Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  Stiles loosed a maniacal cry that echoed through the night, taking the both of them by surprise, and when he launched himself at the undying creature it was with a wide-eyed, slobbering rage. His own pain and limitations were forgotten as he pistoned a vicious kick into the Danner-thing’s side and knocked it away from her. “Fight me!” the soldier roared, crouched and snarling like a wild animal.

  The fiery creature drew back, its eye sockets trained cautiously on both of them. It was wary of the man; it needed to feed desperately, for only blood could put out the flame, only blood could bring back the power as it had twice before. But the man would fight too much, too long. It needed the girl, needed her now . . .

  It moved for Billie again, lunging, but Stiles drove it back with ferocious abandon, pummeling it madly, filling the air with the sharp crack of bone on bone. He ignored the heat and the pain, even when the creature’s jaw muscles came loose and stuck to his fist like melted plastic, still aflame. He continued to fight. And the Danner-thing continued to burn.

  The flames were brighter now, especially within the rib cage and in the very skull itself. The sockets were no longer dark; they now blazed with soul-eating fire. And it drove what was left of Nathan Danner berserk. From somewhere, perhaps from the blackened core of his very being, Danner finally found a voice, and it screamed with an indefinable rage as it charged Stiles in desperation, catching him by the throat and hauling him into the air.

  Stiles knocked the hand away, tearing the thing’s forearm loose at the elbow, and then dropped back to the ground. Immediately he torqued his body into a hard spin and his leg lashed out and dug a heel into the Danner-thing’s head and, like a cigarette flung against a wall, the skull exploded in a shower of sparks. The body remained standing. It crouched and shifted its weight, even took a step toward them. But then the flames suddenly flared up and consumed it, and the resulting blaze lit the hilltop for miles around.

  Stiles didn’t know how long he stood there, watching the fire, waiting for it to die so he could scatter the ashes. The rage gradually spent itself; it left him dazed, disoriented, barely on his feet. He wasn’t sure where he had been or what he’d done, and the returning waves of pain would not permit him to remember. He was shocked to realize that the sun was already peeking over the Indiana horizon. Daylight . . . he’d thought he would never see it again. He squinted at its brightness, reveled in its warmth.

  “Chris?” Billie asked softly, touching his shoulder.

  He turned to her and smiled. But he wasn’t conscious when he hit the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stiles awoke in pain, but that was no surprise. He was getting used to it by now. What did surprise him was that it was actually less severe than he’d come to expect. The newest injuries, the burns and contusions, all nagged him to be sure. But they were tolerable at least, and the older hurts seemed to be improving. The broken fingers and rib didn’t ache quite so much now, and the throbbing in his crotch had been replaced with the simple agony of a torn muscle. Lucky again, he sighed. Looks like you’ll pull through after all.

  He stretched his sore frame beneath the covers—he was in bed, though not sure whose or how he got there—and in response the mound of warmth curled atop his chest stretched as well and gave him a raspy lick on the nose. He looked up into the slitted eyes of an orange tabby that cooed at him and rubbed against his chin. “Well, hello, puss. Whose cat are you?” He looked around the room for an answer and found his surroundings vaguely familiar. Then it dawned on him: it was the landlady’s bedroom, the first Ida had “sealed” on their frantic tour of the Shady Rest the night before. He even recalled a passing glimpse of the cat, huddled in the covers, waiting for a mistress who wouldn’t return. “Miss her already, don’t you?” he said, scratching the feline’s ear. She purred and gave him another affectionate lick.

  How long have I been here? he wondered. A glance at the window told him it was noon or thereabouts. And that bothered him. There was still too much work to be done—even with Danner gone, there were the others to be tracked down and exterminated, and he’d wasted precious hours. Even if he did need the rest.

  He eased back the covers, slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sat there until the queasy feeling subsided. He felt like one big puffy wound and certainly looked the part; he was wrapped like a reject from a grade-B mummy movie, and what flesh wasn’t covered in bandages seemed bruised to a splotchy shade of blue. But he didn’t let that stop him. He stood with a groan, found his clothes on the foot of the bed beneath his cast-off covers, and dressed as quickly as his creaking body would allow. Then he sat back down and rested for a while, and waited until the urge to puke had left him before getting up again. His guns were nowhere in sight, but Hubert’s sheathed sword had been left standing against the bedstand. He leaned on it for support as he draped the fat tabby around his neck like a warm and complacent scarf, then hobbled out into the hall.

  There were sounds drifting up from the first floor . . . The television. “Ding! Boink! Ooh, I hate meeces to pieces!” Chris smiled. At least he knew Del was all right. The cartoons grew more distinct as he descended the stairs and turned into the parlor. “Hey, Cap, how’re you . . . doing?”

  The children around the television whirled and stared at him like frightened bunnies. These were smaller tykes, tousle-haired and wide-eyed, many still dressed in their pajamas. There were eight of them that he could see. A few he recognized from the day before at the basements, but . . .

  The basements. Bart had died there last night, hadn’t he? That much he remembered. Had both places been broken into? Were these all that survived? They huddled close as they silently appraised him, and he could see uncertainty in their eyes. Even fear. But then the children saw the tabby stretched languidly across his shoulders and their apprehension was forgotten. They approached, smiling and cooing at the feline, and he had to kneel so they could reach it. The cat, on the other hand, showed its opinion of the throng by sinking its claws into his shoulder. Stiles quickly got the message. He stood to end the petting session and save his deltoid, and the children reluctantly returned to the cartoon.

  “I see you’ve already met.” Billie came through the dining room, her arms lined with plates as only a true waitress could manage. “Who wants peanut butter and jelly?” She dealt the plates onto the coffee table with the dexterity of a cardshark, much to the children’s delight. They grabbed up the sandwiches as Billie brushed up close to Stiles and pecked him on the lips. “You’re looking better,” she said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s in your eyes.” She scratched the purring orange head that peeked around his neck. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Just someone I woke up with.” He reached out to touch her swollen cheek and split lip, the bandage on her neck, the shoulder where she was burned. “How are you doing?”

  “Mrs. Miller?” interrupted the smallest girl, “Billy took the last pena-butter sandwich. Are there any more?”

  “Sure, hon,” Billie said, heading for the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder at Stiles. “Cup of coffee, sailor?”

  He followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, which she had straightened a great deal after Bean’s altercation last night. She pulled a bowl from the dish drainer and filled it with milk, then took the cat from his shoulder and sat them together on the floor. “There’s a pot of coffee on the stove,” she said over her shoulder as she raided the peanut butter again, then pushed a half-full cup across the counter. “Warm mine up a bit, okay?”

  “Those kids,” he said as he poured. “They’re not the only ones left, are they?”

  “Oh, no. Those things only broke into ours,” she said rather matter-of-factly, as if she’d just heard about it rather than experienced it firsthand. “The ones in the other basement were all okay. That’s the first place we checked this morning, and we’ve foun
d more people since. Most stayed out to help Charlie, but they brought the younger kids back here.”

  “Help Charlie do what?”

  “What you said had to be done—tracking down the rest of them. I’ll be going out on the next run. I only stayed behind this long to keep an eye on you.”

  He came up behind her, put his hands around her waist. “I appreciate that, but I’m fine, honest. How’s Del doing?”

  “Oh, he’s a real trooper. Never bats an eye, though I don’t think it’s really sunk in on him. He and Bart were very close.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m okay, I guess. My shoulder hurts like hell, but other than that . . .” For a moment she let her guard down, and leaned back against him and enveloped herself in his arms. But then she pulled away on second thought and stood on her own. “I’m sorry, Chris. It’s just that . . .”

  He turned her around, hushed her with a finger to her lips and an understanding smile. “I’ll be here,” he said. “When you need me.” He kissed her lightly and then stepped away. “I think I’ll go out on the porch for a while. The sun should do me some good.” He took his coffee cup and left the kitchen, with the cat following close behind.

  The front yard had been cleaned up since he’d last seen it, the bodies swept away as if by a divine wind. But the effects of the battle were still prominent. Stray silver pellets pocked the siding and support columns and one of the metal porch chairs, and the front door still leaned drunkenly against the house a good three feet from its true moorings. The fence out front lay in splinters all along the sidewalk, and tire tracks were deeply carved into the well-tended lawn. And then, there was always the van itself, lying on its side like a beached whale a few feet from the walk. Stiles limped off the porch to inspect the damage, but he could see it was a lost cause already. The windshield was gone and the sides were crushed like a Coke can. The stink of leaking coolant and gasoline assailed his nostrils. But, surprisingly, he wasn’t all that upset. This time he was happy just to be getting out alive.

  The sun out there did feel good. Its rays were intense for that late in the year and burned some of the October crispness from the air. The cat must have enjoyed it too. He draped her across his shoulders and she made no move to climb down, instead preferring to stretch out and doze with her head resting on his collarbone. Stiles felt just as tired, and the porch chairs beckoned to him. You can’t do much till Charlie comes back, they said, so take a load off.

  He was almost to the steps when his eyes fell on the scorched sections of grass a few paces away. Especially the longer one where he’d stomped Nathan Danner’s ashes into the soil. Suddenly the sun wasn’t so warm after all. It left a cold place deep within him, down at his core where its rays could not reach, and that was where the bitterness and guilt roiled subconsciously. The questions centered there. Was this my fault? Am I responsible? What if I’d been a little more decisive, a little quicker to act?

  He reproached himself. Not that shit again. It wasn’t even your fight. This town is lucky—if you hadn’t stepped in, the virus would have spread everywhere. At least you stopped it.

  He nodded. But it was little consolation. If he had been a little more thorough that first night . . .

  He looked down the hill toward town. There was a good view of Isherwood from here, but there wasn’t much to be seen. The town was comatose. Nothing moved down there to his eye, no cars on the street, no people. It had simply gone to sleep the night before and never awakened. And he wondered if it ever would. Had the cancer been excised in time, or had it spread too far, infected too much tissue? He looked at the black patch of burned earth and he knew what his own answer would be. Let it die. Let it go peacefully and then bury it. Doze it over. Indiana doesn’t have enough parking lots.

  The sounds of engines intruded on his brooding silence. Two pickup trucks motored up Moffit Trail and pulled to the shoulder out front, and behind them a newer model Chevy van. People began to pour from the beds and cabs, probably twenty to twenty-five in all, men and women, teenagers to adults. They looked like a day-weary road crew coming in from the job: they carried picks and mallets and sharpened dowel rods along with their shotguns, and their faces were sullen from what they had seen. It was certainly not a job any of them wanted. But they had accepted the responsibility and hardened themselves to the task. Some of them unloaded groceries from the truck, but he wagered few would be in the mood to eat. He couldn’t blame them. He was never completely used to it himself.

  Charlie Bean climbed out of the van. He looked tired and favored his injured arm and grimaced when he had to move very fast, but he didn’t let any of it stop him. Hubert and Jessie were among them too, still carrying his automatic weapons. And then there was Delbert. He slid out of the van as well, having traded his Magnum-caliber cross for one of more manageable size. It hadn’t been the soldier’s imagination last night—there was definitely a change about him. He’d grown up a lot in one night. Stiles just hoped it wasn’t too fast.

  “Well well,” Bean smiled as he came up onto the porch. “It’s nice to see you up and around.” He motioned to the van by the road. “How do you like it?”

  “Very nice. Yours?”

  “Nope.” The deputy dropped the keys in Stiles’s lap. “Yours is pretty much scrap. It’s the least we could do.”

  Stiles looked at them all in surprise and stammered, “You shouldn’t . . . but . . . aw, hell. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say,” Charlie said with a grin. “So, how’re you doing?”

  “Fair to middlin’. How about you—keeping busy?”

  “You could say that. I think we got most of them. We’ve covered the whole town once. Another quick swath should pick up the ones we missed. Then we’ll start fanning out to the farms and outlying homes.” He grabbed Delbert as the boy passed and put an arm around his shoulder. “My buddy here is real good. He knows where they’ll be hiding without even looking.”

  The boy’s face was impassive. That worried Stiles. “How’re you doing, Cap?”

  “You mean about Bart?” Del replied. “I miss him, naturally. But it’s okay, because I know he’s at peace. That’s what matters, right?” His expression changed all of a sudden; the exuberance of an eleven-year-old suddenly returned. He’d seen the cat on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey, where’d you get the neat cat?” He came over, picked it up, and draped it over his own shoulder like burping a baby. To Stiles’s surprise, the feline didn’t react as it had with the children earlier. She cuddled against the boy’s neck, her motor running in high gear.

  “She’s not mine,” Stiles shrugged. “In fact, I think she’s up for adoption. Interested?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Are you serious?” He held her up and rubbed noses with her, and Stiles delighted in the sound of his laughter. “Wait till Mom sees this!” He hurried inside with his purring cargo, followed by most of the others present.

  Hubert, Jessie, and the deputy were left on the porch with Stiles, and each pulled up a chair. Charlie dropped into his like a pile of bricks, but the seniors showed little of his weariness. Indeed, they were still moving even at rest, checking their guns, rechecking them, fidgeting uneasily with years and years of pent-up nervous energy. Stiles wagered that when the trucks rolled again, they would be the first ones back on board.

  “So,” he said, “what have you been doing with the bodies?”

  Bean pointed just beyond the corner of the house. A thin ribbon of smoke curled into the sky above the treetops. “The city dump,” he said. “We’ve burned ’em all. We aren’t taking any chances.”

  Stiles nodded solemnly. “You know,” he said, “sooner or later somebody’s going to check this place out, like the county sheriff or the state police.”

  Bean sighed. “I know. I thought I’d beat them to the punch and call ’em first, right after the next hunt.”

  “
What will you say?”

  He shrugged. “Ain’t decided. I’m too tired to think about it right now. Who knows, maybe the truth.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure,” Stiles sighed. “I can’t be here when they arrive. I’ll help you make another pass through the town, and then I’ll have to disappear for a—”

  “You’re leaving?” It was Billie, standing in the doorway. Del and the cat were right behind her, peeking around. She had a strange look on her face. Disappointment, perhaps. Maybe a little fear.

  “I have to, Bill. They can’t find me here.”

  “Why the rush?” Charlie asked. “You aren’t wanted for anything.” He added with a sheepish grin, “I had you checked out when you came to town. You’re clean.”

  “But I am conspicuous. I’m a stranger, and when I came to town people started dying. You think they’ll just let me go? Or will they grill the hell out of me, ask a lot of questions I can’t answer?”

  Billie took Del by the shoulders and walked with him out onto the porch. “Then we’ll go with you.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t, Billie. Not now.” She looked away. “Don’t you see? They’ll want to talk to you, all of you. They’ll want to know what you did, what you saw, about Bart . . . Especially about Bart. You can’t run now. You’d be just as suspicious as me.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “So, you go and we stay, huh? Well, I guess that’s that. Maybe we’ll see you around sometime. C’mon, Del, back inside—”