Double Dead Read Free Page A

aroma of blood.
    Human blood.
    Vibrant and bright and alive. But far off, too. Distant, like the Dog Star.
    Just then: a hiss down and to his right.
    One of them— let’s just say it, he thought , it’s an undead motherfucking smells-like-a-roadkilled-possum-stuffed-with-gorgonzola-cheese asshole zombie prick —lay against the ledge. Except, this one didn’t smell bad—or, at least, not like the others. This one was practically mummified. Skin like that of fried chicken. Eyes white and bright. Teeth, too, like white pebbles in the dry cavern of its mouth. Lips pulled back. Gums just hard, parched nubs. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. It just lay there, moving only its head, snapping its teeth in his direction. Equal parts ‘comical’ and ‘pathetic.’
    Maybe the sun did this. Thing got trapped up here. It wandered. The sun cooked it down, dried it out.
    Coburn kicked it in the head.
    The head came off easy as anything. Like flicking a seed pod off a dry stalk. It broke apart, the crispy head shards spinning off into darkness.
    Down in the theater, one rot-fuck got a hoof through the temple. The other caught an antler up under the chin. This one stopped moving when he booted its head off the roof.
    “Just like in the movies,” he said. “Aim for the head, they go dead.”
    The rhyme pleased him, if only a little.
    He turned, once again looked at the moon. It had already begun its descent toward the horizon. He didn’t have long until morning.
    Two hours, maybe? Three, at best.
    He stood at the edge, caught that scent of blood once more. It waited for him out there . Out beyond Riverside Drive. Out beyond the river itself. Wouldn’t be far. He could make it. If only it really were like the movies, he could think real hard, squeeze his butt-cheeks real tight , and—poof!—turn into a bat and flutter away without a second thought. But vampires, they couldn’t fly.
    Though they sure could jump.

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Deader of Two Evils
     
    Coburn leapt roof-to-roof, a shape blacker than the night itself. He did so silently, the only sound being the thump-and-crunch of boots striking rooftops. Not every roof was parallel—sometimes he crashed hard into a fire escape, then bolted his way up to the rooftop. Not fifteen minutes later he stood atop a ten-story walk-up, the roof home to a pigeon coop whose only inhabitants were a morose display of long-dead birds, matted feathers hanging from rust-colored bones. The vampire didn’t stop to admire the attraction.
    From here it would be easy: this was the Upper West Side. From this roof to the river, he could plan his journey above the city with ease—in the moonlight he could see a path cut between the too-tall buildings, a path that would let him take a slow descent. At least, until he got to Riverside Drive: there, the buildings shot up again to ensure that the hoitiest, toitiest New York citizens got a view of the river. Of course, all those citizens were now food for the living dead. Or were perhaps themselves the living dead—Coburn didn’t have to time to worry about the mechanics of it, as to whether this was somehow viral or bacteriological or mystical or whether it maybe fell from the sky as part of some kind of alien meteor. Didn’t matter and so he didn’t care. Wasn’t his fault, so— fuck it .
    Once he hit Riverside, he’d drop to the ground, cross Riverside Park, and throw his own ass into the river. The air here was cold, but not wintry—he suspected it was spring, or just on the cusp of it—but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Temperature changes had little effect on his body. As long as it had blood in it, his body would self-regulate. He went to the doctors once on a lark, just to see what his temperature was: 89.8F. A lot lower than the average living human, and to most his skin felt icy—the ‘chill of the grave,’ he’d say, with a bullshit Bela Lugosi accent to go with it. But to him, he always felt hot. Feverish. Hungry.
    He