Draculas

by J. A. Konrath

  Shit!

  Four rounds practically cut the monster running toward him in half at the waist.

  --any real inkling of what it would be like, but certainly not what it had turned out to be, all so surreal and horrific, like the best videogame you ever played--ridiculous and fun and profoundly sad, and after awhile, like nothing. Beyond computation.

  Here came a pack of them now, all streaking toward him and hissing, and he let them get close this time, inside of thirty feet, before he cut loose, and knowing he still had four 100-round belts, he went a little crazy, barrel blazing until those monsters had practically dissolved into red mist in front of him.

  Fuck, that felt good!

  He was just getting going now, sweeping the rubble back and forth, jonesing to go again, but the fifty-high was fading fast.

  Then it was gone.

  Nothing moved in the ruins.

  Come on! He was just getting warmed up. One more. Please, God, send one more. One more of those fucked-up creatures for me to kill, and I swear I won't even fucking swear any more.

  But still nothing moved. Nothing except that TV helicopter, coming down to land on the grass a few dozen yards from his hummer. Rogers hoped it was filled with monsters--lighting up a chopper would be hella-good--but when it landed some children piled out.

  Rogers felt something inside him deflating. That emptiness that had always filled him after a recon--

  Wait.

  There.

  Forty feet ahead, a piece of blackened cinderblock shifted.

  Thank you, God.

  He sited up the movement, felt his heart starting to beat a little faster now. No headshot this time. Not even center mass. He was going to savor this one. Take it slow, start low, work his way up the legs, do the knees one at a time.

  Now several pieces of cinderblock were thrown aside and a creature slowly came to its feet.

  Rogers smiled.

  Can't believe they pay me to do this shit.

  He aimed at one of the feet as the monster started toward him across the rubble, and his finger has just begun to ease back on the trigger when he stopped.

  This thing didn't move like those monsters.

  It wore blue scrubs, partly singed, but it moved...like a man. An uninfected man.

  "Don't shoot!" the man said as he approached, his hands lifted.

  "Stop right fucking there!" Rogers screamed.

  The man stopped. "I'm not one of them. I swear to--"

  "Don't matter."

  "I'm one of the few survivors of this massacre, soldier. I would imagine you have some people who need treatment. I am a doctor here." He glanced back at what was left of Blessed Crucifixion. "Or I used to be."

  Rogers finger twitched. All he could think about were Halford's orders.

  Shoot anything that tries to crawl out, I don't give a good goddamn if it's your mother, mow that bitch down.

  He signed up to do some killing, for fucking sure, even killed some civvies in Iraqistan, but those had all been accidents. Dumbasses reaching for a cell phone at the wrong time, buenas noches, muthafucker.

  "Come closer," Rogers said.

  The doctor stepped into the illumination of the spotlight mounted to the roof beside the 50 cal.

  He was scratched up all to hell. Young doctor, too. Thirty-one, thirty-two tops.

  "What's your name?" Rogers asked.

  "Dr. Cook. Look, it's an infection spread by biting. I'm not bitten anywhere."

  Dr. Cook lifted his hands, turning in a slow circle.

  I should just fucking put two rounds through his chest right now and call it good. If Halford finds out I let someone through, I'm in for a serious ass-fucking.

  Rogers was about to let the gun eat the unlucky doc up, but those damn TV folks from the helicopter, with the damn kids and their damn camera, came running up. Then the damn pilot handed the damn doctor a baby.

  Shit. Live on Channel 6, lone soldier massacres seven civvies. After the networks and CNN got tired of it, the clip would be on YouTube forever.

  Rogers flicked on the safety.

  "Getcher ass behind the perimeter line," Rogers said, "By the trailer in the lot."

  "Sure thing, and thank you...what was your name?"

  "Doesn't matter. Fact, don't even tell them you talked to me. I'm supposed to kill anything that moves."

  "What about serve and protect?"

  "That's the police, brother. Marines just break shit."

  The doctor smiled. "I won't breathe a word."

  Then Dr. Cook led the group through the Humvee's headlights, heading for the perimeter. Rogers climbed off the mount. He had to piss. Another symptom of combat. Some reason, after a firefight, his bladder felt like it was the size of a grape.

  He made sure the TV guys weren't taping him, then took three steps away from the hummer and unzipped, getting things going with a grunt, then streaming urine onto the grass.

  He heard something behind him.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK...

  Rogers spun, reaching for his sidearm, pulsing urine all over his boots.

  He pointed the .45 toward the hummer but didn't see anything.

  "Who's there?"

  No answer. Not that the enemy would answer. Could those monsters even talk? Rogers didn't know, and didn't care. It wasn't his job to ask questions.

  His piss had dwindled to a trickle. Rogers still had to go, but instead chose to check-in and await orders. He didn't like being out here alone, even armed to the teeth. But keeping a perimeter around five acres of property, coupled with their casualties, had stretched their unit thin. He holstered both of his weapons (this is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for fighting, this is for fun) climbed into his Humvee, and picked up the radio. Just as he pressed the button to talk, he heard the sound again.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK...

  But it was closer this time.

  Closer, and coming from the back seat.

  His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror.

  Staring back at him was one of those monsters, its face burned, some parts right down to the white bone beneath. One eye missing, pink goo dripping out. Sitting back there, click click clicking its horrible teeth as a rope of drool slid out of its jaws.

  Rogers immediately reached for his .45, but the creature was on him before he cleared his holster, biting into his neck, so deep that Rogers felt its fangs dragging across his vertebrae.

  The pain was instant, blinding, and, strangely, infuriating. Even as his blood gushed out and his vision faded to black, Rogers was royally pissed off that one of these things had gotten the drop on him. Two fucking tours in the Middle East, only to die in Colorado.

  It was fucking embarrassing.

  Rogers reached blindly for his utility belt, freeing an M67 frag grenade. He pulled the pin with a flick of his thumb, and it dropped it onto his lap just as his consciousness slipped away.

  Semper fi, muthafucker.

  Private Rogers never heard the explosion.

  Deleted Joke

  Joe says: Jeff deleted this joke that I inserted into one of Paul's scenes, in Dr. Lanz's POV, during the ER massacre in the beginning. He said that Lanz wasn't the type to think up a joke like this. He's right, and I was okay with cutting it. But I did cry for two days straight.

  Dr. Lanz

  "He bit his arm off, doc!" the bearded one said. "That animal bit his fucking arm off! And he bit me in the ass!"

  As the pair struggled past, Lanz saw that the man's ample right buttock was missing a sizable chunk--mostly fat, but a little of the gluteus was exposed.

  Talk about a half-assed injury.

  Alternate Ending

  Joe says: This was as close as we got to any outright disagreements while writing this. And I gotta give big props to FPW, because it was totally unfair to him. We established early on that we'd all have POV characters, and we could end up doing what we wanted with them. I met with Jeff in Florida and we discussed how the Jenny/Randall dynamic wo
uld end up--they were star crossed lovers, with Randall's love strong enough for him to fight for Jenny even after he became a dracula. I'd also discussed Adam and Stacie's fates with Blake, and since he grooves on nihilism and tragedy, he decided to go the tragic route.

  Paul had free reign to do what he wanted with Shanna and Clay, though we'd all discussed letting Shanna live. Clay's fate, however, changed often during our email discussions. He lived and died and lived and died, back and forth, over and over. The problem was Clay turned out to be one of the most memorable, and likeable, characters in the book.

  We all knew going into this that we wanted a Night of the Living Dead type of ending. So Paul did what each of us did--he killed his main character in a spectacular fashion.

  But I really didn't want Clay to die. Paul had created such a fun character, and the rest of the climax was such a downer, that I really believed Clay should live.

  Happily, Paul was big enough to allow it, even though it was uncool of me to be such a whining little bitch boy. We compromised with the new, happier ending that appears in the manuscript.

  Paul also introduced another mysterious character in these scenes named Dr. Driscoll, who seems to understand what's going on. This hints at a deep government conspiracy. We all liked this idea, especially if we do a sequel, but it confused some of our beta readers. If we do wind up writing Draculas 2, no doubt Dr. Driscoll will be a key figure.

  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 return, 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. A scream echoed and then 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...that scream had had an unearthly quality. Had to be one of those draculas trying to escape the building. Still...

  She took a step in that direction to go check, just to be sure, when she noticed movement on the ground, not too far from her. She looked closer and saw one of the supposedly dead state troopers moving--one of the pair Clay hadn't shot.

  Oh, God. As it lifted its head and looked her way, glow from the army headlights glinted off rows of long sharp teeth.

  "Hey!" she called. "Hey, somebody! We've got trouble over here! Hey!"

  Nobody seemed to hear her. The noise from truck motors revving, soldiers shouting to each other, giving and taking orders, swallowed her cries.

  "Hey!" she called, raising her voice to its limit. "A little help over here."

  She backed up a few steps, readying to run, fearing it was coming for her, but it veered away, toward the empty darkness.

  Confused? The side of its skull looked bashed in. Too damaged to know what it was doing? Well, that was fine with Shanna...

  Except if it got away and bit someone, the plague would be loose and there'd be no stopping it.

  She screamed. "Will somebody please--oh, crap!" He was going to get away and no one was paying her a bit off attention.

  She glanced in the rear of Clay's Suburban and saw his super shotgun, his beloved AA-something. She didn't want to touch it...she remembered Marge back in the chapel, but somebody had to stop that thing.

  She grabbed the gun and went around the other side of the car in time to see the dracula passing. How hard could this be? She raised the shotgun, pointed it toward the thing, and, closing her eyes--she couldn't look--pulled the trigger.

  The gun boomed but had nowhere near the kick of that pistol Clay had handed her.

  She opened her eyes and saw the dracula on the pavement. She was about to congratulate herself when she realized it was still alive, if that was what you could call whatever it was, and trying to regain its feet. But it couldn't. Shanna had shredded its knee.

  "Lower your weapon!" shouted a voice behind her.

  She turned and found herself facing the muzzles of half a dozen guns of various shapes and sizes and a chorus telling her to drop it. She laid the shotgun gently on the pavement. After all, Clay loved that thing.

  "Now you listen!" she said.

  A soldier who looked like he was in command got in her face. "What do you think you're doing, firing that here?"

  Shanna jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "One of them was getting away."

  A couple of the soldiers looked past her. She could tell by their expressions they'd never seen a dracula before.

  "Get Doctor Driscoll," the officer said.

  A few minutes later a woman, one of the civilians from the big trailer, appeared. She stared at the dracula with virtually no reaction, not a hint of surprise.

  After a few seconds she said, "Dispose of it."

  The officer motioned behind him and a soldier with a flame thrower appeared.

  "Light it up," he told him.

  The soldier hesitated, then sent a stream of liquid fire at the thing, engulfing it in flame. It screamed, spasmed, rolled on the ground, then lay still.

  Shanna turned away and retched. That had once been a person...

  She turned back to the woman, Dr. Driscoll. "Is that the only way to stop the infection?"

  The woman stared at her with an alarmed expression. "Infection? Who said anything about infection?"

  "It's obvious."

  "It's nothing of the sort."

  And then it hit Shanna. Dr. Driscoll hadn't been repulsed by the dracula. She'd been expecting it. "You've seen this before, haven't you? You knew about this."

  "Who are you and where do you get your wild ideas?"

  "I was in there. I saw--"

  "In there? In the hospital?" The doctor signaled to the soldiers. "Lock her in quarantine."

  A pair of them grabbed her, one by each arm, and were dragging her toward the trailer when four of the hospital's third-floor windows facing the parking lot blew out, belching flame and filling the air with bits of glass and charred flesh.

  "Clay? Oh, no! Clay!"

  Jenny

  There was a frightening moment when the whole building shuddered from some sort of explosion. One of Clay's toys? Or had the cavalry finally arrived?

  Jenny continued to stare up at the military helicopter. Over the din of the rotors she yelled, "Down here!"

  It hovered directly overhead, and she watched one of the bay doors open. Then they began to lower a rescue basket down on a cable.

  No...not a rescue basket.

  What the heck is that?

  Shanna

  The soldiers who had been escorting her--a euphemism--to the trailer had seemed as shocked by the explosion as she. She'd tried to use their distraction to escape but they had too secure a grip on her. They'd pulled her inside and stuck her in what they'd called "the quarantine room."

  It looked improvised in some ways--a featureless space with no de
corations and half a dozen one-piece polymer chairs. But the small, fixed window that had to be at least an inch thick said otherwise. The best thing about that window was it faced the parking lot. Shanna had her nose pressed against it now, hands cupped around her eyes to shut out the room light, straining to see what was going on.

  What had happened? An explosion could mean only one person: Clay. But what could he have been carrying to blow out a wall like that? Better not to think about it. Who knew what Clay carried in his bag of tricks?