A THIN BEAM of light moved along a pile of empty battery crates; there was a sudden, frantic rustling and squeaking, and Lenny Cochran kicked at one of the crates. Instantly a small dark shape, then another, burst from the debris and scrambled toward the wharf pilings. He followed them with the light until they disappeared behind a skiff that had been overturned for keel patching. Big damn rats everywhere, he thought. He could hear others moving around the center of the crates. Probably a nest of the buggers in there, he told himself. One good fire would sear their asses and clean 'em out.

He turned away from the crates and continued on, moving his flashlight from side to side. The barnacle-scarred hull of a trawler tied up at the wharfs caught the reflections of the light in the water; he shone the flashlight the length of the boat, then turned away and walked up through the hard-packed sand, stopping every so often to examine other heaps of junk, clusters of barrels, pieces of engines laid out on the ground. The tin-roofed supply shed was directly ahead; its doors had been hastily repaired and boarded over. He paused only a moment around the shed before moving toward the far side of the yard, where the sea lapped quietly against the sliding bulkhead of the abandoned naval shelter.

He'd tried to get some of the other men to act as night watchman for Mr. Langstree, but none of them would have any part of it. Mason and Percy had whined when he'd asked them; J.R. had flatly refused to do it, and so had the others. He couldn't force any of the men to do it, so the job had fallen to him. He felt guilty about having that boat put into Mr. Langstree's yard without proper permission anyway, and this was a way to ease his own conscience and get back into Mr. Langstree's good graces.

He knew exactly what bothered the others; it was the stories they heard, and Boniface's warning about staying away from the yard. He'd heard the whispers around the bars: Something bad was going on, something nobody wanted to talk about, and it had to do with the damned boat. The Night Boat, that's what they called it. It gave him the willies to think about what the two trawler captains had said. Jumbies, dead souls flying on the wind and coming down at you to go for your eyeballs and tear out your heart...

He shivered. Stop that kind of thinkin', mon! he told himself severely. That only gets a body in trouble! He felt again for the old skeleton-gripped revolver he'd brought as protection. He'd only been able to find three shells at home but he figured one would be enough anyway, to scare off anybody who might come to steal more supplies. Damn, but it's dark out here! he thought. No moon, no stars, the smell of a storm building up, mebbe one, two days away at most.

And in another few moments he was at the door of the dark naval shelter.

He moved the light along it; whoever had nailed it up had done a hell of a job. Nobody was going to be breaking in there tonight. He looked along the wall, probed with the point of the light down toward the rotten pilings at the seaside and then, satisfied no one was lurking there, started to move quickly toward the other side of the yard.

And then stopped.

Flesh writhed along his spine and at the back of his neck. His heart was hammering in his chest and he swallowed, trying to shake off the fear. What the hell was...? He turned, thrusting the flashlight forward as if it were a weapon.

He waited, not daring to breathe, listening for the noise that had sounded like... something... scratching...

Something scratching behind that door.

Rats. Rats caught in there, seeking a way out.

And as he watched he saw the door slowly bulge outward, pushed by a tremendous force. Wood creaked and whined, then settled back on its frame. He couldn't move, his mouth opened in a silent scream, the door bulging outward, outward, the noise of nails giving way around timbers, the splitting of wood... Jesus! The light was shaking in his hand; he couldn't hold it still, and when he drew the gun he couldn't keep that steady either.

The door cried out eerily with the force of whatever was on the other side; with a noise like a pistol shot a split appeared in its center. A jagged gap grew down the weathered wood.

From the inside a gnarled, misshapen hand emerged, reaching down and snapping away one of the reinforcing timbers.

Cochran stepped back, unable to summon the strength to flee. He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, hearing the sound of his own labored breathing loudly in his ears.

But the hammer fell dully upon one of the empty cylinders.

The door shattered in a ripping of wood and nails; a half-dozen claws probed through, tearing a way out. Cochran tried to lift the gun again, but it seemed too heavy and he knew he couldn't aim it and he had to get away from this place, get to the village, tell them yes the jumbies were real, the evil things had descended upon Coquina.

And it was then that one of the things that had come up through the darkness behind him leaped upon him, its teeth sinking through the back of his neck and crunching on the spinal cord. Another grasped his left arm and savagely twisted it, ripping it from its socket. A third clawed at the man's chest in frenzy, broke open the ribs, and tore the heart out like a dripping treasure.

The commander stood apart from the others. Wilhelm Korrin let them feast, then motioned with a shriveled arm for them to help free their comrades.

There was a faint glow in the sky, and Steven Kip was driving toward it.

He had left home in the early evening, leaving Myra with a loaded rifle and telling her to keep the doors and shutters locked. He'd gone down to his office to get the second rifle and a can of gasoline before patrolling the village. Now, driving along the harbor, he saw the light over the treetops in the distance, and he knew it was coming from near Boniface's church. More voodoo? he asked himself, as he raced through the empty streets. Damn it to hell! A large fire blazed in a circle that had been dug out and ringed with red and black painted stones in front of the church. Kip could see shards of timber, clothing, and what looked like shattered sections of the church pews piled in it. At the fire's base a heap of ashes glowed a bright red-orange, and the heat of it seared his face as he left his vehicle. He walked around the circle and hammered on the door. No answer. Kip knocked again with the strength of anger, the heat touching him like a hand with bright-red nails. The church windows, like watchful eyes, reflected the flames, and no lights showed through the shutter slats.

"BONIFACE!" Kip called out.

And then, very slowly, the door opened.

Boniface stood before him in a stained white shirt, bright beads of sweat, each one reflecting fire, glistening on his face. In his eyes the blaze seemed white-hot. "Get away from here!" he said sharply. He started to shut the door again, but Kip slammed his arm against it and forced his way in.

The church was filled with the red glow, alive with the frenzied slithering of shadows. Many of the seats had indeed been torn out as fuel for the flames, and there was an axe propped in a corner. On the altar were the pots and strange bottles Kip had seen at the jungle ceremony; three or four cheap metal crucifixes hung on the walls, and the floor around the altar was sprinkled with sawdust and ashes. Kip shook his head and stared at the old man; around Boniface's neck was the glass eye, its pupil a gleaming red circle.

Boniface reached forward and bolted the door, then turned to the constable. A drop of sweat ran down across his cheek and spattered onto the floor.

"What are you doing, old man?" Kip asked. "What's this fire for?"

"Get away!" Boniface repeated. "As quickly as you can!"

Kip ignored him and walked to the altar, examining the materials spread out there, liquids in bottles and dark things in black pots. All voodoo things, he remembered, used to communicate with the spirit world. One of the pots had been overturned, an oily-looking liquid spilled from it; a bottle had been thrown against a wall, leaving its remains in red smears on the paint.

"Get back to your home!" Boniface said. "Get back to your woman and child!"

"What's all this for?" he asked, motioning toward the objects. He was beginning to feel a coldness working its way into him, slowly and insidiously.

Boniface opened his mouth, paused, his eyes fearful and half-crazed. "To... keep them away..." he said, very quietly.

"Talk sense!" Kip said, fighting to hold back his anger.

"They... fear the fire. I've been trying to break it... it's too difficult now, and I'm old, and I'm weak... and I'm very tired..."

"Break it? Break what, damn it?"

Boniface started to say something but the words never came. He seemed to shrivel up, even as Kip watched him, all the life leaving him at once until only a shell of flesh with weary, frightened eyes remained. He held out a hand to steady himself, leaning on a shattered pew; he sat down, put his face in his hands, and stayed that way for almost a minute. When he looked up his face was drawn and anxious, as if he'd heard something approaching. His eyes glittered wildly in the red light and came to rest on Kip's face. "Help me," he said in a whisper. "Can't you... help me?"

"Help you do what?"

"It's too late..." Boniface said, as if he were speaking to himself. "I never thought they would..."

"Listen to me." Kip walked over and stood next to the houngan. "Two more people are dead... probably others as well. I want to know what those things are, and I think you can tell me."

"The boat," Boniface whispered. "That beast from Hell. The Night Boat. No one can help now. They're free; I can feel it. They're free, all of them, and no man can turn them back until they've done what they must do."

Kip leaned over the pew, his gaze boring deep. "Tell me." The chill inside him made his bones ache.

Drawing a long breath, Boniface put a hand to his face. The gesture cast a huge shadow on the opposite wall. He nodded, as if giving himself up to something. "The Sect Rouge. Do you know it?"

"Only from hearsay," Kip said.

"The most powerful and secret society in all the islands. They use the dark things as their weapons; for power or a price they cause famine and pestilence, they commit murders cold-bloodedly and efficiently. I know. Because I was a member of the Haitian Sect Rouge for five years, and in that time I created much that was evil. I learned the art of fashioning the waxen images of my enemies or those I was paid to assassinate, to slowly force nails one by one through the opening of the mouth, or draw a garotte tight around the throat. I learned the art of the wanga - poisons - and how to leave a trace of it on a marked man's pillow, or smeared along the rim of a glass, so that death came painfully and stretched into weeks. I conjured the evil loa, and conspired with them for the souls of my enemies. I have made a corpse scream for revenge; I have worked the sorcery that transfigures time and breaks the barriers between the living and the dead, and I have unleashed evil things onto this world.

"I left Haiti in 1937, after the murder of a rival houngan who was threatening to expose my Sect Rouge activities to the local police. To escape those who would avenge that man's death, I came here. Those were my days of youth... and strength. Now I cannot control it... I cannot, and I am very tired..."

"What are those things from the U-boat?" Kip demanded.

The fear had pooled up in Boniface's eyes; now it brimmed over. "Think of it. What would be the most horrible means of execution? A death by inches, the body and brain starving for air, flesh writhing in total agony. The minutes stretching into hours, days, years; an eternity of torture. Flesh drying over bones, intestines hardening, brains and skulls shriveling, nerves screaming in unendurable pain. No air, no sun, no chance for escape; only the agony and the darkness, each a hideous partner to the other. But still Death delays its merciful touch; he will not free them until they have paid with their flesh. Their souls will be trapped within a rotting house, and even after their bodies have begun to fall to pieces there will be no peace. Not until the decay is complete, or until their black, evil hearts are pierced, or until they are burned into ashes." He lifted his gaze. "Half-human, living corpses, driven mad with pain and rage, hungering for the fluids of life in the vain hope their burning will be cooled. I know. Because I made them as they are..."

Kip stood motionless, feeling that chill creeping around him. Shadows flickered huge and monstrous across the walls, diminished, and leaped again.

"When I came to Coquina in 1937," Boniface said, "there was no constable, no officials of the law. This church was a dilapidated ruin; the Catholic priest had caught the fever and died some months before. So I set myself up as a minister; it was a logical way to gain some measure of power over the people, and to hide from my Haitian enemies. The priest hadn't understood their voodoo beliefs, and I found it easy to gain a following. The people looked to me for guidance, to act as both their houngan and their legal guardian; the law I enforced was stern, harsh perhaps, and I punished evil by the only means I knew: an eye for an eye.

"And then came that war. The British brought their men and their ships; they assigned a constable to look after the island. And though he was a good and fair man, like you, I was still Coquina's real law. I had the power, and with it the responsibility. When that damned iron monster came up from the depths, when it rained fire on the island and killed those I loved, I knew I must take a hand against it.

"I saw the bodies after they had been blown to bloody bits; the sight haunted my nightmares. The dead reached from their graves, calling me, whispering in the still darkness, until I could take no more; I had the power, the spells taught me by the zobop, the master magicians, and that power was greater than any weapon on earth."

Boniface was silent for a moment, staring at his wrinkled hands. "I knew the monster would return; in a drug-induced vision, through the sweat and pain, I saw the Night Boat nearing Coquina, saw a burning freighter and death floating on the sea. That terrible thing was returning, and I knew I must await it.

"And on that night when the sky was filled with red streaks and flame, when the battle raged over the Abyss and we could see the ships circling their prey, I built a fire on the beach and began my work. I asked help from Damballah, to entrap the thing in the sea, and from Baron Samedi, to withhold his mercy. It was difficult... it took many hours, and I prayed that the thing would not escape before I was finished.

"In a trance I could see the boat hidden there in the Abyss, in the midst of black, churning currents; I saw the sand fall over it, crushing it under. They were trapped, they would never return to hurt my people again. They would starve for air, they would decay... but their deaths would be withheld. I could see through the sand and the iron, as if my eyes were everywhere, and I saw them there... huddled together, their air slowly giving out, their lungs heaving. In my mind I saw a black, gnarled hand reach out to touch them; they trembled, as if they had been touched by the Devil. A voice reached me - soft, of velvet and steel, whether male or female I did not know - whispering: It has begun. I don't know when I awoke from the trance, but I was sitting before a cold fire and all the British ships had gone. It had taken two days.

"Now those things exist on the border between life and death. But I can't hurry the process, Kip, and now they possess a power that I hadn't foreseen. Hate - because of their agony, because we are human and they... no longer are. To them we are still the enemy, and the year is still 1942. And so you understand now why I wanted you to sink it..."

"No..." Kip whispered. He shook his head. "No!"

"I created them, and there is nothing any man can do."

"THERE HAS TO BE!" Kip said, his voice echoing throughout the church. "YOU MUST KNOW WHAT TO DO!"

"I've been trying, again and again, to quicken the process toward their death, but the spell is too strong, and I don't know what..."

Kip grasped the man's shirt and pulled him around. "YOU'VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING!" he said hoarsely. "For God's sake, you're the only one who can help us now!"

"I... can't," Boniface said wearily. "But you... you might do something. Oui, oui, you. Your uncle was one of the greatest houngans in all the islands!" Boniface gripped the constable's sleeve. "He taught you the art... you were his young apprentice... now you can help me...!"

"NO!" Kip shook his head. "I shut it out of my mind; I've forgotten everything that man tried to teach me!"

"But you must possess a power of your own," Boniface insisted, "or he would not have chosen you as his successor! It's inside you, if you allow it to come out, if you allow yourself to take control of it!"

Kip pulled away and stepped back. His mind was filled with conflicting emotions. He turned toward the altar, staring at the voodoo implements there, and in a sudden burst of rage he lunged at them, kicking away the bottles and pots.

"It's junk, all of it!" he said tersely. "It's goddamned junk!" He reached down for a bottle and smashed it against the far wall, splattering clear liquid; he kicked a pot that clattered away across the floor. Then he stood panting, furious, and listened to the sound of his own ragged breath. "It's madness," he said finally. "What do they... want with us?"

"We have their boat," the other man said. "And they want it back."

Kip looked over at him; the supplies missing from the yard - the oil, diesel fuel, cables, and rope. My God, is it possible? The timbers piled on the U-boat's deck, as if they were being used to shore up bulkheads below. He shuddered; he could imagine the things working within the U-boat, hour after hour, never resting nor stopping. No, no; their batteries would be long dead and corroded with salt. But then he remembered the marine batteries Langstree said had been stolen. If enough power could be coaxed from them, if the diesels could be brought up even to a fraction of power... The images ate at him. If the U-boat ever reached the sea lanes between Coquina and Jamaica...

"First they've tried to quench their thirsts for the fluids of life," Boniface said. "But they have failed, and now their fury will be uncontrollable. They will try to kill as many as they can."

"I saw one today - dead - in a house a mile or so from the village."

Boniface nodded. "The air is taking its toll on them, but very slowly. Too slowly to save us." He stared at the constable, his expression clouded and distant.

"I will not last this night," he whispered. "I close my eyes - like this - and I see the moment of my death fast approaching. It is taking shape now, grasping for me..." He turned his head and peered through the shutter slats. Then he garnered his strength again. "The fire is dying. They fear the flames; I've got to build it back." He took a few pieces of shattered wood, opened the door, and went outside. The fire had burned down dangerously low.

Kip was transfixed, unable to think clearly. There were Myra and Mindy... He had to get them off the island somehow, get them to safety. But what about all the others, the people who looked to him for protection? How to save their lives? How to shield them from the onrushing evil?

Outside, Boniface bent down and threw the wood into the smoldering red and orange ashes. Build it back, he told himself. Build it huge and roaring, hot and vivid in the night! The flames began to grow back, licking at the new timbers.

Boniface stepped away from the circle; the eye hanging on his neck flared blood scarlet, cooled to a violet, darker, darker, to a deep gray, and finally to ebony.

And he felt the coarse, ancient hand of Death on him; it touched his neck very lightly, but it was enough to send an electric chill of warning through him. He twisted around, looking toward the jungle, and as the shadows fell upon him he knew the moment had finally come. And though he saw his fate clearly he would not give himself up to them.

"KIP!" he shouted, his voice breaking. He turned toward the open church door.

Before he had taken more than a step he tripped over an exposed root and fell to the ground, the glass eye shattering to bits beneath him. "KIP!" he screamed, feeling the shadows reach him.

Boniface's glasses had fallen off; almost blind, he crawled away from the things, his mouth trying, but unable now, to make a sound, his fingers gripping into sand and earth. And then one of them placed a booted foot on the old man's throat and crunched down. Boniface tried to fight back, but his strength was rapidly fading; he was choking on his own blood. The living corpses hissed all around him, illuminated by the building fire, and their claws flashed down to rend him apart.

When Kip reached the door, he stood paralyzed with shock at what he saw. The things turned their heads toward him, the fiery caverns of their eyes seeking fresh blood.

Kip saw the faces of Hell's warriors, things that had crewed a boat through the dark currents of the underworld. There were five, and more coming through the jungle. The one that had crushed the reverend's throat had a face half covered with a yellowish fungus; white tufts of hair clung to the head, and the sunken remains of its eyes burned into Kip with a searing hatred. When the thing's tight gray lips parted in a death's-head grin, Kip heard it hiss. A ring emblazoned with a swastika on its right hand caught the firelight.

And then they came for Kip, their talons groping for his throat, teeth bared.

Kip steeled himself. When they were almost upon him he raised the ax he'd taken from the corner of the church and brought it smashing down onto a grisly skull of a head.

The thing shrieked, a high rattle of reed-dry cords, and fell backward. The others were coming for him, moving so fast he had no time to think, no time to step back, slam and bolt the door to gain a few extra minutes. He clenched his teeth, smelling their dead reek, and swung back and forth with the ax, wading into their midst as they grasped at his chest and arms and legs, tearing at his clothing and then his skin. The ones he struck down dragged themselves back to grasp at his legs; he kicked at them, staggering and almost falling. A hideous face streaked with fungus hissed at him; he chopped at it with the ax and it smashed into fragments. Something caught at his knees and he almost fell forward into their midst. He knew that if he fell he was dead.

He fought for balance, swinging wildly, listening to their evil rattles and high, eerie moans. A claw emerged from the mass of bodies, probing for his eyes; he ducked his head, began to fight with fists, feet, elbows, and knees, kicking them back, hammering at them, crushing their skulls with the gleaming blade. One of them leaped forward, seizing him around the throat; another grasped his back and began to chew at his exposed shoulder, making hungry grunting noises. Powerful fingers caught at the ax, trying to wrench it away from him. They closed in on all sides, flinging themselves at him, trying to tear through his throat with teeth and nails. A wrench glittered in the light, coming straight at him, but he caught the shock of the blow with the ax handle and then slammed the blade into an arm socket.

Panic choked him; there were too many. TOO MANY! he shrieked. The ones with crushed faces and broken bones would not give up, they still struggled to devour him. He fought away from the thing on his back, and another took its place, sucking at the blood that trickled from his shoulder gash. THE JEEP! he heard himself cry out. The jeep! Get to the jeep! He caught on to the side of his vehicle for support, holding his arms over his face to ward off the claws, then battering with the blade left and right. He fought away, dragging himself into the back of the jeep, feeling the things grasping at his legs to pull him into their ravenous midst. Kicking at them, wrenching his legs free, Kip watched them ring the jeep to prevent his escape, saw the terrible fury in their mad eyes.

A thing with a remnant of a red beard started to climb up after him, but Kip brought the ax down with all his strength. The head was almost torn from the body; the mummy fell backward, yellow bone glinting in the gaping wound. More claws reached for him; the dead eyes were cunning and desperate.

Kip backed away, his muscles throbbing, sweat streaming from his body and the blood dripping from his fingertips.

And then his foot bumped the gas can he'd brought along.

He slammed the ax into it, ripping it open; he lifted it, splattering gasoline over the things and throwing the rest of it into the fire just behind them.

The explosion threw him over the front seat against the windshield. The flames roared into the sky, embers swirling in a whirlwind. Several of the things burst into flame; the fire caused a panic among the others. They fought away from each other and began to run toward the green wall of the jungle, flaking into ashes with each step. They crawled across the ground like maddened animals, screaming and moaning under the fire's blazing touch. A few of them reached the jungle and crashed through into the foliage; the others lay where they had fallen, melting like waxwork figures.

Kip threw himself behind the wheel and roared away from the church, feeling that in another moment he might go totally mad; his entire body shook, his heart pounded, and cold sweat dripped from every pore.

The village lay ahead, dark and quiet, peaceful and unaware in the night.

And a long time yet before morning.

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