A flood light, or so it seemed to the sensitive eyes of the three below, enveloped them, making them easy targets for an unseen gunman. Maitland went down at once, though there was no way to judge how severe the wound might be. The impact would have knocked him over, weakened as he was, in any case. Zarnak and Akbar Singh both made for the outer circumference of the beam as fast as they could stumble, while another shot shattered the lolling head of Bryan Winfield. If he had not already succumbed in the previous moments, his message delivered to someone at last, the bullet, meant for Zarnak, freed him. Other shots echoed and ricocheted, competing in volume with Stokely’s outraged cries; he had apparently hoped to drain Bryan of a bit more blood.
As Zarnak and the Sikh each found shallow niches to provide a moment’s shelter, neither could readily think of what to do next. They had few options as long as the Indian Echoctaqus, for it must be he, held his rifle. There was one variable in the equation everyone was overlooking—until, that is, it broke the surface of the slime lake and glided with amazing swiftness to the landing where the newly bodied Hiram and his confederate stood, the latter desperately firing futile rounds at the oncoming behemoth.
"Don’t waste your shots, you old fool!" Hiram screamed, the voice of the younger Phillips cracking with the unaccustomed emphasis. As the wriggling missile bore in on them, it became clear that its object was Hiram alone, and the Indian, casting aside his empty rifle, sailed from the rocky precipice, half thrown, half jumping, into the darkness. To his misfortune, he managed to land atop the waiting form of Akbar Singh, who proceeded to provide an appropriate welcome—with his fists.
Meanwhile, Hiram, wearing the form of his nephew, was struggling against a second, grossly pulpy layer of flesh, as the greasy slime of the yuggya body engulfed him. The great invertebrate gained new strength as its kissing suckers popped open dozens of veins and arteries all over the now-limp form of his enemy. The screams died down, the eyes glazed; the usurped body of Winfield Phillips shrank like a dried fruit rind. The vengeance of Winfield Phillips was complete.
All this Zarnak saw as he crept from concealment and ascended the stairs unnoticed. Below him, the Sikh and the Indian fought with surprising fury. Akbar Singh's titan strength dampened somewhat by many hours of dull exertion, the Indian’s adrenaline pumping away to even up the odds. Still, Zarnak entertained no doubt of the eventual outcome.
As he ventured to approach the quivering mass of translucent, stinking jelly, lapping and bubbling over the desiccated form it had vanquished. Zarnak sensed a sudden and subtle change—for the worse. Something terrible was happening. The yugg-maggot was regaining its form, its strength, its stature. It seemed somehow different.
Zarnak’s sensitive instincts told him what had surely happened: In the moment of death, the demon-soul of Hiram Stokely had again displaced the psyche of Winfield Phillips and regained control of its previous host. Now it meant to pass into the body of Anton Zarnak himself! The occultist seemed unable to thwart the other’s design. He began to feel the separation, the drifting, the—
Then he went down, struck by something hard and wet smacking into the back of his nodding head. As he struggled to hold onto consciousness, he saw from the corner of his eye what had hit him, breaking the mesmeric hold the Hiram-thing had exerted upon him: the severed head of the Indian shaman Echoctaqus! Akbar Singh had wrenched it free of its moorings in one great effort and used it as the only instrument available to disrupt the horror he could see transpiring above.
The desperate maneuver had worked, and now Akbar Singh came charging up the steps, dangerously slippery with splattered blood and ooze. He had seized a torch out of its wall bracket as he passed, and now he thrust it over the head of Zarnak, just rising slowly to his knees, and into the midst of the viscous larva before him.
The thing made no sound except for the echoes of stones knocked loose by its flailing, ropy tentacles, the pseudopods randomly erupting from all over its violently quivering bulk. Then came the sound of bubbling and nauseous popping as molten pustules formed and vomited forth their unwholesomeness. Cleansing, obliterating flame swept in seconds over the glistening form of the thing, reducing it swiftly to a crumbling heap of caked ash, which kept collapsing as hidden pockets of mephitic gas imploded one by one.
Glad to turn away from the sickening spectacle. Zarnak and his rescuer made their way gingerly down the precarious steps to see to their third companion. Before they reached bottom, however, they met the staggering figure of Maitland, clutching the ripped flesh of a surface wound on one arm, but otherwise almost cheerful, given the circumstances. “What say we vacate the premises before any of Ubb’s colleagues get wind of what’s happened and come looking to settle the score? And this time, let's go through the house!”
So they did, taking one further precaution. After a quick search, Akbar Singh located a quantity of flammable liquids left over from the cleaning and renovation of the old hacienda. These he dispensed in liberal amounts over most of the extent of the interior. He had saved one of the torches from below the house. Once he was a safe distance from the front door, he warned the others, ignited the torch, and pitched it onto the verandah. Then he turned and ran as if the demons of hell were on his tail. Truth to tell, he wasn’t entirely sure they weren't. Rejoining the others, he turned and watched the growing inferno. Beside him, Zarnak whispered, as if speaking to himself, "Happy the town by night whose wizards are all ashes."