- The rented Vauxhall Nova lurched through the rusted wrought-iron
gates. It sped up the quarter mile single-lane road to the circular
driveway and turned right--the wrong way to turn in England.
- Behind the wheel a jittery blond cracked bubble gum and stared
wide-eyed at the stately home. She was far enough from the city of
Manchester that the headligts of her little car produced a beam under
the fading sky. She could see that the place was enormus, two stories of
stone spread out over a park-like untended lawn. Behind four white
pillars stood an impressive double door. Flanking it right and left were
windows, each made up of sixteen little panes of glass. This was her
first time across the Atlantic, only her third trip outside New York
City and, except for the Governor's mansion they'd driven past when she
and forty other girls had been recruited for a private party in Albany,
Zero had never seen anything even remotely like this place.
- She switched the ignition off and unzipped her leather jacket. Under
the front seat was a black calfskin backpack and she pulled it out.
Inside she found a man's handkerchief, a cotton ball, a teaspoon, a
lighter and a clear plastic syringe with a needle already attached. In a
side pocket was a sandwich baggie of pale brown powder, rolled as fat as
a cigar.
- After dropping a few pinches of powder onto the spoon and adding
Coca Cola from the can she had been sipping from, Zero flicked on the
lighter. Within seconds the combination of heat and Coke dissolved the
powder. She used the cotton ball and lay the tip of the hypodermic in
the liquid, then quickly withdrew the plunger, sucking up the
heroin.
- Once her upper arm had been tied off with the handkerchief, she
probed the inside of her elbow. At first she couldn't get a vein up but
soon a nub of blue reluctantly bulged against the skin. With
well-practised movements, the needle penetrated the vein. Liquid fire
roared through her body. As always, the blaze scorched her heart first,
then her head. She fell back against the seat sighing, waiting for the
flames to singe her limbs.
- Time slipped past as the welcomed numbness finally anesthetized her
soul.
- His eyes snapped open to the blackness of the cellar. He had
listened as tires crushed gravel. Then to the engine die.
- There was only one, at least within the range he could
sense.
- Oddly, it took nearly thirty minutes for the car door to open and
then close.
- When her energy coalesced enough for action, Zero untied her arm.
She shoved the baggie firmly down the black leather halter she wore as a
top, dropped her purse into the backpack and tossed the works into the
glove compartment. Now she was ready.
- She stepped out of the car and adjusted the front of a wide leather
belt slung across her hips, hooked together by a jewel-eyed silver
lizard devouring its own tail. As she grabbed the backpack through the
open door, she checked her Leave it to Beaver watch. The little hand was
aimed at the Beaver's heart and the large one was dividing his balls.
Five hours difference, the stewardess said. That makes it, what? she
thought. Seven thirty in Manchester? She didn't bother adjusting the
time; she wouldn't be here long.
- She peered in one of the dirty front windows. It was dark inside so
she couldn't see much. Just to be on the safe side, she used the rusted
knocker shaped like a thorny-stemmed rose to bang on the massive door.
When there was no answer she went around to the back and got in through
a storage shed where the lock was busted.
- Inside the kitchen she felt along the wall until she touched a light
switch and flipped it. Nothing.
- "Great!" she mumbled, rooting in the backpack, finally locating the
flashlight and a sheet of paper. She used the beam to re-read the note.
Instruction No. 7 said:
- Search the house, every room, no matter how small, starting from the
basement up to the attic. Any door that's locked, including closets, try
the skeleton keys. If they don't work use the crowbar. Remember, you
must arrive after dark.
- She was too blasted to feel anything more than a flutter of
nervousness. Still, she thought, if they weren't making me do this, I
sure as hell wouldn't be in this stupid place. She found the door to the
basement. Although the sun had set, technically it was not dark yet but
she wasn't about to wait.
- One invader, her scents pungent: sweet-copper blood; skin slick
with sour fear. And what? A bitter odor he could not place.
- Of course, he was not afraid. Simply curious. It made no sense.
Surely there must be others. There are always others.
- But by fine-focusing his senses he detected only this woman, making
her way steadily if slowly towards him. His curiosity was already laced
with anticipation. And that, he knew, would be dangerous. For
her.
- The stairs to the basement were old and creaky and Zero's foot
slipped through the rotting wood on the third step. "Damn!" she yelled,
the light careening around the cavernous room as she lost her balance.
She scanned the layers of cobwebs and mounds of dust and dirt with her
flashlight. The air was dank, mildewy. All of a sudden her arm stopped
in mid-sweep and her heart began pounding hard. The center of the floor
was taken up by a large stone coffin.
- "Gimme a hit!" she whispered, reaching automatically for the heroin.
But the idea of being out here alone, with no help in case she OD'd, was
scary. And she wasn't really hungry. When she finished what she had come
for she would treat herself.
- Snorting's a waste of good dope, she thought, sprinkling a little of
the drug onto her fist. As she sniffed the fine powder, the flashlight
fell from her hand and bounced down the steps.
- There was already so much heroin cruising her blood stream that she
didn't even get a buzz, but within seconds she had convinced herself
that she felt calmer. When she reached the bottom of the steps she
picked up the light and cautiously approached the box.
- She ran the beam across one end. Inscribed in the stone were the
words:
-
David Lyle Hardwick
- 1863-1893 May God Have Mercy on the Souls of
Poets
- Zero forced herself to the side of the casket and placed everything
that she was carrying on top, which left the room eerily lit. Bracing
her feet, she shoved the lid with all her might, trying to slide the
rough stone off. It was heavy and edged across slowly. Pretty soon she
was sweating.
- When the lid was as far as she needed to move it, she picked up the
flashlight and peered in. "Oh God! This is sick!" she whispered. The
body of a man dressed in old-fashioned clothing lay on mouldy satin.
Wavy below-the-shoulders blonde hair framed a sculpted ashen face.
Delicate pale hands were folded over his chest in a classical death
pose. He did not seem to be breathing but the note had told her that
didn't mean much.
- Hands shaking, Zero reached into her bag and pulled out a mallet and
a wooden stake. "Man, I can't do this," she cried. Through her heroin
haze the fear she heard in her voice almost reached her, and almost was
too close. She decided another morale-booster wouldn't hurt and had two
quick snorts, dulling the terror before it could crowd her
further.
- But finally she positioned the sharp point of the stake where she
thought his heart might be, raised the hammer and swung.
- An icy hand sprang from the coffin and grabbed her by the
throat.
- As the tools hit the concrete floor, she was forced backwards,
gasping for breath. The hand was followed by the rest of his body
lifting out of the coffin. In the dim arc of the flashlight beam she
caught a glimpse of blazing eyes and a face twisted with rage, like
something coming to life out of a nightmare...
To be continued... |
