Fiends. Part 28

n.o.body lives here, he suddenly thought.

He didn't like that. Not at all.

He realized that he was holding his breath as he started forward. He walked slowly, setting each heel down and rolling the shoe forward to its toe. Sometimes, a board creaked under him.

He stopped at a corner where this bit of hallway met a long stretch of corridor. Leaning forward, he aimed his beam to the left. He saw no blood on the floor. His light reached only far enough down the narrow pa.s.sage to reveal one door. That door stood open.

He knew that he should take a peek inside.

He didn't want to.

Byron looked to the right. Not far away, a staircase rose toward the upper stories. Beyond that was a foyer and the front entrance.

He saw no blood on the floor in that direction.

I'll check that way, first, he decided. He knew it would make more sense to go left, but heading toward the front seemed safer.

He turned the corner. After a few strides, he twisted around and checked behind him with the light. That long hallway made him very nervous. Especially the open door, though he couldn't see it from here. Instead of turning his back on it, he began sidestepping.

He s.h.i.+ned his light up and down the stairway. The bal.u.s.trade flung crooked, s.h.i.+fting bars of shadow against the wall.

What if the blood goes up there?

He didn't want to think about that.

He checked the floor ahead of him. Still, no blood. Coming to the foot of the stairs, he checked the newel cap and ran his light up the banister. No blood. Nor did he find any on the lower stairs. He could only see the tops of five, though. After that, they were above his eye level.

I don't want to go up there, he thought.

He wanted to go up there even less than he wanted to search the far end of the hallway.

Sidestepping through the foyer, he made his way to the front door. He tried its handle. The door seemed frozen in place.

He noticed that his light was s.h.i.+ning on a panel of mailboxes. His own building had a similar arrangement. But in his building, each box was labeled with a room number and name. No such labels here.

This came as no surprise to Byron. But his dread deepened.

I've come this far, he told himself. I'm not going to back out now.

Trembling, he stepped toward the stairway. He climbed one stair, then another. The muscles of his legs felt like warm jelly. He stopped. He swept his light across two higher treads that he hadn't been able to see from the bottom. Still, no blood.

She didn't go this way, he told himself.

If she did, she's on her own.

I didn't count on having to search an abandoned apartment house. That'd be stupid. G.o.d only knows who might be lurking in the empty rooms.

Byron backed down the stairs and hurried away, eager to reach the pa.s.sage that would lead to the alley door.

He felt ashamed of himself for giving up.

n.o.body will ever know.

But he hesitated when he came to the connecting hallway. He shone his light at the alley door. Twenty feet away. No more than that. He could be outside in seconds.

But what about the bleeder?

You'll never know, he thought.

You'll always wonder.

Suppose it is a beautiful young woman, wandering around in shock, slowly bleeding to death? Suppose you're her only chance?

I don't care. I'm not going upstairs.

But what about that open door?

He could take a look in there, couldn't he?

He swung his light toward it.

And heard the soft murmur of a sigh.

Oh my G.o.d!

He gazed at the doorway. The sigh had come from there, he was sure of it.

*h.e.l.lo?' he called.

Someone moaned.

Byron glanced again at the alley door, shook his head, and hurried down the corridor.

So much for chickening out, he thought, feeling somewhat pleased with himself in spite of his misgivings.

I'll be a hero, after all.

*I'm here,' he said as he neared the open door. *I'll help you.'

He rushed into the room.

He jumped the beam of his flashlight here and there. Shot its bright tunnel into corners of the room. Across bare floorboards. Past windows and a radiator.

At his back, the door slammed shut.

He gasped and whirled around.

And stared, not quite sure what he was seeing.

Then a small whimper slipped from his throat and he stumbled backward, urine running hot down his leg.

The man standing beside the door grinned with wet, red lips. He was hairless. He didn't even have eyebrows. Nor did he appear to have a neck. His head looked as if it had been jammed down between his ma.s.sive shoulders.

His b.l.o.o.d.y lips grinned at Byron around a clear plastic tube.

A straw of sorts. Flecked inside with red.

The tube curled down from his mouth to a body cradled in his thick arms.

The limp body of a young man whose head was tipped back as if he found something fascinating about the far wall. He wore jeans and a plaid s.h.i.+rt. The s.h.i.+rt hung open. From the center of his chest protruded something that resembled a metal spike - obviously hollow inside - which was joined with the plastic tubing. A single thin streamer of blood stretched from the hole, across his chest, and down the side of his ribcage.

It was the streamer, Byron knew, that had left the trail of drops which led him there.

He pictured the monstrous, bloated man carrying the body block after block down city streets, drinking its blood as he lumbered along.

Now, the awful man shook the body. His cheeks sank in as he sucked. Some red flew up through the tubing. Byron heard a slurpy hollow sound - the sound that comes from a straw when you reach the bottom of a chocolate shake.

Then came another soft sigh.

*All gone,' the man muttered.

His lips peeled back, baring red teeth that pinched the tube.

He dropped the body.

The spike popped out of its chest and swayed at the end of the tubing.

*Glad you're here,' he said. *Got me an awful thirst.'

Wrapping his thick fingers around the spike, he stepped over the body.

Byron spun around, ran, and leaped. He wrapped his arms around his head an instant before hitting the window. It exploded around him and he fell until he crashed against the pavement of a sidewalk.

He scurried up and ran.

He ran for a long time.

Finally, exhausted, he leaned against a store front. Panting for air, he looked where he had been.

Now that's a trail of blood, he thought.

Too weak to go on, he let his knees unlock. He slumped down on the sidewalk and stretched out his legs.

His clothes, he saw, were shredded from the window gla.s.s.

So am I, he thought.

But that thing didn't get me.

Smiling, he shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw a woman crouching beside him. A young, slim blonde. Really cute. She looked a lot like the one he'd hoped to find at the end of the trail. *You'll be all right,' she said. *My partner's calling for an ambulance.'

She nodded toward the patrol car idling by the curb.

DESERT PICKUP.

*All right!' He felt lucky about his one. Walking backward along the roadside, he stared at the oncoming car and offered his thumb. Sunlight glared on the winds.h.i.+eld. Only at the last moment did he manage to get a look at the driver. A woman. That was that. So much for feeling lucky.

When he saw the brake lights flash on, he figured the woman was slowing down to be safe. When he saw the car stop, he figured this would be the *big tease.' He was used to it. The car stops, you run to it, then off it shoots, throwing dust in your face. He wouldn't fall for it this time. He'd walk casually toward the car.

When he saw the backup lights come on, he couldn't believe his luck.

The car rolled backward to him. The woman inside leaned across the front seat and opened the door.

*Can I give you a ride?'

*Sure can.' He jumped in and threw his seabag onto the rear seat. When he closed the door, cold air struck him. It seemed to freeze the sweat on his T-s.h.i.+rt. It felt fine. *I'm mighty glad to see you,' he said. *You're a real lifesaver.'

*How on earth did you get way out here?' she asked, starting again up the road.

*You wouldn't believe it.'

*Go ahead and try me.'

He enjoyed her cheerfulness and felt guilty about the slight nervous tremor he heard in her voice. *Well, this fella gives me a lift. Just this side of Blythe. And he's driving along through thisa this deserta when suddenly he stops and tells me to get out and take a look at one of the tires. I get out - and off he goes! Tosses my seabag out a ways up the road. Don't know why a fella wants to do something like that. You understand what I mean?'

*I certainly do. These days you don't know who to trust.'

*If that ain't the truth.'

He looked at her. She wore boots and jeans and a faded blue s.h.i.+rt, but she had cla.s.s. It was written all over her. The way she talked, the way her skin was tanned just so, the way she wore her hair. Even her figure showed cla.s.s. Nothing overdone.

*What I don't get,' he went on, *is why the fella picked me up in the first place.'

*He might have been lonely.'

*Then why'd he dump me?'

*Maybe he decided not to trust you. Or maybe he just wanted to be alone again.'

*Any way you slice it, it was a rotten thing to do. You understand what I mean?'

*I think so. Where are you headed?'

*Tucson.'

*Fine. I'm going in that direction.'