“Get off!” he shouted. He tugged up the power-window button hard enough to hurt his finger, trapping the legs.
But not the smaller vines that immediately followed.
The first slipped around his neck. It felt like a barbed-wire noose. A soft thump on the windshield drew Hudson’s attention to the subhuman face set in squash flesh, leering and blinking at him, upside down.
Hudson felt the rain intensify on his face and heard the window glide back down; the goddamned monster-fruit had seen how he operated it and learned.
Hudson had to lean to his left, into the pull of the tentacle cluster, but that gave him just enough room to quickdraw his sidearm with his gloriously free hand.
Though the windshield was bulletproof, Hudson always carried his .44 these days. Nothing would withstand its force at point-blank range.
He covered his face, pressed his .44 against the windscreen and blasted the smirking aberration, sending it flying like a missile into the rainy dark as the glass noisily disintegrated.
Torn away from their source, the choking tendrils went limp. Hudson yanked the scratchy cords away from his neck and tossed them out. Then he found the spotlight and beamed it into the darkness.
“You…have got…to be…yanking my chain…” he murmured.
The thing, though the upper quarter of its head was gone, crawled toward the cruiser on its broken limbs. The two or three thinner vines that were still intact were wrapped around the shotgun—and aiming it toward him.
Hudson ducked as the twelve-gauge burped flame and thunder. The pellets finished off the windshield and pinged the hood.
Hudson thought of what would come next. The little freak would come around to the door and rise up on those insectile limbs. It would grin at him, and it would blow him away.
Hudson didn’t wait for that. He yanked his door latch, kicked it open and rolled out into the road, firing off the rest of his ammo in his sidearm. The horror was closer than he expected, which worked in Hudson’s favor. Chunks of pulpy rind erupted from it.
The pumpkin went rolling backward, leaving behind the shotgun and a half-dozen encircling vines.
Hudson got up and dove for the shotgun, wishing he had the breath for a cry of relief when his palms fell on its smooth, wet grip and pump stock.
Ignoring the pain of the landing, Hudson hopped up and ran straight to the pumpkin thing.
Little more than a third of it was still intact. Yet, just above the massive hole where its mouth had been, its remaining eye rolled toward him, bloodshot and wet. Though most of it was gone, the atrocity projected no less perversity.
Hudson raised the shotgun and blasted it to a thousand pieces. He shot the largest chunks again, disintegrating them utterly.
Then he realized the cruiser was still stuck, and it was a long way back to town. Chances are, he would need the shotgun again.
At least the radio still worked—he hoped.
* * * *
“They’re coming, Dennis,” said Violina, allowing the corners of her lips to rise. “You can hear them over the rain now.”
Dennis stood just behind her in the vestibule of Saint Saturn Unitarian, his arms aching to reach toward her, his fingers itching to squeeze her neck.
Since he could not, he peered past the rain at his town as it, once again, fell under the siege of evil. Low electrical bursts beyond the town’s industrial border told him Violina’s conjured army had come in past the fields and were now wreaking havoc, severing power lines.
“Call ’em off,” he ordered.
Her laughter punctuated his helplessness, her control over him. “It’s the fault of your gender, you know.”
Dennis grunted with intention. His arms remained at his sides, the muscles not even tensing any longer.
“Men suppressed magic because it made women not only equal, but superior to you.”
“Bitch,” Dennis began. “I’m a suicidal loser alcoholic with a mom who’s a widow and a girlfriend who saved this town. You ain’t gotta sell me on girl power. But you couldn’t carry water for either one of ’em.”
Violina laughed again, almost a cackle, then leaned in to kiss him. “You don’t know how aroused that makes me, Dennis.” She returned to the doorway. “Maybe I won’t feed you to them, if you can keep up this interesting banter.”
Dennis wanted to get under the rain, to let it run down his face so he could swallow as much of it as possible to dilute the potion she had forced on him. That wasn’t going to happen as long as they both stood in the shelter of the church vestibule.
“Feed me to ’em?” Dennis laughed. “I’m betting that Conal douche is gonna double-cross you bigger than hell.”
Violina remained uncharacteristically silent as she peered down at the town.
“No telling what’s really going on down there,” Dennis said cryptically.
“Don’t make me have you bite off your own tongue, lover boy.”
“Hey, I’m worried too,” Dennis continued. “He’s probably gonna be a lot worse than you.”
Violina contemplated for a long time before she spoke again. “Be a good worker bee and go get the car.”
As Dennis felt himself walk through the building, he shouted a litany of curses that would shock a drill instructor.
“Oh, my goodness, what a mouth!” Violina mocked. “For that, you can take the long way.”
Dennis felt a modicum of triumph as his body about-faced and went to exit through the front door, into the rain.
“And take your time,” Violina purred. “Half speed, let’s say.”
Dennis felt the shock of cold water bashing into his face. He began to sing The Chalk Outlines’ club hit “Rumble at Castle Frankenstein,” reasoning that its fast pace would allow him to swallow more water.
Chapter 24
Return to the Living
The healing ceremony for Ysabella, ranging from rocking whispers to childish, off-key singing to focused stillness, never wavered as the storm grew more and more violent.
Only Jill, accustomed to watching out for trouble at the band’s gigs, kept her eyes
