Bad Moon Rising (47 page)

“No! Satan is the Father of Lies and—”

Val slapped him across the face. “Listen to me, Eddie Oswald; if Mike Sweeney is evil, then you’re a dead man.” She straightened and turned to Mike. “Mike…kill him.”

Mike said, “What?”

“Go on, kill him. If you’re the goddamned Antichrist, then kill this fool, so we can get the hell out of here.”

Mike stood there, holding his shotgun loosely in his hands. “No, I—I mean, can’t we just tie him up or something?”

“Some Antichrist,” LaMastra muttered, mostly for Eddie’s benefit.

Mike came over and gently pushed Crow and Val aside. He knelt down in front of Eddie.

“Careful, kid,” said LaMastra, then to Eddie he said, “And you behave.”

Mike laid his shotgun down. “Mr. Oswald…when you were in the store the other day you came looking for me, didn’t you? You thought it was me, but then you came and met me and I could tell that you weren’t sure. Well, I have to tell you that I don’t give a rat’s ass if you live or die. I really don’t. You’ve been trying to kill me for a month now, and I didn’t do anything to you to deserve it. Everything in my life is shit. Everything. My mom’s a vampire and my dad…well, my dad is the kind of guy you
should
be going after. If you were really on some kind of holy mission to rid the world of evil, then you should be standing with us rather than against us.” He leaned closer. “I could kill you. They’d let me. They’d do it for me if I asked.”

“Damn skippy,” agreed LaMastra.

“Our friends have been dying. My best friend, Brandon, tried to kill me just five minutes ago. I’m probably going to die sometime tonight; and if not tonight, then sometime soon. So, I don’t have a lot to lose.”

Eddie’s eyes kept trying to meet the stare of Mike’s gold-rimmed red-blue eyes, and each time they fell away.

“Look at me,” Mike said.

Eddie looked at the floor.

“I said
look
at me.”

It took visible effort, but Eddie finally raised his eyes to meet—and hold—Mike’s stare.

“I have every reason to kill you. No one will say ‘boo.’ I have every reason to kill you, but one.”

Eddie licked his lips. “Wh—what’s that?”

“Because I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not a little boy. You’re not—”

“Human? No, I think I left that kind of thing behind. I’m born from monsters, Eddie, but I’m not a monster. Look me in the eyes.”

Eddie looked for as long as he could.

Mike leaned over, stretched and picked Eddie’s pistol off the floor. He offered it butt first to the big man.

“Hey, kid, what the hell you doing?” LaMastra barked, but Mike shook his head.

“Put the gun down,” he said to the detective. “Please, just put it down. I want Mr. Oswald to see that he’s free to make up his own mind.”

LaMastra looked at Crow, who hesitated and then nodded; LaMastra moved the barrel away and down, but he didn’t like doing it.

“Mr. Oswald,” Mike said, “I’m giving you a chance here to do the right thing. We’re fighting against these monsters. We could use your help.”

Tow-Truck Eddie stared at him, wide-eyed for what seemed like an eternity, and everyone could see the warring emotions as they passed like clouds across his face. His eyes were watery, his lips trembled.

“I…I’m sorry,” he said weakly. Mike smiled at him. “I’m so sorry!”

And he whipped his pistol up toward Mike and fired.

It was Willard Fowler Newton who saved Mike’s life. Why him and not the others was a question none of the survivors could ever adequately explain. It was as if an invisible hand shoved him hard from behind and he lurched into Mike and knocked him out of the way even as Oswald was pulling the trigger.

Then the world exploded as LaMastra, Crow, and Val all fired simultaneously, each from point-blank range, all of them shooting to kill. Oswald’s body was plucked off the ground and torn to red rags.

Then everyone was crowded around Mike, who lay half inside Weinstock’s room.

“Mike!” Crow saw blood on him and started pulling at Mike’s shirt, looking for the wound. But there was nothing.

“I’m okay,” he said, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “He missed.”

“Thank God!” Val turned to Newton, who had fallen down and was sitting against the wall. “You saved his life!”

“Finally a hero,” Newton said with a small smile, and then he pitched over on his side as blood poured from his chest.

“Christ,” Crow said, “Newt’s hit.”

“No!” cried Jonatha, trying to push past, but Val pushed her back as she and Crow tore at Newton’s clothes. They found the entry wound high on the right side. It was well away from the heart, but it was bleeding freely. Crow pressed his palm flat on the hole.

“Mike,” Crow yelled, “see if you can get Saul out here. He can tell us what to do.”

When Mike didn’t move, Crow looked at him. “Come on, damn it—he took that bullet for you. Move your ass!”

Val touched Crow’s cheek. “Crow…honey…Saul’s dead.”

Crow closed his eyes—first lightly and then he squeezed them shut, not wanting to look at the world anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Mike said, and it wasn’t clear if he was expressing sympathy for Crow’s grief or apologizing for Newton’s injury.

When Crow could talk past the stricture in his throat, he said, “Jonatha, get me something to use as a compress. Towels, anything. Val, keep the pressure on right here. See, just like that.” He guided her hands, then looked up to accept a folded towel from Jonatha. “Vince, see if Eddie there is wearing a belt. I need it.”

With Tow-Truck Eddie’s belt and the towel, Crow made a tight compress over the bullet wound. Newton was in and out of consciousness. “Jonatha, keep your eye on him. If he wakes up, don’t let him move that compress, and don’t let him move. There’s no exit wound, so that bullet’s still there. If he moves it could shift around and do damage.”

He stood and walked into Weinstock’s room. Val followed him and held his hand while Crow looked at his friend’s body, ugly and graceless in death.

“How?” he asked, and she told him.

Crow inhaled and exhaled very deeply, as if trying to abrade his lungs. He bent over Weinstock and kissed his friend on the forehead. “I’m so sorry, man.” Then he turned and pulled Val close and they just stood there, not kissing, just holding on to keep from drowning.

From the doorway, Mike said, “Crow…something’s happening.”

Crow had to tighten his mouth to respond to that, biting back everything he wanted to say, to yell.

“What is it, Mike?” Val asked.

“It’s that feeling I’ve been getting. What Mr. Newton calls my spider-sense? It’s, um,
changing
.” When Crow and Val were both looking at him, he said, “The vampires—I think they’re going.”

Crow frowned. “Going? Going where?”

“Going to
him.
”

(1)

Vic wandered through the shadows of the hospital corridors looking for a living doctor or nurse, and came up empty. Most of the corpses had been revived and were gone now; the rest were the ones too badly torn up by the Dead Heads to be worth bringing back. Armless, legless, headless junk.

He heard a quiet footfall behind him and whirled, bringing his gun up. High as he was on morphine, his gun hand was still steady as a rock. Three figures came out of the darkened office, their smiling mouths rouged with blood.

“Oh,” Vic said, lowering the gun. “It’s you clowns.”

Dixie McVey gave him a toothy grin. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Vic gave them a narrow-eyed appraisal. McVey was the only one of the three he knew; the others looked like tourists who had been impressed into service. “Why would that be?”

“Ruger said that you was hurt, that you burned yourself playing with matches or something. His words, Vic. He said for us to make sure you was looked after.”

“Nice to hear he’s concerned about my health. Sends three Fangers to babysit me.”

McVey shrugged. “Hey, man, I’m just following orders. Ruger says jump and I’m in the air.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Hey, Vic, I’m on the clock here. Ruger tells me to find you and bring you out, then that’s what I’m going to do. If I’m out of line here, then tell me.”

“Bring me ‘out’?” He looked at the other two vampires, both of whom were giving him
the stare
. He almost laughed in their pasty faces.

“To the Hollow, man. The Ritual’s probably already started. I can feel the Man calling.” A dreamy look floated around in his eyes. “I got a car outside.”

“Okay,” said Vic brightly. “Let’s go for a nice ride in the country.” He gestured with his burned hand. “Lead on, McVey.”

“Cool, man.” McVey turned and began leading the way and the other two vampires, neither of whom had uttered a single word, fell in behind Vic. They went about ten paces and then Vic stopped.

Vic said, “Oh, wait a minute.” MacVey turned to face him. “You know what I forgot?”

“What’s that, man?”

“Just this,” Vic said and jammed the pistol against McVey’s face and pulled the trigger. The garlic-filled dumdum punched a neat round hole beside the officer’s nose and then blew the whole back of his skull off. McVey’s amazed face went blank with death as he toppled backward; Vic turned and stepped back, covering the other two.

“Do you think I’m fucking
stupid
?” he shouted. “Is that it? What did Karl arrange for me? A car accident? Or maybe I was gonna fall down a flight of steps and break my neck. I know it wasn’t going to be a fang job because the Man would know about that. So what was it gonna be?”

The vampires shifted and looked scared. One of them looked ready to bolt, the other just stared at the barrel, trying to work out why the gun had been able to kill one of their kind when that was supposed to be impossible.

“Car accident,” one said, and the other nodded.

Vic snorted. “So, what’s the deal here? You boys working for Ruger now? Is that it? You guys don’t give a shit that I’m the Foreman and that I’m tight with the Man?”

“We just did what we were told. Ruger told us that the Man was through with you.”

“And you
believed
that?” Vic asked with more incredulity than he felt.

“What do we care?” asked the other vampire. “We don’t know you—we just do what we’re told.”

Vic shifted the gun to point at that vampire’s face. “Tell me, son, how much do you want to live? I mean even as a piece of shit like you are, how much do you want to go on living?”

The vampires exchanged a glance. “A lot.”

“Good,” said Vic, and he lowered the gun. “Then from now on you do what I say. You got that?”

After a long hesitation, they nodded.

“Then come on. I think there’s still some time for fun and games around here.” And he thought,
I want the Man to see how I’m still part of this. Ruger’s not the only one who racked up a body count for the cause
.

(2)

Val and Mike brought Crow and LaMastra quickly up to speed on everything that had happened. Crow took the news better than LaMastra did, but they both remained on their feet even with the enormity of it all.

“Then we have no choice,” Crow said hollowly.

Val met his stare and the fear he felt was reflected in her eyes. She absently touched her stomach.

“We have to do it,” Crow said. “We have to try.”

“Yes.”

LaMastra just stood there shaking his head. Not in refusal of what Crow was proposing, but in denial of a world where such things were necessary.

Crow turned toward Newton and Jonatha. The reporter was lying with his head in her lap. Newton tried to speak, but Jonatha shushed him. Over his head she gave Crow a significant look. “I think he’ll be okay—the bleeding’s slowed down. He can breathe, but it’s hard for him to talk and he’s in a lot of pain. There’s no way he can go with you.”

Crow knelt next to Newton. “Hey, Newt, how’s things?”

The reporter raised a shaky hand and gave it a seesaw shake.

“Hey, buddy, you know what we’re going to do, but listen to me—you two are out of it. Val and Vince will go with Mike and me. You two stay here and hold the fort. Jonatha, if there’s anyone alive on this floor, then round them up and move them all into any room you think you can defend. We’ll leave you plenty of guns and ammo. Just hole up and wait for us to get back.”

Jonatha looked doubtful. “What if you don’t get back?”

“Then as soon as you think it’s safe, go find some way to call the State Police, the National Guard, and anyone else you can think of. They’re probably on their way already anyway. If we aren’t back by then, send someone to look for us in Dark Hollow. After that, you guys get as far away from this place as you can. If we don’t make it back, it’s ’cause we failed. If that happens, then you don’t want to be within a thousand miles of here. Okay?”

They both nodded, looking scared. Crow patted Newt’s leg. “Don’t forget, Champ, we still have a book to write. I’m expecting to go on
Oprah
and brag about it, so let’s all make sure we’re around come morning.”

Crow rose and joined Val, who was squatting by the open duffel bag reloading her shotgun. Her face still looked pale and sickly.

He kissed her. “How are you doing, babe?”

Her eyes were dark with damage. “About the same as you.”

“You mean you’re boyishly handsome, full of youthful energy, and unbelievably charming and witty?”

“No, I said that I’m about the same as you.”

“Bitch.”

“So they tell me.” She managed a small smile as she finished loading the gun; she picked up a game pouch filled with shells and strapped it on.

“It’s going to be tough,” he said lamely. “You could stay here with them…”

She adjusted the straps. “It’s been tough all along.” She picked up the shotgun again and jacked a round into the breech. “Crow,” she said in a voice that was a strange blend of softness and hardness, “I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

“Fine with me.”

“Are you ready?” Mike asked, and Crow turned to look up at the boy. Mike had wiped the blood off his face, but his clothes still glistened with red. Crow had tied his spare sword over Mike’s shoulder and the boy was practicing drawing it. Crow was encouraged by how fast the kid was.

“Let’s go,” LaMastra said. “Let’s kill this evil son of a bitch and have done with it.”

(3)

From the womb of darkness he called out and they came to him. Tens of thousands of them, seething and scuttling in the shadows, wriggling out of holes, crawling up from forgotten wells, clawing their way out of old cellars. They swarmed into the night and raced toward Dark Hollow. He waited for them, needing them, hungry for them, willing them to come.

Into the forbidden place they swarmed. The rats came first, chittering and squeaking as they scurried on quick feet; behind them came the roaches and beetles, covering the earth like a shiny black carpet, hissing along on their million legs, crawling over each other, driven by the irresistible power of his call. Here and there were a few larger animals: stray dogs with shaggy coats, scarred farm cats, raccoons and opossums and rabid squirrels. There were a few black goats that had been born wild and mean in the deeper reaches of the State Forest. All of them surging forward to answer that compelling call.

Beneath the tons of muddy earth he waited, and as the first armies of vermin flooded into the swamp he sent fingers up through the soil, seeking the surface with limbs made from roots and vines and old bones and maggots. A single finger broke the surface of the swamp; muddy water dripped from its bleached whiteness. The finger rose, reaching up into the moonlight, extending itself until it became impossibly long, jointed in dozens of places like a grotesquely articulated insect leg. It was absolutely without pigment, a limb born in the womb of thirty years’ darkness, and it curled over the bugs and rats and spiders, swaying in the damp breeze. Antenna-like, it sensed the mass of life around it and quivered with expectant agitation. The rats leapt up in frenzy, throwing their bloated bodies at it, driven to madness by the call of the presence of this flesh.

One rat, older and fatter than the others, waddled through the press toward the swaying finger, crying out with an imploring trill. The exploring finger became aware of it, and the tip of the finger turned slowly toward the rat. A long nail, sharp as a talon, tore though the fingertip, forming as it grew. The finger trembled with anticipatory delight and then snapped forward and downward, piercing the fat body with a single powerful thrust. Blood exploded from the wriggling body as the nail stabbed deep into the rat’s belly and wormed its way toward the heart. The rat screeched in a death ecstasy that made its entire body shiver. It rose up as the finger lifted its weight and shook it, then the rat’s empty corpse was hurled aside. Blood dripped from a tiny mouth that had formed on the finger’s pad; the finger immediately plunged down into the press, impaling another rat, splashing the ground with blood. Another finger tore through the surface, spearing a raccoon as it rose out of the ground; another appeared, and another. Within seconds the entire clearing was a writhing mass of white stalks of maggot flesh and fossilized bone. Dozens of articulated fingers rose and fell, tearing and rending, piercing and slashing, crushing as the vermin of the forest flooded in and crowded forward to die. Living bodies of dogs and goats and cats were torn to bloody rags and the pieces dragged beneath the surface, down to where Griswold’s new body was forming. Their torn meat was added to his, lending mass, sheathing his skeleton with new muscle, new flesh.

Still the creatures poured in, denuding the forest of all life except for the birds, who stayed in their trees and watched with black, emotionless eyes.

It did not take long, perhaps an hour, and then the frenzy of slaughter was done. The bone-white fingers missed nothing, overlooked nothing. Each dead form, each insect, each rat and goat was dragged down into the dirt. The ground swelled with all of the thousands of pounds of matter, the whole surface of the swamp trembled and bubbled like a hot cauldron over a fire, and in that cauldron a witch’s stew was brewing.

One by one, the articulated fingers slithered back into the mud, whipping downward like tongues sucked into well-fed mouths. A terrible silence fell down and smothered the swamp.