Fearing that a wall of lava was about to wash down the ditch and incinerate him, Rudy flung open the door and jumped into the front seat of the wrecker. The searing heat started to blind him. His eyes watered and he felt his skin cooking like a sunburn on his left cheek as he looked around for Whitey's keys. Still in the ignition. He tried to start the engine. It turned over. The truck lurched forward and stalled.
A giant metal tube flew out of the conflagration. It shot across the parking lot and skipped like a stone on the water. Its contrail was all flame. It hit the sheet metal roof over the ER driveway and exploded. A storm of shrapnel flew. A thousand bits of hot metal peppered the truck. The window cracked in a dozen places. Rudy turned the key again. The engine growled for a moment before stalling out again. He looked down at the gear shift and remembered how his uncle had tried to teach him to drive standard and how Rudy thought it was boring and complicated. He never learned. Outside, burning things flailed and ran blindly from the blaze. Demons - all fire and bones and teeth. He crawled down into the floorboard and began to sob.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
2:00 AM
Everything was warm and quiet and it all hurt. Hank thought for a moment that he was under water, that he was in a warm bath after a long day. He didn't move. Didn't want to. He couldn't breathe. It all ached and it was fine if he just sat here enjoying the warmth and letting it seep into his muscles. But something in the back of his throat tickled. It scratched. Then it clawed. It worked its way down into his lungs and he took a deep breath, bringing all of the sharp things down into his chest. He rolled over, clutching at his throat and gagging. The smoke was everywhere and it all came rushing back to him. He had fallen into the building as it collapsed and now he would burn to death or die of smoke inhalation. His eyes stung. He couldn't catch his breath. Something in his left leg was broken or torn, along with the glass wound from earlier.
A hand grabbed his arm and jerked him free of the flames. He hit the ground and took in big gasps of clean air. Bullet was pulling him by the wrist. She screamed down at him, but he couldn't hear anything. The silence was bleeding away and replaced by a low ringing. Hank collapsed again. Bullet pulled at his arm until he thought it would dislocate at the shoulder. He struggled to his feet. Breaths came short and hot in between coughs.
Bullet fell forward into the grass of the front lawn of the hospital. Hank followed and hit his knees hard. They had made it off the roof, riding it down and outwards as it collapsed. It was a miracle they weren't incinerated, or impaled by a flying bit of debris. Now Tribes Memorial hospital was a bonfire. The ether bomb had annihilated the building. Secondary explosions, ones he could barely hear, sent tremors through the ground. He found himself crab-walking away from the flames.
Bullet stood. She wiped the bloody gash on her forehead with the back of her arm. Staring at the flames, she looked like a barefoot Amazon. Shredded clothes. Bloody. Defiant.
"Are you okay?" Hank asked.
"We have to find him."
Hank looked at the fire. Nothing was in there. Nothing was alive. Nothing human, anyway. "Dracula?" he asked.
"It's my job." She didn't look down at him.
"He was in the ER when it blew."
"I'll need to go around - "
Boards splintered and a new roar came from the fire. Hank's stomach dropped. He scrambled to his feet. Rising up from the wreckage was a burning shape. He watched it pull a glowing length of rebar from its ribs and cast it aside. It was mostly hairless, a towering, naked thing with ruined skin that healed like melted wax. It’s one good eye focused on them as it screamed. Panzer.
Hank stepped towards it. "Go," he said to Bullet. "Go go go!"
As Bullet sprinted, trying to navigate around the bulk of the fires, Hank made sure Panzer saw him. His eyes locked with hers and his hands found a shattered bit of metal that was once a door frame. He threw it, smacking the giant beast in the head.
"Come on, then!"
The shriek was indignant. Unholy. Hank ran.
***
The back of the ER was blazing, but the walls seemed to be partially intact. It hadn't vaporized everything like she thought. Bullet searched. Her senses were alive from the pain. It was the electricity she felt before a run, like in the moment just before the tweaker skewered her arm. A cocktail of fear and adrenaline. She loved it. She missed it. She tried to look for Varney while ready for something to come at her from any direction.
No, not ready, dumbass. You're unarmed.
She ignored it. No time to look for a weapon. A crawling form, nothing but bones and burned tissue, dragged its way across the asphalt. It was still on fire, as good as dead, but pulled itself along anyway. If she was wearing her boots, she would have smashed the thing's skull. Then she saw others. Some roamed around stupidly, their eyes liquefied in the sockets. Others ran and howled, hoping to outpace the flames that consumed them. They wouldn't be still. They wouldn't lay down and die. She kept moving, too.
Somewhere in the field of cacti just south of the hospital, the final explosion sounded. Oxygen or ether, some tank that had been blasted free. She hoped it was the last one. The hospital was a burning deathtrap. Metal tangled with brick and wood. Exposed wires, the ones that weren't melted, sparked angrily. The few remaining walls that stood looked ready to collapse. The fire still raged and would for a while, but there were no sirens. No one was coming.
She stayed low, trying not to breathe too much of the smoke and staying out of sight. Splinters and shards of hot metal gouged at her bare feet. In the wreckage, she came across smashed medical supplies, scorched hospital gowns, or mauled limbs caught in between human and wolf. One of them was neither. It was an arm draped over a chair from the lobby. The hand was pale and bloodless, withered. The arm was swathed in soiled rags rotted through. The body was pinned under a warped metal cabinet that still held pills and tongue depressors. The fingers twitched. Bullet ran to him and tried to lift the cabinet. Her hands sizzled on the metal. She stopped, found a snapped sewage pipe sticking from the rubble, and pried it loose.
Something clutched at her leg. Bullet jerked away. The one-armed torso of a werewolf lay in the debris. There was nothing from the sternum down but blood and ash. It looked up at her with its good eye and mewled. The face shifted, as if it couldn't decide what shape to take, but the eyes didn't change. The eyes begged. It tried to form words with its soggy lips. It sounded like help me. Bullet took the copper pipe and speared it into the things face. It clutched at it with weak fingers before going still. She pulled the pipe loose from the mess, braced it on a mound of bricks for leverage, and put her weight into it. The cabinet shifted. She leaned on the pipe again and gave the side of the cabinet a sharp kick. It tumbled free, exposing Varney beneath.
The only shadows were cast by the dancing flames. His glamor of darkness was gone. He was frail in his shallow grave as he blinked his milky eyes up at Bullet. The limbs were shriveled. The skin looked ready to slough free of the eroded bone beneath. His face held ancient horror in every crack. She forced herself to look away, just to the left, just enough so that she wouldn't have to look into the eyes or see the face that no one should look upon. Varney reached up for her. His hand trembled and his mouth opened and closed quietly. She took his hand in hers and lifted him up. He felt weightless, a bundle of sticks. Bullet drew his arm over her shoulder and supported him as they navigated their way through the debris. She was dizzy from the heat and smoke now and realized that she hadn't breathed. She held it anyway, waiting until they were in what was left of the parking lot. As she pulled him along, his lips pressed against her neck. The teeth scraped along her skin. Bullet dropped him to the asphalt. He landed on his back and his eyes rolled in their deep sockets. He grasped at the air with quivering fingers.
None of her education touched this. None of her experience came close. But she knew. The realization came upon her with a wave of sickness. She pushed it away and looked down over him and for a second, she though
t to leave him. Just run away. Just leave him here laying on this asphalt with its tar bubbling up from the heat. Find Hank. Find a car. Drive.
But there was something else. The electricity. The cool charge in her bones that kept her alive. It kept her aware and that day in the meth lab, it kept the tweaker from cutting her throat. Now it told her that this wasn't over. She felt it. The werewolves wouldn't stop moving. Even now, the one that had dragged itself across the pavement was standing. It staggered about, still blind, but the skin and muscle were knitting back together. This wasn't over and she still needed him.
The smoke thickened in the debris. The black cloud billowed just over their heads. Going back in there would be suicide. She'd be navigating by memory and sense of touch. Still, what she was looking for couldn't have gone too far. All around them were things blown out of the building. Then she spotted it. Down the slope into the field south of the hospital, just past the parking lot, was the small refrigerator.
Bullet ran. She slid down the slope, the bottoms of her feet torn raw by the gravel and weeds. She ignored it and kept her eyes on the refrigerator. It was on its side, dented and scorched. The glass front door was shattered. It was still cool to the touch. The emergency generator had kept it running after the power was cut. Reaching inside, she felt what she needed, soft and fat.
***
Bullet tore into the plastic bag of blood. A few thick drops spattered onto Varney's cheeks. His eyes came alive. Color immediately bled back into them. He began to shake. His mouth opened and closed again. He reached up towards it like an infant reaching for his mother's breast. Bullet crouched and tipped it to his lips. His serpentine tongue shot out to lap at the blood. He clasped at it, trying to draw it closer. The wounds in his flesh began to seal. The skin went from white to grayish-green. He drank greedily and when the bag was empty, she held another to his lips. This one he tore open himself. His fangs punctured it. Bullet looked away.
Around them, the wolves began to stir. Some of them howled. Others paced about as if trying to get their bearings. Ones that had been nearly incinerated were walking again. "Drink up," she said to Varney. "We have to move."
***
Hank's left leg screamed in protest as he dragged it along behind him. His patellar tendon was torn. Probably severed. It hurt like a motherfucker. He clutched at it and physically tried to make himself move faster by pulling it forward with his hands. Behind him Panzer was stuck. He looked back to see the beast trying to tear herself loose from the burning wreckage. Her own legs were twisted around, bloody and burned. She thrashed and knocked bits of debris away, trying to claw her way out. As Hank stumbled down the front sidewalk, she lurched again and again, each pull that much closer to jerking free. And then he would be caught out in the open. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, trying to block out the incandescent pain.
To his left was the hospital's front parking lot. There was his SUV. For a fleeting second, he fumbled for his keys in his pocket, but then he saw his ride for what it was - a wreck. The Goats had demolished it, along with every other car in the front lot. The tires were shredded. The windows were smashed. The hood had been raised and its insides stripped. They hadn't salvaged the cars for parts. They destroyed them. No one would escape.
Hank kept moving out onto Pilgrim Road. It was the main street in town and one of only four or five streets total. The businesses only took up two short blocks, but they were all long abandoned. Back when Tribes was an actual town, these two blocks were the hub of everything. They were just a few mid-century buildings, sub-divided and leased out. The Wrightson Motel. Howard's, a clothing store. Campbell's Grocery. All just houses of dust and cobwebs. But at the end was the American Cafe, the one business that still hanged on. One hundred yards away, its lights were on. Behind him, Panzer howled. She was almost free. Her ankle was snared. She jerked against it, trying to free herself with brute force.
Hank moved faster. With one working leg, he stumbled, almost falling face first onto the weed-ridden sidewalk. He hobbled towards the American. Carol? Karen? What was her name? "Hey!" he screamed. "Carol! Help! I need help!"
There was a car out front, an old Honda Civic. Usually on a Saturday night, you could find most of the families of the Yucca Valley here, having greasy burgers or overpriced, over-fried chicken strips. But tonight the only movement was of moths flitting around the naked bulbs that surrounded the faded sign. "Hello!" Hank yelled again.
Panzer was free. He looked back over his shoulder again and from the rubble, she emerged. She was a hideous thing of mangled flesh and compound fractures. She fell onto the grass as she tried to run. Hank could make out how her legs were ruined below the knee. The werewolf flopped on the ground and her howls became frustrated as she watched her prey get away. It wouldn't last, Hank knew. The legs would turn and snap back into place and she would barrel down Pilgrim Road in seconds.
He made it to the American. His leg was singing above the knee, but was a dull throb below. Every step made it worse. He'd be walking with a brace, maybe a cane, and boy, would the ladies just love that. The smell of grease wafted over him as he approached the door. It was a simple screen door that opened up into your typical roadside cafe. Checkered table cloths, an ice cream freezer, and a register by the front door with pictures of happy patrons tacked up on the wall.
Only tonight, it was covered in blood.
***
The silence settled after the explosions. Rudy once saw a person get shot. Out at the Yucca Valley. A bunch of men were drunk and playing horseshoes. One of them got crazy and started a fight with his cousin. His cousin shot the man. The quiet after the gunshot was like this and Rudy felt just like everyone else did that day, that the first person that moved or made a sound would be the next person to get shot. So Rudy waited.
After a while, he could only hear the crackling of the fire. It was hard to breathe in the cab of Whitey's truck, so he pulled his shirt up over his mouth and stayed low in the floorboard. The splinters from his crawl through the ditch made him itch like crazy, but he didn't dare scratch. He held his breath and clenched his chest whenever the urge to cough came. Stay quiet. Stay still. Then there were shuffling noises. Whimpering became growling. Growling became howling. And he knew that the things he had seen were on the move again. Alive again. Somewhere on the other side of the blaze, there was screaming. He could hear it through the shattered driver's side window. It sounded like Doctor Hank. Then it was drowned out by another kind of screaming, like a wild animal caught in a trap. It was furious and hurt and scared and Rudy remembered the time when his neighbor caught a ring tailed cat in a trap. They spent the afternoon poking the thing with a stick before shooting it with a .22. He'd never forget the sounds. It sounded like this thing.
Finally, he couldn't lay there anymore. His legs cramped. His back ached from being curled up in a ball. Slowly - just as slowly as he'd crawled through the ditch - he pulled himself up into the seat. A rosary hung from the rearview mirror. Rudy stared at it and a distant part of him thought to pray. Just past it, stood Gideon. And their eyes met.
Rudy shrank back into the seat, but it was too late. The werewolf's eyes flashed. He saw Rudy and smiled. Half of his head and face was smoking and bald of the gray dreadlocks. Beads threaded into his beard glistened in the firelight. Rudy peeked up over the dash. Gideon turned and stalked towards him. Rudy's heart raced. He fumbled to lock the doors, but it didn't matter. The driver's side window was busted open. He went for the keys again, hoping that this time he could somehow make it work, that he could fake it long enough to get the standard-gear truck out of the parking lot and to safety.
The truck rocked. Gideon stood atop the hood. He gave Rudy a dripping grin and punched the windshield. The glass didn't give, but a white web of cracks bloomed from his fist. The werewolf cackled. Rudy screamed. Just beneath the radio, he saw the CB and an old, dusty walkie-talkie.
***
How long he stood at the door, he didn't know. Hank looked a
t the small cafe. Blood pooled on the floor and was smeared on the walls. And old man he didn't recognize was slumped over a table. His hand still held a cup of coffee, but his head was gone. Hank spotted it next to the juke box across the room. The brains and eyes were scooped out. The jukebox played Patsy Cline. Slumped against the kitchen counter was most of Carol. He could only tell because of the apron. The rest of her decorated the white room. The ceiling fan, also spattered with blood, spun lazily.
Down the road, Panzer announced herself with a growl. Hank watched her leap out into the road, sniff, and sprint on all fours down Pilgrim Road. Right at him. Hank jumped inside and flipped the light switch by the door. The jukebox still glowed. Patsy sang about faded love. Fear threatened to paralyze him. He shook it off and ran into the cafe. His right foot hit something slick and his feet flew out from under him. He slammed into the wet linoleum and gasped as it knocked the air from him. The old man's blood was cold and tacky. It clung to him like drying syrup. Hank flailed in it and tried to find his feet. It was on his hands, his pants. "Jesus. Jesus. Shit!"
The shadow of Panzer filled the doorway, blocking out the orange glow of the sodium vapor streetlights. Hank crabwalked backward into Carol's corpse. Panzer's eyes gleamed. She walked through the screen door, shredding it, and left bits of wood and wire dangling in the frame. With a swipe of her hand, the table and the headless old man flew into the wall near the jukebox. Hank's hands found a napkin wrapped around a fork and butter knife. He armed himself and wanted to laugh madly. Panzer coiled, ready to leap.
The Black Goat Motorcycle Club Page 18
