Once more, I stop and listen to what my opponent is up to. He appears to be doing likewise. He must have supernatural hearing to know I’ve started the cars, more proof that he is a vampire.
I stuff what clips I have left into my coat pockets and swing my sniper rifle over my shoulder. At last, I’m ready to make my dash for the woods. I have no idea what my odds are, but I like the many layers in my plan—the levels of deception. If I do die tonight, after walking the earth for almost two million nights, then no one can accuse me of not putting up a good fight.
I push a button and the main garage door opens. The cars take off like hungry rabbits, all in different directions. I’ve rigged each steering wheel separately. Some are pulled to the right, others to the left, some to the far right, and so on. Watching them race away, I’d swear they were driven by six different drunks.
I run out the side door, near where my blood covers the floor. My assailant immediately begins to fire on the cars, using his Gatling gun. He can’t see me leaving the house, not yet, because I’m still in its shadow. The steep outline of the roof protects me, and I know I’ll remain invisible until I reach a small rise three hundred yards away. Yet that’s only a third of the way to the trees, and I know he won’t take long to slay all six cars and realize they were nothing but a ruse.
Yet, for the moment, he seems quite happy to blast away at my vintage models. A glance over my shoulder shows me the mess he’s making of my Mercedes. The black sedan finally explodes when he hits the gasoline tank, and I watch as he shifts his aim onto my Ford Expedition that I use to haul supplies in. For now, he is pretty confident I’m in one of the vehicles.
My limp is clumsy, but I can still run twice as fast as most people. I’m fortunate to reach the low rise on the ground just as his supergun falls silent. Another five feet and the house will no longer shield me. Plus he has finished with the cars. The six burn like smoldering tanks on a lost battlefield. He has not been fooled. I can feel him scanning the area. He knows I’m not dead.
I drop to one knee and take aim at the propane tank, specifically at the wad of gunpowder I have attached to it. By now, a choking cloud of natural gas has filled the house and mingled with the fumes of the hundreds of gallons of gasoline I have soaked into the floor and the furniture. My firecracker is ready—I have only to light the fuse.
I put my laser scope on the oily ball and fire.
One shot, that’s all I need.
The house explodes in a red and orange mushroom cloud.
I turn and run toward the trees.
The size and glare of the exploding cloud gives me further cover. But my foe has already guessed what I’m using it for, and he rakes his bullets through the smoke and fire. He can’t see me, not yet, but he can guess where I am and where I’m going. For that reason I don’t make a beeline for the woods. Instead, I veer slightly to the left, taking a path that’s longer but hopefully safer. Almost instantly I have confirmation of the wisdom of my course. Off to my right, the ground erupts as the Gatling gun seeks my flesh.
I feel the anger in my foe. Feel it in the way he fires.
He knows he has been tricked, and he does not like it.
I almost make it. Once more, he may have gotten off another lucky shot, or else my bright mushroom cloud burned too fast and left me exposed. I suppose it doesn’t really matter how he’s able to hit me. All I know is that when the bullet slices through my right side, through my liver, I’m in serious trouble.
Like normal people, the worst place for me to get shot is in the head or the heart. I’m not sure if I could withstand such a blow. A bullet through the liver is almost as bad. The reason is the large number of arteries and veins in the organ. The blow to my thigh has caused me to lose a lot of blood. But this hole in my liver has turned me into a red geyser. I’m just entering the woods when I’m hit. It’s all I can do to run another twenty yards and collapse behind a thick tree.
The pain is worse than before. I feel burning, like the leg wound, but also an immense amount of pressure. I struggle to remain conscious. I know I must slow the bleeding, but it’s hard to move. Eventually, I manage to wiggle out of my leather coat and tie the arms over the hole. But the wound is on both sides, the front and the back, and I know his bullet has torn at least one major artery. It makes me sick to think of how scrambled my insides are, and I realize I cannot count on my body’s ability to heal itself.
Pulling my coat slightly down, I reach up and stick my fingers directly into the hole. I want to be sick, but I fear if I vomit, I’ll throw up a piece of something that I need. My fingers are not steady; they shake as they probe for the lacerated artery.
But eventually I find it and pinch it shut on both ends with the tips of my nails. Almost immediately the massive blood loss stops. I keep telling myself, if I can just stay alive a few minutes, I might be able to heal enough to where the shredded ends of the artery mend.
I’m doing surgery on myself. With my fingernails as scalpels.
God, how I wish I could black out and wake up in a hospital.
Sitting against the red-smeared tree, I concentrate on three things. First, I have to keep my fingers steady. I literally will them to stop trembling. Next, I focus on my breath. Long, deep breaths are best. They slow down my metabolism. Finally, I listen for my opponent. He probably knows he hit me; he may even be able to follow the trail of my blood to this very tree. Yet I’m deep enough in the woods to prevent him from using the Gatling on me. He would just waste his ammunition tearing apart trees.
I’m not surprised to hear him come to the same conclusion.
I know because I hear him begin to hike toward me.
He’s cautious, this guy. He doesn’t consider hiking across the open field to reach me. He knows if I’m still alive I can shoot him dead from a mile away. No, he stays in the trees, in the shadows, steadily circling around the field and my burning house.
My place continues to blaze like an insane asylum’s bonfire. The townsfolk probably didn’t hear his guns, but I’m sure somebody must have heard the house explode. We’ll probably have company soon in the form of police and firemen. I don’t know if I should root for them to hurry. Chances are my foe will kill them the second they arrive.
He’s halfway to my position when I feel the two ends of my torn artery finally fuse together. It may sound gross, but it’s a delightful feeling, because it tells me I will live. At least until he shoots me again. I’m grateful to be able to take my fingers out of my liver and tighten my coat sleeves back over the wound.
With my liver healing, I’m able to sit up and listen more closely to his movements. I note how often he stops to listen, how unsure his step is. I still believe he’s a vampire, but I know already my hearing is superior to his. I can hear his breathing, his heartbeat. Yet at best I think he has only a vague idea of my location.
My big ears don’t make me cocky. I’m still seriously injured, and if we end up fighting hand to hand, he’ll probably win. The fact he’s coming after me means he’s confident he can finish me off. Once more, I feel my best hope is to do the unexpected.
I decide to climb a tree.
With my side leaking and my thigh burning, it’s the last thing I want to do. Also, once I’m up in a tree, if I fail to kill him or seriously injure him with my first shot, then I’m doomed. But my gut tells me to take the chance, and I have learned to trust my gut, even when it has a hole in it.
Quietly, oh so gently, I slip off my boots and use my sniper rifle to prop me up. I can’t climb the tree I’m leaning against—it stinks of blood. But I can’t go far, I’m weak and nauseous. Besides, the more I move, the greater the chance he’ll hear me. Yet I deliberately head deeper into the woods, which will directly place me in the path he’s following. I soon find an old fern that looks promising.
I wrap the strap of my rifle around the barrel and bite down hard on it so there’s no chance the weapon will sway and bump a branch as I climb. Holding the gun this way keeps my arm
s free. I’m lucky my hands and feet are unharmed. I’m able to scamper up the tree fairly quickly. It’s the tallest tree in the area, and I don’t stop until I’m two hundred feet above the floor of the forest. I snuggle inside a handful of tightly placed branches, hoping the raw wood will offer some protection. Because I assume he has infrared equipment, I use the damp leaves to smear my bare skin with as much liquid as possible, trying to reduce my heat signature. I concentrate on my head; it gives off the most heat.
My view of the woods is vast, but I cannot see my opponent, not even using the infrared feature on the rifle’s scope. Still, I can hear him approach, and I notice he’s veered in the direction of my previous position. My blood, I think, he must smell my blood. That’s good—he’s heading toward a spot I have a clear shot at.
The waiting seconds are hard on me, and I wonder if I’ve grown soft in my old age. I keep flashing back to Teri and Matt. If I die tonight, I’ll never have a chance to get to know them, and they’ll never know what became of me. I’ve no doubt my foe is anxious to collect my body and my blood.
He’s two hundred yards from my previous position when he stops. I note how he slows his breath. He’s probably trying to scan the woods with a similar infrared scope. I wish I had more water to soak in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s stopped along the way and drenched his entire body in a stream. He’s still not showing up in my scope.
But I can still hear him. I know when he starts to move again. To my surprise, he’s now heading directly toward me! Chances are he has better heat-sensing equipment than I do. He must have caught a glimpse of me in the tree. Very slowly, I turn in his direction, trying to catch even a flicker of him in my scope. All I need is one shot. . . .
I catch a glimpse of his foot, but it quickly disappears behind a tree before I can take aim. The move reassures me. He’s moving like a hunter who knows approximately where his prey is, but I doubt he’s seen me in the tree. I have chosen my spot well. The damp compactness of the branches is also dispersing my heat signature.
I make a bold decision. I turn off the laser sighting on my scope. I can aim better with it on—like most people—but I fear he’ll spot the laser even at its lowest setting.
For a long time, he stands behind a tree, then he suddenly leaps behind another. He moves too fast for me to get off a shot. I continue to follow his movements more with my ears than my eyes. I assume he knows in which direction I wait, because he’s careful not to let a vulnerable limb stick out. Still, there’s a huge difference between knowing my general direction and knowing my actual position.
He continues to head straight toward me!
The gap between us shrinks. A hundred yards, fifty yards, twenty yards . . . He stops thirty feet from my tree, and it’s obvious he still doesn’t know where I’m hiding. But I can’t see him! I can’t get off a shot!
However, his close proximity makes me rethink my strategy. From the start I’ve only been interested in killing him and surviving. Unfortunately, his death will tell me nothing about who sent him. But if I could disarm him, take him alive, question him, I might learn a great deal. I need information; I especially need to know who he’s working for.
My knives. I love knives, and I applaud my wisdom in removing three sharp ones from my vault and tucking them in my belt. If my foe truly does not know where I am and he steps from behind the tree where he’s standing, then I’ll have a clear shot at him. I can easily take his head off with my rifle. But to use my knives, to have full use of my arms, I’ll have to stand.
He’s so damn close he’ll probably hear me.
The decision weighs on me. Should I just kill him and survive the night, or should I risk dying but maybe find out how to survive the next year? It’s really a question of how quietly I can move and how sensitive his ears are.
I decide to risk it. Slowly standing, I jam my rifle against a nearby branch. I’ll reach for it the instant I release the knives. Of course, if the knives don’t stop him, the rifle will do me no good. There’s no question his reflexes are as good as mine. He’ll shoot me before I can reach for the gun.
I hold a knife in either palm. Right-handed, left-handed—both hands work the same for me. My goal is to cut the nerves between his shoulders and his arms. If I’m successful, he’ll lose control of his hands and be helpless. The armor-piercing bullets in my rifle are too powerful for such delicate surgery. A hit with one round would blow off his arm. The knives it must be.
Quietly, I suck in a breath and raise my arms over my head.
I stand still as a statue.
A minute later he tries slipping between two trees.
I let the knives fly. He hears me move, there’s no question, and I’m pretty sure he hears the knives approaching. But he hesitates a fraction of a second, and that’s all it takes. The knives catch him on the front side of both shoulders. The blades are long, eight inches each, and I’ve thrown them with such force that they sink all the way through his body and poke out his back.
But he’s a fighter, this guy, I have to admire that. Even with the knives cutting off his nerves, he tries to twist his body so his rifle’s pointed at me. He almost succeeds, but before he can fire, I have my rifle in hand and blow out his left knee. The bullet almost amputates his leg. The combination of wounds, to his upper and lower body, sucks the life out of him, and he drops his rifle and falls to the ground. Still, he reaches for a weapon in his belt.
“Stop!” I shout from the tree. “Move and I’ll take off your head!”
He freezes. Quickly I climb down, but I’m not in such a hurry that I relax my aim. He’s clearly an experienced killer; he’s still dangerous. Once on the ground, I circle cautiously, my rifle held ready, keeping a distance of ten yards.
He’s tall, extremely well muscled, with bronze skin and dark hair cut close to the scalp. His thick black eyebrows and eyelashes remind me of someone from another time and place. He’s dressed completely in black. He sits on the ground with a hand pressed over his wounded leg. He’ll have to possess my rejuvenating powers not to lose his leg.
His expression’s difficult to read. He breathes heavily; he must be in terrible pain. Never mind his leg, the knives piercing the nerve bundles in his shoulders must be agonizing. Yet he doesn’t moan or whimper. He shows almost no emotion. He’s spent half the night trying to kill me, but to my surprise I feel a wave of sympathy for him. I admire a worthy adversary, and he’s one of the finest I’ve come up against.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. I notice an unusual watch on his left wrist. At first I assumed he was trying to stop the flow of blood with his left hand, but now I realize he’s trying to keep the dial of the watch pointed at me. Could it be a weapon?
“Raise your arms, now!” I snap.
He tries to follow my order, but his arms flap uselessly. Still, his odd watch is no longer pointed at me. I move closer and sniff the air. The shock I experience right then forces me to take a step back.
He’s not a vampire!
How do I know? He doesn’t smell like one. All vampires—even the disgusting Eddie Fender—have a faint smell of our creator, Yaksha. This man smells more human than anything else.
There’s another reason I know he’s not a vampire. This close, I can hear the subtleties of his heartbeat, things I could not hear at a distance. A vampire’s pulse, even under stress, is extremely regular. One might say the sine wave never wavers. This man’s heartbeat is slightly erratic. True, his heart pounds with a strength much greater than an ordinary mortal’s, but the rhythm is more akin to a human’s. The same with his breathing. It’s not as smooth as it should be.
“What are you?” I ask.
He glares at me. “Kill me.”
“Are you so anxious to die?”
“Kill me.”
“No. I want to talk. You owe me that.”
He sneers. “I owe you nothing.”
I cannot place his accent. His English is perfect—the majorit
y of people would assume he’s from England. But I hear other lands in his words.
“Why the hostility?” I ask. “You attacked me.”
“With good reason.”
“What have I ever done to you?”
“I know what you are.”
“Maybe you do. But whoever you are, I mean you no harm.”
“Liar!”
“I speak the truth. You can hear the truth, can’t you, when it’s spoken? I honestly don’t know who you are.”
My remark surprises him. He chews on it a moment.
“Can I rest my arms?” he asks.
“Yes. But keep your watch pointed away from me.”
His arms drop to his lap. “Can you pull out the knives?”
“I will if you answer a few of my questions. Agreed?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not allowed.”
“Allowed? You say that like you report to someone. Who?”
He shakes his head. He won’t answer.
I move closer. “Look, I’m serious when I say I mean you no harm. But someone sent you here to kill me, and frankly, that pisses me off. If you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to do things to you that will hurt a lot worse than that leg and those knives.”
He lowers his gaze, his eyes focus on his watch.
“I’s toad bein, jar?” he whispers softly.
I recognize the language, but only because I spent time in ancient Egypt. That was back in the days of Suzama. I doubt my attacker and whoever he’s talking to know that. My foe just said, “It is her, is it not?”
A voice replies via the watch, in the same forgotten dialect.
“There’s no doubt. You’ve done well.”
“Can I end it?”
“Yes. Now return to the Eternal Goddess.”
“All glory to the Eternal Goddess.”
The words are no sooner out of my assailant’s mouth than he twists his jaw to the right side and bites down. I hear a tooth inside his mouth—it can’t be a normal tooth—explode. Instantly I catch a whiff of something acidic in the air and leap back. A glowing cloud of red gas expands around his body as he exhales. The fumes are extremely corrosive. Within seconds his face melts away, his clothes catch fire, and his body begins to burn with a ferocity I’ve never seen before.