The Gathering Dead (39 page)

“Get out of there,” Rick said immediately. She heard the engine of his Dodge Ram rise into a bellow. “It’s a trap, get out of there!”

The baby. Crying.

“I can’t,” Sharon said, her voice small. “They’re my family.”

“I’m on the 110, headed away from you. I’m turning around now, but I’m a good twenty minutes out.
Get out of there!
”

“Tell the rest of the team Two-Five needs backup,” Sharon said. She disconnected before Rick could protest and slid the phone into her jacket pocket. There was a pair of night vision goggles in the hall closet, less than thirty feet from where she stood. They could help even the odds slightly.

She moved quickly but stealthily. Over the threshold. Scanned left, scanned right, scanned above—they could cling to ceilings when they wanted to. Nothing she could see in the darkness. The soles of her running shoes whispered across the Saltillo tile in the foyer. Five steps, and she made it to the closet. She pulled it open, reached for the NVGs in their case on the shelf—

Gone. She reached down into the corner of the closet, where the Mossberg shotgun... wasn’t.

My God
. She was going into the fight with what she had.

She pressed on. Covered the stairs for a moment, but nothing was there—or was there? She couldn’t see well enough to be sure. Swung left, panning the pistol’s glowing sights across the living room. Nothing but furniture and a hundred hiding places.

Keisha continued sobbing, her cries rising and falling. From the kitchen? Sharon set off in that direction.

She almost tripped over something in the darkness. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart hammered overtime in her chest. She backed up and looked down. A body—no, two bodies.

A man. A woman. She didn’t have to guess who they were.

Oh, Rosie...

Keisha continued to wail.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry...”

Sharon whirled toward the direction of the voice. A woman’s voice, not much more than a child’s. A cold familiarity raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She sidled toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was aglow with the lights of Los Angeles streaming through the window. A woman stood in the center of the kitchen, near the island where Sharon had planned to prepare the tuna. Her strawberry blonde hair illuminated by the austere glow from the windows, she wore an evening gown, strapless, over skin the color of porcelain. Against the whiteness of her skin, Keisha looked as dark as graphite.

The vampire’s silver-in-black eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, and a grin broke out across her childlike face.

“Hello, Sharon. Surprised?”

“Helena... you’re...” Sharon’s voice trailed off.

“Alive?” What had once been Helena Rubenstein laughed demurely. “Well, not exactly. I see you’ve set up house with Mark? That’s so
sweet!
”

“How did you find us?” Sharon asked.

Helena grinned impishly. “Oh, I was always special, you know? Empathic. I still am, and I know some of you so well that tracking you was easy. Still, it took some doing... months, really. But the wonderful thing about being a vampire is that time is no longer your enemy.”

Things slid into place for Sharon. The gravity of what was occurring hit her then, and the pistol wavered in her hand.

Osric,
a small voice whispered in her head.

“Let go of my niece, Helena.”

Helena looked at the sobbing infant in her arms. “Such a lovely child... you know, I had one, inside of me, before crossing over. She didn’t make it, I’m afraid... so perhaps I’ll just keep this one?” Helena kissed Keisha’s forehead and smiled again. Fangs glinted in the night.

Sharon fired at Helena’s right eye without hesitation. She was an accurate shot, excellent at this kind of engagement, and maintained her proficiency with constant drilling. But somehow, she missed. The bullet lodged itself into the microwave behind Helena, shattering the insulated glass. Helena laughed as she stepped to her left, almost blurring. Sharon pivoted, tracking her with the pistol, her movements smooth and machinelike as years of training took hold and shunted aside her fear for Keisha. She fired—and missed—again. Just by a hair’s breadth. She increased her pivot, stepping forward with her right foot to give her more play, aiming at the dead air Helena advanced toward...

A tall figure detached itself from the shadow beside the refrigerator to Sharon’s left, appearing virtually out of thin air. Before she could react, a cold hand clutched her arm, stopping her pivot. Another hand closed about the pistol, crushing its upper receiver. Sharon gasped as the trigger guard bent, pinching her finger. She depressed the trigger, but the hammer didn’t fall. Her pistol was destroyed.

Sharon twisted against the tall man’s might. She lashed out with her foot, striking at one of his knees. He hurled her aside, and she skidded across the tiled floor and crashed into a cabinet headfirst.

“That will be enough of that,” the man said lightly, his English accented, somewhat dainty. Sharon felt the power of his presence even through the pain in her head. She avoided looking at him as she slowly rolled into a seated position.

You’re dead, dearie.
This was followed by a more forlorn thought:
Oh Mark, where are you?

As if in answer, her cell phone chirped. It was the ringtone reserved for Acheson. She scrabbled for her pocket and rolled away from Helena and the tall man...

... only to roll into another vamp, this one a female with coal-black hair. She scooped up Sharon and sent her spinning through the air like a top. She cried out when the tall man snatched her up in an icy embrace. His arms were like steel.

“We don’t need any interruptions now, do we?” he asked as he reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her cell phone. He crushed it in his hand, and shattered plastic fell to the floor.

“Look at me, darling. Don’t be rude.”

There was a quality to the command that compelled her to do as she was told, but the suggestion was not strong enough to overcome the aversion she felt. Sharon screwed her eyes shut and turned away.

“Look at me!” the man repeated, and this time his voice was pitched low and full of barbs that raked across her psyche. Still Sharon held out, though it took all of her willpower. The man grabbed her chin, and she could do nothing to prevent him from turning her toward him. He had the strength to crush cinderblocks with his bare hands.

Sharon opened her eyes and found herself faced with a strong, masculine face, almost completely white from hairline to chin. He wore a dark suit, and for a moment, Sharon had the impression he had stepped out of a black-and-white movie. His eyes were the same silver-in-black as every other vampire she had seen, but these held something beyond psychic power. A cold intellect filled them, colder than a shark, more calculating than a computer.

“Do you know me?”

“Yes. Osric.”

He smiled and bowed his head to her. “Indeed. Are you surprised that I’m still among you?”

Sharon did not answer. She trembled uncontrollably. Should she fight? Submit? Try to flee?

“Why are you waiting?” she asked, finally.

“I’m sure your teams are on their way, but we still have some time.”

“Time for what?”

Osric grinned, exposing his fangs. “Oh, come now, darling. What do we—you call us goblins, yes?—what do we goblins
always
want?”

Keisha hiccupped another cry, attracting his attention. Helena bounced the baby slightly in the air, but the look on her face was anything but maternal.

“Such a charming cub,” Osric said. “An excellent appetizer, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No!” Sharon struggled with all her might. Osric gave her only a single glance, and she was as if paralyzed. Her body would not obey her commands, no matter how fast and furiously those commands were issued.

She despaired.

Osric reached out. Helena planted another kiss on the child’s forehead with her cold, dead lips, and handed over the infant. Keisha wailed. Even her fledgling consciousness recognized the touch of absolute evil, and she struggled against it as best as she could.

“Ah, the problem with humans this young,” Osric sighed. “No way to pacify them. One must merely get on with the business at hand.”

“Watch,” he told Sharon, and her eyes focused on him and Keisha instantly. Osric brought the crying infant to his lips, baring his fangs.

God no, don’t let this happen,
was Sharon’s last coherent thought before Osric fed. It lasted for only a few moments, and his hands palpitated Keisha’s body, squeezing out as much sustenance as possible before dropping the lifeless figure to the floor as one might discard a cigarette butt.

“So tasty, the younglings are!” Osric smiled at her, blotches of Keisha’s blood clinging his fangs.

The last threads holding Sharon’s sanity in place snapped, and she retreated deep inside herself as Osric reached for her, his taloned hands moving like twin serpents.

Excerpt:

HACKETT’S WAR

By Stephen Knight

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004W48LZQ

“This making war for cash thing is almost starting to get old,” Otis said as he lay stretched out in the hide site. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald, black head, and his breath was heavy, almost labored. Ever since leaving the U.S. Army, he had put on forty pounds. Everyone in the company said the extra weight would kill him one way or the other. Otis presumed that meant his fat black ass was getting too slow for the battlefield, so he proved them all wrong by entering into an extreme exercise regimen that none of the other troops could match. The funny thing was, it did nothing to reduce his expanding midsection and nascent man-boobs. As long as Otis continued eating like a horse, he was going to be a hefty, hefty boy.

“Anytime you want to quit, you just let me know,” Hackett said. He was stretched out beside Otis, lying on his stomach on a hillside some 60 meters from the road. He scanned the area below through his binoculars. The humidity was high and uncomfortable, and like Otis, Hackett sweated beneath the bug spray and sun block. Unlike Otis, he was not five foot nine inches tall and two hundred and sixty pounds; he was six foot three and much leaner, tipping the scales at one ninety-five.

“I’m gone after this year’s bonus,” Otis said.

“No bonuses this year.”

“Then next year, damn it.”

“No bonus next year, either. I’ve decided I want to buy a Lamborghini in every color of the spectrum. Sorry.”

“Well shit then, boss. Guess you’re stuck with me and my bitchin’.”

Hackett smiled and surveyed the gently rolling hills on the other side of the road. “Only until I decide to fire you.”

“Man, with all the money that’s supposed to be in this convoy, we could all get a nice little bonus,” Otis said.

“The money is not our objective, Otis.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that—I’ve been awake for the past couple of days, I know what we’re doing here, Hack. But all of that cash is gonna be right there, just
waitin’
for us…”

Through the binoculars, Hackett could just barely make out the second sniper team, crouched in their own hide site. The only reason he could see them at all was because he knew exactly where to look. No one else would have such luck.

Below, the assault teams were hidden from view. Two elements lay on either side of the road. The old Ford flat bed truck they had was parked across the road, as if it had experienced a blow out and went out of control. Two of Jerry Fletcher’s shooters milled around the vehicle. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and their weapons and body armor were hidden in the truck’s cab. They acted as if they were looking for a jack. In the far distance, small boats dotted the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Fishing boats, plying their trade.

What I wouldn’t give to be on one of those now,
Hackett thought. He dropped the field glasses from his eyes and removed his Kevlar helmet, taking a moment to run a gloved hand across his close-cropped dark hair. He looked over at Otis. Even though the corpulent sniper was all mouth today, he was still on the job; he peered through the M24’s scope with his right eye, keeping the weapon oriented on the road.

“If we have the time, we’ll scope out the cash. If it’s really in dollars, you can have some of it. All right?”

“And the rest of the guys too,” Otis said. “Don’t let it be said I’m a greedy muthafuck. The other guys get their share too, right? I mean, why let a drug lord keep all of that cash? It’s just immoral, man.”

Hackett sighed. “If it doesn’t get stolen from us or explode into flame, then sure.”

He didn’t see the grin spread across Otis’s face, but he could hear it in his voice. “Man, that is simply
awesome
. Taking a couple of million bucks from a drug lord. That’s money well earned.”

Hackett grunted and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. The targets would be arriving at any moment now. Below, a man pulled a laden burro down the hillside road. He looked like a common
campesino
, his skin coffee-colored from years of exposure to the sun. The packs on the burro’s back were full of some produce. Bell peppers? Hackett wondered idly. The burro’s plodding pace kicked up a small amount of dust as it walked.

“Shotgun Six, Floater. Vehicle traffic headed southbound. Three targets matching the description. Headed directly into the engagement area, over.”

The voice was loud over Hackett’s tactical radio headset even though the speaker was dozens of miles to the west on a ship outside Mexico’s territorial waters. Despite the distance, the folks aboard the ship had eyes in the sky high overhead, small unmanned aerial vehicles that saw everything. Hackett pointed the binoculars down the road. Sure enough, there was the gleam of sunlight reflecting off glass and chrome.

“Roger that, Floater. Hammer Two-Six, you are a go, you are a go. Remember, we need the principal alive, everyone else can go tango uniform if required, over.”