Lauren plunged the knife into the zombie’s neck. A plate dropped from its hand, shattering on the floor. Lauren’s knee smashed into a piece of cake as she positioned herself to drive the blade further. Blood splattered on the white and blue icing.
**
The hand cuffs made her wrists itch. She rubbed them on the cool metal chair, trying to relieve the irritation. She could hear the men talking outside the cracked door.
“Any progress?”
“No, she still insists she saw a monster.”
“Still ranting about a zombie.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’ve got some good news. She can play crazy all she wants. We just linked her DNA to a mugging that took place on the night before the murder. She wasn’t seeing monsters when she put a knife to this victim’s throat, just scaring an old man out of his wits.”
“Really?”
“Yup. He reported it right away. She left quite a bit of… fluid… on his pants. Her DNA was taken for a grand theft auto last year. Thank god we started cataloging minors.”
“So you’re saying we can use this evidence to blow her insanity plea out of the water? To prove she’s not crazy, just evil?”
“Yeah, there’s no loony bin in this girl’s future. Not if I have anything to do with it. And she’s too old for juvenile hall.”
There was a moment of silence, then a raspy sigh.
“Still, it’s such a pity what she did to her mother. I was there, I saw the body… such a beautiful woman. Such a waste of a human life.”
There was a soft thud, like a palm dropping onto a shoulder. “Take it easy, bud. She’ll pay for what she did.”
Man’s Best Friend
Doug Stevens took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. It was colder than he preferred, having been poured an hour ago. Black stubble covered his lower face. The skin beneath his eyes sank in deep half circles. The nightmares kept him up all night, again. He barely had the strength to shower, much less pour a second cup of coffee.
The clatter of dishes seemed distant, otherworldly, as Cynthia prepared their breakfast. In the corner of his eye, he saw her turn. She was glaring in his direction, pink lips scrunched in anger, hair as orange as a sunset. She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not thinking about that dog again, are you? Honestly! Stop doing this to yourself.”
“I made a mistake,” he said, lips pressed against the rim of his mug. His voice faltered on the word ‘mistake’, and Cynthia closed her eyes. Her frustration began to fade, washed away by the ebbing waves of Doug’s regret. She hated to see him so vulnerable, so depressed.
Her voice was carefully flat when she finally spoke again, like a mother comforting a lovesick son. “You made the right decision. It’s not like he’s dead. He’s found a home somewhere else, with a family who loves him… . I’m sure of it.” She studied his face, waiting for a response; he could feel the weight of her eyes. “We couldn’t afford him, Doug, you know that.”
He shook his head solemnly, taking a sip from his mug, unwilling to return her gaze. Cynthia rolled her eyes, turning to face the stove top, silky red hair bouncing as she did.
Doug sighed. He thought about asking for a refill, but he didn’t want to look her in the face. Her eyes seemed colder every day, frozen with apathy… . and blank. Of course she didn’t understand how he missed his loyal dog. She didn’t get it, and she probably never would.
To Cynthia, animals were attractions at a zoo, cute things to dance around for her amusement. They were expensive fur coats, skin for making boots, the best kind of material for purses. What the hell did she mean “We couldn’t afford him”? Bruno got sick a few times, and there was medicine to buy, a few extra vet bills to pay. But how much money did she spend on Yoga class every week? How much for the robe she was wearing?
A sudden flashing light caused Doug’s vision to waver. He almost dropped his coffee mug, but managed to place it on the table. The kitchen was fading, turning black in large splotches, like splatters of ink over everything in sight. The smell of sizzling bacon no longer filled his senses. He gripped the table to make sure it was still there.
Another flash spread white light across his vision. A crippling brain cramp made him wince in pain. Then, Doug was somewhere else, somewhere he knew he’d never been before …
A large metal door was opening. It was a cage door, Doug could tell from the criss-crossing wire pattern, like a gigantic board of tic-tac-toe. A huge yard lay before him, stretching out until it touched an even bigger fence.
Doug was scared. Someone yanked at his leash. “Get your ass out here,” they demanded, pulling harder. A part of Doug’s mind understood the words, the English language he’d been speaking his whole life, to another part they were nothing but blather. An intimidating blather that made his stomach turn, made his entire body shake with fear.
More cages littered the grass, which grew in wild patches, spotting the otherwise barren ground. Some of the cages were empty, some held other dogs. One of the dogs snarled in Doug’s direction.
A few yards away, a burly man stood near the fence, a large pit bull on the leash that he held. He dropped the leash, and the pit bull came running, charging like a bull in his direction.
Doug’s heart froze.
Suddenly, there was the tearing of claws against his flesh, the sound of snarling in his ears, teeth biting at his skin. He felt hot saliva drip down his throat. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder.
Covering his face with bulky paws, he hoped it would be over soon.
Someone pulled the dog away before the damage was severe. Doug felt relief. He whimpered softly, his snout against the dirt, too afraid to get up and move around. “This one will never be a fighter, more like bait,” someone said.
Only part of Doug understood those words.
The backyard began to fade, like a movie before credit roll. It grew dimmer and dimmer, ‘til it was gone. Doug heard the bacon grease popping, felt the mug handle in his fingers. He recognized the table where he sat. And yet, he didn’t move an inch. He was frozen in thought. Glued to his seat in shock.
How could this happen while he was awake? The nightmares were one thing, but this? This was more than a daydream; it was a vision! Without a doubt, he just had a psychic vision.
He sprang from his seat. “I’ve gotta go.”
Cynthia whirled around, spatula in hand. “Go where?”
“I’ve got to find Bruno. He’s in trouble.”
“Douglas Stevens—” she began.
“Listen,” he interrupted, “I know Bruno is in danger. It’s more than just nightmares, I can feel it. Somehow … he’s communicating with me.”
She huffed through her teeth. It almost sounded like a laugh. She set the spatula on the counter, a chunk of eggs falling from its yellow-encrusted surface. She took a step forward in her fuzzy house slippers, shoving her hands into the robe pockets. “Listen, Doug. You’re not thinking straight. I know it’s hard, but I told you before, it’s either the dog or me.”
Doug slipped into his jacket, shoving his heels into his shoes. He was silent on his way out the door.
**
“We can’t give you any information, Mr. Stevens. Remember the paperwork you signed. You chose to surrender the animal. Legally, you’re no longer his owner.”
The walls in this place were just as plain as he remembered, a neutral gray—not happy and not sad. The buzz of fluorescent lighting drilled into his mind, which was aching from too many thoughts. He drummed his fingers on the counter, losing patience.
“But I’m telling you, he’s in danger. He needs medical help. I only want to help him, don’t you see?”
The woman seated at the desk glared up at him through the small, oval glasses she wore. Her mouth was puckered into a tiny knot, deep lines jutting down from the corners of her lips. Perhaps she was losing patience, too.
“Oh? And if you don’t mind my asking, how exactly do you know? What makes you think the dog is in danger?”
Spur of the moment lies were never Doug’s specialty, but he thought this was a pretty good story.
“I see, Mr. Stevens. I’ll see what I can do. Leave your phone number on this paper, and I’ll get back to you. I just need to make some calls.”
Bullshit, thought Doug. You’re a liar.
He wrote his number on the paper anyway.
**
He pressed a button on his keypad, his car doors unlocking with a loud click that echoed through the small parking lot. His head felt heavy, sagging as he walked. A pot hole caused him to stumble. Damn it! Lack of sleep made him clumsy … and pissed.
He was pissed at himself for giving his old friend away, pissed at the desk lady for not wanting to help, pissed at Cynthia for controlling his life. There had to be something he could do… .
Doug was opening his car door, when he heard the footsteps. They were approaching very quickly from behind. He spun around.
A beautiful girl was running his way, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side with each step. She waved her hands wildly, flagging him down. She obviously wanted him to wait. The strange part is that she never spoke a word. She stayed completely silent, save for the rapid clicking of her sandals across the pavement.
He watched her come closer in awe, pondering what she could possibly want.
She stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. “I think I can help you,” she said in a huff, extending her right hand for a shake. “I took care of Bruno while he was here.”
Doug was dumbfounded. Maybe his luck was changing. Maybe this woman could help him find Bruno. He took her hand in both of his, eagerly giving it a shake. “Doug Stevens,” he said, perking up.
“This may sound strange,” the woman said in a hushed voice. She peered behind her at the building before continuing. “But lately, have you had any … dreams … I mean, uh—”
“Visions?”
The woman gasped, her eyes suddenly wide. She couldn’t believe he saw the visions, too.
**
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Doug asked the blonde woman. He learned earlier today, over coffee, that her name was Melody. She was twenty-two, with three cats, and a bleeding heart for anything furry. She volunteered at the Humane Society twelve hours a week, and that’s how she came to know Bruno. After Bruno was adopted, the daydreams began, like nightmares during her waking hours.
“No,” she said. “I told you, I can’t be certain. The address in the paperwork is a fake; I checked it out on the Internet. They have something to hide, Doug, that’s clear.”
He was breathing heavy now. What if these people were dangerous to more than just dogs? What if they had no problem shooting someone in the face if they were found prowling the yard? He fidgeted with the black ski mask in his lap, stretching it taut and then loosening his grip. The tension was palpable, the air was thick with breath.
“But I’m telling you,” Melody continued. “I saw that street sign in my mind, the same day Bruno was adopted. I felt the stress he was going through. He already sensed that his new owner was a bad person … mean. He was calling out to me. He watched the pine trees go by outside his car window, the same trees you just saw along this road. I saw the final turn that car made. I remember the green sign, like a picture in my mind. Forestview Drive. We’re on the right street.”
She looked around, understanding why someone chose this street name. There were too many trees, too many shadows in the moonlight.
“The house number on the paperwork matches this number,” she motioned to a house in the distance. “I think only the street name was changed, not the number. I promise you, we’re on the right street.”
**
Lugging a ladder through the grass with stealth proved to be a problem for Doug. It was awkward enough to carry a ladder when he was allowed to stop and complain. Now he needed to be quiet and quick, which made it all the more irritating.
His nerves rattled beneath his skin as he repeated the plan in his mind. Step One: Climb the fence, fast. Step Two: Examine the inner gate and figure out how to disengage the lock. (He needed to be able to make a quick escape in case anyone caught him snooping in the yard.) Step Three: Get Bruno and go.
He knew the other dogs would probably bark, raising suspicion inside the house. He knew Bruno might be hurt and limping, slowing them down as they fled. He could never hold Bruno in his arms and run the distance. Or could he? Only one way to find out.
The ladder thudded against the top of the fence. Doug climbed it faster than he’d ever needed to before, clearing all twelve rungs in a few seconds. He dropped over the side of the tall wooden fence, and heard the scraping of claws on metal … dogs scrambling to their feet, alert.
He couldn’t tell how many there were, and he didn’t have time to care. Doug’s eyes scanned the fence until he spotted the gate. It was closer to the front of the house, near the driveway. He had entered from the side, hidden among the trees.
As he sprinted for the fence, one of the dogs began to bark. He wondered if walking, instead of running, might have increased his chances of the dogs staying quiet. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Whatever the case, it was too late now.
His gloved hands were fumbling with the lock when he heard a familiar bark. Just one bark. As if to say, “Hey, I’m over here.” The lock gave, and he turned to face Bruno.
His cage was closer to the gate than any other, sitting in the dirt about ten feet away. Doug made a mental note to never doubt small miracles. He covered the distance to the cage in a flash, gazing into the dog’s blue and brown eyes for a second before unlatching the door.
He heard a click a few feet behind him. “Hey dickhead, whatchu doin’ in my yard?”
Doug raised his hands, very slowly, showing the man he had no weapons. “Please. I’m no thief. Can I get up and turn around?”
“Very, very slowly, asshole.”
Doug kept his hands in the air, straightening his knees. He was very cautious not to make a sudden move. As he turned, he saw a wild-eyed man, partially cloaked in shadow. The barrel of a gun was two feet from his face.
“You got some kind of death wish?” asked the man. His voice was gravelly, eyes narrow with intent.
“Please, forgive my intrusion. This used to be my dog. I—”
“How the fuck did you find me? How?” The man’s anger increased sevenfold. He stormed forward, touching the gun to Doug’s cheek. The cool metal pressed into Doug’s face hard enough to leave a bruise.
A flash of fur … and suddenly the man was on his back. His arms flailed, as the gun went skidding across the porch. Bruno was on top of him, snarling viciously. Drool dripped from his snout into the trapped man’s eyes.
Doug laughed. “How’s that for your ‘bait’?”
He walked to the porch and grabbed the gun, checking it for bullets. Just as he suspected, the chamber was fully loaded. This asshole was not the bluffing kind.
“Come on, boy,” he told Bruno, patting his thigh. He aimed the gun at the man, spitting in his direction. “Let’s get you away from this pathetic excuse for a human.”
Safely outside the gate, he chucked the gun into a thicket, between two rows of towering trees. He saw the headlights come to life, and Melody was racing toward them. They helped the wounded dog into the car.
“Yeah, I need to report a pit bull fighting ring,” said Melody, already on her cell phone.
Doug chuckled, knowing he had his own phone call to make.
Cynthia needed to know he’d made his choice.
Never Trust A Vampire
The room
was white, sterile, holding nothing of interest to Anastacia’s critical eye. The incessant humming of the florescent lights overhead irritated her slightly, like the buzzing of a fly that refused to be swatted away. Still, she kept her composure, back perfectly arced against the hard metal chair. She wasn’t accustomed to slouching, no matter what the circumstance. It was a bad habit, better suited for lazy humans.
“Where is the baby?” Officer Barrett’s voice broke through the electric hum. He squeezed the handle of his coffee mug in frustration, forcing the blood away from his knuckles. Anastacia enjoyed tracking the movement of blood beneath his skin. It helped to pass the time; it eased the continuous ticking of the clock’s second hand, so harsh on her ageless ears.
She didn’t speak.
“Look bitch, I’d love to yank those curtains from the window and watch your flesh burn in the light, but I’m not interested in losing my job.” He took a drink of his coffee. The mug rattled against his teeth. He was shaky from the last two cups. Sitting across from a three hundred year old vampire didn’t help to soothe his jangled nerves. “I can sit here, right here, as long as it takes. You think you’ve seen eternity… just wait.”
Anastacia scoffed. Mortals and their empty threats. There was nothing the police force could do to harm her―not legally. If they attempted to abuse her, and she survived, she’d see their asses in night court.
Vampires were considered handicapped, diseased. So long as their lifeblood was obtained from a voluntary source, from an adult who was willing to share, immortals were granted the same rights as human beings.
Of course, there was always the exception―
“The baby! Where is the baby, goddammit?!” Officer Barrett’s cheeks flushed with color. She could smell his blood churning with anger. He slammed his fist against the table. A tremor of pain shot up his wrist, spreading through his arm, up to his elbow. He winced.
Anastacia didn’t flinch at the vile display; this man’s rage was utterly disgusting. To her, he was the worst kind of bigot, trying desperately to break apart a loving family, in order to satisfy his own personal prejudice. Procreation was forbidden among immortals, sure… but only by human law. To her species, a birth was nothing short of a miracle. A soft rose blooming in the barren desert sand, a second chance at life for the condemned. Very rarely were a vampire’s lifeless organs able to conceive a child. Anastacia was determined to keep her silence. For her darling Xavier, and the life they created…
Respect For The Dead Page 4