“Oh, Mark,” she whispered brokenly and bent forward to kiss his forehead.

Weinstock suddenly reached for her. “Val…don’t!”

She stopped, looked at Weinstock for a moment, then nodded and straightened. “Right,” she said. “You’re right. ” She sniffed and angrily brushed away a tear.

Crow wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, tell her that it was going to be all right and be able to mean it. Instead he ground his teeth as a wave of bilious hatred for Ubel Griswold boiled up from deep inside. No hell would be deep enough or hot enough to punish his black, murderous soul.

“Okay, Saul,” Val said, “give me the needle. ”

“I’d rather do it myself…”

“Saul. This is mine to do. ”

Weinstock reluctantly handed over the syringe. Val held it up, looking at the dark red blood that filled its barrel, then turned the tip of the needle downward.

“Okay, troops,” warned Crow, “stay sharp. ”

Val touched Mark’s face with the fingertips of her other hand. She stroked his cheek lightly, placed her fingers on his lips, and parted them gently, then she carefully inserted the needle between the dry teeth. LaMastra, Ferro, and Crow each slipped their fingers into the trigger guards of their weapons. Everyone was sweating heavily. Val’s breath was rasping as if she had been running for miles under a hot sun. There was a bright feverish quality to her face as she took one last steadying breath and depressed the plunger. Her own salty, clean, innocent blood sprayed into the open mouth of her dead brother.

Crow leaned forward, pointing his pistol at Mark’s temple. Ferro stood at the foot of the table, aiming the shotgun at the ceiling because Val and Crow were in the line of fire. Sweat dripped into his eyes. On the wall the, each tick of the clock was as sharp as the snap of dry twigs.

Mark did not move. Nothing flinched, nothing changed. As Val removed the needle from between his teeth a single drop fell onto his lower lip. It glistened in the fluorescent light.

“Step back,” Ferro said, and Val and Crow shifted out of the line of fire; Ferro brought the shotgun down and aimed it at Mark’s head. The barrel shook visibly as tension vibrated in every cell of Ferro’s body. The lines beside his mouth were taut as fiddle strings. Beside him, LaMastra held his pistol in a two-hand shooter’s grip and whispered, “Hail Mary, Mother of grace…”

Newton stood apart, his eyes filling with tears of fear and tension.

A full minute passed.

Nothing happened. Another minute. Two. Three.

“It’s not happening,” whispered LaMastra. “Goddamn. Goddamn. ”

Another minute passed. The room remained still, the dead stayed dead.

Val Guthrie exhaled a lungful of air that had been burning in her chest. She sagged forward, laying her hands on Mark’s chest as she closed her eyes in exhausted relief. “Thank God!” she said, and meant it. “It’s over. ” She burst into tears.

That seemed to break the spell. They all breathed out huge lungfuls of air, their bodies slumping, guns lowering, faces breaking into triumphant smiles. They grinned and slapped each other on the back as if they had just won a great victory.

LaMastra prodded Mark with his pistol, but the only movement he saw was the movement he caused. Smiling, he reholstered his gun and dragged his forearm across his face. Newton abruptly laughed out loud, and though such a thing was horribly inappropriate, Weinstock and LaMastra found themselves laughing, too. Their laughter and Val’s tears meant the same, felt the same, and cost as much. Ferro slumped back against a work table and lowered his gun. He looked fifteen years older and he struggled to unwrap a stick of gun with badly shaking hands.

Val huddled over Mark, laying the side of her face on his chest, and wept brokenly.

Only Crow stood completely apart from it all. He felt the same tension, but didn’t share the release. He slowly slid his pistol into the holster, placed a hand on Val’s back, and failed to think of one single useful thing to say.

Val leaned over to kiss Mark’s forehead, daring it now that she knew it was safe. Distantly she knew that the true impact of his death would hit her now; now the true storms of grief would come slashing. Her lips lightly brushed the cold flesh of his brow. “Go to sleep, baby brother,” she murmured in a small voice that came close to breaking Crow’s heart.

And then Mark Guthrie’s eyes snapped open.

With a snarl of inhuman rage and hunger he reared up, snapping the gauze bindings as if they were crepe paper, and lunged off the table at Val.

Val screamed in total horror and recoiled, but Mark’s hands caught her elbow and the shoulder of her shirt. His grip was as hard as iron and as cold as arctic ice.

“Watch!” Ferro yelled and swung the shotgun around, trying to find a line of sight to get a clear shot, but Val was in the way.

Crow ripped his gun out its holster and launched himself at Mark, pistol-whipping him across the face, opening a deep three-inch gash on Mark’s cheek that did not bleed. Mark let go of Val’s elbow and backhanded Crow with a blow so hard and fast that it lifted him and sent him crashing into Newton. They both went down in a painful tangle of limbs. Newton’s head hit the hard floor with a meaty crunch.

Growling, Mark pulled Val to him, grabbing her short black hair and yanking her head back to expose her throat. His teeth snapped at her, but she jammed her hands against his chest and fought the pull, screaming all the while. Ferro still could not get his shot and tried shifting around, bellowing at Val to move out of the way even though it was impossible. Yanking out his gun, LaMastra snapped off a shot, but Weinstock knocked his arm upward and the shot went high and wide, shattering the clock.

Tags: Jonathan Maberry Pine Deep Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net