T H I R T E E N
There's got to be air in your lungs to push out over your voice box before you can scream out loud. So that's why I couldn't when I came awake for the second time that night, buried in my sleeping bag in Mallock's van. My chest was torn open. Ribs were broken. There were a lot of bruises and abrasions. A lot of blood. Found out later, I'd been thrown up against a tree after the bike hit. That's an absolutely accurate description of how I felt, too. Thrown up. And flushed. When I came to, all I could feel was the pain spiked with the backlash fear/shock of the biker who'd hit me. At first it was impossible to separate my feelings from his. I was wild – reacting – not thinking, not rational. Just raw-open like butchered meat. When a person is bad hurt, there isn't anything else in that tiny universe except pain and the panic-need to make it stop. And I couldn't do that either. I thrashed around but that didn't help. Tried to get up, chasing this crazy instinct that still wailed "Run!" No good. Eventually, I just fetaled up and held on, rocking back and forth. Screamed in my head. Then the sleeping bag was torn away from my face and there was Rick Mallock staring down at me. I should have been able to smell him coming, the booze and sweat stink was so strong. Instead there was this blast of cold as my cover went and Mallock's face hovering overhead, skin white as rime, blooded eyes staring at me out of charcoaled pits. If it had been possible, I think I would have thrown back my head and howled. Stared back at him instead until another jab of agony surged up from my toes and I twisted against it. Mallock grabbed my shoulder, held me still. "Don't do that," he snapped. "You'll make it worse." I was gasping hard, trying to draw in air. Kept trying to say "help me" but nothing would come out. Never thought to just send the message. But Mallock understood. Guess he'd hear that request in Triage so often he didn't need a translator. Next thing I knew, he was helping me to lay flat on my back and reaching for his bag. For a terrifying second, every fifth-rate, video Van Helsing waltzed before my eyes. Then I closed them and whatever Rick told me to do, I did. The smart thing might have been to phase out, drift away from the pain and let Mallock do his work, but I was too scared to do that. I could still feel something out there waiting. Watching. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was being paranoid or not. I'd never run into anything like that Thing in the woods before. Or since. Never wanted to find it again. The really bad part was, I knew It wouldn't have to work hard to find me if It wanted. There was a malevolence behind that it that seemed less random and more personal. Of course it's always personal when it's your ass that's been wiped. But this was absolutely insane. Rotten with hate. It wasn't so much that It was dead. (Like, I'm in any position to throw stones at that condition, capice?) Still most of us choose not to wallow on the edge, to plunge into the putrescence, the physical corruption, and stay there. We go beyond. Get a life. Mine was bleeding out all around me creating a stench of its own while Mallock finished up, although it was cleaner than that Other's black crap. At first I was too busy agonizing over my recent experience to wonder about how I'd got back into the van but after a while, other questions began popping up looking for answers. Still and all, I was beginning to shut down when Mallock shook me alert. Hanging steady only inches away from mine, his face was colored with a healthy-looking flush of anger. He looked pissed. When he touched me, he felt pissed, too. "Does it hurt?" Mallock asked. My voice sounded like sandpaper honing cement but at least it was there. "No," I said. "Not like before." "Well, it should." I stayed quiet and just stared back. No comment. Mallock's fist crashed into the wall. The panels rattled. I jumped. "Don't fuck with me, Bianco. No more stories." He paused, then repeated for emphasis, "No stories. I want the truth." "Or what?" "Or you're going to be dead again. And this time, I'll make sure you stay dead." "That might be harder to do than you think." "I'll bet I could find a way." "Yeah ... I bet you could." I swallowed, dry. It hurt to move. It hurt to speak. "Talk to me," Mallock demanded. "We haven't got all night." I almost laughed. "The night," I said, "is all I have. It's all any of us have." "Us? You mean there are more like you?" "Yeah," I told him and coughed. "Who do you think made me?" "What are you?" "You know. Like I knew before I made the change. You probably knew the first time you saw me." "Cut the crap, Bianco. Just tell me what –" "I'm a vampire." Mallock gave a short, barking laugh. "Sure you are," he said. "And I'm the Count of Monte Cristo." <You said you wanted the truth> My voice spilled into the doctor's head. I tried to go easy but I don't know how subtle I was at that point. Mallock reacted like I'd gut-kicked him. "You're a vampire," he said after a minute or so. <Right> "Oh." Mallock fell back against the wall. Blinked. "Oh, shit." "Right."
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