Last Breath tmv-11

by Rachel Caine

  The hearse skidded sideways, and Claire saw Eve’s white, shocked face in the driver’s side. Eve screamed something at them, but it didn’t matter what the message was; Shane was already throwing himself into a slide over the hood to the passenger door, and Claire scrambled after him.

  Something caught her by the hood of her jacket.

  She turned, pulled the silver knife, and slashed blindly. One of them shrieked that awful cry as it was hurt, and she managed to drive herself forward. Shane met her halfway and dragged her to the open door, shoved her inside, and yelled, “Go!” across to Eve as he got the door slammed shut.

  She gunned it.

  Claire felt a horrible bubbling pressure in her lungs, and coughed. Water sprayed out, tasting like rancid mold. She bent over and coughed until her lungs ached.

  Shane pounded her back, not that it really helped, and put his arms around her when she came upright again. Eve looked seriously terrified. Claire said, “How did you know?” but Eve pointed to her ears. Claire saw a flash of blue.

  Earplugs.

  She didn’t turn back toward the house; instead, she drove straight for City Hall, where it looked like half the cars in Morganville were parked. There was a full-scale panic under way, Claire saw: families carrying suitcases, hurrying toward the building, police officers out directing traffic.

  Chaos.

  Eve pulled her earplugs out as she parked, and Claire and Shane did the same. Everybody started talking at once, but Eve shouted the other two of them down. “The cops came to the house!” she said. “Everybody from Walnut Street to Garden had to get the hell out and come here. No exceptions. I figured I’d better go looking for you. Oh God, those things—I hit them. And they splashed. Gross. I wore the earplugs because, you know, last time, the music . . . Did you find Michael?” Eve was bouncing from subject to subject like a crazed meth fiend, but it wasn’t drugs driving her, just panic. “Please tell me you found him!”

  Shane said, “We found where they have him.” That was all he said, and that was probably a really good thing; Eve lit up with a smile. “We need reinforcements before we can even think about getting him out.”

  “But he’s alive?”

  “Yes,” Claire said. She couldn’t smile back; she just couldn’t. What she’d seen was too . . . grimly awful. “Yes, he’s alive. So’s Oliver, and Naomi, and a bunch of others. I have to get to Amelie. She has to understand.”

  “Well, you need to do it soon, because she’s already started moving vampires out of town,” Eve said. “I saw buses leaving. They have blacked-out windows, like those rock star kind of things. Probably hot and cold running-blood taps, and I just totally skeeved myself out by saying that. I guess those are the first-class passengers. I heard from Hannah Moses that some were being put into semi tractor-trailer trucks, too. I guess that would explain the sudden Wal-Mart invasion.”

  “Wal-Mart?” Shane repeated.

  “I guess they grabbed whatever trucks they could get. Wal-Mart, grocery trucks, mail trucks . . . It looks like one of those disaster movies, with the people crawling over each other to get on the last helicopter.” Eve had lost her smile, and she looked . . . adult. And suddenly grim. “I think this town is done for, guys. It feels like it’s dying all around us.”

  It felt that way to Claire, too. “Will you take us to Founder’s Square?” she asked. “Please? It’s not safe to try to get there on foot, not anymore. I know they told you to come here, but . . .”

  “Sure,” Eve said. “Like I ever followed anybody’s rules anyway. Hey, try the seat belts. I hear they save lives and crap. We may be doing some seriously defensive driving.”

  She turned the key, and the engine made an awful grinding sound. Eve frowned and tried it again. It sounded horrible, and it definitely didn’t sound like an engine was supposed to sound.

  “Dammit,” she said, and unbuckled as she got out. Shane joined her at the hood, but instead of lifting it, they both stood there, staring.

  Claire scrambled out to take a look, too. “What is it?”

  The front grille of the hearse looked melted. There was black, wet gunk oozing out of it, and when Eve reached out to pop the hood release, Shane stopped her. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t touch that stuff. Get the work gloves—I left them in the bag in the back.”

  Once she’d gotten them, Shane tugged the thick, heavy gloves on, took a deep breath, and reached under the grille to pop the latch. It came free with a sticky, wet sound, and as he raised the hood, there was a thin film of goo that came up with it.

  The engine was fouled with the stuff, and it was bubbling. It looked, Claire thought sickly, like a cross between slime and seaweed, and it gave off a wet, thick smell of decay.

  “Oh my God,” Eve said. It came out muffled, since she was pinching her nose shut and backing away. “Oh my God, my poor baby—what is that?”

  Shane slammed the hood and stripped off the gloves. They were smeared with the same stuff, and he kicked them under the hearse. “Whatever it is, you’re not driving us anywhere,” he said. “So what are we going to do?”

  “Find another car,” Claire said, and just at that moment, she spotted one pulling up. It was rocking pop music at an earsplitting volume, which cut off abruptly as the driver pulled the key and got out.

  Monica Morrell didn’t look like she was planning on getting out of town. In fact, she looked like she’d been pulled out of an after-hours club, and as she stalked up the sidewalk, stiletto heels tapping out an impatient rhythm, Claire had to give her style points. Everybody else had a mismatched refugee look, but not Monica. She had on a glittery, figure-hugging minidress, one that showed off her long tanned legs and curves and cleavage. Even her long, straightened dark hair blew in the wind like a supermodel’s.

  She slowed down as she caught sight of them, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You guys.” Claire wondered if she’d heard about her death; obviously not, because Monica skipped right over her presence. Or just massively didn’t care either way.

  Monica tried to go around them, but Eve stepped directly in her way. “Bitch, please!” Monica tried to shove her, but Shane’s timing was perfect; he moved Eve out of the way, and Monica’s flattened palm hit his chest instead. “Oh. Well, hello, delicious.” She batted her eyes at him. “Looking for something a little less pasty and junior-sized?”

  “Keys,” he said, and looked down at her hand on his chest. “You’re touching me, Monica. That’s a bad thing.”

  “Keys,” she repeated, and slowly stepped back. “What do you mean, keys?”

  “As in, give. Now.” Shane had that look—hard, and no bullshit. “We don’t have time for your drama, Monica. Nobody does.”

  She got serious. It looked very odd on her, Claire thought. “My brother told me not to go out,” she said. “He wasn’t wrong, was he? Something’s happening. They shut down the club and told us all to leave.” Shane nodded slowly, and Monica turned her attention to Claire. “Why do you need my keys, exactly?”

  “To get to Amelie,” Claire said. “We need a ride. Eve’s is toast.”

  “That’s true,” Eve said. “I’m in mourning.”

  “Really? How can anybody tell?” Monica tossed her car keys in her hand and gave them a brilliant smile. “Tell you what, losers: I drive. Nobody touches the baby but me. Besides, if I’m semisafe here with my brother, I’ll be much safer with the Founder.”

  Claire doubted that, really, but she wasn’t about to tell Monica that.

  Eve, for once, didn’t call shotgun, and neither did Shane. She just got in the back, behind Monica. Claire quickly rock-paper-scissored with Shane on the way to a decision, and Claire lost. She was up front, with Monica, and Shane piled in the back, along with a canvas bag of stuff that he’d dragged out of the back of the hearse.

  “Seriously,” Shane said as they settled in and Monica turned the key. “You live in a town full of vampires. Is a convertible really the best option?”

 
“I didn’t know you cared,” Monica said, and the pop music started up in midsong. It was off Monica’s iPod, Claire guessed, and she was apparently a big Britney Spears fan.

  “Toxic.”

  That was actually weirdly appropriate.

  SEVENTEEN

  CLAIRE

  By the time they were halfway to Founder’s Square, Claire wished the shotgun seat actually came with a shotgun, because Monica was killing her slowly, with her incessant chatter. That was funny, because Monica normally wasn’t talkative, at least not to them, but it seemed like her shut-up circuit had fried.

  “. . . I went to DeeDee’s to pick up my new dress, and it was closed. Not even a note in the window. I was so pissed off! I actually had to wear this thing. . . .” Monica plucked at the fabric of what she was nearly wearing in disgust. Claire didn’t see how that was really possible, since it fit like skin. “. . . Which all the guys have seen about a dozen times now, not to mention Janis Taylor was there and wearing her new dress, which was skanky, and I know she was talking about me recycling the look—”

  Shane, from the back, said, “I’m really trying to swear off the random fighting, Monica, but I swear to God that if you don’t shut up, I’m going to go back to Step Zero on my twelve-step program. We don’t give a shit about your dress or your club or Janis Taylor. Michael’s in trouble.”

  Monica sent him a hard look in the rearview mirror, and said, “And when is one of you losers not in trouble, anyway? Not that Michael is a total waste of genetics; I’ll give you that. So . . . what’s happening? You seem to always know.”

  Claire said, “There’s something new in town, and it’s bad. It’s taking vampires and humans and—” What was it doing, exactly? She didn’t know, but whatever it was, there was no doubt it was pure evil. “Amelie’s scared enough to shut up the town and run.”

  “Shut up the town?” Monica’s glossy lips pressed flat. “Are you kidding me? I put a lot of work into living here. I have roots.”

  “Here I thought you stopped dyeing your hair,” Shane said. Monica flipped him off.

  “Shouldn’t that be Eve’s line?” she shot back. “Or has Goth Princess finally learned to shut up?”

  Eve leaned forward. As Claire looked back at her, she felt a little shocked at her friend’s set, serious expression. “I’ve learned a lot of things, Monica,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the wind and the music. “Michael is missing. He may be dying. I am not in the mood for your shallow bullshit right now. If you get in my way, I will cut you, because you are nothing but a speed bump on my way to saving him. Are we clear?”

  Monica’s lips parted, and she stared straight ahead for a few silent seconds before she said, “Clear.” That was all. She shifted the car into a higher gear, and the engine growled hard. “I know you won’t believe this, but I do care. He’s not bad, your boyfriend. And we have a drastic shortage of hotties in this town. Can’t really afford to waste one.”

  Eve eased back into her seat without another word. She stared off to the side, at the darkened streets, the empty stores and houses.

  The Morganville that was.

  Shane said, “It’s about to rain again. You should put the top up.”

  “I have to slow down to do that,” Monica said. “You want that?”

  “Good point. I don’t mind getting wet if you don’t.”

  “Oh, I mind, hot pants; you think all this didn’t take work?” She indicated, well, all of herself.

  “Hot pants?” Claire said, choking on a sudden and inappropriate laugh, because she just knew what Shane’s face would look like without having to turn around. “Do you have any survival instinct at all?”

  Monica smiled, one of those cruel, evil smiles that had always heralded trouble. “What do you think?” she almost purred, and shook her long hair back over her shoulders, where it snapped like a flag in the wind. “I’m still alive. And I’m still fabulous. Unlike, well, everybody else in this car.” Her smile faded, and she downshifted. “Company.”

  The convertible took a corner hard, tires squealing, and ahead Claire saw the glow of flashing police-car lights. They’d blocked off the street—and probably every approach to Founder’s Square.

  “Look, I’ve done my bit, but I’m not running roadblocks for you,” Monica said, and slowed the convertible to an easy rumble.

  “Try another route.”

  “Don’t be stupid—they’re all blocked. If you want to get in, you’re going to have to get stealthy, and trust me, my shiny red four-wheeled baby is many things, but stealthy she is not.”

  That was true, and Monica wasn’t exactly subtle, either. Claire nodded grudgingly. Monica pulled the convertible over to the curb, and the three of them unbuckled and got out.

  “Here,” Monica said, and reached under her driver’s-side seat. She pulled out some kind of designer bag—Claire had no idea how to tell one from another—and opened it up, and pulled out . . .

  . . . A handgun. Not an automatic, like the one Shane had held while sitting on her bedroom floor.... This was a classic revolver.

  For a wild second, Claire thought that Monica might actually shoot her; she wouldn’t have been all that surprised, really. There was a lazy, cruel pleasure in Monica’s eyes as she held the gun, and one eyebrow went up. . . .

  . . . And then she swung it around and held it butt out toward Claire.

  Shane intercepted it, frowned, and said, “Okay, how come you’re carrying around a thirty-eight?”

  “It’s Texas,” Monica said. “I have rights. Oh, and check the bullets.” She pressed a button on the dash with a slender, perfectly manicured finger, and checked her windblown hair as the black canvas top began to rise up with a whine. “Ciao, losers.”

  She pulled a U-turn and hit the gas.

  Shane broke open the cylinder on the gun and whistled. “Okay, interesting . . . hollow points, filled with silver. All the punch, none of the problems. My dad had some of these.”

  “Did they work?” Eve asked.

  He snapped the cylinder back in with a flick of his wrist, and put the small gun in the pocket of his coat. “Hell yeah, they work. But you’d better mean it, because it’ll kill what you’re shooting at, human or vamp.”

  “Will it kill those . . . things?” Eve asked.

  “It’s just a guess, but probably not. The caliber is a thirty-eight, which means it’s a lower-velocity round, but plenty enough to punch through one of those—sacks of skin—front to back without bouncing around inside. I’m not sure how much damage it’ll do to them, really. Your knife worked better. And your sword.” He tapped his pocket. “But if any vampire wants to take us on, it’ll be a pretty good deterrent.”

  She nodded and shouldered the strap on the equipment bag. “Then let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Claire said. “We need a plan. We can’t just walk straight up to the police line and say, Hello, let us in, please. We’re heavily armed and desperate!”

  “Why not?” Claire really didn’t like the gleam in Eve’s eyes, or her stiff body language. “Amelie doesn’t mind dumping Michael and running away. She’s leaving him to die, right? Well, if she needs a reminder of why that’s a very bad idea, I’m happy to be her wake-up call.”

  “Take a breath, Eve. Let’s do this smart, okay? There’s a lot of muscle standing between us and Amelie, and some of it’s human cops who don’t know what’s going on. We need to find a way that doesn’t involve grievous bodily harm.”

  “All right,” Eve said. “We’ll try it your way. Once.” She looked over at Shane, and got a small, unwilling nod from him. “Then we do it our way. The Morganville way.”

  Maybe her ears were supersensitive now, courtesy of either Myrnin’s blood exchange or the lingering fear of that high-pitched, seductive music, but Claire heard something in the distance. A rumble. It sounded like a whole lot of cars or trucks, and it was coming closer.

  Voices, too. Shouts.

  She turned, trying to f
ind the direction, and realized it was coming from around the corner, the same way Monica had gone in her getaway.

  It wasn’t Monica.

  What came around the corner was a streetwide growling wall of pickups, cars, delivery vans . . . all kinds of vehicles. And behind them was a crowd of people, maybe a hundred or so.

  “Ah,” Shane said, “maybe we should . . . ?”

  Claire’s eyes fixed on a man who was standing up in the bed of one of the lead pickups. He was facing toward the cops. It took her a second, but she recognized him—the man from the camera store, the one with the stake tattoo.

  “Crap,” Shane said. “Captain Obvious.”

  “What? Captain Obvious is dead!” Eve said.

  “Long live Captain Obvious. He’s the replacement. He’s the one who’s been getting people to sign on.”

  “The tattoos,” Claire put in. “The resistance symbol. He’s leading the charge.”

  “Yep. Don’t know if this is a good time, but he’s decided to go for it,” Shane said. “Like I said, maybe we should hang back, Claire. . . . Claire!”

  He grabbed for her, but she still had at least some residue of vampire speed, and it was enough to leap off the curb, race at an angle toward the trucks, and leap up into the bed of the one holding Captain Obvious. Shane was running after her, and so was Eve, but her attention was fixed on the man in the truck, who was turning toward her like he intended to throw her back.

  She held up her hand, palm out, and said, “Wait. I just want to talk.”

  Captain Obvious, the new leader of the human resistance in Morganville, laughed. He had a knife. It was held at his side, but she saw the edge glittering in a passing streetlight. “Amelie’s little pet wants to talk? How stupid do you think we are?”

  “I know you don’t believe me, but believe this: it isn’t the right time for fighting back. Even if you win, you lose. You’re not going to have a revolution. You’re not going to have a town. You’re not going to be alive!”