Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

his body’s ability to scream it out. Blood sprayed from his nose and ears and he vomited black ichor, bile, and blood all over the inside of his car.

      His Father’s rage struck him down with all the wrath of a furious and disappointed God. Eddie’s eyes glazed over and he toppled sideways into blackness.

      (2)

      Ruger had gotten up to take another book down from Vic’s shelf when his body suddenly snapped straight as if he were coming to attention. His arms and legs twitched and jerked like a million volts of electricity were being channeled through him. A terrible scream ripped loose from his throat—dry and searing and then wet as blood spewed out of him. Tears of blood sprang into his eyes and rolled down over his cheeks, his eardrums nearly burst, his head felt like it was being smashed by an iron mallet. He could not speak, could not move, could do nothing in that moment but scream as pain beyond anything he had ever endured, beyond anything he had ever imagined, burned through every cell. He was not even aware that fifteen feet away Vic Wingate had collapsed onto the floor, howling with his own agony. The air was stained with foulness as Vic’s bladder and sphincter let loose; the fecund stink mixed with the sheared-copper smell of blood to create a perfume of shame.

      For a handful of seconds the world was defined by pain.

      Then it was gone. Not gradual, not ebbing like a tide or subsiding like the pain of a smashed finger. It was there, and then it was not there.

      Ruger took one staggering step and then like a marionette with severed strings he crashed to the floor, bleeding and dazed. His head struck the edge of the armchair as he fell and his cheekbone cracked audibly; his body collapsed into a boneless heap mere yards from the stinking, wretched mess that was Vic Wingate.

      They lay in a world where time had no meaning, no sense or order. It did not matter that one was alive and one was undead—they shared that moment like two birds shot with the same gun, and though they could not know it, all across the square miles of Pine Deep, in shadowy barns and locked cellars, in shallow graves and shuttered attics, in the trunks of cars and in empty corn silos, the legions of Ubel Griswold were all sharing the same experience. Every one of them, from the living to the blood drinkers to the mindless flesh eaters, they all writhed in the aftershock of the moment. As that moment passed and sense crept into blasted minds, even the smallest intelligence among them was aware of the meaning of that eloquent message. This was payment for the mistakes of last night. No further mistakes would be permitted.

      The Man was pissed.

      Chapter 9

      (1)

      Five customers came into the Crow’s Nest in the two hours Mike lay under the counter. Three of them peered around, saw that no one was there, and left. The fourth—his friend Brandon from school—called Crow’s name, got no reply, and left. The fifth was a kid from Mike’s homeroom who wanted to buy some comic books. After spending ten minutes in the store, browsing through Daredevil and Thor books while surreptitiously checking for staff or security cameras, he tucked thirty dollars’ worth of Marvel comics under his sweatshirt and sauntered out as if he owned the world. On the way out, just for the hell of it, he flipped over the sign on the door so that it now read CLOSED.

      The store settled into silence. Mike was not crying anymore. The convulsions had put an end to that. He wasn’t twitching anymore, either. He lay there, cold and still, eyes open and dry from not blinking. His chest barely moved, his breathing very shallow and slow, his pulse slower.

      When the change started, it happened very slowly, with no great hurry. It started with a hitch in his chest as he took a single sharp, deep breath, like a dead person who was suddenly reacting to the defibrillator paddles. His body didn’t arch or jump, just that single gasp, after which his breath became deeper, more regular. Then nothing for five minutes.

      The next thing that happened was a blink. His dry lids scraped over the arid surface of his eyes once, then again. The second time was easier; there was more moisture. Then a third, a fourth as the eyes moistened. There was no sign of focus, no hint of intelligence or awareness. The blink, like the breath, was a process kicking in, a link in the organic chain of system reboots.

      It was just over two hours from the time that Tow-Truck Eddie had walked out that Mike Sweeney came back. One moment his eyes were open and empty and the next, bridged by another blink, Mike was there behind those blue windows. Like water filling a submerged cup, life flooded instantly in and filled his body.

      As he gradually became aware of his body, Mike began the process of thinking. He thought about who he was, and that took a while before he remembered. He thought about why his body hurt, and he came up blank on that one—but he was aware that he didn’t know, which was a step toward full consciousness. He thought about where he was, and very slowly he went from small picture—he was on a floor under the counter—to a more moderate view—he was in someplace that was not his home—to a larger view—he was in Crow’s store.

      Crow. The name of the store came to him more quickly than the identity of its owner, though as he lay there, becoming increasingly more aware of something sticky on his face and throat, of the way his clothing was uncomfortably twisted, of the cramps in muscles, the face of Malcolm Crow gradually formed in his mind.

      “Crow…” Mike said, his voice just a whisper. Saying the name fleshed out Crow’s complete personality in his mind, and that tumbled the last pieces into place. He was in Crow’s store, it was daytime. Crow wasn’t here…no one was here.

      Why was he here?

      Mike took a steadying breath and then slowly, carefully, he unclenched the knotted fist that was his curled body. Pain seemed to be a humming presence within it, constantly throbbing. He was on his side and he rolled over onto his elbows and knees. Beneath him the floor seemed to buckle and ripple in a nauseating way, but as consciousness blossomed he grew to understand that this was just the effects of—

      Of what? He didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

      From his knees he straightened his torso so that he could look over the edge of the counter. The store was empty; the outside light looked like late morning. There was traffic outside, people and cars. Mike leaned his hands on the counter to steady himself, and the touch of the solid wood and Formica had a nicely steadying effect on the whole room and an equally calming effect on his stomach. Solid reality. It felt good enough to risk standing up and he gave that a shot, using both hands to pull himself up, first to one foot and then to both. The room, agreeably, did not start dancing around again.

      There was a horrible taste in his mouth and he looked around for something to drink. He saw the trash can, saw that he’d thrown up in it.

      “Swell,” he said and carefully walked over to the small bathroom. As before, the face in the mirror was one he didn’t recognize, but this time it was not an hallucination of his own, older face; now it was just his normal face but his skin was greenish and there was puke dried on his chin, throat, and upper shirtfront. “Swell,” he said again, and reached for the tap.

      When he had cleaned himself up, he felt better, stronger. He emptied the trash can and washed it, then mopped the floor behind the counter, which was stained with vomit and sweat. He removed all traces of what had happened, embarrassed by it without understanding what had happened or if there was any shame he should feel. Probably not, but guilt was a reflex for him.

      It was nearly an hour before he realized that the sign on the door was hung the wrong way. A lucky break, he thought as he went over to flip it to OPEN.

      Still no sign of Crow. He thought about calling him, but something inside told him not to. Not now, not yet.

      He got a bottle of Yoo-hoo from Crow’s apartment fridge, pulled the stool to the end of the counter, picked up the copy of Cemetery Dance that he had started reading. The entire encounter with Tow-Truck Eddie was buried down deep, buried along with a lot of other things that were stored in the shadows in the back of his brain. Stored out of sight, but not gone.

      (2)

      Crow sat in the plastic visitor’s chair,