Low-Skilled Job (Vol. 2): Low-Skilled Job

by Keller, Roger

  Contents

  Low-Skilled Job Volume 2

  Copyright

  Chapter1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Low-Skilled Job

  Volume Two

  Roger Keller

  Copyright © 2016 Roger Keller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1975900669

  ISBN-13: 978-1975900663

  Chapter1

  Two dead thieves lay near the bottom of the stairs that led out of Heather’s basement lair. Both were drained of blood, their heads brutally severed. Heather had stacked them one on top of the other, right next to the black plastic sarcophagus that held another one of her victims. Three bodies now. At least somebody mopped the blood off the floor. I jumped over the thieves and headed up to the garage with another one of Heather’s guns, which she figured we might need.

  The planning and preparation stage of our road trip back to Marcello’s had run long, really long. Heather and Misty packed and repacked everything we might have possibly needed into Heather’s custom Chevy Suburban. Various weapons and equipment lay scattered around Heather’s already cluttered garage. Misty’s sticker covered suitcase, which I’d had the honor of going out to collect from her apartment, sat by Heather’s backpack behind the red Suburban. There should have been enough room, but every time the Suburban was packed, either Heather or Misty remembered something we might need and started the process all over again.

  I handed Heather yet another MP-5, a K model this time, and took a look around her garage. The walls were covered with hubcaps and damaged rims that hung from various hooks. Hood ornaments and car badges decorated another wall. It reminded me of a rustic hunting lodge with hundreds of deer skulls and antlers hanging everywhere.

  “It’s getting late.” Heather checked her watch.

  “What?” I said. “How the fuck long have we been at this?”

  I checked my phone. It was already 4:30 AM.

  “Let’s go,” I said, “come on.”

  “I’m thinking Marcello will have to wait a little longer for his book,” Heather said. “I mean he already waited like, a hundred years.”

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Come on Misty.” Heather dropped a steel ammunition can on the concrete floor. “Mike will like, finish up out here. I’m kinda bored with this.”

  Misty followed Heather out if the garage, firing off a series of new vampire related questions. She wore fresh jeans now and a t-shirt that had a symbol I’d seen in an Italian horror movie once. Her pink boots probably still smelled like gasoline from the night before. Heather was dressed similarly, vintage jeans with strategically placed holes and a concert t-shirt for a band I’d never heard of. Heather had ditched the knock-off, big box store, army boots for some Danner boots from her collection. Dark blonde Heather stood a full head taller than brunette Misty. From a distance it looked like a cool mom was getting ready to take her daughter to a concert. Up close they appeared to be the same age and always would, as long as their undeath lasted.

  I finished loading the Suburban in about fifteen minutes and briefly considered dickishly leaving Heather and Misty’s things hidden somewhere in the garage. The Suburban did have armored compartment that was designed to protect two vampires from the sun. It could have held some of the cargo, but Heather insisted I leave it empty, just in case. Which made the process of packing that much more annoying.

  *****

  Back in the basement, Heather and Misty sat on a couch watching a Guy Ritchie movie. Well, Heather was watching. Misty would occasionally look up from her phone and mumble something. Two glass bottles of blood sat on the coffee table. I sunk into the couch next to Heather.

  “It’s all ready to go,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Heather leaned over and kissed me. “We’ll leave at nightfall.”

  “You know, we could go now,” I said. “I’ll drive.”

  “I’m not going to spend all day locked in that box if I can help it,” Heather said. “Your trunk was bad enough last time.”

  “Check this out.” Misty held up her phone and turned it sideways. A centuries old painting of Marcello filled the screen. “It says he was wanted by the British Parliament for practicing wizardry during the English Civil War.”

  “Yeah, too bad that Matthew Hopkins asshole never went after Marcello,” I said.

  “Fuck yeah,” Heather said. “Would have made for some awesome cover art.” Heather held up her hands, imagining a heavy metal album. “The horrible end of the Witchfinder General.”

  “There’s a book about the Marcello family,” Misty said. “It’s out of print and the cheapest one,” Misty scrolled down, “is eighteen-hundred dollars. Whoa.”

  “I doubt there’s really a Marcello family,” Heather said. “Like, Lee claims to be his own great grandson for legal purposes. It’s really common among vampires.”

  “There’s all kinds of weird stuff out there about this guy,” Misty said. “The author of the book disappeared on a research trip to America.”

  “That sounds about right,” I said. “And you guys want to make him wait for his property.”

  We watched the movie for a while as the sun rose outside. I didn’t notice it when Misty crept off to find a place to sleep. Heather curled up on the couch next to me. Every few minutes she’d twitch or shake in her sleep. Her claws were out, so I got up, trying to avoid being slashed. It was clear from the look on her face that she was having a nightmare. I bent down and put my hand on her shoulder.

  *****

  Heather’s dream surrounded me. I realized too late why Marcello had been afraid to touch my car with Heather sleeping in the trunk. The vision was everywhere, not just confined to a TV screen or my head. I couldn’t move or speak. So, I let it all play out in front of me.

  A girl with straight blonde hair, who must have been about twelve, stood at the edge of a wooded area. She wore the kind of flared jeans and tennis shoes that were in style back when Nixon was president. An oversized army jacket was cinched around her waist with an olive green belt. The buckle had a faded red star. My uncle had a belt just like it, hanging on his wall between a Viet-Cong flag and an SKS rifle.

  A modified, red and black ‘68 Camaro pulled up along an overgrown hunting trail. It was driven by a rich jerk that couldn’t really handle the power. The jerk stepped out and brushed his long hair back. He was handsome and young. Everything about the guy was fashionable and expensive.

  “Sarah, baby,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Sarah smiled wickedly. I’d seen that smile before, on an older version of that sweet face with a different name. The dark haired creep completely misread it.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to town,” he said. “We’ll go shopping for some new shoes, my treat.”

  “I’m gonna go exploring, Brian.” Sarah skipped off, down a deer trail.

  “You little bitch,” Brian said under his breath. “Gonna make me chase you.”

  Brian trudged into the forest. His expensive leather shoes were a lousy choice for hiking.

  “Sarah, baby,” he said, “come on back. Look, I know your dad needs money. I can help.”

  Sarah was running now, but she wasn’t scared. She cut off the trail and hid behind some bushes.

  “I help a lot of disadvantaged families,” Brian continued. “I could get you things. You just have to ask.”

  Sarah brushed a pile of twigs and dead leaves off of a plast
ic tarp. She tossed the tarp aside and picked up a rifle. I’d seen the exact gun before. The two-thirds scale, bolt action Mauser hung in Heather’s weapons closet. Sarah stuffed a few boxes of .22 shells in her pockets and cocked the Mauser’s bolt. She kept moving, keeping a few steps ahead of Brian, while staying out of sight in the trees.

  “Dammit Sarah,” Brian said, dropping his nice-guy front. “Come on out, baby. I’ll find you, you know.”

  Sarah appeared on a hill overlooking the trail. She smiled. Brian smiled back, wavy brown hair hanging in his blue eyes. He ran toward her with movie star confidence, never taking his eyes off his target. Then the trail opened up under him. The hole had been poorly camouflaged with leaves and pine tree branches. Brian was so focused on the girl that he never saw it.

  Brian screamed. The shallow hole he found himself in was only a foot deep by three feet wide, but it was filled with punji sticks. He held up his shoe, eyes wide, staring incredulously at the hand-sharpened wooden stick that impaled his foot. The other punji sticks had given him superficial wounds. Brian stood up on one leg and screamed again. Sarah cocked her head, annoyed.

  Brian pulled the punji stick out of his foot and hopped out of the hole. He laughed hysterically as he tried to walk. Putting weight on his injured foot drained the color from his face.

  “Sarah, look out,” he said. “Some bastard put traps out here. We gotta get out of this fucking forest.”

  Sarah ignored him. The sun was setting. She saw something, something I couldn’t quite make out, behind Brian. She smiled. Brian limped toward her, leaving a thin trail of blood on the dead grass and brown leaves. Dozens of glowing eyes appeared in the trees behind him.

  “It’s getting dark, baby. Think I’m really hurt, need to get to the hospital,” Brian said, as low shadows moved silently through the trees around him. “Hey, where’d you find the gun?”

  Sarah stood on the hill, the Mauser cradled in her arms. Brian staggered to the base of the hill. Soon he realized they weren’t alone. But it was already too late. Hell, it was probably too late the second he got out of the Camaro.

  A coal black wolf crept out of the trees. He was lean and scarred by a hundred battles. An alpha wolf, he’d survived everything nature and man could throw at him. He sniffed the air and licked his chops. The alpha’s pack emerged from the forest and joined the him, surrounding Brian.

  “What the fuck, man?” Brian said. “This shit just keeps getting better. You mutts aren’t supposed to live this far south, you know. Go on, shoo.” He took off his burgundy leather jacket and swung it at the wolves. “Yah, get outta here.” The wolves snarled and snapped, but refused to move. The alpha glared back at him, unimpressed and unafraid.

  I knew somehow that the pack survived by avoiding humans. But, a hard winter had left them starving and ravenous. Even the alpha’s ribs were showing. They were desperate for meat, any meat.

  “Does that gun work, Sarah?” Brian finally saw just how fucked he was.

  The alpha looked at the human female on the hill. The female held a cruel, noisy weapon, one of the few things he feared. She’d been first to track the slow, weak, human male. The alpha cocked his head. Sarah smiled and cocked her head back. She slung the rifle over her shoulder and held up an empty hand, a salute from one hunter to another. The alpha turned back to Brain, focusing the pack’s hunger on him.

  “Jesus Christ. Sarah, shoot the fuckers. You have a gun, shoot ‘em.” Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a classic Italian switchblade. The wolves were on him a second later.

  Sarah sat down on the hill and watched. Brian swung the switchblade wildly. A wolf leapt up and flattened him, taking the blade in it’s ribs, sacrificing itself for the pack. The alpha moved in, clearing space in seconds. The pack went for Brian’s extremities first, devouring his hands and feet. Brian screamed hysterically as a wolf closed it’s jaws on his groin. The wolves ate quickly, each member of the pack taking it’s share. Sarah watched it all with ice cold focus.

  The sun began to set. Sarah checked her watch, a men’s Seiko diver’s model with a canvas strap that hung loose on her wrist. She stood and stretched. The wolves were almost finished. Lesser members of the pack fought over scraps and bone. The alpha watched Sarah descend the hill. He was the last to disappear into the trees. Sarah smiled and headed for the gravel road, pausing for a second to kick Brian’s fleshless skull into the bushes.

  Sarah stopped at the Camaro and opened the driver’s side door with her sleeve. She helped herself to a handful of loose change from the ashtray, just quarters and half-dollars. Then she went through Brian’s cassette tapes, picking out bands like Deep Purple and Blue Oyster Cult.

  Sarah made her way down the dirt road, her long hair flowing behind her in the wind. She slipped a hunter orange vest on and slung the Mauser rifle. The road ended at a highway. Sarah sung Black Sabbath’s The Wizard as she walked. A Sheriff’s squad car cruised up behind her. Sarah turned back and waved at the deputies. The car slowed to walking speed and the passenger side window rolled down.

  “Do you have a small game permit, miss?” the deputy said.

  “Fuck no,” Sarah said, giggling.

  The deputy smiled. “I’ve got some business to discuss with your daddy.”

  “I’ll bet.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “My dad does lots of business with weirdos and creeps.”

  The car stopped. Sarah raised an eyebrow at the deputy as he hauled his obese body out of the squad car. She stood her ground as the deputy hunkered down next to her. They had a short stand-off.

  “Just how much like your crazy daddy are you?” he said.

  “I’m like, way more crazier than he is.” Sarah’s hand dropped to the grip of the Randall knife on her belt.

  “I’ll bet you are,” the deputy said, still not quite sure of what he was dealing with. “You tell yer daddy that Deputy Murphy is lookin’ for him, OK.”

  “Sir, yes sir.” Sarah made a Hitler mustache with her fingers and threw the deputy a sarcastic, fascist salute.

  The scene faded as the deputies drove away, never knowing how close they’d come. Sarah kept walking, a little insurgent in an undeclared war, expecting no mercy from her enemies and offering none in return.

  *****

  I snapped back to reality, unsure of where I was, and fell. Somehow I managed to not break my neck on the coffee table. Heather shifted positions on the couch, smiling peacefully, like an angel. I wondered just how many people she’d killed over the years.

  “I gotta find a new weed guy,” I said. Marijuana seemed to be the only thing that even controlled the visions.

  I bent down and kissed Heather’s cheek. She mumbled something and rolled over.

  “Gotta get something to eat too.” I headed for the stairs. “And I ain’t pickin’ this mess up.” I shook my head and stepped over the bodies.

  *****

  I returned with a load of supplies from a grocery store, all non-perishable stuff and plenty of quality booze, since the gas station malt liquor was pretty awful and almost gone. I dumped everything by Heather’s coffee table and ate a breakfast, lunch or whatever of protein bars and nacho chips.

  Heather was gone from the couch, but not the basement. I put another movie on and fixed a drink that was mostly straight rum. I closed my eyes for a second and I was gone.

  There were dreams or visions, but I could only remember flashes. I sat on a hotel bed with a naked dead man. His throat was gone, reduced to bloody, chewed-on ruin. Misty shared the bed with us. She prodded the dead man’s shaved head with her dark red claws. That image stuck with me, the color of her claws, not the body. Misty wore a black sports bra and matching panties. Her skin was flushed with fresh blood. She put her arms around my shoulders. There was a crazy, feral look in her blue eyes.

  Heather watched us from a perch on a desk in the corner of the room, like some kind of blood splattered, nude gargoyle. A laptop sat ruined, crushed under her clawed feet. She leered at us. Heather was on
something a lot stronger than marijuana infused blood, something nasty. She finger-combed her blood soaked hair back and stepped off the desk.

  I pushed Misty back just in time for her mouth to snap shut on the empty air by my throat. Blood sprayed out of her mouth, splattering me with tiny droplets as her jagged teeth came together. I laughed and slapped her hard enough to hurt my hand. The blow didn’t even make Misty flinch. I put my hands around her throat and pulled her close. She kissed me and I felt her teeth retract with my tongue. Heather laughed. She was right behind me.

  Misty woke me up at dusk, ignoring my cocked fist and general terrified confusion.

  “Damn, you sure like to get fucked up.” She examined my half empty bottle of rum.

  “You know another guy who sells weed?” I said, hoping Misty hadn’t shared my dream.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m kind of a nerd. I don’t really know a lot of people like that.”

  “You mean Ron was the most connected guy you know,” I said.

  “Pretty much,” she said.

  Misty played with her claws, extending and retracting them. They were dark red.

  I heard a thud and turned around to see Heather drop another black Air Force box by the dead thieves.

  “Last one,” she said. “I think we can get both of them in here.”

  Misty walked over to her. “What do you mean, last one?”

  “I used to have a few of these boxes,” Heather said. “They’re good for storing bodies and shit. And, dammit, I bet they don’t sell them anymore.”

  Heather and Misty loaded the corpses into the box. They almost fit. So, Misty hopped up and jumped on the bodies. The muffled sounds of breaking bones filled the basement. Misty kept jumping up and down until the thieves were compacted enough for Heather to fit the lid on.

  *****

  We set out at dusk, right on time. I could have made it to Marcello’s before dawn, easily. But, Heather decided to take her long alternate rout through the town of Riverton, since the people’s militia of Franklin had offended her on our last trip. Then Misty wanted to explore Riverton. And, since we were already there…