Bad Blood by Chuck Wendig Page A

play catch up, old man,” Aiden said. “You’re looking for a lab, right? Alcatraz is it.”
    “Rude little prick,” Coburn said.
    “Takes one to know one,” the kid answered.
    That was probably true.
    It was then they said their goodbyes. The kids all shook Gil’s hand—though the pig-tailed one who the others called ‘Princess’ leapt up and hugged him like he was her long-lost grandfather. Coburn stood off to the side, gently scratching Creampuff’s ear.
    Fact you can do anything gentle is a surprise , came Kayla’s voice, which had been silent since the fracas on the hill.
    Coburn grunted.
    Then felt someone standing near him. One of the midgets.
    “Thanks for saving my life,” the girl with the dirty face said; chair leg tucked under her arm. “Hope your puppy’s okay.”
    “Yeah. Me, too.”
    “Later.”
    “Later, kid.”
    The children left. Darting off around the corner, in the rain. Disappearing. A pack of apocalypse orphans—although, the vampire had to admit, they had better control of things than most of the adults they encountered.
    “You ready?” Gil asked.
    “Sure,” Coburn said.
    But he was pretty sure it was a lie.
    He had no idea how unready he really was.

 
    PART THREE
     
    DEVILS

 
    The Conversation: #3
     
    Can you still hear me?
    A little.
    But I’m fading, aren’t I?
    I don’t want to talk about that.
    You don’t want to talk about a lot of things.
    Ain’t I a bitch?
    But these could be our last moments together. Tell me, John Wesley. Tell me about what you regret. Tell me about what you love.
    I regret nothing. And I love only myself .
    Now you’re just being stupid.
    It’s how I roll.
    Won’t you miss me?
    I’ll miss you. But it won’t matter because I’ll be dead. Dead for good. Dead and done and fucked four ways from Friday.
    I’ll miss you, too.
    Yeah .

 
    CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The Devil’s Island
     
    T HE DINGHY BOBBED in the bay. The thunder was distant, now. The bulk of the storm had moved out to sea again, leaving behind only a grimy mist of rain falling oily against their skin.
    The vampire had Gil row for a minute.
    He set the dog in his lap. The animal no longer looked up at him. His breathing was fast, shallow—like watching a rabbit die from fright. The holes in his side were pretty bad. Went deep.
    The dog was dying.
    Coburn said as much.
    Gil looked back. Mouth in a sad, straight line.
    “Not that I’m a doctor or anything,” Coburn said.
    “Be nice to have Leelee here,” Gil said.
    “Yeah. Yeah it would.”
    The dinghy continued. Alcatraz in the distance, a shadowy rock growing larger and larger as they approached.
    The dog’s breath came in hitches now—inconsistent, unsteady, uneven. Gil spoke up again: “Remember. Leelee got bit. Kayla saved her. Right then and there.”
    “That she did.”
    Gil turned around. Set the oars down. “No, you’re not listening. Her blood. Kayla’s blood. It’s your blood now. Give the damn dog some of your stuff.” Gil looked down at the dog. “But you better hurry.”
    Coburn sank his teeth into the tip of his thump, ripping the flesh of the thumb-pad clean off. Then he thrust it into the dog’s mouth and used his free hand to massage the hand, way you’d urge milk from a cow’s udder.
    The dog’s tongue lapped at the wound. Weakly, but there it was.
    Then the dog stopped breathing.
    Coburn shook the dog. “No, no, get up. Wait. Shit. Fuck!” He shot a hate-fueled gaze at Gil. “You did this. You told me it would work. You said—”
    The dog shuddered suddenly, took in a great gasp of air.
    The tail started going. Just a light thwip thwip thwip against the inside of Coburn’s arm. The eyes focused again. The breathing returned. Still shallow. Still weak as wind blowing around a piece of tissue paper.
    But it was there.
    Then Creampuff pissed on Coburn’s lap. Probably not an act of spite.
    Probably.
    “Dog pissed on me,” Coburn said.
    “Maybe you deserved it,” Gil said. “Maybe