John Adams - By Blood We Live

“ Davis,” he said. "You there?”

“Yeah,” Davis said. Something was burning; a charcoal reek stung his nostrils. His mouth tasted like ashes. He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Is it-”

“Whoa,” the lieutenant said, holding his free hand up like a traffic cop. "Take it easy, soldier. That was some blast.”

“Did we-”

“We did.”

“Yeah?”

“We blew it to Kingdom Come,” the lieutenant said. "No doubt, there are pieces of it scattered here and there, but the majority of it is so much dust.”

“Lee-”

“You saw what the thing did to him-although, stupid motherfucker, it serves him right, grabbing the wrong Goddamned stake. Of all the stupid fucking…”

Davis swallowed. "Han?”

The lieutenant shook his head.

Davis lay back. "Fuck.”

“Never mind,” the lieutenant said. His pistol had not moved. "Shit happens. The question before us now is, did it work? Are we well and truly rid of that thing, that fucking blood-drinking monster, or are we fooling ourselves? What do you say, Davis?”

“I…” His throat was dry. "Lee grabbed the wrong one?”

“He did.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” the lieutenant said. "I do not fucking know.”

“I specifically gave each of us-”

“I know; I watched you. In the excitement of the moment, Lee and Han must have mixed them up.”

“Mixed…” Davis raised his hands to his forehead. Behind the lieutenant, the sky was a blue chasm.

“Or could be, the confusion was deliberate.”

“What?”

“Maybe they switched stakes on purpose.”

“No.”

“I don’t think so, either, but we all know it wasn’t much of a life for Han.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t.”

“Jesus.” Davis sat up.

The lieutenant steadied his gun. "So?”

“I take it you’re fine.”

“As far as I’ve been able to determine, yes.”

“Could the thing have had something to do with it?”

“The mix-up?”

“Made Han switch the stakes or something?”

“That presumes it knew what they were, which supposes it had been spying on us through Han’s eyes for not a few hours, which assumes it comprehended us-our language, our technology-in excess of prior evidence.”

“Yeah,” Davis said. "Still.”

“It was an accident,” the lieutenant said. "Let it go.”

“What makes you so sure you’re all right?”

“I’ve had no indications to the contrary. I appear in control of my own thoughts and actions. I’m aware of no alien presence crowding my mind. While I am thirsty, I have to desire to quench that thirst from one of your arteries.”

“Would you be, though? Aware of the thing hiding in you?”

The lieutenant shrugged. "Possibly not. You’re taking a long time to answer my question; you know that.”

“I don’t know how I am,” Davis said. "No, I can’t feel the thing either, and no, I don’t want to drink your blood. Is that enough?”

“ Davis,” the lieutenant said, "I will do this. You need to understand that. You are as close to me as anyone, these days, and I will shoot you in the head if I deem it necessary. If I believed the thing were in me, I would turn this gun on myself without a second thought. Am I making myself clear? Let me know it’s over, or let me finish it.”

The lieutenant’s face was flushed. "All right,” Davis said. He closed his eyes. "All right.” He took a deep breath. Another.

When he opened his eyes, he said, "It’s gone.”

“You’re positive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You cannot be lying to me.”

“I know. I’m not.”

The end of the pistol wavered, and for a moment, Davis was certain that the lieutenant was unconvinced, that he was going to squeeze the trigger, anyway. He wondered if he’d see the muzzle flash.

Then the pistol lowered and the lieutenant said, "Good man.” He holstered the gun and extended his hand. "Come on. There’s a lot we have to do.”

Davis caught the lieutenant’s hand and hauled himself to his feet. Behind the lieutenant, he saw the charred place that had been the Shadow, Lee’s torn and blackened form to one side of it. Further back, smoke continued to drift out of the spot in the trees where Han had lain. The lieutenant turned and started walking towards the trees. He did not ask, and Davis did not tell him, what he had seen with his eyes closed. He wasn’t sure how he could have said that the image behind his eyelids was the same as the image in front of them: the unending sky, blue, ravenous.

For Fiona, and with thanks to John Joseph Adams

Stephen King is the bestselling, award-winning author of many classics, such as The Shining , The Dark Tower , The Stand , and The Dead Zone . His novel Salem ‘s Lot is one of the classics of the vampire genre. His latest novel, Duma Key , was published in early 2008, and a new short fiction collection, Just After Sunset , was released last fall. A new book collecting several stories and novellas of King’s that have been adapted for film, along with commentary by King-Stephen King Goes to the Movies-came out earlier this year. Other projects include editing Best American Short Stories 2007, and writing a pop culture column for Entertainment Weekly.

In his landmark study of horror literature, Danse Macabre , King argued that, in order to be effective, fictional, supernatural monsters must tap into and express in powerful metaphorical terms our actual fears about the real world.

For residents of Maine, one very real worry is that your vehicle will fail you in the snow and you will freeze to death before help arrives. Classic folklore imagined the brooding mists of Transylvania as malignant, corporeal beings. Here King does the same for the whiteouts of Cumberland.

These vampires are avatars of winter, chilling in every respect.

It was quarter past ten and Herb Tooklander was thinking of closing for the night when the man in the fancy overcoat and the white, staring face burst into Tookey’s Bar, which lies in the northern part of Falmouth. It was the tenth of January, just about the time most folks are learning to live comfortably with all the New Year’s resolutions they broke, and there was one hell of a northeaster blowing outside. Six inches had come down before dark and it had been going hard and heavy since then. Twice we had seen Billy Larribee go by high in the cab of the town plow, and the second time Tookey ran him out a beer-an act of pure charity my mother would have called it, and my God knows she put down enough of Tookey’s beer in her time. Billy told him they were keeping ahead of it on the main road, but the side ones were closed and apt to stay that way until next morning. The radio in Portland was forecasting another foot and a forty-mile-an-hour wind to pile up the drifts.

There was just Tookey and me in the bar, listening to the wind howl around the eaves and watching it dance the fire around on the hearth. "Have one for the road, Booth,” Tookey says, "I’m gonna shut her down.”

He poured me one and himself one and that’s when the door cracked open and this stranger staggered in, snow up to his shoulders and in his hair, like he had rolled around in confectioner’s sugar. The wind billowed a sand-fine sheet of snow in after him.

“Close the door!” Tookey roars at him. "Was you born in a barn?”

I’ve never seen a man who looked that scared. He was like a horse that’s spent an afternoon eating fire nettles. His eyes rolled toward Tookey and he said, "My wife-my daughter-" and he collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.