They Thirst Part 34

"A knife," Wes said. "Sorry, I didn't see any stakes lying around here." Silvera regarded him for a moment in silence. "You must love that woman very much."

"I've . . . always been there when she needed me. She needs me now."

"She may be like them by now. You know that, don't you?"

"And maybe she's not," Wes said. "I have to know for sure before I... leave her behind."

Silvera nodded. "You surprised me. But regardless of whatever rage you're feeling, you're going to need more than these implements. Much more." He turned his head and saw Lieutenant Rutledge waving him over. Then he said to Wes, "You wait here. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Just wait." Silvera left Wes, walking across the church to his room. He took a small clear flask from a silk-lined black case resting at the top shelf of his closet. The flask was identical to the one he'd taken to Palatazin. Then he went out to the font of holy water in the vestibule, and dipped the flask down into the small white ceramic basin. The flask filled quickly, with a little more than two ounces. He wasn't sure how much effect holy water would actually have on the vampires, but he figured-he hoped-Palatazin had known that it would have some effect, even if just to frighten them. Silvera lifted the flask, capped it, and thought of something his mentor Father Raphael had said back in the tiny village of Puerto Grande. "Now, my son. You ask me why I dip up water from the Pacific Ocean for the rituals. The answer is both simple and complex. Well water is too precious here to deprive humans of it, no matter how holy the ritual. G.o.d saw human needs long before he saw the need for ritual. Secondly, what holier water is there than water from the cradle of life? G.o.d's blessing only makes it more so, but the strength is already there. You've seen how salt.w.a.ter heals wounds and sores, how it cleanses and purifies. Any water can be holy; it needs only to be blessed. But this-seawater -is twice blessed . . ."

Silvera had kept Father Raphael's tradition alive, though now it was more difficult to bring jugs of water back from the Pacific. But now he needed a purifier, something to wash away this unholy evil that gnawed like a cancer at human flesh. He held the flask up; it felt slightly warm in his hand, and the warmth seemed to spread up his forearm. He was ready now. He returned to where Wes waited and put the flask in his inside coat pocket. "All right," he said.

"We can go now."

"We?" Wes said. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm going with you. The holy water may help even up the odds. And that man won't shoot me." He motioned toward Lieutenant Rutledge, who shouted, "Let's go, Father!" and waved impatiently. Silvera dropped the gun down to his side and., shielding his face with his forearm, walked toward the tractor with Wes right behind him. Lieutenant Rutledge and his driver stepped back to allow them up into the dark cavity, but suddenly Silvera turned toward him and thrust out the gun.

Rutledge stared incredulously at it, then looked into Silvera's face. "What's this s.h.i.t?" the man shouted.

"My friend and I are taking your jeep, and we don't have time to argue! Tell your driver there to give us the keys!"

"You want the Crab? What are you, crazy or something? We're trying to get you out of this mess!"

"You can help us by giving us the keys! Come on!"

"Man, you take the cake, you know that? You and I both know you're not going to shoot anybody, so let's just forget this-"

Silvera yanked the hood off the Marine's face and put the barrel alongside his nose. "I don't have time for a debate!" the priest said. "Hand them over!"

"s.h.i.t!" Rutledge lifted his hands now and glanced fearfully at the other Marine.

"Okay, okay! Whitehurst, give these maniacs the keys to the Crab! Look, you!

Priest or not, you steal a military vehicle and your holy a.s.s is going under the stockade!"

"Wes, take his keys! And the .45, too. You've got clips for that!" Rutledge patted his inside jacket pocket. Silvera reached in, took out two clips, and handed them to Wes. Then he stepped away from Rutledge and backed toward the jeep. Wes slipped into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"You're crazy!" Rutledge shouted, pulling his hood back down. "Both of you!" Whitehurst grasped at his arm and guided him up into the transport vehicle, then in another few seconds the rear gate began to swing shut. Silvera had a last glimpse of Rutledge's furious face before he climbed into the jeep. Wes put it into reverse, backed along the sidewalk, and then swung out into the street. The vehicle's tires gripped hard, carrying them between monstrous dunes and away from Silvera's church. The priest turned to look back through the Plexigla.s.s rear windshield. The tractor was moving away in the opposite direction, lumbering like a huge metallic beetle. He put the two guns down on the floorboard. "Can you drive this thing?" he asked.

"Handles like a dune buggy," Wes answered. "Steering's tighter, though." The headlights were cutting clear yellow paths in the storm ahead, and the instrumentation panel-which curved slightly around Wes like a plane's c.o.c.kpit-glowed a faint green. He changed gears, noting the gearshift pattern depicted on a small metal plate on the dashboard-there were four forward gears and two reverse. The interior seemed to be stripped down to the bare minimum but was comfortable enough. It smelled slightly oily, just as Wes thought the interior of a tank might smell. He could feel a powerful engine behind him, pushing them along now at about ten miles per hour; he was afraid to drive any faster because of the dunes and wrecked cars that littered the street ahead, coming up swiftly out of the gloom. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, Father," Wes said quietly.

"I do." Silvera leaned over and looked at the gas gauge-there was a little more than half a tank. He looked behind the seats into a roomy storage compartment, finding a full three-gallon can of gasoline, a coiled rope, maps of the city, and a couple of small red cylinders of oxygen in green backpack carriers. Near the oxygen bottles there were two green rubber masks complete with wide-vision goggles. Those, he thought, might be especially useful, and he silently gave thanks for Rutledge's careful preparations. Wes put the knife and crucifix on top of the dashboard. Sand was beginning to pile up on the windshield, so he turned the wipers on at their highest speed. The jeep thumped and jubbled over rapidly shifting sand dunes, but the thick tires gave them enough traction to get through without sinking. When Silvera looked back again, he couldn't see his church or the troop carrier, just a solid sheet of blowing yellow. In another moment Wes turned a corner, the jeep barely sliding around two cars that had crashed together in the middle of the street, and found himself at the bottom of the freeway ramp he'd crawled down. He slowed and peered up. The ramp was blocked by a mountainous sand dune that had built up over another stalled car. Wes cursed softly.

"We'll run into fewer of those if we stay off the freeway," Silvera told him.

"I think I know the way from here. Across the river and around L.A. Back up a block and turn left." Wes did, the tires slipping with a sickening lurch but always catching just when he thought they were about to start digging a grave. The air was getting bad. Silvera reached back, opened the nozzle on one of the oxygen tanks, and let some bleed out. He was sweating profusely, beads of moisture dappling his cheeks.

"You wouldn't have shot that lieutenant, would you?" Wes asked as they turned onto the stark yellow desolation of Brooklyn Avenue in dead Boyle Heights.

"No one would die for a set of keys. He doesn't care about the vehicle."

"Why did you help me?"

"Not because I think we can find your friend. I don't. But if you're willing to go to that place, knowing what's probably waiting up there, then I am, too. Let's leave it at that."

"Fine with me." The engine suddenly sputtered, then coughed out a wad of sand. Wes checked the temperature gauge; it was running hot, but what the h.e.l.l. If the d.a.m.ned Marines couldn't build a vehicle that could plow through this f.u.c.king storm, then n.o.body could. Wes hoped their luck and good old American machinery would hold out just a while longer. If it didn't, they would die; it was as simple as that.

A fierce wind struck them broadside, shivering the jeep as if it were made of cardboard. The vehicle slipped to the left, tires digging for a purchase, and then darted forward like a land crab scrambling away from a shadow across a wind-rippled beach. Wes remembered Rutledge calling it the Crab. That was probably one of those cute names the military stuck on everything, but it described the tenacity and responsiveness of the vehicle pretty well. A Crab it was.

Nothing moved on Brooklyn Avenue except the dunes, sliding like hot yellow dancers to a mad maestro's shrilling tune. Everywhere there were stranded cars, and Wes didn't see the almost mummified corpses until the Crab had gone right over them, snapping them like twigs. His hands tightened around the wheel.

Death was very close.

The boulevard stretched on out of sight. Behind them the way back had already closed.

NINE.

Palatazin had been gone for almost twenty minutes when Tommy turned away from the window and said to Jo, "He's going to die up there." He said it quite calmly, without emotion and very seriously, because he knew it to be true.

"Why don't you sit down, kid?" Gayle said. She didn't want Jo to start crying again. There was a look in the boy's eyes that scared the h.e.l.l out of her. They were y like an old man's eyes, filled with pain and bitter wisdom.

"Okay?" she urged. "Why don't you?"

"He doesn't know anything about the castle! I do! He'll get lost in there!"

"Please . . ." Jo said weakly, and collapsed in a chair.

"I could help him," Tommy said, his gaze moving from Jo to Gayle. "I know I could!"

"Oh, Christ!" Gayle said, anger leaping in her eyes. "Why don't you shut up?

He's going to be all right!"

Tommy stood motionless, staring at her. She looked out the window quickly, but she could still see him reflected in the gla.s.s. He walked back to the sofa and took the case off the pillow. "What are you doing?" Jo asked, but he didn't answer. He put on his jacket, zipped it up to the neck, and raised the collar.

"No!" Jo said. "You're not!"

He folded the pillowcase into a square. "I guess you both think I'm a stupid little kid, don't you? Well, I may be little . . . but I'm sure as h.e.l.l not stupid! That man who just left here is stupid because he thinks he can get into the Kronsteen castle, find the king vampire, and get out again just like that."

He snapped his fingers. "Or he may just be trying to fool himself into believing that, I don't know. Well, he won't be coming back ... at least not as what he was when he left, if I don't help him. If I hurry, I can catch him . . .".

"You're not going anywhere!" Gayle said firmly, taking a step toward him. Tommy stood his ground. His eyes were like chunks of ice. "My parents are gone,"

he said quietly. "They're dead. I'm not a little boy anymore." Gayle stopped suddenly, realizing that he was right, he wasn't a child anymore.

Whatever had happened to him last night had changed him forever. And wouldn't he have the same chances out there as Palatazin? Probably better. Certainly he could move faster, and his lungs were probably in much better shape. She glanced at Jo, then back at Tommy. "Do you think you can get him in and out of there safely?"

"I know I can." He stepped past her toward the door. "I'll have to hurry. If I can't find him, I'll have to come back, but I'll look as long as I can." He put the square of cloth up in front of his face like a mask. "Wish me luck," he said, and slipped out through the door.

"That's a very brave little boy," Gayle said after he'd gone.

"No," Jo answered. "A very brave young man." Tommy ran in the direction he'd seen Palatazin take. He was hoping he'd see footprints in the sand, but they'd already been blown away. He was half-blind, trapped within a cubicle of swirling yellowish-brown walls, his lungs scorched.

His head was beginning to throb, but he welcomed the pain because it would keep him alert. He ran on, realizing that he might pa.s.s within ten feet of Palatazin and never know the man was there. Panic hit him-for a few seconds he couldn't draw a breath. He made himself slow down to a walk and breathe through his mouth at a regular pace. Sand sc.r.a.ped his cheeks and forehead, and now he realized that even if he did want to go back, he'd never find the way. Huge dunes stood all around him, most of them towering over the hulks of cars. They shifted and slithered down as he pa.s.sed, threatening to collapse over him. The world was dim amber light, a shriek of wind, and the coa.r.s.e hissing of sand. The wind whipped around him, almost throwing him to his knees. He thought he heard a high whining voice at the center of it, whispering Little boy, little boy, lie down and sleep . . .

He went on and in another moment a dark shape emerged from the twisting currents. It was a Lincoln Continental, the paint stripped down to the bare metal, most of the car covered over by a dune. He decided to get inside it for a few minutes to clear the sand out of his eyes and mouth. When he pulled the driver's door open, a withered blue-faced corpse came sliding out, its arms outstretched toward him. He swallowed a cry, spat out sand, and continued on. The wind whispered around his head-Lie down and sleep, lie down and sleeeeeep . . . "No!" he heard himself shout. "NO, I WONT!" In another three steps he tripped over something and fell to the ground. His legs had gotten tangled in the frozen arms of a dead woman, the flesh over her skull stretched as tight as old leather. Tommy kicked free and crawled away, tears stinging his eyes. Sleeeeep, the wind moaned. Close your eyes now, and sleep . . .

It was so tempting. Maybe I should, Tommy thought. Just for a little while. Close my eyes and rest, and when I get my strength back, I can keep on looking for him. Yeah. That's the thing to do. He wondered if Mr. Palatazin was also sleeping somewhere, all curled up and comfortable. A yellow blanket began to drift over him.

And then he realized what he was doing and kicked off the blanket. He struggled to his feet, his heart pounding. I was lying down to die, he realized. Old Death almost got me that time, and it slipped up so softly ...

"NO, I WONT!" he shouted, though the words were ripped to shreds by the wind. He began to run again, past more stranded cars and half-covered things that were probably bodies, but he was afraid to look at them too closely. He ran past a street sign that said LaBrea Avenue, and now there were indentations on the ground that might have been scattered footprints or just deep-rippled places-he couldn't tell. In the shadow of a towering dune, there was an imprint that might have been made by a falling body. Panic flared within him. He knew he had to hurry; he might already be too late.

Ahead, at the corner of LaBrea and Lexington avenues, Tommy saw Palatazin's body sprawled in the windbreak of a stranded car. There was a long groove where the man had dragged himself for several yards.

Tommy ran to him and bent down. He could hear Palatazin's tortured breathing.

"Wake up!" Tommy said, shaking him. "Don't go to sleep! WAKE UP!" Palatazin moved, lifted a hand, and grasped his shoulder. He tried to focus on Tommy, but his eyes were bloodshot and watery. Sand had filled the cracks in his face, giving the look of a dried-up riverbed. "Who . . .?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. He let his head fall back. "Oh, G.o.d," he breathed. "Go back ... go back . . ."

"NO! YOU'VE GOT TO WAKE UP!".

"Can't make it ... too far . . ."

"We'll find our way back together!" Tommy said, but he knew they couldn't, not really. The man was too weak and so was he, the wind too strong, the sand too dense. "Stand up! Come on!" He pulled at Palatazin's arm with both hands; his unprotected face felt as if it was being flayed. Palatazin stirred and tried to rise, the effort showing in the grim set of his eyes, but he only got up on one knee and leaned against the car, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

"What are ... you ... doing out here?" Palatazin shouted at him. "I told you ...

told you to stay at the house!"

"Can you walk?" Tommy shouted back.

Palatazin tried to stand up again, but he didn't seem to have any strength left in his legs. His heart was racing, his lungs pumping like bellows but only drawing in short, burning gasps of air. He felt dizzy and about to pa.s.s out, and he clung to the boy for support. "I guess... I'm not in as... good a shape as I thought I was. Lungs are hurting."

"You have to stand up!" Tommy shouted. "I'll help you! Hold on to me and-"

"No," Palatazin said. "Just let me lie down and rest for a little while . . . just a little while . . ."

"YOU HAVE TO STAND UP!" Tommy shook him, but now the man was sliding down into the sand. His eyes were closing, and he was just a heavy ma.s.s of flesh without consciousness or will. And suddenly Tommy realized there was someone standing a few feet away from them, just behind his left shoulder. He whirled around to face a lean, leathery-looking man with long grayish-brown hair and a wild gray beard that flowed down over his chest in tattered, dirty strands. He wore filthy blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said Timothy Leary for President across the front under a picture of Leary sitting atop the White House and smoking a joint.

Tommy was afraid to move. The man stared at him through keen electric-blue eyes, barely seeming to mind the storm. Then the man looked around quickly and fell to his knees beside Tommy. He oozed with the odors of grime, sweat, and sewage. "You're not one of them, are you, man? I mean, you can't be one of them because you're out here in the daylight, aren't you? I mean, what daylight there is, right? What's ailing this dude?"

"He's going to die!" Tommy shouted. "Help me make him wake up!" The man dug a dirty hand into his pocket, fished around for a few seconds, and then brought out a clear plastic capsule and popped it open under Palatazin's nose. Palatazin immediately sputtered and opened his eyes, and Tommy smelled the heavy odor of ammonia. "Peace, brother," the man said, holding up two fingers in a V before Palatazin's face.

Tommy realized the man had no protection, nothing to mask his face, not even a jacket. "Where did you come from?"

"Me? I come from everywhere, man! From under the hot earth where the cool streams run! From where the babbling brooks play in the concrete night! That's where I live!" He pointed a skinny finger, and Tommy looked over his shoulder. He could see the open manhole.

"The vibes aren't right up here, man! Not right at all! Gimme a hand and let's get this dude downstairs!" The man started dragging Palatazin toward the open hole in the center of the street, and Tommy pulled as best he could. Palatazin was conscious but dazed, his breathing still forced and ragged. The bearded man clambered down a few metal rungs with familiar ease, then helped Palatazin down into the darkness. Tommy followed. At the bottom of the metal rungs, in a large circular concrete tunnel with pipes and cables running along its sides, the man eased Palatazin to a sitting position, picked up a bull's-eye lantern from the floor, and then scurried back up to pull the manhole cover into place. Tommy watched the daylight disappear and with it went the scream of the wind. When it was gone, the man switched on his lantern and climbed down again. He shone the light at Palatazin, who was weakly pulling the rest of the sheet away from his face. "You need another popper, man?" Palatazin shook his head. "One's enough." His nostrils felt as if they were still on fire, but at least his brain was working again. Finding shelter from that savage wind was a blessing, no matter how foul the mingled odors of human excrement were down there.

"d.a.m.n straight." The man sat on his haunches, his face whitened by the backwash of the light, and looked from Palatazin to Tommy with quick animal-like jerks of his head. "Bad vibes up there these days," he said finally, motioning with a tilt of his chin. "You want to be careful. Dig it!" He grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth that would've driven a dentist mad.

"Who are you?" Tommy asked.

"Me? I'm the Big R, the Hollywood Creeper. I'm Johnny Ratkins. My friends call me Ratty."

"You . . . live down here?"

"No, man, not here!" He scowled and pointed a finger down. "Here!" Now he made a broad, expansive movement with the same hand. "Everywhere. This is my mansion, safe from all the bad vibes there ever was or ever will be. Got a million rooms down here, a million corridors. Got babbling brooks and sweet streams and lakes . . . yeah! Real lakes, man! If I could just figure out how to get a Chris-Craft through that little hole, I'd be one happy dude! Dig it!

What are you two dudes doing out in those bad vibes?" Palatazin coughed a couple of times, spat out phlegm thickened with sand, and said, "Trying to get across Hollywood. I thought I could make it, but . . ." He looked at Tommy. "Why did you leave the house? I told you to stay back there!"

"You'd be dead now if I had! I said I could help you, and I still can!" '

"You're a little fool!"

Tommy glowered at him, and when he spoke, his voice carried a cutting edge.

"You're not my father, so don't try to tell me what I can or can't do." Ratty whistled through the nubs of his front teeth. "Heaaaavy! That's the center, man. That's Truth in a teacup!" He grinned at Palatazin. "The little dude's telling it like it is. If I hadn't heard him shouting, I wouldn't have stuck my head out to see what was going down. What was going down was you, man, so you'd better cool it."

"I suppose I should say thank you for getting us out of that."

"No need. Ratty does what he can. Oh, I've come across other folks like you two, stumbling around and lost with all those bad vibes sucking the air right out of their lungs. Some of them I helped." His gaze darkened. "Some of them I couldn't. The poppers wouldn't even bring them around. You feeling okay now?"

"Better," Palatazin said. What he was breathing was not the sweetest air possible, but at least he didn't have to sift it through his teeth, and for that he was grateful. His lungs felt raspy and raw.

"You want something to pick you up?" Ratty dug into his jeans again and this time brought out a handful of ampules, pills, and capsules in a variety of colors. "I've got whatever you need. Speed, yellowjackets, reds . . . got a microdot here somewhere that'll f.u.c.k up your head for a week!" He giggled and offered them to Palatazin.

"No, thank you."

"How about some angel dust? Or . . ." He reached into another pocket and brought out a clear cellophane packet containing what looked to Palatazin like sliced mushrooms. Ratty gazed at it lovingly. "Magic," he said. Palatazin shook his head, and Ratty looked offended, as if his greatest offering had been refused. "What are you?" Palatazin asked him. "A dealer?"

"A dealer? Me? Listen, I'm an artist, man! Look at these!" He shook the packets in front of Palatazin's face. "All meat and pure magic, the finest you can buy on the whole f.u.c.kin' coast! Magic mushrooms! No additives, no preservatives, just pure homegrown, farmed by yours truly using all natural elements in the sod . . ."

"That's fine," Palatazin said, and waved the packet away.

"This other stuff is junk compared to my mushrooms," Ratty said. He put the rest of his cache away, opened the packet, and sniffed at it. He closed his eyes and thrust the packet out toward Palatazin, who caught the heady odor of sewage. "I grow 'em down here," Ratty said. "I just got to figure out a way to get rid of the smell, then I'll be in the high cotton . . ." Palatazin grunted and moved a few feet away from the man because he'd caught a whiff from him that was less than delicate. What kind of lunatic was this? he wondered. Some hippie holdover who'd been living in these sewers for years perhaps, happy just to pop pills and grow "magic mushrooms" on ... G.o.d!. . . did he say "natural elements in the sod"? Surely he had to go out sometime, if just to get batteries for his flashlight. And what did he eat? His mind quickly shunted that thought away.

But then Ratty leaned forward and said, "Hey, what's in the bag? You don't have a can opener in there, do you? I sure could use one. I lost mine a couple of days ago. You don't have a ham sandwich in there, do you?" Palatazin unsnapped one of the pockets and brought out a stake. Ratty was immediately silent. He took it and shone the light on it as if it were some relic from a lost civilization. "What's this for?" he said quietly. "The bloodsuckers?"