“Man . . .” Jake looked back into the flames, “Dad is still pretty upset about it, huh?”
“Yeah it’s not easy growing up without a mother,” Cort frowned. “Sandra’s probably the closest thing he has to one.”
“So what happened to her?” Jake asked.
“She was living in Virginia last I heard. Remarried with three or four kids. Of course they’re all grown now, probably with kids of their own. Far as I know Will doesn’t even know who I am. He was only four when she took him away.”
“You never tried to contact him?” Jake asked.
“And bring him into this mess of a world we live in?” Cort shook his head. “No. I can’t do that to him. He’s out, he’s safe, that’s all that matters.”
“But he’s still a Bishop,” Jake replied. “He should at least know where he came from.”
“I doubt very much that he even knows that name,” Cort flicked another piece of wood into the fire. “I doubt I’d even know him if I saw him.”
“Do you still love her?” Jake asked, picking a stick off of the ground and rolling it back and forth between his palms.
“She was the love of my life,” Cort answered, biting his upper lip.
Man how sad . . . I don’t know who I feel for more. Dad for the anger he can’t let go of, or Grandpa for the love he had to let go of. “I always wondered what happened to them. I saw the family pictures of Dad and Will and Grandma hanging on the wall, but I never asked because I figured it was just too painful for you.”
“That’s life,” Cort sat up in his chair, readjusting the holstered revolver on his hip. “You’ll learn as you get older that things don’t always go the way you plan, especially when it comes to something as complicated as love.”
“Greetings!” A voice called out from the darkness, causing both Cort and Jake to stand. Cort pulled his revolver, cocking back the hammer.
“Don’t shoot!” A figure emerged from the darkness with a stringer full of fish in one hand and a red fishing pole in the other. He smiled sheepishly, holding both hands above his head. “Sorry if I scared you,” he stammered. “I was just wondering if you might have a sharp knife I could borrow or maybe a wet rock. I’ve got a stringer full of fish and my knife is quite dull.”
‘Greetings?’ Quite dull?’ Who talks like that? Jake’s own hand slowly wandered to the pistol tucked tightly into the back of his waistband. His other hung loosely to his side, just within reach of his axe, Judgment, that was imbedded in a large log near the fire.
“That’s a big gun,” the man stood stock still, staring down the barrel of Cort’s pistol. “Mind if I lower my arms?”
Cort holstered the big pistol but kept his knife gripped tightly in his other hand. “Go right ahead,” he said, in a friendly tone. “Sorry. Damn hogs have overrun this part of the country. You can’t be too careful.”
The man lowered his arms then stepped closer to the fire. He had short brown hair hidden under a gray and black Bass Pro Shop cap. His blue eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of Buddy Holly glasses. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. “I ran into a pack of about ten of them down near the water. Big creatures, one of them must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.”
“That’s a nice haul,” Jake nodded at the stringer. “What were you using for bait?”
“Liver,” he smiled brightly, admiring his own stringer. “Works like a charm every time.”
“That’s for sure,” Cort nodded. “Nothing beats chicken liver. Well have a seat,” Cort motioned to John’s empty lawn chair. “Jake, would you get my sharpener out of my tackle box? It’s in the back of the truck.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake nodded. He headed for the truck but kept both eyes fixed on the stranger. He looked harmless enough, but if there was one thing that Sgt. Major Castle had taught him, it was that a Maker could take on any shape, any disguise.
Jake picked up his axe, acting as if he were going to put it in the back of the truck. He clicked on his flashlight and searched through the box until finally finding the sharpener.
Jake stepped back into the camp and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” the man smiled, showing a mouthful of perfect pearl white teeth.
With his left hand he reached into his front pocket and withdrew a small red Swiss Army knife. He pulled open the blade and ran it through the sharpener. “Where are you guys from?” he asked, not looking up from his work. “Lubbock?”
“Abilene,” Cort lied.
“How about yourself?” Cort asked.
“Lubbock. I am an English professor at Texas Tech.”
English professor huh? That might explain why he speaks so . . . properly. Just like Mr. Orwell, then again Orwell is over three hundred years old.
Jake leaned against the bed of the truck, his axe gripped tightly in his right hand.
“How has the weather been down there?” the stranger asked. “Have you had much rain?”
“No. Not much at all,” Cort replied. “It’s just too damn dry.”
“That is the truth,” the man replied. “I have been coming here for years and have never seen the lake this dry. Oh dear!” he cried out, putting his finger up to his mouth.
“You okay?” Cort asked, his fingers brushing the grip of his pistol.
“Yes. I’m afraid I just cut myself is all,” he held his finger up to the flickering light. Sure enough a thin stream of red blood covered the tip. Jake relaxed. The man was clearly human. No Maker would bleed red blood. Their blood was almost as dark as oil.
“Can I get you a band-aid?” Cort asked.
“Yes, if you have one,” the man nodded.
Cort opened the passenger door of the truck and pulled a first aid kit from under the seat. “Here you go,” he said handing him a band-aid.
The man wrapped up his finger, then stood up handing the sharpener back to Jake. “Well thank you gentleman. I appreciate it. I had better get these cleaned and get back home. It is getting late.”
“No problem at all,” Cort nodded. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Guy,” the man nodded. “Thanks again. Goodnight.” With that he headed off into darkness.
A few minutes later John, quiet as a corpse stepped back into camp. “He’s gone.”
“Think he was telling the truth?” Jake asked.
“The blood looked real enough,” Cort shrugged, “but who the hell knows. His language was a little off.”
“I watched him until he got back to his camp,” John laughed. “He tripped over a tree root and fell into the lake.”
“I say we head home.” Cort sheathed his knife, then picked his carving off the ground and tossed it into the fire. “Goddamn vampires. I haven’t been on a camping trip in twenty-five goddamn years. The first time I do, they wreck it.”
“Come on Grandpa,” Jake said, “he was probably just some guy! We can’t just call it quits because some loser struts into our camp looking for a knife sharpener. Besides it’s my eighteenth birthday. Can’t we just pretend, just for one day, that every person we meet is not a vampire?”
“Pop’s right, Jake,” John placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Camping out was just a bad idea.”
“Man this sucks,” Jake sulked. “Every time . . . every damn time something good happens we have to call it off because of vampires. I hate this crap!”
“I know it Jake,” Cort said, already starting to take down his tent. “That’s just the way it is.”
John backed their boat into the driveway a little after 2am. Cort unhitched it then placed a block of wood behind each tire.
John pulled his truck around, parking it in the garage. Jake punched the ten-digit code into the alarm and heaved open the heavily fortified door leading into the house. The three men stepped inside and set the alarm.
“Get some sleep, Jake,” John said, hanging his keys on the Gone Fishing key rack next to the door.
“Looks like there’s a message on the machine,” Cort said, taki
ng his cap off and dropping into Billy’s old chair. He pushed the button. The machine beeped.
“Hi Jacob,” Amber’s voice said a little over a whisper. Jake stopped what he was doing and turned to listen, his heart jumping into his throat. I’d forgotten how much I love the sound of my name on her lips.
“I was hoping to talk to you,” she continued, “but I guess . . . I guess you’re too busy with, well you know hunting trips and things like that. I know your first solo is coming up soon,” she sighed. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now, Grandma and Grandpa just won’t let me. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. I just think they don’t want me getting hurt or killed like Donnie. Luckily Grandpa’s been out of town since yesterday morning and Grandma isn’t the phone Nazi he is so . . . anyway, I just wanted to wish you happy birthday and tell you that I miss you. Tell everyone I said hello and give them my best. Be careful out there, Jacob.” The machine beeped again ending the message.
“John.” It was Talon’s voice on the next message, “you aren’t going to believe this but I found a hunt for Jake. It’s close too. Only an hour drive from Lubbock. I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.”
In a matter of seconds Jake went from the top of the world to the very bottom. He’d known for years that his solo hunt was inevitable, but somehow he thought there would be more time. So much for a perfect day . . .
“Guy” watched from his seat atop a five-gallon bucket as the Bishops’ truck drove across the dam, headed back to Lubbock. His stringer of fish hung nearby on a thick branch. Three raccoons batted at it with their paws trying to knock it down. “Enjoy, my little friends,” he smiled. “I will see if I cannot catch you a few more.”
“What are you doing here, Gaius?” a familiar voice said from behind him.
“Michael,” Gaius said, not bothering to turn around. “Have a seat.”
“I asked you a question,” Michael replied in a very heated tone.
“I said have a seat,” this time putting force into his words.
Michael obeyed, dropping to the dry ground next to his Maker. He stared cold, hate filled eyes at him.
“Calm yourself,” Gaius ordered. “I promised you I would not harm the boy and I will not.”
“Then why are you here?” Michael ground his teeth.
“I was curious. I wanted to see the humans that three of my children went to war over.” He lifted his eyes meeting Michael’s. “I must say I was not impressed. They were so easily deceived. A little blood stored inside my cheek, clothing I acquired from some pitiful little man whose blood reeked of alcohol . . .” he nodded to a drained naked body, hidden under a nearby log.
“Pathetic are they not?” a booming male voice said, appearing almost from thin air. “So weak, so frail. I could have feasted on all three of them and there would not have been a thing any of them could have done to stop me.”
“I would have killed you if you had, Macro.” Michael rose from the ground, extending his talons. The beast before him stood taller than any man should, close to seven feet. A long mane of blond, almost white hair fell down over his shoulders, draping over a patched fur coat made from the skins of dozens of Watchers. “I suppose Livilla is here as well?”
“Why would she bother herself with something as trivial as Hunters?” Macro smirked. “Stupid boy. She has more important matters to deal with than three pitiful humans.”
“Those pitiful humans helped kill nineteen of Livilla’s children,” Michael laughed. “And if I’m not mistake they took out a dozen of yours as well.”
Macro’s temper flared, his long fangs protruded from his mouth. “Traitor!” he roared. “I know it was you that gave them the location of our home! For that, Michael, I will kill you where you stand!”
“I gave them no such thing!” Michael yelled back. “You are a fool, Macro, for thinking you could stand up to the might of both the Coalition and the United States Government! Your arrogance brought this apocalypse upon us! How many times did I warn you and the council? How many times?! This isn’t Rome, or Medieval Europe, these humans have the ability to wipe us all from existence!”
“Silence!” Gaius shouted. “You two fools are scaring the fish away!” He reeled in his line to find an empty hook. He glared at Macro then turned to Michael, “If either of you so much as thinks of trading words again, I will rip your heads from your necks and feed you to the fish! For once can we not have a calm, civilized conversation?”
“Caligula . . .” Macro started.
“Silence!”
Gaius opened a small red and white cooler sitting next to him and pulled out a bloody piece of liver. He popped it into his mouth like a piece of candy then offered one to both of his “sons”. Macro greedily accepted one. Michael refused, his eyes filled with disgust.
“Delicious,” Macro licked his fingers then reached for another piece. “There is nothing so sweet as the taste of infant’s blood. It is so . . . untainted.”
Gaius slapped his hand away, “The rest is for the fish.”
Michael sighed, “Gaius, please. I beg you. Put a stop to this. I gave you everything, and in return you gave your word.”
“On that, Michael, you are mistaken. I gave you everything. I gave you immortality. There is no greater gift.”
“You cursed me,” Michael lowered his head. “If I had known the cost . . .”
“You would have accepted it all the same,” Gaius said.
“You are a fool, Michael,” Macro said, then shut his mouth as Gaius gave him a burning stare.
“Be gone,” Gaius said, with a wave of his hand, “both of you. Leave me in peace. Continue your pathetic little war if you must but leave me out of it!”
Macro and Michael rose and without a word faded back into the night. Gaius popped another piece of liver into his mouth then baited his empty hook. “Here fishy, fishy,” he said, casting out his line. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, “Everything continues to go as planned.”
“You play a dangerous game, brother.” Livilla’s form emerged from the lake, squeezing water from her long red hair. “Why do you do this? You could end this war with a single word.”
“Dear sister, where is the fun in that?” he smiled.
“What of the humans?” she asked, kneeling down next to him. “Though I hate to admit it, Michael is right. They are becoming more dangerous by the day. What should we do?”
“It is simple,” Gaius smiled. “If there is one thing humans love it is to kill each other. So, let’s give what they want.”
“How do we do that?”
“I have already made the arrangements.” He popped another piece of liver into his cheek. “A whisper here, a suggestion there, a few million dollars placed is some very fanatical, very dangerous hands.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Soon, very soon, the Hunters . . . the Americans, will all learn just how fragile they really are.”
Chapter 1
Jake
The Bishop Residence
Lubbock, Tx
September 10, 2001 3:53am
Jake lay awake the entire night before his first solo hunt. He had trained for two and a half years for this very day, had dreamed about it, but now that it was finally here his nerves were on edge like a teenager going on his first date.
The red numbers of the alarm clock stared at him, almost taunting him. Just thirty more minutes, he thought to himself. Thirty more minutes until the alarm goes off . . . then it all begins. No more training, no more games, no more pissed off drill sergeants riding my ass, just me, my guns, my axe, and a vampire . . . I must be out of my freaking mind.
As he stared at the glowing red 4:30am, the zero turned into a one then seemingly just as quickly became a two. "Twenty-eight more minutes," he said aloud. Rolling onto his left side he draped his hand over the side of the bed and ran his fingers lovingly across the engraved handle of his double headed axe, Judgment, which sat leaning against his nightstand. He gripped it in his right hand then pulled it tight
ly to his chest. Please God, he prayed, rolling onto his back, still clutching the axe. Please don't let the alarm go off. Please . . . his eyes grew heavy, closed, and for the first time that night he finally slept.
Jake's eyes opened to the ghostly image of Donnie hovering above him. Blood oozed out from between his shredded, broken lips. "Take care . . ." he wheezed. "Take care . . ." his lips continued to move but no more words would come. Jake struggled to move, to cry out, but his body would not cooperate. Before his eyes Donnie began to rot.
Huge globs of clotted blood mixed with putrefied flesh fell in clumps from his decaying body. Jake tried to close his eyes, to shield his mind from the horror he knew was coming.
Bit by tiny bit Donnie's rotted flesh fell away. His cold, foul smelling blood rained down in a shower, pooling around Jake’s eyes. The intestines fell out in a heap splashing on Jake’s chest and wrapping around his neck like a squishy noose.
A thick layer of blood, guts, and gore enveloped Jake, filling his mouth, nose, and ears. Only a repugnant, grayish skeleton remained of what was once his best friend. Its ghostly, boney fingers stretched down yanking at Jake’s hair. “Take care . . .” the boney jaw moved then fell off.
The alarm went off and Jake opened his eyes. Warm tears ran down his cheeks and a cold sweat covered his entire body. He lay completely still. Unable to even blink for fear that he might doze off and the nightmare would return. The alarm beeped for a full minute before he finally reached over and turned it off.
It had been the same for weeks now. Every time he closed his eyes the image of Donnie’s broken, distorted body would find him and deliver his dying words over and over. Take care of who? Of what? Jake thought angrily. Dammit Donnie! Finish the sentence or leave me the hell alone! You're not real! You're not! You're dead! I watched you die! I watched the life drain out of your eyes! I watched Billy cradle your body in his arms . . . we cremated you! Jake wiped the tears from his eyes then sat up on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. "You’re dead!" he said quietly.
C.O.T.V.H. (Book 3): Extermination Page 2
