Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

He bit through them until he could lift the heart clean away, heavy and cool in his fist.

He sank his teeth in it. Rolled his eyes as he sat back, chewing. Breathing. Swallowing. Opening his jaws for more.

What had been a dark room, lit only by moonlight ghosting in the windows at the front of the bus, was becoming easier to make out by the moment—a little grainy, mostly black and white, but if he leaned down a little, he could read the “Levi Strauss & Co” imprinted on the button at the biker’s fly. Read it clear as day.

Blood trickled along the inside of his wrist, under his jacket cuff.

He took a deep breath and tore off another piece of heart, eyes rolling back again, taking more until he had just a couple bites left. As he swallowed, he peeled back the biker’s upper lip.

Yeah, that’s what he thought he’d seen.

He let the lip sag back into place. Brought the chunk of heart to his teeth again, wrestling another chunk free.

A squeak came from the front of the bus, the door opening.

On his feet in a flash, without a thought to the injuries he’d sustained during the fight, he hopped over the biker and threw himself at the bunkroom door, dragging it shut.

Footsteps rounded the railing at the front and came up the aisle.

Leaning his head against the bunk nearest the door, Dean said, “Is that my orange juice?” Wonderment that his voice sounded so normal.

“Yeah.”

“Just leave it on the table.”

“’Kay.” The footsteps came a little closer before pausing at the table.

Dean wiped his mouth with two fingers—wet, sticky. He looked down—his hand smeared with cool blood.

The footsteps started away.

“Hey,” Dean said.

“Yeah?”

“How much time do I have?”

“Thieves is getting ready to go on. You’ve got a little while.” It sounded like Janx. And Janx was waiting out there to see if he was going to say anything else.

“Okay. I’ll be out in a bit.”

“’Kay.”

After a moment, he was alone on the bus again, a hand against his chest. There was a hollowness there—something had wrenched free when he’d stomped the stake into the biker’s chest.

Free
was the right word. There was something free in him now.

He wiped his bloodied hands on his shirt.

The biker blocked the door to the back lounge, his face smeared dark—his chest worse.

Dean balled up the blanket on his bed and shoved it onto the bunk above his. He stuffed the pillow in with it before tearing the sheets off his mattress.

He liberated his cigarettes, matches, and sunglasses from his jacket before he dropped it on the biker’s chest. Another good jacket gone. He dropped his shirt on top of it.

Leaning through the door to the back lounge, he assessed the amount of work he had in front of him. He could just call the cops—he’d been attacked after all.
Good luck explaining the missing heart.
And once they checked out the guy’s teeth—there were probably other things they could look at too, things that said he wasn’t human…maybe the next place they’d look would be him.

He couldn’t have that.

He pulled his head out of the lounge, ready to raid the bus’s inadequate stash of cleaning supplies. But first he rubbed his cheek, feeling an itch there—and found his skin knitting back together already.

He walked back to the biker and took a good look.

Nothing was fucking knitting together in that mess. So there was that at least.

C
arl beelined for his car
, stiff-legged, brittle, his heart thudding like a sledgehammer. He held his bloody hand out from his side, like it had been contaminated. He didn’t know what else to do with it. Headlights caught him, making him raise his other hand and blink as the oncoming car slammed to a stop. It honked as he stood there, then went around, and Carl, snapping out of it, made it to his car door. Got it unlocked. Got inside and, holding his hand up like a doctor who’d just scrubbed in, he dragged his duffle bag open and yanked out the first piece of cloth his fingers fell on.

He wrapped it—a tee shirt, it turned out, one from the bowling alley Tim worked at—around his hand. He gripped it. He wasn’t hurt—he knew he wasn’t hurt. Or at least was pretty sure he wasn’t hurt. He just couldn’t shake himself loose enough to manage cleaning up yet.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, tipping his head back, and let out a long, long breath.

He’d done it.

He’d done it.

Or…the other guy had done it, but he’d been there. And he’d brought the stakes. If he hadn’t shown up, the other guy might very well be dead by now.

It had to have been Dean Thibodeaux.

And Dean was…

Yeah.

Yeah, he probably was.

He felt dull inside, hollow. He couldn’t even feel his heart thudding anymore. He turned his head to look at the medal dangling from the rearview mirror. St. Michael, leader of the army of God in the battle against Satan. How appropriate.

No Soph, though. He’d never got around to putting her back.

Feeling rushed back in again, his chest heaving with breath, his jaw throbbing. Bruises complained as he shifted.

He clutched the shirt around his hand. He’d have to get that cleaned off. He pulled the door handle, kicked the door wide enough to get out. Staggered against the car before getting the door shut and heading into the pizza place. It had a different feel than in the afternoon—more life in it—and even after all the blood, the fresh-baked dough and sauce made his stomach growl, his mouth water.

The hallway to the bathroom was narrow and white and well lit. His shoulder bumped the wall. In the little cubby of a toilet, he dragged the shirt from his hand, blinked at the blood, and ran it under cold water while he checked out his damage in the mirror. His jaw was a puffy. He had a tender knot in his skull, mostly hidden by hair.

Maybe by morning there’d be bruising, but for now he looked halfway presentable.

He trashed the tee shirt—same can he’d thrown his dirty clothes in—and tore paper towels free to dry his hands.

When he went back outside, nothing had changed with the rest of the world. Cars idled while they waited for the light to change. People walked by. The opening band’s set seeped through the venue’s walls.

The bus was dark and still.

Carl leaned against the Cougar’s door, forcing cars to move around him. He stuffed his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans and watched the alley. Not ready to leave yet. Too much adrenaline jangling through his system. Too much shock that it was
over
.

He realized he wasn’t hearing the band anymore.

No light came on in the bus, no one came off it.

He shifted, curving his back a little, stretching it.

It was over.

After a while, the venue’s back door opened. A heavyset guy in a tee shirt and jeans went up to the bus, stopped to unlock it, realized it was already unlocked—let himself inside.

Carl held his breath.

Two long minutes later, the door opened again and the heavyset guy came out with the musician who’d been in that back lounge following behind.

He’d changed clothes. He was walking straight, almost a bounce to his step.

His eyes cut over, found Carl’s.

And then he was passing into the venue, the heavyset guy holding the door for him.

Tires rolled over pavement. The female half of a couple passing behind him on the sidewalk laughed. The wind had developed cool fingers, and Carl shivered under its touch. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, waiting for a break in traffic, and finally crossed to the alley.

The bus was a hulking silence, its metal skin cool against his fingertips as he tried the door.

Locked.

Behind him, another door yawned open, someone stepping out.

“The fuck are you doing?” a gruff voice said. “Get away from there. Go on. Get out before I throw you out.”

Carl got barely a look before stiff-legging it back out of the alley, his back prickling.

It was done.

It was done it was done it was done.

There was no reason to hang around.

He could go home.

D
ean came
off the stage with the roar of the audience at his back. Shawn grinned, sweat dripping from the tips of his hair.

Dean grinned back. A slight resistance pulled at his cheek where the knife had gone through—but if anyone could tell something had happened, they weren’t mentioning it.

The house lights were up, but the audience was still back there stomping, chanting for a second encore.

They’d saved “Sidelined” for second to last, tying the whole show up with “Can’t Win for Dyin’,” which, if rumor was true, was poised to hit higher on the charts Thursday. Gary’d told Shawn on the phone earlier it could make it to number two, maybe even pull it out and hit number one.

Dean didn’t know how he felt about that—the one time they hoped an album would just sink into obscurity, and they got this.

Didn’t it just figure?

But at the moment—at the moment.

Never mind the dead body wrapped in blankets in his bunk—the show had fucking
killed
.

And it wasn’t just because they’d nailed “Sidelined.” He was amped up. The music had jangled through his blood, swelling in him until he felt he’d burst like a firecracker. The applause and the cheering and the thousand hearts pumping—he’d never been this high in his life.

He had shit to do, but it was okay. He could handle this.

He could handle anything right now.

“Where’re you going?” Jessie asked as he split off from them.

“Get some air.” His nerves thrummed. The lights on stage, all those beating hearts. The vibration under his feet from their amps, from the crowd. Everything in Technicolor. Technitaste. Techni
life
.

He’d played right off the audience, the smell of their sweat, the pulsing of their blood.

At least once in each song, his thoughts had slipped to the biker. He’d close his eyes and strum his hand down, and feel himself reaching into that dark cavity. Taking what he wanted.

Try to kill me once, shame on you. Try to kill me twice?
Fuck
you.

On his way to the back of the building, he nudged open the door to a storage room he’d scoped out on his way in.

“Hey,” Mike said from halfway up the hall, heading his way. “Dean, got a minute?”

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his thoughts picking through the boxes inside. “What’s up?”

Roadies scuttled equipment down the hall, dodging around them.

Mike braced a hand against the wall. “You know, I’m a little concerned ab—”

Dean nodded toward the front of the house. “Did we put on a good show?”

“It was a great show, but—”

“Everyone have a good time? Leave happy?”

“They probably didn’t want to leave at all,” Mike admitted.

“I don’t know what we need to talk about then.” He put a cigarette between his teeth. The boxes just beyond the door tugged on him. He had shit to do, and only so much time to do it in.

“Listen…”

“Later, all right?” With the unlit cigarette dangling, he shoved the door the rest of the way open.

“Dog bite’s better already, I see,” Mike said.

Dean pushed the door shut behind him. Didn’t bother listening to see if Mike went away. He had work to do.

When he came back out with four large black garbage bags stuffed down the front of his jeans, the hall was mostly empty.

Back on the bus, with the scrape and thump of equipment being loaded beneath his feet, he closed the bunk door and swept open the curtain.

The body-sized mound lay where he’d left it, with two thin wooden stakes he’d found poking out of another bunk piled on top. Which made him wonder about the guy who’d brought them—where’d he come from? What was his involvement?

And where had he gone to?

He wished now he hadn’t been quite so quick to send him off—but at the time…He put a hand on the blanket, the lump underneath. Whatever had been enticing in that body was all used up now. It was just a cold shell.

He had no idea when, or how, he’d be able to get rid of it. Now was definitely not the time, not with Wayne and Teddy streaming back and forth with gear.

For now, he needed to minimize any potential smell.

He yanked the blanket away, tumbling the stakes to the floor. The biker was wrapped tightly in sheets, blood blossoming darkly through the cotton. The damp wads of paper towels he’d used for cleanup tumbled onto the mattress. He pushed them back onto the biker’s stomach before shaking open the first of the garbage bags.

He started at the biker’s feet, lifting them onto his knee so he could get the bag over the biker’s heels. When he pulled the bag as far as it would go, it came halfway up the biker’s thighs.

As he shook out another bag, he turned an ear to the door. Everyone was still outside. He climbed back in the bunk and pulled the bag over the biker’s head, wrestling with the biker’s shoulders, pushing wads of blood-streaked paper towels back onto his stomach.

He wound gaffer tape where the bags overlapped.

The remaining two went on a little more quickly, sliding over the first two. He sealed them with tape, then wound bands at the neck, stomach, thighs and ankles. When he was done, he had a black torpedo in his bunk. He shoved it close to the wall before laying his blanket over it, tugging it to cover feet and head.

Leaning close, he sniffed: plastic, tape adhesive, the faint scent of fermented meat. Wasn’t a lot he could do about that, and he suspected he was the only one able to smell fermented meat, at least at this point. It tickled the new sense, high in his nostrils. He tossed the tape into the junk bunk and let himself off the bus, needing air, needing to step away from where it had all gone down. Now that he’d taken care of what he had left on his list for the night, a secondary sort of adrenaline hit, making him antsy.

The alley glistened under the security light. A soft rain had come through during the show. Oil rainbows rippled as he skirted a puddle on his way to the back wall of the venue. He dropped against it and lit a cigarette.

Wayne swung the cargo doors down. Teddy stretched with a grunt.

Dean was seeing everything with new eyes, literally. Nothing looked the same. Bright light made things harder to make out. Darkness soothed the strain, brought out the definition. In the shadows of the alley, the colors were vibrant, if a little off. A little more magenta and yellow, like the color on his TV was adjusted wrong. As he looked nearer to the security light, the colors lost their hue, fading away.

Teddy, as he lumbered toward the venue’s door, looked like a big piece of meat.

Smelled like hot blood and sharp sweat.

Dean took another pull off the smoke, images of taking Teddy down and ripping his throat out playing at the back of his mind.

When the draft had been going on, when there’d been a good chance he’d wind up in southeast Asia with a helmet and an M60, he’d imagined what it might be like over there—the humidity, the bugs, the mud and C-rations, an enemy hiding in the rice paddies. What it would be like to have to kill someone? How would he know it was the right thing? What if he hesitated?

What if he shot too soon?

A little pressure on a trigger, and there went a whole life. A whole future.
Bam
.

Gone.

He massaged the palm of his hand—a palm that looked like it had never been through all he’d just been through, except for two faint lines. The hole in his cheek was all but gone, skin knitted back together. The hole in his neck— He’d had to pull the bandage off when he was cleaning up; it had been covered in blood, his own and the biker’s, and half shredded by the biker’s knife. When he’d peeled it away, there’d been a small puckering scar underneath. It looked like it was swallowing itself.

He wondered if underneath all this new skin he was still gray and rotting inside.

He sucked a long drag, watching Wayne move around inside the bus, in the warmth of the front lounge’s lights.

The driver trudged by, back from his day’s sleep at a motel. Dean gave him a nod.

Did it
matter
if he was rotted inside? The biker’d had no trouble getting around with the same condition, right until the stake through his heart. Maybe it wasn’t even rot—just the new normal.

Jesus, it had really taken a stake through his heart.

He stubbed out the cigarette, wanting to get the fuck out of Dodge now. Not that he’d be leaving his troubles behind, but he had a sudden yen for the roll of wheels over road.

When he climbed aboard, Wayne, slouched on a couch with a can of Dr. Pepper propped on his knee, said, “What’s up?”

“What’d you think of the show?” Dean asked.

“Balls fucking out. Whatever you guys were on up there, you need to sell it by the dime bag.”

Dean smirked. His teeth felt big in his mouth, strange against his lips. Like he was a wolf. He ducked his head, turning sideways to get by Wayne’s jutting leg.

The bus shook as Nick pounced up the stairs, Shawn right behind him, smiling. Dean leaned over to look out a window, his mouth closed, hiding the mouthful. Their scents wafted toward his nostrils—not helping.

Outside, Jessie had his arm around a girl’s waist, saying something in her ear that made her laugh. Janx squeezed by them to get on the bus. Mike strode from the building, clipboard in hand. He caught Jessie by the shoulder, and Jessie grasped the girl’s hand, making her a promise he wouldn’t keep as he backed up the steps.

As the bus rolled out, the guys talked about the show—for an hour they talked about it, going over the highlights, then going over them again. Arguing over which other
Mercy
song to slide into the set tomorrow, with Mike arguing against adding a
second
song from an album nobody could get hold of.

“So, they’ll make bootlegs,” Shawn said. “That’s not a bad thing.” He reached between his feet for his drink. “Not a bad thing at all. If ‘Can’t Win’ does what they’re saying it’s gonna do, we’re gonna be stuck with High Class. Maybe some bootlegs will prompt their asses into releasing
Mercy
.”

“Fucking album we
paid
to make rotting on a fucking shelf,” Nick mumbled, shoving his leg into the aisle. Slouching down with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“Have you considered maybe it’s time you made your peace with them?” Mike said. “You guys have been fighting the label as long as I’ve been working with you.”

“Longer,” Jessie said. He sucked a swallow off a plastic cup of whiskey

“So maybe if you stop
fighting
them and start working with them—”

“Don’t even start,” Shawn said.

“Is there any chance of tanking ‘Can’t Win’?” Jessie said. “I mean, it almost feels like they knew we were trying to leave and paid off whoever they had to pay off to move us up the charts—you know, just to keep us hanging on their line.”

“I can’t even believe we’re annoyed our single’s charting,” Shawn said.

Dean, leaning in the bunkroom doorway, faked a yawn behind his hand. The last thing he felt like he needed was sleep, but this was all just talking in circles, and talk wasn’t going to do anything for them one way or another.

“What are we supposed to do,” Shawn said, “tell people to stop buying our single? ‘Don’t buy our fucking album?’”

“I’m hittin’ it,” Dean said.

As the others broke long enough to say goodnight, he held up a hand, turning away, dragging the door shut behind him.

The hallway had the light scent of fermented meat, stronger when he slipped into his bunk. He put his back to the curtain, his front nudging the blanketed torpedo. He propped his chin on his hand.

What now?
he thought to the biker. The biker didn’t answer.

He reached under his pillow until he found the smooth wooden handle of the biker’s knife. He dragged it out, its end cap dangling from a thin chain. Dried blood streaked the wood.

He closed his hand around the handle, opened his palm to test its balance.

The others kept talking outside the door. Someone turned the radio on while Mike was in the middle of making a point, cranking it up until Van Halen was a garbled mess coming through the wall.

He moved the pommel back over the handle and clicked it into place, making it look like just a knife again instead of a miniature stake.

He settled his head on the pillow. It was tight in the bunk with the biker sharing his space. The garbage bags crinkled softly under the blanket as he shifted his hip.

He wanted to tell the body it was its own fault. The asshole should’ve just left him alone to begin with. Should have just told him didn’t have any weed. Or at least let him run off when he’d gotten away.

He held the knife above his face.

It was his now, he supposed.

What next?
He thought to the biker again.

What the fuck am I supposed to next?

He needed to get rid of the body, before he was forced to explain it. And since he couldn’t do it right then, he just studied the knife, the feel of it in his hand. Its real purpose hidden under that engraved end cap.

One thing it told him was that while vampires may or may not be afraid of people—he didn’t feel too afraid of people himself—other vampires, that was a different story.

T
he black road
rushed beneath Carl’s tires, hypnotizing. Leaving him with nothing but space between his ears to replay the thuds and grunts from that dark back lounge, the wet squish of wood forcing its way through organs.

He pulled off the exit and up to a McDonald’s drive-through, tapping the steering wheel while he waited for his food to be bagged. He looked from the shadows of the parking lot to the gaping drive-through window, empty while the guy working it walked off to get his fries.

His imagination brought a vampire to the window, grinning around a mouth full of fangs. He pictured it launching itself over the ledge, reaching into Carl’s car to grab him by the throat.

Trees crowded the edge of the parking lot, their dark leaves drooping like sleeping bats.

The pimply kid handed the paper bag through, and Carl got back on the interstate without touching his food, needing to put miles between himself and his imagination. Needing to get road moving under him again.