[continued from previous message]   
      
   Jerusalem's Lot-- funny how folks who had lived there all their lives   
   just up and left... or disappeared entirely. Carl Foreman, the   
   undertaker, was real busy for a while until he packed his family up and   
   went on vacation. He's still on vacation so far's I know. Ain't been   
   seen since. Then the schools in town closed down 'cause there weren't no   
   students to teach. Mind, all this happened in a few week's time. Then   
   somehow, some way, a fire got itself started-- that blaze lasted three   
   days, it did-- and when it finally burnt itself out, there weren't no   
   one left."   
      
   Faith watches Walt's fingers nervously tapping his shotglass. "What do   
   you mean, no one left?"   
      
   "I don't know how many people lived in 'Salem's Lot before-- maybe a   
   thousand, maybe more-- but after the fire, the town was empty. The fire   
   crews got in there but the people were gone. Damndest thing though...   
   some houses were burned right down to the foundation but others weren't   
   touched at all. Search and rescue combed through the debris for days but   
   when it come to searchin' them other houses... well, one of the boys   
   there, Jimmy Dupree, good kid, he told me that the Lot stank of death   
   and they just wanted to get the hell outta there. I don't blame 'em. Not   
   one bit. But they stayed and did their duty and never turned up one   
   body, dead or otherwise."   
      
   "So," says Faith, "nobody ever came out of 'Salem's Lot after the search   
   teams left?"   
      
   "Ayuh. That'd be the gods-sworn truth. In fact... no one who's gone into   
   the Lot since then has ever been seen again. Not ever.”   
      
      
   *************************   
      
      
   Later, Walt downs the last of his whiskey and shuffles out on trembling   
   legs to his battered old Ford pickup. Faith sits quietly at the bar,   
   lost in thought, then starts when the bartender taps her on the shoulder.   
      
   "Miss?"   
      
   "Sorry. What?"   
      
   "I asked if you wanted another?" He points to her empty beer mug.   
      
   "Oh, no. I'm good. Thanks."   
      
   She stands and pulls a wad of crumpled bills from her pocket. She peels   
   off a few and tosses them on the bar, then turns to leave, only then   
   noticing the trucker in the far booth eyeing her curiously.   
      
   "We have a problem here?" A dangerous edge to her voice.   
      
   He smiles and shakes his head. "No, not at all. I was just wondering...   
   you seem awful curious about that shitsplat little town, 'specially for   
   someone who's 'just passing through.'"   
      
   "Yeah? Maybe I'm just curious by nature. I also mind my own business.   
   You should give it a try."   
      
   "Hey, no offense. But I'm curious myself. You didn't seem too surprised   
   by that old coot's story. Not like I'd expect, anyway."   
      
   "How about you? You knew the story already, didn't you?"   
      
   The trucker, Glen Adams, nods. "Ayuh, it's a common enough story 'round   
   these parts. And not one to take lightly, from what I've heard."   
      
   "So you believe it?"   
      
   Adams gives her an appraising look. Lord, if she isn't the best-looking   
   girl he's ever seen on the interstate... and yet some dimly-sensed   
   impulse tells him that she isn't someone you messed around with. Not   
   that he was that type of guy, mind you. But this girl, who by rights   
   should fear for her life out here on the open road, seems like *she* is   
   the dangerous one. Maybe not to folks with good intentions but he   
   wonders what happens to those foolish men who look at her and think a   
   free ride means a free ride. "Yep, I believe it. If enough people tell   
   me the same story, I gotta think that somebody's telling the truth."   
      
   Faith merely nods and stares out the window into the fading light. She   
   seems abruptly far away, a million miles from this seedy bar in this   
   tiny Maine town. Adams wonders briefly what she could possibly have   
   experienced in her short life that would bring her to this place at this   
   moment. Here is a girl who has her whole life ahead of her, with so much   
   potential, so many possibilities. And instead of mooning over boys or   
   burying her head in a textbook or shopping at the mall with her friends,   
   she's riding the back roads of Maine on a Harley Davidson Fat Boy   
   Softail to god knows where in pursuit of god knows what. He opens his   
   mouth to ask.   
      
   "You *so* do not want to know," she says firmly, her tone brooking no   
   argument. "Although I do appreciate the concern. How far is it to   
   'Salem's Lot?"   
      
   "Don't bother. The town's closed off. Even the highway exit is blocked   
   by a barricade."   
      
   "How far?" Less of a request and more of an order.   
      
   "Twenty miles, give or take. You do realize it's almost sundown, don't   
   you?"   
      
   "Countin' on it." She flashes him a wicked smile and something in him   
   recoils. "It's okay. I know what I'm doing."   
      
   That's what scares me, he thinks. "Do you need anything? Here, I've got   
   some cash if you need it." He takes out his wallet and starts thumbing   
   through a sheaf of bills but she stops him with a quick shake of her   
   head.   
      
   "Nah, I'm five by five. But thanks, though. Really." And then she's   
   heading for the door. "Have a good life."   
      
   Glen Adams nods somberly. "Have a long life."   
      
   After she's gone, he wonders why he feels so sad, so worried, for   
   someone he barely knows. Despite the hardness of her demeanor, the hint   
   of menace in her tone, and the sense of tightly-wound power, the one   
   overriding impression he had of the girl, the radiance that she   
   unconsciously projected, was one of innate good. He recalls once having   
   seen Ted Bundy on TV and his thought at the time was, God, that man is   
   pure evil. Now he feels that perhaps he has just met the closest thing   
   to... what? Evil's opposite? A champion. Close enough, anyway.   
      
   He listens to the deep throaty rumble of her Harley as it fades into the   
   distance and looks out the window just as the sun dips below the horizon   
   in blaze of fiery glory.   
      
      
   *************************   
      
      
   Faith speeds through the deepening dusk on her way out of Haven. At the   
   city limits, she pulls into a gas station and tops off her tank, then   
   takes her backpack and heads inside, straight for the restroom, barely   
   sparing a glance at the clerk behind the counter. Once safely away from   
   prying eyes, she shrugs out of her leather jacket and opens her pack.   
   Inside, is an arcane arsenal: vials of crystal clear water;   
   intricately-forged fighting knives; a dozen ten-inch stakes, each filed   
   down to a wickedly-sharp point; and lastly, a silencer-equipped .357   
   SIG-Sauer semi-automatic pistol.   
      
   She takes the stakes and slides them one-by-one into slots on a web   
   belt, which she then buckles around her waist. She quickly unscrews the   
   silencer from the barrel of the pistol-- there won't be much need for   
   stealth in a deserted town-- and locks the slide open. She slaps in a   
   magazine and sends the slide forward, chambering a round, then slips the   
   gun into a paddle holster and from there onto her right hip. From an   
   outside pouch, she withdraws four more magazines, all fully loaded. The   
   liquid inside the tips of the specially-designed bullets glints in the   
   light of the overhead fluorescents as she slips the magazines into   
   pouches between the stakes on her belt.   
      
   Faith puts her leather jacket back on and it nicely covers her waist,   
   concealing the weapons from sight. Next, she unzips a side pocket on her   
   backpack and takes out a silver cross, about four inches in length,   
   attached to a chain. The vertical transept of the cross has a small   
   hollowed out chamber the size of a corn kernel. Inside the chamber,   
   visible through a clear glass seal, is a tiny splinter of wood. Faith   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)