Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [62]
My tongue rasps against the drying clots. I realize he’s stopped talking. Got to get him going again. I open my eyes, panting, draw my tongue in, and ask, “Tho what happened then?” Go back to licking.
“Then that bitch. What’s her name? She ran and tried to get away. She and this guy, running down the driveway. People thought they were just going to get away?”
Faintly, from upstairs, I hear careful footsteps.
They start in Kathy’s bedroom.
“Tony, he . . . There. He got in his car, drove full speed into her. Bam! She couldn’t be killed but I guess that did . . .” He sighs again, and shifts slightly. “The trick. She went flying, man. Flew. Broke her back. She was out. Knocked out. They called the police. Took her into town for a . . . you know. Execution. Formally.”
The footsteps stalk down the carpeted hallway toward the stairs. I don’t know who it is, but it sounds as if whoever is making the footsteps is walking softly, so as not to be heard.
“If I ever see that bitch again,” the stoner drones, “man, I’m not going to give her the time. Not the Time. Of. Day. No way.”
I really want to run, but the blood is too good, even in dried flakes like fish food. I rise. I bob down to get a quick last lick at the scab, then briskly make my way toward the front door. The footsteps upstairs pick up.
“Can’t. How can she do that to Pete, man? Just do that. To, like, the captain of lacrosse.”
The footsteps are racing down the steps from upstairs. I hurtle out through the door.
Down the steps. I pound down the driveway toward the main road.
Looking back, I see a shape throwing itself down the front stairs. Someone is running after me, arms flailing with speed.
I’m almost down the driveway, darting through little pools of light from lamps among the rhododendrons.
My feet slap the tarmac. I’m hurtling down the slope toward the road.
I am on the main road. I turn left, the direction of the fair.
The streetlights along the narrow road cast a ghastly sheen over the cracks and rubble where the road fades to forest.
Gasping for breath, I pound toward the field where people are parked.
I have to reach a crowd. I have to reach a crowd.
I have to tell them not to kill her.
I can hear footsteps clattering down the driveway.
They have to stop the killing. For one thing, she knows where to find the convocation of vampires. So I have to stop them.
My shirt is untucked, my mouth hanging open, dragging at the air.
My tongue, in spite of everything, still stings and squirms in happy memory.
I hurtle toward the fair.
I jump roadkill.
I look back.
Bat, sprinting toward me. Suddenly slowing and stopping. Looking past me.
I turn; look.
Right behind me, Chet flickers and solidifies. His teeth glint like iron in the dim light.
He grabs my wrists and yanks them up above my head.
He shakes his head like he is disappointed, and chides, “Christopher, you’ve got to stop running.”
And from behind, I hear the doom-filled tread of Bat’s Keds on the tarmac.
Chet stands before me, the whites of his eyes faintly glowing with a sick pearly light. “Almost midnight,” he says. “Almost time for all Hell to break loose.” He yanks my arms again, and I twitch in pain.
“Who are you?” I hiss.
“My name is not important, Christopher. We’re going to see your handiwork now. The fruit of your labor. Couldn’t have done it without you.” He’s clearly enjoying himself.
Bat steps out of the shadows, his stubbly face weird with snarls. He points at me, yells, “BASTARRRD! He’s mine. Miiiiiiine! Give me the bastard. Give him to me, Chet.”
“No, Bat,” says Chet. “I can’t do that.”
“Give him to meeeee!” Bat screams. “MEEEEEE!” He swings his fists. “He’s the reason they’ve got her! GIVE HIM TO MEEEEE!”
Chet drops my arms.
“They don’t have her anymore,