"Dunno. Something's not right." Jesse's scalp tightened as the sky overhead was split by a freak lightning bolt that seemed to splinter into a hundred smaller ones. "Jesus fuck! What was that?!?"
The answer came in the form of a moan. At first he thought it was the bum lying at his feet. Then he realized the moan was too loud to be coming from just one person. It was as if hundreds of voices were united as one, as when a stadium groans at the home team's loss, only a lot angrier. It was as if the very buildings were wailing. Jesse and the others exchanged wary glances. Weird shit went down in Deadtown
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) nightly—but nothing like this had ever happened before.
There was a collective bang as dozens of doors were thrown open and the denizens of Deadtown came pouring out of the surrounding tenements like ants from a burning tree. Although Jesse, Tuff Enuff and B-Jo recognized their attackers, none of them could honestly say who they were. These were the nameless faces that usually cowered in doorways or hurried away when they walked down the street. These were the ones who disappeared behind barricaded doors at the first sign of dusk. These were the old, the deranged, the junkies, the alcoholics, the dispossessed and disowned—these were the children of exile who, through fate or design, found themselves with nowhere else to go but Deadtown.
Jesse noticed with alarm that while most wielded little more than sticks, some had conventional weapons. He pulled his semiautomatic out of his waistband, trying to decide whether to stand his ground or flee. Tuff Enuff and B-Jo looked equally uncertain.
"Jesse! What do we do?" B-Jo whispered, trying to keep his voice from turning into a frightened squeak.
"Fuck, man! Spray their asses!" Tuff Enuff barked, firing a volley at the approaching wall of flesh.
Ilyana could not tell if the young men firing at her were Nazis or Cossacks or Soviet Army Regulars.
They seemed to flicker from one to the other and back again, as if glimpsed through the flames of a burning house. Then a bullet tore through her throat, dropping her to the pavement. She could barely feel the feet of the others as they trampled her, but she could see her blood coating their soles. As she gasped out her last feeble breath, the ghosts of her slaughtered family crowded her fading vision, like moths about a candle.
Jesse stared in numb disbelief at the mob surging toward him. They'd emptied a clip apiece into the crowd, but still they came, stepping over the bleeding bodies of their fellows as if they weren't there. The ragged wail grew louder, angrier. Closer.
"Shit, man! This is just like Night of the Living Dead!" Jesse moaned as he slapped a fresh clip into the butt of his semiautomatic. "The fuckers won't stop coming!"
"Fuck makin' a stand!" Tuff Enuff said, taking a step backward as the mob approached. "This is whack!
We gotta run for it!"
"You want to be the one t'tell King Hell what's going down, feel free!" Jesse shot back over his shoulder at his friend. "Me, I'd rather take my chances with these fuckers!"
Marvin Kopeck stepped forward, dressed in the uniform in which he'd been sent home twenty-five years before. The Purple Heart and Bronze Star clinked and rattled on his chest like Christmas ornaments. The Pointer in front of him wavered, became a VC in black pajamas, then the laughing Viet Mihn officer waving his bloodied rifle barrel, then his platoon leader, holding up a baby by the ankle like it was a piglet. In the end it didn't really matter. They were all The Enemy. He opened fire with his M16.
Five rounds stitched across Jesse's torso, going from right hip to left shoulder, picking him up and throwing him into his companions like a ruptured sack of grain.
"Fuck this shit!" wailed Tuff as he turned to flee. M16 fire caught him across the back, effectively slicing him in two.
B-Jo stared at the bloody remains of his companions for a second, then tossed his gun onto the ground and put his hands behind his head. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot, man! I give up!" he wailed, sounding every day of his fifteen years.
The sea of angry faces surged forward, their outstretched hands tearing at the gangbanger's flesh. B-Jo began to scream. His cries for help were quickly muffled by the bodies of the mob as they pulled and tore and kicked and bit him like a pack of wolves worrying a deer to death. When the screams finally stopped, the group moved on, leaving the ravaged carcass where it lay.
As the crowd moved forward, Janice stopped long enough to remove the gun from Jesse's dead hand. She turned the Luger over, wondering if it still had any ammunition left.
"Janice!"
Tommy was standing on the top stoop of their building, tottering uncertainly in the doorframe. He looked confused and blurry-eyed, like he'd just woken up from a long nap.
"Janice—what are you doing out here? Come back inside where it's safe!" Tommy squinted at the Luger she was holding. "What you got there? A gun?" A sly, hungry look crossed his face as he licked his lips. "I know this guy who'll give us some White Tiger for it…"
Janice pointed the Luger at Tommy and squeezed the trigger. He staggered, then fell headfirst down the front steps, landing in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Yeah, it still had some bullets left.
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) Decima shielded her eyes from the strange glow that enveloped the manacled stranger like St. Elmo's Fire. The sourceless wind raging inside the interrogation room was close to hurricane force and it was all she could do to stand upright. Even though the storm was louder than a passing freight train in her ears, she could still hear the weird laughter rising above it.
The stranger's head and hands crackled with an eerie electricity that seemed to grow with each pulse. As Decima watched, the bruises and gashes covering her victim's face disappeared. With a shriek of maniacal glee, the stranger yanked herself free of her restraints, pulling her right shoulder out of its socket.
Whatever the stranger was, she certainly wasn't a garden-variety Kindred. No novice had such control over the elements—nor could they regenerate so quickly without rest or blood.
The Other turned and grinned at Decima, and for the first time in decades the vampiress knew true fear.
Not the fear of punishment that came from displeasing her master—but the fear that comes from seeing your Death in the eyes of another. The Other's grin grew wider as it moved toward her, its hair whipping in the maelstrom like angry black snakes.
Decima leapt forward, swinging the club with both hands, but the Other was too quick for her. It batted the length of pipe out of her grip. Decima swore and jumped aside, snatching up her crossbow from where she'd left it. It was already loaded and cocked, and she fired it at the stranger, striking her in the right chest and puncturing her lung. The stranger yowled in pain and toppled backward, clutching at the bolt jutting from her breast.
Decima pounced, landing atop her enemy and pinning her to the floor. Careful to keep her fingers clear, she pulled the switchblade she'd taken from the stranger's jacket and hit the trigger release. The silver blade leapt free and the stranger's eyes widened at the sight of it.
"No!" she cried out, lifting her hands to her face, as if to blot out the sight of her doom.
"Die, bitch, in the name of Lord Esher, Prince of Deadtown!" Decima shouted over the raging wind, and plunged the silver blade into the stranger's heart.
The stranger spasmed and voiced a strangled cry, then went still. The winds stopped as if someone had flipped a switch. The witchlight that cloaked her body faded and fizzled, like firecrackers tossed in a puddle.
Decima leaned back and studied her handiwork for a moment, then smiled. "See—that's what you get for fuckin' with me, bitch," she smirked.
The Other's eyes flew open and it grinned its too-wide grin as it plucked the knife from its chest. "I couldn't have said it better myself," it cackled, and plunged the switchblade into Decima's right ear.
The vampiress shot to her feet as if propelled from a cannon, clutching at her head. Her screams were so shrill they climbed into the ultrasonic register, like those of a bat. Her eyes began to swell, as if being inflated from within, until they literally sprang from their sockets. She trembled like a tuning fork as her brain and central nervous system liquefied and came pouring out her nose and ears. Decima tried to move toward the door, but her legs no longer worked and she crashed to the floor, where she landed on her right side with enough force to send the blade the rest of the way through her brain. As the point emerged from her left ear she went completely still and her eyes glazed over, becoming as white and milky as those of a baked fish.
The Other looked down at its enemy's carcass and grinned in triumphant glee. Then it coughed a lungful of blood. The spasm passed and the stranger, once more in possession of her physical self, kicked Decima's body over onto its back and bent to recover the switchblade, tugging it free from the vampiress'
punctured skull with a grunt of pain. Straightening up, she snapped off the last few inches of crossbow that protruded from her chest. The pain was so intense her vision went monochromatic and everything sounded as if she were underwater. She staggered backward, fighting the instinct to curl up in a dark corner and regenerate. She had to get out of Esher's stronghold if she wanted to survive the night—and it was going to take every ounce of strength she had left.
She had no idea what madness the Other had tapped into in order to summon the necessary energy to break free and battle with Decima, but something told her it was big. The Other had siphoned off enough to effectively knit broken bones, but she was far from healed.
To her surprise, the door was unlocked and the hallway deserted. Then again, no one was ever expected to leave the room in anything but a body bag. She glanced back at Decima, her body lying twisted in on itself like an animal with its foot in a trap. She had to admit they did look a lot alike. It was like staring
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) into a mirror and seeing what she would have become had Lord Morgan bothered to take her under his wing and tutor her in the ways of monstrosity. It gave her the creeps just thinking about it.
What the hell do you think you're doing? growled the Other. Stop contemplating your navel! The shank's dead—get a move on!
"Shut up!" she snarled, shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear it of the intrusive voice.
You can't get rid of me that easy! Now get us out of here! I didn't haul our collective ass out of the frying pan so you could wander around in the fire!
As much as she hated to admit it, the Other was right. She was suffering from severe internal damage, even by Kindred standards, and she was rapidly losing strength. She had to find a way out before Esher sent his minions after her. And in this weakened state, there would be no second chance for escape. She closed the door to the interrogation room behind her and headed down the darkened corridor. If memory served her, it led to the central vault, which was the barracks for the enclave. If her luck held, once she reached the subbasement she would be able to use one of the myriad tunnels that branched off from the main catacomb. Assuming she could stay a step ahead of the others. At present, she'd be satisfied with just a half-step.
***
"Tonight it begins, my friends! Tonight we wage war on our enemy! Tonight is the last night for Sinjon and his brood! The gauntlet has been thrown down! There is no other recourse but—jyhad!"
"Jyhad!" came the response, echoed by a half-hundred voices. "Jyhad!"
Esher smiled as the assembled Kindred thrust their fists into the air, pumping their arms vigorously.
Most—if not all—of them would be dead come the dawn. But that did not matter. After all, they were cannon fodder, nothing more. And there were certainly more where they came from. Even Nikola's kidnapping could not spoil the exhilaration he felt: he was poised at the very cusp of success—come the sunrise he would be the undisputed master of Deadtown! As he basked in the glow of certain triumph, the doors to the audience chamber flew open and a badly frightened Pointer stumbled inside.
The enclave turned to stare in amazement at the human—it was forbidden for humans to enter Esher's presence unannounced or unbidden. The youth's clothes were disheveled and his face was bloodied and bruised from tumbling up stairs and colliding with flying doors. Esher snapped his fingers and the human was grabbed by a pair of vampires, who pinned his arms behind his back and dragged him to the dais.
"Impudent whelp! What is the meaning of this interruption?" he demanded.
"Milord!" the boy cried. "Milord—something's happening outside! The streets!"
"What do you mean—?"
"Deadtown's gone crazy! They're throwing bottles and rocks—some are setting fires—some of them even have guns and knives!"
Esher's frown deepened into a scowl. "Sinjon's minions are attacking?"
The Pointer shook his head. "It ain't Sinjon! I seen a bunch of old ladies tear apart some Black Spoon with their bare hands! It's bad out there! End-of-the-world bad!"
"What do you know of apocalypse, fool?" Esher sniffed.
"I ain't lying, milord—scope it out for yourself!"
Esher tilted his head to one side, like a bird listening for the telltale rustle of a hidden earthworm's passage. He could make out the distant din of screams and smashing glass and gunfire from beyond the thick walls of his stronghold, faint at first, but growing perceptibly louder—and closer—with each second.