Bitten

by K. L. Nappier

  The couple hurried over. A young Latino in Army drab stepped off. The driver followed him, went to the undercarriage and yanked a hatch open, pulling out a duffle bag that matched the soldier's uniform. Andrew tugged one glove off. He swiped his clammy palm against his trousers, lit another Lucky and pulled his ticket from his back pocket. He kept his arms close to his sides as he walked over, to stifle his shaking. The name badge on the driver's official, gray jacket read, Mr. Chapman .

  Chapman looked up briefly, nodded absent-mindedly and took Andrew's ticket. The soldier left the woman's welcome-home hug to grab the duffle and the driver asked, "Got everything, son?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Okay, then, take care." Squinting, Chapman held Andrew's ticket at arm's length, then tore off his copy and handed the rest back. "Any empty seat," he said pleasantly enough, but didn't give Andrew much more than a glance.

  It's not too late. I can get back off if they're not here. Say I made a mistake ... say I forgot something and will have to wait for the next bus ...

  His eyes had to adjust to the filtered daylight inside the Greyhound. Chapman shut the hatch to the cargo bin and walked over to the store front, sticking his head through the doorway and saying something to the old lady shopkeeper.

  There were five people in the bus, not counting the driver. Two Latinos, one Indian. In the back, two others. A man and woman. He, blonde-haired, head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth slightly parted, faintly snoring. She, a pony-tailed auburn, head on the blonde's shoulder, stirring a little before settling back again to close her eyes. They looked even more Caucasian than the bus driver. So pale, they practically glowed.

  It's still not too late. Maybe this isn't the best move after all. A lot of unknowns, a lot of risk. I can get back off ... But something gripped him, more impulse than thought, forcing its way through his doubts, rooting him in place. No. Stay.

  Chapman was back behind the wheel. "Find a seat, my friend."

  Andrew took another drag, wiggled his glove back on and chose the seat next to the Indian because it was one of the pair directly behind the driver. His companion glanced at him, obviously irritated that Andrew went for that seat when so many were open. He kept quiet, though, pressed his shoulder against the window and turned to watch the road as the driver clapped the door shut and pulled back onto 66.

  * * *

  I don't know that they're really the Canadians. If I'm wrong, people die for nothing. Worse than nothing. I give myself away. Maybe I'll be the one who dies here, right on this bus, if they've got silver with them.

  Andrew's car was now five miles behind him.

  It's not supposed to be this way!I'mnot the killer, thebeastis! Goddamn Max! Goddamn my mother! It's not supposed to be this way!

  His undershirt was clammy, soaked with sweat. He felt unnatural warmth growing, where the roll of cotton cloth was wedged between his back and the knife's handle. He was shaking so badly, he didn't trust himself to light another smoke. Behind and ahead, nothing but sage and chaparral and the straight, narrow ribbon of 66. A single car whizzed past, going the other direction. A road sign surged into view, then receded. The bus was less than ten miles from the next town and his car, and certain escape, kept falling farther behind.

  They've got to be the Canadians. His pulse throbbed in his ears, all sound lost but that boom. He began rubbing his gloved hands together and only then did it occur to him ... look at my palm . He pulled off a glove. The pentagram was faint, but it was there.Andrew turned slowly, daring to look behind, trying to obscure his eyes by peering just beneath the slouch's brim. The woman was awake. She was looking right at him. She stood.

  Andrew turned back, drew the knife and plunged it into the base of the driver's skull.

  * * *

  A hazy consciousness dawned. Amy's first thought was, Stupid! Stupid, stupid! But it took a moment before she could remember why she was scolding herself. Then: Yes .. right ... stupid to let our guard down, public bus or no public bus.

  She tasted blood. She couldn't move. She smelled diesel fuel and smoke. When she coughed, pain shot through her chest like a hot, pointed poker. She strangled on something warm and thick and realized she had to spit or drown. But her mouth just filled back up.

  She turned her head and discovered a new agony. It coursed through her neck and jaw, but the blood that had been choking her could at least drain, spilling to the right and toward her temple. The side of her face was pressed against something that felt smooth and sharp all at once.

  Busted window. She recognized now why everything was at an odd angle. Greyhound's on its side. Where's Paul?

  She told herself to move, but nothing on her body paid attention and that really pissed her off. She rolled her eyes to the left and nearly passed out from the vertigo, but once it settled she saw a man leaning over her, using the seat backs ahead of her as a brace, blood streaming from his nose. Latino. No. Oriental. See, under the hat. He's Oriental. Oh, God. Has to be the host ... the man Andrew . Has to be.

  And Amy's gun, Amy's silver was in the bus's cargo hold, with Paul's.

  The man disappeared from view. While Amy was screaming inside her head for her body to move, move , she heard a sluggish protest. A strangling sound, then hrk ... hrk . The man reappeared, bloodier than before, and Amy never took her eyes off him as he angled himself into position, braced a Bowie knife tip-first under her broken jaw and drove the blade home.

  * * *

  Every muscle in his body was shaking, but his mind was surprisingly still and calm. Once the decision had been taken out of his hands, Andrew found that killing was much easier than he had thought. He had been so afraid, and for what?

  One of the Canadians, the man, hadn't needed any knife to boost him over. But the woman and the Indian did. The bastard had managed to pull himself over to the upside of the bus and was yanking open a window before Andrew noticed him.

  The fire feeding along the chassis could turn into a lucky break, if it took the whole bus. Andrew couldn't afford to wait and see, let alone try to help it along. But, he wasn't worried. As long as he could put enough distance between him and his handiwork before the smoke drew attention, or a car came by, he'd be fine. Autopsies wouldn't be likely when the cause of death was so obvious. Not without suspicion of foul play.

  But it wouldn't really matter, even if the odds were to turn against him. By the time something strange about the driver and two of the passengers might be noticed; by the time the authorities might suspect not everyone died from the crash; by the time a manhunt catches up to Andrew, First Night will have come and gone. And so will have Andrew.

  The region's wide open spaces and poverty were playing in his favor. Not a single vehicle had come by, other than the car that had passed earlier. Nevertheless, he hobbled far enough away from 66 to avoid as much notice as possible, then turned east and started the long walk back to his Buick, picking his way through the juniper, sage and chaparral, going for the added cover and easier walking of the occasional dry wash when possible. He was dehydrated, banged up and his ankle was badly sprained, if not broken. His nose definitely was. His injuries might slow the trek, the pain might be horrific, but as long as he could make it to the car, none of it mattered. In a few days, maybe four, he'd be good as new.

  Two dead. Five to go.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  The Ranch Compound

  Thirty Miles South of Tohatchi, New Mexico

  Spring/Early Summer, 1950

  Afternoon. Second Day, First Quarter Moon.

  Sitting on the roof's makeshift perch, Max watched David open the gates for the truck. Mina and Samuel were hours late, and the relief he had felt when he first spotted them dwindled as David stood at the driver's side window, taking too long, talking earnestly. Max lifted the binoculars. He saw only Mina and Samuel inside the truck's cab. He saw David's expression.

  He climbed down as fast as he could. Doris was already on the porch as the truck came to a stop in front of the house
. Mina got out of the cab, her face ashen.

  She said, "They found the No. 8 bus on its side, burning. About three hours ago on 66, nine miles east of Seama. Everybody's dead."

  "An accident?" Doris asked, her voice so tight it was almost a whisper.

  Mina couldn't seem to answer. David was sitting in the truck bed, his eyes squeezed shut, his forehead pressed into his hands. Samuel was still in the cab, staring ahead, grinding his palms against the wheel. Finally, she managed, "That's what they're calling it."

  "How'd you find out?" Max asked, hoping against hope that maybe -just maybe- the information wasn't reliable.

  Mina blinked rapidly, looked away a moment, then replied, "A state trooper came by Chuli's. One of the bus passengers had some I.D. in his wallet that hadn't burned all the way. The trooper was looking for the next of kin, figuring they would be waiting for him in town ..." she shut her eyes, pressed her hand against her lips for a moment before finishing. "They were. And ... um ... and we asked about Paul and Amy. Described them to him. He said there were two people ... in the back ... one, believed to be female. He told us he wouldn't say for certain without positive I.D. But ... his eyes told us everything."

  Doris collapsed. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God ...!"

  Max knelt and she looked into his face, her eyes wild. "I should've told you, Max. I should've told you about him when I had the chance ..."

  "Doris -"

  "The first time he came to me, when he was sleeping on the couch -Oh, God!- maybe I should have killed him then? Was that the only way, was that his only chance? Oh, God, Max, what have I done! I should've saved him from this! I should've saved everyone from this, I should've saved him, I should've saved him ...!"

  * * *

  Max walked into the kitchen to get his supper. Mina looked up from her own and motioned to the stove. "It's in the oven."

  Max opened the oven door, peered in, and then grabbed a pot holder off the counter. "How is she?" he asked, pulling out the foil-wrapped plate.

  "Same as she's been all day. I took some dinner to her room a few minutes ago. At least she was dozing. Or pretending to."

  Max brought his supper over to the table and sat with Mina. He didn't have much of an appetite but he ate everything, then took his empty plate to the sink and said, "I'll go spell David."

  The sun had set hours ago, but Max still felt like he could be spotted for miles as he mounted the ladder to the roof's look-out. At the top, he un-slung the rifle from his shoulder and scuttled quickly under the little canopy rigged with two-by-four posts and an old paint-spattered tarpaulin.

  "Take a break and eat," he said.

  David nodded but didn't reply or move. So Max sat back-to-back with him and took up half the watch. Below them spread the compound's russet earth, pristine and landscaped, bounded by the bramble and cactus barrier. Beyond that, the endless crazy-quilt of sage and chaparral, yucca and juniper. It spread from the edge of the compound's barrier to the mesas at the horizon.

  Plenty of cover. Plenty of hiding places. Andrew could be just outside the compound, tucked behind tumble weeds, watching their every move; or pressed against the shallow, sharply sloped sides of a dry wash, peering out at them; or wedged into the tight branches of a juniper, sizing them up through a gun sight. Under a sky dusty with starlight, nothing brighter up there than a thin crescent moon, Andrew would be next to impossible to pick out.

  David asked how Doris was doing.

  "Mina said she thought she was sleeping a little," Max replied.

  "I hate to think of what she's going through. To raise a boy like her own, to look back on all of her good intentions, seeing what he's become ... You and I, we never had the chance to be parents. Most of my years since being bitten, that's haunted me. But, right now, it seems like a blessing."

  Max nodded, forgetting David couldn't see with his back to him. For the umpteenth time, the thought of Paul and Amy lying charred and unclaimed in the county morgue came to him. He saw movement toward his right and startled -which in turn startled David- then realized the movement came from inside the compound. It was Samuel, passing the chicken's coop and confine.

  "You really should eat," he told David. "We all need to be as fit and alert as possible."

  "In a minute," David replied. Max heard him sigh, deep and heavy. "How could we have not seen something like this coming?"

  Max's mind went back to that kitchen in Ventura. Andrew leaning on the sink counter, smoking, smug, talking about collateral damage. "It's my fault. He told me things that gave away how he thinks. I'm the one who should've seen this coming."

  "I'm not just talking about Amy and Paul. I'm talking about the Great Beast. All these years ... how could we not know something like that existed? And for a host to be conscious of it ... let alone nurture it. Can a lineage become great without the host's awareness?"

  "Maybe this is the first," Max said. "Maybe this is something new."

  "In all the history of lineages and of mankind, in all the world? Rare, perhaps. But I can't believe Andrew's abilities or this Great Incarnation is the first."

  "But there's nothing in Stanislov's journals .."

  "We've grown too dependent on them, as if they're the end all and be all. He was a good historian, but he was still just one hunter, just one man, like any of us, living just one lifetime." David breathed another sigh and Max felt him shift. "I'd better get a plate. Then I'll relieve Samuel."

  Max glanced over his shoulder as David rose and left for the ladder. Before his head disappeared below the roof David called, "Max?"

  Max twisted around to look at him.

  "I meant to say this earlier on ... I'm glad you came back."

  Max's throat tightened. He gave David a wave. He wanted to quip, "Yeah, let's see how glad you are after all this is over." But he wasn't certain any of them would be left alive to feel glad about anything.

  * * *

  Max thought it was the pale gloom of pre-dawn that had awakened him. Then he realized someone was standing in his bedroom doorway. A woman.

  "Mina?" He propped himself up on one elbow, ready to reach for the shotgun leaning against the night stand. "What is it?"

  She walked closer and as the fog of sleep cleared, he realized it wasn't Mina but Doris. She stopped at the side of his bed for a moment, then sat on the edge.

  "What is it?" he asked again.

  She didn't answer. In the soft gray light, there was no sign of the past eight years anywhere on her face. Except in her eyes. They were glossy from only God knew how many hours of crying. But the dim glow of a morning not yet here, and a night not yet gone, masked the red that he knew would be there. Her hair was unpinned. She wore a man's shirt that Max didn't recognize, borrowed to sleep in, maybe one of David's. She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek with her fingertips.

  God ... God ...

  She leaned over and kissed him. He was afraid to move at first, afraid of doing anything that might make her pull away. And she did pull away, but only to look deeper into his eyes, then leaned in to kiss him again.

  Max pressed his hand to the back of her neck and pushed her harder against his mouth as he sat up. But before he could stop himself, tears spilled though his lashes and he sobbed against her kiss, pulling his lips across her jaw to her neck, clutching her tightly against him. Doris wrapped her arms around his naked back and held on as if she thought he'd be ripped away.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, thinking at first he meant for crying, but wasn't really sure. Then Doris was crying, too, her tears merging with his and he brought his mouth back to hers, felt his sex swell and ache, felt her nipples harden under her shirt and press against his chest.

  He pulled her arms down, yanked the cloth away from her shoulders, buttons popping, tangling her wrists and not much caring. All that mattered was the feel of his mouth against her skin, the way she swooned across the bed, the way her nipples fit the curl of his tongue.

  He opened her legs, pressed his
palm against the softness there, the pelt and the bone. Lifted his face to gaze at the sight of her wide open to him, of his hands stroking her thighs, and then coming back to the center where she was slick with sweat and need. He stroked her there, and stroked and stroked until she arched and shuddered and collapsed against the bed. He yanked his shorts down, knelt between her legs, slid his palms beneath her buttocks and pushed himself inside.

  Aching ... Groaning ... Doris wrestling her arms free of the wadded shirt, pulling herself up, wrapping around his shoulders, pushing him deeper inside her, shuddering, sinking into him tooth and nail. Shuddering again, shuddering again, her body gloved and pulsing around him until his groin pulled hard up against him and he was shuddering with her.

  * * *

  The sharp rap of knuckles on wood came an hour later, startling Max out of his doze.

  "Wakey, wakey, Maxwell. It's your grounds watch."

  "Yeah. I'm up."

  He glanced over at Doris, who slipped out of bed on the other side. Max got up, pulled on his shorts and got dressed.

  "I'll go first," he said, meaning to spare her embarrassment.

  She looked at him the way she did when he'd tell her one of his corny jokes. "Go first?" she repeated. "What are we, seventeen, sneaking out of daddy's basement?"

  She held the shirt together where the buttons had popped off and walked out, glancing to her left. "Morning, Samuel."

  * * *

  Andrew wasn't sure which woke him first: the pain or the sunrise. As was his habit he peered out the car window, checking to make sure all was clear before sitting up. It was a task done stiffly, with a grimace, every muscle protesting. He pulled his arm out from under the sleeping bag that lay over him and prodded his nose as he looked into the Buick's rearview mirror. So purple, it was almost black, so sore that the gentlest touch brought tears to his eyes, rimmed with the same dark bruising. But the swelling that had stymied his breathing yesterday as he drove back to the mesa was already gone.