The Traveling Vampire Show

pressed shut and her chest out. It was the way she sometimes looked out on the river just before she plunged below the surface.

I wished we were out on the river. Or anywhere else, just so we were miles away from here.

Inside the hearse a light had come on. It must’ve been triggered by the opening door.

We all gazed in.

The volunteers who’d gone up against Valeria in the cage were there: Chance Wallace, the handsome Marine; geeky Chester, our old enemy Scotty Douglas the hoodlum; and our chubby, sweet, stupid best friend, Rusty.

They were all naked.

They were all in pieces, piled up next to the casket within easy reach of ... its occupant.

Inside the casket, propped up with his head against the curtains of the window we’d been trying to look through, sat an obese, legless, hairless man. I guess it was a man. He looked like a bloated sack of slippery white skin. Except the skin was mostly scarlet with blood.

His bulgy eyes looked like a pair of bloodshot golf balls.

Clutched in both hands, upside-down just under his chin, was Rusty’s head. Snuffling and grunting, he shoved his maw into the raw gore of the neck stump. He ripped out a large gob, then raised his head, bumping it against the window, and seemed to smile at us ... with a dripping load of Rusty slopping out of his mouth.

Chapter Sixty-three

All things considered, I think we handled ourselves very well up to the point at which we looked into the back of the hearse.

What we saw in there ... it knocked out whatever remained of our brains and guts.

I have vague memories of noises coming from us. Things like “Whoa!” and “Yahhh!” and “Eeee!” as we backed away from the rear of the hearse. And someone—Slim. I think—slammed the door shut. And then we were running down the middle of the dirt road as if we had the boogey-man after us.

We ran and ran and ran. Finally we came to Route 3 and Slim led the way to her Pontiac. We all piled into the front seat. The three of us sat side by side, me in the middle, all of us huffing and whimpering while Slim tried to get her key into the ignition.

At last, the engine roared and we were off.

We sped down Route 3 toward town.

At Lee’s house, we turned on all the lights. Then we took turns taking showers. After our showers, we got into clean dry clothes that Lee had gathered for us. I wore my brother’s stuff. Lee and Slim wore Lee’s. We got together in the living room. Lee let us drink beer. She even made popcorn. We were so freaked out that we hardly talked... not for a while, anyway. By the time we’d each polished off a couple of beers, though, we had calmed down.

The talking began. And decisions were made.

In the early morning hours before dawn, we went out to Lee’s garage to start getting ready. We made a couple of stakes by sawing off a broom handle and whittling a point on one end of each shaft. We gathered a hammer and a hatchet. We also equipped ourselves with the tin of gasoline that Danny kept around for his power mower. And a box of wooden matches and a cigarette lighter.

We loaded all this into Slim’s Pontiac.

After sunrise, we climbed in and Slim started the car. But Lee said, “Just a minute. I just thought of something.”

She climbed out of the car and hurried back into her house. A couple of minutes later, she came back with my brother’s Winchester .30-caliber lever-action repeater. As she climbed in with it, she said, “In case we have human trouble, too.”

“Always thinking,” Slim said.

Then she drove us up Route 3 until we came to the turnoff. She made the turn and drove slowly up the dirt road toward the place where we’d left the hearse and its awful cargo.

It was a lovely summer morning. Sometime before dawn, the rain had stopped. You could still smell it, though. There is nothing like the scent of a forest after a heavy rainfall.

The sky was cloudless. Birds were twittering all around us, bugs buzzed and sunlight slanted down through the treetops like transparent rods of gold.

It was one of those mornings that makes you feel great.

At least if you’re not on an errand like ours.

After a while, Lee said, “Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Slim said, and kept on driving.

I think we all expected to find the hearse around every bend, but the dirt road ahead of us remained empty.

“Somebody must’ve moved it,” Lee said.

Then we came out the other end of the dirt road. Ahead of us was Janks Field, all rutted and muddy, puddles and bits of broken glass flashing sunlight.

Lee’s red pickup was still there. So was the Cadillac I had disabled. So was a VW bug. I supposed it had probably belonged to one of the other volunteers—Chester, most likely. Scotty had been with a bunch of his hoodlum friends; they must’ve gone off without him after the lightning struck. As for Chance the Marine, who knows?