All of them except Kyle. The guy had disappeared.

Where was he? Had he abandoned his group to make them fend on their own?

"Head for the team!" Mac ordered Jahlil. "We've got to back them up!"

"Wait, son!" Jackson said. "Where's Kyle?"

Jahlil slowed the truck, looking around frantically.

"Kyle?" Mac frowned. "You're right, he's gone. Dammit."

"No, not gone, my friends," a familiar voice said behind them.

Jackson turned.

Kyle stood on top of the pickup's roof.

Jackson shouted, backing up so fast he almost fell out of the truck. He fired the shotgun.

And missed. Kyle moved like lightning. He bounced off the roof and onto the flatbed.

He was too close for Mac to spit fire at him with the flamethrower, without all of them being incinerated. Mac drew his machete out of the sheath on his belt. He swiped at the vampire.

And he missed, too. The vampire sidestepped the blade's arc-then s.n.a.t.c.hed the knife out of Mac's grasp with obscene ease.

Jackson's finger sweated on the shotgun's trigger, but Mac and the vampire were so close he feared he would plug Mac by mistake.

As it turned out, it wouldn't have mattered. Kyle sliced the machete across Mac's neck, and the man fell, blood spouting from the gaping wound.

Jackson's knees weakened.

G.o.d in heaven, is this what it's come down to?

Kyle advanced on Jackson. Delight shone in his alien eyes.

Before Jackson could pull the trigger, an invisible force ripped the shotgun out of his hands. The gun spun like a baton across the parking lot.

Jackson went for all he had left, the .357 Magnum.

Then, the unseen power took that away from him, too.

"Nothing left, Chief," Kyle whispered. He raised the machete. The blade glinted.

If this is how I have to go, then so be it. G.o.d knows I did my best, and that was all I could do.

In his peripheral vision, he spotted Jahlil. The boy had gotten out of the truck, with his own shotgun, and trained the weapon on the vampire's back.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe ...

His son fired a second after Kyle plunged the blade into his chest.

Chapter 21.

' ndre was at The Spot, drinking. He'd been there since the Mbar had opened late that afternoon, and he would probably stay until the joint closed sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Didn't have any reason to go home. Yesterday, his woman had taken the kids and split for her mama's crib in Memphis, leaving behind a letter. "I'm tired of your broke a.s.s," her note said. "I'm already taking care of two kids, and I'm not taking care of no grown man. Call me when you're ready to get your s.h.i.t together!"

Sitting on a patched-up bar stool, Andre hunched over his can of Coors. His girl was crazy as h.e.l.l. But he wasn't worried about it too much. She'd left him at least three times in the past two years, and she always came back. It seemed to happen every six months or so, and she'd stay away for a couple of weeks. Once he figured out that she was just showing out, like a baby throwing a tantrum, he'd begun to look forward to her going away on her little trips to Mama's. It was like a vacation for him. He didn't have to hear her nagging him about getting a job. He could live in his house and have some peace, sleep all day, do whatever the h.e.l.l he wanted. He loved his woman, but she could be a pain in the a.s.s.

Tonight, The Spot was full of brothers like him, guys who needed a break from the women in their lives. Some of them shot pool. Others played darts. The rest of the customers were sipping drinks, talking, and nodding their heads to the old-school music b.u.mping from the boom box. Every man in there was a regular. There wasn't an unfamiliar face-or a woman-in the joint.

In spite of the regulars in the house doing their usual stuff, things were different at the bar. The thunderstorm had knocked out the electrical power, so the place was illuminated by candles and kerosene lamps, and the TV jukebox, and arcade games sat unused, like old furniture. It was Labor Day, and The Spot had never been open on a holiday. And if you looked closely, you'd notice a bulge underneath almost every man's shirt, the telltale shape of a gun.

Tension simmered in the smoky air, too. Today, The Spot wasn't a normal hangout. It was like an army barracks in the midst of a war, and none of the old rules mattered.

Motherf.u.c.king vampires, Andre thought. That was what people were saying. Vampires. Of all the things in the world, their town had been invaded by monsters out of a horror movie.

He wouldn't have believed it if he had not been there at the cave with Junior. Ever since that night, he found it easy to believe in all kinds of things that he would've laughed about before. He still had not told anyone what he had seen, and he sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to open his mouth now. They might blame him for stirring up the s.h.i.t in the first place. He was going to sit there on his stool, put away brews, and mind his business.

He didn't have a gun, either. He wasn't going to try to be a hero, or plan to battle a vampire-none of that s.h.i.t. The only thing he really wanted to do was leave town, but some fellas had said the roads were blocked off with heaps of split trees.

Besides, he didn't have anywhere to go, anyway. He sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to stay with his woman and her mama in Memphis. Dracula himself would have been no match for his woman's mama.

The CD player on the boom box started to skip on an Earth, Wind and Fire cla.s.sic, "Fantasy." Booker T, a guy Andre had known for years, rapped the top of the stereo, shook it hard, and finally the song resumed.

Booker T plopped onto the stool beside Andre.

"Don't be tearing up my G.o.dd.a.m.n property, Booker T," Mr. Clyde, the owner and bartender, said. He was a stout, thick-armed man with salt-and-pepper hair, and had reputedly served time in the state pen for killing a man, twentysome years ago. "You wanna shake up a boom box, buy one your G.o.dd.a.m.n self."

"My apologies, Mr. Clyde," Booker T said. "Can you please give me a cola, sir? With a lemon wedge, of course"

Mr. Clyde mumbled. He slid a can of c.o.ke, and a lemon wedge, in front of Booker T.

Booker T's apologetic tone didn't surprise Andre. Mr. Clyde didn't take any s.h.i.t in his joint. Andre had seen the old guy throw out many a n.i.g.g.a.

Booker T sipped his drink. He was a short, scrawny guy who wore wire-rim gla.s.ses, a white dress shirt, and suspenders. A pocket notebook bulged in his breast pocket. People said he was a lunatic genius, one of those cats who was so smart he couldn't lead a regular life. Andre usually saw the guy walking the streets at all times of the day, muttering to himself and staring at things like trees and rocks and birds for hours, and scribbling endlessly in his tiny notebook. A regular at The Spot, Booker T always played darts and drank cola with a lemon wedge floating inside.

"What do you think of what's going down here, Andre?" Booker T said. "Do you believe the story about vampires?"

Andre shrugged. "All I know is, once the sun goes down, I keep my black a.s.s indoors."

"Then you believe it."

"It don't matter whether I believe it or not. Folk's been disappearing, mad dogs been biting n.i.g.g.as. That's all I need to hear to keep my a.s.s inside till it blows over."

Booker T reached into the bowl of peanuts, popped a couple of nuts into his mouth. "Andre, this is a conspiracy engineered by the government. They're testing a virus on us, a biological weapon. Mason's Corner is the testing ground for a new strain of supervirus."

"You read that in a book somewhere?" Andre said.

Booker T guffawed as if Andre had asked the dumbest question in the world.

"No, I did not reach this conclusion by reading a book. Don't you understand that book publishing in this country is manipulated by the government? I reached this conclusion through my field research" He tapped the notebook in his shirt pocket, and smiled smugly.

Andre wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off Booker T's face by telling him what had happened at the cave, but he kept his mouth shut. Let the crazy n.i.g.g.a believe whatever he wanted.

"It ain't no G.o.dd.a.m.n government conspiracy," Mr. Clyde said. He rested his meaty, tattooed forearms on the counter. "You need to take your G.o.dd.a.m.n nose out of that notebook, Booker T. This is some supernatural s.h.i.t happening here. G.o.dd.a.m.n demons, man. Only G.o.d can save us. You can't do no research on that."

Booker T shook his head sadly. "As usual, when under duress, our people turn to the comforting bosom of primitive superst.i.tion and childish wish fulfillment."

"Watch your G.o.dd.a.m.n mouth, boy," Mr. Clyde said. "You won't be spittin out them big words when you're picking up your teeth off the G.o.dd.a.m.n floor."

Andre laughed. "Better watch it, Booker T."

Booker T waved his hand as if it didn't matter. "Please, indulge my curiosity, Mr. Clyde. If vampires are overrunning our town, how did it begin? Did they fall out of the sky?"

"There's one of them master vampires out there somewhere," Mr. Clyde said. He looked at the windows, which were veiled against the night. Anxiety glimmered in his eyes. "Just like in the movies, an old G.o.dd.a.m.n vampire's come to town and started s.h.i.t."

Booker T rolled his eyes, but Andre was quiet.

Mr. Clyde's probably more right than he thinks, Andre thought. He remembered the mysterious man in black he'd seen at the cave, who could move faster than Andre could blink. He shivered.

Quickly, he grabbed his beer and chugged the rest of it.

As Andre was about to ask for another brew, the front door banged open, bringing the howl of the cold wind, a rustling wave of dead leaves, and the biggest man he had ever seen in his life.

The man was at least seven feet tall, with a powerful build, like a giant football linebacker. He wore a black shirt that seemed barely able to contain his wide shoulders, black jeans, and gleaming black boots. His skin was a deep cocoabrown, his head was bald, and his eyes were utterly black, like pits leading straight to h.e.l.l.

Silence clutched the room in a vise grip. Every man in the joint froze, mouths agape.

Andre held his breath.

The man's gaze swept throughout the bar, and Andre had the feeling that, in one glance, this guy had sized up all of them, and made a decision.

He stepped across the threshold. Shadows flitted across him, like bats.

"My name is Diallo," he said. His voice was deep, yet he spoke in a low tone that carried clearly throughout the place. "I am seeking soldiers. I could use each of you, but I will kill any that do not submit. Which of you men will avert death, join my army, and taste true freedom?"

A pause. Then, almost as one, the men drew their guns and aimed at the man who called himself Diallo.

He's the big dog vampire, Andre thought, wishing that he had a gun, too. He was willing to bet his life that this was the motherf.u.c.ker that they were just talking about. The guy oozed evil power.

Booker T flipped out a pocketknife. Andre almost laughed, but he didn't have a weapon at all for himself. He noticed an old billiards stick leaning against the wall near him. He grasped it in his shaky hands. Better than nothing.

"Look here," a guy said. It was Calvin Jones, who worked at the barbershop. "I don't know who you think you are stepping up in here like this, but me and the brothers here don't want no trouble. We don't want no part of n.o.body's army. So push on"

"Right," another man said. He had a big .44. "Get the f.u.c.k out of here and leave us alone."

"And I'm backing up my customers," Mr. Clyde said. He took a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter. "I don't want any trouble here. Get off my G.o.dd.a.m.n property before I blow a hole in you"

Diallo's face was expressionless. He made another step forward.

The snick-click of c.o.c.king triggers popped through the air.

"The only way that you will leave alive," Diallo said, "is by joining me. Those who submit, come to me, and kneel. If you do not submit, the price for disobedience is death"

"Out," Mr. Clyde said. Perched behind the bar counter, he took aim with the shotgun.

The vampire thoughtfully regarded the firearms pointed at him. A faint smile played across his face.

Andre squeezed the cue stick so tightly it was a wonder it didn't snap in half. He blinked a drop of sweat out of his eye.

The vampire disappeared. Just like that. He was gone.

The door yawned into the stormy night.

Each man in the room released a chestful of air. Then the door, propelled by an unseen force, slammed shut, and someone cried out, "He's behind us!"

Andre looked. Diallo was behind the pool table, gripping a billiards stick. The man nearest the vampire tried to fire his pistol, but he was too slow. Diallo drove the stick through the guy's chest like a man spearing a fish, the b.l.o.o.d.y tip poking out between the victim's shoulder blades. The man choked out a garbled scream, his arms flailing uselessly at the wooden pole.

Diallo lifted the man high and flung him across the room. The guy crashed into the pinball machine, leaving a smear of blood across the display.

Andre's stomach convulsed. He tasted warm beer bubbling up his throat.

"Shoot him, G.o.ddammit!" Mr. Clyde said.

Andre covered his head, and dropped to the floor.

Mr. Clyde's shotgun boomed. More guns fired as the men attacked the monster. Bullets hammered Diallo, but he did not fall, stumble, or bleed. The bullets seemed to bounce off his body. Crouched, Andre could see the floor around Diallo: rounds rained to the hardwood.

He had to get out of there, that was the only way he could survive.

Across the room, Diallo grasped the edge of the pool table. He flipped it across the floor as though it weighed no more than a dinner plate. It slammed against the wall, bil liard b.a.l.l.s flying, and the men tried to scatter out of the way, but one of the men got trapped between a wall panel and the pool table, and Andre swore he could hear the sound of the man's chest being crushed under the weight. The guy's scream ripped through the air.

Andre rose higher. He was about to make a run for the door, when a beeline of men got there before him and tried to open it. But it would not open. Somehow, Diallo had sealed the door.

I'll go to the back, Andre thought. The hallway behind him was as dark as a snake's throat.

Three men rushed Diallo at once.

Diallo lifted a chair and brought it down on the first guy's head, busting his skull and shattering the chair, the man going down in a hail of wood shards. Diallo plunged his fist into the second man's solar plexus, drove it all the way into the man's guts, then s.n.a.t.c.hed out his hand with a b.l.o.o.d.y fistful of intestines, the dead guy collapsing, legs kicking. The third man tried to tackle Diallo, but Diallo clamped his hands on his skull and twisted so fast the man's head came clean off. Diallo hurled the decapitated head across the room, where it smashed into the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.

Mr. Clyde yelped like a frightened child and took cover beneath the counter.

Andre didn't know whether to p.i.s.s his pants, or vomit. He was so scared he thought he could do both.