Draculas (27 page)

The clown followed him as Randall moved into the hallway, wishing that his newly cut leg would hurry up and go numb like his other one.

He picked a door, any door, with the clown in hot pursuit.

Stumbled into some sort of storage room, not much bigger than Jenny's closet when they'd lived together, with a large metal shelf on each side. No way out except the way he came. Very little room to maneuver.

Randall tried to focus like the Terminator, imagining red lights flashing around the things that might be useful. An android from the future wouldn't need to stumble around the room, looking for something to kill a clown with.

Benny the Clown's chainsaw swing very nearly took off Randall's arm, missing by inches. Randall continued his robot-scan as he tried to keep from being dismembered. In a few more steps he was going to smack against the back wall and be very deeply screwed.

Something caught his attention. Metal tanks in the middle row. He grabbed one of them, not knowing what was inside. How awesome would it be if it was laughing gas?

He threw the tank at the clown. It struck the chainsaw blade, creating a shower of sparks, but that
still
wasn't enough to knock it out of his hands. Benny the Clown had one hell of a grip. The tank hit the floor, landing on the valve, and then the tank shot like a rocket, whizzing past Randall's feet, bashing into the back wall, then spinning in a wild circle. He had to jump out of the way to keep it from tripping him.

Yeah. He could work with this.

The clown stared at the spinning tank. Maybe it reminded him of some sort of circus trick.

Randall grabbed another tank and slammed the nozzle against the shelf. He tried to hold it steady long enough to aim it, but the tank shot out of his hands, and flew straight into Benny the Clown's stomach. The clown doubled over...and dropped the chainsaw.

Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.

The clown stood back up. No guts exposed, which was disappointing. Randall couldn't even tell if the clown was in pain, though the tank had to have shattered some ribs.

Deciding that he would stick with what worked, Randall grabbed a third tank. Making sure he gripped it tighter than before so he wouldn't lose control, he bashed off the nozzle, then lunged at the clown with it.

Poor clowny bastard. What a lousy time to have such a big mouth.

Randall slammed the tank into the clown's gaping, bloody mouth, then pounded it hard with his fist to get it in a couple more inches. The clown clawed at it and stumbled back against the shelf, knocking over a bunch of medical supplies, including an inhaler.

The clown didn't exactly inflate--not like a beach ball or anything--but his stomach definitely expanded as if he'd been gobbling down a really big meal, really fast. Randall grabbed his chainsaw from the floor and knew he should get back to Jenny as soon as possible, but he couldn't look away from what was happening.

Is he really going to...?

Benny the Clown popped.

He stood there for a moment, the inside of his torso carved out all the way to his backbone, and then fell. His final gift of laughter to the world was a short but intense blast of flatulence. It might have been natural, or it might have been him landing on a whoopee cushion. Randall didn't much care, though dying with a fart sound was a pretty ironical way for a clown to go.

Perhaps once he had been a good clown. A noble clown. But he'd stolen Randall's chainsaw, and had to die.

My saw!

Randall clenched it tight, close to weeping with relief.

Finally.
He had it back.

The motor sounded kind of weird. He wondered what kind of fuel they'd put in it. This baby only ever got premium.

He returned to pediatrics. Jenny had left the closet, and she threw her arms around him and squeezed tight.

"Randall! Oh, thank God! I knew you'd come back!"

"You know you can count on me, babe. Always and forever."

"Always and forever," Jenny repeated. And damn if she wasn't looking at him like she hadn't in a long time. Like she used to. Bright and happy and lovey-dovey.

Randall felt a bunch of emotions at once. Pride, that he was able to come through for her. Love, that had never faded. And hope.

Hope that they might actually have a future together.

Then Jenny asked, "Where's the little girl?" and Randall's spirits sank.

Lie. Tell her that Tina got out safely. You lowered her out a window or tossed her out to some firemen with a trampoline. They took her away in an ambulance. She'll be fine.

Randall lowered his eyes. The plaster in his left eye started to hurt again. "She didn't make it."

Jenny put her hand over her mouth, then nodded. "I'm sorry."

"But we're going to save the rest of the kids. I've got my saw back. I'm going to cut through these motherfu--" He caught himself. "--motherhuggers all the way to the front door of this place. I'll lead the way. We'll all squish together close. You follow behind the kids. We'll keep moving, I'll clear our path, and we'll be okay, I promise."

"I believe you," Jenny said. And Randall thought she actually meant it.

He smiled.

"What's that between your teeth?" Jenny asked.

"Part of the clown. He tasted funny."

JENNY had never been so happy to see Randall. She had so much she wanted to say to him. But her training took precedent over her emotions, and she immediately went into nurse mode.

"We need to wash out your mouth," Jenny said. "Right now."

"I said motherhugger, not motherfu--"

"Now, Randall! The infection is bloodborne. We don't know..."

Her voice caught in her throat. She needed something antiseptic. Hydrogen peroxide, or something that could kill germs.

"Gargle with gas," she said, pointing at his saw.

Randall stared at her as if she were nuts, but he uncapped the tank on his saw and lifted it to his mouth. When he titled it back, his eyes bugged out.

"Kids, stay by me," she told the boys. "Now swish it around, Randall. Keep it in there as long as you can stand it."

Randall's cheeks bulged side to side. Jenny returned to the storage room for two compression bandages, and bent down, wrapping up Randall's old chainsaw wound, and his new chainsaw wound. Neither was pretty, but he'd live.

"Mmmm-mmm-bbmbmb," Randall said.

"Yeah, you can spit."

He turned his head, ejecting a stream of pink liquid.

"Rubbing alcohol," he said, after clearing his throat. "What kind of person would put rubbing alcohol in a man's chainsaw?" He quickly looked down at Jenny. "But I didn't swallow any. I've been dry--"

"For ninety-seven days," Jenny said. "I know. And when we get out of here, I think we should go somewhere to celebrate your sobriety."

Randall's face brightened. "You mean, like a date?"

"I promised the boys here I'd take them to Camp Kookyfoot, and that you'd come with us. But I was thinking of someplace more immediate."

"Like where?"

Jenny wound tape around the bandage. "I was thinking as soon as we get out of here, we go straight to my place."

"Your place?"

Jenny nodded, feeling her whole body grow warm. "Randall Bolton, this is one lady who knows how to show appreciation for a man who comes to her rescue." She lowered her voice. "I'm going to do things to you that will make your toes curl."

"Jenny," he said, "Don't talk to me like that in front of the kids."

Jenny stood up, locking eyes with her husband. "This is the part in all your movies where the hero kisses the girl."

Randall hacked spit once more over his shoulder, wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, and planted one on Jenny that was so passionate it made
her
toes curl.

When they both came up for air, Jenny knew the moment was right to tell him that she still loved the big lug, and she wanted to give their relationship another shot. But Randall seemed to suddenly realize that they were still in grave danger. He looked away from her and at the kids.

"Everybody stay close," he told the four boys. "I don't have any fancy hand grenades, but none of those boogeymen are going to get past my saw, okay?"

The boys all nodded, their eyes wide and terrified.

"Everyone put your hands on the waist of the person next to you. We're not going to lose anybody. I'll take the lead, and Jenny will be squished up right behind you. Is everybody okay with that? Good."

Jenny knew they had to get moving, but she didn't want to lose this moment. "Randall, I--"

An explosion rocked the hallway.

"Get behind me," Randall said, stepping in front of Jenny and urging his chainsaw to life with a quick pull of the cord.

MORTIMER spat out the last of his fangs, watching it drop onto the tile floor. He tore at the remnants of his underwear, and his naked, gore-slicked body doubled-over.

His distended belly--laden with blood only moments before--began to flatten. He screamed as his spine twisted, the vertebrae cracking like exploding popcorn.

Water. He needed water, and a place to hide while his body continued to change into its new form.

As the long muscle fibers in his legs broke down and realigned themselves, Mortimer half- ran/half-stumbled through the hallway, coming upon a door that read LAUNDRY. He threw himself inside, rolling across the floor, crying out as every nerve in his body seemed to catch on fire.

But this wasn't the pain of death.

It was the pain of rebirth.

Even as he writhed, Mortimer could feel his brand new teeth growing in.

HE was puffing by the time he reached the third floor landing. He knew he didn't exercise as much as he should, but was he this out of shape? Or was it plain old fear stealing his wind and making his heart pound like this? Because with each flight he was realizing more and more what a stupid stunt this was. Should have listened to Shanna and waited. First thing they teach you is always wait for backup. But waiting hadn't seemed an option. The situation in Blessed Crucifixion wasn't just deteriorating, it had run off the edge of a cliff.

But he couldn't back off now, couldn't return to that parking lot with his tail between his legs. What would his daddy say? Well, he'd say what he always said:
A Theel don't back down, not from no one, not from nothin'--'specially from a commie.

Well, these things weren't commies. They were worse. They were a disease. They had to be wiped out and--

A hiss and a silhouetted shape diving at him from the next flight.

Clay had the MM-1 held at ready. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Which he did. The kick was a helluva lot more than the nearly recoilless AA-12. A good thing, because it lifted the barrel. Instead of a center-of-mass hit, the double ought tore a hole in the dracula's upper chest, flinging it back and taking a good chunk of its spine out through the exit wound.

It sprawled on the steps, gnashing its teeth, unable to move its legs and only enough nerve supply to its arms to twitch its talons. A head shot would finish it off, but Clay needed to conserve ammo.

Most of all, he had to save one round for himself, in case he got bit. No way he was ending up like these folks.

He left the dracula behind and continued up.

On the fourth-floor landing he peeked through the little window and saw...nothing. Absolutely nothing. Black as the inside of a coffin.

Shit. He hadn't thought to bring a light. His Maglite was back in his cruiser in the sheriff's parking lot. Wait...

He pulled out his cell phone. He'd charged it up for the weekend trip. He hit a button and the display lit. Wimpy illumination, but it would have to do. With the MM-1 in his right hand and the phone in his left, he pushed through into the darkness...

Which swallowed the feeble glow from his phone. He took a step forward and heard glass crunch under his shoe. One or more of the draculas had smashed all the battery-powered lights. He couldn't see shit. He had no idea what was lying in wait.

Okay, new plan.

He backed into the stairwell again and pulled off his backpack. He pawed through his backup ammo for the MM-1 until he came to his one and only M583--a white star parachute flare. He removed the empty from the drum and inserted the flare. Problem solved.

He'd fire this baby down the hall. It would light up when it hit the far wall and give him forty seconds of 90,000 candlepower illumination to get the lay of the land.

Yeah.

He stepped back into the dark, raised the launcher, and thought he heard a noise. He hit a button on his phone and--

"Shit!"

A dracula, jaws agape, was four feet away and closing fast.

Clay pulled the trigger. The white star round hit the thing in the face, smashing through his teeth and into the back of his throat, lifting him off his feet. As he staggered back, the flare's little twenty-inch parachute popped out of his mouth and opened. The four-second delay ran out and the flare lit, illuminating the inside of the dracula's head like a paper lantern. Clay could see the brain boiling before the skull exploded.

The flare rolled free, revealing half a dozen draculas lying in wait. A trio of those leaped on their fallen comrade while the other three charged. Clay let the lead pair get close and put them both down with one round, then laid out the third with another. They weren't dead, but they were disabled, and that was as good as being goners, because their buddies were already on them, chowing down.

Now what? Could he sneak by the others without wasting precious ammo? The flare glare revealed a sign next to the stairway door. A floor directory. He spotted the word
Pediatrics
. Shit, it was on Two. He was on the wrong damn floor.

He slipped back into the stairwell and headed down.

SHE stood by Clay's suburban, watching the dark, blocky mass of the hospital. A faint, faint glow lit some of the windows, probably backwash from the emergency lights in the hallways, but for the most part it looked dead and deserted. But looks were deceiving. She knew it crawled with--what had Jenny's ex called them? Draculas. Right. Jenny and her ex were in there--still human, she hoped--and so was Clay.