Dark Road Rising

FLEMING



THE third night I awoke weak, cold, and shaking, with the hunger like a gunshot wound in my belly. It had never been this bad before.



Dugan was upstairs snoring, a short, heavy rasp, as though even in sleep he breathed faster than normal. When I yelled his name, the snoring abruptly ceased. After a minute the springs squeaked, and he paced unsteadily back and forth.



Last night he'd fallen into a pattern of first feeding me, draining away my blood to drink, followed by another feeding-four or five times. He kept up the assurance that this would speed his transformation, and it was clearly having an effect on him. Toward dawn he was unnaturally restless, with so much energy thrumming through him I thought his heart would give out. He took that as evidence his procedure was succeeding.



I'd continued my dying act and hoped it would remain an act. He was careful to replace my lost blood, so when the sun rose, I was in reasonably good shape considering the situation.



Plodding down the stairs, he put the light on, and it took time for my dazzled eyes to adjust. What I saw scared me.



Now I looked at my left wrist, which was covered with many more thin welts where he'd cut me. The son of a bitch had been drawing off blood while I slept. That was why I was so sick.



Dugan looked the way I felt. He was unshaved and drawn, his sweat-sheened skin had a yellow tinge, and that rotten-fruit smell was more pronounced. I wondered if he'd noticed. Though his wide-open eyes were not flushed wholly red the way mine got after feeding, they were bloodshot and muddy. His movements were jerky, hands shaking, fingers nervous. He looked exactly like an alky caught short on booze.



My blood had to be killing him, consuming him.



"I've kept up my end," he said brightly, holding another milk bottle within my view. "Straight from the Stockyards-less than an hour old."



My corner teeth were out. I was hurting for it. I'd have taken anything then, including human blood from an unwilling donor.



Solicitous as a nurse, he lifted my head, allowing me to drink from the glass he'd filled. I finished it quick, but the belly pain didn't cease.



"You're draining me during the day," I said.



"Only to speed my transformation process. Have more, have all you want. I went to considerable trouble to obtain this for you."



I shut up and finished that bottle and the second one he fetched.



Dugan had been careless, letting me know we were less than an hour's travel from the Stockyards. That covered a lot of area, of course, but I filed the information away with other details I'd gleaned about my location, which was definitely the basement of a house. I was able to pick up certain noises unique to a home: the hum of a refrigerator, the rumble of an oil heater, the plumbing, and sometimes the click of an electric light.



I heard no traffic, but being belowground might have to do with that. Earth and concrete make for great insulation from the outside world.



Throughout the previous night, I'd paid attention to each sound, trying to distract myself from the constant pain, sometimes succeeding. Once he put on the radio to listen to a news show, giving a snort of disdain whenever he didn't like what was said. The rest of the time he paced back and forth or was writing, to judge by the frequent scratch of his pen. If he had so much to say, why didn't he just get a damn typewriter?



As the blood saturated my body, the sickness slowly faded, but I demanded more.



"Where are you putting it?" he asked, surprised.



"Losing ground."



"What?"



I glanced toward my mangled wrist. "You don't give me time to heal. I need more than you take just to recover. More than that to stay alive."



He almost sounded defensive. "I didn't do it that often."



The day feedings terrified me. If his thirst got the better of him, I might not wake up tomorrow night. "Enough to kill me if you don't... oh, God..." I trailed off into a groan and submerged into my dying act.



"I'll get another bottle," he said and left. He stumbled on the stairs on the way up, caught himself, and shot a quick, self-conscious look back. My eyes were mostly shut, so he was a blurred figure through my lashes, but I'd seen. This flash of insecurity was good. I had him worried.



He let me empty the third bottle with a fourth standing ready before doing his little cut-and-drain operation. Tonight, he gulped the beakerful with alarming speed and relish. When his shuddering subsided, his eyes were fever-bright and much redder than before. The whites were nearly gone.



Maybe he was turning into a vampire, just no kind I'd ever heard about. I fought to maintain listlessness.



"I'm feeling so much stronger," he said, swinging his arms around. "I've never been so energetic. I'd been looking forward to acquiring the ability to influence weaker minds, but it never occurred to me that my physical being would be so greatly augmented."



He sniffed at the untouched bottle of cow's blood, took an experimental sip, and grimaced. Apparently it wasn't to his taste yet.



"I should be fully changed by now," he said. "Perhaps you were right about it taking longer. I'm very sorry, but you'll have to remain here. But I'm optimistic-today I had to go out, and though it was cloudy, I wasn't at all comfortable in the light. That's progress, though it is rather short of the comalike state you fall into."



How much of that was self-suggestion, I wondered.



I mumbled for more blood. He cheerfully complied, chatty now, telling me about his goals once his little experiment was completed. He was excited about leaving Chicago and moving up in the world. First he'd have to deal with his criminal record. He was a wanted fugitive, and that had to be fixed.



"The police and court papers should be easy enough to destroy. Then I shall talk with everyone concerned with the case. I'll persuade them to completely forget me-even your English friend won't recall anything of it. Neither will that woman whose deficient offspring I kidnapped. She'd be better off without such a burden, you know." He sounded speculative. "So many things to do once I have your abilities. I shan't waste them, though. The world is going to improve significantly because of me."



Oh, brother.



But he could be right. Say he went to Washington and started doing an evil-eye whammy on anyone he chose. Though its influence wasn't permanent, I'd read enough history to know that one man in the right place at the wrong time could change things. For good or ill was up to the man. In Dugan's case, I couldn't really imagine how bad things could get.



How I hated his voice. I looked around for the other me. He was out of view. Dammit, I wanted his company. He could listen to the idiot; I wanted to hide in that summer day again.



Maybe Dugan was only blowing hot air to entertain himself, but his plans were too detailed.



Without referring once to it, I also understood he would kill me despite his promise to the contrary. I'd known that from the moment he first showed himself; this simply disposed of any lingering delusion. He couldn't set up anywhere and feel secure with me running loose.



I had a black moment, wondering how he'd carry it out. He could drain me completely by accident or do it on purpose. Or would he resort to the traditional stake and hammer, followed by a beheading just to be sure?



Bobbi would think I'd walked out on her because of her going to Hollywood. She'd never know.



Escott would think I'd gone off my head again and run away to kill myself.



They'd never find me.



My friendly doppelg�Õnger appeared just then, scowling down. "You going to feel sorry for yourself or do something?"



I'm open to suggestions.



"You know what to do." He talked right over Dugan's blather.



A better hint, please.



He pointed at my right arm.



It's hard to pretend to be at death's door while at the same time trying to observe what's going on around you. I kept my eyelids at half-mast, looking straight ahead and unfocused, but still managed to see plenty whenever Dugan turned his back. Not that there was much to notice at the moment; my view was blocked by another glassful of blood, which I drank. I was feeling full now, but made no objection as Dugan poured another. While he was busy, I let my head loll to one side.



The L-shaped rod was still in place, the handle pointing in the same direction, my arm a ragged mess around the wound. A glimpse was enough, then I straightened back so he wouldn't notice.



I finished the next glass. The milk bottle was empty.



He gave me a long, considering look. "Tell me about that female of yours. How do you feed from her?"



What the hell? "None of your damn business."



Dugan's eyes flashed amusement, and I instantly regretted speaking. I shouldn't have reacted at all. Dear God, if he went after Bobbi... I wanted to rip free and strangle him. At the last second I changed the expression of the impulse and out came that maniac laughter again. There was no humor in it, and it sounded even more disturbing than before.



He backed away. Good, I'd scared him.



I let the laughter die and shut my eyes. Let him think I'd passed out.



He trotted energetically upstairs and slammed the door. Soon water was running, a lot of it, as though for a bath. The sound just might be enough to cover things if I ended up screaming.



I checked my right arm again. Sometime during the day a miracle had happened.



Healing had taken place, and the dried blood had concealed it. The skin was no longer adhering to the metal, trying to mesh to it, but had shrunk back from the rod. Not by a lot, just a fraction. It fit snugly enough, almost exactly the same as an earring wire through a woman's pierced ear, but larger in scale.



The important thing was that the wound had closed, and I was no longer bleeding.



I'd had the right idea last night when I'd tried to rip free, just not the strength or a reserve of blood to draw on. It had been too soon. My body needed time to figure out that the metal wasn't going away and had to be accommodated.



Now I slowly lifted my arm, working it along the threads a little at a time. It was awkward, and my muscles cramped. I told them to shut the hell up.



My arm couldn't twist to the point of getting the bone over the angle, but I got enough leverage to start bringing the end of the rod around. It came reluctantly, one inch, two, then it gradually swiveled into place, pointing at my head.



More twisting, and it burned like blazes, and suddenly I was pulling my arm off the damned thing.



No need to breathe, but I was panting, half from pain, half from triumph. I kept looking at my freed arm, fearing it was another hallucination. The hole was ugly as sin. I wasn't crazy enough to make up anything that bad; it had to be real.



Moving was painful. I'd not done much more than shiver and twitch the last two nights. Every joint was brittle and popped, but I made myself roll over to the left. My other arm was still pinned, the skin sealed to the rod, but I had momentum going, mental and physical.



I grabbed the handle and pulled it sharply straight up. The threading provided friction for my grip. Back, forth, back-the thing snapped and came away. I yanked my bleeding left arm up, unaware of my howling until I smothered it. That would bring Dugan running.



As soon as flesh lifted clear of the metal, I tried to vanish.



Nothing.



Goddammit. Now what?



I threw the blanket off and tore at the ropes binding my legs. The muscles burned at the sudden movement.



My hands no longer clawlike, the fingers were now swollen and clumsy. The rope was too thick to break casually unless I got some slack to work with, but Dugan didn't know anything about knots. He'd coiled the rope around and around, wrapping me like a mummy, immobilizing to a man lying flat, much less effective when he was vertical. All it took was to push everything down to my feet.



It was more painful than it should have been.



There were spots of blood along the length of my trousers, making the material stick to my skin. Then I looked closer. It was just too easy to put myself in Dugan's place and figure out what he'd done. I didn't have time to fix it; the basement door swung wide.



He was partway down, a bottle in hand. My yells must have made him think I needed another feeding.



The shock on his face when he saw me lurching toward him was sweet to see-then that smug smile came back. He'd planned for this. If I'd somehow gotten free on the first night, he had prepared for it.



He threw the bottle, missing me. The glass broke; the contents splashed everywhere. He whipped around and up, and I was right behind him. He was in time to slam the door in my face. I spent a couple seconds yanking it open. That gave him what he needed, the opportunity to get to his revolver.



I ducked back, and he wasted one of his six bullets when it struck somewhere to the side of where I'd been. Like Kroun, I couldn't vanish. Getting shot now could truly be fatal.



"I can stay here all night, Mr. Fleming," Dugan announced. "Until the dawn comes." He tried to sound bland and bored, but couldn't pull it off. He was breathing too hard.



My view from the basement was limited: an unadorned wall within arm's reach, part of a hallway. I had no idea how far it went in either direction. He sounded close, only steps off. I could charge him blind and collect a bullet, hopefully not in the head. Satisfying as getting my hands around his throat would be, I could not risk the damage.



I slipped back down the stairs, looking for anything to even the odds. My legs complained with vicious sharp pains, but those were nothing compared to being pinned to that table.



Which was indeed a huge Victorian thing, too large to get up the stairs and throw. I grabbed smaller stuff: empty milk bottles from the floor.



"Fleming, I don't expect you to be reasonable, but if you would just think a moment, we can easily revolve this. We can come to an arrangement that will be mutually beneficial. I have a great deal of cash..."



He'd stolen it from that misguided girlfriend. No thanks. He was moving, edging closer to the door. I reclaimed the stairs, and keeping all but my arm inside, blindly flung one of the milk bottles down the hall. It crashed and shattered, I immediately followed it up with the second, then risked a look. He was in the act of dodging, but fired at me and struck the ceiling. Two bullets wasted.



He knew how to shoot, but aiming is a skill. Some naturals can point and hit the bull's-eye; most need hours of practice. His planning hadn't taken into account that I'd hit back. I hurled an empty at him like a cannonball.



He dodged that one, but not the second. By then I was halfway out in the hall and able to put some pepper on it. The heavy glass container got him square in the chest. He staggered back, and I took the opening.



I was wobbly and hurting, but made a solid tackle that rattled his teeth. We rolled in broken glass and pummeled each other, and I heard a maniac laughing and cursing. I shut him up once I realized it was me. Dugan still had his gun, but I had a grip on that hand, keeping him from firing.



He threw some good punches, and their force was a surprise. Drinking my blood had improved him. He'd gotten stronger and faster, but he was unprepared for frenzied desperation.



However much thought I'd put into how to kill him, I wasn't thinking now. Brutal instinct to survive was running this show. He was a threat, I had to make him harmless.



I slammed pile drivers, one after another, to his gut, and that broke him. He couldn't draw breath and sagged in place. I wrested the gun clear, pushed away, and scrambled upright. He gasped, clutching at me, but I made sure he saw where the muzzle was pointing, which was right in his face.



Eyes wide, he stopped; it must have penetrated that I wasn't going to shoot him immediately.



I was tempted.



We stared at each other, me unnaturally still, Dugan puffing like a runner, his face sweaty and more yellow than red from exertion. I let him catch his breath, listening to his heart as his lungs sawed air. It was going too fast even given the circumstances. Whatever benefits he'd taken from my blood, it was devouring him from the inside out.



"Pliers," I said, my voice uncannily gentle, but then I wasn't what could be called winded from the fight. I was pissed as hell and working to keep in control.



The remnants of his ingrained smile gradually distorted into a confused expression.



"You'll have tools. I want pliers."



He must have thought I planned to yank his fingers off-not that it hadn't occurred to me-and hesitated. He was visibly thinking.



I roared "pliers" at him, and he got moving.



We were in a small room, perhaps meant to be used as a parlor or for dining. It had a long and ancient sofa, a table and chair, a radio, and on the floor, an open suitcase of jumbled clothing. He'd picked this room closest to the basement door to set up camp.



I was not surprised by the large collection of origami animals spreading across one corner of the floor like a lost herd. He'd been very busy with his fountain pen and green ink, so many profound thoughts to record.



This room opened directly to a kitchen, with a box of tools on a counter by the sink. They were new, as though he'd bought them all at once from a hardware store. He'd likely gotten the threaded rods at the same time.



With me keeping him covered and giving specific instructions, he gingerly got the pliers. His hand shook so violently he dropped them. He glanced at me and bent to pick them up again, getting a better grip.



That rotten-fruit smell had taken on a more familiar tang that I knew to be fear. He had no idea what was coming next. I was tempted to keep him hanging, but this wasn't the time or place.



I sat on the sofa, grunting as I stretched my legs out. The blood spots on my pants were more than simple stains.



He was a grating, insane, self-important bastard, but give him credit, he'd planned this one through. If I somehow freed myself from the table, this was his insurance to keep me anchored in flesh, allowing him time to either escape or wound me enough to restrain again.



The spots on the trousers were nail heads, not bloodstains. While I'd been in my day sleep, he'd pounded the metal into my legs right through the cloth.



I pointed to one of them, then at the pliers in his hand. "Pull it out."



"Wh-what?"



"You put 'em in, you pull 'em out. Make it fast, and I'll let you keep your ears."



He knelt, made an effort to still his shaking, and did as he was told. He gripped a nail head with the pliers and pulled hard.



I hissed, and made an effort not to shoot him. The damned nail was a good two inches long. And I'd been able to move with all those in me? Jeez.



"Next one," I said, my voice thick and harsh.



He repeated the operation, faster. I hissed again, and once more did not shoot. That was moderately encouraging to him. "Mr. Fleming, I'm sure we can-"



I suddenly grabbed his hair with my free hand, twisting his head around almost to the breaking point, and shoved the gun hard against his nose, the muzzle half an inch from his left eye. "You say another word-one more goddamned word..."



No need to finish. He got the idea and continued in sweating silence.



The next few minutes weren't fun for either of us. I had to endure his ham-fisted surgery, and he had to not talk. Suffering was likely equal for both parties.



When the last nail came free, it was better than Christmas.



I wasn't there anymore. My poor body vanished into that sweet, gray, healing nothingness.



Dugan gave a surprised yelp, falling back. I could imagine him looking around in confusion, wondering what would come next.



He bolted.



I heard a door jerked open, there was one in the kitchen, and swooped myself that way, following his panicked breathing as he pelted toward some goal.



A car, as it turned out. I went solid right behind him as he scrabbled at its door handle. He screeched in panic as I caught his collar and spun him to the ground.



My mind was very clear now that the pain was gone. In a glance, I took in the back of a small, plain house, trampled snow, the little yard surrounded by tall, overgrown holly bushes. They blocked the view of whatever lay beyond and worked better than a brick wall for concealing everything within.



This included two holes in the middle of the yard, one long enough to hold a body, the other smaller, located several yards from the first. Both were deep. I was surprised Mr. Genius had applied himself to so much physical labor.



Dugan's legs weren't supporting him, but he tried to run anyway. His version of instinct was trying to get him clear, but I wouldn't allow it. I dragged him toward the larger hole and let go just at the edge. He sobbed and rolled around to face me, hands pawing the air, begging. I still held the revolver.



He was not a pretty sight, his groveling made it worse. I'd been here before, on the edge of murder, and there is no satisfaction to killing a man, however deserving. Dugan's death would just create another dark burden for my tattered soul to haul around for however long I walked the earth. I had too many of those. No need for more.



I'd throw a good scare into him, tie him up, remove all trace of myself from this place, and drop him at the nearest police station. He had to pay for all those deaths. A judge and jury were needed, not me.



"Please..." he said.



Then again...



"That-" I told him "-is another goddamned word."