They Thirst Part 23

He was shot through with pain, and now he could hear her sucking the life out of him. He tried to strike at her with his other hand, but she grabbed that wrist and held it with extraordinary strength. Her fangs plunged deep, not missing a drop. Her eyes began to roll back in her head with pleasure, and Rico began tumbling down into a dark place that was so terribly cold, so ... terribly ...

terribly ... cold ... When she was finished, she let his arm drop to the floor.

She crouched down on.all fours and licked up the few red spots of blood that she had missed. Then she crawled over to Rico and cradled his head against her bosom, gently rocking his cold body back and forth. "Now," she said. "Now we'll be together for always.

We'll always be young . . . and we'll always be in love. Sleep, my precious. Sleep." She held him awhile longer, then she went to the unmade sofa bed and pulled off the sheets. She laid the sheets down on the floor, dragged him into the middle, and wrapped him up. Now, she thought as she finished the task, you can sleep undisturbed until the Master bids you to awaken. She knew he'd be filled with hunger when he got up and might not be able to hunt for himself, so she would come back to help him. Her love knew no bounds. She dragged Rico's shrouded form into the closet, piled a couple of cardboard boxes around him, and closed the door. Now the sun, that hated bringer of pain, couldn't get to him.

The Master would be pleased with her work.

She left the room and raced along Sunset Boulevard to help the others in the hunt. She was getting quite good at following the blood scent. TWO "Arista wants you, Wes," Jimmy Kline was saying as he drove along Sunset, disregarding the kids who were stalking the sidewalks in what seemed to him record numbers for this hour. "They'll kill to get you after the Brooks deal is hammered down. And that is when our price goes up. Waaayyyyy up. h.e.l.l, they can't afford not to grab you up while you're hot!"

Wes sat in the back seat of Jimmy's custom-built white Cadillac, his arm around Solange. The evening had been too much for her, and now her head was nestled on his shoulder. "That Chuck guy was pretty funny, wasn't he?" he said. "What was his last name?"

"Crisp or Kripes or something like that. I'll tell you how I'm going to play Arista, Wes. Long and cold. I'll give 'em the old baleful stare when they quote facts and figures to me. Ha! I'll have 'em climbing the walls ready to sign anything. 'Sheer Luck' is going to be a hit for ABC, and the record companies are going to come crawling to us on their f.u.c.king knees! You want to hear a tape or something?"

"No," Wes responded quietly. "I'm fine."

"Okay. Hey! How'd you like to do a couple of Vegas dates? We could write our own ticket!"

"I don't know. I've got bad memories of Vegas. Maybe I should just keep a low profile for a while and see what develops."

"Low profile?" Jimmy said as if Wes had uttered the ultimate profanity. "Did I hear you right, man? Low profile? The only people keeping low profiles in this town are the has-beens! We've got to strike while the iron's hot. You know that as well as I do. Christ!" He suddenly twisted the wheel to the right, swerving to avoid a group of s.p.a.ced-out kids who'd run out into the street right in front of the Caddy. "You f.u.c.king jerks!" Jimmy shouted, giving them the finger as he drove past. They scattered, grinning and jeering. "Bunch of freaks!" Jimmy said, his face flushed. "Christ! We almost killed us about four punks back there. What an item for Rona's column, right?"

"Yeah, right," Wes said nervously. He glanced back and saw the kids leaping out again in front of a Spitfire convertible. The car screeched to a halt, and the kids moved forward. Then he turned away and didn't look anymore because suddenly he was filled with dread.

"Where do all these freaks live?" Jimmy said, glancing around at the people hanging out in front of stores and bars. "What do they do, just come out at night or something?"

Solange suddenly sat up as if she'd never been sleeping at all. "What's happening?" she said, her tone of voice alert.

"Nothing. Jimmy's driving us home. Go back to sleep."

"No." She looked around. "Aren't we there yet?" Wes smiled. "We just left the Improv about fifteen minutes ago. I suppose you don't remember the three gla.s.ses of Chablis you put away?" He looked into the rearview mirror at Jimmy's eyes. "What'd you say that guy's name was again?

Chuck what?"

"Kreskin. No, that's not it."

"He's a good comedian. His material's really sharp. The audience liked him too."

"I guess they did. Of course, everybody knows you could get up there on your worst night and blow him or anyone else right off the stage. Cream rises to the top, Wes. That's why he's working the Improv and you've got an ABC contract."

"Footsteps," Wes said quietly.

"What?"

"Footsteps," he repeated. "Footsteps in the dark, coming up behind you. You" can run your a.s.s off, run until your heart's about to burst, and then when you slow down, you think you won't hear them, but there they are right behind you."

"Solange, what's our crazy golden boy talking about?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Wes mused, "what would've happened to me if I hadn't stepped up on that stage for the first time. It was right there in the Comedy Store on a Monday night-amateur night-and I was just off the bus from Winter Hill and scared s.h.i.tless. I was supposed to meet an old frat buddy at the Greyhound station, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't show up, so I started walking, lugging suitcases. Jesus! I must've dragged those things twenty blocks. I didn't even know where I was going. Anyway, I saw this poster tacked up-Monday Night's Potluck at The Comedy Store. The Stage Is Yours! I found myself a motel room and started practicing in front of the mirror. Which had a big crack in it-I'll always remember that-and I was afraid it was going to be bad luck. But I figured somebody else broke it, so it was somebody else's bad luck. Right?"

"Definitely," Jimmy said.

Wes smiled at the flood of memories. It all seemed so very long ago, but then, time in L.A. was deceptive. When you're riding high and surrounded with friends, time speeds up, turning the months and weeks into days and hours. But when you're down and all alone, every minute stretches into a poisonous eternity. "I never saw a stage as big as that one was," he said. "I never again saw one as big either. There was a long line of people waiting to go on in front of me.

Some of them were really good; the others just slunk off stage when they were finished beating their dead horses. G.o.d, what a night that was! The guy in front of me was a short order cook named Benny ... uh ... Kramer, I think his last name was. He did sound effects-ray guns, flying saucers, machine guns, and bombs with a half-a.s.sed running commentary. He was a nice guy but as stiff as a board up there. El Stiffo. After they carried him out, somebody pushed me from behind, and I went stumbling out into the lights. Christ, they were ... so bright." His voice had steadily become lower, his eyes glazed with remembrances. Jimmy glanced at him every once in a while in the rearview mirror. They were driving through Beverly Hills now, heading toward Bel Air.

"So bright," he said. "They burned into you like lasers; they made the sweat pop out of your pores. I could just barely see the people sitting up close to the stage, but I was aware of the whole staring . . . ma.s.s of them out there. I could see light glinting off gla.s.ses and ashtrays, and it seemed like the whole place was full of noise-people coughing like they'd swallowed their dinners whole, talking back and forth across the room like I wasn't even there at all, hollering for a waitress. It was then that I knew I was a looooong way from fraternity parties and podunk clubs. This was the big time, and it was going to be tough." He paused, staring out the window.

"Were you good?" Solange asked, holding his hand.

"I was s.h.i.tty," he admitted, and smiled. "My timing was off, I blew most of the punch lines, and I stood like I had a poker up my a.s.s. About two minutes into the act, the crowd started calling for my blood. It was Gong Show reject all the way. I forgot the rest of my jokes and went nuts, started blabbering on about growing up in Winter Hill and how funny my folks and friends had always thought I was. That drove the last nails into my coffin. I think I must've crawled off that stage on my hands and knees because I sure don't remember walking off. And that was my big debut in Hollywood." He squeezed her hand. "But I got myself a job selling shirts at The Broadway, and I went back the next Monday night. And the next, and the next. I found out that if you wanted G.o.d on your side, you had to work like a demon, and I did. I threw out all the jokes that had worked at the frat parties and started from scratch. After a couple of months of that, they wouldn't let me do amateur nights anymore. People were asking for me. I started doing shows on New Comedians Night. Sometimes I bombed, sometimes I won them over. But I always worked my a.s.s off. And then one night this guy came backstage and asked me if I was interested in writing some material for the Carson show. Rags to riches." He pondered that for a moment and then added, "To rags to riches."

"Rags? s.h.i.t!" Jimmy said. "In your worst year, after 'Just You 'n Me' went under, you were clearing a hundred thou!"

"Which went just about as fast as it came in," Wes reminded him. "You forget how far a hundred thousand goes in this town these days."

"Tis true," Jimmy said. "Regrettably true." Solange shivered and drew closer to him. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you cold?"

"I'll turn up the heat," Jimmy reached for the climate control.

"I'm all right," she said. "I'm only tired." He looked at her closely. "You've been acting strange all day," he said softly.

"You coming down with a cold or something?"

She shook her head. "I only want to get to sleep." Wes saw there was something more to it than that, but he knew from experience that when Solange wanted to keep something to herself, n.o.body on G.o.d's earth could get it out of her. He remembered yesterday morning. It had taken him almost ten minutes to snap her out of the trance she'd fallen into. She'd been sleeping with her eyes open.

"So just think about a couple of Vegas dates, will you, Wes?" Jimmy said. They were driving along a curving boulevard lined with tall palm trees, and they hadn't seen another car for five minutes.

"Vegas?" Wes repeated. "I don't know . . ."

"Las Vegas?" Solange gripped his hand tighter. "Could you get a job there?"

"Babe, when 'Sheer Luck' starts rolling in the Neilsens, old Wes could get a job in Fairbanks!"

"That would be nice, Wes," she said, looking at him hopefully. "A week or two in Las Vegas maybe? Or a month? Why not?"

"I'm not ready for that right now. I want to take it easy."

"Easy, smeasy," Jimmy muttered.

"Why not do it?" Solange continued. "It might be good to ... to get away from" Los Angeles for a while. You could relax in-"

"Get away from Los Angeles?" Wes said. He'd caught the emphatic tone in her'" voice, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? What's so important to you about going to Vegas?"

"It's not important to me. I just thought you might enjoy the change."

"I wouldn't. You know what I think about working in Vegas. It's an armpit town as far as progressive comedy goes. Those people just want somebody to ease them down after losing their shirts . . ."

"HOLY CHRIST!" Jimmy suddenly shouted.

Wes twisted his head around. He heard the high squeal of brakes and saw a gray car hurtle into the intersection on a collision course with the Caddy. Jimmy wrenched the wheel and slammed on the brakes, but Wes saw that the gray car, a Maserati, was coming too fast. He saw a face behind the wheel-eyes widened in horror, mouth opened in a soundless scream. He grabbed Solange, then the two cars. .h.i.t in a jarring whump of rending metal. Gla.s.s shattered very close to Wes's ear; the interior of the Cadillac seemed to be filled with angry hornets.

Solange screamed. Wes's head rocked forward and hit the back of Jimmy's seat, then he was thrown against the door with rib-cracking force. For an instant the Cadillac seemed in danger of going over on its side; the Maserati seemed to keep on coming, its gray torpedo of a nose plowing into the Caddy's side. Then the Cadillac righted itself, slammed against a palm tree, and was still. The ticking of hot engines sounded like a bomb about to go off. "Are you okay?"

Wes said to Solange. "ARE YOU OKAY?" She nodded, her eyes glazed, a blue bruise coming up over her right cheekbone. "You crazy or something?" he shouted at the Maserati's driver, but all he could see was a shattered windshield. The sonofab.i.t.c.h must've been doing eighty! he thought. Must've been doing ninety f.u.c.king miles an hour when he came into the intersection!

The entire right side of the Cadillac was folded in, all sharp angles of leather and metal. The front of the Maserati had been crushed like an accordion, the hood almost ripped from its hinges.

"Jimmy," Solange whispered thickly.

Wes looked, his heart pounding. There was blood on the steering wheel where Jimmy's forehead had cracked half of it away. Jimmy was wedged under the wheel, his left arm almost turned backward. His face was a sick purplish color, and blood was streaming down one side of his mouth. He made a soft moaning noise, his lungs sounding wet and clogged. "Jimmy!" Wes shouted, and started to lean over the seat. Jimmy's eyes opened. "Oh, s.h.i.t," he said softly. "Looks like somebody plowed our a.s.ses, didn't they? Christ, my chest hurts!"

"Don't move. Don't move. I'll find a phone somewhere and call an ambulance. Don't move." He had to shove against the door several times to get it open because it was jammed up against that palm tree. He squeezed out, his ribs laced with pain. He fell to the gra.s.s and puked like a hurt dog. Solange helped him to his feet. His head was throbbing terribly; it felt like a balloon expanding.

"Got to find a phone," he told her. "Jimmy's hurt bad." He looked up and down the boulevard for a pay phone, but they were right in the center of Beverly Hills and pay phones were as hard to find as Skid Row winos here. Across the street there was a large white stucco house with a wall around it. A light shone in an upper window, and a head popped out. "Hey!" Wes shouted. "Somebody help us! Call an ambulance, there's a guy hurt down here!" The person in the window paused a few seconds, then withdrew into the room. "The car may blow up!" Wes yelled suddenly to Solange. "We've got to get him out!"

"No, leave him where he is," she said. "Don't move him. Your head's bleeding."

"Huh? s.h.i.t!" He felt up at his hairline and looked at the red smear on his fingertips. He staggered, but Solange's firm grip on his arm kept him from falling. "I'm okay," he insisted. "How about you?" She nodded, and he walked around the crumpled Caddy to the remains of the Maserati. Oil and water were bubbling out of the engine block, hissing where they kissed hot metal. Wes couldn't see anyone inside the car. He stepped forward through a puddle of water and peered through the smashed window on the driver's side. A mask of blood was suddenly thrust before his face. Before he could step back, a hand clamped his arm. The Maserati's driver was a man with silvery gray hair, now clotted with blood. His face was twisted with agony, the lips trying to squeeze out words. "Uhhhhhhh . . . they're coming!" he said in a frantic whine.

"They took Denise, and now they're coming for me, they're not going to let any of us ... uhhhhhhh . . . any of us get . . . get . . . get away . . .!"

"What's he saying?" Solange asked.

"I don't know. He's drunk or crazy," Wes said. He could hear a siren, approaching fast. An ambulance. Thank G.o.d, that guy in the house must've called.

He started to pull away from the man, but the fingers dug deeper into his arm.

"NO!" the man cried out. "No! Don't leave me! Please . . . please don't leave me!"

"You'll be okay," Wes said. "There's an ambulance coming."

"Don't leave me . . . don't . . . don't. . ." His voice died to a faint moan, and he slithered back down into the seat, his fingers dangling over the edge of the door. Wes stepped away from the Maserati and peered into the Caddy where Jimmy lay crumpled against the wheel. "You're gonna be okay, Jimmy!

Help's coming. You just hang on, buddy!"

"Right . . . hang on . . ." Jimmy whispered.

An ambulance, orange lights flashing, came roaring around the curve and screeched to a stop on the other side of the Maserati. The two uniformed attendants, one a Chicano and the other a lanky red-haired guy, got out and approached the accident, walking quickly.J "Jimmy's hurt bad!" Wes told them.

"He's all crushed up in the front seat!" lm "Yes, sir," the Chicano said softly. But then the other guy was pulling the Maserati's door open and reaching for the injured driver. The gray-haired man opened his eyes and babbled in terror.

"Hey," Wes said, "what's . . . going . . . on . . .?" The gray-haired man screamed. In the rippling orange light Wes could see the glittering fangs slide out from the jaws of the ambulance attendant. Solange made a soft sound of horror and gripped his arm. Wes could hear the chatter from the ambulance's radio-". . . got a two-car collision, corner of Wilshire and Detroit, two people involved ... hit-and-run, corner of Pickford and Orange, man's down on the scene ... car hit a telephone pole, Olympic and Catalina, two victims pinned inside . . . the hunting's fine . . ." The voice carried a cold hiss. Solange pulled at him. "Run!" she insisted. "We've got to run!" The Chicano glared at her greedily and wrenched open the Caddy's front door. Then he reached in for Jimmy and began to pull his body out from underneath the wheel. Jimmy screamed in agony.

"Are you crazy?" Wes shouted. "You're killing him, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" He started forward to tear the maniac away from Jimmy, but instantly Solange grabbed his arm to hold him back. "No," she said, and he stopped to look at her as if she were crazy, too. Her face was a grim-lipped mask, an African G.o.ddess with strange lights glimmering in her eyes. He could hear another siren approaching. The gray-haired man was on the ground now, his legs twitching as the attendant bent down over him. "Jimmy!" Wes cried. "Jim ... my ..." And then the Chicano was leaning over Jimmy. Wes saw orange light glimmer off the fangs as they sank into Jimmy's throat. As he drank with thirsty heaves, the Chicane's black eyes sought out Wes and Solange.

And then, as if something had collapsed at the center of his rational soul, Wes realized what kind of things they were. Solange shouted, "WES!" and pulled at him as the second ambulance rounded the curb, orange lights flashing. As they ran, Wes looked back to see Jimmy's body spread out on the concrete. It shivered as if it had been plugged into a high-voltage charge; then he couldn't look back again for fear of being caught by that thing's hot, Gorgon-like stare. In the next instant the second ambulance roared up onto the sidewalk behind them, headlights blazing.

Wes and Solange ran along a high wrought-iron fence; beyond it was a sloping lawn and a dark Tudor-style mansion framed with palm trees. The driveway, closed off from the street by a locked gate, lay just a few yards ahead. Wes could see that the bars had been forced apart as if with a crowbar. There might just be room enough for them to squeeze through-If they could get to that house and a telephone . . .! But the ambulance was gaining on them, swerving around the high Washingtonia palms, clumps of gra.s.s flying up behind the tires. They reached the gate, and Wes shoved Solange through the bars. She tripped and fell on the other side, but he squeezed through and pulled her up, then both of them ran toward that house. The ambulance crashed into the gate behind them, knocking it open and smashing both headlights with a noise like a shotgun blast. Wes saw that some of the mansion's windows were broken out; it looked dead and desolate, and he realized with a surge of panic that they could already be inside. He looked back and saw the driver's pallid, grinning face streaked with the orange light.

The ambulance was again almost on them. Wes wrenched Solange to the side as it roared past and up the hill, cutting them off from the house. It skidded up on the lawn, turning in a tight circle, and slammed into a palm tree. They ran on, cutting across the lawn and past the house. Just on the other side of the hill's crest was a white, concrete structure that looked like a storage shed. A stone walkway led down through a landscaped flower bed, and below that was a swimming pool with a canopied bathhouse. Wes couldn't hear the ambulance anymore, but he knew they'd be coming soon. He tried the shed's door. It was locked, so he kicked it open. He stood among sacks of concrete mix and potting soil, various tools, a few large ceramic pots, and several cans of paint. Even before he heard Solange shout, he heard the ambulance roaring across the lawn.

He lifted one of the paint cans and pried its lid loose.

"Stay here!" he yelled at Solange, and ran down into the flower beds where the vampires could see him. The ambulance came for him, its grillwork grinning like the mouth of a hungry ogre. He saw the flicker of recognition across the driver's face. Before the ambulance could slow down, Wes heaved the paint can at the windshield, then dodged to one side with Solange's scream ringing in his ears.

The gla.s.s shattered, bright blue swimming pool paint covering the interior of the ambulance and blinding the things inside. It swerved, roared on past Wes through the flowers, and pitched over a small brick wall that, separated them from the pool area. The ambulance nosed into the deep end of the pool with a huge splash. Hot metal hissed. The orange light grew weaker, casting rippled reflections.

Wes didn't wait to see if the things could get out. He ran back up to Solange, and at the crest of the hill they could both see the streaks of orange flashing out in the street. Wes froze.

"The house," Solange said.

It was the only choice they had. They got in through a pair of shattered French doors at the rear of the house, which opened onto a large sitting room , where furniture, cabinets, and bookshelves had been overturned as if in a mad fury.

Wes fumbled through the debris, trying to find a telephone in the dark. Solange picked up a lamp and stood at the doors; her eyes were wide and shining with fear but her hand was steady, with the lamp's metal base poised as a weapon.

In another moment she thought she sensed movement outside. Wes did, too; he froze where he was, crouched on the floor with dirt all over his clothes and face.

Solange listened, her heart beating hard. They were there, she was sure of it. And now she heard the wet squeaking of shoes just beyond the doors. They would I." be coming through any second now. Her grip tightened on the lamp, though she was well aware she couldn't fight them hand-to-hand.i And then in the distance, there were two gunshots. It might have been from Ji the house next door or from across the street. The shots were followed by a woman's scream and a man's rising, madly babbling voice. Another siren began to shriek. She heard the slapping squeak of the shoes running away from the doors, quickly fading. "They're gone," she said after she'd caught her breath again. I think they found something better . . ."

Wes shoved aside an overturned coffee table and found lying underneath if an old black antique that Ma Bell herself must've used about a hundred years ago. j When he picked it up, his heart sank-it had been ripped from its terminal.

"d.a.m.n it!" he breathed. "We've got to call the cops!"

"There's no use in that," Solange said quietly. "The police won't be able to help. If they did come, they'd only . . . find those things waiting for them .

"What about Jimmy?" It was all he could do to keep himself from shouting. His strained voice echoed through the room, many ghosts speaking at once. "What in G.o.d's name are they?" He knew the answer to that already, and there was no need for her to utter the awful word. "It can't be!" he said. They're not real . . .

not real. . .!" He steadied himself against an old sofa with red velvet cushions that had white music notes and lettering st.i.tched on them, The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi and Charleston, Charleston. "Somebody must live here," he said. "They must be upstairs." He was afraid to shout, though, for fear those things outside might hear him.

"I think you're wrong," Solange said. Wes stared up at her. "Look around. I think the things have come here and gone."

He forced himself to look. The mangled burglar bars were bad enough; a large gilt-framed mirror was smashed all to pieces and now hung crookedly over a cold fireplace. Antique lamps lay in fragments on the floor. A couple of bookcases had been overturned, scattering old volumes and little ceramic figurines.

Solange bent and picked up one of the figures-it was the remnants of a ballet dancer, both legs and one of the arms broken off. The tiny painted face smiled up at her.

"There's got to be a working phone somewhere in this G.o.dd.a.m.ned tomb!" Wes said, and moved through a pair of sliding oak doors into a carpeted corridor that led to the front door. There were more smashed mirrors and framed poster of old movies-One Night in Madrid, The Prince and the Showgirl, Hollywood's Heaven.

Through the front windows he saw the orange flicker and thought he saw figures moving out on the lawn.

Solange was beside him. "An elevator," she said, and Wes turned. Next to a stairway with thick, ornately carved banisters, there was a mire-mesh elevator shaft.

"Yeah. Fine. So what?" he said irritably. He glanced back toward the front door, a shiver rippling through him. "Where did those things come from? What in G.o.d's name made them like that?"

Solange said, "We're not safe yet. We've got to find a place to hide in case they come after us again." She started for the stairway, and he was about to follow when a cold hand snaked out of the darkness and gripped his wrist.