Draculas by F. Paul Wilson, Blake Crouch, Jeff Strand, Jack Kilborn, J. A. Konrath Read Free Book Online
upon him, mouth open wide. Randall screamed with rage and
bashed
the chainsaw into its face as hard as he could. Randall, who was lumberjack-sized, had a good eighteen inches and a hundred pounds on the little monster, and the impact was severe. Blood sprayed.
A second hit and the creature dropped to the floor.
Randall smashed the chainsaw into its head, over and over, as the dracula kept thrashing and trying to grab him. The chainsaw held together fine--Randall didn't buy cheap chainsaws--and after a good dozen or so blows the dracula stopped moving.
Randall wiped the gore from his face. He hoped the hospital security cameras had caught that.
There was still chaos everywhere, and people who needed help, but once again Randall had to focus. He stood back up, wincing, and forced himself to get moving again. Though there were probably much better options for bashing draculas to death than his chainsaw and it would just weigh him down, he couldn't bear to leave it behind.
Time to find Jenny.
Moorecook
BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD
SOURCE!
He crouched, felt the new power coursing through his system, and then he was soaring through the lobby, everything slow and fast all at once, and he came down on the shoulders of a man behind the snack bar--the smell of his blood so pure and rich--and as the man screamed, he took his head between his claws and twisted and ripped until a geyser of glorious red erupted in two ropes and he drank from the larger of the two like a water fountain. Had tasted nothing better in his seventy-six years, not even the Macallan fifty-five, not the models he'd fucked back when he could still get it up. The taste of it he couldn't begin to explain, only how it made him feel, each drop running down his throat--sweet warm salty rust. Like he'd never breathed before until this moment and had finally taken his first hit of oxygen, knowing the more he drank the better...
FUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
Already the blood flow was ebbing. He had to lick it off the floor now, where it was cooling and congealing, and that beautiful euphoric push had begun to pull away, leaving something black and terrible in its place.
A headache descended, like someone driving an ice pick through his frontal lobe.
Something stung his shoulder. He jumped up onto the snack bar, fire blooming down the corridor, streaking toward the doors to the ER, men screaming at him, the gunshots distant, like he heard them from underwater, and with some of the lights came a brief but violent sting, and he could smell blood, his blood and their blood, still muted under their clothes and skin but it was there, calling to him, and he was moving toward them before he realized what he was doing, the men retreating, yelling, more points of light opening and dying like fireflies.
He stopped.
These men would fight him.
He didn't want to fight.
He just wanted to drink, and there must be a hundred or more of these blood containers on the floors above him.
Sick. Drugged. Helpless.
He leapt off the snack counter and bounded through the lobby toward the elevators.
Jenny
RATHER than dwell on why this was happening--which wouldn't help things make any more sense--Jenny fell back on her training. After applying antiseptic, lidocaine cream, and
bashed
the chainsaw into its face as hard as he could. Randall, who was lumberjack-sized, had a good eighteen inches and a hundred pounds on the little monster, and the impact was severe. Blood sprayed.
A second hit and the creature dropped to the floor.
Randall smashed the chainsaw into its head, over and over, as the dracula kept thrashing and trying to grab him. The chainsaw held together fine--Randall didn't buy cheap chainsaws--and after a good dozen or so blows the dracula stopped moving.
Randall wiped the gore from his face. He hoped the hospital security cameras had caught that.
There was still chaos everywhere, and people who needed help, but once again Randall had to focus. He stood back up, wincing, and forced himself to get moving again. Though there were probably much better options for bashing draculas to death than his chainsaw and it would just weigh him down, he couldn't bear to leave it behind.
Time to find Jenny.
Moorecook
BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOOD
SOURCE!
He crouched, felt the new power coursing through his system, and then he was soaring through the lobby, everything slow and fast all at once, and he came down on the shoulders of a man behind the snack bar--the smell of his blood so pure and rich--and as the man screamed, he took his head between his claws and twisted and ripped until a geyser of glorious red erupted in two ropes and he drank from the larger of the two like a water fountain. Had tasted nothing better in his seventy-six years, not even the Macallan fifty-five, not the models he'd fucked back when he could still get it up. The taste of it he couldn't begin to explain, only how it made him feel, each drop running down his throat--sweet warm salty rust. Like he'd never breathed before until this moment and had finally taken his first hit of oxygen, knowing the more he drank the better...
FUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
Already the blood flow was ebbing. He had to lick it off the floor now, where it was cooling and congealing, and that beautiful euphoric push had begun to pull away, leaving something black and terrible in its place.
A headache descended, like someone driving an ice pick through his frontal lobe.
Something stung his shoulder. He jumped up onto the snack bar, fire blooming down the corridor, streaking toward the doors to the ER, men screaming at him, the gunshots distant, like he heard them from underwater, and with some of the lights came a brief but violent sting, and he could smell blood, his blood and their blood, still muted under their clothes and skin but it was there, calling to him, and he was moving toward them before he realized what he was doing, the men retreating, yelling, more points of light opening and dying like fireflies.
He stopped.
These men would fight him.
He didn't want to fight.
He just wanted to drink, and there must be a hundred or more of these blood containers on the floors above him.
Sick. Drugged. Helpless.
He leapt off the snack counter and bounded through the lobby toward the elevators.
Jenny
RATHER than dwell on why this was happening--which wouldn't help things make any more sense--Jenny fell back on her training. After applying antiseptic, lidocaine cream, and
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