Del jumped without hesitation, aiming for the figures below, and he swung the wooden stake with all he could muster. The point struck home between jutting shoulder blades and sank deep, forcing a gust of abscessed air from the vampire’s lungs and freeing Bart from its grasp. It staggered and fell to the porch, mouthing silent curses as it groped for the shaft that transfixed its back.
Del scrambled to his brother’s side, found Bart wide-eyed and clutching his throat. “It bit me,” he stammered, over and over. “It bit me, it—”
“Get up, dammit!” Delbert cursed, pulling him toward the garden steps. “We’ve gotta move now, while it’s down, we’ve gotta—” Then he saw Bart’s eyes grow wider still, staring past his shoulder. Oh, Jesus . . . He swallowed hard, forced himself to turn and look.
Their pursuer was getting to its feet, standing, facing them. And for the first time Del noticed that he’d driven the stake clear through his target—the point even tented the front of its shabby coat. But then the glowering vampire jerked the coat open, and the boys saw with horror that the wooden shaft did not sprout from its breast as they’d hoped. Instead it jutted from the pasty flesh just below the pectoral muscle, missing the heart completely. “Good . . . try,” the thing said icily, taking hold of the stake’s point and pulling it the rest of the way through with a guttural growl. Then it held the table leg out, pointed it at Del. “You first,” it whispered, coming across the porch.
“Run, Cap!” Bart yelled, throwing himself between the two of them. But the stickman was too focused on the younger boy to pay him any heed. It simply batted him aside with the table leg, caught him just below the ear, and snapped his head around until his body had to follow. He spun across the porch and toppled down the garden steps.
Del went after him dizzily, nearly falling down the steps himself, fighting the tears from his eyes. He found Bart crumpled in the weeds like a much-abused doll. His arms and legs were akimbo. Blood flowed from his nostrils and lip. Del was frantic. Oh, jeez, what if he’s dead or hurt bad and I don’t remember how to check for a pulse even and Oh, God what am I gonna do? How did they do it on TV? He put a hand along his brother’s carotid. Oh, Lord, no . . . wait, there it is. Weak, but . . .
“Not dead,” came a hoarse voice. “Yet.”
The skeletal figure on the porch tossed the stake aside and began to descend the steps to the garden. Its stark features were twisted and feral, but there was no emotion at all in those empty, dead eyes. It pointed to him. “You,” it croaked as it came forward, and its tongue lolled obscenely. “You first.”
Del stood on numb, shaking legs and drew Bart’s chucks from his belt. He swung the sticks in a lethal figure eight. “Come and get me, asshole.”
A toothy smile. “Yes.”
It took a step. The nunchaku snapped outward like a striking cobra and crushed the bridge of its nose, leaving a divot two fingers deep. The vampire recoiled, not so much from pain as surprise. When it came forward again, Del feinted to the head and went for one bony knee, cracked it soundly, then back to the face to reform the waxy flesh over its cheekbone. Anger flashed for an instant in those empty silver eyes. It attacked again and received the same treatment, but this time it did not retreat. Del hit it and kept hitting it, three and four times running, but each blow had less effect. They dimpled the flesh and split it and cracked the bones underneath, but pain did not register in those eyes. Only emptiness. The boy was straddling Bart’s unconscious form now and could retreat no further. But still the enemy advanced. He swung out of desperation now and split the flesh over its cheekbone, separating the scar there, rupturing it so that it no longer resembled . . .
A cross?
Of course! Why didn’t he think of it before? He brought the nunchaku around to a two-handed grip and crossed them, relieved that the chain was long enough. And finally he got a reaction. The undead thing reeled away from him, wide-eyed, gasping as if scalded. Its arms rose to shield its eyes. And then . . .
Then it did something to freeze his blood.
It laughed.
It peeked from under its arms and looked at him, directly at his mighty, improvised cross, and it laughed. Madly, hysterically. “Tsk, tsk,” its dry voice grated. “Ye . . . of . . . little faith.” It continued to cackle as it grabbed the boy by the jacket collar and lifted him off the ground.
And then the laughter suddenly faded.
It lowered Del back to the ground, for the moment ignoring him. It was looking away, over his shoulder, across the gardens and drive. Toward the woods.
The boy twisted around to follow its gaze.
There was a figure standing there in the moonlight, in swirls of midnight fog. Watching. The man was still some distance away, so his features were no more than a charcoal smudge. He was stoic and silent, a shadow in a long coat and floppy brimmed hat. Unmoving.
The vampire grinned at the prospect of a larger meal, but the expression became uncertain. “Who . . .” it cleared its raspy throat. “Who are you?”
The shadow man did not move nor answer.
The ghoul appeared unnerved, if any emotion at all could be read from such a face. Del’s thoughts echoed its own. An enemy? Competition, perhaps? It must have decided on the latter, for it hoisted the boy aloft once more, feet dangling in the air, and pronounced, “Mine! Mine!”
Still no response.
“Who are you!”
The stranger finally moved. His right arm, hidden until now by the angle of his stance, brushed aside the flap of his coat and raised a stubby rifle. Del heard the bolt slam forward. He also heard a faint click, and saw a small red eye blink to life just above the barrel.
Del knew a laser sight when he saw one.
The fog illuminated the pencil-thin beam of redness as it lanced across the drive and gardens and over Del’s shoulder, widening imperceptively as it went. The boy looked back to see a nickel-sized red dot dancing between the vampire’s silver eyes.
There was a muffled burping sound from across the yard, short and stuttering.
Del heard the bullets whir past his ear like a swarm of angry bees and then the smack as they hit home. The vampire stumbled backward. Del fell to the ground beside his brother and stayed there, well out of the line of fire. He looked back as the vampire stumbled about near the garden steps, disoriented. A large section of its brow and left eye socket were now gone. There was no blood. The only redness there was that of the dancing dot, still zigzagging across a face that the creature was too stunned to cover up.
“Shoot!” Del cried. “Blow its fuckin’ head off!!”
The machine gun burped again, and the vampire’s face all but ceased to exist.
Each round slammed home with deadly efficiency, jolting the thing backward a step or two, sending bone shards and tissue spinning into the air like confetti. Its left cheekbone and eye disappeared completely and part of the jaw with them before the dot strayed to the other side of its face and spread the destruction there as well. There was still no blood; it was like shooting animated clay. It stumbled on the garden steps and fell and the laser followed, ignoring the hands that tried to fend it off. Another burst tore through its raised right talon and continued the devastation on the face beyond. “Who are you!” it cried again before its lips were torn away and its sharp, yellow teeth scattered across the steps. It wailed and gagged on pieces of itself as it tried to escape, fumbling and feeling its way out of the gardens and then along the side of the house.
The gunman had crossed the drive turnaround and was now standing at the edge of the garden, still firing at the fleeing figure. The red dot danced along its right leg and the accompanying burst ripped open the calf muscle and destroyed the knee joint above it, spilling the vampire onto its face but still not stopping it. It just scrabbled onward on all fours, a crab in the crabgrass, moving blindly toward the sanctuary of the woods.
The stocky man in th
e long coat paused there to pull the jungle clip from his rifle and flip it to the charged end. He then detached a plastic box from the ejection port and dumped the spent brass into his coat pocket. His eyes never left the escaping target. “Go after it,” Del snapped. “Go after it, for God’s sake!”
The bearded stranger barely granted him a glance. “I’ve already taken care of him,” he said, then whispered over his shoulder, “It wasn’t him, was it?”
Another voice sounded, deeper, huskier, but Del couldn’t tell from where. “Not the Enemy,” it said anxiously. “Hurry, check the house.” The stranger nodded and stepped past Del, and for an instant the boy thought he had left his shadow behind on the tramped down grass. But then a cloud crossed the moon and the shadow was gone.
The man knelt beside Bart and checked his pulse, then inspected the puncture wounds on his neck. “Missed the artery,” he observed, wiping the trickle of blood from the bite. “He’ll be all right.” He motioned for Del to come closer. “Are you okay?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“Have you ever shot a rifle?”
“Just a twenty-two.”
“Good enough.” He worked the bolt and laid the machine gun in the boy’s hands. “If you see anyone but me, put that light in the middle of their face. If they don’t stop, just squeeze the trigger. Okay?” He brushed back his coat and drew two pistols, each a stainless steel semi-auto sporting an extended twenty-shot magazine and a miniature flashlight mounted to the frame. “Stay here,” he warned. “Don’t go near the house.”
Like a gunman from the Old West with duster billowing and six-shooters at the ready, the stranger stalked onto the porch and through the ruined French doors, into the shadowy bowels of Danner House.
Del stood silently in the garden with his brother, cradling a machine gun in his arms and wanting to ask, who was that masked man?
Stiles stood in the cellar before the ruined wall and its exposed cell, pistols at his sides, and he wept. Not for the cell’s prisoner, the thing he’d blown the shit out of in the gardens above. It deserved whatever it got.
Instead, he wept because of the cell. Because it was too small, too shallow. Because there was only enough room for one person inside, only one set of broken shackles. One entity, one evil. And it hadn’t been the Enemy.
Again.
He slumped against the wall and slid onto his butt, feeling the fatigue wash over him and the tears burning his cheeks. He swept the cellar with his flashlight, but was no longer looking for monsters. Now he would’ve settled for a familiar shadow, the grumble of an accustomed voice, even an insincere “You tried, Hoss.” But he already knew he was alone. His brother had gone, and an air of bitterness was all he’d left behind.
Chapter Five
Stiles retrieved the boys’ gear from the cloakroom and stalked back through Danner House with a quick, determined stride. But his movements were no longer as cautious or focused as before. The hunt was over once again: still no Enemy. So the adrenaline rush that drove him, that kept him on a razor’s edge, was fading, leaving him weary and disgusted and haunted by thoughts of Alex. He rationalized that it wasn’t his fault, just as he’d always done in the past. Alex led you here. It was Alex’s job to find the evil. It’s his failure, not yours. But none of the excuses could assuage his guilt or make the hurt go away.
His mind was still preoccupied with his brother as he stepped through the doorway to the garden, so he didn’t notice the quivering red dot that suddenly appeared on his chest. It was only a split second later, when the laser touched a wisp of fog between the porch and garden and became visible, that the realization jolted him. He barely had time to drop his burden and dive back through the doorway as the H & K’s sputtering report rolled across the clearing like muffled thunder. Three rounds tore into the doorjamb just above Stiles’s head, while the rest of the volley sizzled past him and stitched a ragged pattern on the nearest wall. “Whoa, kid, waitaminute,” he called. “It’s me!”
“Oh, lordy. I’m sorry,” came an adolescent voice, cracking with fear. Stiles dared to peek around the doorjamb and found the two boys still in the garden where he’d left them. The older one had regained consciousness and was propped on an elbow, feeling at the wound in his neck, while the younger kneeled beside him and still held the machine gun at his shoulder. When he saw Stiles’s face he gave a nervous smile and finally lowered the muzzle. “I, uh, didn’t know, you know, that it was you, and I, uh . . . sorry.”
“Never mind,” Stiles sighed as he stepped back onto the porch. “You only did what I told you to. I should have yelled first.” He picked up the sleeping bags and backpacks, carried them down, and piled them at the foot of the garden steps. Then he took the machine gun from the boy’s trembling hands, flipped the safety, and slung the weapon over his shoulder on a nylon strap.
“Why’d you let that fucker get away, huh?” Del wanted to know. “What was so important about getting into the house?”
Stiles knew better than to try explaining. “Nothing. Just being careful.”
“I coulda told you there weren’t any other vampires in there. At least we didn’t see any. Just that one. Hell, you shouldn’t’a even bothered with the house. You should’ve just nailed that sonuvabitch when you had the chance.”
Stiles almost snapped at the boy—he didn’t need reminding of his own impatience—but he caught himself. Del was just letting his fear talk; it was either that or give in to the tears that he was barely holding back. “You’re right, kid,” Stiles admitted, though his casualness, his lack of alarm seemed to calm the boy somewhat. “I should have destroyed him when I had the chance. But I did tear him up pretty good, and that’s the next best thing. I don’t think he’ll be bothering anyone again.”
Del was still apprehensive. “How can you be so sure?”
“Trust me,” Stiles said and managed a slight smile. “I’ve been in this situation before. Now, what’s your name?”
“I’m Del,” the boy told him, “and that’s Bart.”
“Nice to meet you,” Stiles said. Then he turned his attention to the red-haired teen, who was not only conscious but had finally managed to sit up straight. Bart’s jaw was already dark and starting to swell where he’d been struck, and he kept a hand clamped over his throat. “How’re you doing?” the soldier asked him.
“I’ve been bit, that’s how I’m doing,” Bart snapped irritably. His voice was anxious, almost panicked. “Jeez, what’s gonna happen to me now, huh? I mean, how bad is it, or—”
“Just calm down,” said the soldier, prying the boy’s hand away from his throat to reveal the bite mark. Bart tensed; he expected a gasp of horror, maybe a sigh of futility. “Like I said before,” Stiles shrugged. “It’s not too deep, and he missed the artery. You’ll be fine.”
“But what about aftereffects? Dammit, what’s gonna happen to me!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “Take my word for it, you’re gonna be okay. Right now, let’s concentrate on getting you two out of here.” He pulled the young man to his feet. “You think you can walk?”
Bart forced a weak grin. “Don’t worry about me, Rambo. I can run if I have to.”
“Good. My van’s parked not far from here, about a mile past the front gate, around the bend in the road. You two stay close to me and—”
“You mean through the woods?” Del interrupted. His eyes were wide and incredulous. “But . . . but that’s where the thing went. It crawled into the woods.”
“Not in the same place,” Stiles assured him. “Besides, he’s in no condition to give us any trouble. Just stay close to me and you’ll be all right.”
“Nuh uh, no way. I ain’t going nowhere near there. No way.”
“Suit yourself,” the soldier shrugged. Then he turned and walked away.
Bart and Del exchanged looks. Then the older boy
grabbed up their bags, pushed one into Del’s hands, seized him by the collar, and started walking him across the garden. “Hey, Rambo,” he called, “Wait up, will ya?”
Stiles slowed enough for them to fall in behind him. The younger boy was silent, obviously terrified. “Just stay close,” Stiles whispered. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”
The boy nodded but said nothing. He just took a good hold on Bart’s back pocket, and Bart in turn grabbed the tail of Stiles’s long coat. “You don’t mind, do you, Rambo?”
The soldier pulled a flashlight from his belt. “What I do mind is that name,” he said softly. “It’s Stiles. Chris if you have to. Screw it up again and you’ll get four C-cells up your ass. Got it?” The teenager managed a feeble grin and said nothing. Stiles flicked on the light, unslung the H & K and towed his charges toward the woods.
A lump started to form in the back of the soldier’s throat as they neared the leafy wall of shadows. It had the familiar bitter taste of fear, and he couldn’t understand its presence. There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. The vampire is helpless now; it hasn’t any eyes to see with or mouth to bite with or even a knee joint to support it. It’s slithering around out there like a slug in the dirt, more interested in a place to hide than any victims it might crawl across. It’s helpless. But it was no use. All the rationalizing in the world couldn’t ease the tension in his muscles or the knot of apprehension in his gut. Perhaps it was for the better. Being afraid put him back on guard again. It brought back that rush of adrenaline, chased away the fatigue, focused his concentration, sharpened his senses. It also brought back memories. For a minute, it was like old times again, walking point, back in the jungle.
Almost.
“Wait a minute. I heard something.”
“You always hear something, Cap. I’ll tell you, Ram . . . er, Mr. Stiles, you should’ve heard him on the way in here—”
“No, I did hear something. Footsteps. It sounded like footsteps in the leaves.”
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