Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  Lavender hit their mutual friend hard in the arm. With a wince of pain and a flash of anger, Caesar resumed his luminous proceedings which had the desired effect. Ellison returned to his neutral look, unrelenting and judgmental.

  Kyle raised his hands in defeat and stood with a slow, protracted movement. “Alright there, Nazi. Let us see where the inebriated sprite has gone.”

  Caesar watched his friends stand with wide eyes and dissipating thoughts. Ellison stood, but leapt out at their stoned friend. Which in turn made him jump, spilling the unlabeled beer all over the front of his toga. The groan was accompanied by an excess of slapping at the spreading stain.

  “Let’s go there, Frankenstein. Find your bride and what not,” said Ellison. Together, they moved through the swelling crowd that had gathered on the porch.

  LAUREN PUSHED A SHARP and mangled mass of branches and brush out of her face. Despite the layers of clothing, the cold crept in, finding a slip of fabric that did not insulate well enough. The woods had begun to show the signs of a winter storm; hard ground covered in wisps of swirling snow that drifted and rose in places. Collecting on low-level brush and atop the high trees, it created a blinding white canopy under the cover of night. She breathed out hard, allowing herself a moment’s rest as she came to a break in the forest where it carved around the edge of the lake; to where the first body was found.

  Standing there looking out onto the ethereal glow of the frozen lake, she could hear the subtle, rhythmic thumping of bass in the distance. Melodic notes, almost imperceptible, haunted the cold, snowy night air. Looking off into the distance, she swore she could see the enduring lights of a home in the distance.

  Moving once again, she ducked her head against the wind, wiping at her coat to get rid of the snow that had built up in the brief moment she had stopped. The shotgun was heavy in her hands as she trudged forward. Her lungs burned in the frigid air as she tried to jog toward the lights in the night. Her mind replayed the gruesome displays of bodies as she disappeared into the forest once more.

  THE CREATURE PULLED the body of the young man next to the woman. He had ripped some of their clothing. Her sweater and his pants, tearing slices from it and wrapping it in long slender bows and ribbons on his arms and calves. Digging the dull but powerful edge of the claw into the face of the young man, he scooped free the gray matter.

  Placing it on the ground, he pushed at it with his other hand. Chipped nails, sharpened and yellow, dug into the fleshy, spongy material. His breath expelled in guttural, ragged bursts. Picking up the pieces of brains with one hand, he pushed some into his mouth.

  Chewing, his dead eyes watched the house.

  The sounds had dampened.

  His mind grew ever wilder.

  Pressing down on the chest of the young girl, or rather what was left of her, air escaped with a hiss. Surprised, the creature leapt from her body, growling with a hoarse voice.

  His claw touched her face: nothing.

  He pressed his craven hand on her chest, applying ample pressure and once more her lungs expelled air. It was like an air cushion, squeaking when pressed.

  A strange sensation overwhelmed the creature: amusement. Pressing down again, like a musician searching for the next note, air escaped with a thin sound. He danced around, scrambling like an animal, pressing and releasing the small, dead frame of the girl.

  As it was with all predators, he grew bored. Looking at the house once more, he sniffed the air. Moving forward carefully, he approached the dimly lit home resonating with murmurs.

  Chapter XVI

  Sheriff Montgomery was standing outside of the station when the vagrant came roaring down the wide streets of Locke. Imagine his surprise to see a previously incarcerated transient driving a police vehicle.

  Nelson managed to bring the jeep up onto the curb and part of the ice-packed lawn of the Locke station. This was, much to his chagrin, done in front of not only the sheriff and deputy of Locke, but also the handful of deputies from other counties who had been requisitioned as per Lauren’s request.

  Throwing open the door in a dramatic movement, Nelson fell from the driver’s seat. Montgomery was at the jeep, his hands on the hood and looking at the pathetic heap that was Nelson. “Would you mind explaining to me why you are driving the jeep I gave to Agent Westlake?”

  Nelson turned.

  He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving.

  “I hate motor vehicles,” he mumbled.

  Montgomery knelt so as to be eye to eye with the transient. “It would be in your best interest to start explaining yourself. My immediate reaction is simply to shoot you since Agent Westlake is not with you. Not to mention, you damn near crashed a police vehicle into a handful of officers of the law.”

  Nelson nodded. “Right. Right. Agent Westlake sent me back. I told her I didn’t want to drive, but she said I had to. And that I should stop asking stupid fucking questions.”

  Montgomery stood, linking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “So you are saying Agent Westlake is fine. You didn’t do anything to her?”

  The vagrant stood. His hands were frantic as he slipped and regained balance. “She went out to where your guy lives. Found some weird shit. Sick shit. She asked about the closest house. I told her the Lavender house. Other side of the lake.”

  Montgomery turned to the other deputies.

  “Lavender house. Now.”

  They nodded, dividing up and climbing into snow-encased vehicles with monster tires meant to traverse the inclement conditions that beset the north; tailpipes of exhaust combating with the cold air trailed off into the distance.

  Montgomery remained, leaning against the hood of the jeep. “Did she go on foot?”

  Nelson nodded.

  “That was a stupid thing to do,” he murmured, looking off into the distance.

  The vagrant rubbed his coat across his running nose. “She was worried about the creature getting away. Thought that it went across the lake. Sent me back to get you. Said there wasn’t enough time.”

  The sheriff stepped past the vagrant and got into the driver’s seat of jeep. He rolled down the window, the glass sliding unevenly and with a sad groan. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” asked Montgomery, feeling a sudden sense of concern for the transient’s well-being.

  Nelson looked around at the skies and the snowy distance. “Maybe. I think the house on Walter is still vacant.”

  Montgomery leaned on the door, arms folded and head lying on his coat. He pointed a gloved finger toward the station. “If you don’t mind the cots in there, you can grab a cell. Mrs. Meadows, the receptionist, will let you into the holding room,” he offered.

  The vagrant’s eyes lit up.

  “That would be very kind of you, sheriff.”

  Montgomery nodded.

  His face was a grim line.

  Nelson turned and walked toward the station door.

  Montgomery started the jeep, the engine rattling and throbbing in the desolate cold. The transient stopped in his tracks, waving his hands as the sheriff backed the jeep off of the lawn and on the road once more.

  The road was slick, tires slipping to find a grip. Montgomery squeezed the wheel, his gloves creaking. It would take more than an hour to get to the Lavender house.

  LAUREN REACHED THE TREE LINE where the creature had mauled the man and woman. She did not see the shred carcasses as the creature had hid them just inside the brush. Looking at the house, she held the shotgun against her shoulder, wool hat pulled down.

  She approached slowly, her feet crunching the snow. Small tendrils of lingering snow danced around her feet as she pressed onward toward the house. A scream echoed in the night and the agent’s pace quickened, her boots crashing through the hard-packed snow and ice.

  There was another scream, and then a gunshot.

  Her breath quickened.

  Clouds exploded from her lips: ragged breath.

  The door splintered at the hinges as her shoulder crash
ed into it. She swung the shotgun around as she entered the home. The first room was completely dark save for a few dwindling candles that waltzed in the cold wind cascading through the open door. There was a groan in the room, just beyond her sight.

  “Federal Agent. Are you hurt?” she called, her teeth chattering despite the warmth that radiated through her body from adrenaline.

  The groan came again, this time almost a voice. She moved forward with quick, purposeful steps. Around the side of a grungy couch sat Lavender, back up against the wall, arms draped over a side table.

  His breath was ragged.

  “There––there is….” he whimpered.

  Lauren looked around.

  She could hear other groans now. She thought to grab her flashlight, but she did not want to limit her ability with her weapon. “What happened here? Is there someone in the house?”

  Lavender groaned and coughed hard.

  The sound was wet. He held out a hand catching a mouthful of blood and saliva. Drool glistened on his lips and he burped. “It was something. It came in, started killing. So much blood. So much blood….”

  She could feel something in the house.

  The hair on the back of her neck rose in fear.

  “How many are there?”

  He shook his head desperately. “I don’t know. It killed so many. We tried to, but….” Tears welled up and flowed down his blood-soaked face.

  The agent’s eyes darted past Lavender to a pile of bodies. Two men stacked on top of a woman. She wondered if that is how they had started out: macabre, too far. She stepped away from Lavender, but he cried.

  Sobbing mixed with a deep, painful-sounding cough.

  “Please help me. Please, so much blood….”

  Lauren looked closer at the seated man and saw that his shirt was soaked. He desperately prostrated with a mass of something in his hands, trying to show the agent.

  It was his intestines.

  “Just stay calm. Help is on the way.”

  Lavender continued to whine, but Lauren had moved out of range, through the living room and into the adjacent room: more death, more bodies strewn about. There was a mattress that had been dragged to the center of the room, obscuring the closet. Damp and soaked it was covered in bodies.

  More groaning: hands reached out for her help.

  There was nothing she could do.

  Turning, she returned to the hallway and down the narrow path. The floor was slick, but she didn’t want to look down. She had a pretty good idea of what it was. Back through the living room, she entered the kitchen: a sink full of dishes and broken glass.

  Bottles of condiments formed a sliding pile that was ready for an avalanche. The kitchen was empty except for a trash can in desperate need of attention. Lauren moved out onto the porch. Torn netting flapped in the cold, snowy winds.

  A leggy blonde lay sprawled out on the ground.

  Her eyes were wide.

  Gaping mouth: she sputtered like a fish, grasping at her chest. A dark stain covered one of her breasts. As Lauren got closer, she saw the deep wound in her chest was a breast that had been removed, torn like it was a scab on an old wound. Leggy Blonde was not long for the world. Kneeling, Lauren pressed her fingers to the side of the woman’s throat. Veins bulged as the woman struggled to hang on to life.

  She had a weak pulse.

  “Can you hear me?” Lauren asked in a soft voice.

  Leggy Blonde turned her head.

  Glazed eyes showed remnants of sentience. Lauren smoothed back the woman’s hair. She kept her other hand on the trigger with the butt of the gun against her shoulder. “Just hold on. Help is coming.”

  She had to tell herself that; had to believe it to her core. Something horrible had descended on the house. Standing again, she dare not look at the woman once more. She would want to stay, to comfort her.

  There was no time.

  The wounds were fresh.

  It was still there.

  Walking quickly through the kitchen, she turned up a narrow stairwell with carpeted steps. She heard the scream again. This time it was much more sedated, like a bird chirping for the last time. Turning the corner of the stairs, she centered the shotgun in front of her. It felt weightless, fear and anger pushing her forward.

  Taking the steps with haste, she looked down the hall.

  The screaming came again.

  She could feel the breath in her chest, the swell of her lungs as fear threatened to overwhelm her. There were footsteps, loud and heavy. She ran now, the shotgun bouncing against her shoulder.

  Turning into the last room, she breathed out.

  There it was: the creature.

  Jack Ellison was sitting slumped against a far wall, his head torn free. Nothing left but sinew and bone. His hands were prostrated in front of him like he was a puppet waiting to be woken.

  The creature was perched over a girl, its claw dug deep into her chest. Moonlight came in through a broken window, casting shadows across it. She could see the sewn part of the Joyce’s face. Its free hand dug into the wound, carrying handfuls of blood into its mouth. Yellow, flaking nails, corroded and infected, were saturated with flesh and blood. It coughed then; hacking and throwing up, but it did not move.

  Lauren stood transfixed.

  The shotgun shook in her hand.

  The first shot startled her. The creature did not move as the round collided with the wall. Pieces of plaster splintered away from the wall. It stood then, on two feet, and Lauren knew what she had always known: it was a man.

  He growled.

  Blood and pliable flesh sluiced from the claw.

  He whispered; there were no words.

  “What the fuck are you?” she screamed.

  Shaking the shotgun, she did not move it away.

  Snarling, he bent forward again.

  Another shot: this one impacted him.

  A banshee scream and the creature jumped out the window; Lauren ran to the broken window, looking down into the night. The creature had collided with a partial shed.

  From among broken boards, he looked up at her. His half-sewn face was a nightmare: pockets of diseased flesh as it continued to decay.

  He ran toward the woods. Lauren pulled the trigger again and there was only a click. Hitting the gun angrily, she leaned down and checked the woman: dead.

  “Fucking. Fuck. Fuck,” she whispered.

  She reloaded the shotgun in a frenzy of motion. Grabbing the doorframe with a hand to turn her body more quickly, she raced through the house. Her mind pounded as she leapt down the stairs, colliding with the wall of the stairwell. She steadied herself before dashing into the living room. Running at full speed, she was out the open front door.

  She skidded to a stop as she slid into the snow.

  She could see him running into the woods.

  Lauren ran after him.

  The branches slapped her face.

  She brushed them away.

  Her breath was erratic.

  Crashing through the woods, she could hear his snarling, growling. He was far enough ahead of her that she could feel him slipping away.

  Her hand hit a tree: cold, pain.

  She let go of the shotgun.

  Her mind let go of it as well. Weaving, she ducked and leapt like a hurdler. The creature was faster. Hurt and bleeding it fled just ahead of her: blood on the frozen leaves. They were the crimson streaks of his departure, of his escape.

  Lauren swung her hands out as she tried to grab a branch to stop. They had emerged onto the frozen lake. Looking down, she saw the trail the creature left.

  His shadow was already on the lake.

  Drawing her weapon, she breathed out.

  “Federal Agent. Freeze.”

  The creature did not stop.

  Skittering and slipping across the snow-covered lake, he would not relent. Lauren was in pursuit. Firing as she ran, she would not let him get away again. The sense of responsibility for the murders burned deep within her
chest.

  Her foot slipped and she went to one knee.

  Closing one eye, she fired again. This time she thought she heard the round impact something. It sounded heavy and thick. Clouds of breath exploded from her mouth: chest heaving.

  The sound came again.

  In that moment she knew that she had not struck the creature, rather the ice. Groaning, the lake moved. Sliding slowly at first, the ice resonated with a pained sound. Looking back at the forest, she could not see the trees. She was halfway. The cracking of the ice was predominant, rising above the other sounds of the world.

  Her hands splayed out before her as a shelf of ice split just ahead. Wide eyes watched as the cold water sloshed over an island of ice not more than twenty feet away. She tried to stand, but as she did so the ice up-ended. Watching the broken edge of the island of ice on which she scrambled dip into the freezing waters of the lake, she tried to calculate how deep it would be.

  How cold?

  How long would she last?

  Struggling, her hands crawled at the ice.

  Slowly, she slipped backwards.

  Her grunts mixed with whimpers.

  Eyes welled with tears, and then her thoughts drifted to Dominic. Regrets: those were the last thoughts of a woman consumed by a lifetime of service to justice. She wondered what would have become of them.

  She was giving up.

  Her foot slipped in.

  The cold permeated her being.

  She grimaced, cringed.

  Slamming her fists against the ice, she tried to latch on and find a place to hold herself. The water was dark and deep. Craning her head, she stared into the unforgiving depth of the lake. She would die in minutes once she was submerged. Her rational mind knew this, yet she struggled.

  A leg slipped in, and then another.

  She couldn’t feel her feet.

  Her mind screamed, but her lips were pressed tightly together as her torso continued to struggle. Her heart beat erratically, but the cold seeped through her like a crawling insect. Angry, she fought harder, but it was a losing battle. The water crossed her midsection. The weight of her coat, saturated and frozen, pulled her deeper into the water. She gasped just before her head slipped below the surface of her frigid grave.