Blood Moon (Skye Morrison Vampire Series, #5.5) (20 page)

Fuck, they looked like bankers—probably were. Since demons housed their spirits inside humans bodies, they could blend in, work alongside humans. This advantage gave them the perfect edge to corrupt and turn humans from their Creator, allowing Lucifer to then steal their souls.

The tallest of the three cocked his dark head, indicating for Soren to follow.

Soren nodded. Both vampires and demons knew the importance of secrecy. Would do neither side any good if humans found out about the existence of vampires or demons, not to mention the war for their souls.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and trailed after Lucifer’s shit-spawn. Maybe he should call for backup? Surrey was Mel and Kal’s hunting territory after all.

Ah, screw it—he didn’t need backup. He could take these three pieces of monkey shit, no problem. He wasn’t second-in-command for nothing. His fighting skills were unrivalled. And besides, he’d just fed. Power pumped through him like a living entity.

Flexing his muscles and smiling at the bastards’ backs, Soren bided his time like the soldier he was.

Soon they entered the packed parking lot of the neighborhood Walmart. Soren knew exactly where the demons were headed: to a small wooded area stretched between the big-box store and a sprawling subdivision.

Ideal place to hold a battle—that was if it was clear of humans. Well, they’d soon find out.

Soren’s luck held. The woods were deserted. Good fortune for him, bad for the demons. They’d be heading home—back to hell and their master—tonight.

The demons stopped beside a towering fir tree. Lights from the back wall of the building filtered through the fir and cedar limbs, illuminating the well-groomed quality of the creatures’ faces. Three sets of eyes glowed red. As one, the demons dropped their briefcases and shrugged out of their overcoats.

Jesus. Their synchronized routine reminded Soren of the Three Musketeers. He fought to suppress a laugh.

“So, is it just you, or should we wait for the rest of your merry band of maggots to arrive?” Mr Tall, Dark, and Soon-to-be-Dead—and apparently the leader of this trio of banksters—asked as he unbuttoned his black sports jacket, and slowly withdrew an eight-inch dagger. He twirled the knife in a circle. Dim light reflected off the serrated edge.

“Nope. Just me.”

“Ready to meet your Maker, I see.” Head Honcho smirked.

Soren unzipped his coat. From the sheath strapped around his waist, he pulled out his dagger then glanced at his faded jeans, green T-shirt with a picture of a Harley on the front, and black hiking boots. He shrugged. “Nah, not dressed for it.” He waved his blade at the demons, indicating their dark business suits. “But you guys on the other hand, are all gussied up in your Sunday best.”

The leader laughed. “Three against one, vampire. Odds are stacked against you.”

“Lucky for me I root for the underdog.”

The two lackeys hauled out their blades—blades Soren knew were coated in silver, which just so happened to be deadly to vampires.

 “And a
dog
is exactly what you are—”

Soren cut the piece of shit off. “Look, ladies. I’ve a date with a cold beer, so can we hurry this along?” He crouched into his fighting stance.

A smarmy smile curled Boss-Man’s thin lips. “As you wish.”  Like the Three Musketeers—more like synchronized swimmers—the demons charged forward.

Soren grinned. This was going to be fun.

--A world where vampires are saviors of the human race
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Prologue To The Apocalypse

A short story by

Michael Hammor

© 2014

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  Book Trailer
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   The man straightens up from his work adjusting the coil of copper tubing coming out of the top of the still. The purpose of the coil is to dissipate heat and condense the vapor into a concentrated liquid. I might not have enough coil, he thinks to himself. He looks over to the garden and watches his daughter working the rows with her digging stick, working the weeds back into the poor soil. The potato plants are doing well. Combined with the still, this seasons harvest should gain them much needed extra trade goods. No matter the state of the economy, people will always need an escape.

   Behind her in the distance he notices a dust plume coming from the area where the dirt road meets the highway. They seldom get visitors out here in the valley near the San Pedro River in Hereford, Arizona. It might be the sheriff come to run them off. They are technically squatting on someone else's land. Eight years ago, before things started to go south, he worked as a government IT contractor at Fort Huachuca. Now, he's a dirt farmer, barely keeping his family clothed and fed.

   He calls to his daughter, motioning behind her since it’s not likely she can hear what he is saying. She looks for a moment, and then hikes up the skirt of her dirt-stained simple dress and trots towards him and the house through the afternoon sunshine.

   "Hunny, tell your brother to get his rifle and get up to the roof. That might be the cartel again. You never know," he says to her.

   "Yes, daddy!" she replies and darts into the ramshackle mobile home. She returns a few moments later with a rifle in her arms.

   "Trent said to bring you this!" she says, handing him his old nagant. Trent was four years younger, but already had the heart of a warrior, which often drove his mother to distraction. The man hears two knocks come from the roof, which was the signal that Trent was in position behind the crusty old swamp cooler they no longer had the electricity to run.

   "I want you to stay in the house with your mother and sister till we figure out what’s going on," he explains to her. Reluctantly she turns and goes. He can't help but notice the Springfield XD in the hand she was holding behind her back. It was the first gun he had ever purchased, and the last gun he would ever sell. She might seem to be a gentle soul, content to play with the farm cats, but there is steel in her spine.

   The man walks slowly over to his old truck and pulls out a pair of binoculars. He slings the old rifle on his back. Bringing the binoculars to his eyes he can see it’s a truck, not dissimilar to his own, but blue to his trucks brown. There are three men in the cab and four in the bed. Armed. He sets the binos on the cracked vinyl seat and un-slings his rifle. He puts the engine block between himself and the fast approaching truck and with a well practiced ease lays the rifle across the hood. He eases the bolt back without looking and feels to make sure the chamber is loaded. Good. He has five shots of 7.62X54R FMJ. Trent has his .22 Model 60 Marlin on the roof with 16 rounds loaded. Trent has been taking rabbits at over 100 meters with that rifle since he was 6 years old.

   The truck starts hooting its horn as it turns down their drive. Shave and a haircut, two bits, over and over. The man safes his rifle and peers through the binos just to make sure. It is the Sheriff and he has a posse with him. The man waves to the boy on the roof to stand down. He sets the rifle on the hood of the truck and steps to meet the truck as it grinds to a halt on bad brakes.

   "Sheriff, what brings you out here?" he inquires before the man in the white hat can even offer his hand.

   "Tom, you used to work on post in IT, right? Do you still have some computers and shit lying around?" the Sheriff asks. Something is wrong. His face is very pale and his lips are purple like a man having a heart attack.

   "Yeah, I still have some stuff, why?" Tom asks as he pulls a small flask from his back pocket and hands it to the Sheriff. The Sheriff drains the four ounces of homemade liquor in a single go, grimacing at the burn.

   "There has been an incident at the Border Patrol checkpoint. Somebody killed the two agents, tore them apart, and tried to trash the cameras and computers," the Sheriff confides, color returning to his face.

   "Well, how bad are they trashed?" Tom asks, shaking the flask to see if there is any left.

   "Like with a sledge hammer! However, they didn't know to smash the hard drives. Do you have anything to hook them up to and watch the video so we can find out if this was the Cartel or... something else," the Sherriff says.

   Something else? There have been rumors in recent years. Likely just mass hysteria produced by stress induced paranoia. Society collapsing can do that to people. He can't deny the odd things he has seen and heard. He holds out his hand.

   “Well, let me see them. We'll fire up the genny and see what I can do with them,” Tom asks.

   The Sheriff hesitates. "The Feds have them at the checkpoint. They asked me to bring you there," he finishes awkwardly.

   The Goddamn Feds! The Feds, specifically Special Agent Simmons, has been hounding him since the federal government retook control of the Sovereign State of Arizona. Some people can't put the past behind them.

   "Simmons?" Tom asks.

   "Simmons," the Sheriff confirms.

   They arrive at the border patrol checkpoint a few hours later. A man in a blue polo shirt with a pistol on his hip greets them as they get out of the truck.

   "Tom! So good to see you again!" Agent Simmons says as he takes the rifle from Tom's hands.

   "Simmons. You have some hard drives for me to look at? Why didn't you send them to your own lab for recovery?" Tom asks flatly.

   "Its Special Agent Simmons. We need these drives recovered ASAP. We don't have time to send them out. We believe the Mexican government might be getting ready to make a major push into our territory, under the guise of the Cartel. Plausible deny-ability and all that," Simmons states.

   "You think an advance scouting party hit this checkpoint?" Tom asks as they walk towards the small square building. There are only two other agents and one vehicle, the standard black SUV. "Where is the rest of your crew?" Tom finishes.

   "This is it, cut backs. Washington feels this area is secured now that we have quashed any dissenting parties after that little secessionist flap a while back," Special Agent Simmons replies, making pointed eye contact.

   They pause at the door. Simmons fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small jar of menthol rub. He holds it out to Tom. "It's been a few days since they were killed. It’s August."

   Tom accepts the menthol rub and applies some below his nostrils. Simmons dons blue nitril gloves and puts his hand on the door knob.

   "Once inside touch nothing. Tell me what you want me to retrieve, and I will retrieve it for you. Understand?" Special Agent Simmons instructs Tom.

   Throat suddenly dry, Tom nods in agreement. Special Agent in Charge (of practically nothing) Simmons opens the door.

   The stench is horrendous and instantly takes Tom back to Fallujah 2004. He sees the face of a young boy perched over what he will find out later is a toy rifle. He feels his finger tighten on the trigger.

   "Tom!" Special Agent Simmons shakes his shoulder hard. "Reality, buddy! Stay in it!"

   "Sorry. The smell..," Tom replies shaking his head. The smell of rotting human flesh is unmistakable. Once you smell it, you will never forget it.

   They enter the building. There is gore painted on the walls. They step over a leg still covered with dark green fabric and part of a pocket. Debris is strewn everywhere. The fluorescent light fixtures are hanging from the ceiling. Grey tubing of some sort hangs from the mostly everything. Tom feels his gorge rise when he realizes he just moved a coil of intestine out of his way.

   "Simmons!" he yells.

   "Over here is where the computers are, were," Simmons replies, pointing to a pile of broken plastic and circuit boards piled on a desk.

   Tom examines the pile for a moment and points out a few items.

   "No, the square ones. Grab those grey flat cables, too," Tom instructs as Agent Simmons carefully moves the pile piece by piece.

   Something clatters to the floor. Tom instinctually reaches down and grabs for the objects in case they may be important. He looks at them lying on his palm. Teeth!

   "These are Goddamn Teeth, Simmons! What the fuck!" Tom screams as he flings them across the room.

   "Focus. Is there anything else you see that you will need?" Agents Simmons asks, motioning to the pile.

   "No, that’s it. Just the hard drives and cables. I have everything else in the truck. Let’s get the fuck out of here!" Tom says wiping cold sweat from his forehead. The shakes were starting. He practically runs from the building. The vomiting continues for some time.

   The sun is starting to set. Tom paces back and forth, puffing on a bummed cigarette.

   "So you know about them? Seriously? What are you guys smoking?" Tom says.

   "I know how it sounds. He is what he is. We have collected more than enough evidence. We even captured one of them. They are real," Simmons answers calmly.

   "I can't wrap my mind around what I just watched! It’s impossible!" Tom yells frantically.

   "I'm going to need to you keep this to yourself, Tom. Like I kept that shit about the IEDs to myself. You owe me," Simmons reminds him.

   "Who do you think I'm going to tell? Vampires? Are you fucking serious?" Tom drops the unfinished cigarette to the ground and stomps it out.

   "Did you know they did this before you brought me out here?" Tom asks, face stiff with anger.

   "Not 100%, but I suspected. They are usually more cautious and hide their kills better," Special Agent Simmons answers lighting his own cigarette.

   "How long has the government known about this?" Tom queries, reaching for the pack of smokes.

   "Officially, it doesn't. Unofficially, since 1905. Lazarus, that's the big guy's name, the first records we have of him date from the Bisbee area right before the 1905 fire. He has popped up every few years since. World War one in France 1918, he fed on the wounded on both sides. 1929 during the stock market crash and the Great Depression. The list goes on," Agent Simmons finishes.

   "Why is he here?" Tom asks.

   "We don't know for sure. Last we knew he was deep in Mexico and had been there for years. Now suddenly, he's killing on this side of the border again and this time he has friends," the agent says.

   "I don't understand the purpose of all this. What is the fucking goal?" Tom asks.

   "The goal is I kill him. I stake his ass, cut his head off, and let the sun burn his remains to ash. That's the goal," Agent Simmons says gruffly.

   "I want nothing to do with this. Nothing! Take me home. Now!" Tom says.