Draculas (31 page)

What?

Clay saw the woman in the open bay pointing to Randall, who was putting the saw to one final dracula. The pilot was looking that way too as he throttled up to leave.

No fucking way.

Clay charged forward and jumped onto the skid, tilting the copter. The woman scuttled back as the pilot looked around. The bay was lit by an overhead fixture. Clay leaned into the light. He didn't have to fake a fierce expression--his teeth were already bared in rage--as he gave the pilot a good look down the bore of the MM-1. He pointed toward the roof.

"Down or you're dead!"

He knew the pilot couldn't hear him so he spoke slowly and carefully, giving him ample opportunity to read his lips.

The copter resumed its descent.

When it hit the deck, Clay motioned the kids forward, ducking and squinting against the wash from the blades, Jenny led them up in a bunch. The strobe gave their approach an old-time movie look. Together they hauled the children up and in, one at a time, until all were aboard. Then he motioned to Jenny to follow but she shook her head. He was tempted to grab her and toss her in but spotted Adam approaching with the baby in his arms.

Aw shit. Adam was bleeding.

A headless dracula dropped in front of him, adding to the pool of blood, and Randall realized that there was nothing left to kill. As if sensing this, the chainsaw gave one last sputter and died.

A helicopter landed on the roof.

Rescue.

But not for him.

Bloodblood...

He gestured to the helicopter with his dead chainsaw, then staggered toward the door. More draculas would be coming through it. He'd kill them. Saw them up even without the chainsaw running.

When he reached the door, his legs finally gave out and he collapsed.

He sat there, chainsaw on his lap, trying to blink the blood out of his eye, too exhausted to use his hands to wipe it away.

He couldn't stay human in his mind for much longer, but he didn't need to. He didn't have long to live as a monster or a man.

If he could just stick around long enough to see Jenny and the kids fly off to safety, he'd shake hands with God and call it even.

But Jenny didn't get into the helicopter.

Instead, she began to walk his way.

All Randall could think about was the day she left him, and how his one wish--the one thing that kept him sober and sane--was that one day she might come back to him.

Her timing was ironical. Not only was he dying, but he was a dracula, and she was putting herself in danger instead of getting the hell out of there.

But at that moment, when she reached down for him with tears in her eyes, Randall Bolton was the happiest guy on the planet.

HIS mind raced as he headed toward the helicopter, shielding Daniella from the wind-blasting rotors. He hadn't steeled himself to look at his arm. It hurt badly, and he thought he felt the evaporative cooling of blood on his skin, but maybe, maybe, please God--maybe he was imagining it.

He glanced down, saw the shimmer of blood on his left forearm with every flash of the KREZ helicopter's LED strobe.

The fangs had punctured skin.

God, no!

Why?

He looked over toward the door to the hospital. Randall sat alone with his chainsaw amid a battlefield of gore. Nothing trying to come through the doors at the moment. Just a few dismembered demons squirming on the concrete.

Couldn't be sure, but Randall looked injured.

By the time he reached Clayton, he knew what he had to do, knew there was no other choice. Randall seemed to be controlling his will in the face of the infection, but what if he couldn't? What if Adam harmed his own daughter?

Adam sidled up to Clayton, who'd just loaded the last child onto the helicopter.

Clayton looked at him, at his arm.

"You get bit?"

Adam nodded.

"Shit."

"I've been praying that I'll be protected from any--"

"Keep praying all you want, preacher, but you will be a full-blown fucking land shark in T-minus ten minutes."

Adam tried to fight back the tears, not wanting to cry in front of this lawman, but he couldn't help it.

"Is there room?" Adam yelled in Clayton's ear.

Clayton's brow furrowed. "For your daughter, absolutely."

"What about...?"

"You know I can't let you off this helipad."

Adam nodded. He looked down at his daughter, tugged back the blanket that shielded her face. Somehow, she still slept. Adam, crying so hard he couldn't see, spoke into her ear, "May the Lord bless you and keep you and make His face to shine upon you and grant you peace. Your daddy loves you, Daniella, and he always will."

"It's time!" Clayton yelled.

Adam handed his child to a young woman in the helicopter wearing a pair of headphones, who was already extending her arms to his baby.

He passed Daniella to her, yelled, "Her name is Daniella!"

"What?"
the reporter yelled.

Adam stepped up onto the skid, yelled into her ear as she lifted the headphone. "This is my daughter! Her name is Daniella Murray! Her mother's dead, and I will be soon! Please take care of her!"

The woman nodded and Adam felt a hand drag him back from the helicopter--Clayton's--and then Clayton signaled to the pilot and the rotors wound up and the skids eased off the helipad.

Adam stood watching in disbelief as it flew his daughter away from him into the night.

She's safe now. These demons can't touch her.

That piece of news was the only thing in the world keeping him from sprinting toward the edge of the roof and taking a swan dive into the parking lot.

Randall--now a bloody mess, was on his side, surrounded by the monsters he'd slaughtered. Adam watched the nurse, Jenny, go to his side.

Then he looked at Clayton, something roiling inside of him. Anger. Fear. Confusion. All wrapped up in a single emotion with a clear objective--kill.

"I want your gun," Adam said.

"What?"

"Your gun. Show me how to shoot it. I'm going back into the hospital to kill as many of these things as possible."

Clayton nodded, his eyes twinkling. "You hold that thought, padre, but I may have a better one."

"What?" Adam said.

"If you're gonna go down fighting, let's make it
really
count."

"How?"

"You still got all that blood in your backpack?"

"Yes."

"Run and get it, and meet me over by the door."

SHE knelt next to her husband's torn, bleeding body as the helicopter flew away. There was little left of him that was recognizable. She gripped his hand, feeling his talons gently wrap around her fingers.

"You did it, Randall," she whispered. The tears were running down her face, and her shoulders shook from sobs. "You saved us."

He blinked, tried to say something. All that came out was a low growl. Jenny cast her eyes down his body, looking at all the tears and gouges. He wasn't bleeding as badly as before. Either he was almost out of blood, or...

Healing. These creatures had accelerated healing powers.

"Bite me," she told her husband.

His eyes got wide.

"Take my blood, Randall. It'll revive you."

She pressed her wrist to his teeth. It would turn her into a dracula as well, but that was okay. They would be together. Maybe Clay was right, and they could find Moorecook and a cure. Jenny closed her eyes, waiting for the pain.

She felt his breath on her arm, but the bite didn't come.

Instead there was only the faintest brush of what remained of her husband's lips.

A kiss.

"Please, Randall. It's the only way."

Randall gripped Jenny's arms--

--and shoved her backward.

Jenny fell onto her ass.

"Damn it, Randall!" she yelled. "Stop being so goddamn stubborn!"

She crawled back to him, figuring if she crammed her hand down his mouth she could force him to bite down. But as she brought her fingers to his mouth, Randall caught her wrist. His eyes were glassy.

"Nuuuhhh," he said, shaking his head.

And then Jenny fell apart. Great, wracking sobs shook her body. She'd spent her entire professional career being strong in the face of death. Compartmentalizing grief. Priding herself on being practical rather than emotional.

But this was more than she could bear.

"You son of a bitch," she sobbed. "You can't die. Please, please, please don't die."

Randall reached up, held her hands. A monster's hands, but they still had the calluses.

Still had the warmth.

They held each other, for the last time.

"Remember the first day we met?" Jenny said, her face a veil of tears. "You came into the ER, your arm all swollen, and you asked me out on a date while you were getting your X-ray. You had a broken arm, but you were still flirting with me. I thought you were so brave."

She touched a part of his face that wasn't all ripped up.

"And you are," she said, smiling through her tears. "You're the bravest, sweetest man I've ever met. I was so wrong to leave you. I wish we could start all over. I wish I could erase all of that time we were apart, and instead fill it up with all the good memories we missed out on. But I never stopped loving you. Never. Being your wife was the best thing I've ever done in my life."

Jenny leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"I love you, Randall Bolton."

She continued to hold his hands long after he'd stopped holding hers.

CLAY and Adam hurried through the dimly-lit slaughterhouse that had once been the happiest floor in the hospital.

"To make this work," Clay said, "we need a good-size room."

"There's an education center where they have Lamaze classes and lectures on infant care. It's right over here."

He followed Adam to a rectangular room that ran twenty feet by thirty. Multicolored lights flashed against the outside windows. Clay stepped to them and glanced down at the parking lot. He thought he could pick out troop lorries among the vehicles and milling people. Either the army or the National Guard had arrived. Good. They'd keep Shanna safe.

Couldn't think about her now...

He turned back to the room. It had windows onto the hallway as well. Good thing, because the hall had the emergency lights. None of those in here.

In the lowlight he picked out rows of folding chairs--a bonus.

"Perfect. Now I need the blood--lots of it."

"You're in luck," Adam said. He pulled open the backpack, revealing dozens of units. "All types."

Clay had been thinking about killing a couple of draculas for their blood, but this was easier, safer. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help smiling. "You're a regular Boy Scout, aren't you."

"I made Eagle."

"Well, you sure are prepared."

"I'm not prepared to turn into one of those things." He held up his bloody arm. "You said you could solve that problem and make it count--really count."

Clay fished one of the two 40mm M433 grenades out of his backpack. A couple of days ago someone had emailed him about carting an old wrecked car out into the wilds during the gun show and shooting the shit out of it. He'd figured on administering the coup de grace with these babies. But now he had a better use. He handed it to Adam.

"This is a high explosive grenade. It's got a kill radius of fifteen feet. That means a thirty-foot circle of death. I don't know if that'll apply to the draculas since they're so damn hard to kill, but two will definitely do the job."

Adam was nodding. "I see where you're going. If we can fill this room with them, and set off both rounds, we may be able to turn the tide."

Clay looked at him. "What do you mean, 'we,' kemosabe? This is going to be your show, padre, your Alamo."

"But--"

"You're gonna die, padre. And real soon. You can die here as a man and meet your maker without a mouth full of fangs, or you can die as a dracula when I blow your head off at the first sign of change. Take your pick."

Adam's face had turned a light shade of green. "As a man, of course."

"Good for you. And what better way to go out than taking a bunch of draculas with you? But that's only going to happen if I can modify these rounds."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they've got a minimum arming range of forty-five feet."

"Sorry?"

"They're designed not to detonate until they're like forty-five to ninety feet from the launcher. I need to hack the arming mechanism if this is going to work."

"You can do that?"

"Pretty sure..."

Clay's gut clenched at the prospect. He'd modified the buckshot rounds, changing the gauge of the shot and such, but the H-E grenades were lots more complicated. He hadn't ventured into one of them yet. No point in letting Adam in on that. He had enough on his plate.

"Okay," he said. "While I do my tinkering, I want you to stack all these chairs in a circle in the center of the room, but leave enough space for you in the middle."

"Why?"

"Coupla reasons. I'll explain later, because we don't have a lot of time and it won't matter if I can't arm the grenades. So circle those chairs, then get every drop of blood you can find and pour it around them like a moat. But you've
got
to keep the door closed as you do that. When those draculas smell blood they're like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Let's get to work."

Clay left him there and went in search of a quiet cubbyhole to work on his H-E grenades, hoping he could pull this off without turning himself into Bolognese sauce.

SHE was sitting there, exhausted, devastated, clutching her husband's lifeless hand, when she heard the whine of propellers.

Jenny glanced up, thinking the TV helicopter had returned.

But it hadn't.

This was something different.

HE battled with his conscience as he unpacked the transfusion bags in the lecture room.