The Mammoth Book of Dracula (99 page)

Authors: Stephen Jones

The blast knocked him against the far wall, smashing him into the bevelled glass of the china cabinet. Again, just as with last night’s explosion, he was blinded by the flash. But this time he was hurt. His hand ... agony ... he couldn’t remember ever feeling pain like this. And he was helpless. If she had accomplices, he was at their mercy now.

But no one attacked him, and soon he could see again.

“My hand!” he screamed when he saw the ragged stump of his right wrist.

Already the bleeding had stopped and the pain was fading, but his hand was gone. It would regenerate in time but—

He had to get out of here and get help before she did something else to him. He didn’t care if it made him look like a fool, this woman was dangerous!

Gregor staggered to his feet and started for the door. Once he was outside in the night air he’d feel better, he’d regain some of his strength.

~ * ~

In the basement, Sister Carole huddled under the mattress and stretched her arm upward. Her fingers found a string that ran the length of the basement to a hole in one of the floorboards above, ran through that hole and into the pantry in the main hall where it was tied to the handle of an empty teacup that sat on the edge of the bottom shelf. She tugged on the string and the teacup fell. Sister Carole heard it shatter and snuggled deeper under her mattress.

~ * ~

What?

Gregor spun at the noise. There. Behind that door. She was hiding in that closet. She’d knocked something off a shelf in there. He’d heard her. He had her now.

Gregor knew he was hurt—
maimed—
but even with one hand he could easily handle a dozen cattle like her. He didn’t want to wait, didn’t want to go back without
something
to show for the night. And she was so close now. Right behind that door.

He reached out with his good hand and yanked it open.

Gregor saw everything with crystal clarity then, and understood everything as it happened.

He saw the string attached to the inside of the door, saw it tighten and pull the little wedge of wood from between the jaws of the clothespin that was tacked to the third shelf. He saw the two wires—one wrapped around the upper jaw of the clothespin and leading back to a dry cell battery, the other wrapped around the lower jaw and leading to a row of wax-coated cylinders standing on that third shelf like a collection of lumpy, squat candles with firecracker-thick wicks. As the wired jaws of the clothespin snapped closed, he saw a tiny spark leap the narrowing gap.

Gregor’s universe exploded.

~ * ~

I’m awake! Gregor thought. I survived!

He didn’t know how long it had been since the blast. A few minutes? A few hours? It couldn’t have been too long—it was still night. He could see the moonlight through the hole that had been ripped in the wall.

He tried to move but could not. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything.
Anything.
But he could hear. And he heard someone picking through the rubble toward him. He tried to turn his head but could not. Who was there? One of his own kind—
please
let it be one of his own kind.

When he saw the flashlight beam he knew it was one of the living. He began to despair. He was utterly helpless here. What had that explosion done to him?

As the light came closer, he saw that it was the woman, the she-devil. She appeared to be unscathed ...

And she wore the headpiece of a nun.

She shone the beam in his face and he blinked.

“Dear sweet Jesus!” she said. Her voice was hushed with awe. “You’re not dead yet? Even in this condition?”

He opened his mouth to tell her what she no doubt already knew very well: that there were only certain ways the undead could succumb to true death, and a concussive blast from an explosion was not one of them. But his jaw wasn’t working right, and he had no voice.

“So what are we going to do with you, Mr Vampire?” she said. “I can’t risk leaving you here for the sun to finish you—your friends might show up first and find a way to fix you up. Not that I can see how that’d be possible, but I wouldn’t put anything past you vipers.”

What was she saying? What did she mean? What had happened to him?

“If I had a good supply of holy water I could pour it over you, but I want to conserve what I’ve got.”

She was quiet a moment, then she turned and walked off. Had she decided to leave him here? He hoped so. At least that way he had a chance.

But if she wanted to kill him, why hadn’t she said anything about driving a stake through his heart?

Gregor heard her coming back. She had yellow rubber gloves on her hands and a black plastic bag under her arm. She rested the flashlight on a broken timber, snapped the bag open, and reached for his face. He tried to cringe away but again, no response from his body. She grabbed him by his hair and ... lifted him. Vertigo spun him around as she looked him in the face.

“You can still see, can’t you? Maybe you’d better take a look at yourself.”

Vertigo again as she twisted his head around, and then he saw the hallway, or what was left of it. Mass destruction—shattered timbers, the stairs blown away, and ...

Pieces of his body—his arms and legs torn and scattered, his torso twisted and eviscerated, his intestines stretched and torn. Gregor tried to shout out his shock, his horror, his disbelief, but he no longer had lungs.

Vertigo again, worse than before, as she dropped his head into the black plastic bag.

“What I’m going to do, Mr Vampire, is clean up as much of you as I can, and then I’m going to put you in a safe place, cool, dark, far away from the sun. Just the sort of place your kind likes.”

His remaining hand was tossed into the bag and landed on his face. Then a foot, then an indescribably mutilated, unidentifiable organ, then more, and more, until what little light there was left was shut out and he was completely covered.

What was she doing? What had she meant by “just the sort of place your kind likes”?

And then the whole bag was moving, dragging across the floor, ripping as it caught on the debris.

“Here you are, Mr Vampire,” she said. “Your new home.”

And suddenly the bag was falling, rolling, tumbling down a set of stairs, tearing open as it went, disgorging its contents in the rough descent. More vertigo, the worst yet, as Gregor’s head tumbled free and bounced down the last three steps, rolled and then lay still with his left cheek against the cellar floor.

The madwoman’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “Your kind is always bragging about how you’re immortal. Let’s see how you like your immortality now, Mr Vampire. I’ve got to find another house, so I won’t be around to see you any more, but truly I wish you a long, long immortality.”

Gregor wished his lungs were attached so he could scream. Just once.

~ * ~

Sister Carole trudged through the inky blackness along the centre of the road, towing her red wagon behind her. She’d loaded it with her Bible, her rosary, her holy water, the blasting caps, and other essentials.

You’re looking for ANOTHER place? And I suppose you’ll be starting up this same awful sinfulness again, won’t you? When is it going to END, Carole? When are you going to STOP?

“I’ll stop when they stop,” Sister Carole said aloud to the night.

~ * ~

JO FLETCHER

Lord of the Undead

JO FLETCHER is an editor, writer, poet and journalist who has been published widely throughout the world. She has won an International Society of Poets Award, the British Fantasy Society’s inaugural Karl Edward Wagner Award, and the World Fantasy Award: Professional.

In 1985 she joined the fledgling independent publishing company Headline and masterminded the launch of Headline’s fantasy, SF and horror list. She has since worked in various editorial capacities at such British publishing imprints as Mandarin, Pan Books and Gollancz, and in 2011 she launched her own genre imprint at Quercus.