They Thirst (82 page)

"Yes," he said quietly. A thin smile flickered across his face, then was gone.

"Then you know about
them?
The vampires?"

He watched the road.

"I hear they're all dead," Gayle continued. "Most of them, at least. Maybe a few got out, but they can't hide forever. They'll make mistakes. The sun'll catch them if it hasn't already. And I'm going to do my damned best to make sure everybody else knows about them, too."

The man glanced at her quickly. "How?"

"I'm a reporter," she said. "I'm going to write the hummingest story you ever read, once I find someone who'll give me the chance. It'll just be a matter of time. Hey, you're passing . . ." But then they were roaring through a cluster of dark, white-washed buildings, the speedometer still hovering at eighty. "That was Amboy." Gayle said anxiously. "That's where I wanted to get out."

"No. That's not where you're going."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed, and she felt a sharp needle of fear pierce her.

"Not Amboy. You're a liar. I didn't pass any car on the side of the road. So you're a liar, aren't you?"

"Listen, I . . ."

"I don't want to listen," the man said. He touched his forehead and winced as if in pain. "I've heard too many lies. And now you're going to go out and write some more lies, aren't you? About
them."
He spoke that word with reverence. "I know . . . I know what kind of person you are." His gaze darkened, his lips curled in bitterness. "You're all the same, every one of you. You're all like
she
was . . ."

"She? Who?"

"Her," the man said softly. "She did things to make my head hurt. She said she was never going to leave me, never going to let them take me away. But she lied. She said she was wrong, that I was crazy and she was leaving. That's who."

Gayle squeezed herself against the door, her eyes wide with terror.

"Can't fool Waltie," he said. "Can't laugh behind his back anymore, no. Because
I've
got the power now! It's inside me!"

"Yeah, okay. Why don't you just pull off up here and I'll . . ."

"I'm not stupid!" he said loudly. "I never was!" He glared at her with a burning gaze that seemed to shrivel her into a cinder. "That one thought I was stupid. He wanted to take me to the police. I knew what he was doing all the time! Go on, look. LOOK, I SAID!" He motioned with a jerk of his head toward the backseat.

Gayle looked, her heart pounding. Jammed down on the rear floorboard was a dead man, shirtless, with black bruises on his throat. His face had been pulped by heavy blows. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the door handle and saw desert flatlands blurring by at eighty miles an hour.

"I stopped her from leaving," the man said, "but they took her away in an ambulance. Then the
doctors
came. They all kept . . . picking at me. Picking . . . picking my brain apart," the man groaned. "But they won't laugh anymore. Nobody will. I've got the power . . ."

"What. . . power . . . ?"

"His
power!" the man hissed. "He's gone now, they're all gone, but I've got to carry the message to the ones who are waiting! I've got to . . . got to tell them that it's time to strike!" His eyes were wild, like cracked black saucers behind the magnifying lenses. "They will. They'll do anything I say because I was the Master's pupil and I sat at his feet and worshipped him and I . . . I
touched
him . . . !"

"Nooooo," Gayle whispered hoarsely, cringing away.

"I'm the one, it's me who has to go on for him. I've got to find them in all the cities and tell them it's time to find a new Master, to band together." He rubbed at a spot on his forehead. "They'll win next time," he whispered. "And they'll make me like them so I can live forever . . He giggled, then his face immediately clouded over.

The Buick flashed past a sign that said Junction Interstate 40—5. The man began slowing the car. He turned off the road and started across the desert. Gayle looked around desperately, but there was nothing—just flatland, cactus, sagebrush. The stars burned with cold indifference. When the speedometer had dropped to under thirty, Gayle tried to leap out, but the man grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the seat. She whirled, striking him with the lit cigarette, but he gripped her wrist and shook it out of her hand. The car stopped, and he clamped a hand around the base of her neck. The terrible pressure numbed her. He opened his door and dragged her out, flinging her to the rock-stubbled ground.

She started crawling frantically. He followed, his lips wet and gleaming, and kicked her down when she tried to rise. "I can't let you live," he said quietly. "You want to hurt them, don't you? You want to hurt
me . . ."

"No . . ." Gayle said quickly. "No. . . I wouldn't. . ."

"LIAR!" he snarled and kicked her in the side. She cried out in pain and curled up, trying to shield her face with her hands. He stood over her, a dark shape against the night, his breathing quick and harsh. At his sides his hands clenched and unclenched, tendons standing out in the wrists as if he were squeezing a pair of invisible grips. "You have to die. Right now."

And then he was on her, pressing a knee into her stomach. He gripped her throat and started to squeeze. She fought and thrashed, trying to roll away, but his weight had her pinned, and now her head was filling up with blood. She struck him across the face, knocking his glasses off. "Go on," he said and grinned. "Yeah. Fight. Go on . . ."

Gayle pushed against his chin, whimpering like an animal. He moaned in ecstasy as her body shuddered. Her hands clawed at the air, then fell back to the earth. His eyes closed, his breath coming out in a rasp.

Her right hand touched a rough-edged rock lying just above her head. She concentrated on making her fingers close around it as black and red motes spun before her eyes.

Then she brought her hand up in a savage arc, smashing the rock against the side of his head. He grunted, his eyes opening in surprise. She struck him again, right at the temple, and he fell to one side. Gayle kicked away from him, panting for breath. When she tried to stand up, a tidal wave of dizziness sent her crashing back to her knees, and it was all she could do to crawl. When she looked back over her shoulder, she saw him lying there, one hand clenching like an automaton.

Then he abruptly sat up. His head twitched to the side, as if the blows to his skull had scrambled his nerve impulses.

She crawled away madly, still clutching that rock. "I'll find you!" he shrieked. "You can't get away! Got to serve the Master . . . got to . . . serve . . ." He rose to his feet, fell again, stood up unsteadily, and started coming after her, his hands searching before him.

And then Gayle found herself on the edge of a five-foot gulley stubbled at the bottom with brush and flat rocks. She stared down into it and thought she saw something move very slowly in there. Another movement. Something coiled on a rock. A third one, slithering through the brush into a hole. She saw a diamond design on leathery hide, a flat head with a flicking tongue. Three or more snakes coiled over each other. Another lifted its head toward the human scent. The rattlings began, soft and insistent.

Bellowing with rage, the man was on her. He gripped for her throat again, his face shiny with sweat.

Gayle hooked a foot into his crotch and struck him in the head with the rock as hard as she could. His bellowing was abruptly silenced. She reached up, fingers digging into his shoulders, and shoved him toward the gully. He stood balanced on the edge for a few seconds, hands flailing, then the sand collapsed beneath his feet and he toppled over, falling right into the midst of the rattlesnake nest. There was an enraged cacophony of rattlings and quick, slithering sounds, and then the man began screaming. The screaming went on for a long time. When it had died down to a low, guttural moan, Gayle forced herself to look over the edge.

A four-foot rattler lay coiled on his chest. It struck, hitting him in the cheek; it withdrew and struck again. The man's graying face was covered with punctures. The snakes swarmed around and over him, striking everywhere. They coiled around his arms and legs like bracelets. His left hand had caught one, and the head was crushed, but the tail still writhed. The man's eyes were open, transfixed with horror, and seemed to have sunk back into his head. As Gayle watched, he started shuddering as if electricity rippled through him. The snakes gathered and struck again.

Gayle crawled away and threw up in the sand. After a long time she crawled toward the car, but before she could get there, the pain in her throat and head flared. She put her cheek down against the cool sand and closed her eyes. When she could lift her head again, she saw that the car's headlights had dimmed. A cold wind rustled past her, whispering through the brush. A terrible urge to sleep almost overcame her; she wanted to lie there forever, listening to the wind. If she closed her eyes and slept, she'd be all right, she thought, and she wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.

But the story. She had a job to do now, an important task to carry out. Her voice might be the first of hundreds, warning others to check their basements, their root cellars and their abandoned buildings, to watch for the track of the vampire. It would take time to find all of them, but they were out there . . . waiting It would have to be done;
she
had to do it.

There was no time for sleep. She looked up again and saw the first pink traces of dawn on the eastern horizon. There were headlights in the distance, coming along the road. Gayle crawled to the Buick and pulled herself up painfully to sit in the driver's seat. The car was moving past. Gayle hit the horn, but the battery was so weak it only gave out a muffled squawk. The car was driving away now, probably headed toward Interstate 40. She found the headlight switch and started punching it on and off as fast as she could. The lights burned low, casting a dim, brownish light that she knew would hardly be noticed from the road. "Stop," she whispered hoarsely. "Please stop, please stop, please . . ."

The car's brake lights flared. It stopped and sat there for a moment or more. Then, slowly, it began to back up. Gayle watched as a man got out. He stood beside his car, as if uncertain. Then he started walking toward the Buick as a woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window. The round faces of two children peered out the rear windshield.

The man was middle-aged and looked terribly haggard. There was a bandage on his forehead. His eyes were wide and fearful and, as he approached the Buick, Gayle saw that he had something in his hand. "What's wrong?" he said in a trembling voice. "Miss? You okay?" He stopped several yards from the car, as if he might decide to run at any second.

"Need help," Gayle whispered. "Need . . . ride . . ." She stepped out of the car toward him, and as her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, she saw him thrust his hand forward. The object he held gleamed with dawn's faint light, and it was the most beautiful thing Gayle had ever seen.

A crucifix.

    With They Thirst, my fourth novel, I decided to kick out all the stops and go for the throat.

They Thirst began, actually, as a novel called The Hungry. It was set in Chicago, and involved a gang of vampiric teenagers. I got about two hundred pages into it before I began to feel constricted. When you get that feeling, you know things aren't going right. You have to put aside the manuscript and think about it, and let me tell you that deciding to cast away two hundred pages of a manuscript and start over again from scratch is the kind of decision that makes cold sweat break out on your skin.

I wanted a vampire novel with a huge cast, set in a city where anything was possible. Ah, Los Angeles. The City of Angels. Eternal Youth Shall Reign Forever, Amen.

So I started over, and They Thirst was born.

It has always interested me that from time to time I meet someone who has read They Thirst and lives in Los Angeles. They usually want to know how long I lived there, because certainly I had to be a native of L.A. to get all those streets and landmarks correct. The truth is that I visited Los Angeles for an intensive weekend of research. I trundled off in my rented car on the freeways, maps in hand, and went to every location that I'd already decided needed to be in the book. It was my first trip to Los Angeles, I was there alone, and I was staying in a Hispanic hotel in downtown L.A. that supposedly had been a mecca for stars back in the 1920s. At least that's what the guidebook said. Valentino had a suite there. I fear he wouldn't recognize the place now.

But I spent most of my time like a real native---on the road. And while I was in Los Angeles, I read a magazine article about runaways that seemed to me to hit the heart of the atmosphere I was after.

A young girl who'd run away from her home in the Midwest was talking to the reporter, telling him where she lived. It was a shuttered up motel near the Strip, she said. She and her friends crashed in the rooms on an upper floor. They had mattresses to sleep on, and they panhandled on the Strip for drug money. It was okay. Like another society, just different. But, she said, she and her friends didn't have anything to do with the men who lived down in the motel's basement. She couldn't understand how anybody could live like those men did, down in that place with no light. She said they did ... terrible things. But hey, live and let live, right?