After Dark (10 page)

“Done!” he said.

Saturday, 8:30 p.m.

Miles led me back down the alley, past the Voodoo and a couple of stores, and over to a collection of garbage bins that smelled like coffee grounds. His minicycle was parked just beyond the garbage cans, but now there was a red wagon attached to the back.

“What's the wagon for?” I asked.

“For you,” he said, sliding his backpack off. He unzipped it and pulled out a small handheld video camera. “You need to record what we see.”

“Are you sure Shelley has enough juice to pull me?” I said, taking the camera.

“I've made some adjustments to the engine,” he said, putting on the backpack. “It'll do the job.”

“This thing isn't going to fall off halfway up one of those hills?” I asked, climbing into the wagon.

“Not a chance,” he said, starting up the bike and sliding on a dark green helmet that looked like it was issued by the military in about 1943. There were old-style goggles wrapped around the helmet, which he slid down over his eyes.

“Shouldn't I be wearing a helmet, too?” I asked, but Miles just revved the engine and tore off down the alley.

I jangled along, gripping the sides of the wagon as we hurtled by garbage bins and the rear doors of the shops that lined Church Street. We were driving away from Oak Avenue, toward the other end of Church, and I could see the end of the alley speeding toward us when one of the rear doors flew open and a man wearing a white apron stepped in front of us. I would have screamed, but I didn't have time. Miles swerved toward the brick wall on our right, missed a collection of garbage bins by the width of my fingernails and torpedoed past the man.

“Stupid idiot!” the man roared.

A half second later, Miles whizzed out of the alley and onto Maple Drive without slowing down. We careened off of the curb, and I was sure the wagon would split apart, but it held, and Miles scooted into the middle of the road. A minivan was about 2.3 seconds from hitting us, and the driver laid on the horn, but Miles managed to pull a shockingly quick turn back to our side of the street, with me and the wagon skidding along sideways behind him.

“Moron!” the driver hollered as he drove by, shaking a fist at us.

“It's clear sailing from here on,” Miles shouted back to me, apparently unconcerned by the fact that we'd almost been killed twice in the last thirty seconds.

Saturday, 8:45 p.m.

Maple was lined with two-story houses with large lawns, most of which were surrounded by white picket fences. Occasionally, there'd be someone out front, chatting with a neighbor or doing some yard work, and they'd stop what they were doing as we approached, the lunatic screech of the engine preceding us. I waved at a few of the gawkers, but I mostly just held on to the sides of the wagon for dear life, bouncing along with the camera in my lap. At the top of Maple, we came to a T-junction with Elm Street and took a right, heading back toward the inn. Seven or eight minutes later we drove past the Baxter place. About fifty yards beyond their driveway, Miles pulled over.

“Just made it,” he said, cutting the engine and hopping off the bike.

He was right: the thinnest slivers of red sunlight were glinting through the trees.

“Now what?” I asked, getting out of the wagon.

“Now we sneak around back and catch them in the act,” he said, leaving his helmet on.

“The act of what?”

“I'm not sure,” he said. “But we'll know it when we see it.”

“That's very scientific, Miles.”

“This will provide us with an excellent opportunity to film them while they're moving.”

“What do you mean ‘moving'?”

“When they're pursuing us,” he said.

“That doesn't sound like a good plan, Miles, not good at all. I mean, don't get me wrong, I have a feeling we're just going to end up with a couple of angry, middle-aged people on our hands, but if they are something else and they can move as fast as you say, then that's not a solid plan at all.”

“Don't worry, Charlie, my bike can move pretty fast. You just make sure you keep filming. Is the camera on?”

“Sure,” I said, pressing Record and aiming it at Miles.

He straightened up, flipped his goggles up onto the helmet and looked directly into the camera. “This is Miles Van Helsing, June twenty-fourth,” he started, then glanced at his watch, “at 8:47 p.m. I'm about to investigate the Baxter residence for signs of paranor-mal activity and the presence of unknown humanoid creatures. Assisting me will be Charles Harker, who is behind the camera.”

“Good luck, Van Helsing!” I cried.

He grimaced and ducked a little. “Keep it down.”

“Good luck, Van Helsing,” I whispered.

“Just keep the camera rolling,” he said and jogged up the driveway, his backpack bouncing up and down behind him. I turned the camera around and held it out at arm's length.

“This is Charles Richard Harker, on June twenty-something at a quarter past a mole. I'm currently standing at the bottom of the Baxters' driveway. Miles Van Helsing, a Grade A nut-job, is here searching for people who can run very fast. I suggested he'd have more luck at the local running track, but he insisted on inspecting his neighbor's house for signs of abnormally quick individuals. I, for one, hope he finds what he's been looking for so that I can go home and go to sleep. Over and under, Charles Richard Harker.”

I lowered the camera and took a look around. The sun was almost gone now, and the trees that lined the Baxters' driveway were sending long black shadows across the pavement. The Volvo was back, parked at the top of the driveway beside the house, but all the windows were shut and the curtains were all closed. There wasn't a single light on inside. It made me think that the Baxters were probably out, maybe taking a long walk, which would be good news because it meant that Miles would be done here soon. Then I could go home and laze around until I fell asleep. A solid night's sleep would be sweet. Tomorrow, if we went back to Romero's for breakfast, I'd hop down to the Voodoo and ask Vortex if he knew the brown-eyed girl's name. Then, who knows? Maybe I could track down her phone number. That's what I was thinking about as I meandered up the driveway, listening to a crow cawing somewhere close by. Other than that, the evening was silent. It was silent, that is, until I heard a small, short scream that made me freeze. The crow flapped away, and a second later, Miles sprinted around the back corner of the house. I say he was sprinting, but it was more than just sprinting; he was practically falling the whole way down the driveway, his mouth wide open, like he was about to scream.

“Run!” he barked, eyes bulging out of his head.

Before I had a chance to react, three people came around the same corner of the house. They were running in single file, which I had to admit looked pretty creepy after all. They were moving incredibly fast — faster than I've ever seen anybody move in my life. Faster than Miles, and it looked like he was about to start flying. Despite how quickly they were sprinting, their faces looked completely blank, like they were sitting on the couch watching paint dry. Baxter was leading the way, wearing the same blue dress shirt and the same khaki pants that I'd seen him in earlier. The man behind him was a big bear of a man, with short black hair and wearing a navy blue suit. The last one was a woman wearing jeans and a white blouse.

“Run, Charlie!” Miles screamed, racing past me.

I turned and tore into the road right behind him, still holding the camera.

“Hurry!” Miles cried, glancing over his shoulder. His eyebrows were so high on his forehead they were practically touching his hairline. “Hurry!”

Miles reached the minicycle, started it up and pulled away when I was still five or six feet from the wagon. That's when I made the mistake of peeking over my shoulder. The three of them were only about ten feet behind me. Panicked, I dove for the wagon and landed with a thud in the middle of it, my legs hanging out the back. The bike and wagon wobbled dangerously to the left and then the right, and I thought Miles was going to wipe out, but he managed to straighten up. Unfortunately, all that wobbling cost us speed, and Baxter was suddenly running right beside me.

He looked down, his face still completely blank but turning a deep crimson. He was running at a tremendous speed, a ridiculous speed, and beads of sweat were pouring down his head and into his eyes. He reached for me.

I dropped the camera, which clattered into the wagon, and batted his hand away. He stumbled, lost some speed and then caught up again.

“Faster!” I yelled, and Miles must have changed gears because we shot forward.

Baxter fell back again, but another hand grabbed the back of my shirt, this time from the other side of the wagon. I was being lifted up and turned to see the Man-Bear in the navy blue suit. He was hoisting me out of the wagon with one hand.

“Miles!” I yelled, grabbing on to the sides of the wagon. “Faster!”

Miles glanced back, his mouth dropped open and he revved the engine until it sounded like a whistle that was about to explode. We picked up more speed, and Man-Bear fell back a little, but he didn't let go of my shirt. He was pulling me out, and my hands slipped along the sides of the wagon. I looked up at his face, where a vein had popped out in the middle of his huge forehead. Up until now his mouth had been shut, but now he opened it wide and sucked in air. That's when I saw his teeth. There were normal teeth in his mouth, but there were other teeth in there, too, slipping out of his gums. They were scattered here and there, white and sharp, like thick pins. He started pulling me back harder and at the same time lowered his head toward me, his mouth wide. He was going to try to bite me!

One of the things I like least in life is being bitten, so I snatched up the video camera and chucked it at Man-Bear's face. It hit his right eye and bounced away. His mouth snapped shut, but he held on to me for another second, his expression staying absolutely empty despite being corked in the face with the camera. Then blood poured out from a cut just under his eyebrow and he let go. I fell back into the wagon and pitched to my left, which sent the wagon reeling onto two wheels. I rode it like that, sure that we were going to flip over, for what felt like three and a half hours before Miles veered to the right and the wheels crashed down.

This time I was sure the wagon would fall apart, but it held together again. I made a mental note to send a beautifully worded thank-you letter to whoever made that wagon, and Miles managed to pick up a little more speed. I looked back — the three of them had stopped chasing us and were standing in the middle of the road. They stared back at me as the shadowy twilight moved toward full dark.

Saturday, 8:58 p.m.

Miles didn't slow down until we were back at the inn. When he finally eased off the gas, Shelley chugged in fits and coughs into the middle of the driveway.

“I think I might've killed her,” he said, getting off the minicycle.

“Better her than us,” I said, jumping out of the wagon.

“You saw them, right?” he muttered, as we made a dash for the front door. “You saw them.”

“I saw them,” I stammered, glancing back at the road.

We ran onto the porch and I grabbed the doorknob, praying Mom had left it unlocked. She hadn't.

“We're out in the middle of nowhere. Why would she lock the doors?”

Miles didn't respond; he just crouched behind one of the rosebushes that lined the other side of the railing.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his head cocked toward the trees, his eyes somehow growing even bigger, making him look like a terrified human-owl hybrid.

I hadn't heard anything, but I was so jacked up on adrenaline by that point, I wasn't sure any of my senses were working properly, so I hid beside him and we peeked out over the bush. The porch, the lawn, the driveway, the road, they were all empty.

“Where's the video camera?” Miles whispered, still peering into the night.

“Gone,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I had to use it on the Man-Bear,” I said. “Otherwise I'd be toast right now.”

“But the recording! The proof!” he cried, standing up.

“Don't freak out,” I said, pulling him down. “They probably just left it on the road.”

“Don't freak out! On the road!” he said, standing up again. “Charlie, we need to get it!”

“No, we don't, Miles,” I said, pulling him down again. “Not now, we don't.”

“Nobody's going to believe us without some evidence. We need to show people what's going on around here, Charlie! You saw them — they were changed. We've got to get that camera!”

“You want to go out there again? You said it yourself — your minicycle's practically dead. Those people, whatever they are, will chase you down in three seconds flat.”

“I don't care, Charlie,” he said, slinking over to the porch stairs. “We need to warn people. We can't just sit in here and hide like a couple of chickens.”

“What are we going to tell them, anyway?” I said, grabbing his arm. “I mean, what did we just see? Three people who were ridiculously fast and strong, who just happened to have pointy teeth sticking out of their gums?”

“Fangs?” Miles asked.

“I barely know what I saw anymore. I mean, I was pretty amped up. It was dark — I was probably imagining things.”

“No, no, that makes sense. It's the type of anatomical changes I would expect under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances? Maybe they just have a bad case of rabies,” I said. “Or they're hopped up on some drug.”

“Rabies doesn't give you fangs, and it can't make you move that fast, and I don't think there are any drugs that would do that either.”

“I'm pretty sure there are a few drugs you can buy to make you run faster.”