The dog barked once and then took off like a streak of lightening down the street, heading to the alleyway behind the shopping center.
Lowering the leash to the ground, Peterson drew his Glock semi-automatic and started to run after the dog, but the pain in his chest grew more intense. He had to stop for a moment and place his hand over his heart.
“Please God, not now,” he prayed.
Peterson watched the dog running to the back of the shopping center. Then, coughing and wheezing, he began to walk at a fast pace to the alley.
******
Freeman had somehow managed to roll over onto his tortured back and was struggling viciously with the Melvin/creature, trying to keep those claws and teeth from his flesh.
The creature, however, grew tired of the game and nearly knocked Freeman unconscious with the slap of the back of its hand. It then ripped apart the front of the man’s shirt and dragged its wicked talons down the muscled flesh of Freeman’s chest and stomach, opening up the old wound from Vietnam. That was when the creature heard something unexpected. Raising its head, the thing looked toward the front entrance of the alley and saw Betty charging toward it like a demon from hell. It instantly recognized the dog as an enemy and rose from Freeman to its full height to confront the animal in a battle of life and death.
Betty ran toward the creature faster than she’d ever run before and at the last second jumped high into air to bring the attacker of her master down to its knees with the full impact of her weight.
Baring its teeth, the creature swung its strong arm to strike at the animal like it had in the park, but missed the dog. The Melvin/creature swiftly recovered and shifted to a couch as Betty backed away to determine the best mode of attack.
Betty darted in and then swiftly backed up, snapping its powerful jaws at the creature as it swiped at her head. Then, as Betty charged in again, the horrible entity managed to get hold of her head, and they both fell to the pavement, biting and clawing viciously at each other.
Badly wounded and bleeding profusely, Freeman somehow lifted his head and witnessed Betty fighting to save his life. He turned over in desperation and saw the Colt pistol six feet away but knew he’ll never get to it in time. Moving his body to a different position with a groan of pain, he reached inside the left sleeve of his coat and pulled out the survival knife that was strapped to his belt.
As he watched the battle taking place two yards to his left, the creature took Betty’s head and tore her jaws apart, causing the dog to whine in agony. The thing then sunk its teeth into Betty’s neck and ripped out her fur-covered flesh with a wild shake of its head. Betty emitted another whimper as the thing killed her, chewing hungrily on the dog’s body.
“Noooooooo!” Freeman cried out.
As he stared at the feasting monster, the expression on his face changed from one of anguish to one of cold-blooded determination to destroy the monster before him.
Crawling toward the creature’s back a foot at a time, Freeman kept a solid grip on the knife. When he was within three feet of the quai vat, he forced himself to get to his knees and to raise the knife so he could drive it down into the neck of the monstrosity.
”Get out of the way, Ben!” a voice called out.
The sound of two bullets erupting into air filled the night. The Melvin/creature seemed to move with an uncanny amount of speed as it avoided the two pieces of lead that whipped past its hideous face. There was blood and brown fur on its lips as it glared angrily at Peterson.
That’s when Freeman tackled the creature, slicing the edge of the blade across its shoulder where it had been wounded the night before. He cut through the thick coat and sawed at the leathery flesh below. The Melvin/creature turned on Freeman and fought him to the ground. They went at each other like wildcats with the blade flashing in what little light there was.
“Fucking shit,” Lt. Peterson said as he fired another round at the creature.
The quai vat looked apprehensively back at Peterson as another bullet ricocheted off the asphalt close to where it was.
Freeman used that second of distraction to stab the creature in the leg, causing it to wail out.
“That’s for killing my dog, you son-of-a-bitch!” Freeman yelled.
The Melvin/creature gazed at Freeman with its mouth wide open, revealing all of its jagged teeth. The monster clearly wanted to finish off the former tunnel rat once and for all, but another bullet nipped the arm of its trench coat, tearing a hole through the sleeve.
Throwing a quick glance at Peterson, it saw the old man moving towards him with his palm held tightly to his chest. He appeared to be in great pain. The creature looked at Freeman and hissed at him like a petulant child. It then took off down the alley, heading in the opposite direction from Peterson.
The lieutenant fired three more shots at the creature, but missed with each one as the thing zigzagged its way into the darkness beyond and vanished around the far corner.
Freeman was sitting on the asphalt with the bloodied body of his dog held in his lap, crying for his loss and for the bravery of the animal he had loved so much.
As he continued to look at the war hero, Peterson took a long breath to help him relax and to hopefully slow his heart rate down. Holstering the handgun, he took out the cell phone and hit 911 on it.
“This is Lt. Frank Peterson with the METRO Robbery & Homicide Division,” he said, speaking into the phone. He then gave his badge number to the operator. “I need an ambulance ASAP at the shopping center located on the corner of East Tropicana and Topaz Street. I think there’s a Money Tree there, facing Trop.”
As he waited for the emergency operator to come back on the line, it started to sprinkle raindrops. He refused to take his eyes off of Freeman, who was rocking back and forth with Betty in his arms, weeping like a child who’d lost his best friend.
“Yes, operator,” he said into the phone. “I think I’ve had a heart attack, and a friend of mine has been mauled badly. He’s losing blood as I talk to you.”
******
One paramedic worked hard on Freeman as the ambulance rushed through the traffic to the Emergency Room at Sunrise Hospital. A second paramedic was with Peterson. As the homicide detective sat there with his jacket off and his right shirt sleeve rolled up, the paramedic took his blood pressure as he checked for any signs of another impending heart attack.
Laying on a gurney in the back of the vehicle, Freeman had an oxygen mask over his face and white bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach to staunch the flow of blood. The paramedic above him was busy setting up an IV unit to kill any infection inside his body and inserting the needle into his wrist.
“How’s the lieutenant doing?” the first paramedic asked.
“I think the lieutenant needs to smoke less and exercise more,” the second paramedic said as he removed the blood pressure cuff from the officer’s arm.
“I heard that,” Peterson said.
“I hope so,” second paramedic said. “You almost died out there on the street. Who would’ve called in an ambulance for the other guy if you were dead?”
“I’ll quit smoking,” Peterson promised. He rolled down the sleeve of his shirt, grabbed his jacket, and removed the cell phone. “That guy there is one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. I now have to call his wife and tell her he might die tonight.”
“Sorry,” the paramedic said.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Peterson said. “I fucked up.”
He then dialed the telephone number of the Freeman residence.
******
Sheila Freeman was standing in the kitchen, wringing her hands when Lt. Peterson called. It had already been ninety minutes since Ben had left to take Betty for a walk, and she knew something was wrong.
“What’s happened to Ben?” she asked with the phone pressed to her ear.
Sheila almost collapsed to the floor when Peterson told her the story about Betty saving her husband’s life and dying in the process. She f
ought back the tears and got a hold of herself, knowing that Ben would want her to be strong.
“I’ll wait for Officer Dillman to come and get me,” she said. “I don’t think I’m in any kind of condition to drive to the emergency room.”
Sheila hung up the telephone, and then got her coat from the hallway closet and her purse from off the kitchen table. The back doorbell rang as she turned off the light in the living room and hurried out of the kitchen, locking the door behind her. She could see the red-and-blue lights flashing over the top of the patio door as she walked to it. Sheila unlocked the back door and opened it, smiling sadly at the officer standing there at the bottom of the steps in his Khaki uniform.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Freeman,” Office Dillman said.
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
Sheila then looked with terrified eyes as something large with a trench coat ran across the back lane to where the police office was standing. A second later she screamed, staring in shock as the young man’s head flew off his shoulders and landed several feet away with blood pouring out of the ragged stump. As the officer’s body collapsed to the asphalt, the creature swiftly went up the steps and into the patio, eyeing its enemy’s mate as she backed up with her hand placed over her mouth.
Screaming one last time, Sheila watched with horror as death bore down upon her.
The second day of November
Ben Freeman’s was in a hospital bed with the upper section raised as he twisted and turned during a troubled sleep. The room was quiet except for the sounds of distress. An IV gravity bag was hanging from a four-legged pole with its narrow tubing connected to Freeman’s let wrist by a needle. There was equipment set up next to the bed to monitor his heart and other vital signs. On the other side of the bed was a night stand with a metal bedpan resting on top and a cup of water with a straw sticking out of it.
Freeman let out another moan that seemed to be filled with utter anguish.
A nurse in the hallway heard his moaning and entered the room. She saw him tossing in his sleep. Hurrying around the end of the bed, she walked into the bathroom and returned a few seconds later with a warm wet washcloth in her hand. She stepped over to the patient and began to wipe away the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Freeman’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at the nurse in confusion.
“It’s okay, Mr. Freeman,” she said. “You were just having a bad dream.”
“Where am I?” he asked.
The nurse finished wiping his face and said, “You’re at Sunrise Hospital.”
Freeman glanced down at the bandages wrapped tightly around his upper body, remembering the fight he’d had with the creature and the gut-wrenching death of Betty. Then--
“I had a nightmare about my wife being killed. Where is she?”
The nurse stared at him with confusion in her eyes, not sure how to answer the question. That was when Lt. Peterson stepped into the room.
“I’ll take it from here, Miss,” he said, moving over to the bed.
The nurse looked at him, and then left the room.
Sitting down on the bed, Peterson quietly gazed at Freeman with a sense of sadness in his own dark eyes.
“Where’s Sheila?” Freeman asked.
“Let’s wait and talk about this when you’re more rested, Ben,” the lieutenant said. “It was touch and go in the operating room. One of the nurses told me that you actually died twice on the operating table, but somehow the doctor managed to bring you back.”
“Where’s my wife, Frank?”
Peterson nodded, accepting the inevitable. He then prepared himself for what had to be said. He struggled to find the right words to tell the man that his wife had been killed. Finally, he decided on just two.
”She’s dead,” he said.
“What?”
“It happened while we were on our way to the hospital last night,” Peterson continued. “I sent a patrol car to pick Sheila up and bring her here. The creature must have circled around after your encounter with it in the alley. I’m not sure of all the details, but the thing murdered one of my officers, and then your wife in a crazed frenzy. I’m sorry, Ben.”
Freeman’s face seemed to lose all life as he was filled with the devastation of what the detective had told him. Tears began to fill his eyes. After a second or two, the silent cry turned into a wail of loss and emptiness and guilt. Freeman turned over onto his side, ignoring the pain. He faced the empty chair and the window with the morning sun filtering in through a gap in the Venetian blinds. He placed his arm over his face as his body shook from the force of his emotional trauma.
The young nurse unexpectedly reappeared at the sound of Freeman’s crying, rushing into the room to see what was wrong.
Lt. Peterson got off the bed and walked over to her.
“I’m sorry, but I had to give Mr. Freeman some very bad news,” he said, ushering the woman back out into the hallway. He quietly closed the door behind them. “He needs a little privacy to grieve. I hope you understand.”
The nurse looked at him with confusion in her eyes. She finally nodded and stepped back over to the Nurse’s Station. Sitting down with two other nurses, she watched Lt. Peterson as he settled against the wall in the hallway with a hand over his own eyes.
After a couple of seconds had past, It seemed to her that the police officer was crying, too.
******
Lt. Peterson silently cried for a few minutes, allowing his shame and guilt to overwhelm him with their intensity. He blamed himself for Sheila and Betty’s death. If he had done things differently, they would still be alive and Ben wouldn’t be in the hospital.
“Sir, would you like something to help you to relax?” the nurse asked.
Removing his hand from his face, Peterson wiped his eyes and shook his head at the young woman.
“No, thank you,” he said, offering her a sad smile.
Feeling a nicotine fit coming on, he checked his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. It took Peterson a couple of seconds to realize he’d thrown them away during the night, not wanting to take a chance on another heart attack. Besides, the entire hospital was a no smoking zone. Letting out a weathered sigh, he stayed against the wall and listened to the sobs coming from inside the room.
He continued to stand there, glancing casually around, and allowing his mind to wander. Then, a thought hit him like a sucker punch to the gut and, like Freeman, he suddenly knew what needed to be done and how to do it. He took out his cell phone and pressed the number for the Homicide Division at METRO. When he had the operator on the line, he asked to be connected to Detective Dwayne Matthews.
“It’s Frank,” Peterson said when Matthews answered. “Listen, I need you to call the company Mike Malloy works for in San Diego. Tell them to contact him wherever he’s at and to let the man know his sister was murdered last night. Give them my name and cell phone number so Malloy can get in touch when he arrives in town.”
Peterson listened as Matthews threw in his two cents worth of advice. The detective wanted to know if he was sure about this. Being an ex-Green Beret, Malloy just blow up half the city in trying to find the creature who murdered his sister.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Peterson said, disconnecting the call.
The third day in November
Ben Freeman had cried himself to sleep the previous day and had slept through the night and into the following morning. When he awoke, the sun was once again shining through the Venetian blinds. The only difference between yesterday and today was the fact that Lt. Peterson was sitting in the chair next to the window, reading The Las Vegas Review Journal.
“My mouth is dry,” Freeman said. “Can I please have some water?”
The sound of Freeman’s voice startled the police officer. He glanced over the top of the newspaper and saw the man staring at him with bloodshot eyes. Folding the paper, he placed it on the floor to the side of the chair. He took off his reading glasses as he stood up and stuck them insi
de the front pocket of his shirt. Walking over to where a bucket of ice was setting, Peterson put a couple of ice cubes into the plastic cup with the straw sticking out of it, and then filled the cup up with water.
“Considering everything that’s happen,” Peterson said as he stepped over to Freeman and placed the straw to his dried lips, “how do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Freeman stated.
He then began to suck greedily on the straw until Peterson pulled it away.
“You’re drinking too fast,” Peterson said. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” Peterson said. He filled the cup again and gave it to the patient. “If we’re going to kill this thing, I need you operating at a hundred percent capacity. This creature does not take prisoners. It’s kill or be killed.”
A Final Taste of Blood Page 6