Clay

HE was puffing by the time he reached the third floor landing. He knew he didn't exercise as much as he should, but was he this out of shape? Or was it plain old fear stealing his wind and making his heart pound like this? Because with each flight he was realizing more and more what a stupid stunt this was. Should have listened to Shanna and waited. First thing they teach you is always wait for backup. But waiting hadn't seemed an option. The situation in Blessed Crucifixion wasn't just deteriorating, it had run off the edge of a cliff.

But he couldn't back off now, couldn't return to that parking lot with his tail between his legs. What would his daddy say? Well, he'd say what he always said: A Theel don't back down, not from no one, not from nothin'--'specially from a commie.

Well, these things weren't commies. They were worse. They were a disease. They had to be wiped out and--

A hiss and a silhouetted shape diving at him from the next flight.

Clay had the MM-1 held at ready. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Which he did. The kick was a helluva lot more than the nearly recoilless AA-12. A good thing, because it lifted the barrel. Instead of a center-of-mass hit, the double ought tore a hole in the dracula's upper chest, flinging it back and taking a good chunk of its spine out through the exit wound.

It sprawled on the steps, gnashing its teeth, unable to move its legs and only enough nerve supply to its arms to twitch its talons. A head shot would finish it off, but Clay needed to conserve ammo.

Most of all, he had to save one round for himself, in case he got bit. No way he was ending up like these folks.

He left the dracula behind and continued up.

On the fourth-floor landing he peeked through the little window and saw...nothing. Absolutely nothing. Black as the inside of a coffin.

Shit. He hadn't thought to bring a light. His Maglite was back in his cruiser in the sheriff's parking lot. Wait...

He pulled out his cell phone. He'd charged it up for the weekend trip. He hit a button and the display lit. Wimpy illumination, but it would have to do. With the MM-1 in his right hand and the phone in his left, he pushed through into the darkness...

Which swallowed the feeble glow from his phone. He took a step forward and heard glass crunch under his shoe. One or more of the draculas had smashed all the battery-powered lights. He couldn't see shit. He had no idea what was lying in wait.

Okay, new plan.

He backed into the stairwell again and pulled off his backpack. He pawed through his backup ammo for the MM-1 until he came to his one and only M583--a white star parachute flare. He removed the empty from the drum and inserted the flare. Problem solved.

He'd fire this baby down the hall. It would light up when it hit the far wall and give him forty seconds of 90,000 candlepower illumination to get the lay of the land.

Yeah.

He stepped back into the dark, raised the launcher, and thought he heard a noise. He hit a button on his phone and--

"Shit!"

A dracula, jaws agape, was four feet away and closing fast.

Clay pulled the trigger. The white star round hit the thing in the face, smashing through his teeth and into the back of his throat, lifting him off his feet. As he staggered back, the flare's little twenty-inch parachute popped out of his mouth and opened. The four-second delay ran out and the flare lit, illuminating the inside of the dracula's head like a paper lantern. Clay could see the brain boiling before the skull exploded.

The flare rolled free, revealing half a dozen draculas lying in wait. A trio of those leaped on their fallen comrade while the other three charged. Clay let the lead pair get close and put them both down with one round, then laid out the third with another. They weren't dead, but they were disabled, and that was as good as being goners, because their buddies were already on them, chowing down.

Now what? Could he sneak by the others without wasting precious ammo? The flare glare revealed a sign next to the stairway door. A floor directory. He spotted the word Pediatrics. Shit, it was on Two. He was on the wrong damn floor.

He slipped back into the stairwell and headed down.