with a grenade, it was Leelee, Kayla’s best friend and almost-doctor and surrogate mother—the pin hit the ground and the grenade took out her and a pack of hunters. And that was the end of that.
I miss her , came Kayla’s voice rising out of the fog.
The vampire tried not to think about that.
Instead, he put out his hand, tried to stand, but found that his arm was like that zombie who gutted him—missing below the elbow. He fell, leaning hard on a nub of bone. A barbed spear of white-hot pain shot up from the bone to his shoulder and all the way to his ear.
He rolled over. Into something wet.
Wincing, he sat up, felt along his back for whatever it was—came back with a smear of red. Nearby lay a bowl—no, not a bowl, but a chunk of skull-cap with hair on the bottom. Masterson.
Masterson was everywhere.
The grenade, silly , Kayla said. Remember that?
Oh. Right.
At the last moment, before the grenade went off, Coburn turned and dove away from Masterson, pushing that poor dumb human bomb backward. Which explained why Coburn’s arm was half-gone.
Now, here he was. Missing an arm. Covered in dust and shattered brick and parts of Masterson. At least you’re not trapped in a Wal-Mart about to be eaten by a crazy super-obese lady , came Kayla’s voice. Yeah. You never said much about that, but I can see it here with all your other memories. That was pretty gross, JW .
It was pretty gross.
And this was not as bad as that.
At least he had blood here. It was undignified and made him feel more than a little like a starving dog but...
He bent down, and vacuumed up what was left of Masterson with his lips. Like he was slurping spilled soup from the floor. It was dingy and dirty and losing its nutritive value fast and occasionally he had to spit out spurs of bone or clumps of hair, but blood was blood and this arm wasn’t going to regrow itself. (Well, it would , but only with the proper urging.)
While siphoning up the liquid parts of the exploded Minister Masterson, Coburn wondered just what the hell that guy’s deal was. Thought he was some kind of cult leader. Leading the people toward a—what was it he said? A symbiosis with living man and undead asshole. But the truth was, Masterson was just another parasite. This one clinging to Lydia the way a remora fish hangs off the belly of a shark—bottom-feeding scum-sucking trash-picker. Not a leader. Not a ‘minister.’
When Coburn was done, he stood.
Grunted. Flexed his toes. Gritted his teeth.
Blood moved to wet the bony end of his arm. Muscle and tendon grew along with it, along with an unfurling flag of too-pink skin.
It was miserable. Felt like his arm was covered in a thousand ants, then dunked in a bucket of boiling water to kill them. Then ants, then boiling water. Over and over again. Until a few minutes went by and he felt fingers—skinless fingers for the moment—wiggling in the open air.
Time, then, to figure out where he was.
He’d gone into the tunnel.
Then used Lydia’s head like a bowling ball.
Then Masterson, then boom .
And the tunnel mouth closed. A rain of bricks and bone, of dust and dead guy. And now Coburn was looking down the mouth of the tunnel where Lydia had gone. Ahead he saw that this grotto broke into a smaller tunnel—an egg-shaped tunnel of old pale brick that cut across horizontally.
Time to move.
He reached the tunnel. Left or right?
He willed his lungs to pull in air, get a good noseful—he smelled the memory of sewage, not fresh but still married to these walls the way cigarette smoke clings to a sport coat. And beneath it, that hint of jasmine, that touch of death and cold clammy skin. A smell he once thought reserved only for him.
Left, then.
The tunnel did not allow him to stand at full height. He had to crouch, an undignified way to travel if ever there was one. Doubly undignified is how he had to pull himself along, hands falling upon debris that had long lined the brick—much of it stuck there like a
I miss her , came Kayla’s voice rising out of the fog.
The vampire tried not to think about that.
Instead, he put out his hand, tried to stand, but found that his arm was like that zombie who gutted him—missing below the elbow. He fell, leaning hard on a nub of bone. A barbed spear of white-hot pain shot up from the bone to his shoulder and all the way to his ear.
He rolled over. Into something wet.
Wincing, he sat up, felt along his back for whatever it was—came back with a smear of red. Nearby lay a bowl—no, not a bowl, but a chunk of skull-cap with hair on the bottom. Masterson.
Masterson was everywhere.
The grenade, silly , Kayla said. Remember that?
Oh. Right.
At the last moment, before the grenade went off, Coburn turned and dove away from Masterson, pushing that poor dumb human bomb backward. Which explained why Coburn’s arm was half-gone.
Now, here he was. Missing an arm. Covered in dust and shattered brick and parts of Masterson. At least you’re not trapped in a Wal-Mart about to be eaten by a crazy super-obese lady , came Kayla’s voice. Yeah. You never said much about that, but I can see it here with all your other memories. That was pretty gross, JW .
It was pretty gross.
And this was not as bad as that.
At least he had blood here. It was undignified and made him feel more than a little like a starving dog but...
He bent down, and vacuumed up what was left of Masterson with his lips. Like he was slurping spilled soup from the floor. It was dingy and dirty and losing its nutritive value fast and occasionally he had to spit out spurs of bone or clumps of hair, but blood was blood and this arm wasn’t going to regrow itself. (Well, it would , but only with the proper urging.)
While siphoning up the liquid parts of the exploded Minister Masterson, Coburn wondered just what the hell that guy’s deal was. Thought he was some kind of cult leader. Leading the people toward a—what was it he said? A symbiosis with living man and undead asshole. But the truth was, Masterson was just another parasite. This one clinging to Lydia the way a remora fish hangs off the belly of a shark—bottom-feeding scum-sucking trash-picker. Not a leader. Not a ‘minister.’
When Coburn was done, he stood.
Grunted. Flexed his toes. Gritted his teeth.
Blood moved to wet the bony end of his arm. Muscle and tendon grew along with it, along with an unfurling flag of too-pink skin.
It was miserable. Felt like his arm was covered in a thousand ants, then dunked in a bucket of boiling water to kill them. Then ants, then boiling water. Over and over again. Until a few minutes went by and he felt fingers—skinless fingers for the moment—wiggling in the open air.
Time, then, to figure out where he was.
He’d gone into the tunnel.
Then used Lydia’s head like a bowling ball.
Then Masterson, then boom .
And the tunnel mouth closed. A rain of bricks and bone, of dust and dead guy. And now Coburn was looking down the mouth of the tunnel where Lydia had gone. Ahead he saw that this grotto broke into a smaller tunnel—an egg-shaped tunnel of old pale brick that cut across horizontally.
Time to move.
He reached the tunnel. Left or right?
He willed his lungs to pull in air, get a good noseful—he smelled the memory of sewage, not fresh but still married to these walls the way cigarette smoke clings to a sport coat. And beneath it, that hint of jasmine, that touch of death and cold clammy skin. A smell he once thought reserved only for him.
Left, then.
The tunnel did not allow him to stand at full height. He had to crouch, an undignified way to travel if ever there was one. Doubly undignified is how he had to pull himself along, hands falling upon debris that had long lined the brick—much of it stuck there like a
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