By John Steakley
This is often bestselling writer John Steakley's vampire vintage: Vampires infest the fashionable international and a gaggle of courageous people-professional vampire killers-devote their lives to looking them down.
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Crow tried. He really tried. He lurched crazily forward to stem the flow. He cracked his forearm down on the edge to dam it up. But nothing could stop the scarlet stream from spattering across the Man's milk-white, snow-pure robes. And for a moment each simply stared, not at each other but at this. And then Crow exploded. He leapt to his feet and roared and screeched, splashing the wine from the table onto the robes over and over again, roaring and roaring louder and louder as he sprayed it, yelling at the top of his lungs: "Take it, goddammit!
He glanced in the direction of the townsmen without seeing them. "Yeah," said Cat at last. They lit cigarettes and started walking toward the trucks. "But, y'know, Jack? Not really," cried Cat in an abrupt plaintive whisper. " He stopped. " Crow was adamant. " "Like hell they did. No sympathy, Cat. If they'd had the damn guts to face it ... " "Right in front of them, and the whole town. " Crow stopped and looked back the way they came. "No sympathy," he repeated. "Look, just because they're feeling a little ...
He held onto his sides and rolled back and forth kicking his feet. The rest of the party stared at him in abject bewilderment. All, that is, except the sheriff. Ortega had been both stung and humiliated by the bimbo remark. Being sheriff, procurement was clearly his responsibility and them not showing up by now, almost 4:30, infuriated him. But the telephone -- that really enraged him. He'd been trying to call for two hours to see what the hold-up was but for the life of him he couldn't get the sonuvabitch to work.