by John Ringo
“I can hook you up, man,” the guy said, nodding. “Be right back.”
“Hey, Milo, help me get this lady in a body bag,” I said. “But I’ll have to follow over to coroner’s to get the receipt.”
“Hey, man, I can get the best water,” another guy had now sidled up to Milo. “Like, trippin’ water, you know?”
“I’ll get the receipt,” Tremaine offered. “Either run into you at some point or you can get it at Maurice’s.”
“Oh, please just go away,” Milo said, wearily.
“That works,” I said, making a note. I already had the local incident number. “Try to survive so I can pick it up. MCB’s a bitch if we don’t get receipts…”
CHAPTER 23
Living In America
“I’ve dealt with weird things from shadow dimensions,” Milo said, draining a bottle of apple juice. “I’ve killed more vampires than you can shake a stake at. I’m pretty darned good at monster hunting. But I’m not sure I’m cut out for New Orleans.”
The “trippin’ bottle of water” had cost ten dollars. And the cap wasn’t sealed. I was pretty sure the guy had grabbed an empty bottle and filled it with tap water. Milo was an even worse negotiator than he was a public speaker.
“The drug dealers here have a real serious work ethic. Hardest working sons-of-bitches in this town. Very competitive business. They’re always looking for new clients.”
I crumpled up the can and tossed it out the window. I hate littering, but Milo was taking up the spot where my trashbag usually sat and I wasn’t going to just drop it in Honeybear. Although the way the interior was starting to look, I might as well. I usually rolled with a thick quilt on the front seat to sop up the blood and shit from my armor. It was sort of sopped through with blood at the moment. Honeybear was going to need a serious detailing after this moon.
“Right in front of a cop,” Milo said in a wondering tone. “He was trying to sell me drugs right in front of a cop.”
“Special Investigations Unit don’t give a shit about drug dealing and he knew it. They’ve got more important things to do. And besides, even if he did get busted he spends a couple of days in county and he’s back on the street. They think of it the way we think of being too injured to work. Three hots and a cot, see some old friends. It’s like paid vacation. Now get your game face on. We’re almost there.”
Fourth crossed Saint Charles and continued on. Homes tended to be a bit smaller with smaller yards. But it changed quickly. In a few blocks we were in the ghetto again. It really looked exactly like Spain, same ratty cars, same ratty houses, same bars and heavy doors, scraggly yards, devoid of people.
The address Tremaine had given us was 1828 Fourth Street. Single story, what would be called in Pennsylvania a mill house that had been split into a duplex. Usual heavy front door and barred windows.
One of the windows was shattered and the bars had been ripped out.
“And it’s a roamer,” I said. “It’s nice when we can get them in the house.”
“Going to do your really bad werewolf call again?” Milo said.
“Hey, it works,” I said, cruising down the street. “Get out the light, maybe we can spot it.”
We rolled along slowly, looking for signs of loup garou. Running people and blood splatter were the usual ones.
There was some blood splatter on the road and a red hat.
“Oh, Christ,” I said, stopping the car. “Not more of these little bastards!”
The sign was right by a brick building that was definitely a duplex. There were chain-link security fences on both sides between it and the neighboring houses.
Just inside the narrow passage to the right of the house was more blood splatter and another hat. I could hear what sounded like one hell of a dog fight going on behind the house. I pushed through the weed-choked passage between the two houses, and reminded myself to do a tick check after this one. I’d picked up a bunch at the cemetery my first day.
The back yard was a shambles. Bits and pieces of gnomes were scattered in every direction, at least ten more were seriously injured and a three headed dog was just getting its last head finished off by the loup garou. Red pointy hats were everywhere.
Living in America was playing on a boom box in the corner of the yard.
The loup garou turned, snarling. Milo hadn’t even made it into the yard and I was more or less blocking him.
I took a good stance and opened fire full auto, starting more or less pointed at the ground and riding the rounds up.
A couple dug dirt. The rest dug doggie.
The loup garou skidded to a halt as the silver bullets shredded its body and spine. I slid sideways to let Milo get through then dropped my mag to reload.
Milo stepped over and put two in the head of the panting and whining werewolf.
One of the gnomes stood up, shaking his head. He already had a sling on one arm and stitches over half his body. Now his leg had been badly ripped by claws. Whatever had happened to him before this, that gnome was having one bad week.
“Fuck you, Tall,” the gnome squeaked. “What the hell you doin’ on our turf? We had this!”
“Sure, you had this,” I said. “Lawn ornament.”
“Who you calling a lawn ornament?” the gnome squeaked, trying to pull a cheap ass pistol out of his waistband with his left hand.
I walked over and stuck my Uzi’s suppresor in his puffy beard.
“You’re PUFF applicable. You’re just a little bundle of green to me, short ass. Draw it! I double dog dare you!”
“Hey, no problem, man,” the gnome said, holding up his good hand.
“Sorry about your dog,” I said, lowering the weapon. I wondered if we could file PUFF on the thing. It was probably worth a few shekels. “Where’s your burrow? We’ll help you get your homies out before the SIU gets here.”
“Hardly no burrows in New Orleans, man,” the gnome squeaked. “Too wets. Gots to get them up in the house ’fore the man gets here!”
Milo and I picked up the wounded gnomes, even I could carry two at a time by the ankles, and tossed them in the house. They were tough, say that for them. Their Momma would handle things from there. Gnome Mommas were grade A healers. If the gnomes were up and in sight, SIU might just get the urge to “handle” the gnome infestation. SIU hated gnomes more than I did.
When we had the scene cleared up we called SIU.
* * *
“So all the surviving gnomes were gone when you got here,” Salvage said, turning a red hat over in his hand thoughtfully. Tremaine had passed my receipt to him at some point so we were good on that front.
“Yep,” I said. “The cerb was still kicking and there were bits and hats everywhere but the gnomes were all gone. We finished off the cerb so I’m going to file on that.”
“Looks like the scene’s clear,” Salvage said. “Coroner’s on the way. You going to file on the gnomes?”
“Depends on if we can figure out how many there were,” I said. PUFF on a gnome was ten grand, which was just insane. The three headed dog was half that. Generally, it was ’cause they were hard to catch. Unless you were a werewolf crashing the party. “Lotsa bits. Not sure if the Feds will pay on a hat count.”
Turned out that Shelbye had already filed on the gnome I accidentally shot with the killer frog. I hated to get paid for killing innocent bystanders but you couldn’t call gnomes innocent so all good.
“Coroner’s on the way,” Salvage said. “With your reinforcements in town, they’re having a hell of a time keeping up.”
“The good news is we’re getting it shut down faster,” I said.
“Yeah,” Salvage said, dropping the hat in gnome splatter. “I’ve got another call. You gotta wait on coroner this time.”
“Works for me,” I said. “I’m gonna go grab a beer. Milo, want an apple juice?”
“Yes,” Milo said.
* * *
I was getting an apple juice out of the back for Milo when I heard a Ps
ssst.
Sure enough the much battered gnome was up by Honeybear’s tire, hunkered down to keep out of sight of “the man.”
“Hey, humie,” the gnome said. “Sorry ’bout earlier.”
“No problem,” I said, pulling out the apple juice and grabbing another Bud. I popped the top and handed it to the gnome. “I’m Iron Hand. You?”
“Bun-Bun,” the gnome said, taking a deep drink of Annheiser-Busch’s finest. “Shit tastes like camel piss. You need to get some Dixie!”
“Speaking of camel piss,” I said. “What you got, shortie?”
“Big Momma says we owe you one,” the gnome said, making a face.
“If I need a cheesy decoration for my garden I’ll let you know,” I said.
“Well, fuck you, then,” Bun-Bun snarled. I could tell he wanted to toss a table. Assuming he could reach one.
“Just kidding.” Gnomes could be good snitches. “Gots nothin’ I need right now,” I said then paused. “Actually, the one big question I gots, only one might be able to answer is Big Momma. Gots somethin’ weird going on.”
I was a monster hunter. I was talking to a gnome. You have to understand I have a different definition of “weird.”
“Big Momma don’t like t’ talk to humies,” Bun-Bun said. “Hell, I think humies all need a cap in the ear, you know? But Big Momma don’t talk to humies none at all.”
“Fine,” I said. “When I need a lawn ornament I’ll call.”
“Up yours, Tall.” The gnome vanished.
* * *
“I can’t give you a receipt based on number of hats!” Dave said.
“Hey,” I said, placatingly. “Gnomes never leave a hat behind! If there’s a hat, it’s a dead gnome!”
“I’ll try to figure out how many pieces there are,” Dave said. “MCB’s been looking over our shoulder lately, you know? Castro’s been in a bad mood since the frog incident.”
“I’m good with not padding. I’ve never liked it anyway but I’m not from around here. Just try to get a count of the bits and give me that.”
We had to borrow a ladder from a nearby house. There was a gnome head, still in the hat, on the roof.
“Seems like it mainly was leaving behind the heads,” Dave said. We had seven battered gnome heads lined up on the back porch of the house.
“Not much eating in a gnome head,” Milo said, nodding sagely. “Mostly bone.”
“I’ll give you a receipt for one loup garou, one cerberus, medium, and seven gnomes,” Dave said, scratching at a receipt.
“Works for me,” I said.
He pulled off the yellow slip and handed it over.
“I think we can fit all the gnome bits in one bag…”
* * *
“Totally bogus,” I said, tucking the receipt away as we drove off. We’d had to wait until Coroner cleared the scene. “Like that hat on the street? That one got completely gobbled up. Maybe if they find some heads in the stomach contents we can get the rest of the PUFF.”
“Chad,” Milo said. “Gnomes aren’t all bad. And we didn’t even kill them.”
“Know who Horatio Nelson was, Milo?” I said. We had a call over on Saint Charles Avenue. Another loup garou that two teams were already trying to track down.
“I went to high school,” Milo said. “And I didn’t get straight C’s.”
“Getting a perfect C is hard,” I said. “He was one bad-ass fighter. Ship, personal, you name it. Took a Spanish ship-of-the-line with the crew of a brig by boarding from the stern and fighting his way all the way to the front. At the front leading his men. Just swinging a sword most of the way. One of his quotes I always keep in mind. I could not have tread these perilous paths in safety were it not for a saving sense of humor. If I don’t laugh about this shit, I’m going to suck start a twelve gauge.”
“That’s fair,” Milo said.
“And it was bogus. You got any idea what the PUFF is on a gnome? And I’ve got a house to pay for…”
* * *
We cruised Saint Charles for a bit then got the call that Ray’s team had finished that one off. Then the phone rang again.
“Think you can find Loyola University?” Milo asked, juggling the car phone and a map.
“I think so,” I said, drily, speeding up. There was traffic. I hit the purple light and the sirens and made a U-turn. A Toyota had to turn desperately to avoid being run over. It would not have survived the Honeybear. “It’s on Charles Avenue.”
“Vampire attack,” Milo said.
“This should be fun.”
“Why?”
“Loyola’s a big center for monster lovers. We’re probably going to catch some shit.”
CHAPTER 24
Crazy On You
“Vampires are sentient beings!”
The speaker was a portly man in his fifties with a big bushy beard and thick brown hair wearing a tweed jacket that must have been hot as hell. He looked like the late and unlamented Tedd Roberts.Who wears a tweed jacket in a town like New Orleans in May?
“So are you,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I won’t blow your brains out if you don’t get out of my way.”
The attack had taken place over on the Academic Quad. From what we’d gleaned, the vamps might still be on the premises.
“University property is a sanctuary zone!” the man shouted. He was some sort of Dean. “Entry of common law enforcement is forbidden!”
“Good thing we’re not law enforcement,” Milo said.
“That’s right, we’re bounty hunters,” I said. “Different breed of cat. I can quote the Supreme Court rulings. Seriously, if you think we should not enter and deal with the threat, go reason with them. From my experience, vampires can be reasoned with. We’ll follow and stay back. You go talk them down.”
“Well, uh…” the man said, grabbing his collar and pulling it.
“So, you’re fine with your students getting their throat ripped out but not willing to take the chance yourself? I mean, ’cause they’re only students, right? Plenty more where those came from. They just clutter up the place.”
“That’s not at all—”
“Both my parents are professors. I’ve heard the discussions since I was a kid. Now, for the last time, you got three choices. Get out of my way. Go try to talk the vamps down yourself. Or personally experience the violence inherent in the system. Choose.”
Back in his twenties he’d probably have been more than willing to take a beat-down to prove a point. Give peace a chance. Stick it to the man by showing how the entire system was based on fascism.
That was then, this was now. He got out of the way.
As we were walking away, Milo told him. “Sentient just means they feel stuff. You meant they’re sapient beings. Read a book, professor.”
Luckily this time of night the campus was pretty deserted. We found the campus cops next to a mangled body. From the number and savagery of the bite wounds we were either dealing with several vampires or one really aggressive one. Milo identified us and started talking to the cops. I started looking for a sign of which way they had gone.
“Hand, Trevor,” my radio hissed. “Location?”
“Peace quad. Credit union. One KIA so far. No count on vamps yet.”
“Alvin and Moore are coming in from the north. Me and Shelbye are at your six. Hold your position until we get there.”
I spotted bloody foot prints. I could hear music coming from that direction.
Milo came over. “Witnesses saw at least two, definitely sounds like vamps. And the cops just got a radio call, something about a party over there.” Then he saw the bloody foot prints. “Three…Four…Oh boy. They’re hunting in a pack.”
“Negative, Trevor,” I radioed. “We need to get this shut down fast.”
There was a long pause. “Continue sweep.”
“Hand out,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
“Two of us going up against this many vamps in the dark is insane,” Milo said. “Not saying I’
m not coming, but…”
“We have to go in,” I said, stepping into the darkness. “Nothing says we have to come out.”
* * *
We’d been sweeping east of the bookstore when we heard a series of shots and screams to our right. Small caliber hand-gun. Mixed screams. A more powerful gun, fairly rapid fire. Panic fire in both cases.
The campus cops had been armed .38s.
We sprinted between the bookstore and the Jesus School. Behind it was a well-lit set of basketball courts and a “scene.”
There had been a bunch of kids out on the court playing basketball under the lights. Most of them looked to be university students. Guys playing, girls mostly watching. Bit of a party. Coolers filled with beer. Stereo going.
Then vampires decided to crash the party.
Two fraternities had gotten into some sort of friendly argument and decided to hash it out with an equally friendly game of basketball. Their associated sororities had turned out to act as cheerleaders.
Many of the Loyola students were from other states. Mommy and Daddy would pay to get them out of the house and send them off to New Orleans to get some education, hopefully, and have a good time when they were still young. Gather ye rosebuds. Sweet yet swiftly pass the halcyon days of youth.
Locals in both groups recommended against it. They knew that bad things were happening on the full moon lately. One of them even came armed. He had a .44 Automag—a present from his parents—which he was carrying illegally. Because he was a superstitious local, he’d rubbed silver nitrate in the hollow point cavities. Not that a small amount of silver nitrate would actually do anything to a loup garou. Has to be pure silver, not any sort of alloy. I’d say “pro-tip” but you should have gotten that in training.
But you couldn’t blame the local boy for trying.
Problem being, bullets aren’t much good on vamps. Even young vampires swallow bullets and spit out the bits. Hitting them in the head would disorient them. Breaking bones would slow them down, at least until they regenerated. But the only way to really shut down a vamp was to stick something big through their heart, and killing them required taking off their heads.
