Then … last night. How many other bodies hadn't she noticed over the last month?
She stared moodily at her roughened hands. Long-fingered, pianist's hands, her grandmother had always said. What would the old woman say now? These thin fingers had sewn canvas sleeping bags, hammered ten-penny nails and learned to load a rifle, even once used an ax to sever a night creature's head—back, she thought in disgust, in the days when she'd checked their sleeping quarters more carefully. Perhaps the constant running had become too much and she had developed an unconscious death wish … still, she'd strangle the dog and put a bullet through her own head before she'd become food for one of them.
Her gaze traveled to the bony wrist beneath her baggy sweatshirt. Maybe she and Beau just needed a rest, somewhere safe to call home for a couple of months. Or … why not? A home to safeguard over the summer and hibernate in during winter, when the frigid temperatures and snow— the earth's tattling white carpet—left no alternative but seclusion. A place in which to fatten up and where poor old Beauregard wouldn't have to bump into different furniture every night. But where? Louise rose jerkily and went back to the picture windows. From there, it was easy to see the city sprawling to the south through the glass, the hundreds of trees in Lincoln Park still bare of the season's coming growth. With each block the buildings grew, from small brownstone flats to the bigger buildings holding twenty-four, then forty-eight apartments, until the tall condominium complexes crowded along the curve of the Drive. Her eyes followed the sweep around the lake, then stopped on the far-off cluster of skyscrapers fringing downtown. Her brow furrowed.
Downtown… . Maybe the place she needed was in one of those huge office buildings, in some lawyer's suite with a thousand windows to let in the light, a newer one where the sealed glass was practically unbreakable. She and Beau could sleep in the center at night, where they couldn't be seen if one of those creatures crawled up the side of the building—or could they even climb that high?
The possibilities seemed suddenly endless: walls of windows; up as high and safe as she wanted. There were even sporting goods stores in the north loop, which meant easy access to supplies and warm gear. She looked again at her grimy, improbable survivalist's fingers, then back at the skyscrapers sitting silent sentinel over the city. Each past month had been a bleak little eternity; now, hope finally flared. If she, of all people—seventeen-year-old Louise Dorsett and a feeble dog almost as old as she was—had lived, maybe others had, too.
Nothing was impossible, right?
God knew that was certainly true.
8
REVELATION 2:28
And I will give him the morning star.
At noon Nicholson found the white dress he thought the woman had been wearing. After donning warmer clothes and locking up, he'd spent all morning searching for her; he hadn't seen people for months, and the few he'd glimpsed in the fall had disappeared during winter's long grip on the city. He had spotted no one since the snow melted; if they hadn't frozen, no doubt they'd become vampires. The number of vampires had dropped, too; the cold made the weaker ones sluggish, and dawn often caught a bloodsucker that had stupidly wandered too far from safety. Every so often Nicholson found their smelly, liquefying remains.
But the woman was another matter. He wanted desperately to find her—to talk to her, dammit! Now that he knew she existed, the thought of being alone yet another day was unbearable. Fascinated, he examined the dress lying on the sidewalk at Lake and LaSalle, four blocks northwest of the attack. There was no blood on it. He touched the charred collar curiously, then sniffed it. When he'd been twelve, he and a few buddies had picked through the remains of a burned-out apartment building, nosing around the crumbling ruin of wood and ashes, furniture and rags. The cindery smell of this collar brought the memory back clearly. Had she been wearing it when it burned? The dress was a tiny thing and he was still amazed that a woman with her own blood flowing in her veins, not blood stolen from another at the expense of a life, had worn it just today. He draped the garment over his shoulder and glanced around; no sign of her now. Maybe she was hurt and had gone back to wherever her home was. The enormity of downtown suddenly loomed; like himself, if the woman didn't want to be found, she never would be. He could search for … forever, really—even if she wasn't trying to hide. Besides that, what could he do? Take out an ad in the personals? How about a big sign on the sidewalk? His lips pulled into a small, bitter smile. That was good; for starters it could say Vampires: This Way to Dinner!
Dejected, he headed back toward the Daley Center and eyed the buildings towering above the empty streets; the machete hanging from his belt made a dull, lonely-sounding slap against his leg with each step. It occurred to him that in the vastness that was downtown there could be ten, twenty, or more people sequestered away at night like him, foraging for supplies during the day and purposely avoiding contact with others out of paranoia. There were literally hundreds of buildings within walking distance of the Daley Center; if only a fraction had people holed up inside … an entire community! Possibilities whirled again and he doggedly tried to cap them. Time enough for grandiose plans; a more intelligent start would be to pay more attention to his surroundings instead of wandering around in this fog of self-pity. Maybe he just might find some of these people he was actually beginning to believe existed.
Nicholson was so accustomed to solitude that he never really expected to find anyone. As the hours passed, he grabbed a flashlight and weak batteries from Woolworth's and went to Marshall Field's to find something out of the ordinary to eat. Nicholson’s tastes were pretty conventional and he existed on whatever he found in the restaurants close to the Center; his groceries had initially come from the basement cafeteria of the Daley Center, which he had investigated after welding shut the doors that led to the subway and the Bank of Tokyo Building. The cafeteria had turned up items like Minute Rice and jars of Cheez Whiz, a quick fix on his small camp stove and a feast compared to his early diet of Spam and sardines. In time he'd discovered the gourmet section on the seventh floor of Field's, and he went there now, climbing the stilled escalators effortlessly on legs conditioned from endless trips up the Daley Center stairs. This morning Nicholson had eaten dry cereal chased with bottled water—he couldn't stand powdered milk—but here he could browse among shelves stacked with oddities. He fetched a bag from behind the counter and let his beam pick out the easy-to-cook delicacies: saffron pasta, canned white clam sauce, dried Romano cheese, cans of Pepperidge Farm soup. He studied a can of bacon-lettuce-and-tomato-flavored soup doubtfully. Canned lettuce? His mind supplied a picture of crisp green leaves and his mouth watered; he tossed the can in his bag.
As he added a box of melbas and reached for a jar of currant preserves, a hushed noise made him freeze. He snapped off the flashlight by reflex; how comfortable he'd been within that small circle of radiance! Cursing the sudden dimness, Nicholson soundlessly replaced the jar as his eyes struggled to adjust. Straining to hear, he worked the machete loose, bent his knees, and crab-walked to the front of the aisle, where a generous swath of daylight bled around the doorway from the windows above the abandoned fish-fry section. Weapon in hand, he peered into a well-lit dining room crowded with tables. He could easily slip down the escalator, and if anyone moved, he could—
What am I doing? Nicholson exhaled and tried to relax his grip on the machete. The noise hadn't come again; it was probably nothing—the building shifting, a bird flying in through a broken windowpane. More importantly, if someone was there, he wanted to meet them, not leave.
Didn't he?
"Hello?" The hoarse greeting escaped his mouth before he could change his mind, sounding like a huge, living thing as it echoed through the dining room. He cleared his throat and tried again, voice wobbling. "Is anyone there?" Come out with your hands up! he thought a little hysterically. He opened his mouth to chuckle, then a figure darted past and fled down the escalator.
"Wait! Please!" He damned his inattention as he j
umped to his feet and followed, adrenaline shooting his pulse into a frantic drumbeat. The escalator vibrated as he took the steps three at a time, slowly gaining, the shadows changing wildly from floor to floor as Nicholson slowly closed the distance on a person almost as tall as himself. "Why are you running? Come back!" His heart sank as the figure jumped the last six steps to the first floor; in another two seconds there was a clang as one of the doors was yanked open—an entrance Nicholson had never tried—and the person bolted into the loading alley that divided the building's ground level. Nicholson charged through the doors, glimpsed someone turning the corner onto Randolph, and grinned. His leg muscles bunched powerfully as he stretched to the full stride that had won him ribbons in high school, and it only took a quarter of a block to see it was a dark-haired woman.
He was so surprised he nearly lost his footing. Jesus—had his wild thoughts been correct after all? Had he spent the winter burrowed into that huge building when he could have been with other people? Excitement flooded his bloodstream and his legs worked harder; she'd have to pull a miracle to get away now.
Thirty feet ahead she slewed around the corner onto Wabash and Nicholson sprinted after her, his faster momentum carrying him into the turn on a wider angle. He faltered, confused, when he realized the sidewalk was empty.
"Hey."
Nicholson whirled at the feminine voice coming from one of the Wabash Avenue entrances. He smiled and stepped forward, then jerked backward as he saw a dull splash of silver and realized the machete he still clutched was useless against the pistol aimed at his chest. Her tone was filled with acid.
"Freeze, you son of a bitch, or I'll blow you all the way to the lake."
9
REVELATION 13:11
And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth.
We need transportation.
At midmorning Louise and Beau were still in Rogers Park, and she finally realized foot travel downtown would take all day and leave little time to find a place for the night. She checked her watch. No more mistakes—the sun would set at about six and she intended to be safely cloistered by then, even if only temporarily. Holding Beau in the crook of her arm, she shifted her backpack and looked around. There were plenty of parked cars and people occasionally hid keys under the mats; or Western Avenue, with its stretch of auto dealerships, was fourteen blocks to her right. In a couple of hours she and Beau could be cruising in a Thunderbird, or maybe a Park Avenue.
She discarded the idea quickly. Closer to downtown it would likely become a game of motorized checkers as she tried to negotiate dozens of abandoned autos. They might end up on a bridge leading into the Loop and find it so thoroughly blocked that she'd have to dump the car and hunt for a new one, look for keys, worry about fuel—forget it.
A bicycle? Louise stopped thoughtfully in front of a small shop advertising Schwinns and eyed the dusty window display. She could get one with a basket so Beau wouldn't have to ride inside her jacket during the twelve-or thirteen-mile trip. When she tried the knob, the door pushed open without resistance. The shop was in an ornate, turn-of-the-century building, and as she stepped inside Louise realized uneasily that it was deep and dark. The daylight struggling through the twisted display of detached wheels, handlebars, and bikes extended only about twenty feet and was weakened further by the grime-encrusted window; the shadows beyond deepened steadily to black, and she'd learned to avoid lightless places even during the daytime. Louise prudently decided to make her selection from the stock closer to the window.
Nothing she saw had a basket, but Louise put Beau on the floor so she could inspect a gold Schwinn twelve-speed with a jumble of gears and derailleurs at the back chain. Hefting it, she found it heavier than expected—she wasn't much of a cyclist but she knew that two hours on this along bumpy streets and she'd be worn out. Unsure of his surroundings, Beau trembled and rubbed against her ankles for security; she used the toe of her shoe to push him gently aside as she set the Schwinn back in place. Next to it was a metallic blue one with the name Nishiki stenciled on the crossbar, a bike she guessed weighed only fourteen or fifteen pounds—not bad.
Beau tangled around her ankles again as she swung the frame up and down a few times, and Louise opened her mouth to scold him when she realized she could feel him shaking all the way up to her thigh. She glanced down in surprise and saw the dog staring toward the back of the store.
Beau growled softly. In the stillness the sound was stunningly loud.
Equally shocking was the quick, whispering noise of shifting from the pitch-black rear of the store.
Her head snapped up as an alarm shrieked in her brain. The Nishiki still suspended from her hands, Louise stood paralyzed as the sound, a gentle slithering, came again. Like something crawling. Her elbows unlocked and Louise soundlessly lowered the bike, then bent and snatched up the dog without taking her eyes from the rear of the room. Blood pounded furiously in her temples, each fear-drenched pulse catapulting through her body in time with the tension running through Beau. He growled again.
"Shhhh!" she hissed. Her gaze flicked back to the ancient wooden door. Its spring had pulled it shut behind them and now she recalled hearing the click of the latch as it had closed. It was stupid not to have propped it; now she'd have to press the old-fashioned thumb plate and pull open the door. If something sprang at them in the meantime—
There was a muffled thump as something fell to the floor.
No more time to fuck around, Louise thought clearly. Get the hell out of here NOW!
She bolted, hands fumbling between a frantically squirming Beau and the door handle. For a sickening instant it stuck and Louise thought they were trapped, picturing with sudden, brutal clarity a hideously decayed beast leaping onto her back and tearing at her throat as she beat at the door glass. Then she heard a rattle as the antique mechanism lifted and she yanked on the door so hard it slammed against the inside wall; she leapt through before its rebound and sprawled on the sidewalk, twisting sideways to avoid crushing Beau. Clutching the dog, she scrambled backward on her butt as the door crashed shut.
Her heart lurched and she heard herself moan as something inside pummeled the door, shattering its old window. A hand, clawed and shriveled, swiped from the jagged opening that had been the beveled glass pane, but the deep recesses of the doorway couldn’t block the sun's rays and the creature screeched as light crossed its fingers and the tips split and sizzled. By the time Louise had sucked in her breath for a scream, the monster had gone, retreating to its hiding place at the rear of the building.
Gasping, Louise pulled herself up and hugged Beau furiously. As he licked her face and wagged his stubby little tail, she staggered along Clark Street, putting distance between her and that gaping doorway while her heartbeat calmed and her breathing slowed to a soft wheeze. A few blocks away she collapsed onto a bus stop bench; farther north, the bicycle shops sign swung mockingly in the slight breeze.
She was jolted almost senseless. Unearthing a bloodsucker was always a chance in a dark building housing a back room and this building's age and mustiness had masked the usual stench, but it had always been safe as long as the totally dark areas were avoided. It was incomprehensible that the creature's hunger was so great it would sleepwalk and risk the sunlight in an attempt to attack. If it had been cloudy, would the loathsome thing have followed her right onto the sidewalk? No, of course not—the sun would have destroyed it.
Wouldn't it?
Her legs were still pudding but she finally forced herself to stand. Perhaps she was too eager to get all the way downtown today. This morning had already drained her, and riding a bike for miles would exhaust her and still leave the task of finding a safe place to spend the night. It might be better to work toward the Loop gradually; at a couple of miles each day they could walk there in a week—
Vespa—The Scooter of Steel!
Her eyes widened as the silver lettering on the display window they were passing abruptly registered. Turning back to the
glass, Louise could see a well-lit showroom filled with brightly colored motor scooters, and she ruffled Beau's ears and grinned. "Bingo!“ she told him. "I should've thought of this months ago! Why walk when we can ride?" His tongue lolled and he yipped at Louise's voice; already he seemed to have recovered from the cycle-shop incident.
The door was firmly locked and she eyed the huge windows doubtfully. Breaking one would be stupid—a scooter wouldn't roll three feet before getting a flat. A larger exit would probably be through the service area at the unlit rear, but she didn't want to chance it. So she'd have to try and jimmy the glass door—if it wasn't a deadbolt. Louise found a crowbar in the open garage of a gas station a block away; as she bent to retrieve it, Beau stiffened in her arms and her eyes stopped on a small, filthy door in the far corner—the washroom. Closed tightly; she could easily guess its occupant. She darted from the garage before there could be a repeat of this morning.
Back at the dealership, the lock held stubbornly and she realized that it was either smash the glass or scrap the notion of taking a scooter. The thought of giving up after all this effort pissed her off and instead she dug Beau's leash from the backpack and tied him back at the bench, then returned and beat furiously at the door with the crowbar until it shattered. Inside, she rummaged through the desks and turned up a box of ignition keys, each labeled in the dealer's code. Still, the sun wasn't at its peak, so she had plenty of time to find a key for one of these things, roll it out, and learn how to drive it. Louise scanned the rows and chose a scooter that was bright yellow.
A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult Page 369