Blood Kin

by Ronald Kelly

  “I can’t,” said Boyd, his eyes full of frustration. “I’m stuck. My leg is pinned beneath the dashboard.”

  Tammy looked around. “Paul, help me get your father out.”

  A second later, the two were tugging at Boyd’s arms and chest, trying to drag him free. But no matter how hard they tried, the man wouldn’t budge.

  Frantically, Tammy moved away from the car and looked toward the embankment. Without her glasses, she could hardly see anything at all. Still, she should have been able to see the dark form of the black beast.

  “Where did the bear go?” she asked Bessie.

  The little girl stared at the slope that towered above them. “I don’t know. It just sort of disappeared, like the earth swallowed it up or something.”

  As Paul joined his sister, Tammy crawled back through the open window and worked her way toward the cramped space beneath the dash. She found the steering adjustment lever and worked it back and forth, hoping to loosen the column’s spindle, but there was no give. It was locked tightly into position.

  “Where’s Grandpappy?” asked Boyd. He, too, fought with the steering wheel, but without results.

  “He disappeared,” said Tammy. She pressed herself further into the limited space and located Boyd’s leg. It felt swollen beneath the denim of his blue jeans. She tried to slip her fingers between his leg and the bulge of the firewall, but couldn’t find an inch of space between the two. “Damn it!” she said, cussing for the first time in her life. “It’s in there tight.”

  Suddenly, she heard the sound of Bessie screaming. Quickly, she slipped from the confines of the car, seeing the panicked look on Boyd’s face as she squeezed past. Then she was outside the car and turning, her hand groping for the crossbow. She found the weapon at the same moment that she located Bessie. The little girl stood next to the car, staring into the darkness of the woods beyond the embankment.

  Tammy followed her gaze and felt her heart skip a beat. Grandpappy stood several feet away, tall and menacing, his eyes sparkling with cruel triumph. He was not alone. He held Paul in front of him, clutching him tightly by the throat. His sharp nails dug into the flesh of the boy’s neck, a hair’s breadth from severing the arteries that lay underneath.

  “Let go of him!” screamed Boyd. He reached toward his hip, searching for the Colt Dragoon, but it was gone. It had slipped from his waistband during the wreck.

  Grandpappy ignored the man in the car. His red eyes regarded Tammy, locking on the weapon in her hand. Despite the car crash, the crossbow was still cocked and the bolt was still in place.

  “Throw it down,” he demanded. “Throw it down, or I will kill the boy!”

  Tammy wanted to fire, but she knew there was no use in taking such a foolish risk. She was good with the bow, but not that good. And even if she could have found a target beyond the boy’s body, it would have done no good. The only vulnerable part of the old man was his heart, and it was completely shielded by his captive.

  “Do as I say!” he growled.

  She looked into Grandpappy’s eyes and saw that he wasn’t bluffing. He would murder the boy if she didn’t do exactly as he said.

  Reluctantly she let the crossbow slip from her fingers. It landed in a patch of soft clover beneath her feet. “Okay. It’s gone.”

  “The cross around your neck, too,” he said. His gaze was deliberately directed at her face, careful not to stray to the crucifix that dangled across her chest.

  Tammy carefully removed the cross and dropped it next to the bow. “There,” she said. “Are you satisfied?”

  Grandpappy smiled, his fangs bared. “Oh, quite satisfied.”

  “Then let him go.”

  The old man stared at her for a moment, his smile growing broader and more disturbing. Suddenly, he began to laugh. “I don’t believe so.”

  Anger flashed Tammy’s eyes. “Then you lied!”

  “Not exactly,” said Grandpappy. “I told you I would not kill him. Believe me, that is not what I intended to do to him at all.” A sinister expression possessed his face. “No, I have a much more lasting fate in store for young Paul here.”

  “No!” cried Boyd. He struggled to escape the car, but there was simply no use. His leg was tightly jammed. “Don’t do it!”

  “You are hardly in any position to make me do otherwise,” Grandpappy told him. “Just imagine it, Boyd. Your son, blessed with the gift of immortality, the same as myself. He shall be by my side for eternity, and I will raise him well. He shall assist me with what I first set out to do—gather the surviving Cravens into a church of the undead. And if I should perish somehow, I will have a son to carry on, to bring my dream to completion and lead them onward to greener pastures, just as Moses delivered the children of Israel from their bondage.”

  He moved Paul’s head to the side, exposing the side of his throat. Then, slowly, he began to lower his fangs.

  “No!” said Tammy. She reached up and pulled open the front of her blouse, revealing her own swanlike throat. “You don’t want him. He’s only a child. Take me instead. I’m not your kin, but I can offer you much more than a mere boy could. Ask yourself… wouldn’t you rather have me instead?”

  Grandpappy stood poised over the boy for a second, the tips of his fangs no more than a fraction of an inch from penetration. Then, slowly, he pulled his face away and stared at the woman. That intolerable hunger for human blood mounted within him, as well as an emotion that had lain dormant for nearly a century. It took a moment for him to identify it, but eventually it became known to him.

  It was lust. The maddening desire of feminine flesh.

  Tammy recognized the look that burned in his eyes. “I’m yours,” she said. “Yours for the taking.” She raised her hand to her neck and ran it gently down the length of her throat, caressing the smooth, white skin with soft, teasing strokes. Her fingertips did not stop there. They traveled past the hollow of her throat, across the ridges of the collarbones, and toward the small swell of her breasts.

  Grandpappy seemed hypnotized by the erotic gesture. His eyes glowed brightly and with such intensity that the red light swallowed his pupils entirely. His cold, blue tongue swept hungrily over his fangs. As if he was no longer important, Grandpappy flung Paul aside. He took a step forward, his hand extended. “Come to me,” he commanded.

  “No, Tammy!” yelled Boyd. “Don’t do it!”

  The woman ignored him. She slipped her hand past the material of her blouse and pulled down the cup of her bra. The brown circle of her nipple showed from beneath the flimsy white cloth, drawing the old man in, causing him to forget Paul entirely. “I am ready,” she said, then walked into his waiting arms.

  “No!” screamed Boyd, his voice full of anguish. Unable to do anything, he watched as Grandpappy embraced her and lowered his mouth to the slender column of her neck. A second later, the fangs pierced her flesh, burrowing deeply. Then the old man stared past her shoulder, his eyes locking with Boyd’s horrified gaze. They laughed at him, told him that she was lost and that there was nothing the carpenter could do to bring her back.

  Helplessly, he watched as Tammy grew limp, all the strength draining from her body. Then Josiah Craven held her tightly, and with a hint of a smile upon his lips, began to drink deeply from the wound in her throat.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Caleb’s shotgun was empty. The .44 Remington had one shot left, as well as the big-bore Hawken. He knew that Dud was at the end of his ammunition as well. The .45 automatic had run out of rounds several minutes ago. As far as Caleb knew, that left only the twelve-gauge shotgun lying on the floor of the family room.

  Suddenly, he heard Dud speak. “To hell with this!” he yelled. Then Caleb peered around the edge of the couch.

  Dud Craven had left the shelter of the hallway and was crawling across the hallway. Caleb knew exactly where he was headed, too. He pushed himself from the cover of the sofa and watched as Dud passed the shotgun without picking it up. Instead, the farmer made a beelin
e for the detonation box in the far corner.

  “Stop right there, Dud!” he said, extending the revolver and cocking its hammer.

  “Go ahead and shoot, Vanleer!” he snapped. The man was covered with blood. He crawled on his hands and knees. “But you ain’t gonna stop me. By God, I’ll put an end to this or die trying!”

  Caleb aimed at Dud’s chest and pulled the trigger. The Remington bucked in his hand, belching smoke and flame. The round ball missed its mark, glancing off a rib and burrowing into the farmer’s gut instead of his heart. Dud screamed out and dropped to his belly, his face twisted in a grimace of agony. But the injury failed to slow him down. He slowly got to his knees again and continued on. The detonator stood no more than seven feet from his outstretched hand.

  “Damn it!” said Caleb. He fumbled behind his back and found the strap of the Hawken rifle. Frantically, he pulled it off his shoulder and took its half-stock of curly maple in his bloodstained hands. Dud was five feet from the detonation box and closing the distance fast.

  Caleb struggled to his knees, ignoring the raw agony that gripped his abdomen. He felt as if all his innards were about to fall out of the hole in his belly. Shakily, he raised the Hawken to his shoulder. His arms felt incredibly weak. At first, he was sure he’d drop the muzzle loader before he could get off a shot. He drew on every last bit of strength he possessed and miraculously lined up the barrel.

  Dud knelt before the box, wavering weakly from side to side. He reached out with his hand, grabbing for the handle that jutted several inches away.

  “Take your hand away from there, Dud!” warned Caleb. He aimed, settling the muzzle on the very center of the farmer’s sternum. “Do as I say, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you dead!”

  Dud smiled bitterly. “I am dead,” he said in resignation. “I’ve been damned since the moment I dug that confounded casket out of the field.” He looked the mountain man square in the eyes. “Now it’s time to repent.”

  “Don’t do it, Dud!” Caleb told him. “For God’s sake, don’t!”

  The farmer’s crippled hand lowered an inch toward the plunger.

  Caleb knew there was nothing more to do. He cocked the hammer and laid his finger across the trigger. He watched as Dud’s hand grew closer and closer. Then, when he was certain that he could wait no longer, he fired.

  The .50-caliber bullet struck Dud smack-dab in the center of his chest. The farmer’s eyes widened for a second and his hand dropped to his side. Caleb peered through the gun smoke, knowing that he had a fifty-fifty chance at survival. Dud would either fall backward or forward.

  He held his breath, watching as Dud trembled and his life drained away with the final beating of his heart. Then his equilibrium gave way and he began to fall.

  “No!” screamed Caleb. He dropped the rifle and leaped forward, his hand outstretched.

  A second later, Dud’s body fell forward, landing on the plunger of the detonator and driving it downward.

  Grandpappy Craven was feasting on the blood of Tammy when his eyes suddenly widened. He wrenched his mouth from her throat and let her fall to the ground. She landed at his feet, barely conscious, most of the blood gone from her body.

  A bewildered expression crossed the old man’s face. Turning, he looked toward the peak of Craven’s Mountain. Then, abruptly, his eyes grew bright with terror.

  “No, damn it!” he wailed at the top of his lungs. “No!”

  A split-second later, a tremendous explosion rocked the mountain. In horror, Grandpappy watched as the dark structure of his home was blown asunder by a brilliant ball of fire. The house burst apart at the seams, filling the air around it with smoldering boards and shards of debris. The explosion was followed by several others, all as destructive as the one before. Soon, the old Craven house had been totally obliterated… along with the vampire’s only source of refuge, his casket in the cellar underneath.

  Grandpappy screamed in anguish and raised his arms. Mist began to form around his feet and creep like smoky tendrils up the length of his legs. But before his transformation could take hold, he looked toward the car. And suddenly he knew that he was doomed.

  Paul stood there, holding the crossbow in both hands. “You mustn’t do that, child,” said the old man, attempting to draw the boy’s eyes to his own.

  The ten-year-old wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it, though. “Save your breath,” he said, then pulled the trigger of the crossbow.

  Grandpappy heard a dull thwump and saw a blur of motion as the crossbow fired its projectile. An instant later, white hot agony engulfed the vampire, causing him to fall to his knees. Shocked, he looked down and saw the wooden bolt protruding from his chest, just above his vest. His hands grasped at the arrow, but the wooden shaft burnt his hands, scorching the pale flesh like pure fire.

  Paul and Bessie watched as the old man gasped and fell onto his back. He shuddered and writhed, his muscles contorting with spasms of searing pain. Then his flesh began to wrinkle and shrivel. Soon, his hair began to fall away and the hellish glow of his eyes began to diminish. They stared accusingly at Paul, then slowly began to sink back into their sockets.

  Bessie looked down at the cross lying at her feet. She picked it up and walked to the dying man. He stared up at her, uncomprehending at first. Then he saw the crucifix in her hand. Feebly he shook his head, but he did not possess the strength to utter a single word of protest. He lifted his hands pleadingly toward her. The flesh curled from his bones like a snake shedding its skin.

  Hatred shone in the seven-year-old’s eyes. “This is for what you did to Mama,” she said, then gently laid the cross upon his forehead.

  Blue steam rose from Grandpappy’s anguished face as the cross began to sink into his flesh, burning deeply, burrowing into skin and bone. He cried out once as the cross pierced his skull and merged with his brain. Then he lurched one last time and, with a shuddering sigh, grew still.

  The two children stood and watched as Grandpappy slowly rotted away. Soon there was nothing left of him but bones and sunken clothing. A muted red glow shone in the eye sockets of the skull, then faded into darkness.

  Boyd grabbed hold of his leg, and bracing his other knee against the dashboard, gave it a hard jerk. He felt the leg move a little. He tried again, putting all his strength behind it. This time his thigh slipped free and he found himself lying on the roof of the Lincoln.

  Carefully, he crawled through the broken window and pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself against the car. His leg seemed bruised and swollen, but there didn’t seem to be anything broken. He pressed a hand to his ribs, then hobbled over to his children. They had left the skeletal remains of Grandpappy and now knelt next to Tammy.

  Boyd joined them, his stomach tight with dread. The woman was dying. He could tell by the paleness of her face and the sluggish flow of blood that drained from the hole in her neck. He dropped to his knees next to her and took her hand. The warmth was already leaving her body. Her skin felt clammy and cool to the touch.

  “Where’s Grandpappy?” she asked.

  “He’s gone,” said Boyd.

  A look of relief crossed Tammy’s face.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” said Paul, his voice cracking. “There was no cause for you to give up yourself the way you did.”

  Tammy reached out and cupped Paul’s tearful face in her hand. “Yes, there was,” she said. She turned her eyes to Boyd. “Don’t let me end up like the rest of them. You had the strength to put Joan to rest. Now, please do the same for me.”

  An anguished look crossed the carpenter’s face. “Isn’t there some other way?”

  “No,” she told him, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’m afraid not.”

  Boyd stood up. He reached down and picked up the crossbow, then retrieved one of the wooden bolts from beside the car. He cocked the weapon, then loaded the arrow into the cradle.

  “You kids turn around for a moment,” said Boyd, feeling hollow and empty.

  T
he children hugged Tammy and said their goodbyes, then walked a few feet toward the car and turned their back to what was about to take place. Boyd stared down at the dying woman, aware of what she would become if he didn’t do his part. “Thanks, Tammy,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Thanks for my son’s life.”

  She smiled up at him. “God bless you all,” she said softly, then closed her eyes.

  Boyd lowered the crossbow toward her chest and pulled the trigger.

  Paul and Bessie heard the thud of the arrow as it hit its mark. When they turned around, they found their father standing there, holding a bottle in his hand. At first, Paul was certain that it held liquor and that his father was on the verge of taking a drink. But then he caught a whiff of gasoline and his fears eased. He watched as his father pulled the rag from the mouth of the bottle, then poured the gas on the bodies of Tammy and Grandpappy Craven.

  They joined him as he took a butane lighter from his pocket and lit their saturated clothing. Soon, vampire and victim were ablaze. The three stood in the darkness and watched as the fires grew brighter, consuming all that they engulfed. Tears of sorrow fell until the remains blackened and the flames finally died.

  Together they buried what was left of Tammy Craven in a grove of tall pines, covering the mound with loose stones and a blanket of blooming honeysuckle. When they were finished, they turned to the remains of Josiah Craven. The fire had consumed all of him, clothing and bones alike. They watched, amazed, as a mountain wind whistled through the hollow. It picked up the ashes and lifted them skyward, scattering them across the western face of Craven’s Mountain. Before long, the breeze had done the job for them. All that remained at the site of Grandpappy’s demise was a bed of scorched grass and nothing more.

  They joined hands and said a prayer for all who had been lost that night. Then, silently, they turned and made their way up the embankment to the road above.