Twenty
The fog and mist mingled, swirling in the evening wind around the dock area. The darkness was pierced by the twin beams of light from my car as I slowly cruised along the water’s edge. The automobile’s lights flashed briefly on the wall of a warehouse, illuminating a sign with a weather-beaten number 19 painted on it as I came to a halt in front of the building.
I stepped from the car and stood for a moment, questing out with my mental power, “smelling” the area to see if anyone was about to observe my arrival. The area was free of any other mental activity so I used my key to enter the warehouse door. I needed no light and proceeded through the pitch-blackness of the warehouse to the back door. On the way, I checked several inconspicuous warning devices and telltales to make sure the warehouse had not been disturbed since my last visit. It hadn’t, but two hundred years of living among people who would kill me without a moment’s hesitation had taught me to be cautious.
The room contained some of the material possessions I had accumulated in my years as a vampire. The rest was scattered in seven other warehouses in three other countries. I never knew when I might have to leave in a hurry or where I might have to go.
I had acquired tremendous wealth, mostly in the form of jewels and gold, and in my early days had not been above stealing from my victims to build my fortune and ensure my safety. The warehouse, not registered in my present name, also contained documents for several other identities if the need were to arise.
The rear door was secured by a heavy padlock and chain. They fell off with a flick of my finger and I walked through the door to the dock behind the warehouse. The rusted hulk of my freighter, Nightrunner, was moored there. I pressed a series of numbers on a keypad mounted on a pole, which caused an electric winch on the boat to lower a gangplank to the dock.
I strolled onto the ship, hands in my pockets, enjoying the night and the fog. Over the years, I had come to love the night and the dark, for what other choice did I have? The moon, its brightness diffused and scattered by the fog, spoke to me in the same way it spoke to countless human lovers across the earth . . . perhaps the only thing I still had in common with the Others.
Finally, loneliness forced me off the deck and into my cabin amidships. I took out my journal and began transcribing recent events to keep it up to date.
* * *
I sat back, contemplating what I had written, then put the pen and ink away and placed the journal in the safe. I locked the cabin behind me and strolled to the rail of the ship, savoring again the damp, salty tang of the low-hanging fog that cloaked the ship in the early evening. I leaned my elbows on the rail and stood there for a moment, peering into the fog as if I might find some answer as to why I had been blessed with virtual immortality and at the same time cursed to live it as a creature of the night. Forced to live forever without love or friendship, destined never again to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I felt the Hunger growing within me and tried as always to force it back down, to exert some semblance of will over the growing desire to rend and tear and feed. It had been almost two weeks since my last kill and the urge to feed came strong upon me. Looking down, I saw my hands had become claws, the nails digging into the wooden rail of the ship and scoring it in anticipation of the kill. As I left the ship, I shrugged off my contemplative mood and licked my lips in anticipation of my hunt.
* * *
Blaze leaned over and fingered the hole in her fishnet stockings. Damn, she thought, there goes another five bucks. She pulled a cigarette out of her handbag and smiled as she lit it, cupping her hands to protect the flame from the slight breeze that had arisen. I wonder if the IRS will let me charge it off as a business expense, perhaps under uniform repair and upkeep. She giggled to herself at the thought, and looked around at the other ladies of the night strolling up and down McKinley Avenue.
They were dressed much as she was: short shorts or miniskirts, see-through or very low-cut tops, and fishnet hose. As a dark Mercedes sedan pulled over to the curb, she put her cigarette out and quickly sprayed some Binaca into her mouth to kill the odor of smoke, then walked slowly over to the car.
She leaned down and put her elbows on the window, exposing her breasts to the view of the driver. “Hi there, want to party?”
The driver leaned out of the darkness, letting the light from the street lamp play across his face. In spite of the shadows caused by the stark light, Blaze recognized him. “Hey, Doc, what the hell are you doing in this part of town?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, but your phone has been disconnected.” He paused and looked around at the other girls observing them from the shadows. “And you obviously don’t have a work number. Therefore, I decided to come and see you in person.”
Worried, Blaze leaned even further into the car. “Gee, it’s nothing bad, is it?” Her face began to sweat, making her pancake makeup smear and run down her face like mud after a rain.
The hunter held out his hand and said, “Come on, Blaze, get in the car and we’ll go get a cup of coffee and talk about it.”
“Okay, but we’d better hurry.” She glanced back over her shoulder, a worried expression on her face. “My pimp don’t like me off the street unless I’m working.”
She opened the door, turned to wave good-bye to the other girls, then flopped onto the seat. As he drove off, she started to light a cigarette, then put it away as the hunter frowned and shook his head.
He drove only a few blocks, pulling into a parking lot behind an empty warehouse. He put the car in park, shut off the engine, and turned toward the girl. As he leaned back against the door, he said, “First, I want to tell you that everything is all right, you have nothing to worry about.”
She let out her breath in a whoosh and leaned her head back against the seat. “Thank you, Jesus!”
The hunter smiled in the dark, mumbling, “I doubt if he has anything to do with it.”
Blaze turned her head to look at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “What?”
“Never mind. The reason I brought you here is that I would like to purchase your expertise for a few minutes.”
She smirked, thinking to herself that all men are alike, all they think about is what’s between their legs. “Okay, but no free samples, my pimp don’t allow it.”
“No problem, I’ve got plenty of money.” He swung his leg up on the seat and put his hand on the back of her head, gently pulling it toward his lap.
She scooted over and reached down to unzip his pants, grasping his penis and bringing it into view. It was already hard and her eyes widened as she silently sucked in air through pursed lips when she saw how large it was. “Oh, honey, that’s a real trophy you got there.” She leaned down and began to kiss and lick the end, not being able to put it entirely in her mouth.
The hunter’s eyes glittered as he reached down and began to fondle her breasts. She moaned with pleasure and kept her head down, working on his penis with her mouth and hands.
As his penis started to throb, he reached over and grabbed the front of her blouse and ripped it and her skirt completely off with one tremendous jerk. She looked up in time to see the skin of his face begin to soften and melt like candle wax in a flame. Her mouth opened in astonishment as his features coalesced into a shapeless mass and began to writhe and shift and form something horrible. The front of his face elongated while the cheekbones withdrew. His teeth grew into glowing fangs, which protruded from his lips and dripped saliva that looked like blood. A sound like a rusty nail being pulled from a coffin lid came from his mouth, a growl that seemed to reach out and squeeze Blaze’s heart.
Before she could scream, he grabbed her by the face with one hand and effortlessly lifted her up and threw her into the backseat. She lay there dazed, moaning as he ripped off his clothes and climbed over the seat toward her.
“No, no . . . please don’t. No, Mother of God, no-o-o-o!”
He pried her legs apart and climbed between them as she began to wail in anguish. He placed his hands under her hips, claws digging into the pale flesh of her buttocks for a better grip, and with one mighty tug he impaled her on his penis. The excruciating pain caused her to begin to grunt and choke on her screams. She opened her eyes to plead with him to let her go, but her mind retreated into insanity at the sight of the monster panting and drooling and pumping between her thighs.
He hesitated for a moment, head tilted to the side like a curious dog, contemplating her incoherent gibbering. He missed the screaming and wailing . . . it excited him and added to his pleasure. This mewing and mumbling of a mind in chaos disturbed him somehow. His face writhed and rippled, his humanity trying to assert itself against the monster he had become. The battle lasted but seconds, for the Hunger was stronger than his conscience. He shook his head, dispelling any thoughts of mercy or compassion, and placed his hand behind her neck, grabbed the hair, and pulled her head back, exposing her throat.
He growled deep in his throat as the orgasm shook his body. Head raised, he let out a long, mournful howl before bending and sinking his fangs into the girl’s throat. He wagged his head from side to side, ripping and tearing the tender flesh, reveling in the salty taste of the hot blood as it spurted into his mouth. He continued to pump his semen into her while he drained her blood, the ecstasy of the kill welling within his breast. Afterward, he wiped his face and hands on the remnants of her clothes before tossing her pale, torn body onto the concrete and driving into the fog.
Patrolman Sam Wilson and his partner, Joe Johnson, were riding down the dark street when they saw something thrown from the dark sedan before it pulled away from the curb.
“Goddamn litterers,” Wilson said as he slowed the patrol car and Johnson opened his window to see what had been dumped.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Johnson croaked when he saw the bloodied, battered body of the woman lying in the gutter, her throat ripped open, her sightless eyes staring at stars she’d never see again.
“Go . . . Go!” he shouted as he reached down and flipped the siren and lights on.
The patrol car’s tires screeched as they took off in pursuit of the dark car a block ahead of them.
Johnson grabbed the microphone and hurriedly called for backup as they raced down the street.
The car in front accelerated when the lights and siren came on, taking the corner off McKinley on two wheels and jogging over onto Fannin Street, heading out toward the medical center.
Another patrol car pulled off Main onto Fannin behind Johnson and Wilson, its lights flashing and its siren wailing as it joined the chase.
Wilson managed to get close enough to see the car was a Mercedes sedan and Johnson radioed a description as they ran at over a hundred miles an hour past the medical center and out Fannin.
Without slowing, the Mercedes whipped into the Astrodome parking lot, breaking through the chains that closed the entrance off to the public.
The Mercedes skidded to a stop and Wilson and Johnson saw a dark figure dash from the automobile and run up to one of the big double doors to the stadium. After a brief pause, the figure disappeared into the darkness of the large hall.
Johnson and Wilson drew their revolvers and got out of the patrol car. When they got to the door, Wilson said, “Jesus, Joe. Look at that!”
The metal door was crumpled and the lock ripped from the metal surrounding it, as if the intruder had taken a jackhammer to it.
Wilson’s eyes were wide as he peered into the darkness. “We need more backup!”
Johnson ran to the other patrol car just pulling up and told them to get more men, they were going in. He stopped by his car and pulled a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot from the driver’s seat, pumped a shell into the chamber, and ran back to the doorway.
Wilson, his .357 magnum in one hand and his six-cell flashlight in the other, led the way into the darkened interior of the Astrodome.
When he shined the light at the floor, bloody footprints could be seen leading off toward the interior of the dome.
Sweat poured from Wilson’s face and he stopped briefly to sleeve it off before following the footprints.
“Be careful, man,” Johnson said. “I don’t want to be surprised by whoever ripped that door off its hinges.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Wilson replied, the light wavering as his hand shook from fear and adrenaline.
As they rounded a corner near the concession stand, a black figure appeared in front of them and swung a hand at Wilson, catching him in the face and throwing his body fifteen feet backward, to land and skid another five feet.
Johnson managed to get one shot off, taking the man full in the chest before a hand clamped on his throat and lifted him off his feet.
A misshapen face moved close to his and breath that smelled like a sewer blew hot on his skin. “Leave me alone!” the figure commanded. In Johnson’s mind he could hear the command, “Forget this!” before he was thrown unconscious onto the cement next to his partner.