by Ronald Kelly
“There’s more to it than that and you know it,” she told him.
Boyd thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that. Sit down and let’s talk.”
“Not until I get you back on track,” she said. She pulled him out of his chair and steered him toward the back of the trailer. “First, you go and take a shower. You smell like an open cesspool. How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”
Boyd had a hard time remembering. “Now that you mention it, I can’t rightly recall.”
“That’s what I thought,” Tammy said. “Make sure you use plenty of hot water and soap.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said the drunken carpenter with a mock salute. “And what’re you gonna be doing?”
“I’m going to make a pot of strong, black coffee.” She looked around at the clutter of the kitchen. “That is, if you have any.”
“In the cabinet next to the refrigerator,” Boyd told her. “Center shelf.”
She waited until he had stumbled down the hall to the bathroom before she turned to the cabinet. She opened it and rummaged around until she found a jar of Maxwell House. She nodded to herself. It was the straight stuff, not decaf. She saw a coffeemaker next to the stove and gave it a thorough washing. It looked as if Boyd hadn’t brewed a pot in several days. She imagined that he had been more concerned with what came out of a bottle than a pot, particularly since his family had vanished.
Tammy measured a double portion of coffee into the filter, then poured in the water and allowed the machine to run its cycle. She intended to make the coffee as strong and black as she possibly could. And if it was up to her, Boyd would end up drinking every last drop.
The carpenter was halfway through the pot when Tammy eyed him curiously. “Feeling better?” she asked.
Boyd took a long swallow and grimaced. “I feel like I’m gonna puke,” he grumbled. “Who taught you how to make coffee, anyhow? This stuff is awful!”
“I asked you how you felt, not if you liked my coffee.”
The man stared at the cup in his hand, then took another sip. “Well, if you mean is my head a little clearer than before… yeah, it is. I suppose the shower made me feel a little better, too.”
“Good,” said Tammy. She appraised the man who sat across the table from her and liked what she saw, at least in comparison to how he had looked before. He no longer stank to the high heaven and he was dressed in a pair of Levi’s and a fresh white T-shirt. His reddish-blond hair was still wet, but it was neatly combed, for a change. His face still had a tired, worrisome look, but his eyes were sharper and more focused. Apparently, the coffee was doing some good.
Boyd looked at the thin woman with the glasses and the mousy brown hair. “Do you realize this is the first time we’ve actually talked?” he asked. “I mean, I reckon we’ve seen each other around town hundreds of times and at those Craven family reunions, but I can’t remember us saying two words to one another in all that time.”
Tammy thought about it. “I suppose you’re right.” She looked Boyd in the eyes. “I almost said something to you yesterday,” she told him. “In the Piggly Wiggly. I saw you in line with your friend. That fellow with the long beard and the Davy Crockett outfit.”
“Caleb?” asked Boyd bitterly. “Yeah, I went to him for help. Told him everything and expected him to back me up. But what did he end up doing? He said I was crazy and suggested I go see a headshrinker.”
“Well, it does sound a little crazy, doesn’t it?” she asked. “I mean, what’s taking place here in Green Hollow?”
Boyd stared at her hard. “Just what do you think we’re talking about here, Tammy?”
The woman looked back him, unflinching. “Vampires, that’s what.”
“Shitfire!” breathed Boyd, some of the tension leaving his face. “And I thought I was the only one who believed it was going on.”
“No,” said Tammy. She reached across the table and took the carpenter’s callused hand. “I believe it, too. And do you want to know why? Because my husband, Wendell, is one. He came to our house after his disappearance and tried to, let’s say, convert me.” She squeezed his hand a little, detecting the torment in his face. “And what about your family? Your wife and children?”
Boyd sighed deeply. “The kids are okay,” he told her. “But Joan… she’s one of them. He turned her into one, the old bastard!”
Tammy was confused. “Who are you talking about?”
“You don’t know who made Wendell into what he is?”
“No,” she said. “He didn’t mention it.”
Boyd ran a hand along his jaw and took another sip of coffee. “You might think I’m still drunk, but here goes.” He paused and then told her. “It was Josiah Craven. Wendel’s great-grandfather.”
“Good Lord!” gasped Tammy. “Grandpappy Craven? But he’s—”
“I know… dead,” said Boyd. “Well, apparently, he’s been buried up there on that mountain for the better part of a century, but he wasn’t really dead, not in the true sense of the word. And I think it was Dudley Craven who brought him back. I don’t think he did it intentionally, but I reckon that doesn’t really matter now.”
“I always wondered why Grandpappy wasn’t buried in the Craven family plot,” said Tammy. “And there were stories about him being buried with that bean pole in his heart, the one folks said he fell out of the hayloft onto.”
“Kind of makes sense now, doesn’t it?” asked Boyd.
“Yes,” replied Tammy. “It does.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Tammy spoke. “So, what’re we going to do about it?”
Boyd poured himself another cup of coffee. It looked as black as fresh road tar. “Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going back up on Craven’s Mountain and get my kids.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“I don’t rightly know, but I’ll figure something out.”
Tammy rolled her eyes. “Boyd, if you don’t go up there prepared, you’ll end up getting yourself killed.”
“What do you mean by ‘prepared’?”
“Haven’t you ever watched a vampire movie?” she asked incredulously.
Boyd shrugged. “Maybe one or two. I was always more partial to westerns. You know, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.”
“Well, this isn’t cowboys and Indians,” said Tammy. “This is the living against the undead. And it looks like it’ll be up to me to teach you what you need to know.”
“About killing vampires, you mean?” asked Boyd. “Do they teach preacher’s wives about stuff like that?”
“No,” the woman laughed. “But I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know their weaknesses and what will destroy them.” She paused, looking a little unsure. “Or at least, I hope I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve already found out that the bit about a cross repelling a vampire is true,” she said. “That’s how I kept Wendell away. And they don’t cast a reflection in a mirror, either. I saw that myself. But it’s how you kill them that bugs me. The only way to destroy them is with a stake through the heart, or fire. I just hope that turns out to be the truth.”
Boyd thought about Blanche and how he had killed her with the splintered board. “Take it from me, a stake will kill them.” He told her about Blanche’s attack in the workshop behind the trailer.
“Where is she now?” asked Tammy.
“I waited until after dark, then I buried her in the woods out back,” Boyd told her. “It wasn’t like I really killed her. I mean, she was already dead.”
“You didn’t remove the stake, did you?” Tammy wanted to know.
“No, I didn’t,” admitted the carpenter. “I don’t know why, but I left it in her.”
“Good for you. Because if you remove it, she’ll come back to life, so to speak.”
Boyd thought of his mother-in-law and the way she had tossed him around the garage. “H
eaven forbid that!” he said, shaking his head.
Tammy sat there and thought to herself for a while. “Grandpappy Craven… where is he now?”
“On top of Craven’s Mountain,” Boyd told her. “In that old house up yonder.” He could tell that Tammy was considering something. “Do you think Wendell’s up there with him?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” she said. “I think Grandpappy turned him into what he is now, but I know my husband. He’s too headstrong and egotistical to follow someone else. He has to be in control. I think that’s why he did what he did at the Cheating Heart a few nights ago.”
“Jesus!” said Boyd. “You mean he was responsible for that bloodbath?”
“Yes, I believe he was,” replied the preacher’s wife. “So where do you think he is, if he’s not at the Craven house?”
“Do you know where the old church is up on the mountain?” Tammy asked.
“Yes,” said Boyd. “Do you think that’s where he’s holed up?”
Tammy nodded. “And I think he picked it for a good reason. He’s intending to use this new ‘power’ of his to start his own church. A church of the undead, you might say.”
“Damn!” cursed Boyd. “It scares the shit out of me just thinking about it.”
“Me, too,” agreed Tammy. “And I’m afraid it’ll be up to us to make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“You mean, we’re going to have to go up there and destroy them?” asked Boyd. The carpenter looked a little pale.
“That’s right.”
“Do you think that you could actually do that to Wendell? Pound a stake through his heart?”
Tammy thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. Wendell is too dangerous now. It has to be done.” She looked at Boyd. “And you’ll have to do the same for Joan.”
The thought horrified him. “I don’t know if I could bring myself to do such a thing,” he said truthfully. “Not to her.”
“You’re going to have to… if you love her.”
Boyd grew quiet. He looked down at his hands. They had killed Blanche, had driven that broken board through her chest and destroyed her. But he couldn’t imagine doing the same to Joan. It was almost beyond comprehension.
“When do we go?” he asked after a while. “Tonight?”
“No,” said Tammy. “We don’t want to fight them when they’re at their strongest. We’ve got to wait until tomorrow and go to Craven’s Mountain in broad daylight. Just so we get the job done before sunset.” She regarded the carpenter thoughtfully. “Besides, we’ve got to make preparations. Make the tools we’ll need. I’ve heard that you’re good with wood.”
“Just tell me what to make and I’ll do it,” he told her. He took one last sip of coffee and shook his head. “You know, it’s hard to believe that this is really happening.”
“I know,” said Tammy. “But it is. God help us, it really is.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
That night, Caleb Vanleer found himself in the midst of his recurring dream. Except this time, it did not end with the candlelit cave underground. It continued… providing the answers that Caleb had been in search of for so very long.
They stepped into the cavern, confused by the abundance of candles and the rectangular baskets of interwoven reeds that lined the stone walls. They had come upon many a Vietcong cache, but none had ever looked like this.
“What is this shit?” asked Singleton in his dusty Texas drawl.
Caleb shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen the likes of it before.”
Jefferson laughed and walked into the cave, too green to know the danger he was in. “Looks like we’re in some kind of crazy funeral parlor to me,” he joked.
“What do you mean?” asked Conners. He held his twelve-gauge riot gun tightly in his hands, eyes wandering from one patch of shadow to another.
Jefferson walked up and patted one of the long baskets. “Well, ain’t that what they look like?” he asked. “Caskets?”
Mendez’s dark eyes widened. He said something in Spanish and crossed himself. None of them had even known he was a Catholic until that moment.
“You’re full of shit, Jefferson!” laughed Singleton. He walked over to one of the baskets and laid his hand on the lid. “It’s just some weapons in here, that’s all. Some AK-47s or 81mm mortars.”
Caleb watched from the entrance of the cave as the lanky Texan flipped the top of the basket open and stared inside.
“Well, what is it?” he asked, feeling that tight sensation of cold fear in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong here; he could sense it.
When Singleton turned around, his face was as pale as snow. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Then, abruptly, a shadow rose from the basket. It was a Vietnamese dressed in black clothing, but his skin was much paler than normal. When he opened his eyes, they glowed in the candlelight as red as hot coals. When he grinned, his teeth protruded slightly. They were long and sharp. Horribly sharp.
Caleb started to yell out, to warn Singleton, but he was too late. The Vietnamese reached out and grabbed the Texan by the throat. Sharp claws sprouted from the ends of his fingers, burrowing into Singleton flesh and puncturing his carotid artery. The soldier struggled as the thing in the basket dragged him down, bringing its fanged mouth to the spurting hole in his neck.
Jefferson screamed out. Caleb turned and caught a glimpse of the black man being dragged into another one of the baskets. He slashed at the hands that held him with the KA-BAR but the knife did no good. The wounds it opened were blue and bloodless, like the open flesh of a cadaver.
Another lid was cast aside and a lovely Oriental woman emerged from a basket to their left. Conners leveled his scattergun and fired a round of double-ought buckshot. The load hit the woman square in the stomach, but she did not fall. She merely laughed and stepped down out of the basket. Conners fired one round after another, but still she came toward him.
“Retreat, Conners!” Caleb told him. “Back off!”
Conners wouldn’t listen, though. He and Singleton had been like brothers, and he wasn’t about to leave the Texan unavenged. Conners yelled angrily and walked toward the woman, pumping the slide of the shotgun and firing at the same time. Pellets ripped through her body, but she just uttered a high, tittering laugh. Then, when she came within reach, she grabbed Conners by the throat and lifted him off his feet. He kicked and struggled, the rubber soles of his combat boots dangling three inches above the stone floor. Then, with seemingly no effort at all, she flung Conners to the side. He struck the cavern wall with a sickening thud. Caleb could tell by the way the soldier’s head twisted limply to the side that the impact had broken his neck.
“Do something, Colonel!” yelled Mendez. “Fry the bastards!”
Caleb suddenly remembered the flamethrower he held in his hands. As more of the creatures emerged from their wicker baskets, he pressed the trigger, sending an arc of brilliant fire across the cave. The flames engulfed the straw caskets as well as several of the Vietnamese. Those who caught fire screamed shrilly and dropped to the floor He watched in horror as their bodies blackened and crumbled, then turned into piles of fine gray ash.
He sent another burst of fire into the cavern, sweeping it from one side to the other. Soon the entire chamber was engulfed in flame. “Come on, Mendez!” he called. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Then he turned and retreated back down the tunnel they had just traveled. He could hear the Puerto Rican a few feet behind him, dropping down and crawling on his hands and knees as the tunnel grew smaller and more narrow.
They were halfway down the tunnel when Caleb heard something. It was a shrill, squeaking sound that seemed to grow louder and multiply. “What the hell is that?” asked the colonel. Then, from a dozen feet behind him, he heard Mendez scream.
Caleb turned and directed his flashlight behind him. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered, feeling raw terror grip him.
The sound he had heard was rats, dozens of
them. Pitch-black rats with tiny red eyes that sparkled in the darkness. Half of them covered Mendez, hanging onto his face, arms, and back. Their tiny fangs burrowed into his flesh and drew blood. Others were streaming past his flailing body, heading straight for Caleb.
“Go, Colonel!” wailed Mendez. “Save yourself!” He stared at his superior, eyes pleading.
Caleb knew what he wanted and he wasted no time. He sent a long, steady stream of fire toward Mendez and the rats. The moment he pressed the trigger, the colonel remembered what the Puerto Rican was carrying; a backpack full of grenades and explosives. He turned and began to crawl down the tunnel as fast as he possibly could.
He was sixty feet further on when a tremendous explosion rocked the tunnel. A wave of fire and flying debris rolled down the passageway. It hit Caleb and swept him forward. Rock and earth rained down upon him and suddenly he found himself lying on his stomach a hundred feet further down the tunnel. The explosion had scorched his uniform and singed the hair from his arms and the back of his head, but other than that, he had escaped unscathed. Caleb dug himself out of a pile of loose earth and rock, then continued down the tunnel. He had lost the flamethrower somewhere along the way. The colonel drew his .45 automatic and jacked the slide. Then he headed on down the passageway in complete darkness.
Caleb seemed to crawl forever. Finally, however, he reached the end of the tunnel. He scrambled up the bamboo rungs and pushed the grassy cover away. He thought nothing of the threat that might await him in the jungle beyond. It could be no worse than the one he had left back there in the underground cavern.
The sun had already set. The sky was dark and the dense vegetation of the jungle even darker Caleb plunged into the night and ran. He was fifty yards into the jungle when he heard something from behind: high-pitched shrieks and the flapping of leathery wings. He turned and in the light of an Asian moon saw a wave of black bats flowing from the hole in the ground. They rose into the air, their red eyes resembling the cinders of a fire drifting skyward. Caleb turned and ran, leaping from one patch of shadow to the next, hoping that the creatures above the treetops failed to find him in the darkness.