Blood City: Book Two Of The Monster Keeper Series

by Jeff Seats

  From the open door, three people emerged and grouped around the cart.

  “You’ll have to share tonight my family,” Vladimir announced apologetically.

  Bunco knew what was going to happen next and he inched his way up the tunnel to where he thought Poe was standing. As he did so, he heard a voice coming from the bed of the cart. Then the man’s head popped up over the side.

  “Hey,” he said, voice weak and groggy. “Where the hell am I —”

  Vladimir’s three companions rushed the man as he sat up.

  “Wait! What? . . . Stop! STOP!” The man’s screams echoed down the hard surface of the masonry-lined tunnel as he was pulled out of the cart and onto the ground where the feast commenced.

  The lantern swung like a pendulum, back and forth, washing one side of the tunnel wall with light and then the other, briefly illuminating the horrid scene—claws and fangs tearing into the man—then hiding the blood by the passing shadow only to be exposed again on the return swing lighting the bloody gore one more time.

  Poe reached out and grabbed Bunco by the shoulder when he had gotten close enough, and the two fled as far away from the carnage into the black hole of the tunnel as their feet would take them.

  Vladimir called out after Bunco. “The next time when I ask for two . . ..” Then he turned and lovingly watched his family enjoy their meal.

  “Didn’t you get the money?” Poe asked.

  Bunco nudged his friend in the arm with his elbow, “He always pays in advance.”

  SAUNDERS REACHED OVER to the center console of the car Craig had signed out from the Mountain Home motor pool. “I don’t know which bothers me more, that internet radio quack Dr. Gwen that you subject me to in the control room or this—” He pushed the eject button, and a CD slipped out of the slot. “ —older than dirt music.”

  “A. She is not a quack. Her callers are the weird ones. And, B, this here is Twangy Duane Eddy. Without Eddy, there’d be no Hendrix. This is his debut album, 1958, and still my favorite.” Craig showed the CD cover to his pal. The illustration showed Duane Eddy sitting on a guitar case waiting for a ride. “Have ‘Twangy’ Guitar, Will Travel. A classic and you know the title plays off that TV western, Have—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Have Gun, Will Travel. Yes, I know. God, how I know.”

  “Fuck you, you ass-hole.”

  “Oh, now there’s the educated adult in you coming out.”

  Craig replaced the CD lovingly back into its jewel case.

  “Next time no CD player in the car.” Saunders half mumbled.

  “Then you check the car out next time, and you can pick the options.”

  Saunders gave Craig a sneer then opened up a topographical map. After studying it, he stabbed his finger at a spot on the green printed page. “According to what I’ve read we’ll find our hold-out up Fisher Creek somewhere between here and an abandoned mine upstream a few miles. That-a-way.” He pointed out the left side of the car.

  “Just where along this creek, between here and the mine, are we going to find it?”

  “And as I just said, that I do not know, but the mine makes the most logical location for her lair, so I suggest we get to hotfooting it. We’ve got a few hours before sunset.” The best time to catch a rogue vampire was just after sunset when it first emerged from its lair. The vamp would still be transitioning from sleep to wakefulness, and it had been discovered that that was the best time to convince them to come to the reservation. CSC protocol, based upon the treaty, was to give the vampire the option. No outright killing them while in slumber, hiding away from the deathly rays of sunlight; as was done in the vampire hunting days of yore. These rigid rules made the hunt a bit more challenging if not altogether dangerous for field agents. It meant approaching a vampire at night when it was out and in its element.

  The two exited the car and went back to the trunk. Craig could tell that something other than his choice of music was playing through his friend’s mind as Saunders slowly, deliberately, opened the lid. In awkward silence they mechanically went about the business of “gearing-up” for the coming encounter. Kevlar stab vests were pulled over heads and snugly Velcroed into place. Side-arms were strapped on; Saunders preferred a holster that clipped to his belt, a holdover from his time in the Bureau, while Craig liked a tactical thigh holster that placed the handle of his .357 Magnum within easy reach. Finally, the agents removed two M16s, checked the magazines and slung the weapons over their shoulders where they hung comfortably; hands on grips ready to unload hot silver into any vampire that might be looking for a quick death. But before Saunders could close the lid, Craig turned and sat down on the edge of the open trunk.

  “What’s up?” Craig asked his friend.

  “Up? Nothing.” Saunders replied in a tone and with a look that said he got caught. Sylvester the cat with Tweety Bird in his mouth.

  “Come on. Spill it.”

  Saunders sat down next to Craig, not looking at him but staring out at the stream that was flowing by the parked car. “Okay . . . So . . ..”

  “So?”

  “So . . . in case we come upon this vamp, and it uses its mind control tricks . . . what do you do, I do . . . what do I do to break free from it? I mean, what can I do? Is there anything TO do?”

  “Well, assuming it has no interest in listening to our offer of free room and board on the Rez—”

  “Yeah, assuming that.”

  Craig’s chin dropped, mouth opening wide with surprise as he began to realize what was on his buddy’s mind. “Are you telling me that after all these years in the field you never encountered—”

  “Yes. I’m telling you that after all this time—”

  “Get out!”

  “I have only been assigned to take on the resisters. The ones who weren’t going to cooperate. My experience has only been day time stuff; taking on the sleepers. You know; bust in, find its box, stake it, decap it, and then burn the fucker.”

  “Seriously, you never . . ..”

  “Yeah, luck of the draw I guess.”

  Craig stiffened. “Lucky, right.” He said incredulously. “Like how I always seem to choose the short match stick when we got a shit detail to do. Luck of the draw my ass.”

  “Hey! I don’t cheat.”

  “In this case, at least, you sure didn’t. Since this action is based on your brilliant research . . . you get point.”

  Saunder’s face drained of all color.

  “Payback is that bitch you’ve been avoiding for a very long time my friend.” Craig replied unsympathetically.

  “So . . . about what I was saying.”

  “Yeah, so, we’ve worked this out over the last few years when you’ve been shirking real duty. You take point, and I’ll hold back by about 10 or so yards and not in the line of the vamps sight in case you get ‘vampnotized.’ Hey! I just invented that.”

  “Great. Wait! Point man is a decoy.”

  “Yeah, but by the time the vamp figures out there are two of us —” Craig slapped the handle of his .357. “—bye bye vampire.”

  “Why doesn’t it just ‘vampnotize’ you too?” Saunders added air quotes sarcastically around the Craig’s ridiculous new word.

  “It’s a line of sight kind of thing.”

  “What—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I got your back.”

  Saunders looked at his friend. “You know, you can be a pain in the ass.”

  A Cheshire cat grin was Craig’s only reply.

  “Okay.” Saunders slapped his hands down on both knees and stood. “Thanks for the confidence building conversation. Close the trunk.” Then he started walking up the trail.

  Craig called out to him, “Aren’t you going to wear the collar?” He was referring to the silver chain mail that all field teams wore into such situations.

  “That stuff itches when I sweat. I think it’ll be more of a distraction than a help.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Go ahe
ad, wear yours, tell me how it feels in an hour.” He turned and continued up the trail.

  Craig shrugged and pulled up the collar of tightly interlocked silver rings around his neck and throat, then snapped a full magazine into his rifle and followed, singing, “Have Gun Will Travel reads the card of a man . . ..”

  Saunders looked back and shook his head. “Christ, why me?” Then he continued up the trail.

  Agents Craig Wright and Ben Saunders were best of friends. At one time they had briefly been partnered together as field agents for the CSC, Center for Specter Control, but as newer recruits came into the agency, they had to be split up pairing more experienced hands with the youngsters. They were temporarily together again on this hunt for a “free radical” which wasn’t all that far from the western headquarters of the organization created to round up such creatures. Wright came to the agency by way of the military having served in Desert Storm. Saunders was straight out of the FBI. An analyst/profiler, he spent his time at the CSC checking out rumors of vampires or werewolves or (the really hard ones to locate) mutants and tracking down any information of their existence before sending out the “troops” to wrangle them in.

  This particular bloodsucker that they were after had been rumored to exist long before there was a government agency created to keep the world safe from said monsters.

  Saunders had studied accounts, dating back to the earliest days of the Idaho gold rush, about supernatural occurrences from this area; centered somewhere along Fisher Creek. There had also been missing people reported, but those were either old craggy miners and trappers who hadn’t returned from an expedition or lone hikers who were assumed to be too dumb to have trekked out into the wilderness alone and deserved what they got. Over the years, ranger and state police reports of bodies found, exsanguinated (bodies drained of blood) had piled up but were assumed to be the work of scavenger animals just tidying up the forest floor. So, there was no further thought about other possible causes of death and blood depletion and no red flags about these missing people, hence, no need for the CSC to pay any attention.

  Not, however, until the attack reported a couple of weeks earlier. The usual horror movie scenario: college students went up into the mountains for a high old weekend of booze, pot, and skinny dipping. Out of a party of five, two came back and reported that their friends had been attacked. The rescue teams arriving at the campsite found plenty of gruesome evidence indicating murder—lots of spilled blood and bodies found in various stages of dismemberment. The two survivors were still being held as suspects. No one believed their wild explanation of a beautiful woman tearing into their friends with fangs and sharp claws.

  But the story caught Saunder’s eye as he surfed the internet— which he often did when looking for such stories on his favorite conspiracy websites and grocery store tabloids. Backtracking through history, Saunders was able to connect the obvious dots. A rogue vampire must have been living in the mountains for over one hundred years.

  Free radicals, such as this one, had resisted the call from Alexei Rurik—Kahn of all the immortal families—to abide by the treaty he had signed with Theodore Roosevelt (a peace treaty, of sorts, calling for the cessation of all hostilities between vampires and humans.) There were rogues all over the world who had been strong enough to oppose their Khan, and his agreement to be separated from humans in a vampire sanctuary. These rogues had learned to live in the shadows, literally, not drawing attention to themselves. Along with helping manage the reservations, CSC field agents hunted down these isolated vampires, eliminating them as a threat, either by bringing them back to live with the others or killing them.

  After about an hour of steady progress up the hill, Saunders called a break. They sat on a fallen tree and drank some water. For a few moments, they just watched the stream burble past them.

  Saunders looked at his friend whose gaze was fixated on a moss-covered rock. “You know . . . you can talk to me. Right?”

  “About what?”

  “Shit, you know man, don’t make me say it.”

  Craig gave Saunders a blank look.

  “Okay. It’s not your fault that Vlad slipped off the reservation.”

  “Oh, it’s not huh? Were you there? Did you see what that son of a bitch did?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. Vladimir is no ordinary vampire who will disappear into the dark and be content hiding in a . . . a—” He nodded up the hill, “—a fucking mine shaft or a ramshackle house. No. He hates us. I saw the loathing in his eyes as he held me by my throat . . . strangling me.” His voice trailed off; then he shook his head. “Too many died that night.”

  Saunders cleared his throat and softly responded, “I saw the after-action photos. Can’t imagine being there having to make the decision you were forced to make. There was no right action. Either way, people died. It was a Hobson’s choice. But the deaths are not on you.”

  “What about the deaths of those that have occurred since he ran away; the ones he’s killing right now to satisfy his thirst for blood? Who’s to blame for those people’s deaths?”

  “Listen, buddy, I—”

  “No. Talking is over. But thanks.” Craig sealed the water bottle and stood. “We still have work to do.”

  They followed the stream for the remainder of the afternoon and reached the mine entrance when dusk arrived. With the protective light of the sun gone, the two agents went into full self-preservation mode, wary of a possible attack from any direction. Saunders led the way with Craig following several paces behind. Teams never traveled too close to one another for fear that both might be caught off guard and killed before either could react. The moon was rising high in the sky by the time they arrived at the spot where the map indicated was the mine location.

  Saunders stopped near a large boulder which blocked further view upstream. He held up his hand for Craig to do the same; then Saunders proceeded very cautiously around the obstruction.

  Craig must have been ten yards behind slowly advancing when Saunders abruptly stopped again. This time he did not hold up a hand to signal his partner to do the same. His friend just stopped as though something had grabbed hold of him, freezing him in place. The hair on the back of Craig’s neck rose as he sensed danger. Trying to get a view of what Saunders might be reacting to, Craig cautiously inched out onto the rocks until he was standing almost midstream and could see around his unmoving friend. And then he heard the voice of a woman singing; her supple voice harmonized with the splashing water of the stream as it wended its way around fallen trees and rocks on its precipitate migration down the mountainside.

  Craig focused his eyes beyond his friend’s back and saw the source of the music. In the shallows of the stream stood a completely naked Celtic goddess, resplendent in the light of the waxing moon. Her wet, alabaster skin glistened in the moonlight. The beads of water were a sparkling continuation of the stars in the night sky which merged, forming rivulets cascading down her shoulders and dripping off pert breasts which then rained onto the water’s surface sending out concentric circles as a visual manifestation of how she was reaching into Saunders’ mind. Her hypnotic, onyx eyes; bending his thoughts to her will, controlling him thoroughly.

  It was a moment of a young man’s fantasy or an old man’s heart attack.

  Fortunately, Craig hadn’t been caught up in her mesmerizing trance, but her siren song was calling out to him now too, filling his ears with her arresting melody. He could feel her voice in his head—through his entire body—calling to him, “Come to me. I want you.” But Craig stood remained unmoving, not sure if he too had fallen under the mental powers of the vampire or if he was unable to move from sheer fear.

  Then Saunders lowered his gun and let it dangle from his hand before releasing it into the stream. He began to advance towards the vamp, seemingly accepting her invitation to join her for an intimate dinner. Craig tried to call out to his friend but found that he had no voice. Then his partner stopped within arm’s length of the na
ked beauty. He reached for her, and she moved closer to him pushing her breasts up against his chest. Saunders had no chance; a lamb led to slaughter. He arched his neck back, offering his exposed throat, as directed. The vamp opened her mouth, and dagger-like canines flashed in the moonlight and drove into his jugular vein. Saunders did not falter or flinch from the pain.

  It took Craig a moment to grasp what he was witnessing and only when he looked down into the stream and saw the red of Saunder’s blood rush past him did he realize that he was watching a vampire killing yet another of his partners.

  As she bit into Saunder’s exposed throat and started sucking out his blood she opened her eyes and looked directly into Craig’s. Her red hair was aflame as the bright moonlight shown down on it. They had walked into a trap for certain. How long had this vampire lived in these woods? How many settlers, hunters, miners, timber-men had been uncontrollably drawn to such a perfect female form? He may not have been under her total control and could not hear her in his head but he still understood what she was thinking, “You are next.”

  As if a light switch had been thrown, he came back to selfawareness and brought his M16 up to his shoulder. The red laser sight flashed first across Saunders’ chest as he walked it up and onto the vampire’s forehead. She dropped his nearly lifeless body into the stream. An enraged screech erupted from her throat, and the beauty turned into an attacking beast flying towards Craig. Carefully he squeezed the trigger once, twice then a third time. Silver rounds found their target erasing the vampire’s face and scrambling her brains.

  What followed next was the death dance that all vampires experienced. The damage to her head insured that she was dead. There would be no way in which she could feel her body’s inner juices bubbling up—releasing noxious fumes into the atmosphere through the hole that had been her throat—or the bloating of her body as gut and extremities expanded outward—threatening to explode like an over-inflated balloon only to implode on itself and collapse into a steaming pile of viscera. The cold water of the stream made the gaseous cloud appear to be a low hanging fog which hovered just above the surface of the fouled water.