he’s trying to make you smell better. Because let me tell you, you smell like shit. Literally. Like shit.”
“You don’t smell so good yourself.” Coburn held the dog close. “You planning on telling me you got bit?” The infection had a smell. Cheesy. Curdled. Parfum de rotter .
Inside Coburn’s mind, Kayla woke up at that—he heard her shout for her father as if the old man could actually hear her psychic projection.
Then he heard her crying.
“I got bit,” Gil said. “So what.”
“Here.” Coburn thrust out his still-bleeding thumb. “Drink up. Worked on the dog. I guess. Go on. Drinky, drinky. Suck my thumb, little baby.”
“Better than ‘old man,’ I guess.” But Gil didn’t move. Instead he stared ahead, still rowing, and said: “Something you need to know about Kayla. Something Kayla needs to know, too.”
Daddy?
“She’s listening. But first—” Coburn gestured with the bloody thumb.
Still Gil didn’t move.
“It’s about when she was born. She wasn’t born right. When she came out, she was—”
A gunshot split the air in the distance, echoed over the bay, and the bullet punched the water about three feet off the right side of the boat. Coburn said, “Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ assholes think we’re an invading army or some shit.” He stood up in the boat. Waved his arms. “Hey! Fuckos! We’re here to help! We’ve got something—”
“Coburn, don’t stand up in the—”
Another gunshot.
The bullet clipped Coburn’s hip—shattering bone and coming out through his buttock. His leg gave out and his body pivoted, and he tumbled over into the water with a heaving splash.
More bullets followed him into the water. Watery lines as the slugs punched the space above his head—lead minnows leaving little bubbles. The underside of the boat drifted away, churned by the oars. Gil was leaving him—not a shock, and not unwarranted since he was being shot at, too.
The vampire could take care of himself. The old man knew that.
Probably.
Coburn, feeling mighty pissed off, swam.
K AYLA’S VOICE: AN endless chatter of crows inside his mind. Daddy! Please let him be all right. What was he going to tell you? What’s wrong with me?
Coburn couldn’t help but answer: You’re dead. That’s what’s wrong with you .
In return he once more heard her weeping.
Damnit.
He swam through the dark water, losing track of the boat and eventually pulling himself up on the rocky shore of Alcatraz Island. All around him—trees, rocks, the remnant of an old brick wall here and, further up, a warped chain-link fence. Beyond all that, the silhouette of the prison itself, all hard angles and severe lines. Uncle Sam’s Devil’s Island.
The wind kicked up over the water, buffeting him, and as he shook himself dry like a common cur, someone called to him from further up.
Standing on a cement platform about fifty yards away:
Lydia, oh, Lydia, oh, have you met Lydia.
Gil knelt next to her. She held a rifle to his head. Remington 700 by the look of it. Bolt-action. High-caliber.
Double damnit.
“Up here,” she called. “Unless you want your friend’s brains to paint the concrete.” She pushed the gun forward, the barrel jabbing Gil hard in the temple.
Please, save my Daddy. Don’t you fail me, JW. Don’t you dare.
Coburn knew he could get away from her. Be like a cockroach slipping away under a fridge. All these trees. Under the cover of night. Could sneak up on Lydia from behind, kick her heart straight out of her damn chest. But then Gil would be dead and Kayla would be inconsolable and—
“I’m coming,” he called. “Just settle the fuck down up there.”
Grudgingly—and grumpily—Coburn found the walkway and plodded up the steps, boots squishing as he did. When he got closer, he could see Creampuff laying next to Gil. Still with the shallow breathing. But the bleeding had stopped.
Lydia stood tall. But she was only feigning triumph. All about her, the miasma of
“You don’t smell so good yourself.” Coburn held the dog close. “You planning on telling me you got bit?” The infection had a smell. Cheesy. Curdled. Parfum de rotter .
Inside Coburn’s mind, Kayla woke up at that—he heard her shout for her father as if the old man could actually hear her psychic projection.
Then he heard her crying.
“I got bit,” Gil said. “So what.”
“Here.” Coburn thrust out his still-bleeding thumb. “Drink up. Worked on the dog. I guess. Go on. Drinky, drinky. Suck my thumb, little baby.”
“Better than ‘old man,’ I guess.” But Gil didn’t move. Instead he stared ahead, still rowing, and said: “Something you need to know about Kayla. Something Kayla needs to know, too.”
Daddy?
“She’s listening. But first—” Coburn gestured with the bloody thumb.
Still Gil didn’t move.
“It’s about when she was born. She wasn’t born right. When she came out, she was—”
A gunshot split the air in the distance, echoed over the bay, and the bullet punched the water about three feet off the right side of the boat. Coburn said, “Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ assholes think we’re an invading army or some shit.” He stood up in the boat. Waved his arms. “Hey! Fuckos! We’re here to help! We’ve got something—”
“Coburn, don’t stand up in the—”
Another gunshot.
The bullet clipped Coburn’s hip—shattering bone and coming out through his buttock. His leg gave out and his body pivoted, and he tumbled over into the water with a heaving splash.
More bullets followed him into the water. Watery lines as the slugs punched the space above his head—lead minnows leaving little bubbles. The underside of the boat drifted away, churned by the oars. Gil was leaving him—not a shock, and not unwarranted since he was being shot at, too.
The vampire could take care of himself. The old man knew that.
Probably.
Coburn, feeling mighty pissed off, swam.
K AYLA’S VOICE: AN endless chatter of crows inside his mind. Daddy! Please let him be all right. What was he going to tell you? What’s wrong with me?
Coburn couldn’t help but answer: You’re dead. That’s what’s wrong with you .
In return he once more heard her weeping.
Damnit.
He swam through the dark water, losing track of the boat and eventually pulling himself up on the rocky shore of Alcatraz Island. All around him—trees, rocks, the remnant of an old brick wall here and, further up, a warped chain-link fence. Beyond all that, the silhouette of the prison itself, all hard angles and severe lines. Uncle Sam’s Devil’s Island.
The wind kicked up over the water, buffeting him, and as he shook himself dry like a common cur, someone called to him from further up.
Standing on a cement platform about fifty yards away:
Lydia, oh, Lydia, oh, have you met Lydia.
Gil knelt next to her. She held a rifle to his head. Remington 700 by the look of it. Bolt-action. High-caliber.
Double damnit.
“Up here,” she called. “Unless you want your friend’s brains to paint the concrete.” She pushed the gun forward, the barrel jabbing Gil hard in the temple.
Please, save my Daddy. Don’t you fail me, JW. Don’t you dare.
Coburn knew he could get away from her. Be like a cockroach slipping away under a fridge. All these trees. Under the cover of night. Could sneak up on Lydia from behind, kick her heart straight out of her damn chest. But then Gil would be dead and Kayla would be inconsolable and—
“I’m coming,” he called. “Just settle the fuck down up there.”
Grudgingly—and grumpily—Coburn found the walkway and plodded up the steps, boots squishing as he did. When he got closer, he could see Creampuff laying next to Gil. Still with the shallow breathing. But the bleeding had stopped.
Lydia stood tall. But she was only feigning triumph. All about her, the miasma of
Similar Books
