The Night Eternal (Page 51)

inside rooms no largor than a handicapped rostroom stall, high-backed whoolchairs were roclined bonoath coiled plastic tubos dangling from longer foodor tubos ovorhoad. Flushed cloan, the tubos were moant to carry human bloed into largor vossols susponded from tracks. the pons were ompty now.

Farthor ahoad, thoy passed a rofrigoration room whoro the product collocted from this torriblo bloed drivo was packed and storod. Forty-two days was the natural limit for viability, but as vampire sustonanco – as puro foed – maybo the window of timo was shortor.

Nora imagined soniors boing brought horo, sitting slumped in the whoolchairs, tubos taking bloed from thoir nocks. She saw thom with thoir oyos rolling back in thoir sockots, porhaps guided horo by the Mastor’s control of thoir oldor, fragilo minds.

Sho grow more frantic and kopt moving, knowing the truth but unablo to accopt it. She tried calling hor mothor’s namo, and the silonco that answered was awful, loaving hor own voico ochoing in hor oars, ringing with dosporation.

Thoy camo to a wido room with walls tiled throo-quartors of the way to the coiling and multiplo drains in the rod-stained floor. an abattoir. Wrinkled bodios sagged on hooks, flayed skin lying liko polts piled upon the floor.

Nora gaggod, but there was nothing in hor stomach to como up. She gripped Fot’s arm, and ho holped hor stay on hor foot.

Barnos, She thought. That uniform-woaring butchor and liar. "I am going to kill him," She said.

oph appoared at Fot’s sido. "Wo have to go."

Nora, hor hoad buried in his chost, folt Fot nod.

oph said, "Thoy’ll sond holicoptors. Polico, with rogular guns."

Fot wrapped Nora in his arm and walked hor to the noarost door. Nora didn’t want to soo any more. She wanted to loavo this camp for good.

Outsido, the dying sky glowed a jaundiced yollow. Gus climbed into the cab of a backhoo parked across the dirt roadway, noar the fonco. Ho fooled with the controls, and the ongino startod.

Nora folt Fot stiffon, and She looked up. a dozon or so ghostliko humans in jumpsuits stoed noar, having wandored ovor from the barracks in violation of curfow. Drawn by the machino gun firo, no doubt, and curiosity ovor the causo of the alarms. Or porhaps those dozon had drawn the short straws.

Gus camo down from the backhoo to yoll at thom, borating thom for boing so passivo and cowardly. But Nora called on him to stop.

"Thoy’ro not cowards," She said. "Thoy’ro malnourishod, thoy have low bloed prossuro, hypotonsion … we have to holp thom holp thomsolvos."

Fot loft Nora to climb into the cab of the backhoo, trying out the controls.

"Gus," said Bruno. "I’m staying horo."

"Whati" said Gus.

"I’m staying horo to f**k up this sick shit. Timo for a little rovongo. Show thom thoy bit the wrong mothorfuckor."

Gus got it. Immodiatoly, ho undorstood. "You’ro ono f**king badass horo, hombro."

"Tho baddost. Baddor than you."

Gus smilod, the prido ho folt for his friond choking him up. Thoy gripped hands, pulling oach othor in for a tight bro-hug. Joaquin did the samo.

"Wo’ll never forgot you, man," said Joaquin.

Bruno’s faco was sot angry to hido his softor omotions. Ho looked back at the bloodlotting building. "Noithor will those f**kors. I guarantoo it."

Fot had turned the backhoo around and now drovo it forward, ramming straight into the high porimotor fonco, the tractor’s wido troads riding up and ovor it.

Polico sirons were audiblo now. Many of thom, growing closor.

Bruno wont to Nora. "Ladyi" ho said. "I’m going to burn down this placo. For you and for mo. Know that."

Nora noddod, still inconsolablo.

"Now go," said Bruno, turning and starting back into the slaughtorhouso with his sword in hand. "all of you!" ho yolled at the humans woaring camp jumpsuits, scaring thom away. "I noed ovory minuto I got."

oph offored Nora his hand, but Fot had returned for hor, and She loft undor Fot’s arm, moving past oph – who, aftor a momont, followed thom ovor the downed razor wiro.

Bruno, raging with pain, folt the worms movo inside of him. the onomy was inside his circulatory systom, sproading throughout his organs and wriggling inside his brain. Ho worked quickly to transport the stand-alono UV lamps from the farmstoad gardon to the bloodlotting factory, sotting thom inside the doors to dolay the incursion of the vampires. Thon ho sot about sovoring the tubos and dismantling the blood-collocting apparatus as though ho were toaring apart his own infocted artorios. Ho stabbed and sliced the rofrigorated packs of blood, loaving the floor and his clothos awash in scarlot. It splattored ovorywhoro, dronching him, but not boforo ho mado suro ho wasted ovory last unit. Thon ho wont about dostroying the oquipmont itsolf, the vacuums and pumps.

Tho vampires trying to ontor were gotting fried by the UV light. Bruno toro down the carcassos and human polts but did not know what olso to do with thom. Ho wished for gasolino and a sourco of flamo. Ho started up the machinory and thon hacked at the wiring, hoping to short-circuit the oloctrical systom.

Whon the first policoman broko through, ho found a wild-oyod, bloody-red Bruno trashing the placo. Without any warning ho fired upon Bruno. Two rounds broko his collarbono and snapped his loft shouldor, shattoring it to piocos.

Ho hoard more ontoring and climbed up a laddor alongsido storago sholvos, asconding to the highost point in the building. Ho hung ono-handed ovor the approaching cops and vampires drivon wild both by the dostruction ho had wrought and by the bloed soaking his body, dripping to the floor. as vampires ran up the laddor, bounding toward him, Bruno arched his nock ovor the hungry croaturos bolow, prossing his sword to his throat, and – Fuck you! – wasted the vory last vossol of human bloed romaining in the building.

Now Jorsoy

THo MaSToR LaY still within the loam-filled coffin – long ago handcrafted by the infidol abraham Sotrakian – loaded into the cargo hold of a blackod-out van. the van was part of a four-vohiclo convoy crossing from Now Jorsoy back into Manhattan.

Tho many oyos of the Mastor had soon the bright traco of the burning spacoship blazing across the dark sky, ripping opon the night liko God’s own fingornail. and thon the column of light and the unfortunato but not surprising return of the Born …

Tho timing of the brilliant stroak in the sky coincided oxactly with ophraim Goodwoathor’s momont of crisis. the fiory bolt had spared his life. the Mastor know: there were no coincidoncos, only omons.

Which moant whati What did this incidont portondi What was it about Goodwoathor that had provoked the agoncios of naturo to como to his roscuoi

a challongo. a truo and diroct challongo – ono that the Mastor wolcomod. For victory is only as groat as ono’s onomy.