Tension simmered in the smoky air, too. Today, The Spot wasn't a normal hangout. It was like an army barracks in the midst of a war, and none of the old rules mattered.
Motherfucking vampires, Andre thought. That was what people were saying. Vampires. Of all the things in the world, their town had been invaded by monsters out of a horror movie.
He wouldn't have believed it if he had not been there at the cave with Junior. Ever since that night, he found it easy to believe in all kinds of things that he would've laughed about before. He still had not told anyone what he had seen, and he sure as hell wasn't going to open his mouth now. They might blame him for stirring up the shit in the first place. He was going to sit there on his stool, put away brews, and mind his business.
He didn't have a gun, either. He wasn't going to try to be a hero, or plan to battle a vampire-none of that shit. The only thing he really wanted to do was leave town, but some fellas had said the roads were blocked off with heaps of split trees.
Besides, he didn't have anywhere to go, anyway. He sure as hell wasn't going to stay with his woman and her mama in Memphis. Dracula himself would have been no match for his woman's mama.
The CD player on the boom box started to skip on an Earth, Wind and Fire classic, "Fantasy." Booker T, a guy Andre had known for years, rapped the top of the stereo, shook it hard, and finally the song resumed.
Booker T plopped onto the stool beside Andre.
"Don't be tearing up my goddamn property, Booker T," Mr. Clyde, the owner and bartender, said. He was a stout, thick-armed man with salt-and-pepper hair, and had reputedly served time in the state pen for killing a man, twentysome years ago. "You wanna shake up a boom box, buy one your goddamn self."
"My apologies, Mr. Clyde," Booker T said. "Can you please give me a cola, sir? With a lemon wedge, of course"
Mr. Clyde mumbled. He slid a can of Coke, and a lemon wedge, in front of Booker T.
Booker T's apologetic tone didn't surprise Andre. Mr. Clyde didn't take any shit in his joint. Andre had seen the old guy throw out many a nigga.
Booker T sipped his drink. He was a short, scrawny guy who wore wire-rim glasses, a white dress shirt, and suspenders. A pocket notebook bulged in his breast pocket. People said he was a lunatic genius, one of those cats who was so smart he couldn't lead a regular life. Andre usually saw the guy walking the streets at all times of the day, muttering to himself and staring at things like trees and rocks and birds for hours, and scribbling endlessly in his tiny notebook. A regular at The Spot, Booker T always played darts and drank cola with a lemon wedge floating inside.
"What do you think of what's going down here, Andre?" Booker T said. "Do you believe the story about vampires?"
Andre shrugged. "All I know is, once the sun goes down, I keep my black ass indoors."
"Then you believe it."
"It don't matter whether I believe it or not. Folk's been disappearing, mad dogs been biting niggas. That's all I need to hear to keep my ass inside till it blows over."
Booker T reached into the bowl of peanuts, popped a couple of nuts into his mouth. "Andre, this is a conspiracy engineered by the government. They're testing a virus on us, a biological weapon. Mason's Corner is the testing ground for a new strain of supervirus."
"You read that in a book somewhere?" Andre said.
Booker T guffawed as if Andre had asked the dumbest question in the world.
"No, I did not reach this conclusion by reading a book. Don't you understand that book publishing in this country is manipulated by the government? I reached this conclusion through my field research" He tapped the notebook in his shirt pocket, and smiled smugly.
Andre wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off Booker T's face by telling him what had happened at the cave, but he kept his mouth shut. Let the crazy nigga believe whatever he wanted.
"It ain't no goddamn government conspiracy," Mr. Clyde said. He rested his meaty, tattooed forearms on the counter. "You need to take your goddamn nose out of that notebook, Booker T. This is some supernatural shit happening here. Goddamn demons, man. Only God can save us. You can't do no research on that."
Booker T shook his head sadly. "As usual, when under duress, our people turn to the comforting bosom of primitive superstition and childish wish fulfillment."
"Watch your goddamn mouth, boy," Mr. Clyde said. "You won't be spittin out them big words when you're picking up your teeth off the goddamn floor."
Andre laughed. "Better watch it, Booker T."
Booker T waved his hand as if it didn't matter. "Please, indulge my curiosity, Mr. Clyde. If vampires are overrunning our town, how did it begin? Did they fall out of the sky?"
"There's one of them master vampires out there somewhere," Mr. Clyde said. He looked at the windows, which were veiled against the night. Anxiety glimmered in his eyes. "Just like in the movies, an old goddamn vampire's come to town and started shit."
Booker T rolled his eyes, but Andre was quiet.
Mr. Clyde's probably more right than he thinks, Andre thought. He remembered the mysterious man in black he'd seen at the cave, who could move faster than Andre could blink. He shivered.
Quickly, he grabbed his beer and chugged the rest of it.
As Andre was about to ask for another brew, the front door banged open, bringing the howl of the cold wind, a rustling wave of dead leaves, and the biggest man he had ever seen in his life.
The man was at least seven feet tall, with a powerful build, like a giant football linebacker. He wore a black shirt that seemed barely able to contain his wide shoulders, black jeans, and gleaming black boots. His skin was a deep cocoabrown, his head was bald, and his eyes were utterly black, like pits leading straight to hell.
Silence clutched the room in a vise grip. Every man in the joint froze, mouths agape.
Andre held his breath.
The man's gaze swept throughout the bar, and Andre had the feeling that, in one glance, this guy had sized up all of them, and made a decision.
He stepped across the threshold. Shadows flitted across him, like bats.
"My name is Diallo," he said. His voice was deep, yet he spoke in a low tone that carried clearly throughout the place. "I am seeking soldiers. I could use each of you, but I will kill any that do not submit. Which of you men will avert death, join my army, and taste true freedom?"
A pause. Then, almost as one, the men drew their guns and aimed at the man who called himself Diallo.
He's the big dog vampire, Andre thought, wishing that he had a gun, too. He was willing to bet his life that this was the motherfucker that they were just talking about. The guy oozed evil power.
Booker T flipped out a pocketknife. Andre almost laughed, but he didn't have a weapon at all for himself. He noticed an old billiards stick leaning against the wall near him. He grasped it in his shaky hands. Better than nothing.
"Look here," a guy said. It was Calvin Jones, who worked at the barbershop. "I don't know who you think you are stepping up in here like this, but me and the brothers here don't want no trouble. We don't want no part of nobody's army. So push on"
"Right," another man said. He had a big .44. "Get the fuck out of here and leave us alone."
"And I'm backing up my customers," Mr. Clyde said. He took a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter. "I don't want any trouble here. Get off my goddamn property before I blow a hole in you"
Diallo's face was expressionless. He made another step forward.
The snick-click of cocking triggers popped through the air.
"The only way that you will leave alive," Diallo said, "is by joining me. Those who submit, come to me, and kneel. If you do not submit, the price for disobedience is death"
"Out," Mr. Clyde said. Perched behind the bar counter, he took aim with the shotgun.
The vampire thoughtfully regarded the firearms pointed at him. A faint smile played across his face.
Andre squeezed the cue stick so tightly it was a wonder it didn't snap in half. He blin
ked a drop of sweat out of his eye.
The vampire disappeared. Just like that. He was gone.
The door yawned into the stormy night.
Each man in the room released a chestful of air. Then the door, propelled by an unseen force, slammed shut, and someone cried out, "He's behind us!"
Andre looked. Diallo was behind the pool table, gripping a billiards stick. The man nearest the vampire tried to fire his pistol, but he was too slow. Diallo drove the stick through the guy's chest like a man spearing a fish, the bloody tip poking out between the victim's shoulder blades. The man choked out a garbled scream, his arms flailing uselessly at the wooden pole.
Diallo lifted the man high and flung him across the room. The guy crashed into the pinball machine, leaving a smear of blood across the display.
Andre's stomach convulsed. He tasted warm beer bubbling up his throat.
"Shoot him, goddammit!" Mr. Clyde said.
Andre covered his head, and dropped to the floor.
Mr. Clyde's shotgun boomed. More guns fired as the men attacked the monster. Bullets hammered Diallo, but he did not fall, stumble, or bleed. The bullets seemed to bounce off his body. Crouched, Andre could see the floor around Diallo: rounds rained to the hardwood.
He had to get out of there, that was the only way he could survive.
Across the room, Diallo grasped the edge of the pool table. He flipped it across the floor as though it weighed no more than a dinner plate. It slammed against the wall, bil liard balls flying, and the men tried to scatter out of the way, but one of the men got trapped between a wall panel and the pool table, and Andre swore he could hear the sound of the man's chest being crushed under the weight. The guy's scream ripped through the air.
Andre rose higher. He was about to make a run for the door, when a beeline of men got there before him and tried to open it. But it would not open. Somehow, Diallo had sealed the door.
I'll go to the back, Andre thought. The hallway behind him was as dark as a snake's throat.
Three men rushed Diallo at once.
Diallo lifted a chair and brought it down on the first guy's head, busting his skull and shattering the chair, the man going down in a hail of wood shards. Diallo plunged his fist into the second man's solar plexus, drove it all the way into the man's guts, then snatched out his hand with a bloody fistful of intestines, the dead guy collapsing, legs kicking. The third man tried to tackle Diallo, but Diallo clamped his hands on his skull and twisted so fast the man's head came clean off. Diallo hurled the decapitated head across the room, where it smashed into the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.
Mr. Clyde yelped like a frightened child and took cover beneath the counter.
Andre didn't know whether to piss his pants, or vomit. He was so scared he thought he could do both.
There were only five men left, including Andre. Two men strained in vain to open the door, Booker T hid under a table, and Mr. Clyde had vanished behind the bar.
Diallo strolled to the guys near the door. They began to cry.
One of the men kneeled, arms raised in supplication.
Now 's my chance, Andre thought. I'm not kneeling before that motherfucker. No way.
Staying low, he bolted into the black hallway. Heart beating so hard he thought he might pass out. He couldn't see a damn thing back here. Where was the door?
He shouldered open a door, went into a small room lit with a candle. It was the washroom. Shit. How could he get out? He saw a square window high up on the wall. But the window was too small for him to squeeze through it.
He had to find another way.
He ran into the hall. A giant hand closed over his throat.
Andre gasped, beat his hands at the body in front of him, but it was like punching a concrete wall.
The vampire lifted him in the air. Andre's feet dangled above the floor.
Just when he thought he would black out, the vampire threw him. He whammed against a table, pain barking in his shoulder, salt-and-pepper shakers knocking against his head.
He was woozy, and in a universe of pain, but he had the presence of mind to look around. Four men, including Mr. Clyde and Booker T, knelt near the bar, like sinners at a confessional. Diallo towered above them, an unholy priest.
"Join us," Diallo said. He extended his hand. His eyes, black as bottomless wells, fixed on Andre.
Andre spat out a mouthful of blood.
He crawled across the floor, straightened up.
And kneeled.
"King!" Nia whistled. "Come on, where are you, boy?"
She was in an alley, between rows of houses and short brick buildings. Thickets of darkness surrounded her on every side. Wind blew scraps of litter around her, the scraping of trash against gravel sounding like a bony finger scratching against a coffin lid.
She hugged herself against the chill breeze and the deeper chill that had sunk into her marrow.
"King, wherever you are, come on out"
No answer. Only the rasping wind.
What had gotten into the dog to make him to run off? He had seemed like such a well-behaved animal, as clever as a person, in some ways. Much like her own lost dog, Princess, she remembered with a pang of sorrow.
She walked along the alley, her running shoes scattering pebbles here and there.
"King, come here, boy. It's Nia."
She might as well have been addressing the wind; it would've given her more of a response.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes until she had to meet David. She didn't want to return without his dog. Although David didn't blame her for King's slipping away, she felt responsible for allowing the canine to scramble out of the truck. King was like a kid brother to David. Losing the dog would crush him.
"King, come on out, boy!"
The wind died. A hush fell over her.
She heard, somewhere ahead, a low growl.
Her fingers tightened around the leather dog leash. She jogged forward, lightly, to minimize the sound of her shoe soles striking the ground.
On her left, there was a brown wooden fence. The big gate, wide enough to admit a truck, gaped open.
She thought the growl had come from that direction, but she wasn't sure. It was worth a look.
She stepped inside the enclosure. A blue Dumpster on her left. Stacks of wooden pallets and milk crates on her right. In front of her, a low, gray brick building.
After performing a quick mental reorientation, she recognized that she was behind Mac's Meat and Foods.
One of the steel double doors at the back of the store hung open, giving her a glimpse of a slice of darkness beyond. It puzzled her. Mac ran a tight ship; everyone in town knew that. He would never have closed the market without fastening those doors.
What was going on?
The soft canine growl reached her again. It was definitely coming from inside the store.
What was King-if it was really King inside-doing in there? What was he growling at?
The dog could have been agitated by anything. Something as small and harmless as a cat. Or something bigger and far more dangerous.
Her hand went to the revolver on her hip holster. She unsnapped the holster's buckle, drew out the gun. She wrapped the dog leash around her wrist to get it out of the way.
She moved to the doorway. She cocked her head, listened.
Silence, taut with tension, as if whoever-or whatever was inside, was holding its breath. Just like she was.
She dug the mini flashlight out of her fanny pack. She swept the thin blade of light across the darkness inside.
A small chamber, full of crates and boxes. But no one was inside.
In the far corner, there appeared to be another door, half open.
She checked her watch again.
Seven minutes, then I've got to go. I want to find King and I think he's in there, but I promised David that Id return on time. Promised him that I'd find the dog, too.
She pushed open the door and crept into the darkness bey
ond.
Jahlil had to get his father to a hospital immediately.
The siren wailing on the patrol car, Jahlil sped along the dark streets. He ran through stop signs without slowing. No one was out driving, and even if they were, he was in a cop car, and they should get the hell out of his way.
In the backseat, Dad groaned.
"I'm gonna get help for you, Daddy," Jahlil said. He glanced fearfully at the rearview mirror. Dad was slumped in the seat, eyes shut, his face greasy with sweat. Jahlil squeezed the steering wheel. "Just hold on, Daddy, hold on, please."
After that fucking vampire, Kyle, had stabbed Dad in the chest (not in the heart, thank God), Jahlil had shot the monster between the shoulder blades. But he hadn't killed the vampire. Screaming in anger, the creature had jumped out of the truck and flown away into the night, like a giant bat. He hadn't attacked Jahlil, which was weird. Maybe the asshole figured that the worst thing he could do to Jahlil was try to take his father away from him. If that's what he'd been thinking, he was right.
The other vampires had chased after the rest of the people on the patrol teams. Those folks cut out so fast it wasn't funny, some of them on foot, some of them in their cars. Within minutes, the parking lot was empty, and Jahlil was left with a dead man in the flatbed, and his father.
Somehow, he'd driven to Dad's police car, gotten a first aid kit out of the trunk, and found some pads he used to staunch the flow of blood from Dad's wound. There was so much blood Jahlil had vomited on himself. But he was still able to keep going, and tape bandages on his father's chest. He'd carried Dad to the car and slid him across the backseat. Before he peeled away, he said a quick prayer over Old Mac's body, then peeled the flamethrower off the man's back and stored it in the trunk.
On the walkie-talkie, he tried reaching the other team members, so they could tell him where he could find Dr. Green. But no one answered him. He wouldn't have been surprised if everyone had split town, the cowards. He was on his own.
He didn't know how he kept going in the face of all this misery and madness. He felt as though he were in a feverish daze, or in a really bad dream.
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