screaming for about half an hour. From Ohio State to a lonely hole in the jungles of Cambo. Had Mr. President ever been told about Richie? Had Mr. Director of Central Intelligence known or cared? Weep a tear for the Buckeye state, for it has lost a son.
To die the way covert ops died in the field, damn hard and damn alone — Jesus God, pass the bottle. And to do what he and his crew were doing, to live the way they were living, chasing these monsters in the sewage and the filth of some of the world’s most terrible cities, getting yourself eaten if you weren’t careful — Jesus God, pass the bottle again.
He was tired. They were all tired. It had been a hard operation, soaked in the blood of fine men and women. And what a death. It’d be better to be buried alive by a bunch of twelve-year-old Khmers with AK-47s and dead eyes, than to be stung in the neck by one of those filthy things.
Long before he’d been forced to come back, Asia had been a place he wanted to put behind him. Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, 1971 to 1973. In those days, life had less value than dirt out here, especially American life, and most especially the life of a clean-cut CIA virgin with a buzz haircut and wire-framed glasses. He had made it through the Parrot’s Beak massacre when Danny Moore had been pulled apart between two backfiring tractors. He had lived through six weeks in a bamboo cell with nothing but roaches and rats for food, while Betty Chang was methodically raped to death and George Moorhouse starved. He had survived because he was too ugly to rape and so cussed that he could crack rats and drink ’em, blood, guts, and all.
He fumbled in the little cabinet that was supposed to be stocked with booze. “Got any vodka in this thing?”
“No, sir.”
Of course not. A CIA officer didn’t rate booze in his car. This was the U.S. Government. The foreign service kid driving this thing outranked him by a damn country mile. The kid and the limo had appeared at the airport only because there hadn’t been time to find a conveyance shitty enough for a CIA field officer. Had he been from State, there would have been booze and ice both.
“The goddamn bastards.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing.”
Paul wished they’d sent a girl driver. He wanted the scent of a woman in this car. He wanted, he thought, what all men want. He wanted deliverance.
He closed his eyes. Instantly, he saw an old and hated vision, the prairie grass dancing in the moonlight. He opened them again. He could not go there, no. Better to stay with the wartime memories or the memories of sterilizing those filthy dens with acid. How in hell was it that these things looked so much like people? How had they evolved? Had God gone nuts?
The prairie grass dancing in the moonlight, his curtains billowing with moon wind, and in the distance, the most beautiful voice singing: that was the beginning of a life woven from nightmares.
Paul slapped his breast pocket. Pillbox in position. He’d take two tonight, maybe three. Black sleep, please.
“Shit,” he said softly, and then, “Shit!” louder.
“Sir?”
This kid would chatter that he’d had to drive a muttering old crazy man to the Royal Orchid Hotel, and then he’d try to find out just who this VIP third class was.
He would not find out.
The State Department could not tell anyone about Paul Ward because they could not tell anyone about the vampire project. If they did that, they would also have to explain that humans are not at the top of the food chain, that we are prey, legitimate prey, just as nature intended. What is worse, they’d have to explain that the predator is damn clever and has evolved some very remarkable camouflage. The predator, you see, looks just like you. Except that his skin is as pale the light of an October moon, and he will sing to you and dance for you, and comfort you in his arms while he kills you. As far as looks are concerned, you can’t tell the difference between a vampire and your
To die the way covert ops died in the field, damn hard and damn alone — Jesus God, pass the bottle. And to do what he and his crew were doing, to live the way they were living, chasing these monsters in the sewage and the filth of some of the world’s most terrible cities, getting yourself eaten if you weren’t careful — Jesus God, pass the bottle again.
He was tired. They were all tired. It had been a hard operation, soaked in the blood of fine men and women. And what a death. It’d be better to be buried alive by a bunch of twelve-year-old Khmers with AK-47s and dead eyes, than to be stung in the neck by one of those filthy things.
Long before he’d been forced to come back, Asia had been a place he wanted to put behind him. Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, 1971 to 1973. In those days, life had less value than dirt out here, especially American life, and most especially the life of a clean-cut CIA virgin with a buzz haircut and wire-framed glasses. He had made it through the Parrot’s Beak massacre when Danny Moore had been pulled apart between two backfiring tractors. He had lived through six weeks in a bamboo cell with nothing but roaches and rats for food, while Betty Chang was methodically raped to death and George Moorhouse starved. He had survived because he was too ugly to rape and so cussed that he could crack rats and drink ’em, blood, guts, and all.
He fumbled in the little cabinet that was supposed to be stocked with booze. “Got any vodka in this thing?”
“No, sir.”
Of course not. A CIA officer didn’t rate booze in his car. This was the U.S. Government. The foreign service kid driving this thing outranked him by a damn country mile. The kid and the limo had appeared at the airport only because there hadn’t been time to find a conveyance shitty enough for a CIA field officer. Had he been from State, there would have been booze and ice both.
“The goddamn bastards.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing.”
Paul wished they’d sent a girl driver. He wanted the scent of a woman in this car. He wanted, he thought, what all men want. He wanted deliverance.
He closed his eyes. Instantly, he saw an old and hated vision, the prairie grass dancing in the moonlight. He opened them again. He could not go there, no. Better to stay with the wartime memories or the memories of sterilizing those filthy dens with acid. How in hell was it that these things looked so much like people? How had they evolved? Had God gone nuts?
The prairie grass dancing in the moonlight, his curtains billowing with moon wind, and in the distance, the most beautiful voice singing: that was the beginning of a life woven from nightmares.
Paul slapped his breast pocket. Pillbox in position. He’d take two tonight, maybe three. Black sleep, please.
“Shit,” he said softly, and then, “Shit!” louder.
“Sir?”
This kid would chatter that he’d had to drive a muttering old crazy man to the Royal Orchid Hotel, and then he’d try to find out just who this VIP third class was.
He would not find out.
The State Department could not tell anyone about Paul Ward because they could not tell anyone about the vampire project. If they did that, they would also have to explain that humans are not at the top of the food chain, that we are prey, legitimate prey, just as nature intended. What is worse, they’d have to explain that the predator is damn clever and has evolved some very remarkable camouflage. The predator, you see, looks just like you. Except that his skin is as pale the light of an October moon, and he will sing to you and dance for you, and comfort you in his arms while he kills you. As far as looks are concerned, you can’t tell the difference between a vampire and your
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