Night Of The Beast (37 page)

Jesus.

I'll have to find a way to shut down
, Rourke thought
. I can't help anyone if I'm crazy or dead.
Too much static and he'd end up in a padded cell wearing a wrap-around dinner jacket. He could not handle everything he happened to tune in.
The noise alone will destroy me.

Still, that probe had been incredibly strong. And from a person in serious trouble. Someone he knew well enough to have made the link possible.

Damn
, Peter thought,
there's nothing I can do. I'd like to help, but I've lost you.

Poor little Timmy Baxter. He never had a chance. It was that quick.

Timmy had moved his croquet set over to the side of the bed, just in case Julie showed up at the window. He tried to stay awake, but dozed off somewhere close to midnight. Not for very long, but long enough.

Someone was knocking on the door. The RV squeaked, then swayed to the left, as his mother went to see who it was. Timmy, still half asleep, imagined that Peter Rourke was outside. He'd come to rescue them. That fantasy died the instant the boy heard the start of the conversation.

"Who is it?"

"Open the door, Momma."

"Julie? What in God's name are you doing out there at this time of night?"

"Let me in. I'll explain."

Timmy found his voice. "Don't, Mom! Wait!"

A click: The lock, turning. The door opened. Timmy heard his mother grunt, as if surprised by a sneaky punch. Twice. Three times.

The butcher knife.

A vase slid from the dining room table and shattered on the floor.
Wheeze... Gurgle... Sob
. Then a loud thump, as his Mom collapsed, all loose and clumsy like a rag doll. Timmy could feel his heart trying to climb up through his throat and run away. An empty throb of mourning filled his stomach.

He was much too frightened for tears.

Julie had never intended to wait. She'd planned it this way from the beginning. She was so wicked! Paula couldn't have realized what was going on, what it meant to open that door and invite her own daughter into the house. She'd had no reason to be suspicious.

And now Mom was dead.

That was horrible enough, especially for an eight-year-old boy all alone in the dark. But then, in a matter of seconds, it got worse.

Those awful slurping, sucking sounds.

His sister was feeding, draining her own mother. His mother. Timmy's mind reeled, unable to accept what it was experiencing. He remained motionless, struck dumb.

"Are you ready, Timmy?" Julie chortled. "You're next. I'll be coming for you soon." Her voice suddenly sank down to a raspy baritone. "Know what, little brother? I think I'll take you in that closet, where you'll be the most afraid, so it's as bad as it can be for you."

Those sickening sounds again, even louder than before.

Timmy walked quietly down the hall in his bare feet. He flicked on the lights and stood there, docile as a lamb, hands behind his back. Julie stopped slurping and looked up. She had no super-long fangs, just normal teeth, and somehow that made it even worse. She only thought she was a vamper, but now her face was smeared with Paula's blood. A long string of pink drool hung from the corner of her mouth.

Timmy spotted the butcher knife; she'd tossed it carelessly into one corner. He went all grey and flat inside.

"What is it? Are you curious now, brother dear? Wondering how this feels, and whether it's a better choice than dying?"

Her own voice, instead of a man's. Timmy knew he was being played with. The worst thing he could do would be to give it his fear. He would surrender nothing. He owed his mother that much.

The creature giggled. She pointed to Paula's body with stained, wet fingers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Julie said. "How rude of me. Would you like something warm to drink?"

That did it.

He'd kept his hands behind his back, but now he brought them into view. He had a sharpened stake in one and a croquet mallet in the other. He threw himself at Julie, wailing like a banshee, stabbing and swinging. Julie held her ground and made no effort to defend herself. Timmy feinted with the stake and launched a wild haymaker with the hammer. He gave it all he had, heard it whistle towards her head; guided it in with his eyes...

And missed.

But he couldn't have missed.

He tried again and again; continued to flail away at the empty air, too enraged and grief-stricken to realize he was playing the fool. He never once saw her move, but somehow in-between his blow and her body Julie managed not to be there anymore. She always ended up just inches out of reach. She started laughing, and that's what tipped him off. He was behaving exactly the way she wanted him to. She'd made him crazy for a reason, not just for the fun of it.

Julie had been feeding off him. Drinking his feelings, instead of his blood.

Timmy stopped in his tracks so abruptly he startled the thing. A tiny, hairline crack appeared in her composure. He got a look at what lay hidden below the surface; behind the mind games, the bullying and the illusion she was such hot stuff. He saw soft spots. Weaknesses.

She's afraid
, he thought.
That means I really can destroy her. But of course I can! All I gotta do is remember that; believe, and don't let her get control of me again.

That's all there is to it.

Timmy moved in with the stake. Everything changed, just from what he'd figured out. He felt a whole lot stronger. He jabbed and stayed aggressive, gradually forcing Julie into the corner farthest from the abandoned butcher knife. As she slithered back and forth to avoid the stake, her actions seemed clumsy, almost comic. He closed, waiting for his best shot.

Julie began to panic. She ducked low, hoping to slip beneath his arm and out the door. Timmy reacted at once, launched himself through the air. He landed right on top of her, with every ounce of his weight behind him.

And the sharpened stake thrust forward.

It didn't make a bit of difference that he'd seen it in a dozen movies; Timmy was totally unprepared for the grim reality, for how it actually felt to shove the point deep into her chest. That brief resistance, then the slippery give. What it was like to puncture rubbery muscles, crack through brittle ribs, twist and turn and push while you tried to ignore the screaming. That awful screaming.

Julie thrashed and bellowed. She begged him to stop, in that wheedling tone of voice he used to hate so much. Hearing it now almost broke his will. No. Show no mercy. Just twist and turn and push with everything you've got.

She swore, snapped, nearly bit his face. She clawed at his skin, his eyes. Timmy, sickened and weary, raised the mallet. He poised himself to strike, to get this bloody, smelly, nasty nightmare over with before he lost his mind.

Julie went berserk at the sight of the wooden hammer. The vamper exploded and began to buck like an unbroken colt. She rose impossibly high off the floor, her spine wrenched double, then slammed down. She arched her back, shook and twisted and finally threw him. Timmy sailed backwards, off balance, and tripped over his mother's body. The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay gasping for air, his face only inches from Paula Baxter's wide, surprised and very dead eyes.

Julie was growling — dying like a vamper, too.

Timmy wanted to get back up onto his own two feet, but he kept slipping and sliding in the huge lake of fresh blood. Maybe that helped, because he got mad all over again.

Julie, the gory stake protruding from her torn chest, had made it as far as the doorway. She had even opened the latch. She was going out for a walk, as if she were really still his sister and none of this had actually —

She had slaughtered Mom, wanted to live forever.

Julie seemed to know she wasn't going anywhere, that he would never let her get away. She was badly wounded. She began to whimper in her own voice, then just hung there, clinging like a bug to the screen door.

Timmy didn't hesitate. He went right at her, swinging the croquet mallet. Hammered and pounded. Pounded and hammered. Again and again and again. He didn't stop until the stake had gone right through her and the point was sticking out of her back. He released her and stood panting a few yards away, watching his sister die.

Julie crumpled up like a tattered ball of newspaper. She slid to her knees, fell through the door, rolled down the steps and out onto the grass. The gory corpse twitched a few times in the porch light, almost rose up again, but then was still.

Raindrops? Thunder in the distance. A big storm, and pretty close by.

Timmy hated the thought of going near Julie again, but he had to retrieve his stake. Just in case. He bent over and tugged hard. Pulling it out felt even worse than pounding it in. He vomited in the dirt before returning to the silent RV.

He could hardly bear to look at Paula, face those staring eyes. The sight of her body kept reminding Timmy of how horribly she'd died. He decided to drag his Mom into the bathroom. After several minutes of tugging and shoving, he'd only covered half the distance. He'd have to settle for the closet.

Timmy allowed himself to cry just a little bit, then reluctantly pushed her inside and closed the door. His overloaded nervous system was shutting down and charging back up again. It didn't know what to do, and neither did he.

There were real monsters outside, prowling around in the dark. He was all alone.

He had no telephone, no neighbors.

Alone.

Timmy Baxter, eight years old, sat motionless in a pool of blood, clutching his stake and mallet. His heart ballooned; felt swollen as a ripe, red blister. His mouth went all dry and tasted awful. He'd just had a horrible thought.

What about the other one, the male vamper?

He was out there plotting something. Timmy was sure of it. He would probably want revenge for Julie's death. He'd have to make his move soon, though, before the sun came up.

Hey, stupid. How do you know it's gonna be morning soon?
Timmy sighed. He had no idea what time it was or how many hours he'd have to wait. His mother wore a wristwatch, but he couldn't face the idea of opening the closet to steal it from her body. There was a clock in the cab, on the dashboard, but then he'd probably have to go outside. Too dangerous. Besides, he was pretty sure his mother had complained about that clock, said it wasn't running right.

No.

Yes. A rustling sound, like brush rubbing against something more solid. It had come from somewhere close, real close. Timmy got to his feet. He clutched his weapons tightly, did his level best to sound tough.

"Come on, then. I'm ready!"

To keep from freaking out, Timmy thought about sunshine; the way the whole world springs into life at dawn. He imagined fresh fruit, ripe for the picking, and wild flowers blooming on a hill. Tall pines rocking gently in an afternoon breeze. Daylight.

He'd be safe, then. Free to go.

Sure, but where? He had no idea how to find Peter Rourke, or anyone else for that matter. There was a town nearby, Mister Rourke had told him so. It was called Two Trees. But how would he find it all by himself, with no directions? He'd never learned to drive the camper. If he did leave, and he didn't find the town before it got dark again —

Wait, they gotta have some street lamps. I could find it that way. But then I'd have to go out before dawn. Bad news.

Huh?

That noise again. A faint sound, like someone moving around nearby. Pay attention, dummy. Try to pin it down. Where's that coming from?

It stopped.

There. Again.

Timmy began to tremble.
Oh, God, I want to be a hero, really I do, but I can't stop feeling scared. Can't help it. If that's not okay, I'm sorry. Show me how to act and stuff, and what I'm supposed to do. I can't even let myself think about what happened tonight, because I might give up, let go of things and... leave. And that feels bad, like I'd never come back again.

"Ohh. Mmmm..."

Not that, God
.

"Ooohhh..."

He was slipping out of himself, hanging by a shred of raw nerve, tottering on the brink of a deep canyon.

Scrape. Rattle.

Timmy held himself tight and he rocked back and forth and he hummed little pieces of songs.
This is not fair
, he thought.
I'm only eight years old. I don't know how to handle this, what to do or how to be brave enough. It's just not fair.

"Mmm? Oooh..."

Rattle, rip, scraaape —

He couldn't pretend any more, couldn't ignore it any longer. This was real. The knob was brass and the head reflected a compressed image of the table lamp. The reflection had moved. The knob was turning. Slowly. Turning.

The closet.

The door was being opened.

From the inside.

A sing-song phrase, running through his mind:
(...not fair, God, not fair, not fair, not...)

"Timmy, who ever told you that life was fair? Certainly not me. I can't imagine where you got such an idea."

The boy moaned, eyes glued to the closet, mind tottering and ready to fall. Fall, and never hit bottom.

The door slid open, whispering along the nappy surface of the little throw rug. It had been his mother's favorite rug, an antique. She had bragged about it to everyone, how she'd bought it for such a cheap price, told them it was special and —