Deal with the Devil

by Kevin Lee Swaim

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Deal with the Devil

  Kevin Lee Swaim

  Copyright © 2018 Kevin Lee Swaim All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  It was warmer than it should have been for a Monday night in April, and a storm was rolling in. Clouds started to obscure the stars, and an occasional flicker of light sparked across the sky, illuminating the low-hanging clouds to the horizon. The smell of rain was thick in the air, but there was the smell of ozone, too, like from a spark. The storm would hit soon.

  Looks like it’s gonna be a whopper.

  I turned to Sister Callie Calahane. She squinted at the house fifty yards to our west. Thanks to the change—vampire essence absorbed from vampire kills—the house appeared to me as clearly as if it were a bright summer day. It was an ordinary two-story farmhouse, just like a million other farmhouses in Minnesota, but this one had something the others didn’t.

  This house is a vampire’s lair.

  “You think it knows we’re here?” Callie whispered.

  Callie was a strikingly beautiful woman, with auburn hair and a dusting of freckles on her cheeks that made her seem much younger than twenty-five. She wore jeans, heavy boots, and a thick blue denim shirt. Her silver crucifix dangled from the heavy chain around her neck.

  She cradled the stock of her Remington 870 pump shotgun with her left hand and held the modified pistol grip in her right as we crept closer to the farmhouse.

  “I doubt it,” I whispered back. “We’re downwind. We should be safe.”

  She frowned. “We’ve caught too many breaks. I can’t help feeling like the other shoe is about to drop.”

  We had gotten lucky the week before when I had sensed the presence of a vampire heading south on 169. We had gotten lucky again when I had picked up the presence in Mapleton, a small town nearly one hundred miles south of Minneapolis. After a few days of painstaking driving and observation, we had tracked the vampire back to the farmhouse.

  It belonged to Wayne Pitcock, a sixty-eight-year-old farmer. An obituary in the Maple River Messenger provided the background we needed. Pitcock’s wife, Georgia, had died from a stroke five years earlier. The Olson-Tichenor funeral home had handled the service with a funeral at the United Church of Mapleton.

  According to articles plastered all over the local newspaper, Wayne and Georgia Pitcock had been active in their church. But, after Georgia’s death, there was no mention of Wayne Pitcock. Then, three years ago, the disappearances had started. Street kids from Minneapolis, mostly. The uptick was noticeable enough for it to hit the news.

  Maybe old Wayne got himself into trouble, or maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, he became something inhuman.

  Pitcock’s fields were full of corn and soybeans. He even had a hog pen to the north behind the trees, a blue building with an open side that allowed the hogs access to the dusty lot next to it while still providing a heated space for them in the brutal Minnesota winters. An older wooden barn stood next to the house, and although it had clearly seen better days, it wasn’t decaying or collapsing.

  I held the silenced Ingram M-10 near my waist. The gun was a Christmas gift from Mary Kate Glick, and I had it loaded with silver .45 ACP. Even one silver bullet would be enough to burn a hole through a vampire and set it to burning, but I had four more magazines strapped to my belt, just in case.

  The last year had been life-shattering. My wife and daughter were dead by my own hands. I had watched helplessly as Callie’s twin sister, Katie, was murdered by a vampire named Pearl, and I had killed my great-great-great-grandfather, Jack Harlan, after he became a vampire.

  It was a cliché to say that I had learned to always be prepared, but it was the truth.

  We crept up to the house, and I reached out with my senses. A slimy blackness brushed against the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end.

  It was a feeling of profound … wrongness.

  “It’s in there,” I whispered.

  She turned and raised the shotgun to her shoulder. “How are we going to do it?”

  I nodded toward the picturesque front porch and whispered, “I go in the front. You go in the back. When your crucifix lights up, it’ll drive it my way.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “I’ll give Pitcock a chance,” I whispered. “That’s more than he gave the girl.”

  Even in the dark, I saw her frown. “She might still be alive, the Lord willing.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

  I took off at a brisk pace, stepping lightly to keep my boots from clomping across the thick grass. Callie followed, but as we got closer to the house, she peeled off and headed for the back.

  She moved with catlike speed and grace. Within seconds, she was out of sight. I gave her nearly a minute and then stomped up the wooden steps. The porch stretched across the front of the house with rows of pretty white balusters and two white wicker chairs in front of the living room window.

  I wondered how many hours Wayne and Georgia Pitcock had spent in those well-worn chairs, staring across their farm, watching the sun rise and set.

  The obituary had a few lines about Georgia’s sisters and Wayne’s uncle, but no mention of children. There was probably a story there—there usually was—but it no longer mattered.

  There was a rustling inside, the sound of feet on a hardwood floor, and then a blinding light shone through the living room window, a light more powerful than the sun and almost as terrifying as the thing that ripped open the front door and burst out.

  Pitcock was a tall man, nearly as tall as a professional basketball player, dressed in jeans and a checkered cowboy shirt. He wore spotless white cotton socks instead of shoes or boots. His weathered face looked remarkably young for a man in his late sixties, one that I would have called honest if I hadn’t known what Pitcock had become.

  The tall man froze when he saw me casually point the Ingram his way.

  “Wayne,” I said. “We’re here for the girl.”

  Pitcock’s eyes narrowed, and he inched closer.

  I tightened my grip on the Ingram. “This is silver ammo, Wayne. If I pull this trigger, it’s all over for you.”

  The big farmer stopped, and his body went unnaturally still. “Who are you?”

  There was a noise from inside. Callie stepped out, her crucifix still blazing, lighting up the porch and sending long shadows dancing across the rolling green lawn. “Where’s the girl?” Callie demanded.

  Pitcock shielded his eyes from the glare and shrank back from the Sister. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I grunted. “That would mean a lot more if you weren’t cowering from the power of the Almighty.”

  “I’m not—”

  “How did it happen, Wayne? A passing stranger? A woman at a bar?” Before Wayne cou
ld respond, I continued, “No, that doesn’t seem your way. Were you attacked? Or, did you give yourself up willingly?”

  “Sam,” Callie said. She had her shotgun pointed at Pitcock and her finger on the trigger. Pitcock stood between us, but I took a step back so that she had a clean line of fire.

  “Let him speak,” I said. “It might do him good to get it off his chest.”

  Pitcock turned to me, and this time there was a pair of gleaming ivory fangs behind his front canines. “Who are you?”

  I smiled sadly. “I’m Sam Harlan. I’ve come for the girl.”

  * * *

  “I know what you are,” Pitcock growled. “He told me about you.”

  “Who told you? The vampire that gave you the gift?”

  Pitcock nodded. “You’re a hunter. He said there were a few left.”

  “He? Which vampire gave you the gift?”

  Pitcock shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I never traveled. Not when my wife was alive. Not when it mattered. I always wanted to go to Marfa, Texas. Do you know Marfa?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I met a man from there when I was just a boy. A hired hand who worked for my father on this very farm. He said Marfa was a beautiful place. That dusk set the town on fire with reds and oranges. He said it was God’s country. I never forgot that. I … went there after my wife died. Spent the night in a tepee at a hippie-type place on the south side of town. That’s where I met … him.”

  “The vampire,” Callie said.

  Pitcock frowned. “I didn’t know that’s what he was. He asked about my wife, and it … was like he made me tell him. I told him about the cancer that took her, and he asked if I was ready to die. Maybe it was Georgia’s funeral. I was just so tired of thinking about it. Truthfully, I didn’t want to die. I was scared. The vampire knew it. He said I could live forever.”

  “But you didn’t live forever,” I said. “He killed you, and you came back as something else.”

  Pitcock glanced down at his feet. “You want me to say I made a mistake? Gosh howdy did I make a mistake. I—I didn’t even really believe it was happening until it was too late.”

  Gosh howdy? “What did this vampire look like?”

  “He was a … a Mexican.”

  “A Mexican?” Callie asked.

  “I know you’re not supposed to call them that,” Pitcock said, “but he was … you know … a Mexican. He had greasy dark hair and fancy boots—”

  “His name,” I said softly. “Did you get his name?”

  “Santiago,” Pitcock said.

  My mouth dropped. “Ignacio Santiago? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Language,” Callie said.

  Pitcock’s eyes widened. “You know him?”

  I shrugged. “You could say that. I killed him six months ago.”

  Pitcock slumped to his knees and he looked like he wanted to vomit. “I don’t know how it happened. How I turned into this.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Where’s the girl, Wayne? We know you have her.”

  “The girl?”

  “Aniyah Washington. You’ve been kidnapping girls from Minneapolis and feeding on them.”

  The old farmer shook his head. “I have not!”

  My finger on the Ingram’s trigger twitched. “Don’t bother denying it, Wayne. I know.”

  The old farmer went unnaturally still again. “You can’t understand. You just … the hunger…” He stared up at the night sky. “I didn’t know I could ever be so hungry. I tried not to feed, but Santiago brought me my first kill. A young woman, no older than you. He made me feed, and the terrible hunger stopped for a few hours. But it came back. It always comes back!”

  I grunted. “You started taking the girls.”

  The vampire turned to stare down at me, his face an expressionless mask. “I only take what is necessary. I’m not a bad man. I took the ones that nobody would miss. I could smell it on them. They were bad girls. Girls of loose morals.”

  “Loose morals?” Callie asked softly.

  “Yes,” Pitcock said. “Whores. They debased themselves for money.”

  “You mean prostitutes,” I said.

  “I mean that I tried to pick the ones that God wouldn’t miss. I’m not evil—”

  “You think you know God’s will?” Callie’s voice rose as she spoke, becoming as hard as steel. “You think it was your decision to make? God loves us all, Mr. Pitcock. It is not for you to judge.”

  Pitcock shrugged. “I was just so hungry. I took the first girl, and I fed from her, but only as much as I needed. I’m not a glutton. I took from her only what she could afford to offer—”

  “You drained her until she died,” I said. “You killed her.”

  “She was so fragile. I only took what I needed, but I guess it was too much.”

  “How many girls, Wayne? I’ve got nearly thirty names. Were there more?”

  “I never kept count,” Pitcock said slowly. “I tried not to think about it.” He paused, looking at me sullenly. “A man’s got to eat.”

  “You disgust me,” Callie whispered.

  Pitcock turned to her. “It’s the way of the world. You tend to your crops and livestock. It gets you through the lean times. You take only what you need, and God provides the rest.”

  “They’re … people,” Callie said. “You’re so far removed from humanity that you can’t even comprehend why it’s wrong. You didn’t used to be like this, Mr. Pitcock. I read the eulogy you wrote for your wife. You were a good man. A Christian. Now you’re just…”

  The old farmer’s face hardened. “I didn’t want to—”

  “Bullshit,” I said. Pitcock turned to me, and his eyes had gone solid black, the way some vampires’ did when they were either really hungry or really excited. “You should have died, Wayne. You made a deal to cheat death, but I’ve got news for you.”

  “What’s that?” Pitcock growled.

  “My farmhouse back in Iowa has a freezer full of beef in the basement. I figure you keep your food in the basement, too.”

  The vampire hissed and came for me, so quick that it was almost magic, but I wasn’t exactly human myself, either.

  I pulled the trigger on the Ingram and blasted a dozen holes through Pitcock’s chest with silver bullets before he reached me. The muffled cracks echoed across the lawn, and I watched in satisfaction as flames licked from each of the holes. Pitcock’s legs spasmed uselessly against the painted white porch. His white socks were the last to burn, and then Pitcock stopped thrashing as his body was engulfed in flames.

  Callie watched the raging fire. We had become accustomed to the sight. It wasn’t a normal fire, as I understood it. It wouldn’t set the house on fire, or the picturesque porch. We watched as Pitcock’s body turned into a pile of greasy ash, the ruddy fire slowly dimming until the old farmer was gone.

  There was a sensation against my neck, cold and prickly, and then the vampire’s essence slid into me. My stomach lurched, and I staggered back, but Callie grabbed my hand and held me up until the feeling passed. I gave her a gentle nod.

  “You really think the girl is in the basement?” Callie asked.

  “She’ll be there.”

  I pulled the Kimber .45 from my paddle holster as we entered the house. There probably wouldn’t be any more trouble, but after the past year, I wasn’t taking chances.

  The inside of Pitcock’s house was just as I expected—white-and-green floral-print wallpaper, well-scrubbed hardwood floors, and old but sturdy wooden furniture that probably qualified as “antique.”

  Callie pointed to the kitchen with her shotgun. I nodded and headed that way, fumbling for the light switch. I found it and flipped it on just as the approaching storm unleashed peals of thunder that shook the house. Rain spattered against the window, and Callie turned to give me a dark look. Then she pointed to the door in the corner.

  We made our way down the unfinis
hed steps to the basement. I searched for a light switch again but gagged at the smell of sweat and the ammonia of urine. Behind me, Callie took in deep gulps, but I finally found the switch and flipped it, turning on the naked overhead bulbs.

  The basement walls were painted bright white. An ancient table and chair sat against one wall, with dozens of old cardboard boxes stacked on top. The opposite wall was covered in pegboard, and plastic organizers occupied almost every square inch, all neatly labeled with screw sizes and lengths. Brick columns broke the room into several smaller spaces, and an ancient cast-iron boiler nearly five feet tall stood against the north wall.

  Except for the black girl chained inside a steel cage on the hard cement floor, it was a normal farmhouse basement.

  She was naked and a gag covered her mouth. A pair of stainless steel bowls with food and water sat in the corner of the cage. A foul-smelling bucket of human waste sat in the other.

  The girl raised her head and watched us with dull eyes.

  “Callie,” I said softly.

  Callie nodded and approached the cage. “Aniyah? Is your name … Aniyah?”

  The girl licked her lips. “I … I don’t…”

  “You’re Aniyah,” Callie said. “Aniyah Washington.”

  The girl blinked. “I can’t ’member.”

  “It’s okay,” Callie said. “We’re here to rescue you.”

  I searched the basement and finally found the key to the padlock on the bench underneath the pegboard. I handed the key to Callie without a word.

  The girl was … drained. Of blood and life. I’d learned the signs and knew that Callie’s soft demeanor would do a lot more to calm the girl than me telling her we’d just killed her captor.

  Callie freed the girl, who finally started showing signs of awareness, glancing at us with growing alarm. “I don’t know … I don’t understand…”

  “You’re safe,” Callie said. “We’re going to take you home.”

  “Home?” The girl’s voice cracked. “I can’t go home.” She pulled back into the cage, shoving herself against the steel bars in the back, out of Callie’s reach. “Where am I? What—”