gns.thegraveyardvultures-第32节

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and…needles　in　his　legs　where　they　had　been　trapped　by　the　bloody　corpse。　He　turned；　saw　that　the　blood…spattered　skeleton　still　lay　in　its　original　position。　'That　。。。　thing　。。。　Gardiner　。。。　it。。。　moved'
　　
　　'Perhaps　and　perhaps　not。'　Maitre　Carrefour　smiled。　'The　bones　are　latent　evil　but　they　cannot　walk　at　present。　You　must　ensure　that　they　never　do；　that　the　malignant　entity　within　them　is　destroyed。'
　　
　　'You　have　been　sent　to　help　me？'
　　
　　'No；　only　to　free　you　from　that　which　paralysed　your　body。　Damballah　has　kept　his　word；　but　even　the　Rada　gods　cannot　do　more；　for　in　this　place　the　Petro　evil　is　strong。　It　is　an　ancient　burial　ground　ruled　over　by　Baron　Cimeterre；　and　his　power　has　been　strengthened　here　by　the　remains　of　this　man　Gardiner。　Already　there　has　been　bloodshed　and　death。　We　cannot　infiltrate　it；　no　more　than　we　can　win　that　war　of　everlasting　strife　which　you　have　twice　seen　for　yourself。　You　are　a　mercenary　of　the　gods；　Sabat；　taking　sides　when　it　suits　your　cause。　We　have　seen　your　treachery　and　we　dare　do　no　more　than　free　you　from　that　which　held　you　and　remind　you　of　your　vow。　But　you　cannot　leave　this　place　until　the　man　called　Spode　is　destroyed　along　with　the　evil　in　him。　The　exit　is　sealed　to　you　by　Damballah　until　that　has　e　about　and　only　then　will　you　beable　to　leave　this　tomb　of　the　dead'
　　
　　Sabat　knew　that　the　Lord　of　the　Crossroads　spoke　the　truth；　that　Damballah　had　trapped　him　here；　cunningly　enforcing　his　bargain；　ensuring　that　a　devastating　blow　was　struck　against　the　arch　rivals　of　the　Rada　gods；　suspicious　that　once　released　from　his　paralysis　Sabat　might　flee　in　order　to　save　himself。
　　
　　'I　cannot　delay　here。'　The　other　stepped　back　into　the　shadows；　a　silhouette　once　more。　'It　is　up　to　you　now；　Sabat。　The　Rada　gods　wish　you　well。'
　　
　　Then　Sabat　was　alone；　glancing　around　the　evil　crypt；　his　only　panions　two　mutilated　corpses　and　a　malignant　blood…stained　skeleton。　So　cold；　whispering　voices　that　could　have　been　in　his　own　mind。　He　shivered；　glanced　in　the　direction　of　the　passage　with　its　slimy　damp　walls　that　led　out　of　here　up　into　the　dusk　of　an　open　world。　Yet　he　knew　that　escape　was　denied　him；　would　not　even　have　wasted　time　attempting　it　even　had　he　wished　to　flee。　He　had　to　stay；　not　only　because　there　was　a　battle　to　be　fought　but　because　there　was　a　score　to　settle。　Cold　fury　was　beginning　to　dominate　him　again；　that　killing　mood　which　he　had　first　discovered　in　the　SAS；　an　insatiable　lust　for　blood　and　death。
　　
　　'You　won't　win　this　time；　Mark　Sabat。　This　is　the　end　for　you！'　Quentin's　mocking　tones　ing　at　him　out　of　the　darkness。
　　
　　But　Sabat　only　laughed；　low　and　mirthless。　He　had　cast　off　the　mantle　of　despair　and　once　again　had　bee　the　fighting　machine　of　old；　the　nemesis　of　evil　forces。　There　was　no　time　to　be　lost。
　　
　　He　worked　quickly；　his　brain　on　full　throttle；　seeing　the　situation　as　it　was　and　knowing　what　he　must　do。　The　voices　around　him　had　sunk　to　almost　inaudible　whispers　and　he　ignored　them　for　they　could　not　harm　him　at　the　moment；　they　too；　must　wait　for　Royston　Spode's　final　act　of　depravity　before　they　were　powerful　enough　to　attack。　Sabat　dropped　to　his　knees；　and　began　to　strip　Andy　Drew's　body　of　its　ragged　bloodsoaked　clothing；　tearing　the　denim　off　in　congealed　strips；　baring　the　mutilated　flesh。　Christ；　Spode's　bestiality　knew　no　bounds；　the　stomach　spilled　out　of　the　base　of　the　inverted　cross　wound　and　Sabat　was　forced　to　cram　it　back　with　his　fingers；　human　offal　that　was　still　warm　to　the　touch。　Revolting；　but　this　corpse　had　a　definite　role　to　play　in　his　plans。
　　
　　Next；　his　own　clothing；　peeling　off　jacket　and　trousers；　carefully　removing　the　。38　from　the　pocket　before　he　began　the　awkward　task　of　transferring　them　to　the　naked　corpse；　several　sizes　too　large　but　he　overcame　this　by　folding　the　surplus　material　beneath　the　body　where　it　would　not　show。　Then　he　laid　it　out　carefully；　with　all　the　care　that　an　under…takers's　assistant　in　a　morgue　might　take；　positioning　it　in　the　same　place　where　he　himself　had　lain　inert　only　a　short　time　before。　Andy　Drew　in　death　had　taken　the　place　of　Sabat。
　　
　　He　stood　back；　surveying　the　result　of　his　efforts　with　a　critical　eye。　Congealed　and　smeared　blood　masked　the　features；　rendered　them　unrecognisable　except　by　a　very　close　scrutiny；　and　Spode　and　his　coven　were　unlikely　to　do　that；　they　would　be　only　too　eager　to　begin　their　sacrifice。
　　
　　Sabat　shivered　in　his　nakedness；　picked　up　the　。38　and　glanced　at　it　lovingly　in　the　flickering　candlelight。　It　was　as　though　it　was　a　part　of　himself；　flooding　him　with　fleeting　memories；　one　in　particular　he　liked　to　savour；　a　terrorist　he'd　cornered　in　a　disused　farmhouse。　Sabat's　orders　had　been　to　bring　him　in　dead　or　alive　but　he　had　decided　not　to　burden　the　taxpayer　with　maintaining　this　kind　of　scum　for　the　next　twenty　years。　The　first　shot　had　smashed　the　other's　gun　arm。　The　left　one　went　up　in　a　token　of　surrender　but　it　was　splintered　at　the　elbow。　Back　against　the　wall；　the　killer　had　screamed　for　mercy；　carried　on　screaming　as　he　writhed　on　the　ground　with　both　kneecaps　shattered；　Sabat　had　taken　a　bead　on　the　head；　but　just　as　his　forefinger　curled　around　the　trigger　he'd　shifted　his　aim　to　a　stomach　shot。　Just　one　bullet　…　the　man　had　taken　an　hour　to　die　and　his　final　agonised　cries　had　been　sweet　music　to　Sabat's　ears；　a　symphony　of　justice　the　way　it　should　be。　He　could　hear　him　now；　pleading；　crying。　And　he　wondered　if　the　Reverend　Royston　Spode　would　beg　for　mercy　at　the　end！
　　
　　He　looked　around　for　a　suitable　hiding　place；　found　a　niche　in　the　wall　from　which　the　altar　was　clearly　visible　and　squeezed　himself　into　it；　sharp　stones　grazing　his　back　as　he　did　so。　The　dried　blood　on　his　body　was　camouflage　enough；　he　was　almost　invisible　in　the　shadows。
　　
　　All　he　had　to　do　now　was　to　wait　and　for　a　man　of　action　that　was　the　worst　part。　He　fondled　the　。38　again；　felt　the　intense　cold；　wondered　if　it　was　all　really　happening　or　whether　he　was　back　in　his　astral　looking　down　on　his　own　bloodstained；　dark…clad　body　lying　before　Satan's　shrine。
　　
　　The　voices　abated；　came　back　again；　Quentin　snarling　like　a　wild　beast；　a　caged　black　soul　frustrated　by　its　imprisonment。　And　other　noises；　the　steady　drip　of　water　somewhere　as　it　trickled　down　the　stone　walls　and　formed　a　pool；　tiny　scurrying　feet　and　pairs　of　red　rodent　eyes　regarding　this　intruder　into　their　domain　with　hostile　glares。　For　even　the　rats　in　this　place　were　malevolent。　Satanic　vermin　sensing　that　soon　there　might　be　fresh　bones　to　gnaw；　Sabat　could　hear　one　masticating　close　by；　remembered　Miranda's　corpse　in　the　corner　and　almost　went　to　her　defence。　But　it　mattered　not；　the　dead　were　dead；　their　bodies　beyond　recall。　It　was　the　living；　and　those　who　were　to　die　this　night；　that　concerned　him。
　　
　　Suddenly　he　stiffened；　his　ears　picking　up　another　sound；　far　off　voices　that　were　neither　within　himself　nor　the　murmurings　of　the　dark　forces　lurking　in　the　shadows。　A　tuneless　chorus；　an　intonation　gathering　in　volume；　the　echoes　picking　it　up。　Animal…like　snarlings　that　sounded　vaguely　human　if　one　listened　carefully　enough。
　　
　　His　breathing　was　shallow；　almost　non…existent；　the　。38　was　held　loosely；　its　snub　barrel　pointing　in　the　direction　of　the　altar。
　　
　　This　was　it；　they　were　ing！
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　THIRTEEN
　　　
　　DARKNESS　HAD　fallen　when　Spode　led　his　followers　back　out　of　the　church。　No　longer　were　they　the　sullen；　fearful　congregation　to　whom　he　had　served　a　cannibalistic　munion。　They　cursed；　jostled　behind　him　in　a　straggling　single　file；　their　features　devilish　masks　of　lust；　wild　beasts　roaring　for　the　kill。
　　
　　Royston　Spode　smiled　wanly　at　the　girl　by　his　side。　Only　Alison　seemed　her　usual　stoic　self。　The　rest　of　them　were　savages；　as　primitive　as　the　wild　tribes　in　the　heart　of　darkest　Africa　where　voodoo　had　first　begun。　He　had　made　them　this　way；　charged　their　personalities　in　a　matter　of　minutes　by　giving　them　Satan's　cup　to　drink　from　once　their　grisly　First　Supper　was　over；　the　symbolic　antithesis　of　the　holy　grail；　filled　with　an　intoxicating　Haitian　punch　that　dulled　their　brains　and　fired　their　bodies　with　an　overwhelming　desire　for　the　obscenities　which　this　night　promised。　Perhaps　he　should　not　have　brought　the　West　Indian　girl　along　but　it　would　have　been　wrong　to　deny　her　the　chance　to　participate　in　the　ultimate　rites。　After　tonight　there　would　be　no　turning　back　for　any　of　them。　Even　he　was　nervous；　a　high　priest　whose　powers　were　far　greater　than　any　of　the　black　houngans　or　bocors；　flinched　at　the　prospect　of　summoning　the　Master　himself。　For　only　the　Great　One　was　able　to　sanction　the　transfer　of　power　from　the　remains　of　William　Gardiner　to　Royston　Spode。　Surely　he　would　be　pleased　that　there　was　one　so　able　who　was　willing　to　carry　on　his　work　。。。　or　was　there　another　somewhere　better　suited　。　。　。　such　as　Quentin　Sabat　who　lived　in　Mark　Sabat？　But　if　Sabat　was　sacrificed；　that　black　soul　destroyed　。。　。　Quentin　must　not　be　set　free　to　bee　a　rival　to　Spode；　perhaps　to　overthrow　him。　The　sooner　Sabat　was　dead　the