The Hunger

by Dandridge Doug

  Marcus started walking down the street, moving toward the shadows under a tree, in a lawn far from a street light. He heard the door to the car open, then close, and knew that the big youngling was following him. The car started up behind him and pulled away with a squeal of tires.

  Moments later a pair of bats lifted from out of the shadows. Turning in the air above the block they headed toward the bay and the docks. To where people prowled the night who would not be missed in polite society.

  * * *

  “I’ve seen that car before,” said Tanesha Washington as they drove down Padillas’s street, about five blocks from the house.

  “That blue Monte Carlo?” said DeFalco, turning to follow the car as it passed, noting the black man in the driver’s seat. “With the Pennsylvania license plates. That drove through this very neighborhood a couple of nights a ago with three men on board.”

  “That’s the one,” said Washington, trying to look over his shoulder as she drove the unmarked Impala interceptor.

  “Why don’t we have a talk with the driver,” suggested DeFalco. “But let’s follow him first and see where he’s going.”

  Tanesha Washington pulled the car quickly into a driveway and back out on the street, accelerating after the Monte Carlo. When she got within a hundred yards of it she slowed and stayed on its tail, using her skills as an ex-patrolman to keep it in sight without getting close enough for the driver to notice her.

  “Why don’t you run his tag for me,” asked Washington, flipping her badge holder at the FBI Agent. “Use my ID if you would.”

  DeFalco got on the radio and called dispatch while Washington followed the car. As DeFalco put the radio handset back on the dash the compact printer on the passenger’s side started spitting out some paper. As the first sheet was finished DeFalco ripped it out of the machine and started to read. He grunted once as his eyes followed the page.

  “What’s so interesting?” said Washington, keeping her eyes locked onto the car to her front, looking around the vehicle that had pulled between them. The Monte Carlo pulled onto the broad, six-lane expanse of Kennedy Boulevard, heading toward East to the downtown section of town.

  “Our boy definitely has a record,” said DeFalco, glancing over at Washington. “Says here that Mr. Marvin Jackson, thirty-one year old black male, has a record as long as my arm.”

  “Lovely,” said Washington, pulling around a slow moving car to keep the chevy in sight. “What are we talking about?”

  “Possession and sale of narcotics,” said DeFalco, staring intently at the paper. “Grand theft. Nothing violent except for the beating of a couple of prostitutes he ran.”

  The FBI agent pulled the next sheet of paper off the machine after he tossed the first into the back seat.

  “Hum,” he grunted as he looked at the fresh sheet. “Says here he was the running boy of one Tashawn Kent.”

  “That name sounds familiar,” said Tanesha, glancing from the FBI agent to the road and back. “Where have I heard it before?”

  “Boy led the NFL in sacks his second season in,” said DeFalco. “He had strength, speed and instincts. Until he tore his ACL and lost his position on the team in his fourth season.”

  “I thought they could fix those things,” said Washington.

  “Most times they can,” agreed DeFalco. “But in his case it was too much for them to totally repair, and he was on his butt the next year. That’s when his trouble started.”

  “And what are we talking about here?”

  “He became the head man on the west side of Philly,” said DeFalco. “Drugs, prostitution, you name it. Was his own leg breaker as well. A five hundred and seventy pound bench press can break a lot of legs. He was the terror of the city.”

  “All that on Mr. Jackson’s rap sheet?” asked Washington, accelerating to get around a bus. “Or you reciting that from rote memory.”

  “Guilty,” said DeFalco with a chuckle. “Tashawn was the case that started it all. We were on a surveillance of his turf when our girl took him out. Fangs in the neck, blood sucked out of his body, the whole mess.”

  “And Marvin’s trying to get revenge for his friend,” guessed Washington. “That’s pretty noble for drug dealing scum of the Earth.”

  “Tashawn’s not dead,” said DeFalco, looking over at Washington.

  “I thought you said the man’s blood was drained from his body,” she asked. “What part did I miss?”

  “I was on close surveillance that night,” said DeFalco, his voice distant. “I saw him go into an alley with a gorgeous redhead. Figured he was going to get his dick sucked for some kind of consideration. Excuse the language.”

  “I’m a big girl,” said Washington with a laugh. “Heard all the dirty words and everything. Even participated in a few of them.”

  “OK,” said DeFalco. “Point taken. Well, I heard yelling and cursing, followed by a man roaring in pain. So I grabbed a flashlight and high tailed it into the alley.”

  DeFalco looked back out the window, his voice going cold again.

  “I’ll never forget that sight till the day I die,” he said. “Maybe even after I die. There was this huge hulk of a man lying on the hard concrete of the alley, one of his legs bent at an unnatural angle. And this redhead was leaning over him, holding him down while he struggled to get up. But he couldn’t get up. This five hundred bench pressing monster could not move this petite woman off of him.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “I shined the flashlight on her and screamed for her to stop and move away from Tashawn,” said DeFalco, looking back at Washington with haunted eyes. “She ignored me for a moment, as Tashawn stopped struggling. Then she stood up and turned toward me. Her red eyes glared in the light I was shining on her. There was blood dripping down her chin. And I felt those eyes boring into me, sapping my will. I never felt so helpless in my entire life.”

  DaFalco stopped for a moment, putting his face in his hands. He looked up as the car turned a corner and Washington followed the Monte Carlo. He saw the woman glance over at him, a concerned look on her face.

  “Are you OK?” she asked in a quiet voice, turning her attention back to the highway and the pursuit.

  “As OK as anyone could be,” he replied, shaking his head. “After seeing what I’ve seen.”

  “What happened?”

  “I broke her spell,” he said in a hushed voice. “I don’t know how I did it. It was the hardest thing I ever did. I wanted to fall into those eyes and do whatever she wanted me to do. But somehow I summoned the strength to break away.”

  DeFalco took a deep breath as he steadied himself, pulling a flask from his jacket pocket, twisting off the top and taking a large swig. He capped the flash and thrust it back into his jacket.

  “I pulled my gun out,” he continued. “I really don’t know why I didn’t have it out in the first place. She turned back to Tashawn and pulled a large knife from somewhere. So I raised my pistol in a two handed grip, just like I had been taught at Quantico. And I fired; over and over again, center mass. And I heard the bullets hit the brick wall behind her, saw the sparks fly as they struck. And it didn’t faze her in the least. She didn’t even bleed where the bullets had hit her. Then I heard the sirens, as the rest of the team responded to the shots.”

  DeFalco’s face turned white for a moment, as he drew in breath.

  “She looked at me for a moment, and then was in my face, her eyes boring into mine. I’d never even seen her move, she was so fast. I thought I was dead. But she shook her head and released me. Then scrambled up a wall like a spider.”

  “So she didn’t take Tashawn’s head?” asked Washington. “And she didn’t hurt you? Why?”

  “I really don’t know,” answered DeFalco. “I’ve asked myself that question over and over again, and can’t really come up with a good answer.”

  “And Tashawn rose again,” said Washington, “three days later.”

  “I didn’t know,” cried DeFalco, sm
acking one hand into the other. “I couldn’t have known. I found his empty grave some days after he dug his way out. And he was back on the street, as an undead killer.”

  “Like you said,” agreed Washington as she made another turn after the car she was following. “You didn’t know. So you can’t blame yourself.”

  “I have blamed myself every day since I let it happen,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I have blamed her. And chased her across the Eastern Seaboard.”

  “And what if we run into Tashawn tonight?” asked Washington. “He’ll be even stronger now. And bulletproof.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, ma’am,” said DeFalco, patting his jacket and the gun underneath. “I’m much better prepared now. If he gets in our way he will be going down. Permanently.”

  “He’s turning into a hotel,” said Washington, turning the wheel to follow. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Wait until he pulls into a parking space in front of his room,” ordered DeFalco. “Then run the siren and lights.”

  “OK,” said Washington, closing behind the Monte Carlo as it turned between the rows of rooms. The Monte Carlo pulled into an empty space among empty spaces. The engine cut off and the lights of the car went out. Washington hit the alert switch as she pulled the unmarked car to block the Chevy. The blue dash strobe flashed as the siren howled.

  The man in the car struggled with the driver’s side door for a moment. When it didn’t move he slid over to the passenger side and threw open the door.

  Washington had run from the unmarked car, pulling her gun from her waist holster and pointing it at the driver’s side of the car. DeFalco had his gun out and in Jackson’s face as the black man staggered to a stop in a crouch, coming out of the seat with one hand still on the door frame.

  “Going somewhere, Jackson?” said DeFalco, waving his .40 cal auto in the man’s face.

  “What you want, man?” whined Marvin Jackson, his eyes darting around as he looked for a way out.

  Tanesha walked around the front of the car, aiming her 9mm at the suspect. Seeing Jackson was covered, DeFalco slipped his own pistol back into the shoulder holster and grabbed the man by one of his shoulders.

  “You know the drill,” yelled DeFalco, as he pulled the man out of the car, spun him around, and slammed him back into the car. Jackson got his arms out barely in time to keep his face from striking the metal. DeFalco kicked the suspect’s feet apart, then started to frisk him from the shoulders down.

  “What have we here,” said DeFalco as he felt the large metal object in Jackson’s waistband. The FBI Agent pulled a Glock out from under Jackson’s shirt, and held it up beside the man’s head.

  “And I bet you don’t have a concealed carry permit either, huh Jackson?”

  “I got one,” said Jackson, nodding his head.

  “State of Pennsylvania?” asked DeFalco. Jackson nodded his head again. “I’m not sure Florida has a reciprocal agreement with Pennsylvania.”

  "They sure do," said Jackson. "You can look it up on the net."

  "Maybe later."

  DeFalco pulled one of Marvin Jackson’s hands down behind his back and slapped a handcuff on it. It was a little bit more of a struggle to get the second one down, but a clop on the side of the head convinced Marvin to let DeFalco pull the other hand down and link it into the cuffs.

  “Who the fuck are you?” whined Jackson, as strong hands spun him around and pushed his back against the car.

  “Oh yeah,” said DeFalco, staring into the man’s eyes. “I forgot that bit of the drill.” Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out his credential holder and flipped it open in Jackson’s face. “Agent Jeffrey DeFalco of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And you are under arrest.”

  “What for?” asked Jackson, looking over at the black woman who had lowered her pistol. But she still held it at the ready pointed toward the ground.

  “Possession of a concealed weapon to start with,” said DeFalco, as he brought his face up close to the man’s. “I don't think Florida gives reciprocals to convicted felons. And a warrant for questioning concerning a murder or two up in Philadelphia. Let’s say we go to your room and you can answer a couple of questions.”

  “I want my lawyer,” whined the man as DeFalco removed the hotel room key from Jackson’s pocket.

  “I really don’t have time for you to speak to an attorney,” said DeFalco, grabbing the man’s jacket and steering him away from the car. Washington moved to stand in his way.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “He asked for an attorney and we have to provide one. And you didn’t read him his rights.”

  “Detective Washington,” said DeFalco through clenched teeth. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You know what we’re dealing with. I couldn’t give a fuck less if what he says is admissible in court or not. As long as he tells me what I need to know to catch a vampire.”

  Washington looked at the two for a moment, then stepped aside, pushing her gun back into her waistband holster.

  “Vampires,” said Jackson, on the verge of a hysterical laugh. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “I just may be,” whispered DeFalco into Jackson’s ear. “So maybe you better go ahead and tell me everything you know.”

  DeFalco pushed the man along, toward the room number that was on the key.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Washington.

  “Park the car and come over here to the room door,” said DeFalco. “I’ll wait for your before we go in.”

  Washington got into the unmarked car, flipped off the strobe light, and started it up. DeFalco pushed Marvin Jackson up against the wall and held him there while he waited for the detective to park. Within a few moments Washington was hurrying toward him.

  “You take charge of the suspect,” ordered DeFalco, releasing his hold on Jackson and pulling his gun out of its holster. “I’ll go in first and cover the room.”

  Washington gave him a quizzical look as she grabbed the back of Jackson’s jacket.

  “I have something special in here,” said DeFalco, waving his gun. “It’ll make Tashawn sorry he showed his ugly face.”

  “Tashawn’s dead, motherfucker,” said Marvin Jackson, as Detective Washington pulled him away from the wall.

  DeFalco put the key in the door and turned the lock. Holding his gun at the ready he pushed the door open hard as he brought the pistol down into a two handed hold to cover the room.

  DeFalco coughed as the stench of the room hit him in the face. It smelled of Earth, decay and death. The iron smell of dried blood competed with the stronger odors. DeFalco moved cautiously into the room, tracking with his gun as he moved his eyes. There was an unmade bed close to the door, and a dresser with a TV sitting on it. A small table and some chairs were placed close to the heavily curtained window.

  DeFalco walked past the bed, his gun moving to cover the other side. His eyes grew wide as he saw the make shift coffin on the floor. Made from a pair of refrigerator boxes stapled and taped together, it had a cardboard lid that was fitted over the top. DeFalco kept the gun trained on the box as he kicked at the top, lifting it enough to see inside. When nothing appeared to be in the box he pushed the top completely off and found himself staring down into a thin layer of soil.

  “He’s been here,” said DeFalco over his shoulder. “But he’s not here now. Bring him in.”

  Washington pushed Jackson into the room and closed the door behind her as DeFalco checked out the bathroom. He came out a moment later, pushing his gun back into its holster.

  “It’s clear,” he said to Washington, pointing at one of the chairs. “Take a seat Mr. Jackson. I think we have some business to discuss.”

  Tanesha pushed Marvin Jackson into one of the chairs, then walked around the bed to look at the homemade cardboard coffin. She put her hand over her mouth as the odor hit her.

  “Yeah,” said DeFalco, sitting on the bed. “It had that effect on me too.”

  “Now Marvi
n,” said the Agent, turning toward the man in the chair. “What do you say we discuss Tashawn, or whatever he calls himself these days?”

  “I want to talk to a lawyer,” yelled the man, pulling at the handcuffs behind his back.

  “I don’t really think a trial is in your immediate future,” said DeFalco, moving over so Washington could have sitting room on the same side of the bed. “You think I’m going before a judge with you to talk about a vampire?”

  “Then let me go,” said Marvin, a pleading look on his face. As DeFalco shook his head the man’s face took on the appearance of a wild animal’s as he jerked the cuffs and started to stand.

  DeFalco was off the bed in an instant, pushing the man back into the chair.

  “You don’t know what he’s capable of,” said Marvin, glaring up at the FBI Agent.

  “What if I tell you I’ll get you Government protection?” said DeFalco, looking down on the man.

  “You think you can protect me from him?” said Jackson, his voice frantic. “Or that other bastard who’s leading him around?”

  “Now that’s the stuff I want to hear, Marvin,” said DeFalco, leaning over the man to go nose to nose. “Tell me about Tashawn. And this other bastard you’re talking about.”

  “Fuck you, man,” yelled Jackson, “and your fucking bitch too.”

  DeFalco stood straight as he pulled his pistol back out of his holster. He raised it into the air, then swung it down hard on Jackson’s left shoulder. He controlled the force he struck with, not wanting to break anything, just to cause pain. The grunt from the man told him that he had achieved his goal.

  “It’s going to be a long fucking night, Marvin,” said DeFalco, looking at his watch. “It’s only eleven right now. We have a long time till dawn.”

  “He’s going to kill you, man,” shouted Jackson, tears in his eyes. “He’s going to kill you, her and probably me.”

  “I'm counting on him coming to try,” said DeFalco, moving back to the bed and sitting down. “I’m counting on it.”