scalp and it ran alongside of her nose. A few drops had splashed onto her blouse. She beat on the door and even kicked it. Polk watched as her face changed from hope to confusion to anger and then to a revelatory mask of accusation. Then she was gone. A white hand appeared out of the gloom and snatched her away. Two tiny droplets of blood had flown from her face as she was jerked back and they splattered against the glass. The splashes were head-high to the door and Polk thought they looked like red, condemning eyes.
He drank the bourbon.
By his crossed heels was the thick manila envelope Vic Wingate had dropped off that afternoon. Fifty thousand bloodstained dollars in tight bundles. Another big chunk of Ruger’s drug money. Polk had counted the money and as he turned over each bill he saw at least one drop of old, dried blood. Fifty thousand dollars, and a half-pound bag of coke to sweeten the deal. And the note: FOR SERVICES RENDERED. Vic’s little joke.
Vic has smirked as he handed it over, had given Polk a neat little bow and a sly wink, like he was giving a dollar to a kid, sending him off to the movies so he could screw his big sister. That kind of a sly wink.
The bottle was almost empty and so was Polk. He nursed the whiskey and listened to the Dead and watching the dying outside. Beside him the pistol ached to be held, it longed to be kissed. There should always be a last kiss, he reflected, after you’ve collected your blood money.
(6)
Tonight Pine Deep’s Dead End Drive-In lived up to its name. Every single car was an island of death. Shattered windows, doors standing open, upholstery splashed with blood, the gravel around the cars littered with shreds of torn clothing, cracked eyeglasses, broken cell phones.
Pine Deep’s nature made the slaughter so successful; the tourists believed what was happening was a joke, all part of the show. By the time the truth of it was impossible to deny, half of the them were dead; the rest fled and were hunted.
Perhaps because he was on a stage and had a different perspective on the events as they unfolded, or perhaps he’d been in too many movies that dealt with this exact sort of thing, Ken Foree alone managed to keep his head. He knew the difference between stunts and real violence. When he witnessed the slaughter he knew that this was no stunt. He didn’t know what it was, but it was real.
As one of the mindless Dead Heads began crawling over the edge of the stage, Foree snatched up the heavy microphone stand and swung the weighted steel base with every ounce of strength he possessed. The disk-shaped base crushed the creature’s skull. As it fell dead, he leapt down from the stage and charged the second creature.
When that one went down he started shouting for the patrons to run, and when those who could still move got into gear he led them in a mad dash to the projection booth. He was able to cram eighty people in the concrete pillbox. That’s all that could make it before he had to slam the steel door in the face of five more of the shambling killers. The projection window had metal shutters, and Foree slammed them shut and threw the slide bolts.
The creatures beat on the door and screamed in rage and hunger. The people packed inside screamed, huddling down in the dark, pressing their hands to their ears.
The person nearest him clutched his sleeve. “Can they get in?” she begged.
“No,” he said, “no, they can’t get in.” He hoped he wasn’t lying.
(7)
Crow pointed his shotgun directly at Ruger’s grinning face.
“Go ahead, hotshot—splatter me and you splatter junior here.” Ruger gave the kid a fierce shake.
Beside Crow, LaMastra braced himself against the wall and aimed down the stairs at the four vampires who clustered at the lower landing. Five others milled hungrily behind Ruger. The trap was a good one and they had walked right into it.
“Well, well,” murmured Ruger, “this is a hoot. I’m so happy to see you I could shit daffodils.”
The child, a thin boy of about nine, struggled against the white hands that held him, but he might as well have been trying to work loose from iron shackles. The killer kept one arm wrapped around the kid’s body, pinning his arms; with the other hand he traced little lines across the boy’s slender throat. The kid winced and wriggled helplessly.
“Let him go,” Crow said, twitching the barrel of the shotgun.
“Sure, I’ll get right on that.”
“Let him go and then you can have me.”
Ruger shook his head. “I already
“I’m going to kill you,” Crow said softly.
“What…again?” Everyone laughed at that except the living. “Unless you haven’t figured it out by now, dickweed, you
“Third time’s the charm, Karl. Let the boy go, then you and me can dance a bit.”
“Or,” Ruger said, enjoying this, “we could just tear your arms off and beat you with them. Really, no joke. We’ve already done that tonight. Twice.”
“Three times, boss,” someone said, and they all cracked up again.
“Crow…” LaMastra said under his breath.
“Tell me something, Karl…what’s with all the fireworks and shit. What’s the point? This part of some bullshit evil master plan? You think tearing down a small town like this makes you—what, some kind of vampire king or some shit?”
Ruger pretended to be interested. “Actually we do have a master plan. And, funnily enough, it’s actually pretty darned evil.”
“Oh? Like what? You take over Pine Deep and then you turn it into a vampire tourist trap?”
“No, dumbass, we take over Pine Deep and then we take over the whole shitting world.”
Now it was Crow’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, right. And when the National Guard start dropping napalm on your ass, what then? You going to hide behind a kid then, too, you cowardly piece of shit?”
Ruger’s smile didn’t falter. “Don’t worry, boy, we have plans for that. The Man has plans for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Put the kid down.”
“Blow me.” Ruger gave the kid’s throat a quick squeeze; the kid winced again, his face screwed up; he bared his teeth as he fought against the killer’s iron grip.
“Crow…” LaMastra said again.
“Don’t be a pussy, Karl. You’re supposed to be the ubertough guy…put the kid down.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
Ruger pushed the kid forward and took a step down toward Crow. Below, the vampires moved up a couple of steps, smiling at how Ruger was playing this.
LaMastra flinched away from them so that he and Crow were tight back-to-back.
“Rock and a hard place,” mocked the killer. “You can’t kill the kid, and that popgun can’t kill me.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Crow said, putting some edge to his voice.
Ruger’s smile flickered just the faintest bit. “Well, well, you think you have some kind of secret weapon to use against the big bad vampires. Oooo…scary. Look at me ready to piss myself I’m so scared.” He jostled the kid as he took another step. “Let me guess…silver bullets?”
“I’m not that dumb, Karl.”
“You’re not that smart. So…what is it? Holy water? I wash my dick with holy water.”
“Take a sniff, jackass.”
The killer’s smile flickered again, longer this time. The other vampires shifted uncomfortably, and still they all took another step down toward Crow.
“Yeah, well, you still can’t shoot, smartass.” Ruger lifted the kid off the floor to provide maximum coverage.
“Watch me,” Crow said.
And he fired the shotgun.
Ruger was startled, but he was fast. So incredibly fast. He watched Crow’s eyes, saw the tightening of his finger, and then he threw the boy at Crow as he dodged sideways. The blast caught the kid in the chest and flung his small body backward against the other vampires. Ruger ducked back behind one of the others, shoving two of
