Luke reached toward Teddy’s stomach, planning to rip out anything the man had ever eaten when Tim yelled, “Wait!”
Luke looked over.
“I have a better idea,” Tim said, slamming Billy on one of the operating tables and quickly strapping him down.
Luke brought Teddy over and did the same.
Teddy screamed and begged the entire time. “Please! I wasn’t gonna do nothin’ to ya! It was all Billy! Pleeeeease!” he shrieked.
“Fuck you!” Billy cried, struggling against his restraints.
Luke looked at Tim and laughed.
Tim shrugged. He reached the implement table and lifted the chain saw. “And you?”
Luke wandered over and picked up a scalpel. “Call me old fashioned …”
They clinked instruments in a salute.
Tim reached for the pull cord on his chain saw, but Luke held up his hand. “Really? Fully clothed?”
Luke slowly pulled off Teddy’s boots and socks, enjoying the look of terror spreading across the man’s face. He clearly had an imagination, Luke marveled, looking forward to this.
Teddy grew even more panicked and bucked wildly beneath his restraints.
“He’s going to dislocate himself,” Tim warned.
Luke nodded, grabbing more rope, tying Teddy more securely to the table.
Teddy babbled hysterically, begging for mercy.
“I think I’ll gag him.”
“Why bother?” Tim asked, nodding at the saw. “It’ll drown him out.”
He removed Billy’s sneakers and socks.
“What are you doing?” Billy cried. “What’re, what, what’re you—”
Tim pulled hard on the starter rope. Three pulls later and the chain saw roared to life.
Billy shrieked so loudly he popped a blood vessel in his eye. No one heard him over the sound of the saw.
Tim handled the saw by the handlebar, leaving his other hand free. He grabbed Billy’s ankle, holding him tightly, Billy struggling fiercely but unable to move. Tim used the chainsaw’s jagged blade to slice Billy’s toes off one by one. They dropped to the floor or shot across the room, pinging off the edge of the surgical table. Sweat poured off Billy’s face, drenching him. His body shivered in the warm room.
Tim took his hand off the throttle and the saw powered down.
“Done already?” his twin asked.
“Nope.” Tim grabbed the blowtorch and the cheap plastic lighter and ignited the torch. He adjusted the flame and went to work on Billy’s feet, cauterizing the wounds that used to be toes. Smoke sizzled off the flesh, the smell of cooked feet filling the air. The vampire twins may not have needed to breathe, but they could taste it on their tongues.
“Done now?”
“No, dammit. Stop asking me!” Tim plucked a toe up off the floor and held it above the flame, being careful not to singe his fingers. A few minutes later the meat was cooked.
Medium rare, Luke guessed.
Tim held it up as if looking at it in the light, as if inspecting it for flaws. “I do believe,” he said, now looking down at Billy, “this is the little piggy that went to market.”
“Good God, nooooo!” Billy sobbed, his attempts at escape renewed and just as useless as before.
Luke chuckled, nodding toward Teddy. “I think this idiot wishes he would have a heart attack and die.”
“No!” Teddy cried, head awkwardly contorted to stare mesmerized at Billy strapped to the table a few feet away. “I’m praying to the good Lord to rescue me! God Almighty, save me! Give these creatures a soul, dear God!”
“That’s what you’re praying for? That we’ll grow souls? Not that your asshole friends will return in time to save you?”
Teddy yelled, “Uh, I, I, I don’t know! Praise God!”
Luke rolled his eyes. “Hurry up, brother.”
“Go on,” Tim said. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Are you kidding? You want me to miss this?”
Tim snorted. He took the cooked toe over to Billy’s mouth. “Open up.”
Billy squeezed his mouth shut and shook his head.
“Open your mouth,” Tim said patiently.
Billy emphatically shook his head.
Tim grabbed the blowtorch and held it near Billy’s face. “Open your mouth or I’ll burn your fucking eyes out of your big fat fucking head.”
Billy bawled, great sobs shaking his body, snot bubbling in his nose and shooting across the room when he couldn’t breathe out of it any longer. “Don’t make me do that,” he cried through hiccups, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Open. Your. Mouth.”
Billy opened his mouth.
“Take a bite.”
“No! Please!”
“Oh, God!” Teddy yelled from across the room.
Luke slapped him in the head.
“Take a bite!”
Billy took a bite. The toe snapped like a chunk of hotdog cooked in boiling water, the juices squirting out of it, coating Billy’s tongue and lips.
Billy shook his head so violently Luke thought it would snap.
Moments later Billy vomited, spewing great chunks of whatever his last meal had been—hamburgers, from what Luke could see—his throat filling with his regurgitated last meal. Every time he coughed, a geyser of partially digested meat sprayed the air, landing back on his face and the table. He gagged at the smell, which even to the vampires was rather putrid, and kept spitting, trying to empty his mouth and throat. But he kept dry-heaving and then kept vomiting, gobs of meat and bun and partially chewed tomato slices filling his mouth and nasal passages, never allowing himself a chance to clear his airway. He worked his throat, obviously trying to swallow the vomit back down, but it was coming up in great buckets, and there was just no way for him to keep up with the volume of chunks trapped between his stomach and lips.
Tim looked away, disgusted. “Oh, great! Do I have to clean this up? Now what—”
“Leave him,” Luke said. “We have this one.”
“But such a waste! I hardly used any—”
“You had fun, brother. It’s not worth the mess. I do think he suffered.”
Tim puffed out his lower lip and stared down at Billy. Billy had changed from various shades of pink to various shades of red and purple and was now decidedly blue. Less than a minute later it was obvious he was dead.
Tim joined his brother at the other table. “What did you have in mind?”
Luke extended his arms and brought his fingers together, cracking the knuckles. “Not sure.” He lifted the scalpel and examined it but put it back down. “This seems so mundane.”
“There’s the axe.”
“Meh.”
“Did you just say ‘Meh’?”
Luke laughed. “Sorry. We do have knives, axe … the chainsaw.”
“Well, if you want my opinion—”
“Always.”
“I was always one for the classics. Nothing like a good ol’ evisceration.”
Luke chuckled and looked down at the terrified man strapped to the gurney. This conversation was as much a mindfuck as anything else. Nothing like good mental torture. “True …”
“Or a castration,” Tim said, staring at Teddy’s crotch.
“Oh God no, not that …” Teddy whispered.
“Castration it is,” Luke said.
Teddy bawled and continued spewing endless prayers.
The twins stared at each other, waiting for him to shut up.
“Wanna just cut his throat?” Tim asked.
Luke shrugged. “Not really. At this point, I really want this one to suffer.”
Tim nodded. “I hear ya.” He unbuckled Teddy’s belt and worked the button and zipper on his jeans. As he started to pull them down, the twins noticed a smell coming from the same area.
“Bastard shit himself,” Tim muttered, wrinkling his nose.
“I’m sorry!” Teddy cried through his hysterics. “It was an accident! Swear ta God! I din mean it!”
The twins exchanged a look.
“Fine,” Luke snapped, annoyed at this change in plans. “I’m not cleaning up shit.” He grabbed the scalpel and sliced Teddy’s T-shirt down the middle, separating the pieces, exposing his belly. He stared down at the man. “I hope you know you really pissed me off.”
“I’m so sorry,” Teddy blubbered.
“Yes of course, so you keep saying. How sorry were you when you fed my brother and me rats? How sorry were you when you poked us with stakes and made us live in a box for weeks on end? How sorry were you then?”
“I am sooooo sorry,” he said, changing his tone, as if expecting the brothers to grant him a stay of execution, as if begging forgiveness could somehow erase the past.
Worst of all, Luke observed, was the patronizing way he said it. As if he still believed vampires were mindless creatures who could be easily convinced to do what he commanded. Luke marveled at the depth of stupidity.
“That’s terrific,” Luke said, moving in with the scalpel, finding the top of his ribcage in the center of his chest. “Interesting,” he added, slicing the blade at least an inch deep and drawing it down the length of Teddy’s torso “Just how stupid do you think we are?”
“No!” Teddy wailed, “stop! Stop!”
Tim said, “Now can we gag him?”
“What for? Just ignore him.” The jeans were still undone, the fly separated, so Luke was able to cut as far as the fleshy pad just above the man’s penis. Blood gushed down both sides of the wound. He reached down to separate the flesh but then stopped.
“What is it?” Tim asked.
“I’ve changed my mind.” He placed the scalpel on the table.
“What? Why—”
He picked up the blowtorch. “I don’t care about the shit. Get those pants off him. Better yet—” He put the blowtorch down and moved to Teddy’s feet. He took a length of rope and tossed one to Tim. Without having to say another word he unfastened Teddy’s legs from the table and yanked off his jeans and underwear. He then tied the end of the rope to his ankle, securing the other end to a ceiling beam a few feet away. Tim did the same on the opposite side, and a few minutes later Teddy was lying on the table spread-eagle, his feet suspended as if visiting the gynecologist. Teddy offered no resistance. Luke was surprised the guy was still alive.
Once again Luke picked up the blowtorch. “This might be a waste of time …”
“He looks a mess …”
Luke shrugged. “Give it a try, I guess.” He lit the torch, and the moment the flame warmed up his testicles, Teddy opened his eyes and screamed.
Luke ran the flame across Teddy’s genitals, but by that time there was almost no reaction.
Tim laughed. “Hey—I have an idea.”
***
The twins left shortly after, leaving the horribly mutilated Teddy vampire strapped to the table.
Chapter 32
Martin and his group arrived in Harlem.
As they moved through the streets of upper Manhattan, the traffic lights adorned with plastic wreaths and garish decorations, an obvious attempt to restore normalcy, the few people still on the streets moved aside like parting waves.
The procession halted on east Twenty-Third Street. It was as though Martin and his army shared a single mind; they were ready for this and were paying close attention to his signals.
“Not much farther,” Martin said, assuming where Patrick would be waiting because Martin knew Patrick well … knew the way his mind worked. But he also knew it was likely a trap. It was a chess game, one move ahead of the other, trying to outthink his opponent.
Martin’s body felt electrified, charged with an energy powered by excitement. He knew this battle could mean his end but hadn’t felt this alive since … since before he’d died.
The procession moved once more and stopped a final time a few blocks away, outside Union Square.
“What is it?” Lana asked, pulling the lapels of her leather jacket close to her neck out of habit, not warmth. The bitter cold was no longer an issue for her. For any of them.
“Something,” Martin said, his head cocked slightly back, eyes closed. Concentrating. It was more than the smells and the tastes, although they weighed heavily on the air. It was a feeling, an instinct. Something unsettling. Something not right.
And in the distance, facing Martin and his crowd dead on, a lone figure stood in the center of the street.
“The hell?” Lana said, clutching Martin’s forearm. “Patrick.”
“So it is,” Martin said. So it begins, he thought, waiting for Patrick to move. Martin searched peripherally but saw no sign of movement, of trouble.
Which didn’t mean a thing, he knew.
“One of us has to go to him,” Lana said quietly.
“He expects it to be me,” Martin said.
Lana smiled, batted her lashes coyly. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, Lana, wait—” He reached for her and missed but stood his ground. He didn’t want to be separated from his crowd, and he knew Lana could handle herself.
The crowd behind Martin waited in silence, the wind and snow whipping their faces, coating them in an icy blanket that never melted. Still they patiently waited, some anxious, Martin knew—the human elements not entirely stripped from their existence.
A few minutes later, Lana turned and headed back toward Martin.
Patrick crossed his arms, his feet widely planted in the thickening layer of snow, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Martin caught the movement but only managed to take half a step.
A loud thwock! and Lana staggered to her knees, staring down at the object protruding from her chest.
“No!” Martin screamed, running toward her, catching her before she collapsed the rest of the way to the ground. The arrow had entered her back and protruded from her breast, and she lay dying in Martin’s arms. They dropped to the ground together.
“My … heart,” she whispered, glancing at her own chest right before she exploded into a steaming heap of guts.
Strings of Lana lay draped across Martin’s hands, coated his sleeves, dripped from his hair. He threw down the pile of slimy, shit-covered entrails and abruptly stood, ready to rip Patrick’s head right off his shoulders.
He took a step toward Patrick, but Patrick laughed and raised his arms overhead. “Go!”
Martin tore off in Patrick’s direction, but Patrick was heavily guarded, and vampires wielding swords and knives fought Martin off as he desperately tried to reach Patrick.
Martin hefted a pickaxe and swung, decapitating one vampire, her head smashing against a mailbox. In his other hand he brandished a sharpened picket fence slat and stabbed an attacking vampire through the heart. He exploded on impact, spraying Martin in a bath of ropey, bloody tendrils.
Martin’s army grew in numbers as his vampires arrived from all directions in the city, having traversed every available entrance into Manhattan.
Vampires charged from every direction, from manholes and parked cars, from apartment buildings and stores, and they came hard, attacking savagely, relentlessly. Thousands upon thousands of vampires battled to the death, and humans too stupid to hide got trampled along the way.
Martin stopped on the corner of Forty-Eighth and Fifth. He was surrounded by chaos—vampires battling to the death using fists and stakes and crossbows, weapons of every kind, humans running for their lives as bodies flew past their heads and severed body parts smashed them into buildings and against shells of cars still blocking the streets.
Despite the chaos Martin listened carefully for Patrick, knowing he couldn’t have gotten far—but which direction? His acute eyesight scanned the crowds, and he circled 360 degrees, searching … he glanced up at sides of buildings and on lampposts.
Nothing.
***
Three blocks away, on Fifty-First Street, Rebecca fought using a sharpened fence post and then spotted a discarded sword, its severed hand still holding strong t
o the hilt. She reached down to pick it up and felt a whoosh of air past her ear as an axe barely missed taking off her head. She grabbed the sword and plunged it into the attacker’s chest as he fell on top of her. She shoved the body aside, but he wasn’t dead. The problem was her sword was made of metal, so even a direct hit in the heart wouldn’t result in death. She brought the sword down on the vampire’s head, severing it.
She had regenerated, had recovered from her savage rape by Patrick but had never gotten over Dagan’s death. And now she tasted Patrick’s death on her tongue, felt it in her bones, and the thought of it was pure ecstasy.
The screams and battle cries were deafening. Glass shattered around them, car windows exploding, alarms sounding. Traffic lights went haywire, as if powered by a new energy source. Idiot humans flooded the streets, ran screaming up sidewalks, desperately seeking cover.
“There’s too many!” Nelson yelled, joining Rebecca. “Too many!”
Rebecca grunted, plunged her sword into yet another of Patrick’s army, but they kept coming. And coming. Despite the vast number in Martin’s army, they seemed horribly outnumbered.
Nelson stumbled to his knees and then doubled over, his forehead touching the ground. Rebecca turned in time to see him fall but couldn’t reach him. A cleaver came down on his neck and severed his head.
“Nuh—” Rebecca could barely speak, she was so exhausted.
A vampire jumped her from behind, tackling her to the ground, a dagger in one hand and a stake in the other. His arms flailed madly and she was struck repeatedly by both weapons. She dropped her sword in defense, her arms flying up to ward him off. Tiny nicks peppered her arms, and her shoulders and neck sustained deep gashes. Still she fought, punching blindly, blood from a dozen head and face wounds dripping into her eyes. Her attacker slashed savagely, almost severing her hand, and she screamed out in pain. It hung by gristly threads, and she tucked it against her body to staunch the blood flow.
She wiped the blood out of her eyes using her remaining hand and discovered Patrick standing over her.
What Happens in the Darkness Page 29
