DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

by J. A. Konrath

  “We need to wash out your mouth,” Jenny said. “Right now.”

  “I said motherhugger, not motherfu—”

  “Now, Randall! The infection is bloodborne. We don’t know…”

  Her voice caught in her throat. She needed something antiseptic. Hydrogen peroxide, or something that could kill germs.

  “Gargle with gas,” she said, pointing at his saw.

  Randall stared at her as if she were nuts, but he uncapped the tank on his saw and lifted it to his mouth. When he titled it back, his eyes bugged out.

  “Kids, stay by me,” she told the boys. “Now swish it around, Randall. Keep it in there as long as you can stand it.”

  Randall’s cheeks bulged side to side. Jenny returned to the storage room for two compression bandages, and bent down, wrapping up Randall’s old chainsaw wound, and his new chainsaw wound. Neither was pretty, but he’d live.

  “Mmmm-mmm-bbmbmb,” Randall said.

  “Yeah, you can spit.”

  He turned his head, ejecting a stream of pink liquid.

  “Rubbing alcohol,” he said, after clearing his throat. “What kind of person would put rubbing alcohol in a man’s chainsaw?” He quickly looked down at Jenny. “But I didn’t swallow any. I’ve been dry—”

  “For ninety-seven days,” Jenny said. “I know. And when we get out of here, I think we should go somewhere to celebrate your sobriety.”

  Randall’s face brightened. “You mean, like a date?”

  “I promised the boys here I’d take them to Camp Kookyfoot, and that you’d come with us. But I was thinking of someplace more immediate.”

  “Like where?”

  Jenny wound tape around the bandage. “I was thinking as soon as we get out of here, we go straight to my place.”

  “Your place?”

  Jenny nodded, feeling her whole body grow warm. “Randall Bolton, this is one lady who knows how to show appreciation for a man who comes to her rescue.” She lowered her voice. “I’m going to do things to you that will make your toes curl.”

  “Jenny,” he said, “Don’t talk to me like that in front of the kids.”

  Jenny stood up, locking eyes with her husband. “This is the part in all your movies where the hero kisses the girl.”

  Randall hacked spit once more over his shoulder, wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, and planted one on Jenny that was so passionate it made her toes curl.

  When they both came up for air, Jenny knew the moment was right to tell him that she still loved the big lug, and she wanted to give their relationship another shot. But Randall seemed to suddenly realize that they were still in grave danger. He looked away from her and at the kids.

  “Everybody stay close,” he told the four boys. “I don’t have any fancy hand grenades, but none of those boogeymen are going to get past my saw, okay?”

  The boys all nodded, their eyes wide and terrified.

  “Everyone put your hands on the waist of the person next to you. We’re not going to lose anybody. I’ll take the lead, and Jenny will be squished up right behind you. Is everybody okay with that? Good.”

  Jenny knew they had to get moving, but she didn’t want to lose this moment. “Randall, I—”

  An explosion rocked the hallway.

  “Get behind me,” Randall said, stepping in front of Jenny and urging his chainsaw to life with a quick pull of the cord.

  Moorecook

  MORTIMER spat out the last of his fangs, watching it drop onto the tile floor. He tore at the remnants of his underwear, and his naked, gore-slicked body doubled-over.

  His distended belly—laden with blood only moments before—began to flatten. He screamed as his spine twisted, the vertebrae cracking like exploding popcorn.

  Water. He needed water, and a place to hide while his body continued to change into its new form.

  As the long muscle fibers in his legs broke down and realigned themselves, Mortimer half- ran/half-stumbled through the hallway, coming upon a door that read LAUNDRY. He threw himself inside, rolling across the floor, crying out as every nerve in his body seemed to catch on fire.

  But this wasn’t the pain of death.

  It was the pain of rebirth.

  Even as he writhed, Mortimer could feel his brand new teeth growing in.

  Clay

  HE was puffing by the time he reached the third floor landing. He knew he didn’t exercise as much as he should, but was he this out of shape? Or was it plain old fear stealing his wind and making his heart pound like this? Because with each flight he was realizing more and more what a stupid stunt this was. Should have listened to Shanna and waited. First thing they teach you is always wait for backup. But waiting hadn’t seemed an option. The situation in Blessed Crucifixion wasn’t just deteriorating, it had run off the edge of a cliff.

  But he couldn’t back off now, couldn’t return to that parking lot with his tail between his legs. What would his daddy say? Well, he’d say what he always said: A Theel don’t back down, not from no one, not from nothin’—’specially from a commie.

  Well, these things weren’t commies. They were worse. They were a disease. They had to be wiped out and—

  A hiss and a silhouetted shape diving at him from the next flight.

  Clay had the MM-1 held at ready. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Which he did. The kick was a helluva lot more than the nearly recoilless AA-12. A good thing, because it lifted the barrel. Instead of a center-of-mass hit, the double ought tore a hole in the dracula’s upper chest, flinging it back and taking a good chunk of its spine out through the exit wound.

  It sprawled on the steps, gnashing its teeth, unable to move its legs and only enough nerve supply to its arms to twitch its talons. A head shot would finish it off, but Clay needed to conserve ammo.

  Most of all, he had to save one round for himself, in case he got bit. No way he was ending up like these folks.

  He left the dracula behind and continued up.

  On the fourth-floor landing he peeked through the little window and saw…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Black as the inside of a coffin.

  Shit. He hadn’t thought to bring a light. His Maglite was back in his cruiser in the sheriff’s parking lot. Wait…

  He pulled out his cell phone. He’d charged it up for the weekend trip. He hit a button and the display lit. Wimpy illumination, but it would have to do. With the MM-1 in his right hand and the phone in his left, he pushed through into the darkness…

  Which swallowed the feeble glow from his phone. He took a step forward and heard glass crunch under his shoe. One or more of the draculas had smashed all the battery-powered lights. He couldn’t see shit. He had no idea what was lying in wait.

  Okay, new plan.

  He backed into the stairwell again and pulled off his backpack. He pawed through his backup ammo for the MM-1 until he came to his one and only M583—a white star parachute flare. He removed the empty from the drum and inserted the flare. Problem solved.

  He’d fire this baby down the hall. It would light up when it hit the far wall and give him forty seconds of 90,000 candlepower illumination to get the lay of the land.

  Yeah.

  He stepped back into the dark, raised the launcher, and thought he heard a noise. He hit a button on his phone and—

  “Shit!”

  A dracula, jaws agape, was four feet away and closing fast.

  Clay pulled the trigger. The white star round hit the thing in the face, smashing through his teeth and into the back of his throat, lifting him off his feet. As he staggered back, the flare’s little twenty-inch parachute popped out of his mouth and opened. The four-second delay ran out and the flare lit, illuminating the inside of the dracula’s head like a paper lantern. Clay could see the brain boiling before the skull exploded.

  The flare rolled free, revealing half a dozen draculas lying in wait. A trio of those leaped on their fallen comrade while the other three charged. Clay let the lead pair get close and put them both down with
one round, then laid out the third with another. They weren’t dead, but they were disabled, and that was as good as being goners, because their buddies were already on them, chowing down.

  Now what? Could he sneak by the others without wasting precious ammo? The flare glare revealed a sign next to the stairway door. A floor directory. He spotted the word Pediatrics. Shit, it was on Two. He was on the wrong damn floor.

  He slipped back into the stairwell and headed down.

  Shanna

  SHE stood by Clay’s suburban, watching the dark, blocky mass of the hospital. A faint, faint glow lit some of the windows, probably backwash from the emergency lights in the hallways, but for the most part it looked dead and deserted. But looks were deceiving. She knew it crawled with—what had Jenny’s ex called them? Draculas. Right. Jenny and her ex were in there—still human, she hoped—and so was Clay.

  She prayed for his safe return. Yes, she was going to break his heart when he did, but she wanted him back. Because somehow the world seemed a better place with Clay than without him.

  Ten minutes ago the army had roared in and heavily-armed soldiers had piled out of their trucks. A large black trailer had followed the soldiers into the lot but had parked away toward the rear. The people who had emerged were civilians.

  And then something scary: The army set up spotlights at the emergency entrance, around the main entrance, and at each stairwell exit. Then they’d positioned soldiers with flame throwers at each point. Looked like they’d been convinced it was contagious. She’d expected officialdom to scoff at the stories of what had gone on in the hospital, but she guessed the recording Clay had insisted on making had convinced them.

  Well, she’d never said he was a dummy, just not on her wavelength.

  Just then, to her right at the corner of the building, flames lit the night.

  Screams echoed, died.

  Her heart stumbled over a beat. That was the door she and Clay had used to escape, the door he’d re-entered. They wouldn’t have burned him by mistake, would they? No…those screams had had an unearthly quality. Had to be draculas trying to escape the building. Still…

  Clay

  On the way down, he passed the dracula he’d shot near the third-floor landing, still where he’d left him, still hissing and twitching its talons.

  “Yo, Twitchy. How goes it?”

  He passed him and continued down. As he approached the door to the second floor, he heard a raw buzzing coming from the far side. Almost sounded like—

  The door blew open and the sound assaulted Clay. He almost fired at the shape plunging through when he recognized Randall and his chainsaw.

  “Shit, Bolton! I almost—”

  “Watch your mouth,” he said. “Got kids with me.”

  And sure enough, four kids crowded into the stairwell behind him, followed by Jenny.

  “Oh, Clay,” she said. “Am I glad to see you.”

  Clay nodded. This was going to be easier than he thought.

  Randall was staring at the MM-1. “Whoa. What’s that? Looks like a pregnant Tommy gun.”

  “Let’s hope we can get out of here without using it. There’s an exit door just two flights down. Follow—”

  A noise below, like a door slamming open, then a blast of firelight and hideous screams. Clay pelted down to the next landing and saw two flaming draculas writhing on the floor, screeching as they burned. Black, oily smoke rose, filling the stairwell. He hurried back up.

  “What happened? What’s burning?”

  “A couple of our friends.”

  “What?” Jenny said. “How?”

  “Don’t know, don’t want to find out. We need to find another way.”

  “Another way where?”

  “The roof. I saw a TV helicopter. I’ll call it down to pick us up.”

  “No TV copter’s going to hold us,” Randall said.

  “The kids, then. The kids, then us.”

  “Yes!” Jenny said, grabbing Randall’s arm. “The roof. We’ll be safe up there till help comes.”

  Clay didn’t necessarily agree with that, but the roof held their best chance.

  Randall hesitated a second, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll lead. But…” He was staring at Clay. “You came back…to a place like this. Why? A man like you…why?”

  A man like you? Clay was going to tell him to fuck off when he remembered. “Magnificent Seven, right?”

  Randall’s mouth twisted as he nodded.

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” Jenny said. “Tell me you’re not—”

  “ ‘I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me,’ “ Clay said.

  Randall did the pistol point. “Magnum Force.”

  “I’m telling Shanna!”

  Randall gave him an appraising look. “You said you’d be back and here you are. Either you’re as stupid as everybody says I am, or you’re some kinda guy.” He stuck out his hand.

  Clay shook it. “The safe bet is stupid. Man, you look just like I feel.”

  Randall barked a laugh as he started limping up the steps. “Aliens again. You’re all right, Deputy Dawg.” He turned back to the kids. “I’m gonna lead the way up. Everybody stay as close together as you can. Remember not to let go of the person in front of you.”

  The kids stayed behind Randall and Jenny stayed behind the kids. Clay brought up the rear.

  “You’re not staring at Jenny’s butt are you?” Randall called from above.

  Well, when not checking behind him, yeah, he was. Nice butt. Not going to tell Randall, though.

  “Would if I could, but this smoke…”

  The draculas below had stopped screeching—at least Clay couldn’t hear them over Randall’s idling chainsaw—but apparently they continued to burn. Foul, stinking smoke thickened in the stairwell.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” one of the boys said.

  “Hang in there,” Jenny told him. “Soon we’ll have all the fresh air we need.”

  As Randall reached the third-floor landing, the door burst open and a dracula leaped through and ran straight into Randall’s blade. The children screamed in panic and turned. They would have all tumbled head over heels down the stairs had Jenny and Clay not been there to catch them.

  Randall gunned the saw and cut right though the thing’s head. It crumpled in the doorway, keeping it from closing.

  “Don’t look!” Jenny said as she ushered the kids by.

  Clay said, “And don’t worry about Twitchy up near the next landing. He’s harmless.”

  He’d paused at the door to kick the dead dracula back through so he could close it, when he thought he heard a very human scream from somewhere down the hall.

  He froze and listened. With Randall’s chainsaw buzzing he couldn’t be sure—

  There! Again. No doubt now.

  He looked up the stairs at Jenny’s butt. The way it swayed as it retreated reminded him how badly he really wanted to get back to Shanna and—

  A third scream.

  Shit!

  “Hey, Bolton,” he called. “I think someone’s in trouble here. I’m gonna take a look.”

  Jenny turned and stared at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah. What floor is this?”

  “OB.”

  “Like babies and stuff?”

  “Exactly like babies and stuff.”

  Double shit.

  “See you upstairs. When you get up there, call KREZ and say Deputy Clay Theel wants them to land their copter on the roof. You’ve got sick kids that need evacuating.”

  “What if they won’t?”

  “A news station passing up the chance to be heroes and make news instead of just reporting it? What do you think?”

  “Will do. But you be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name.”

  Actually, Clay’s middle name was Rambo, but tonight he’d make it Careful. Rambo…sheesh. His daddy loved that movie, but he hoped Shanna never found out.

  “Hey, Bolton,” he called. “Any shots left i
n that Taurus?”

  Randall was out of sight but his words echoed back. “Used them all.”

  “Good man. Keep my baby safe.”

  “Um, I had to leave it.”