13 Bullets

by David Wellington

  How tempting it was—how tempting to put everything behind her. She thought of her life even before she was imprisoned in the casket and how much of it had been utter misery. Working so hard for the approval of her superiors, the approval of Arkeley, the approval of her dead father. None of them had ever taken her seriously. Then there was Deanna, Deanna whom she loved so much, Deanna who was fading away while she watched. Deanna who had been vibrant and lively and sexy before, and now half the time couldn’t get off the couch. Caxton would come home and find her there, wrapped up in a quilt, watching some celebrity gossip show on television. Or rather watching empty space, her eyes not even focused on the TV. Caxton had vowed to save Deanna, to bring her back to life. But she was failing, she knew. If anything, Deanna was dragging her down.

  The dogs—the greyhounds, her beautiful animals. They would miss her. They would howl for her. But somebody else would come along and feed them, and pet them, and soon enough they would forget. The whole world would forget Laura Caxton after a short season of formulaic grief. If she just ceased to exist, nothing, really, would change. Or rather, one thing would change. In the great balance sheet a certain amount of pain would be subtracted from the world. Wasn’t that a good thing? If she had the opportunity to reduce the world’s pain, by ending her own, wasn’t that the right thing to do?

  All she had to do was let go.

  She took one hand off the chain, and somewhere, somewhere outside of the dream, she felt Reyes the vampire start to smile. She looked at her hand. He wanted her to let go. Reyes wanted her to end the dream.

  It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter who wanted what. In a second she would be gone, erased from the world, and after that, who cared? Who cared if the vampires ate half of Pennsylvania? Who cared? She wouldn’t be around to feel guilty.

  She removed her other hand from the chain. The muscles in her thighs quivered as they were forced to support her entire weight. She started to lean back. So easy. So easy, and it would solve every problem she’d ever had.

  Strong fingers clutched at her left wrist. She screamed, expecting pain, but the fingers just held her, they didn’t dig into her flesh. They wouldn’t let her fall. She tried to turn her head and see who was holding her, but it didn’t work—her neck didn’t bend that way. She couldn’t see the fingers as they shifted their grip, closing like a pair of handcuffs around her wrist.

  “You’re not done yet,” the owner of the fingers said. The voice was quite soft and almost vanished in the furnace roar of the burning mill. She could tell, though, that the voice belonged to Arkeley.

  40.

  “E nough!” Reyes shouted, from somewhere, from nowhere. Everything stopped—time stopped, motion stopped. Caxton was all alone. The molten metal receded, draining away to reveal the mill floor once again. The steel still filled runnels in the floor, which provided some light, and the blast furnace still smoked and spat out great gusts of red sparks. But the heat became, if not bearable, at least survivable, and the air thinned out until Caxton could breathe without pain. The metal pouring from the giant ladle slowed to a trickle, and she climbed down her chain to stand on the mill’s floor without being burned.

  In one corner of the mill a trapdoor creaked open on rusty hinges. She walked toward the portal timidly, unsure of what was happening. She could see stairs leading downwards into darkness but nothing more.

  On unsteady, tired feet, she stepped down onto the first riser. The stone step was cold against her bare foot, cold enough to make her toes curl. After spending so long in the conflagratory heat of the burning mill she’d forgotten what cold could really feel like. She took another step down and braced herself against the metal edge of the trapdoor. She was relatively certain that as soon as she descended far enough it would close after her with a tooth-loosening clang, or perhaps it would even snap shut when she was only a few steps down the stairs, closing like a mousetrap on her already-battered body. She wouldn’t put anything past this nightmare.

  “Laura, please, join me,” someone said from down in the darkness. There was a lot of Central America in the voice, an accent she wasn’t expecting. She took another step, and another. The trap didn’t clang shut. Eventually she made out some light filtering up from below, yellow light that guttered like a flame in a mild breeze.

  She walked down farther—and found that she knew this other room very well. A narrow vaulted space, the walls lined with shelves holding jars and boxes and rolled-up blankets. It was the same cellar storage area where she had first entered the mill. The place the half-deads had brought her in the casket. The offending piece of furniture was still there, its lid closed now. A candle in an antique holder stood at one end of the casket. Sitting on the other end was a man of average build and height. He wore a hooded sweatshirt (with the hood down) over an Oxford cloth white buttoned-down shirt. His skin was the color of walnut shells and he had a black roll of hair that looked carefully combed. He smiled at her and showed her a mouth of small, round teeth, very human teeth, but she knew this was Efrain Reyes. It was Reyes as he had appeared in life. Before he had died and become a vampire.

  “When the mill was in use they would store borax and lime down here. That’s what you smell,” he told her. He patted the casket lid next to him, offering her a place to sit.

  She hadn’t smelled anything. The smoke from the burning mill had scalded her nasal passages and left her unable to smell at all. She didn’t correct him, just sat down next to him. There wasn’t enough room on the casket to sit apart, so she ended up touching him, hip to hip, arm to arm.

  “I wanted to talk with you directly,” he told her, once she was comfortable. “She advises against it.” Caxton knew somehow he meant Malvern, that Justinia Malvern had made up the rules of this conversation. The information must have come through the part of Reyes inside Caxton’s head. “This is all supposed to be done in silence. She even calls it the Silent Rite.”

  “You’re in contact with her…right now?” Caxton asked.

  Yes, she heard inside her mind, but he only shook his head. “I can’t answer that.” It was as if he wasn’t aware of what she’d heard. As if he didn’t know that their connection ran both ways. “I can’t tell you anything until you’ve accepted the curse.”

  “Then what do we have to talk about? Because I refuse to…to do what you ask,” she told him. She could no more do that than she could say the word out loud. “You’ll have to kill me yourself.”

  “I’m not asking for anything. It has to be your own choice. You have to accept this thing to be one of us.”

  “I can’t…I’ve seen Malvern, in her coffin…”

  There was a rustle of silk behind her and Caxton tried to turn around, but she moved so slowly. Someone stood behind her, but no, there was nothing human back there. Finally she managed to turn enough to see that a woman had joined them. A female vampire, pressed up against the shelves as if she were holding on for dear life. She wore a long purple silk dress cut shockingly low in front, but fluffed out below with an honest-to-God hoop skirt. A powdered gray wig perched high on her bald head, concealing her pointed ears. She had a black satin eye-patch over one eye and clotted blood smeared around her lips.

  It was Malvern. Justinia Malvern, as she must have looked when she was an active, well-fed vampire. An icon of strength and power. She didn’t move, or smile, or speak. Her single eye studied Caxton without blinking. In that eye Caxton saw the truth that the strong appearance hid so well. Malvern was desperate. She was asking for help, and at the same time she was studying Caxton, trying to decide if she was worthy.

  “She needs us, Laura. You can’t imagine her suffering. We have to help her and to do that you need to become one of us. Your life is kind of pathetic, okay? I don’t mean to be cruel.” His voice changed as he spoke, the Central American accent coarsening, turning into a growl. Malvern vanished without warning, leaving nothing behind but a smell of blood that lingered in the air and slowly changed, almost fluidly, into the smell
of baking manure.

  Caxton didn’t understand at first—then she slowly turned her head back to face him. The dream was over, and reality had returned. Nothing had changed. She was still sitting on the casket with him, and the only light still came from the flickering candle. He wanted her to think she was still in the dream—otherwise, why the subtle transition? But where he had been human before and fully dressed, now he wore only his sweatpants and his skin was whiter than soap flakes. She looked up and saw his bald head, his pointed ears. His mouth full of wicked teeth.

  He had looked like an individual before, like a human being unique among all the others in the world. Now he looked just like the vampire she’d helped kill, the one Arkeley had destroyed with the jackhammer.

  Congreve, she heard in her head. It was the name of the dead vampire. Reyes would never have volunteered as much, surely? Unless perhaps he didn’t care anymore. If he was certain she was about to die, maybe.

  “It’s all up to you,” he said, handing her something heavy and strangely shaped. She looked down, slowly, and saw that it was a handgun. Her own Beretta, in fact. “She thought maybe you would understand. That maybe you’d be willing to help? But this part’s up to you. You lift that, and you put the barrel in your mouth.”

  Caxton frowned in confusion. Her hand lifted the weapon without any effort at all. Her muscles contracted to bring the pistol closer to her face. It would be harder, she knew, to put the gun down than to do as he said. She tried to call up the sense of oblivion she’d had in the dream. She tried to focus on how this one step would solve everything.

  She wanted to please him. It startled her a little to realize it. She’d tried to please and impress every authority figure in her life—her father, her superiors in the highway patrol, Arkeley. Why not the vampire who had taken such control of her?

  “Come on, Laura. I’ve got other things to do, okay?” He didn’t touch her or the weapon. “Most people figure this out pretty quick. When I saw her in her coffin, I got it right away. I knew what she was offering, and I knew I wanted it. It’s immortality, Laura, and it’s contagious! What a wonderful thing! Why are you holding back?”

  Caxton hadn’t thought she was. She thought she was being good. The gun kept coming closer, inching through the air toward her lips. Her teeth opened up. Her tongue pushed her dry lips open.

  Her will and Reyes’s will were fused together. She could feel him inside her like a worm burrowing between the hemispheres of her brain. Justinia Malvern had done this to Reyes, she realized, with just one look, by catching his eye for just a moment. The old vampire had raped the electrician from across a room in the time it took him to install a lightbulb. Now he was doing the same thing to her, using that same power. He had made Congreve and the other, the vampire who cut off his pointed ears daily. Reyes was an expert at this. How could she possibly hope to resist?

  The handgun touched her lips. She felt the cold metal on her sensitive skin like an electric shock. Her eyes crossed as she looked down at the barrel. Just a few more inches. The weapon had only a few more inches to traverse and then she knew her finger would tighten on the trigger.

  “Your mother did it. Your father smoked three packs a day, he understood,” Reyes breathed. He was so close to her. He wasn’t looking at her. “Your lover’s well on her way. I did it without hesitation. It’s not this hard.”

  Caxton’s finger moved on the trigger. A tremor, a twitch.

  Arkeley came down the stairs then, his feet making no sound on the risers. He came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t see him, but she knew it was him. Just like in the burning mill. “You’re not as fragile as you think,” he told her. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. A nice, final thought to cap off her life.

  You’re not really here, she thought. But then she didn’t understand—how could he be there, if she was wide awake? He’d appeared in her dream, but this, his presence in real life, was quite impossible.

  As soon as she thought it he disappeared. His hand left nothing but a little warmth on her shoulder. Her own hand suddenly felt very, very heavy, and the gun fell away from her lips. It was still pointing at her flesh, but the barrel rested on her chest, just to the left of her sternum. If she fired, she would blow out her own heart.

  “No,” Reyes said, a huge noise in the little room. He moved fast, too fast for her to follow. The gun flew away from her, into a corner of the room, and her hand ached as if it had been slapped. “No. No, no, no. Joder,” he moaned, “how are you so stupid? I don’t have time for this.” He looked at her then and his bloody eyes were filled with rage and hatred. His arm swung out and she flew off the casket and landed in a heap in the corner.

  41.

  R eyes got up and grabbed her hair in one enormous hand. He pulled her up, looking into her eyes, until she was standing.

  “I thought the whole silence thing was mierda but I guess not. I want you to forget everything I said to you, okay? You forget everything and you sit right here and you don’t move a muscle till I come for you again.”

  She nodded. She possessed no more willpower whatsoever. If he told her to stand on one foot and cluck like a chicken she would.

  “Alright. Fine, damn it! You have to be so stubborn, well I can outstubborn you, perra. We’ll start all over again tonight.” He rubbed at his eyes and mouth in frustration and turned away from her. She expected that he would take the candle and leave her in the dark, that he would climb the stairs and leave her all alone. His destination, however, was a lot closer at hand. He opened up the casket on the floor and climbed in, leaving her to watch by the flickering light of the candle.

  Day must be dawning outside, she realized. The night must be over.

  The first night, anyway. How many more times would she be subjected to the dreams of the burning mill? How many nights would it take before she did shoot herself, before she did, finally, accept his curse?

  A burbling, liquid noise came from the casket. He was so certain that she was safe, that she couldn’t harm him, that he left her right there next to his deliquescing body. And he was right. She couldn’t so much as twitch a thumb. To prove it, she looked down at her hands, at her right thumb. She prepared to will it to move, to pour all of her remaining psychic energy into making it jump just a little bit. A futile task, but one she felt she needed to perform before she just gave up. If she could prove to herself that even this, just twitching her thumb, was out of the question, then why should she fight even a moment longer? She would just do what Reyes asked of her. She started willing her thumb to move, but before she could really begin a voice out of nowhere startled her.

  “What if it works?” Arkeley asked her. He was standing on the stairs, just out of sight. It was his voice, though.

  What? she asked, unable to open her mouth. She could still think it.

  “What if the thumb moves?” he asked. “What are you going to do then? Are you going to keep fighting?”

  It was an absurd question. You’re not real, she said, as she had said to him before. And just as before, it worked. He vanished. She felt a little bit pleased with her ability to at least control her own phantasms.

  When he was gone she tried to return to the matter at hand, but it took her a long time to remember what she’d been doing. She couldn’t seem to…to think right. Every time she would try to hold something in her head it would just fly away from her again. She was going to do something, she remembered. Something important. Some vital, last step. Yes. She was going to move her thumb.

  She looked down at the thumb and thought, Okay, if you can twitch, then twitch.

  The thumb moved. Just a little jerky spasm, a trembling almost. But it moved.

  She looked up at the stairwell to see if Arkeley was there, ready to jeer, to ask her what happened next. He wasn’t there, of course, because he’d never been there. He had not been real. But that didn’t get her off the hook. What next? What did she do next?

  Moving h
er whole hand seemed like a good idea. She tried to make a fist. Slowly, very slowly because she was so tired, the hand folded up into a weak fist.

  She felt a very weird kind of anger. She’d really wanted her hand to disobey her, frankly. She was far more comfortable sitting there, doing nothing, waiting for Reyes to climb out of the coffin. But if she could make a fist, then she could probably stand up. And that meant she had to stand up.

  “You’ll need to do more than that,” Arkeley told her. He was back, hidden somewhere, somewhere very close by, but not where she could see him. He was a presence in the room, but she couldn’t have said where he might be. “You’re going to need to open the casket.”

  She rose to her feet, taking her time about it. Not in any kind of hurry at all. If Arkeley had insisted she move more quickly, she would have banished him from her presence once again, maybe permanently. He didn’t, though. He offered no encouragement nor any kind of derision. He was silent. But he was still there.

  She shuffled over to the casket until she was standing right over it. She looked down at the scorched hole in the lid where she’d shot through the wood. A curling white maggot clung to the edge of the hole.

  Caxton bent at the knees and got her hands under the lid of the casket. With one quick motion she threw it open. She was expecting what she found inside, but not so much of it. She saw Reyes’s bones, just as she’d seen Malvern’s skeleton, but where Malvern’s flesh had been reduced to a quart or two of pasty glop, Reyes’s casket was half full of the viscous soup. Well, he had a lot more flesh to liquefy than Malvern did. Some of the long bones floated near the top, with whole colonies of maggots clinging to their knobby protrusions. The skull was at the bottom, fully submerged, staring up at her with its lower jaw hinged wide.