Forty-four
The fog and drizzle that had been present all morning turned into a light rain by the time the ten men on the SWAT team, led by Damon Clark and Shooter, deployed around the Nightrunner. Chief Clark arranged for a small Coast Guard cruiser to be in the channel to prevent any attempted escape via water.
The gangplank was in an upright position, so there was no easy access to the ship. Damon spoke briefly on the radio to two members of the SWAT team, giving them orders to shimmy across the large ropes tying the ship to the dock. Matt watched through the misty rain as they threw their M-16s over their shoulders and began to go hand over hand, hanging upside down, along the ropes toward the ship.
He shuddered at the sight of the men scrambling over the water, only feet above the slow-moving, oily black liquid. It brought back terrible memories of when he’d been only five or six years old. His father had taken him out to Lake Houston for a weekend fishing trip. Matt walked out on a small pier while his dad was unloading the car. A rotten board had given way, flinging Matt into the deep, brown water of the lake. He’d become entangled in lake grass and was held underwater, choking and coughing and inhaling the dirty water until, at the last moment, his father had pulled him out. Matt had been terrified of drowning ever since, and only rarely ventured anywhere near water. He knew it was going to take all the courage he could muster to walk onto that ship.
Once on board, the SWAT team hurried to the gangplank and started the winch that would lower it to the dock.
Damon glanced at Matt, standing next to him in the rain. “Matt, my butt is really on the line letting you be here.”
“I know, Chief, and I’m grateful. . . .”
Damon put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Okay, prove it by staying here.... No matter what happens, I don’t want you anywhere near that ship. Okay?”
Matt started to answer, secretly relieved at being absolved of the need to go on board, when suddenly, with the gangplank only halfway down, a figure in black appeared behind the men on the ship. Intent on the progress of the gangplank, they failed to see him until he was directly behind them. One of the men on shore with Damon yelled at them and they whirled, rifles coming up.
They were too late. The figure had a long, metallic object in his hand and made two lightning-fast swings, one forehand, the other backhand. The SWAT men stood there for a moment, as if confused; then their heads simply rolled off their shoulders over the rail into the water as their bodies collapsed onto the deck.
Ten guns fired at once, but all were too late, for the figure had ducked out of sight behind the gangplank winch. Damon, by dint of much yelling and a slap or two, finally got the men to quit firing their weapons at shadows.
As the gangplank hit the dock, Damon was first in line as the men rushed the ship. At the head of the gangplank, he divided the men into teams, warning them again to proceed with extreme caution.
Damon and two of his men were searching the bridge when they heard screams from the rear of the vessel. They rushed out onto the deck in time to hear a prolonged burst from an M-16 punctuated by a snarling howl and another scream. Straining to see through the driving rain, Damon thought he saw a man’s form fly through the air and over the side of the ship.
A figure came running out of the mist and ran toward them, and the two men with Damon cut loose with their M-16s before he could stop them. The SWAT man they were aiming at danced and jigged as the bullets tore into and through him, then fell to the deck in a spreading pool of crimson blood.
One of the men with Damon, when he saw what he had done, leaned over the rail and began to vomit, muttering over and over, “Oh my God, oh my God.” Damon shouted at the other man to stay with him as he made his way toward the screams.
The rain streamed off Damon’s face and into his eyes, spotting his glasses, but he didn’t dare take his hands off his rifle to wipe them clear. He advanced slowly, crouching as he was taught in the marines. His eyes darted to and fro, never still, using his peripheral as well as his central vision to the maximum.
Damon sensed rather than heard the swish of the sword and dove to the side, swinging his rifle up to ward off the blow. His heart almost stopped at the sight that confronted him as the glittering blade glanced off his M-16 with a shower of sparks. There, outlined by a flash of lightning, was a creature nightmares are made of. Its skull was misshapen and elongated from front to back, with wide, flaring nostrils, pointed ears, and a long pointed tongue that flicked in and out from between protruding fangs, glowing in the dark.
The rain had not yet erased the streaks of blood and gore dripping from the creature’s mouth and claws. Damon screamed in fear and loathing as he fired point-blank into the monster’s chest.
He had time to see the bullets’ impact knock the creature backward and tear holes in its chest before his clip was empty. He snapped the clip release with one hand while he reached for his spare clip with the other, never taking his eyes off the creature.
With a deep guttural growl, the creature regained its balance and lunged forward, burying its sword to the hilt in Damon’s abdomen. The end of the blade passed clear through him and came out his back. Damon’s hands, paralyzed by the shock of the wound, dropped his rifle and he hung there, impaled on the sword. The creature howled and swiftly withdrew the sword, letting Damon fall to his knees before him.
As the creature raised the blade above him with both hands for the coup de grâce, Damon somehow managed to wrench his pistol out of his shoulder holster. With a scream of rage and pain, he raised the pistol and shot the creature full in the face, pulling the trigger over and over again until the gun was empty. The force of the impact flipped the ghoul over backward and it tumbled down the deck behind a pile of boxes. After a moment, surrounded by a hail of bullets from one of the other SWAT team members, it reappeared and scrambled down the passageway out of sight.
Damon tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hands as he thought, Well I’ll be damned, I’m still alive. Then a cloud of darkness appeared out of the rain and enveloped him as he fell facedown on the deck.
Matt, hands shielding his eyes from the rain, saw the whole scene played out against the backdrop of the lightning flashes. Oh God, he thought in horror. He’s got Damon. Ignoring his fear of water and without regard for his own safety, he rushed up the gangplank and onto the ship.
Shooter and his partner were down in the forward cabin area searching for Niemann, when they heard the gunfire and screams from above. As they raced back up the passageway, Shooter ratcheted back the bolt of the Uzi he’d checked out of the police armory. He preferred it to the M-16 because of its thirty-round magazine and heavier parabellum shells.
Shooter’s partner scrambled up the steps to the main deck just ahead of him. Suddenly his full weight was thrown back on Shooter, knocking him back to the floor. He rolled to the side and jumped to his feet, covering the steps with his Uzi. When he saw there was no immediate danger, he looked back down at his partner. The man was split down the middle, from the crown of his head to his midchest. He never even felt the blow that killed him.
Bile rising in his throat at the sight, Shooter inched up the steps, swinging the Uzi to and fro to cover his ascent. He climbed up on deck into the rain, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. He fished a flashlight out of his rear pocket, but the glare off the rain and fog made the visibility even worse, so he switched it off.
Crouching, he began to make his way toward the rear of the ship, the direction from which the screams and gunshots came. Before he had gone ten feet, he stumbled over something in the passageway and fell to the deck. He rolled and swung the Uzi around, sure he was about to be attacked. Nothing. He felt around in the darkness until he found what tripped him. It was the body of one of the SWAT team members, with pulp where his face should have been and a gaping hole in his throat.
Shooter began to shiver. He tried to tell himself it was from the rain and cold, not from fear, but didn’t believe it for a minute. C’mon, Shooter, get a grip on yourself, he said to himself. He looked around in the gloom and realized he would not see anything even if it was there. Why didn’t we bring more backup? He crawled around until his back was against the wheelhouse wall and held the Uzi out in front of him, pointing at the darkness and mist and fog.
After a few moments, he decided to continue moving around. Hell, it can’t be any more dangerous than sitting here waiting for him to find me, he reasoned, trying to gain control over the terror that threatened to immobilize him. Half crawling and half walking, he found three more bodies as he circled the ship. With the two overboard, that made seven dead out of their original twelve, he counted. God only knows what Clark and the others ran into out there.
Shooter continued around the rail, continually looking ahead and behind, until he thought his neck was going to seize up from the strain. He held his breath and felt a pain in his chest. There was Damon lying on the deck a few feet ahead with a figure bending over him. Shooter raised the Uzi, about to fire. When the figure looked back over his shoulder, he saw that it was Matt.
He rushed over and knelt next to the two men. “Jesus, Matt, what’re you doing up here?”
Matt was stuffing parts of Damon’s shirt he had torn off into the wound to staunch the flow of blood. Shooter gasped at the amount of blood on the front of Damon’s abdomen. It had soaked his coat and pooled beneath his body.
Shooter started and jumped when Damon’s eyelids fluttered and he moaned in pain. “Chief, it’s me, Shooter. You’re gonna be just fine . . . hold on, Matt here’s gonna fix you up.”
Damon’s eyes opened, squinting half shut as the rain pounded them. “Hey, Shooter, don’t shit me, man. I’ve had it . . . just make sure you get the motherfucker, okay?”
Shooter gulped and his throat worked as he tried to answer. “Sure, Chief, sure. I’ll get him, don’t worry.”
Damon inclined his head toward Matt. “And get the doc out of here.” He coughed and blood bubbled out of his mouth. “I don’t want any more innocent blood on my hands. . . .”
Shooter started to lay Damon’s head down, when a hand came up and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Shooter,” croaked Damon, his voice sounding as if his throat were full of crushed glass. “Shooter, bullets don’t work on the bastard. I put a full clip into him and nothing . . . he just kept coming. You’re gonna have to figure out some other way . . . bullets don’t work . . .” His eyes shut and his head flopped to the side as he passed out.
Matt placed his hand over the wound and applied more pressure, trying to minimize blood loss.
Oh, great, Shooter thought, bullets don’t work. Just where the fuck do I get another weapon now? I gotta think . . . the bastard’s got to have a weakness. He sat there, cradling Damon’s head while Matt worked on him, and tried to think of some way to kill the monster.
From out of the darkness up ahead, Shooter heard a low-pitched, guttural growl. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and turned his bowels to water. He gently laid Damon’s head down and covered it with his cap. Heart pounding, he picked up the Uzi and crawled into the darkness to meet the creature. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
Suddenly, a searchlight appeared off the ship’s bow. The Coast Guard cutter had turned the light on when no one answered their calls on the portable radios. The thousand-candlepower light outlined the creature as he jumped toward Shooter, both hands raised with his sword overhead in the strike position.
As Shooter brought the Uzi up, the thought hit him like a thunderbolt. It’s too late. I’m gonna die and the bastard’s gonna win.
The glistening blade whistled as it flashed downward, meeting the Uzi with a clang and knocking it out of Shooter’s hand.
The creature stepped forward until Shooter was lying beneath his feet, weaponless. He raised the handle of the sword with the blade pointed down at Shooter’s heart, fangs bared, snarling in triumph....
“No-o-o!” screamed Matt.
The monster hesitated and looked over at Matt, who was walking through the rain toward him, arms outstretched. “Roger, how much is your life worth?” he shouted. “Just how much carnage can you endure just to go on living?”
The vampire looked back down at Shooter, helpless beneath him, then back at Matt, before slowly lowering the sword and stepping back. He turned around and leaned on the rail, looking through the rain at the water, as if deep in thought.
Shooter reached for his Uzi, thinking, The dead vampire . . . Niemann cut his head off . . .
He aimed the Uzi and fired. The thirty rounds in its magazine exploded from the barrel in a few seconds. While firing, Shooter turned the gun on its side so that the weapon’s natural tendency to rise would make it go sideways. The bullets stitched a path of destruction from Niemann’s left shoulder across his neck and to his right shoulder, throwing his body against the rail.
The body teetered there, caught in the searchlight like some grotesque nightclub performer. The head rolled backward off the shoulders and hung there by one slender thread of tissue for a moment.
As the astonished Shooter and Matt watched, the monster’s features melted and coalesced, changing into the face of a young man again. Later, Shooter would swear the lips on the head curled into a sad smile, just before the body tumbled over the rail and into the black waters below.
Shooter leaned back and turned his face skyward, letting the rain wash the sweat and tears from his face.