Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

The hand gripping him twisted, dragging him another few inches closer.

Carl dug his knees against the pavement. His other hand scrabbled forward.

Another yank on his arm from the black, faceless thing clinging to the bus.

In the dim undercarriage, without the sun to interfere, Carl’s vision was adjusting quickly. Even as he bent his elbow to try to gain some leverage, his eyes were on the outline of the knife jutting from the sheath on the biker’s thigh. He pushed forward with his toes, lunging for it.

The snap holding it popped as he jerked its handle.

The blade
sssed
softly as it slid free from the leather.

The biker released his wrist to reach for the knife.

Carl clenched its hilt in his fist and plunged it into the biker’s leg.

A hiss of pain came from the mask.

The biker grabbed hold of Carl’s hair.

Carl rocked the knife out and pushed it through leather, into the biker’s side. The biker
oofed
, then slammed Carl’s head against the underside of the bus, but the angle was awkward, and though it made his ear bleat, it also made it possible for Carl to wrench his head free. The hand came at him again. He banged his head on the pipes as he lunged to meet it with the bloody blade.

The biker’s hand didn’t have enough weight behind it. The knife pierced the leather but didn’t sink far into flesh.

He pulled it back and plunged it into the biker’s side again.

As the biker reached for him again, he caught his arm and shoved it downward. And buried the knife up to its hilt in the biker’s neck.

“Fuck you,” Carl whispered hard, spittle wetting his lips. “
Fuck
you.” As he pulled back, dragging himself backward toward the light, the knife still stuck in the biker’s throat, he heard a gurgle of a laugh.

The words that crawled out from under the bus were wet and burbly, but there was a smirk in them. “I smell you, asshole. After this, I’m coming after you, you little
shit
.”

Carl’s sneakers scuffed over pavement as he hauled himself into the sunshine.

“I’m coming after
you
. And I ain’t gonna leave nothin’ but bones.”

He slammed his back into the alley wall. Above, the blinds were drawn on the bus’s windows—no one peeking out as far as he could tell.

His heart pounded, big booms in his chest. His nerves jittered. He felt high—like crazy high. Like nearly-fucking-got-killed high. It thrummed through him.

The biker chuckled, a gurgling, sucking sound. It stopped, and in its place Carl heard the sick, wet sound of the knife being drawn slowly out.

“Asshole,” the biker muttered.

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking holy fucking Christ.

Carl pushed to his feet, the wall against his back, his palms flat on the bricks. He looked down at one of his hands, blood smeared in the crook of his thumb, wet and glistening along a finger. Seeping into the crevice of a fingernail. A streak of the stuff had followed his palm up the wall.

His cheeks were cold. Numb. Tingling a little. His mouth was dry—he was gasping in gulps of air.

Holy fucking shit.

He pushed off the wall and walked away, trembling.

He just fucking—he just walked away. No idea where he was going, he just needed to move. His feet needed to move so he could think, so he could
process
this shit.

Once his hand was clean—wiped on a shirt he pulled out of the duffle bag on the back seat—and he had two cigarettes smoked down to the filter, he headed toward the main drag, looking for a pay phone.

It took forever for Tim to answer, and when his groggy voice—it was probably six in the morning there—said, “’Lo?” Carl ran right over it: “I’m losing my fucking mind.”

“Wha? Where are you?” No snappy comeback on the mind losing—no,
Hey, admitting you have a problem is the first step
, or
Tell me something I didn’t know
. Tim must have been dead to the world when the phone rang.

“I have no fucking idea,” Carl said. “You’re gonna love this, though, as much you love horror movies. Wait’ll you hear this. Holy fucking—I’m losing my mind. Are you ready for this?”

“Can you just—”

“I’ve been tracking a fucking vampire.”

Silence. Then: “Are you out of your mind?”

“
That’s what I’ve been saying!
” Only he wasn’t out of his mind. He’d just stabbed a guy in the neck, and the guy was still alive back there—not just still alive, but threatening to leave him nothing but bones when he got a hold of him. And why hadn’t he gotten a hold of Carl yet? Because he couldn’t come out in the sun! “He can’t come out in the sun!” he said into the phone.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He can’t come out in the sun. He’s hanging onto the underside of a bus. That’s why he couldn’t just take his bike.”

“What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

He couldn’t even try to make sense. Thoughts collided, smashing into each other. Banging against his skull. “I need to find a stake.”

“What? Hold on. Hold up. Now you
are
talking crazy. What the fuck?”

But he did: he needed to find a stake. Assuming stakes actually worked—and why not? Apparently vampires actually had to avoid sunlight.

Holy shit.

He was losing his fucking mind.

He could drag that thing out into the sunlight and
then
stake it. He needed a stake.

Downtown turned out to be no help. He got directions to a hardware store from a woman behind the counter at a pharmacy and swung by the gas station to fill up on his way. When he got there, the hardware store was just opening, and he went straight to the back, looking for lumber. He didn’t have anything to shape the stake with himself, so he was hoping for some kind of picket, preferably a small, easy-to-wield one.

The proprietor asked if needed help, and he couldn’t imagine describing needing a stake, so he said he was fine.

Finally he found what he needed farther up in the store, sitting in a bin near the plastic For Rent and No Trespassing signs: thin wooden sign posts, about three feet long each, pointed at the end to help you shove them in the ground. He brought a handful to the counter.

Back on the venue’s block, his spot was gone. The best alternative was two blocks up. He circled for twenty minutes, waiting for something with a view to the alley to open up. He had time—the biker wasn’t going anywhere.

There were people in the alley now—roadies it looked like, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the sunshine. One of them stood not four feet from the thing under the bus.

Parked in front of the pizza joint, Carl slouched in the driver’s seat, his fingers resting on the bottom rung of the steering wheel, his head turned to watch the alley in the breaks between passing cars.

Crazy stuff, Soph. Crazy stuff.

She hadn’t liked vampire movies. Found them too ghoulish. He remembered when she was four, she had this thing where she pulled her sheets all the way up to her chin, because maybe if a vampire came and he didn’t see that she had a throat, he wouldn’t bite her on it. He’d been more of a Westerns fan himself, always wanting to go to the pictures to see the cowboys. Indians—that’s what had scared him, their whooping and tomahawks.
Scalping
. The thought always made him shudder.

Vampires
.

As he thought of those old movies, his forehead slid slowly toward the glass of the side window.

His fingers slipped from the wheel.

Seventy-some-odd hours with nothing more than catnaps to keep him going caught up with him in the morning sunshine, and he wasn’t even aware of the blackness rushing in on him until it was too late.

F
ootsteps approached the bunkroom
. In the dark, Dean inhaled, tasting the scent of whoever was heading his way. He found light sweat from someone who’d only had a sink bath after the last show. The subtle pulsing of blood under skin.

The curtain rustled before lifting at the corner. Shawn crouched, resting his chin on his hand, hanging on to the edge of the berth. Aftershave. Coffee in his exhale. “Hey.”

When Dean said
hey
back, his voice rasped like he hadn’t used it in years.

“We’re sound checking in fifteen. Meet and greet later this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“You feeling all right?”

“Think I’m coming down with a bug.”

“Are you good for this?”

“Yeah, just let me piss and wash my mouth out.”

“There’s a sandwich on the table for you.”

“Thanks.”

Shawn didn’t move. Neither did Dean. He’d rather the curtain be pulled shut again—let him lie there in the darkness.

“If you can’t do it,” Shawn said, “let us know. We’ll have Teddy handle sound check. Anything else—”

“I’m there.” He rubbed his face. “I’ll be fine. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Shawn said, but he seemed tired. After another moment, he said, “See you inside.”

The curtain dropped back into place.

Shawn didn’t close the bunkroom door. Faint light filtered through the edges of the curtain.

Dean dug his hand from under his pillow, leaving the knife for the moment. He rolled onto his side and opened his palm. The skin looked sickly, but the cuts—the cuts were the same dull, dead gray he’d seen in his neck. He was rotting from the inside out—whatever had gotten into him was making its way downward.

He put his nose to the cuts, inhaling a faint, sweet, fermented meat odor.

Rotting from the inside fucking out.

He clenched his hand shut. He was dying inside, and he was damned if he was going to do it lying on a thin mattress while some other guy played his guitar.
His
songs.

They’d talked about pulling out one of the
Mercy
songs for this tour. A jab at the record label.

They should do that tonight, while he still could. Who knew where this fucking thing was going.

He rolled out of his bunk, the boots he’d never bothered taking off hitting the floor with a thump. He needed smokes, and he needed to get his hand covered up before anyone saw it. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to change the bandage on his neck too. Aside from being filthy, the tape wasn’t holding so well anymore.

He popped a cigarette between his teeth and wrapped his hand around the bandaged part of his neck, one eye sneaking toward the sunlit front lounge. It irritated him, just from here. He slipped his gas station sunglasses on before heading out of his cave.

H
e’d been engulfed
in the dread for so many hours it had become part of him, so he was surprised when he jumped off the bus and the dread eased up a little. Just a little.

Enough to make him rub his chest, like he could feel congestion breaking up in it.

He banged the venue’s back door, the sun hot on the back of his neck, and slipped inside as soon as the opening was wide enough.

The congestion broke even more when the door closed behind him, and by the time he’d found his way to the stage door, he could almost breathe again.

Shawn’s voice was saying, “Check, check,” through the mic. He swung the stage door open.

Yeah—tonight was definitely the night to do that song from
Mercy
.

“It lives,” Jessie said. He had his guitar strapped on, a plastic beer cup in his hand.

Dean picked up his guitar, slung the strap over his head. “What are we doing?”

“Boiler,” Shawn said—and to Janx behind the soundboard on the other side of the room, he said, “Can I have a little more in my monitor?”

“How about ‘Sidelined’?”

Shawn looked at him. “Yeah?”

Dean shrugged. “Fuck it, why not?”

“I’m game,” Jessie said.

“Game with what?” Nick was recapping a water bottle. He set it on the floor.

“We’re pulling out
Mercy
apparently,” Shawn said.

“All right. ’Bout fucking time.” He bounced the hi-hat pedal. Shawn tweaked a peg. When he was ready, he gave Dean a nod.

With a nod back, they started into it.

They’d run through it in rehearsals the week before, so it was still fresh in their fingers. It came off easy. Smooth. Real.

When they finished, Janx called out, “Heavy,” from his board, and Dean could hear the smile in it. It
was
nice.
Fuck
High Class Records.

C
arl jolted
awake to the sound of idling engines. He sucked back drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Dried spit tugged at the skin on his cheek. He sat up, cotton-headed and sweltering, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The afternoon sun beat through the windshield. The back of his shirt was soaked through. His brain had been replaced with steel wool, prickly and irritable. He was confused for a few seconds over where the fuck he was or what was going on.

A bicycle whizzed by, one of those gazelle-like ten-speeds.

His bladder set off an alarm as he shifted. He straightened a knee that felt like a rusted-shut hinge. Shoving his hand through his greasy hair, he squinted toward the alley. Bus still there, so there was that.

He needed to piss. Needed to get a fucking drink before he died of dehydration, and maybe eat something.

He stepped out of the car and into the street. He looked like a fucking bum. No doubt he stank like one too. He straightened his back with a grimace. The pizza place was in full swing, the aroma of baked dough and melted cheese making his insides twist with hunger. He ducked back into the Cougar to grab a change of clothes.

After a sink bath in the tiny stall of a restroom at the back of the building, after deciding the clothes he’d been wearing could just go in the trash—especially the undershorts—he sucked down two colas and a couple of cheese slices, sitting at a table right in the window, where he couldn’t see far enough into the alley to keep an eye on the bus but could see fans stopping at the mouth, lingering to talk amongst themselves before moving around front—to get in line, he guessed, or get their tickets before finding their own dinners before the show.