CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

Tresset Bremu stood in the downtown Las Vegas bus station wiping his hands with a soft alcohol-dampened cloth. He hated the smell of the place. He hated the human livestock herding from one end of the terminal to another. He hated the drunks half passed out on the wooden benches and the security personnel who allowed the drunks to remain. He hated the tearful reunions and the even more tearful goodbyes. He hated the audacious sounds: the overhead speakers, the obligatory iPod in each young ear, the beeping of text messaging and the manufactured melodies of cell phone ring tones. He hated the dumpy street people with the weary eyes. He hated every stinking little thing about this place.

Still, the bus station was a good place for Tresset. Well, maybe not good, but advantageous at least.

Inching forward, he scanned the crowd now departing a just-arrived bus. This one, he believed, had made its way from Chicago, across Iowa and the remainder of the Midwest, before angling southward in Colorado, eventually making its way to Las Vegas. He liked the ones that had come through the Midwest. The Midwest was dull, plodding, dotted with hundreds of tiny rural towns that offered the youth few distractions beyond school athletics, bowling alleys, skating rinks, and drugs. The latter being the most popular of the options.

But even that became old, at least for the ones who boarded the bus. These kids wanted out. They wanted adventure, excitement. They wanted something so unlike the routines of their lives that they were willing to climb onto one of these metal monstrosities with no more than a few dozen dollars—and of course their iPod—in their pockets and head west to adventure, to thrills, to Tresset.

Many of them made Los Angeles their destination. These hoped to become movie stars. Tresset had little interest in them. They were shallow bobble-heads with little sense and slim chance of accomplishing much beyond enhancing their currently anemic police records. The ones who made Las Vegas their goal were probably no less dull, but they at least didn’t think they’d be the next Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie. These kids weren’t looking for fame; they were looking for adventure. They wanted some sort of stimulation that could shock them out of a lifeless existence. They wanted to take a chance, experience risk.

Tresset would offer them that opportunity.

Tresset normally left this task of “recruitment” to a subordinate, but as of late, the selections brought forward had been duller than most, many of them outright addicts or diseased—either of which were useless. There was a need. But the need was specific. The pack required more than warm bodies if they were to flourish. They needed healthy prospects, with strong genes, intelligent minds. It took some skill to identify these from among the lesser chattel, but after over a century of existence Tresset had skill in abundance. He preferred to hunt at the university, UNLV, where he could find much better stock. But those youth took time to cultivate. Oh, they could be swayed. With their youthful exuberance and ideological thinking, they could be grand recruits. And for his own personal use, Tresset wouldn’t think of another source. But these took multiple visits. They had families who knew where they were, instructors who would miss them in class, roommates who would know they hadn’t returned to the dormitory. One had to be so very careful with those. But these, they’d already fled their former lives, in most cases giving little or no indication as to where they might eventually land.

Tresset wiped his hands once again, then folded the alcohol-drenched cloth neatly and inserted it into the right pocket of his faded red sweatshirt. The sweatshirt, of course, was far too hot for the Las Vegas summer, but it had a large floppy hood, which was perfect for concealment.

Concealment was a high priority for Tresset.

He pulled the hood further forward, pushed his sunglasses up, and maneuvered through the crowd of people. Those he sought would not have luggage. At most, they would have backpacks—some might carry guitars in “gig” bags. They would be in their late teens or early twenties. They would be thin, hungry, edgy.

And they would be lost.

Having finally made it to their long dreamed of destinations, they would realize that their plan had been no plan at all. Where would they stay? How would they get money? How long could they last on the fifty dollars and twenty-two cents hidden away in their pockets? They could come in either gender; though Tresset’s greatest current need was for females. Still, a healthy male with a competent mind and a solid physique would always be a welcome addition.

But none departing this bus fit these descriptions. Most were geriatrics, perhaps on a field trip or group outing, he supposed.

Useless.

Not only did the elderly smell bad, but they hoarded resources better used on those with the potential to contribute. How small-minded was a society that would acquiesce to the needs of the weak and inept. And as a greater and greater percentage of that society achieved advanced years, so would that society weaken accordingly, until one day, whether from internal faults, or outside intervention, it would collapse in upon itself leaving room for the strong and fit, for those worthy of the land’s great resources.

Tresset withdrew his cloth, wiped his hands again. This was a filthy place.

A voice came from behind. A security guard. This was always a risk. The hood pulled low obscuring the face, the large dark sunglasses, the amount of time Tresset had been loitering—a security guard might mistake him for a predator—a different type of predator.

Tresset squeezed the damp cloth still clutched in his hand as he half turned toward the guard, still keeping his head lowered despite the man’s eight to ten inch height advantage. Tresset hated avoiding the gaze of an inferior, which from his perspective, was nearly everyone. But he couldn’t risk exposure.

Like most such men, the security guard was a buffoon. The buttons on his light blue shirt strained in a losing battle against the man’s massive belly. He held a large black walkie-talkie as if it was the key to salvation. The man’s face was round and poorly shaven. He was in need of a haircut and his greasy locks popped up in a subtle anarchy. “You been hanging around here a long time now,” said the guard in a voice an octave too high for his burly form. “What’s your business?”

Tresset could kill this useless human being before he knew that he’d been attacked.

“I said, what’s your business?” repeated the guard.

Tresset clutched his cloth tighter yet. One quick swipe. The man would be dead or maimed.

“Sir, I’m gonna hafta ask you to leave.”

A quick pounce, a snap! Did this useless slab of meat have any idea that Tresset held his very life in his hands?

“Sir! I said, you’re gonna hafta leave.”

“My cousin is on a bus from Des Moines,” said Tresset in a tightly controlled voice. “I wasn’t sure of the arrival time. It will be soon, I hope.” Tresset paused, allowed the man to take a breath in preparation to speak, and then added. “The sweatshirt probably seems rather odd in this heat. I have a skin condition and must protect myself against exposure.” Tresset reached up, patted the man on his sweaty back saying, “Thank you for your concern,” and then strolled away, feverishly wiping his hands with his cloth and glancing in each direction as if in search of someone quite specific—which in a way he was.

“Sir, I’m not done with you yet.” The guard had attempted to make his high, tight voice sound authoritative, but had only succeeded in bringing forth a squeak on the word “done.”

Tresset continued to move forward through the crowd.

“Sir, I am going to hafta ask you to leave.”

The man was nearly upon Tresset now. He reached out to grab Tresset’s shoulder with that pudgy disease-laden hand. Tresset would tolerate no such insult. He whirled, his right hand shooting up to the man’s neck. But he did not draw anything from this man. No. None of this man’s lowly essence would course through Tresset’s veins. This was self-defense. Nothing more. The guard emitted a subtle gasp as Tresset, nearly a foot shorter, lowered him into a nearby molded plastic chair.

“You are an imbecile,” said Tresset as the man’s wide eyes finally took in the inhuman face before him. “You are an imbecile who has relinquished the right to draw breath.” With that, a retractable claw from just above Tresset’s index fingernail extended into the man’s neck. Avoiding the jugular, Tresset cut directly into the windpipe. There was a sudden sputtering hiss of expelled air, and the man’s eyes showed panic as he grasped at his throat. His mouth moved, but no sound came forth. Tresset calmly turned away, wiping his hand with his cloth. The strike had been swift and silent. He was nearly halfway across the room before he heard the first scream.

Humans, he thought, so predictable, so weak.