by Dan McGirt
“You killed two of my boys last night,” said the Professor.
“Why so I did, Prof,” said Palin. “But the job’s never done until ya get the head vampire.”
“Unlikely,” said the Professor.
Animal growls and snarls filled the air. Palin saw a swarm of vampires, perhaps two dozen, scuttling like spiders across steel beams in the ceiling, climbing down pylons, and launching themselves through the air to pounce on their terrified prey. The screams of the dying galvanized Palin into action. She drew both Glocks and fired at the Professor. He dodged the bullets without seeming to move at all.
“I find the bleating of dying cattle a restful sound,” he said.
“You monster!” Palin rushed him, but grasped only mist.
“We have always been called so,” said the Professor, once more invisible in the shadows.
“Let them go! It’s me you want!” Palin sprinted down the aisle, toward the screams, looking for targets.
“It is blood we want,” said the unseen Professor. “When I heard you were here, I summoned my minions from across the Pacific Northwest. They came during the night, in great haste, from so far as Vancouver and San Francisco. They are hungry. They must feed to reach their full strength before engaging you.”
“PLUMBER, get these people out!” Palin shouted into the com.
“They’re blocking the exits, boss! They’ve moved shelves, refrigerators, riding lawn mowers. No way out!”
“That won’t do!” said Palin. “Make it happen!”
In the Toy section, she caught a vampire bent over a limp thirty-something woman, feeding. He looked up, mouth smeared with blood, and hissed at her. Palin put an explosive round between his red eyes and kept moving. The woman would bleed out soon—if she wasn’t dead already—but there was no time for first aid. Not with a big box store full of bloodsuckers on the loose. Against—what, two dozen?—inhumanly strong, fast, lethal, untiring, undead predators the only hope for anyone walking out of Walmart alive was for Palin and her crew to keep moving, keep shooting, keep them off the civilians. A running fight they might survive. But if the fangheads swarmed, no amount of LACE would even things up. Palin was already pushing her luck with two doses in less than twenty-four hours. Heart attack was not out of the question.
A vampire dropped down on Palin from the ceiling, pouncing like a jaguar. Palin sensed his descent, twisted as she ran, and put two .40 calibers in his chest. He hit the tiled floor like a bag of cement. Amazingly, he stood up. Running backward, Palin took out his knees with two more shots.
“AXEL, how you doing?” said Palin.
“I’m dodging barbells!” said the ex-Olympian. “There’s too many! They’re too fast!”
“Hang tough, sweetie! Help is on the way!”
“Indeed it is,” said the Professor, materializing at Palin’s side.
She fired on principle, knowing it would do no good. The Professor was a formidable vampire. At least a century old, possibly much, much more. He had powers and abilities far beyond those of ordinary vampires. He could, she knew, kill Palin and her entire team with ease. But that wasn’t his style. He didn’t like to get his hands dirty, preferring to manipulate and direct others, concoct vast and elaborate schemes while sitting at the center of an ever-expanding web of intrigue and deceit.
Just for the fun of it.
“What do you mean?” said Palin, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.
“I invited some new friends to join this little shopping holiday,” said the Professor.
Double doors leading to a stockroom swung open as a huge reddish-brown wolf shouldered through. The beast locked eyes with Palin. Loosing a howl of pure hatred, it charged. Six more wolves followed.
“Werewolves!” said Palin. “I hate these guys!”
“I assure you the feeling is mutual,” said the Professor. “So much so the local pack, despite their ancestral antipathy to our kind, was easily persuaded—indeed, eager—to make common cause with us against you.”
“Yeah, my werewolf eradication project back home in Alaska didn’t go over so well with the shapeshifter lobby,” said Palin. “Or the Sierra Club for that matter.”
The lead wolf, eager for the kill, outpaced its pack and launched itself through the air, aiming its thrusting jaws at Palin’s throat. If it expected her to throw up her arms in a futile gesture of self-defense, the wolf met with fatal disappointment. As its paws left the floor, Palin dropped to her knees and leaned back, her head almost touching the tiles. The werewolf, unable to compensate, sailed over her. Extending her arms, Palin fired, placing twin explosive rounds into the underside of the wolf’s shoulders, all but severing its forelimbs. The crippled monster hit the ground and slid, leaving a bloody trail on the floor as its useless front legs crumpled and twisted at unnatural angles.
“Not a leg to stand on!” said Palin. She snapped up into a kneeling position. Now she was at eye level with the rest of the pack, who were half an aisle away and coming on fast.
Palin fired.
Click. Click.
Both mags were empty.
Palin dropped her pistols and yanked at a nylon cord around her neck, retrieving a silver whistle from beneath her shirt. She put it to her puckered lips and blew.
No sound could be heard. At least, no sound detectable by human ears. But the effect on the werewolves was immediate. They recoiled as if smacked with sledgehammers. Yowling with pain, the animals fell twitching to the floor.
Palin continued to sound the hypersonic wolf whistle as she gathered up the Glocks and reloaded. The sound would give the shapeshifters splitting headaches and a bad case of vertigo, but did no permanent damage.
Nothing was perfect.
“If I’d know you were coming, I’d have packed my sterling rounds,” said Palin. “As it is, you boys will have to wait your turn. I’ve got vampires to deal with!”
PLUMBER had the same problem. Three male vampires, apparent age mid-twenties, harried him near the checkout lanes in the front of the store. They circled, hissed, darted at him, feinted, but kept a respectful distance, mindful of PLUMBER’s reach.
PLUMBER—his name was Joe—was breathing hard. His face was red. His bald head and dark green coveralls were covered with sweat and blood. The sweat was all his. The blood wasn’t. Going hand-to-hand with one vampire was bad enough. Three was suicide. But a moment ago it had been four, until Joe knocked one’s head completely off. The decapitated body lay at his feet, still twitching. ROGUE had explained something once about brain energy patterns persisting, but Joe didn’t really understand or care. Sticky bits of vampire brain smoked and sizzled on the weapon in his hand. Good enough for Joe.
Like his boss, PLUMBER could see in the dark, thanks to the high-tech contact lenses he wore. Unlike Palin, Joe wanted nothing to do with 5-Minute Energy. That juice was bad stuff and his heart probably couldn’t take the strain anyway. If it meant fighting vampires with only human strength and speed and stamina, then that was how it was. Joe could only do what he could do, no more, no less. When his gun jammed, he threw it aside and drew out the 18” Stillson pipe wrench that was always by his side, either in a coverall pocket or a specially designed leather scabbard. It was always better this way. Up close and personal.
Except these three were wary of getting close enough. Joe was trying to reach the front entrance and clear a path for the civilians to escape. If any were still alive. It was a horror show in here, innocent people dying in the dark, blood spilled and lives taken by nightmare beings that should not exist.
One of the vampires, sensing an opening, rushed him. He was a blur to Joe, but it didn’t matter. Joe had developed an instinct about these things, how they moved, how they fought. He didn’t have to be as fast or as strong as they were. He just had to put the wrench in the right place at the right moment, like a Major League batter swinging at a fastball he couldn’t see either. Maybe he struck out two times out of three. But .333 was decent batting.
Joe’s wrench connected.
The result was spectacular. The cold steel caught the vampire’s jaw and knocked his head sideways with punishing force. But worse for the undead creature was the wreath of white sparks and flame that detonated from the point of impact and burned his flesh as thoroughly as holy water or a crucifix or the desert sun at noon. The vampire screamed and faltered and stood still long enough for Joe to hit him again, this time bringing the wrench down in a smooth strong arc to and through the vampire’s skull. Dead brain cells and supernatural ick sprayed outward.
Only two more between Joe and the door.
And one less undead horror in the world.
Joe smiled.
It was a cheerless smile, and at some level a guilty smile. Saving lives was what mattered. Joe knew that. But it was hard to let go of the thirst for vengeance. It was what drove him. Because he had already failed to save the lives which mattered most to him.
Joe never believed in things that go bump in the night. He was a practical man, with a practical job. He was a plumber. It was a good living. Until he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, asked the wrong questions—and lost everything.
The pipes in the Claven mansion were older than radio. And the owner—some stuffed shirt named Bartholomew Claven III—apparently didn’t like to run the furnace, even in the middle of one of the coldest Ohio Februarys on record. Was it any wonder the old pipes burst and the basement flooded? Joe got the call. He was still the junior man at A-1 Acme then, so a midnight emergency call in the dead of winter was all his.
Should no heat in February have made him suspicious? Maybe the furnace was broken too. Not his problem. Were the client’s pale complexion, strange black eyes and weird way of looking at him sidelong a giveaway? Now, yes. Then, no. How could he know that late night creepshow monsters were real? There was no way for Joe to know. But he was on edge the moment he walked in the door. He should have known something wasn’t right. Every instinct in his body was screaming get out of here!
He should have listened. Empty open coffin in the basement? People had all kinds of junk, especially in a big old house like this. Client doesn’t want you to come back tomorrow when you have the parts to finish the work—would rather you come back tomorrow night and pay emergency rates again? Okay. Weird, but it’s his money.
For every red flag, Joe’s rational brain had an explanation. He waved every warning sign away without even knowing he was doing so. The truth was too incredible for him to comprehend or accept.
Bartholomew Claven III was Bartholomew Claven II and Bartholomew Claven, Jr. and Senior before that. Claven was a vampire. Joe didn’t know. So Joe’s wife and daughter paid with their lives for what Joe didn’t know. Because as far as Claven was concerned, Joe knew too much. Had seen too much. Claven came to Joe’s home a few nights later. To feed and to tie up loose ends. Joe was out, on another emergency call. He found them when he got home. What was left of them.
The police had few clues. But they soon had a suspect—Joe. Joe was numb. Broken. A mess. Not thinking clearly. Acting strange. Drinking heavily. The cops decided his story didn’t add up. They turned up a tax lien he didn’t even know about. A suspicious life insurance policy he knew he had never signed. They put his life under a microscope and decided he was their killer. Joe decided he was being framed and started an investigation of his own. The trail led back to Claven and the impossible truth. Armed with nothing more than his knowledge of plumbing and the tools of his trade, Joe avenged his family. His Stillson wrench dispatched its first vampire.
The first of many.
Joe left town just before the cops came to arrest him for the murder of his own family, as well as “harmless local eccentric” Claven. With nothing left to lose but his life, Joe the fugitive figured he’d use whatever time he had left on earth to take out as many of the things that killed his family as he could. Eventually his efforts were noticed by the right people. The Pope himself blessed Joe’s pipe wrench—and Sarah Palin recruited him to her team.
So here he was at a Walmart in Oregon, killing vampires.
Joe smiled again.
AXEL wasn’t smiling. She rarely did. And right now she had no reason to. The fangheads really were hurling sports equipment at her. She ducked under a barrage of baseballs and skidded around an end cap display of yoga mats and hand weights. Finding an open aisle she picked up speed and sprinted to the far side of the store.
Her custom-made boots—with Velcro fasteners, because she hated laces—doubled as in-line skates. Never as graceful as the ice skates she wore in her competition days, but far more practical. With their aversion to running water, meeting vampires on ice was a rare event.
She shed her leather duster as she zoomed down the lane. Beneath she wore a loose tunic and leggings—and a genuine made in japan Samurai katana in a scabbard strapped across her back.
AXEL rounded a corner in Housewares, and found herself face to face with a dark-haired female vampire who had drained at least one victim judging by her blood-smeared facet. Not slowing down, AXEL drew her sword, beheaded the vamp, and kept moving.
For AXEL this vampire-hunting gig wasn’t personal like it was for PLUMBER or some kind of crazy higher calling like for ROGUE. It was about being a champion. About having the discipline and training and drive to excel.
And the paycheck wasn’t bad either.
Once upon a time, AXEL was one of the world’s best figure skaters. But she flamed out in spectacular fashion when her competitive urges compromised her good judgment and she crossed the line into conspiracy. Her fall from grace was hard. She was banned from her sport and became a national punch line. After the dust settled she tried comebacks in women’s boxing and humiliating celebrity reality shows, but those experiences only fueled her downward spiral into drugs, alcohol, Milky Way bars, and misery.
Then she met Mikoto. Her sensei helped her to pull herself together. She guided AXEL along a better path. She combined her interests in fighting and skating into an entirely new martial discipline—one in which AXEL was the best in the world because she was the only person on earth who could do what she did.
Which was well and good—but who needed a Samurai Skater?
Apparently, Sarah Palin did. AXEL signed up to fight vampires and found she enjoyed it. It was the ultimate competition for the ultimate prize. Death was on the line every day.
And no one cared if you cheated.
Palin blasted her way through Swimwear. Most of her shots were going wild, though she had downed at least two vampires. Drawing them off the civilians was another matter. The screams had subsided—but that might only mean that everyone else was dead.
“We gotta get the doors open!” said Palin.
“Working on it,” said PLUMBER.
“Too slow!” said Palin. “GOGO, get in here!”
“You got it!”
Outside, an engine revved. Moments later, an armored 45-foot red, white, and blue motor coach with Sarah Palin’s face pasted on the sides burst through the front entrance in a spray of glass and twisted metal, crunched over a row of shopping carts, flattened several registers, and stopped just short of the jewelry counter.
Two pivoting weapon pods popped out of the roof. Each was a remote-operated Metal Storm 36-barreled stacked projectile machine gun firing 180-round bursts of anti-vampire shot. The guns locked on targets and opened up, sending the fangheads scurrying.
“Anyone in the sound of my voice, run to the light!” said Palin.
A handful of terrified survivors and five fast-moving wolves ran for daylight. Staggering along behind them came a reddish half-wolf, half-man whose mostly severed arms dangled at his sides like bloody wet noodles.
“Let the puppies go!” said Palin. “Get the people out! Sweep for survivors!”
“Don’t bother with that,” said the Professor.
Four quick metallic pops and a whoosh of flames filled the store. The vampires had set off incendiaries to cover their retreat. The fir
e suppression sprinklers activated, but there was no saving the store or anyone left in it.
“Darn it all!” said Palin, shielding her face from the wall of heat. “Get the bus out, GOGO! That’s a wrap!”
Chief Finch and Stella—who insisted on riding along— pulled into the Walmart parking lot just in time to see the Palin tour bus back out of the store at high speed, bringing mangled carts and merchandise with it. A jet of flame trailed after the motor coach like the tongue of a hungry frog, then receded. A moment later, a series of low rumbles from inside the store presaged the collapse of the roof.
Finch spotted Sarah Palin and several other armed individuals gathered near the bus.
“Do you believe me now?” said Stella. “Do you see, Daddy? Sarah Palin is crazy! She killed Edmund and she tried to kill me and now she’s killing everyone she sees. Do you believe me now?”
“I’m starting to,” said Finch. “Now get down.”
He put on the lights and siren and sped across the lot while calling for backup over the radio. He braked to a hard stop, flung the door open and crouched behind it, drawing his revolver.
“Police!” he shouted. “Drop your weapons! You’re all under arrest!”
Palin and her accomplices came quietly. Booking them proved to be a challenge.
“What do you mean they don’t exist, Steve?” said Finch to his puzzled desk sergeant. “I’m looking at them. That’s Sarah Palin for crying out loud!”
“I ran their names, their prints, their IDs and it comes up nothing.”
“You mean they don’t have arrest records or outstanding warrants.”
“I mean there is nothing. I may as well have typed in Mickey Mouse.”
“Try it again.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The system is down. Soon as I got the first results back, the whole thing crashed.”
Finch shook his head in exasperation. “Keep trying. This is—I don’t know what this is. But it’s big and we better dot all our I’s and cross our T’s, understand?”