Bad Blood (12 page)

Coburn understood the plan.

He herded the children toward the minivan as the hunter scrambled to its feet, claws clicking on blacktop and teeth clacking together.

It stood as the kids entered the minivan through the backdoor.

Coburn hurried back for the dog.

“Coburn!” Gil yelled. “No time!”

But there had to be time. He scooped the pooch up. Smelled the blood. Felt the crass and callous demon of hunger send up a tickling finger to tighten his jaw, make him think about eating the dog here and now, fulfilling the animal’s long-ago purpose of being a road-trip snack in case the vampire needed it. Sick. Shameful. But that was the demon.

What mattered though was:

The dog was still breathing.

Barely. Shallow. A low whine from the back of its throat. The dog’s side perforated with puncture marks from the monster’s claws.

Coburn heard Gil calling to him again. The vampire turned back toward the van, saw that once more the beast stood between him and his goal.

Fuck that.

He couldn’t kill this kid, or rather, this thing-that-was-no-longer-a-kid. He had enough presence of mind to realize that now. It was a cowardice born of guilt, a roadblock in his way because of those he’d hurt and lost. Even though this thing was no longer human. Even though this
girl
—Ellie—was gone and the body now filled by a devil of desire and thirst and cruelty, Coburn still couldn’t kill her. Or it. Or whatever it was.

But he was getting to that mini-van, goddamnit.

Creampuff looked up at Coburn. Blood trickling from his muzzle.

The hunter’s patience was at an end. The beast bolted toward him. Claws out. Jaw unhinging like a snake’s—mouth wide, too wide, its lashing tongue licking the rain and tasting the air.

Coburn held his ground.

And when the beast was close enough—he took one big step back.

Over the open manhole.

The hunter did not fall through the manhole, not entirely—but one of its legs did disappear into that space and the beast fell forward, cracking its head on the macadam and yowling in rage and anguish. Needle teeth broke off and scattered like the knucklebones cast by a diviner.

Coburn used the body as a stepping stone and bolted toward the van.

The zombies surged again. The mesmerism of the hunter, interrupted. They pushed forth toward the van. Slapping wetly against its side. Rocking it.

The vampire gave himself one last boost—

And shouldered hard right into the back of the vehicle.

The van started to lurch forward.

There they were, at the top of a hill. On Hyde Street. Down the hill—north, though you couldn’t see it in the dark and through the rain—was the bay. Where they had been hoping to get to all along.

Coburn clambered atop the van as it started to roll down the hill with Gil at the wheel, steering out of the way of parked and abandoned cars, clipping zombies and letting the wheels pop their limbs and heads like blood-gorged ticks.

The van picked up speed, bounding away in escape.

Coburn heard the wretched cry of the hunter.

Wounded. Stung. Starving.

Always starving.

He looked behind him, and in a small blessing could not see the beast.

CHAPTER TEN

Dead End

T
HE VAN BOUNDED
down the hill, steering to narrowly dodge debris and skirt other cars. Some of the rotters saw them pass, tried to follow, slapped at the vehicle as it passed—but they were too slow, too stupid, to matter.

They bounded pasted a gutted Starbucks. An overgrown park. Boutique hotels and shuttered restaurants. And all around them, dead people: some still moving, others just corpses burned or gutted or gone from suicide. In cars. On street corners. Hanging half out of windows.

All the while, Coburn clung to the roof-rack of the mini-van with one hand, shushing Creampuff and stroking the little dog’s head with the other. The animal panted. Heavy. Too heavy. Blood wetting Coburn’s arms.

Soon the great Hyde Street hill evened out—
please keep your arms and legs inside the ride
, Coburn thought, calling to mind a fleeting memory of Coney Island that he did not expect and could not follow—and since Gil had the van in neutral, there wasn’t much he could do but steer it straight into a parked car to stop it. Not before mowing over a DEAD END sign. Which Coburn hoped was not somehow prescient.

T
HE RAIN LIGHTENED,
but just the same they all poured out of the van and huddled under the tattered awning of some bullshit maritime souvenir shop with wooden pirates standing vigil out front.

The kid—Aiden—looked wrecked. Gutted. Hell, they all did. A little girl with pigtails came up to Coburn and gently patted Creampuff’s head.

“This is your stop,” Aiden said. Staring at a faraway point. “You better go. Zombos won’t be long in coming.”

Pete pointed past the storefront and toward the maritime tourist complex of Fisherman’s Wharf. “Follow this out, it’ll take you to the end of the Hyde Street pier. You’ll find some old dinghies tied up. We use them to fish sometimes.”

“Ew,” the little pig-tailed girl said. “Fish, yuck.”

“What about you?” Gil asked. “You could come with us.”

“To Alcatraz?” Aiden asked. “No, thanks. We’ve got our place here.”

Coburn held Creampuff close, furrowed his brow. “Wait. Who said jack and shit about Alcatraz?”

“Better play catch up, old man,” Aiden said. “You’re looking for a lab, right? Alcatraz is it.”

“Rude little prick,” Coburn said.

“Takes one to know one,” the kid answered.

That was probably true.

It was then they said their goodbyes. The kids all shook Gil’s hand—though the pig-tailed one who the others called ‘Princess’ leapt up and hugged him like he was her long-lost grandfather. Coburn stood off to the side, gently scratching Creampuff’s ear.

Fact you can do anything gentle is a surprise
, came Kayla’s voice, which had been silent since the fracas on the hill.

Coburn grunted.

Then felt someone standing near him. One of the midgets.

“Thanks for saving my life,” the girl with the dirty face said; chair leg tucked under her arm. “Hope your puppy’s okay.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Later.”

“Later, kid.”

The children left. Darting off around the corner, in the rain. Disappearing. A pack of apocalypse orphans—although, the vampire had to admit, they had better control of things than most of the adults they encountered.

“You ready?” Gil asked.

“Sure,” Coburn said.

But he was pretty sure it was a lie.

He had no idea how unready he really was.

PART THREE

DEVILS

The Conversation: #3

Can you still hear me?

A little.

But I’m fading, aren’t I?

I don’t want to talk about that.

You don’t want to talk about a lot of things.

Ain’t I a bitch?

But these could be our last moments together. Tell me, John Wesley. Tell me about what you regret. Tell me about what you love.

I regret nothing. And I love only myself
.

Now you’re just being stupid.

It’s how I roll.

Won’t you miss me?

I’ll miss you. But it won’t matter because I’ll be dead. Dead for good. Dead and done and fucked four ways from Friday.

I’ll miss you, too.

Yeah
.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Devil’s Island

T
HE DINGHY BOBBED
in the bay. The thunder was distant, now. The bulk of the storm had moved out to sea again, leaving behind only a grimy mist of rain falling oily against their skin.

The vampire had Gil row for a minute.

He set the dog in his lap. The animal no longer looked up at him. His breathing was fast, shallow—like watching a rabbit die from fright. The holes in his side were pretty bad. Went deep.

The dog was dying.

Coburn said as much.

Gil looked back. Mouth in a sad, straight line.

“Not that I’m a doctor or anything,” Coburn said.

“Be nice to have Leelee here,” Gil said.

“Yeah. Yeah it would.”

The dinghy continued. Alcatraz in the distance, a shadowy rock growing larger and larger as they approached.

The dog’s breath came in hitches now—inconsistent, unsteady, uneven. Gil spoke up again: “Remember. Leelee got bit. Kayla saved her. Right then and there.”

“That she did.”

Gil turned around. Set the oars down. “No, you’re not listening. Her blood. Kayla’s blood. It’s
your
blood now. Give the damn dog some of your stuff.” Gil looked down at the dog. “But you better hurry.”

Coburn sank his teeth into the tip of his thump, ripping the flesh of the thumb-pad clean off. Then he thrust it into the dog’s mouth and used his free hand to massage the hand, way you’d urge milk from a cow’s udder.

The dog’s tongue lapped at the wound. Weakly, but there it was.

Then the dog stopped breathing.

Coburn shook the dog. “No, no, get up. Wait. Shit. Fuck!” He shot a hate-fueled gaze at Gil. “You did this. You told me it would work. You said—”

The dog shuddered suddenly, took in a great gasp of air.

The tail started going. Just a light
thwip thwip thwip
against the inside of Coburn’s arm. The eyes focused again. The breathing returned. Still shallow. Still weak as wind blowing around a piece of tissue paper.

But it was there.

Then Creampuff pissed on Coburn’s lap. Probably not an act of spite.

Probably.

“Dog pissed on me,” Coburn said.

“Maybe you deserved it,” Gil said. “Maybe he’s trying to make you smell better. Because let me tell you, you smell like shit. Literally. Like shit.”

“You don’t smell so good yourself.” Coburn held the dog close. “You planning on telling me you got bit?” The infection had a smell. Cheesy. Curdled.
Parfum de rotter
.

Inside Coburn’s mind, Kayla woke up at that—he heard her shout for her father as if the old man could actually hear her psychic projection.

Then he heard her crying.

“I got bit,” Gil said. “So what.”

“Here.” Coburn thrust out his still-bleeding thumb. “Drink up. Worked on the dog. I guess. Go on. Drinky, drinky. Suck my thumb, little baby.”

“Better than ‘old man,’ I guess.” But Gil didn’t move. Instead he stared ahead, still rowing, and said: “Something you need to know about Kayla. Something Kayla needs to know, too.”

Daddy?

“She’s listening. But first—” Coburn gestured with the bloody thumb.

Still Gil didn’t move.

“It’s about when she was born. She wasn’t born right. When she came out, she was—”

A gunshot split the air in the distance, echoed over the bay, and the bullet punched the water about three feet off the right side of the boat. Coburn said, “Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ assholes think we’re an invading army or some shit.” He stood up in the boat. Waved his arms. “Hey! Fuckos! We’re here to help! We’ve got something—”

“Coburn, don’t stand up in the—”

Another gunshot.

The bullet clipped Coburn’s hip—shattering bone and coming out through his buttock. His leg gave out and his body pivoted, and he tumbled over into the water with a heaving splash.

More bullets followed him into the water. Watery lines as the slugs punched the space above his head—lead minnows leaving little bubbles. The underside of the boat drifted away, churned by the oars. Gil was leaving him—not a shock, and not unwarranted since he was being shot at, too.

The vampire could take care of himself. The old man knew that.

Probably.

Coburn, feeling mighty pissed off, swam.

K
AYLA’S VOICE: AN
endless chatter of crows inside his mind.
Daddy! Please let him be all right. What was he going to tell you? What’s wrong with me?

Coburn couldn’t help but answer:
You’re dead. That’s what’s wrong with you
.

In return he once more heard her weeping.