by Ronald Kelly
“How appropriate,” said Stoker. He swept the barroom at a wide angle, holding the Uzi level with the ten remaining werewolves. One by one, they were speared by the substance they loathed most. The beasts dropped to the saloon’s sawdust floor, writhing and twitching in agony, before growing still.
Lycan leaped the bar, ducking for cover as Stoker swung the machine gun in his direction. Slugs chewed up the woodwork, but nothing more. After a few more seconds of continuous fire, the Uzi’s magazine gave out. Stocker shucked the clip and reached inside his jacket for a fresh one.
That was when Lycan, fully transformed now, sprang over the splintered bar top and tore across the tavern for his intended victim, smashing tables and chairs in his path. “You ain’t gonna make it!” rasped Lycan. It came out more as a garbled snarl than an actual threat.
“Quite to the contrary,” Stoker said calmly. He drew a serrated combat knife from his boot and thrust it upward just as Lycan came within reach. The sterling silver blade sank to the hilt beneath the werewolf’s breastbone.
Lycan staggered backward, staring dumbly at the smoking knife in his midsection. He looked at Stoker with bewildered eyes, then fell over stone cold dead, the impact of silver-shock shorting out his bestial brain cells.
Stoker walked over and withdrew the dagger from the wolf’s body, wiping the blade on the fur of Lycan’s vanishing coat. He slipped the weapon back into its sheath and looked toward the bartender, who was peeking over the edge of the bar. “How much do I owe you for damages?”
“No charge,” the man said, pale-faced but happy. “I’ve been trying to keep this mangy riff-raff outta my joint for years.”
Stoker left Apocalypse After Dark and stood outside for a long moment, enjoying the crisp night air and the pale circle of the full moon overhead. Then he noticed Lycan’s pet sitting on the back of the Harley. He walked over to the girl and smiled at her softly. He cupped her chin in his hand. “Poor angel,” he said soothingly, then blessed her with a kiss.
“What a glorious night, don’t you think, my dear?” he asked as he swung aboard the big chopper and stamped on the starter, sending it roaring into life. The woman was silent, but she snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around his waist, and laying her weary head upon his shoulders.
Together they winged their way into the dead of night.
~ * ~
Chaney parked his van between a black Trans-Am and a rusty Toyota pickup. He left his vehicle and mounted the steps of the Netherworld Café, a local hangout for the natural and unnatural alike.
He walked in and started down the aisle for the rear of the restaurant. A wispy ghost of a waitress took orders, while a couple of zombie fry-cooks slung hash behind the counter. Chaney waved to a few old acquaintances, then headed for the last booth on the right. Stoker was sitting there, poised and princely as usual. There was a girl, too, wearing Stoker’s bomber jacket and nothing else.
Chaney sat down and ordered the usual. Stoker did the same. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Chaney spoke up. “Well, is it done?”
“It is,” nodded Stoker. “And what about you?”
“I kept my end of the bargain.”
“Good,” said Stoker. “Then it’s settled. I get the blood.”
“And I the flesh,” replied Chaney.
They shook on their mutual partnership then, Chaney’s hirsute hand emblazoned with the distinctive mark of the pentagram, while Stoker’s possessed the cold and pale bloodlessness of the undead.
Table of Contents
BUY DIRECT FROM CROSSROAD PRESS & SAVE
ALSO FROM RONALD KELLY & CROSSROAD PRESS
CONTENTS:
INTRODUCTION
PEACEMAKER
THE BOXCAR
CONSUMPTION
THEN CAME A WOODSMAN
OH, SORDID SHAME
THE THING AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
WHOREHOUSE HOLLOW
THINNING THE HERD
