Post by Chris Hedges on Sept 3, 2010 14:58:20 GMT -6
The cabin was deep in the woods of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Isolated on a ten acre parcel of rocky terrain, it was accessible only by a narrow dirt drive that wound serpentine-like up the mountain for two and a half miles from I-40. It was a rustic place lacking most modern amenities. A small one-room affair with a loft bed, it had a fireplace, wood-burning stove, gas-powered generator that was about as reliable as Courtney Love, and little else. No cable or satellite, no internet connection.
But that was okay, James and Donn weren’t here for a vacation. They were here for survival.
James Newman and Donn Gash had been friends for a lot of years. They were both writers and had collaborated professionally in the past on Love Bites and Death Songs from the Naked Man. The most fun they’d ever had writing together, however, had been their story for Feast of Blood. They’d taken Delano, the antagonist from Nigel’s Vampire Feast series, and cast him in an ultra-violent road trip/mobster story. An homage of sorts to the films of Quentin Tarantino. It had been a real blast for both writers…they’d certainly never dreamed that it would lead them here.
“All the window are boarded up outside,” Donn said, coming back into the cabin carrying the 10 gauge shotgun like a club.
“Same inside,” James said; he had a .44 magnum revolver tucked down the front of his pants.
Donn closed the door, and together the two men took some boards and began nailing them across the doorframe. The boards were thick, and they used five of them to create a pretty impressive barricade. All the windows of the cabin they had boarded over on both the outside and inside, creating an extra layer of protection. They had enough ammunition for their guns for a full-out war. It might have seemed like overkill to an outside observer, but James and Donn were very much on in the inside, and they could only pray it was enough.
The work done, Donn stepped back, wiping sweat from his smooth cranium. “Guess that about does it, man.”
“Bring the fucker on,” James said, snatching the gun from his pants, pointing it at the barricaded door, and making gunshot sounds. pow pow pow
“Ten bucks says you blow your balls off before this joker can kill you.”
James returned the gun to his pants, checking to make sure the safety was on before doing so. “Don’t you worry about me. I know how to handle myself. I’ve seen Desperado a dozen times, bro.”
“So does that make one of us Selma Hayek in this situation?”
“Yeah, you. You’re definitely the Selma Hayek.”
“I don’t see that. If anyone’s Selma Hayek, it’s you. You’re the one with the long, flowing hair.”
“And what, you think you’re Antonio Banderas? With that bald head of yours, you look more like Telly Savalas.”
“Hardy har fucking har,” Donn said, punching James on the forearm. He got quiet for a moment, looking around at the humble cabin that was now serving as their fortress. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Without a doubt,” James said with more conviction than he actually felt. “I mean, there are enough dead bodies to conclusively prove the FBI can’t protect shit. If we’re gonna survive this maniac, whoever he is, we have to defend ourselves.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just that…”
Donn didn’t have to finish the thought; James knew exactly what he meant. The two men had declined the FBI’s offer of protection, rather laughable under the circumstances, and left their respective families to hole up here in the mountains like a couple of Unabomber wannabes. It was the leaving their families part that was the most difficult, at least for James, but he suspected for Donn as well.
“So what now?” Donn asked.
James shrugged. “Now we wait.”
They both took a seat on a sagging futon that creaked and groaned beneath them as if their combined weight caused it excruciating pain. James wondered for a moment if the wooden frame would just collapse, but it held. Their guns they placed next to them, within easy reach should trouble arise. Donn picked absently at a hole in the futon’s pad, pulling out the gray cotton stuffing and tossing it onto the floor.
“Who do you think it is?” James said, able to stand the silence that had settled between them no longer. As long as they were still talking, they were still alive.
Donn seemed to mull it over for a minute. “FBI seems to think it’s whoever killed Nigel. Some crazy Vampire Feast fan, you know the ones that dress up like the characters and go to those Vampire Festivals every Halloween.”
“I still think it’s Mark Gunnells, I don’t care if the FBI has ruled him out.”
“You serious? That guy’s harmless.”
“I don’t know, I’ve always gotten a stalkerish vibe from him online.”
“Hey, maybe it’s the ghost of Greg Nigel himself. Pissed that we dared fuck around with his legacy.”
James snorted a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
They fell back into an uneasy silence. James looked from his revolver to Donn’s shotgun, thinking they were like little boys playing Cowboys and Indians. They were no desperados, no gunslingers like in King’s Dark Tower series. If the killer came for them, did they really stand a chance?
But then James thought of Glenda, Jamie and Jake, and he knew he would do everything in his power to return to them. If that meant taking another life…well, it wasn’t a notion that filled him with anything but dread, but when he thought of his family, he knew he could do it.
“What time is it?” Donn asked after a while.
James checked his watch. “Almost 8 p.m.”
“With all the windows boarded over like this, it could be high noon for all we know. Total sensory deprivation.”
“Well, if it were total sensory deprivation we wouldn’t be able to see or hear or feel or smell or taste, nothing.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Semantics. You knew what I meant, I don’t know why you always have to be such a prick.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to educate you a little bit. Maybe you’d be a better writer if—”
“Oh, what? Now you saying you’re a better writer than I am?”
“All I’m saying is—”
The argument was interrupted when the lights flickered then went out altogether.
“Is it him?” Donn said, grabbing his gun and holding it against his chest like a magical talisman.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” James said, but he reached for his gun as well. “Could just be the lousy generator.”
But that theory was proven false when something heavy slammed against the cabin door, causing both men to shriek like a couple of Hollywood Scream Queens. The door shook in its frame, but the boards kept it firmly in place.
Silence followed…for exactly fifteen seconds, then something slammed against one of the doubly-boarded-over windows on the west side of the cabin.
Both men bolted up from the futon, holding their guns straight out as they spun in a circle, following the blows against the outside of the cabin 360 degrees back to the door.
A barrage of bangs and slams commenced, a violent assault that sounded like all the hounds of hell were beating at the door, demanding entry so they could devour the writers’ souls. The boards were actually rattling in place under the battering, and a nails-on-chalkboard screech filled the air. With dawning horror, James realized it was the sound of the nails being wrenched from the doorframe.
“Should we open fire?” Donn shouted, his gun at the ready, looking more like a kid playing at being an outlaw than ever.
“No, save your ammunition. But if he gets through that door, start blasting and don’t stop ‘til you run out of bullets.”
Listen to me, talking like some badass, James thought. When really I’m about to crap my pants.
The assault lasted for a good ten minutes, and there was such a volley of blows that James began to wonder if there was possibly more than one killer. What if it was an army out there, ready to burst in and tear the two friends apart? He suddenly found himself thinking of the Evil Dead films.
One board popped out of place and clattered to the floor. Followed by a second and a third. The fourth hung in there for another moment then joined its fallen comrades. Only one board still standing.
“Selma Hayek lived, right?” Donn asked.
“What?”
“In Desperado, Selma Hayek lived, didn’t she?”
Before James could respond, the door burst from its hinges, taking the final board and some of the doorframe with it. The plank of wood slammed onto the floor and slid halfway across the length of the cabin, leaving behind a rectangular portal into the blackest night James had ever seen. It was like a doorway into the void of space.
“NOW!” James shouted, and the two men opened fire at the same time, the guns roaring like Armageddon. They fired into the empty doorway until they ran out of bullets, then they quickly reloaded and opened up again, not stopping until they ran dry a second time.
After the apocalyptic one-sided gun battle, the ensuing silence was all-consuming, like going deaf. The loudest sound in the cabin was Donn’s raspy breathing. “Is that it? Do you think we got him?”
“As much ammunition as we just unloaded, surely one of us had to have hit him.”
“Sure we go check?”
James didn’t want to, that was for damn sure, but what choice did they have? With the door knocked clean out of its frame, the cabin no longer offered any semblance of protection, and there was only the one way out.
He looked at Donn, seeing his own fear mirrored in his friend’s eyes, and nodded. The two quickly reloaded and started creeping toward the doorway. All the gunfire had left a residual ringing in James’s ears, but he tried to hear beyond that, alert for any sound that would indicate someone was lying in wait just outside.
They stopped at the doorway, James pressed again the wall on one side and Donn on the other. Their guns were held at the ready, but both men’s hand shook as if with palsy. Neither seemed willing to move any further.
Finally Donn said, “You cover me, I’m going to take a quick look outside.”
James wanted to argue, say they should go together, but instead he remained silent, just nodding his acquiescence.
Move quickly, as if afraid any hesitation would render him paralyzed, Donn held out the shotgun and made a dash out the door.
There was five seconds of silence, then the boom of a gunshot, then Donn’s high-pitched screams.
James knew he should move, he should go out there with gun blazing and attempt to save his friends. Instead, he wet his pants and let the gun drop to the floor. He heard muttering, then realized it was coming from himself, a whispered recitation of the Lord’s Prayer on a continuous loop. Finally there was a tearing sound from outside and Donn’s screams were silenced. James started backing away from the doorway and was halfway to the futon when Donn’s head came rolling into the cabin like some grotesque bowling ball, a bit of the spinal column poking out of the neck like a stalk.
At the sight of this, James dropped to his knees, unable to find sufficient breath to even keep up his litany to the heavens. When the monster who had just murdered his friend stepped into the cabin, James cringed back with fear…
And surprise.
This didn’t look like any monster James had ever seen in the horror movies. No shambling wraith, no drooling mutant, no dirty deviant. Just a pleasant looking young man with blonde hair and an amused smile. He certainly didn’t look like someone capable of all the acts that had been perpetrated against the Feast of Blood writers. He looked like…
The Vampire Sullivan, James thought.
James also noted a ragged-edged gunshot wound in the guy’s stomach, confirming that either he or Donn had in fact hit him. Yet he moved as if the wound troubled him not at all.
The blonde paused just inside the doorway, reaching down to pluck one of the boards that had previously barricaded the door. Quite ineffectually, as it turned out. He gripped a bent nail and tore it loose.
“I believe I heard you and your friend say something about total sensory deprivation,” the man said in a lilting voice, advancing on James. “I think I can show you what that’s really like.”
James could not speak, could not move, could barely think. Less than half an hour ago, he’d resolved to fight as hard as it took to return to his family, but now that he was faced with almost certain death, he found he was helpless before it. If not ready for it, at least resigned.
James was still conscious when the bent nail took out his right eye, but he passed out before it took out the left.
***
Mark McLaughlin had to piss like the proverbial racehorse.
He’d been holding it for the past several miles, not really wanting to stop until he absolutely had to. When one was on the run, it was best to keep moving. But his bladder was telling him, quite insistently, that he did in fact absolutely have to stop.
And soon.
He pressed the gas pedal even further to the floor, bringing the car’s speed to almost 90. The Interstate was nearly deserted at 3 o’clock in the morning and he felt a bit like he was on a Daytona racetrack.
“Thank God,” he muttered when he saw a sign ahead announcing a rest area. He took the exit a bit too fast, fishtailing slightly before regaining control of the vehicle. As he pulled around to the main building that housed the restrooms as well as snack and soda machines, he was a bit surprised to find the parking lot deserted except for his own car. Although when he took into consideration the hour and the lack of traffic out on the Interstate, it wasn’t really all that surprising.
Cutting the engine and leaving the keys in the ignition in his rush, Mark jumped out of the car and walk/waddled toward the Men’s Room. A million George Michael jokes flashed through his mind as he pushed through the swinging door into the sour-smelling restroom.
He bypassed the line of urinals and headed for the stalls. Mark had shy bladder, and if anyone else were to walk in while he was going, the stream would dry up instantly. He needed at least a modicum of privacy. He picked the first stall because he’d read an article once that suggested the first stall in a public restroom was always the cleanest because the least number of people used that one.
Unzipping, Mark threw his head back and let out the longest, most satisfied sigh as he relieved himself at last. Sometimes nothing felt better than a good piss, strange as that sounded. He urinated for what seemed like an hour but was really no more than a couple of minutes, the whole time his mind working overtime, thinking about the events that had turned him into a nomad, scurrying about under cover of darkness like some kind of fugitive. Mark didn’t even know for sure what state he was in at the moment, maybe Idaho, maybe not. He was driving with no real plan, no real destination, because he figured he’d be harder to track that way.
But how long could he keep this up? The constant driving, the meals snagged from fast food drive-throughs, the constantly looking over his shoulder when he had to stop to get gas—it was starting to get to him, and he’d only been at it for a few days. He felt almost silly, like he was living in one of the stories from his collection Twisted Tales for Sick Puppies. Almost all those tales ended with some kind of “punch line” that was invariably violent and gory, so how would his story end?
Mark was almost finished when he heard the restroom door squeak open. He tensed, shook out the last few drops, then tucked himself back into his pants. When he came out of the stall, he saw a young blonde standing at one of the urinals. The blonde didn’t glance his way, so Mark hurried to wash up.
The sink was a long metal affair that looked sort of like a trough, and he used the faucet on the far right end, closest to the door. He scrubbed his hands quickly with the pink soap, rinsed them, and was reaching for the paper towels when he glanced in the mirror and let out a sharp yelp of surprise.
The blonde was standing directly behind him. Mark hadn’t heard him cross the room, and he certainly hadn’t heard him flush. But then again, Mark hadn’t flushed himself.
“Hi there,” the blonde said, meeting Mark’s eyes in the mirror.
“Um, hello.”
“How are you?”
Jeez, Mark thought. Is this guy really hitting on me in a rest area bathroom? Probably wants a blowjob in one of the stalls. Could he get any more cliché? Guess my George Michael jokes weren’t too far off the mark.
Mark gave the young blonde a smile that was meant to be polite but dismissive. “I’m fine.”
“Not for much longer.”
“What?” Mark said with a frown.
Instead of answering, the blonde suddenly grabbed the back of Mark’s neck and shoved his head forward…
Right into the mirror. Mark’s forehead shattered the glass, sending wicked shards raining down into the sink. Pain detonated in his head like an atomic explosion, and the glass sliced into his face. Before he could even react, he felt himself being lifted off his feet and thrown onto the floor.
A fucking body-slam, Mark thought absurdly, the jolt to his spine momentarily numbing his limbs. How could that little fucker be strong enough to body-slam me?
When he was able to move again, Mark pushed up onto his elbows. His entire body ached, and blood was dribbling into his eyes. He blinked rapidly several times to clear his vision and saw the blonde approaching slowly, an amused half-smile curling the right corner of his mouth.
“Please,” Mark said, trying to crab-walk away on his elbows. “Please, don’t…”
The blonde responded with a swift kick that connected just under Mark’s jaw, snapping his head back and slamming it against the floor. Another explosion in his skull and the world started to go grab around the edges, and he felt his consciousness become a slippery, tenuous thing.
He almost wished he would pass out, it would be a mercy, but instead the gray receded and he cried out when the blonde grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the nearest stall, the one Mark had used earlier. He tried to struggle, but the guy was so fucking strong and Mark was weak from the beating he’d taken.
Still, he planted his hands on the edges of the porcelain toilet bowl and attempted to resist as the blonde tried to force his face into the reeking yellow water inside. But the porcelain was slippery and it was with no real effort that the blonde shoved his head into the toilet.
So this is my punch line, Mark thought as he tried to hold his breath as long as possible. Drowning in my own piss.
***
The chaos outside the bedroom door was horrendous. Crashing, shattering, crunching, ripping, gunshots. The sounds of utter and complete destruction.
And of course the screaming. Good God, the screaming!
There were two dozen FBI agents in David Niall Wilson’s house, and it sounded like each and every one of them was meeting a gruesome and hellaciously painful end.
David and his girlfriend, Trish, were locked in the bedroom. The dinky little slide-bolt lock wouldn’t hold a twelve year old out though, and David knew it. If whoever was out there got through all the agents—and it certainly sounded like that was a distinct possibility—the bedroom door wasn’t going to provide much of an obstacle.
“Stay behind me, Trish,” David said. He’d huddled her into a corner by the dresser and placed his body in front of her own, a human shield. “If this sonofabitch wants to hurt you, he’ll have to get through me first.”
Trish said nothing, just cowered there with her hands over her ears.
David was about to offer her more reassurance when the bedroom door burst open and the body of one of the FBI agents was hurled into the room, a slit from his groin to his throat spilling out slimy, ropy intestines. Trish screamed, and it sounded like she was rummaging around in one of the dresser drawers. Probably looking for some kind of weapon to defend herself. David only had his fists, but he was prepared to use them.
The young man with the perfectly styled blonde hair that walked in looked nothing like a killer. Except for the blood that was splattered all over his clothes, face, and hands.
David swallowed his fear and stood his ground. “I don’t know who you are, but if you think you’re going to come into my house and—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, the pain catching him by surprise. He reached up to his throat and felt the sharp points poking out of the flesh, blood cascading the front of his shirt. He then reached around to the back of his neck and felt the oversized handles of the scissors. Turning, he stared in shock at Trish for a moment before collapsing to the floor.
“I did it for you,” Trish said, her voice laced with hysteria. “There’s no reason to hurt me now, I killed him for you. And the fucker deserved it. We’ve been together a decade, have a kid together, and still the bastard hasn’t married me.”
With a smile, the blonde stepped forward and delivered a punch that shattered all the bones in the woman’s face. An eyeball popped out and sailed clear across the room, landing in a candy dish by the bed.
Trish’s body fell in a heap next to David’s. “I wanted to do it myself, bitch,” the blonde said then left the room.
***
The room was a tiny cube, more like a cell really. All the furniture it had was a narrow single bed, a nightstand, a chair, and a mini-fridge. No TV, not even a microwave or coffee maker. If Tom had to use the bathroom, he had to walk down to the other end of the hall and no fewer than three agents accompanied him, standing in the bathroom with him while he tried to do his business.
So this was FBI protective custody, huh? Not very glamorous, but he supposed it could have been worse. They could have dressed him up like a nun and stuck him in some convent and made him sing R&B hymns like in that old Whoopi Goldberg movie. There was always a bright side.
Presently Tom was sitting up in the bed with his back propped against the headboard, and Agent Simmons sat in the chair. Neither had spoken in several minutes when Tom finally said, “How are Billie and the kids?”
“Fine, they’re staying with—”
“I don’t want to know. Until this is over, it’s safer if I don’t know where they are and I don’t have any contact with them.”
Simmons looked at Tom with something that resembled sympathy. “You might be going overboard. Your family misses you terribly.”
“And I miss them, but I won’t put them in any danger. Although…”
“What?”
“Maybe I should at least call to say goodbye.”
“You talk as if you don’t plan to ever go back.”
“Who are we shitting? He’s systematically gone down the table of contents and annihilated every writer and anybody in his way, including a fairly impressive number of armed FBI agents. He tracked James and Donn, and McLaughlin was on the move when the maniac found him at an Interstate rest area. Do you really think I stand a chance of making it out of this alive?”
When Simmons spoke, he stared down at the threadbare carpet, not able to meet Tom’s gaze. The agent probably made a terrible poker player. “This is a safe house, and only the agents here even know your whereabouts. The entire building has a state-of-the-art security and surveillance system and is accessible only with a code, an ID card, and thumbprint scanner. You’re perfectly safe.”
Tom couldn’t help but laugh at this. After all the death, all the impossible and inexplicable circumstances surrounding some of the murders, the fact that Simmons was still offering such an obviously empty assurance was funny. Gruesome and funny.
Simmons even cracked a smile, seemed about to speak when the radio clipped to his belt squawked with static and a voice broke through. “Sir, this is Agent McNamara downstairs. We seem to have a problem.”
Simmons brought the radio to his lips and pressed the TALK button. “What kind of problem?”
“Sir, there seems to be…hey…HEY! You can’t…what the hell…sir, we need—”
The line abruptly went dead. Simmons tried several times to raise McNamara, then any of the other agents assigned downstairs, but all to no avail. Tom knew he should feel afraid, but he was too hollowed out for fear. All he felt was a sense of predestination. This moment could not be avoided, he just had to wait to meet it.
“You stay here,” Simmons said, pulling his gun and going for the door. Before stepping out into the hallway, he turned back. “The door locks automatically when closed. Don’t open it for anybody but me, not even one of the other agents. You hear me?”
Tom just stared back, silence his only answer, and then Simmons was gone.
While he waited, Tom pulled out his cell phone. He had it turned off, and when he powered it back up he saw that he had a dozen missed calls and just as many messages from Billie. Which was why he’d kept it turned off in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but now it seemed important that he did. It was very late, but he could only pray she was awake and would answer.
Apparently God was asleep at this hour as well, because his call was not answered. Instead he got Billie’s voice mail. He swallowed, tried to keep his voice steady, and left a message.
“Hey, it’s Tom. I just called to say I love you. Jesus, that’s that old Stevie Wonder song, isn’t it? Kind of lame. At least I didn’t ask why birds suddenly appear every time you are near. Sorry, I don’t mean to waste time with all this nonsense. I just want to make sure you know how much you’ve meant to me all these years. I mean, I know I’m not always the most romantic guy in the world, but you’re the most important thing in my life. You and the kids. Give them all a kiss for me, and tell the one on the way about me. I love you all, and it is my hope you all find happiness and joy.”
Tom wanted to say more, but he could think of no more to say so he just disconnected the call. He wished he’d been able to speak to Billie directly, but he would have to make due.
When there came a light tapping at the door, Tom answered it.
“Hello,” the blonde said pleasantly as he stepped into the small room. “Goodness, they don’t give you much space to breath, do they?”
Tom returned to the bed and sat on the edge. Looking up at the stranger, he said, surprised by the calm he heard in his own voice, “Who are you?”
The blonde stared back at him, eyebrows raised. “Does it really matter?”
“Yes, it does. I know you’re going to kill me, just like I’m assuming you’ve killed all the agents in this building, and I also know there’s nothing I can do about it. All I ask is that at least you tell me who you are and why you’re doing this.”
The blonde took the chair and placed it so that he was sitting directly across from Tom, their knees almost touching. “You know what? I’m going to tell you.” Here he paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. “I’m…Greg Nigel.”
Tom wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. He frowned and said, “No, you’re not. Greg Nigel has been dead for years.”
“Well, you know that old nugget...about the rumors of my death being greatly exaggerated or whatever.”
“I know what Greg Nigel looked like, and you’re not him. Greg Nigel was—”
“A drop-dead gorgeous redhead with a perfect tan and a wickedly devilish smile? Yes, I know. God, sometimes I miss me.”
“Are you insane?”
“Quite possibly, but I’m also telling you the truth. It is true, I did die, and my body was buried and is probably just so much dust by now. But my spirit…that’s another story altogether. My body was gone, but my consciousness remained. It took me a while, but I finally figured out a way to inhabit someone else’s body, force them out and take up residence in their flesh. I wish I could have found a better body than this, but I had to use what I had handy.”
This elicited a weak laugh from Tom. “So you’re telling me that you’re not only a ghost but a body snatcher as well?”
“That’s about the long and short of it.”
“You really are a fucking loon, aren’t you? I think you even believe what you’re telling me. What are you really, just some obsessive Nigel fan that went over all delusional after he died? Are you the one that killed him?”
The blonde leaned forward. “There are more things in this world than you can possibly imagine, trust me.” Here he smiled wide, revealing two elongated incisors that jutted down to poke into his bottom lip. “This new body isn’t the only change I’ve been through.”
Tom wanted to scoff, but the sight of those—
go head and say it, fangs, there’s no other word for it
—teeth inspired some kind of primal fear in him that made him feel as if he’d been encased in ice. “So you’re telling me…what? That you’re a vampire too?”
The blonde shrugged. “I don’t need you to believe me, but I felt I owed you an explanation on account of yours being the only story in the entire anthology I thought was worth a damn.”
For just a second, Tom was absurdly flattered by the compliment, then he reminded himself that the accolade was coming from a delusional psychopath. “Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and tingly or something?”
“Makes little difference to me, but know this—I don’t hand out praise to other writers easily or often. When I first learned of the little collection you were putting together, I was incensed. I mean, talk about a desecration of my memory. I got my hands on a copy as soon as it came out, not really wanting to read the stories but unable to help myself.
“And I was appalled beyond words. I mean, it was one pathetic sloppy excuse for fiction after another. These people took the world I created from the dust of my imagination, the characters I breathed life into with my creativity, and turned it all into one big farce. It was an offense I knew I could not let go unpunished. Every writer in the book had to die, it was as simple as that. I mean, as a writer yourself, can you really blame me?”
Tom suddenly had the urge to bolt for the door, but he knew he’d never make it. He didn’t really believe this was a preternatural being in front of him…but then he thought of all the dead bodies and he wasn’t sure what he believed. “But you…you said you liked my story?”
“Yes, relatively speaking. You didn’t come anywhere near to matching the mastery of which I’m capable, of course, but you did come closer than anyone else to capturing the spirit of my series. And you showed an understanding of the Sullivan character that was actually quite impressive. So for your tale I give you this highest bit of praise: I didn’t hate it.”
Hope started to blossom in his chest but Tom actually fought against it. Hope in a situation like this could be dangerous. “Does that mean you’re going to let me live?” he asked in a tentative voice.
The blonde seemed to find this hilarious, bending over and spewing laughter like bile. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and when his attack of mirth passed until all that remained were a few tapering giggles, he said, “That was a good one. Thanks for that. Silly mortal, I can’t let you live. You’re the one who put the anthology that defiles my name together in the first place. But it does mean I’ll make your death mean more than the others.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see, I just killed the others, didn’t feed off of them. They weren’t worthy of providing me with sustenance. The taste of them in my mouth would have probably turned my stomach. But you, on the other hand, I think I might like the taste of you.”
Now Tom did bolt for the door. What was he thinking, just accepting death without a fight? But he only made it two steps before the blonde grabbed him and yanked him back. His head was wrenched to the side and Tom felt those fangs tear into his neck, right where it met the shoulder. He thought he screamed but he did not hear any sound, and he felt himself falling backward. He landed on the bed, the blonde on top of him, those teeth tearing into the flesh, and Tom could actually feel his blood pumping out and into his attacker’s mouth.
Tom tried to struggle, but the blonde, slight as he was, was unmovable, like a two ton bolder resting atop him. His struggles became weaker, and as his vision began to go black, Tom whispered his wife’s name.
***
Nigel stood there a moment, staring down at the dead writer and artist. A shame, the man’s story really hadn’t been half bad. Still, he got what he deserved for daring to think he could use Nigel’s legacy to make a quick buck.
Reaching into his back pocket, Nigel pulled out a folded piece of paper. Before coming here tonight, he had broken into Moran’s empty home in Connecticut and gotten on the man’s computer, accessing his business records. Nigel now held a print out of all the people who had ordered copies of Feast of Blood complete with mailing addresses.
Nigel left quickly, not wanting to tarry.
He still had work to do.
But that was okay, James and Donn weren’t here for a vacation. They were here for survival.
James Newman and Donn Gash had been friends for a lot of years. They were both writers and had collaborated professionally in the past on Love Bites and Death Songs from the Naked Man. The most fun they’d ever had writing together, however, had been their story for Feast of Blood. They’d taken Delano, the antagonist from Nigel’s Vampire Feast series, and cast him in an ultra-violent road trip/mobster story. An homage of sorts to the films of Quentin Tarantino. It had been a real blast for both writers…they’d certainly never dreamed that it would lead them here.
“All the window are boarded up outside,” Donn said, coming back into the cabin carrying the 10 gauge shotgun like a club.
“Same inside,” James said; he had a .44 magnum revolver tucked down the front of his pants.
Donn closed the door, and together the two men took some boards and began nailing them across the doorframe. The boards were thick, and they used five of them to create a pretty impressive barricade. All the windows of the cabin they had boarded over on both the outside and inside, creating an extra layer of protection. They had enough ammunition for their guns for a full-out war. It might have seemed like overkill to an outside observer, but James and Donn were very much on in the inside, and they could only pray it was enough.
The work done, Donn stepped back, wiping sweat from his smooth cranium. “Guess that about does it, man.”
“Bring the fucker on,” James said, snatching the gun from his pants, pointing it at the barricaded door, and making gunshot sounds. pow pow pow
“Ten bucks says you blow your balls off before this joker can kill you.”
James returned the gun to his pants, checking to make sure the safety was on before doing so. “Don’t you worry about me. I know how to handle myself. I’ve seen Desperado a dozen times, bro.”
“So does that make one of us Selma Hayek in this situation?”
“Yeah, you. You’re definitely the Selma Hayek.”
“I don’t see that. If anyone’s Selma Hayek, it’s you. You’re the one with the long, flowing hair.”
“And what, you think you’re Antonio Banderas? With that bald head of yours, you look more like Telly Savalas.”
“Hardy har fucking har,” Donn said, punching James on the forearm. He got quiet for a moment, looking around at the humble cabin that was now serving as their fortress. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Without a doubt,” James said with more conviction than he actually felt. “I mean, there are enough dead bodies to conclusively prove the FBI can’t protect shit. If we’re gonna survive this maniac, whoever he is, we have to defend ourselves.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just that…”
Donn didn’t have to finish the thought; James knew exactly what he meant. The two men had declined the FBI’s offer of protection, rather laughable under the circumstances, and left their respective families to hole up here in the mountains like a couple of Unabomber wannabes. It was the leaving their families part that was the most difficult, at least for James, but he suspected for Donn as well.
“So what now?” Donn asked.
James shrugged. “Now we wait.”
They both took a seat on a sagging futon that creaked and groaned beneath them as if their combined weight caused it excruciating pain. James wondered for a moment if the wooden frame would just collapse, but it held. Their guns they placed next to them, within easy reach should trouble arise. Donn picked absently at a hole in the futon’s pad, pulling out the gray cotton stuffing and tossing it onto the floor.
“Who do you think it is?” James said, able to stand the silence that had settled between them no longer. As long as they were still talking, they were still alive.
Donn seemed to mull it over for a minute. “FBI seems to think it’s whoever killed Nigel. Some crazy Vampire Feast fan, you know the ones that dress up like the characters and go to those Vampire Festivals every Halloween.”
“I still think it’s Mark Gunnells, I don’t care if the FBI has ruled him out.”
“You serious? That guy’s harmless.”
“I don’t know, I’ve always gotten a stalkerish vibe from him online.”
“Hey, maybe it’s the ghost of Greg Nigel himself. Pissed that we dared fuck around with his legacy.”
James snorted a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
They fell back into an uneasy silence. James looked from his revolver to Donn’s shotgun, thinking they were like little boys playing Cowboys and Indians. They were no desperados, no gunslingers like in King’s Dark Tower series. If the killer came for them, did they really stand a chance?
But then James thought of Glenda, Jamie and Jake, and he knew he would do everything in his power to return to them. If that meant taking another life…well, it wasn’t a notion that filled him with anything but dread, but when he thought of his family, he knew he could do it.
“What time is it?” Donn asked after a while.
James checked his watch. “Almost 8 p.m.”
“With all the windows boarded over like this, it could be high noon for all we know. Total sensory deprivation.”
“Well, if it were total sensory deprivation we wouldn’t be able to see or hear or feel or smell or taste, nothing.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Semantics. You knew what I meant, I don’t know why you always have to be such a prick.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to educate you a little bit. Maybe you’d be a better writer if—”
“Oh, what? Now you saying you’re a better writer than I am?”
“All I’m saying is—”
The argument was interrupted when the lights flickered then went out altogether.
“Is it him?” Donn said, grabbing his gun and holding it against his chest like a magical talisman.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” James said, but he reached for his gun as well. “Could just be the lousy generator.”
But that theory was proven false when something heavy slammed against the cabin door, causing both men to shriek like a couple of Hollywood Scream Queens. The door shook in its frame, but the boards kept it firmly in place.
Silence followed…for exactly fifteen seconds, then something slammed against one of the doubly-boarded-over windows on the west side of the cabin.
Both men bolted up from the futon, holding their guns straight out as they spun in a circle, following the blows against the outside of the cabin 360 degrees back to the door.
A barrage of bangs and slams commenced, a violent assault that sounded like all the hounds of hell were beating at the door, demanding entry so they could devour the writers’ souls. The boards were actually rattling in place under the battering, and a nails-on-chalkboard screech filled the air. With dawning horror, James realized it was the sound of the nails being wrenched from the doorframe.
“Should we open fire?” Donn shouted, his gun at the ready, looking more like a kid playing at being an outlaw than ever.
“No, save your ammunition. But if he gets through that door, start blasting and don’t stop ‘til you run out of bullets.”
Listen to me, talking like some badass, James thought. When really I’m about to crap my pants.
The assault lasted for a good ten minutes, and there was such a volley of blows that James began to wonder if there was possibly more than one killer. What if it was an army out there, ready to burst in and tear the two friends apart? He suddenly found himself thinking of the Evil Dead films.
One board popped out of place and clattered to the floor. Followed by a second and a third. The fourth hung in there for another moment then joined its fallen comrades. Only one board still standing.
“Selma Hayek lived, right?” Donn asked.
“What?”
“In Desperado, Selma Hayek lived, didn’t she?”
Before James could respond, the door burst from its hinges, taking the final board and some of the doorframe with it. The plank of wood slammed onto the floor and slid halfway across the length of the cabin, leaving behind a rectangular portal into the blackest night James had ever seen. It was like a doorway into the void of space.
“NOW!” James shouted, and the two men opened fire at the same time, the guns roaring like Armageddon. They fired into the empty doorway until they ran out of bullets, then they quickly reloaded and opened up again, not stopping until they ran dry a second time.
After the apocalyptic one-sided gun battle, the ensuing silence was all-consuming, like going deaf. The loudest sound in the cabin was Donn’s raspy breathing. “Is that it? Do you think we got him?”
“As much ammunition as we just unloaded, surely one of us had to have hit him.”
“Sure we go check?”
James didn’t want to, that was for damn sure, but what choice did they have? With the door knocked clean out of its frame, the cabin no longer offered any semblance of protection, and there was only the one way out.
He looked at Donn, seeing his own fear mirrored in his friend’s eyes, and nodded. The two quickly reloaded and started creeping toward the doorway. All the gunfire had left a residual ringing in James’s ears, but he tried to hear beyond that, alert for any sound that would indicate someone was lying in wait just outside.
They stopped at the doorway, James pressed again the wall on one side and Donn on the other. Their guns were held at the ready, but both men’s hand shook as if with palsy. Neither seemed willing to move any further.
Finally Donn said, “You cover me, I’m going to take a quick look outside.”
James wanted to argue, say they should go together, but instead he remained silent, just nodding his acquiescence.
Move quickly, as if afraid any hesitation would render him paralyzed, Donn held out the shotgun and made a dash out the door.
There was five seconds of silence, then the boom of a gunshot, then Donn’s high-pitched screams.
James knew he should move, he should go out there with gun blazing and attempt to save his friends. Instead, he wet his pants and let the gun drop to the floor. He heard muttering, then realized it was coming from himself, a whispered recitation of the Lord’s Prayer on a continuous loop. Finally there was a tearing sound from outside and Donn’s screams were silenced. James started backing away from the doorway and was halfway to the futon when Donn’s head came rolling into the cabin like some grotesque bowling ball, a bit of the spinal column poking out of the neck like a stalk.
At the sight of this, James dropped to his knees, unable to find sufficient breath to even keep up his litany to the heavens. When the monster who had just murdered his friend stepped into the cabin, James cringed back with fear…
And surprise.
This didn’t look like any monster James had ever seen in the horror movies. No shambling wraith, no drooling mutant, no dirty deviant. Just a pleasant looking young man with blonde hair and an amused smile. He certainly didn’t look like someone capable of all the acts that had been perpetrated against the Feast of Blood writers. He looked like…
The Vampire Sullivan, James thought.
James also noted a ragged-edged gunshot wound in the guy’s stomach, confirming that either he or Donn had in fact hit him. Yet he moved as if the wound troubled him not at all.
The blonde paused just inside the doorway, reaching down to pluck one of the boards that had previously barricaded the door. Quite ineffectually, as it turned out. He gripped a bent nail and tore it loose.
“I believe I heard you and your friend say something about total sensory deprivation,” the man said in a lilting voice, advancing on James. “I think I can show you what that’s really like.”
James could not speak, could not move, could barely think. Less than half an hour ago, he’d resolved to fight as hard as it took to return to his family, but now that he was faced with almost certain death, he found he was helpless before it. If not ready for it, at least resigned.
James was still conscious when the bent nail took out his right eye, but he passed out before it took out the left.
***
Mark McLaughlin had to piss like the proverbial racehorse.
He’d been holding it for the past several miles, not really wanting to stop until he absolutely had to. When one was on the run, it was best to keep moving. But his bladder was telling him, quite insistently, that he did in fact absolutely have to stop.
And soon.
He pressed the gas pedal even further to the floor, bringing the car’s speed to almost 90. The Interstate was nearly deserted at 3 o’clock in the morning and he felt a bit like he was on a Daytona racetrack.
“Thank God,” he muttered when he saw a sign ahead announcing a rest area. He took the exit a bit too fast, fishtailing slightly before regaining control of the vehicle. As he pulled around to the main building that housed the restrooms as well as snack and soda machines, he was a bit surprised to find the parking lot deserted except for his own car. Although when he took into consideration the hour and the lack of traffic out on the Interstate, it wasn’t really all that surprising.
Cutting the engine and leaving the keys in the ignition in his rush, Mark jumped out of the car and walk/waddled toward the Men’s Room. A million George Michael jokes flashed through his mind as he pushed through the swinging door into the sour-smelling restroom.
He bypassed the line of urinals and headed for the stalls. Mark had shy bladder, and if anyone else were to walk in while he was going, the stream would dry up instantly. He needed at least a modicum of privacy. He picked the first stall because he’d read an article once that suggested the first stall in a public restroom was always the cleanest because the least number of people used that one.
Unzipping, Mark threw his head back and let out the longest, most satisfied sigh as he relieved himself at last. Sometimes nothing felt better than a good piss, strange as that sounded. He urinated for what seemed like an hour but was really no more than a couple of minutes, the whole time his mind working overtime, thinking about the events that had turned him into a nomad, scurrying about under cover of darkness like some kind of fugitive. Mark didn’t even know for sure what state he was in at the moment, maybe Idaho, maybe not. He was driving with no real plan, no real destination, because he figured he’d be harder to track that way.
But how long could he keep this up? The constant driving, the meals snagged from fast food drive-throughs, the constantly looking over his shoulder when he had to stop to get gas—it was starting to get to him, and he’d only been at it for a few days. He felt almost silly, like he was living in one of the stories from his collection Twisted Tales for Sick Puppies. Almost all those tales ended with some kind of “punch line” that was invariably violent and gory, so how would his story end?
Mark was almost finished when he heard the restroom door squeak open. He tensed, shook out the last few drops, then tucked himself back into his pants. When he came out of the stall, he saw a young blonde standing at one of the urinals. The blonde didn’t glance his way, so Mark hurried to wash up.
The sink was a long metal affair that looked sort of like a trough, and he used the faucet on the far right end, closest to the door. He scrubbed his hands quickly with the pink soap, rinsed them, and was reaching for the paper towels when he glanced in the mirror and let out a sharp yelp of surprise.
The blonde was standing directly behind him. Mark hadn’t heard him cross the room, and he certainly hadn’t heard him flush. But then again, Mark hadn’t flushed himself.
“Hi there,” the blonde said, meeting Mark’s eyes in the mirror.
“Um, hello.”
“How are you?”
Jeez, Mark thought. Is this guy really hitting on me in a rest area bathroom? Probably wants a blowjob in one of the stalls. Could he get any more cliché? Guess my George Michael jokes weren’t too far off the mark.
Mark gave the young blonde a smile that was meant to be polite but dismissive. “I’m fine.”
“Not for much longer.”
“What?” Mark said with a frown.
Instead of answering, the blonde suddenly grabbed the back of Mark’s neck and shoved his head forward…
Right into the mirror. Mark’s forehead shattered the glass, sending wicked shards raining down into the sink. Pain detonated in his head like an atomic explosion, and the glass sliced into his face. Before he could even react, he felt himself being lifted off his feet and thrown onto the floor.
A fucking body-slam, Mark thought absurdly, the jolt to his spine momentarily numbing his limbs. How could that little fucker be strong enough to body-slam me?
When he was able to move again, Mark pushed up onto his elbows. His entire body ached, and blood was dribbling into his eyes. He blinked rapidly several times to clear his vision and saw the blonde approaching slowly, an amused half-smile curling the right corner of his mouth.
“Please,” Mark said, trying to crab-walk away on his elbows. “Please, don’t…”
The blonde responded with a swift kick that connected just under Mark’s jaw, snapping his head back and slamming it against the floor. Another explosion in his skull and the world started to go grab around the edges, and he felt his consciousness become a slippery, tenuous thing.
He almost wished he would pass out, it would be a mercy, but instead the gray receded and he cried out when the blonde grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the nearest stall, the one Mark had used earlier. He tried to struggle, but the guy was so fucking strong and Mark was weak from the beating he’d taken.
Still, he planted his hands on the edges of the porcelain toilet bowl and attempted to resist as the blonde tried to force his face into the reeking yellow water inside. But the porcelain was slippery and it was with no real effort that the blonde shoved his head into the toilet.
So this is my punch line, Mark thought as he tried to hold his breath as long as possible. Drowning in my own piss.
***
The chaos outside the bedroom door was horrendous. Crashing, shattering, crunching, ripping, gunshots. The sounds of utter and complete destruction.
And of course the screaming. Good God, the screaming!
There were two dozen FBI agents in David Niall Wilson’s house, and it sounded like each and every one of them was meeting a gruesome and hellaciously painful end.
David and his girlfriend, Trish, were locked in the bedroom. The dinky little slide-bolt lock wouldn’t hold a twelve year old out though, and David knew it. If whoever was out there got through all the agents—and it certainly sounded like that was a distinct possibility—the bedroom door wasn’t going to provide much of an obstacle.
“Stay behind me, Trish,” David said. He’d huddled her into a corner by the dresser and placed his body in front of her own, a human shield. “If this sonofabitch wants to hurt you, he’ll have to get through me first.”
Trish said nothing, just cowered there with her hands over her ears.
David was about to offer her more reassurance when the bedroom door burst open and the body of one of the FBI agents was hurled into the room, a slit from his groin to his throat spilling out slimy, ropy intestines. Trish screamed, and it sounded like she was rummaging around in one of the dresser drawers. Probably looking for some kind of weapon to defend herself. David only had his fists, but he was prepared to use them.
The young man with the perfectly styled blonde hair that walked in looked nothing like a killer. Except for the blood that was splattered all over his clothes, face, and hands.
David swallowed his fear and stood his ground. “I don’t know who you are, but if you think you’re going to come into my house and—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, the pain catching him by surprise. He reached up to his throat and felt the sharp points poking out of the flesh, blood cascading the front of his shirt. He then reached around to the back of his neck and felt the oversized handles of the scissors. Turning, he stared in shock at Trish for a moment before collapsing to the floor.
“I did it for you,” Trish said, her voice laced with hysteria. “There’s no reason to hurt me now, I killed him for you. And the fucker deserved it. We’ve been together a decade, have a kid together, and still the bastard hasn’t married me.”
With a smile, the blonde stepped forward and delivered a punch that shattered all the bones in the woman’s face. An eyeball popped out and sailed clear across the room, landing in a candy dish by the bed.
Trish’s body fell in a heap next to David’s. “I wanted to do it myself, bitch,” the blonde said then left the room.
***
The room was a tiny cube, more like a cell really. All the furniture it had was a narrow single bed, a nightstand, a chair, and a mini-fridge. No TV, not even a microwave or coffee maker. If Tom had to use the bathroom, he had to walk down to the other end of the hall and no fewer than three agents accompanied him, standing in the bathroom with him while he tried to do his business.
So this was FBI protective custody, huh? Not very glamorous, but he supposed it could have been worse. They could have dressed him up like a nun and stuck him in some convent and made him sing R&B hymns like in that old Whoopi Goldberg movie. There was always a bright side.
Presently Tom was sitting up in the bed with his back propped against the headboard, and Agent Simmons sat in the chair. Neither had spoken in several minutes when Tom finally said, “How are Billie and the kids?”
“Fine, they’re staying with—”
“I don’t want to know. Until this is over, it’s safer if I don’t know where they are and I don’t have any contact with them.”
Simmons looked at Tom with something that resembled sympathy. “You might be going overboard. Your family misses you terribly.”
“And I miss them, but I won’t put them in any danger. Although…”
“What?”
“Maybe I should at least call to say goodbye.”
“You talk as if you don’t plan to ever go back.”
“Who are we shitting? He’s systematically gone down the table of contents and annihilated every writer and anybody in his way, including a fairly impressive number of armed FBI agents. He tracked James and Donn, and McLaughlin was on the move when the maniac found him at an Interstate rest area. Do you really think I stand a chance of making it out of this alive?”
When Simmons spoke, he stared down at the threadbare carpet, not able to meet Tom’s gaze. The agent probably made a terrible poker player. “This is a safe house, and only the agents here even know your whereabouts. The entire building has a state-of-the-art security and surveillance system and is accessible only with a code, an ID card, and thumbprint scanner. You’re perfectly safe.”
Tom couldn’t help but laugh at this. After all the death, all the impossible and inexplicable circumstances surrounding some of the murders, the fact that Simmons was still offering such an obviously empty assurance was funny. Gruesome and funny.
Simmons even cracked a smile, seemed about to speak when the radio clipped to his belt squawked with static and a voice broke through. “Sir, this is Agent McNamara downstairs. We seem to have a problem.”
Simmons brought the radio to his lips and pressed the TALK button. “What kind of problem?”
“Sir, there seems to be…hey…HEY! You can’t…what the hell…sir, we need—”
The line abruptly went dead. Simmons tried several times to raise McNamara, then any of the other agents assigned downstairs, but all to no avail. Tom knew he should feel afraid, but he was too hollowed out for fear. All he felt was a sense of predestination. This moment could not be avoided, he just had to wait to meet it.
“You stay here,” Simmons said, pulling his gun and going for the door. Before stepping out into the hallway, he turned back. “The door locks automatically when closed. Don’t open it for anybody but me, not even one of the other agents. You hear me?”
Tom just stared back, silence his only answer, and then Simmons was gone.
While he waited, Tom pulled out his cell phone. He had it turned off, and when he powered it back up he saw that he had a dozen missed calls and just as many messages from Billie. Which was why he’d kept it turned off in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but now it seemed important that he did. It was very late, but he could only pray she was awake and would answer.
Apparently God was asleep at this hour as well, because his call was not answered. Instead he got Billie’s voice mail. He swallowed, tried to keep his voice steady, and left a message.
“Hey, it’s Tom. I just called to say I love you. Jesus, that’s that old Stevie Wonder song, isn’t it? Kind of lame. At least I didn’t ask why birds suddenly appear every time you are near. Sorry, I don’t mean to waste time with all this nonsense. I just want to make sure you know how much you’ve meant to me all these years. I mean, I know I’m not always the most romantic guy in the world, but you’re the most important thing in my life. You and the kids. Give them all a kiss for me, and tell the one on the way about me. I love you all, and it is my hope you all find happiness and joy.”
Tom wanted to say more, but he could think of no more to say so he just disconnected the call. He wished he’d been able to speak to Billie directly, but he would have to make due.
When there came a light tapping at the door, Tom answered it.
“Hello,” the blonde said pleasantly as he stepped into the small room. “Goodness, they don’t give you much space to breath, do they?”
Tom returned to the bed and sat on the edge. Looking up at the stranger, he said, surprised by the calm he heard in his own voice, “Who are you?”
The blonde stared back at him, eyebrows raised. “Does it really matter?”
“Yes, it does. I know you’re going to kill me, just like I’m assuming you’ve killed all the agents in this building, and I also know there’s nothing I can do about it. All I ask is that at least you tell me who you are and why you’re doing this.”
The blonde took the chair and placed it so that he was sitting directly across from Tom, their knees almost touching. “You know what? I’m going to tell you.” Here he paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. “I’m…Greg Nigel.”
Tom wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. He frowned and said, “No, you’re not. Greg Nigel has been dead for years.”
“Well, you know that old nugget...about the rumors of my death being greatly exaggerated or whatever.”
“I know what Greg Nigel looked like, and you’re not him. Greg Nigel was—”
“A drop-dead gorgeous redhead with a perfect tan and a wickedly devilish smile? Yes, I know. God, sometimes I miss me.”
“Are you insane?”
“Quite possibly, but I’m also telling you the truth. It is true, I did die, and my body was buried and is probably just so much dust by now. But my spirit…that’s another story altogether. My body was gone, but my consciousness remained. It took me a while, but I finally figured out a way to inhabit someone else’s body, force them out and take up residence in their flesh. I wish I could have found a better body than this, but I had to use what I had handy.”
This elicited a weak laugh from Tom. “So you’re telling me that you’re not only a ghost but a body snatcher as well?”
“That’s about the long and short of it.”
“You really are a fucking loon, aren’t you? I think you even believe what you’re telling me. What are you really, just some obsessive Nigel fan that went over all delusional after he died? Are you the one that killed him?”
The blonde leaned forward. “There are more things in this world than you can possibly imagine, trust me.” Here he smiled wide, revealing two elongated incisors that jutted down to poke into his bottom lip. “This new body isn’t the only change I’ve been through.”
Tom wanted to scoff, but the sight of those—
go head and say it, fangs, there’s no other word for it
—teeth inspired some kind of primal fear in him that made him feel as if he’d been encased in ice. “So you’re telling me…what? That you’re a vampire too?”
The blonde shrugged. “I don’t need you to believe me, but I felt I owed you an explanation on account of yours being the only story in the entire anthology I thought was worth a damn.”
For just a second, Tom was absurdly flattered by the compliment, then he reminded himself that the accolade was coming from a delusional psychopath. “Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and tingly or something?”
“Makes little difference to me, but know this—I don’t hand out praise to other writers easily or often. When I first learned of the little collection you were putting together, I was incensed. I mean, talk about a desecration of my memory. I got my hands on a copy as soon as it came out, not really wanting to read the stories but unable to help myself.
“And I was appalled beyond words. I mean, it was one pathetic sloppy excuse for fiction after another. These people took the world I created from the dust of my imagination, the characters I breathed life into with my creativity, and turned it all into one big farce. It was an offense I knew I could not let go unpunished. Every writer in the book had to die, it was as simple as that. I mean, as a writer yourself, can you really blame me?”
Tom suddenly had the urge to bolt for the door, but he knew he’d never make it. He didn’t really believe this was a preternatural being in front of him…but then he thought of all the dead bodies and he wasn’t sure what he believed. “But you…you said you liked my story?”
“Yes, relatively speaking. You didn’t come anywhere near to matching the mastery of which I’m capable, of course, but you did come closer than anyone else to capturing the spirit of my series. And you showed an understanding of the Sullivan character that was actually quite impressive. So for your tale I give you this highest bit of praise: I didn’t hate it.”
Hope started to blossom in his chest but Tom actually fought against it. Hope in a situation like this could be dangerous. “Does that mean you’re going to let me live?” he asked in a tentative voice.
The blonde seemed to find this hilarious, bending over and spewing laughter like bile. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and when his attack of mirth passed until all that remained were a few tapering giggles, he said, “That was a good one. Thanks for that. Silly mortal, I can’t let you live. You’re the one who put the anthology that defiles my name together in the first place. But it does mean I’ll make your death mean more than the others.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see, I just killed the others, didn’t feed off of them. They weren’t worthy of providing me with sustenance. The taste of them in my mouth would have probably turned my stomach. But you, on the other hand, I think I might like the taste of you.”
Now Tom did bolt for the door. What was he thinking, just accepting death without a fight? But he only made it two steps before the blonde grabbed him and yanked him back. His head was wrenched to the side and Tom felt those fangs tear into his neck, right where it met the shoulder. He thought he screamed but he did not hear any sound, and he felt himself falling backward. He landed on the bed, the blonde on top of him, those teeth tearing into the flesh, and Tom could actually feel his blood pumping out and into his attacker’s mouth.
Tom tried to struggle, but the blonde, slight as he was, was unmovable, like a two ton bolder resting atop him. His struggles became weaker, and as his vision began to go black, Tom whispered his wife’s name.
***
Nigel stood there a moment, staring down at the dead writer and artist. A shame, the man’s story really hadn’t been half bad. Still, he got what he deserved for daring to think he could use Nigel’s legacy to make a quick buck.
Reaching into his back pocket, Nigel pulled out a folded piece of paper. Before coming here tonight, he had broken into Moran’s empty home in Connecticut and gotten on the man’s computer, accessing his business records. Nigel now held a print out of all the people who had ordered copies of Feast of Blood complete with mailing addresses.
Nigel left quickly, not wanting to tarry.
He still had work to do.