Sarah Palin: Vampire Hunter (Twinkle)

by Dan McGirt

  “I swear, you fellas must all have the same dialogue coach!” said Palin.

  Palin felt as much as heard the second vampire—the one who took her gun earlier, the one who had yet to speak—approaching from behind. LACE amped up her senses as much as it did her reflexes. He meant to catch her in a choking hold. He was utterly unprepared for Palin to duck, pivot, grab him by the crotch and shoulder, judo throw him over her shoulder, plant her boot on his throat, draw the Glock, and put three in his face. The rounds mashed up his no doubt ethereally beautiful features pretty good, but his skull remained more or less intact. Palin squeezed the trigger one more time for good measure. His head exploded.

  “There’s my little explosive round!” she said. “It’s like finding the Cracker Jack prize!”

  “Feldspar! No!” Enraged, the dark-haired vampire charged across the meadow, even as Feldspar, assuming that was his name, crumbled to dust.

  Despite her heightened reflexes, Palin was unable to get off another shot before he was on her. Foolishly, he went for the gun, reaching with both hands. Palin released the weapon and pulled him off balance, planting a hard karate chop on the back of his neck. The blow would have shattered a living man’s spine. It merely stunned the vampire long enough for Palin to slip free of his grasp.

  He swung a fist. Palin dodged it. She dropped into a cat stance.

  “You boys...thought you were clever,” she said, blocking and evading his blows while landing several of her own. “But you...gave the game away...at the start...saying our brother.”

  “I’ll rip your throat out!” said the vampire.

  The two combatants dueled in a whirling tango of kicks and punches. The vampire was slightly faster, significantly stronger, and had greater reach. But he was an untrained brawler, used to overpowering much weaker prey. Palin’s extensive training in hand-to-hand combat techniques more than negated his advantages. When he struck, she blocked, ducked or dodged—then countered with precision blows to joints and pressure points.

  Not that they mattered much on a dead man.

  “If there is one thing...I’ve learned fighting vampires...it’s that you talk too much!” said Palin. She smashed the heel of her palm into the vampire’s chin, rocking his head back, and followed up with a foot sweep. “And someone should have taught you not to play with your food.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again!” said the vampire. He caught Palin by the arm and hurled her across the clearing. Palin fell flat on her face and skidded through the turf.

  “You just did,” she said. The first Glock lay an arm’s length away. She rolled to it, scooped it up and fired. The vampire danced away from the barrage and fled again into the trees.

  He didn’t return. Apparently the desire for self-preservation outweighed his thirst for revenge. Or for Palin’s blood.

  She retrieved the Glock’s mate. “Well, Sarah,” she said to herself. “Two outta three ain’t bad. I just hope girly girl had the good sense to run home.”

  Stella ran deeper into the woods. She kept tripping over rocks and vines and colliding with trees. It was pitch black and she was clumsy, so running through the forest was a chore. But she had to get away. She had to get help. She had to—oh, Edmund!

  Her poor Edmund. Poor beautiful, glorious, musical, intense, mysterious, Greek god-like, perfect, shiny, hunkalicious Edmund. He was dead! Or more dead, or whatever vampires became when psycho trigger-happy washed-up politician nut job Sarah Palin blasted them to ashes. Ashes! Nothing left at all! It was a tragedy! She could never again run her hands across the marble-like slab of his chest, nuzzle his icy neck, kiss his strong, sensuous lips, or feel his—

  SMACK!

  Stella slammed into a tree for the fifth or sixth time.

  “Why are there so many trees in this forest!”

  As she picked herself up, she heard gunshots in the distance. Was crazy Sarah Palin coming after her? It was insane! She hoped this wasn’t real, just another of her absurdly frequent and vivid nightmares. That had to be it!

  This isn’t real! This isn’t real! This isn’t real!

  But she kept running just in case.

  Which way was the road? Was this the right trail? Which way was she running? Did it matter? She had to get away, keep away from that deranged woman until she woke up.

  Right?

  Stella hit another tree, bounced off it, tipped over backward and slid down a steep incline.

  “Let me help you up,” said a familiar voice.

  “Where—where am I?” said Stella.

  “Trespassing on the Quixote reservation.”

  “Jake? Is that you?”

  The clouds parted and the moon revealed to Stella it was indeed her childhood friend Jake. The muscular, dark-haired, bare-chested Quixote Indian teen wore sandals and a pair of cut-off jeans. He pulled Stella to her feet with effortless ease.

  “What are you doing here, Stella?” he asked, flexing his biceps.

  “I was out here with Edmund, my boyfriend, who is gorgeous and perfect and sparkly and dreamy.”

  “Oh,” said Jake. He made the face one might make after stepping in something squishy.

  “Yes, we were making out in a moonlit meadow, his full lips devouring mine, when—”

  “I get it,” said Jake, curtly.

  “No, I don’t think you understand. We were about to take our relationship to a new level and seal our love for all—”

  “I get it, Stella! You and Edmund! Kissy, kissy, lovey-dovey, Edmund this, Edmund that, Edmund, Edmund, Edmund! Edmund is all you talk about every freaking Edmund minute of every freaking Edmund day! So you’re out here with Edmund. Awesome. I don’t need the details. Where is Mr. Awesome Sparklefingers anyway?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Edmund is—oh my gosh!”

  “Edmund is oh-my-gosh what?”

  Stella dropped her voice to a whisper. “Jake, don’t move! There are like three humongous wolves standing right behind you!”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “I know. I’m amazed you managed to notice them, though, seeing as none of them are Edmund!”

  “Why are you being so weird?” said Stella. “Aren’t you worried about those wolves?”

  “Never mind the wolves. What about Edmund?”

  “Edmund is dead!” blurted Stella. “A crazy woman killed him! She shot him in the head and then again and his staggeringly flawless body crumbled into dust just like that and now she’s after me!”

  “Someone shot Edmund?” said Jake. He grinned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! And he’s dead! Or deader. Whatever.”

  “Sucks to be Edmund,” said Jake. “Get it? Sucks to be him.”

  The wolves made chortling sounds.

  “Why are you being so mean? Sarah Palin shot Edmund and he was going to change me into a vampire so we could be together forever and now he can’t and he’s gone forever and I—”

  “Whoa!” said Jake. “Did you say Sarah Palin?”

  The wolves growled.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s here? Are you sure it was her?”

  “Yes,” said a new voice. A dark-haired vampire materialized from the shadows. His hand was pressed against an oozing abdominal wound.

  “Egbert!” said Stella, recognizing Edmund’s adopted brother.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Jake. The wolves bristled.

  “I know,” said the vampire, raising an open palm. “But this concerns us all. Little Miss Motormouth is right—Sarah Palin has come to Twinkle!”

  “Governor, we had no idea you were coming!” gushed Sam Tanner. The manager of the Walmart Supercenter on Highway 19, just inside the Twinkle city limits, was a balding, paunchy, earnest, cherub-cheeked man. “We’d have put some signs up. Let people know.”

  “Sam, don’t you worry about it.” Palin gave him a dazzling smile and waved away any hint of a problem. “This is an unscheduled stop anyhows. We were cruising along in the tour bus on our way to Portland
and when I saw your store, I said to my driver Jimmy we’ve just gotta stop there and pick up a few things for the road, don’t cha know?”

  “You’re going to Portland?” said Tanner, confused. “You do realize Twinkle is on an isolated peninsula? Portland is the other way.”

  “Oh, look! You’ve got the five-pound drum of Moose Jerky!”

  “Only $3.99,” said Tanner.

  “I’ll take four. Anyhows, I thought so long as I’m here I’d see if you want me to autograph any copies of my book you happen to have on hand here.”

  “We have it in our Books section, right this way,” said Tanner.

  “Well, where else would it be?” said Palin brightly. “How’s that selling for ya, my book?”

  Tanner flushed. “Well...er, this is Oregon,” he said. “But pretty good, considering.”

  “Well, hunky-dory! I’ll sign all you’ve got. Maybe it will help those little boogers move on out the door. Gotta keep the cash registers a-ringing!”

  Today Palin wore a stars and stripes parka, dark jeans, and her trademark hairstyle and rimless glasses. She needed to be the Sarah Palin the public expected to see. Twinkle wasn’t a scheduled stop on her nationwide book tour, but the tour gave her cover to pop up anywhere without raising too many questions. Last night proved her intel was correct—Twinkle had vampires. Two less than before, but any was too many. The one who got away would run straight back to the nest and raise the alarm. Which was what she wanted. By showing herself in town, Palin was sending a message to the bloodsuckers. Word would get back to them—vampires always had spies in town—and tonight they’d come to her. They’d gather their forces and converge to eliminate the threat—never suspecting they were playing right into Palin’s hands.

  So predictable, she thought. Being dead probably kills the brain cells.

  For the next hour Palin signed books, shook hands and posed for pictures. There were a few hostile stares and muttered insults, but by and large folks were friendly. The morning crowd grew steadily. Palin’s presence caused a stir, but most people were more intent on doing their shopping than celebrity-gawking, God love ‘em.

  Then the lights went out.

  “—and then Jake and his friends found me and then we hiked back to his car and then he drove me home and it was the worst night of my whole entire life!” said Stella.

  “That’s nice, honey,” said her father, not looking up from cleaning his service revolver. Chuck Finch was a middle-aged man with tired eyes, a weathered face, and salt-and-pepper hair. He was also Twinkle’s chief of police.

  “Nice? Daddy, are you even listening to anything I said? Sarah Palin killed my boyfriend! You have to arrest her!”

  Chief Finch chuckled. “Sounds like a crazy dream, baby. You probably shouldn’t watch the cable news before bed.”

  “It wasn’t a dream! It was true! It was real and true and it really happened! See, look, I’m all bruised and scratched from running into trees and falling down a hill!”

  “Stella, you’re always bruised and scratched from running into things. You probably just fell down the stairs sleepwalking, like you usually do. Lucky you didn’t break your leg and several ribs again.”

  “Sarah Palin shot Edmund!” Stella slapped the table in frustration, which sent her bowl of Fruit Loops flying.

  “Him too? I thought she shot your boyfriend. Quite a rampage.” Finch shook his head.

  “Edmund is my boyfriend!”

  “I thought you were dating that nice kid Mark.”

  “Daddy! Mark’s a total dork. Edmund is perfect and chiseled and handsome and creepily attached to me—or at least he was until last night when Sarah Palin shot him!”

  “The 2008 vice presidential candidate and former Alaska governor. That Sarah Palin?”

  “What other Sarah Palin is there?”

  “Apparently the one who runs around the Oregon woods shooting teenagers for no reason.”

  “She shot him because—” Stella caught herself.

  “Because why?” said Chief Finch, looking up.

  “I...don’t know. Because she’s crazy! Everyone says so!”

  “She’s not the only one a few Fruit Loops short of a full bowl,” said Finch.

  “What do you mean?” asked Stella.

  “Stella, honey, you’re not doing drugs are you?”

  “No!”

  “Well, good.” Finch reloaded his pistol. “Because it would be a real shame to have to arrest my own daughter. So if you’re not high on drugs, you just had a bad dream. Sarah Palin has no reason to come within a hundred miles of Twinkle. Finish your cereal and you’ll feel better.”

  Finch’s belt radio crackled.

  “Come in, Chief.”

  “Go ahead,” he responded.

  “Chief, you’re not going to believe this! Sarah Palin is at Walmart!”

  Finch could not hide his shock.

  “I told you!” said Stella triumphantly.

  The chief signaled for her to be quiet. “Say again?”

  “Yeah, her tour bus pulled in about half an hour ago. She’s signing books. Quite a crowd building up. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “10-4. I’ll be right over.”

  “Do you believe me now?” said Stella. “Are you going to arrest her?”

  “No, honey, I’m going to get her autograph. Where did I put my copy of Going Rogue?”

  Everyone froze. With the exception of a few emergency exit signs and a dim pool of sunlight near the front entrance, the interior of the cavernous store was a dark as a dungeon. Shoppers and clerks reacted with shouts of surprise, a few lame jokes, and nervous laughter.

  Palin stripped off her patriotic windbreaker, revealing a sleeveless black t-shirt over which she wore a shoulder rig for her Glocks. She swapped her eyeglasses for the combat visor. Maybe this was nothing but an accidental power failure, but she doubted it. She had not expected the bloodsuckers to move in the daytime. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t ready for them.

  She keyed her throat mike. “ROGUE here. Roll call.”

  “This is PLUMBER. I’m in Hardware.”

  “AXEL,” reported a husky-voiced woman. “I’ve got Sporting Goods.”

  “GOGO. I’m on the bus.”

  Palin felt good to having the whole team with her. Last night was fun—she enjoyed a lone hunt—but it was always better when someone had your back.

  “This could be nothing,” said Palin, moving out of the book section and down a shelf lined with DVDs. “If it’s contact, your priority is getting civilians out. Leave the fangheads to me.”

  “Roger that,” said PLUMBER.

  If they followed their typical pattern, the bloodsuckers would start a panic, then use the chaos as cover for their attack. Palin assumed they marked her position before killing the lights. But just to make it easy for them, she called out, “Looks like somebody forgot ta pay the power bill here, doesn’t it?”

  That brought a few strained chuckles from the nearby shoppers. Ignoring them, Palin scanned the rafters. The first attack would come from above, if it came at all.

  “Maybe you should all move calmly to the nearest exit,” continued Palin.

  As if on cue, there was a loud flash and bang from the front of the store. A cloud of thick black smoke obscured the doors, blotting out the feeble sunshine filtering in through the glass.

  Palin gulped a 5-Minute Energy.

  “Fire!” someone shouted.

  “We have to get out of here!” said another voice, eerily compelling.

  All across the store, newly frightened shoppers took up the cry. Feeling their way along shelves and displays, they moved faster than they should in the darkness. They tripped. They crashed into each other. They knocked over racks of low-cost apparel and household goods. Confusion spread. A second smoke grenade went off near the center of the store. Three more followed around the outer walls.

  “Fire! We have to get out!” The same shout came from almost every mouth, as if script
ed, programmed, directed.

  “Stay calm!” shouted Palin. “Get low so you can breathe and walk to the nearest exit!”

  “Run!” commanded a deep, hollow voice. “We’ll all die!”

  Double darn it! The vampire was using the old Jedi mind trick to manipulate the crowd’s fear, turning them into a herd. Palin looked in vain for the source of the voice, but the vampire did not show himself.

  “Get the people out!” she ordered through her comlink. “Go! Go! Go!”

  Mocking laughter echoed through the store. “No one gets out alive!”

  “Who was that?” said Sam Tanner. He was coming down the aisle with a flashlight in hand. “Folks, if you’ll just stay calm we’ll have the lights on in—arrrgh!”

  A shadow swooped down from the ceiling to lift the Walmart manager into the air and hurl him fifty yards across the store. He bounced off a support column and crashed somewhere in the Juniors section. The flashlight went spinning out of his hand, sending a wild trail of light across frightened faces and running figures before it hit the floor and shattered.

  Now there were screams as more shoppers and blue-vested Walmart associates were plucked into the air and flung about like beanbags.

  “Leave them alone!” said Palin. “I’m right here!”

  “You die last,” said the voice. “After you watch the rest suffer.”

  “Saving me for last never works out well,” said Palin.

  “Hmm. Yes, you do have a bad habit of popping up again and again.”

  A vampire materialized before her. He was extremely tall and thin, with gray hair, a high, domed forehead, and dark, sunken eyes. His shoulders were rounded. His face protruded forward and moved slowly from side to side, reptile style. He wore all black, with not a speck of color on him. His hands rested on an antique walking stick.

  “Well, well, well,” said Palin. “I never took you for a Walmart shopper there, Professor.”

  “Wry as ever.” The Professor’s manner of speech was soft and precise.

  “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen your ugly mug since I ran you and your little gang out of Alaska. How’s the old fam doing, by the by?”