Bloodstained Oz (10 page)

Hank moved closer, carefully stepping over the dead woman and her
almost child. She stared at him with unseeing eyes and he flinched with the
shock of recognition as he looked at her face. Once upon a time she had been a
sweet girl named Ellie Mae Harris, and he’d had a thing for her older sister,
Susannah.

He spat his shock from his mouth along with a thin streak of phlegm.
He could not think of the past or those already dead when he could still hear
the sounds of people dying. Not when he himself was still alive.

Something in the distance rattled and clanked, a sound that made him
think of the cell doors at the prison squeaking in protest to being moved. He
heard it several more times and wondered at the odd rhythm the sound produced.
He might have thought about the noise more, but he heard a shuffling in the
dark behind him and turned.

They had found him.

There were seven of them, tiny little men the size of children, and
each was dressed in evening finery that had seen better days. Three females
were in the group, their silk clothes stained and tattered, the bottoms of
their dresses so torn and frayed they looked like rats had been feasting on
them. The tallest of the females was barely over three feet in height and any
thought that children had been responsible for killing Ellie Mae and her unborn
child was discarded when he saw the vulpine fangs in the mouths of the things
coming his way. Like the freaks with the emerald eyes, these creatures were
pale, except where their faces had been painted with the blood of Hawley’s
citizens.

Their eyes were not the green lanterns of the ones at the prison; aside
from their size these vampires looked like humans. They had human eyes, that
reflected the light with a crimson gleam and somehow that made it even worse.
It cemented their reality for Hank.

The first of them leaped at him, jaws wide, reaching out to grab him so
that it could clamp its jaws on his face. Hank swung the scythe. Adrenaline
fueled his swing and if there was a God, He was being mighty nice to Hank with
his aim. The blade cut deep into the monster’s neck and damned near took its
head off. One second it was a screaming little man and the next it was
twitching on the ground, and Hank hoped it was dying.

He didn’t have time to feel satisfied. There were six more coming his
way. One of the women dove low, toward his legs, and her fangs sank into the
meat of his calf. Hank let out a yowl and kicked her with his free leg, boot
striking her temple. It wasn't enough. She bit down a second time, her cold
dead tongue licking at the hole in his pants leg and the flesh underneath.
Hank hit her four times with the blunt end of the scythe, unable to step back
to swing the blade. She shuddered away from him with a watery sigh.

“You bitch! That’s my blood all over your face!” His vision went red
and Hank stomped down on the thing as it tried to back away.

Hank grabbed another of the creatures by her thick, curly hair and held
her off the ground. She flailed and snarled and spat at him until he used his
weapon to hack her chest open and then her throat.

The others began to circle him.

A round, elderly male—he was having trouble thinking of it as a
man, even with the neatly cropped mustache and beard—ran at his left side
and as he turned to defend himself, two more of the damned things moved to his
right. Hank caught the one he’d been tracking just in time to realize what a
mistake he'd made. The ones on his right hit him hard, far harder than he expected
from such little people, and knocked him to the ground. The trinket in his
pants pocket flared with warmth even as more fangs sank into his flesh.

Hank had been working in the labor camp for months and there was little
about him that could be called soft. With all of his strength he drove his
right arm into the ground, shaking the biting nightmares loose. He reached up
and dug his fingers into the eyes of the one at his shoulder until he felt the
cold orbs burst wetly under the pressure.

The thing fell back, screeching like a banshee, and Hank spun around in
the dirt to kick another that lunged for him. A third grabbed hold of him and
bit his arm deeply, the child-sized hands gripping his shirt sleeve. Hank ran
at the nearest building, which he’d used as cover moments before. He rammed
the wall, the vampire trapped between him and the hard wood. The boards
creaked and he felt his entire arm go numb. The scythe spun away from his hand
in an arc and clanged to the street. It was worth it; the damned thing grunted
again and let go of his wounded flesh.

As it hit the ground, Hank started to kick it, caving in its skull with
the toe of his boot.

“You stay there, you little bastard!” He staggered over and grabbed
the scythe, ready to hack the thing into pieces, but it was up already.

This time, though, it was moving away from him.

Hank leaned against the wall of the church and panted, covering his
mouth with his hand to keep at least a little of the dust away from his lungs.
He looked around, checking for the other tiny vampires, but they were gone,
probably in search of other, easier prey. Even now he could hear an occasional
scream coming from nearby.

There was no way he could stay in Hawley. There was nothing left in
the town to stay for, and sure as hell not a chance of surviving. Hank set off
again and soon found what he needed. The bicycle was ancient, designed with a
massive front wheel and a much smaller one in the back. Even climbing on the
thing was probably risking a broken neck, but a quick check confirmed that it
was functional and he had no other option.

The wind picked up again and brought still more dust with it. Hank
covered the lower half of his face with his shirt and climbed aboard his new
ride. The wheels made a few light squeaks, but rode smoothly. He stood as
much as he dared on the contraption and pumped his legs hard to get going
properly. The scythe stayed in his right hand, pinned across the handle bars,
because he refused to have to reach for a weapon with everything that had been
going on. In his pocket, the necklace seemed to have cooled down a great deal.
If he was right, that meant he was at least a little safer.

He turned down the road away from Hawley without much regret about
never seeing the place again. He had a fortune in his pocket and if he was
very, very lucky he could get something for it in another place.

The night was as hot and miserable as the day had been and the breeze
from riding the bicycle was invigorating. Fingers of air cooled the sweat on
his scalp and painted his hair a different color at the same time.

As he passed by a small shack on the outskirts of town, something
silver flashed in the moonlight. A dark figure lunged from beside the shack.
The axe swung and destroyed the front tire of the bicycle, shearing through the
thin rubber and the frame it was supported by.

Hank was thrown forward, and only barely managed to turn to avoid
impaling himself on the scythe, which flew from his hand and rattled as it hit
the dirt road. He landed on his hands, scraping off layers of skin. His palms
burned. The bicycle clattered to the ground, ruined.

The sounds came again, a squealing noise followed by a loud clank.
Even as he scrambled to reach the scythe he glanced up and saw the thing that
wielded the axe. The blade glinted in the dusty moonlight, well polished and
well used.

Hank stared, mouth agape. The thing stood close to seven feet, a man
shaped contraption with legs and arms made of cylinders that had once been
connected together by rivets. Its head was capped by a pointed tin hat. In
the broken joints of the monstrosity, he could see pulleys and heavy cords that
slid with each motion it made.

Thick, rusting tin legs lifted with a squeal and slammed to the road
with a ringing clang. The arms were segmented and almost ludicrous. Its long
fingers ended in a sharpened twist of tin that was already coated with sticky
redness. More pulleys and wheels ground together as each arm moved with a
rattling squeak. Between those arms a wide chest of metal glinted, but
something had ripped the tin open, and inside the deep cavity Hank could see a
shape moving in the darkness.

The head of the tin man, above the pit of the torn chest, turned to
look at him. Deep cavernous eye sockets held something inside them, human
looking eyes that moved in his direction. A nose had been fused to the
cylindrical head, and it actually seemed to be breathing. Below that a mouth
had been torn into a scowl by the same sort of force that had opened the metal
of the chest.

The thing clanked toward him.

The tin man said, “I can’t help you, it’s taken my body from me,” in a
hollow voice that rang dully into the night. “Run if you’re able.”

“What?” Hank could only stare.

A laugh came from the cavity inside the tin man’s chest. “He said ‘run
if you’re able,’ and you should. Will make you taste better when I finally get
to you.”

A face peered from inside the tin man and Hank looked at the ugly
little vampire, like the ones in town, and felt his heart sink.

The tin man raised his axe. Hank twisted and dove to the ground,
rolling in the dirt, grabbing his scythe. A hollow sobbing noise came from the
head of the monster and a high-pitched cackling laugh echoed from the chest.
Tiny hands pulled at cords and the tin man moved toward him with more noisy
steps, his long stride eating the distance between them with ease.

Hank stood and swung his scythe, hoping to skewer the creature riding
in the tin man’s chest, but one of the massive arms blocked the blow and the
blade snapped.

One metallic leg rattled as it lifted and the tin man kicked Hank in
his hip, staggering him. Before he could recover, one of the hands closed on
his wrist and squeezed with enough force to make his bones creak. Hank let out
a scream and thrashed as the mechanical man lifted him into the air.

The human eyes within the tin man’s head looked his way again and he
saw the fine network of veins and muscles that still allowed it to see him.
Hank felt the entire body of the thing shudder as the other arm rose, reaching
for his face.

Panic took over completely and Hank thrashed his legs, kicking the
torso of the contraption. Each blow let out a deep resonant bong like a bell
and he wanted to scream in fear. His foot slipped into the open chest of the
thing holding him and he felt his heel catch on a softer surface that gave way.
The tin man’s arms went slack and he fell, hitting the dirt in a tangle of
limbs.

“I’ll kill you!” the voice squeaked from inside the tin man’s chest.

Hank had no doubt he would. So instead of trying to fight again, he
turned and ran, legs pumping furiously, chest tight with effort and fear.

The tin man pursued him with clanging steps, each one marking the
distance that separated Hank from his death.

Elisa sat in the darkness and wondered how long she could weep before
she had no more tears to shed. The world had gone mad and she felt as if she
weren't far behind. Stefan was dead. Jeremiah was dead. Savage little
animals, monkeys like winged demons, had killed them and almost her as well,
and the only thing that kept her safe was her dead husband’s faith in a God she
could not bring herself to believe in.

What sort of God would allow any of this madness to happen? And yet
His power had saved her.

The wind shook the canvas of the wagon that had been her home for far
too long, and she thought about Stefan and his faith. Once she’d asked him how
he could believe in God and still sell false promises to the desperate people
around them. Stefan had smiled, his even teeth flashing in his swarthy skin
and winked at her as he answered. “I do not sell false promises, my love. I
sell hope.”

“How so?”

“The people here are desperate and miserable. I sell them a little
alcohol to calm their nerves and I tell them that it will solve their woes.
For a little while at least, they have hope again.”

That had been their last discussion on the subject. She’d have given
almost anything for them to argue the matter again.

Aside from the wind there was no sound, but she was not foolish enough
to trust that the silence was a promise of safety. She would not leave the
wagon until the sun had risen. By then, she knew from the old stories, she
would be safe.

Physically, at least. There was no haven from the fear that sent
shivers through her, or from the grief that tore her up inside.

When Elisa’s father had passed and she’d asked her mother if she was
well, the woman had merely looked at her with dark, heavy eyes and said that
she was hollow. She understood now what her mother had meant.

Something struck the side of the wagon and Elisa bit her lip hard to
avoid screaming.

“Is there anyone in there? I need help!” shouted a voice. A man’s
voice.

Fists slapped at the canvas, seeking a way inside, and Elisa rose from
her crouched position and moved carefully to the entrance at the back of the
wagon. Nothing would take her in the night, not if she had any say in the
matter.