“Crow…” LaMastra said under his breath.
“Tell me something, Karl…what’s with all the fireworks and shit. What’s the point? This part of some bullshit evil master plan? You think tearing down a small town like this makes you—what, some kind of vampire king or some shit?”
Ruger pretended to be interested. “Actually we do have a master plan. And, funnily enough, it’s actually pretty darned evil.”
“Oh? Like what? You take over Pine Deep and then you turn it into a vampire tourist trap?”
“No, dumbass, we take over Pine Deep and then we take over the whole shitting world.”
Now it was Crow’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, right. And when the National Guard start dropping napalm on your ass, what then? You going to hide behind a kid then, too, you cowardly piece of shit?”
Ruger’s smile didn’t falter. “Don’t worry, boy, we have plans for that. The Man has plans for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Put the kid down.”
“Blow me.” Ruger gave the kid’s throat a quick squeeze; the kid winced again, his face screwed up; he bared his teeth as he fought against the killer’s iron grip.
“Crow…” LaMastra said again.
“Don’t be a pussy, Karl. You’re supposed to be the übertough guy…put the kid down.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
Ruger pushed the kid forward and took a step down toward Crow. Below, the vampires moved up a couple of steps, smiling at how Ruger was playing this.
LaMastra flinched away from them so that he and Crow were tight back-to-back.
“Rock and a hard place,” mocked the killer. “You can’t kill the kid, and that popgun can’t kill me.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Crow said, putting some edge to his voice.
Ruger’s smile flickered just the faintest bit. “Well, well, you think you have some kind of secret weapon to use against the big bad vampires. Oooo…scary. Look at me ready to piss myself I’m so scared.” He jostled the kid as he took another step. “Let me guess…silver bullets?”
“I’m not that dumb, Karl.”
“You’re not that smart. So…what is it? Holy water? I wash my dick with holy water.”
“Take a sniff, jackass.”
The killer’s smile flickered again, longer this time. The other vampires shifted uncomfortably, and still they all took another step down toward Crow.
“Yeah, well, you still can’t shoot, smartass.” Ruger lifted the kid off the floor to provide maximum coverage.
“Watch me,” Crow said.
And he fired the shotgun.
Ruger was startled, but he was fast. So incredibly fast. He watched Crow’s eyes, saw the tightening of his finger, and then he threw the boy at Crow as he dodged sideways. The blast caught the kid in the chest and flung his small body backward against the other vampires. Ruger ducked back behind one of the others, shoving two of them into the path of Crow’s next shot. Then he was gone up the stairs.
“NO!” screamed LaMastra as he watched the child’s body tumble down the stairs. The vampires stared, as stunned as the detective was, but Crow jacked a round and the sound of it broke the tableau. He fired and the closest vampire was hurled back against the other, his face torn away. Garlic-soaked pellets hit the creatures behind them and they screamed in fear and agony.
Crow spun around and fired past LaMastra down the stairs. “Vince! Snap the hell out of it! Kill the bastards!” He fired again and that broke the detective’s trance. They both opened up as the vampires, caught between Ruger’s orders and the reality that these men had weapons that could kill their kind, hesitated. That was enough for Crow. In the narrow confines of the stairwell the two shotguns cut them to ribbons.
Then it was over except for the echoes of thunder that rolled up and down the concrete tower. Crow sagged back and sat down hard on the blood-slick steps, not caring that he sat between the outstretched legs of a dead monster. LaMastra stood over him, chest heaving as he stared at the carnage. He shifted the shotgun to his left hand, grabbed Crow by the front of the shirt, jerked him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall with such force that Crow felt the world explode in a blinding fireworks display.
“You bastard!” he screamed. “You sick murderous bastard!” With each word he banged Crow against the blood-splattered wall.
“Vince…!”
“I should have let that son of a bitch kill you!”
“Vince!”
“You shot that kid!”
Crow had just about enough of it. As LaMastra hauled him forward and began to slam him back again, Crow crunched the stock of the shotgun hard against the side of LaMastra’s ribs and at the same time pivoted his whole body sharply around. The speed of the pivot and the force of the blow spun LaMastra into the wall; then it was the sergeant who crashed into the wall, and Crow brought the barrel of his shotgun up under LaMastra’s chin hard enough to lift the detective onto his toes.
“The kid was already dead, you stupid shit!”
LaMastra blinked. “W—what?”
“He was a vampire! He was part of Ruger’s trap. Christ, do you think I’d actually kill a kid, for Christ’s sake?” He stepped back, resisting the urge to butt-stroke LaMastra with the shotgun stock, but he knew that would only be transference for what he was feeling.
“How…how—?”
Crow pointed with the shotgun at the twisted, broken corpse. “Don’t you pay attention? The kid had teeth like a rattlesnake.”
LaMastra turned and looked down. The kid was in a broken sprawl, his mouth open. The fangs hadn’t yet completely retracted into the gums.
“I…didn’t. I was looking down the stairs, man—”
“Save it. We have bigger fish to fry.” Crow said. “Just reload and let’s go find Val.”
Chapter 43
(1)
They crept up the outside of the building like roaches, scuttling up along the brickwork in the dark, silent, patient, fired by hunger and purpose. Five of them went up—the lightest of the pack, the ones with the strongest fingernails, the ones who could dig into the cement between the bricks. Four more waited below, smiling up through the firelit darkness.
When the climbers paused at one window, one of the watchers below cupped his hands around his mouth and softly called, “Next one up.”
The five climbers looked up to the big window fifteen feet above them. There was a boom and a flash. A gunshot. Another, and another.
The climbers grinned and as one they reached up for the next brick, and the next.
(2)
LaMastra led the way up the stairs, whipping the shotgun barrel around every corner, whispering “Clear!” at each bend. The tower was littered with debris as if it belonged in a town where there had been strife and warfare for months rather than hours. Torn clothing, nameless junk, broken glass, and blood. In smears and splashes it was everywhere. The copper stink of it was making them sick; the higher they climbed the fresher and stronger the smell.
They were both sweating heavily and breathing like marathon runners. The gunshots still seemed to echo in their eardrums, and their shoulders were swollen and bruised from the recoiling guns, but need and fear and rage kept them going.
The fourth floor door was ajar, blocked from closing by an empty shoe. LaMastra shifted over and crouched, aiming through the opening. He nodded to Crow, who carefully opened the door. They could see the nursing station forty feet down the hall. There were bodies on the floor, but nothing moved in their line of sight. Crow stepped out first with LaMastra covering him, and moved over to the station. A nurse was sprawled on the counter, her throat torn out. Farther back in the large cubicle was a man in surgical scrubs. He had a bullet hole in his forehead.