Chapter 11
She didn’t stumble across any bodies, so that was lucky. Or so Layla told herself.
The jury-rigged power was out, the entire base dark as sin. Her flashlight’s anemic beam traced the overturned table, the scattered camp chairs… and found no sign of paper or the stacked weapons save a single gleaming clip, discarded on the floor at the very edge of the ready room.
Layla’s breathing refused to settle, harsh and hard like the heavy panting of a horror movie victim just before the slasher showed up for his final flurry. There wasn’t much creepier than an abandoned building at night, especially when she wasn’t sure if she’d turn a corner and find a corpse.
Still, someone had clearly picked up the files, not to mention guns, ammo, knives, and other gear. Had it been the vampire? Or Pete, or someone else?
Her eyes were swelling badly from stopping an airbag with her face, or maybe she was developing fear-based claustrophobia. Thin, tenuous flashlight glow seemed to be getting weaker all the time.
Are the batteries going dead? Christ, that’s just typical.
She felt her way along mostly by memory, heading for the supply room. Her personal sleeping cubby was the only one behind a locking door—Steve-o had insisted on that during move-in, glancing significantly at Ben, who had been telling Dan a steady stream of dirty jokes while they racked gear.
Oh, God. She would not cry. There wasn’t any time for that bullshit, she had to think about what she’d do if whoever had cleaned up also grabbed the cashbox and the keys to their only remaining transport—a wretched, ancient Jeep Wrangler barely capable of freeway speed, but good enough for getting out of this city and a full gas-tank’s worth of miles in any direction.
She wasn’t picky. She never had been, really, and current events just continued the trend.
The flashlight swung, tracking a small skittering sound, and if it was rats she was going to scream because Christ-Lord-Jesus she hated having big ol’ naked-tail rodents running around looking for food a man couldn’t bother to put away.
“Fuck!” A yell, a popping click, and Layla screamed, throwing herself behind a mound of used laundry.
Knees and one elbow hit hard, flaring with fresh bright-red pain; she almost lost the flashlight but rolled just as Ack had taught her, the back half of her cry fading into an inglorious wheeze.
Ended up against a pile of old, splintering wooden crates, which quivered on the verge of toppling, and if she died in a junk landslide it would be funny, it would be absolutely hysterical—
Silence. She lay, trembling, clutching the light to her chest. The red skirt, pulled so high her bare unmentionables were probably showing, was wadded under her hip.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete whispered. “Layla? Is that you?”
“I got everything packed.” Shadows from the glare of a much bigger, fully charged emergency light played over Pete’s sweat-gleaming, dirty face as he led her along familiar corridors; he was bloodshot and haggard in dirty jeans and a torn camo T-shirt.
By the looks of it, he’d been jumping out of his skin since last night.
Layla could absolutely relate. “But… You’re sure? All of them?” Stunned, stupid disbelief was all she could scrape up. Somehow, hearing him say it aloud made everything horrifyingly real.
“Yeah. Dry as doornails, damn near mummified. I put ‘em near the east entrance with their IDs, so at least next of kin can…” Pete shook his head, the boxy yellow plastic light jittering in big capable hands. Towers of junk around them seemed to shift, re-settling only when he halted, peering at her. “I’m sorry. I know you and Dan were tight.”
“I can’t believe he was about to quit.” Why couldn’t she say something useful? Layla found herself smoothing the dress’s soft, heavy skirt over her aching hip with her free hand, rubbing over and over as if soothing a small animal. “I’m glad you’re okay, though.”
“Yeah, well.” Pete glanced over his shoulder, nearly running into another stack of wooden crates, their sides plastered with ancient, faded fruit labels. “You’re all banged up. What happened?”
You would not believe me if I tried to tell. Or maybe he would. Layla opened her mouth, closed it again. Where the fuck could she even begin? “I… it’s a long story. I’m just glad someone else made it.”
“Me too. I’m glad it’s you.” Pete’s mouth pulled down on both sides, a quasi-grimace making him look at least ten years older. “Fucking Ben’s probably the reason it found us.”
“I can’t even guess.” Still, the idea opened up a horrible can of doubting worms. Why on earth had the vampire grabbed her? Just because she was the only girl? Maybe he’d been feeling lonely, wanting a little of what Ben would call R the batteries were indeed dying, so she clicked it off to conserve what little juice was left.
“Shit, girl, there ain’t nobody else left.” Pete gave a grim chuckle; her own threadbare, hitching laugh rose alongside. “Just wish I could figure out how the fucking thing found us.”
“Smell? I mean, nobody does any laundry.” All in all, Layla found she was feeling a bit better. “Just give me five seconds to get into some jeans.”
‘Here we are.” Pete halted, since the flashlight had found her cubby door. He swung around, and the beam glared directly into her eyes. “Shit, sorry. You’re gonna have a pair of real shiners soon, I put the first aid in the…”
Ouch. Layla nearly hit herself in the forehead with her own dead flashlight, her hand jumping up to block the sudden brightness. “Hey, watch—”
“Sonofabitch.” Pete blundered back, shadows dancing, a sword of light bouncing crazily as the yellow plastic case hit the floor. “What the fuck, man?”
“What?” Layla yelped, backing up as well, almost going ass-over-teakettle into yet another pile of mildewed cloth—tarps, maybe left from previous inhabitants, slowly congealing into a lump. “What?”
“You’re bit!” he yelled, and his hands were suddenly full of a pistol. A very big one, in fact, Ack’s Desert Eagle, loaded with the special biter-shredding ammo. Its mouth looked huge and very black, shaking but definitely pointed in her direction. “You’re fucking bit, you bitch!”
Oh no. Her heart was in her throat again, choking her. “Pete—”
“Goddammit! You’re bit!” The pistol’s mouth wavered, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was aiming at. If it went off now, he might miss.
But at that minimal distance, he also might not miss.
“I’m sorry!” Her hands were now up, one freighted with a partly dead tube of metal and batteries. “The vampire, he grabbed me, I’m sorry! Pete, come on, I’m still me, I’m—”
“You brought it here!”
That wasn’t a bad guess, really. But the very idea hurt, slicing cleanly through any relief at finding someone she knew still alive.
The mad thought that she could throw the dead flashlight at him rose, whirled away; Layla’s boot sank into the piled tarps and she almost went sprawling once more.
“I’m still me!” she shouted, knowing she should be quiet, be calm, talk him down, but for God’s sake he was going to shoot her. “Pete, don’t, I’m still me!”
BOOM.