B-Movie Attack (26 page)

The slasher girls rushed out of the apartment and went about their task, afraid of the dripping-mouthed vampire. Georgia brought Anne close. “Lick the blood off my lips. I love it all! More—I want more death! I want blood up to my neck in this fucking city!”

The two other vampires, overhearing the speech, obeyed the vampire's commands and inserted another reel titled:
Skinpreys
.

Nelson reeled from one unbelievable moment to another. Here he was driving in the Boxer with Dr. Aorta, a cult hero. The giant hooker outside the tank was smashing, swatting and rampaging after them. She punched apart buildings in her wake, raining steel, glass and other debris down onto the streets.
 

“There won’t be anything left of the city by the time that whore’s through with it.”

“But she’s making chase,” Dr. Aorta said, philosophically sizing up the hooker. “She’s not much for agility. Spreading your legs to turn tricks and whispering dirty nothings in ears isn’t much exercise. She won't last long doing what she's doing.”

Dr. Aorta turned the wheel one hundred eighty degrees and spun out again. He was driving in circles to make the hooker dizzy.
 

The walls were simple steel. Two gunner sticks for steering, another set for firing the weapons.
 

Nelson couldn’t help feeling useless. “What about my friends? We just left them.”

“They’re underground,” Dr. Aorta insisted, angry to be disturbed from his ruminations. “We’ll have to catch up with them later. This bitch has put herself in the forefront of our problems.”

“We can’t keep driving like this,” Nelson said. “She won’t give up. I still don’t understand why she even exists.”

“She's a scientific mistake,” Dr. Aorta said. “A man created a larger hooker to earn higher profits. But these three pimps shot the scientist dead for his discovery. Something snapped in her brain, and she wants all men dead.”
 

I forgot. This guy’s a living movie. He’s obviously not getting what I’m saying.
 

“Why don’t we fire another missile at her?”

“Too many innocent people will get hurt.”

“Then what’s your plan?”

“Watch me.”

He pressed a large red button underneath the console.

“HOLD ON!”

Nelson watched from slit openings in the side of the vehicle as wings spread out on each side of the Boxer. From the back end, a loud jet of fire exploded and continued to burn. Rocket thrusters. They hovered higher and higher into the air. Nelson hung on to the handlebars welded into the ceiling for his life. “Shit!”

“Hold on, ace—and remember who I am. You're safe with Dr. Aorta.”

Dr. Aorta jerked the controls to avoid a stiletto heel that swiped inches from the left wing.
 

“HOLY SHIT!” Nelson shouted. “THAT WAS WAY TOO CLOSE!”

Dr. Aorta chortled, “Not close enough, says that slut.”

Nelson glanced back outside. They were passing the woman’s chest, flying high.

“Brace yourself,” Dr. Aorta warned. “Watch out for blood.”

From the nose of the vehicle a blade like a giant box cutter extended. It glinted of sharp steel.
 

Jesus fuck-me Christ!

The Boxer nose-dived, avoiding two fists that nearly crushed it. The craft wobbled, Dr. Aorta hurling curses as he tried to straighten the nose. “Damn bitch, she’ll have me dead yet.”

“Straighten it out!” Nelson cried. “I’m not dying like this.”

The thruster in back coughed and went out. Dr. Aorta turned the ignition again, the engine coughing out gasps of useless air. The engine refused to turn over.
 

“It’s taking a coffee break.”

“Now’s not the time!”

Dr. Aorta straightened the front, and they sailed on wing power. Nelson figured that bought thirty seconds before they crash landed. Dr. Aorta turned and turned the ignition to no avail. The hooker stomped after them, laughing. She knew what was happening to them.
 

Nelson stepped toward the steering column and turned the key; he’d had experience with a dying ’76 Thunderbird he bought for six hundred dollars in high school and thought he could help. The owner had told him, “You have to cradle and pound the damn thing for it to start. Cradle and pound the bitch, and she’ll start up.”

“Cradle and pound the bitch,” Nelson repeated, “and she'll start up.”

He cradled the keys.
Be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.

And then he pounded it, rapidly turning the key.
 

THOOP!

The rocket thrusters re-ignited. The Boxer sailed into the air, crossed the tops of five skyscrapers, and swooped back down toward the hooker. The hooker had uprooted a light pole and swung it like a baseball bat. She struck the tip of the right wing with a
tink
. The Boxer was jarred, but Dr. Aorta managed to get back on course. Lust for blood and destruction lit up the hooker’s eyes.
 

“I’ve read studies,” Dr. Aorta said, his Russian accent suddenly returning, “that women who’ve received semen from many different men undergo a form of mania. Sometimes, it’s mood swings. Their menstruation cycles are more painful. Other times, it turns them into mean murderous bitches!”
 

Dr. Aorta cheered and raised an arm up high into the air. “
Let’s cut this mean hooker down to size!
”

Nelson swallowed hard when the Boxer spun upside down three times and then rocketed straight up. He closed his eyes. His guts went up into his throat.

Dr. Aorta’s warning proved accurate.
 

Blood sprayed the outside of the Boxer, random spurts entering the vehicle and slathering Nelson's face. “Ah, sick!”

Dr. Aorta laughed. “I’d get tested if I were you when this is over…
I know I will
.”

Nelson couldn’t see the damage done. But once the blood dripped clear from the opening slit, he saw the hooker’s bowels slip through the net of her fingers and slather onto the road, where they formed a hill of viscera. The blood splashed and ran in a foamy torrent down the gutters. Nelson saw the towering hooker tilt and fall.

“You killed her!” Nelson cheered. “Bitch went down! Bitch is dead!”

Dr. Aorta landed the Boxer. They drove on, avoiding the heaps of gore.

“Let’s go find your friends.”

“But they went into the subway.”

“I know where they’re going,” Dr. Aorta said, his accent now New Jersey. “I put a tracking device on the lady.”

“Then where are they headed?”

“I’ll take you right to them.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The subway train had been sitting motionless in the station when Billy and Jessica arrived, but when they were yards from the first open door, it began to slowly edge forward. The Green Line had been modified, Billy noticed. Boards protected the windows. Billy couldn’t see inside to know if it was safe, but that concern was trumped by the flytrap heads that rushed them from behind, fifty to seventy pouring down the stairs en masse. The huge choir of clacking teeth echoed throughout the station. From the other side of the platform, schoolgirls were coming down at them from the south set of stairs. They were a solid front, but far enough from the subway car that if Billy and Jessica made a break for it, they might avoid them.
 

“Looks like we don’t have a choice,” Billy shouted over the demonic noise. “We have to get on the Green Line! RUN!”

The subway car edged forward, slowly gaining speed.

Jessica shook her head but seemed to understand. He clutched her arm tighter. The plan to reach the address on the piece of paper and destroy a film projector in an apartment—a plan relayed by half a dozen corpses back at Corporate Tower—had been abandoned in seconds. Surviving took priority.
 

They ran faster, forging on. The subway car was escaping them. Pulling away from them at greater speed. One door on the nearest car had opened. Three police officers and two plain-clothed people stood at the door, waving them inside. “Run faster, people! They’re right behind you. We’ll take you to safety. We're here to help.”

Billy recognized one of the cops to be Stan Hooper. He wasn’t one of the movies come-to-life; he was an old friend of his father's. Stan was sixty years old with solid white hair and a five o'clock shadow.
 

Billy yelled at Jessica, “Double your pace, I recognize them. They won’t hurt us.”

“Thank God,” she cried out. “It’s about time we found somebody nice.”

Billy gave Jessica a shove to the back that launched her from the concrete platform onto the moving subway car. But he needed a shove himself. He was out of breath. Ribs burned with razor-wire agony. His knees wanted to buckle. His shins ached so bad, Billy thought they were going to split. He wheezed asthmatically.
 

Jessica was safe, he thought, even as his survival chances diminished. He could die knowing she was in good hands. Stan Hooper was a trusted family friend for years. He’d see her to safety.

His stride slowed.
Every double cheeseburger and order of curly fries and chocolate milkshake has brought you closer to death. Hope you enjoyed every bite!
 

Every grating sound and raging cry from behind him broke his spirit. The way their calls echoed, he believed hundreds were at his heels, the flytraps biting at the air, click-clacking, practicing their mastication for when they tore through his face, cracked open his skull, and sucked every bit of his brain. Axes dinged the subway car, missing him by a hair’s breadth.
 

He was seconds from giving up completely.
 

“Billy!” Stan shouted. “Move it, mister. Your dad would be proud of you. Give him another reason to make him proud. He’s watching over you. He loved you. He'd say you could do it. I'm saying you can make it, now run and jump for it! The tunnel’s almost over. Move your ass, Billy!”

Images of his dead father in the body bag flashed into his mind’s eye. He had to stop the city from being eradicated. Stan Hooper was alive, so who else might be? They could make a stand. With help, he could reach the address Andy Ryerson gave him. Maybe then he could end the worst night of his life.

Jessica joined in. “I’m not losing you, Billy. You’re marrying my ass, you got that? You’ve waited long enough.” She blasted her next encouragement unabashed. “I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked, so get in this thing right now!”

Billy surged. It was unexplainable, the emotions tangling up with his adrenaline. He literally dove from the platform, through the door, and avoided the f tunnel wall by a second. He landed on his side, hitting the ground hard, and when he got up, he wondered if he’d broken any ribs. He clutched his midsection. Every breath was nails digging into his lungs. He dripped sweat, unable to talk. He nodded at everybody in thanks.
 

Stan Hooper patted his back. “You made it, Billy, and not a moment too soon.”

Jessica hugged him. He yipped in pain. “Oh sorry, baby.”

“I think I broke some ribs.”

“At least it wasn’t your entire body against that wall,” Stan said. “You’re in one piece, and you’re not one of those horrible monsters out there, so I say you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks. Everybody, thank you for saving us.”

There were seven other people in the car. Each wore wearied and exhausted expressions. Aside from Stan Hooper, everybody else was a stranger. They sat back down, closing their eyes, and composing themselves after a close call. Jessica joined them by sitting down, leaning forward and hiding her head in her hands. Whether she was crying or simply breathing, he left her to it.
 

He leaned in closer to Stan. “So what’s this operation all about? What are you doing in the subway?”

“Saving who we can,” Stan said. “Saving you right now. There’s a temporary base at Navy Pier. The Red Cross has set up camp. We’re going through each of the subway routes and finding who we can that's not dead or a monster. We’ve hit the streets a few times, but now it’s much too dangerous. This is our last round, actually. You’re lucky we found you.”

“I know. I’ve cut it close all night.”

He wanted to spill his knowledge of Andy Ryerson and the movie reels and the brand of magic the dead wielded, but he couldn’t convince his lips to work. It was too outlandish and outright crazy, just like all of tonight’s events.

“Government conspiracy,” Stan said randomly. “Someone’s putting the fear to us. That’s how they work. They want to slaughter the city of Chicago. To make the country think terrorists pulled it off, or some bullshit to let America roll onto is belly and wet themselves and let Congress pass any goddamn legislation they please. Phone taps, privacy fences, and next we’ll go to war with Turkey instead of Iraq. This is over oil. Someone struck crude in the city. It’s underneath the subway. Some hobo or transient accidentally discovered it.”

Billy side-stepped the conspiracy theory talk, knowing the truth. “How many people are still alive?”

Stan stacked figures in his head. “Well, maybe a couple thousand, by my best calculations. And I know there’s plenty more hiding. The last round, the whole Corporate Tower stretch was decimated. Every building was smashed to pieces. One of the alleys on Front Street, I spotted a heap of skeletons head high. They were intact as if someone just ripped them out of the body and tossed them aside. Other bodies were embalmed, and even stranger, they kept bleeding the fluid, as if they were producing it.”