Vampires in Devil Town (3 page)

  He dreamed about things happening to Rachel.
  He dreamed about things happening to James, out there on the road somewhere, searching for some secret and terrifying underworld.
  He dreamed about things happening to himself and wondered why the dreams ending in his own death were somehow more comforting than those ending in the deaths of his loved ones.
  He flopped down on the couch and, pointing the remote control at the stereo, cued up Miles Davis’
Bitches Brew
. This was one of his favorite albums to fall asleep to. It was long and some of those sleepy trumpet notes just seemed to hang on for an eternity, coaxing him into a cool and comforting place. There were not any words to distract him, no words to feed him grains of thought destined to turn into something sinister.
  With the chilly breeze blowing in through the window, he fell asleep as Miles ran the voodoo down.
  
  Jacob woke up screaming.
  Jacob woke up in hell.
  At least, it felt like hell.
  Cacophonous noise surrounded him. The room seemed entirely too bright. He was too hot. He could feel the sweat on his skin, disorienting him—he shouldn’t be sweating. Unable to open his eyes against the bright light, he slid from the couch, trying to organize what was happening in his head.
  The first thing was that he felt incredibly nauseous.
  Already on the floor, he doubled over, hunching his back as he heaved up the contents of his faraway dinner and four Guinnesses. He vomited until he couldn’t vomit any more and this seemed to bring a little bit of clarity to his situation.
  A storm raged outside, rare for this time of year, even though it had been unseasonably warm. But the violent flashes of lightning couldn’t account for all the blinding light in the room. He looked over toward the wall of windows. The corn plant had blown over. The open windows swung lightly in their wooden frames, rain and cold air spewing into the room. He knew he should close the windows but he didn’t have any interest to crawl over there and do that just yet.
  Thunder rumbled and smacked its charged lips up in the heavens. But that wasn’t the only sound. There was a much more constant sound rumbling the floorboards beneath his knees.
  He turned away from the windows so he faced the television.
  Yes. This was where the rumbling sound came from. It seemed impossible for a sound that loud and that resonant to come from this ancient TV with its tiny speaker.
  Blinding light emanated from the TV and he knew this was not right at all.
  The television had been off when he fell asleep. There wasn’t a remote control that went to it so he knew he couldn’t have rolled over on it during his slumber. But it didn’t make any sense for the TV to just come on all on its own unless...
unless it was all happening again
.
  That was the only explanation for all of this, wasn’t it?
  His walking nightmares. His
hallucinations
, as Doc Sam called them. Those violent things that threatened to rip his brain apart. Those things that had never happened before the Incident.
  That’s what was happening now.
  He had to tell himself that.
  None of this was real.
  He scooted closer to the television, dragging his jeans through his puke, wanting only to get close enough to reach out a hand and turn it off. To turn off the nightmare. Turn off the hallucination. The television’s screen was filled with a glowing orange image like someone had taken a camera into hell. He reached his hand toward the TV, ready to press the button, when he saw a shape emerge from this blinding orange image.
  He retracted his hand, kneeling in front of the TV like it was some kind of altar.
  The screen became much less bright and much clearer, although the image remained grainy.
  The camera shot was of a small gray room. A bluish light filled this room even though he could not see any signs of actual lighting. He figured they must have kept the light behind the camera. If that was the case then it meant what he was about to watch was planned.
  There was a man in the gray room. The man looked terribly frightened. Jacob thought he could make out a urine stain on the front of the man’s pants. He looked vaguely familiar at first and it took Jacob only a couple more seconds to realize just who it was. It was Mr. Leavingworth, the pharmacist. A nice man, Jacob had always thought. He knew something bad was about to happen to him and he wondered why he had been the one chosen to view this.
  Two men entered the room from behind the camera. At least, Jacob assumed they were men. Call him sexist, but he always thought men were more the torturing type. They both wore large black cloaks and at the same time he wondered about the cliché of this, he also found it a highly utilitarian disguise. Not only could he not make out their faces, he wouldn’t be able to describe their builds or even really how tall they were.
  One of the men lashed Mr. Leavingworth across the face. He fell to the ground, clutching the red weal of blood rising there, kicking his legs against the floor. Once down, both of the men gathered around him and brought their whips down several more times.
  Mr. Leavingworth screamed. It was a horrible sound, coming out of that deep rumbling like a bright stitch of pain.
  The men bent down toward Mr. Leavingworth, each of them grabbing an arm and pulling him up. Mr. Leavingworth tried to go limp but the men dragged him back toward the camera.
  It was at this point Jacob wondered if it was a camera capturing this at all. What if it was just something that was happening out there in the dark underground and was psychically transferred to his TV? What if it really
was
just another one of his hallucinations, projected
onto
the TV rather than coming
from
the TV? The camera pulled away from Mr. Leavingworth, showing his bloodied face and terrified eyes open wide. Then the camera did a kind of floating off thing, swinging around the gray room and then coming to rest somewhere else entirely.
  Now it was a panoramic side view of a completely different interior and from much farther away. Whatever room this was in had to be cavernous.
  Mr. Leavingworth stood on a stone platform, supported by the men. It had to be at least twenty feet from the floor, which wasn’t even in the image. The men strapped some kind of harness onto Mr. Leavingworth. He kicked and screamed but this did not have any effect on the men. The harness was made out of a metal chain and a single strand of this chain led from the harness up to the ceiling.
  The men steadied Mr. Leavingworth on the platform before shoving him off.
  He went swinging out, trapeze-like, headfirst, toward a huge open fire on the right-hand side of the screen, the camera or all- seeing eye or whatever following his arc.
  The flames nipped at his hair, igniting it until it was quickly melted to his scalp. His screams intensified as he was pulled back toward the darkness by the heavy chain before beginning his second arc toward the fire.
  This time he went a little deeper in, the flames hissing as they evaporated the tears from his eyes, sucking the moisture from his mouth.
  Jacob wanted to turn away. He wanted to turn the television off but he couldn’t. He was powerless against whatever it was he watched.
  Mr. Leavingworth’s screams rose until they were something continuous, unabated.
  A grown man screaming... It chilled Jacob. He didn’t know if he’d ever heard a grown man scream before.
  He watched the flames scorch off the man’s clothes. He watched as the man became blacker and blacker each time he swung into the flames. He watched as patches of his skin melted, opening up, vital fluids sizzling onto the fire. And, he didn’t know how long it took but, eventually, the man was no more. The only thing left in the image was the charred black harness and a few random hunks of skin sizzling on the hot metal. The source of its momentum gone, it hovered, nearly motionless in the middle of the television screen.
  He reached out his hand to turn it off but it went off on its own before his finger could press the button.
  He swore he could feel warmth coming from the screen.
  Slowly, shakily, he dragged himself across the room and sat on the couch, staring out the open windows at the dying storm on the other side of the screens. He drew his puke-spattered knees up to his chest, oblivious to the smell, oblivious to anything except the fear, its hands wrapped around his soul, paralyzing his body and dragging his thoughts back to the past when the nightmare was no mere hallucination but alive and vibrant and throbbing right there in front of him.
  

Three

Fucking in a graveyard had never really been Charlotte Black’s idea of a perfect evening but, apparently, that was exactly what Zack Corbin had in mind tonight.
  It had been well after midnight when Charlotte awoke to a cold hand roughly shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes, disoriented, trying to adjust to the darkness. The hand moved down her cheek, coming to rest on her neck.
  “Wake up, sleepyhead.” The voice was instantly recognizable.
  “Zack?”
  “Yeah.”
  “What are you doing here?”
  “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to go for a walk.”
  “How did you get in here?”
  “That’s a secret.”
  “What time is it?”
  “I don’t know.”
  She craned her neck to look around him, sitting on the edge of the bed, at the glowing red digits of the alarm clock on her nightstand.
  “Jesus, Zack, it’s almost two o’clock.”
  “I know. I couldn’t sleep.”
  “But
I
was sleeping...”
  She sat up on her elbows and he bent down over her, covering her full lips with his, his tongue entering her mouth and playing with hers. He held her like this for a while, his rough tongue encircling hers, and she knew she was going to go anywhere he wanted her to.
  “Do you still want to sleep?”
  “Not so much. But... you want to go for a
walk
?”
  “Yeah.”
  “Did my parents hear you?”
  “Nobody heard me.”
  “Where do you want to walk to?”
  “I was thinking we could go walk around in the cemetery.”
  “But that’s like a mile away.”
  Zack pulled the cover from her body. She slept in an old t-shirt and a pair of black underwear. He ran a finger up the inside of her thigh, creamy white in the moonlight, stopping at the elastic hem of her panties.
  “In the cemetery, no one can hear you scream.”
  “You’re a pervert.”
  “No. I’m passionate. There’s a big difference.”
  “You’re luring an underage girl out of her bed after midnight to take her to a graveyard and fuck her. That’s a pervert.”
  “Okay, I’ll give you criminal, but I still don’t think there’s anything perverted about it.”
  She ran a hand through his short black hair and leaned her head up toward him, kissing him deeply once again. If she wasn’t careful, they’d never make it to the cemetery.
  “Do you mind if I put on some clothes?”
  “I guess I can wait.”
  “Is it cold outside?”
  “Not that bad, really.”
  Charlotte scooted out of bed and went to the closet, conscious of Zack’s eyes on her scantily clad bottom. She pulled out a pair of old blue jeans and a baggy black sweater. Zack, lying back on his elbows, continued to watch as she pulled on her clothes. She fluffed out her shoulder length black hair and asked him if she looked okay.
  “I don’t think many people are going to see you,” he said. “I think you look great. You always look great. Clothes aren’t really that important anyway.”
  She pulled on a pair of old blue Converse and held her hand out to him, pulling him up off the bed.
  “Do you ever sleep?” she asked him.
  “Only during the day.”
  “You’re weird.”
  “That’s why you like me.”
  “Fucking vampires.”
  “Hey, watch what you say.”
  She walked him over to her bedroom door and turned toward him.
  “Now,” she said, “here’s the part where we have to be very very quiet. We have to use our catlike skills.”
  “Understood,” he said. “I got in, didn’t I?”
  “I’ll give you that.”
  Slowly, she opened her bedroom door. She was making a bigger deal out of this than she really had to. She lived in a huge house on Walnut Street. Her parents’ bedroom was on the second floor and hers was on the ground floor. She had chosen this room knowing it would be a lot easier to come and go as she pleased. All she really had to do was cross the living room and leave through the back door and she was certain she would probably be able to stomp through the house and still not be noticed. Holding Zack’s hand, she led him to the back door. He was right. He was very good at being quiet. She wouldn’t have even known he was behind her if he hadn’t been holding her hand. She unlocked the glass back door and slowly slid it open. She shut it until just before it latched. This would ensure her reentry would be equally as soundless and she didn’t really think her parents would be burgled or maimed within the next couple of hours.
  “We’re free,” she said.
  “Free at last.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her deeply.
  “You know,” she said. “We don’t
have
to go all the way to the cemetery. There’s a perfectly secluded patch of woods right back there.” She nodded behind her back yard, where the Lynchville Nature Reserve began.
  “I know. But I want to go to the graveyard. It’s not going to be this warm much longer.”
  “It’s not exactly warm now.”
  “But it isn’t winter yet.”
  “Okay. You win.”
  “This is definite graveyard weather.”
  Together, they walked through the back yard and across the side yard until they were on the sidewalk. They would have to keep to the side streets. If a cop were to see them out walking this late, they would most definitely have to answer some questions. If the police found out she was under eighteen she would either get an escort home or a call to her parents. Technically, the curfew for minors in Lynchville was ten. This relaxed a little on Friday and Saturday. And it didn’t seem to really apply so much to those over sixteen. Charlotte was seventeen. But it was Thursday. She didn’t know how old Zack was but she didn’t know if an officer would take so kindly to him escorting a high school girl around town at two o’clock in the morning. That kind of behavior just had prurient written all over it.
  “So why do you want to go traipsing around a creepy old graveyard, anyway?” she asked.
  “I don’t know. I just want to.”
  “Do you do
ev
erything you want to?”
  “Mostly, yeah.”
  “That’s good, I guess. Are you ever going to take me to your house?”
  “Someday.”
  “Do you still live with your parents?”
  “Something like that.”
  “Yes or no. What, do you live with like an older sibling or grandparents or something?”
  “No. Just some friends.”
  “
Older
friends.”
  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really think about age so much.”
  “So how old are you?”
  “I told you I don’t think about age very much.”
  “You didn’t answer my question.”
  “And I’m not going to.”
  “That’s frustrating. It’s a simple question.”
  “Did I ask how old you were?”
  “No. I’m seventeen.”
  “Good for you.”
  “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
  “You can always turn around and go home.”
  “I just might.”
  “Can we just forget about it? You’ll find out everything you need to know about me eventually.”
  “What if I want to know
now
?” She tried to sound petulant and spoiled, doing her best Veruca Salt impersonation.
  “Nah. Ruins the mystery.”
  They continued to walk along in the darkness. Sometimes, she didn’t know why she was with Zack. Of course, when she thought about it, she wasn’t really
with
him. None of her friends knew about him. They didn’t really go out or anything. He just showed up periodically, dragging her someplace and fucking her until she thought she was going to die. She had met him just a few weeks ago on a sleepless night when her parents had been out of town and she had thrown a party at her house. Everyone else had gone home or passed out and she had been sitting on the porch when she saw him walking down the sidewalk. She was just drunk enough to wander across the yard and talk to him, assaulting him with an endless barrage of questions she didn’t even really hear the answers to. From the second she had drawn close to him, she was completely lost to him. There was something about his eyes. They were somewhere between brown and hazel but when the light hit them a certain way they looked almost golden. And with his pale skin, skinny body and black hair, he looked like one of the rock stars she swooned over. They didn’t really have much in the way of conversations but she felt like that was something that would probably come to them over time and if he wanted to get rid of her when the sex got stale or vice versa, then she figured she would be okay with that too. The lack of conversation also meant a lack of emotional connection. Plus, she was young and had plans of getting out of Lynchville and going off to college somewhere and didn’t even know if she really wanted a stupid, sometimes transient thing like love to hold her back from doing that.
  “So where
is
your house?”
  “Jesus, back to the questions... I’ll take you there someday.”
  “When?”
  “I don’t know. Soon. How’s that?”
  “Afraid your friends won’t like me?”
  “No. I’m sure they would like you just fine.”
  “Then why not?”
  “Because I like this.”
  “What? Walking?”
  “No. I like the game of it. I like having to sneak off. I like the thrill of thinking we could be caught at any time. I like not knowing much about you and you not knowing much about me.”
  She couldn’t argue with that.
  “You’re causing me to lose a lot of sleep, you know?”
  “I’m sorry. Don’t come then. Go back home. Christ.”
  This silenced her. Two times in one night. She thought it was mean of him to say something like that. He didn’t have to say it more than once for it to hurt. Maybe he knew she didn’t really have any choice but to come with him. He was like some kind of drug she always wanted more of. While that may change, especially if he kept being an ass, it was unavoidable for now.
  They were just outside of town now, on the same road as the cemetery, aptly called Cemetery Drive.
  The cemetery was on a large hill. The hill displayed an impressive array of tombstones, some of them monolithic, in a grand fashion. They stretched up the hill and ran down the far side of the hill, out of view, ending at the edge of the woods. For a town so small, Lynchville had a huge cemetery. She could never figure out if this was because a lot of people died in Lynchville or if the town was just old or if the people that left chose to be brought back and buried there. Any of those things could account for the graveyard’s bounty. Although it was probably because it was the only cemetery in Lynchville.
  Or maybe it was because of the Devils, she thought.
  This was a legend that never failed to enthrall her. She had never heard of them anywhere outside of Lynchville and she had never quite been able to figure out what they were supposed to be. In some stories, they came across as werewolves. In other stories they came across as vampires or zombies. Nevertheless, it all came back to the dreams. Rumor had it the people of Lynchville always had been and always would be nightmared to death. People died in their sleep here. They died of natural causes. A lot more people than usual, if the rumors were correct. Charlotte had studied the obituaries for a while but she couldn’t see that any more people died in Lynchville than in any other small town. Of course, if you listened to the rumors, then you knew the newspaper only printed about half the death toll. The people who really believed in this thought it was all some kind of big conspiracy.
  Charlotte was not one of the believers. She thought the Devils were probably just some lame excuse to take the heat off an inept police department and lack of federal interest in rural, small town America. Disappearances, strange deaths—Oh, must be the Devils. It was ridiculous.
  Standing at the gates of the cemetery, Zack pulled them back, greeted with the squeaking of wrought iron, and slid in between them. Charlotte followed.
  “Shouldn’t those have been locked?”
  “Not a problem.” He tossed the padlock up in the air and caught it again, sticking it in his pants pocket. “Wouldn’t want anyone locking us in here.”
  She could only stare at him. He was like a magician. She knew they were both very close to doing what each of them wanted and she felt the usual blood coursing through her body, speeding up her heart, choking up the back of her throat.
  They walked up the central asphalt lane of the cemetery, climbing up the slope.
  Zack moved behind her and put his hands on her hips, lifting up her sweater so he could feel the warmth of her sides.
  “I’m going to tear you apart,” he whispered into her ear.
  “Yeah?”
  “Absolutely. As soon as we get over this hill. So no one can see what I’m going to do to you.”
  “I hope it’s good.” This was why she liked Zack.
  “No. It’s bad. It’s very very bad.”
  “I...” she began before he cut her off.
  “Stop talking now. And I don’t want you to make a sound while I’m fucking you,” he whispered into her ear. “If you make a sound then it’s over. We must not disturb the dead.”
  Charlotte’s nipples hardened against the inside of her shirt. She hadn’t bothered putting on a bra and she desperately wanted to feel Zack’s hands on her, on
them
, squeezing, pulling,
twisting
... It had never been said aloud, but she liked it when he hurt her.
  Once over the rise, Zack’s hands guided her to the left. Then he forced her down onto a plot with a moderately sized tombstone. She hadn’t really thought they would be fucking on an actual grave but with the little knowledge she had gained from Zack she now realized he probably wouldn’t have had it any other way. The name on the tombstone was “Gordon Turner.” She briefly wondered why that name sounded familiar to her but her thoughts were cut off when Zack whispered harshly in her ear. “Not one mutter until we are out of this graveyard. Understand?”
  She nodded her head, her eyes burning into him, eager and nervous for what was about to happen.
  He unbuttoned her jeans and yanked them down her legs. He kissed the inside of her thigh, working his mouth up to where her leg joined her groin. There he bit down. She wanted to shout at him to stop—it was so shocking and painful—but she knew he was serious about what he said and she didn’t think she could live with the knowledge that her protestation had cost her everything. She bit down on her lip and his teeth worked their way into her skin. She closed her legs around his ears, dug her fingertips into the back of his head. She could swear she heard the soft pop of her skin as his teeth found admittance. Once opened, he drank of her. She arched her back into the moist, cool grass, her muscles straining against his mouth. Tears streamed from her eyes. But, at the same time, she found this as pleasurable as if his mouth were clasped over her sex. She orgasmed before he had her underwear pulled from her hips.