They Thirst (61 page)

"Do you think he's going to die?" Gayle asked.

"I'm certainly no doctor," Jo said. "But he's a small boy. I hope he's stronger than he looks."

Palatazin brought the towels, one of which he'd soaked in cold water. Jo started cleaning the crusted blood away, then pressed a towel against the wound.

Gayle watched for a few minutes and then turned away. She could hear the wind's shriek outside, and it seemed to her that it sounded much more savage than it had only half an hour before. She stepped to the window and saw sand corkscrewing in the middle of the street like a miniature tornado. The window rattled in its frame.
Oh, my God,
she thought.
Oh, no
. . . "How long until sunrise?" she asked Palatazin.

"An hour or so."

"My God," she whispered. "I . . . I think the storm's building again. The wind's getting stronger." Her control broke, hot fear flooding out of her. "Why won't the storm move out to sea? Why won't it just . . . go away or die down or . . . leave us alone?
Why won't it?"
She turned to stare at Palatazin.

"Because somehow
they
brought it here," he said quietly. Jo looked up at him from the boy. "It'll grow stronger during the daylight hours to keep people isolated and trapped. Then when night falls again, the vampires will be out in full force."

"We can't . . . we can't last another night!" Jo's voice was thick with dread.

"I know that. Somehow I've got to reach that castle today. I've got to find the vampire king and destroy him."

"How?"
Gayle asked. "When the storm gets worse, you won't even be able to get two blocks from here, much less make it all the way across fucking Hollywood! And what about those dogs up there? Do you think they'll step off the road and just let you walk right on past?"

"No. I don't. I'm going to make it up the mountain some way other than the road . . ."

"Climb it? Now you're really flipping out."

"What would you presume I do?" he shouted at her, his face reddening. "What are my choices? There's Death on every side now, but shall we just sit here and wait for it to come grinning in the night? NO! I have to reach the Kronsteen castle before sundown!"

The boy stirred again. "Kronsteen . . ." he moaned. "Vampire. Bite you . .."

Palatazin looked down at the small body in surprise.
What could this boy know of Orlon Kronsteen?
But then the boy was quiet, and whatever questions Palatazin had for him would have to wait—if he could ever answer them at all.

"You can't make it up to that castle," Gayle said. Behind her the wind gnawed at the glass.

"If I don't," he answered her coldly, "who will?"

Jo could see that Andy had already decided, and there was nothing more to be said. She went back to work on the boy, her eyes burning.
It was all hopeless, of course. Everything was hopeless,
she thought, from his reaching the castle to her being able to save this boy. But perhaps in Andy's decision there was a spark of hope that might keep them all alive for just one more day.

Prince Vulkan sat at the head of his council table in his attack command chamber, the same room in which he had crushed Phillip Falco's skull and tossed him into the fireplace. The stink of charred meat still clung to the walls. Maps of Los Angeles were smoothed out before him, and at the table sat his lieutenants, Kobra on his right and Roach—the only human within a radius of more than a mile—at his left.

It was almost time to sleep. Prince Vulkan could feel the heavy weariness overtaking him fast, but he was elated. From the reports of his lieutenants those areas called Beverly Hills, West Los Angeles, Culver City, and Highland Park had been completely overrun. The human population of Boyle Heights had been reduced to a few hidden groups, and the central part of Hollywood had all but fallen as well. His lieutenants were as fat as ticks. Like celebrants at a Roman orgy, they had fed, thrown up blood, fed, thrown up again, and feverishly hunted down more victims.

"Master," a young black vampire, who had in life been an administrative aide to the mayor, was saying, "the East Division needs more troops in Alhambra and Monterey Park. We can take those areas in one night if we're allowed another thousand." He wore the dirty remnants of what had been an expensive, gray vested suit; there were spatters of blood on his shirt.

"It's most important to concentrate on the canyon communities, Master," a vampire across the table said. He had curly, iron-gray hair and wore a profusion of silver chains spilling down the open vee of his Calvin Klein western shirt. Up until several nights ago he had been a major power at the Warner Brothers studios. "I've had reports from both Laurel and Coldwater canyons of scattered sightings. They're trying to escape across the Santa Monica Mountains."

Vulkan's gaze flared. "Were they stopped?"

"Yes. Most of them . . ."

"You didn't answer my question. They weren't stopped, were they?" Vulkan stared at him for a silent moment, his cat eyes blazing.

"We . . . we need more troops to patrol the . . . canyons," he protested softly, beginning to tremble.

Vulkan leaned forward. "I want none of them escaping, do you understand that? None of them. I don't care if the Central Division has to go without food. I want those gaps filled. And they
will
be filled. Won't they?"

The vampire nodded. "Immediately, Master."

"Perhaps Western Division can spare a thousand or so?" Vulkan looked across the table at a young vampire with shoulder-length, blond hair and the last yellow tinge of a surfer's tan.

"We can after we finish up in Venice," he said. "Lots of 'em are still hidin' in their basements over there. Then we'll go right through the condos at Marina Del Rey like shit through a goose, just slice 'em to pieces. I figure we can spare a thousand or so easy."

"Good." Vulkan's eyes were bright and giddy. He grinned and clasped his hands together, like a child at a carnival who sees so many lights he doesn't know where to turn first. He wished his father could see him now; he knew the Hawk would be very proud, perhaps even a bit envious. His father's greatest campaign—a war of revenge into the wild northland after rampaging barbarians had set two of the Hawk's villages to the torch—had lasted almost six months and resulted in a critical weakening of his army. Now here was Prince Conrad Vulkan, son of the Hawk, who would be young and strong forever, on the eve of conquering a city the size of which might have driven his father to madness. His army could never lose its strength; it would only grow in power, night after night, faster and faster, until the world trembled at its thunderous approach.
Oh, he thought, how good it was to be alive!
He looked at Kobra. "And the armored infantry? How many do you command now, Kobra?"

"The Death Machine, the Ghost Riders, most of the Angels, and the Undertakers—about thirty-five hundred able to ride right now, another fifteen hundred who'll be ready tomorrow night. We've got the hogs in a warehouse over near the river, but I don't know how long the engines are gonna last with all this sand blowin' around. That shit gets in the carbs and the fuel lines, and there's hell to pay. 'Course, we've got mechanics workin' on 'em, but . . ."

"You won't have to deal with the sand much longer," Vulkan said. "Once our objective is reached, the storm will pass. Until then you'll have to make do." He looked to the center of the table where the sand was beginning to corkscrew faster in the gleaming golden bowl. The others had stared at it fearfully when they'd come to the council, and none of them dared touch it.

"What powers that, Master?" Roach asked, his voice brimming with wonder. It looked to him like some gleaming jewel, a golden mechanism sent spinning by a force he couldn't even begin to understand.

"The hand that powers us all," Prince Vulkan said. "It's a holy object, and you would do well to remember that." He cast his gaze along the table. "Any more comments, reports, or suggestions? No? Then it is time to sleep. The council is adjourned." They rose from their chairs and moved toward the door. "Sleep well," Vulkan told them, and then looked up at Roach, who'd lagged behind. "Yes?"

"I just wanted to . . . say . . . I want to be like you someday. I want to . . . live forever, like you and the others. I want to know what it feels like, Master." His eyes were huge and shining behind his glasses, and he was almost panting. "Will you make me like you?"

Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment. "Perhaps someday," he said finally. "Right now I need you as you are."

"I'll do anything for you, I'll follow you anywhere! Anything you ask, but please let me feel the power, too!"

Vulkan said, "Leave me. I want to be alone now."

Roach nodded and backed away. He stopped at the door. "Do you want me to go down and feed the dogs now?"

Someday,
Vulkan thought,
you shall. Just as Falco did when his usefulness had ended.
"No, not yet. But make sure they're out at sunrise."

Roach left the room, his footsteps scuttling away down the stone-floored corridor. In the firelight the golden urn winked like a maleficent and beautiful eye. The sand had begun to spin with greater force. Vulkan watched it, mesmerized.

And now he could sense the presence of spirits around him, shades of beings who had lived and died in Los Angeles for scores of years. They were everywhere now, floating through the castle like silver cobwebs. His activity had stirred them up, brought them back from the dead in defiance. He recalled the night he'd intercepted the messages flowing between the spirit that had walked here when he first came and a house in that section of the city called Bel Air. The dead were restless and trying to halt his advance. But what should he care about them? They were phantoms, things that moved without shape or substance, and he was well beyond their grasp. Now he was Prince Conrad Vulkan, King of the Vampires, and no power on or of earth could ever stop him! He stared at the urn and thought he saw a specter moving toward it, trying to pass a shadowy grip through the spinning column of sand. Of course, that couldn't be done, and Prince Vulkan began to laugh with childish glee. The laughter grew, echoing in the rafters like a demonic chorus.

Nothing could stand in his way now; nothing could halt the advance of his army. When darkness fell again, the divisions would secure their own areas and then begin to radiate outward, like an exploding star, while the Central Division continued to explore the inner city in wider spirals, searching for stragglers. But Prince Vulkan knew there would not be many.

It was almost dawn. He could feel the coming sunlight —which this day would be no more than a faint glow in the thick, amber grain of the sky—with a sense of unease at the pit of his stomach. He left the chamber, left the swirling, helpless ghosts, and went down into the murky depths of the castle where his ebony casket filled with coarse Hungarian dirt waited.

Father Silvera was guiding a long chain of people toward his church from a decrepit, tottering tenement. The storm was furious, sand lashing his face like a cat-o'-nine-tails. He gripped the hand of the person behind him, and now he was stepping over half-buried corpses at his feet. He could see the church ahead, the vaguest dark outline in the yellow wind. When he reached the steps, he felt a shudder vibrate up his arm and looked back. They were all gone, all the people swept away either by the storm or by the vampires. He'd been gripping empty air, and his dead hand hadn't even registered the difference. In the distance he could hear people shrieking for his help, calling out his name, sobbing. He shouted "Where are you?" but then the sand whipped into his mouth and began to choke him, and he knew he could never find all of them, he knew he'd let them go, and there was nothing he could do for them, nothing . . . nothing. . . .

His head jerked upward. His eyes opened. He lay in deep blue light, the pounding of his heart making his entire body tremble. He was aware of three distinct sounds—the tolling of Mary's Voice above his head, the muffled sound of voices talking and weeping, and the steady roaring of the wind. He sat up from where he'd fallen asleep—
how long? An hour or more?
—
on a pew and found that someone had spread a striped blanket across him. There was someone else asleep beside him, and at the end of the pew, a girl who looked no more than fifteen was nursing an infant. From the rear of the sanctuary, a woman began to weep in long, agonized moans; someone else whispered to her, trying to calm her. A baby began to wail. Father Silvera suddenly realized that there was a trace of light within the church from outside. He looked at the stained-glass window and saw some of the blue panes beginning to glow. On the altar most of the candles had burned themselves out.

Morning,
he thought with a surge of relief.
Oh, thank God! We've survived the night!
He stood up, stepping over and around people huddled both on the pews and the floor, and peered out the front door. Sand whipped into his face; the wind had risen, and now it screamed violently around the church. The dunes had already shifted, and now they were building up eight and nine feet high against those walls that cut the wind's force. No one could go out in that and live very long, he knew. He closed the door and rebolted it, grit prickling the stubble of his beard.