Night Of The Beast (41 page)

His anger sagged. That was dumb, Vargas. You never know when he might be listening. Keep your mind on the job, where it belongs.

[... first the thunder and the lightning
...
]

He began to crawl away from the porch. If I wait here, he thought, this sniping crap could go on for hours. Chalmers must be out of the game.

Time to take it to him.

Vargas sprinted for a few yards, then fell prone again. He hadn't been seen. He slid through the mud on his belly, using his elbows to drag his body forward, and started working his way towards the back of the house.

He was pleased to hear Rourke take a shot at his old position.

Just a little further.

In the harsh glare of the porch light, Vargas spotted Chalmers' body. It was covered with dark stains; sprawled out in the yard like some hooker in a porno rag. He sighed with annoyance and a touch of regret.
Billy, I guess you gave it your best shot
, he thought.
Sayonara, motherfucker.

See you in Hell.

He got to his feet. In one smooth motion he was off, running hard, crouching and weaving. Vargas heard Rourke fire another blind shot at the empty porch. Safe, for the moment. Better still, the second man wasn't firing at all; he either didn't see Vargas or was also out of the game. Okay. That's how he'd like it, he decided. Just him and Rourke.

And then the woman
[oh that woman, the rock singer, hadn't that been grand? 666 hundred years of pain...]

Maybe he'd keep Rourke alive for a while, just so he'd know what was going to happen to his new girl. Let him see some of it, this time. He would get Maggie to believe he might spare her man if she was nice enough. Sexy enough. Hey, force Rourke to watch them for a while, then blow him away. Jason didn't seem to give a shit how it got done, as long as Rourke wasn't breathing when the party started.

No problem, boss
.

Vargas approached the back door soundlessly. He kicked it open and went in low, perfectly balanced. The fucking Mafia bodyguard who'd chased him lay face down on the kitchen table in a lake of blood.
How lucky can one man get?
Vargas grabbed a kitchen towel and wound it around his pistol to muffle some of the noise.

Michael moaned and moved slightly. He opened his eyes and saw Vargas.

"You?"

His slick, pink hands began to fumble for his own weapon. "Sorry pal," Vargas whispered. "You blew your chance back in Vegas."

Two muffled metallic burps: Popcorn in a saucepan. The back of Michael's head flew away and hit the kitchen wall. It left a smear of grey and pink matter when it fell. His body jerked and lay still.

Vargas stepped gingerly to the opposite side of the room. He could see about half of Rourke — the left side from the doorway. The songwriter was bigger than he'd remembered. Rourke was facing forward, not quite flush to the window, the rifle loose in his hands. He looked intense as hell, deep in thought. There was no sign of Maggie Moore. She was probably hiding in one of the bedrooms. How convenient.

Vargas didn't like the angle. It was good enough for a kill, but too risky for anything else. Rourke was a damn good shot. On top of that, he was supposed to be special; sort of weird, like Jason. Vargas could be fairly certain of wrecking his leg, blowing open an artery, but what if Rourke was fast enough to get one off before the pain hit?

But the girl, the thing, the excitement after —

Okay, try for the thigh. Cripple him. Two or three quick ones, then hit the floor. That rifle won't stop for a kitchen wall, not from ten feet away.

Wait a minute
, he thought.
What am I doing? Am I really gonna risk everything for a chance to fuck around this guy's head? Kill the bastard.

Vargas inched to the right and found the best possible position. He brought his gun up, felt rain slap his neck... Rourke wasn't there anymore.

Something struck him in the back. Hard.

Suddenly his arms felt like concrete posts. Vargas lowered them, puzzled. The next bullet hit him in the leg, an amusing coincidence. The kitchen seemed to pull away in revulsion, as if disgusted to be near him. No, that wasn't it; he was falling; collapsing from the leg wound.

I'm outside in the yard, he thought, lying on my side. I can taste mud. Funny, there's not much pain. I'm just numb all over. Cold.

Dying wasn't such a big deal.

So I'm dead. So what.

He felt fear for the first time. Vargas coughed. Blood poured from his nostrils and bubbled into froth on his lips. Hey, last request. Gotta see who shot me. He summoned enough strength to roll over: A man, bobbing and weaving, playing it safe. At least I'll know, he thought. For some reason it mattered who ended it.

Jesus, this is like being too high on some baaad shit! Damn. The man was tall. Rourke? But Rourke had been in the house, Vargas felt sure of that. And then he put it together. He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

What a fucking joke. The Sheriff, for Chrissake.

Must have done fifteen, maybe eighteen girls. Had a blast, always got out clean, only tangled with the law one time. I do this gig for Jason, and I get wasted by the Sheriff. A trigger-happy cop with bizarre eyes, who probably thought I was ripping off a stereo. I don't believe it; this is too
[…welcome to hell, vargas…]
much, just too much.

Glenn Bates blew his face apart before he could finish the thought.

Rourke, still inside, heard the shot and wondered what the hell was going on. He hadn't moved since skulling the danger; in fact, he'd barely been breathing. He'd been totally paralyzed, glued to the rug, as blind and as helpless as an infant.

The talent had deserted him again.

He'd sensed Dee Jennings' killer behind him just in time to save his own life; but since then, nothing. He had been deeply concerned about Michael, but was suddenly unable to probe through the wall. He couldn't even scan for Maggie to see if she'd reached Gladys safely. And when he heard the shots, he hadn't a clue who'd been hurt, or how badly. The blackout sickened him, left him horrified.

The talent had now become an integral part of Peter. At that moment, he fully appreciated just how much he'd come to depend on it. A few tense minutes with only normal sensory equipment had driven the point home.

"Rourke?" It was Glenn Bates. He was standing at the back door.

And the talent returned.

Rourke walked out into the kitchen. He took a quick look at Michael and turned away.
Poor Maggie
. Bates tapped on the screen and pointed to Vargas, a corpse wearing too much lipstick.
And so it ends for you instead,
Rourke thought.
I hope Hell takes revenge for Dee, and the others you butchered.

"I got this one," Bates said. "I guess Michael must have picked off the big guy with the red hair. You seen any others?" Glenn Bates had a strange look in his eyes. His body was jumping and twitching; facial features like a solid lump of rock. Peter followed the sheriff outside. He was careful not to make any sudden moves.

"Others, Glenn? What do you mean others?"

Those eyes.

"Oh, I've seen some," Bates said in a hollow, cramped voice. "I think there are more. Maybe a lot more."

Rourke probed, shuddered and withdrew.
Writhing madness.
He spoke gently, as if to a child. "I'm pretty sure there were only two, Glenn. Here, anyway."

Bates kicked Vargas. "This one will stay dead," he said. "Head shot. But there are at least two more walking around that won't stay dead. We've got to get them, too. Head shots work best."

Won't
stay
dead?

"We'll get them," Peter soothed. "But first I have to find Maggie."

"I saw her just a little while ago."

Rourke grabbed his arm. Bates didn't notice. "Where, Glenn? Where is she?"

The sheriff tried to remember. "On her way to find Gladys, I think. That's what she said. Are you sure she's not one of them?"

"One of them? What are you talking about?"

Bates assumed the coy manner of a crafty child. "I'll bet there are lots and lots," he giggled. "More than we know about. Dead men, walking around. You can tell if you pay attention. You can smell them."

Rourke probed again. This was real enough to have driven a man over the edge. Bates believed in what he'd seen, and was now a man obsessed. "Glenn," Peter said. "Listen, I
know
Maggie isn't one of them. You hear me?"

Bates looked relieved. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want to have to shoot her. Your friend Martoni, he's one."

Rourke blanched. "What?"

Thunder rumbled beyond the mountains. "He's dead, but I've seen him walking. I never would have believed it either, Rourke, but it's true. Urich is with him. They're both back."

He began to shake. Peter pushed him out of the way. "I'm going to go look for Maggie," he said.

"I'm tired, but I'll come with you."

They jogged across the yard, past the bigger man's corpse, Bates trying to find a soldier's rhythm:
Don't think, just keep moving
. He was weary, wet, covered with mud and blood, but finally something of a hero to himself.

Rourke was nearly overcome by despair. He had a gut hunch that Maggie was in trouble. It wanted him, and the little man would surely know that holding her would draw him out. He had let her leave, walk right into its lair. He had to find Maggie. Quickly.

Glenn Bates and Peter Rourke ran through the empty town in the pelting rain. The power faltered again and lights flickered all around them. Their legs pounded, mud splattered.

Bates stayed with him, stride for stride, while Rourke probed.
Where are you, Maggie?

Edith's house: For one horrendous second, Rourke thought the corpse he saw was hers. He thought of Dee Jennings and howled like an animal. Bates was waiting in the street, bent double and fighting to catch his breath.

"Dear God!" Peter choked. "What is going on around here?"

Bates straightened, madness in remission for the moment. "You feel it?" he said. "I do. It's bad. Unholy. I saw those bodies walking, Rourke. I know I did."

Peter believed him, told him so. It seemed to help. "Maggie, Glenn. Where else would she go?"

"Hell, I have no idea. There may not be any place to go. I think just about everybody's dead, except for you and me — maybe Gladys and Jason."

"Jason?"

"That creepy little fucker that works over at the funeral parlor. I haven't seen him all night."

"Maybe Maggie found Gladys. Come on."

Rourke set out again, holding his rifle in one hand. Bates fell into place beside him. They crossed First Street and turned up the main road, heading for the telephone office. Bates tripped. Rourke heard him fall, but didn't slow. By the time the sheriff managed to rise again and follow, he was quite some distance behind.

The light was on. Rourke opened the door and stepped inside. Gladys was seated at the switchboard. Her torn clothing was soaked and her make-up looked a mess.

"Peter," she said. "I'm glad you came. I've been trying for a line out, but I can't seem to get one."

He rushed around the counter, vaguely aware that his talent had begun to murmur. "Listen to me, Gladys. Have you seen Maggie? The girl from Aggie's house?"

Gladys shook her head. "I haven't seen anyone at all."

"Shit!" He paced. "I've got to find her."

She got to her feet, big hands behind her back. "Now, how many times have I asked you to watch your language."

Bates appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame for support. "I'll bet she's one of them, Rourke."

"Easy, Glenn. It's only Gladys."

But the sheriff had that crazed gleam in his eyes again. He brought his gun up. "She's one, like Urich and Martoni."

Peter moved to stop Bates. He felt split into fragments; worry over Maggie, concern for Gladys and the itch of his talent trying to tell him something important.

"Put it down, Glenn."

Gladys shrieked. She came at Rourke with astonishing speed for a woman her size. She was brandishing a long carving knife. He threw himself over a table and cracked his head against the wall. His rifle slid to the floor. Things got hazy.

Bates shot her. A red dot blossomed on the front of her dress. Gladys went after Glenn, knife raised. He fired again and hit her in the lower stomach. She paused to look down. Bates took careful aim at the center of her forehead, squeezed the trigger.

And heard a click.

"Oh, hell," he said. The memory of Ngo popped into his mind; Rourke shared it with him. When Bates sank to his knees he was feeling relieved, almost grateful. Then Gladys slit his throat from ear to ear and he died.

Rourke recovered and grabbed his rifle as Gladys spun around. She was covered with gore, but still smiling. He shot her in the chest two more times. The roar in the tiny room was deafening. How could she stay up? How? Then he shot her in the head. Her skull shattered and Gladys flew back against her desk. She slid down into a sitting position, then fell over and lay still. A rattle, a wheeze. Rainwater, blood and brains.