"Quetza …," Elliot faltered.
"Quetzacoatl," Bobby explained, "the feathered serpent, the god of learning and enlightenment. Pretty funny, huh?" Bobby laughed, then coughed, his face going slack with pain. "I tried to stop all the killing. Only my subjects didn't want that, they grew to like the taste of blood. And after a while so did I." Bobby's eyes went cloudy. "Gods are what their worshippers make them."
"But why do gods have to kill people?"
A faint breath. "Gods need their sacrifices, Elliot, or they die."
Bobby seemed to grow tired. His eyes closed.
Opened.
And the old Bobby was there, smiling his familiar cocky smile. He turned his head and saw the scratch on his car. "Oh man, would you look at that? I just had this baby painted."
"Bobby, it's you. What happened to that… thing?"
"Shut up, you two. And listen. That thing's very busy right now, keeping me alive." He reached up and began pulling the pole out of his stomach, grimacing at the pain.
The wet sucking sound reached them over the idling bike.
Sweat coated Bobby's face and he was breathing in shallow gasps. "Little buddies, you got maybe a minute or two… before I come after you." Bobby gritted his teeth, forced out the last words. "I'd be hauling ass if I was you."
Elliot needed no further urging. He got the bike turned and he began going through the gears. Within seconds, he and Timmy were running flat out across the rocky ground, without lights. The bike took a couple of stiff hops and Elliot prayed the tires would hold.
Memory and luck would be the only things keeping them from hitting something.
The graveyard faded into the night. The last thing to go was the white cross.
A quick look over his shoulder showed Elliot a set of car lights popping on. This wasn't fair. Bobby had said at least a minute. It hadn't been a minute. He crouched low over the bike, trying to cut down the wind resistance, but his old Kawasaki was maxed out.
"Hurry up, Elliot, he's coming."
A second set of car lights popped on.
And a third.
The three cars all moved out onto the plain and began casting around for Elliot's trail. In the distance they looked like fireflies looking for a place to land. The ground was rocky and tracks would be hard to find, but Bobby knew this country as well as Elliot.
A car horn sounded, a bray of triumph, and Elliot knew Bobby had found the bike's trail.
The three cars moved in unison, heading straight for them. They picked up speed, hurtling through the darkness.
The teenager had a moment of despair as he watched them coming on. There was something strange about the way the cars were bunched together, and he realized there was only one car chasing him. Bobby's car. The other two were still chained to the Caddy and Bobby was towing them along behind.
Elliot could hear them clanking as they bounced and collided with each other. The metal groaned and occasional sparks would fly up when the cars hit a dip, but nothing could hold back that old Caddy. Or slow it down. The massive V8 sounded like thunder as it moved closer.
The three sets of headlights lit up the night, and Elliot knew there would be no place to hide. The Caddy was close enough to see Bobby's face now, close enough to see the painted grin was back in place. There was something in the seat beside the vampire, slouched low, bulky, shapeless.
The car came on, rising, falling, a disembodied white wraith floating on the night, disconnected from the earth, pulled along by the ropes of light hooked to the grill.
The wraith was materializing. Growing clearer.
Ever clearer.
Bobby's bloodless face swam into focus, dark hair whipping in the wind, cigarette dangling from his lip. The tip was a glowing red coal. He let out a yell, honked the horn when he saw the bike, as though he had just happened to spot a few friends on the street.
The Caddy pulled up alongside Elliot and Timmy, close enough to touch. "Hey there, little buddies, how you doing?" They looked over.
Bobby had passengers with him.
All the dead people from the graveyard had been loaded into the white Caddy: Doralee, Nicky, and Martin Strickland in the back, arms around each other; Chester and some unknown Indian in a white hat up front.
Every time the Caddy rocked, their heads all lolled in unison. Synchronized sightseeing, dead style.
Elliot realized that for Bobby to load that many people in the car so quickly meant one thing—Bobby had started as soon as the bike was out of sight. He and Timmy had barely gotten out in time. That thing inside Bobby had almost hypnotized them.
"Why are you doing this?" Elliot yelled at Bobby.
"Because this is a game. And I don't like the game to be over with too soon." Bobby reached over, took the white hat from the Indian, and put it on his own head. He cocked it at a precise angle in the rearview. "How's it look?" he yelled at Timmy.
For an answer, Timmy shot Bobby the bird and buried his face in Elliot's back.
Bobby laughed and grabbed something from the floorboard. It was the stick used to spear jackrabbits, the same one he had pulled from his stomach.
They veered away from the Caddy and it followed, a clanking train without tracks. Accelerating, the white car pulled up beside them. Bobby swung the stick backhanded, catching Elliot across the nose, busting cartilage. "That's for not teaching your little brother some manners."
The pain was so intense that Elliot blacked out for a second. The bike wobbled, almost went down.
Elliot skidded to a halt.
The Caddy tried to do the same, but the weight behind the car was too great and it slewed sideways, throwing huge gouts of white dust into the air before finally coming to a halt.
The headlights pinned the two boys in its glare. The dust settled on the car, covering the windshield. The wipers came on, slapping the dust away with their thin arms, each stroke revealing more of Bobby's white, grinning face.
He just sat there. Waiting.
The V8 revved a couple of times and the Caddy edged closer, stopped, edged closer, stopped.
All the passengers were in whiteface now. A few flies still clung to them. One crawled from Doralee's mouth and disappeared into her open eye socket.
The Caddy suddenly roared, came straight at the bike.
Elliot faked right, went left, and he was past the Caddy, past Chester's car, when Bobby cut the steering wheel. The cars behind began jackknifing. The BMW clipped the bike, sending it rolling end over end. Timmy fell clear of the bike, but Elliot wasn't so lucky. He got tangled up with the Kawasaki for a few seconds, and they did a little dance across the desert floor, first one on top and then the other, as though they were trying to decide who would lead.
Finally, they parted company. Elliot looked as though the dance had made him tired. He lay in the dust, eyes glazed, trying to suck some air into his lungs.
"Get up, get up," Timmy screamed. He was yanking on what was left of his brother's shirt, trying to get Elliot up. Timmy's nose was bleeding profusely from the left side; dirt had clogged the right nostril.
The Caddy swung in a wide circle until it was once again facing them. It moved to within twenty yards, stopped. The engine revved to a deafening pitch and the car began to sway from side to side. Bobby was standing on the brake. If he raised his foot, they would be crushed.
Timmy tried to lift his brother to a sitting position.
Elliot managed to take in a breath and his eyes slowly lost their glaze. He climbed to his feet, began backing away from the Caddy, never taking his eyes off it. Exhaust poured from the tailpipes, coating the backs of their throats with the taste of burning oil.
The car made no move toward them. It simply waited, headlights blazing.
Raising the bike, Elliot straddled it, pulled Timmy on behind. The Kawasaki was covered with dust but otherwise unhurt. Elliot kicked the starter. Got only a cough. They looked toward the Caddy to see what it was doing.
At the moment, that was nothing.
Bobby was fiddling with the radio. The white-hatted head leaned out of the window. "Need a tune for our little Western drama here, a killer tune." He poked his head back in the car and country music filled the night. "Nah, I ain't in the market for that crying-in-your-beer shit. I'm all through with that." Something dark and shiny moved behind his eyes.
A loud squelch of static followed, then some rap, more static, and then the Stones' "Satisfaction" began thumping from the speakers. "Yeah, that's the one, a killer tune. Something to get your blood moving." Bobby kept time by thrusting Elliot's rabbit pole into the dirt beside the car. "You boys all rested up and ready to go again?"
Elliot kicked the starter again, and the bike still refused to fire.
The Caddy crept forward. "Ready or not, here I come." Elliot kicked down again. And again.
The bike wouldn't start.
The Caddy was picking up speed. Spitting dust from beneath the tires.
Elliot put his feet on the ground and began trying to push the bike out of the way. He could hear the music growing louder, pumping from the speakers, vibrating in his bones.
Bobby was mouthing the words to the song. "I can't get no… I can't get no… satisfaction."
The lights grew incredibly bright.
Elliot kicked the starter again and this time the bike fired. But it was too late.
Timmy had jumped off and was trying to push the bike. Elliot grabbed him, put him back on. The move cost too much time.
The Caddy was right on top of them.
Timmy screamed.
At the last instant, the Caddy swerved.
The dead passengers all swayed together. Rollercoaster for the dead shot through Elliot's head as he aimed the bike away from the car. They were in the clear. He jammed the gears. The bike lurched, lost speed.
The Caddy was turning. Coming around.
Elliot found the gears, started again.
Up ahead was a dry creek bed, the same one he and Timmy had traveled on the way here.
That seemed years ago now.
He gunned the bike.
They beat the car by seconds.
The Caddy, unable to fit in the creek bed, raced alongside, smashing bushes and cactus beneath its grille. Bobby leaned out and swung the stick, almost connecting with Timmy's back. Elliot veered closer to the far bank, where they would be safe for the moment. The only problem was that the creek bed widened out about two miles ahead. He put his head down and concentrated on keeping the bike upright. Off to his right, he heard the clanking of the cars, punctuated by Jagger's plaintive cry.
"I can't get no satisfaction. I can't get no satisfaction!" Bobby swung the pole, missing Elliot, but he broke the mirror off the bike. "Oh, man, that's seven years' bad luck."
The mirror bounced out of sight, a tinkle of broken glass.
Bobby was doing something in the car, something with the passengers. The Caddy veered dangerously close to the creek bed and dirt crumpled beneath the tires, cascaded down the bank.
"Hey, Elliot, you ever had a woman?" Bobby stepped on the gas, pulling several car lengths ahead. He had Doralee sitting in his lap. "You play your cards right, you can have this one. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Elliot kept his head down, guiding the bike into the curve ahead.
"She's quiet and she don't eat much. Perfect for a man on a fixed income, such as yourself."
Then, without warning, Bobby opened the car door and pushed Doralee out. She hit the ground, bounced a couple of times like a loose-limbed rag doll, and rolled in front of the bike.
Elliot ran over her outstretched throat and the bike almost went down. Several flies crawled out of her eye sockets, buzzed away.
"Guess she's not your type, huh," Bobby said. "Funny, she was everyone else's." His face was filled with manic glee. He pulled Nicky to the car door, pushed him out. "We don't want to split up the family."
Elliot dodged the tumbling body.
Martin Strickland was up next. The big foreman rolled down the bank in a shower of dirt and his hat flew off, rolled after him. His scalped head shone wetly in the light.
Taking the bike up on the far bank, Elliot managed to get past Martin.
Next came Billy Two Hats, matinee cowboy. With his white makeup and filthy clothes, he looked more like a mugged drag queen. Bobby was trying to get Billy to hold the knife he had used to scalp Martin, but Billy wasn't cooperating. He kept dropping it.
Bobby finally grew exasperated and wrapped Billy's fingers around the knife, made Billy stab himself in the chest. Right above the bullet holes where Lefty Thunder Coming had shot him.
Billy slid out.
"The cops are gonna absolutely shit when they see this," Bobby said. "Dead Indian scalps dead white man, shoots and stabs self before jumping from moving car."
Elliot leaned the bike over, barely missed Billy.
"You can really ride that thing," Bobby said admiringly. "Well, I saved the best for last." He wrestled Chester over the car's windshield and out onto the hood, then he stuffed some newspaper in the dead man's shirt. "I been waiting a long time to do this." Bobby pulled the cigarette lighter from the dash, lit the newspaper.
In seconds Chester Roberts were ablaze. The wind fanned the flames and the owner of The Broken R came down the bank like a birthday cake with one candle, landed in the middle of the creek bed.
Elliot couldn't miss Chester. There was a soft squelching sound, a moment of heat, and they were past him. The bike came out of the curve. And Elliot had to lay it down in the dirt. There wasn't time for anything else.
A red Cadillac was blocking the way.
The bike slammed into the red Cadillac, bounced off, leaving a gap-toothed grin in the grille. The impact didn't do Elliot's Kawasaki much good, either. The guy reclining on the car hood, however, didn't seem too upset at the damage. He slid off with weary ease and walked toward Elliot and Timmy. His steps were sure, catlike, and he covered the distance with deceptive quickness.
The boys lay on the ground, pinned there by the headlights, watching him come. Timmy's nose was bleeding again. Elliot made a sincere attempt to get up, but he was all played out. His leg felt as if it might be busted.