There was a sound ahead, he thought. Hard to tell where anything was coming from with the wind twisting in all directions. A thin, metallic plunk, over and over, and a rhythmic thump along with it, like someone playing bongos with mittens. Someone’s stereo? But why did it sound so awful?
He kept moving forward, adjusted his grip on the ax handle, and saw several smudges up ahead start to take shape. Definitely some people, definitely standing around outside a van. A voice rose over the wind, someone singing. Shit, yeah, someone was singing, and it wasn’t on the radio. Some sort of emo whining, it sounded like.
“I neeeeeeeed you. I neeeeeeeed you, baby. It’s all right! It’s okay! It’s just the need!”
Whatever it was, Matt thought this plague had a pretty limited vocabulary. He ducked around a hatchback just to be safe, eased up to the front, and watched what looked like a concert. The van was running, the side door wide open, the air pouring out of it so hot that it shimmered. A crowd of people stood around, with more coming from down the road. Those just showing up had confused looks on their faces—some pleading, some trying to back off. But then the singer bounced over to them like he was onstage in an arena and got in their faces. Grabbed their hair. Kissed them, even, men and women alike. Pretty soon they were standing still, swaying, lips moving along to the words, until they each suddenly would break away, stalk back down the road. Laughing, all of them. The same dopey, barely there laugh.
Quaker hadn’t mentioned a band. Especially not one this…creepy.
The singer, almost like he was lit up on meth. The drummer, with a hastily set-up trap kit, spanking the drums with his mittens. Some blood spattered on the snare, dripping off the ride cymbal. The bass player was rock solid, his body jolting along with the beat like he had a car battery wired to his balls. No gloves on, and his fingernails had been shredded by the strings. More blood. Not that unusual for rock bands, Matt supposed. But the guitar player was.
Someone had propped him up against the van, guitar strapped on, and wrapped a power cord around his hand and the guitar neck. His pick hand hung useless beside him. Gunshot. Dead.
Wait, his hand moved. Freaked Matt out, made him fall back on his ass. The pick hand started actually strumming. Sort of. Then Matt saw a reflection. Like, fishing line or dental floss, tied to the guitarist’s thumb. It looped over his shoulder, around the car antenna, to the puppeteer. And, son of a bitch, it was another cop. Just smiling and jamming, pulling the string to rake the guitarist’s hand across the strings in time to the beat. All it really did was make an out-of-tune disaster. But, hell, wasn’t that what most of these shitty new bands sounded like?
Matt leaned back against the driver’s door and tried to think it over. He could just sneak past, keep looking for…yeah, what exactly was he trying to find? Was there an answer out there, flashing arrows and lights and a sign saying THIS IS IT, MATT, really? If one half-mad cop was involved, and there was another one right in front of him, wasn’t that about as close as he could get to a clue?
Matt peeked over the hood of the car again. The cop was having a ball. And like the cop from before, not one blemish on his face. On any of their faces. A sick realization began to settle on him: maybe he had lost the sight. Used it all up. No more easy evil pickings.
The car shifted. Someone began slamming against the frozen door from the inside. Bashing again and again. Matt turned and tugged on the handle. These new cars—it was all about electronics, not sheer muscle. The handle felt like it was weak, but Matt kept pulling. He braced his foot against the back panel and strained as much as he could until a coughing spell took hold. Then he gave it another go as the driver kept slamming over and over and over—
It gave way and Matt toppled backward. The door dinged his hand, and he watched the driver push himself out of the car and take in a lungful of air. He was an older man, in his seventies, Matt guessed. A ring of thin gray hair around a mostly bald head. Skinny, obviously, beneath a very bulky parka. He was alone in the car.
Matt took a step toward him. “You okay there? Need any help?”
The old man turned his head. He was squinting but giggling, his forehead lined in confusion. “I…I…”
“It’s going to be okay, but you’ve got to fight it. Can you hear me? Fight it.”
Matt put a hand on the man’s shoulder, a good solid grip. But the guy twisted out of it and shoved Matt in the chest. Not enough to move him, but enough to make Matt clear off, let him alone. Watched the old man shuffle through the snowbank, around the open car door, and toward the singer, who was still bouncing around and converting the masses. Matt crouched and took hold of the man’s jacket, trying to pull him down.
“You don’t have to go. Just, please, fight it, please!”
The old man whined like a puppy that wanted to go out. He struggled against Matt, slapped at the hand trying to restrain him. The singer took notice and jogged over. Matt let go. The singer wedged between the two of them, bit his lip, and looked Matt square in the eye. His first instinct was to head butt the little bastard, flatten his nose. But those eyes—almost fogged over, pupils dilating and contracting randomly—got to him. What were they looking for? Plus the singer, and all the zombies or whatever, were steaming. Like they’d all just gotten out of a hot shower. Constantly steaming.
Eye to eye. Matt didn’t blink.
He said, “Stop.”
The singer shook his head. “Not you,” he sang. “I don’t need you.”
He turned to the old man, held the mike up to his mouth like they were singing a duet, but all the poor guy did was giggle and groan. But there was a change. The old man caught on to the rhythm, picked up his feet a little higher, and slogged toward the crowd. The singer spun, gave Matt a wicked smile, and flipped him off before shouting, “C’mon, everybody!”
Maybe he was in over his head this time. No idea what was going on, no way to stop it, and none of the advantage he usually had in a situation like this, being able to literally see the evil eat away at its host. And if this…thing killed anyone it couldn’t infect…but that wasn’t true, either. As far as Matt could tell, most of these people left him alone. Glanced his way, got the bad vibes, and kept on. There had to be others. Because he was sick already, perhaps? With his immune system on full speed ahead, maybe that’s why he was safe. So, absolutely, there had to be others.
Where the hell were they?
He heard the snow shift behind him. Looked up and noticed the guitarist’s hand was now at his side. The cop holding the string was gone.
Matt seethed a breath through his teeth. Not on his game at all today.
“Don’t move.” Not right on him, but still uncomfortably close. “Drop the ax. Turn around, dumbass.”
Matt said, “Just tell me something first. Why did you kill the guitar player?”
He expected some sort of macho bullshit, maybe even a whack on the head. Instead, the cop said, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t need him, though. Don’t need you, either.”
“Why not? Can one of you tell me why not?”
“Just don’t. Like I said, drop the ax, turn around.”
Matt tossed the ax onto the ground in front of him. If the cop wanted it, he would have to walk past Matt to get it, and that wasn’t going to happen without a fight. He slowly turned, hands out to his sides, palms open.
The cop stood holding his pistol on his hip like John Wayne. Sunglasses, porn-star mustache, just like the cop from the Village People. Jesus, really? And even though he seemed to have all his faculties intact, unlike Quaker or most of the others going nuts behind them, he was still steaming, his face waxy.
“You’re not a killer. You just said so.”
“I’m still a cop. I can call it self-defense. If you try to stop me, I shoot you.”
“Is that you talking, or is it the need?”
The cop’s grin drooped, brow furrowed. “I can’t tell the difference anymore.”
“But it took to you right away. No fighting, no�
��resistance.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Did you know a guy named Quaker?”
The cop shook his head, but it was an obvious yes. Absolutely. The cop took a wide route around Matt, stepped over to the old man’s car. He crouched down, gun still trained, and popped the trunk. “I think I need you to climb in here for a while.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Self-defense.” He walked to the back of the car, lifted the trunk lid.
“No, that would be a lie. If I say I’m not getting into the trunk and that I’m not going to stop you, you have to believe me. You also have to believe that you can fight this. Quaker did. I couldn’t help him in the end, but he did what he thought was right.”
“What…what did he do?”
“Shot himself.”
The cop straight-armed his pistol, breathing harder. “I don’t believe you! He never…no, he wouldn’t. Get in the trunk.”
“He would rather go to hell doing what he thought was right than let himself hurt any more people. That’s your job, too.”
Getting through to this one was a long shot. If he could do it, at least he knew there might be a way out of this. “You know someone named George?”
That got a rise. The cop’s eyes went wide for a moment, a very human response, at least. And then the goofy laugh again, and the grin. “Funny you should mention him…” The cop nodded past Matt’s shoulder, and he flicked his head just in time to see a manic, waxy, steaming, giggling bald man launch for him, take him to the ground hard—and on this guy, most of the skin and hair on his skull were rotted clear away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matt’s ax was out of reach. The cop was stamping his feet and clapping his hands like he was at a hoedown. George was stronger than he looked, weighing heavily on Matt, barking like a dog, his hands on the sides of Matt’s face like talons. He wore a cop’s jacket and hat, but underneath that was prison orange. And there was already blood on his hands. Matt tried to kick him off, got an arm free and tried to push the bastard’s full-on skeletal face away. But he was a madman, like he was on PCP.
And then George shouted to his accomplice, “We don’t want him!”
“I know.”
“What do we do with him?”
“I was going to put him in the trunk.”
George, with only one eye still in his head, being eaten away as Matt squinted, said, “I can do it. I can get rid of him. I don’t need him.”
Whatever was left of the cop deep inside said, “Uh” and “Um” and “Wait, you can’t—”
“Shut up! I can do it!”
Matt shouted, “Why? Why can you, and not him? What’s so special about you?”
George grabbed Matt’s hair and pulled it back into the snow, his face covered, the wet sucking into his nostrils and mouth. This was how he was going to die…again. George was going to suffocate him in the snow. No fucking way! He thrashed, but the hand was too tight. Who was this guy? He held his breath. Maybe he could fake it. He could fake dying and get this son of a bitch off him, then jump him.
But then he felt something rattling through him like he’d fallen onto concrete. A loud thunk. The hand went slack, and all sorts of cursing spewed out of George.
Matt lifted his head. The bassist from the band was holding his guitar by the neck, a red splat on the body. George had rolled off and was howling in pain. The bassist looked at Matt and said, “Help me, please.”
Matt sputtered the snow out and hacked up half a lung, struggled to sit up, ready to pounce and help the kid before the cop could shoot him or something. He grabbed George from behind and swung him around, took him down into the snow and scrambled to his feet and searched for his ax. Only a few seconds before George would bounce back, so where was—
“Over there!” The bass player was pointing off to the left, and Matt zeroed in.
A few running steps and he had it again, the ol’ reliable chopping machine. He turned, and there was George already lunging. Matt dodged to one side, a good guess because George went right past him. He had the guy on his knees. All it would take was one fast swing…
But he couldn’t bring the blade down. Damn thing was stuck in midair. He strained. He could do this. He chopped so much goddamned wood, there was no way he couldn’t seal the deal. Then he noticed that the wind had died. The snowflakes hung in midair. The cop had his gun aimed at the bass player, but both were frozen. George’s mouth was wide open, hands gripping his skull. Matt let go of the ax handle, and it stayed right where it was.
“So that old man died, just so you know.” A familiar voice. “I’m really surprised, Matt. Now we won’t get to have any fun.”
Matt turned to where Mr. Dark sat on the front of an iced-over Toyota. He was dressed smartly in a suit and tie, though not smart enough for this weather. But weather didn’t concern Mr. Dark. What Matt really hated about his appearance this time was that, for once, he was relieved to see him stop the action for one of his taunting sessions. It would give Matt more time to think.
He let out a thick plume of breath. “You seem to be having plenty today.”
“I can’t take credit for most of this, but I’d like to.” Mr. Dark slid off the car and stepped over to the murderer, his hands behind his back.
“You have nothing to do with this virus?”
Mr. Dark ignored his question. He circled George, giving him a close inspection, and then he broke into a big smile.
“Oh, this is much better than the old man. This is a full-scale outbreak of some terrible virus. But poor George seems to be a bit under the weather, don’t you think?” He brought up his left hand, his rigid index finger, and slowly closed in until he was almost touching George’s cheek. “I think he needs a booster shot. A little extra pep.”
His fingernail touched the killer’s skin—what was left of it, anyhow—and…nothing happened. Really. Nothing at all.
Mr. Dark’s smile disappeared. He touched the man again. And again, more aggressive with his poking each time. Finally he just slapped the shit out of George. Still nothing.
Matt stood back and crossed his arms. He’d never seen this side of the demon clown before.
Mr. Dark was scared. He stepped over to the cop and grabbed him by the chin.
No sores, no rot, no worms. Nothing.
Same thing with the bass player. For once, everything Mr. Dark laid his fingers on did not immediately turn to shit. Now it was Matt’s turn to smile.
“You seem to have lost your touch,” Matt said.
Mr. Dark glanced back at Matt, lips parted, eyes wide.
And then he was gone in a blink.
CHAPTER NINE
The ax fell straight to the ground, George was screaming, and the cop’s gun fired. The bullet hit the guitar instead of the player, took a chunk out of the back of it. Then a second shot, not aimed at the bass player this time.
Matt raced to his ax, picked it up, and flinched when he heard the shot. But he wasn’t the target, either. Nearly stunned the piss out of him. The snow near George puffed and cratered. The killer stopped howling and spun. He ignored Matt and went for the cop. Knocked the gun away like it was nothing and squeezed the cop’s neck like it was made of clay.
It gave Matt a chance to get away, but he was mesmerized. The cop didn’t even try to fight back. His eyes rolled back, but his hands stayed at his sides. How was it possible? What kept this thing from killing except by accident?
The bass player was shivering, babbling, virtually frozen in place as he watched the killer choke the life out of the cop. Matt couldn’t let it happen. He got a grip on his ax and swung it back, gave it a heave, and swung toward George’s neck. But his left foot hit a deep patch of snow, twisted, and threw him off. The side of the ax head slammed into George’s hip, enough to make him drop the barely there cop and turn toward his attacker with a snarl.
Matt gave the ax a spin, got his footing, and felt his energy returning. “Come on, man, I’ve taken down enough of you
to know there’s nothing special in that skull of yours.”
Steady, now, steady. Whichever way he came, Matt would have him. It was over. George must’ve seen it, too. He shook his head and took off, disappearing into the snow and the glow of headlights. Matt started after him, but his ankle was tender, and he seethed after a couple of steps, hopped in place, and knew he’d have to let it heal up before he could go after the bastard.
He hobbled back to the cop, who was now sitting up, head down, hugging himself. Matt laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“What just happened? What have I done?”
Matt sighed. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
He helped the cop stand, and they both walked over to the bass player, who could’ve been mistaken for a wax statue except for the heaving clouds of breath he pushed out every few seconds. He hugged his bass like it was a teddy bear.
Matt asked him, “You okay in there? You need anything?”
He blinked fast. “Not anymore. It tried. It tried so hard, but I wouldn’t let it take me.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“What about…?” The kid nodded toward his band, still going at it as if they were playing an arena, the crowd still taking it in before, one at a time, they turned and headed off in different directions, soon replaced by new zombies.
Matt shook his head. “Wish them luck.”
They found shelter under a tractor trailer, crouched down, and dug a makeshift cave into the snow, at least to get out of the wind for a while. Matt passed around the water bottle, told them what he’d found out so far, which wasn’t much. And now he knew that, yes, Arnie had worked with Quaker. And Arnie had killed the band’s guitarist. Arnie remembered it as if he’d been trapped in the back of his own squad car, being driven around by someone else. He had been part of the team transporting George to jail when they stopped at the forsaken rest area and everything went to hell.
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