Fright Night (14 page)

It came to Charley as a rippling in the unconscious mind. It didn’t come as words or pictures; it drew no diagrams, offered no explanations.

It did not state specifically that Evil Ed was dying.

But at the moment that the lights flickered out behind Ed’s eyes, the ripples began. Like a rock thrown squarely into the middle of a motionless pond, the horror sent wave after circular wave out to stir up the backwaters of Charley’s mind. He had no way of knowing why dread washed up and overwhelmed him, made his armpits slicken and tingle, turned his spine into a shaft of dry ice. He didn’t know where it came from. He didn’t know what it meant.

All he knew was that Green Street no longer seemed even remotely safe. Each corner, each doorway, each sunken recess was a new hiding place for the horror; every shadow was shifting and crawling with death.

And not just
any
old death, either,
his mind thought wildly.
Not just ‘now I lay me down to sleep.’ This is
living death
that we’re talking about. This is rising up to suck the life out of your family, friends and neighbors.

It wasn’t too hard to conjure up images, once he let himself go. It wasn’t hard to picture his sweet, bubble-headed mother, giggling in rapture as Jerry Dandrige put two holes in her throat and began to feed. Or to imagine her the next night, eyes bright and redly shining as she snacked on her bridge partner, the blood-stained Cheese Doodles forgotten.

It was just as easy to picture Amy in that situation. Or himself.

Or Evil Ed . . .

“Amy?” he began, turning to face her, not breaking his stride.

“Me, too,” she said quietly. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

They started to walk faster. Amy’s right hand snaked out impulsively, searching for his left. He didn’t reject it. The two hands clutched each other, the cold sweat from their palms intermingling.

Charley was projecting ahead now, on a couple of different tangents. One part of his mind was plotting the quickest route to Amy’s. Another was plotting the trickiest route. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to lead Dandrige to her door. On the other hand, he didn’t know where else to go.

He had roughly fifteen seconds to contemplate his options.

And then every light on Green Street went out.

It was like a massive black shroud had been draped over a ten-block radius. The streetlights were out in either direction, as far as the eye could see. So were the handful of illuminated windows they’d spotted along the way.

They hadn’t shut off sequentially,
click-click-clicking
down to a vanishing point at the end of the street. They’d all gone off at once. Now only the light of the moon shone down on them.

And the moonlight was cold.

Amy gasped suddenly and yanked on his hand. Charley followed her gaze to the top of the building on their left. A fat ribbon of moonlight draped across its top two floors.

A monstrous black shadow flitted across the moonlit brick.

And from above them came the sound of massive, leathery wings in flight . . .

“COME ON!” Charley screamed, breaking into a run. Amy was with him, taking off at the first shrill note of his voice. For the first twenty yards, their hands were still squeezed tightly together; then they broke from each other, their arms swinging freely as they pumped every ounce of speed and strength they had into getting away.

They swung left on Rondo Hatten Road, instinctively heading for the late-night section of town. There was a rock club called Lizzard Gizzard’s, a country joint called Richie Wrangler’s Saloon, and a disco-dancing hot spot by the name of Club Radio. All three were practically within spitting distance . . . or would have been, if all the phlegm hadn’t dried up in Charley’s throat.

Romero Drive,
Charley heard himself thinking,
is the shit. There’ll be people. There’ll be light.
He glanced briefly at Amy, sensed that she was thinking the same thing he was, and started to swing his gaze back around in front of him.

That was when he spotted the cause of the blackout.

The lights were out on Rondo Hatten as well, making it hard to see it completely. But there was a light pole on his immediate left, and it had a power box mounted on its side. The front of the box had been ripped off its hinges; the mangled mass of wires inside it dangled like limp strands of shredded intestine.

Omigod,
Charley silently screamed, thinking of the power involved with ripping a metal door off its hinges and then trashing a network of high-voltage wires. It was the same power that had plucked the nails from his window frame.

It was the same power that threatened to rule him forever, if he didn’t get his act together fast.

Dandrige didn’t know the city. He hadn’t been there long enough. That was the faith and the hope that Charley clung to as he steered to the right on Wickerman Road, Amy sticking with him. At the end of the block, Romero Drive was in full swing; the power loss hadn’t spread that far. He could almost smell the carousing humanity that partied and cruised the center-city strip, looking for action.

They don’t know what action is,
he mused.

And that, of course, was when Jerry Dandrige materialized before them—midway down the block, in the center of the street.

“Hey,
you little lovebirds!” the vampire hollered, grinning endearingly. “Care to join me for a
driiiiiink?”

Charley and Amy screeched to a halt. They were less than ten feet into Wickerman; they recouped half that distance by dancing madly backward, then spun around and headed back down Rondo Hatten.

“Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”
Charley whined, in rhythm with his steps. Ahead of them, Usher Falls Road looked even more dank and foreboding than Green Street had. The words
I don’t want to die there
flickered across his mind like script from a hyperthyroid’s teleprompter screen.

He reached out quickly with his left hand, catching Amy on the sleeve. She yipped like a puppy with a stepped-on tail, whipping her head around to stare at him crazily.
“Back this way,”
he hissed, spinning her around. She gave him a slow glance of mute incomprehension, then nodded and began to run with him.

Wickerman was clear as they came back onto it. It remained so as they passed the place where Dandrige had stood. As he ran, Charley kept scanning the sky and the shadows to either side.

No Dandrige.
Two thirds of the way down the block, a sudden crinkling and a flurry of motion made their hearts pogo-stick into their throats; it was only a cat, bowling over some wadded-up newspaper. Very close now were the sounds of traffic and boisterous conversation. Still no Dandrige.

We’re going to make it!
Charley silently crowed. For the first time tonight, he allowed himself a smile. The corner was less than five yards away, the distance closing at a manic pace. On Romero, traffic was moving; he was close enough to make eye contact with the teenagers who leaned out of passenger windows, hooting and whistling at the hordes on the street. Cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes mingled with another scent—higher, sweeter—in his nostrils.

“We made it!” Charley yelled, reaching out to place a hand on Amy’s shoulder. She grinned back at him through her teeth, puffing and panting, as they rounded the corner together . . .

. . . and ran straight into a trio of tough guys in ragged jean jackets. The lead man, a blond greaser with a narrow hatchet face, had a cigarette dangling arrogantly from his lips. It spiraled crazily through the air as Charley slammed into him, hissed its life away in the gutter.

“WATCH
it, asshole!” the guy hollered. Charley made an appeasing gesture and slipped past him, Amy hot on his heels. The three toughs turned slowly to watch them pass, debating whether to fuck with them or not.

They didn’t have a chance.

Because when Charley and Amy turned around, Jerry Dandrige was there, two feet in front of them, leaning against the storefront window of H & R Block. He met their frozen expressions of terror with open amusement.

“I hope that you two are enjoying yourselves,” he began. “Otherwise, this would be a total waste of time . . .”

They didn’t wait to hear his closing boast; they jumped back, as if bee-stung, then whirled and ran the other way on Romero. Midway across the Wickerman intersection, they almost slammed into the toughs again. The sound of bellowing badasses was drowned out by the howls of terror between their ears.

Club Radio was up at the corner ahead. The line out front was tiny, only three or four people; but a group of more than a dozen was closing in fast. Charley and Amy latched onto each other’s hands as they sprinted toward the door.

Please, God, make them let us in,
his mind cried out.
Please, God, let us make it through the door.
He threw a backward glance over his shoulder and saw that Dandrige was coming at a leisurely pace, assured of his kill. Amy had to drag him forward for a moment, while a ton of black despair settled on his shoulders like a stone.

Then they were running again, Amy now leading the way. They pulled ahead of the oncoming crowd with ten feet to spare, just as the last one in front of them handed five bucks to the bouncer at the door. Charley realized that he didn’t have
any
money; he’d spent his last dollar on cheap plastic crosses. “Oh, Jesus . . .” he started to moan.

Amy elbowed him smartly. He looked up, wincing, then grinned as she shoved a ten spot into his right hand. The bouncer looked up. Charley handed him the ten. The group of twelve closed in behind.

“Thanks,” Charley said. He glanced over his shoulder again. Dandrige was close now, cutting ahead of the last three people in line. The vampire looked mildly irritated; the dark glee had been replaced with an even darker determination. Charley looked away, swallowing painfully, and followed Amy.

They took four steps apiece.

Then a massive hand clamped down on Charley’s shoulder, squeezing hard. It took everything he had to keep his bowels from letting loose. Only once before had he felt so sure of death: last night, at the window. It was no easier to handle the second time around.

But when the voice boomed out from behind him, it was not the one he expected; and instead of telling him that there was no point in running, it said, “Just a second, little man. You got any I.D.?”

The bouncer was a huge black man with a Fu Manchu mustache, a shaved head, and arms the size of ten-year-old maples under optimum growing conditions. At first glance, he looked fat. It wasn’t true. All six feet and more of him were packed with some serious muscle.

Under ordinary circumstances, Charley would have turned milk-white if the bouncer so much as sneezed at him. These were not, however, ordinary circumstances. Compared to Dandrige, the black man came off like Garry Coleman playing Mr. T.

And Dandrige was coming, slowly but surely. Charley could almost hear the vampire’s voice in his mind, saying,
This is turning into a pain in the ass, Charley. You’re going to wish that you’d just given up.
It wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter; the vampire’s face said it all.

“You hear me?” the bouncer asked. His hand on Charley’s shoulder gave a vigorous shake.

“Uh-bubba,” Charley said. He couldn’t articulate the standard underage rap:
I’m eighteen, honest! I left my wallet at home, that’s all. I’ve got my license, my draft card . . .
He couldn’t pronounce his own name.

Dandrige was clearly visible now, less than three feet from the doorway. Somebody was giving him a hard time about cutting in line: a genuine fatso, whose worst threat would be that he’d sit on you. “Back of the line, jerk!” the man yelled, slapping one flabby hand down on Dandrige’s shoulder.

Charley watched the vampire whirl. He more than half expected a sudden rain of blubber, like a whale being fed into the world’s largest blender. Instead, Fatso just staggered backward, as if he’d just stared into the mouth of hell . . . which, in a sense, he had.

The whole thing took less than five seconds.

And at the last possible moment, Charley made his decision.

“RUN!” he hollered, dragging Amy by the hand. She’d been standing there mutely, as blank as Charley when it came to plotting the next move. Now she followed, as Charley broke free of the bouncer’s grip and ran, not into the club, but away from it.

“Hey!” the bouncer shouted after them. “What about your money?”

“FUCK IT!” Charley yelled back, completely sincere. He was rounding the corner, with Amy in tow. Behind him, Dandrige was just starting to force his way through the crowd.

There was a sudden crashing of metal against metal. Charley spotted a guy in basic kitchen whites, dumping garbage into one of a dozen grimy cans. Charley flashed back to Evil Ed and the alley for a second.

Less than five feet beyond, the kitchen door stood open. Charley and Amy blasted through the doorway before the dishwasher had time to piss or say howdy, much less see them coming.

The cook was quicker. He looked up from his lettuce and started to shout, cleaver waving madly in the air. “Hey, you can’t go in there! Hey!”

“Sorry!” Amy called back to him. Charley said nothing. They hit the door that led into the club, burst through it . . .

. . . and were immediately assailed by the strobing lights, the throbbing beat and the gyrating clientele of Club Radio.

The dance floor was huge, and utterly packed. Preppies and MTV-style trendies mixed and mingled, weaving in and out of one another to the groove of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” On the four huge video screens that surrounded the floor, rotting bodies clawed their way out of the dirt while Vincent Price did a voice-over that would’ve made Peter Vincent green with envy.

For some reason, Charley was less than amused. The deeper he stepped into it, the more the whole thing smacked of nightmare surrealism. There was nothing entertaining about animate corpses at the moment; one was following him, and it wasn’t very much fun at all.

To his left, on the far side of the room, a small plastic sign was obscured by the glare of the lights. He moved toward it anyway, riding a hunch, Amy firmly at his side.