With Friends Like These (2 page)

Before them, past the twists and turns yet to run, he could see the bright lights of the carnival, the Ferris wheel rising high above the trees still holding a few dry, brittle leaves. Behind them lay the bars, the sound of the music thumping like the heart of the night. Between was the river, the flat smoothness of the water contrasting with the darkness and the lumps of shadows looming and falling behind them as they ran.

Moving easy, Greg glanced at one of the city bridges that spanned the slow flow, empty of traffic at this hour. A glint of metal, a motion where none should be – something had caught his attention, and he stared, trying to figure out what he was looking at. Shit, he thought, his pace bobbling. There was a man, under the bridge, not standing under it at the edge of the water, but standing under it at the apex of the arch, hanging upside down.

Heart pounding, he came to a grit-sliding halt. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, pointing. “Joe. Look!” The cool night air turned oppressive as the breeze from his passage stopped, and Greg felt a sweat born of fear break out on him.

Joe pulled up three steps ahead of him, turning to look where Greg was pointing.

“There!” Greg said, voice loud, but no one was there now. “There was a guy. Right there. On the bridge!”

“God, you’re worse than a little girl,” Joe said derisively.

He started to move, and Greg reached out, grabbing his arm. Warmth flooded his face at the mocking slant to Joe’s brow, and he hesitated. He couldn’t say that the man had been standing on the underside of the arch. Not now.

“Come on. Let’s go,” Joe said as he pulled away, a new eagerness to his eyes.

“No, wait.” The man under the bridge forgotten, Greg panted, seeing his breath steam in the September chill. Something wasn’t right, and he squinted at Joe ahead of him, breathing just as hard in the light of a street lamp. “How come your breath isn’t steaming?” he asked.

Eyebrows high, Joe opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

A soft thump behind him spun Greg around. Autumn leaves drifted down around the spare man now standing there, his pointy-toed boots planted firmly on the asphalt. Shit, they were going to get mugged by a fashion-challenged gang member in a torn black leotard and funny hat.

“Because he’s not warm-blooded, ass,” the man said, confidence in his stance and words even though he stood almost a foot shorter than Greg.

“Hey, uh, hi, Michel,” Joe said as he came forwards to stand beside Greg, looking both nervous and angry. “Long time no see.”

Joe knows this guy?
Panic ran cold through him, and his legs hurt now that he had stopped. What the hell was going on?

The man looked Joe up and down, not reaching for a gun or a knife, just standing there with a disgusted expression on his face. “Johann . . . Johann . . . Johann. I told you not to come down here. Ever.”

Shit. It was a gang. An Asian or other foreign gang by the sound of the freaky accent the man had. He knew Joe was too up and down to not be on drugs. He could see the headlines now. TWO FOUND DEAD AT THE RIVER. LIFE GOES ON.

“And I told you I’d be back,” said Joe.

Greg stiffened as he looked at his room-mate, his attention drawn by the never-before-heard hard tone to his voice. The casual, slipshod, sex-hungry guy was gone. He was mean looking, face showing new lines etched from a past anger, his stance aggressive as he stood with his fisted hands slightly from his sides and his head lowered.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” the guy said, jerking Greg’s attention back to him.

“No, man,” Joe said, his words casual, but his tone tight. “And he ain’t a bribe. He’s just with me. I wanna come home. You don’t know what it’s like being alone.”

Greg tried to swallow. Shit, there was no one else out here, and the faint thumping of the music echoed louder. “You know him?” he said, then cleared his throat when his voice cracked. “Joe, you know this jack-off?”

“He’s my brother.”

The man facing them inclined his head, making a sort of half-bow, half-dance step back. It would have looked stupid on anyone else, but he made it look good, even as Greg could see the mockery in it. “I’m his older, smarter brother.”

He began to circle with an eerie grace, and grit ground under Greg’s heel as he turned to follow him, his skin prickling.

“You bring me a peace offering, and it doesn’t have tits,” Joe’s brother said, eyeing Greg from under his shaggy bangs, looking at him like a dog wanting a bone.

“I thought you might be tired of them,” Joe said, and Greg couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. “No, I told you, he’s not a present.”

“You taught him to run?”

It was mocking, and Joe was starting to lose his swagger, a hint of desperation beginning to show. “I wanted someone to run with, Michel. He runs good, even as big as he is. Leave him alone. I just wanna come home.”

His chest had stopped hurting, but Greg’s pulse still hammered. There was a shadowy figure on the bridge, standing at the railing as a car whizzed past. “Hey, look. You guys have a lot to talk about. Whatever. I gotta go,” he said, starting to back up.

Greg sucked in his breath as suddenly Joe’s brother was beside him, stinking of anger and domination. “I’m going to take your pretty boy,” he said, smiling at Joe to show his teeth in threat. “And I’m not letting you come back. Bugger off.”

A chill ran through Greg as the man turned his eyes to him, mocking and eager. “Run. I like it when you all get hot.”

“Screw you, you asshole,” Greg said, taking two steps backwards. There were two of them, and only one of him. But on the bridge in the thickening fog, were three figures now, standing apart but watching, silently watching. Gang members, or help?

Greg made a fist and dropped back to fight, but Joe was girling out, hunched and pleading. “Let me come home, Michel. I swear, you let me come home!” His jaw clenched, and a panicked determination coloured his voice. “Let me come home, or you’re going to die tonight!”

“By your hand?” Joe’s brother laughed, and Greg breathed easier when he turned his focus on Joe instead. “You can’t kill me,” he said, boots scuffing. “Momma would be pissed. Daddy would send his dogs after you. You’d be shredded before the sun came up.” Lips parting, a slip of a moving tongue promised unwanted attention as he looked at Greg. “That’s the rules. No fighting between brothers, or we’d all be dead in a hundred years. I can eat
you
, though.”

“Michel, no!” Joe shouted, and his brother lunged.

“Hey!” Greg exclaimed, falling back when Michel grabbed his arm. Lashing out with a fist, he stumbled when he hit nothing. He found himself yanked upright and spun around until his arm was twisted to his back. Michel, though smaller by almost a head, had him.

His breath coming fast in his ear, Michel lifted ever so slightly on his arm, making Greg grit his teeth and grunt. “You’re a strong little worm,” the man behind him said eagerly.

“Mother f– Ow!” Greg yelped, going limp when Michel lifted his arm an inch more and pain flooded him.

“I bet you’re a tasty little worm, too.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Greg shouted, lunging backwards when he felt the grazing of teeth on his neck.
Shit, the freakazoide was trying to bite him!
His wildly darting eyes went past a wimping-out Joe to the bridge. There was a whole row of figures, all different in height from the size of a child on up – just watching.

Panic gave him strength, and he dropped, slipping out of Michel’s grasp and lurching away, almost on his hands and knees. Regaining his feet, he stood beside Joe. His hands shook, and anger filled him. Why the hell wasn’t Joe helping him? “Your brother is freaking insane!” he yelled, his voice going dead in the rising fog.

“Yeah, I know, man. It was a real drag growing up with him.” Joe glanced at the watchers on the bridge. “Michel, I’m telling you. Don’t touch him!” he said loudly, and, laughing, his brother came at Greg again, mouth open and arms grasping like it was a big joke.

Greg back-pedalled, his heart pounding and his only thought being to not let the freak get a hold on him again. This time, Joe stepped between them, the blur of his motion almost too fast to see.

“Out of my way!” Michel all but growled, and Greg watched in open-mouthed awe as he tossed Joe aside to land thirty feet away, stunned and unmoving on the grass. A shadowy figure seemed to melt from behind the nearby tree, kneeling on one knee to help Joe up.

“Son of a bitch,” Greg breathed, hunched as he shook out his dog sticker. The click of the metal cylinders aligning themselves pinged through him, and he held it like it was a long knife.

“Michel, I’m telling you to stop!” Joe cried, but the man was coming at him, and Greg braced himself, jamming the point of the dog sticker right into him. A shudder went through Greg at the feel of the sudden give of flesh, and Joe’s brother’s eyes, inches from his own, widened.

“Stay away from me, you fucking ass,” Greg said, even as his stomach turned. Shit, he’d just stabbed a man.

“Gaggh . . . oooh,” the man leaning against him moaned, one hand on Greg’s shoulder, the other holding the end of the stick jammed into him. But Greg’s relief turned to fear when the pained sound coming from Michel turned into a chuckle, and then a laugh. Letting go, Greg backed up, horrified as Joe’s brother plucked the metal stick out of him and tossed it to the sidewalk where it glinted wetly. His laughter grew, echoing in the fog where everything else seemed to be sucked up by it. And still the figures on the bridge didn’t move.

“Michel, don’t,” Joe said from the shadows, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “I’m telling you now, as mother and father are my witnesses. Don’t bite him.”

Michel only laughed louder, the high-pitched edge making the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stand on end. “You lose!” Michel shouted, flinging a hand wildly as if grandstanding to the people on the bridge. “Everything that is yours is mine, little brother. It always has been, and it always will be. And that includes this. Your
friend.
God, it’s pathetic!” He came closer, and Greg refused to back up, his heart pounding at the sight of Michel’s eyes, glinting in the light when all else was dim and foggy. “Only vampire blood can kill another vampire,” he said, a mocking smile quirking his lips. “But you’re unusually strong. You might last long enough to be a diversion.”

Vampire?
Feeling his expression go slack, Greg remembered the figure standing upside down under the bridge, the feeling of being watched whenever he and Joe ran, the man he’d seen run up the side of the building only a week before his girl kicked him out and he met Joe on the bus.

In a jerk of motion, Michel reached for his shoulder, and yanked Greg forwards and into him. Pain seared his neck, and Greg screamed, howling as he realized the heavy weight on his throat was a head and that the man was taking a chunk out of him. His entire body jerked as a flash of heat burned. He was eating him. The mother was eating him!

And suddenly the weight and fire were gone and he was airborne. He hit the sidewalk and slid, his running pants tearing and the skin scraping from his thigh. “What the hell!” he shouted, orientating himself. He was thirty feet away, and that son of a bitch who had bitten him was kneeling in the golden haze of the street light, gagging as he vomited.

Ignoring the pain in his thigh, Greg got to his feet, awkward since his hand was clamped to his neck. “You’re fucked!” he shouted as he strode back, shaking as he halted ten feet back. “You’re all fucked! What fairy-tale-assed life do you think you’re living in?”

They were two deep on the bridge. A handful more watched from the opposite side of the river, misty figures in the cloying fog. If they were gang members, why didn’t they come beat the shit out of them?

Michel’s head was on the asphalt. He tried to find his feet, failing as he choked on his own vomit. Face scraping, he turned to Greg’s voice, and Greg’s next wild outburst hesitated. The man’s eyes were haemorrhaging, bleeding like tears. More blood leaked from his ears and nose in a slow flow. “You . . . ” Michel gasped, and then he vomited a gout of blood, his body twisting with convulsions.

Greg stared, his neck throbbing as he shook.
What the hell is going on?

Joe stepped into the light beside his brother. His narrow shoulders were stiff and the hardness was back in his stance. “What’s the matter, big brother?” he said, nudging him in the ribs with his foot, and Michel vomited again, gagging into a wet moan. “My friend too spicy for you?”

Joe looked up at Greg, and Greg backed away, eyes flicking from the dying man to the one now jauntily coming his way. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Greg shouted, not knowing what else to do. His voice was swallowed by the heavy fog, and the shadowy figures on the bridge began to become indistinct.

Running shoes scuffing, Joe halted beside him, then turned to look at his brother’s last grasping motion, bloodied nails rasping on the asphalt. His expression held only a light disinterest and, turning to Greg, a sliver of his usual devil-may-care attitude started to show itself. “Let me see your neck,” he said, and Greg smacked his reaching hand away.

“Oh, hey, relax, man,” Joe said, dodging Greg’s next swing and coming in close, too close for anything but a shove, but Greg’s knees were shaking and he didn’t move lest he push himself over. “I know you’re freaking out,” Joe said. “I’m still me. Still your friend. Let me see.”