Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  Stiles’s peripheral vision told him that he’d fought within reach of the Heckler & Koch on the desktop. He ended his flurry with a battering side kick that exploded into the fiend’s chest, collapsing it like a dented car fender and throwing him all the way to the front of the room. Stiles instantly dove for the rifle and snapped off the safety even as he whirled.

  His wrist froze in midair, caught in an icy vise of a grip that grated the bones together and shook the gun from his numbed grasp. Danner was somehow standing right in front of him, a hairsbreadth away, and Stiles would certainly have felt that rancid breath in his face had the vampire’s head not been jackknifed onto his chest like a hanging bag. But Danner was watching him. He was looking up from the corners of his eyes, totally coherent.

  And he was grinning.

  Danner’s other arm, shattered at the elbow and hanging limp, proved still operable after all. It suddenly seized Stiles by the crotch in a merciless grip.

  The pain rolled up through Stiles in a wave, engulfing every-thing in its path, cutting off his breath, blacking his vision. His arms and legs went numb. A scream tried to reach his lips but was drowned by the rising bile in his throat. For the few seconds that he was still conscious, it felt like his pubic bone would go through the roof of his mouth. Then the wave engulfed him totally, and there was only the merciful darkness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Isherwood did not sleep well. The nightmares began just before midnight.

  On Cayuga Avenue there was an anxious tapping on a windowpane. Ten-year-old Nate Haskell awoke and reached for his glasses on the nightstand, only to find familiar faces pressed against the window. He could hardly believe it; there was Joey Lipp and Freddy Felder and the Yeager twins, and Andrea Hart was with them, too. Andrea Hart, who was about as hot as a ten-year-old could get, bar none. She even had tits, or at least the starter kit. To Nate she was a goddess. Hell, they were all special—each one a member of the fifth-grade elite, and not one of them had ever deigned to give him the time of day.

  No, that wasn’t true. Andrea had said thank you once when he gave her butts in the lunch line, and Freddy had called him a fat-nerd-four-eyes-dipshit once last year on the playground. But nothing since.

  So what were they doing here?

  “C’mon, Nate,” Joey whispered urgently, looking back to make sure the lights didn’t come on in the other window further along. “Let us in. We gotta . . . talk to ya ’bout something.”

  “Yeah, talk,” the Yeagers, boy and girl, both giggled.

  “About what?” he asked. “Can’t this wait till school tomorrow?”

  “No, it can’t wait,” Freddy sneered, showing a momentary flash of anger and teeth. Andrea swatted him and his smiling, friendly face returned.

  Turn it off, Freddy, Nate wanted to say. I’ve never liked you anyway.

  “Nathan,” Andrea said lyrically, brushing up against the window so that the budding breasts beneath her sweater flattened out and looked larger. It was a cloying caricature of adulthood. “We just want you to be in our club, that’s all.”

  “Right,” Joey said over her shoulder. “A club. You can be one of us.”

  Nate brightened behind his too-thick glasses and looked at Joey with amazement, but not for too long. His eyes couldn’t stray far from Andrea. “You want me to be . . . one of you? C’mon, you guys, what’s the catch? You want me to do your homework or what?”

  “No catch,” Andrea cooed. “We just want to be . . . friends. We can make you just like us.”

  “Just like us,” said the Yeagers, in perfect unison.

  Joey pressed his face to the glass. “What do they call you at school, Nate?”

  The chubby boy hung his head and said nothing.

  “Do they call you fatso?”

  “Do they call you four-eyes?”

  Freddy laughed. “Nerd? Pigshit? Brainiac? Lard-ass?”

  “Yes!” Nate hissed. His eyes were watery, and a few tears had begun a slow slide down his pudgy cheeks.

  “Nate,” Andrea whispered, “you don’t have to take it. Never again.”

  “I don’t?”

  Joey looked feral in his glee. “None of it. No one’ll ever call you that again. You’ll be one of us. You’ll be a big shot.”

  “Open up, Nathan,” Andrea smiled. “Let us in. Don’t you like us?”

  “I like you, Andrea . . .”

  “You know,” she said, pouting adolescent lips, “I never did thank you for letting me in line that one time. Remember? I mean really thank you. Let me in, Natey. I’ll give you a little kiss.”

  “Let us in,” Joey urged impatiently. “We’re buddies, aren’t we?”

  Nathan Haskell felt a tingling at the back of his neck, the warning that they were out too late, that their skins were too white, that they somehow clung to his second-floor window with no ledge to support them. It was a trick, he thought, all a trick. They were trying to make him out to be a fool, making fun of him. But their offer . . .

  Andrea wouldn’t lie to me. The others might, but not Andrea.

  He went to the window. “You can come in, Andrea,” he said as he slid up the sash and loosened the screen. “But only Andrea. I’m not sure I can trust you guys.”

  The rest of the children hissed angrily and dropped away from the window. Andrea Hart smiled and took Nate’s hand and climbed into his room.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Andrea?”

  “Never,” she cooed, and came toward him. Nate welcomed her with open arms.

  His parents didn’t have the same choice.

  She was in the house for almost two hours, and when she finally left she used the front door. The other children were waiting on the porch, brooding and hungry. Andrea calmed them with a smile and let a few of them lick her fingertips and chin. Then she took the rolled-up elementary-school yearbook from her jacket pocket and used a Magic Marker to cross out another face in it, this one pudgy and wearing thick glasses. There were more faces to go. Three whole pages of them.

  The others nodded and licked their lips anxiously.

  A few streets over, on Ritter, Frank Sipes was just getting home. He was on foot, which was not so unusual. He often left his car at the tavern. He sauntered up the steps, surprisingly staggerless, and rang the doorbell.

  A pinched face peered through the glass, then the door opened a crack, the farthest the chain would allow. “Decided to come home early for a change,” Irene Sipes observed, hiding her surprise at his appearance. She was a frail but threatening woman on first glance, with a wide forehead and eyebrows that grew together in the middle. Frank’s drinking became surprisingly understandable in her presence.

  “In the mood for pitching a little woo?” Frank asked slyly and held out a handful of flowers he’d picked.

  Irene yawned. “Whose trash did you get those out of?”

  “What a darling sense of humor,” he chuckled, pushing at the door. The chain popped and hung loose. The door swung open. But Frank stayed outside. “May I come in?”

  She looked from the busted lock to Frank and back again. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Nope,” he said, holding out a hand. It did not tremble. “See? Not a drop.” He held out the flowers again. “For you, my love.”

  Irene looked into the deep redness of the roses and then into her husband’s eyes and in the latter she thought she saw the spark that inebriation had extinguished long ago. The hunger. She blushed. “Come on then,” she said, taking the flowers in her arms and pushing at her hair as if it could be kneaded into a more becoming style. She loosened the belt on her flannel robe as she mounted the stairs. “Give me a minute to freshen up, then . . .” She giggled and rushed up the steps. At the top she called back, “Frankie, are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

  “Not yet,” he grinned, starting up the sta
irs after her.

  There were several cars parked at the Tunnel, despite the chill in the air. A new kind of game was being played. Every few minutes or so the passenger doors would swing open in unison and teenage boys and girls, giggling mischievously, would run past each other and switch cars. The doors would slam and there would be quiet for a while, then the change would take place again.

  It wasn’t that the morals of the young in Isherwood had deteriorated to partner swapping.

  It was more like a buffet.

  Bean had to concentrate before he could realize that the ringing wasn’t inside his head. It was the phone hidden amid the pile of dirty clothes that Susie hadn’t been around to pick up.

  He stood and stretched tiredly and didn’t realize the countless shots of Mr. Jack’s Old No. 7 had had any effect until he took a step and found his legs now jointless and made of rubber. He crumpled to the carpet and floundered there, having to crawl hand over hand to reach the phone. He finally managed to pluck the handset from its cradle on his third try. “Su . . . Susie?” he slurred hopefully.

  The voice at the other end was a deep baritone. “No, it’s me, Charlie. Ron, over at county. You okay?”

  Bean sat up and wiped at his face as if to uncover a patch of sobriety that lay hidden beneath his slack expression. “No, I’m fine. Just caught me nappin’s all.”

  “Ooh, sorry about that.”

  “ ’S okay. What can I do ya for?”

  The voice sighed. “We’ve been getting a few calls tonight from over your way.”

  Bean thought for a moment, trying to remember why that should sound so familiar. “Wait a minute . . . let me guess. This time of year—”

  “Yep. Mrs. Conder. The kids are bothering her again, probably soaping her windows or corning. Happens every year this time. We send a car and they’re long gone before we get halfway there.”

  “She’s an old woman,” Bean offered as an excuse. “She scares easy.”

  “I can understand that,” Ron said, “it being this close to Halloween and all. My mom’s the same way. Trouble is, we’ve had some flu going around and I really can’t spare the manpower tonight. So I was wondering if maybe you’d check this one out. I hate to bother you after hours, but I thought you’d be up watching TV or something.”

  Normally Bean would’ve let him simmer a while before agreeing, and not without a good speech about dereliction of duty and plumb laziness. But tonight his brain cells were too steeped to answer anything but yes or no. He said yes, not realizing he had saved a county officer’s life.

  “I appreciate it, Charlie. And I owe you one.”

  Bean hung up and staggered across the room to where he’d shed his pants and holster and began to redress himself. He was feeling a little better; maybe he could make it out there to the trailer court, just to check things out.

  He inhaled deeply to get his pants snapped and that’s when the room started to spin. He stumbled back and fell across the hassock and felt his stomach begin to roll. You’re gonna puke, he assured himself, unless you pass out first. Which is it gonna be?

  Bean hated to puke. So he relaxed and let himself black out and never realized that, by doing so, he’d saved a second life tonight. His own.

  At least for a little while.

  Rusty Sanders turned up Hank Williams, Jr. on the squad car’s radio as he veered onto the Nevermore’s main drive. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview and had to laugh at the stupid grin of expectation he found. “Tonight’s the night, bucko,” he said, slicking his hair with a little spit on the palm. He was off duty tonight and dressed to the teeth, with his snakeskin cowboy boots and his tightest jeans and the thick trucker’s wallet in his back pocket, its chain dangling from his belt. His Aqua Velva was strong and his breath sang of Lavoris. What a killer, he thought. Was she lucky or what?

  He drove all the way to the back as usual, past the rest of the darkened trailers, past Mrs. Conder’s Hollypark where the front door stood wide open to a dread and lifeless silence. He didn’t notice the shadowy figures in the glow of the dim security lights, scurrying from yard to yard. He was too preoccupied. He pulled the cruiser into the ruts worn alongside Georgetta’s mobile home. “Here we are,” he sighed, unable to keep the giggle from his voice.

  He reached for his gear bag which lay open on the passenger seat, picked up the paddle from amid his paraphernalia, and swatted his palm with gusto. “You’ve been a bad little girl,” he rehearsed with expectant glee, his mind filled with visions of frilly cotton and lace and patent leather shoes and sheer undies. “Daddy doesn’t like to spank you, but it’s for your own good.” He giggled again. “This is gonna be great.”

  He got out and went to the dilapidated old trailer. The key was just where it always was, beneath a well-traveled mat, and he let himself in.

  The sound of the television greeted him, and the interior was awash with its solitary light. He had to shield his eyes against it to find Georgetta sitting with her back to him. Her attention was fixed on the channel four late movie.

  “Whaddayasay, honey bunch,” Rusty purred, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. “Did you miss me?”

  She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course I missed you, Russy honey.”

  “How’s the eye?”

  She reached up and touched her face. “It’s fine.”

  “Georgetta, I’m sorry about that,” he shrugged. “It just happens sometimes. I guess I get a little carried away. But I only do it because I love you, honey.” He gave a sly little chuckle. “Besides, you know you like it.”

  “I do?”

  “You know you do.” He wetted his lips. “Well? Did you get the outfit?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Russy.”

  His grin widened. He picked up the paddle and flipped it from hand to hand. “Are you . . . wearing it?”

  “Of course.”

  He was getting hard already. “Show me.”

  Georgetta stood and stretched, catlike, then flicked off the television. The room went black, leaving only the angled glare of the security light outside to see by. She came slinking through the dark until she was framed in the window’s luminescence.

  Rusty’s jaw went slack, and so did his crotch.

  There was no frilly skirt, no bows or ankle socks or buckle-over shoes. There was only leather, jet black and gleaming in the light. The spike heeled boots reached past her knees and the gloves past her elbows, and the tight corset wrapped around her middle like a second skin, thinning her waist and showcasing the pale breasts that bulged out and over it like twin moons. The black hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders gleamed like wire in the light, and likewise the curls at her naked crotch.

  “Wha . . . what the hell’s this?” Rusty said, annoyed and quickly building to completely pissed off. “This ain’t what I wanted.”

  “No?” she pouted, rubbing her pale breasts, playing with the nipples, urging them erect. “But Russy . . . I want to play this game.” She stepped closer to him, purring out loud like a cat. “You really don’t like it?”

  “Take it off,” he said angrily. “You know what I wanted.”

  She laughed. “The little girl thing? But Russy honey, that’s so . . .” she stepped even closer, “sick.”

  The deputy began to snort through his nostrils like a miniature dragon. “I said take that shit off. Now.”

  She tilted her head to kiss him and whispered, “No.”

  Rusty hit her, not an open-handed slap, but with a clenched fist and very hard. The blow snapped Georgetta’s head around just like the night before, just like all the nights in the past. But, surprisingly, it did not back her up a step. She turned back to him slowly, and he was shocked to see her grinning. Then her own fist came up, straight from her side, and the back of it caught Rusty flush in the mouth. He staggered back
ward, shocked, blood seeping from his split lip. Georgetta’s eyes flashed and she was on him all at once, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him into her kiss.

  Rusty squirmed to get away as she sucked at his lips and licked at them and pried them apart with her own. Her mouth was cold, like ice, and the taste of her was bitter. He clenched his teeth but she worked them apart and her tongue invaded him, pushing and prodding, raspy and dry, and not like a tongue at all, but a snake or some giant millipede that had crawled into her mouth and taken up residence. His stomach turned and he tried to shove her away, but she clung to him frantically. He drove a fist into her gut once, twice, but it just seemed to spur her on. When she did let go it was only to cuff him about the ears with an open hand, and the blows were hard enough to jangle his senses. “C’mon, Russy,” she taunted him, “you like it rough, don’t you? You know you do.” He tried to stagger toward the trailer door but she caught him with a full-fisted blow to the side of his face, and the supple leather over her knuckles opened a gash above his cheekbone. She was back on him in an instant, her tongue running across his face and cheek and finding its way back to his mouth and forcing its way in.

  He whined and tried to push her back, and his hands landed on her breasts. They were stiff and slick, almost waxen, and frozen to the touch. Georgetta stepped back, her wide expression visible in the light from the window. There was passion in her eyes, wild and unyielding. At least that was what it looked like. “You want these, honey?” she said, kneading her tremendous breasts with first her own hands and then forcing his to do it. “Oh, baby,” she moaned in a pathetically emotionless voice, “I want you. Sooo bad.”