The Nightmare People

1.

“So what do we do, do we just walk in and shoot somebody?” Elias asked.

Smith shook his head. “Give me the gun,” he said, holding out a hand.

Elias hesitated, still holding the automatic. “Wait a minute,” he said. “First tell me what you’re going to do. This is my dad’s gun, after all.”

Smith sighed. “I’m going to go into the building, and go up to my apartment, and then I’m going to call up the Goodwins on the phone and ask if someone can come up and help me move stuff, and when someone comes I’m going to shoot him, and if anyone finds out and asks what happened I’ll claim that I mistook him for a burglar.”

Elias considered this, and couldn’t see anything really wrong with it, in theory.

One detail still bothered him, though. “It’s my dad’s gun,” he pointed out. “If the police get it they’ll trace it. How’re you going to explain that?”

Smith shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Maybe I stole it. I don’t think I’ll have to explain it. You think these things are going to call the police?”

“But what about the neighbors…” Elias began, and then stopped. He had forgotten.

There were no neighbors. Just the creatures that he privately thought of as proto-vampires.

“So what do I do?” he asked.

“You wait here,” Smith told him. “And if anything goes wrong, you get out of here, and you and Maggie can try your luck.”

That sounded for all the world like a speech from a bad movie, Smith realized, the sort the hero gives before he plunges into some ridiculously dangerous situation, and as soon as Smith had finished saying it he wished he hadn’t.

For one thing, it brought home all too vividly the possibility that he might be about to get himself killed, just like the heroic leader in all too many old war and adventure movies.

And horror movies, of course.

He knew if he stayed and talked any longer he would lose his nerve. “Give me the gun,” he said.

Elias handed him the gun, butt first.

Smith took it awkwardly; it was heavier than he had expected.

Elias saw Smith’s uncertainty. “You know how to shoot, don’t you?” he asked, worried.

“No,” Smith admitted. “I know you point and pull the trigger.” He lifted the gun.

“It’s loaded, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Here,” Elias said, holding out his hand. “Give it back.”

Smith handed it back.

Elias expertly released the clip, checked it, slid it back in place, then worked the slide to chamber a round.

He handed it back to Smith with the safety off, ready to fire.

“Be careful with it,” he said. “It goes off pretty easy. Just squeeze the trigger gently.”

Smith nodded. He started to stick the gun in his pocket, then looked at the tension on Elias’s face and stopped.

“I can’t walk in there with a gun in my hand,” he said.

“Yeah, but you don’t want to stick it in your pocket, either – the trigger could snag on your belt or something.” Elias groped around behind the driver’s seat for a moment, then came up with an oily rag. “Cover it with this,” he suggested.

Smith draped the rag across the gun and his hand. “That looks stupid,” he said, studying the result.

“Hold it with your other hand, like a bandage,” Elias suggested.

Smith looked at him suspiciously. “This is the rag I use when I check the oil. It’s filthy. It doesn’t look anything like a bandage.”

“You got a better idea?”

Smith shrugged and tried it, holding the rag around his right wrist with his left hand as if staunching a bad cut.

“All right,” he admitted, “It’s better than nothing.” He opened the car door.

“Watch where you point it,” Elias called, as Smith climbed out.