A sign out front claimed the tavern had been standing since 1776, long before the Battle. It was a long, sprawling complex rather than a single building, added on to over the years and surrounded by tree-lined parking lots. The main building had thick, defensible-looking flowstone walls pierced by dozens of windows with broad white shutters. Redbrick chimneys stood up from the shingled roof and a white picket fence ran around the structure, leading up to a broad red door like a target that she hurried toward, certain she wanted to get inside as quickly as possible, sure as she could be that the intersection was better off behind her.
90.
July 3rd dawned and at once the guns were on again, hurling death against us as we hurled destruction at them. My troops slept through it all in their coffins, through the fighting at the Devil’s Den where men stumbled on the bodies of their compatriots, and could gain no result. I saw it all, and came to envy them. The feeling, as if my head were stuck in some invisible vise, continued throughout that day, and vexed me sorely. I complained of it to a surgeon, who had so little time for my aches and pains that he did not even spit out a reply. When I asked about it I was told every man felt the same. They knew this sensation well. Some felt it was from the noise, that the very sound of mortar shells bursting all around us was enough to physically harm a man.
Others claimed it was from our inability to sleep.
One man, a volunteer from Kentucky, offered to pray with me. “That feelin’ ya got, that’s God speakin’, tellin’ ya to git right now, for ya ain’t got so much time left to make up for bad behavior!”
I will leave it to others to describe the content of that third day of battle, to list the regiments who fought with such valor and to sing the plaudits of those generals who finally outwitted Master Lee. I could only watch in terror as the Southron horde came on in waves, again and yet again, as we fought them back, with muskets and in some places with bare bayonets. My mind was not capable of making sense of the general horror, the appalling loss of life, the noise, the smoke. The smoke, the smoke! In my memory that place is all made of ash, and flecks my cheeks and nose with its feathery powder, and all I breathe is smoke. I smell it now!
—THE PAPERS OFWILLIAMPITTENGER
91.
Just before she reached the door, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she stopped, motionless, like a rabbit paralyzed by fear.
Someone—some thing, some unnatural thing—was nearby. She’d been fighting vampires long enough to know the feeling. It had to be close. It could be hiding in any of the broad shadows around her. It would be within striking range, she thought. It would be waiting for her to turn her back, and then it would attack.
She lifted her rifle and turned on one foot, pointing the weapon at nothing and everything. Ready to shoot the second something moved.
Then as quickly as the unnatural feeling had come, it disappeared.
There had been a vampire nearby. She was certain of it. It could have attacked her. It must have wanted to. But for some reason it had changed its mind and left her alone. That made no sense.
It didn’t need to. It was a good thing, she told herself, and she could use some more of those. She thought about the dead vampire above the electric map. Something had torn out its heart. Something was—protecting her? That wasn’t something a vampire would ever do. They didn’t see human life as possessing any significant value. They certainly wouldn’t go out of their way to save a human being. Yet something had done just that. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t protecting her at all. Maybe it was just laying claim to her. Maybe one of the vampires had decided she was its personal prey. Maybe it had killed the vampire at the electric map so it could save her for itself.
Again she told herself it didn’t matter. She was still alive, and that did matter. She wanted to stay that way.
“Okay,” she said, to center herself. Then she turned, pressed the thumb latch on the door, and stepped inside into darkness.
Closing the door behind her, she let her lungs heave and strain to get her breath back. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut. It was freezing inside the tavern. She detected no sign of life inside the big stone building.
“Okay,” she said again. She wanted to sit down for a while. She wanted to get a good night’s sleep. She didn’t have time to be exhausted, though. Nothing had changed. No matter how many vampires were after her, no matter what they might have wanted, she still had to follow her own plan. She needed to hook up with any remnants of her army of cops and guardsmen. She needed to find more ammunition for her weapons. If nothing else she needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere she could defend, and hold it as long as she could. Hopefully long enough for the National Guard reinforcements to arrive.
There was a light on inside the tavern. She hadn’t expected that. A single candle stood on a table in the middle of the room, flickering with a yellow light that dazzled her eyes.
She was expected, she realized. Someone was waiting for her in here.
In the light of just the candle the room was full of dancing shadows. It was worse than darkness, she decided, so she blew out the flame and watched its orange spark dull and finally die. She didn’t turn on her flashlight immediately—she wanted her vision to adapt to the darkness first. So she stared into the dark and listened to nothing but her own breath. For a while that was all there was.
Then she heard music.
The sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune. It was so appropriate a sound for the ancient tavern that for a moment she wondered if she’d been sent back in time.
If only, she thought.
She climbed to her feet. The music was coming from above her, from some room higher up in the building. She heard another instrument as well—a flute? A recorder? No, it was a fife. And underneath, pounding out an uncomplicated rhythm, she heard a bass drum.
There was nothing forcing her to investigate the music. If she wanted to—and she really did want to, she knew that it was herself thinking this—she could just stay downstairs until dawn. She would be safe enough there in the tavern. She could defend herself. Shoot anything that tried to come through the door.
Keep her back to a stone wall that even vampires couldn’t break their way through.
She could just sit there and listen to the music all night. If she wanted to. And she wanted to.
There was only one problem. Arkeley would have wanted her to go upstairs. She knew exactly what he would do in her situation. She knew he was right. Vampires loved to play tricks with your brain. It was one of their chief joys. It was also one of their few weaknesses. If you walked right into their traps, if you defied the obvious logic of their illusions, more often than not you could catch them on a bad footing.
So she switched on her flashlight, found the stairwell, and headed up.
The room at the top of the stairs was maybe fifteen feet on a side, with a low ceiling and lots of windows. Beyond that she had no idea what it really looked like. What she saw up there, in that room, couldn’t possibly be real.
Men in blue uniforms, well tailored and lined with polished brass buttons, stood against the walls holding steins of beer or cups of punch. Their faces were ruddy with health and good cheer. A few of them were playing the instruments she’d heard, making a raucous, happy sound. Along one wall stood a groaning board loaded with roasts and cakes and an enormous punch bowl. Bunting hung from that wall, golden cloth printed with the message: