Nightblood
Page 24
“Hi, Mom,” Delbert said, barely taking his eyes off the work before him. “We’re up to sixty rounds an hour, but Chris says we can hit a hundred easy.” He scooped up the pile of finished rounds and transferred them to the open ammo can on the floor between his feet. It was almost half-full.
“You say Chris left?” she asked. “Where?”
Both boys shrugged in unison. “I guess to look around. He took the rest of his guns with him, though he left the rifle for me.” Bart pointed to the H & K. “Just in case.”
Concern welled up within her, though she hid it from the boys. Chris knows what he’s doing, she assured herself. He can handle it. Nothing will happen to him. But then she thought of that rugged, handsome face, now beaten and cut, swollen to an angry hue. Please don’t let anything happen to him.
She shrugged off the thought and continued to watch the boys. She was proud of them. They’d grown up quicker than she’d ever realized, and most, she suspected, in the last few nights. Still, somewhere inside her, she almost wished they would act their ages and behave like the little boys they were; frightened, wanting, no, demanding that they all run away and get as far from this place as possible. It was less a maternal need for dependency than a desire to allay her own guilt for having those same feelings. But they didn’t complain. They knew. Without Chris having to explain it as he had to her, they knew that they had to stay, every one of them, and they accepted it. They understood the horrors around them so much more clearly than anyone else. Such was the grace of childhood, she thought. The innocence to believe in the unbelievable without qualification or argument and to go on from there while she and Charlie struggled with their rationalizations and logic. Maybe they could learn a few things from the boys.
The monster magazines crossed her mind. It worked for them, she thought, and she was sorely tempted to go back to the house and dig them from the trash can and get to know her enemy better. She could just see herself, a student pouring over her Fangoria Cliffs Notes, sharpening a stake for her homework . . .
Don’t laugh. It’s not that implausible. Nothing is anymore.
The bed creaked in the room down the hall, and she heard the ratchety sound of a rotary phone dial turning. Then a receiver slammed down angrily, enough to sound the phone’s bell, and Bean came stalking into the living room, wearing only his jeans and his gunbelt, carrying the ever-present Mossberg. He went straight for the phone but Bart saved him the trouble. “They’re all dead, Charlie, all over town. Chris said he was going to cut the lines.”
He gaped at them. “What! What the hell’d he do that for? Where is he, I want to talk to him.”
“He’s gone,” Billie said. “But he’ll be back in a little while.”
Bean’s anger couldn’t mask the concern beneath. “But how am I gonna call Susie?” He snapped his fingers. “My car radio . . .”
“He took that too. Just settle down, Charlie. He knows what he’s doing,”
“But what about Susie, goddammit! I’ve got to tell her not to come back here.”
Billie sat the big man down on the couch. “What do you tell her, Charlie? That there are vampires here?”
“Are you kidding? I’ll have to make up something better than that.”
“But what can you say that won’t scare her or make her suspicious? And what’s the first thing she’ll try to do if she thinks you might be in danger? That lady loves you, my friend, and come hell or high water she’ll try to get to you. Is that what you want?”
He brooded a moment, but finally dropped his head into his hands. “Of course not.”
“Don’t just think of Susie here. Think of the entire town. Think like Chris does. We’ve got to be cut off, Charlie—phone, road, everything. We’ve got to contain this disease. You let one word slip out that something’s going on here and we’ll have every cop and reporter in Indiana flocking to us. And come nightfall, you might as well slap ’em on a plate and stick an apple in their mouths. They’ll never know what hit ’em.”
He looked up and gave her a frustrated smile. “You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you? When did you get so levelheaded?”
She leaned close so the boys couldn’t hear. “Are you kidding? I’m a mess. But Chris knows what he’s doing. This time I think we should trust him.”
“Chris knows, eh? Well, I’m glad of that, ’cause I don’t have a blessed clue as to what’s going on around here. All I know is I sat right here and shot a man with this shotgun, point-blank, and blew him through a second-floor window, only to have him run off down the street. Now, dammit, that ain’t supposed to happen! Somebody’s changed the rules to this game and forgot to tell me.”
“You want to know the rules, Charlie?” Bart said, flicking yet another shell into the ammo can. “I’ll tell you what I know. Those things out there, Larson and the rest, are vampires. And don’t make that face to me, ’cause you saw Dutch last night. You know it’s true. And once you accept that, you can fight them.” He pointed to the deputy’s shotgun. “If you’re gonna use that, you’d better learn how. Because what stops a normal man just won’t work here. You’ve got to cripple them, or they keep right on coming. Blind them or blow off a leg or both arms. Take their head clean off.” Billie’s expression soured; she was suddenly nauseated. “Sorry, Mom, but it’s the truth. Chris said that guns are only effective if used that way. Except against Danner, that is. He’s some kind of special vampire, like Dracula or something. He doesn’t stay crippled, he . . . rejuvenates. He grew back his face in just two nights, and Chris says he’s even stronger than that now.”
“Aw, what a load of horseshit,” Bean muttered, but the others could tell from his expression that it was his last stab at rationality, and even that was half-hearted. Begrudgingly, he believed. After last night, he couldn’t afford not to. He finally threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. So how do you kill them stone-dead? Or can you?”
“There are ways,” the older boy told him. “You’ve seen them on the late show—wooden stake, sunlight, fire, decapitation, a silver bullet—”
“No,” Delbert corrected. “Not silver. That’s werewolves.”
“Vampires too, you little goof. I saw it in a movie a while back—I think it was House of Dark Shadows—where the police were given silver bullets to hunt down Barnabas Collins—”
“Nuh uh, they got it wrong then—”
“How would you like a good rap in the mouth—”
“Boys,” Billie said in a stern tone. “Settle down.” The two frowned at each other but nodded and went back to bullet-making.
Bean leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands, thinking. “Silver, huh?” was all he said.
Billie wandered to the one unbroken window in the living room and looked out over the lifeless street. She thought the morning light would have made it less foreboding, but instead it seemed even more so: the total lack of movement out there was unnerving, like being the last people on earth. She hugged herself, thinking aloud, “I wish Chris would get back.”
“I don’t want to rain on your parade, Billie,” Bean said from behind her, “but what if he doesn’t come back?” She turned with a knitted brow and glared at him. “Hey,” he said, “it’s not his town. If I were him, all busted up and such, I’d hit the highway and keep going.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, “and neither will Chris.” Her tone was adamant, but the seed of doubt had been planted. She realized that the boys were both looking at her and even Del had an expression of uncertainty. But not Bart. He winked at her and reached down to pat the Heckler & Koch. “That’s right,” she said, relieved, and rushed to pick up the rifle and hug it to her. “He wouldn’t leave this behind, would he? Or his bullet machine? Or his pack?” She went across the room and tried to pick up the frayed old Alice pack but found it too heavy. “He wouldn’t leave us behind, Charlie. He’s coming back. Don’t you worry.”
There came a rumbling in reply, the sound of an engine out front. Not an unusual phenomenon in itself, since the apartment overlooked Isherwood’s only thoroughfare, but it was the first new sound they’d heard all morning. Del jumped from his stool and raced to the window. “A-ha,” he called back to Bean, “now who’s butt’s the blackest? Chris is back.” He looked again. “And he’s got somebody with him.”
They all went to the door of the apartment and waited.
Stiles came up the staircase, a Moore’s Drugs sack clutched in one arm and the Uzi in the other. He looked worse than the night before; aside from the same blood-stained clothes, he had shaved his beard off earlier and the bruises beneath were now even more jarringly visible. He climbed the stairs with quick, easy steps but the thin line of his mouth and his knitted brow bespoke his discomfort. Billie stepped out to help him inside but he just brushed past her. Following close behind him was a worried-looking Ted Cooper, carrying his favorite Louisville Slugger cocked hobo-like over one shoulder. When the boy looked up and his eyes met Bean’s, his face flushed and he almost started to cry. “I can’t find Doreen,” he said plaintively.
They held out their arms to him and ushered the teen inside.
“I went over to her parents’ house this morning,” he explained, “but no one was there, nobody, and I didn’t know who to call ’cause Mom and Dad are outta town and the phones’re dead anyway. C’mon, Charlie, we gotta find her.”
Bean looked to Stiles for help.
“Sit down, son,” the soldier ordered.
“But we’re wasting time—”
“I said sit down. Charlie has something to tell you.” Stiles turned to the deputy and whispered, “Tell him. It’ll be good practice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I put up signs on every road, in and out. As of now we’re supposedly quarantined. That should buy us some time—at least one night. As for those I came across, they’ll be waiting for you at the church around nine.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got an hour to rehearse.”
“But what do I tell them, the truth? They’d never believe it.”
“I don’t give a shit what you tell them. I just don’t want a panic, and I don’t want anyone trying to get out of town. Think you can handle that?”
“No.”
“Well, life’s hard,” he shrugged. “I’ll be indisposed for a while. Don’t bother me until about eleven.” He took his sack and started down the hallway.
“Just a minute.” Bean caught his arm. “I’ve been talking to Bart, and he’s given me an idea. Have you ever used silver against these . . . against vampires?”
“Silver’s for werewolves, Charlie.”
“I know, I’ve heard. But the kid sounds convinced, and if it’s true, this could be a real edge for us. Now I’m not talking silver bullets—I don’t think it would hold a proper rifling well enough—but what about shotgun shells?” He lifted the Mossberg. “Pellets don’t need any rifling. Shape doesn’t even matter—it’s like the grapeshot they used to use in cannons. Anything that’ll fit in a shotshell will fire. Besides that, shotguns have a big dispersal pattern. All you’d have to do is aim at the chest, and at least one pellet’s bound to hit the heart. What do you think?”
Stiles leaned back against the wall wearily. “The theory’s viable, Charlie, but only if the silver works, and, unfortunately, there’s just not enough time to test it. I’ve got to get a little rest before I start preparing for tonight—”
“Hell, I’ll test it then. I’ll just find one of them and—”
“No, you won’t.” The soldier was firm. “We need every hand we can get. There’s a lot to be done before dark, and you can start off by taking care of the Cooper kid.”
“But what about—”
“No buts, Charlie. Please. Help the kid, okay?” The deputy frowned but nodded. Stiles patted his shoulder and limped past him down the hall, and almost made it to the bathroom this time before being stopped again.
“Chris,” Billie said, touching his shoulder. “Can we talk?”
He turned and looked into her eyes, coldly, hiding his emotions. Finally he gestured for her to follow him in.
“I hope you don’t offend easily,” he said, dropping his pants, “but right now I’m in no mood for niceties.” He leaned over and scooped a wad of hair from the tub with a grimace, then turned on the spigots. “What did you want?” he said, perched for now on the edge of the tub.
“I . . . uh . . . just wanted to know how it is out there.”
“In a word, rotten.” He managed to get his shirt unbuttoned but needed her help to get it off. She gasped at the map of scars, both old and new, across his body. His chest was as black and blue as his legs and face. A thick bandage was wound tight about his injured ribs. She helped him off with that as well. “There are more of them out there than I expected. It’s spread too fast. Shoots the hell out of that old legend about it taking three days for one to rise from the grave. Hell, we’re talking next night here, maybe even same night. In one weekend we’ve lost most of a town.”
“What about the rest? Are there any others like us?”
He took a carton of Epsom salts from the sack and began pouring it into the tub water. “They’re out there. Confused. Scared. At least the sane ones. Believe it or not, some are just business as usual, disgusted because they can’t get to work or use the phones, unwilling to open their eyes and look around them because it might disrupt their complacency. Kinda the way you were last night when you threw me out.” She turned her face away. “Sorry about that. Cheap shot. But there are a lot of them out there deluding themselves. Your preacher, Knutson, he’s one of them. Gone completely bugshit. Slammed the door in my face this morning. Most of them just want to leave, whether they know what’s going on or not. But we can’t let them. It may sound mercenary, but we need them here. As bait. Because once this town is empty there won’t be any supper on the table and those bastards’ll start looking elsewhere. Bedford. Seymour. The whole fucking state.”
Billie’s face darkened at the pessimism of his forecast. “But how can we stop them?”
“All in one night,” he told her point-blank. “Danner first. Without him they have no collective consciousness. They’ll just scatter like roaches. Hunting them then will be a cinch. The hard part’s finding Danner.” He leaned back, hissing painfully, to check the water with his hand. “I couldn’t find him this morning, not even a clue. He knows I’m looking, so he won’t make it easy. But I’ll find him, even if it means face to face after dark. And when I do . . .” He stood to skin out of his shorts and groaned again, once too often. He retrieved his drugstore sack and poured several pill bottles onto the counter by the sink. Billie picked one up. There was no actual label; he had just written Demerol on a scrap of paper and taped it to the outside. He took it from her and uncapped it while she inspected the others: Percodan, Methadone, Dilaudid. “These are all pretty strong.”
“So is the pain. I’ve got to get some rest now, Billie, so if you don’t mind . . .”
“What I really came to say,” she finally managed, sitting down on the closed toilet and wiping her eyes, “is that I’m really sorry. I should’ve trusted you, and I’m just . . . well, I’m confused and . . .”
“It’s okay,” he reached out and touched her cheek. “Really. You were scared. I unde
rstand.”
“I’m still scared.”
“So am I.”
She perked up. “You are?”
“Sure.” He slipped into the soothing womb of the tub. “Is that so surprising?”
“So how do you cope with it?” she asked.
“Experience, my dear. I’m used to it by now.”
She leaned closer. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Just how did you get into this . . . business?”
“I guess you could call it family connections. My brother Alex got me involved. You remember I told you he was murdered while I was in ’Nam? Well, he still comes back from time to time.”
“Comes back?”
Stiles nodded. “That’s right. He’s a ghost.”
“Oh.”
“The thing that killed Alex wasn’t exactly human, and his spirit can’t rest until I find it and destroy it. That’s what brought me here—looking for the Enemy.”
“So the thing that killed your brother was a vampire?”
He shrugged. “We don’t know what it is. Its attack was so sudden and vicious that Alex never even saw what hit him. All he can remember is a choking sense of evil. So that’s what attracts him now. Evil. He seeks it out, and I take it from there.”
“Sounds a little one-sided to me.”
“Tell me about it.” He shifted his position in the tub, grimaced at the discomfort it brought. Billie looked concerned.
“I’ll let you rest,” she said, moving to the door.
“Billie,” he called as she slipped from the room, “don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”
Bean was waiting for her in the hallway. He had put on not only his shirt but his jacket and cap as well. He still carried the shotgun. “What’s wrong?” she asked.