by Matt Drabble
He had heard his sire returning from some distance away thanks to his enhanced diet, and he raced back to the shack that they shared. He knew that this was the night, he could wait no longer, and he smashed the old rickety metal table and wrenched a jagged leg free. He knew that the movies had always preached the virtues of wooden stakes, but he had none to hand. In the books that he had studied there had been no illustrations of the type of material required to destroy the heart. Knowing that surprise was his best weapon and not knowing how long the rush of strength would last, he flew at his saviour as soon as he entered.
The man was caught completely off guard and yet still managed to get a warding had up for protection, Drake charged using the table leg like a lance. The jagged end struck the man’s defensive arm tearing a bloody gash and spilling his night’s fresh feeding. The man staggered backwards under the sudden assault. He hissed and screamed in a strange foreign language, spitting venom and holding his damaged arm he circled Drake. Drake matched the man’s stride, and they walked around the small shack’s space, the man lunged and slashed with elongated fingernails. The nails were razor sharp and sliced open Drake’s heavy overcoat, Drake looked down and saw that his own hands had changed also. The skin looked leathery and wrinkled, and his hands were now a mottled blue colour, his fingernails had expanded and the tips were now pointed and yellow. He ran his tongue over his teeth; there were more sharp fangs in his mouth protruding bloodily from the gums. His jaws were lengthened, and the bones cracked and swelled. They snapped at each other like rabid dogs, hissing and spitting as they sought an opening. Drake held on tightly to his faculties, he knew that he had a lifetime of experience of violence and physical confrontations to draw upon, back in the day he had been a promising boxer with dreams of professionalism in youth. He felt his mind clouding and his brain shutting down, reverting to a primal state, and he kicked hard against it, his opponent was all instinctive animal, no thought, only emotion. Drake tensed and waited for the inevitable attack, the man suddenly sprung towards him, hands outstretched talons glinting. Drake allowed himself to fall backwards matching the man’s trajectory with the table leg held in both hands and brought into his chest for support. His sire’s momentum drove the jagged sharp edge of the metal stake into his chest piercing the heart and they landed together heavily on the floor. Drake watched as the man’s bright eyes ended mere millimetres away from his. The fire burned and raged and then slowly died. He heaved the body off and away from him, rolling sideways he leant over to examine the now still corpse; in death, the man appeared youthful and tranquil. The skin was pale and unblemished, it was ivory in colour and looked soft but thin, a stretched mask over razor cheekbones. There was no fire and disintegration like the movies, there was no turning to ashes and blowing away on the wind. He carefully pried open the man’s mouth, the teeth were normal once again as were the nails. Drake retrieved the ancient chest and the even older contents, after a quick scour around the small shack that had been his home for the last few months; he headed out into the night.
Once outside, he looked down into the dark waters of the river and reflected on the lack of reflection. It would appear that some of the tales were true; he did not indeed cast a mirror image on any surface. His need for blood was constant, it would flow between a nagging itch to a raging torrent that would blind his reason. He knew that he would need to keep a constant check on his levels; it would never do for him to act out of desperation and devoid of reasoned thought. He had taken his eyes off the prize before; he had grown fat and lazy after his ascension to the throne. He had not taken enough due diligence when employing his betrayers.
He had cursed himself a thousand times since his resurrection, he had looked to delegate the running of the streets to underlings deeming himself above such trivia. He knew now that it had been a mistake; he had thought to see himself in both of Jimmy and Abraham, balls and brains. He had allowed himself to be flattered and manipulated into losing control of his empire, and it was the humiliation that stung the most. He had risen through the ranks back in the day; he had been lean and hungry, relentless and merciless. He had always promised himself that he would never be caught with his pants down like his predecessors. Yet here he sat, in filthy rags, deposed, beaten, bloody, and left for dead, but he was lean again, he was young again and he was hungry, so very hungry.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
April 2012
Ghost awoke to the comforting warmth of the sun magnified through the window glass and gently stroking his cheek. His mind drifted slowly through the sleepy haze, reticent and returned to the real world. He opened his eyes fully and stared up at the creamy white ceiling, the first thought that ran through his mind, stomping and screaming, was anger. Anger at his humiliation, his very sense of self had been severely dented. As far back as he could remember he was always sure, sure of the next step and sure that it was one ahead of everyone else. He had always known just what to do in any and every situation, and his sixth sense had kept him out of trouble, kept him safe, and made him successful. When he and Jimmy had first started out he had realized their deficiencies and sought to correct them, he had studied where they were weak and make tracks to rectify. In negotiations, he had instinctively known when to press and when to fold, when to strike and when to retreat. He had known when to be appear weak, and when to appear strong, all of this was an impulse. But last night, he had folded, he had been faced with a situation that had almost led to his end, and he had frozen beneath the glare. It did not matter to him that the situation in question was so far out of the norm that it was unbelievable, it was only his own eyes that kept him from dismissing it entirely. He was somewhat relieved to find, as he processed, that there was still a good chunk of himself left; he knew that most men would be spending the day rewriting the night’s history. Making excuses, finding justifications, making up reasons, and ignoring the facts of the case. He had seen exactly what he had seen, Tank was sitting dead in a chair, he was not breathing, he was dead, and then he had stood and attacked him. The big man had attacked him with an inhuman strength and speed that was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Ghost had seen more than his fair share of violence and dished out enough of his own to consider himself an expert on the subject. He had hit Tank with enough expertise and precision to put the man down a hundred times over, but it had been like striking an oak tree with a feather. He had seen the translucent eyes that had burned into him, he had felt the strength, and he had seen the fangs, it would be easy to dismiss that last fact in the cold light of day, but he had seen them. It had only been blind luck that he had managed to kill Tank and save himself; the metal pole had pierced through the flesh and penetrated the heart stopping the monster. When he had briefly examined the body, Tank’s face had appeared normal again; his mouth was full of regular teeth and devoid of carnivorous daggers. The only difference had been his face; his skin was porcelain white and blemish free, and his expression had been serene. Ghost knew yesterday that vampires did not exist, but today he knew that some version of them did, he also knew that he was wholly unprepared for what to do about this fact. He knew a collection of legends like most people from the movies, crosses, and stakes through the heart included. Although the metal pole had ended that theory, so perhaps it was just destroying the heart that was the most prominent factor in the equation. He knew that sunlight was supposed to be fatal; garlic was a repellent, they supposedly cast no reflection, could not enter a house unless invited and slept in coffins. The first thing that he was going to need was research, it would not be easy to separate fact from fiction, but he had no other place to start. When he and Jimmy had first set out on their road to criminal domination, he had researched every crime aspect that he could lay his hands on. He had used movies, books, police reports, biographies, and news reporting. He had compiled files upon files of data, charts, and graphs; he had studied every success and every failure and the reasons behind both.
He swung his feet down off the sofa and
cursed his spinning head; he was not a drinker by nature, disapproving of the control that alcohol stole. He had hit the whisky hard, seeking to escape his thoughts for a short while. Despite surviving his ordeal, it still felt like a defeat and defeats had not existed in his world before. He looked over to the armchair to see Eddie snoring loudly, his face blushed and a stab of shame bit into his gut at the realization that Eddie had witnessed his fall from grace. He knew that Eddie was loyal to the point of death, and his earlier actions would never be discussed outside of this room, but he did not like his armour chink having an eyewitness.
“Eddie” he called recoiling at the pounding in his head.
Eddie stirred and sat up with a start, “I wasn’t sleeping boss” he exclaimed groggily.
“You want to make some breakfast?” Ghost asked even as his stomach turned a flip.
“Sure boss, what do you want?”
Ghost had never felt less hungry in his life but knew that he needed the fuel, “Just do some beans on toast and strong black coffee, pans are in the bottom left cupboard” he pointed “And Eddie”
“Yeah”
“Try not to burn the place down” he added not unkindly.
Kirk McGinnis and Terry Langstrom glanced at each other nervously, none of this felt right. They were at facing each other in the front of a large Transit van decked out to look like a TNT courier vehicle. The tinted windscreen separated them from the outside world and the tinted rear window afforded them complete anonymity from prying eyes. There were just the two of them sitting in the front of the empty van. McGinnis and Langstorm had run the “Assignments” division between them for the last seven years for Jimmy Dent. Although they were not related they could have passed for brothers, both tall and broad, fit and toned, they favoured simple black suits, gray ties and short shaved hair. McGinnis was thirty three and Langstrom the elder by two years, they had been friends from their days bouncing together as teenagers. They shared a passion for money and a love of power, and Jimmy Dent had given them both in spades. They had worked their way up the corporate ladder by being reliable and loyal, if they were given task regardless of how menial; they carried it through to the letter. If they had an appointment at eight then they were waiting outside by a quarter to, they never questioned and they never failed. It was this reputation that had led to their ascension to head up “Assignments”. Their division was quite simply assassinations, they were handed a name and they made it disappear, and they had never been unsuccessful whenever handed a target. They operated out of the shadows and preferred to stay below the radar, and yet they found themselves tooled up and sitting in a Transit van opposite another. The other van was housing five nutcases about to storm a castle before the sun had even set.
They had been partners for so long now that words were redundant; neither of them trusted Jimmy’s judgement in this matter. Word had spread quickly about Ghost’s predicament. The rumours were flying, and McGinnis and Langstrom were both too long in the tooth to listen to idle gossip. The only facts that they knew for sure, was that Tank had attacked Ghost, Ghost had been badly injured, and that Tank was now dead. Both men had immense respect for Ghost and neither could quite believe that Tank had gotten a sufficient drop enough to inflict serious injuries, and yet Ghost wasn’t front and centre for Jimmy’s war council. Jimmy was uncontrollable and beyond the ability to listen to reason, as far as he was concerned the attack on Ghost had been a declaration of war by the Parkers. It was bad enough that Ghost was missing from the meeting, but when Johnson and Grundy were missing also; McGinnis and Langstrom’s collective hearts had sunk. Worse was still to come when Jimmy instructed them that he had located Kofi, and that he and his boys were waiting outside in the other van. They both knew that neither Ghost nor Johnson would ever have agreed with such a full frontal assault on one of the heartlands of the Parker organization.
Yet here they were, following orders as always, the warehouse in front of which they were parked was supposedly housing a chemical company. The large sign outside read Karlo Industries, but it was really just a front for the Parker’s organization, the main product being produced on the premises was drugs. The two vans, one with a courier logo and one with a telecom logo were both parked in the rear of the building. In one van were McGinnis, Langstrom and in the other sat Kofi himself and four of his boys.
Kofi’s head was buzzing, partly due to the illegal substances currently pumping through his veins, but mainly due to the impending violent destruction. He was a disturbed young man with too many thoughts, and too many voices crammed into a head that was too small to contain his light. He knew that he was a pariah amongst Jimmy’s crew, people were scared of him, but they did not respect him. He was only useful when they were in the carnage business. His were the hands that got dirty when Jimmy and Ghost did not wish to soil their own. When Jimmy needed to put the fear of God into someone it was Kofi that he called. He knew that he was the dirty secret, the threat; he was the bogeyman that Jimmy only unleashed in the direst of circumstances. He would be the one to rape and maim, when there was a secret that required eliciting from a reluctant source then Kofi and his like minded boys with their bag of sharp tools got the call.
For once he was let loose in the daylight, fading as it was, Jimmy was madder than usual when he got the call, apparently he had been sought for several days now. Kofi had been holed up in a crack den oblivious to the rest of the world as he temporarily found a chemical peace. He knew that Jimmy could be psychotic, and Ghost was dangerous, but he feared neither man, he did not possess the basic functions to feel the fear of mortal men. Kofi feared no-one and nothing; if death himself walked in the room then Kofi would spit and laugh in his face for he was above such earthly concerns. He had always known that he was a man placed above all others. His was a destiny forged in the heavens, he was a God to be placed above all others. He had no interest in Jimmy’s position at the top of his organization, and money held no real interest for him. When he required chemical assistance, then he took it, when he required female company then he took them as well. Jimmy’s kingdom was too small for his ambitions, and for now he knew that he was waiting for the sign. It was to be a sign that would light his path and show his way to immortality.
There were four others in the van with him, names meant nothing to him, and he rarely bothered to waste the brain space remembering them. Those who were damaged seemed to gravitate towards him; he was a perverse Statue of Liberty. Bring me your insane, your desperate, your huddled masses yearning to breathe fire. His followers were all dishevelled and emaciated. They wore a collection of filthy rags many with lice for company, they were scabby and pale, lean and hungry. Kofi’s only rule was that his rule was absolute, and disobedience was met with a shallow grave.
Kofi grew tired of the waiting, his skin crawled eager for blood, and he knew that the two of Jimmy’s lackeys were supposedly in charge of this operation and were watching from their perches. They were two nameless faces that spoke to him in terms of orders; their voices were never more than a mindless buzzing that he refused to interpret.
Kofi gripped the van’s sliding door and pulled it open, eager for the games to begin. The dusky light was fading as the shadows lengthened and the night stealthily approached. He eased himself out and gave a slight flick of the wrist aimed behind him. His pack followed, grubby skeletons descending towards the onrushing chaos. The mobile phone that Jimmy had forced upon him vibrated annoyingly in his pocket, he knew that the monkeys were attempting to control him again. He turned slowly to face the tinted window of the other van, he could not see their faces, but he knew that they were watching. He took the noisy phone from his pocket and carefully dropped it to the floor deliberately grinding it into the gravel with a boot heel. He then turned away from the watching van and their undoubted anger with a dismissive slow swivel.