The little girl stared at him, unmoving.

The man at the desk moaned.

No fucking way...

Randall grabbed the top of the desk and used it as leverage to push himself up. His injured leg really didn't like that. He shoved the pain out of his mind.

"Help me..." said the man. How was he still alive? Randall was probably the least qualified person in the entire building to make such a diagnosis, but he figured the man had a minute left to live, tops. "Get me to..." The man paused to cough up some blood.

"I don't think I can help you," Randall said, feeling absolutely sick to his stomach.

"Get me to surgery," the man whispered. "I can do it. I just need you to take me there."

Even regular surgery wasn't going to help him, much less self-performed surgery. "I can't," said Randall. "My leg is ruined. I can't carry you."

"Please..."

"I can't. I would if I could, I swear, but there's nothing I can do for you." Randall knew he should lie to him--the man was a goner anyway--but he just couldn't bring himself to do that.

The man stared at him with dying eyes. "You're going...to burn in hell."

Randall watched helplessly as his eyes went blank.

What kind of asshole would do that to somebody? Randall had no time for guilt; he had to focus on the person he could actually save.

He looked over at the little girl. She recoiled.

Why was she scared of him?

Oh, yeah. He was a giant-sized blood-soaked man in a hospital gown who'd ripped the neck out of a monster with a pair of pliers. Her fear was justified.

"What's your name?" he asked, again trying to use his kid-friendly voice.

She didn't answer.

"I'm Randall." He set the bloody pliers down on the desk, hoping that might help. Even though it hurt, he got down on one knee, bringing himself closer to her level. "I'm a lumberjack. Do you know what that is?"

She just stared at him.

"Do you know Paul Bunyan?"

She nodded. Randall smiled.

"I'm not Paul Bunyan, but I'm one of his friends. He's a good guy. Have you heard of Babe?"

"His blue ox?"

"Yeah. I get to ride him sometimes. Now, Paul gets really mad if his fellow lumberjacks let little girls get hurt on their watch, so I promise you that if you listen to me and do what I say, I'm going to protect you from the monsters, okay?"

"Okay."

"What's your name?"

"Tina."

Tina. That's what Randall had wanted to name his daughter, if he and Jenny ever had one.

Well, okay, it was one of about fifty names that he'd considered. Not a huge coincidence. But still...

He stood up again, promising himself that if he lived through this he'd spend the next five years on a beach not moving his leg at all.

A peek through the tiny window in the door didn't offer a wide view of the hallway, but at least there were no draculas in the immediate vicinity. Had the others just moved on past, or were they still there and just out of his viewing range?

The lights went out.

Tina made a single, high-pitched scream.

And then came a sound on the other side of the door.

Squeak, squeak, squeak...

Shanna

THINK!

Shanna paced the perimeter of the chapel--the Catholic chapel. Blessed Crucifixion had two. One non-denom and, since the hospital was run by nuns, the other Catholic. Very Catholic. This one ran slightly longer than wide with about a dozen folding chairs set up in three rows. Crucifixes, stained glass windows--fake, illuminated with fluorescents behind them--and even the Stations of the Cross. The whole enchilada.

Shanna wasn't Catholic, wasn't much of anything as far as religion went, but for the first time in her life she was taking comfort in depictions of some poor man suffering horrific torture.

Maybe it was because of seeing Mortimer down in the lobby--or rather, what he'd become. She'd barely escaped with her life. But she couldn't get the image of his face out of her mind.

He looked just like the "Dracula skull" that he'd jabbed into his throat.

And the Dracula part had driven her to seek the company of crucifixes.

Irrational? Absolutely. Comforting? Absolutely.

She slowed her speeding, panicked thoughts and forced her brain into analytical mode. Take it in order:

1) Mortimer had received the "Dracula skull."

2) Mortimer had stabbed himself--deliberately, it seemed--with the skull's fangs.

3) He had been brought to the hospital.

4) Shortly thereafter she'd seen a blood-soaked man in Mortimer's pants and belt but with a head identical to the Dracula skull.

5) Ernie's head had been removed from his body.

The only conclusion she could draw from what she knew was that Mortimer had changed into some sort of murderous creature and that the blood all over him was Ernie's.

Huh?

Come on, Shanna. That's horror-movie stuff.

Obviously it wasn't the only possible scenario--she could be the mark in one of those hidden-camera spoof shows, but somehow she didn't see Blessed Crucifixion going along with that.

No, as bizarre and way out and insane as it seemed, that was the only scenario that fit all the facts.

Something supernatural was going on, something to do with vampires, or something like vampires. Maybe the creature that had started all the vampire stories, the wellspring of the legends, had returned. She didn't know what, or how, or why. And if a vampire was out there, she wanted to be in here, amid crosses and crucifixes and stations of the cross.

Did the police know?

Probably on their way. She'd heard shooting, lots of it, so hospital security must have gotten involved. Probably all over now.

The ER would know. She'd left Jenny there. Maybe she could find a phone and call down. There--one on the wall. She lifted the receiver and pressed the "O" button. After four rings a message came on, telling her that all lines were busy and to please hold. Okay, she'd--

"Shanna? Shanna Davies?"

She dropped the phone and spun. The voice came from the ceiling. She looked at the big crucifix at the far end of the room. Had Jesus just called her name?

"Shanna, if you're in the hospital and can hear this, please call extension two-seven-nine-four." It came from the speaker in the ceiling--the hospital paging system. "Shanna Davies call extension two-seven-nine-four."

Clay's voice! She never thought she'd ever be this glad to hear that voice. The police were here.

She cut the call to the switchboard and punched in 2794.

"Shanna?"

"Oh, Clay, where are you?"

"The ER. Where are you?"

"The chapel on the second floor. I'm coming down--"

"No-no-no-no! Stay right where you are. I'll come to you. Stay put. Whatever you do, stay out of the hallways."

Her gut clenched. Stay put?

"What are you saying? What's going on?"

"All hell's broken loose, babe. Monsters everywhere."

Monsters...more than one?

"What do you--?"

"They've got two chapels, as I recall. Which are you in?"

"The Catholic."

"The doors--do they have loop handles, the kind you could stick something through?"

She looked. One on each.

"Yes."

"Find something--anything--to stick through them till I get there. Don't let anyone in but me, and I do mean anyone. Got that?"