F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (17 page)

 
          
"Oh,
shit," Kenny said from beside him. "Another one."

 
          
Jackie
turned off the music. The sudden silence was creepy.

 
          
Al
squinted at the body. "Who is it?"

 
          
"I
dunno," Stan said. Then he looked back at Al from under the wide brim of
his cowboy hat. "Whyn't you go see."

 
          
Al
swallowed. He'd turned out to be the best climber, so he'd wound up the
second-story man of the team. But he didn't want to make this climb.

 
          
"What's
the use?" Al said. "Whoever he is, he's dead."

 
          
"See
if he's one of us," Stan said.

 
          
"Ain't
it always one of us?"

 
          
"Then
see which one of us it is, okay?"

 
          
Stan
had been pissing Al off today with his hot-shit 'tude. He was posse leader,
yeah, but give it a rest now and then, okay? But this time he was right:
somebody had to go see who'd got unlucky last night.

 
          
Al
hopped over the door and headed for the pole. What a pain in the ass. The rope
around the dead guy's feet was looped over the first climbing spike. He
shimmied up to it and got creosote all over himself in the process. The stuff
was a bitch to get off. And besides, it made his skin itch. On the way up he'd
kept the pole between himself and the body. Now it was time to look. He
swallowed. He'd seen one of these strung-up guys up close before and—

 
          
He
spotted the earring, a blood-splattered silvery crescent moon dangling on a
fine chain from the brown-crusted earlobe, an exact replica of the one dangling
from Al's left ear, only this one was dangling the wrong way.

 
          
"Yep,"
he said, loud so's the car could hear it. "It's one of us."

 
          
"Damn!"
Stan's voice. "Anyone we know?"

 
          
Stan
and the rest jumped out of the car and stared up at him.

 
          
Al
squinted at the face but with the gag stuck in its mouth, and the head so encrusted
with clotted blood and crawling with buzzing, feeding flies darting in and out
of the gaping wound in the throat, he couldn't make out no features.

 
          
"Can't
tell."

 
          
"Well,
cut him down then."

 
          
This
was the part Al hated most of all. It seemed almost like a sin. Not that he'd
ever been religious or nothing, but someday, if he didn't watch his ass, this
could be him.

 
          
He
pulled his K-Bar from its scabbard and sawed at the rope above the knot on the
climbing spike. It frayed, jerked a couple of times, then parted. He closed his
eyes as the body tumbled downward. He hummed Metallica's "Sandman" to
blot out the sound it made when it hit the pavement. He especially hated the
sick, wet plop of the head if it landed first. Which this one did.

 
          
"Looks
like Benny Gonzales," Jackie said.

 
          
Kenny
was nodding. "Yep. No doubt about it. That's Benny. Shit."

 
          
They
dragged his body over to the curb and drove on, but the party mood was gone.

 
          
"I'd
love to catch the bastards who're doin this shit," Stan said as he drove.
"They've gotta be close by around here somewhere."

 
          
"They
could be anywhere," Al said. "They found Benny back there, killed him
there—you saw that puddle of blood under him—and left him. Then they cut
out."

 
          
"They're
huntin us like we're huntin them," Jackie said.

 
          
"But
I wanna be the one to catch 'em," Kenny said.

 
          
Jackie
sneered. "Yeah? And what would you do if you did?"

 
          
Kenny
said nothing, and Al knew that was the answer. Nothing. He'd bring them in and
turn them over. The bloodsuckers didn't like you screwing with their cattle.

 
          
But
something had to be done. Lots of the cattle they roped in called Al and
company traitors and collaborators and worse. Lately it looked like some of
them had gone beyond name-calling and graduated to throat-slitting.

 
          
Benny
Gonzales was the fifth one in a month.

 
          
Seemed
the guys behind this wanted to make it look like the vampires themselves was
doing the killings, but it didn't wash. Too messy. These bodies had blood all over
them, and a puddle beneath them. When the bloodsuckers slit somebody's throat,
they didn't let a drop of it go to waste. They licked the platter clean, so to
speak.

 
          
"We
gotta start being real careful," Stan was saying. "Gotta keep our
eyes open."

 
          
"And
look for what?" Kenny said.

 
          
"For
a bunch of guys who hang out together—a bunch of guys who ain't cowboys."

 
          
Jackie
started singing that Willie Nelson song "Mama, Don't Let Your Babies Grow
up to be Cowboys," and it set Stan off.

 
          
"Knock
it off, goddamn it! This ain't funny! One of us could be next! Now keep your
fucking eyes open!"

 
          
Al
studied the houses drifting by as they cruised into
Point Pleasant
Beach
. Cars sat quietly along the curbs of the
empty streets and the houses appeared deserted, their empty, blind windows
staring back at him. But every so often they'd pass a yard that looked cared
for, and those houses would be defiantly studded with crosses and festooned
with garlands of garlic. And every so often you could swear you saw somebody peeking
out from behind a window or through a screen door.

 
          
"You
know, Stan," Al said. "I'll bet those cowboy killers are hiding in
one of them houses with all the garlic and crosses."

 
          
"Maybe,
Stan said. "But I kinda doubt it. Those folks tend to stay in after
sundown. Whoever's behind this is working at night."

 
          
That
made sense to Al. The folks in those houses hardly ever came out. They were
loners. Dangerous loners. Armed loners. The vampires couldn't get in because of
all the garlic and crosses, and the cowboys who'd tried to get in, or even take
off some of the crosses, usually got shot up. The vampires had said to leave
them be for now. Sooner or later they'd run out of food and have to come out.
Then they'd get them.

 
          
Smart,
those bloodsuckers. Al guessed they figured they had plenty of time to out wait
the loners. All the time in the world.

 
          
They
was cruising
Ocean Avenue
by the boardwalk area now, barely a block from the
Atlantic
. What a difference. Last year, on a nice
spring day like this, you'd see all sorts of people, locals and day-trippers,
hanging out. Now it was deserted. The sun was high and warm but it was like
winter had never ended.

 
          
They
was gliding past the empty, frozen rides when Al caught a flash of color moving
between a couple of the boardwalk stands.

 
          
"Pull
over," he said, tapping Stan's shoulder. "I think I just saw
something."

 
          
The
tires screeched as Stan made a sharp turn into Jenkinson's parking lot.

 
          
"What
kinda something?"

 
          
"Something
blond. With tits, I think."

 
          
Kenny
let out a cowboy whoop and tossed his Heineken empty high. It smashed on the
asphalt in a glittery green explosion.

 
          
"Shut
the fuck up!" Stan said. "You tryin to queer this little round-up or
what?"

 
          
"Hey,
no, man," Kenny said. "I was just—"

 
          
"Just
keep quiet and listen. You and Jackie head down two blocks and work your way
back up on the boards."

 
          
"I
don't wanna go with him," Jackie said, jutting her chin at Kenny.

 
          
"He
needs someone with more experience along. Me and AM go up here and work our way
down. Get goin and don't blow this. I don't wanna be bringin Gregor no old lady
again tonight."

 
          
Jackie
didn't look happy but she went. As she and Kenny trotted back to the Risden's
Beach bath houses, Stan squared his ten-gallon hat on his head and pointed
toward the miniature golf course at the other end of the parking lot. Al took
the lead and Stan followed.

 
          
Arnold Avenue
ended here in a turretlike police station,
still boarded up from the winter, but its big warning sign was still up,
informing anyone who passed that alcoholic beverages and dogs and motorbikes
and various other goodies were prohibited in the beach and boardwalk area by
order of the mayor and city council of
Point Pleasant
Beach
.

 
          
Al
smiled. The beach and the boardwalk and the sign were still here, but the mayor
and the city council were long gone.

 
          
Pretty
damn depressing up on the boards. The big glass windows of Jenkinson's arcade
was smashed and it was all dark inside. The lifeless video games stared back
with dead eyes. All the concession stands was boarded up, the paralyzed rides
just rusting and peeling, and it was quiet. No barkers shouting, no kids
laughing, no squealing babes in bikinis running in and out of the surf. Just
the monotonous pounding of the waves against the deserted beach.

 
          
And
the birds. The seagulls was doing what they'd always done. Probably the only
thing they missed was the garbage the crowds used to leave behind.

 
          
Al
and Stan headed south, checking all the nooks and crannies as they moved. The
only other humans they saw was Kenny and Jackie coming up the other way from
the South Beach Arcade.

 
          
"Any
luck?" Stan called.

 
          
"Nada,"
Jackie said.

 
          
"Ay-yo,
Al!" Kenny said. "How many Heinies you have anyway? You seein things
now? What was it—a blond seagull?"

 
          
But
Al knew he'd seen something moving up here, and it hadn't been no goddamn
seagull. But where . . .

 
          
"Jackie,"
Stan said. "Take Kenny under the boards and see if anyone's hidin down
there."

 
          
Kenny
put on this big shit-eating grin. " Aaaaay, under the boardwalk with
Jackieeee. Cooool."

 
          
Stan
ignored him and spoke to Jackie. "If it's a girl like Al thinks he saw,
see if you can talk her out. I ain't up for no foot race, know what I'm
sayin?"

 
          
Jackie
nodded. "Gotcha." She turned to Kenny and snapped her fingers, like
she was talking to a dog. "C'mon, boy. We're goin for a walk."

 
          
"Ooooh.
Under the boardwalk with—"

 
          
"Don't"—she
jabbed a finger within an inch of his nose—"even think about it!"