Chapter Seven

   THE following morning Chris breakfasted royally on poached eggs and sausages and was exposed to a thoughtful reading of the fifteenth chapter of Luke and given a tour of the rest of the Manor House by some of the staff. He then made ready to leave. The girls provided him with a surprise going-away present; a flight bag containing his clean linen, freshly ironed, and a lunchbasket full of delicacies suited to masculine taste. Captain Petrovich brought the Mustang around to the door, serviced, washed and ready to roll. Chris took the four sisters on a spin through the grounds, during which they taught him another Gospel chorus:

I have decided to follow Jesus,

No turning back, no turning back

The cross behind me, the crown before me,

No turning back, no turning back.

   After listening to the soft young voices, he found making his farewells rather difficult. ''I've never really met people quite like you," he said, misty-eyed. "It doesn't seem possible for folks to be so happy down inside. But if that's what Christ does, I want it. Thank you for what you've taught me."

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   "But you've been so nice!" exclaimed Creshie.

   'Nothing special about us," said Patty. "We put up our hair every night. But we think being Christians is the greatest life there is."

   "And we're going to pray about your family," added Pru.

   "Please do," said Chris, with tears now frankly running down his face. "I wish—I wish my boys could—'' He paused and blew his nose. Char said nothing, but going up to him pinned a button to the inside of his coat lapel.

   "What's it say?" sniffed Chris, trying to read it.

   "All-prayer," she said quietly.

   "All-prayer? What's that?"

   "It's in the sixth of Ephesians, Mr. Anders, All-prayer is prayer in the Spirit."

   "It just means all-out," put in Creshie. "Tells it like it is!"

   "Well!" murmured Chris.

   "Now that you're a Christian, you're going to need it," said Char. "We don't know what's waiting for you down there in Prone Valley, but we have an idea."

   "Did you say Prune Valley?"

   "Prone Valley."

   "Named after a Mr. Prone," said Patty.

   "Who's that?"

   "You!" Their laughter bubbled up again.

   "Mr. Van Gelst says it's where all the spare tyres go flat," said Creshie, sending them off into another peal.

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   Puzzled but in a very good humour, Chris started the engine, and after handshakes all around he drove out past the guard post. "God in your heart!" they called, waving him out of sight. He began the winding descent and within half an hour the Mustang reached the valley floor, which he found to be stony, dry and desolate. The road was narrower than ever and in an advanced state of neglect. It was evident that the valley was a giant rock wash. Boulders hemmed in the traveller on either side, making it virtually impossible for two cars to pass. Once Chris spotted a weathered, tottering signpost with the faint lettering LIFE CITY and an arrow pointing in the direction he was going. Otherwise he could see no indication of life. He might as well have been driving in a moon crater.

   After six or seven miles his eye was caught by some kind of object on the road in the distance. At first he thought it was stationary, but as he drove nearer he found it to be a huge bulldozer that was apparently pushing some rock filling into a ditch alongside the road. The heavy equipment was squarely across the right of way. Stopping the Mustang some yards off, Chris got out and began walking toward the bulldozer. His thumb felt for the bottom on his collar.

   "All-prayer,'' he said, feeling uneasy.

   The operator of the bulldozer brought it to a clanking halt. As he stepped down Chris noticed some black lettering on the huge blade. Someone had crudely painted the words, CARTHAGE, TOLEDO, DROGHEDA, LIDICE, AUSCHWITZ and other place names. Now the man advanced half a dozen paces

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toward him, and it came over Chris that his face was familiar. He was a heavy type, weighing perhaps fifteen stones and standing slightly under six feet. His clothing consisted of a greasy T-shirt with the faded letters B and L on the chest, and a pair of black dungarees. There was something odd to Chris about the way the man's eyebrows pointed to his nose. The thick, sensual mouth opened and he spoke.

   "Where do you think you're goin'?" he asked.

   "Life City," said Chris, a bit shaken by the ugly tones in the man's voice.

   ''Yeah? Where are you from?"

   "Doomsdale."

   "Doomsdale!" He swore a crude oath. "That's my territory. I operate all that section."

   "You do?" Chris felt his knees buckle forward. What's your name?"

   "Never mind." The man reached for a piece of tobacco. "I know you, you're one of my boys."

   "I—?"

   "What's buggin' you? Eh? Why you wanna leave Doomsdale? Doncha like workin' for me?"

   Chris swallowed. "I didn't know I was. Maybe that explains. . ." He didn't finish. He was thinking about Eileen and the boys, trapped in a community that was subservient to someone like this.

   The thick lips managed a smile. "I just don't like folks leavin' my territory," he said.

   Chris decided he could not afford to let his fear show. "I'm already signed up," he announced.

   "Signed up with wot?"

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   "I'm a Christian."

   The smile grew broader and became tangled in teeth. "Don't let it bother you," he said. "I run across you guys all the time. You leave for a while, but you come driftin' back."

   "Not me."

   The man spat a stream and put his fists on his hips. "Why not? I'm not hard to get along with. I let bygones be bygones."

   "I'm not switching," Chris insisted shakily.

   "OK, OK, you asked for it. If you wanna spend the rest of your days bein' a fake, go ahead. I want honest men who know what they are and don't meddle with all this religious trash."

   "You've got me wrong," said Chris.

   "Like so much bull. I got you dead right, big boy."

   Chris felt his pockets. He was not carrying even a jack-knife. The operator wiped his nose with a greasy forearm. "Lookatcha," he went on derisively. "Goin' to Life City. What's your game? Think they want you there? You spent more time off the road than you did on it, what I hear. You went and lost your passport. An' what about your wife and kids? You think the man'll give you a medal for walkin' out on 'em?"

   Chris hung his head. "It's all true," he said.

   'I heard yesterday you got to messin' around those fillies at the Manor. I know what you were thinkin', you liar! You pass yourself off in front of them as bein' so brave and strong, and such a holy Joe, when all you want is you know what. Oh, you're a fine specimen,

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you are. The holy pilgrim! John Bunyan rides again! But I know better."

   "Keep going," said Chris.

   "Why should I?''

   "Because everything you said is true, and there's a lot more. You've got your man taped—I'm a stinker and don't deny it." Chris took his hands from his pockets, raised his head and looked his adversary in the eye. "What you don't know is that it's all covered by the blood over there on that hill." Chris pointed in the direction from which he had come.

   The operator spat again, and an ugly look spread over his features. "I don't like that kind of chicken talk," he said. "Where I run things, a joker pays up for what he done. He don't pass the buck to nobody. But then, I turn out men!" He came closer to Chris. "Did I hear you say you were a Christian?" Chris did not reply; he simply watched the man's eyes. Suddenly a huge hand came up and smote him heavily on the cheek. Reeling back, he barely managed to keep his balance. "OK, Christian," growled the operator, "let's have the other side, like it says." Chris stayed where he was. "Not gonna play Bible games, eh? Don't like the way the man sets it out when it comes down to rock bottom, do ya?"

   "Are you going to let me pass?" Chris demanded.

   The man swung around. "Sure I will," he said, "but first I'm gonna fix your cute lil wagon."

   He turned again toward the bulldozer. Chris looked at the Mustang and decided he had about two seconds in which to act. It was not an easy decision. As a

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computer salesman he had not kept himself in the best of physical condition. There was a telltale bulge under his belt. He stood perhaps two inches shorter and weighed two stones less than this man. His competitive athletics had been high school football, further back than he cared to remember. Four weeks ago he had played nine holes of golf. That was it.

   Nevertheless Chris bolted forward, left his feet, and struck the man amidships. Down they went, crashing into the push arm of the bulldozer. Chris caught a whiff of the same sickening odour he had smelled in the creek where he first got stuck and on the trail down from the transmitter. He recovered quickly and backed away, for the man had pulled a large crescent wrench out of his rear pocket and was now advancing menacingly. His appearance was frightening; blood—or was it blood? —streamed down one ear from the wound where his head had struck the dozer.

   "Why don't you let me pass?" Chris cried out in terror. "I haven't done you any harm. What have you got against me?"

   The man's lips parted in what should have been a smile. He touched his free hand to his ear and looked at it. ''No harm!" he said. "C'mere, baby, Don't go 'way like that. Just c'mere.''

   Chris ran around behind the Mustang. "You want to kill me," he shouted. "You want to do. . . .!" He thought of the three men he had met on the summit of Skull Hill. One had given him his Bible; that was lying in the car. One had given him clothes. What had the other done? He couldn't remember, but

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suddenly it seemed terribly important. What was it? He dodged around to the other side of the car as the man came relentlessly after him. What was it? What was it? His forehead! No wonder he couldn't remember. He put his hand to it, and there came to him the prayer he uttered in desperation on the transmitter hill. "God!" he cried again. "Neutralize!"

   He noticed the aerial on his Mustang; it gleamed in the noonday sun perhaps a bit more brightly than usual. Working his way around, keeping his opponent blocked, he got to the aerial and with a violent wrench snapped it off. As he did so he was staggered and forced back by a crushing blow on his left shoulder. The wrench had come flying across the hood, knocking him off his feet and sending the aerial spinning into the dirt. Like a cat the big man was around the car and upon him, and over they rolled, the greasy T-shirt in Chris's face and thick fingers tightening on his throat. Now the huge frame had him pinned; Chris's left arm was caught in a hammerlock and he felt something in it snap; the fingers had left his throat and were pressing his eyes into their sockets, while a forearm was jammed against his windpipe. All the breath had left his lungs. His eyes were lumps of sheer pain. Hope left him; prayer left him; there was nothing but evil. In that instant, just before consciousness faded, his free hand found the steel rod in the dirt beside him. He grasped it and feebly pointed the broken end against the skin of his opponent.

   With a mighty curse the man leaped off his prey, got unsteadily to his feet and began scratching his

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shirt. Chris rolled over on to his knees, shook his head and blinked, trying to see. His left arm hung limp. After a second or two, during which the operator emitted a series of vile caterwaulings, things came back together; before his adversary returned to the attack Chris had managed to stagger to his feet and reach the other side of the Mustang. Another two seconds of recovery and his brain began working at survival speed. Clinging to the aerial, he decided that the key to the outcome was the bulldozer. Manoeuvring to the front of the Mustang, he made a dash for the big machine.

   With a blood-freezing yell the operator came in pursuit—he had picked up the wrench. Chris darted to the rear of the bulldozer and found himself in a verge cluttered with rocks and dirt. The ditch alongside was perhaps two hundred feet in length and nearly filled. What lay underneath he could only guess, but the long trench gave off a smell of death and putrefaction that made his stomach turn over. What kind of monster was this? He turned and found that the man had mounted into the driver's seat and started up the equipment. The bulldozer was now bearing down on his precious car with obvious intent to crush it on the rocks at the side of the road.

   Dizzy from his latest affliction, Chris leaped on the moving vehicle and scrambled up toward the operator, aerial in hand. The bulldozer was now advancing at full speed on its target. The driver turned, saw Chris and hurled the wrench, which just grazed his ear. Chris then reached around and lanced the man lightly

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between the shoulder blades. He yelled, threw up his hands and leaped, with Chris following nimbly after him. The bulldozer proceeded to careen wildly off the road, missing the Mustang by inches and piling into a nest of boulders, where it stalled.

   Once again the two men were on the road; once again they were confronting each other, but this time it was Chris who did the advancing, steel whip in hand, while his assailant retreated and tried to scratch his back. Never had Chris heard such execrable indecencies as now proceeded from his lips. As they circled, each watching for an opening, the man's hand left his back and Chris became convinced of what he feared: that the stunning effect of the aerial was only temporary. This enemy had powers of recuperation beyond those of ordinary flesh and blood. He studied the faded lettering on the T-shirt until he made out the full word: BELIAL.

   Now Chris began to realize the nature of his struggle. Here he was at the end of his strength, pitted against a man who could not tire. The measure of fatigue was the measure of the battle. Something frothed in his mouth, and he wiped his lips on the collar of his jacket, then felt a prick on his thumb—it was the button Char had pinned on him. "All-prayer,'' he thought. "Tells it like it is." He took a step forward brandishing the aerial, but before he could speak his prayer Belial backed into a large stone on the side of the road and tripped. As he toppled in the dirt roaring with rage, Chris rushed up to him and, bending over, touched the lance to his heart.

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The bellowing stopped. Chris telescoped the aerial and tucked it under his limp left arm. With his good arm he propelled the stone over on top of his adversary. Then he rolled up a second large stone and settled it on the inert body. Then another and another, until the figure was completely covered.

   Stumbling back to the bulldozer, Chris climbed into the seat and began with one hand frantically working the steering controls. Soon he had the engine idling. A few false moves and he had the bulldozer backed onto the road, where he swung it about and, working the hoist control, moved the blade toward the pile of rocks. Scraping it off the road and into the ditch, he then gunned the bulldozer until its crawler track stopped on top of the rubble, leaving the road clear. Somewhere underneath was the fiend Belial, recovering once more, Chris suspected, from the effect of the steel lance.

   Chris jumped clear of the equipment and scrambled up and out of the smelly ditch. As he did so he dislodged a partially covered foot bone which seemed to him unmistakably human. His fears were now fairly confirmed; the ditch was nothing but a mass grave. Panting, he ran back to his own vehicle and turned over the engine. He picked his way carefully past the loose rocks still on the road, and once clear of the scene, noting no signs of life in the rear-view mirror, he gave a great shudder and opened the throttle.

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Chapter Eight  ||  Table of Contents