DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

It never occurred to him to just get in the truck and drive away. It occurred to him that maybe he should think about that, but no way in hell was Randall going to abandon Jenny. He had more flaws than he had stitches in his leg, but fear was not one of them. Jenny could be a complete bitch to him— and probably would be—but he’d make sure she got out of there safely.

Of course, you could have done that better by staying with her, instead of limping out here to get a chainsaw…

Fuck you, brain.

Thirty-eight calls. Wow. He’d thought it was more like ten. He could blame about thirty-five of them on the heavy-duty painkillers, but the last three…well, he’d just really wanted to talk to Jenny. He wouldn’t have minded if she laughed about the squirrel. At least he’d hear her laugh. He missed her laugh. They used to laugh a lot, but he’d killed that.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He walked up to his truck. The chainsaw rested there on the seat where he’d left it. (Normally it went in the back, but it hadn’t been a normal day. And would Jack and Frank have brought along their chainsaw if it cut open their leg? Hell no, they wouldn’t have. They could laugh all they wanted, but the proof of his manly nature was right there.)

There was dried blood all over the seat. It was going to cost a fortune to have that cleaned, assuming it could be cleaned. He might have to just rip the seat out and have it replaced. Shit.

He focused again.

Then he cursed as he realized that the truck door was locked. His keys were in his hospital room on the third floor. Son of a bitch.

He let out an angry sigh. No possible way was he returning to that hospital without a chainsaw. Not a chance. He walked to the back of the truck and picked up his metal toolbox. There were plenty of other tools in the back, including a hatchet, but he’d rather have a broken window and his chainsaw. If he were wearing actual pants, he could’ve wedged the hatchet into the waist, but the gown left little opportunity to…

No, wait. He had a utility belt. He quickly lifted his gown and put on the thick belt, which had a nice assortment of tools, then slid the hatchet in there. Cool. He looked absolutely ridiculous, but he had lots of toys now.

He returned to the passenger-side door, turned his head to avoid getting glass chunks in his eyes, and used the toolbox to smash through the window. He unlocked the door, opened it, and grabbed the chainsaw. Yes!

It still had his blood on the blade. He kind of liked that.

He limped back toward the building.

Screams from inside. Lots of them.

What the hell was going on?

He’d seen that Dracula movie when he was a kid, but that slick-haired guy didn’t do anything like this.

Randall walked back inside. The room (it was the Emergency Room, right? Or did they take people to the Emergency Room after they waited in this room?) was absolute chaos. He could barely process it all. People were screaming and panicking and getting ripped apart and eaten. He’d known that things were bad when he left…but he’d only gone to the parking lot for a few minutes!

“Jenny!” he called out.

A small, scrawny teenaged kid in a hospital gown noticed Randall. His chest was covered with red as if he’d just enjoyed a messy Italian meal, but it was blood not sauce, and the blood seemed to be his own, the result of the lower, non-pimply half of his goddamn face being mangled. He had huge, sharp teeth, and it looked like they’d ripped right through the skin.

Okay, maybe Randall was feeling some fear now. That was fine.

The dracula smiled—as well as you can smile when the lower half of your face is a pulpy, bloody mess—and rushed at him.

Randall tugged the cord of the chainsaw. It roared to life.

He raised the tool—now a glorious weapon—in front of him, absolutely loving the feeling.

The chainsaw sputtered and died.

Out of gas.

And then the teenaged dracula was upon him, mouth open wide. Randall screamed with rage and bashed the chainsaw into its face as hard as he could. Randall, who was lumberjack- sized, had a good eighteen inches and a hundred pounds on the little monster, and the impact was severe. Blood sprayed.

A second hit and the creature dropped to the floor.

Randall smashed the chainsaw into its head, over and over, as the dracula kept thrashing and trying to grab him. The chainsaw held together fine—Randall didn’t buy cheap chainsaws—and after a good dozen or so blows the dracula stopped moving.

Randall wiped the gore from his face. He hoped the hospital security cameras had caught that.

There was still chaos everywhere, and people who needed help, but once again Randall had to focus. He stood back up, wincing, and forced himself to get moving again. Though there were probably much better options for bashing draculas to death than his chainsaw and it would just weigh him down, he couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

Time to find Jenny.

Moorecook

BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLO ODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBL OODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODB LOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOO DBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLO ODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBL OODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODB LOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD

SOURCE!

He crouched, felt the new power coursing through his system, and then he was soaring through the lobby, everything slow and fast all at once, and he came down on the shoulders of a man behind the snack bar—the smell of his blood so pure and rich—and as the man screamed, he took his head between his claws and twisted and ripped until a geyser of glorious red erupted in two ropes and he drank from the larger of the two like a water fountain. Had tasted nothing better in his seventy-six years, not even the Macallan fifty-five, not the models he’d fucked back when he could still get it up. The taste of it he couldn’t begin to explain, only how it made him feel, each drop running down his throat—sweet warm salty rust. Like he’d never breathed before until this moment and had finally taken his first hit of oxygen, knowing the more he drank the better…

FUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

Already the blood flow was ebbing. He had to lick it off the floor now, where it was cooling and congealing, and that beautiful euphoric push had begun to pull away, leaving something black and terrible in its place.

A headache descended, like someone driving an ice pick through his frontal lobe.

Something stung his shoulder. He jumped up onto the snack bar, fire blooming down the corridor, streaking toward the doors to the ER, men screaming at him, the gunshots distant, like he heard them from underwater, and with some of the lights came a brief but violent sting, and he could smell blood, his blood and their blood, still muted under their clothes and skin but it was there, calling to him, and he was moving toward them before he realized what he was doing, the men retreating, yelling, more points of light opening and dying like fireflies.