They Thirst (57 page)

Kobra shoved him aside and towered over Wes; he leaned down, staring balefully at Wes, and seemed to be sniffing the air. Almost instantly his eyes squeezed shut with pain, and he scrambled away.

"What's he got, Kobra, huh?" Viking said. "What's he got, what's he got?"

"Shut up!" Kobra rubbed his eyes and then glared at

Wes. "Don't matter what he's got. Bastard's ribs are caved. When the wind blows up again, he'll be lying under about two feet of sand. Forget about him."

Viking scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at Wes. "You're gonna die, motherfucker!" he said savagely. "And death is
cooolllddd . . ."

"Come on." Kobra moved past him and out of Wes's field of vision. "I'm taking your black bitch with me, mister. She'll be nice and warm up at the castle, old Kobra'll see to that. You just lay there and think about that, okay?" Engines revved. Wes tried to pull himself to his feet, but pain exploded along his left side, where he'd been hurt in the crash of Jimmy's Cadillac. He fell back, panting. The motorcycles swept past him, roaring like wild animals. "Solange!" he tried to shout, but the name came out as a whisper.

And then they were gone, the sound of their cycles rapidly fading.

"Solange . . ." he whimpered, and curled up to die. Around him the wind began to chuckle.

The bell was still ringing, but now it seemed
a
world away.

Anger ached within him.
"Can't die!"
he shouted at himself.
"Got to find Solange! Can't let her be . . . like them!"
He lifted his head and whispered, "I'll find you!" After awhile he turned on his belly and started to crawl, sliding with the agonized movement of a crushed jack rabbit. He thanked God for the amulet Solange had given him; he didn't know how it had worked, but it had kept the vampires from biting him.

Now he counted the tolling of that bell to keep himself from slipping into darkness. "One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . ." Anger carried him along, and just behind him off in the shadows, he felt the presence of some grinning, scabrous thing with a vaudeville stage-hook, trying to catch hold of him and drag him back. He kept crawling.

Lights glowed dimly from the ceiling of a concrete-walled factory in Highland Park. Every so often they flickered out and, when they were gone, the conveyor belt would stop, too, and the workers had to pull the coffins along in the dark. But so far the electricity had been weak but fairly constant; the conveyor belt hummed, gears meshing perfectly. The gleaming coffins passed one after the other, faster and faster. Figures with shadowy faces grinned and nodded, pleased with their work. Soon they would be allowed to go out and feed, and another shift would take over. From now on, according to the Master, the factory would work from dusk until dawn, electricity or no. If the buzz saws went out, there were always hand saws and plenty of files and planes and other necessary tools.

At the end of the conveyor belt, where the big tractor-trailer trucks were lined up at the loading docks, there was a huge mound of sandy brown California soil the dump trucks had brought. Before the coffins were sealed and shoved into the trucks, the workers would lay down a good bed of dirt inside each of them. Then they were ready to go.

One of the workers, known as Mitchell Everett Gideon in his previous life, leaned on his shovel and waited for the next coffin to come down the line. His face was streaked with dirt, his eyes dark and sunken. He was cold with hunger but reassured by the knowledge that the plant whistle would blow in about an hour, and then he'd be allowed to feed. He wouldn't even have to spend time hunting, for one of the tractor-trailer trucks was loaded with humans, the Master's reward for work well done.

The next coffin came. He filled the bottom of it, pressed the dirt down with his shovel, and then it was carried away to a truck. Trucks were always coming and going, and it pleased him to see such efficiency. He was an important part of the machine now, much more important than he'd ever been in his life. He'd even met the Master and had told him everything he knew about the factory, about casket making, about getting the best possible effort out of a work crew. The Master was pleased and had asked Gideon if he could rely on him for help and suggestions. Gideon said yes, of course.

Another coffin came. Gideon filled it, working with a newfound strength, and watched it being carried away. Another truck moved out of its slot on the docks, and another backed in. He was ecstatically happy, ecstatic with his love for the Master. He had been granted the gift of eternal life . . . eternal
youth.

It was all a dream come true.

At the end of two hours, Father Silvera had found more than fifty people and herded them back into the church. Some of them were dazed, some were hysterical, others whimpered softly. The sanctuary teemed with life— people crying and praying, infants howling, people babbling, nearly insane. Silvera appointed four men to act as supervisors over the group; some of them wanted to go with him when he left again to continue his search, but he firmly told them no.

It was all he could do to keep himself steady out there. He didn't want to be responsible for losing anyone else. Stepping across that threshold and out into the dark, sand-whipped street was the most terrible thing he'd ever asked himself to do. He was shaking very badly now, his grip on the heavy brass crucifix so weak that several times he thought he couldn't continue holding onto it. But he did, mentally commanding those strained, deteriorating muscles to hold firm just a moment, just a second longer. His hands ached with his body's insidious betrayal.

Now out on the street again, he was alert for running shapes. He'd seen them several times, and once one of them had come dangerously close before it suddenly stopped and dodged away. Silvera presumed it was because of the crucifix. Perhaps they were afraid of it, just like in all the old vampire movies. He walked on, thankful that the wind had dropped enough for him to see the buildings on either side of the street. His face was raw and swollen from the sand's abrasion, and it was by sheer habit now that he kept his eyes narrowed into tight, protective slits. Mary's Voice called out behind him, the sound echoing from street to street. He passed a grocery store where the front window had been knocked out by a wind-tossed garbage can; he made a mental note to come back and get food and water for the people in the sanctuary. He was about to step into an apartment building on Marquesa Street, just three blocks from his church, when he heard a voice call, "Father Silvera! Help me!"

It was a little child's voice, and he didn't recognize it at first. But then he heard "Please help me!" and a series of broken sobs that faded away. He looked across the street and up, and there in a broken, third-floor window was Juanita LaPaz, her tiny face barely visible over the sill. He could see her fingers grasping the wood tightly, her eyes wide and terrified. "Please! I wan' my papa! I wan' my . . ." She started to cry again, her hands going to cover her eyes, and then she disappeared from the window.

Silvera ran across the street, his shoes sinking down into sand, and entered the building. It seemed deserted and was as hot and dirty as a bowl of street-corner chili. He took the stairs three at a time and was panting when he got to the third-floor hallway, which was littered with newspapers and old furniture and clothes. Graffiti covered the walls, along with splatters of what looked like paint and dried blood. He paused, listening for the little girl's crying. "Juanita?" he called out. "It's Father Silvera! Where are you,
querida?"

He heard her muffled sobbing a couple of doors away. When he opened the door, he found her standing barefoot in a room whose walls were covered with Power to the People posters. Beneath her black bangs, her eyes looked dull and glazed, as if—
oh, my God!
Silvera thought—as if someone had given her drugs. She stood staring at him and shivered.

"Thank God I've found you!" Silvera said, bending down and hugging her. She didn't respond; her arms hung limply at her sides. "Are you all right?"

"Si,"
she replied very softly. She seemed to be staring right through him.

"Where's the man who took you, Juanita? Where did he go?"

"Gone far away. Please help me, I wan' my papa. Gone far away. Please help me, I wan' my . . ." Her eyes moved a fraction, staring over his right shoulder, and he saw a quicksilver glimmer of the terror frozen behind the doll-like mask of her face.

Silvera twisted his head around just as Cicero leaped through the doorway with a triumphant shriek.

They slammed together and crashed to the floor. Cicero hissed and tried to force the priest's chin back to get at the jugular vein. Silvera tried to gouge out the thing's eyes, but every time he struck, Cicero's head whipped to one side to evade the blow. Silvera clung to the crucifix with all his strength, and with his free hand he slammed an uppercut to the vampire's jaw. Cicero blinked but seemed unhurt. The vampire's head darted forward, fangs glistening. Silvera threw his arm across his neck and spat into the thing's eyes. Cicero recoiled, and Silvera struck out with his fist again, so hard he felt the vibration thrum up his shoulder. Before the thing could regain its grip, Silvera twisted and got a knee between them, then kicked out with tremendous, thigh-cracking effort. Cicero was flung back across the floor, but he quickly scrambled to his feet.

Silvera stood up, his lungs heaving. He grasped Juanita's shoulder and shook her hard to try to break the vampire's power over her. "Get behind me, Juanita! Hurry!" She was too dazed to understand.

Cicero grinned, the fangs sliding out of his upper and lower jaws. "Ain't gonna be so easy as that, Mr. Priest. Oh, nooooo. You in old Cicero's territory now. You got to play by
my
rules." The vampire stepped forward, hands curling into claws.

Silvera took a step backward. The crucifix felt leaden in his left hand. He held it up and thrust it forward at the vampire, his arm trembling. "Get back!" he commanded. "Your Master's dead, Cicero! He's destroyed!"

Cicero stopped, his face contorting. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "
'Get back'?
Ha! Man, you been watchin' too many old movies! Ha!" His eyes flamed. "Cicero Clinton ain't ashamed of what he is! I never believed in that religion bullshit anyway, man, so that thing don't hurt me none now! And you're wrong.

The Master lives! He's in me right now, and I'm hungry,
reallll
hungry . . ." He came forward, his claws twitching, his face split by that leering, terrible grin.

Silvera grabbed the little girl and shoved her against the wall so he stood between her and the vampire. He heard her saying, like a broken record, ". . . gone far away. Please help me, I wan' my papa . . ."

"Gonna take you out slow, Mr. Priest," Cicero whispered. "Gonna make you hurt . . ." He tensed, knees bending for the leap. When he came for the priest's throat, he was a savage blur of motion.

But Silvera stood his ground. He swung the crucifix around in a vicious arc, aiming for the vampire's head. Cicero twisted slightly, but the sharp brass edge sliced a sizzling wound at the base of his neck. The dead flesh rippled and writhed, trying to close the smoking tear. There were yellowish-white tissues in the cut, but the vampire did not bleed. Silvera stepped forward quickly and struck again, aiming for the same place. The cut's edges now hissed and widened. Cicero staggered back, trying to shield the wound with his hands. Silvera's strength was weakening rapidly, and he felt his grip slipping. He feinted toward the thing's eyes, then struck again at the neck. Gray flesh ripped like rotten cheesecloth, exposing dead tissue and veins. The next blow of the crucifix almost severed Cicero's head from his body. The vampire staggered back, arms flailing in pain. Cicero's face hung at a right angle. It was contorted with fury; the fangs clicked together, seeking a hold on human flesh.

Then Cicero shrieked and rushed forward, trying to get the crucifix away from Silvera. The priest braced himself and swung out with the rest of his ebbing strength.

Cicero's head ripped from his body and tumbled into a corner. The headless body staggered on, its claws gripping Silvera's coat and hanging there; the fingers still writhed. Silvera could feel the waves of cold rolling off it, and he heard himself cry out in terror. He jerked away from the thing, and the body crumpled to the floor at his feet.

It was then that Juanita screamed and leaped into his arms. He hugged her close, pressing her head against his shoulder so she would not see any more of the horror. Across the room the fangs in the severed head kept clicking like dreadful castanets. The body at his feet suddenly shuddered, twisting like a dying snake. "God help us!" Silvera breathed. The body's limbs were still moving, it was pushing itself toward the head in the corner. Silvera didn't wait to see what would happen when it got there. With Juanita around his neck, Silvera raised the crucifix high over his head and slammed it down through the thing's spine. Bone and wood cracked; Silvera had driven the crucifix through the body and into the floor. The vampire writhed, the feet trying to push it forward, but it was firmly pinned to the floor. The fangs began to grind together. Silvera left the crucifix where it was, put his arms around Juanita, and raced out of the building.

On the street he realized that he and the child were unprotected, but he felt certain that if he hadn't left Cicero's body pinned, it would have crawled across that floor and somehow made itself whole again. His stomach turned over at the thought. The moving shadows seemed to be on all sides. He was running now as hard as he could, his lungs pumping like bellows. He thought he heard something coming up from behind, but when he dared to look back, he saw nothing.