Tonight, the team would be split into teams of two, and Sarge needed to make sure Burrows was teamed with Corporal Johnson. Johnson was one of the few guys who couldn’t be intimidated by Burrows, although bullied might be more like it.
Sarge quickly dressed, then returned to the barracks bunk room.
“Corporal Cates,” Sarge addressed the sandy blond communications officer, “have the men huddle up.”
“Yes, sir!” Cates replied in military style. They still were a military unit, and observed military order.
Sarge went into the control room where he would be addressing the men, giving out their assignments. Tonight would be the first night out on this new assignment. This assignment was new in several different ways. First, they had never had the challenge of fighting other vampires. He knew these killers would have the same strength as he and his men, which was well above what any human would have. They would have same quickness that his men have, which was lighting fast, and their ability to hear the slightest pin drop a hundred feet away, made all of this a challenge. What these other vamps didn’t have was their training and expertise that only a well-trained, well-oiled military machine can provide.
He pulled out the artful hand written pages that Thomas Woodford had provided him with last night. These would prove to be useful, he thought. Looking down at those beautiful words, which truly looked more like art to him than just any ordinary handwriting, made him think of Woody and that beautiful boy, Marcus.
The rowdy soldiers caused Sarge to look up, and he was a little startled at their appearance. Gone were the well-dressed military men he was accustomed to seeing, being replaced by a group of individuals whom he could hardly recognize in civilian attire. Most of the men had jeans on, but that was as far as any real commonality went. It was amusing to see their individual tastes, and especially when looking at Aquilar, who he should have known would be the one to stick out the most.
Keith Aquilar was wearing skin-tight black jeans, a T-shirt depicting an evil, demented, Mickey-Mouse, complete with fuzzy ears. A bright yellow scarf that matched Mickey’s shoes was wrapped around his neck several times, a black leather jacket that looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. It was all topped off with a ball-cap, complete with Mickey-Mouse ears attached.
“Um, Aquilar, you do know that we were supposed to be inconspicuous, don’t you?” Sarge could hardly contain his laughter looking at the hot Hispanic man, who looked ridiculous.
“You too, Sarge?” Aquilar looked hurt. “This is how I would normally dress in civvies.”
“You look stupid.” Johnson looked down his nose at the shorter man.
“Hey, it’s my style, man.” Aquilar pouted.
“Okay men, settle down, we have work to do here.” Sarge pulled the meeting together.
Once the men had taken their seats, and he had their full attention once again, he felt it was time to get down to business and get this show on the road.
“We are going to break up into groups of two,” Sarge started. “I have a list here of all the previous murder spots. Some have been repeats, so I think these areas should be heavily covered.” Sarge had Cates type up the notes from Woody’s first thing, and he handed this half page copied document to each man. “Make sure that you stay with your partner at all times and keep your cell phones on, no exceptions. We don’t know who these other vamps are or what kind of training they might have had, so be on your guard. Any questions?”
“Sarge, I’m unclear as to what we do with these vamps once we find them,” a Private named Sanderson asked.
“The first objective is to protect human life. Keep these vamps from killing anyone.” Sarge leaned with both of his large hands on the conference style table. “Capture, only when it can be done safely. If a capture is accomplished, they will be brought back here, put into holding for interrogation.” Sarge stood back up, standing tall before he finished. “Elimination if a capture can’t be successful.”
A Private First Class raised his hand. “Yes Blount, what do you have?
“The method of the kill Sarge, could you clarify that?”
“I’ll let Sergeant Burrows answer that one.” Sarge turned toward Burrows. “He has all the information on that.”
Burrows stood, his chest puffed out a bit. “The best way to kill a fellow vamp is to quickly and quietly rip their head off.” He indicated with a trained stance where you grasp the victim under the chin with one arm then twist the neck with the other. “With enough force, the head should snap off, just like we would do in breaking a neck, but now we have the strength to take the whole head off.” Burrows reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a slender wooden stake, approximately eighteen inches in length. “This, the standard wooden stake, is the most common I’ve been told. Punch this into the chest piercing the heart, and its lights out.”
Sarge almost visibly cringed at Burrow's demonstration. The way he was presenting it made it abundantly clear that he was enjoying himself. Unlike him, Sarge never took pleasure in killing, looking at it as part of his job, but only when there was no other choice.
“There are only two other ways to take out another vamp, and that is literally ripping their heart out of their chest and burning it, staking it, crushing it, or by sunlight,” Burrows finished.
“Make sure that each of you have several of these stakes on you and easily accessible.” Sarge took back the floor. “Again, make sure that you have your cell phones turned on, and watch each other’s backs. Cates has the duty roster ready, so pair up and good luck. We will all meet back here at 05:00 gentlemen.”
Sarge exited the room, picked up his black leather jacket off his bed and pulled on a knit cap. This was more for disguise than warmth, which of course he didn’t need, but after literally bumping into that reporter yesterday, he felt it best not to take any chances. When he turned to leave, Burrows was standing in the doorway, blocking it.
“I thought we might be paired up, Sarge.” His dead-pan expression made it hard to read him.
“Sorry, Burrows, but I have a meeting with Mr. Woodford,” Sarge lied. It was true that he was going over to Woody’s town home, but they didn’t have a meeting planned.
“Gettin’ kinda cozy with that fluff ball, aren’tcha?” The Sergeant sneered.
“That’s enough, Sergeant Burrows,” Sarge growled. “Remember who it is you are talking about there. Mr. Woodford is a sitting member on The Committee. Besides, he and I are coordinating this operation, so it is important that we have open communications.”
“Fine,” Burrows spat out. “Whatever you think, Sir!” He was really pushing Sarge’s limits as he turned on his heel, walking out into the common room to meet up with Corporal Johnson, his assigned teammate.
Yeah, something is going to have to happen with Burrows, Sarge thought to himself as he quickly left the building, running, disappearing into the background, and invisible to the naked human eye, making his way to Woody’s town home.
* * * * *
Bronson took a hot shower, got dressed, threw on his black leather jacket and headed out into the cold. Each time old man winter paid a visit, he liked the man less and less. Having to endure the extreme weather of Afghanistan was probably the reason. It was either sweltering hot, or ball freezing cold, and he was getting sick of it.
That first step onto ‘M’ Street made Bronson think of actually taking a vacation, anywhere, where the temperature was neither too hot, nor too cold. A blast of artic air slapped him in the face as he rounded the corner heading east. There were two restaurants in the DuPont Circle area that were his favorites, and right now, either of them would work for him.
Turning the collar up on his jacket he hurried down the street, passing dog walkers and those who had probably been working late, on their way home, carrying the obligatory briefcase. His long legs made good time, but Bronson considered hailing a taxi, then thought better of it. He needed the exercise, and the cold wasn’t going to turn him into a wuss.
When he got to Eighth Street, the snow started to come down, the wicked gusting wind blowing it sideways, making him glad he had worn his military jump boots. He had seen the benefit of them in Iraq, and after talking to his military buddies decided to get a pair, and he had been wearing almost nothing else ever since. Now, in this shitty weather, he was glad of them.
“Fuck it!” He walked past the Washington Convention Center when he decided to take one of the multitude of cabs lining the street. Must be a function going on in there. Bronson walked to the first taxi in line, parked on Ninth Street, opened the door and got into the warm vehicle that smelled strongly of sandalwood.
“Just take me to the corner of ‘M’ and Twenty-Third,” he told the cabbie. If he got out at Twenty-Third, he would still have to walk four blocks, and that was enough in this nasty ass weather.
The cabbie only nodded his understanding, and pulled out into the sparse traffic on ‘M’ Street going east. Bronson looked at the license attached to the top of the meter. Muhammad Abajar. Figures, he thought, even here I can’t seem to get away from Arabs.
It wasn’t that Bronson had anything against them as a race, but once everyone would understand that their philosophy of life would never allow for peace, they would stop trying to change them. For their entire lives, they are taught to hate those who are different and that their religion, their way of life, was the only way, and any variation was wrong, even within the same fucking religion. What kind of shit was that? Bronson shook his head.
A fellow war correspondent from the L.A. Times had commented once, “Can you imagine what the US would be like if all the Baptists decided that all the Protestants must be put to death, even though they were both Christians? That would be about the same thing, or at least the way that most of the Arab world thinks.” Of course not all Arabs thought like that, but the majority did or at the very least, most were taught that way of thinking.
The cabbie answered his cell phone, and after a second said in Arabic, “I think I have a homosexual in my cab. I will charge him double for stinking up my car. After that I will meet you for coffee, the usual place, in about ten minutes.”
Bronson smiled before he said in near perfect Arabic, “You are a thief. I will pay you as much as I normally pay, without tip, since you are such a dirty thief. If you don’t like it, I will call the police and let them sort it out. I’m sure that they would be most interested in having a closer look at that permit you have on the meter. Looks to me as if it has been tampered with, no?”
The cab driver visibly stiffened; his eyes filled with rage as they glared at Bronson in the rearview mirror. He did not answer Bronson, and actually didn’t speak the rest of the short drive.
When Bronson got out, he counted out what he thought to be the fare, and threw it inside the cab onto the back floor. “Dirty thieves belong on the floor!”
Without another thought, he spun around, leaving the door of the cab open, walking up Twenty-Third Street towards ‘P’ Street and the Fireplace Restaurant. A thick juicy steak was what he was craving. He couldn’t remember the last time he had red meat, and he missed it.
Before he got to the middle of the block of ‘N’ Street his bladder decided that it needed to be drained. “Fucking cold weather,” Bronson muttered under his breath. The cold always caused him to need to take a piss. Always had, even as a little kid, but he figured he could make it to the restaurant just on the other side of ‘P’ Street.
Almost there, on the other side of ‘N’ Street now, past that little side street, Newport something-or-other, fast approaching ‘O’ Street, he stooped over, trying to alleviate some of the cramping. He crossed over ‘O’ Street and knew he wasn’t going to make it. About a third of the way up the block was an alley. He’d duck in there and take a whiz, and no one would be the wiser. Hell, everyone did it in an emergency, and this was an emergency.
Not far inside the alley was a garbage dumpster, as good a place as any to whip out the ol’ hose and drain the snake, Bronson chuckled to himself. He hurried to get behind the dumpster, his dick already out and in hand, but he didn’t see the ice puddle that had formed at the end of the drain spout. Barely catching his balance, almost falling on his ass, he made it behind the dumpster, and just in time.
The steam rose from the stream of urine splashing slightly against the brick wall, before disappearing underneath the dumpster. His breath misted as Bronson sighed in relief, glad he hadn’t pissed his pants, which he thought might happen. Almost done, and then onto that steak dinner.
He started to shake off his shrinking dick, ready to get back into the warmth of his pants, when he heard a noise. Looking up he saw two guys attacking another, forcing him up against the wall. One of the guys leaned in and it looked as though he was chewing on his neck. If it weren’t for the other guy punching the poor guy in the stomach, he would have thought it might be some kinky sex scene, considering the neighborhood, but this was anything but consensual.
His dick back in his pants, Bronson stepped around the end of the dumpster. “Hey, what the fuck you assholes up to?”
The guy closest to him, the one who had punched the kid looked up, freezing Bronson where he stood. There were long teeth and eyes that could not be human. The…creature hissed at him and started towards him when another shadowy figure, moving so fast he was but a blur, grabbed the thing and threw him against the wall. There was another figure that grabbed the other attacker, picking him up by the neck. While the creature struggled and hissed, blood dripped from his gaping mouth where his fangs glinted in the sparse light. The guy who had been attacked slid down the wall, his eyes open but blank. Bronson knew that look only too well. The poor guy was dead, his throat ripped out.
Bronson finally snapped out of it. “Hey, who the fuck are you?” he yelled, hoping that having a witness might scare these…whatever they were, off.
The one guy holding an attacker in the air twisted his head around and looked at Bronson. “What the hell? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a reporter and…” Then Bronson slipped on that same puddle of ice he almost slid on when he first went behind the dumpster to take a leak. This time he wasn’t lucky enough to catch his balance and fell hard. He yelled out briefly, just before his head slammed into the concrete gutter-guard behind him, knocking him out cold.