Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  “Wait a minute.”

  She looked back at him hopefully.

  It would be easiest, he thought. Let her go. Sever the ties here and now and go your own way, because you know what’s happened in the past. The Enemy’s still out there, somewhere, and one morning you’ll wake up and there’ll be that premonition gnawing at the back of your neck and you’ll have to go. No questions, no excuses, you’ll just go.

  It would be easiest . . .

  He went to her and took her face in his hands and kissed her. Not a goodbye kiss—she sensed that right off. Her moist eyes brightened as he asked, “Where was it your parents live?”

  “Ellettsville.”

  He considered it. “You know, I’ve always wanted to see that town. Uh . . . where the hell is it?” She laughed and threw her arms around his middle and hugged him tight. Stiles just wheezed uncomfortably and didn’t remind her of his ribs. Hell, even the pain felt good for once.

  “Now that that’s settled,” Hubert said, hoisting a shotgun in one hand and the Heckler & Koch in the other, “don’t you think we’ve got work to be done? We may’ve got most of ’em that last trip, but I’m antsy to make sure.”

  “I’m with Hubert,” Jessie said, tying a scarf on her head so her hair wouldn’t blow. She slipped her purse off her shoulder and poked around inside until she found another full magazine, and she slammed it into the Uzi pistol and chambered a round. “Let’s go kick some ass.” She giggled and elbowed the big black man in the ribs as they went down the porch steps. “You know, I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  Epilogue

  It was early Friday morning in Bedford, just past 2:30 a.m., but few were sleeping. How could they, what with Death Town, USA located just so many miles down Highway 50? There had been little to allay their fears of the past week: the news agencies couldn’t wring a story from the state police or even the FBI for that matter, and that left only the rumor mills to quench the public thirst. Some said a satanic cult had taken over the neighboring town, sacrificing the citizens in ways too hideous for mass consumption on the evening news. Or maybe it was a chemical spill that caused it, or a leak of biological weapons from Crane Naval Base, or maybe a hundred other doomsday scenarios. Before long Isherwood would be a dumping ground for PCBs and nuclear waste and crashed alien ships and God knows what else.

  There was one man in Bedford who knew the truth. He stood in front of the new all-night convenience store on the main turnoff from SR37, holding the pay phone to his ear but calling no one. He waited. And he watched. He was bundled in an overcoat he had stolen from a car earlier, though not because he was cold, and the knit cap he wore was less to warm his ears than to cover the bullet holes in his forehead and keep that ornery flap of scalp from coming loose and blowing away in the breeze. Every few minutes Dutch Larson would creep over and peek through the big bay windows of the convenience store like a child at a candy shop, and his mouth would water at the sight.

  There was someone in there. A human—alive, warm, luscious . . . full. He felt a knot of excitement in his gut. It had been days since he’d fed well, since he’d tasted human blood. Cows and hogs were loathsome to him but had sustained him for the past two nights. He’d been on the run constantly since he’d left Isherwood and bypassed the cordon of crosses. Hounded by that bastard Charlie Bean and his stake-wielding posse. It was all he could do to stay hidden, let alone find prey. But tonight . . . it finally appeared to be blowing over. He hadn’t felt anyone on his trail since rising, and it was a good thing. The hunger within was now a raging need, all-encompassing. It would have brought him out this night, regardless.

  He looked around him and made sure the area was deserted, the parking lot, the street. Then he sauntered along the big display windows of the convenience store and peered longingly inside.

  There was a boy perched on a high stool behind the checkout counter, nursing a Cherry Coke and lost in a comic book he’d borrowed from the rack a few aisles over. He was a tall, skinny kid barely out of his teens, his face still plagued by a complexion he could’ve grated cheese on. To make matters worse, he celebrated his rebellious lifestyle by wearing a shirt that read, SHUT UP AND SUCK THIS, and by shaving the sides of his head and letting the rest grow long and wild like a horse’s mane. Freedom of appearance was one of the few perks of the graveyard shift.

  Larson considered waiting. It was logically the best strategy. Sooner or later someone would come along, a carload of teen­agers cruising the town or an addled housewife who’d forgotten the cat food and a quart of milk at the Kroger store earlier in the day. If he was patient, someone would come, and he could take them out there on the sidewalk and he wouldn’t have to worry about being invited in. But like all of his thoughts these days, the idea just came and went. He did not retain much; memories and ideas and emotions all eddied through his brain as they never had in life, unimpeded now as they had been by acculturation and his own close-mindedness. But the gray matter that his thoughts passed through was dead now, no more than a gravel bed for his stream of consciousness. Some things were retained and acted on from time to time, but only if triggered by that feral cell that ruled him. The hunger was all-important. The hunger was what drove him. As it always would. And right now it saw the young cashier and it said it must have him. Period.

  He walked to the door and rapped on the glass with a dirty fist several times before the boy glanced up from his comic. “What is it?”

  “Let me in.”

  “The door’s open.”

  He hit the glass harder. “I said let me in, prick.”

  The cashier sneered and shook his head. “Goddamn drunk,” he grumbled under his breath and turned his back to the door.

  Larson shook with frustration. He could shatter the window if he wanted, but that still wouldn’t gain him entrance. Not unless invited. But how could he be asked in looking like he did, shot up, torn, leaking—a barely disguised nightmare. He sagged against the door, trembling like an addict . . . and the door swung inward with him. The small bell above it dinged, and he was partway across the threshold before he realized it. But how? he wondered. Then he saw the big orange sign taped to the glass just above waist level, WELCOME, it read, COME ON IN.

  Larson grinned. He pushed the door open all the way.

  The young man at the register saw him enter from the corner of his eye. Oh, great, he thought, just what I needed, another slobbering, shit-faced drunk. “The beer’s at the far end, pal,” he gestured without looking up. Maybe he’ll just get a twelve-pack and go, he hoped. But the man came to the counter instead. The boy sighed and looked up from The Incredible Hulk. “What’s the problem? I said the beer’s at the . . .”

  The face was fish white. Part of a puckered bullet wound was evident beneath the edge of the cap and the nose was mashed flat and the smile showed a mouthful of teeth, some broken at the gum, others impossibly long. “I don’t drink . . . beer,” Dutch wheezed. Then he grabbed the boy by the hair and jerked him up onto the counter and slammed a hammy fist into the side of the cashier’s head once, twice until he slumped there, moaning, barely able to move. Dutch hit him a few more times just for spite.

  The hunger welled up immediately. Larson’s head swam and he wanted to take the boy on the countertop right there and then—that neck was so long, so soft, and he could almost see the blood coursing even through the skin, and the sound of it thundered in his ears—but he fought it, if only for a few moments more. He had the presence of mind to remove himself from the view of the world and those damn big windows. He went behind the counter out of sight and crouched down there, then dragged the boy off into his lap. No one would see them now, he thought. He brushed the hair from that ripe throat . . .

  A car door slammed. It sounded very close, just outside even. Larson flinched, his fangs bared territorially, but then it occurred to him. Customers—his meals were coming to him now. He smacked his lips
with glee and waited for the bell above the door to ring.

  It didn’t. He waited a little longer. Still nothing. They must have been using the phone, yeah, that was it. And if he moved quickly enough, he could catch them, too. He laid the cashier aside and raised up from behind the counter.

  The front door was just swinging shut, though the bell still had yet to sound. And parked just outside the store, in plain view, was a new model van he hadn’t seen before. But a van nonetheless.

  No . . . it couldn’t be . . .

  There was a sound to his right. A conspicuous clearing of the throat. He turned as if in slow motion, catching a silvery flash as the overhead lights reflected off moving steel. Then he saw the soldier’s face, the lips pursed but still half-smirking, and Dutch tried to curse the son of a bitch but found his vocal chords suddenly no longer connected. Neither was his larynx or esophagus or even his spinal column for that matter. The sword blade had passed cleanly through, separating all. His head kept on turning and slid forward off its base as if never truly attached, bounced once, and rolled into the open. The body joined it a moment later.

  Stiles wiped the katana blade on Larson’s scroungy coat and resheathed it, then went back to the counter and checked the almost-victim. The young man was just trying to sit up, and his eyes were spinning like pinwheels. “Are you okay?”

  The kid blinked his eyes painfully, spat a tooth onto his lap. “I think so.” He grabbed for the counter for support and pulled himself up. “Jeez, what was . . .” and that was when he saw the body. He looked to Stiles and back, his mouth moving but unable to form words, then made a gagging sound in his throat and turned just in time to fill the trash basket behind the counter. “Oh, man, this ain’t happening . . .” he muttered, panting. He took another peek at the body and the retching continued.

  “You sure you’re okay, kid?”

  The boy looked up at him, trembling. “Wha . . . what are you gonna do?”

  The soldier looked around. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might pick up a few things while I’m here. Do you mind?”

  The boy laid a grocery sack on the counter and backed away. “Knock yourself out.”

  Stiles wandered down one or two aisles, humming to himself and filling his bag with canned goods and candy bars. When he came back toward the register, he stopped for a moment at the tobacco display. “What the hell,” he said, signaling the end to another hunt by picking up two cartons of Vantage menthols. He took the time there to open a pack and light one up. “Nasty habit, huh?” he said, savoring the taste just the same. Then he sat the bag on the counter. “How much do I owe you?”

  The boy backed away from the register. “Nothing, mister, nothing. It’s on the house.”

  Stiles grinned. “Thanks a lot.” He picked up his groceries, stepped over Larson’s carcass, and went to the door. But he paused there a last time and turned to look at the boy. “You know what he was, don’t you?”

  The kid gulped, nodded. “I think so.” He looked at the headless corpse again, stifling his nausea. “What should I do with him?”

  The soldier shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll bother you. But then again, you can’t be too careful.” He motioned to the tobacco section, where the Red Devil lighter fluid lined the top shelf. Then he gave a smile and a wink. “Have a nice night.” And then he was gone, the door chime tinkling behind him.

  He went to the van and got in, propping his sword against the console. He silently thanked Hubert again; his gift had been perfect for “doing” Dutch. Decapitation made sure he wouldn’t be coming back yet again, and it was swift and silent and didn’t attract attention like a gunshot. Besides, it wasn’t nearly as conspicuous. He could hang it on the wall of his van in plain view with little worry, unlike the two Remington scatterguns Charlie had insisted he take. They were bundled in the back with his other guns and supplies, and he would have to devise hiding places for them all very soon. Until then, he would have to keep his speed well below the limit. He couldn’t afford to attract attention.

  He sat there in the driver’s seat with the key in his hand and smiled without realizing it. He was thinking of Billie. It had been only two days, and yet he missed her and Del already. He wondered if they were still being detained in Isherwood, or if they would be waiting on him when he pulled into Ellettsville.

  “Stop dreaming and put the key in. We don’t have all night.”

  The voice actually took Stiles by surprise. He jolted in his seat and fumbled for his shoulder holster but by then the familiar monotone had sunk in. Alex was crouched in the back of the van, clothed in his normal wardrobe of shadow. “You know, Hoss, you were pretty good with the sword in there. I’m impressed. Now, can we get going before the cops come?”

  Chris sighed with resignation. “I didn’t know you were coming this time. No premonition or anything.”

  Alex came to the front of the van and climbed into the passenger seat. The lights of the storefront showed more of him than Chris had seen for some time. Thankfully it was his better side. “I didn’t know I was coming either. I just thought, what the hell, you know? We don’t talk much anymore.” He gestured to the ignition. “You know, if you turn the key, the motor will go vroom, vroom.”

  “You could have at least given me time to rest, Alex,” Chris snapped, irritated. So the hunt was back on already, destination unknown. In his mind, he could see Billie and Del getting farther and farther away. He wondered what they would think when he didn’t show up at her parents.

  Maybe it’s for the best.

  He started the van. “So? Where’s the Enemy this time?” Alex shrugged. “The hell if I know.”

  Chris looked at him suspiciously. “What? Are you saying you don’t have a job for me?”

  “Not yet. The trail’s pretty cold at the moment. It might be a while till something turns up.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  The phantom turned toward him, and the light played on the mutilated countenance with its torn muscle and glaring bone. But that’s not what Chris saw. To him, it was Alex for a change, really Alex. His brother. “Didn’t you hear what I said, Hoss? I came to talk. We haven’t done that for a while, and I thought . . . Now what are you grinning about?”

  “Nothing,” Chris said, his expression broadening into a smile. He popped John Prine into the cassette deck as he steered the van out onto the road and headed toward the highway. It would take them to Bloomington. Ellettsville wasn’t much further than that.

  Behind them, the store windows lit up with a dancing orange glow.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  T. Chris Martindale wrote four novels (Nightblood, Where the Chill Waits, Demon Dance and The Voice in the Basement) in the early 1990s but nothing since. He lives in Indiana.

  ABOUT THE COVER

  Cover: The cover reproduces the original cover painting by Greg Winters and cover design by Jackie Meyer from the first edition paperback original published by Warner Books in 1990.