Road Rage (3 page)

*****

 

The man in the business suit plowed through the crowd on the sidewalk with single-minded intensity, swinging a briefcase in one hand and holding a cell phone to his ear with the other. People hopped and stumbled to get out of his way; some caught an elbow or shoulder as he hurtled past.

Then, at an intersection, he crossed the line. Instead of waiting for the DON'T WALK signal to change to WALK, he saw that traffic was clear and he decided to cross. Blocked by a young woman in the orange and green uniform of a fast food restaurant, he reached out and shoved her aside, clearing the way. She cursed as he trotted off the curb and across the street, but he just kept talking on the phone, seemingly oblivious.

Walter watched and followed from behind, seething. Yet again, he had found a target who deserved to go down.

There were always plenty on the streets of Dayton, as many cases of people taking out their hostilities against others on foot as Walter had encountered at the controls of the Dodge. It seemed to him that pedestrians needed a self-appointed guardian just as much as drivers did, if not more.

Which was a good thing, since Walter couldn't drive anymore.

That wild night three months ago on state route 115 had grounded him in every conceivable way. For one thing, the Dodge had been totaled, smashed up beyond hope of repair. Not only that, but replacing it was out of the question; he would not have been able to drive a replacement vehicle because his body had been smashed up beyond repair, too.

The crash had killed his right arm and left leg, leaving the right leg as his only functioning limb. The only transportation he could drive anymore was his electric wheelchair...and he could only operate that by tonguing the controls of the special mouthpiece he wore.

But the truth was, even if he had retained the use of his arm and legs, Walter would not have dared get back on the road. The road wouldn't let him do it.

The few times he'd been transported in vehicles since the accident, the vehicles had blown tires or wrecked. A van taking him from the hospital to the nursing home where he now lived had been struck by a falling telephone pole, killing the driver. In the back of the ambulance transporting him from the scene of the van wreck, he was sure he'd seen the pavement behind him break apart in a jagged, fiery grin.

Apparently, route 115's warning to get off and stay off had been dead serious and further reaching than he could have imagined. Apparently, the warning extended beyond 115 to every road in the area, if not the state, country, and world.

So no more riding the highways for him. He was able to scoot across streets in his wheelchair, but that seemed to be the limit...and even then, he was terrified that the pavement would crack open and swallow him up.

But Walter wouldn't let it keep him down. Instead of wasting away feeling sorry for himself, he slipped out of the nursing home whenever he could and did his part to stem the tide of rage. Maybe he didn't have an SUV to use as a weapon, and he didn't have legs to chase someone down and arms to grab and punch with, but a fast-moving wheelchair could still knock an offender over, halting a sidewalk rampage and leaving him or her with cuts and bruises to think about.

Walter made the most of what he had left. He owed it to his wife, who had died in the Mercedes over a year ago, and to the passenger in the Subaru who had died in the same crash: Walter's teenage son, Keith, who had been stoned enough not to recognize his parent's car in front of him and call off his tailgating friend at the wheel. Keith, who might still be alive if Walter hadn't run the Nissan off the road and cut back into the right lane to collide with the Subaru.

Walter had a lot to do to make up for that one. He had to make the roads safe for the innocent...and if not the roads, the sidewalks…and if not the sidewalks, the hallways.

And if not the hallways, the bed next to him when they finally took away his magic chair.

The crowd parted before him, opening up a straight shot between him and the business-suited, cell-phone-talking pushypants. Walter narrowed his eyes and touched his tongue to the accelerator contact on the mouthpiece.

The wheelchair leaped forward, racing up behind the oblivious menace like an unannounced lightning bolt.

*****

Special Preview:
Bloodliner

 

By Robert T. Jeschonek

Now Available

 

Jonah was drunk, pissed at the world, fresh from his mom and dad's viewing at the funeral home...and he was playing what might have been his best gig ever.

He had always been good, but he was great that night. He ripped through every song with unusual precision and ferocity. Instead of note-perfect renditions, he brought each solo alive with newfound fire and surprise. He pushed the whole band to a new level, and he could tell they loved it.

As they drove through one Jethro Tull classic after another, from "Locomotive Breath" to "Thick as a Brick," all four musicians grinned with rare and predatory intensity. It wasn't just a run-of-the-mill gig.

Too bad hardly anyone was there to see it.

The bar, a downtown Tucson dive joint called Halcyon, was tiny...and nowhere near full. Not counting the bartender, Jonah didn't see more than ten people in the room at the same time that night.

But he played for those ten people like he was playing for a full house. Like he was playing with something to prove.

Something to forget.

The audience, small as it was, definitely caught the vibe and egged on the band. It was the kind of give-and-take that Jonah thrived on, with band and audience equally focused and serious and unified.

And some were more focused than others. One, in particular, was focused hard on Jonah.

She looked twenty-something, with shoulder-length blonde hair and impossibly bright blue eyes. A tight-fitting white tank top and black leather skirt hugged the curves of her perfectly sloped and rounded body.

If she ever took her eyes off Jonah, he didn't see it happen. She watched every move he made and locked eyes with him every time he looked out at her.

She didn't seem to be with anyone. She just stood with a bottle of beer in her hand, six feet away from Jonah, dancing to every single song with supple, undulating movements.

Which, naturally, made him play with even more fire. He had a pretty good idea what might be coming next.

Sure enough, at the end of the first set, the girl made a beeline for him. With a silent, knowing smile, she wrapped his hand in her own and led him out the back door into the alley outside.

Then, she closed the door behind them and pinned him against the wall.

Jonah's heart pounded as she flexed her body against his. Her hands, where they locked his wrists to the wall, were cold, but her gaze was filled with heat.

"You were amazing in there." Her throaty voice was a purr. "I am so turned on right now."

"I know the feeling." Jonah grinned. Playing with the band had taken his mind off his troubles a little. Maybe the blonde would take his mind the rest of the way off, if only for a while.

Without another word, the girl moved in for a kiss. Jonah's heart beat even faster as he finally made the contact he'd been anticipating for so long.

But the kiss was not quite what he'd expected.

The girl's lips were freezing cold, as if she'd just eaten ice cream or gone swimming. There wasn't the slightest trace of warmth anywhere in her kiss.

Jonah pulled back. "Are you chilly?" Even as he asked the question, he couldn't imagine that she could possibly feel cold in that alley. It was a hot desert night in Tucson, probably in the nineties...plus which, heat was rolling off an air conditioning unit in the window a few yards away.

"Low blood pressure. But we can fix that." The girl moved in for another kiss. Her fingers latched onto his belt buckle.

"We need you," said the girl.

We?
That was when Jonah realized something wasn't right.

He suddenly felt much hotter than he thought he should. His lower body, in fact, was quickly becoming uncomfortable, as if he were standing too close to a hot stove.

Jonah looked down...and immediately wished he hadn't.

He'd never seen anything like it. Thin streams of blood projected from the tops of his legs--a dozen streams per leg punching right through his clothing. They met in a glistening red veil that hung suspended in midair, rippling mere inches from the girl's face. As Jonah watched, new streams burst from his legs and added their crimson liquid to the veil.

"What the
hell
?" said Jonah. "What are you
doing
?"

But the girl did not answer.

Get out of here. Now.

Jonah was in for another shock when he tried to escape: his hands were stuck to the wall, and his feet were locked to the floor of the alley.

He couldn't move.

What's going on here?

Then, it got worse.

The girl opened her mouth wide, and red filaments reached toward her from the veil. The sinuous filaments twisted and writhed as they flowed between her scarlet lips and over her jet black tongue.

Black tongue? Black tongue?!? Why didn't I notice
that
before?

The girl spoke without closing her mouth. The red filaments splashed against the tip of her tongue when it moved. "How delicious," she said. "I love you."

She's a vampire! Vampires are real!

"I'll blow you a kiss," she said, and then she puckered her lips and squirted a flume of blood toward Jonah's face.

The blood stopped in front of his nose and hung in midair. It curled and contorted and rotated, forming into a gleaming red shape.

A throbbing cartoon heart the size of a quarter.

Since when can vampires do this kind of crazy stuff?

The girl giggled. "Happy birthday, baby," she said. "Wait'll you see what comes next."

Jonah couldn't take his eyes off the floating cartoon heart. It changed as he watched, twisting and kneading itself into a new shape.

A skull and crossbones.

That was when Jonah finally tried to scream. He tried with all his strength to scream as loud as he could.

And when no sound emerged from his throat, he tried to scream even louder.

 

*****

It was as if someone had heard Jonah's silent cry. Seconds after he tried in vain to scream his head off, the sound of gunfire crackled in the alley.

Multiple impacts shook the blood-drinking girl and pitched her from her knees to the dusty floor of the alley. As she dropped, so did the veil and filaments of blood. So did the floating skull and crossbones. All of it lost shape immediately and plunged down in one big splatter on the pavement.

In the same instant, Jonah regained some of the movement in his extremities. His arms and legs still felt heavy and stiff, but at least he could finally change position.

Now, if he could just avoid getting shot.

As Jonah stepped away from the wall, a figure moved out of the shadows. The first thing Jonah saw coming toward him was the smoking barrel of a gun.

A machine gun. Pointed right at him.

Then, he heard a familiar voice. "This is what it's all about." A female voice. "Protection."

Jonah was kind of shell-shocked, but he realized who was doing the talking just before she stepped fully into view.

"Stanza." Jonah didn't rush to her side right away. For one thing, he hardly knew her. For another, as relieved as he was to see a fellow non-vampire...

How do I know she isn't a vampire, too?

"What's going on here?" said Jonah as he buckled his belt.

"Did you know I get a bonus every time I save your life?" Stanza grabbed him by the arm and yanked him around to stand behind her. "And if you die, I get nothing."

"Nothing?" said Jonah.

"Not one red cent. So stay here." With that, Stanza moved forward, keeping the machine gun pointed at the blood-spattered blonde on the alley pavement.

The blonde lifted her head and glared. "Bitch." She hissed the word through clenched teeth. "You just became my main course."

Stanza fired more rounds into the vampire's chest, flinging her back and bouncing her off the pavement. "I've got three words for you," she said, waving the machine gun. "Black ironwood points."

The vampire howled in pain and clutched at the seeping red blossom over her heart. She suddenly lunged forward, clawing with one taloned hand at Stanza...but another burst from the machine gun threw her back again.

Stanza looked at Jonah and brushed a lock of black hair behind her ear. "Ammo tipped with hardwood," she said. "Very effective. It's like stabbing them in the heart with dozens of little stakes moving thousands of feet per second."

Jonah gaped at the writhing, bloody blonde on the alley floor. "That'd kill anybody."

"But not everything that kills anybody is enough to kill someone like
her
." Stanza turned and fired more rounds.

The blonde lay still for a moment, then began to jerk and twitch spontaneously. Stanza placed a hand on Jonah's chest and eased him back a step.

"Don't get too close," she said. "Here's where it gets ugly."

You mean it hasn't already?

As Jonah watched, the blonde spasmed repeatedly, then stopped. For a long moment, nothing moved or made a sound in the alley except the air conditioning unit in the back window of Halcyon.

Then, suddenly, the hacked-up flesh of the vampire's chest began to squirm. Shreds of skin and bone flexed up from the place where her heart should have been. Something was pushing its way through from underneath.

At first, as the thing emerged, Jonah thought it looked like a baby's head, bloody and covered with dark, downy hair.

Then, it unfurled.

The gruesome mass bloomed like a flower, poking through the chest wound and popping open. Its true form lay revealed, pulsing and glistening on the blonde's upper body.

Twelve tentacles swayed and twined around a central bulb the size of a fist. The bulb's slimy pink flesh rippled with eyes and jagged-toothed mouths that snapped and gnashed and oozed.

The tentacles were lined with suckers and fluttering cilia strung with slime. Oily black fur streaked the outer skin, barely concealing clusters of blisters and running sores.

"They say you never forget your first look at a
feratu
," said Stanza.

Jonah was transfixed. The creature Stanza had called a
feratu
was like something out of a horror movie.

"Now you know." Stanza replaced the ammo clip in her machine gun. "That's why it takes a stake through the heart to kill a vampire. Because that's where the
feratu
sits."

As Jonah watched, the
feratu
flipped itself over and crawled across the blonde on its hairy tentacles. It left a trail of bloody slime in its wake.

Stanza followed it with the barrel of her machine gun. "A vampire doesn't have a heart," she said. "The
feratu
eats it and takes its place. Pumps the blood, everything. Perfect setup for a creature that thrives on drinking blood."

The
feratu
hopped off the blonde's head and scuttled toward Jonah. He backed away and glanced behind him, sizing up his escape route.

"Two ways it can make you a vampire," said Stanza. "One, it infects your bloodstream with its babies through the bite of a host. Two..."

Suddenly, the
feratu
scrambled forward with a burst of speed. Adrenaline surged through Jonah's body, and he started to run.

That was when Stanza fired the machine gun. The
feratu
danced in a hail of ironwood-tipped bullets, exploding in a flash of flesh and fangs and fur and blood.

When the thing had been blown to sufficiently tiny bits, Stanza released the trigger. "Two, it jumps on you, burrows in through your urinary tract, and eats its way to your heart."

"Geez." Jonah was shaking. He tried to stop looking at the gruesome mess on the alley floor. "Ever hear the expression 'too much information?'"

"More on the way, Jonah." Stanza gazed up at the rooftops on either side of the alley. "They're hunting you. In force. They need you."

Jonah stared at her. "That's what the vampire said. 'We need you.'"

"Sure you're not up for some travel?" said Stanza.

"What makes you think I'll be any safer traveling than staying put?" said Jonah.

"They know where to find you now." Stanza kicked at the shredded remains of the
feratu
. "Wouldn't a moving target be harder to hit?"

Jonah frowned. "You're leaving when?"

"Right now," said Stanza. "Trust me, they're already closing in on you."

Jonah shook his head. "Mom and Dad's funeral is tomorrow."

"Would they rather have you alive or undead? What do you think?" Stanza marched over and lifted the dead vampire's head by her bloody blonde hair. The head tore away, and the rest of the corpse slumped to the pavement. "This isn't a joke, Jonah. Want to end up like her?"

Jonah shifted his weight from one foot to the other. What he really wanted to do was run, all right...run away from Stanza and the blonde and the
feratu
and the funeral and everything. Just start over without all the noise.

"I need to think about it," said Jonah.

"There's no time." Stanza tossed the head aside and stomped over to stare him in the eye. "We've got to leave
now
."

"And go where?" said Jonah. "What's the first stop?"

"Church, of course." Stanza smiled. "Where did you think?"