The Hunger

by Dandridge Doug

  Lucinda got back into the car and backed it across the roof until the bumper tapped the far guardrail. She noted with satisfaction that the gas tank was three quarters full. She then got out of the car and pulled Jake’s body back into the driver’s seat, belting him in so he wouldn’t go anywhere. Lucinda then got back into the passenger’s seat and put her foot over the gas pedal. Shifting the car into gear, she grabbed the wheel and slammed her foot down on the gas. The car stood still for a moment as its tires squealed and sent up a cloud of smoke. Then it took off like a shot across the roof of the garage.

  Lucinda shifted the gears twice as the car sped toward the far guardrail. She braced her arms against the wheel and the dash. The Maserati plowed into the concrete guardrail at seventy miles an hour. The front of the car crumpled in as it slowed to almost a stop in a fraction of a second. But it kept going forward as the momentum shattered the concrete and blasted through.

  The vampire felt the concussion through her arms, watching as the airbags erupted from their compartments and race the shattering windshield into the car. Then the ruined automobile was hanging in space as it looped out and fell toward the street. Lucinda triggered the change at that moment, her corporal form turning to mist that streamed out of the car and into the air. She drifted down the street as the car struck its shattered front onto the hard asphalt. The car crushed under the momentum, then exploded in a ball of fire as the fuel system sparked and spread immediately to the gas tank.

  That’s one I don’t have to worry about, she thought as she coalesced to human form. There would barely be enough left to bury, closed casket of course. He would not rise again.

  Lucinda raised her arms to her side and changed again, soaring into the sky as a bat. She had accomplished much tonight, killing someone close to her primary target, a man who himself deserved death. And she had fed her hunger while not harming the innocent, either tonight or in the future when the monster would have awoken from the corpse she had left behind. Fire instead purged the body of her taint.

  * * *

  “I don’t think she’s gonna show,” said Tashawn, looking back at Marcus as he leaned on the back of the seat. Marvin struggled in the driver’s seat to stay awake in the early morning hour.

  “Of course she won’t show tonight,” said Marcus, glaring back at the big man and making Tashawn lean back a little. “There were too many hunters here tonight. She was scared off and went for other prey.”

  “Then why the fuck are we here, man,” cried Tashawn. “We could have been chilling back at the crib.”

  Marcus grabbed Tashawn’s forearm in an iron grip, squeezing hard enough to bring a grimace to the big man’s face.

  “You are now a predator, my friend,” said Marcus, bringing his face close to Tashawn’s. “You need to develop the patience of a predator. Not all of your gifts are fully developed yet. As you age you will get stronger, swifter, and your other abilities will grow. That takes time. Time you may not have if you give me your version of attitude.”

  Marcus felt the bone crack under his hand as Tashawn gasped in pain. Marcus released the grip and Tashawn jerked his arm back, rubbing where the ancient vampire had crushed the bone.

  “You didn’t think you could be hurt,” said Marcus, grinning like a feral wolf. Tashawn looked sheepishly back as he rubbed his arm, and then the look turned to surprise.

  “Yes,” said Marcus, nodding his head. “We can hurt each other. Even kill each other. I have killed many vampires in my day. But we also heal quickly from the few things that can injure us if they don’t kill us.”

  Marvin was now fully awake in the driver’s seat, staring from face to face with terrified eyes. Marcus gave Marvin a quick smile as he gazed into the minion’s eyes, seeing the face slack as calm came over it.

  “Drive us back to the, what did my friend call it? The crib. What a curious term. A home for babies.”

  Marvin started the car and pulled out into the empty street, while the vampire Lord laughed out loud in the back seat.

  * * *

  “I don’t think she’s going to show tonight people,” said DeFalco over the radio.

  “No shit,” came back the voice of Jamal Smith. “What the fuck gave you that idea?”

  “I knew this was a stupid fucking idea,” said Sanchez, glaring at the FBI Agent from the patrol car’s driver’s seat. “A waste of fucking time.”

  “I could have been trying to make time with Justine,” came Lowry over the radio.

  “Fuck you, you Mick mother fucker,” came DeBarry’s reply.

  “Can it people,” ordered Lieutenant Smith. “What do you want to do now, Agent DeFalco?”

  “I guess you could go work that burning over at the Club Astropolis,” said DeFalco.

  “Mother fucker,” yelled Smith into the radio. “We needed to be there, instead of out here in nowhere land. Instead Wilson probably fucked it up.”

  “Water under the bridge, Lieutenant,” said DeFalco. “People die every night. Especially drug dealing biker scumbags. She’s much more important to us, to the country, and to the mother fucking world.” DeFalco’s Ivy League accent vanished as his temper rose, and he was now pure Brooklyn. He struggled for a moment to get himself under control before getting back on the radio.

  “Cut the uniforms loose, Smith,” he said in a calm voice. “We’ll meet back at your office for a debrief. DeFalco out.”

  “Pull up to that asshole,” ordered DeFalco to Sanchez, pointing to where O’Connor still kept his silent vigil. “I want to talk to him.”

  DeFalco leaned out the window as the car came up beside the priest. O’Connor looked up at the car, the beads of a Rosary in his hands. He finished mouthing the words of a prayer as the unmarked police car stopped.

  “Kind of a wasted night, eh, father?” asked DeFalco, smiling at the priest.

  “No night is wasted in the service of the lord,” said the priest, shaking his head. “She may not have come tonight. But she will be drawn to this place. If not this night, then another.”

  “I think she was going to come here tonight, Father,” said DeFalco. “I think all of the activity scared her off.”

  “My thought exactly, Agent DeFalco,” agreed the priest. “Perhaps if there was not so much police activity here tonight she would have come.”

  “I’m thinking more likely that she sensed that you were here,” said the FBI Agent. “You’re the one carrying around the holy items. You’re the one praying up a storm out here on the city street. She’s the devil’s spawn, and you know it. And the devil’s spawn can feel when the holy is near.”

  O’Connor scowled back at the agent for a moment, pushing his rosary beads back into his pocket. He crossed his arms over his chest and thrust his chin out.

  “You can act like a little child if you want,” said the DeFalco, waving a hand of dismissal at the priest. “But I want you to be conspicuous in your absence tomorrow night. And every night after. Or I will arrest you ass and make sure you spend a few nights in the County Lockup.”

  “You don’t have the right to arrest a citizen who is doing nothing wrong,” argued O’Connor.

  “Obstruction of Justice,” said DeFalco, ticking off the points on his fingers. “Disobeying the orders of a Law Enforcement Officer. Destruction of evidence at a crime scene. And that’s just the start.”

  “You cannot make any of those stick,” said the red faced priest. “The Church…”

  “Yeah,” interrupted DeFalco, pointing his finger at the chest of the priest. “Mother Church will get you out of jail, even if the Papal Ambassador has to come to your rescue. But you will still spend time in lockup. And if you get out and come back here I will just lock you up again. Am I understood, Father.”

  O’Connor continued to glare back, his face red with anger.

  “I’ll take that as an affirmative,” said DeFalco, turning away from the window and looking ahead. “Take us back to the station, Sanchez.”

  The car moved off do
wn the road. DeFalco looked back in the side view mirror, staring at the priest, standing on the side of the road with his head down.

  * * *

  The station house was a buzz of activity as Jamal Smith walked in, heading for his office.

  “I heard your stake out was a bust,” said a young female detective, trying to catch him.

  “Yeah,” growled Smith. “Mother Fucker wasted my whole night.” Smith stopped for a moment and looked down at the attractive black woman. “You’re Tanesha Washington?”

  “Yes sir,” she admitted, offering her hand. “Captain Richards wanted me to fill you in on what happened tonight while you were off the scope.”

  “Off the scope,” said Smith with a smile. “That sounds kind of military. And I know that asshole Richards was never in the military.”

  “Airforce,” said Washington. “I was a radar tech for three years, before I took my degree in Forensics from FAMU.”

  “I was a Marine myself,” said Smith. “Didn’t have tech on my name. I was a grunt, plain and simple. And my school was the street.”

  “I know sir,” said Washington. “But times have changed.”

  Smith grimaced as he opened the glass windowed door to his office and gestured the female detective in ahead of him. He closed the door behind him and indicated a chair for her as he walked behind his desk and plopped his butt into the comfort of his own well broken in seat.

  “Shoot,” he ordered. “Tell me what happened,” he continued, seeing the confusion on her face. She opened a notepad and spent a couple of seconds going over what was written on it.

  “Three bikers were found dead in the Club Astropolis,” she said, running a finger across the page. “Half the club burned down before the Fire Department got it out. But all of the victims were badly burned. Almost incinerated.”

  “So we have an accidental fire set by some stoned out scumbags,” said Smith.

  “That would be the first take on it sir,” said Washington. “But the Fire Marshal stated that the residue of gasoline was found on the clothing of the deceased, what little of it was left.”

  “So they got careless with the gas.”

  “And one of the deceased had a crushed skull. The blunt object used to commit the murder was found in the alley behind the bar. It had blood and brain matter on it.”

  “Damn,” said Smith. “So we do have a homicide. Did the other stone heads also have trauma on them.”

  “No sir,” said the detective. “But they were lying in a pile, with the brain smashed one in the center.”

  “So a triple homicide,” said Smith, slapping his desk. He looked at the detective under hooded eyes, wondering how to put the next question.

  “Were any of them found light some of their, well, blood?”

  “No way to tell sir,” said the detective. “They were too badly burned to make any kind of determination.”

  Washington looked down at her pad for a moment and looked back up with a frown.

  “You really don’t believe you’re looking for a vampire, do you Lieutenant?”

  “Jesus Christ,” cried the Lieutenant. “Does everyone in the fucking world know about that?”

  “Word gets around, sir,” said the detective. “Most of the division thinks you’re crazy.”

  “And what do you think, Detective Washington?” asked Smith, steepling his hands in front of him on the desk.

  “I’ve seen some strange things myself,” she said in a hushed voice. “My uncle down in Miami was into Santa Ria. Some other relatives were Voodoo Priestesses. So I’m a little more open minded them most.”

  “Just so you don’t think I’m crazy, Washington,” said Smith. “Even though sometimes I think I am sometimes, to go along with this shit.”

  “Well, you’re going to love this one, Lieutenant,” she said with a smile.

  “Why do I always hate it when people say that,” he said with a grimace.

  “Because you know some strange shit is coming,” said the Detective with a laugh. “Well, they found the Maserati of one Jacob Padillas on the street by a ten story parking garage. Jacob was in the car, dead.”

  “Missing blood?”

  “Hard to tell, sir,” said Washington. “The car fell from the top of the garage and impacted the street below, blowing up and almost completely incinerating the body. Remains were identified by the engraved Rolex on his wrist. First indications were of a suicide.”

  “And what are the indications for now?”

  “Well, Jacob was seen leaving the Club Astropolis in the company of a stunning redhead,” said Washington. “Maybe she broke his heart and he couldn’t handle it. But from what I heard, Jacob was the heart breaker, not the breakie.”

  “Jacob Padillas,” grunted Smith. “The son of George Padillas?”

  “Yes sir,” said Washington. “The only legitimate son of the man whose house you were at tonight.”

  “Stunning redhead,” repeated Smith. “Son of a bitch. She couldn’t get to the father, so she settled on the son.”

  “If I were to believe in vampires, Lieutenant,” said the young detective. “And I’m not saying that I do. I think that would be a very good assumption.”

  “And who worked the son’s death?” asked Smith.

  “I did, sir,” answered the detective with a smile. “I was the first investigator on the scene.”

  “How’d you like to join my team?” asked Smith with a smile. “And help us track down things that go bump in the night?”

  “I’d love to Lieutenant,” said the young detective. “If you can use a crazy woman on your team.”

  “No crazier than the rest of us,” said Smith, frowning as he watched DeFalco walked toward his door. “You’re on the team. I have a talk with Richards to get you transferred.”

  “Thank you, sir,” beamed the young woman. “I’ve always wanted to work with you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Smith in a quiet voice as DeFlaco reached for the doorknob. “Wait till you meet the head mother fucker before you make that decision.”

  Chapter 5

  “Monsignor O’Connor?”

  O’Connor looked up from the magazine he had been looking at in the waiting room of the Padillas Shipping office. He saw a man with haunted eyes standing before him, a man whose face had been on the cover of the magazine the priest put down as he came to his feet.

  “John O’Connor,” answered the priest as he reached a hand out to the man. He looked down on the much shorter man as they clasped hands. George Padillas was a stocky man, a man who looked like he spent considerable time each week in the gym, and even more time on one of his yachts

  “George Padillas. I’m glad you came, Father,” said Padillas, leading the priest back through the door to a hallway.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time, Mr. Padillas,” said O’Connor. “You have my condolences on your son’s death.”

  Padillas remained silent as he led the priest to a heavy, carved wood door and opened it onto a plush office. He gestured toward a comfortable chair set around a low round table.

  “Drink, Father?” asked the man, moving to a large bar set against the wall.

  “I’ll take coffee if you have it,” said the Priest. “I was up most of the night, and am a little off my feet.”

  “Trying to find a vampire,” said Padillas as he poured coffee into a cup. “I talked with the Bishop, who thinks you are insane. But you also have the blessings of the Pope.” Padillas made the sign of the cross as he mentioned the papal authority, then handed the cup of coffee to the Priest.

  “I’ll reserve judgment on your sanity myself,” said Padillas, pouring a triple shot of bourbon into a glass. Padillas looked the priest over for a moment, then took one of the other seats around the table.

  “I’ll get straight to the point, Monsignor,” said Padillas after taking a large swallow of the drink. “Jacob was a waste of body mass. But I loved him anyway. He was my son. And he will be buried tomorrow in a closed c
asket ceremony at St. Agnes’. His mother is devastated.”

  “I think your son was killed by a vampire,” said O’Connor, putting his cup back on the table. “I think the vampire was after you, but was scared off.”

  “By all the police activity around my house,” said Padillas. “Yeah, I knew they were out there, but I wasn’t sure why. So the police believed someone was trying to get me.”

  Padillas took another large swallow of bourbon before looking at the priest. “But why would she want to kill me? I’m just a simple businessman. And there are so many easier targets out on the streets.”

  “This vampire is kind of picky about her victims,” said the Priest. “And I don’t think you are quite the simple businessman you try to portray. But that is between you and the almighty. Her destruction is my goal. My only goal at this time in my life.”

  “So you think she will still be coming to get me?” Asked Padillas, getting up to walk back to the bar and pour another drink. “I want her to come and get me, Father. Lord help me I want to cut her heart out and feed it to her as I watch the life leave her eyes.”

  Padillas up ended the second drink and chugged it down. He slammed the glass on the bar, breaking it, then came back to the table. He showed no effects of the alcohol.

  Running on adrenaline, thought O’Connor. And still not realizing what he is dealing with.

  “I’m here to help, Mr. Padillas,” said the priest, looking into the man’s eyes as tears welled up in them. “I’m here to destroy the one who has brought you so much pain.”

  “I’m sure I can handle myself, Monsignor,” said the man, choking back his tears as he shook his head. “I have the firepower to take her out if she dares to come against me.”

  “That’s what Mr. Giovani thought,” said O’Connor, shaking his head. “And she killed him, then went through his security like it didn’t exist. Are you sure you don’t want my help? She is Satan’s Spawn, Mr. Padillas. And who better to confront the spawn of Satan than a servant of God?”