DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

“No, man.” His voice was slurred. “I stick ’em in people alla time. I just feel like shit alla sudden.”

He rubbed a hand across his face and Lanz noticed that one of his fingers was red and swollen to twice its size. Hadn’t he said he’d been bitten by Moorecook? Cellulitis already?

“Sit down before you fall down.”

Christ, was the EMT going to wind up a patient too? What else could go wrong?

He turned back to the kid. She began squirming as he injected the local—burned like hell for a few seconds going in, then the area went numb. He heard a hiss off to his right and glanced over to where the EMT slumped in a chair with his head lolling back. His mouth hung open and he was breathing funny.

Lanz had heard that sound before…just a little while ago—

Suddenly the EMT choked and bent forward. He hacked and spit. Not mucous.

Teeth.

He looked up at Lanz, his eyes tortured…and red. “Doc, I feel like sh— aaagh”

A claw exploded from his infected fingertip, and then his other fingers followed.

Just like with Moorecook.

And then huge fangs extruded from his jaws, ripping through his cheeks and lips.

Just like Moorecook.

Oh, Christ, was it contagious?

Another hiss, closer. He looked down at the girl. Her red-rimmed ebony eyes were wide open, and she was spitting teeth, but rows at a time, the braces linking them like bloody little fence posts.

Lanz backed away. Both bitten, both changing. It was contagious.

Oasis ripped her clawed hands free of the restraints as fangs ripped through her face. The EMT was up now, approaching the gurney as Oasis sat up. Both had their eyes fixed on Lanz and Rodriguez. The LPN was backing away too. She bumped into Lanz. Instinctively he grabbed her and shoved her toward the gurney. She screamed horribly when the claws pulled her forward and fangs tore her flesh. As blood sprayed, Lanz turned and ran.

Out of the treatment room, into the ER proper. Ignore the terrified, questioning faces. Find a place to hide. A door—SUPPLIES. The handle won’t turn. Locked. Of course. But he has a key. He fumbles it free, unlocks the steel door, ducks inside, closes and locks it behind him.

Safe! OhgoodChrist, safe!

Lanz slumped to the floor and leaned with his back against some shelving. Gradually he controlled his breathing, felt his heart slow.

He got a grip. He had control.

Okay. Assess the problem.

Some sort of contagious agent—viral, chemical, whatever—had invaded the hospital. Moorecook seemed to be patient zero, at least in Blessed Crucifixion. The two who’d changed had been bitten by him, which was a good indicator it was blood or saliva borne.

He quickly checked himself for cuts or scratches. None. Good. He was infection free. He had a steel door between him and the contaminated. He—

Something in his mouth. He spit it out.

A tooth.

No!

Randall

AS Randall marched down the corridor, it occurred to him that limping out to his truck to retrieve a chainsaw in order to cut up a feral beast that gobbled intestines was exactly the kind of “acting without thinking” behavior that had caused so many problems in his marriage. Well, that and the drinking.

He was in no shape to be walking around like this—he was, after all, hospitalized with a severe leg injury. He didn’t actually need his chainsaw—it was a hospital, so they probably had giant bone saws or other tools for dismemberment that were closer than the parking lot. Not to mention that by the time he actually limped out there, got his chainsaw, and limped all the way back, somebody else probably would have already dealt with the dracula creature issue. And hospital security was probably not inclined to let a gown-wearing, stitched-up lumberjack enter the facility with a chainsaw, even in a time of crisis.

But when Randall got set on an idea, he saw it through. No matter what. He wasn’t going to turn around and sheepishly say, “Ummmm, changed my mind.” Jenny had little enough respect for him as it was. Whatever respect he’d earned before their marriage he’d pissed away during it. He’d let the booze turn him into someone he’d never choose to be, someone he never wanted to be again.

But when Randall Bolton started something, he finished it, whether it was building a treehouse for the son that he hoped to have someday or sitting through an entire wedding for somebody he didn’t know because he’d gone to the wrong church.

And if he did manage to protect his ex-wife with his chainsaw, maybe he’d regain some of his dignity. He loved his chainsaw. Loved being a lumberjack, even if other people liked to sing that cross- dressing song by those British assholes. Loved the sound of falling trees smashing to the ground. Loved the outdoors. Even loved the word “lumberjack,” despite the fact that a couple of his buddies insisted on being called “arborists.”

But the day before yesterday, he’d been humiliated. Oh, sure, he could see where it would be funny to the other lumberjacks—he would’ve been laughing his ass off if it happened to somebody else—but his face burned red just thinking about it. He knew people thought he’d fallen off the wagon, but he hadn’t touched a drop in almost a hundred days. And you know, it used to be a struggle—that whole one-day-at-a-time thing—but now it felt good to be sober.

The accident wasn’t his fault. Really. He hadn’t done anything stupid or careless. He’d been happily chainsawing away, and as the tree started to wobble a squirrel was dislodged from the branches, landing on his hard hat and then scampering down his back. He hadn’t shrieked like a girl or anything, but anybody would yelp if a goddamn squirrel dropped on their head from thirty feet. Randall flinched, twisted around, and his chainsaw blade hit the back of his leg.

He couldn’t hear his buddies laughing over the chainsaw motor, but oh, they were in hysterics. Blood was gushing from his shredded flesh and they were having themselves a great big ol’ guffaw. Again, he would’ve laughed too…but still, fuck those guys.

He refused to let them drive him to the hospital. He’d drive there his goddamn self. He only needed one good leg to drive, so those giggling bastards could burn in hell for all he cared.

Of course, he’d started to get dizzy as he drove, and realized that because of his stubbornness he was bleeding all over his own truck instead of somebody else’s. But he didn’t pull over. He drove all the way to the hospital (while Jack and Frank drove behind him, presumably to make sure he didn’t pass out at the wheel) and checked himself in.

Randall desperately wanted to make peace with his chainsaw.

Putting it through the head of a dracula would do just fine.

He picked up his pace as he walked out of that big room where they made you wait. A nurse covered in blood was having a panic attack while a doctor shook her. Randall didn’t like seeing that kind of shit—you didn’t put your hand on a woman like that even if she was freaking out—but he had to focus. Ignore the chaos. Think only of Jenny and his chainsaw.

He exited the hospital, half-expecting somebody to say “Hey! That gown is hospital property!” He’d grabbed his shoes on his way out of his room and put them on during the elevator ride down, but hadn’t taken the time to grab his pants. He wished he had them. His chainsaw-the-monster redemption would be a lot better if his ass wasn’t hanging out.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t parked close. By the time he’d driven to the hospital, woozy from blood loss, he’d misjudged the distance to the building by over a hundred yards. He had a vague recollection of Jack and Frank helping him get into the ER, but couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d left his Dodge. The lot was full, and apparently every other driver in the county owned a red pick-up. He weaved through the rows, wishing he had one of those little clicky-things he could press to make his horn honk.

When he finally caught sight of his Dodge, he picked up the pace even more, but that seemed to pull at his stitches and he slowed his pace again to something that wouldn’t rip his leg back open.