A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  The blonde’s little boy—Joey, she called him—looked up with his baby blues from where he was sitting on Al’s lap and said, “Are they gonna hurt my mommy?”

  Stan must have overheard. He said, “They better not if they know what’s good for ‘em.” He looked at Al and jerked his head toward the back seat. “Straighten them out, will ya?”

  Al turned in his seat and grabbed Artie since he was closest.

  “You ain’t gonna do shit to her, Artie!”

  Artie slammed his hand away. “Yeah? And what are we gonna do? Save her for you? Bullshit!”

  Artie could be a real asshole at times.

  “We’re not saving her for me,” Al said. “For Gregor. You remember Gregor, don’t you, Artie?”

  Some of Artie’s bluster faded. Gregor was the bigshot bloodsucker in charge of the Jersey Shore. One mean son of an undead bitch. You didn’t mess with Gregor. Al knew Artie was probably thinking of Gregor’s smile, how most times it looked painted on, how with all those sharp teeth of his he managed to look both happy and very, very hungry at the same time. Gregor was a big guy, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a pale face. All the vampires looked pale. But that wasn’t what made Al’s skin crawl every time he got near one. It was something else, something you couldn’t see or smell, something you felt. But they had to meet with Gregor every night and tell him how things had gone while he was cutting his Z’s or whatever it was the bloodsuckers did when the sun was up. It was part of the job.

  “Course,” Artie said. “Course I know Gregor. But I don’t wanna suck her blood, man,” he said, jamming his hand down between the blonde’s legs. “I got other things in mind. It’s been a long time, man—a long time—and I gotta—”

  “What if you screw up the baby?” Al said. “What if she starts having the baby and it’s born dead? All because of you? What’re you gonna tell Gregor then, Artie? How you gonna explain that to him?”

  “Who says he has to know?”

  “You think he won’t find out?” Al said. “I tell you what, Artie. And you, too, Kenny. You guys want to get your jollies with this broad, fine. Go ahead. But if that’s what you’re gonna do, Stan and me are stopping the car here—right here—and walking away Am I right Stan?”

  Stan nodded. “Fuckin’ ay.”

  “And then you two clowns can explain any problems to Gregor yourselves tonight when we meet. Okay?”

  Artie pulled his hand away from the blonde and sat on it.

  “Jesus, Al. I’m hurtin’ bad.”

  “We’re all hurtin’, Artie. But some of us just ain’t ready yet to get killed for a little pregnant poontang, know what I mean?”

  Stan seemed to think that was real funny. He laughed the rest of the way down County Line Road.

  Sister Carole finished her prayers at sundown and went to check on the cooled filtrate. The bottom of the pan was layered with potassium chlorate crystals. Potent stuff. The Germans had used it in their grenades and land mines during World War One.

  She got a clean Mr Coffee filter and poured the contents of the pan through it, but this time she saved the residue in the filter and let the liquid go down the drain.

  Lookit after what you’re doing now, Carole! You’re a sick woman! SICK! You’ve got to be stopping this and praying to God for guidance’ Pray, Carole! PRAY.

  Sister Carole ignored the voice and spread out the potassium chlorate crystals in the now-empty pan. She set the oven on LOW and placed the pan on the middle rack. She had to get all the moisture out of the potassium chlorate before it would be of any use to her.

  So much trouble, and so dangerous. If only her searches had yielded some dynamite, even a few sticks, everything would have been so much easier. She’d searched everywhere—hunting shops, gun stores, construction sites. She found lots of other useful items, but no dynamite. Only some blasting caps. She’d had no choice but to improvise.

  This was her third batch. She’d been lucky so far. She hoped she survived long enough to get a chance to use it.

  “You’ve outdone yourselves this time, boys.”

  Gregor stared at the four cowboys. Ordinarily he found it doubly difficult to be near them. Not simply because the crimson thirst made a perpetual test of being near a living font of hot, pulsing sustenance when he’d yet to feed, urging him to let loose and tear into their throats; but also because these four were so common, such low-lifes.

  Gregor was royalty. He’d come over from the Old Country with the Master and had helped conquer America’s East Coast. Now he was in charge of this region and was in line to expand his responsibilities. When he was moved up he would no longer be forced to deal directly with flotsam such as these. Living collaborators were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.

  Tonight, however, he could almost say truly that he enjoyed their presence. He was ecstatic with the prizes they had brought with them.

  Gregor had shown up shortly after sundown at the customary meeting place outside St Anthony’s church. Of course, it didn’t look much like a church now, what with all the crosses broken off. He’d found the scurvy quartet waiting for him as usual, but they had with them a small boy and—dare he believe his eyes—a pregnant woman. His knees had gone weak at the double throb of life within her.

  “I’m extremely proud of all of you.”

  “We thought you’d appreciate it,” said the one in the cowboy hat. What was his name? Stanley. That was it. Stan.

  Gregor felt his grin grow even wider.

  “Oh, I do. Not just for the succulence of the prizes you’ve delivered, but because you’ve vindicated my faith in you. I knew the minute I saw you that you’d make good cowboys.”

  An outright lie. He’d chosen them because he guessed they were low enough to betray their own kind, and he had been right. But it cost him nothing to heap the praise on them, and perhaps it would spur them to do as well next time. Maybe better. Although what could be better than this?

  “Anything for the cause,” Stan said.

  The redheaded one next to him—Al, Gregor remembered—gave his partner a poisonous look, as if he wanted to kick him for being such a boot-lick.

  “And your timing could not be better,” Gregor told them. “Why? Because the Master himself is coming for a visit.”

  Al’s mouth worked as if it had suddenly gone dry. “Dracula?”

  Gregor nodded. “Himself. And I will present this gravid cow to him as a gift. He will be enormously pleased. This will be good for me. And trust me, what is good for me will eventually prove to be good for you.”

  Partly true. The little boy would go to the local nest leader—he’d been pastor of St Anthony’s during his life and he had a taste for young boys—and the pregnant female would indeed go to the Master. But the rest was a laugh. As soon as Gregor was moved out of here, he’d never give these four walking heaps of human garbage another thought. But he smiled as he turned away.

  “As always, may your night be bountiful.”

  A little after sundown, Sister Carole removed the potassium chlorate crystals from the oven. She poured them into a bowl and then gently, carefully, began to grind them down to a fine powder. This was the touchiest part of the process. A little too much friction, a sudden shock, and the bowl would blow up in her face.

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Carole. Sure, and you’ll be thinking that would solve all your problems. Well, it won’t, Carole. It will merely start your REAL problems! It will send you straight to HELL!

  Sister Carole made no reply as she continued the grinding. When the powder was sifted through a 400 mesh, she spread it onto the bottom of the pan again and placed it back in the oven to remove the last trace of moisture. While that was heating she began melting equal parts of wax and Vaseline, mixing them in a small Pyrex bowl.

  When the wax and Vaseline had reached a uniform consistency she dissolved the mix into some camp stove gasoline. Then she removed the potassium chlorate powder from the oven and stirred in t
hree per cent aluminum powder to enhance the flash effect. Then she poured the Vaseline-wax-gasoline solution over the powder. She slipped on rubber gloves and began stirring and kneading everything together until she had a uniform, gooey mess. This went on the windowsill to cool and to speed the evaporation of the gasoline.

  Then she went to the bedroom. Soon it would be time to go out and she had to dress appropriately. She stripped to her underwear and laid out the tight black skirt and red blouse she’d lifted from the shattered show window of that deserted shop down on Clifton Avenue. Then she began squeezing into a fresh pair of black pantyhose.

  You’re getting into THOSE clothes again, are you? You look cheap, Carole! You look like a WHORE!

  That’s the whole idea, she thought.

  Al walked home. He could have driven but he liked to keep a low profile. He didn’t care to have too many survivors knowing he was a cowboy. Not that there were all that many people left running around free, but until they caught up with the guys who were behind the cowboy killings, he’d play it safe. Which was why he’d removed his earring tonight, and why he lived alone.

  Well, one of the reasons he lived alone.

  Stan, Artie, and Kenny lived together in one of the big mansions off Hope Road. They liked to brag that one of the Mets used to live there. Big deal. Al spent all day with those guys. He couldn’t see spending all night too. They were okay, but enough was enough already. He’d taken over a modest little ranch that gave him everything he needed.

  Except maybe some electricity. The other three were always yapping about the generator in their place. Maybe Al would get one. Candles and kerosene lamps were a drag.

  He looked up. At least there was a moon out tonight. Almost full. Amazing how dark a residential street could be when there was no traffic, no streetlights. At least he had his flashlight, but he held that in reserve. Batteries were like gold.

  He’d just turned onto his block when he heard the voice. A woman’s voice.

  “Hey, mister.”

  He jammed his hand in his pocket and found his earring, ready to flash it if the owner of the voice turned out to be one of the bloodsuckers, and ready to keep it hidden if it belonged to somebody looking for a new cowboy to kill.

  He clicked on his flashlight and beamed it towards the voice.

  A woman standing in the bushes. Not undead. Maybe thirty, and not bad looking. He played the light up and down her. Short dark hair, lots of eye make-up, a red sweater tight over decent-sized boobs, a short black skirt very tight over black stockings.

  Despite the warning bells going off in his brain, Al felt a stirring in his groin.

  “Who’re you?”

  She smiled. No, not bad looking at all.

  “My name’s Carol,” she said. “You got any food?”

  “I got a little. Not much.”

  Actually, he had a lot of food, but he didn’t want her to know that. Food was scarce, worth more than batteries, and the vampires made sure their cowboys always had plenty of it.

  “Can you spare any?”

  “I might be able to help you out some. Depends on how many mouths we’re talking about.”

  “Just me and my kid.”

  The words jumped out before he could stop them: “You’ve got a kid?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “She’s only four. She don’t eat much.”

  A four-year old. Two kids in one day. Almost too good to be true. The whole scenario started playing out in his mind. She could move in with him. If she treated him right, they could play house for a while. If she gave him any trouble she and her brat would become gifts to Gregor. That was where they were going to wind up anyway, but no reason Al couldn’t get some use out of her before she became some bloodsucker’s meal.

  And maybe he’d get real lucky. Maybe she’d get pregnant before he turned her in.

  “Well... all right,” he said, trying to sound reluctant. “Bring her out where I can see her.”

  “She’s home asleep.”

  “Alone?” Al felt a surge of anger. He already considered that kid his property. He didn’t want any bloodsucker sneaking in and robbing him of what was rightfully his. “What if—?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got her surrounded by crosses.”

  “Still, you never know. We’d better take her along to my place where she’ll be safe.”

  Did that sound sufficiently concerned?

  “You must be a good, man,” she said softly.

  “Oh, I’m the best,” he said. And I’ve got this friend behind my fly who’s just dying to meet you.

  He followed her back to the corner and around to the middle of the next block to an old two-storey colonial set back among some tall oaks on an overgrown lot. He nodded with growing excitement when he saw a child’s red wagon parked against the front steps.

  “You live here? Hell, I must’ve passed this place a couple of times already today.”

  “Really?” she said. “I usually stay hidden in the basement.”

  “Good thinking.”

  He followed her up the steps and through the front door. Inside there were candles burning all over the place, but the heavy drapes hid them from outside.

  “Lynn’s sleeping upstairs,” she said. “I’ll just run up and bring her down.”

  Al watched her black-stockinged legs hungrily as she bounded up the bare wooden stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He couldn’t wait to get her home.

  And then it hit him: why wait till they got to his place? She had to have a bed up there. What was he doing standing around here when he could be upstairs getting himself a preview of what was to come?

  “Yoo-hoo,” he said softly as he put his foot on the first step. “Here comes Daddy.”

  But the first step wasn’t wood. Wasn’t even a step. His foot went right through it, as if it was made of cardboard. As Al looked down in shock he saw that it was made of cardboard—painted cardboard. His brain was just forming the question Why? when a sudden blast of pain like he’d never known in his life shot up his leg from just above his ankle.

  Screaming, he lunged back, away from the false step, but the movement tripled his agony. He clung to the newel post like a drunk, weeping and moaning for God knew how long, until the pain eased for a second. Then slowly, gingerly, accompanied by the metallic clanking of uncoiling chain links, he lifted his leg out of the false tread.

  Al let loose a stream of curses through his pain-clenched teeth when he saw the bear trap attached to his leg. Its sharp, massive steel teeth had embedded themselves in the flesh of his lower leg.

  But fear began to worm through the all-enveloping haze of his agony.

  The bitch set me up!

  Stan had wanted to find the guys who were killing the cowboys. But now Al had, and he was scared shitless. What a dumb-ass he was. Baited by a broad—the oldest trick in the book.

  Gotta get outta here!

  He lunged for the door but the chain caught and brought him up short with a blinding blaze of agony so intense that the scream it elicited damn near shredded his vocal cords. He toppled to the floor and lay there moaning and whimpering until the pain became bearable again.

  Where were they? Where were the rest of the cowboy killers? Upstairs, laughing as they listened to him howl like a scared kitten? Waiting until he’d exhausted himself so he’d be easy pickings?

  He’d show them.

  Al pulled himself to a sitting position and reached for the trap. He tried to spread its jaws but they were locked tight on his leg. He wrapped his hand around the chain and tried to yank it free from where it was fastened below but it wouldn’t budge.

  Panic began to grip him now. Its icy fingers were tightening on his throat when he heard a sound on the stairs. He looked up and saw her.

  A nun.

  He blinked and looked again

  Still a nun. He squinted and saw that it was the broad who’d led him in here. She was wearing a bulky sweater and loose slacks, and all the make-up
had been scrubbed off her face, but he knew she was a nun by the wimple she wore—a white band around her head with a black veil trailing behind.

  And suddenly, amid the pain and panic, Al was back in grammar school, back in Our Lady of Sorrows in Camden, before he got expelled, and Sister Margaret was coming at him with her ruler, only this nun was a lot younger than Sister Margaret, and that was no ruler she was carrying, that was a baseball bat—an aluminium baseball bat.

  He looked around. Nobody else, just him and the nun.

  “Where’s the rest of you?”

  “Rest?” she said.

  “Yeah. The others in your gang? Where are they?”

  “There’s only me.”

  She was lying. She had to be. One crazy nun killing all those cowboys? No way! But still he had to get out of here. He tried to crawl across the floor but the chain wouldn’t let him.

  “You’re makin’ a mistake!” he cried. “I ain’t one o’ them!”

  “Oh, yes you are,” she said, coming down the stairs.

  “No. Really. See?” He touched his right ear lobe. “No earring.”

  “Maybe not now, but you had one earlier.” She stepped over the gaping opening where the phony tread had been and moved to his left.

  “When? When?”

  “When you drove by earlier today. You told me so yourself.”

  “I lied!”

  “No you didn’t. But I lied. I wasn’t in the basement. I was watching through the window. I saw you and your three friends in that car.” Her voice suddenly became cold and brittle and sharp as a straight razor. “I saw that poor woman and child you had with you. Where are they now? What did you do with them?”

  She was talking through her teeth now, and the look in her eyes, the strained pallor of her face frightened the hell out of Al. He wrapped his arms around his head as she stepped closer with the bat.

  “Please!” he wailed.

  “What did you do with them?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Lie!”