They Thirst Part 7

"What does it mean?"

The planchette spun in a mad circle, dropped back to the letters. E, V, I, L, E,V, I, L.

"Are there others with you?"

YES.

"Who?"

S, A, M, E, L, I, K, E, M, E.

"Christ!" Missy breathed, and reached for her winegla.s.s. She spilled some on her designer jeans before it reached her mouth.

"Who's the Roach?" Martin blurted out. "What's his name?" The planchette was still. Solange repeated the two questions slowly, and almost immediately the planchette haltingly spelled out-E, V, I, L, U, S, I, N, G, H,I, M.

"Using him?" Wes said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"There is one among us who would reach Orion Kronsteen," Solange went on in a whisper. "Is he with you?"

Immediately, YES.

"Then let him come forward."

There was a long pause. The planchette seemed to be dead. And then suddenly it almost leapt off the board. Martin said, "s.h.i.t!" as the thing spun from side to side, from YES to NO to MAYBE and back again, three or four times.

"Unfocused energy," Solange said calmly. "Quiet, quiet. Do you have a message?"

"This is even better than the 'Crosswits,'" Wes said under his breath; Martin glanced at him and giggled nervously.

But then the planchette dropped to the bottom of the board so quickly it seemed only a blur. It began to race along the lines of letters. Wes leaned forward.

"E, V," he read. "EVIL. EVIL. It's repeating the same thing over and over again."

"Is this Kronsteen?" Solange asked.

YES. YES. YES. Then, EVIL. EVIL. Again and again.

"Quiet, quiet. What's evil? Can you tell us?"

The planchette vibrated, seemed to spin in midair. Then it moved again, gathering speed until it had spelled out a new word so quickly Wes barely had time to read it. "T, H, E, Y." The planchette stopped, and Wes looked up at Solange. "THEY. Fine message from the spirit world, huh?" Solange opened her eyes and said quietly, "It's moving again." Wes looked back to the board. The planchette moved to the T again, then to other letters, faster and faster. "THIRST," Solange said? The planchette had begun spelling out THEY again. "THEY THIRST is the message. It's repeating the words now . .

Wes said uneasily, "What's it supposed to mean?"

"Do you have more to tell . . .?" Solange began, and suddenly the planchette stopped. She narrowed her eyes, and for an instant Wes saw something there that seemed a mix of bewilderment and fear. "Bobby?" Solange asked. "Who's there? Who wants to speak?"

And slowly, with terrifying purpose, the planchette spelled out a new word.

"FOOLS," Wes said. "Now what in the name of G.o.d is that s" Solange gave out a piercing scream. The planchette darted from beneath her fingers and came up off the Ouija board, its sharp triangular point flying like a missile at Wes's right eye. He was able to throw up a hand in time; the planchette struck his palm and bounced off, then fell to the carpet like the dead piece of plastic it was. Someone else in the room screamed, the scream was echoed from two or three more throats. Solange leapt to her feet. "Wes!

Are you all right?"

"Sure," he said nervously. "Sure. I'm fine." He stood up on shaky legs and stared down at the thing that had almost gouged out his eye. "Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d tried to get me, didn't it?" He laughed and looked around, but no one else even smiled."

"I think ... I'm going to be ... sick," Missy said, her pretty face having taken on a yellowish cast. She stumbled toward the bathroom, and her boyfriend followed.

"It . . . moved!" Martin was saying, shaking his head back and forth. "It really did move!"

"That's enough." Solange took Wes's hand and ma.s.saged his palm. "You wanted party games, and that's what you got."

"Yeah." Martin looked around for a drink. "Party games." Soon the life drained back into the party, but it wasn't the same. Already people were leaving. A cold wind seemed to be trapped within the living room, trying to batter its way out through the walls. The stereo came thundering back, Alicia Bridges begging for some body heat. But nothing was the same as it had been.'

"I'm okay, baby," Wes said, and kissed Solange on the cheek; her skin tasted of pepper and honey. She was looking into his eyes, her high brow furrowed, and he could feel her shaking. "Martin," he said finally, "you sure know how to f.u.c.k up a good party. Now why don't you get your a.s.s out of here?" Wes felt like stomping on the planchette, breaking it into a hundred pieces of cold plastic.

But he didn't; he didn't because for just an instant it looked like the white head of a cobra there on the floor, and no way-no way!-was he ever going to touch that sonofab.i.t.c.h again.

Solange bent down, touched it tentatively, then picked it up and returned it to the Ouija board.

The music stopped, the guests left, and very soon the party was over. Sunday, October 27 the nightwalkers The last of the big green trucks had hauled away Sat.u.r.day's litter, and now the gently rolling knolls overlooking the green swan pool near Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle gleamed with bright droplets of dew. White rocket boosters aimed toward cold stars from their pads in Tomorrowland; the Skylift was still; the Mark Twain Riverboat lay at the dock, dark water as smooth as a mirror beneath its hull on flower-festooned Main Street gas lampposts burned low, casting just enough golden light for an occasional security guard in his electric cart to see by. It was just W4 before three o'clock in the morning, and the huge Disneyland complex lay silent.

Except for the m.u.f.fled noise of footsteps at the center of Fantasyland. A thin shape moved through the darkness, pausing for a moment alongside the docked Peter Pan Pirate ship, then moving away toward the high white concrete Matterhorn Mountain. It was a dark-haired young man wearing a black velvet suit, black Gucci loafers, and a light blue Beach Boys T-shirt. Though his sharply chiseled, ( fine-boned face was unlined, there were subtle swirls of yellowish white in his hair, particularly at the temples and running along the neat side part. The whites of his eyes were the color of old yellow dust, veined with red.

He was very thin and slight, standing several inches under six feet; he looked like a seventeen-year-old boy made up to play Henry Higgins in a high school production of My Fair Lady except that the pupils of his eyes were as green as Pacific Ocean shallows and slitted like a cat's. A network of blue veins throbbed slowly at his temples as he regarded the strange wonders of Fantasyland.

He crossed the path and stood staring at the dark octopuslike ride, the arms of which were connected to grinning Dumbo elephants. He thought it looked sad and unnatural in its stillness, all the magic drained out of it. He made a quick circle in the air with the index finger of his left hand, and the pupils of his eyes narrowed in concentration.

An engine began to whine. Sparkling white lights stuttered once and then flickered brightly. The machine began to turn, the grinning Dumbos bouncing gently up and down in the air. He smiled, entranced, wishing that someday he could meet the one who had built this magnificent place; he thought that if he owned this place, he would never grow tired of playing here, not in the whole eternity of existence that lay before him. But after a few minutes of watching the machine turn, his attention wandered. The white bulbs dimmed and went out; the Dumbos slowed and finally stopped. There was silence again. He walked along the path toward the Matterhorn, peering up at it, thinking of home. The false mountain looked cold, coated with thick snow, and there were concrete icicles clinging to some of the ledges. They made him yearn for the blizzards of his youth, for the wild, screaming winds that drove the snow along craggy pa.s.ses where no humans dared to walk. It was too hot here in this land called California, too full of the sun; but he had vowed to walk where his teacher called, and there would be no turning back. He closed his eyes; a quick whirlwind of icy air shrilled around him, refreshing him before it died. He had come out here from the city to be alone, to think about Falco. The man had aged. It was time to come to a decision because Falco was now unsteady and tired; and worst of all the spark of remorse Falco had carried within him for almost fifty years had now burst into the gnawing flame of despair. Falco is like all the others, he thought as he moved reluctantly away from the Matterhorn. As he grows old, he grows soft and seeks an escape, and now in his bed he wonders whether praying will save him. If he prays, the boy decided, shall kill him. Like the others. The boy didn't want to think about that; his head had already been stung once this night by the name of G.o.d spoken in a whisper from the mouth of a fool.

His skin suddenly tingled as he neared a cl.u.s.ter of trees on the far side of the Matterhorn. There were a couple of brightly painted benches beneath those trees, and in the darkness the boy could see the Headmaster sitting on one of them, waiting for him. He stopped and stood perfectly still; he realized with sudden shame that his brain had been too clouded to sense the presence of his Lord, his King, his strong and willful teacher.

"Conrad," the thing on the bench said in a soft, velvety voice. "One comes seeking from the south. You have called him, and he answers." The boy closed his eyes for a second, concentrating: he distantly heard the roar of an engine, smelled oil and hot pavement. "The snake man," he said, opening his eyes when he was sure.

"Yes. Your lieutenant. He has come a very long way, following your command. Soon it will be time to act."

The boy nodded. "Our circle grows now." His eyes were bright green and luminous with eagerness. "We're stronger every night." The thing on the bench smiled faintly and crossed one leg over the other; it folded a pair of hands with black talons on one knee. "I've spent much time with you, Conrad. I've taught you the arts of the ages, and now you stand poised to use your knowledge in my name. The world can be yours, Conrad. You can stride across it like Alexander."

Conrad nodded and repeated the wonderful name, "Alexander."

"Alexander had a marvelous thirst, too," the thing whispered. "Your name will be written in the history books of a new world. Our world."

"Yes. Yes." His gaze clouded, the problem of Falco streaked through his brain.

"Falco is old now, much aged since we talked last. He knows too many of my secrets, and he grows weak."

"Then find another to aid you. Kill Falco. There's one near you now who has broken his ties with humanity, hasn't he?" In the darkness the thing's eyes, like white-hot circles, bored into the boy's face.

"Yes," Conrad said. "He brwgs the offerings of flesh."

"And in so doing, betrays his race for the sake of the new world yet to be. You are his king, Conrad; make him your slave." The thing regarded him in silence for a moment, a grin splitting its face. "Tread surely, Conrad. Use what I've taught you in my name. Carve your legend in the annals of the new race. But be wary-there are those in this city who know your kind, and you must strike soon."

"Soon. I swear it."

"In my name," the thing prompted.

"In your name," Conrad replied.

"So be it. Faithful servant, student, and right hand, I leave you to your task."

The thing, still smiling, seemed to melt away into the darkness until all that was left was the mouth, like the grin of the Cheshire cat; then it, too, vanished.

The boy shivered with delight. Touched by the Headmaster! Of all of his kindM who walked the earth or hid in mountain caves or stalked in city sewers, he alone had been touched by the Headmaster! He concentrated on the snake man now, the one the Headmaster had told him long ago would be perfectly suited to the task I i ahead. He turned inward to search and saw the snake man on his motorcycle, reaching the distant limits of the great sprawling city. He thought, COME TO ME, and then visualized the black castle-so much like his own far away-perched on its cliff above Los Angeles. He was putting together a picture of the mountain road in his head when suddenly headlights blazed behind him.

Conrad whirled, hissing. A man driving an electric cart shouted, "Hey! What're you doin' here, kid?"

The security guard suddenly stomped on the cart's brakes and screamed in terror. The kid wasn't there anymore; he had changed into something large and horrifying that lifted into the sky with a leathery rustle of black wings. The cart skidded along the path and left tire marks on the newly cut gra.s.s. The man's urine quickly drenched the inside of his trouser legs. He gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, his teeth chattering. When he finally got out of the cart and looked around, there was nothing there at all, nothing. The place was silent and dead, just like any other early Sunday morning at Disneyland. Suddenly his nerve broke like a frayed line; he jumped back into the cart and drove as if he'd had an early glimpse of something from h.e.l.l. TWO Kobra could barely see straight; his head felt like a blacksmith's anvil being beaten with a hammer. Somewhere at the center of his brain pulsed the red-hot, fading echo of the voice that had roared through him a couple of miles backCOME TO ME. He'd heard it distinctly, shatteringly. It was like standing right in front of the booming speakers at the Stones show at Altamont. He had been flying northward on the Santa Ana Freeway, keeping his speed just under sixty, when the voice had hit him. He'd opened his mouth and shouted in surprise, and the black chopper had veered across two lanes before he could get a handle on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Now, roaring across the dark network of streets in Buena Park with Disneyland just behind him, he knew he was going to have to pull off soon for some coffee, whiskey, speed, or whatever he could find to quiet the thunder between his temples. There seemed to be something burned on his eyelids, too, because when he blinked he thought he saw a picture outlined in electric blue against the darkness-some kind of big f.u.c.king cathedral, a place with towers and stained-gla.s.s windows and doors that looked like nine-foot slabs of redwood. He thought he had to be flying on nervous energy because he'd been on the road for ten hours straight with just a barbecue sandwich and a couple of ampules of amyl nitrite to keep him going. But he didn't care now whether he was hallucinating or not; below and around him there were scattered fireflies of lights, an occasional blinking neon sign or amber traffic signal. Ahead there was a dull yellow glow in the sky that meant the end of his journey. Or maybe, he told himself, it was really just starting. Going to see what Fate, that phantom on a golden Harley chopper whose face can look in all four directions at once, has in store for old Kobra. Going to race that grinning sonofab.i.t.c.h to the finish line.

The steady blink of red neon off to the right of the freeway caught his eye: MILLIE'S-FINE FOOD-STEAKS-BREAKFAST SERVED 24 HOURS. Get me some eggs and coffee, he thought as he took the next exit, get my f.u.c.kin' head to stop ringing. Maybe pick up a little traveling cash, too.

Millie's was a square little box of white-painted brick with cactuses growing underneath the windows. The air in the parking lot smelled greasy from a thousand steaks, bowls of chili, and plates of eggs pa.s.sed over a chipped Formica counter. But there were two old Harley-Davidsons parked in the lot up close to the building's side, and Kobra took a minute to inspect them before he went in. They both bore California plates, and one of them had a red swastika painted on the gas tank.

Inside there was a line of stools along a low white counter and a couple of rows of booths in the back. Behind the counter and old man with a face like a piece of crumpled sandpaper was cooking two hamburgers. He looked up, eyes glittering with disdain, as Kobra stepped through the door and unsnapped his black helmet.

Kobra took a seat on one of the stools at the end of the counter, where he could whirl toward the door suddenly if he had to.

There were two guys at the back, sitting across from each other in a booth. They were both wearing biker jackets-one of faded brown leather and the other a tattered olive-green Army surplus thing. Kobra stared at them for a few seconds as the old man came walking along the counter, stopping once to hawk and spit into a Mason jar. The bikers in the back looked like total opposites, an outlaw Mutt and Jeff-one husky and broad-shouldered with wild, curly red hair and a beard that reached almost all the way down to where his beer belly displayed a f.u.c.k YOU T-shirt; the other cadaverous and totally bald, wearing a gold earring in his right earlobe. The bikers stared back at Kobra. The air simmered between them.

"What'd you want, buddy? the old man said. As Kobra turned slowly to face him, the old man's eyes widened slightly, as if he'd recognized the presence of walking death.

"You Millie?" Kobra asked quietly, reaching for a greasy menu.

"That's my wife." He tried to laugh, but it came out in a croak. "Everybody asks that."

"Uh-huh. Well, Millie, how about some ham and eggs and a cup of black coffee?

Make 'em sunny-side up."

The old man nodded and moved away quickly. He took the burgers back to Mutt and Jeff, then sc.r.a.ped charred bits of beef off the grill with a spatula and broke a couple of eggs onto it. Kobra watched him work, then took a glazed doughnut outs from under a clear plastic cover on the counter and ate it greedily; the doughnut crunched between his teeth and tasted like plaster. And while he was chewing, he I thought about the voice he'd heard, the single powerful command that had almost split his head in two. He could still see that blue-glowing cathedral, as if it had been seared into the back of his brain. What the f.u.c.k was that? he wondered. Road fever? Or the voice of Fate calling to him from the west? Was it the same voice he'd heard whispering through the still, humid Mexican night? Through the heavy air that hung around the bar on that Texas desert highway? Something was here for him in , L.A.; he felt certain of it, at least as certain as anything he'd ever seen or felt or known in the twenty years of a life that had thrown him in with biker gangs, dope dealers, and murderers from California to Florida. Or maybe, he reasoned, it wasn't Fate calling at all. Maybe-and he smiled thinking about this-it's Death calling. Plugging in the phone line that led to Kobra's brain, dialing his number with a finger of bone, whispering for him, "Got something for you to do out her in California, Kobra.

Got something big for you, something I can't trust anybody else with. Want you to pack your chopper and come on out, maybe throw me a little sc.r.a.pe along the way. I'll be expecting you."

Yeah, maybe so. But f.u.c.k, what's the difference between Fate and Death anyway?

They both take you to the same hole in the ground.

The old man slid Kobra's coffee across the counter, his hand trembling. Kobra looked up into his face with the stare of Medusa and froze him. "Hey, old man,"

Kobra said, "I'm looking for a place, might be around here, might not. It's real big, could be a church or something. Got towers and stained-gla.s.s windows, and ... I don't know . . . seems like it's on a cliff maybe. Anyplace around here look like that?"

"Presbyterian church three blocks west got stained-gla.s.s windows," he said.

"Got a steeple. I don't know." He shrugged, his eyes suddenly zigzagging to the left.

Kobra, still smiling, began to unzip his jacket because he felt those two b.a.s.t.a.r.ds coming up behind him. He slipped his hand in and got hold of the grip, eagerness rushing through him like sweet, fiery cocaine.

"What'd you say, man?" a voice behind him asked. Kobra turned. It was the redheaded one who had spoken; there were pieces of bread and hamburger in his beard. His eyes were deep-set and black and fixed somewhere on Kobra's forehead. The bald biker-an older guy, maybe in his forties or so-stood beside his friend, a rod of flesh beside a cannonball. The bald dude's gaze was vacant, as if speed had burned out his brain.

"I don't recall saying anything to you," Kobra said.

"Hey now," Millie's husband said, "let's don't have no trouble. I run a-"

"Shut your f.u.c.kin' face." The bald dude spoke hoa.r.s.ely, like somebody had tried to slash his throat but gotten only a hunk of vocal cords.

"I asked you a question, whitey. Let's hear it." Kobra almost squeezed the Mauser's trigger then, having gotten the gun twisted in its holster, but he paused with a quarter of an ounce of pressure left to go.

"I'll tell you what you're going to hear, you big piece of s.h.i.t. You're going to hear a couple of Mauser slugs sizzle your face off-DON'T MOVE!-'cause that's what I got my finger on right now. Want to test me?"

"Please . . ." the old man whimpered.

The bearded dude stared at Kobra for a few seconds and then smiled, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. The smile widened until it seemed about to crack his face. "Hot s.h.i.t!" he growled through an explosion of laughter. "I knew it was you when you walked in! h.e.l.l, I ain't never seen anybody looked like you before, so I knew it had to be! Kobra, right?"

"That's my handle." He kept his finger on the trigger.

"What's wrong? You don't recognize me? Well, I guess not. I growed this beard and belly a couple of years ago after that little la-de-dah between the Angels and the Headhunters up in Frisco. I'm Viking, man! Don't you remember?"

"Viking?" The name rang a faraway note in his head, but he connected it with a h.e.l.l's Angel who was slim and wiry and carried a pair of pliers around to yank out teeth with. Still, it seemed that Viking had been red-haired and could put away a couple of six-packs of Bud before you could crack your third. Of course he remembered the showdown between Angel and Headhunter troops because then he was eighteen and ready to burn his name into Angel history. He'd sent two Headhunters to h.e.l.l with a Luger and kicked the nuts off another one in that empty lot in the middle of the night with the chains and the knives swinging.

"Viking?" Kobra said again and realized that he'd been ready to waste a brother.

He took his finger off the trigger. "Christ! Viking? Man, you carrying a horse inside there?"

"Old brew kinda caught up with me," he said, affectionately patting his stomach, "hey, I want you to meet my ridin' buddy, d.i.c.ko Hansen. d.i.c.ko, this albino sonofab.i.t.c.h here can catch bullets between his teeth and fire 'em out his a.s.s!"

He laughed long and loud; Kobra and d.i.c.ko shook hands, grasping each other's thumbs palm-to-palm and squeezing so hard the knuckles cracked. "Jesus Jumpin'

Christ!" Viking said. "Where you been keeping yourself?" Kobra shrugged. "Around. Been doing some traveling."

"I heard a few months ago you were ridin' with the Lucifer Legion, got yourself wasted in a little fracas down New Awleens way."

"Nope. It was me did the wasting. That's why I've been in Mexico for a while," The old man behind the counter was now as pale as Kobra. He slinked away trembling and hoped they'd forget about him.

"Bring this man's food back to the booth," Viking called after him, making him flinch. "Come on, bro, we got a lot to catch up on." Kobra ate his ham and eggs, listening to Viking talk; d.i.c.ko sat beside Kobra because Viking took up most of one side of the booth. "Me and d.i.c.ko ride with the Death Machine now," he was saying between swigs of beer. "I had to change the way I look, see, 'cause the cops were after my a.s.s. A lot of brothers split from the Angels, formed their own clubs or joined up in other states. s.h.i.t! The Angels ain't like they used to be, Kobra. They're respec-table, can you dig it?

They wear f.u.c.kin',n suits and take up donations for f.u.c.kin' orphans! Makes you sick to your stomach to see them old boys kissin' cop a.s.s! I don't know." He tilted his bottle and drank it dry, smacking his lips noisily at the end.

"Those old days, they were good, weren't they? Hundreds of Angels out on a run, takin' up the whole highway, and n.o.body darin' to pa.s.s us! And G.o.d, did the booze and brew and high times flooooow! Those Angel bashes up in Frisco would keep your hair curled for weeks, man. Aw, s.h.i.t." He uncapped another bottle and started in on it. "Well, times change, don't they? It ain't like it used to be. People too interested in boogie and hard cash to think about how it feels to ride at the front of the pack, to feel that good, raw wind across your face at ninety miles an hour. And territory? n.o.body cares about territory. Bunch of Chicano and n.i.g.g.e.r punks fight over some dry chunks of cee-ment up in L.A., but n.o.body carves out land like we used to." He pulled at the beer again, and droplets of foam glittered in his beard. "n.o.body gives a s.h.i.t about nothin'.