Bowie had Clara’s hand, dragging her as the rocks tumbled down from the cliffs above. He lost his grip, reached again, and made contact in the darkness. Daggers raked his forearm and the white noise of the deafening blast gave way to a piercing
Skeek skeek skeek.
One of them, free of the cave, or else late to Ace’s party. Its foul, blood-drenched mouth was near his ear, seeking his jugular, and beneath that corrupt odor was a soft and familiar trace of chamomile and mint.
Dove.
Except the earthiness of her scent had given way to the sepulchre stench of grave dirt. And she wanted him more fiercely than she had the previous morning. He ran his hand along her body, which was slick and nude, limbs twining against him in a mockery of their lovemaking. Any kiss she would plant now would be final. No more good-byes.
“Run!” he shouted at Clara, realizing Fate had provided him yet one more chance to fail. A stone the size of his fist bounced off the Dove-creature’s shoulder.
In the blackness and thick precipitation, Bowie couldn’t make out the creature’s face, but his mind painted it in vivid and sordid shades. And he pictured the teeth that wanted to punch their way into him and drink from the fountain of his heart.
The creature’s demonic strength pinned him back against a long, moist sheet of rock. He ran his left hand along her hips, looking for a crevice to attack. He rammed his fist between her legs but Dove was no longer a woman. He was drawing back for another blow when his fingers touched the rope coiled around its leg. He yanked the slack line, hearing a metallic clatter against stone. Thrusting his elbow under the creature’s chin, Bowie felt gray pressure rising against the back of his eyelids. He was losing consciousness.
Another shriek erupted, and Bowie thought a second creature had joined the attack. At least the end would be quick.
Instead, the Dove-creature shook, its oily, wet hair slapping against Bowie’s cheek. “Go back to Hell!” Clara screamed, banging a stone against the creature’s head.
Bowie couldn’t see Clara, but judging by the location of her voice, she had launched herself onto the creature’s back and slowed its assault. Bowie pulled the rope until his fingers felt the knot, then the piton. He rammed upward with all his strength, spearing his former lover in the gut. A viscous substance colder than the rain oozed over his fist.
He withdrew the steel spike and rammed again, this time toward the leathery lips that nipped at his cheek. The metal shattered teeth and bone.
Skeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
The thing that had loved him in human form now wailed in the agony of a second death. The talons lost their grip on Bowie and went toward the source of the wound, the sinister throat emitting a sick, deflating wind.
Bowie ran his hands along the creature’s repulsive hide until he touched Clara’s skin. He grabbed the woman and pulled her free.
“That was no angel,” Clara shouted against the downpour.
“Nobody’s perfect,” he replied.
He wrapped one arm around Clara’s slick, naked body and slid into the edge of the frothing current. The rain was so thick, he could barely tell where it ended and the river began.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Morning had never looked so beautiful.
Farrengalli peeked out of the cave at the pink clouds that rimmed the horizon. The storm had been awesome, so intense that he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear the creatures if they attacked. He’d seen the Jim Castle fucker chomp on Raintree while the Chief dangled like a squirming worm on a hook. Proof that Farrengalli had been right: Those things were vampires, goddamn it.
Too bad there was nobody around for him to gloat, “I told you so.”
Dove, the dumb babe, had tried to rescue the redskin, climbed down the rope naked, without a weapon. Castle had made munch meat out of her, too. Farrengalli wondered how long it would take them to come back to life and go looking for some spicy Italian salami.
He didn’t intend to be around long enough to find out.
He finished the last granola bar, washed it down with river water, and played the extra rope (not the one that had entangled Raintree-no, he couldn’t bear to touch that one) down the side of the cliff. He gazed out over the gorge. The flood had carved new routes in the rocks, torn trees out by their roots, pushed up beaches of fine grit. Though the rain had stopped a couple of hours before sunrise, the river was still thick and brown, a rush of mottled chocolate milk.
Farrengalli eased his way down the rope, taking care not to look at Raintree’s raw, red corpse. He imagined, or told himself he’d only imagined, the dead Chief twitching and quivering in obscene animation. He thought of retrieving the cell phone, but couldn’t summon the courage to touch the body. He accelerated his descent, burning grooves in his palms. The rope was only fifty feet long, but it enabled him to reach a craggy, less severe slope, which he then carefully navigated, expecting to come across Dove’s body at any moment.
Come across her body. Heh. My buddies will never believe I scored with a dyke.
By the time he reached the bottom, the sun was above the cliff-top trees. The storm had knocked most of the leaves off them, and their gray bones stippled the edges of the gorge.
He found the rocky stretch of shore where he’d left Castle. Should have cut off his head or something. Or put a stake through his heart. Well, live and learn.
In the forest, above the flood line, he found the backpack that held Dove’s camera. Good as gold. With her pictures, and his first-person account (sold to the highest bidder, film rights separate), Vincent Farrengalli was going to be puffing nothing but twenty-dollar Cubans for the rest of his days. Along with the occasional Grade-A Thai stick, that was.
The grab loop of the half-inflated raft had snagged on a willow sapling, and the raft bounced like a rubber ball banded to a wooden paddle. He waded into the water, wary of being exposed to the vampires- but, hell, they don’t come out in the sunshine, do they? — and brought the boat back to the shore. Travis Lane and ProVentures could be proud of the Muskrat, and he’d be sure to strike up an endorsement deal with them, assuming the offer was solid.
He sat, unscrewed the outer valve, and wrapped his lips around the stem.
Breathe in through nose, then out through mouth.
In, out.
Eyes on the prize.
He had the raft nearly to an air pressure he thought was good enough to get him to the lake when he heard them. At first, he thought they were vampires, and he lost a good dozen huffs worth of oxygen. They splashed in the shallow water, walking slowly, Bowie bare-chested, his shirt worn by the girl. It reached the tops of her thighs. Farrengalli figured, if she sat behind him, he’d get a pretty good view as they worked their way downstream.
“Hey, folks,” he said. “Some night, huh?”
Hell, he might even let her share the media coverage. Bowie would probably go back to Oregon or Saskatchawan or wherever the fuck they said he hid out. No threat there. No fight for the spotlight. So he might as well be part of the team for now.
Besides, if some vampires did come along, it probably wouldn’t be that hard to shove the suckers overboard.
The human suckers, that was.
He smiled.
It was only fucking natural.
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The Gorge Page 28