John Steakley - Vampire$

“I do. But we leave in six hours and I want to put you under first. After that you can talk to her.”

“Put you under.” Jack sat cringing behind the wheel as a wave of misery flushed through his system. Put me under, hypnotize me, make me remember back, remember everything that just happened — two weeks ago? Yesterday? Go back there and remember everything and make a tape of that same everything because any one detail might mean the difference later on. Nobody knew shit about vampires and they had to learn, had to, had to… Anthony! Oh, God! I don’t want to go back there again!

Adam spoke up from beside him. “Haven’t you made that last tape yet?”

And Jack’s memory scrambled desperately to help him.

“Sure I have,” he insisted, looking pale into their faces and feeling sweaty and lost. “Haven’t I?”

“No” was all Annabelle said in reply and it was gentle but it was also firm and that meant she loved him and understood even, but he was going to have to do it anyway.

Jack closed his eyes and let the wave pass.

He hadn’t thought back once. Not specifically, not in detail. Not once.

Not awake.

“How come you know about the tapes?” Carl asked Adam, and his voice sounded suspicious.

And that woke Jack up. Leader again. Depend on me. Rock and roll.

Jack turned in his seat and faced Carl. “This is the kid who keeps track of the tapes for the Man. Been doing it for three years.”

He noticed Cat was also leaning forward with interest, eyeing the man who, he had suddenly learned, knew all his secrets under fire and fear.

But all Cat said was “Oh,” and leaned back.

“Okay,” said Jack, yanking the door open. “Okay,” he said again, more quietly, to Annabelle.

And then they were all clambering out and reaching for bags and starting up the walkway to the front door.

“Six hours, huh?” Jack asked no one in particular. “You’ve moved everything already?”

Annabelle was cheery. “You actually could have flown straight to Dallas, if we could have gotten hold of you to tell you. Carl just has the one load left.”

“Weapons,” Carl offered, walking along beside him. “Crossbows and the like. Gonna have to truck ’em to Dallas tomorrow. Stupid F.A.A. feds! Scared to death a closed crate of medieval weapons is gonna take Pan Am to Cuba.” He laughed. They both paused on the front step. Jack thought he could already hear it ringing. He tried smiling along with Carl as the others gathered in a bottleneck before the door. Somebody was jingling keys.

“Funny thing,” Carl was saying. “If it was guns, something they’re already scared enough to know something about, they wouldn’t mind so much.” He paused, laughed again. “We oughta be using guns.”

Jack Crow, stepping numbly along with the others into the empty grand foyer, thought: Guns.

And then he thought: guns? Guns! Guns!

“Guns?” he all but shouted.

All turned toward him, surprised, alarmed, worried.

“What?” Carl asked him.

“Guns!”

“Guns?”

Jack hugged him and yelled: “Yes, goddammit! Guns! Hot Damn! Guns! Don’t you see?”

“Guns?”

“Rock and roll!”

Surrounding the bar, surrounding the last of the booze, surrounded by Jack Crow’s obvious glee, they played his little guessing game.

Carl evinced irritation. Annabelle tried to look bored. Cat was amused. Adam was just as bewildered as he had been since Rome. But Jack—

Jack was having so goddamn much fun that nobody really cared.

He’s back, thought Cat to himself.

And when he spotted the misty affection in his comrades’ eyes, he knew they were feeling the same.

“Look,” Jack began again, propping his boot on the railing behind the bar with a thump that echoed in the now-empty room. “It’s just a matter of putting the pieces together.”

He stared at their blank faces. He somehow managed to smile while still grinning.

“All right, class. We shall begin again,” he said and they did.

And this time they began to see.

“…and the bullet hole from the sheriff’s gun — in his forehead, remember? It was already closing, right? And it was trapping the blood from Hernandez’s silver cross gash, right?”

No one spoke.

“Right?” repeated Jack.

“Right,” Cat responded slowly. “Well?”

“Well, what, goddammit?” growled Carl.

Cat suddenly sat forward. “The gash hadn’t healed…”

“From the cross…” continued Adam.

“From the holy silver cross,” Jack corrected.

“But the bullet wound was already closing!” Carl jumped in, seeing it all now. He stood up from his stool and slapped the flat of his hand loudly on the top of the bar.

Jack was grinning mischievously. “You see it, don’t you?”

Carl looked disgusted. “I see it, all right. I just don’t believe it.”

And then Cat saw it. He moaned. “I don’t believe it either,” he said. But now he, too, was starting to grin.

Annabelle looked lost. “If somebody doesn’t tell me what’s happening pretty soon…”

Cat leaned close to her against the bar. “A cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-yo fucking Silver!”

And everybody, save Annabelle, laughed. She looked downright angry. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Silver bullets,” said Father Adam. Then he paused and, with a nod toward Jack, amended, “Holy silver bullets, blessed by the Church.”

“But I thought silver bullets were for werewolves,” Annabelle asked.

“They are,” replied Adam calmly.

Too calmly, thought Jack. He held up a hand to cut off the questions all had turned to ask the young priest. “No!” he barked firmly. “No! I don’t even want to know, Adam.”

Adam smiled, eyed his glass.

“You hear me?” Jack insisted.

“I hear you.”

Jack turned to Carl. “Can you pour the bullets?”

Carl grinned smugly. He sat back down. “Sure, I can pour them. But can anybody here shoot except me?”

Jack frowned. “You’re not going, Joplin. You’re the base man. How many times do I have to—”

“This is different,” Carl insisted. “I’m a marksman. Somebody else could…”

Jack leaned his elbows on the bar and stared him into silence. His voice was gentle but absolutely final. “It’s not going to happen, my friend.”

Carl hated this. “Well, dammit!” he retorted. “Can you shoot?”

“Qualified whenever Uncle Sam asked.”

Carl snorted. “Qualified! Shit! Any fool don’t shoot himself in the foot can qualify!”

“Then good news, everyone,” popped Cat brightly. “I can probably qualify.”

Jack sighed, looked at him. “That bad?”

Cat smiled back. “Pretty bad. I can hit the broadside of a barn, but…”

“But what?”

“It would help some if I was inside the barn at the time.”

Jack put his face in his hands. “Oh, great.”

“Jack,” Carl began. “I…”

“Shut up, Carl. You’ll do no shooting.”

Carl laughed. “Like hell I won’t, big boy. I’ll have to just to teach you bums.” He turned to Adam. “Unless you’re a fast draw or something.”

Adam smiled thinly. “They didn’t teach that in seminary.”

Cat nodded. “It’s why I didn’t go.”

“Quiet, Cherry Cat,” snapped Jack. “Carl’s right. We need the training. Tell me, Crack Shot, how long till we get as good as you.”

Carl took a sip from his glass. “Forever.” He held up his hand before Jack could say anything. “I’m serious. Jack, this is a very different, very special tool. You’ve gotta have a knack for it. A certain touch. I was just thinking that it’s small enough that you could both carry it as a backup. That damn crossbow of yours is too unwieldy and too tough to load in a hurry, and Cat needs something besides those stakes and wooden knives he carries. Always has.”