The Hunt

Home > Other > The Hunt > Page 2
The Hunt Page 2

by Jeremiah Donaldson


  He slept in the van with the doors locked for yet another day.

  Chapter 4

  Young cracked an eye and watched the door to his room, waiting on the nurse to make her next round. He couldn’t stay in the hospital any longer. The changes to his body were too hard to hide, and he didn’t want to find out what the doctors would think of such weirdness in their mist.

  Then the nurse's shadow appeared in the hallway.

  He closed his eye. It wouldn’t be good for her to find out he wasn’t sleeping. They’d give him a sedative like before that'd knocked him out until way into the morning. Such wouldn’t work. He wanted to be gone by daylight.

  The sun that had streamed through his window during the day irritated him more and more for no real reason. His skin had started to itch wherever the sunlight touched him until he'd convinced the nurse to close the blinds and hang a sheet over the window. The pain in his chest had subsided along with his heartbeat. He no longer needed to breathe, except to fool the doctors and nurses. His canine teeth had also developed points that poked at the inside of his bottom lip.

  He felt the nurse’s presence as she stopped at the side of his bed. Then the sound of her shoes retreated from his room. He'd be alone until her next round in an hour.

  Slowly, to keep the springs from creaking, he pushed himself upright, keeping an eye on the half open door. The cold floor, even colder than his feet, caused goose bumps to raise all over his body.

  They’d cleaned his clothing and shoes within hours of his arrival as if he’d leave under his own power after a shower and nap. He nearly had. His reattached right hand was supposed to take a year of rehabilitation to keep from drawing up into a hook, but it'd nearly healed already. Stitches already pushed from his skin.

  An hour or so would pass before another nurse round, so he had time to dress himself right. He shucked the hospital gown and pulled his clothes on, enjoying how they felt after not having worn real clothing for several days. The collar on his jacket reached high enough to hide the neck wound from those curious enough to glance his way. He'd look like a visitor lost in the hospital.

  Footsteps warned him that the nurse walked back up the hallway after her rounds. He crouched in the shadows as she passed his door, looking down at a computer tablet. Her steps faded to nothing up the hallway.

  Young waited a minute before he peeked out the door in both directions. No one wandered the hall, and those at the nurses’ station couldn’t see him from the angle. He strolled from the room. His leather soled shoes tapped on the floor, echoing off the walls. A lone pizza man passed him when he approached the elevators.

  Young looked around nervously until the doors opened and stabbed the first floor button until the doors shut. The ride stopped immediately when a nurse got on at the next floor down. He smiled at her and stared at the floor the rest of the ride. She stayed in front of him all the way out the emergency doors until she turned towards a smoking section, and he cut across the parking lot to the street.

  Chapter 5

  Haskel tried to ignore the look he got from the Circle K clerk. His black uniform, blank of insignia, stood out in a town with two National Guards barracks. A twenty covered the team’s coffee and refills for his e-cigarette. Except for Murray's. She had her water.

  The five rookies that replaced those killed in the last mission chit chatted and laughed on the way out the door. Such behavior would end once they encountered their first variation. It always did. No one ever realized what they’d gotten into until their first mission.

  Haskel climbed into the driver’s seat of the blacked out USVU transportation van as they got several curious glances from people at the gas pumps.

  “How did operations know a variation was in this area?” Number Two stuck his head between the front seats. He was a tall, muscular man with several tattoos and a red beard.

  “A pedophile turned up dead a few days ago. A red flag went up when the coroner’s report noted a large amount of blood had disappeared without explanation and two puncture wounds were in the throat. They wrote it off as an accident with postmortem animal bites, but we suspect otherwise, so here we are.”

  “That’s it?” Number Two looked from Haskel to Murray. “That's why they think some undead asshole is in this town?”

  “HQ has built a large resume on these ‘undead’.” Haskel made quotation marks with his fingers. “They aren’t dead. They have a metabolism and dead things don't move so lively.”

  “Are they supernatural? Our reading material didn't tell us shit.”

  Haskel shook his head. “No such thing. They live and can die. They’re just a tougher than us. You’ll get more information after the first mission and we know you won’t freak out.” He took a drag from his e-cigarette. “You know enough to do the job for now.”

  Number Five laughed. “That's what I expect from government training.” He was short and stocky, with a large beard, close cut hair, and bike tattoos all over his arms. He fiddled with the '5' pinned over his heart. “You never told us what was up with the numbers.”

  Haskel put the van in gear. “We don't learn your name until after your first mission. High turnover.” He looked in the rear-view to see the rookies shift uneasily in their seats. “Enjoy your coffee. It's time to meet with Larry.”

  Murray flicked her cigarette butt out the window and laughed.

  ***

  Larry was the only original member of the team. He’d flown every mission planned, gotten mauled by guard dogs, and had been shot twice. He signed up before the ten mission contract limit and had refused to leave. Few people wanted to spend their nights looking for the tell-tale infrared signal unique to variations while the rest of the team roamed the roads. Those who could had decided it’d be easier to let him die in combat than pull him from the job.

  Haskel pulled into one of the empty parking spots in front of the London-Corbin airport terminal a few minutes later and opened the driver side door. “Let's grab the bags and go find some civilian clothes before we attract too much attention.”

  Murray took a swing of water and slammed the van door. “Why the hell do you always want civies?”

  “You can't be in combat gear all the time,” Haskel said, pulling at his crotch. “It chaffs.”

  “Not as much as getting caught without it,” Murray said. “Keep your fucking gear on.”

  “Wow, what a bitch,” Number Five said.

  Murray nodded. “And don't forget it.”

  Haskel led them into the terminal.

  Larry had dragged five bags of varying sizes inside from the helicopter and sat in a chair with them in front of his feet. His gray, wild hair tried to escape the boundaries of his bandanna with more than a little success. Ragged fatigues hid most of his worn, combat boots, and his stained t-shirt told people to ‘Kill something…anything’. Round, purple sunglasses failed to hide his bloodshot eyes as he stood up.

  Number One curled his nose. “Are you high?”

  “I’m always high. The only thing that smokes more than me is my sawed off shotgun.” Larry pushed his glassed up on his nose. “Is that the only stupid ass question I need to answer?”

  “Federal Aviation Administration regulations forbid any type of intoxicants in the cockpit,” Number One said.

  “Since you like regulations, I'll give you my regulation answer.” Larry stuck his middle finger in Number One's face. “Anything else?”

  “Hell yeah, man.” Number Two held out his fist to Larry.

  Larry grunted and glared at Number One, who dropped his eyes to the floor.

  “Guess not.” Larry looked at Haskel. “I've been up more than 24 hours to make sure those assholes didn't fuck up my chopper. Is there anything I need to do before I crash?”

  “You’re ordered to retire immediately. Our first mission is tonight. No falling asleep behind the wheel.”

  “Not fucking likely.” Larry grinned. “Anymore.”

  “Don't scare the rookies.”


  “Good for‘em.”

  Haskel shook his head.

  Chapter 6

  Roek woke with a gnawing in his gut and a shortness of breath that said he had to find bigger game than rats. His body had burned through its resources faster than normal while still recovering from the internal herbal burns. Even now, decades after his infection, he didn’t understand the shortness of breath or why he felt hungry when the blood didn’t enter his intestinal tract. He was far more than 100 years old, but couldn’t make sense of most of what had happened to him. Once again, he had to find a human life to take or die himself. Nothing smaller would do.

  He’d gone on hunger strikes and had discovered that he'd black out and hunt indiscriminately. The third time he'd come to in a field next to a dead body was the last time. After that, he picked people that he wouldn’t feel guilty about killing, which got easier as police departments made the whereabouts of sexual predators known. He'd already located several potential targets that were outside the city limits. He loved the technology of the time, if nothing else.

  He drained a rat to ease the shortness of breath and dressed in his hunting clothes: all black shirt, pants, boots, trench coat, and hat. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the driveway.

  A few touches on the GPS set his route with the farthest address first. Strange deaths were easier to hide in the city where so many freaks roamed. Fire did the job in the country. He even carried a pack of cigarettes to get things started.

  A smile crept to his lips.

  He’d smoked before his transformation in Spring of 1918 at the age of 32 while fighting against the Germans. The transformation had erased his addiction over several days without withdrawals.

  A light mist swirled in his headlights, growing so thick he had to turn on the windshield wipers. The better for the deeds he had to do.

  His first house fire in the area hadn’t burned the body, causing rumors to float around before his bites were ruled to be from an animal. He’d gotten worried at first, but vampire rumors didn’t last long in such a Bible banging town.

  The GPS led him out of town and down side roads that grew narrower with every curve. The middle line disappeared and trees formed a tunnel over the one lane road. He traveled almost a mile before the guidance voice told him to make a right onto a gravel road. The dented mailbox next to the culvert didn't have a name, but the faded number matched.

  He parked his van next to the burnt remains of a trailer with rotted clothing scattered in the grass to go on foot the rest of the way.

  ***

  He could see, to a point, in near pitch darkness, but not through haze. He didn’t know how, but everything was washed out and had a sepia tint. The thick fog sounded like rain in the forest around him. Frogs croaked and insects buzzed. Water flowed in a creek along side the gravel road, and an alarmed animal scurried through the bushes every dozen meters.

  The pungent odor of wet dog and a low growl came from ahead of him.

  He hated dogs. They were noisy and tended to be as nasty as their owners if inclined.

  He stopped and looked for the source of the sound. The road slopped upward, and a light glowed at the top of the hill, but he couldn’t see much else. An outline of a dog trotted into sight ahead of him, snarling. The dog looked around. It knew he was there but couldn’t see him. Maybe it’d go away.

  No such luck. The animal barked.

  Roek rushed forward and snapped its neck before it could utter another sound. He felt, rather than heard, the crunch of vertebra as the animal flopped to the ground.

  Someone yelled from the house. “Shut the fuck up, mutt!”

  Roek stiffened, but he knew he couldn't be seen. No one else spoke. The sound of a weather report floated through the night as the man turned the TV volume up. A slight feeling of disappoint ran through him when he realized the night was downhill already. He'd hoped for more excitement.

  He made his way up the driveway, stopping every few steps to listen. Snores came from an open window by the time he could see the house through the fog. No screen covered the window, but curtains blocked his view. He slipped past a rusted out pickup and through a yard scattered with car parts so he could see inside.

  The TV played a news broadcast on a local car accident to a fat, bald man dressed in boxer shorts and coke bottle glasses who'd passed out in a recliner. An empty six pack sat on the table next to him. He looked more like a drunken computer programmer than a perverter of children. A dusty box-fan blew ashes from the cigarette he’d nodded off with.

  The window was high and Roek couldn't see what was on the other side, so he went around to the door. The knob turned, but it wouldn't have mattered. The 40 year-old construction couldn’t have held against his strength. He pushed on the door slowly to guard against squeals, but the door popped open when the latch was released from the warped frame.

  “What the hell?” The bald child molester jumped to his feet, looking around. He held a revolver that Roek hadn't seen.

  Roek charged as the man opened fire. The first bullet clipped Roek's right shoulder, and the second entered his chest. Then he smacked the weapon across the room and drove his fist into the man's face. The man collapsed into the chair, pouring blood from his nose and mouth.

  He squeezed the man’s throat and held position for almost ten minutes past the last pulse to make sure. Victims had to be dead to ensure there wasn't any chance of transformation if he were to somehow survive the fire. He regretted what he’d done to the detective who'd crushed his last memory of a normal life. Never had he tried to pass the condition on so that it'd make someone's suffering worse.

  Roek fed. The fresher it was, the less he could take in, and he didn’t like sucking on some fucker’s neck. He’d tried other methods, but they'd always resulted in something even more ghoulish and hard to hide. Suction tubes in the throat. Dismembering. Cutting their throats and letting them bleed out. Nor were any other veins or arteries so easy to access as in the throat.

  He lit a cigarette when he was finished.

  The harsh smell of tobacco covered the smell of mold and blood in the house. A couple puffs got it going well enough to toss into the man’s lap. The fan blew the cigarette into flames that consumed the man’s boxers and spread to the recliner.

  A pillar of flame marked the man and the chair within minutes. The side table charred, unsealed hardwood around the chair caught fire from the foam that dripped down the metal frame, and heat warped the LCD television before it blinked off.

  The house was doomed, but to make sure, Roek stood outside until he could see fire in every window.

  Chapter 7

  Young got out of the taxi and walked up to his house. Crime scene tape flapped in the breeze while he unlocked the front door. He felt better as soon as it was shut behind him.

  He finally had privacy and could examine his wounds better. The stitches brushed away at a touch. Red dots marked where they’d been. His teeth didn't hurt so much, but dug into his lower gums when he closed his mouth. Only the neck wound throbbed. The skin had closed, but the spots were swollen and itched. The thought of not breathing had terrified him at first, but he’d noticed that he hadn't been exerted from any of the walking he'd done.

  He climbed in the shower and soaked under the hot water until it turned cool. His job. His wife. His home. Everything had been turned upside down. Although, the emotional pain had subsided like the physical pain. Anger replaced the hurt and confusion. He wished the bastard had just killed him. Now, he had to find and kill him. At least that’s what vampire legends recommended as a cure.

  Young's thoughts wandered as he dried himself. Fucking vampires. Maybe he'd died and this was hell. Who said you became a vampire when you died? Some voodoo assholes, probably.

  He wiped moisture from the mirror. His reflection looked back at him. Of course, he wasn’t fucking invisible in it. He laughed and walked into the bedroom to dress.

  Young grabbed sheets to put over the l
iving room windows. It’d be easier to darken the bedroom, but he wasn’t ready to spend time in there.

  Morning came soon after. Apprehension made him want to gag when the first rays of light showed behind the sheets. He dreaded going near them, but had to know how much he’d changed since the day before. Without another hesitation, he stuck his hand behind the sheet.

  His skin itched and burned, and he jerked it back. Small blisters covered his hand and redness radiated almost to his elbow.

  He went for blankets, but light filtered through fabric didn’t seem to cause a reaction. Whatever wavelength was blocked happened to be the one that caused damage.

  Fatigue crept over him once another layer of fabric hung over the windows. The urge to sleep hadn't arrived with daylight like in movies, but neither did he seem able to go totally without it. He spent an hour going through the of mail and newspapers that'd been pushed through the slot in the front door.

  He put the newspapers in order and searched them for articles to add to the scrapbook he’d kept while on the police force. Anything about a crime in Louisville got clipped. Officers he knew were highlighted before the story got added. He kept a separate collection of unusual crimes from all over the state that didn't take up near the space that his Louisville folders did. Not just anything went into it.

  Headlines caught his eye in a paper dated two days after he went into the hospital: ‘Vampire’ Victim Found In Burnt House.

  He scanned the article. An extinguished fire at a London address had revealed the body of a man with a strange neck wound and a good portion of his blood gone. The man had been a registered sexual predator.

  Young put the paper aside and looked for updates. A story two days after the first placed blame for the bites on an animal and the fire on a cigarette. He read both articles again. His instincts told him there was more to the story, but he didn’t know if it included his attacker.

  He laid down on the couch and propped his head up on the end. Sleep overtook him.

 

‹ Prev