Chronicles of the Vampire Hunters: Creation

by Dustin J. Palmer

  Chapter 7

  John/Henry

  The Carver Mansion, Midland, TX.

  August 1, 1994 6:45am

  John pulled the sedan into the drive of a very large house situated six miles east of Midland. The spooky old two-story loomed eerily above; its white paint long since chipped and faded. All of the windows were either boarded up or painted over, a sure sign that something inside did not want the sun coming in.

  Twenty years ago, the Carvers had been one of the more prominent oil families in West Texas. George Carver’s net worth was estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars. However, like many big oil companies the bust in the early eighties hit him especially hard, almost bankrupting Carver Oil. Riker Oil and Drilling, seeing its chance to wipe out one of its biggest competitors, leapt at the chance to buy Carver out. Carver, who had built the company from the ground up, refused to sell. So Riker cut him out of the equation by offering the members of his board well over what the company was worth.

  George Carver was ruined. So one Christmas Eve, not long after his company was stolen out from under him, George Carver walked silently through his house murdering his entire family with a large kitchen knife. Among his victims were three small grandchildren. The only survivor was one of his teenage grandsons, who had decided to camp out in the attic the night before. He came down that Christmas morning expecting to open presents, instead he found his family with their throats slit and his grandfather hanging from the rafters of the front porch.

  It had been one of the biggest murders in Midland’s history and over a decade later, the house still sat empty. Not a single person had taken up residence there. Rumor had it the floors were still coated with the dried blood of his victims and that every night Mr. Carver's ghost wandered the halls, looking for the one grandson that had escaped his wrath.

  Only brave teenagers looking for a cheap scare, or a place to get drunk or high had dared to go there after dark. The vampires could not have picked a more perfect place to use as a den. Secluded, abandoned, without any neighbors for miles coupled with its proximity to a small city made it a perfect base of operations. Containing well over a dozen rooms the mansion was nothing short of tremendous in size. It was a death trap for only three hunters. Nevertheless, John couldn't wait any longer. With or without backup he was going in. Julia could be inside that house, and he would do whatever it took to get her back.

  “Hell of a coincidence that the house these suckheads decided to take up residence in once belonged to a man screwed over by your father in-law.” Ben said, looking over the daunting task before them.

  “No, not really.” John replied, putting the car in park. “Riker screwed a lot of people over the years. I’m sure there are more than a few ghosts roaming houses emptied by that son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah no joke.” Ben agreed. “Is he still alive?”

  “Last I heard,” John nodded. “He’s had every cancer imaginable, but is just too damn mean to die off. Can’t say I blame the devil much for not letting him in. If Riker actually did die, he’d probably be running hell within a week.”

  Talon was sitting on the tailgate of his truck with his back to the house. Two large caliber pistols sat in holsters on his hips next to his bone-handled knife, two sheathed machetes were strapped to his back and a long seven-foot lance sat across his lap. Unlike most hunters, Talon didn’t wear body armor; he preferred the freedom of movement over the protection of the restricting body armor. Only a sleeveless black t-shirt and the two leather straps holding the machetes to his back covered his chest. He puffed one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out.

  As John and Ben climbed out of their car, a dull roar sounded in the distance. John’s spirits rose slightly as he turned to see five Harley Davidsons followed closely by a white van, throw up clouds of dust on the caliche road to the house. The bikes pulled to a stop behind Ben’s sedan.

  The meanest looking man of the bunch killed the engine of his chopper then dropped the kickstand. Climbing off the bike, he pulled the dust-covered sunglasses off his face then dusted himself off. The tall biker stood six feet two inches tall with his head shaved completely bald with a pair of crimson eyes tattooed on the back of his it. Tattooed snakes and spiders completely covered his right arm leading all the way up his neck. His left forearm had well over forty, bloody long vampire fangs tattooed across it, one for each of his kills. Like the rest of his group, he wore a black leather vest. The top rocker of the patch on his back identified their group as The Slayers.

  Though his appearance was much different than he remembered, John smiled warmly. It was his old friend, Wes Turner.

  “Well, well, well . . .” Turner said, in a raspy smoker’s voice, “If it isn’t big bad John Bishop!”

  “How are you Wes?” John said, pulling his leather glove off and reaching to shake his hand.

  “I’m doing great brother,” He ignored John’s hand and gripped him in a tight bear hug, pumping his fist hard on John’s back. “What’s this?” he stepped back looking him over with a laugh. “Man you’re getting a little soft around the middle, what happened to the six pack?”

  John managed a laugh. “That’s what happens when you try to play civilian.”

  “Shit, man, I could have told you that. So how are you? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m hanging in there,” John tried his best to smile. “It’s good to see you, Wes.”

  “Same here, John. I’m sorry to hear about Julia, but I promise you’ll be doing a lot better in an hour or two. Isn’t that right boys?!” Turner said, turning to face his crew. “You boys ready to kill some vamps?!”

  A loud, “Hell yeah!” erupted from the bikers behind him followed by whistling and laughter.

  “Damn Wes, when’d you start running your own crew?” John asked looking over the mixed group.

  “About six months after we lost Terry. Billy and his crew stopped calling me in for jobs. So I joined up with Franky Simmons, then Franky passed on a couple of years back and the boys elected me as Prez. Funny though, as soon as the shit really gets heavy who’s the first person Billy calls?” He gave Ben a nasty look. “How ya doing Morris? Still doing Billy’s grunt work?”

  “Doing great, Wes.” Ben said ignoring that last remark. “How about you?”

  “Oh I’m just peachy! I’m about to kill some vampires, make some money! If I had a fine bitch on my arm, I’d be damn near perfect! Hello, Talon! Still running with Billy’s crew?”

  "Wesley," Talon nodded lighting up another Marlboro.

  “Same old Talon! Not much for conversation. Just one word here, one word there. But still the best damn tracker in the business! Next to old Tank that is.” he motioned to a large stocky Mexican man sitting on a cherry red Fatboy.

  John could tell by the look on Talon’s face that he wasn’t impressed. “How’s your wife and kid doing?”

  “Well you know.” Turner shrugged his shoulders. “Same shit, different day. Rebecca is always bitching about something. If she wasn’t I’d swear she’d been replaced by an alien clone. And Buck, I tell you John, that boy is going to be one hell of a hunter when he grows up! Tough as nails, beats the shit out of kids at his school all the time! I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “That’s . . . uh . . . great.” John said, uncertain of what else to say. “Well . . . uh . . . let’s get to it then.”

  “You heard him boys!” Turner yelled. “Gear up!”

  The bikers pulled various gear from the back of the white van, sawed offs, magnums, one guy even pulled two matching Uzis out of his saddlebags. Their armor of choice seemed to be almost entirely made up of leather jackets and motorcycle helmets with face shields. It might stand up to a grunt but any Maker would rip through it without much trouble. Should have spent less money on partying and more on gear. John thought to himself. Only Turner
had any real armor, consisting of a chain mail collar with a top of the line custom fit chain mail lined flak jacket.

  Ben loaded shells into a Remington pump action shotgun then leaned it against the car. Opening a large metal case, he pulled out a chain mail collar he had had custom made and with John’s help tightened it around his neck. Next, he slipped a long chain mail lined duster over his shoulders that ran all the way down to his ankles. His hands were covered with a pair of shark proof gloves. A bandolier of sharp metal spikes hung across his chest, and a single razor sharp hatchet hung from the belt on his waist, completing his ensemble. He clicked a headlamp on his head to make sure it worked then picked up his shotgun.

  Once Ben was completely geared up, John grabbed a large roll of gray tape and a flashlight he had picked up at the pawnshop. Placing it next to the stock of The Cleaner, he wrapped the light tightly around it then pushed the button on and off several times, making sure it worked. Next, he loaded and strapped his two new sawed offs to holsters on his legs then strapped a sheathed machete to his back. Spinning the chamber on his .357, he made sure it was fully loaded. He wrapped a carpenter belt filled with railroad spikes, a very large claw hammer, and a pair of pliers around his waist.

  Trying his best John just couldn’t manage to pull his heavy Kevlar vest together over his massive chest. “Benny? Would you give me a hand with this? Piece of shit is too small.”

  “It’s the biggest the pawn owner had.” Ben grabbed hold of each side and pulled as hard as he could, trying to bring the straps together. Finally with a click they snapped. “How’s that?”

  “I can barely breathe.” John panted, pulling at it. “Damn I miss my old gear. This cheap government crap isn't worth a damn.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ben said, checking over the rest of John’s armor. "I guess they just don't make them like they used to." He rolled his eyes. “How’s the arm?” He said checking the bandaged arm tucked under Kevlar coated shoulder pads.

  John jerked his arm away. “How do you think it feels? It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  Ben shook his head disapprovingly. “You should sit this one out John. You’re still weak from the fever.”

  “Would you sit it out if it was Cat in there?” Ben didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought. Now help me finish strapping this shit on so we can get to work.”

  Ben looked away in defeat then finally nodding helped John strap the rest of his armor on. Both men checked each other over making sure everything was in its place and secure. “You sure you’re ready for this?” Ben asked pulling one of the straps on John’s Kevlar vest a little tighter causing him to grunt. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in the game.”

  John answered by cocking The Cleaner one handed, then headed toward the front door. A hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

  “No offense old buddy,” Turner stepped past him. “But I’m taking the lead on this one. You’ve been out of the game for too long.”

  John hadn’t been on a hunt that he wasn’t the lead on since he was twenty-one, and though it stabbed at his pride, he didn’t object. More important things were at stake. In addition, it only made sense, as most of the hunters were Turner’s men anyway.

  “Alright!” Turner yelled out turning the headlamp on his head on. “This is how it’s gonna be! Myself, Tank and Ortega take the front door. John, you, Talon and Morris, take the back. Dozer, FatAss, and Diez take the basement entrance. Alright ladies, stay safe and keep your eyes open for John’s wife, she’s about five foot six with short brown hair.”

  “Long brown hair,” John interrupted.

  “Right, long brown hair.” Turner corrected. “Anyway, she’s the reason we’re here. So be careful where you shoot. Comprende?” Murmurs, grunts, and nods came from Turner’s men. “Alright everyone get in position. It’s a good bet they know we’re here.” Turner pulled a double-bladed axe from off his back and nodded at John. "Wait for my signal."

  "What's the signal?" Ben asked.

  Turner laughed. "Screams and gunfire would be my guess."

  "Turner. Be careful." Ben frowned. "We don't want any mistakes. Not with Julia involved."

  "Morris, relax." Turner smiled. "Now . . . let’s have some fun!"

  Hesitantly Ben followed John and Talon through a broken fence to the back of the house. A rusty swing set squeaked loudly in the wind. John stepped up to the back door. Talon placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “John, do not trust Turner’s men. These men are not the kind of professionals you are used to working with. They’re dangerous, unpredictable, and untrained.”

  "He's right, John." Ben agreed. "These guys are a bunch of half assed amateurs cranked up on meth. Don't turn your back on them. Especially Wes Turner. He’s not the same man we grew up with."

  John turned to ask what they meant but gunshots from inside shattered his train of thought. It was time to get into the game. Julia . . . I’m coming baby. John put his foot into the termite riddled backdoor. It shattered under his weight. Loud growls and snarls erupted from inside as the sunlight streamed in. Most men in that situation would feel terror, but John Bishop felt something he hadn’t felt since his last hunt so many years before, elation. He was born to do this. Pulling The Cleaner tight to his shoulder, he charged in with his friends at his back.