Stiles offered the machine gun. “You want to go in after it?” The boy begged off. “I didn’t think so. Look, kid, I’m not stupid. That thing may be crippled, but it’s still dangerous, especially in the close quarter of the woods. Why take the chance tracking it now when we can just wait it out? It’s already as good as dead.”

“Oh yeah? And how can you be so sure?”

“Experience,” the soldier replied. “I’m a hunter. I’ve stalked a lot of strange things over the years. And a few of them were like your friend out there.” He opened the side door of the van and ushered the boys inside, then followed after them. “Sit down here,” he motioned to Bart. “I want to put something on that bite.”

Bart looked to Del fearfully. “What are we talking here? Holy water?”

Stiles laughed. “Not quite.” He took a first-aid kit from one of the cabinets, and from that retrieved a bottle of Bactine anti­septic. “This might sting a little,” he warned, tilting the boy’s head so he could spray the wound.

“That’s it?”

“You watch too much TV. This isn’t any different than a dog bite. It only counts when they drain you completely.”

“What you said ’while ago,” Del asked the soldier, “about hunting other things. What kinds of things?”

“It’s a long story,” Stiles replied. “But there were a few vampires. Let me see . . . there was one in New Orleans, and one in California. And in Maine . . . hell, when I was in Maine, they were running like cockroaches. So, yeah, I guess that makes me an expert on the subject, and this expert is telling you that most of your movies and TV are full of shit.” He finished bandaging Bart’s neck, then reached into the cooler between the seats where the ice had all but melted and handed him a Coke to hold against his swelling jaw. “There. I think you’ll live, but you’d better see a doctor just to be safe.”

Bart groaned. “Mom’s gonna hit the roof.”

“She should,” said Stiles. “What the hell were you doing in there?”

The redhead shrugged, embarrassed. “A bet. A stupid bet, and it almost got us killed. What were you doing in there, Mr. Stiles?”

Stiles took off his coat, then his holsters, then his combat vest. “Like I said. I’m a hunter, of sorts.” He touched a button on the van’s built-in cot. A latch clicked and the front panel fell open, revealing the strapped-in Uzi pistol and magazines and the empty recess where he quickly mounted the H & K rifle. “You didn’t see this,” he cautioned the boys after shutting the panel. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Del moved to the window and stared outside, into a darkness his eyes could not possibly penetrate. “It’s still out there,” he said, shivering. “I can feel it.”