CHAPTER 19

 

Momma'd kick my nigger ass to hell and back, she knew I did some dumbfuck thing like that, Byron thought angrily as he ran across the restaurant toward the rear corridor wondering how he could have possibly neglected to see that garlic was placed outside the basement window as well as all the others. He took his flashlight from his jacket pocket, suddenly aware of the fact that his bowels needed to move. 

What had always seemed to be a short, unthreatening corridor seemed to stretch on forever as he moved into deeper and deeper darkness. The closer he got to the basement door, the better he could hear a sound that was coming from the other side, and a few feet from the door, he slowed his pace to a fast walk, listening. 

He couldn't make it out yet, but it was not a voice or footsteps. It sounded more like...sloshing. 

His keys jangled as he found the master and slipped it into the lock.

The sound continued.

He turned the key and pushed the door open.

The sound became more distinct.

It was wet and thick and came from the darkness below.

Sucking.

The flashlight beam pierced the darkness as it swept down the stairs searching for the source of the sound. The saucer of light passed over a few feet of dirty concrete floor, a couple of crates and— 

—a pair of shapely female legs on their knees, then two more, and slender white arms splashed with black-red and a face smeared with it and— 

—Byron tried to gasp but his lungs failed to work as he looked down at the swarm of pale bloody faces that rose quickly from the glistening mess that used to be the Carsey brothers and looked up at him. 

He spent a moment in eternity at the top of those stairs, locked in the gaze of dozens of startled eyes glittering in the beam of his flashlight. Byron thought briefly of his mother's smile as a wet throaty hiss rose from below and the girls moved as one toward the stairs. He made a small pathetic sound—not unlike the sound he used to make as a child when he was afraid-—and raised the gun, firing twice into the mass of bloody grinning faces pushing upward toward him, but the gunshots had no effect and the sound he made grew louder as he dropped the flashlight, backed into the corridor and pulled the door shut, clenching his fist around the knob to keep it from being turned from the other side as he screamed down the dark corridor, "Everybody out! Get out of the building! Everybody get out noowww!" 

A chorus of screams erupted in the restaurant. Running feet stormed over the floor in a rush of movement; glass shattered and men and women shouted incoherently. 

The knob jiggled in Byron's hand and he tightened his grip, pointed the gun and emptied it into the door. It did no good. Fists pounded the door and the collective hiss from the other side became a guttural snarl. 

"Byron!"

Dropping the gun and clutching the doorknob with both hands, Byron looked to the other end of the corridor and saw Bill leaning against the wall unsteadily, holding one of the hologen lanterns at chest level, his face lost in shadow. Behind him, through the windows, Byron could see the first dull ghost of daylight in the iron sky. 

"Byron! Come outside! Hurry! They won't last long out there! Just run! "Bill lifted the lantern a bit higher so his face was bathed in its harsh white glow. His pale skin had become dry and flakey, wrinkling deeply around his eyes and mouth. He looked twenty years older. 

Byron opened his mouth to tell Bill to find his wife and kids and go and he would follow, but realized that Bill wouldn't last long out there either and before he could say anything— 

—the door cracked and splintered and a bloodied arm shot through the jagged opening, a hand slapped onto the side of Byron's face and closed hard, digging nails into his flesh and slamming his head against the door. 

He could hear Bill shouting at him pleadingly, but the voice sounded far away as the hand pulled his head against the door again and again and he released the doorknob, pushing with both hands against the door, trying to pull away from the vice-like grip, but— 

—the fingernails had punched through his cheek and the fingers were curled behind his lower teeth, the thumb stabbing upward beneath his jaw, its hold powerful and unrelenting, and— 

—Byron screamed as the door opened and the arms slid out of the darkness, embracing him like tentacles, and hands tore at his clothes, fangs ripped his flesh and tongues lapped at his blood. 

He fought at first, writhing on the floor, flailing and kicking, but the pain became too great, the screams of his attackers too loud, and as his own blood gurgled in his throat and spattered into his eyes, Byron wondered who would mop up the mess as... 

...Bill backed away from the corridor feeling helpless and angry at both himself and Byron. Unable to watch the blood bath a few yards away, he turned toward the panic in the restaurant. 

People were running in all directions: some from the restaurant toward the front doors, others from the store into the restaurant calling the names of children and spouses. 

Leaning against walls and counters and chairs, Bill walked unsteadily into the chaos holding the lantern up and searching for A.J. and the kids. 

On the floor just a few feet in front of him was Jenny Lake. She was huddled protectively over Shawna screaming to no one in particular, "What's happening my God what's happening what's—" 

"Take the girl and go, Jenny, just get out of here!" Bill shouted to be heard above the confusion. 

She looked up at him, tears streaking her terrified face. "But what' s happening, where do we go, where do we—" 

Fighting to keep his balance, Bill reached down and gripped her upper arm, pulling hard. "Outside! Get outside!" 

Shawna was curled into a fetal position on the floor, now wrapped in her mother's coat rather than using it as a pillow, and her wide eyes darted around in the dim light, confused and terrified. Jenny slid her arms under the frail little girl and scooped her up off the floor. 

"Hold it," Bill said, putting the lantern on the coffee counter. He removed his jacket with stiff, weak movements and draped it over Jenny's shoulders. "If s even colder out there," he said, nodding toward the exit. 

Jenny made a sound that might have been meant as a thank you, but in Bill's ringing ears it was nothing more than a grunt. She turned and shouldered her way into the crowd and, as they hurried out, Shawna looked at Bill over her mother's shoulder and, realizing that he wasn't following them, shouted, "Bill! C'mon, come with us!" 

Bill lifted his lantern again and waved at the girl. "I'll be fine."

"No! Mommy, wait for Bill!" 

They disappeared into the crowd.

Bill turned back to the corridor and squinted into the darkness. He could only see shadowy movements, but he could hear enough: horrible slurping and sucking, like pigs in mud. When they were finished, would they be daring enough to follow everyone outside in spite of the threat of sunrise? Were they that crazed? 

Maybe.

He turned and began shouting, "A.J.! Dara! Cece! Jonny!" He walked into the fleeing crowd calling their names over and over. A woman with silver hair bumped into him as she spun around, shouting at everyone who rushed past her, "Stop it! Stop this right now!" Her eyes were wide with the look of one who has abandoned her sanity. She waved her fists in the air. "I am the manager! I am responsible! Stop this right now!" 

"Come on, ma'am," Bill said, taking her arm and trying to turn her toward the front of the building. "You've got to get out of here, if s danger—" 

She lashed out and caught him hard in the ribs with her forearm, screaming through clenched teeth, "Get your hands off of me! I'm the manager, Goddammit!" 

The world tilted and Bill's head struck the edge of a table as he fell. He dropped the lantern and it rolled over the floor away from him. His mouth opened and he tried to cry out in pain, but could not find his voice. He watched through bleary eyes as legs rushed by him; feet kicked him and stepped on his arms and legs and garbled voices faded slowly, as if he were sinking under water. 

You're dying already... 

...dying already... 

...already...already... 

Bill closed his eyes and waited for the final deadly silence and the everlasting sleep of death to descend as...

.. Jon jerked his arm from Doug's grasp and shouted, "Let me go! I'm gonna go back and help Dad!"

They were just a few feet from the entrance, which was clogged with people pushing one another aside to get out. Doug stood between Jon and Dara, holding each by the elbow, while Mom stood in front of them holding Cece's hand. When Jon pulled away and shouted at Doug, Dara and Cece turned to him abruptly. 

"Dad's here?" Dara asked urgently.

Cece pulled on her mother's arm. "Where's Dad, Mom? Where is he?"

Jon could tell by the sinking expression on Mom's face that she hadn't planned on telling the girls that Dad was around.

Doug took his arm again and said firmly, "He can take care of himself, Jon, now let's—"

"He's sick!" Jon screamed, pulling away again and turned to go back into the restaurant. 

"Whatsamatter with Daddy, Mom?" Cece asked, still tugging her arm as Dara asked simultaneously, "Is Dad really sick, Mother? Is he?" 

Doug clutched Jon's shoulders from behind and pulled him out of the way of an enormous fat woman holding a baby and blubbering senselessly as she rushed by, shoving people aside roughly to get to the doors. Doug held him close, wrapping an arm around Jon's chest and half dragging him through the first set of glass doors, growling, "You can all see your dad when we get outside, okay? Outside!" 

Bilious anger burned in Jon's throat and he began kicking back at Doug's shins and digging his elbows into Doug's abdomen to get away; he accidentally kicked an elderly woman whose husband was helping her out of the building, but they didn't stick around for an apology. 

Jon shouted, "He can't go outside, you sonofabitch! The sun'll kill him!" He broke free and spun to face them, his breath coming fast and hard. 

The girls stared at him in shocked confusion, jerking back and forth as they were bumped and jostled by others hurrying out.

"You can go outside if you want," Jon said, backing into the store, "but I'm gonna see if I can help him."

Dara turned to her mother: "We can't leave him, Mom."

Cece began to bob up and down slightly, as if she had to urinate: "We gotta help Daddy! I wanna see him! Please, let' s help him!" 

Jon watched as a long, silent look passed between Mom and Doug, then Doug sighed, "Take the girls outside, Adelle." To Jon: "Let's go." 

Jon's tight shoulders relaxed with relief so strong that he almost laughed out loud as he turned and headed back toward the restaurant. 

There were still more people coming out, some of them taking advantage of the chaos and ducking into the store to do a little last minute looting, others lagging behind with children or bags they'd brought in with them. A few lanterns remained scattered around the dark restaurant; the last ones leaving the restaurant were either limping or being helped out, having been injured in the initial panic. A silver haired woman stood in the middle of the darkness pounding her fist on a table and shouting, "You are all going to lose your fucking jobs, every last one of you, and I am not going to be responsible, do you hear me?" Her voice was raw and hoarse and her body moved in rigid, nervous jerks, her knees nearly buckling now and then as her legs quaked. The last waitress in the room went to her side, murmuring soothingly as she tried to put her arm around the woman's shoulders. The woman jerked away, shouting, "You are fired as of now, missy, do you understand? Get your things and get out of here!" The waitress backed up reluctantly, then hurried out, crying. The woman turned, then, and pointed at the floor to her left: "And some body get this God damned drunk off the floor and out of here!" 

Jon spotted him. He was sprawled on the floor on his back. And he was holding very, very still.

"Dad!" he shouted, hurrying toward him with Doug beside him.

But the crazy woman was faster, rushing to his side and pulling back her leg to kick him, growling, "Goddamned transient wino!"

Jon sprinted forward and dove, barking, "No!" as he tackled her to the floor. 

The woman landed on the carpet but rolled to the strip of tile floor that ran behind the counter. Stunned, she propped herself up on her side just a few feet from the entrance to a dark corridor as Jon crawled on hands and knees to his dad's side. 

"My God," Doug breathed as he looked down at him.

Dad looked even worse than he had just a short while ago. His white, flakey skin was shriveled and seemed to be running off his skull like melting wax. His hair had become coarse and his fingernails were darkened slightly. The appearance was not that of age, but of decay, of rot. 

Jon's heart sank. Tears stung his eyes and blurred the face that no longer resembled his father's.

Doug knelt and touched two fingertips to his throat. "He doesn't have a pulse," he said quietly. "And he's not breathing."

"Course not!" Jon sobbed. "He's been dead for over a year!" Jon grabbed his dad's shoulders and shook him hard. "Dad! Dad, you gotta wake up! We're gonna help you outta here, Dad! Dad!" 

Doug touched Jon's arm and said gently, "Doug, that’s not going to do any good. There's nothing we can—"

"Sun..." The word was spoken in a paper-thin voice through cracked and peeling lips that barely moved.

"Dad?"

"The sun...is coming...up..."

Doug stared at the body, horrified.

Jon leaned close to him. "What should we do, Dad? Tell us what to do!"

Dad's eyelids peeled open slowly and his dulled, sunken eyes tried hard to focus until they found Jon's face. "Jonny..."

"Whatta we do?"

"Girls...safe?"

Jon nodded.

"Mom?"

Again.

When Jon saw that Dad was trying feebly to sit up, he and Doug helped him, one on each side. Dad groaned and squinted as he looked toward the window. Outside, the grey sky had grown just a bit lighter, but darkness still ruled. 

"Truck," Dad coughed.

"What?"

"Take me...to my truck...where it's...dark..."

"He wants to go to his truck," Jon said.

Doug nodded, his features curled with disgust. "Okay, let's get him—"

"I'm going to report all of you!"

They both tossed a glance at the woman. She was sitting up now, her shoulders slumped, her face sagging and slick with tears. She spoke to no one in particular, just sat there with legs spread before her, stiff arms propping her up, head lolling as she cried. 

"Report every...damned...one of you..."

"Okay, let's get him up," Doug said.

Jon turned back to Dad, but only for an instant; something had caught his eye and he turned to the woman again. Something moved in the darkness of the corridor behind her. Something white. Several somethings. 

Arms. Long arms reaching out slowly, silently.

And faces. White, geisha-like faces smeared with...with something, each with two deep black holes from which sinister eyes glistened. 

They moved forward, arms outstretched, slowly at first, and then—

—they pounced. The arms wrapped around the woman and the faces opened sloppy, smeared mouths with fangs that dripped of dark fluids and the woman's face showed only a heartbeat of surprise before— 

—the arms pulled her into the darkness and all Jon could see were her legs, kicking silently and uselessly, and then—

—the darkness was just darkness again, except for the horrible sucking sounds that began...

"Doug!" Jon shouted.

He'd seen it, too. "Holy shit," he barked, lifting Dad clumsily and shouting, "Out! Get outta here!" 

Faces appeared in the darkness again, moving out of the corridor and into the glare of the hologen lanterns, three of them, looking directly at Jon and— 

—smiling. 

Doug bundled Dad in his arms as easily as if he were a sack of laundry and Jon followed him out, glancing over his shoulder as the women became fully visible now, their clothes hanging in tatters on their bloody bodies, a white red-splashed breast exposed here, a spattered thigh there. 

"Hurry," Dad rasped. "God...hurry..."

Doug and Jon broke into a run, slowing for no one and nothing, knocking over a display of greeting cards as they rounded the corner and pushed out the first set of glass doors, then knocking an ashtray over before getting through the second. 

It was still snowing outside, harder than ever, and people were standing in the parking lot, some speaking in hushed tones and watching the building expectantly, while others huddled together a few feet away and continued singing hymns. 

"Daddy?" Cece screamed from somewhere in the crowd. "Is that Daddy? Daddeeee!" 

"No!" Mom shouted, her voice thick with emotion. "Stay here, Cece, just wait here." She caught up with them as they ran across the parking lot toward Dad's truck across the street. "My God, what's wrong?" she cried. "What's happening to him?" 

Jon saw that he was getting worse; his cheeks were more hollow and his arms shook. But even more disturbing was the expression of pain and fear on his face—eyes closed tightly, lips quivering—and the thin whimpering sound he made. When he spoke, his voice was forced and unsteady. 

"The girls...stay with the girls," Dad said, turning his face toward Mom without opening his eyes.

They stopped beside the truck and Doug said, "He's right, Adelle, go back with the girls. I'll be over in a minute. And get everybody away from the building. Thuh-those-those things are in there." 

She protested at first and tried to talk to Dad, but Doug convinced her and she headed back reluctantly.

"Inside...puh-please," Dad hissed and Doug opened the cab and carried him inside as Jon followed. Doug lifted him into the dark sleeper where he curled into ball and groaned, "The ice...box...in the corner..." 

Jon was smaller, so he crawled up into the sleeper, squinted in the darkness and found the icebox in the corner at the foot of the bed. He opened it to find several plastic bags stacked in rows. Each was filled with a thick dark red liquid. 

He winced when he realized what it was and just knelt there staring at the bags for a while.

"Juh-Jonny, please..." Dad groaned.

With twitching fingers, he reached into the icebox and removed one of the bags, holding the corner gingerly between thumb and forefinger as he turned to his father. 

Dad snatched the bag from Jon's hand and began to tear at the top clumsily with his teeth, holding it in convulsing hands.

"C'mon, Dad, you don't need that," Jon said quietly, pleadingly. "We'll get you a doctor and he can—"

Dad just waved a hand, dismissing him, as the bag ripped open. He tipped it back and opened its mouth, letting the thick blood ooze between his swollen, cracked lips. Some of it dribbled down his chin as he gulped loudly, stopping to cough once and lick his lips. 

Jon's stomach hitched and he turned away so quickly he almost fell out of the sleeper. He stumbled down into the passenger seat and leaned forward, holding his face in his hands, feeling sick, hoping that someday he would be able to forget what had happened in the last night and, most of all, what he had just seen. Doug patted his back helplessly as... 

...Bill experienced a faint shadow of the feeling that had once been better than the best sex. He dropped the empty bag and shuddered, his tongue smacking around the corners of his mouth as he laid back and struggled to feel the blood warming him, enriching him, filling the rotting, decaying holes that he cold imagine were opening up deep inside him. But the effect was minimal and short lived. Bill lay in the dark, eyes closed, listening to the muffled whispers of Doug and Jon in the cab. 

Full daylight would arrive very soon. He could feel it coming in his bones. In fact, the reason he trembled so was because daylight was too close. That and, of course, other reasons. 

You're dying already...already...already... 

The creatures hiding in the darkness of the truck stop would retreat to the basement and huddle in some dark corner until the sun was gone again and they could come out to feed. But they would probably no longer try to hide; now that their queen was gone, they would no doubt abandon all subtlety and attack their victims ravenously as they had been doing since that creature had crumbled to black mud in the restaurant. 

But until the next night, they would be vulnerable.

Until dusk, they would remain in the truck stop.

Easy targets.

If he waited too long, though, he would be an easy target, too.

"Jon," Bill rasped, his voice a little stronger but not much.

After a moment: "Yeah?"

Sitting up, Bill wiped his bloody face on a blanket. "Come here, please."

Jon was reluctant, but he peered over the edge of the bed, never meeting Bill's eyes.

"Do me a favor," Bill said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Go out there with your mom, okay?"

He said nothing.

"And... guh-give your sisters a... a hug from me. Tell them I love them and I'm sorry I didn't get to see them. Maybe...may be some other time." 

Jon started to turn away, muttering, "Liar."

Bill grabbed his wrist and held him. "I'm sorry, Jonny. You know I didn't... want any of this to happen. It’s just one of those things. Life's full of them. Nobody's at fault. Nothing anybody can do. If you can't stop hating me...at least don't take it out on your mother. And on Doug. Okay?" 

Still averting his eyes, the boy nodded only slightly.

Bill wanted to ask him for a hug, but he didn't want to do that to the boy. Instead, he just looked at him in the dark, went over Jon's face slowly with his eyes, recording every feature, every flaw. And he saw something he'd never noticed before. It was on Jon's neck, below his jaw. A small patch of skin beneath which something lurked. 

It was a wonderful thing...

Unless you feed on living humans... 

... a beautiful thing...

...unless you drink warm blood still pumping through human veins and arteries... 

...a seductive thing.

...you will die. 

It was a pulse.

You're dying already. 

Bill jerked his head away and tried not to think about that pulse, about that fresh, pumping blood, or about the gnawing burning hunger that flared in his gut. He squeezed Jon's wrist and said in a strained voice, "I...love you...son." 

Jon broke then. His face crumbled into a mask of pain and he quickly sobbed, "Me, too," as he dropped out of sight and hurried out of the truck. 

Bill took a moment to gather as much strength as he could find and sat up, hanging his legs off the bed. Fat snowflakes still fell from steel-colored clouds, the bottoms of which glowed ever so softly. Daylight was brighter but still very young, yet it fired scalding shards of metal into Bill's eyes and he shielded them with a hand. Doug sat in the passenger seat looking up at him with a mixture of apprehension and helplessness. 

"Is there anything I can do, Bill?" he asked nervously.

"Yeah. Grab my sunglass out of that pouch on the door." Doug handed him the glasses and he put them on. They helped some, but not much. In a few minutes, they wouldn't help at all and Bill knew he would be useless, a corpse rotting quickly in the dull, clouded sunlight. "Now," Bill said, "go out there and get everybody as far away from the building as possible." 

"Why?"

He shook his head. "Just do it. And, um...take care of A.J. and the kids. Take good care of them. And tell A.J...." Tell her what? he thought. Why tell her anything? "...tell her how sorry I am." 

"Look, Bill, maybe there's something we can do, somebody who can help you take care of this and get bet—"

"Just go."

Doug nodded slowly, opened the door and got out. He stood outside for a moment, watching Bill.

"Hurry, dammit!" 

The door slammed and Bill heard Doug's footsteps crunching over the snow. He watched him head back to the crowd in the parking lot. An off-key, muddled rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross" came from one corner of the parking lot, sung by unsteady, frightened voices. To the right of the building, he could see part of the truck lot and, even with bleary eyes, he could see several still bodies sprawled on the snowy ground here and there. Then his eyes turned to the gas island, to the pumps standing like mechanical guards beneath the white steel canopy, lined up with their curved chrome fingers stuck in their ears. 

It might not work. The power was out, which lessened his chances. But there were three cars still parked by the pumps, cars that had no doubt been there filling up when the power went off and had been left there so the drivers could finish the job when it came back on. If it failed, there was always the diesel island. Whether it worked or not, he had to try. After all... 

You're dying already...