The Vampire Hunters: Book I of The Vampire Hunters Trilogy

by Scott M. Baker

  No such luck.

  Turning off the faucet, Jim grabbed a towel and began drying himself. He had been doing the same thing when David and four of his hockey teammates cornered him in the high school shower after gym class. Jim knew he could not beat them in a fight and tried to walk past. They roughed him up, cranked the shower to its highest setting, and threw him in. Unfortunately for Jim, the water heater had been turned up too high. The scalding water left Jim with second-degree burns over thirty percent of his shoulders and back.

  The repercussions were typical. Because the scalding had been unintentional, and because the bullies were part of the “in crowd,” they got off light—one week suspensions and probation for the remainder of the school year. Because David’s father was a highly-respected lawyer, both the school board and the police agreed to keep this case out of the courts. Despite their getting off so easily, the incident did not endure Jim to David or any of his friends. They continued to verbally, but quietly, harass him in the halls, though they were too afraid to do anything beyond that.

  Jim, however, did not feel restricted by such inhibitions.

  Jim could not take on David and his friends in a fight, but he did have his own way of doing things. After being released from the hospital, he spent the next few weeks with a digital camera acquiring photographs for the yearbook. Not that he served on the yearbook staff. But then, these were not your traditional yearbook photos. He thought of them as a commemoration to the life and times of his assailants. David downstairs in the family room in a very comprising and X-rated situation with a cheerleader who was not his fiancée. The goalie, the most macho of the hockey team members, as the centerpiece of a gay gangbang. Two other team members torturing a cat. And the fifth buying a hit of ecstasy off a local drug dealer. Jim placed copies of each of these photos between the pages of the yearbook just prior to distribution. Within seventy-two hours, his assailants’ darkest secrets were laid bare for the entire school to gawk at.

  More importantly, the payback outweighed his expectation. David’s fiancée publicly broke off their engagement at the senior prom during her acceptance speech as prom queen, then went home with the football player who had been crowned king. His photos of the cat torture and drug deal generated considerable interest from the local authorities. The local humane society investigated the incident and uncovered enough evidence to prosecute, sending each of the torturers away for six months. While the police could not gather enough evidence to put away the ecstasy user, it derailed his application to join the State Police. And in an ironic twist of fate, the goalie who had been outed now became the target of the school’s homophobes, being beaten so badly on one occasion he required hospitalization.

  Jim never felt any regret over the suffering he had caused his assailants, which seemed unusual for a supposedly sensitive type of guy. Deep down he knew he should feel guilty, but they had no qualms about harassing and bullying him. They never even showed remorse for scarring him. Jim reasoned that if he could inflict a little heartache and a few legal problems, then he partially had settled the score.

  As Jim stood in front of the mirror and straightened his clothes, he could not ignore the fact that this cavalier attitude stayed with him in college, and eventually generated his own legal troubles. Major troubles. Which was how he wound up working for a vampire hunter.

  Still, no matter what happened, he had no regrets.

  Stepping back into the main area, he saw Drake and Alison milling around the work bench. Drake examined the ammunition reloader, nodding in approval. Upon hearing Jim, the two turned. Alison smiled and offered a quick wave. Drake gestured toward the work bench.

  “Impressive.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No. I mean it,” said Drake. “What you’ve done is impressive.”

  “Thanks.” This time Jim said it with pride.

  “Did you have any trouble getting this stuff?”

  “Not really,” Jim said excitedly, anxious to talk about his work. “Most of this was off-the-shelf. I picked up the reloader and the ammo in northern Virginia. But I couldn’t buy the guns because of the restrictions here in Washington.”

  “Tell Alison what you need and she’ll arrange it.”

  Jim looked at her in disbelief. “You can do that?”

  “No problem.” Alison smiled. “I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

  “Great. I’ve thought up some new weapon designs. I’ll start working on them right away.”

  Drake shook his head. “Hold off for now. Go home and get some rest. Tonight you’re going hunting with me and Alison. We’ll pick…”

  “Whoa.” The excitement Jim felt a moment ago had drained away. “Hunting? Like for vampires?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I’m not a hunter. I’m more of an… idea man.”

  “I’m not asking you to mix it up with the vampires. I just want you to stay with the vehicle.” Drake tried to sound reassuring. “But if you’d rather not, we can work around that.”

  Jim had not counted on this. He had been intrigued by the engineering part of the job, but never anticipated being asked to participate in the hunt. He had been terrified of confronting the bullies in high school and college. The idea of going up against the undead nearly paralyzed him with fear. But Jim’s fear that he would let down Drake and Alison bothered him even worse.

  “No need for that.” Jim attempted to muster a confidence he did not feel “Just let me know what you need me to do.”

  “Go home and get some rest, then be back here around midnight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Drake nodded his approval and headed for the stairs. Alison followed, pausing by Jim long enough to offer a few words of encouragement. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  Jim watched Alison walk out. I just hope I don’t screw up and get us all killed, he thought.

  * * *

  “THIS PLACE GIVES ME THE CREEPS.” Bill Carter reached down and unconsciously fondled his Nikon 35mm camera as a source of comfort.

  “It’s not that bad.” Jessica led the way down the basement corridor of the city morgue.

  “Bullshit. This place smells like death.”

  Just the opposite, thought Jessica. She had been to several crime scenes and accidents, and knew the stench and decay that accompanied death. This place had an antiseptic smell. Alcohol. Cleaning fluid. Disinfectant. A smell that was artificial. It made Jessica uncomfortable. She shivered and zipped up her jacket. Not against the cold, but against the chill that ran down her spine.

  Halfway down the corridor, an older black man with short gray hair sat on a folding chair. His paunch strained against the dark blue jacket of his security guard uniform. He was pouring coffee from a thermos when he heard Jessica and Bill approach. He placed the thermos and cup onto the floor and pushed himself out of the chair, using the wooden back as support.

  “May I help you folks?”

  “We’re looking for Robert Dekker.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You realize it’s after office hours?”

  Jessica quickly formulated a cover story. “We’re doing a piece on the television show CSI and how it’s making criminals smarter. Dekker volunteered to help us with our research, but asked to do so on his own time.”

  The guard looked between Jessica and Bill, uncertain as to whether or not he should believe them. He finally shrugged, not caring one way or the other. Sitting back down, he bent over for his thermos. “Dekker’s is the first door on the right.”

  Jessica thanked him, and the two proceeded down the corridor.

  “I don’t see why you needed me here,” said Bill.

  “I told you.” Jessica tried not to let her irritation show. “Dekker said he had something he wanted to show me. You’re here to take the photos.”

  “The only photos I’ll be taking is of you and Dekker getting it on.”

  “What?”

 
“Come on. Dekker invites you to the morgue after hours because he says he has something special to show you.” Bill spoke the last five words with heavy sarcasm. “He has something stiff to show you, all right. In his pants.”

  “You’ve got to stop reading Hustler.” Jessica feigned a laugh. Although part of her started to wonder if Bill’s sex-obsessed mind actually had hit upon the truth for once. If Dekker intended that, she would lay the bastard out on a slab. In either case, she would soon find out. They stood in front of the door to the morgue.

  “Remember,” said Bill. “I’ll take the photos of you two, but I own the rights to post them on the ’Net.”

  Jessica ignored him. She knocked three times.

  No answer.

  She knocked three times again, only harder.

  Still nothing.

  Reaching for the knob, Jessica found the door unlocked. Opening it a few feet, she stuck her head inside and gagged at the odors that assaulted her senses. It smelled of human waste, like an intense bout of diarrhea brought on by food poisoning, only mixed with the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting meat. Swallowing hard to keep down her vomit, Jessica leaned forward to peer inside.

  The autopsy room had a sterile appearance that belied the disgusting stench. Dull yellow tiles that looked as if the brightness had been scrubbed out of them covered the walls. Glass cabinets and a stainless steel counter dominated the opposite wall, the metallic surface lit only by a string of lights mounted underneath the cabinets. A stainless steel dissecting table sat in the center of the room, illuminated by a bright ceiling-mounted surgical lamp that had been positioned over the cadaver of a young woman. A Y-shaped incision already had been cut into her skin, which had been pulled back to reveal the body cavity.

  Dekker stood in front of the table dressed in a blue smock and white latex gloves. Reaching over to a metallic cart, he picked up an electric bone saw and switched it on. The saw emitted a high-pitched whir not unlike that of a dentist’s drill. Jessica watched as Dekker made a V-shaped cut along the cadaver’s ribs from the outer, lower extremities of the ribcage up to the sternum. When finished, he put down the saw and lifted the severed breastplate. The tip remained attached to the sternum, so Dekker began twisting and pulling until the breastplate separated from the ribcage with a loud crack.

  Jessica breathed deeply through her mouth to block out the stench, then entered. Bill followed. Dekker had picked up a scalpel and was using the blade to scrape the pericoidal sack away from the heart. Jessica cleared her throat to catch his attention. Dekker did not hear her. She took a step closer, this time clearing her throat more loudly. Dekker looked up. He stared at her quizzically for a moment, then his expression changed to one of recognition.

  “Miss Reynolds. I’m glad you made it. But you’re a little early, aren’t you?”

  Jessica motioned to the wall clock behind him. “Actually, I’m about fifteen minutes late.”

  Dekker looked over his shoulder and shrugged, realizing he had lost track of the time. “Sorry about that. Guess I got carried away. This case is fascinating. Last night, 911 received a call to go to George Mason University in response to a young girl unable to breath. When the EMTs arrived, the girl was already asphyxiated. But here’s the interesting part.”

  Sliding his left hand into the chest cavity, Dekker squished through the viscera. With his free hand he motioned for Jessica to join him. She hesitated, so Dekker motioned more emphatically. Knowing she had to go through with this to get her story, she stepped closer.

  Dekker pulled out an organ that looked bluish-black. “Look at this lung. In a twenty-year-old college girl, it should be pink. This black color means liquid has been aspirated, or breathed into, the lungs. The probable cause of death was that she vomited in her sleep, breathed in the vomitus, and asphyxiated herself.”

  Bill stepped up beside Jessica and peered into the body cavity. “You mean she drowned in her own puke?”

  “Pretty much. I’ll draw some blood from her heart to send to toxicology. My guess is that it’ll turn up significant traces of alcohol. These kids can get so drunk they don’t even realize they’re drowning in their own vomit. Sadly, this happens all the time on college campuses.”

  Bill moved around to the opposite end of the dissecting table and watched Dekker as he made an incision along the stomach’s surface, then used the blade to push the flaps of tissue aside. A yellowish liquid filled the stomach cavity. Taking a glass jar and a soup ladle from off the cart, Dekker inserted the ladle into the cavity, scooped out some of the yellowish liquid, and poured the contents into the bowl. He had begun to scoop out a second ladle when Bill leaned closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Preparing a sample of the stomach contents for toxicology. They’ll examine the particulates for toxins or biological contamination.” Then, as an aside. “She died shortly after her last meal.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Stomach acid breaks down food within three hours. After that, the contents pass on into the intestines. Since her stomach was more than fifty percent full, we can determine the time of death as one to two hours after her last meal.” Dekker secured a plastic lid over the glass bowl, then held it up to look at the contents. “Did you know that stomach acid is one of the most corrosive substances known to man? Slaughterhouse workers who cut out the intestinal tracts of cows and pigs are covered with skin ulcers due to their exposure to the acid.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Bill walked around to the head of the dissecting table. As he passed behind Dekker, Bill held up his right hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then used the forefinger of his left hand to simulate sex.

  Jessica tried to ignore Bill, but Dekker caught the motion in his peripheral vision. For the first time, Dekker noticed the camera dangling around his neck. “What’s that for?”

  “To take pictures,” said Bill in a smart-ass tone.

  Dekker turned to Jessica. “Why did you bring a photographer?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jessica attempted to sound apologetic. “You said you had something to show me. I wasn’t sure what, so I brought Bill along just in case.”

  “What I have to show you can’t be photographed. And you can’t site me as the source.”

  “But if I can’t source the story my editor w…”

  Dekker crossed his arms across his chest. “Only myself and Roach know this. If it gets out, I’ll be fired. Or worse. My conditions, or no deal.”

  Shit. Jessica knew that if she agreed to this, she would not be able to run with the story. If she resisted, she would never find out what Dekker had to show her. She had no choice but to agree. If she could at least find out what Dekker wanted to tell her, she might be able to find the same information from another source.

  Resigned to the inevitable, Jessica looked over at Bill. “Could you wait outside?”

  Bill shrugged. “No skin off my teeth. I still get paid.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Bill exited, he muttered to himself just loud enough for the others to hear. “I wonder where the freezers are? I’ve never tried necrophilia.”

  Jessica sighed. “Sorry about that. Bill can be an asshole sometimes.”

  “Can he be trusted? I’ll be in a world of shit if it ever gets out that we talked.”

  “Bill’s cool on the score. He may have a big mouth, but he knows when to keep it shut.”

  Dekker hesitated as if reconsidering his decision to talk to her. After a few seconds, he nodded and turned back toward the cabinets. Opening one up, he removed a piece of folded cloth, placing it on the counter. He motioned for Jessica to join him. As she approached, Dekker unfolded the cloth, revealing what looked like a charred piece of meat and several chunks of bone.

  “What is it?”

  “A piece of the lower jaw and some dislodged teeth from the truck driver who died in the crash at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. The suspect who Drake was chasing.”

  “Roach said at the news conference that th
ey hadn’t found the driver’s body.”

  “He lied. When the arresting officers arrived at the crash scene, they reported seeing the driver emerge from the cab on fire before disintegrating.”

  “So?” asked Jessica. “He was cremated in the fire. What’s the big deal?”

  “To cremate a body you need to burn it at fifteen hundred degrees for two to three hours. The temperature of the fire at the crash site, and the time the body was in the fire, didn’t even come close.”

  “Then what caused the body to disintegrate?’

  “I don’t know. In over twenty years as a medical examiner I’ve never seen anything like this. But that’s not the strange part. Look at these.”

  Dekker pulled the cloth containing the jaw fragment and teeth over to Jessica. “The arresting officers brought these back. One of them reported seeing these fall off of the driver as he emerged from the wreckage. I sent one of the teeth and a portion of the jaw fragment over to the lab for testing.” Dekker hesitated, uncertain as to whether he wanted to continue.

  “Go on,” Jessica prodded.

  “All they could determine with any certainty was that whatever disintegrated at the crash site had once been human.”

  “Once?”

  “The lab conducted a carbon dating test to determine the age. These jaw fragments and teeth are over three hundred years old.”

  Jessica hoped she had only misunderstood. “What are you implying?”

  “That whatever crawled out of that truck was at least three hundred years old.”

  “Impossible.”

  Dekker shook his head. “I thought the same thing at first. So I had the lab run the tests again. The results were the same.”

  “But how?”

  Dekker shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”