Fiends SSC (33 page)

    ‘Wouldn’t mind that job,’ Bart said.

    Jim watched the razors sweep paths through the foam, cutting away not only Diane’s thick golden hair, but also the fine down. The passage of the blades left her skin shiny and pink. After a while, she was turned over so the rest of her body could be lathered and shaved.

    Then the men rinsed her and dried her with towels.

    They carried her from the gurney to the wheeled, oak serving-table. The table, a rectangle large enough to seat only six, was bordered by brass gutters for catching the run-off. At the corners of one end - Roger’s end - were brass stirrups.

    Feeling sick, Jim watched the men lift Diane’s limp body onto the table. They bent her legs. They strapped her feet into the stirrups. They slid her forward to put her within easy reach of Roger. Then they cinched a belt across her chest, just beneath her breasts. They stretched her arms overhead and strapped her wrists to the table.

    ‘That’s about it for now,’ Bart said. ‘If you drop by around seven tonight, that’s when they’ll be basting her. She’ll be awake then, too. That’s when the panic really hits them. It’s usually quite a sight to behold.’

    ‘I’ve seen,’ Jim muttered, and left the room.

    

    

    He returned to the barracks and tried to sleep. It was no use. Finally, he got up and armed himself. Steve let him out the front gate. He wandered the woods for hours. With his sub-machine-gun, he bagged three squirrels.

    In the late afternoon, he ducked into the hiding place he’d found in a clump of bushes. He lashed together the twenty wooden spears which he’d fashioned during the past weeks. He pocketed the small pouch containing the nightcap mushrooms which he had gathered and ground to fine powder.

    He carried the spears to the edge of the forest. Leaving them propped against a tree, he stepped into the open. He smiled and waved his squirrels at the north tower. The gate opened, and he entered the estate.

    He took the squirrels to Jones in the kitchen. And helped the cheerful chef prepare stew for the Guardians’ supper.

    

    

    Just after sunset, Jim went to the Security Center and knocked.

    ‘Yo.’ Biff’s voice.

    ‘It’s Jim. I want to see the basting.’

    ‘You’re a little early,’ Biff said. Moments later, he opened the door. His mouth made a tight little O and he folded as Jim rammed a knife into his stomach.

    

    

    Diane was awake, sweaty and grunting, struggling against the restraints, gritting her teeth and flinching rigid each time a contraction hit her.

    Jim stared at the screen. Without hair and eyebrows, she looked so
odd.
Freakish. Even her figure, misshapen by the distended belly and swollen breasts, seemed alien. But her eyes were pure Diane. In spite of her pain and terror, they were proud, unyielding.

    Doc entered the Prep Room, examined her for a few moments, then went away.

    Jim checked the other screens.

    In the Donor Ward, the women had been locked down for the Guardians’ evening mealtime. Some slept. Others chatted with friends in neighboring beds. Jim made a quick count.

    In the Specialty Suite, Morgan and Donner were just returning a woman from an Honors Room. They led her to one of the ten

    empty beds, shoved her down on it, and shackled her feet to the metal frame. Jim counted heads.

    Thirty-two Donors. Only sixteen Specials. Generally, however, the Donors were older women who’d been weakened by the daily loss of blood and by regular mistreatment at the hands of the Guardians. The Specials were fewer in number, but younger and stronger. Though some appeared to be in late stages of their pregnancies, most were not very far along, and many of the newer ones had probably not even conceived yet.

    It’ll be the Specials, Jim decided.

    He watched Morgan and Donner leave the Suite.

    In the Mess Hall, Guardians began to eat their stew.

    In the floodlit courtyard, Steve and Bennington climbed stairs to the north and west towers, carrying pots of dinner to the men on watch duty. When they finished there, they should be heading for the other two towers.

    Morgan and Donner entered the Mess Hall. They sat down, and Jones brought them pots of stew.

    Doc entered the Prep Room. He set a bowl of shimmering red fluid onto the table beside Diane’s hip. He dipped in a brush. He began to paint her body. The blood coated her like paint.

    In the Mess Hall, Baxter groaned and staggered away from the table, clutching his belly.

    In the Banquet Room, there was no camera. But Jim knew that Roger and his pals would be there, waiting and eager. The absence of the usual table would’ve already tipped them off that tonight would be Special. Even now, Roger was probably picking five to sit with him at the serving table. The unfortunate four would only get to watch and dine on their usual fare of Donor blood.

    In the Mess Hall, Guardians were stumbling about, falling down, rolling on the floor.

    In the Prep Room, Doc set aside the brush and bowl. He rolled the serving table toward the door. Diane shook her crimson, hairless head from side to side and writhed against the restraints.

    Jim rushed out of the Security Center.

    

    

    ‘All hell’s broken loose!’ he shouted as he raced up the stairs to the

    north tower. ‘Don’t touch your food! Jones poisoned it!’

    ‘Oh shit!’ Harris blurted, and spat out a mouthful.

    ‘Did you swallow any?’ Jim asked, rushing toward him.

    ‘Not much, but…’

    Jim jerked the knife from the back of his belt and slashed Harris’s throat. He punched a button on the control panel.

    By the time he reached the front gate, it was open. He ran out, dashed across the clear area beyond the wall, and grabbed the bundle of spears.

    The gate remained open for him. Apparently, the poison had taken care of the Guardian on the west tower.

    Rushing across the courtyard, he saw two Guardians squirming on the ground.

    At the outer door of the Specialty Suite, he snatched the master key off its nail. He threw the door open and rushed in.

    ‘All right, ladies! Listen up! We’re gonna kill some vampires!’

    

    

    Blasts pounding his ears, Jim blew apart the lock. He threw his gun aside, kicked the door, and charged into the Banquet Room.

    Followed by sixteen naked Specials yelling and brandishing spears.

    For just an instant, the vampires around the serving table continued to go about their business - greedily lapping the brown, dry blood from Diane’s face and breasts and legs as Roger groped between her thighs. The four who watched, goblets in hand, were the first to respond.

    Then, roaring, they all abandoned the table and attacked.

    All except Roger.

    Roger stood where he was. He met Jim’s eyes. ‘
You dumb fuck!’
he shouted. ‘Take care of him, guys!’

    The vampires tried. They all rushed Roger.

    But were met, first, by Specials. Some went down with spears in their chests while others tossed the women away or slammed them to the floor or snapped their spines or ripped out their throats.

    Jim rushed through the melee. He halted at the near end of the table as Roger cried out, ‘Is
this
why you’re here?’ His hands delved. Came up a moment later with a tiny, gleaming infant. ‘Not enough

    to share, I’m afraid.’ Grinning, he raised the child to his mouth. With a quick nip, he severed its umbilical cord.

    One hand clutching the baby’s feet, he raised it high and tilted back his head. His mouth opened wide. His other hand grasped the top of its head.

    Ready to twist it off. Ready to enjoy his special, rare treat.

    ‘No!’ Diane shrieked.

    Jim hurled his spear. Roger’s hand darted down. He caught the shaft, stopping its flight even as the wooden point touched his chest. ‘Dickhead,’ he said. ‘You didn’t really think…’

    Jim launched himself at Diane. He flew over her body, smashed down on her, slid through the wide V of her spread legs and reached high and grabbed the spear and rammed it deep into Roger’s chest.

    The vampire bellowed. He staggered backward. Coughed. Blood exploded from his mouth, spraying Jim’s face and arms. He dropped to his knees and looked up at the infant that he still held high. He lowered its head toward his wide, gushing mouth.

    Jim flung himself off the end of the table, but he knew he would be too late.

    He landed on the spear. As its shaft snapped under his weight, bloody vomit cascaded over his head. Pushing himself up, he saw the baby dangling over Roger’s mouth. The vampire tried to snap at its head, but the tide of rushing gore pushed it away.

    Jim scurried forward. He held the child in both hands until Roger let go and slumped against the floor.

    

    

    Afterwards, the Donors were released.

    They helped with the burials.

    Eleven dead Specials were buried in the courtyard, their graves marked by crosses fashioned of spears.

    Morgan, Donner and the Guardians, who’d all succumbed to the poison, were buried beyond the south wall of the estate.

    The corpses of Roger and his fellow vampires were taken into the woods to a clearing where two trails crossed. The heads were severed. The torsos were buried with the spears still in place. The heads were carried a mile away to another crossing in the trail.

    There, they were burned. The charred skulls were crushed, then buried.

    After a vote by the women, Doc and three Guardians who’d missed the poisoned squirrels were put to death. Jones had also missed the meal. But the women seemed to like him. He was appointed chef. Jim was appointed leader.

    He chose Diane to be his assistant.

    The child was a girl. They named her Glory. She had Diane’s eyes, and ears that stuck out in very much the same way as Jim’s.

    The small army lived in Roger’s estate, and seemed happy.

    Frequently, when the weather was good, a squad of well-armed volunteers would board the bus. Jim driving, they would follow roads deep into the woods. They would park the bus and wander about, searching. Sometimes, they found vampires and took them down with a shower of arrows. Sometimes, they found bands of outlaws and welcomed these strangers into their ranks.

    

    

    One morning, when a commotion in the courtyard drew Jim’s attention, he looked down from the north tower and saw Diane gathered around the bus with half-a-dozen other women. Instead of their usual leather skirts and vests, they were dressed in rags.

    Diane saw him watching, and waved. Her hair had grown, but it was still quite short. It shone like gold in the sunlight.

    She looked innocent, glorious.

    She and her friends commenced to paint the bus pink.

    

    

    Barbara bolted out of the bedroom and straight into Darren’s arms. He caught her, held her.

    ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’

    ‘Suh… somebody under the bed!’

    ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Did she frighten you? It’s only Joyce.’

    
‘Joyce?’
Barbara struggled out of Darren’s embrace and gaped at him. ‘But you told me… you said she was dead!’

    ‘Well, of course she is. Do you think I would’ve married you if I still had a wife? It’s just like I said, the brain aneurysm three years ago…’

    ‘But you’ve got her under the bed!’

    ‘Sure. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

    Darren took Barbara by the hand and led her into the bedroom. She staggered along beside him. On the floor by the bed was her suitcase, the one she’d taken with her on the honeymoon, unpacked that evening, and after her shower with Darren had decided to tuck out of sight.

    ‘Luggage doesn’t go under the bed,’ he explained. ‘I keep it out in the garage.’

    Barbara stood there, trembling and gasping inside her new silk kimono, trying to stay on her feet as Darren carried the suitcase over to the door. Then he knelt and slid Joyce out from under the bed.

    ‘Darling, meet Joyce.’

    Joyce lay stiff on the carpet, her wide blue eyes gazing toward the ceiling, her lips curled in a smile that showed the edges of her straight, white teeth. Wisps of brown hair swept across her forehead. Thick tresses flowed from beneath her head - a rich, silken banner that extended past her right shoulder. Her arms, close to her sides, were reaching upward from the elbow's, hands open. Her legs were straight, parted slightly. Her feet were bare.

    She wore a white negligee, a skimpy number with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline. It was every bit as short as the nightie that Barbara had delighted Darren by wearing on their wedding night, and every bit as transparent. The way he’d dragged Joyce from beneath the bed had twisted it askew, pulling its deep V sideways so her right breast rose bare through the gap.

    Smiling over his shoulder at Barbara, Darren said, ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

    Barbara dropped.

    When she came to, she found herself lying in bed. Darren was sitting on its edge, a worried look on his face, a hand inside her kimono gently caressing her thigh. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

    She turned her head.