The Vampire Files, Volume Four by P. N. Elrod

Author:P. N. Elrod
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2011-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

18

SCREAMING, screaming, screaming.

I was alive. Trapped inside my body. My dead body.

Alive and aware, as cold cement oozed over it, layer upon layer, the weight crushing me into a stony trough of a grave.

Dead and unresponsive to the danger, absolutely unable to move.

Internal shrieks drowned out all thought. There could be no thought with such gibbering fear tearing me apart.

Caught away from my earth I had such nightmares as this, but those were softened by the innate knowledge that they were only dreams. My daylight paralysis was part of it, unavoidable but acceptable. This was different, to be fully conscious, fully sensible of every inch of my flesh smothering under the pressure.

The stuff flowed thickly, and there was no end to it. My face, then torso, it crept over and encased my raised arms, seeped under my neck, filled in the space under my back, buried my legs. The weight piled up, compressing, burying me alive-not-alive, burying, smashing . . .

The tiger-growl clamor of the cement mixer became distant as more cement poured in, muffling my hearing.

I had no need to breathe, but the instinct to do so was there, far more potent than any newly acquired supernatural ability, and was the source of my panic. My brain tried to make my body breathe. The lack of response added to the panic, and the cycle began anew.

Screaming. Mindless screaming . . .

Until . . .

Shut down.

Not a blessed moment of unconsciousness, but a shutting down of the mind. It was still aware of the body’s peril, or what was happening to it, but the emotions had cut off as though someone had thrown a switch. Catch a bird and hold it long enough, and it ceases struggling, waiting in blind dread for what comes next, release or death. You can kill a bird just by holding it. The shock is too much for it to live.

But I was able to think, to understand. Only dimly, for tiny instants at a time, yet more than some hapless sparrow dragged down by a cat.

Yes, this was bad. To have the stuff filling your mouth and nose, clogging your eyes and ears. Bad. But it wouldn’t last. It could not last . . .

A tremor. Very small.

My foot, the beginnings of a movement. Not much. Just the toes.

Fight or flight. The choice was flight. To get away. Toes, feet, legs to take me elsewhere.

I groaned inside. Made a change from screaming. Too slow. I wanted out. Now.

Focus on . . . what else? Pain in my head? Was it going away? Was I healed enough to escape?

Felt like an ice pick was jammed into my skull. Maybe I should go back to screaming. Wood did this to me. Upshaw’s Hollywood affectation with the walking stick. Damnation, I should have taken care of him at the start, not wasted time on Nevis’s song-and-dance act. I’d underestimated . . . everything. God damn it. God damn me.

But not just yet. Not until I broke free of this improvised tomb and kicked their asses up to their earlobes.

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