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“You’ll hit Val!” Weinstock yelled, and together he and a furious LaMastra leapt across the table at Mark. The doctor grabbed Mark’s arms and tried to wrench his grip away from the struggling Val; LaMastra caught Mark around the head in a powerful judo choke that would have rendered any strong man helpless in seconds by cutting off all blood to the brain. Unfortunately there was no flow of blood anywhere in Mark’s body and the choke, despite all of LaMastra’s considerable strength, was useless. Spitting with fury, Mark released Val with one hand and reached over his shoulder to take hold of LaMastra’s shirt collar. Mark whipped his arm forward and LaMastra felt himself flying through the air, propelled with incredible force. He crashed into the medicine chest with an explosion of jagged glass splinters and twisted metal, but in his flight his big right shoe caught Ferro perfectly on the point of the jaw and spun him around and his finger jerked the trigger of the shotgun, sending garlic-so
aked pellets into the concrete ceiling. Ferro slumped against the counter and began to sag down to his knees, the room swimming around him. He landed next to LaMastra, who was dazed and bleeding from glass cuts on his face.
Weinstock had thrown his body directly between Mark and Val, literally lying on the one arm that still held Val. He punched at Mark with both fists, even as Val sought to tear at the waxy hand that held her like a vise. Since he could no longer get to Val, Mark darted his head forward, fast as a snake, and sank his teeth right through the white lab coat and into the meat of Saul Weinstock’s shoulder.
The doctor screamed at the searing agony as blood exploded from his arm, drenching his sleeve and spraying Mark’s face with a fine crimson mist. The smell and taste of blood drove Mark into an absolute frenzy.
“GET HIM OFF ME!” shrieked Weinstock, beating at Mark’s face with his fists, smashing cartilage and tearing flesh, but accomplishing nothing.
Jonatha stepped up behind him and swung a fire extinguisher at Mark’s back. The blow bounced off him, but the force was enough to make him release his hold on Weinstock. Still screaming, Weinstock dropped to the floor and scuttled away from him. Released from Mark’s grip, Val overbalanced and fell the other way, landing painfully on elbow and spine.
Jonatha raised the red fire extinguisher again but as she swung it, Mark swatted it out of the air so hard that the tank flew ten feet across the room and buried itself in the wall. The force of Mark’s blow spun Jonatha around and she pirouetted right into the near wall, struck her forehead, and sagged to the floor, out cold.
By now Ferro and Crow had both struggled to their feet and rushed in to attack. Ferro grabbed his shotgun and slammed Mark with the stock, a blow that would have killed an ordinary man, and even though the blow shattered Mark’s jaw and partially tore away his right ear, it did not stop him. The force of the blow spun Ferro, and he slipped on Weinstock’s blood and almost fell. Crow, more agile, scooped up a garlic bulb as he ran and threw it without breaking stride as deftly as any third baseman plucking a line drive and throwing to first to pick off the runner. The garlic struck Mark in the eye, and it was the first thing that had gotten any response. Mark staggered back, clapping both hands to his eye.
“SHOOT HIM!” screamed Val, struggling to sit up despite the searing pain in her spine; but Ferro was already bringing up the gun. It took only a second to snap it up to his shoulder and aim it, but in that second Mark slapped it out of Ferro’s hand with a savage blow, then Mark grabbed Ferro’s throat with both hands and began to to pull him toward his broken, gaping mouth.
Crow leapt at Mark, jumping into the air for a powerful kick that packed all of Crow’s weight and speed into it. The kick caught Mark on the side of the chest and knocked him back several feet, but he kept his hold on Ferro. Crow landed, spun, and kicked Mark in the knee, trying to cripple his leg, hoping for damage to do what mere pain could not. Mark’s leg twisted, but did not collapse despite the audible crunch of bone and cartilage. Before Crow could attack the same leg again, Mark snapped out with one hand and caught Crow by the shirtfront and slammed Ferro and Crow together once, twice, and then swept his hands apart, hurling them into opposite walls. Both men fell bonelessly to the floor.
Mark threw back his head and howled like a triumphant wolf, the sound of it making the whole room tremble, but the howl ended in a low, mean laugh. He took a menacing step forward toward Val, hands clutching the air between them with unholy need.
Val rose from behind the autopsy table and in her hands she held Ferro’s shotgun.
“God forgive me,” she whispered as she raised it to her shoulder and fired.
From four feet away the hard lead pellets and viscous garlic oil took the vampire full in the face and blew him back to Hell.
INTERLUDE
Final Fugue
Mike Sweeney squirmed out from beneath the hay and sat blank-eyed for an hour before he realized who he was and where he was. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and crept out of the barn into the frigid afternoon. Beyond the fields was the dark green wall of the state forest, so Mike went that way, heading in a wandering zigzag course through the woods until he stumbled to a stop at a drop-off that fell away into utter blackness. Going back was out of the question, going left would take him through a dozen farms and then back to town. If he went right he was pretty sure he could make it to Val Guthrie’s farm before full dark.
But he lingered for a while at the drop-off, staring down into the lightless void of Dark Hollow. He wondered what would happen if he just…stepped off? How far would he fall? Would it be a long enough drop so that the fall would kill him? That would be nice. A long drop down into nothingness and to become nothing at the end of it all.
“Mom…,” he said, and just saying it made the lure of the darkness all the stronger.
The air in front of him shimmered and Mike felt as if invisible hands were pushing on him. Not pushing him toward the long dark, but away from it.
A thought came into his head, and it was a strange one because it didn’t feel like one of his own thoughts, but there it was. The thought was if you take that step he’ll win.
He? Mike didn’t know if his inner voice meant Vic or Tow-Truck Eddie. Or did it mean his father?
Mike stood at the edge of the abyss and listened for more from that inner voice, but there was only silence inside. Every tree around him was filled with crows; they were invisible in the shadows, but Mike could hear the soft rustle of their wings.
If you take that step he’ll win.
The voice again, and now he realized that it was a voice, not a thought. It was the same voice that had warned him to run earlier. It was the voice of the man from his waking dream. Mr. Morse.
The crows cawed as if in chorus to that warning.
“You’re not real,” Mike said, addressing the voice in his head.
No. Not anymore.
“Why is this happening to me?” Mike pleaded. “Why me?”
Why not?
