Michael passed the mouth of an alley and thought he saw something flash across the pale spray of his headlights. He slowed and looked through the rear-view mirror at the road behind him as the shapes sank into hollow, black doorways and entrances to buildings long abandoned by normal people.
Probably a stray dog. His eyes were playing tricks on him—he needed to rest.
He needed a fucking drink.
He pushed the gas pedal and brought the car back up to speed. Then, he saw it again. Still ahead, but how? He jammed on the brakes, his foot crushing the pedal to the mat. The Beemer skidded to a halt, and his foot slipped off the clutch. The car choked and died.
Silence, all but the soft ticking of the engine.
What kind of city was so quiet? Still, it seemed the very shadows were alive, writhing. The moon slid behind a cloud again, and the road became as dark as a cave, the crumbling buildings seeming to close in, to lean over. His headlights cut grooves in the darkness. He reached over and picked up the Glock, his breath and heartbeat the only sounds in his world.
He wet his lips and clutched the gun in his fist. Squinting into the darkness, he searched for any kind of movement.
Everything was still.
Like a tease, the moon emerged once again from the cover of clouds, brightening the night enough for him to see ahead. What he saw caused his stomach to flip-flop. Silhouetted in the yellow-blue halogen glow of his headlights were possibly a half-dozen slumping human-shaped figures.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered.
He twisted the ignition, and the engine reluctantly fired. He threw the car into gear, and then gunned it, causing the tires to screech like a banshee’s screams. The slumping, lurking shapes leapt, heading straight for him.
Michael could see the faces now—ghost-white smears, blurred with speed, mouths like gashes, eyes glowing hot yellow, reflecting the light. He tore through the darkness, gripping the wheel with one hand and changing gears with the other, all the time holding onto the gun.
The shapes jumped away just before he could plow through them. The little convertible skidded sideways and then tipped crazily onto two wheels. When it dropped back down, Michael’s foot fell off the clutch again, and the engine coughed and died again.
Frantically, he cranked the ignition and it whined back to life, but it didn’t matter. The car shook as if it had been struck, but from the top, not the side. Someone or something had landed on the roof, and the ragtop sagged with the weight like an overfilled sack.
Michael took the gun in both of his hands, wincing with anticipation of the report, and fired upward at the bulge in the canvas.
A howl of pain or of delight—he couldn’t decide which—pierced the night. The cloth ripped as though it was made of old newspaper, and a clawed hand plunged through, dirty nails, grime ground into the palms and creases of the knuckles.
“Get the hell away,” Michael shouted. He fired again, unsure if he had hit anything. Either way, the bullets were not slowing this thing down.
Another figure appeared, standing on the hood of the car. He wore a long black coat that billowed out behind him like a cape. The figure brought a heavy boot up high and then down onto the windshield, shattering it and spraying Michael with diamond shards.
Michael fired a third time, straight ahead, and the bullet tore into the thing’s shoulder, causing him to snap back a half step. The creature then knelt down on the hood and thrust its fist through the spider-webbed windshield to grab at Michael.
At that same moment, Michael reached between his knees and yanked the lever beneath the seat. The seat flew backward a foot, but that wasn’t nearly enough. The thing on the hood growled, exposing an incredible set of teeth, and then rammed its arm deeper into the car. It snagged Michael’s jacket and pulled him upward through the broken windshield.
Fortunately, Michael was still wearing his seatbelt. He fought the pale, snatching fist as his shirt and jacket ripped under the pointed nails. Those jagged nails gouged the skin of his chest, his neck and then his face, drawing thin lines of blood.
Michael raised the gun again, but this time something tore it from his hand and sent it clattering to the floorboard. The crazed figure then grabbed Michael’s shirt again, gaining a better grasp this time. He slammed Michael against the restraint and then the steering wheel, making the airbag deploy like a minor explosion. The airbag inflation rocked Michael backward, throwing him hard against the seat. The creature finally released Michael from his brutal hold.
Michael sat there a moment, gasping, his heart lurching along like he had just completed the forty meters. He unbuckled his seatbelt and reached down, groping around for the gun. Relief washed over him when his fingers brushed across the muzzle. He snatched the gun from the floor.
That gave the creature on the hood of the Beemer enough time to regain its footing. It stretched an arm through the windshield again, and then plunged his face through, as well, showing his formidable incisors. Rank, rotting breath whiffed down into Michael’s face as the creature’s jaws snapped closed, searching to sink teeth into anything he could.
Screaming, Michael leaned forward and pressed the Glock’s barrel against the thing’s forehead. He closed his eyes and fired.
Michael opened his eyes and sat in dead silence, staring through the serrated opening in the windshield. What had just happened? The creature was lying in the middle of the road, so he must have hit it.
He watched in sick disbelief as the limp body began to twitch. First a finger and then the legs. As if waking from a nap, it sat up in the middle of the road. There was a crater-like hole in the center of his forehead.
“Oh, fuck no,” Michael said. With one hand, he slapped his face hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. This had to be some kind of nightmare. He needed to wake up.
He fired again, but there was no way he was going to hit anything with his hands trembling so violently. Beyond the injured figure ahead, headlights appeared like two gleaming yellow cat eyes, and an old pickup truck emerged from the dark.
The pickup was really moving and Michael braced for impact, but it screeched to a halt two car-lengths away.
The driver’s side door of the truck flew open and a tall, lean man climbed out. The headlights sprayed the road like spilled paint, and the driver’s breath billowed up from his face in a gray vapor. In his hands, he cradled a snub-nosed riot shotgun.
Calm, he stepped toward the man-thing on the pavement and levelled the gun. The injured creature scrambled to its knees and spread its arms. At first, it seemed like an imploring gesture, but looking up at the truck driver, it began to laugh. Then, the laugh grew into a scream, and the scream became the terrible howl of an animal.
Michael dropped the revolver. He squeezed his eyes closed and put his hands over his ears. The thundering crack of the shotgun was followed by a gut-wrenching sound.
Michael opened his eyes in time to see the creature’s head disappear in a fog of blood, bone fragments and brain matter. The pickup driver then aimed the gun in Michael’s direction, and Michael’s mouth went dry. He dropped behind the barrier of the dashboard, the gearshift digging into his ribs painfully. He waited, unable to breathe, unable to move.
He heard and felt another creature land on top of the Beemer, It began pawing at the ragtop like a cat scratching at the ground. It tore through the canvas and the fiberglass backing. Uneven fingernails scrabbled and snatched at Michael, brushing dirty fingers across Michael’s face, snatching at his hair.
BAM! The shape sailed backward off of the car, tearing half of the ragtop away with him. Michael straightened up slowly and glanced in the rear view mirror as the creature tumbled away, the piece of the car roof still in one hand.
Michael turned the key in the ignition, and the car rumbled to life a moment, but then, it stalled again. “Damn!” He pounded the steering wheel with one fist and snatched the Glock from the floorboard with the other.
With a shaking hand, he aimed at the pickup truck
driver through the windshield.
“Don’t shoot. Do you hear me?” the stranger called.
Michael snorted, skeptical. “Don’t fucking shoot me,” he answered. He fingered the trigger, but didn’t fire.
The driver knelt and placed his gun on the road. He then stood up with his arms raised over his head. “More will come.” He had a strong eastern European accent. “They’ll kill us, if we stay out here.”
Michael hesitated another moment, almost as afraid of this tall stranger as he was of the creatures. What has he gotten himself into? Guardedly, he opened the door and climbed from the driver’s seat, his knees as weak as pillows.
“Don’t kill me,” he rasped.
The tall stranger laughed. “You’re the one holding the gun.”
Tentatively, Michael came closer, the gun still trained on the man. The man’s face was all shadows and angles in the BMW’s headlights, but still, Michael could see that he was no monster. Only a man.
“Quickly. They are on the move.”
As if on cue, there was a sharp shriek that carved the oddly still night and echoed along the canyon of buildings. The man snatched up his gun, and Michael followed when he sprinted to his waiting pickup.
***
The first thing that struck Michael about the guy was he seemed damned scary. Maybe not as scary as the things lying headless on the pavement back there, but pretty frightening all the same. He had a look in his eyes, the expression of one who was shell shocked. It reminded Michael of the way Susan had looked only a few days ago.
Maybe the “crazies” was contagious.
Michael slipped the Glock into the inner pocket of his jacket and sat in silence as the pickup truck raced along the empty streets of the outer edge of Charlestowne. He felt sick—sick over leaving his car and his things, sick over what he had just witnessed, sick over being forced to trust this strange man. He wasn’t sure he would ever get over the jolt of what just happened. His knees were still knocking together, and he placed his open hands on top of them to try to steady himself.
“What the hell were you doing out there?” the man asked.
“I’m looking for someone.”
chapter sixteen
Susan didn’t recognize the room. She was cold and headachy, and her arrival in Charlestowne was nothing but fragmented moments, like a broken film spliced back together. There was a vague recollection of Devin sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her through this dark, sprawling house, up the stairs and into his bedroom. She then slept, aware of his arms around her—big, possessive arms, holding her even in sleep as if she might spring from the warmth of the bed and flee.
Devin’s room was not what she had expected. There was a small fireplace with the remains of a fire, the embers glowering like devil’s eyes in the gloom. Books lined the walls, some in rows and others in stacks teetering on the verge of tumbling over. In fact, the number of written pages in this room rivaled a library. Where the walls were visible, maps peeked through, yellowed with age and curling at the corners. Here and there, various European cities and villages were circled. The furnishings were an odd mixture of pieces from different eras—rich mahogany and dark fabrics that seemed better suited to when the house was likely constructed in the early nineteenth century. However, there were pieces that were simply out of place, like the art deco chair with big purple and yellow swirls and chrome legs that sat against the wall in the far corner, and the funky, framed movie poster of Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly on the closet door. There was a curtain over the window, the edges nailed tightly to the window trim, allowing not so much as a sliver of outside light in. A number of burned-down candlesticks stood like war-beaten soldiers all around the room.
The bed where Susan lay formed something of a cocoon, and she snuggled further down into the covers. The place smelled of dust and age, and the covers smelled of Devin, which she already liked very much. A mirror in an ornate frame hung high and slanting on the wall across from the bed. It was somewhat amusing—did Devin admire himself so much that he must be able to watch himself at all times? Could he see himself at all?
Susan fixed her eyes on the silver pool of glass, searching for herself there. The covers shifted over her as she repositioned her legs, but it was like watching one of those cheesy “invisible man” movies. Transfixed, she began to see an outline of her figure—perhaps her vampire eyes were accommodating her. Maybe she imagined herself there. Nevertheless, she was there, faded like an old photograph. The woman who stared back was she, but also not she. A vampire Susan. Wide-eyed, a little stunned, and a lot wild.
Then someone spoke, breaking her contemplation. She jumped and scanned the room for the owner of the deep voice. “Awake, finally.” Not Devin. The accent was distinctly British, but unlike Devin’s—precise, and less raspy.
She forced the surprise and uneasiness away and slowly sat up. She stretched, cat-like and rubbed her eyes with her fingers before realizing she was wearing only her bra and panties. “Sorry.” She pulled the covers up to her neck, blushing deeply.
“No worries,” the man reassured her. “You were dead asleep when you arrived. I helped Devin undress you for bed.”
“How nice,” she muttered. Then she narrowed her eyes at the man. “How did you get in here without my noticing? You’re not one of us. I can tell.”
“One of us.” The man chuckled, but he didn’t share his secret. He stepped closer to the bed and offered her a mug with steam rising from it. She smelled coffee and took the mug. Coffee was not exactly her favorite drink lately.
“Devin is preparing to leave for the evening.” The man folded his long limbs and sat down in the eyesore of a chair near the bed. Susan squinted at him. Her eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, she allowed her academy-taught observation skills to take over.
He was somewhere in his fifties, very tall and well built. He had a receding hairline, and what was left of his hair had grayed. He wore a moustache and a nicely-trimmed beard. His intelligent green eyes, framed with a fringe of long lashes, seemed too large for his narrow face. He looked like a professor, and not at all threatening.
Susan nodded, now more surprised that Devin was not in the bed next to her than concerned with this strange man. She wrapped her hands around the mug and brought it to her face. The aroma was incredible. She took a small sip, stinging her tongue. How she missed actually enjoying good coffee.
“Now, tell me,” she said. “Why are you here? Guarding me for Devin?”
“Maybe,” the man answered, smiling. “I’m John Moses.” He offered his hand.
“Quite a name to live up to,” Susan said, taking it. “I’m Susan. Now. Are you guarding me or not?”
“I suppose I am, in that I will not allow you to leave here,” John said. “But, considering the fact you have already changed, I doubt you would want to risk leaving, anyway.”
Susan took another drink of her coffee and sat up a little straighter. “If I did decide to take the risk, how do you plan to stop me?”
“You don’t want to test that,” John answered quietly.
The tone of his voice caught her off guard; perhaps her first impression was mistaken. Still, she only shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll see, I suppose.”
“Sometimes the transformation is difficult. Some people do not adjust well,” John said. “It’s later than you realize, and dusk is soon. Get dressed, and I’ll show you around. I placed your belongings in that vanity, but the clothes in the wardrobe should fit, if you prefer those.” He paused at the door then and turned to her. “But don’t try to leave, Susan. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Susan alone. She finished off her coffee, somewhat annoyed with John Moses. Who did he think he was speaking to? “I don’t want to hurt you,” she muttered. Then she hopped out of bed to dress.
***
Susan was half expecting the old wardrobe to be filled with ball gowns or loose jumpers from the fla
pper era, but instead, she found several pairs of undergarments, comfortable cargo pants, t-shirts and sweaters—much the same things in her own closet back in Reading, except everything here was black. But of course, if Devin had been her shadow for so many years, as he claimed, he should have known what she liked to wear. Relieved she did not have to impersonate Zelda Fitzgerald this morning, she pulled out a pair of the cargos, fresh panties, and a stretchy little turtleneck. Everything was exactly her size. She also found a pair of tall, lace-up boots with a soft, thick sole. They would be much warmer than the old, ratty sneakers she had worn to get here.
In the adjacent washroom, Susan relieved herself. Washing her hands afterward, she noticed that Devin had stocked the little shelf below the mirror with various toiletries and new cosmetics—amazingly accurate with her colors. Next, she examined Devin’s toiletries—his lilac shampoo and the expensive cologne that she doubted he ever wore. Deodorant.
There was a large, clawfoot tub, and she considered running a hot bath and soaking for a bit, but it would be much nicer to wait for Devin.
Finished in the bathroom, she emerged into the long hallway. There were perhaps a dozen doors along either side of the passage, like a funky 1920s apartment building. At the far end were an ornate banister and a winding set of stairs.
“John?” she called.
Her boots thunked the wood floor, echoing like dull, open-handed slaps. John appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Thought better of trying to escape, I see,” he commented lightly.
“Now is not the right time,” Susan answered, trying to conceal a small, sideways smile.
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