of desire and thirst and cruelty, Coburn still couldn’t kill her. Or it. Or whatever it was.
But he was getting to that mini-van, goddamnit.
Creampuff looked up at Coburn. Blood trickling from his muzzle.
The hunter’s patience was at an end. The beast bolted toward him. Claws out. Jaw unhinging like a snake’s—mouth wide, too wide, its lashing tongue licking the rain and tasting the air.
Coburn held his ground.
And when the beast was close enough—he took one big step back.
Over the open manhole.
The hunter did not fall through the manhole, not entirely—but one of its legs did disappear into that space and the beast fell forward, cracking its head on the macadam and yowling in rage and anguish. Needle teeth broke off and scattered like the knucklebones cast by a diviner.
Coburn used the body as a stepping stone and bolted toward the van.
The zombies surged again. The mesmerism of the hunter, interrupted. They pushed forth toward the van. Slapping wetly against its side. Rocking it.
The vampire gave himself one last boost—
And shouldered hard right into the back of the vehicle.
The van started to lurch forward.
There they were, at the top of a hill. On Hyde Street. Down the hill—north, though you couldn’t see it in the dark and through the rain—was the bay. Where they had been hoping to get to all along.
Coburn clambered atop the van as it started to roll down the hill with Gil at the wheel, steering out of the way of parked and abandoned cars, clipping zombies and letting the wheels pop their limbs and heads like blood-gorged ticks.
The van picked up speed, bounding away in escape.
Coburn heard the wretched cry of the hunter.
Wounded. Stung. Starving.
Always starving.
He looked behind him, and in a small blessing could not see the beast.
CHAPTER TEN
Dead End
T HE VAN BOUNDED down the hill, steering to narrowly dodge debris and skirt other cars. Some of the rotters saw them pass, tried to follow, slapped at the vehicle as it passed—but they were too slow, too stupid, to matter.
They bounded pasted a gutted Starbucks. An overgrown park. Boutique hotels and shuttered restaurants. And all around them, dead people: some still moving, others just corpses burned or gutted or gone from suicide. In cars. On street corners. Hanging half out of windows.
All the while, Coburn clung to the roof-rack of the mini-van with one hand, shushing Creampuff and stroking the little dog’s head with the other. The animal panted. Heavy. Too heavy. Blood wetting Coburn’s arms.
Soon the great Hyde Street hill evened out— please keep your arms and legs inside the ride , Coburn thought, calling to mind a fleeting memory of Coney Island that he did not expect and could not follow—and since Gil had the van in neutral, there wasn’t much he could do but steer it straight into a parked car to stop it. Not before mowing over a DEAD END sign. Which Coburn hoped was not somehow prescient.
T HE RAIN LIGHTENED, but just the same they all poured out of the van and huddled under the tattered awning of some bullshit maritime souvenir shop with wooden pirates standing vigil out front.
The kid—Aiden—looked wrecked. Gutted. Hell, they all did. A little girl with pigtails came up to Coburn and gently patted Creampuff’s head.
“This is your stop,” Aiden said. Staring at a faraway point. “You better go. Zombos won’t be long in coming.”
Pete pointed past the storefront and toward the maritime tourist complex of Fisherman’s Wharf. “Follow this out, it’ll take you to the end of the Hyde Street pier. You’ll find some old dinghies tied up. We use them to fish sometimes.”
“Ew,” the little pig-tailed girl said. “Fish, yuck.”
“What about you?” Gil asked. “You could come with us.”
“To Alcatraz?” Aiden asked. “No, thanks. We’ve got our place here.”
Coburn held Creampuff close, furrowed his brow. “Wait. Who said jack and shit about Alcatraz?”
“Better
But he was getting to that mini-van, goddamnit.
Creampuff looked up at Coburn. Blood trickling from his muzzle.
The hunter’s patience was at an end. The beast bolted toward him. Claws out. Jaw unhinging like a snake’s—mouth wide, too wide, its lashing tongue licking the rain and tasting the air.
Coburn held his ground.
And when the beast was close enough—he took one big step back.
Over the open manhole.
The hunter did not fall through the manhole, not entirely—but one of its legs did disappear into that space and the beast fell forward, cracking its head on the macadam and yowling in rage and anguish. Needle teeth broke off and scattered like the knucklebones cast by a diviner.
Coburn used the body as a stepping stone and bolted toward the van.
The zombies surged again. The mesmerism of the hunter, interrupted. They pushed forth toward the van. Slapping wetly against its side. Rocking it.
The vampire gave himself one last boost—
And shouldered hard right into the back of the vehicle.
The van started to lurch forward.
There they were, at the top of a hill. On Hyde Street. Down the hill—north, though you couldn’t see it in the dark and through the rain—was the bay. Where they had been hoping to get to all along.
Coburn clambered atop the van as it started to roll down the hill with Gil at the wheel, steering out of the way of parked and abandoned cars, clipping zombies and letting the wheels pop their limbs and heads like blood-gorged ticks.
The van picked up speed, bounding away in escape.
Coburn heard the wretched cry of the hunter.
Wounded. Stung. Starving.
Always starving.
He looked behind him, and in a small blessing could not see the beast.
CHAPTER TEN
Dead End
T HE VAN BOUNDED down the hill, steering to narrowly dodge debris and skirt other cars. Some of the rotters saw them pass, tried to follow, slapped at the vehicle as it passed—but they were too slow, too stupid, to matter.
They bounded pasted a gutted Starbucks. An overgrown park. Boutique hotels and shuttered restaurants. And all around them, dead people: some still moving, others just corpses burned or gutted or gone from suicide. In cars. On street corners. Hanging half out of windows.
All the while, Coburn clung to the roof-rack of the mini-van with one hand, shushing Creampuff and stroking the little dog’s head with the other. The animal panted. Heavy. Too heavy. Blood wetting Coburn’s arms.
Soon the great Hyde Street hill evened out— please keep your arms and legs inside the ride , Coburn thought, calling to mind a fleeting memory of Coney Island that he did not expect and could not follow—and since Gil had the van in neutral, there wasn’t much he could do but steer it straight into a parked car to stop it. Not before mowing over a DEAD END sign. Which Coburn hoped was not somehow prescient.
T HE RAIN LIGHTENED, but just the same they all poured out of the van and huddled under the tattered awning of some bullshit maritime souvenir shop with wooden pirates standing vigil out front.
The kid—Aiden—looked wrecked. Gutted. Hell, they all did. A little girl with pigtails came up to Coburn and gently patted Creampuff’s head.
“This is your stop,” Aiden said. Staring at a faraway point. “You better go. Zombos won’t be long in coming.”
Pete pointed past the storefront and toward the maritime tourist complex of Fisherman’s Wharf. “Follow this out, it’ll take you to the end of the Hyde Street pier. You’ll find some old dinghies tied up. We use them to fish sometimes.”
“Ew,” the little pig-tailed girl said. “Fish, yuck.”
“What about you?” Gil asked. “You could come with us.”
“To Alcatraz?” Aiden asked. “No, thanks. We’ve got our place here.”
Coburn held Creampuff close, furrowed his brow. “Wait. Who said jack and shit about Alcatraz?”
“Better
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