The Undead.
That sounds so cold, Tommy had thought. So final. Once you’ve stepped across that line, you don’t come back, not ever. But this is my mom and dad lying here, not…vampires! “Wake up,” he whispered in the terrible darkness. “Both of you…please…wake up…”
But they hadn’t even moved, and Tommy could see the deep punctures on their throats that told him they weren’t ever going to wake up as Don and Cynthia Chandler again.
So after a long time of just standing there, he’d gone to his room, put on his jeans, a shirt, and his all-weather jacket, then looked in his closet for the old Army surplus backpack he’d used briefly when he was a Boy Scout in Scottsdale. He’d put some matches into his jacket pocket, then the rest of them went into the backpack along with an extra can of hair spray and his dad’s Right Guard aerosol deodorant. He went downstairs and made himself a couple of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, wrapped them in waxed paper, and slipped them into the pack along with a meat cleaver he found in a drawer. The main question that faced him was whether he should try to make it to the ocean or head up into the mountains. He’d thought about staying here in the house until sunrise, but he couldn’t bear the idea of letting his parents slip over that Undead line, and he couldn’t stay with them lying in the bedroom all white and empty. The ocean was too far away so he decided on the mountains.
But one thing he couldn’t be sure of was how many real people there were in the houses around him, and how many vampires waited out there for little boys running in the night. He decided that if he saw anyone, he would assume the worst. He folded the sheets around his parents and stuffed newspapers under the bed. Then he cried a little bit before he could muster the nerve to strike the first match. He lit his spray-can torch and touched the flame to the sheets; they crisped and caught fire very quickly. There was no way he could wait to see if the bodies caught or not. He turned and ran, his face scorched by an agonizing lick of flame.
Now he was racing along the edge of Hancock Park, sand stinging his cheeks, the wind bringing the odors of oranges and cloves from the tar pits, the air metallic in his gasping lungs. He could tell the storm had diminished in force during the last several hours. Now sand dunes lay scattered across the white field of the park, and broken branches littered his path. He was a good runner; he knew he could last a long time because whenever he jogged with his mom and dad in the evenings he always left them behind and just kept on going until he looked back and saw them as only two struggling dots. His heart seemed jammed up in his throat. He turned and thought he saw a faint, reddish glow in the sky where his house was—had been—but he wasn’t sure. He decided not to look back again.
He was heading northeast toward the only wooded refuge he could think of that was anywhere near his house. In August his dad had taken him up to the Nature Museum and Bird Sanctuary on Mount Hollywood, then down into the four-thousand acres (so the guidebook had said) of Griffith Park. There were a lot of bridle paths crisscrossing the park but very few roads, and Tommy remembered being amazed at how close a really unspoiled mountain area was to the winding residential streets of Hollywood. So that was where he had to go. He knew he could lose himself in that park, but getting there meant crossing through the heart of Hollywood, and he was bitterly afraid of what might be lurking there. He still gripped the can of hair spray he’d repelled the Vernons with, and there were good old dependable Fire Chiefs—what I used to burn up my mom and dad with, he thought suddenly—in his jacket pocket. As he ran, he saw the wind rippling currents of sand before him, and he thought of that terrified kid in Invaders from Mars, running across a sand hill that whirlpooled beneath his feet to send him into a subterranean world of alien horrors.
And then he was aware of the figure running behind him about thirty yards off to the left. Tommy looked over his shoulder. There was a hideous, moon-white face floating toward him from the darkness. He increased his speed, zigzagging deeper into the park. When he dared to look back, the thing was gone.
The high fence around the largest of the tar pits had blown down; a sheen of sand, white mottled with black, covered the surface of a lake from which a huge, concrete mastodon struggled to escape. Tommy ran along its edge toward the eastern edge of the park. He passed benches stripped of paint where the old men played checkers on Saturday mornings; he passed long strips of pavement that would not be used by Sunday afternoon roller-skaters for a long time to come.
And then something slammed into the small of his back. A hand dug into his jacket, almost ripping it off his shoulders, and flung him to the ground with brutal force.
He lay there fighting for breath, a shrill alarm, Don’t let them bite you! Don’t, don’t, don’t! screaming in his head. He’d lost his grip on the spray can, and when he raised his head, he saw a couple of hulking boys standing over him, both of them leering in anticipation. The one who’d knocked him down was a fat-jowled Chicano with thick eyebrows and a spill of dirty, black hair on his forehead; he wore a blood-spattered, blue workshirt. The vampire looked at the can of hair spray at his feet and kicked it far out into the tar lake where it sank with a burst of bubbles. Then he advanced on Tommy, his eyes already glazed with pleasure.
But before the vampire could reach Tommy, a length of chain came snaking out of the darkness, cracking the Chicano across the face. He fell to his knees, howling with rage. The second vampire, a skinny, dark-haired kid with a scraggly mustache and goatee, whirled around to face the attacker. The chain whirred, striking him in the temple. He staggered and was about to rush forward when he saw who it was that had struck him.
Tommy’s heart had risen; now it fell again to a sickening depth. Bull Thatcher, armed with a three-foot chain, had stepped between Tommy and the two vampires. Tommy could see the bloodless, awful face of the Fairfax High Horror.
“You’re on my turf,” Bull said menacingly. “I’m huntin’ here. Get out.”
“It’s our kill, you…” the Chicano began. He was silenced when the chain whistled across his face again.
“GET OUT!” Bull roared.
Tommy, his arms shaking so badly they moved like a jerky marionette’s, slowly began to slip off his backpack.
“Get out, both of you!” Bull repeated. “I’m hungry, and I’m takin’ this kill, you understand?” The vampires glowered at each other hotly but began to retreat when Bull lifted that chain and cracked it to the ground like a whip.
“We’ll get you!” the Chicano shouted. “We’ll find you when you’re sleepin’, and we’ll fix you…”
Bull moved forward a few steps, the chain swinging above his head. The vampires were running away now. Tommy got his pack off, leaped to his feet, and ran in the other direction. Bull Thatcher watched the vampires run out of sight with a defiant smirk and then turned for his prize. Running along the lake’s edge, Tommy heard his angered roar and flinched. He unsnapped a pocket and reached in. Bull Thatcher was chasing him, coming like the wind. Sweat popped up on Tommy’s face; he could hear the thing gaining on him, and he dared not look back.
But then he heard the chain whistling toward his right ear, and he ducked his head, spinning around to face Bull and bringing out the meat cleaver in a tightly clenched fist at the same time. Before Bull could stop, Tommy had flung himself at the thing, burying that cleaver between the vampire’s eyes with all his strength. Bull, thrown off-balance, staggered and fell into the tar pit on his back. Instantly bubbles exploded around his body, and he flailed at the air for something to grab. “NOOOO!” he roared like a maddened animal. “NO! I WON’T LET YOU—!” Water and tar rushed into his mouth. He began to sink, tar streaking his face in thick, black lines. He fought wildly, but the tar had him and he knew it. He began to scream, the meat cleaver buried in his forehead but the wound bloodless.
Tommy knew the other vampires would hear and come back. He started to run again, slipping his pack around his trembling shoulders. He wanted to be sick, he wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but there wasn’t tim
e for any of that baby stuff anymore. When he looked back, he saw Bull’s face disappear, and the scream bubbled away.
He ran on, breathing in great painful heaves. He left the park and ran northward across Third Street and through dark, silent residential streets where the merest suggestion of movement was enough to make him whine with fear. Then he was across Beverly Boulevard, still going north. Sand whipped into his face; were it not for his glasses, he would have been blinded. His lungs flamed, and now he knew he couldn’t go much further. The worst part of it lay ahead, those main arteries through Hollywood. He was certain the vampires would be waiting there. How many would there be? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? He crossed Melrose and started to veer toward the northeast; he saw a group of moving shadows and dived beneath some hedges until they’d passed. He made himself continue, staggering from street to street, crossing through backyards and alleys. A gust of hot wind hit him, almost stealing the last of his breath. Lightheaded, he tripped and almost fell over something that he realized three strides later must have been a corpse.
And then a voice roared over his head. “I see you, child of the devil! Ye legion of Lucifer…!” There was a loud crack! right behind his ear, then a freight train knocked him off his feet and rumbled on past, leaving him crushed in the sand.
FOUR
“A boy!” Jo said, peering out the window through widened eyes. “That maniac shot a boy!”
Palatazin eased over beside her and looked out. He could see the small figure lying prone in the sand right in front of the house. At first he’d thought the boy must be a vampire, but if that were so, a single bullet wouldn’t have stopped him. Palatazin paused, his heart beginning to hammer, then took his .38 from its shoulder-holster.
Jo stared fearfully at the gun. “What are you going to do?”
“That boy may not be dead. I’ll have to go out and see.” He moved past her toward the door and, from the sofa, Gayle said, “For Christ’s sake, be careful!”
Palatazin nodded and squeezed out the door onto the porch where a furnace breath of wind rocked him on his heels. Grit stung his eyes, and he had to wait a moment before he could see anything. Then he was moving down the porch steps, his grip already sweaty on his .38. He was alert for any movement in the windows of that silent house next door, but so far he couldn’t tell where the man was. He tensed and then ran out to the curb where that boy lay sprawled on his face. Palatazin could see a bleeding gash across the back of his head, the dark brown hair matted with blood. He got his arms under the boy and started to lift him.
“Heathen!” the voice shrieked. “God’s blight on the world!” A shot rang out, kicking up sand two feet away. Palatazin lifted the boy, struggled to his feet, and started to run back to the house. Another bullet screamed past Palatazin’s face, leaving what he thought was a burning red streak in the sullen air. Then he was on the porch, and Jo was opening the door to pull him in.
Gayle had brought a pillow and bedspread from upstairs, and now Palatazin laid the boy on the sofa, his forehead cradled against the pillow. “How badly is he hurt?” Gayle asked.
“I don’t know. The bullet took off some scalp at the back of his head, probably gave him one hell of a knock, too.” He took off the boy’s backpack and laid it on the floor. It was heavy, and things clanked together inside. He unzipped and unsnapped several of the backpack’s pockets, rummaging through them. “I’d say he was prepared for a little of everything,” Palatazin said. “I wonder where he was trying to get to.”
Jo was gingerly parting the boy’s hair to look at the wound. In the darkness she couldn’t see it very well, but her fingers were already sticky with warm blood. She reached over and grasped his wrist. The pulse seemed strong if erratic. “Can you find me some towels, Andy?” she said. “Maybe we can stop some of this bleeding.”
He went upstairs to search the bathroom.
The boy suddenly stirred and moaned. He said in a weary, old-man’s voice, “You’re dead…leave me alone!…burned them up, I burned them, burned them…” Then he was quiet again.
“Do you think he’s going to die?” Gayle asked.
“I’m certainly no doctor,” Jo said. “But he’s a small boy. I hope he’s stronger than he looks.”
Palatazin brought the towels, one of which he’d soaked in cold water. Jo started cleaning the crusted blood away, then pressed a towel against the wound.
Gayle watched for a few minutes and then turned away. She could hear the wind’s shriek outside, and it seemed to her that it sounded much more savage than it had only half an hour before. She stepped to the window and saw sand corkscrewing in the middle of the street like a miniature tornado. The window rattled in its frame. Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, no…“How long until sunrise?” she asked Palatazin.
“An hour or so.”
“My God,” she whispered. “I…I think the storm’s building again. The wind’s getting stronger.” Her control broke, hot fear flooding out of her. “Why won’t the storm move out to sea? Why won’t it just…go away or die down or…leave us alone? Why won’t it?” She turned to stare at Palatazin.
“Because somehow they brought it here,” he said quietly. Jo looked up at him from the boy. “It’ll grow stronger during the daylight hours to keep people isolated and trapped. Then when night falls again, the vampires will be out in full force.”
“We can’t…we can’t last another night!” Jo’s voice was thick with dread.
“I know that. Somehow I’ve got to reach that castle today. I’ve got to find the vampire king and destroy him.”
“How?” Gayle asked. “When the storm gets worse, you won’t even be able to get two blocks from here, much less make it all the way across fucking Hollywood! And what about those dogs up there? Do you think they’ll step off the road and just let you walk right on past?”
“No. I don’t. I’m going to make it up the mountain some way other than the road—”
“Climb it? Now you’re really flipping out.”
“What would you presume I do?” he shouted at her, his face reddening. “What are my choices? There’s Death on every side now, but shall we just sit here and wait for it to come grinning in the night? NO! I have to reach the Kronsteen castle before sundown!”
The boy stirred again. “Kronsteen…” he moaned. “Vampire. Bite you…”
Palatazin looked down at the small body in surprise. What could this boy know of Orlon Kronsteen? But then the boy was quiet, and whatever questions Palatazin had for him would have to wait—if he could ever answer them at all.
“You can’t make it up to that castle,” Gayle said. Behind her the wind gnawed at the glass.
“If I don’t,” he answered her coldly, “who will?”
Jo could see that Andy had already decided, and there was nothing more to be said. She went back to work on the boy, her eyes burning. It was all hopeless, of course. Everything was hopeless, she thought, from his reaching the castle to her being able to save this boy. But perhaps in Andy’s decision there was a spark of hope that might keep them all alive for just one more day.
FIVE
Prince Vulkan sat at the head of his council table in his attack command chamber, the same room in which he had crushed Phillip Falco’s skull and tossed him into the fireplace. The stink of charred meat still clung to the walls. Maps of Los Angeles were smoothed out before him, and at the table sat his lieutenants, Kobra on his right and Roach—the only human within a radius of more than a mile—at his left.
It was almost time to sleep. Prince Vulkan could feel the heavy weariness overtaking him fast, but he was elated. From the reports of his lieutenants those areas called Beverly Hills, West Los Angeles, Culver City, and Highland Park had been completely overrun. The human population of Boyle Heights had been reduced to a few hidden groups, and the central part of Hollywood had all but fallen as well. His lieutenants were as fat as ticks. Like celebrants at a Roman orgy, they had fed, thrown up blood, fed, thrown up again, and feverishly hunt
ed down more victims.
“Master,” a young black vampire, who had in life been an administrative aide to the mayor, was saying, “the East Division needs more troops in Alhambra and Monterey Park. We can take those areas in one night if we’re allowed another thousand.” He wore the dirty remnants of what had been an expensive, gray vested suit; there were spatters of blood on his shirt.
“It’s most important to concentrate on the canyon communities, Master,” a vampire across the table said. He had curly, iron-gray hair and wore a profusion of silver chains spilling down the open vee of his Calvin Klein western shirt. Up until several nights ago he had been a major power at the Warner Brothers studios. “I’ve had reports from both Laurel and Coldwater canyons of scattered sightings. They’re trying to escape across the Santa Monica Mountains.”
Vulkan’s gaze flared. “Were they stopped?”
“Yes. Most of them…”
“You didn’t answer my question. They weren’t stopped, were they?” Vulkan stared at him for a silent moment, his cat eyes blazing.
“We…we need more troops to patrol the…canyons,” he protested softly, beginning to tremble.
Vulkan leaned forward. “I want none of them escaping, do you understand that? None of them. I don’t care if the Central Division has to go without food. I want those gaps filled. And they will be filled. Won’t they?”
The vampire nodded. “Immediately, Master.”
“Perhaps Western Division can spare a thousand or so?” Vulkan looked across the table at a young vampire with shoulder-length, blond hair and the last yellow tinge of a surfer’s tan.
“We can after we finish up in Venice,” he said. “Lots of ’em are still hidin’ in their basements over there. Then we’ll go right through the condos at Marina Del Rey like shit through a goose, just slice ’em to pieces. I figure we can spare a thousand or so easy.”