The face of Lucifer, covered with running sores, melted away. The horns and wings melted, too. Churning, seeping a puslike paste, the thing sank down into the floor, disappeared into the river below.
Strangely, the odorous dead tissue did not vanish. Ectoplasm was supposed to disappear when the supernatural presence had departed, but this stuff remained: foul, nauseating, glistening in the gaslight.
Gradually, Kale's rapture faded. He began to feel the cold radiating from the limestone, through the seat of his pants.
Gene Teer coughed. “Well… well now… wasn't that somethin'?” Kale scratched his itchy calf. Beneath the itchiness, there was now a dull little spot of pain, throbbing.
It had reached the end of its feeding period. In fact, it had overfed. It had intended to move toward The sea later today, through a series of caverns, subterranean channels, and underground watercourses. It had wanted to travel out beyond the edge of the continent, into the ocean trenches. Countless times before, it had passed its lethargic periods — sometimes lasting many years — in the cool, dark depths of the sea. Down there where the pressure was so enormous that few forms of life could survive, down there where absolute lightlessness and silence provided little stimulation, the ancient enemy was able to slow down its metabolic processes; down there, it could enter a much-desired dreamlike state, in which it could ruminate in perfect solitude.
But it would never reach the sea. Never again. It was dying.
The concept of its own death was so new that it had not yet adjusted to the grim reality. In the geological substructure of Snowtop Mountain, the shape-changer continued to slough off diseased portions of itself. It crept deeper, deeper, across the underworld river that flowed in Stygian darkness, deeper still, farther down into the infernal regions of the earth, into the chambers of Orcus, Hades, Osiris, Erebus, Minos, Loki, Satan. Each time that it believed itself free of the devouring microorganism, a peculiar tingling sensation arose at some point in the amorphous tissue, a wrongness, and then there came a pain quite unlike human pain, and it was forced to rid itself of even more infected flesh. It went deeper, down into jahanna, into Gehenna, into Sheol, Abbadon, into the Pit. Over the centuries it had eagerly assumed the role of satan and other evil figures, which men had attributed to it, had amused itself by catering to their superstitions. Now, it was condemned to a fate consistent with the mythology it had helped create. it was bitterly aware of the irony. It had been cast down. It had been damned. It would dwell in darkness and despair for the rest of its life — which could be measured in hours.
At least it had left behind two apostles. Kale and Tell. They would do its work even after it had ceased to exist. They would spread terror and take revenge. They were perfectly suited to the job.
Now, reduced to only a brain and minimal supporting tissue, the shape-changer cowered in a chthonian niche of densely packed rock and waited for the end. It spent its last minutes seething with hatred, raging at all mankind.
Kale rolled up his trousers and looked at the calf of his right leg. In the lantern light, he saw two small red spots; they were swollen, itchy, and very tender.
“Insect bites,” he said.
Gene Teer looked. “Ticks. They burrow under the skin. The itchin' won't stop until you get 'em out. Burn 'em out with a cigarette.”
“Got any?”
Teer grinned. “Couple joints of grass. They'll work just as well, man. And the ticks'll die happy.”
They smoked the joints, and Kale used the glowing tip of his to burn out the ticks. It didn't hurt much.
“In the woods,” Teer said, “keep your pants tucked in your boots.”
“They were tucked into my boots.”
“Yeah? Then how'd them ticks get underneath?”
“I don't know.”
After they had smoked more grass, Kale frowned and said, “He promised us no one could hurt or stop us. He said we'd be under His protection.”
“That's right, man. Invincible.”
“So how come I've got to put up with tick bites?” Kale asked.
“Hey, man, it's no big thing.”
“But if we're really protected—”
“Listen, maybe the tick bites are sort of like His way of sealing the bargain you made with Him. With a little blood. Get it?”
“Then why don't you have tick bites?”
Jeeter shrugged. “Ain't important, man. Besides, the fuckin' ticks bit you before you struck your bargain — didn't they?”
“Oh.” Kale nodded, fuzzy-headed from dope. “Yeah. That's right.”
They were silent for a while.
Then Kale said, “When do you think we can leave here?”
“They're probably still lookin' for you pretty hard.”
“But if they can't hurt me”
“No sense makin' the job harder for ourselves,” Teer said.
“I guess so.”
“We'll lay low for like a few days. Worst of the heat will be off by then.”
“Then we do the five like he wants. And after that?”
“Head on out, man. Move on. Make tracks.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere. He'll show us the way.” Teer was silent for a while. Then he said, “Tell me about it. About killin' your wife and kid.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everythin' there is to know, man. Tell me what it felt like. What was it like to off your old lady. Mostly, tell me about the kid. What'd it feel like, wastin' a kid? Huh? I never did one that young, man. You kill him fast or drag it out? Did it feel different than killin' her? What exactly did you do to the kid?”
“Only what I had to do. They were in my way.”
“Draggin' you down, huh?”
“Both of them.”
“Sure. I see how it was. But what did you do?”
“Shot her.”
“Shoot the kid, too?”
“No. I chopped him. With a meat cleaver.”
“No shit?”
They smoked more joints, and the lantern hissed, and the whisper-chuckle of the underground river came up through the hole in the floor, and Kale talked about killing Joanna, Danny, and the county deputies.
Every once in a while, punctuating his words with a little marijuana giggle, Jeeter said, “Hey, man, are we gonna have some fun? Are we gonna have some fun together, you and me? Tell me more. Tell me. Man, are we gonna have some fun?”
Chapter 44
Victory?
Bryce stood on the sidewalk, studying the town. Listening. Waiting. There was no sign of the shape-changer, but he was reluctant to believe it was dead. He was afraid it would spring at him the moment he relaxed his guard.
Tal Whitman was stretched out on the pavement. Jenny and Lisa cleaned the acid burns, dusted them with antibiotic powder, and applied temporary bandages.
And Snowfield remained as silent as if it were at the bottom of the sea.
Finished ministering to Tal Jenny said, “We should get him to the hospital right away. The wounds aren't deep, but there might be a delayed allergic reaction to one of the shape changer's toxins. He might suddenly start having respiratory difficulties or blood pressure problems. The hospital is equipped for the worst possibilities; I'm not.”
Sweeping the length of the street with his eyes, Bryce said, “What if we get in the car, trap ourselves in a moving car, and then it comes back?”
“We'll take a couple of sprayers with us.”
“There might not be time to use them. It could come up out of a manhole, overturn the car, and kill us that way, without ever touching us, without giving us a chance to use the sprayers.”