XII. The Long Walk to Jail

Kacinski ran through the station's main hall. The quickest way to the radio room was through the jail cells. He pulled his keys and opened the door to the cells.

Kacinski swiped at the light switch on the wall and missed. He decided to just keep moving--there was still some dim illumination coming in through the ceiling windows from the setting sun. As he passed the third cell, a pair of arms reached for him.

"Gah!" yelled Kacinski, avoiding the reach of the former Officer O'Malley. His friend's face leered at him from the darkened cell, barely visible in the faint light. Kacinski could see the black ichor smeared all over.

Don't worry none, Officer. said the same smoke-damaged tenor he'd earlier. It don't hurt nearly so much as it looks. Least, not if you don't resist.

Kacinski stopped moving.

"Shut your damn mouth!" he yelled at the darkness.

I ain't using my mouth, Tommy boy. I'm talking right into your soul. And you know what? I ain't nothing special. You might as well just give it up, son. You can't hold against the likes of me.

A cold sweat was rolling over Kacinski. He cleared his throat. "Our Father, who are in Heaven--"

There's no need for that, boy! the voice sounded suddenly angry with Kacinski.

"Hallowed be Thy name." Kacinski felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He let the prayer trail off. O'Malley was still reaching through the bars at him. Kacinski went over to the door and flipped the light on. "This ain't right."

He opened the door to the radio room. A pair of gray, black-smeared hands clamped down on his shoulders.

Kacinski screamed as the thrall--he recognized the face of Dan Barret, a young fellow who's been on the squad for less than a year--opened it's mouth and prepared to bite him. He swung the shotgun up, clamped his mouth and eyes shut, and fired. He felt the hands go limp and heard the body hit the ground. His skin burned where the ichor had touched it--he wiped the foul stuff away with his sleeve, and sat down at the radio console.

"Wichita, this is Points Corners, come in."

A second later a voice came back over the line. "Points Corners, this is Wichita. State your business."

"Thank God." breathed Kacinski.

XI. The Crowd Goes Wild

Hathorne and Kacinski hustled up the stairs and back into the station's ground floor. Each had a shotgun in hand and pockets full of shells. At Hathorne's insistence, each of them carried a second gun on his back in a leather holster.

"Now, we need to find those other two, and whatever infected them." said Hathorne. "Any idea where they might have gone?"

"I'd say that way." said Kacinski, pointing to the front door. It was smeared with black ichor.

"Damnation." muttered Hathorne. "This just got more complicated. Come on!"

The pair pushed the door open and ran into Points Corners. A mob of gray-skinned people crowded the street, every one of them dripping with ichor. Hathorne could see that they wore tattered flannel and ripped trousers, caked with road dust--the unofficial uniform of the migrant workers found in Hoovervilles across the country.

"Clever bastard. 'Doctor,' my ass." said Hathorne. Kacinski looked at him. "Beg pardon. Now then, I think we'd better stem this tide, Officer. I'd say these folks are guilty of at least Disorderly Conduct."

A pair of Okies shambled up the steps towards Hathorne and Kacinski, arms outstretched. Two shotgun blasts ripped through the air, and the pair went down. Hathorne and Kacinski reloaded and fired again.

The gray crowd turned towards the men and surged towards them. Hathorne pumped his shotgun and took down the one in the lead. Kacinski followed suit. Hathorne pulled the second gun from his back and took out the next in line.

"Officer!" yelled Hathorne, returning the second gun to its holster and feeding shells into the first. "I think we'd better fall back, take them some place where their numbers won't count for as much!"

"Agreed!" Kacinski pushed the doors open behind them while Hathorne took one more shot at the thrall in the lead and retreated through. The two men retreated backwards in the police station's main lobby. Another Officer ran up.

"Tom, what's going on? And who is that?"

Hathorne reloaded the gun in his hand and tossed it to the officer. "Just a man of God, Officer, lending a helping hand in a time of crisis."

The officer caught the gun and Kacinski spoke up. "Randall Hicks, meet Reverend John Hathorne. We've got a situation, Randy. I'll let the Reverend here fill you in, I'm going to go radio Wichita for reinforcements."

"Watch your back, Kacinski!" yelled Hathorne. "We never found the last two!"

"Gotcha, Rev!" called Kacinski running out of the room.

"What the hell is going on?" demanded Hicks.

"The short version, is that most of the Hooverville west of town has taken on an infernal taint. If you see anyone with a black substance oozing out of their eyes, nose, mouth, fingernails, etcetera, destroy their eyes. Prayer will protect you."

"What?"

The door swung open and the thralls outside began to push their way in.

"Those, Officer!" yelled Hathorne, squeezing the trigger. "Take on as many of them as you can!"

Hicks hesitated a moment longer, then fired into the crowd.