The 3-Book King’s Blood Vampire Saga

by P. J. Day

  “Jack?” Ted’s frayed voice, boomed from the room behind me.

  “Hold on Ted, I’m kind of busy, pal.”

  “Jack, come here now, this is important.”

  “Wait,” I snapped at the door.

  “Jack, come now,” Holly soon demanded.

  I sighed and got up from my chair.

  “Hold on, Sam.”

  I walked into the room and Holly and Ted were glued to the television. A bald man with black-framed glasses and a gray suit stood in front of a podium with the FBI seal in the front. I barely understood what he was saying as I tried to tune out the Mandarin dubbing in the newscast.

  “I can’t hear what he’s saying,” I said, lightly shaking my head. “Could you translate, Ted? What does the banner say?”

  “It says ‘pharmaceutical company in Guangzhou terrorized.’ That’s why I called you in,” Ted said.

  “What’s the bald guy saying?” I asked.

  “He’s a Senator and introducing the head of the FBI.”

  As the Mandarin dubbing stopped, I could hear the FBI director speak, who wore a black suit, had heavily gelled hair, and a pair of pointy black eyebrows.

  Today we have uncovered a plan by a global, possibly anarchist terrorist network who have decided to attack corporate targets across the globe and have also shown a complete disregard for civilian lives.

  The cameras snapped away at the finely dressed FBI director, the Mandarin dubbing would kick in during the pauses.

  The terrorists have made it known, through our own intelligence gathering, that they are willing to attack soft corporate targets at home and overseas. Two weeks ago, one of Schnell Corporation’s satellite laboratories in Guangzhou, China was razed by these criminals. We have gathered information that suggests they plan to attack in the U.S. as well. These three individuals are now wanted for questioning in the events in Guangzhou.

  The director placed a ledger-sized whiteboard on an easel. Large photographs of Holly, Ted, and myself were on full display for the world to see. Holly placed her hand over her mouth and began to sob uncontrollably. Ted sat on the bed, his mouth agape, in shock. Samuel walked into the room and dropped his notepad on the floor as he saw our pictures on the small grainy TV screen.

  As the FBI director continued to talk, I noticed a gray-haired man with a thick mustache stand next to the senator in front of the blue curtain behind the podium. It was Rald Gerber.

  I sat on the bed and placed my arms around Holly, comforting her as she witnessed her own country turning against her. What was it that they wanted from me? Why go through all this trouble, involving countries, involving multinationals, and involving innocent lives, just to get access to me?

  I looked at Samuel. “Who’s that senator? Know anything about him?”

  Samuel smiled. “Yeah. Schnell was his largest contributor in the last election. We’re screwed.”

  To be continued in:

  Vampire Terminus

  King’s Blood Series #4

  Coming soon!

  Return to the Table of Contents

  THE SUNSET PROPHECY

  A novel by

  P.J. DAY

  The Sunset Prophecy

  Published by P.J. Day

  Copyright © 2013 by P.J. Day

  All rights reserved.

  E-book Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the both the copyright owner and/or author.

  The Sunset Prophecy is a satire by P.J. Day, and is not intended maliciously. P.J. Day has invented all names and situations in its stories, except in cases when public figures are being satirized. Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental, or used as a fictional depiction or personality parody (permitted under Hustler Magazine, Inc. v. Falwell, 485 U.S. 46, 108 S.Ct 876, 99 L.Ed.2d 41 (1988)).

  Dedication

  To my beautiful wife and mother of our gorgeous girls, I thank you for your unbreakable spirit, patience, understanding, and incredible fortitude.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you Jon, for showing me that fear is nothing more than just an abstract thought. Grateful thanks to Eve Paludan (editor), Sandy Johnston (editor) and Kristen Midha for their amazing work in making sure The Sunset Prophecy is not an incoherent mess. It still could be, but the odds of it being so, have been lessened tremendously. Thank you J.R. Rain, H.T. Night, Scott Nicholson, and Aiden James, you guys are studs. Also, thank you to the communities of r/writing & r/writersgroup on reddit.com I’ve lurked and learned, and your harsh judgmental downvotes have kept me on my toes as a writer. The knowledge the community offers is all a writer will ever need.

  The Sunset Alpha Team

  I’d like to thank you all for your brutal honesty and for hanging in there despite the delays and the speed bumps. To Ashley, Christina, Terisa, Savannah, Denise, Patty, Susan, Clare, Leslie, Lisa, Sara, Kristen, & Lori, I appreciate you guys from the bottom of my heart.

  The Sunset Prophecy

  That song was about your mind. You have to change your mind before you change the way you live and the way you move...The thing that’s going to change people will be something that no one will ever be able to capture on film. It will just be something you see and all of a sudden you realize, ‘I’m on the wrong page.’ —Gil Scott Heron

  Prologue:

  The Parable of Rebellion

  “I’m afraid,” said Isaac.

  The boy winced as he sat up in his hospital bed. With IV tubing latticing his tanned forearms, nine-year-old Isaac looked too athletic and healthy to be bedridden.

  The profusion of medical equipment flickering bedside contrasted with a wall of pictures and handmade cards from his classmates and Little League teammates.

  The Pasadena Reds missed their shortstop.

  “Talk to me,” said the young man wearing a black hoodie, jeans and distinctive green Puma Roma Slims. This was his third visit with Isaac, and he sat in a visitor’s chair upholstered in an ugly 80s pastel Santa Fe print. The hospital and its staff were state of the art, but the furniture, not so much.

  Isaac appeared comfortable around the man. His tranquil face and soothing caramel colored eyes felt unthreatening despite being shadowed by a pulled-over hood.

  “I’m afraid of things going dark, of hurting,” Isaac said. “My leg hurts, but I’m afraid of it hurting even more.”

  The man glanced down at the boy’s leg. Through sheets, through skin and muscle, down to the cellular level, he saw small black clumps of cells feeding off the boy’s bone marrow. He perceived the pangs of dull pain throbbing throughout the boy’s leg; the cancer had metastasized throughout Isaac’s femur.

  “What’d the doctor say?” the man asked.

  “He’s not smiling like when I first got here. He smiles, but not the same kind of smiles. They seemed kinda forced.”

  The man shot a glance toward a corner of the room where a rolling entertainment kiosk holding a television and a video game console sat unplugged and unused. “Haven’t been playing much?”

  “No,” the boy said. “Not really into it.”

  “How about we fire up a game? You and me. I’ll let you have the rocket launcher this time.”

  “No, thanks. It’s all right.”

  “I’m surprised. You’re always itching to play.”

  “I’m just worried about my mom and dad and Natalie.”

  The man got up from the pastel blue chair and took a seat on the foot of the bed. He flashed the occasional glance toward the door. The nurse hadn’t been scheduled to come in yet, but the last thing the man wanted was to get caught in Isaac’s room past visiting hours. That would’ve just complicated everything.

  “What worries you the most?” asked the man.<
br />
  “That they’ll be sad if or when, you know—,” the boy said, eyes tilting downward, and shaking his head, “I can’t say that word, I’m scared.”

  “You don’t have to say it,” interrupted the man. “That’s noble of you. You’re the only kid in this entire hospital who’s expressed that thought. I want you to know that.”

  “Really? My family is the most important thing. Shouldn’t it be?”

  “But you don’t think you’re going to beat this?”

  “After the doctor told my parents he had to stop treatment—chemotherapy, he took my Mom and Dad outside the door to talk. I saw them through the window. It wasn’t just Mom who cried. Dad cried. That’s how I knew.”

  “Things changed since then?” asked the man.

  “Yeah. It’s different. They bought me more stuff. Now I have every first-person shooter on that system. I got Disneyland passes. I only want to talk to them more...about everything, but they just buy me stuff. They give it to me and leave kinda soon. They don’t stay and talk as much as they used to.”

  “Grownups cope differently. You’re handling the situation better than most kids in this hospital. You’re tough.”

  “Thanks,” said Isaac. “They ask me how I am, but every time I tell Mom it hurts, she cries and leaves. Now, when she asks, I just say, ‘Fine.’”

  The man nodded. “If you beat this, besides Disneyland, what would be the first thing you’d do?”

  “You...you think I’m going to get better?”

  “Where do you think you’ll go if you don’t?”

  “I don’t know...Heaven?”

  “Which would you want more? To be with your family, or go to Heaven?”

  “My family. I make them laugh, they make me laugh. I’m not perfect. I get in trouble sometimes, but Mom...Dad, they always make me feel safe,” said Isaac.

  “So, why not Heaven?” the man asked.

  Pensively, the boy lowered his eyes. When he raised them, he said, “Everybody seems to want to go there, but I don’t know what it’s like. They don’t seem to know either.”

  “From what I hear, it’s pretty swell there, but hard to get into, kinda like an Ivy League school—you know what the Ivy League is, right?”

  Isaac shook his head.

  “The young man stood up from the end of the bed. He walked toward the door and glanced out the small window. He looked left and right, and then walked back toward Isaac. He leaned next to the boy’s bedside, and patted the back of his head. “Don’t change. Don’t ever change, you got me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your loyalty for those who truly love you is a gift. Spread that around.”

  “Okay.”

  “You hold grudges?”

  “No. People have their bad days about stuff. Next day, everything’s okay again.”

  “Good.”

  The man put his thin hand on the boy’s forehead, as if he were checking his temperature and closed his eyes. Isaac felt a little hot. A pleasant fizzle—as if a warm electric eel slithered in and around his vertebrae—traveled throughout his body. A strange electrical current surged through him, all the way to his fingertips and toes.

  “What are you doing to me?” he asked.

  The man took his hand away from Isaac’s forehead, stood straight and said, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For convincing me.”

  “Of what?” Isaac laughed.

  “To do the right thing.”

  “Okay? You’re welcome, I guess.”

  The young man stretched out his arm and offered a horizontal fist. Isaac hesitated at first. It looked like a salute, but eventually gave it a light fist bump.

  “Harder,” the man said.

  Isaac cocked his arm back and smacked the man’s fist.

  “There you go...you look better.”

  “Yeah?” Isaac said. “I do feel a bit better.”

  “Tomorrow, when they discharge you, have your father call the insurance company. Have him ask for Rick Baird. Don’t forget that name now. It’s similar to the lead character’s name from X-Wars—you know, Harold Baird.”

  “Okay,” said the boy.

  “Tell your father to tell Baird to shred the denial letter.”

  “Rick Baird. Denial letter…shred it. Got it.”

  The man walked to the door and again looked out the window. He quickly glanced back at Isaac. “Make sure your dad tells him he’s on notice, too, okay?”

  Isaac nodded.

  The man opened the door, stuck out his head and looked both ways.

  “You never told me your name,” said Isaac.

  The man turned around with a sly grin. “Batman.”

  “Batman? Really?”

  “No, but I like Batman.”

  “Okay,” the boy chuckled.

  He smiled at Isaac and slipped through the door and into the hallway.

  The young man in the black hoodie and the Pumas disappeared.

  So did the pain in young Isaac’s leg.

  Chapter One:

  The Maledicted Transformation

  Lying in bed with his eyes closed, Adam Cagle gripped his white cotton sheets and waited for a reply, a twitch, or the warmth of a finely contoured blonde. Unfortunately for him, the sudden onset of stomach acid that raced up his esophagus was the only thing that greeted him that morning, the same morning where, suddenly and catastrophically, his life as the most successful and handsome fashion editor in the U.S. of A. was about to be cast into chaos.

  It appeared that Adam had been quite neglectful of his role in the grand, multi-dimensional scheme of things. Seduced by flesh and purses, lipstick and heels, and the occasional line of nose candy, he was about to be reminded of his ordained function within the universe, and clearly one that he had not fulfilled.

  He lifted his heavy head from one of his pillows and groaned loudly. The inside of his skull felt as if it were filled with a fistful of marbles, marbles that collectively bashed against the walls of his cranium whenever he’d tilt his head.

  Last flippin’ time you mix wine and fruity spirits.

  His eyes opened slowly. His bedroom appeared blurry, as if he were looking at it through a pair of Vaseline-smeared bifocals. He raised his heavy arms and examined his hands—through the fogged lenses of his eyes, his fingers seemed thick and meaty.

  A loss of control resonated in his voice as he said out loud, “Heather? Heather, are you there?”

  No one responded.

  Clumsily, he scooted out of his bed and staggered through his bedroom, catching himself on one of the solid oak bedposts. He paused and scanned his room. Shadows filtered against the wall as light splashed in from the skylight in the hallway. Adam narrowed his eyes, attempting to decipher the Lascaux-like forms that played with his head.

  With renewed resolve, he took another step toward the bathroom and stumbled again, this time landing against a nightstand where he kept his trusty bottle of potassium chloride, which he used to mask his $5,000-a-month coke habit. He squirted a couple of drops in each eye and blinked. The solution didn’t help clear his mirage-like shimmering vision.

  “Heather, where are you?” he whined while stepping into the bathroom. “My eyes are stinging; I kinda need your help here.”

  Inside Adams’s luxurious bathroom, Heather sat on a small stool by the sink, staring at the floor in deep thought; her naked back faced him as she brushed her long, Fructis-sponsored locks.

  Upon seeing the obscured siren-like form, Adam walked up right behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder so he could gather his balance.

  Eventually, his glazed eyeballs adjusted. He looked down, and to his astonishment, he noticed a swollen pink hand blotched with diabetic rashes, contrasting against her young, bronzed and smooth skin.

  Adam snapped his head toward the large mirror.

  The man he knew was gone.

  Heather peered at Adam in the mirror and screamed. She sprang from her stoo
l and raced toward one of the robes that hung by the bathroom door. “Adam?” she asked, bewildered and shocked, quickly covering her naked body. “Oh my God, what happened to you? Was it the lobster?”

  Adam shook his head as he stared at a pock-marked, slightly hunchbacked, 450-pound version of himself in the mirror. He smoothed over his third chin with his hand, then the belly that overlapped his crotch and finally, the love handles that meshed with his rotund backside.

  “Adam, do you want me to call 911?”

  He didn’t reply, but he instinctively knew what he had done to deserve his sudden bout of cursed bloat.

  Adam stormed out of the bathroom and clambered through the multiple high arches that separated each of his rooms. He made his way to the living room where he stopped in front of the fireplace. With controlled haste, he grabbed the scented logs from the gold-plated cradle and tossed them into the hearth.

  Heather came running into the living room. “Adam, sweetie, what the hell are you doing building a fire? You need to see a doctor immediately.”

  Adam snapped his head toward Heather. “Get out!”

  “What?”

  “Heather, just leave.”

  “But...”

  “Now!” he screamed.

  Heather grabbed the dress and heels she’d willingly shed last night in the living room. Her last pleasant memory of Adam was that of a fit man who owned a six-pack, toned arms, barrel chest, eyes colored like the bluest sea and wavy hair like a wind-spun field of wheat.

  “Adam, you need help,” she shrieked, her eyes watering.

  Adam glared menacingly. “Out!”

  All Heather saw was a stranger who dismissed her concern with callous, brutish indifference. An injured beast had implored for her sudden exit so he could marinate in his own pain.

  Sobbing, she exited the penthouse, slamming the door behind her.