They Thirst (56 page)

"WE'RE HERE!" he shouted and realized at the same instant that Alva's hand was gone. When he looked back, he saw that both the man and his wife had been taken out of the chain, leaving only their small daughter frozen with terror, her hand outstretched where she'd been clutching her mother's dress. Silvera grasped her hand. The bell sang out furiously overhead. Silvera threw open the church door and stood there, quickly herding them in while he counted them. Of thirty-three who'd left the building, twenty-six had made it. When the last one had stepped across the threshold, Silvera slammed the door shut and leaned against it, the breath rasping through his lungs. Several people fell down before the altar and began to pray; there were shrieks and sobs, a wild tumult of noise.

He hadn't believed in vampires; he wasn't sure now if he did or not, but he knew one thing for certain—whatever could exist in that storm wasn't human. He touched

Juan Romero on the shoulder. "Go up to the tower and take over the bell from Leon," Silvera said. "Keep ringing it until I send someone else up. Hurry!" Juan nodded and moved away. If anyone could hear that bell, Silvera reasoned, then maybe they could reach the church and safety. He put his face in his hands and prayed for strength. He was going to have to go back out there, into the dozens of other buildings that surrounded the church, to help as many people as he could find. He was afraid there would not be very many. But this time he wouldn't go out unprepared.

He walked to the altar and picked up the heavy brass crucifix; it caught the golden candlelight and shimmered. But it was so cold. Though it was a symbol of hope, he felt full of dark, bleak hopelessness. He gripped his hands around the crucifix's sharp edges, aware of how many eyes were watching him. He could use this to break into a grocery store for canned goods and bottled water. The stained-glass image of Jesus, occasionally shuddering with the violent wind, stared down at him through stern gray eyes.
You're dying anyway,
Silvera told himself,
so why should you be so afraid? Why should you want to cling to life like an old woman wringing drops out of a dish-rag? Your days are numbered. Make them count.

Then he gripped the crucifix, adjusted the towel over his face, and stepped back out into the maelstrom.

"Reminds me of the blizzards we used to have back home," Wes said softly, watching as the last clear square on the windshield was covered over. Now he and Solange sat in darkness. She had pressed against him, leaning her head on his shoulder, and though it was terribly hot, Wes didn't mind and neither did she. It was better somehow to be near one another. "One day Winter Hill would be a study in golds and browns, then when the storm passed through during the night and you looked out the window in the morning, the world would be white right up to the horizon. Trees, houses, fields . . . everything. People ride sleighs in Winter Hill when the snow falls like that, no kidding. Did I ever tell you I know how to snow-shoe?"

"No," Solange whispered.

"What'd I say I know how to do?"

"Snowshoe."

"Louder."

"Snowshoe!"

"Gesundheit! Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, about the sleighs. They were a terrific way to get around. The last time I went home for Christmas, everybody was using those damned snowmobiles. Progress, right? Well . . ." He decided he'd better shut up because he suddenly realized he couldn't breathe worth a damn. He finally managed to find a gulp of air. He wanted to comfort Solange, though, because when they were silent for too long she began to cry. Out of all the thousand or so jokes he had told before audiences in L.A., Las Vegas, and San Francisco he couldn't seem to remember a single one, just fragments of comedy bits that didn't make sense
—
What's big, stiff, and belongs to Roy Rogers? Trigger; What'd the hung-over angel who'd visited earth overnight say to a furious St. Peter? Sorry, Pete, but I left my harp in Sam Frank's disco; Missionary in Africa's out walking one day and comes face-to-face with a lion. He sinks down to his knees and starts to pray for his life when the lion gets down on its knees beside him. "Dear brother lion," the missionary says, "how wonderful it is to see you joining me in Christian prayer when just a moment ago I feared for my life . . ." And the lion growls, "Don't interrupt while I'm sayin' grace!"

Praying,
Wes thought.
Now that might be an idea. What should I say? God please get us the hell out of here? God don't give up on old Wes and Solange just yet? God whose side are you on anyway?
The answer to that seemed painfully clear.
I've come a long way to die in a fucking sandstorm,
Wes thought.
From frat parties to bars to the Comedy Store to the big time, more or less, and all of it could now be just so much shit in a totebag. No agent to get the jobs now, no accountants to find the tax loopholes and the shelters, no fan mail pouring into the slot. Nobody saying how good I was and how much money I was going to make and that I was going to be King of Comedy Hill for a long, long time . . . nobody now but me and Solange.

Well,
he thought,
that would have to be enough.

His brain felt feverish.
Where the hell are we? Sitting on the freeway, maybe right in the middle of it, somewhere over East L.A. Probably no shelter for blocks; the Mercedes stalled in what looked like a Sahara Desert sand dune. And vampires out there somewhere. Jimmy dead. Screaming in agony before he died. A bell ringing. Ambulance sirens wailing, lights flashing across a wide green lawn. A bell ringing. Crazy old lady in a wheelchair, grabbing my arm, scaring shit out of me. Blackberry brandy. Police car coming. A bell ringing. Parker Center, and a girl cracking up in the elevator. A bell . . . . . . RINGING . . .?

He opened his eyes, hadn't even felt himself starting to slip away.
What was that noise? Wait a minute, wait a minute! WAIT A MINUTE! A bell's ringing out there somewhere! Or is it my imagination?
He thought he heard it again, a soft distant moan that had a musical note to it, not like the shrill hissings of the wind at all. But now it was gone, if it had ever been there to begin with. He gently shook Solange. "What is it?" she said thickly, her breathing hoarse and uneven.

"Listen. Wait a minute . . . there! Did you hear that? A bell ringing?"

She shook her head. "No. It's the wind." Her eyes dropped, and she laid her head back on his shoulder.

"Don't go to sleep!" he said. "Wake up and listen! I'm telling you that's a bell ringing out there!"

"Bell. . . what bell. . . ?"

And now he heard it again, a distinct, low, musical note through the harsh discord of the storm. He thought it was coming from somewhere to the right, but he couldn't tell how far away. "Solange," he said, "I think maybe we're closer to shelter than we thought! We can make it there, I think! It won't be too far away!"

"No," she whispered. "I'm sleepy. We can't make it. . ."

"We can!" He shook her again, harder, trying to stave off the long, dark rolling waves that were beginning to spread through his body. "We're going to have to try, at least! Here, put your hood up. Cup your hands in front of your face to keep the sand out of your lungs. Can you do that?"

"I don't know . . . I'm so tired . . ."

"Me too, but we can't stay here if there's a safe place so close! We can sleep when we get there, okay? Come on. Put your hood up and try to shield your face with it." He did it for her. "There you go. Okay, I'm going to get out first and come around for you. Take a couple of deep breaths." When she tried, she winced with the effort; there was barely any air left to breathe. Wes's head was buzzing fiercely, the dark waves closing in. "I'm opening the door now. You ready?"

She nodded.

Wes pushed against the door and found it jammed shut. Panic exploded in his stomach. He shoved harder, the muscles in his shoulder straining. Sand began to stream off the window in thick rivulets, and it slithered into the car as Wes pushed. Then he'd opened it wide enough for them to slip out. He took Solange's hand as she slid across the seat and stepped out into a blinding flurry of sand, his feet sinking to the knees. A wall of sand came sliding over him, and as he tried to fight free of it, he almost lost Solange's grip. But then his face was clear, and he wrenched Solange after him through what he now realized had been a sand dune heaped up against the Mercedes's side.

It was dark now, and through the twisting currents of wind, he could see faint sparkles of light from across the river in downtown L.A. Behind him, East L.A. and beyond lay in utter darkness. The wind seemed to have lessened somewhat since Wes had stopped the car; at least he could stand without having to struggle for balance. Sand still stung his face like hellish nettles and flamed the air he tried to draw between his teeth. There
was
air, though, and he found he could breathe fairly well if he kept his teeth gritted and remembered to spit every minute or so to clear his mouth. Above him he could hear howling currents of air; the worst of the storm seemed to have risen and was now circling relentlessly over the city. Wes saw that the Mercedes was stripped of all its paint. There were more cars scattered on the freeway up ahead, all of them scoured down to shining metal. Dunes six and seven feet high had heaped up around them, collapsing over hoods and roofs. Most of the sodium-vapor lights along the freeway had gone out, but those few that remained cast a cold, bluish glow down upon a scene of desolation that again reminded

Wes of the aftermath of a blizzard. One of the lightposts had gone down just ahead and lay stretched across the freeway, its bulb crackling like a dying meteor.

Wes heard the moaning of that bell again way off to the right. Somewhere down in the darkness of East L.A. He spat sand out of his mouth, shielding his eyes with one hand. "You okay?" he asked Solange, having to shout. She answered with a slight squeeze of his hand, and he began moving toward the nearest off-ramp, his shoes sinking into a couple of inches of sand. They passed a car with several bodies tumbling out of it, as if they'd died trying to dig their way out. Solange caught sight of one staring, blue-fleshed face and quickly looked away. Further on they came to a corpse, half-buried in the sand, that grinned up at them through a twisted death rictus; Wes could envision that thing sitting up, sand streaming off its body, and whispering,
"See? I got away from them. Oh, no, I wouldn't let them take me, so I just laid down and went to sleep. That's what you should've done, too. It would have been so much easier . . .

The sound of that bell seemed nearer. Wes thought he saw an off-ramp just ahead under the pale glow of a sodium-vapor lamp. "You still with me?" he said.

"I'm fine! Don't worry about me!"

Wes almost stepped on two bodies, a man and a woman holding hands. He guided Solange around them, his nerve about to break.

They had started down the off-ramp when Wes heard a distant rumbling. He looked back over his shoulder and saw headlights moving quickly toward them from the west. Motorcycles, about fifteen or twenty of them. His heart leapt—
Highway Patrol cops!
He let go of Solange and started waving his arms, shouting, "Hey! Over here! Over here!"

"Wes," Solange said. "Wait. . . I don't think . .."

The motorcycles curved toward them, sending up spinning tails of sand. Wes saw the face of the lead rider, white-fleshed and skeletal, red eyes burning with hunger. The thing grinned, then opened its mouth wide and motioned for the others to hurry. The fangs glinted with ghostly blue light.

Wes turned in horrid slow-motion and reached for Solange, but suddenly his vision was filled with a blinding white light and the stuttering roar of the motorcycles bore down on him. He was struck in the side by a booted foot. Pain shot through him as he fell to the pavement. He hung motionless for a few seconds over a dark void and then slowly, slowly tumbled head-over-heels into its maw. From its center he heard the shrilling of wind, cracking and popping motorcycle exhaust, laughter, and Solange calling to him. Her screaming soon stopped. "Good-lookin' bitch . . . so good, so fiiine," someone said, the voice echoing in Wes's head. "You can have what's left of
him,
Viking. Oh yeah, baby, you're gonna be so gooood to Kobra . . ."

The throbbing of his ribs roused Wes. He was being turned over by rough, freezing hands. Through a mist of pain Wes saw the face over him—broad and bearded, pallid and vampiric. "He's alive," the biker said. "Ain't much to him, but I figger he's worth a couple of swigs . . ."

"You said I could take the next one, man!" someone else called out.

"Viking rates over you, Dicko," the one called Kobra said. "Let him feed. You'll take the next one."

"Shit!" Dicko said. "Ain't nothing but dead meat around here!"

'Take it easy, man. When we hook up with those Ghost Riders and the rest of the Death Machine, we'll flush 'em out like rats. Be plenty for everybody."

Viking bent over Wes, his mouth slowly opening. Wes could see the bursts of silver in his eyes, and his own face reflected in the merciless mirrors.

"Git some, Viking!" one of the others called out and laughed.

Suddenly Viking blinked and jerked his head back. "Shit! Burnin' my eyes!" He leaped up and away from Wes, his large belly shaking as his body trembled. "Bastard's got somethin' in his clothes. Kobra! Got something that burns my eyes!" He rubbed at them and backed away.