Konrath, J.A. - DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

Suddenly the patient sat up, ripping through the straps. Clay watched, fascinated, as those unreal teeth shredded her wrinkled lips. He hesitated. A little old lady…someone’s granma. But as the teeth sprouted further and talons popped out of her fingertips, he realized this lady would eat her grandchildren without a second thought.

Holding the AA-12 chest high with the stock clamped under his arm, he let fly a round. The number-two shot took off most of her face and slammed her back on the stretcher.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

But then she began to rise again.

“Crap!”

His second shot knocked her flat again and left only her lower jaw hanging, swinging from one hinge. This time she was down to stay.

“Sorry, granma”—and he truly was—”but you weren’t granma anymore.”

His ears were ringing from the loud reports. He always wore ear protectors on the range and had a set in the duffel, but didn’t dare wear them now. He needed to hear these things coming. The racket must have attracted attention. A bloody blond guy in a softball uniform was stumbling toward him with only half the usual complement of talons because he had only half a left arm.

Took two head shots to stop him.

And then a second softball player—bearded with a black eye—lurched around the corner and charged him. He took three rounds.

Toughest damn sonsabitches to kill. He had only 25 shells left in the AA-12’s drum and it was taking two or three shots each to put these monsters down. He hoped there weren’t too many more. He’d brought a shitload of ammo, but not an endless supply.

But what a weapon. He was firing major shot with barely any recoil.

He scoured the ER—all the treatment areas and the wide-open supply room. All clear. He could move on. But how was he going to locate Shanna? He checked his cell and got no service. The in-house lines were useless if he didn’t know what extension she was near.

He moved toward the doors to the hospital proper but stopped just before he pushed through. Anything could be waiting on the other side—a whole army of monsters.

He placed his duffel on the nurse’s station counter, then stepped back toward the entrance where he grabbed granma’s stretcher. He got behind it and started pushing it toward the door. Hard to get traction in the congealing blood all over the floor but he wheeled through it and had built up decent speed when he rammed it through the double doors.

All hell broke loose.

Half a dozen monsters leaped onto the stretcher, tearing at its occupant in a wild, hissing frenzy that lasted all of maybe twenty seconds. They soon realized she was dead and looked around for a new victim.

Clay was already backpedaling when they spotted him. They charged and bunched up at the doorway on either side of the stretcher, elbowing and clawing at each other to be first through. This slowed them—not much, but enough to let Clay put some distance between him and them. He set his feet and raised the AA-12 to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, pulled the trigger, and kept it pulled.

The AA-12 went to full auto then, firing five rounds a second. He sprayed back and forth, two quick passes, left and right at first, and then more deliberate, aiming for the heads, watching them explode. The drum emptied quickly, but during those five seconds he shredded those monsters, all six of them. They went down and stayed down, leaving the doors, the walls, the ceiling, the stretcher dripping blood and brains.

He’d done it. Wiped them out. All of them.

Well, all except one. A guy in a torn-up bloody suit with the back of his head gone was trying to crawl toward him.

Clay watched him and couldn’t resist: “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Did he fire thirty-two shots or only thirty-one?’ Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself.’ “

He was reaching for the Taurus when two more of the damn things appeared in the doorway and charged him.

“Shit!”

Not trusting a hurried shot with the kind of kick a Casull delivered, Clay turned and ran for the supply room. Slipped and almost went down as he tried to grab his duffel from the counter. Missed the handle but kept on going. They were right on his tail. He could hear their hissing, could almost feel their talons slashing the air at the nape of his neck.

How many of these things were there? Had the whole hospital turned? Weren’t there any humans left?

What about Shanna?

He ducked into the supply room and whipped the door closed behind him. Almost closed. One of the things managed to shove its hand through. The door caught its wrist. Clay heard bones crunch as he threw his weight against the door. More weight hit from the other side, pushing it open a few more inches.

Needed a wedge, or something to block it. A metal shelf behind him. He grabbed it and pulled it toward him. He ducked aside as it crashed against the door, sending bandages and bottles of disinfectant smashing to the floor—but not before the thing shoved its arm and shoulder through.

Clay stayed out of reach of the slashing talons as the thing gnashed its awful teeth and hissed. It wore a jacket with the emblem of the ambulance outside. One of the formerly dead EMTs. He saw a second one right behind it, trying to push its pal through the opening. That gave him in idea.

He pulled out Alice. Only half a dozen rounds in the Raging Bull, but they were .454 Casulls. He aimed between the eyes of the lead monster and squeezed off a round. The report was like a punch in this small room, and the kick damn near sprained his wrist, but when he looked, the doorway was empty. Cautiously, he peeked through and saw both monsters on the ground, both with holes through their foreheads and enormous exit wounds.

“A two-fer! Awriiight, Alice!”

He wished someone was around for a high five, or at least a knuckle bump. So he settled for kissing Alice.

“There’s my good girl. You’re the best.”

Then he noticed the first one twitching.

Aw, not again. He wasn’t going to get up, was he?

No. The twitching stopped and it lay still.

He spotted the phone at the nursing station and had an idea. But first…

He grabbed his duffel from the counter, locked himself in the supply room, and began to reload the AA-12’s drum.

Jenny

“EVERYONE!” Jenny said. “I need everyone’s attention! I want all of us to move away from the window, to the other side of the playroom. Now.”

The hallway—just beyond the room-length finger-painted window—was filled with draculas.

Freakin’ filled.

They’d run up en masse after sounds of firecrackers came from the lower floors. Jenny guessed it hadn’t been fireworks, but rather gunshots. These monsters seemed to have been retreating, but stopped when they’d caught sight of the children through the window.

At least eight of them. Maybe ten. Clawing at the glass, pressing against it, knocking on it. Some smeared blood and bits of gore across the surface, while others fell into line to lick the blood up with spongy, misshapen tongues and thick, ropey strands of saliva. Saliva right out of that movie Randall loved to watch over and over again. Aliens, with Sigourney Weaver.

“You kinda look like Sigourney Weaver,” he’d told her, every time he played that VHS tape. “Cept you got better boobs.”

As the children gathered around her, Jenny wondered where Randall was. She hoped he was okay. She also hoped that once he found the little girl, he wouldn’t try to bring her back here. Too many of those things out there. Even her husband, whom Jenny thought was damn near indestructible, wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Will they break the glass?” Peter asked.