Footsteps?
Something was circling the house, trying to find a way in. Bates cowered, making small, unfamiliar noises in the back of his throat. What the hell was going on? Easy, take it easy. Discipline. He took his gun out and checked for ammunition. You're acting like a kid, he thought. There's nothing out there. Get yourself together.
He tried to stand up, but his body betrayed him. His knees weakened and he fell back against the wall. He took a deep breath and made it on the second try. Got to get out of here. Now.
Bates stumbled towards the door, tripped over his luggage and cracked his head on a chair. The hurt sobered him. He welcomed it. He grabbed a suitcase in each hand, held tight to the nagging pain and let it dig deep.
The storm was roaring. He closed his eyes and pushed against the screen door with his foot. It didn't budge. Jammed?
He opened his eyes and found himself facing Urich. The dead man gaped at him, skin pale as fish belly. Bates could see the imprint the screen had made on one ruined cheek: a little red spider web. The corpse was leaning against the door, looking in.
Bates whimpered as one foul-smelling hand began to inch, crablike, toward the latch. He backed away, fascinated. Death reached out for him.
Bates snapped. The way out is through.
He gathered himself and ran straight at the door, thinking past the target, smashing through it. Urich's body fell flat on its back in the yard. The door burst from its hinges and crashed to the ground with the sound of splintering wood. Bates raced right over the druggist, who lay pinned beneath the frame, and sprinted for the squad car.
Behind him, the corpse made a clumsy attempt to get to its feet.
Bates slammed the car door, locked it, fumbled through his pockets for the keys. Jesus, had he forgotten the keys? Found them — cold metal, reassuring to the touch. Keep your discipline. The thing that had been Urich was now on its knees. It stood up and winked. Bates shuddered. He started the car and glanced in the rear-view mirror.
Martoni was in the back seat, right behind him. The grocer's face was pressed tight against the wire mesh. He was grinning wickedly.
Bates threw himself out of the squad car, rolling, and bounced up. He moaned and backed away from the wretched sight, shaking his head in despair.
Urich just stood there, buffeted by the wind, his unblinking eyes fixed on Bates. The car door opened. Martoni, grotesque and clumsy, started to get out.
Glenn Bates ran screaming into the night.
20
SPATS
Spats couldn't believe his eyes. A little boy, about seven. School jacket, no cap,
thick hair fluttering in the breeze. Right there, near the cliffs… the most beautiful white boy he had ever seen.
It was Julie's brother. The child he'd thirsted for was alive.
The kid must have escaped somehow, left his family behind to burn. A gutsy boy. Too bad he couldn't be allowed to get away.
Spats Rafferty willed himself invisible and began to work his way closer to Timmy. Spats now didn't remember how he'd become what he was. All he knew was that he served Jason, and that a great thirst came upon him at nightfall.
But now something else throbbed within him; the vague memory of a different kind of need, not unlike the thirst. A need that caused the compulsion to possess and penetrate. The feeling brought dim remembrances: sights, smells and sounds. Traces of what had once been human sexuality.
Spats wanted Timmy Baxter, and for more than the slaking of the thirst. For something else, half forgotten.
Timmy had turned around. He was walking deeper into the forest, searching for the trail that led down into Two Trees. Spats changed shape and color slightly, in order to match his surroundings. He adjusted for the wind and followed.
Another flicker of memory: This wasn't the correct way to stalk such lovely game. This would be too easy, not the exciting experience it deserved to be. He would show himself, he decided. Yes. The thrill of the chase, the capture —
And what? Something else, some physical action. Before killing, before drinking.
Spats, now visible, crouched low in a clump of bushes. He felt close to the answer. It was maddening to be unable to pin down what was missing.
No matter. Perhaps it would come to him during the pursuit. In any event, the boy must die. Those were Jason's orders, and Spats had to carry them out. Timmy Baxter would quench his thirst, then cease to be. But why not make the hunt more pleasurable for the hunter?
He would let the lad see him, create some terror before closing in for the kill. Perhaps by then he'd know what it was he craved so desperately.
Timmy heard something, spun around.
Saw a vamper.
He disappointed Spats Rafferty by just standing his ground. Waiting. Spats played with the boy's eyes. He popped up in unexpected places, altering his shape and size.
No reaction.
The boy was strong. If he was frightened, he managed not to show it. Spats tried every trick in the book, but Timmy refused to give an inch.
Rafferty reached into the side pocket of his filthy jacket. He fingered the scissors he'd use to open the boy's throat. The thirst was upon him with a vengeance, had him smacking his lips in greedy anticipation. Besides, the boy was boring him.
Spats lost patience and crashed closer. He came to a halt only a few feet away and tore into Timmy with all the supernatural force of his mesmerizing eyes. Since the kid wouldn't play, he would have to be broken. Spats set out to dominate Timmy. He wanted to brutalize the boy, smash his psyche into rubble.
Timmy met his eyes. Come and get me, he seemed to be saying. I don't care anymore.
Spats increased the pressure. He was aching to nibble this soft young flesh, to sip of the hot, sweet blood. The thirst was almost out of control.
But it was demanding more than drink. Much more. And then he remembered; swelled and hardened. And somewhere deep inside it struck him odd that he could still feel such a human passion. So much life for a dead man.
The boy's eyes were glazed. He appeared to be in a passive state, under control. One part of Spats was impatient to drink, but the other insisted that its needs be satisfied first. He rubbed his crotch.
"Take off your clothes," he growled.
Timmy obediently unzipped his jacket. He moved tantalizingly, irritatingly slow. Spats nearly sliced the pretty neck open and began to drink, but the warm glow in his genitals held him in check. No, he thought, this one has to be enjoyed first.
Timmy froze in position, passive as a lamb. He seemed to have forgotten his instructions. Damn, Spats thought. I'll have to be careful about this. If I get too carried away, I could lose control of him. Still, he looks harmless enough. And he's so fucking beautiful...
"On your knees," he whispered.
Timmy dropped to the ground and Spats stepped closer. The kid's silence was reassuring. He could think of nothing else, suddenly, except the boy's warm mouth. It was all that mattered, that mouth. It was everything. He felt ready. He started to form the words, to order the kid to —
Pain. Excruciating pain.
"Aaaah!"
Spats stared down at his chest. The gushing fountain of blood, the wooden stake. He screamed again.
Timmy swung the mallet a third time, a fourth. The stake was driven deep, impaling Rafferty. The cruel point pierced his heart, then split the spine and popped out through his back. Spats gagged and collapsed.
Timmy kicked the vamper's body. He felt good. It had taken courage to wander, and to offer himself up as bait. But it had worked. He'd finally done it, killed the one that had started it all by biting Julie.
It was over.
He retrieved the stake and set out to find Peter Rourke. The wind was rising, raindrops beginning to fall. Thunder rolled through the mountains.
Down below, in Two Trees, the storm was raging.
21
MAGGIE
She waited for a crash of thunder to cover the sound of her footsteps, then dashed
away from the side of the house. Maggie jogged through the rain and the mud. She passed the dead man in the yard, but barely glanced at the huge hole in his chest. Violence was becoming familiar. I can do this, she thought. I can fucking do this.
She reached the cover of some nearby trees, took a careful look around, then sped away.
Maggie ran. She ran until her stomach hurt and her lungs were on fire, down dark and empty streets, past old abandoned houses. She stopped in a doorway to catch her breath. Gladys wouldn't be home, Peter had said. She'd be with her friend Edith, on First Street. That must be close to the corner, near Jake's gas station. Maggie braced herself.
Another block, then hang a right.
She checked both ways for movement. The town seemed lifeless. Abandoned.
She ran again.
Maggie came to the end of Third Street. Lightning flashed, allowing her to see the numbers on the mailboxes, the colors of the houses. Icy rain caused her leg muscles to cramp as she stumbled around the corner.
Someone was coming. Maggie stopped in her tracks, terrified. The next flash of lightning revealed Glenn Bates, running along the gutter, his huge feet sloshing through the muddy water. Thank God!
"Sheriff?" Maggie called.
No reaction.
She yelled, straining to be heard above the storm.
"Sheriff Bates!"
He turned, eyes strange, gun hanging loose in one hand. Maggie fell to her knees in the water, relieved. Her side hurt and she was panting. Bates seemed to snap out of his stupor. He trotted over to her.
"Have you seen them?" he asked. "Are they still around?"
She nodded, trying to regain her wind.
"I ran from them," Bates said. "But I'm not going to run again." He was soaked to the skin, his hair matted. His voice was hoarse, his big hands jerking spasmodically. Maggie barely noticed at first.
"They have Peter and Michael pinned down in the house," she said. "I got away."
Bates stood there, trembling in the rain. "I'll kill them again if I can," he sighed. "But I'm not really sure how. Can they really be killed? Do you know how to kill them?"
Maggie rose slowly, horror creeping through her. Glenn Bates was totally insane.
"I'm glad you've seen them too," he said. "I'll go. I'll try and kill them again. What are you going to do?"
She stepped to one side. "I'm going to get Gladys to phone for some help."
Bates rubbed his chin. "I don't think the lines are working, but I suppose you ought to give it a try. Your house? They're at your house?"
Maggie nodded. She began wading backwards through the cold water to get away from him. "Yes. They are trying to hurt Peter and my brother Michael. Stop them, okay? They are all outside the house."
"I'm going then," he said. "I'll try to kill as many as I can."
He took off, boots splashing.
What the hell is going on around here? Maggie moved on, searching for the brown and white house. By the time she found it, her sides were burning and she was exhausted. She slipped climbing the front steps, caught herself, knocked on the door. It swung open.
She gagged. A headless corpse lay flat on the carpet, one hand clutching at the air. The body was a mass of stab wounds. The room smelled foul, wet; it stank of emptied bowels and fresh blood. Jesus, I have made a big, big mistake. I need to find Peter.
Maggie slammed the door and rocketed away, driven on by revulsion and panic. This was beyond understanding, all of it, and an instinct as old as time was shrieking a warning. Maggie longed to be with Rourke and knew that she had to get back to him as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Jason watched her from the alley. He was smiling.
She ran right by him, within touching distance. The little man stayed in the shadows, looking up at her with his twisted grin. He watched her go, whistled tunelessly and followed a few yards behind.
The exhaustion took its toll. Maggie tripped, fell face down in the gutter and swallowed some of the filthy water. She toppled over onto the pavement, sobbing for air. Get up, get up.
There was a break in the storm. She heard footsteps. [dirty] Slow, shuffling footsteps. Maggie was paralyzed with fear, couldn't move an inch: [do monsters come for dirty little girls? do they pick the ones who deserve killing?] As if in answer, the footsteps stopped.
Maggie raised her head slightly. She saw bare feet. Two pairs of bare feet.
She caught a whiff of something that smelled rotten, long dead.
22
TIMMY
Timmy arrived in the town square just moments later. He was astonished by the violence of the storm. The boy began a random search through the deserted streets for Peter Rourke. Jason did not see him. He was occupied with Maggie and unaware that Timmy Baxter had survived.
23
BATES
Survival. That's the name of the game, Bates thought. The idea is to make it, get short and stay healthy; fly your happy ass back to The World.
Bates kept low, close to the ground, and eyeballed the house. Just like 'Nam, he thought. He edged forward, hearing the mud sucked at the knees of his soiled uniform. Just like fucking Viet Nam: Wet and miserable, terrifying — and exciting.
He lay still in the shadows. When he had to go, he pissed in his pants.
Just like 'Nam.
Scared...
Waiting in the rain for the enemy.
24
MICHAEL
This is not good., Michael Moore thought, calnly. Not good at all.
He fought to raise his head. He felt terrible, old and wrung out. How much blood had he lost? He looked down. There was a thick pool of sticky red at his feet.
Well, shit.
Don't relax, don't you dare let go.
You're all right, Moore.
You've got the balls of a bull elephant and brains to match. You're too pretty to die. Whoa, got to hang on, Sloopy, Sloopy hang on...
Hmmm — Whoops! Careful, man. You're holding up the rear, so stay awake.
Michael shifted position.
Heard Peter fire.
25
VARGAS
Vargas rolled, cursing a blue streak. He'd nearly been hit, goddamn it! The bastard was dangerous. Jason had said to expect the unexpected, but he'd also scorned Rourke as weak, indecisive and not much of an opponent. Well boss, Vargas thought, you'd better think again. As a matter of fact, you ugly little shit, why don't you come on out here and trade places with me?
His anger sagged. That was dumb, Vargas. You never know when he might be listening. Keep your mind on the job, where it belongs.
[... first the thunder and the lightning...]
He began to crawl away from the porch. If I wait here, he thought, this sniping crap could go on for hours. Chalmers must be out of the game.
Time to take it to him.
Vargas sprinted for a few yards, then fell prone again. He hadn't been seen. He slid through the mud on his belly, using his elbows to drag his body forward, and started working his way towards the back of the house.
He was pleased to hear Rourke take a shot at his old position.
Just a little further.
[... devils reign, reign, reign...]
In the harsh glare of the porch light, Vargas spotted Chalmers' body. It was covered with dark stains; sprawled out in the yard like some hooker in a porno rag. He sighed with annoyance and a touch of regret. Billy, I guess you gave it your best shot, he thought. Sayonara, motherfucker.
See you in Hell.
He got to his feet. In one smooth motion he was off, running hard, crouching and weaving. Vargas heard Rourke fire another blind shot at the empty porch. Safe, for the moment. Better still, the second man wasn't firing at all; he either didn't see Vargas or was also out of the game. Okay. That's how he'd like it, he decided. Just him and Rourke.
And then the woman [oh that woman, the rock singer, hadn't that been grand? 666 hundred years of pain...]
Maybe he'd keep Rourke alive for a while, just so he'd know what was goi
ng to happen to his new girl. Let him see some of it, this time. He would get Maggie to believe he might spare her man if she was nice enough. Sexy enough. Hey, force Rourke to watch them for a while, then blow him away. Jason didn't seem to give a shit how it got done, as long as Rourke wasn't breathing when the party started.
No problem, boss.
Vargas approached the back door soundlessly. He kicked it open and went in low, perfectly balanced. The fucking Mafia bodyguard who'd chased him lay face down on the kitchen table in a lake of blood. How lucky can one man get? Vargas grabbed a kitchen towel and wound it around his pistol to muffle some of the noise.
Michael moaned and moved slightly. He opened his eyes and saw Vargas.
"You?"
His slick, pink hands began to fumble for his own weapon. "Sorry pal," Vargas whispered. "You blew your chance back in Vegas."
Two muffled metallic burps: Popcorn in a saucepan. The back of Michael's head flew away and hit the kitchen wall. It left a smear of grey and pink matter when it fell. His body jerked and lay still.
Vargas stepped gingerly to the opposite side of the room. He could see about half of Rourke — the left side from the doorway. The songwriter was bigger than he'd remembered. Rourke was facing forward, not quite flush to the window, the rifle loose in his hands. He looked intense as hell, deep in thought. There was no sign of Maggie Moore. She was probably hiding in one of the bedrooms. How convenient.
Vargas didn't like the angle. It was good enough for a kill, but too risky for anything else. Rourke was a damn good shot. On top of that, he was supposed to be special; sort of weird, like Jason. Vargas could be fairly certain of wrecking his leg, blowing open an artery, but what if Rourke was fast enough to get one off before the pain hit?
But the girl, the thing, the excitement after —
Night of the Beast Page 30
