Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

Shane waved to a big guy in black leather as they passed, and the three of them ran down the second-floor hallway. It was dark, filthy, and scary, but not as scary as the sounds coming from the lobby behind them. Shane had a flashlight, and he switched it on to pick out obstacles in the way—fallen IV stands, an abandoned, dust-covered wheelchair, a gurney tipped over on its side. “Faster,’” she gasped, because she heard a final crash from the lobby.

They were inside.

Claire didn’t think more than half the vampires had made it successfully across the sun-drenched parking lot, but those who’d been strong enough were inside now, and it was nice and dark for them. No contest.

Shane knew where he was going. He turned right at a corner, then left, yanked up a fire exit door, and pushed Claire inside. “Up!’” he said. “Two flights, then go left!’”

There were things on the stairs; Claire couldn’t see them very well, even in the glow of Shane’s flashlight, but they smelled dead, sickly rotten. She tried not to breathe, avoided the sticky puddles of dried—whatever that was, she couldn’t think of it as blood—and kept running up the steps. First landing, then another set of stairs, these clear except for some broken bottles she vaulted over.

She yanked the fire door two flights up, and nearly dislocated her shoulder.

It was blocked.

“Shane!’”

He pushed her out of the way, grabbed the handle, and pulled. “Shit!’” He kicked it furiously, looked blank for a second, then turned to the next flight of stairs. “One more! Go!’”

The fifth-floor door was open, and Claire darted through it into the dark.

Her foot caught on something, and she toppled forward, hit the floor, and rolled. Shane’s flashlight bounced a ball of light toward her, lighting up scarred linoleum tile, stacks of leaning boxes…

…and a skeleton. Claire yelped and scrambled back from it, then realized that it was one of those medical teaching skeletons, scattered out on the floor from where she’d tripped over it.

Shane grabbed her by the arm, hauled her up, and pulled her along. Claire looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the biker guy, the one who’d been following them. Where had he—

She heard a scream.

Oh.

Shane hurried her down the long hall, then turned left and pulled Claire after him. There was another set of fire stairs. He opened the door, and they raced down one flight.

This exit was open. Shane pulled her out into another long, dark hallway and moved fast, counting doorways under his breath.

He stopped in front of number thirteen.

“Inside,’” he said, and kicked it open. Metal gave with a shriek, and the door flew back to slam against tile. Something broke with a clatter like dropped plates.

Claire felt a chill take hold, because she had walked into what looked like a morgue. Stainless steel trays, stainless steel lockers on the wall, some gaping open to reveal sliding trays.

Yes, she was pretty sure it was the morgue. And pretty sure it was going to feature prominently in her nightmares from now on, provided she ever got to sleep again.

“This way,’” Shane said, and pulled open what looked like a laundry chute. “Claire.’”

“Oh, hell, no!’” Because if she hated tight spaces, there couldn’t be anything much worse than this. She had no idea how long it was, but it was small, it was dark, and had he said something about morgue tunnels? Was this a body chute? Maybe there was a corpse still stuck in it! Oh God…

There were noises coming from outside—the mob, coming fast.

“Sorry, no time,’” Shane said, and picked her up and dumped her into the chute feetfirst.

She tried not to scream. She thought she might have actually succeeded as she slid helplessly through the dark down a cold, metal tunnel meant only for the dead.

She landed hard, on stone, in the dark, and suppressed a burning need to whimper. A hand closed on her arm and helped her up. She heard a thumping clatter behind her, and got out of the way just in time as Shane—she thought it was Shane, anyway—tumbled out of the chute after her.

And the lights came on.

Well, not lights exactly…one light, and it was a flashlight.

And Shane’s dad was holding it.

He took one fast, cold look at his son, then one at Claire, and said, “Where’s Des?’”

Shane looked shocked. “Dad—you were supposed to go! That was the whole point!’”

“Where the hell is Des?’”

“He’s gone!’” Shane shouted. “Dammit, Dad—’”

Frank Collins looked blackly furious, face twisting, and he swung the flashlight away from them. Claire blinked spots away, and saw that he was aiming it at two of his guys standing in the dark. “Right,’” he said. “Let’s do this.’”

“Do what?’” Shane demanded, getting to his feet. He winced as he put his weight on his wounded ankle. “Dad, what the hell is going on? You said you were leaving!’”

“Didn’t kill enough vampires to leave,’” Frank Collins said. “But I’m about to even the score.’”

The two guys he had trained his light on were crouched next to a makeshift circuit board built out of what looked like old computer parts. It was hooked up to a car battery. One of the two guys held two wires by the insulated parts, but the tips were bare copper, freshly stripped.

Things fell together.

Shane’s dad had used him, again. Used him as bait, letting him think he was being the hero, distracting the vampires to give his dad time to escape.

Used him to get a large number of vampires in one place. But they weren’t just vampires; there were people there, too. Cops, and wannabe vampires. And people who were just there because they owed Oliver.

It was cold-blooded murder.

Richard had said it. Demolition this week. The explosives were already in place.

“They’re going to blow the building!’” Claire screamed, and lunged. She couldn’t fight the bikers, but she didn’t need to.

All she had to do was yank at the wires under the circuit board.

They gave with a blue white pop, and she was lucky not to be fried. One of the bikers reached her then, grabbed her, and threw her back, looking at the mess and shaking his head. “Got a problem!’” he yelled. “She trashed the board! Gonna take time to rewire!’”

Frank’s face went scarlet with fury, and he ran toward her, fist in the air. “You stupid little—’”

Shane caught his fist in an open palm and held it there. “Don’t,’” he said. “Enough, Dad. No more.’”

Frank tried to hit him. Shane ducked. He caught the second blow in an open palm again.

The third one, he blocked, and punched back. Just once.

Frank went down, flat on his ass, something like fear in his face.

“Enough,’” Shane said. Claire had never seen him look taller, or more frightening. “You’ve still got time to run, Dad. You’d better do it while you can. They’ll figure out where we are soon, and you know what? I’m not dying for you. Not anymore.’”

Frank’s mouth opened, then closed. He wiped blood from his mouth, staring at Shane, as he got to his feet.

“I thought you understood,’” he said. “I thought you wanted—’”

“You know what I want, Dad?’” Shane asked. “I want my life back. I want my girlfriend. And I want you to leave and never come back.’”

Frank’s eyes went flat, like a shark’s. “Your mother’s turning over in her grave, watching you betray your own kind. Your own father. Siding with the parasites that infest this sick town.’”

Shane didn’t answer him. The two of them stared at each other in tense, angry silence for a few seconds, and then Claire heard metal clattering from up above. She tugged on Shane’s arm urgently. “I think they found the chute,’” she said. “Shane—’”