What Happens in the Darkness (37 page)

“Or a castration,” Tim said, staring at Teddy’s crotch.

“Oh God no, not that …” Teddy whispered.

“Castration it is,” Luke said.

Teddy bawled and continued spewing endless prayers.

The twins stared at each other, waiting for him to shut up.

“Wanna just cut his throat?” Tim asked.

Luke shrugged. “Not really. At this point, I
really
want this one to suffer.”

Tim nodded. “I hear ya.” He unbuckled Teddy’s belt and worked the button and zipper on his jeans. As he started to pull them down, the twins noticed a smell coming from the same area.

“Bastard shit himself,” Tim muttered, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m sorry!” Teddy cried through his hysterics. “It was an accident! Swear ta God! I din mean it!”

The twins exchanged a look.

“Fine,” Luke snapped, annoyed at this change in plans. “I’m not cleaning up shit.” He grabbed the scalpel and sliced Teddy’s T-shirt down the middle, separating the pieces, exposing his belly. He stared down at the man. “I hope you know you
really
pissed me off.”

“I’m so sorry,” Teddy blubbered.

“Yes of course, so you keep saying. How sorry were you when you fed my brother and me rats? How sorry were you when you poked us with stakes and made us live in a box for weeks on end? How sorry were you then?”

“I am
sooooo
sorry,” he said, changing his tone, as if expecting the brothers to grant him a stay of execution, as if begging forgiveness could somehow erase the past.

Worst of all, Luke observed, was the patronizing way he said it. As if he still believed vampires were mindless creatures who could be easily convinced to do what he commanded. Luke marveled at the depth of stupidity.

“That’s terrific,” Luke said, moving in with the scalpel, finding the top of his ribcage in the center of his chest. “Interesting,” he added, slicing the blade at least an inch deep and drawing it down the length of Teddy’s torso “Just how stupid do you think we are?”

“No!” Teddy wailed, “stop! Stop!”

Tim said, “
Now
can we gag him?”

“What for? Just ignore him.” The jeans were still undone, the fly separated, so Luke was able to cut as far as the fleshy pad just above the man’s penis. Blood gushed down both sides of the wound. He reached down to separate the flesh but then stopped.

“What is it?” Tim asked.

“I’ve changed my mind.” He placed the scalpel on the table.

“What? Why—”

He picked up the blowtorch. “I don’t care about the shit. Get those pants off him. Better yet—” He put the blowtorch down and moved to Teddy’s feet. He took a length of rope and tossed one to Tim. Without having to say another word he unfastened Teddy’s legs from the table and yanked off his jeans and underwear. He then tied the end of the rope to his ankle, securing the other end to a ceiling beam a few feet away. Tim did the same on the opposite side, and a few minutes later Teddy was lying on the table spread-eagle, his feet suspended as if visiting the gynecologist. Teddy offered no resistance. Luke was surprised the guy was still alive.

Once again Luke picked up the blowtorch. “This might be a waste of time …”

“He looks a mess …”

Luke shrugged. “Give it a try, I guess.” He lit the torch, and the moment the flame warmed up his testicles, Teddy opened his eyes and screamed.

Luke ran the flame across Teddy’s genitals, but by that time there was almost no reaction.

Tim laughed. “Hey—I have an idea.” 

*** 

The twins left shortly after, leaving the horribly mutilated Teddy vampire strapped to the table.

Chapter 32 

Martin and his group arrived in Harlem.

As they moved through the streets of upper Manhattan, the traffic lights adorned with plastic wreaths and garish decorations, an obvious attempt to restore normalcy, the few people still on the streets moved aside like parting waves.

The procession halted on east Twenty-Third Street. It was as though Martin and his army shared a single mind; they were ready for this and were paying close attention to his signals.

“Not much farther,” Martin said, assuming where Patrick would be waiting because Martin knew Patrick well … knew the way his mind worked. But he also knew it was likely a trap. It was a chess game, one move ahead of the other, trying to outthink his opponent.

Martin’s body felt electrified, charged with an energy powered by excitement. He knew this battle could mean his end but hadn’t felt this alive since … since before he’d died.

The procession moved once more and stopped a final time a few blocks away, outside Union Square.

“What is it?” Lana asked, pulling the lapels of her leather jacket close to her neck out of habit, not warmth. The bitter cold was no longer an issue for her. For any of them.

“Something,” Martin said, his head cocked slightly back, eyes closed. Concentrating. It was more than the smells and the tastes, although they weighed heavily on the air. It was a feeling, an instinct. Something unsettling. Something not right.

And in the distance, facing Martin and his crowd dead on, a lone figure stood in the center of the street.

“The hell?” Lana said, clutching Martin’s forearm. “Patrick.”

“So it is,” Martin said.
So it begins
, he thought, waiting for Patrick to move. Martin searched peripherally but saw no sign of movement, of trouble.

Which didn’t mean a thing, he knew.

“One of us has to go to him,” Lana said quietly.

“He expects it to be me,” Martin said.

Lana smiled, batted her lashes coyly. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, Lana, wait—” He reached for her and missed but stood his ground. He didn’t want to be separated from his crowd, and he knew Lana could handle herself.

The crowd behind Martin waited in silence, the wind and snow whipping their faces, coating them in an icy blanket that never melted. Still they patiently waited, some anxious, Martin knew—the human elements not entirely stripped from their existence.

A few minutes later, Lana turned and headed back toward Martin.

Patrick crossed his arms, his feet widely planted in the thickening layer of snow, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Martin caught the movement but only managed to take half a step.

A loud
thwock!
and Lana staggered to her knees, staring down at the object protruding from her chest.

“No!” Martin screamed, running toward her, catching her before she collapsed the rest of the way to the ground. The arrow had entered her back and protruded from her breast, and she lay dying in Martin’s arms. They dropped to the ground together.

“My … heart,” she whispered, glancing at her own chest right before she exploded into a steaming heap of guts.

Strings of Lana lay draped across Martin’s hands, coated his sleeves, dripped from his hair. He threw down the pile of slimy, shit-covered entrails and abruptly stood, ready to rip Patrick’s head right off his shoulders.

He took a step toward Patrick, but Patrick laughed and raised his arms overhead. “Go!”

Martin tore off in Patrick’s direction, but Patrick was heavily guarded, and vampires wielding swords and knives fought Martin off as he desperately tried to reach Patrick.

Martin hefted a pickaxe and swung, decapitating one vampire, her head smashing against a mailbox. In his other hand he brandished a sharpened picket fence slat and stabbed an attacking vampire through the heart. He exploded on impact, spraying Martin in a bath of ropey, bloody tendrils.

Martin’s army grew in numbers as his vampires arrived from all directions in the city, having traversed every available entrance into Manhattan.

Vampires charged from every direction, from manholes and parked cars, from apartment buildings and stores, and they came hard, attacking savagely, relentlessly. Thousands upon thousands of vampires battled to the death, and humans too stupid to hide got trampled along the way.

Martin stopped on the corner of Forty-Eighth and Fifth. He was surrounded by chaos—vampires battling to the death using fists and stakes and crossbows, weapons of every kind, humans running for their lives as bodies flew past their heads and severed body parts smashed them into buildings and against shells of cars still blocking the streets.

Despite the chaos Martin listened carefully for Patrick, knowing he couldn’t have gotten far—but which direction? His acute eyesight scanned the crowds, and he circled 360 degrees, searching … he glanced up at sides of buildings and on lampposts.

Nothing. 

*** 

Three blocks away, on Fifty-First Street, Rebecca fought using a sharpened fence post and then spotted a discarded sword, its severed hand still holding strong to the hilt. She reached down to pick it up and felt a whoosh of air past her ear as an axe barely missed taking off her head. She grabbed the sword and plunged it into the attacker’s chest as he fell on top of her. She shoved the body aside, but he wasn’t dead. The problem was her sword was made of metal, so even a direct hit in the heart wouldn’t result in death. She brought the sword down on the vampire’s head, severing it.

She had regenerated, had recovered from her savage rape by Patrick but had never gotten over Dagan’s death. And now she tasted Patrick’s death on her tongue, felt it in her bones, and the thought of it was pure ecstasy.

The screams and battle cries were deafening. Glass shattered around them, car windows exploding, alarms sounding. Traffic lights went haywire, as if powered by a new energy source. Idiot humans flooded the streets, ran screaming up sidewalks, desperately seeking cover.

“There’s too many!” Nelson yelled, joining Rebecca. “Too many!”

Rebecca grunted, plunged her sword into yet another of Patrick’s army, but they kept coming. And coming. Despite the vast number in Martin’s army, they seemed horribly outnumbered.

Nelson stumbled to his knees and then doubled over, his forehead touching the ground. Rebecca turned in time to see him fall but couldn’t reach him. A cleaver came down on his neck and severed his head.

“Nuh—” Rebecca could barely speak, she was so exhausted.

A vampire jumped her from behind, tackling her to the ground, a dagger in one hand and a stake in the other. His arms flailed madly and she was struck repeatedly by both weapons. She dropped her sword in defense, her arms flying up to ward him off. Tiny nicks peppered her arms, and her shoulders and neck sustained deep gashes. Still she fought, punching blindly, blood from a dozen head and face wounds dripping into her eyes. Her attacker slashed savagely, almost severing her hand, and she screamed out in pain. It hung by gristly threads, and she tucked it against her body to staunch the blood flow.

She wiped the blood out of her eyes using her remaining hand and discovered Patrick standing over her.

A look of savagery had frozen on his face, a true warrior looking only for blood and revenge and death. He brandished his weapons of war, and she wondered why he hadn’t killed her yet.

“Why won’t you
die
?” he cried, raising his weapons overhead.

“You first!” Martin yelled, attacking Patrick from behind.

Rebecca struggled to her feet and raised her sword. Two vampires charged her. She was half-blind and completely exhausted. Something sharp pierced her kidneys. Something else chopped a chunk of flesh from her thigh, and she dropped to one knee. The sword fell from her hand and clattered against the sidewalk.

She collapsed on her hand and knees and tried to crawl to her weapon. She felt the point of a dagger pierce her jugular and then felt nothing more.

*** 

Martin quickly glanced over his shoulder in time to see Rebecca die.

“You son of a bitch,” he growled at Patrick.

Patrick lunged at Martin with his dagger and stake, but Martin kicked out, sweeping Patrick out from under his feet. He landed hard on his ass, both weapons scattering. Patrick lunged toward the stake, but Martin attacked from behind, drawing Patrick back by the throat.

He pulled Patrick away from the weapons, dragging him in a choke hold down the sidewalk, Patrick’s feet kicking madly, his fists pounding at Martin’s arms, Patrick trying to brutally bite into Martin.

Martin was jumped from behind by one of Patrick’s army. The soldier vampire separated the two and then dived through the air toward Martin, stake raised overhead. Patrick intercepted and used the soldier’s own stake against him, plunging him in the heart. The vampire exploded in a clump of stringy bowel.

“No,”
Patrick snarled.
“He’s mine.”

Martin struggled to his feet, dodging flying vampires and disemboweled humans, trash cans, empty newspaper bins—anything that could was thrown or used as a weapon.

Martin looked around for a weapon and spotted a hunting knife a few feet away. He was half a foot away from it when Patrick attacked again. 

*** 

Jeff had reached midtown Manhattan with his band of several hundred vampires and landed right into the middle of the melee. They were swarmed almost immediately by black-clad vampire soldiers wielding every sort of weapon imaginable. Jeff himself sported a long black trench coat and worried for a moment he might blend in too well with them.

“Fuck,” he muttered, realizing they were seriously outgunned. He dodged them as effectively as he could, avoiding being attacked, refraining from fighting back except when necessary. Not that he was afraid to fight, but he had a bigger objective in mind.

He scanned the streets, searching for Martin—or better yet, Patrick—thinking about needles in haystacks and odds of finding either one. He didn’t see any familiar faces. Maybe one here or there he recognized from the caves, but no one of real importance. No one who could likely point him in the desired direction.

A pair of young soldier vampires jumped in his path and brandished their samurai swords in his face, almost synchronized. He wished he had a gun.