by Platt, Sean
They’d been sitting in the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes, but the bicyclist was only the second person they’d seen. The first had been a heavyset woman in her late forties out for an early morning jog. Considering that the nearest residential area was at least a mile away, Larry suspected she was on her way to the all-night donut shop a bit farther up the road. Abigail had cast a vote against her as well. Fortunately for the jogger, wages of sin by way of donuts was not worthy of execution by vampire.
Abigail had hoped this would be easier, half expecting they’d catch someone committing some sort of heinous sin that she and Larry could stop just in time, knocking the bad guy cold and bringing him back for John to feed on. Unfortunately, there was never a bad guy around when you needed one.
“We’re gonna need to find someone soon.”
“Fine, but not him.” Abigail pointed at the old man as he slowly faded from one patch of light on the deserted road and into darkness.
“It’s fine. He’s too old anyway. He probably wouldn’t have done much to quench John’s hunger. Younger people have a lot more life force to feed on.”
“So, I’d be an ideal meal, then?”
Larry wasn’t sure if Abigail was making a dark joke or verbalizing her fear.
“Yeah.”
Abigail swallowed the knot in her throat.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone around here who needs to die, do you? Maybe an old boyfriend who pissed you off?”
“Boyfriend?” Abigail laughed.
A pair of headlights swirled into view and grabbed their attention as a white van rolled into the station and idled beside one of the station’s doors. A short man hopped out, tufts of brown and gray hair curling around his balding dome. He wore khaki knee-length shorts and a faded yellow tee with black spots peppering the front. He slid his van’s side door open, retrieved a bundle of newspapers then dropped the pile next to the gas station doorway.
Abigail and Larry exchanged glances.
“Too high profile,” Larry said, “he’d be reported missing before the hour was up, soon as the cops at the donut shop down the street realize their coffees are cold and they don’t have their papers yet.”
“I don’t want to take him, but I have an idea. Can you give me some money?”
“To buy a paper?” Larry shook his head. “No way, missy. Your picture is all over page 1A, I can guarantee you that. That dude gets one look at you, and the cops will be here in minutes. We wait until he leaves.”
“Oh yeah.” Abigail frowned, tapping her feet on the floorboard. Larry rolled his eyes.
The delivery driver left, and Larry sprinted to the station, grabbing two papers then returning to the van.
“Okay, what’s your big idea?”
Abigail stared at the front page, and the two pictures that looked like crappy cell-phone shots taken in haste. One clearly showed her wide-eyed terror as she stood by the side of the freeway. The other had been snapped as John moved from one victim to the next.
“Earth to Abi,” Larry said, snapping his fingers, “what’s your idea?”
She shook the moment away and started to explain.
“It’s like what you said before. Let’s find someone who really deserves to die. I mean, people do bad stuff all the time, right? And I bet most of them don’t go to jail.”
Larry looked at her, wondering what kind of hell a kid goes through to become this jaded so early in life.
“Well, chances are good that if they’re in the paper, they’re probably in jail, or maybe hard to get to.”
Abigail glared. “You have a better idea?”
“Not really.”
“Then let’s find someone who needs to die,” Abigail said, clenching her jaw and unfolding the paper across her lap.
Twenty-Nine
Brock
Four black vans rolled simultaneously out of the darkness and into the motel lot, headlights off, quiet save for the sound of tires crunching over debris on the littered pavement.
Squad Leader Brock Tyler was eager to get the ball rolling. “We’re here,” he radioed his boss. “Looks like he’s alone.”
“Good,” Jacob said. “Then go in and bring him home.”
Brock issued the command and the van doors slid open. Twelve men in black paramilitary body armor prepared to descend onto John’s motel room, weapons drawn.
Thirty
John
For the second time in as many days, John woke up confined. This time by a jacket rather than a grave.
He would have gladly taken the tomb instead.
“Abigail!”
John filled the empty room with his hoarse voice, but only a dull echo bounced back.
Where the hell are they?
Pain hammered against his skull, a ravenous need burning through his body. The deep yearning was like hunger, but more insatiable and far less rational, clouding the edges of every thought. He had to get out now.
He had to feed.
He writhed and squirmed, trying to free his arms from the goddamned prison of fabric and buckles, but the constant motion only seemed to tangle him further. Panic and rage flooded his senses like a shot of adrenaline as he shook his entire body in a vain attempt at escape.
“Dammit!” he screamed, spittle raining from his mouth.
“What did you do to me?” he bellowed, hoping that bastard Larry was within earshot.
He began breathing faster, and more shallow, raw panic needling his brain, whispering that he would die right here in this spot if he did not break free right now.
He shook again, this time kicking his feet into the floor and sending his chair flying back into the wall. His head bounced against the drywall with a dull thud.
“Fuck!”
Where are Abigail and Larry?!
With a flare of anger, John vowed to tear Larry to shreds if he’d done anything to harm the girl. Then he had an idea — he could try to connect to Abigail. Maybe, if he could concentrate long enough, he’d be able to sense her, to at least know if she was okay. Unfortunately, his mind was a mix of panic, pain, and hunger, flashing through each phase with equal intensity, making slow, deliberate thought nearly impossible.
He glared up at the monitors, showing news — still — of him.
Isn’t there anything else happening in the fucking world?
But two of the screens weren’t displaying news. They were closed circuit monitors, one showing the motel lot, and another the building’s rear. From John’s viewpoint, he could see the entire parking lot. Larry’s van was missing.
It’s okay, they’ll be back … no, they fucking left, and you know it … you’re going to die right here. They left you to die. He and Abigail left you alone. To die.
John closed his eyes, trying to shake the anger from his thoughts. It worked, even if only temporarily. He found himself thinking of Hope and the dream, and suddenly, he was awash in the sadness and misery he’d woken to. John could feel tears wanting to come, but his face felt frozen, taut, like it might crack from the swelling pressure.
Suddenly, a beeping sound.
John glanced up at the two closed circuit monitors. Flashing boxes along the bottom read, ALERT.
Four black vans pulled into the parking lot.
Panic seized him. John writhed in yet another futile attempt to squirm free of his jacket.
Thirty-One
Larry, John, Abigail, And Brock
Larry
The newspapers were full of people who needed to die — corrupt politicians whose actions indirectly led to the deaths of their constituents, unscrupulous businessmen who took ungodly sums of money while robbing their employees’ pensions, and general scumbags who beat, robbed, raped, and killed those weaker than themselves — a world of wolves fat with prey.
Though there was no shortage of people who would enhance the world with their absence — people who deserved a verdict harsher than any the inept legal system would impose — there weren’t any local, within eas
y reach. A shame, really, because Larry, now that he’d given it some thought, rather liked the idea of vigilantism by vampire.
Justice, it seemed, would have to wait. This morning they might have to be the very wolves who preyed on the weak and innocent. If they didn’t find someone for John to feast on, he was dead. And Larry couldn’t allow that to happen.
“I wish I were a vampire,” Abigail said, tossing the paper to the floor. “I would roam the night, helping people and killing bad guys.”
“That would be cool. Though I can’t imagine you’d dig on the loneliness.”
“I think I’ve had enough of other people for a while ... well, except John.”
A chorus of beeping rang through the cabin. The alarm Larry set up at the motel screamed on his cell phone.
“Shit,” he said, awkwardly scrambling toward the back of the van.
On the monitors Larry could see the four vans that had breached the motel’s parking lot.
“What’s happening?” Abigail asked from behind him.
“John has company.” Larry bolted back to the front seat and gunned the engine. “We need to get back there now!”
Abigail lurched forward as Larry hit the gas. Fortunately, she was wearing a seatbelt even though he hadn’t told her to put it on.
“Who are they?” She turned to look at the monitors.
“It’s either the good guys or the bad guys. My money’s on the bad guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“John has something that a lot of people want.”
“What is it?”
“A memory he doesn’t remember right now.”
“So how can they get it?”
“Because — they both have their ways of getting it.”
“Why don’t you just let him give it to the good guys?”
Jesus, this girl asks a lot of questions!
Larry sighed, trying to keep things simple as he raced down the dark street, keeping an eye out for cop cars, or more black vans.
“Because the good guys aren’t necessarily the ‘good guys.’ They’re just a little better than the bad guys.” Larry shrugged. “Maybe worse. The bad guys only want the information, but the good guys want to prevent the bad guys from getting it. And the only way to really do that is to kill John.”
Abigail turned back to the monitors.
“They have an army,” she said, alarmed.
“How many are there?”
Abigail counted. “I see twelve.”
“Fuck.”
Larry raced down the highway, hoping he reached the motel in time.
Brock
Brock’s squad flanked the outside of the boarded-up motel room doorway. Two agents were stationed behind the motel, though the only rear exit was a small bathroom window in each of the rooms.
According to Jacob, their target, the feeder named John, was in a straitjacket and wouldn’t pose much of a threat. Still, in Brock’s experience, you could never be too prepared, especially if anyone else was with John.
Brock’s men were each armed with a satchel of flash bangs and tear gas grenades to neutralize without killing, and M4A1 carbines to deal with anyone else who might get in their way.
John
John cursed the jacket keeping him prisoner.
He could feel the presence of the men surrounding the motel room, like a blind man sensing someone at the edges of his space. He could even hear some of them, anxious breaths and quickened heartbeats, though much of what he gathered was lost in the din of his own internal cacophony of panic, anger, and hunger.
Damn, the craving!
He saw in the monitors that they were wearing black body armor and enclosed masks, armed to the teeth, prepared for war. He’d healed from the earlier gunshot but wasn’t sure how he would stand up to a hailstorm of bullets. Maybe he had a weak spot. If you could kill movie vampires with a stake through the heart or by chopping their heads off, he could have a similar frailty. John already shared at least sunlight as an Achilles heel with his fictional brethren. So why not others?
John realized that most of the gunmen were positioned just outside the motel room where he’d entered, not the adjoining room where he was now. He clumsily rose to his feet, though his upper body was restricted by the restraint jacket, and scurried to the door separating the rooms. He pushed it closed with his shoulder and sealed himself off in the secondary room. Unfortunately, the doorway between the rooms had a door on each side, and he had no way of closing the other one. Certainly someone would notice an open door on the other side and storm the adjoining room. At best, he was buying seconds. A few seconds to do what, he didn’t know, but a few seconds, nonetheless.
Larry
“Come on,” Abigail said from the back seat. She was nervously watching the monitor, her leg trembling as the men in black assembled outside the motel room, large weapons raised and collectively aimed at the door.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Larry snapped, pressing the van to its limits. The speedometer was past the 100 mph listed on the dash, and the entire van shook as if the sheer force of unreasonable speed might shred it to ribbons. While the van was deceptively well built and maintained, it was never meant for such ridiculous velocity. Larry could only push it so hard before something would give.
Fortunately, they hadn’t strayed too far from the motel and were now only minutes away.
Larry hoped that would be enough time.
John
The doors in the next room burst open in a riot of sound, smoke, and light, which John sensed though he couldn’t yet see. John tried to suss out the noises, to get an idea of how many of the men were still outside the motel. At least six, he figured. One man in a straitjacket against six soldiers. Terrible odds, but the best he would get.
John took a few steps back from the front doorway of his motel room, stumbled forward, and slammed his left shoulder into the doorway in hopes of launching it open and running into the night.
Instead, he fell to a painful heap on the floor. Only then did he realize that the door opened inward, not out.
“Fuck!” he cried out, on the ground, writhing in pain.
The door separating the rooms burst open, and smoke poured inside, choking John and burning his eyes as though they were rinsed in fire.
The sound of boots echoed around him. He knew he was surrounded, though he couldn’t open his eyes to verify.
Two gloved hands yanked John from behind and pulled him up by the back of the jacket. Something sharp poked his head — the barrel of a gun.
“Walk,” a voice, muffled by a mask, barked in his ear.
John obeyed, not that he had a choice. He was aching and hungry and still couldn’t focus on a single clear thought. His instincts prodded him, directives to run, jump, bite, and even fly.
Can I fly?
If so, he didn’t have any clue how, and couldn’t risk trying knowing the men could shoot him down.
Run, run, run, run!
Whispered counsel from his inner voice was rising to a scream, but still he couldn’t harness his thoughts long enough to formulate a plan. It took all his focused energy to stay upright and stop himself from melting into a puddle of impotence. Hunger twisted in his gut, and he could feel the warmth of bodies around him, inviting him to feed. Even if he could break free of his restraints, the gunmen would never give him a chance. They’d come wearing gloves, and marched him out from behind, a gun to his head the entire time. Somehow, John felt like they knew exactly how to neutralize their threat.
As they shoved him into the night, and he saw the vans in the lot, John knew instantly that these were the people who’d taken Abigail, working for the man from his past.
Abigail
Larry killed the lights and coasted into the parking lot across the street from the motel, watching the men march John out at gunpoint.
“Do something!” Abigail cried.
“Get out of the van,” Larry commanded.
“No, I want to
… ”
Larry turned back to Abigail and yelled, his face twisted in anger. “Get out!”
She looked Larry in his dead serious eyes. Whatever he was going to do, he was trying to protect her. She climbed past him, into the front seat, and opened her door.
“Run like hell, and if anyone tries to stop you, shoot them in the head. Remember, turn your safety off.”
“Okay.” Abigail nodded and jumped to the ground.
Larry gunned the engine and raced toward the motel.
Brock
Brock’s unit led John into the parking lot.
John was much weaker-looking than Brock would have guessed for a man who had wreaked so much havoc in the past forty-eight hours. He approached the feeder, keeping a safe distance, despite the restraint jacket.
Calmly, he said, “It’s okay, John. We’re going to take you home.”
An engine’s roar erupted from behind. Brock spun back as a van careened straight at them.
His men drew their weapons and fired at the approaching threat.
Larry
“Yeehaw, motherfuckers!” Larry screamed, surprised by his giddiness, laughing as the van barreled forward.
Bullets pierced the window and ripped into the passenger side chair,but missed Larry entirely. With only a few yards to go, he turned the wheel left, aiming not at John, but at the handful of men behind him.
The van struck its targets with sickening thuds then rolled over the soldiers, thumping as Larry slammed on the brakes. The van screeched, lost its balance, swerved sideways, tumbled twice, then slid to a crashing halt into the motel.