Chaney waited until the first, pale hint of dawn seeped over the flat Texas horizon. Then, making sure everything was set, he descended the rusty ladder of the old water tower and made his way to the barn across the street.
He was the thirteenth in line. When his time came, he stepped up to the landlord’s desk and appraised the man. He was human, that was easy to see. Fat, lazy, willing to bow to those who had taken command of the new frontier. His name was Hector. He had a patch over one eye, a prosthetic leg that needed oiling, and a monkey named Garfunkel who perched like a growth on the landlord’s shoulder and picked lice from his master’s oily scalp.
Hector eyed the gaunt man in the black canvas duster with suspicion. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”
Chaney’s impatience showed as he reached into his coat for his money pouch. “You gonna flap your lips or rent me a bed for the day?” Gold coins jingled within the small leather bag like the restless bones of a ghostly child.
“How do I know you are what you say you are? There are plenty of bounty hunters about these days. Doesn’t pay to rent out to strangers, especially when you cater to the type of clientele I do.”
“Your clientele is going to fry out here if you don’t hurry up and give the man his bed,” growled a customer at the end of the line.
But Hector was not to be rushed. “I’ll need proof.”
Chaney smirked. “What do you want? An ID? How about my American Express card?”
The landlord reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a small, golden crucifix. “Grab hold of this.”
Chaney averted his eyes, as did the others in line. “Is that necessary?”
“It is if you want a bed.”
The stranger nodded and extended a pale hand. He closed his fist around the cross. A sizzling of flesh sounded as contact was made and wisp of blue smoke curled from between Chaney’s fingers. “Satisfied?” he asked in disgust.
“Quite.” Hector pushed the register toward him and collected the gold piece Chaney had laid upon the counter. The one-eyed landlord noticed that Chaney carried a black satchel in one hand. “What’s that?” he asked.
Chaney flashed a toothy grin. “A noonday snack.” He shook the black bag, eliciting the muffled cry of an infant from within.
By the time the first rays of the sun had broken, they were all checked in. The barn’s interior was pitch dark, letting nary a crack or crevice of scorching sunlight into their temporary abode. Chaney found a bed on the ground floor, he removed his long coat, hanging it on a peg over his bunk, and set the satchel close at hand.
He lifted the lid of his sleeping chamber and scowled. Just a simple, pine wood casket. No silk liner, no burnished finish, and no ornate handles on the sides; just a no frills bunk in a no frills hotel. He wasn’t complaining, though. It would suit his purpose well enough.
“Lights out!” called Hector, laughing uproariously at a joke that had lost its humor years ago. The tenants ignored his mirth and set about preparing for a good day’s rest. Chaney followed suit, taking a packet of graveyard earth from his coat pocket and spreading it liberally in the bottom of his rented coffin.
When every lid had been closed, Hector stepped outside the barn, shutting the double doors behind him. He took a seat on a bench out front, laid a pump shotgun across his knees, and started reading an old Anne Rice novel he had bought from a traveling peddler.
The morning drew on, the sun rising, baking the Texas wilderness with its unrelenting heat. The little town moved as slow as winter molasses. Its inhabitants went about their normal business, or as near normal as could be expected after the much heralded End of the World.
The courthouse clock struck twelve o’clock before Chaney finally made his move. It was safe now; his neighboring tenants were fast asleep. Quietly, he lifted the lid of this casket and sat up. “Snack time,” he said to himself and reached for the satchel.
He opened it. The first thing he removed was the rubber baby doll. He laid it on the barn floor, smiling as it uttered a soft “Mama!” before falling silent again. Chaney then took a .44 AutoMag from the bag and began to make his rounds.
He didn’t bother to pull the old “stake-through-the-heart” trick. To do so would be noisy and messy and net him only a small fraction of the undead he had come there to finish off. Instead, he used the most state-of-the-art anti-vampire devices. He placed Claymore mines at strategic points throughout the barn’s interior. But they were not ordinary Claymores. He had replaced the load of ball bearings with tiny steel crucifixes and splinters of ash wood.
After the mines had been placed and the timers set, Chaney knew it was time to take his leave. He walked to the barn doors and, cocking his pistol, stepped out into the hot, noonday sun.
Hector was snoozing on the job, of course. The landlord’s head was resting on his flabby chest, snoring rather loudly from the nose. Chaney stood before the man and loudly cleared his throat.
The fat man came awake. Startled, he stared up at Chaney. “Hey,” he breathed. “You ain’t no vampire.”
“No, I ain’t,” agreed Chaney.
“But I saw your hand burn when you touched the cross!”
Chaney lifted his scarred left palm to his mouth and peeled away a thin layer of chemically-treated latex with his teeth. “Special effects,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Chaney brought the muzzle of his .44 to the man’s forehead. “That you shall be… traitor.” Then he painted the barn wall a brilliant red with the contents of the man’s disintegrating skull.
The bogus vampire walked to where his primer-gray van was parked near the water tower. He got in, started the engine, and cruised slowly down the empty street of the town. He checked his watch, counting the seconds. “Five… four…three…two… one…”
The Claymores went off first. Their metal shells split under a charge of C-4, sending thousands of tiny crosses and toothpick-sized stakes in every imaginable direction. The projectiles penetrated the caskets, as well as their sleeping occupants. Then they traveled onward, piercing the walls of the makeshift hotel. The old structure, already weakened by time and weather, could take no further abuse. It collapsed in a dusty heap, burying fifty dying tenants beneath its crushing weight.
Chaney watched in his side view mirror for the coup de grâce. It came a moment later. A glob of wired plastic explosive belched flame, splitting the steel reservoir of the water town in half. A cascade of water crashed down upon the collapsed barn, drenching the jagged timbers and whatever lay beneath it. The significance of that crowning touch was that the water was holy. Chaney had blessed it, using a prayer he had bought from a convent across the Mexican border, before he had set the timer and joined the others in line.
“Filthy bloodsuckers!” said Chaney as he headed for the open desert. He pushed a tape into the cassette player and rocked and rolled down the long abandoned highway toward the sweltering blur of the distant horizon.
~ * ~
“You sure you don’t want something to drink?” the bartender asked Stoker, who sat alone at a corner table.
“No,” replied the bearded man. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Beer, whiskey? Some wine, maybe?”
Stoker stifled a grin. “No, thank you.”
The hefty bartender shrugged and went about his business. The tavern, named Apocalypse After Dark, was empty except for Stoker and the barkeep. A wild-eyed fellow had been playing the slot machine and hour before, but the geek had left after his tokens were depleted. Ghoul, Stoker had thought to himself. Probably rummaging through the death pyres right now, looking for warm leftovers.
But Stoker had no interest in cannibals that night. At least not the kind that sneak around in shame, feeding off disposal plants and graveyards.
He sat there for another hour before he heard the sound that he had been waiting for. The sound of motorcycles roaring in from the west.
Headlights slashed across the front window of the saloon. Engines gunned, then sputtered into silence. Stoker tensed, wishing he had ordered that drink now. His hand went beneath the table, caressing the object he wore slung beneath his bomber jacket.
He watched them through the front window as they dismounted their Harley Davidsons like leather-clad cowboys swing from the saddles of chromed horses. There were an even dozen of them; eight men and four women. Another woman, naked, sat perched on the back of the leader’s chopper. She was chained to the sissy bar, a dog collar around her slender throat keeping her from escaping.
“Poor angel,” whispered Stoker. He was going to enjoy this immensely.
The batwing doors burst open and in they came. Bikers; big, hairy, ugly, and ear-piercingly loud. They wore studded leather with plenty of polished chains, zippers, and embroidered swastikas. On the back of their cycle jackets were their colors. A snarling wolf’s head with flaming eyes and the words BLITZ WOLVEN.
“A round for me and the gang before we do our night’s work,” bellowed the leader, a bear of man with matted red hair and beard. His name was Lycan. Stoker knew that from asking around. The names of the others were not important.
The bartender obediently filled their orders. Lycan took a big swig from his beer, foam hanging his whiskers like the slaver of a rabid dog. He turned around and leaned against the bar rail, instantly seeing the man who sat alone in the shadowy corner. “How’s it going, pal?” Lycan asked neighborly.
Stoker said nothing. He merely smiled and nodded in acknowledgement.
“How about a drink for my silent friend over yonder,” the biker said. “You can put it on my tab.”
The bartender glanced at the man in the corner, then back at Lycan. “Told me he didn’t want nothing.”
“What’s the matter, stranger?” asked a skinny fellow with safety pins through each nostril. “You too good to drink with the likes of us?”
“I have a low tolerance for alcohol,” Stoker said. “It makes me quite ill.”
“Leave the dude alone,” said Lycan. “Different strokes for different folks, I always say.”
The skinny guy gave Stoker a look of contempt, then turned back to the bar.
“It takes all kinds to make a world,” replied Stoker. “Especially a brave, new world such as this.”
“Amen to that,” laughed Lycan. He downed his beer and called for another.
“Blitz Woven? Does that have a hidden meaning? Are you werewolves or Nazis?”
Lycan’s good natured mood began to falter. He eyed the loner with sudden suspicion.
“Maybe a little of both. So what’s it to you?”
Stoker shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” sand an anorexic chick with a purple Mohawk. “Or bat or rat… depending on what supernatural persuasion you are these days.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, dear lady.”
“Well, enough of this gabbing, you freaks,” said Lycan. “Time to get down to business.” They left the bar and walked to the far end of the tavern where a number of hooks jutted from the cheap paneling. Stoker watched with interest as they began to disrobe, hanging their riding leathers along the wall.
“What is this?” he asked. “The floor show?”
“You know, buddy,” said Lycan, his muscular form beginning to contort and sprout coarse hair. “You’re whetting my appetite something fierce. In fact, you might just be our opening course for tonight.”
Stoker sat there, regarding them coolly. “I’m afraid not, old boy. I’ve got business of my own to attend to.”
They were halfway through the change now. Faces distorted and bulged, sprouting toothy snouts and pointed ears. “Oh, and what would that be?” asked Lycan, almost beyond the ability to converse verbally. He stretched his long hairy arms, scraping the ceiling with razor claws.
Stoker stood up, stepped away from the table, and brought an Uzi submachine gun from under his jacket. “I’ll leave that to your brutish imaginations,” he said and opened fire.
The one with the pins in his nose began to howl, brandishing his immortality like some garish tattoo. Then he stopped his bestial laughter when he realized the bullets that were entering his body were not cast of ordinary lead. He screamed as a pattern of penetrating silver stitched across his broad chest, sending him back against the wall. He collapsed, smoking and shriveling, until he was only a heap of naked, gunshot humanity.
“Bastard!” snarled the female werewolf with the violet Mohawk. She surged forward, teeth gnashing, breasts bobbing and swaying like furry pendulums.
Stoker unleashed a three-round burst, obliterating the monster’s head. It staggered shakily across the barroom, hands reaching up and feeling for a head, but only finding a smoking neck stump in its place. The werewolf finally slumped against the jukebox with such force that it began blasting out an old Warren Zevon tune with a boom of bass and tickling of ivory.
“How appropriate,” said Stoker. He swept the barroom at a wide angle, holding the Uzi level with the ten remaining werewolves. One by one, they were speared by the substance they loathed most. The beasts dropped to the saloon’s sawdust floor, writhing and twitching in agony, before growing still.
Lycan leaped the bar, ducking for cover as Stoker swung the machine gun in his direction. Slugs chewed up the woodwork, but nothing more. After a few more seconds of continuous fire, the Uzi’s magazine gave out. Stocker shucked the clip and reached inside his jacket for a fresh one.
That was when Lycan, fully transformed now, sprang over the splintered bar top and tore across the tavern for his intended victim, smashing tables and chairs in his path. “You ain’t gonna make it!” rasped Lycan. It came out more as a garbled snarl than an actual threat.
“Quite to the contrary,” Stoker said calmly. He drew a serrated combat knife from his boot and thrust it upward just as Lycan came within reach. The sterling silver blade sank to the hilt beneath the werewolf’s breastbone.
Lycan staggered backward, staring dumbly at the smoking knife in his midsection. He looked at Stoker with bewildered eyes, then fell over stone cold dead, the impact of silver-shock shorting out his bestial brain cells.
Stoker walked over and withdrew the dagger from the wolf’s body, wiping the blade on the fur of Lycan’s vanishing coat. He slipped the weapon back into its sheath and looked toward the bartender, who was peeking over the edge of the bar. “How much do I owe you for damages?”
“No charge,” the man said, pale-faced but happy. “I’ve been trying to keep this mangy riff-raff outta my joint for years.”
Stoker left Apocalypse After Dark and stood outside for a long moment, enjoying the crisp night air and the pale circle of the full moon overhead. Then he noticed Lycan’s pet sitting on the back of the Harley. He walked over to the girl and smiled at her softly. He cupped her chin in his hand. “Poor angel,” he said soothingly, then blessed her with a kiss.
“What a glorious night, don’t you think, my dear?” he asked as he swung aboard the big chopper and stamped on the starter, sending it roaring into life. The woman was silent, but she snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around his waist, and laying her weary head upon his shoulders.
Together they winged their way into the dead of night.
~ * ~
Chaney parked his van between a black Trans-Am and a rusty Toyota pickup. He left his vehicle and mounted the steps of the Netherworld Café, a local hangout for the natural and unnatural alike.
He walked in and started down the aisle for the rear of the restaurant. A wispy ghost of a waitress took orders, while a couple of zombie fry-cooks slung hash behind the counter. Chaney waved to a few old acquaintances, then headed for the last booth on the right. Stoker was sitting there, poised and princely as usual. There was a girl, too, wearing Stoker’s bomber jacket and nothing else.
Chaney sat down and ordered the usual. Stoker did the same. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Chaney spoke up. “Well, is it done?”
“It is,” nodded Stoker. “And what about you?”
“I kept my end of the bargain.”
“Good,” said Stoker. “Then it’s settled. I get the blood.”
“And I the flesh,” replied Chaney.
They shook on their mutual partnership then, Chaney’s hirsute hand emblazoned with the distinctive mark of the pentagram, while Stoker’s possessed the cold and pale bloodlessness of the undead.