Vampires of the Plains (Book 1): Burden Kansas

by Alan Ryker

  Keith slouched down into the folding chair. It provided no support for his aching back. He thought mostly about this until Dale said, "And Sheriff William Wheeler has been kind enough to agree to speak to us about the animal attack issue."

  Keith sat up in his seat. So did Roy. So did everyone else. Some people began to mutter, until Dale loudly said, "Let's please give him our attention while he speaks. He's agreed to answer a few questions afterwards."

  Sheriff Wheeler walked up to the podium. He gripped it with both hands and looked uncomfortable. "First off, I want it to be known that we're all on the same side here. You all know that I've got a few cattle—"

  The murmuring started up again, angrier than before, but Sheriff Wheeler raised his voice over it. "—that I've got a few cattle myself. I might not make my living at it like you all do, but I also have a personal stake. Several deputies also have cattle. What I'm saying is that we're all on the same side. We're doing the best we can. The government has sent some animal experts to determine what exactly is attacking the cattle, and—"

  "So you still don't know?" someone shouted.

  From the side of the stage where he sat in a folding chair Dale shouted back, "Let Sheriff Wheeler speak first and he'll answer questions afterwards."

  Sheriff Wheeler held up his hand toward Dale. "It's alright. No, we don't know what it is yet—"

  The crowd became loud again, but Wheeler continued, "—but we're confident we'll know soon. These guys seem on the ball. Real sharp. All we can do right now is buckle down, try to watch our cattle and wait for them to do their jobs. Oh, and not do anything stupid." Wheeler pointed out into the audience. "I'm looking at you, Jim."

  That got some laughs, and he continued. "We don't know what's out there, so seriously: don't act stupid. Okay. Are there any questions?"

  There were a lot of questions.

  Even after Sheriff Wheeler left the stage, men surrounded him, asking him the same things over and over. Keith wasn't interested in hearing anymore, especially not from Wheeler. Wheeler had talked a lot and hadn't said much, as Keith had known he would.

  Keith and Roy walked past the men clustered around Wheeler as they headed out of the building. Ken Rockwell was saying, "I can't afford to lose anymore cattle."

  "Do you think any of us can?" Wheeler said, clearly exasperated.

  "That's not what I'm saying. All I'm saying is that I can't. I just can't." That got a lot of nods all around. Keith had to smile. Wheeler looked ready to pop.

  Wheeler looked up just in time to see Keith smile and glared at him. Keith held his gaze for awhile but kept walking. He didn't have anything to prove.

  Keith crunched through the gravel and opened his truck door. "See ya, Roy."

  "Hold on a second. Sheila told me to invite you over for supper tomorrow night. She's been asking about you."

  "That's very nice. Tell Sheila hi for me."

  "You can tell her yourself tomorrow night."

  "You heard Wheeler. We need to keep our eyes on our cattle."

  Roy huffed. "So that's gonna be your excuse now? Keith, what you need is to get out of that house every now and then. I'm your brother and your damn next door neighbor and I haven't seen you in a week."

  Keith could see that Roy was waiting for a response, but he gave none. He didn't like explaining himself.

  "Come over," Roy said. "Sheila misses seeing you."

  "Tell Sheila I appreciate the invitation, but I can't. Go catch the end of the game."

  "Fine, you stubborn old bastard. I'll be seeing you."

  Keith nodded and stepped up into his truck, then suddenly remembered something. Leaning out the window he said, "Hey Roy."

  "Yeah?"

  "Tell Jessica to come by tomorrow. I've got something for her."

  "You could give it to her at supper."

  Once again Roy waited for a response, then finally said, "Fine. I'll tell her."

  Keith nodded. His truck roared to life and he backed out. He needed to get some beer before heading home.

  Chapter 4

  Dennis saw all the pickups headed for the community center and knew that Keith would drive past sooner or later. He tried not to pay any attention. But every time a truck went by he was reminded of Keith, and every time he got reminded of Keith he felt the compulsion to adjust his dead left arm, until soon he was watching the road and holding his arm and could barely pay attention to anything else, even though the evening had started out good, sitting and smoking and bullshitting with his friends.

  So he noticed when Keith drove by, and it blanked his mind. He'd been talking, but he flushed and stopped.

  "So what happened next?" Brandon asked.

  Dennis pulled himself back. He was sitting on the curb in front of the QuickStop. Even though he was nearly thirty, he was surrounded by a group of mostly older teens listening to him talk about this movie he'd seen the week before. He brushed his long, stringy hair out of his face, then adjusted his arm. He wished he'd just worn his sling, but he felt self-conscious about it. When he didn't want people to think about his arm, he held his hand in his lap when he sat and put it in his pocket when he stood.

  "Oh, yeah. So the dude has his hands behind his head like they've got the drop on him and he knows it's all over, right? Wrong. He's got this stockless shotgun in some sort of holster that runs straight up his back, and he pulls it out and starts blasting. He runs right into the middle of them and is popping their heads from like, inches away, and they can't shoot him because they'll shoot each other. He drops like six guys in about that many seconds."

  Brandon laughed. "Badass, man!"

  Dennis considered Brandon to be his lieutenant. He was big, loyal, twenty-four and not going anywhere. And he always played up Dennis's stories. They lived together, so Dennis had already described that scene to him like twice, but he acted like it was new every time. He was a good guy.

  "Oh yeah," Dennis said. "And the dude's stone cold. He's standing in this pile of corpses, like, covered in blood, and he doesn't even bat an eye."

  The kids all nodded and listened with rapt attention. Normally he would have loved that. Hell, it was probably half the reason he stayed in that shithole instead of moving to Wichita. He liked being a big fish in a small pond. He liked the fact that there, being a small-time drug dealer gave him status, while in any sizeable place he'd be a joke. The kids graduated or dropped out of high school and maybe hung around for a few years before moving away, but there was always a new pack to impress and he liked it that way. But seeing Keith had thrown him off, and he was annoyed with them.

  Brandon said, "Is that still playing?"

  "Should be. I'd watch it again."

  Some of the kids started talking about going to see it, telling Dennis to call them if he went, but he'd just caught sight of Jessica Harris walking up. She was still in high school, but so hot. When she got older, she might turn into a hatchet face, but just then she was incredible. She was Keith's niece, and actually looked more like him than her dad, with his sharp features and hard eyes. But her youth softened all that. And her legs were so damn long. Dennis had to wonder if he were a bit sick being so hot for a girl who looked like the man who'd crippled him. Like Stockholm syndrome or something. But even if she weren't jailbait, and even if she weren't Keith's niece, he still wouldn't go for her, because she and Brandon had had a thing and he still moped over her like some big, stupid dog.

  She was completely ignoring them, heading for the door, when one of the punk kids said, "Hey, Brandon, here comes your girl."

  "That's not his girl," Dennis said. He turned to see who had spoken. Jim Kroger, a runt skater asshole who bought weed off him whenever he could steal enough money from his parents.

  "Not anymore," Brandon said.

  "Fuck right not anymore."

  Jessica walked past them and into the store, and the stupid kids chattered. Dennis sat silent and sullen. Brandon stared at the ground.

  When Jessica emerged carrying a
gallon of milk and a candy bar, that stupid punk Kroger said, "Hey, Jessica!"

  Jessica didn't turn around, didn't even pause, just flipped them off over her shoulder, and Kroger started whooping and howling.

  Dennis shoved him with his good arm and said, "What do you think you're doing, jackass?"

  Kroger fell off the curb where he sat beside Dennis and hopped to his feet aggressively. Dennis didn't bother to stand, just shook his head as Brandon stood up behind him. Brandon had nearly a hundred pounds on the kid. Kroger grabbed his skateboard and started skating around the lot. Roger, the QuickStop owner, hated when he did that.

  Brandon sat back down. "Fucking kids."

  The other kids were quiet. Dennis put a cigarette in his mouth, then lit it.

  Dennis had mostly forgotten his bad mood, and was animatedly telling a story of a meth lab that blew up a month or so before when the pickups started to go past again, this time headed out of town. A few minutes later, Keith pulled up in his giant, dirty Ford. Dennis desperately wanted to go hide. Even though there had been no reason to think that Keith would stop at the gas station, Dennis wished he'd followed his coward's instincts and left.

  The kids barely noticed Keith until Brandon got up and stood near the door, staring at Keith as he walked past. Dennis didn't move from the curb, but watched Keith and smiled. That was the most he could manage, though when Keith met his eyes Dennis's dropped to the ground and his smile vanished and he smoked his cigarette like it required all his attention.

  Keith threw the door open, nearly hitting Kroger, who'd sat back down.

  "Hey!"

  Brandon stood outside the door, glaring in. Dennis wanted to tell him to stop fucking around, to move out of Keith's way, to not bring any more of his attention on them, but he couldn't. Not in front of the kids. Dennis was a drug dealer. He was ten years older than a lot of them. They looked up to him. He didn't have to get in Keith's face himself, but he couldn't tell Brandon to lay off of him.

  Keith appeared on the other side of the door, holding a twelve-pack of beer.

  Dennis stood and stepped back, hugging his left arm nervously. Keith gave Brandon a moment to get out of the way, but when Brandon crossed his arms, he shoved the door open hard, knocking Brandon back and making him stumble. Brandon recovered and got in Keith's face.

  Dennis's heart pounded high up in his chest. He needed Brandon to be aggressive, but just then he wished he had a choke chain for the stupid motherfucker.

  "You should go home, old man," Brandon said.

  "Planning on it." He shouldered past Brandon, making him stumble yet again.

  Keith opened his truck door and hopped up into his seat, leaning across and setting down the beer.

  Brandon glanced around at the kids, then said, "And tell Jessica hi for me."

  The kids laughed. Kroger doubled over, one foot on his skateboard. Dennis wanted to hide. He wanted to run behind the building and down the alley and hide.

  Keith froze for a moment, still leaning across the seat. Then he reached for something and got back out. The something was an ax handle.

  The kids stopped laughing and stepped away from Brandon, but Brandon didn't move. He wasn't smart, but he was brave. Or he was too dumb to be scared. Dennis didn't know if there was a difference.

  "What was that?" Keith asked.

  Brandon set his jaw and clenched his fists at his sides.

  "Go ahead and say her name again," Keith said.

  Brandon didn't move an inch. Didn't look down. Dennis didn't know how someone could have so little sense of self-preservation. Brandon was bigger than Keith, sure, but Keith had proven that he was a brutal maniac, and he was armed.

  "Do it Brandon!" Kruger yelled. "Fuck that old man up!"

  Keith stepped even closer. Brandon didn't move. Keith leaned way in and whispered something in Brandon's ear. Brandon still didn't move, didn't speak.

  Keith took a step back. He snorted, then turned his back to Brandon. He waited, letting the insult set in, but Brandon still didn't move. So Keith walked back to his truck, tossed the ax handle onto the seat, and cool as anything backed out and drove away.

  Once he left, the kids circled Brandon, congratulating him, smacking him on the back and generally acting like assholes. Dennis sat back down on the curb.

  Soon, Brandon joined him. The teenagers were still worked up, wrestling and pretending to box each other.

  "Why do you provoke him?" Dennis asked, not looking at Brandon.

  "I just can't let him get away with it. I don't know how you can."

  Dennis shook his head, and still didn't look at Brandon. He didn't know whether to say "thanks" or "fuck you." Instead, he asked, "What did he whisper to you, anyway?"

  "He said, 'Do it, Brandon. Say her name again. Say Jessica.'"

  Chapter 5

  Keith originally built the porch for Irene, but he had grown to prefer it to the house. He sat in the dark loudly sipping a beer, the twelve pack beside his chair. His dogs lounged around his feet, sleeping. They snored through their wrinkled snouts. The mild night air, the beer and the sound of snoring dogs soothed Keith to sleep.

  Keith often dreamed of Irene. He didn't like that he usually dreamed of her sick. They'd had a good life together. He thought she deserved to be remembered better. But he usually dreamed of her sick.

  She lay propped up in a hospital bed. He sat beside her holding her hand. She was still pretty. Not yet eaten away and dried up.

  "You have to go now. Visiting hours are over," Irene said.

  "I can't."

  "You have to. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Promise."

  "What?"

  "Promise that you'll see me tomorrow."

  "Keith…"

  "You have to promise."

  She squeezed his hand and stared at it. She wouldn't look at him.

  He said, "If you can't promise, then I can't leave."

  "I promise. It's just chemo."

  She finally looked him in the eyes. There was guilt on her face. Part of him knew that he was dreaming. Part of him knew that he wouldn't see her tomorrow, because she was already dead. And because part of him knew that part of her knew, too. She knew she was lying, that she'd be gone when he awoke.

  But he didn't want to upset her further, so he kissed her on the cheek and said, "Keep your promises," and walked for the door.

  Just as he reached the door, Irene said, "Keith?"

  He waited, hand on the doorframe. He didn't want to look back at her. He didn't want to have to gather the strength to leave again. He just said, "Yes?"

  And she shrieked.

  Keith shot to his feet, confused. He was on the porch, not in a hospital room. A beer can hissed out its remaining contents onto the weathered boards. He'd been dreaming, but the scream continued. It wasn't Irene. It wasn't human.

  Keith turned his head toward his pasture and noted the direction of the scream before it faded away.

  He ran the few steps to his front door, nearly tripping and putting his hands through the glass amidst his cowering, whimpering dogs. They crowded the door and ran inside as soon as he opened it. He reached in and grabbed his shotgun. "Hunting dogs. Yeah."

  Keith rode his ATV across his dark pastures. Grass and small shrubby trees whipped past in a white blur, lit for only a second at a time. In his headlights, a cow appeared and he skidded to a stop. Blood poured from a wound on the cow's neck. Keith didn't see the predator until a sudden shriek nearly made him fall backwards from his seat.

  The ATV's headlights illuminated the cow, but not the dark shadow perched on its back. It shrieked again. An incredible stench wafted after the sound.

  Keith aimed his shotgun at the shadow blocking the stars, but the creature clamped tightly to its meal's back and Keith couldn't get a clean shot. After a moment the shadow hissed and disappeared. Keith heard it hit the ground behind the cow. He fumbled behind him for his flashlight and ran around the cow. He scanned the night with his flashlight and
his shotgun, but could see nothing.

  He examined the wound. It was deep, but not torn. He went back to his ATV and got a pad of the gauze he'd begun carrying with him since the attacks began. He pressed it against the cow's neck. The blood soaked through, warm and slick. Before long, it began to scab. The bandage stuck and the bleeding stopped.

  Keith slouched on the seat of his ATV. He couldn't stop his chin from dropping to his chest. Each time he snapped awake in panic. He spun in his seat, aiming the shotgun out into the darkness. As the intervals between falling asleep grew shorter, Keith finally gave up and rode home.

  He sat his shotgun beside the door and trudged past the entry to the living room. He put a boot on the first stair, then walked back. He stepped into the living room and slowly turned.

  He didn't live there. He lived on the porch. He ate in the kitchen. He slept in the bedroom. The living room had always been hers; he still didn't live there. He dusted it occasionally. All the little knickknacks and such collected dust. He looked at the pictures on the wall. His favorite was one of them together in Branson. Both smiling. He didn't look at it often.

  He went to the kitchen and saw his dogs sprawled around on the cool nylon flooring. He shooed them into the utility room and shut them in. He didn't think any of them would set foot in the living room even while he slept, but it wasn't fair to tempt them. His father hadn't let their dogs inside at all. Keith supposed he was softer than his old man had been. He grabbed a bottle of bourbon and a tumbler from the cupboard and went up to bed.

  The next day was hot. Hotter for how dry he felt. He'd knocked back almost half of the liter to help him get to sleep, then slept too late into the day.

  The sun sat high in the sky by the time he climbed a ladder up to the roof of his tool shed. Some of the corrugated tin had come loose in a summer storm the week before. He pinched nails between his thin lips. One at a time he pounded them through the tin and into the rafters. He wore a ball cap, but the sun beat down on his neck. The tin was hot enough that it burned him through the thick calluses on his thick hands. The ladder wobbled beneath his feet. And worst of all, the shotgun slung across his back was jostled by every swing of the hammer. He thought that maybe he'd start carrying his .45 instead. Regardless, he wouldn't go unarmed again.