Bad Moon Rising

Val looked at Newton, who held two handfuls of the pulped garlic. Mush dripped from between his fingers. He nodded, genuinely unable to speak for the dry stricture of his throat.



“Saul?” she asked.



He raised the syringe. “Ready as I can be.”



Crow took a position by Val’s side. “I’m here, babe.” In his left hand he had one of the knobby uncrushed garlic bulbs, and in the other his Beretta 92F. “Let’s go,” he said, “let’s get it done.”



Faced with the moment of truth, even Val’s nerve wavered, but slightly. She reached out to touch the sheet that had been folded up to cover Mark’s chest and face. She paused, closed her eyes, and murmured something, perhaps a brief prayer, perhaps only her brother’s name, then she took the edge of the sheet between her strong fingers, made a white-knuckled fist, and pulled back the cloth.



If she expected to see a monster, she was wrong. Mark looked dead, and that was frightening enough, but nothing about him was actually fearsome. His familiar features were distorted to a waxy whiteness and a gauntness that was the result of a total loss of blood. He seemed much older, more like her father than ever, and shrunken. Weinstock had wrapped some gauze around his throat to hide the savage wounds, but Val could see the lumpy roughness along the left side just below the chin.



“Oh, Mark,” she whispered brokenly and bent forward to kiss his forehead.



Weinstock suddenly reached for her. “Val…don’t!”



She stopped, looked at Weinstock for a moment, then nodded and straightened. “Right,” she said. “You’re right.” She sniffed and angrily brushed away a tear.



Crow wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, tell her that it was going to be all right and be able to mean it. Instead he ground his teeth as a wave of bilious hatred for Ubel Griswold boiled up from deep inside. No hell would be deep enough or hot enough to punish his black, murderous soul.



“Okay, Saul,” Val said, “give me the needle.”



“I’d rather do it myself…”



“Saul. This is mine to do.”



Weinstock reluctantly handed over the syringe. Val held it up, looking at the dark red blood that filled its barrel, then turned the tip of the needle downward.



“Okay, troops,” warned Crow, “stay sharp.”



Val touched Mark’s face with the fingertips of her other hand. She stroked his cheek lightly, placed her fingers on his lips, and parted them gently, then she carefully inserted the needle between the dry teeth. LaMastra, Ferro, and Crow each slipped their fingers into the trigger guards of their weapons. Everyone was sweating heavily. Val’s breath was rasping as if she had been running for miles under a hot sun. There was a bright feverish quality to her face as she took one last steadying breath and depressed the plunger. Her own salty, clean, innocent blood sprayed into the open mouth of her dead brother.



Crow leaned forward, pointing his pistol at Mark’s temple. Ferro stood at the foot of the table, aiming the shotgun at the ceiling because Val and Crow were in the line of fire. Sweat dripped into his eyes. On the wall the, each tick of the clock was as sharp as the snap of dry twigs.



Mark did not move. Nothing flinched, nothing changed. As Val removed the needle from between his teeth a single drop fell onto his lower lip. It glistened in the fluorescent light.



“Step back,” Ferro said, and Val and Crow shifted out of the line of fire; Ferro brought the shotgun down and aimed it at Mark’s head. The barrel shook visibly as tension vibrated in every cell of Ferro’s body. The lines beside his mouth were taut as fiddle strings. Beside him, LaMastra held his pistol in a two-hand shooter’s grip and whispered, “Hail Mary, Mother of grace…”



Newton stood apart, his eyes filling with tears of fear and tension.



A full minute passed.



Nothing happened. Another minute. Two. Three.



“It’s not happening,” whispered LaMastra. “Goddamn. Goddamn.”



Another minute passed. The room remained still, the dead stayed dead.



Val Guthrie exhaled a lungful of air that had been burning in her chest. She sagged forward, laying her hands on Mark’s chest as she closed her eyes in exhausted relief. “Thank God!” she said, and meant it. “It’s over.” She burst into tears.



That seemed to break the spell. They all breathed out huge lungfuls of air, their bodies slumping, guns lowering, faces breaking into triumphant smiles. They grinned and slapped each other on the back as if they had just won a great victory.



LaMastra prodded Mark with his pistol, but the only movement he saw was the movement he caused. Smiling, he reholstered his gun and dragged his forearm across his face. Newton abruptly laughed out loud, and though such a thing was horribly inappropriate, Weinstock and LaMastra found themselves laughing, too. Their laughter and Val’s tears meant the same, felt the same, and cost as much. Ferro slumped back against a work table and lowered his gun. He looked fifteen years older and he struggled to unwrap a stick of gun with badly shaking hands.



Val huddled over Mark, laying the side of her face on his chest, and wept brokenly.



Only Crow stood completely apart from it all. He felt the same tension, but didn’t share the release. He slowly slid his pistol into the holster, placed a hand on Val’s back, and failed to think of one single useful thing to say.



Val leaned over to kiss Mark’s forehead, daring it now that she knew it was safe. Distantly she knew that the true impact of his death would hit her now; now the true storms of grief would come slashing. Her lips lightly brushed the cold flesh of his brow. “Go to sleep, baby brother,” she murmured in a small voice that came close to breaking Crow’s heart.



And then Mark Guthrie’s eyes snapped open.



With a snarl of inhuman rage and hunger he reared up, snapping the gauze bindings as if they were crepe paper, and lunged off the table at Val.



Val screamed in total horror and recoiled, but Mark’s hands caught her elbow and the shoulder of her shirt. His grip was as hard as iron and as cold as arctic ice.



“Watch!” Ferro yelled and swung the shotgun around, trying to find a line of sight to get a clear shot, but Val was in the way.



Crow ripped his gun out its holster and launched himself at Mark, pistol-whipping him across the face, opening a deep three-inch gash on Mark’s cheek that did not bleed. Mark let go of Val’s elbow and backhanded Crow with a blow so hard and fast that it lifted him and sent him crashing into Newton. They both went down in a painful tangle of limbs. Newton’s head hit the hard floor with a meaty crunch.



Growling, Mark pulled Val to him, grabbing her short black hair and yanking her head back to expose her throat. His teeth snapped at her, but she jammed her hands against his chest and fought the pull, screaming all the while. Ferro still could not get his shot and tried shifting around, bellowing at Val to move out of the way even though it was impossible. Yanking out his gun, LaMastra snapped off a shot, but Weinstock knocked his arm upward and the shot went high and wide, shattering the clock.



“You’ll hit Val!” Weinstock yelled, and together he and a furious LaMastra leapt across the table at Mark. The doctor grabbed Mark’s arms and tried to wrench his grip away from the struggling Val; LaMastra caught Mark around the head in a powerful judo choke that would have rendered any strong man helpless in seconds by cutting off all blood to the brain. Unfortunately there was no flow of blood anywhere in Mark’s body and the choke, despite all of LaMastra’s considerable strength, was useless. Spitting with fury, Mark released Val with one hand and reached over his shoulder to take hold of LaMastra’s shirt collar. Mark whipped his arm forward and LaMastra felt himself flying through the air, propelled with incredible force. He crashed into the medicine chest with an explosion of jagged glass splinters and twisted metal, but in his flight his big right shoe caught Ferro perfectly on the point of the jaw and spun him around and his finger jerked the trigger of the shotgun, sending garlic-soaked pellets into the concrete ceiling. Ferro slumped against the counter and began to sag down to his knees, the room swimming around him. He landed next to LaMastra, who was dazed and bleeding from glass cuts on his face.



Weinstock had thrown his body directly between Mark and Val, literally lying on the one arm that still held Val. He punched at Mark with both fists, even as Val sought to tear at the waxy hand that held her like a vise. Since he could no longer get to Val, Mark darted his head forward, fast as a snake, and sank his teeth right through the white lab coat and into the meat of Saul Weinstock’s shoulder.



The doctor screamed at the searing agony as blood exploded from his arm, drenching his sleeve and spraying Mark’s face with a fine crimson mist. The smell and taste of blood drove Mark into an absolute frenzy.



“GET HIM OFF ME!” shrieked Weinstock, beating at Mark’s face with his fists, smashing cartilage and tearing flesh, but accomplishing nothing.



Jonatha stepped up behind him and swung a fire extinguisher at Mark’s back. The blow bounced off him, but the force was enough to make him release his hold on Weinstock. Still screaming, Weinstock dropped to the floor and scuttled away from him. Released from Mark’s grip, Val overbalanced and fell the other way, landing painfully on elbow and spine.



Jonatha raised the red fire extinguisher again but as she swung it, Mark swatted it out of the air so hard that the tank flew ten feet across the room and buried itself in the wall. The force of Mark’s blow spun Jonatha around and she pirouetted right into the near wall, struck her forehead, and sagged to the floor, out cold.



By now Ferro and Crow had both struggled to their feet and rushed in to attack. Ferro grabbed his shotgun and slammed Mark with the stock, a blow that would have killed an ordinary man, and even though the blow shattered Mark’s jaw and partially tore away his right ear, it did not stop him. The force of the blow spun Ferro, and he slipped on Weinstock’s blood and almost fell. Crow, more agile, scooped up a garlic bulb as he ran and threw it without breaking stride as deftly as any third baseman plucking a line drive and throwing to first to pick off the runner. The garlic struck Mark in the eye, and it was the first thing that had gotten any response. Mark staggered back, clapping both hands to his eye.