Chapter Thirteen

 

 

MORRIS TURNED TOWARD Sturbridge, intending to run to his friend’s assistance—but another ghoul stepped out of the darkness and into his path. What’s more, the ghoul Morris had blinded seemed to have recovered and was moving toward him purposefully.

Morris swung the saber in a wide arc to make the ghouls move back a step and give him some maneuvering room. “Use your light, Dan!” he yelled, without taking his eyes off the two ghouls in front of him. “Blind the fuckers, then use your sword!”

Goddam flamethrower should have plenty of fuel left. Maybe the ignition switch shorted out, or the hose feeding from the tank got a kink in it—not that it makes much difference now. Goddam fucking shit!

Morris planned to follow his own advice—the part about blinding the ghouls, anyway. He was raising the four-bulb flashlight to do exactly that when one of the creatures made a sudden lunge toward him, its razor-sharp claws seeking his throat. Morris jumped back, but one foot landed on a patch of loose sand and went out from under him. Morris fell backwards but had enough sense to turn the fall into a roll that would put some space between him and the ghouls.

Rolling on the ground while holding a razor-sharp saber is tricky work. Morris managed that well enough, and even hung on to the sword—but he lost his flashlight in the process. And as he scrambled desperately to his feet, a sharp pain high up the inside of his right leg told him he’d pulled something in the fall, probably a groin muscle. He had just decided that things couldn’t get much worse, and then he heard Dan Sturbridge scream in terror.

Morris risked turning his head in that direction for an instant, and that was long enough for him to see Sturbridge as he broke and ran, stripping off the useless flamethrower on the way. He was headed west, back the way they had come and presumably toward the jeep which was parked a quarter mile away. Sturbridge ran as if all the demons of Hell were after him—and he wasn’t far wrong, either, since one of the ghouls shambled after him to disappear into the darkness. The other ghoul spent a moment staring in the direction his buddy had gone—and then turned, heading straight for Quincey Morris.

Under these circumstances, Morris thought, running away looked like a very good plan, but the ghouls trying to kill him clearly had other ideas, and every time he tried to take a step, the damaged muscle in his leg reminded him that fast movement was a very bad idea.

Three against one is pretty crappy odds, even if the three are ghouls. Wonder how fast these fuckers can run? Probably faster than some idiot with a torn groin muscle.

Morris slashed the air back and forth to keep the three ghouls at bay while part of his mind pondered the ancient Roman practice of falling on your sword. He wasn’t sure exactly how that form of suicide was accomplished, but he did know the Roman gladius was a hell of a lot shorter than the saber he now held, so that avenue of escape was probably denied to him.

Morris was damned if he was going to let himself be overwhelmed by sheer numbers and eaten alive by these monstrosities—that was just not permissible. He slashed at the ghouls, who stepped back out of range for a moment and then moved in again. Morris was wondering whether he had the gumption to slit his own throat and had just about decided to find out when something appeared behind one of the ghouls he was facing and tore its head off in a single, savage, movement.

The other two ghouls turned to gape, much as Morris was doing. That same something, moving too fast to be seen clearly in the uncertain light, closed with one of the remaining ghouls briefly and even from ten feet away Morris could hear its spine snap.

The third ghoul began backing away then, but it didn’t get more than a few yards before being engulfed by the mysterious shape, still moving too fast for Morris to get a clear view, especially this far from the fire. He heard what sounded like the beginning of a scream, but it was quickly cut off—and a few seconds later, Morris understood why, as the ghoul’s head came bouncing out of the darkness to land a few inches from his left foot.

Morris just stood where he was, the point of his saber touching the ground, as he tried to make some kind of sense out what had just happened. Then a shape was coming slowly toward him out of the dark. Unlike the shambling gait of the ghouls, this one walked liked a human. A moment later, Morris saw that human is exactly what it was—or appeared to be.

Morris’s savior was a man of middle height and average weight, with longish hair parted in the middle and a thin moustache traversing lips that appeared very red in the firelight. He wore dark clothing, a stark contrast to his skin, which was very pale.

Stopping about fifteen feet away, the man nodded pleasantly. “Good evening, Senõr Morris,” the man said, his Spanish-accented voice a pleasant tenor. “I am Ignacio de la rey Muñoz. It pleases me that you appear uninjured by these... beasts, although I very nearly arrived too late to be of assistance.”

Morris’s mouth moved a couple of times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed, “Well, I reckon the first thing I should say under the circumstances is ‘Thank you’—so, gracias, Señor Muñoz. You have saved my life, and perhaps more than my life. Gracias.”

The man made a slight, graceful gesture. “De nada.”

“The second thing I need to say is who—or what—the hell are you?”

Muñoz gave him a tiny smile. “I find it odd that you would ask such a question, Señor. It is well known that you have been acquainted with many of my kind—right before you killed them.”

The smile broadened to reveal a pair of canine teeth that were longer than the norm, and very sharp-looking.

Morris’s hand unconsciously tightened around the grip of the saber he still held. He knew what he was facing now.

Vampire.