Cyrus heard his mother’s steps on the hardwood floor as she approached his room. He would have tensed if he could, dreading what would happen when she opened the door to find him in his current state.
The bedroom door creaked open.
“Good morning Cyrus,” said his mother as she began her usual morning dialogue. “Are you ready to get up yet?” she waited for his reply. “Cyrus, are you OK?” Her voice was full of growing anxiety.
She bent down to touch his shoulder.
“Cyrus?” she shrieked as she shook him. “Cyrus? Cyrus?”
She placed a frantic, shaking hand on the side of his neck, checking for a pulse.
Cyrus’s mother screamed when she couldn’t find one.
Cyrus would have frowned if he could. He could hear his heart beating and knew she simply failed to find his pulse. He felt sick knowing his mother had walked into yet another nightmare. Cyrus once again felt a passive dread and wished he could show her he wasn’t dying. If only he could make some sound or slight movement to communicate. She didn’t deserve to go through this again.
Cyrus’s mother rushed from the room, and he could hear her rummaging for her cell phone.
“Hello, 911?” she screamed into her device. “My son is non-responsive! He has Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy and a heart condition. I think he might be dead!” Her voice decreased in volume as she continued with the dispatch, though her tone remained shaky as she recited his information.
Cyrus’s mother finished the frenzied conversation in less than a minute and then raced back to his room. Once there, she leaned over him, placing both her palms on his chest as she began her compressions.
“Cyrus, wake up!” she screamed again and again. The force she exerted on Cyrus’s chest confirmed he could still feel pain. He hoped the paramedics would arrive soon.
A fist struck the wood of the front door, ending his mother’s compressions on his chest. She rushed from the room. The sound of locks unlatching followed as she opened the front door.
“Hello, we’re here for Cyrus Blackthorn,” said an unfamiliar male voice.
Cyrus might have let out a sigh of relief if he could, though he knew there was no reason to assume the man wasn’t an accomplice to the attackers from last night.
“His room is right through here. I don’t know what to do. I can’t get him to wake up!”
A series of rapid thumps from booted feet and turning wheels followed, the sounds echoing from the hallway.
Cyrus heard the two paramedics enter the house with a gurney. The device scratched the sides of the doorframe as the medics pulled it into the bedroom and slid it against the frame of Cyrus’s bed.
“Better check for a pulse,” said the man from before, touching Cyrus’s neck with big, beefy fingers. He took his hand away to shove the end of a stethoscope down Cyrus’s shirt, the metal ice-cold against his skin.
“Did you check his pulse earlier, ma’am?” asked the man.
“Yes, I did.” Cyrus’s mother sobbed hysterically. “But I couldn’t feel anything!”
“Well, I have some good news for you then,” said the medic. “I could hear something. It’s kind of faint, but it’s something. There might be a chance he pulls through, though I can’t make any promises.”
“OK, we’re going to need to flip him over onto this blanket so we can move him onto the stretcher,” said another male voice, the medic’s partner.
Cyrus felt a robust set of hands take hold of him, turning his body toward the wall next to his bed.
“OK, slide that blanket underneath,” said the man to his partner, his palms resting against Cyrus’s upper back.
He heard the whoosh of a blanket unfolding as they placed it on the bed. The medic released his grip on Cyrus and laid him flat on the blanket. The men transferred him onto the gurney, flipping him over to the side. They pulled the blanket out from under him and then rolled him onto his back.
“OK, ma’am,” the first medic said to Cyrus’s mother. “We’re going to get your son to the hospital as quickly as we can. We’ll have somebody give you a call as soon as we get there. You got a number?”
Cyrus’s mother tearfully recited her cell number while the man scribbled it down on a sheet of paper. He shoved it down into his shirt pocket when finished.
“OK, we’re off,” said the man, taking hold of the gurney’s top end.
Cyrus felt the gurney wheel around as the men rolled it toward the door. They exited the bedroom doorway, being careful as they turned into the hallway, though they still scraped the doorframe. A warm breeze from outside drifted up Cyrus’s shorts as the medics opened the front door at last.
He felt multiple bumps as the gurney’s wheels struck the metal threshold and then the wooden ramp as it rolled downward, the medics having decided on a brasher means of movement. Cyrus’s mother sobbed softly as he descended.
He didn’t understand why he wasn’t more fearful and decided it must be due to the drug. The gurney rolled off the end of the ramp with a significant bump, landing on the smooth cement driveway as the medics pulled it into the street toward the ambulance. The men paused, taking a moment to open the vehicle’s back doors.
“You ready for this?” asked the first medic. “One last big lift and we’re done.”
The men hoisted the gurney up into the ambulance, where it hit the metal floor of the vehicle with two consecutive thuds. The men hastily moved around the device and locked it down to the floor.
“Well, that’ll do it,” the first man yawned. “Better get a move on.”
The men exited the ambulance from the back, slamming the doors shut.
Cyrus felt strangely optimistic. He still felt loopy and fatigued, unable to gather his thoughts and concerns. He didn’t understand why either of the paramedics hadn’t remained in the back with him.
Cyrus heard rubber snap against bare skin. It was the unmistakable sound of someone pulling on surgical gloves.
“Sorry, Cyrus,” said a soothing, female voice. It was the woman from the night before.
His heart rate immediately spiked as she crushed his hopes.
“I have to give you another dose. We can’t let you regain full consciousness.”
Cyrus felt a sharp prick as the needle entered the side of his neck. The woman injected him with more of the drug.
“You’ll be asleep in a few seconds,” she said, stroking his forehead. “No need to be worried.”
Drowsiness suddenly weighed down on Cyrus. He had no choice but to surrender to its call.
Chapter IV
The Bloodstained Shears
The night was cloudless and clear, and the moon hung prominently in the sky. The cool luster of moonbeams shone over the leafless trees, their shadows leaving skeletal outlines on the snow. The forest was nearly silent except for the occasional faint and far-off hoot of an owl or cry of a coyote.
Rock rumbled underneath weighted rubber as a black cargo van came around the corner, making its way down the road. The vehicle’s headlights glared through the darkness of the wood, adding to the forest’s lifeless effect, revealing nothing but the pure, untouched snow underneath the trees.
A bone-pale complexioned woman with short, black hair sat in the van’s passenger seat, her elbow crocked up against the door. Her face rested against her hand as she gazed out the window. She wore the same black, close-fitting clothing from earlier, retaining the appearance of a hyper-aggressive biker. A laminated ID badge showing her picture now hung around her neck, the single name “Anoura” printed upon it—the only one she cared to display.
The man driving the vehicle was much less striking than his passenger. He kept his face concealed under both his lumpy winter coat collar and his red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. Anoura hadn’t even bothered to read the man’s ID tag, deeming his rank too low to be worth her time.
“I swear, I just don’t understand,” the driver mumbled under his breath, breaking the silence.
“Understand
what, exactly?” asked Anoura, rolling her eyes. She hated speaking to her human underlings.
“I don’t understand why it’s always so quiet out here,” the driver continued. “Been through here several times since I joined your organization, and I’ve barely seen or heard a thing. Just a few coyotes howling or owls screeching. Haven’t even seen a squirrel run across the road. You don’t think it has something to do with the plant?”
“It is the dead of winter.” Anoura kept her answer short, wanting to end the conversation before it started.
“Sure it is.” The driver failed to take her cue. “Still, you’d think you would at least see tracks or something.”
“It’s probably because of the large concentration of vampires at the plant. We tend to have that effect on other animals. They’re very perceptive and recognize their true superiors.”
“Why can’t I smell you?”
“That is because you’re human, and your senses are dull. Just another way you are inferior.”
A nearly imperceptible sound suddenly permeated the forest, abruptly ending their conversation. To the untrained ear, the cry sounded like a wild cat.
Anoura smirked, knowing the scream was human. She looked over at the driver, frowning when she saw his lack of concern. He hadn’t heard the noise due to his inferior human senses. The vehicle continued to roll its way over the snow-encrusted gravel road, the interior becoming dead quiet once again.
The silence lasted for only a moment, broken by the muffled cry of a child from the back of the van. Anoura’s comrades from earlier in the evening, Luther and Mara, occupied the cargo bed along with the two children, separated from the front by the van’s wall barrier. It had been a long trip, and the sedative that their captors had given them would soon wear off entirely
“Hey, shut up back there!” The driver slapped the thin metal wall.
Mara hissed back at the driver, unable to reach him
“Hey, blood sack!” Luther slid open the slit in the door of the barrier wall. “Anoura gives the orders, not you!” He glared at the driver through the slit before finally slamming it shut, turning his attention back to Mara and the children.
“Why are we wasting our time on kids anyway?” The driver asked Anoura, irritated by his telling off. “Wouldn’t adults be better? Bigger body, more meat, more blood.”
Anoura tried to ignore him, unsure if he was asking her a question or just complaining.
“Well?” The driver took his eyes from the road, looking in Anoura’s direction.
“Have you not been briefed on your assignment?” Anoura’s voice was emotionless.
“I was, but they didn’t tell me much.”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you exactly how the children are to be used,” Anoura snapped. “You’re still a low-ranking human. Let’s just say that The Surgeon is having them delivered special order.”
“I’ve heard about this Surgeon guy a few times.” The driver looked out into the darkness as though trying to remember something. “Who or what is he exactly?”
“He is Atropos’s top research official. He is under The Master’s direct command.”
“Research official?” The driver sounded surprised. “What research does Atropos need done?”
Anoura groaned, sliding an open palm down her face. She could feel her rage begin to simmer, irritated both by his ignorance and insistent questioning. “Your status as a human prevents me from going into details,” she answered after a long pause. ”Rest assured, all the research performed within Atropos will aid in the advancement and propagation of the vampire race.” She tried to sound informed, hoping to mask her ignorance.
Anoura had told the driver everything she knew about The Surgeon, reciting the little information she had received. Few of Atropos’s members, vampire or human, were very knowledgeable regarding his research. She doubted even The Master knew about everything in which he involved himself. Anoura herself didn’t care what The Surgeon did with his specimens so long as she received payment, both in cash and rations. Still, she couldn’t help but maintain a small level of curiosity.
Anoura heard the hum of parking lot lights and the rumbling of machinery now, confirming their proximity to the slaughter plant. She directed her attention toward the front window, searching between the barren trees for its looming, cuboidal form.
“You know, I’ve been on this transport job for a while. Coming up on four months now.” The driver counted to four on his fingers. “The pay’s been good. I don’t really have any complaints. Problem is, I didn’t start here just for the money. How much work I gotta do before Atropos has me turned?”
“All will be turned when the time is right,” Anoura replied, unwilling to give him the whole truth. Only those proven invaluable to Atropos ever became vampires, the gift generally obtained through hard work and obedience to the organization. Though, The Master was never above giving it to those who could pay for it monetarily.
“Still don’t explain the holdup.” The driver frowned. “Why wait so long? I mean, wouldn’t it be better to turn as many of us as possible? Make the organization stronger.”
“A brilliant idea,” Anoura tried to hide her sarcasm. “Our numbers would swell such that none could stand against us. Atropos would have dominion over all. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
The driver started to speak, unsure of her tone. “Then when we run out of food,” Anoura’s voice became a low growl, “we can start feeding on each other.” She leaned up, raking the backside of her clawed hand across the side of his face, making him flinch. “We need to research other means of nourishment before we expand. A stable population of prey must be established before we take our position as apex predators. This is why the unsanctioned turning of a human is not allowed.”
“Makes sense. How long do you think I will have to go before I can be turned?”
“Years.”
“That all?” The driver frowned, trying to hide his disappointment. “If I had known that, I’m not sure I would have ever agreed to join up.”
“What you think no longer matters. You belong to Atropos now.” Anoura’s voice was severe, an attempt to finally terminate their conversation. “I’m sure you recall the penalty for desertion. We are always in need of food.” She licked her lips. A longing look appeared in her eyes as she glanced toward the man’s coat-covered neck.
The van suddenly hit a slight but noticeable bump on the gravel road, sending Anoura’s eyes darting away from the driver and turning her attention back to the front window. The headlights illuminated both the road and the dark shadows underneath the trees, continuing to reveal a forest full of lurking peril. The van lumbered its way into a large clearing in the middle of the woods on which sat an expanse of asphalt.
The ghostly glow of the moon reflected off the ridged tin roof of a gigantic, undistinguishable warehouse facility surrounded by both a chain-link fence and several outdoor lamps. Snow-cleared parking lots surrounded the building, each occupied by only a few vehicles, most of them semi-trucks. Beyond the back lot sat a small airplane hangar and the associated runway adjacent. Large as the facility was, it retained an appearance of modesty, nothing more than a mundane operation sitting out in the middle of nowhere.
The van’s headlights hit the facility's front gate as it slowed to a stop next to the tollbooth sitting beside the road. The booth was noticeably elaborate, painted a bright, reflective white, and enclosed, complete with bulletproof windows and a boom barrier barring the way.An armed guard was visible through the booth’s windows. The man leaned back in a metal, foldout chair, booted feet propped up on the window ledge, his rifle across his lap. He was unaware of their arrival, very involved with the magazine he was reading. The man nearly fell out of his chair and dropped his weapon when he looked up to see them. He frantically reached for the speaker button, all the while acting as though he had been busy the whole time.
Anoura rolled her eyes angrily, certain the incompetence of her driver was contag
ious.
“State your business,” said the guard, his voice obstructed by the machine sounds from the speaker.
“We need to make a drop-off at the hangar,” said the driver.
“You have an ID pass?” demanded the guard.
“Yes, I do.” The driver grabbed his laminated ID and extended his hand to show it to the guard.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work. Your level of clearance won’t grant you entry.”
“Does it matter?” asked Anoura. “You do know who I am.” She leaned forward so the guard could see her.
“Sorry, the protocol is that all those attempting to enter must show me the required ID. “Can’t be too careful.”
“Here it is!” Anoura snapped, aggressively grasping the ID pass hanging around her neck and showing it to the guard. “Can you see it clearly, or do I need to come in there to show it to you?” She bared her fangs, lunging toward the van window to show her ID to the guard.
The man flinched, almost jumping from his seat.
“That won’t be necessary. I can see it just fine.” The guard hastily pressed the button to raise the boom barrier.
Anoura sank back into her seat as the driver put the van back into gear, the vehicle rolling past the raised barrier. They continued swiftly onward, their headlights illuminating the sparsely-populated parking lot as they listed toward the right side of the unadorned tin-walled building. Anoura smirked and shook her head, reading the words “Wayward Meat Packing Co.” prominently printed upon the building just above the double-door entryway, a giant, black pair of shears as the logo. The name was simply too close of a reference to the actual name of their organization.
The smells themselves were already enough of a giveaway. The putrid scent only became more pungent as they approached, mostly a mix of flesh and blood, some of which may have been rotten, with a faint undertone of feces. What wafted into their noses wasn’t much different from what would likely occupy an ill-kept cattle slaughter facility if it were not for the fact that the fecal component was most definitely human. They turned the corner around the building, making their way to the other side of the chain-linked fence, which separated the plant from the hangar.
Fall Prey: The Hunt Page 6