Six
After I came out of the autopsy room, I managed to avoid any further interaction with the other doctors who had been present. They’d served their purpose, I hoped. Some doubts had been raised about the cause of death of the girl, but Silver was a sharp, intelligent pathologist and not easy to fool. And I could see that his assistant, and Matt Carter, were also starting to question the smokescreen I tried to throw up. None of them had looked convinced at the explanations for Salee’s wounds.
I vowed to make a harder effort to be more careful in the future. I would just have to find some way to control the Hunger, at least enough to conceal the manner of death if I couldn’t manage a nonlethal feed, or perhaps even cover my trail with a red herring in case the authorities got too close.
Exhausted from the ordeal of confronting the fruits of my own particular demon in the autopsy suite, I decided to take the rest of the day off and headed for the Nightrunner. The August sun was brutal, and in spite of dark glasses and copious amounts of sunscreen, my skin was itching and burning and my eyes were on fire by the time I arrived at my sanctuary.
Leaving the lights darkened in the screened-off interior of the ship, I entered, relaxing for the first time in many hours. I flopped on my bunk and lay back, thinking about my research into Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. I’d already succeeded where the Others had failed—I had a reliable blood test that would give some indication if a patient had the deadly prions coursing through his blood. It continuously amazed me how many of the Others had the beginnings of the disease. Only their relatively short lives prevented more of them from coming down with it. Because infection to full-fledged illness usually takes from thirty to fifty years, only my race, with its lengthened life span, is at real risk.
Most of the Others were infected by eating contaminated meat, like the recent outbreak of Mad Cow disease in Britain, a close relative if not the same thing as CJD. In fact, I’d noticed in one of my medical journals that the entire blood supply in Britain had been declared unsafe due to the prevalence of CJD in their population. For a while, I’d tried hunting only vegetarians, knowing they would be far less likely to have the prions in their blood than meat eaters, but now, with the blood test I’d perfected, that would no longer be necessary.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hoping Salee wouldn’t visit me in my dreams, as many of my victims had in the past.
* * *
As the orange and red hues of the sunset faded into the purples and blacks of approaching nightfall, the Hunger began to grow and intrude on my rest. My eyes flicked open, red-rimmed and staring as always when I first awakened. The Hunger beginning to gnaw at me, I arose and began to dress for the evening’s outing, knowing that soon I would be unable to resist the Hunger’s siren call.
On the way to my dressing room, I checked a calendar on the wall. Less than a week since my last feed—the urges were coming closer and closer together now. I would have to do something to slow them down, or the Others would begin to get suspicious.
From my closet, I chose another pair of black Sergio Valente jeans, a gray silk Nieman Marcus shirt, and black western boots. Ideal clothes for an evening on the town. I took a thick ropelike gold chain out of the jewelry box and slipped it around my neck. I was ready to hunt.
I walked out on the deck and leaned against a rail, breathing deeply of the moist air, redolent with the smells of the ship channel—fish, iodine, chemicals, and rotting garbage. I stood there as long as I could to see if I could possibly push the ever-insistent Hunger back down, even trying once again to occupy my mind with my research on the Sickness. But it was no use. Like voracious rats nibbling at my insides, the Hunger grew until I could think of nothing else but the sweet, coppery taste of human blood.
Finally, giving up on my resistance, I went inside to my office and opened my briefcase. I took out a computer printout I’d made earlier while at the hospital and quickly scanned the list. I chose two names—the second as a fallback in case of problems with the first—and tore them off the list to carry with me.
I walked the short distance to the storage facility I used to garage my cars and got in, my heart hammering under the insistent urging of the Hunger. Even so, I still had the presence of mind to use the automobile registered under one of the fictitious identities I’d built over the years.
* * *
The earthy taste of the hundred-year-old Cognac almost overcame the rancid smell of cigarette smoke that hung in the air of the bar like a coastal fog. As the analogy formed in my mind, I almost smiled. I remembered the fogs of New England well and how I had counted on them to make the hunts, and my subsequent escapes, easier.
Again, I marveled at how much, and at how little, things have changed in the two hundred years I have been hunting. I forced my mind back to the present and began to focus on my prey again. I began to let my lust build so that the hunt, and its inevitable climax, would be all the more enjoyable for the anticipation.
The waitress was moving my way, her lush breasts swaying as she walked, tiny droplets of sweat making rivulets down her chest in the heat of the club. I started to raise my hand to signal her for another drink, when I felt a tugging at the periphery of my mind. I quickly lowered my hand and withdrew all my psychic energy and sealed it within me. I crouched in my chair like a wolf that has caught the scent of danger on the wind.
I realized, from the brief mental contact, that there was another of my race nearby. Because of the swiftness of my reactions in withdrawing my psychic powers, I didn’t know if the contact was aware of me, or whether it was friendly or dangerous. I did know I felt naked and vulnerable with my psychic powers sealed and had to restrain myself from bolting from the club.
Instead, I leaned back, sipped my drink, and began to look around, hoping to find the other without using the mental powers that might alert him—or her—to my presence. In spite of the darkness of the club, I had no trouble, for my vision is much better in semidarkness than in full light.
In less than five minutes I found him. The interloper was sitting in a corner, feeling secure in the darkness and apparently unaware that he was being observed. I shifted in my chair to better study the other without being noticed. He was thin, and looked old, older than he should. Even with my psychic powers muted, I could “smell” the stink of decay and disease on him from across the room.
I sighed, thinking about what I should do next, even though I knew I didn’t have a choice. I hoped the Hunger would allow me the time to do what I had to do before it made me incapable of rational thought and took complete control.
Throwing a ten-dollar bill on the table, I left the bar. I went to the parking lot and opened the trunk of my Mercedes. I reached in and popped open a secret compartment in the sidewall and withdrew my katana, the long sword of the Japanese samurai, and a gallon container of gasoline. I placed these on the floor next to the driver’s seat and sat in the car, waiting for the interloper to leave the club.
As I sat, the Hunger became more insistent, and I began to worry that it would grow and fester until my mind was too consumed with it to complete my task. As I was about to drive away, the door of the club opened, and my quarry, with one of the bar girls, came out. They strolled into the parking lot, arms around each other, and stopped in the shadows for a quick embrace. I started my car, pulled up next to the couple, and rolled down my window.
The other gave a low growl at the interruption and turned to face me, hunter to hunter, his eyes glowing with anger. I unshielded my psychic powers slightly and power-thought Leave her and follow me. Then, without waiting to see the fear in the other’s eyes, I quickly drove from the lot.
I sped down the street and screeched around the corner, knowing a challenge such as I’d issued could not be overlooked by one of my kind, no matter how sick or insane. Several blocks down the road I came to a deserted parking lot in front of an abandoned building and pulled in. Getting out of the car, I took the katana and placed it behind me against the fender and leaned back against the Mercedes, letting my weight hold it there. I crossed my feet at the ankles and my arms in front of me and waited, my heart beating fast. Members of my new species have always been loners, and requesting the company of another hunter is simply not done—it always means a battle.
A few minutes later, a red Ferrari slid into place next to my Mercedes. The other got out and stood in front of me, his eyes red-rimmed, blazing. He shot a blast of psychic hatred at me, although it was weak and easily ignored.
“Who the hell do you think you are to interrupt my hunt?” he asked through clenched jaws, his face contorted by anger.
I tried to remain calm, and said in a soothing voice, “You have the Sickness. It’s eating you alive and the stench of your mental decay is obvious, even to mortals.”
He took a step backward, some of the animosity leaving his manner. “So what, the Sickness can’t kill us. My body will heal itself eventually, and I’ll be good as new.”
I shook my head. Many of the others I’d encountered with the Sickness in the past also thought we were immune to it, as we were to almost every other type of illness. They didn’t understand the unique nature of the prions that were destroying them, didn’t realize our bodies had no immunity to the new life forms.
“No, you’re wrong,” I said, not unkindly. “The Sickness can’t kill you, but neither can your body heal itself.” I uncrossed my arms and let them hang at my side, ready for the inevitable end to our meeting. “You’re doomed to waste away, to live in constant and unrelenting pain, your mind decaying further with each passing day. Soon your mind will be so weak that you lose control of your body. You won’t be able to hunt, and your only choice will be to go to ground, growing weaker and weaker, tormented forever without hope of escape from the pain.”
As I talked, I slowly reached behind me and grasped the handle of the sword.
The other’s eyes were no longer glowing, but had grown dim with fear and uncertainty. Seeing his weakness of will, I realized he was very far along in his illness.
“Why are you telling me this, and how do you know so much about the Sickness?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, his eyes boring into mine as his weakened mind tried to read my thoughts.
“Because I can help you escape the pain. I can give you a way out.”
His lips turned up in a snarl, showing his fangs dripping with saliva, while his hands formed into claws. “Why should you help me? I mean less than nothing to one such as you.”
I tensed my muscles. He didn’t understand the danger he put all of the rest of us hunters in. “I will help you because with the Sickness you are a danger to all of our kind. If you get too weak to hunt, the mortals might find you, and that would expose us all.”
“Bullshit.” Hatred radiated from his face and blood-tinged sweat oozed from his pores. “You don’t care about me, and you care even less about our race.”
He wasn’t far from wrong. The only concern I had with our race was what directly concerned me. I withdrew the katana and held it out for the other to see. “You are wrong,” I said, weary of the argument that could have only one ending. “With this blade I will cause your pain to go away . . . I will free you from the Sickness.”
The other laughed, then took a step forward. “You can’t kill me . . . we’re immortal,” he yelled with an almost maniacal glee. He hunched his shoulders and snarled, assuming the attack posture. He projected a thought at me with all his strength. Go, go and leave me alone . . . begone from this place. . . .
The thought, even weakened as it was by illness, blasted at my mind. He was evidently very ancient, for in spite of the Sickness his mental powers were still strong. I shook my head to clear it, turning the thought aside as one might fend off a persistent drunk, and mentally commanded the other, Bend over, expose your neck, and find freedom. Do as I command you . . . Now!
The other’s face contorted in agony as he fought to resist the thought. Though our bodies remained motionless, our minds embraced and grappled, like two wrestlers straining against each other, each vying for supremacy. The battle, though intense, was short-lived. Slowly, as I repeated the command over and over, the other bent over and extended his neck in supplication, but his eyes remained riveted on me, radiating a strange mixture of hatred and fear, as if I might find mercy and spare his life.
I swung my right arm almost faster than the eye could follow. The razor-sharp blade of the katana whistled as it sliced through the air, and barely slowed as it severed the other’s neck between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae.
I whirled and, before the head hit the ground, had the can of gasoline in hand and was pouring it over the body, which was still standing as if nothing had happened. As the body slowly crumpled, I poured the remainder of the gasoline on the wide-eyed head, whose eyes were open and watching as I lit a match and started the blaze. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his flesh bubbled and melted under the intense heat, sending up clouds of foul-smelling, oily smoke into the night air.
I threw the empty can and the bloody katana into the trunk of my car and slipped into his Ferrari, driving it down the street and then leaving it with the door open and the keys in the ignition. I knew it would be stolen by the time the police arrived, and I wanted no clues for them to follow to trace the corpse. I sprinted back to the lot and drove my Mercedes away at a leisurely pace, the horrible sight of the burning body lighting up my rearview mirror.
I looked at the dashboard clock and saw that the club was now closed and realized I’d missed my chance with the waitress. The Hunger was an almost physical presence within me now, and I felt myself starting to lose control.
There was no help for it. I had to take the second choice, and I had to hurry before the Hunger made me jump the first person I saw on the street. I got on the freeway and headed out to the Bellaire subdivision, ten minutes from downtown. I had to fight with every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep the car under the speed limit, my hands shaking on the steering wheel; this was no time to be stopped by a patrol car.
As I exited on the southwest freeway at Bellaire Boulevard, I still had the presence of mind to make a call on my cell phone. I’d already planned something to give myself an out should the authorities begin to close in. I made my call to put my plan in action, then took a right on Sycamore Street, pulling up in front of a house in the middle of the block. There were no lights on in the house, and the neighborhood was without street lamps, a stroke of luck. Under full control of the Hunger by now, I had no patience for stealth or subtlety. I walked up to the front door and forced myself to take one last look around the area. The Hunger was so strong that my entire body was vibrating, my muscles jumping and quivering in their need for sustenance, my face already changing.
The doorknob was no match for my strength, and, as I twisted, it came off in my hand with a metallic squeal and then a pop. I shoved the door open and walked straight through the living room in search of the bedroom, questing ahead with my mind to find my prey. A baby started to cry in the room to my left, but I ignored it and entered the door on my right.
As I opened the door, the bedroom light came on and I saw a man in boxer shorts, with rumpled hair and confused eyes, staring at me. The man was leaning over the bedside table and had one hand in the drawer and the other on the lamp, which he was just turning on. The woman next to him had her hands up to her face and her mouth opened to scream.
Though I moved immediately, the man had time to pull out a large revolver and get off one shot. The force of the slug tearing through my chest turned my body half around, but didn’t slow my progress. I took two quick steps and killed the man with a single backhanded blow to the side of his head. The woman was making gulping, wheezing sounds and trying without success to scream.
Her eyes were locked in terror on the hole the bullet had made on its way through my body. By the time I circled the bed and sat next to her, the wound had stopped bleeding and had already started to close. The woman ceased trying to scream and was now moaning deep in her throat and staring at her husband, lying half on the bed, his head at a grotesque angle.
I tenderly caressed her face for a moment, forcing myself to be as gentle as the Hunger would allow, then turned her head to look at me. With my last ounce of control, I rasped, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
My face continued the change begun earlier, my features coalescing and shifting, my fangs growing and protruding while my pointed tongue flicked at my lips in anticipation. I lowered my head to her neck.
As I got closer, the smell of the warm blood coursing through her arteries caused me to lose control. Drool dripped from my lips as I enclosed her throat with my mouth, and I began to feed. After a few seconds, she ceased her struggle, and her moans of fear became groans of desire. She pushed her throat into my face and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into her.
I had time to wonder, before the Hunger turned me into an unreasoning killing machine, why in some victims my violation of them was felt as a sexual release. My hands began to fondle her breasts and I could feel my penis grow rigid in my pants. Then the Hunger took over, and I began to rend and tear, all thought of sex abolished. Her limbs straightened in spasm, pommeling the bed in a dance of death as I sucked the life out of her.