford made his move, advancing quickly and raising the knife to strike. Denny watched it all in slow motion as the blade arced toward him. With agility he never knew he possessed, Denny dodged the blade. Before Crawford could recover and take another shot, Denny hammered him with a punch, landing it squarely on Crawford’s nose. Crawford stumbled back a step, then touched the stream of blood dripping from his nose. He giggled again and started toward Denny.
Denny made no move, he stood ready, somehow not afraid and sure he could dodge Crawford’s knife all night and land every punch as he had his first. He felt invincible. When Crawford’s face morphed from the insane smile to an expression of abject terror, Denny thought for a split second that Crawford had sensed Denny’s inner strength and was actually afraid of him.
Then Denny realized Dale’s focus was beyond him, toward the lake. Crawford’s eyes grew wider. Looking into them was like looking into the very soul of madness. Then he turned and ran into the woods without uttering a sound. Denny wheeled around and saw Dale’s father, or what was left of him, staggering toward him. His shirt had burned off and his upper body was scorched, screaming red and oozing blood and pus. Crawford’s face and hands were a hideous sight, charred black with chunks of skin sliding off. His hair, ears, lips and nose were gone, his eyes were two melted lumps of wax. But still he came.
Ortiz stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest to stop him. Layers of skin slipped away leaving a red handprint. “Crawford, it’s Robert Ortiz. It’s over.”
Crawford’s exposed teeth yawned open and a garbled sound came out. Then he collapsed to the ground. Ortiz took the cuffs from Crawford’s belt, rolled him over roughly and snapped them on his wrists.
The others gathered around silently as the rain fell around them. A moan from the bushes broke the odd reverie and Denny realized that Father McCarthy was not among them. They found him lying in the brush, blood flowing from a wound just below his ribcage. Crawford’s bullets hadn’t all missed their mark. Ortiz tore off his shirt and placed it against the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the dark flow of blood. Paul pushed his way groggily through the others and knelt beside McCarthy.
“Father, can you hear me?”
McCarthy’s eyes opened and immediately found Paul’s. “Paul, you’re okay?”
“We all made it.” Tears mixed with the rain running down his face. He gripped McCarthy’s hand in his own.
“Did you kill it?”
Paul looked up at Denny, sadness and panic in his eyes. Denny nodded as his own tears began to flow.
“Yeah, we killed it,” Paul replied.