Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  “The what?” Billie gaped. “Young man, you should know better than that. That place is falling apart. You could have been hurt, both of you—”

  “Would you just let me finish?” he snapped. He glanced back at Stiles, rolled his eyes, and sighed, “Adults!” as if the man wasn’t included in that group. Then he continued with his story. “So we jumped the gate and got to the house and everything’s cool. We put down our bags and ate some sandwiches and then we go poking around the house. That’s when the shit hit the fan.”

  Bean listened intently. “What did you find?”

  “Well, down in the basement there’s this . . . this thing, fighting to get out from behind one of the walls. It grabbed me here,” he pointed to his still-swollen wrist, “and I thought, Jeez, I’m never getting away from this joker, he’s so strong. You ain’t never felt anything like this, it’s superhuman.”

  “PCP,” Bean said matter-of-factly.

  “This ain’t T. J. Hooker, Charlie,” Bart sounded annoyed. “You want to hear this story or not? Anyway, Del helped me get away from him—it—whatever—but here it comes after us, tearing apart the wall to do it. We tried to get away and get outta there but it cornered us outside and forced us back into the house. That’s when we got a really good look at it. At him. It was Sebastian Danner.”

  The woman and deputy looked at one another. “A ghost?”

  “A vampire.”

  Billie just stared at them but Bean couldn’t hide his exasperation. He rubbed a hand through his hair and gave the boys his best “you’ve-been-speeding” glare. “Cut the crap, you guys. What really happened?”

  Bart was indignant. “This is the God’s honest truth! Why would I make up something so stupid and unbelievable? Cut me some slack, Charlie! That . . . that thing, Danner, he nearly killed me and Del. Hell, look at me. My jaw, my wrist . . . I’m a mess. Where do you think I got these gashes in my neck?”

  “You said you got poked with a stick fighting those—”

  “I lied, okay? That damned thing bit me. If it wasn’t for Chris, we’d be dead, period.”

  Bean looked to Stiles. “So this is where you come in?”

  Del leaped to his defense. “You bet. Danner knocked Bart out and had me by the throat when Chris came in and blasted him. Ba-ba-ba-ba-bam! Danner’s face just blew up, I swear.” Some of the horror came back to him then, and the excitement drained from his voice. He edged away from his mother and closer to Stiles’s seat and kept looking to the hallway that led to the back door. “Danner kinda stumbled away and we lost him in the woods. I wanted to go back and kill him for sure but Chris said that he was the expert and knew how to handle it.”

  Bean’s eyebrows arched. “Expert?”

  “Sure,” the boy nodded. “He’s fought all kinds of monsters, vampires too, I don’t know how many times. Right, Chris?”

  The deputy smirked. “Is that right, Chris? And how many of the big bad vampires have you fought?”

  The stranger’s eyes furrowed as he stood, and Bean stepped back, thinking he’d just screwed up and pushed the psycho a bit too far. But Stiles pointed only a finger at him. “You stick your sarcasm up your ass, buddy. I’m trying to help you here, not the other way around. This town and you people are in danger. The boys who were with Del and Bart the other night? They came back later, after we were gone. They tried to get to the house but, once they were in the woods, they came across Danner first.” He looked at the boys sympathetically. “I found their bodies yesterday afternoon.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Bart whispered. Del started to cry again, and Billie held out her arms to both of them.

  “Charlie?” she asked. “Is it true?”

  “He didn’t see the bodies,” Stiles admitted before the deputy could answer. “I’d been staking them out since last night but because of Charlie’s interference, they got away.”

  Del shivered. “Got away? They’re vampires too?”

  Chris nodded. “That was probably them in the backyard. One was on the porch, another just to the side. I found the prints. The third was playing on that tire swing by the fence.”

  “Why didn’t they just break in?” Bart started, then answered himself by remembering, “They have to be invited in, don’t they?”

  Stiles nodded.

  Billie kept her eyes on Bean. “Is it true?” she repeated.

  “I never saw any bodies.”

  She met Stiles’s gaze. Even in the brief instant of contact he found in her eyes not what he wanted—belief, faith, a modicum of trust. Instead he found only what he’d come to expect over the years. Skepticism. Anger. Mostly fear.

  “At least believe your children,” he begged her. “For their sake.”

  “Chris . . . Mr. Stiles . . . I think you’d better go.”

  “Billie, I . . .”

  She hugged her boys close, despite their protests. “I don’t know what games you’re playing and I don’t know what influence you’ve got over my children. I’m not sure I want to know. But I do think you should leave.” She wiped her eyes. “Now, please.” She saw the pain in his gaze and turned away. “Charlie? Get him away from us.”

  “Mom, listen to him!” Del cried, but Billie wasn’t listening.

  The deputy took a hesitant step toward the soldier. “Mr. Stiles? If you’re about ready—”

  “Just a minute.” He went over to Billie and the boys and kneeled down in front of them. “Listen to me, just for a second.” He pulled her chin around to face him. “So I’m a nut, or a serial killer, or whatever you want. Hell, I don’t care. Just do me one favor. Leave town. Just pack up a few things and get out, all of you. Take Charlie if he’ll go. Just stay away from Isherwood. Please.” He reached for her hand.

  She pulled away.

  “This is my home,” she told him. “Our home, our neighbors, our friends. And I’ll not pack up and leave it just because some . . . some stranger tells me the sky is falling . . . or that there are monsters around.” She looked away, and her voice softened. “Just . . . just leave, Chris. Please.”

  He stood soberly, resignation masking whatever emotions he felt. “Suit yourself.” He turned and walked toward the door with the deputy in tow but paused just before leaving. “Boys,” he said to Del and Bart. “Try to change her mind. And soon. By the end of the week, Isherwood will be a ghost town.” Then he was gone.

  The two men got into Bean’s car and sat for a few minutes, silent, each wondering what the next move should be. “Are you gonna give us any trouble, Mr. Stiles?” Bean finally asked. “ ’Cause I’ve got a feeling you could do a heap of it if you set your mind to it.”

  Stiles shook his head. “Nope. I tried to help but fuck it. I’m out of here tonight.” He reached over and started the motor for him. “Take me back to my van,” he said.

  They rode the distance to Sykes Road in silence. Neither spoke until the squad car was parked once again on the shoulder near the culvert.

  “There’s blood back there in the woods,” Stiles said, his tone dull, resigned. “And there’s always Danner’s basement wall. But I don’t suppose you’d want to go look.” He saw Bean’s pained expression, saw him rub his eyes and check his watch. He nodded. “I didn’t think so. Tell me, Charlie. Just what am I? A crazed vet still fighting the war? A tormented soul begging for attention? A psychopath fighting his own demons? Come on, I want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you just what you are,” Bean said flatly. “You’re a problem I can do without. S’funny, I’ve always dreamed of a little action in this neck of the woods, a little oomph, you know? Guess there’s a little Barney Fife in me after all. But you . . . I hate to say it, Mr. Stiles, but you scare the holy hell out of me. And I don’t like that.” He leaned over the soldier, slowly so as not to look like he was going for his gun, and pushed open the passenger door. “Go on, get out. And don’t make me regret this. I don�
��t want to pick up the Bedford paper and find out you’ve shot up a grocery store or something.” He held out his hand. “Can I have my gun back?”

  Stiles took the Ruger out of his belt. “Promise me time, Charlie. To go back to town and get my stuff. Then I’m gone and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  Bean nodded. “Sounds fine to me.”

  He put the revolver in the deputy’s hand and walked back through the trees to the van. A cursory search told him it was secure. Bean was still waiting when he pulled out onto the road. The squad car followed him all the way back to town and even into the all-but-empty motel parking lot, staying right on his tail the whole time. Stiles got out, fuming, walked over and leaned in the cruiser’s window. “I thought we had a deal,” he said, irritated. “I trust you, you trust me. Remember?”

  “I’m not giving you no trouble,” Bean said. “Yet. I just want to make sure you get out of town.”

  Stiles’s tone was clipped and full of warning. “Get off my ass, Charlie. I said I was going.” He leaned in closer, enough that the deputy could feel his breath, and he grinned. “You don’t want to get the psycho mad, do you?”

  Bean glared back, but his confidence was shot and he quickly looked away. It wasn’t that he was weak or afraid; in fact, he was short on neither strength nor courage. But he was fiercely practical, and the idea of starting a battle with this man served no logical purpose, except, perhaps, for a death wish. His face still smarted from that kick earlier, the one he never even saw coming, the one that hit him harder than he could remember ever being hit, with or without a weapon. Because that’s what Stiles was, basically. A weapon. Bean hadn’t seen it in town when they’d first met—Stiles had been hiding it then—but now he could tell, just by the way the man walked and moved and breathed. He was like those lions that Jim and Marlin chased across the veldt for Wild Kingdom every Saturday in syndication. Superior and strong. A born hunter. A killer.

  Bean was a practical man. And he knew when to back away. “Till morning,” he said, retaining his composure and hoping it sounded like a threat. He put the car in reverse and started to pull out when Stiles reached in and caught his arm.

  “A little advice,” the soldier offered, “on the house. In the middle of the night, if someone comes to your door or taps at the window, whatever you do, don’t invite them in.”

  Bean glared. “Vampires again?”

  “No matter who it is,” he continued. “They can’t enter unless you let them in. Remember that.” He patted the deputy’s shoulder and smiled. “Goodbye, Charlie. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  Charlie Bean left the motel and headed back to the office, where he would go off duty and take the near-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his desk drawer and get as shit-faced drunk as he could. Because tomorrow he would have to come back here to make sure this nut was gone. And there was always the chance that he wouldn’t be.

  Stiles stood alone in the parking lot and closed his eyes and wished that he’d been dreaming all of this, that when he opened them again he would be back at the culvert and Larry Hovi would still be rigid and ever waving and he would still have a semblance of control over the situation. But as it stood there was now a virulent affliction afoot with not one but four vectors running rampant. He wanted to run door to door and yell at them—Hey, you fools, wake up! You’re in danger!—but he knew the reaction he would receive. Charlie and Billie had been effective examples of that already.

  Billie, he thought with dismay. She’d been so quick to condemn, even with her children defending his veracity. It was over once that label had clicked into place. Vietnam vet. In fact he’d been amazed at her acceptance of it the day before. But let the least idiosyncracy show itself, the smallest glitch in his character or behavior and suddenly he wasn’t a man anymore. He was TV’s villain of the week, the poor, disturbed crazy-as-a-loon veteran, a shell-shocked loser whose hash-hazed mind couldn’t distinguish between present day and 1968. He could even evoke sympathy if he weren’t so busy looking for someplace to explode.

  He was disappointed. He’d expected more from her.

  Maybe your expectations were just too high, his conscience reckoned. You’ve got a lot of room to talk. Look at yourself. The Uzi, the pistols in your shoulder holsters, the bali-song in its belt sheath. Don’t sound so self-righteous. If anything, you propagate that myth as much as Rambo ever did, if not more. Just how did you expect her to react?

  He couldn’t deny it. He considered going back to explain, but just as quickly he laughed at the idea. She’d have you locked up, idiot. You heard her earlier, saw the accusation in her eyes. She came that close to saying you beat up, even molested her sons. It was just a germ of suspicion but the only rational excuse to explain her boys’ condition and behavior. If she sees you again, that germ could fester into a full fledged warrant for your arrest.

  Get out of town. It’s your only option.

  But he knew that wasn’t an option at all. He would have to play his leaving-town-in-the-morning act carefully; Charlie Bean was not stupid. But he would stay within reach, along the fringes of Isherwood, and he would get word to Del and Bart not to worry, that they had a guardian angel watching over them and their mom. And then he would wait for the dying to begin. It was inevitable; sooner or later others would fall victim. Isherwood would finally acknowledge its plight and welcome his aid openly.

  He hoped that was soon. Before the infected cadavers began spreading their thirst beyond the city limits.

  The thought gave him a chill—Indiana crawling with the undead—and he expected to have a full-blown nightmare on the subject later, but by the time he got the key into the lock and shambled into the dark motel room, he knew he was too tired to dream of anything. The room helped too. The heater had kicked off or failed to come on at all and the chill of the air made him long for the warmth of bed. Billie fluttered through his mind in association but even that failed to fully arouse him. Only the total limbo of slumber could soothe him now.

  He flicked the wall switch and the two lamps on either side of the wall mirror popped to life, though he almost had to light a match to see if they were lit. The bulbs were cheap and barely illuminated the room’s sparse furnishings. He punched the TV with his elbow. There was a war movie on somewhere behind the curtain of snow but he was unable to find it and cared to even less. He threw his Uzi and holsters on one of the single beds and draped his shirt over the back of a recliner and leaned across the chair to flick on the hanging lamp over the table. Just then the heater decided to come to life and blow a puff of warm air against the side of his face and neck.

  He caught the smell of that warm gust and found it nauseatingly foul, like a roomful of bad eggs, and wondered in that same split second how anyone’s breath could possibly be so bad.

  Breath. Not the heater. His fatigued senses finally registered the presence in the chair.

  Stiles grabbed for the only weapon within reach, the bali-song on his belt, and a flick of the wrist had the knife out of its case and snapped open. But powerful hands caught him and physically flung him the length of the room. He sailed over the beds and hit the wall with an audible crunch. His head left a melon-sized crater in the woodgrain paneling.

  Fireflies danced before his eyes in sync with the sound of big guns on the television. He floundered on the carpeting, disoriented but desperate to regain his footing before the attack continued. But it did not. There was only John Wayne on TV, leading his men onto the beach.

  He lunged for the lamp on the bedstand and slammed into it, knocking the vibrate-a-bed machine and his alarm clock onto the floor and spilling the lamp onto the bed. It flashed to life and floodlit the other side of the room.

  The intruder was still sitting in the chair, one leg crossed casually over the other. It was just a kid, Stiles thought at first glance. Early twenties, with short blonde hair and a stern, mid-western face and eyes shadowed bene
ath a heavy brow. But then he noticed the clothes. They were the same tattered coat and torn trousers, the same dried and cracking boots. No, it can’t be. The soldier studied the face again. This time he saw the cross-shaped scar on the cheek. This time he saw the eyes. The cold, the black-within-black emptiness. His jaw went slack. It was Danner’s face, the one from the ancient newspaper photo, youthful and vigorous and full of life if not for the stricken pallor. Only the cheeks held color. He had fed recently.

  “How . . .” Stiles stammered, unable to believe his eyes. How could he change, how could he regenerate an entire face? But how he’d done it was now academic. He quickly changed his tact. “Get out!” he ordered, his eyes already searching for the knife he’d dropped or the Uzi and pistols that had fallen from the bed. Anything he could use to fight.

  Danner smiled. His movements were still jerky, but he managed to spin a keyring around one long-nailed finger. “The owner was most helpful,” he said, and his voice raised the hackles on Stiles’s neck. “It’s his invitation that counts, you know?” The smile turned to a thin grimace. “You will regret what you did to me, Mr. Stiles. You will curse the day you were even born.” He stood with stuttering movements, insectlike, and stalked forward. His foot brushed the Uzi on the floor and knocked it spinning under the bed.

  “Then come on, big mouth.” Stiles dropped into a ready stance, muscles bunched like coiled springs. “C’mon, you fucking pussy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Danner snarled, his reformed mouth flexing into a startling display of overlarge incisors. He reached for Stiles blithely, unconcerned by what this unarmed man could do, intent only on reaching that muscular throat . . .

  Stiles stepped into the attack and drove a punishing front kick past those groping limbs, growling with satisfaction at the sound of breaking ribs. The vampire staggered back a step or two, but the soldier wasted no time. He spun to the right, his leg arcing around to dig a heel into the creature’s jaw, then reversed himself and landed a similar kick to the other side of its face. He pressed his attack like a berserker, bellowing in rage as he pummeled the foe again and again with a barrage of reverse punches and ridge hand blows and two successive backfists that spun the vampire like a top. Danner tried to grab him, but his hands found only empty air as Stiles ducked beneath them and broke one of his elbows, then came up from his crouch and drove both palms into the vampire’s chin. Vertebrae crackled as Danner’s head pitched backward, stemless, then lolled forward onto his chest at an impossible angle. But he still didn’t fall.