Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse
Page 21
But if we thought we’d just board the next flight to Philly, we had another thing coming. Flagstaff Airport turned out to be mainly a freight depot. And it didn’t fly far either.
Frontier Airlines did have one thing to our benefit though; it provided a nice line in corporate coveralls, nice logo too, far better fitting than our rags we’d borrowed in Gregor. The coveralls and Frontier Airlines caps got us access to the main terminal, and chatting to the people in the know.
“DC-3 for Denver leaves at 4.10am.” A charming pilot said as he looked out onto the dark airfield.
“Which one’s that?” I asked, seeing at least three dark outlines on the tarmac.
“Third one along,” he pointed with his empty pipe. “They’re loading it as we speak.”
So, we quickly got out onto the runway and counted. The DC-3 looked a little worse for wear, but the guys were loading stuff into the side of it. It took seconds to get invisible, get inside, and find a corner to crouch in.
Within an hour, they closed the hatches and started the engines.
We were off to Denver.
Valérie Lidowitz, March 1959, En Route to Denver
The inside of the airplane took me a little by surprise. I’d expected some trappings of comfort, but the transport plane had only the rudiments. Support struts ringed the inside, and as I made my way forward, the walking underfoot looked dirty and strewn with belts and straps from the cargo held in the center. Small white lights behind dirty grating proved the only lighting, but better than nothing.
“Have you ever flown before?” I asked to Finch, who I knew walked in front of me.
“Never, this is all quite weird.” I heard from the air six inches from my face. I could smell the blood from the guy she’d fed from.
We slid to one side and watched as the guys tied the last of the cargo to a grating on the floor, then the pilots arrived, their uniforms a stark change from the coveralls that the packers wore. Starched white shirts, tie, gold epaulettes, tunics all smart, with shiny gold buttons like they were going to march at a prom or something. All that for cargo.
“All ready for us?” the captain asked, grinning with big white teeth at the cargo workers. He looked a jock alright; definitely the quarter back of the team.
“All yours, sir,” the man saluted casually, and swung himself out of the hold door.
“Leaving on time,” the captain said to his co-pilot as they swept past us and up into the cockpit.
Directly behind the pilot’s cabin were six fold-off-the-wall seats, and since there were no other passengers, with an empty seat between us we sat down and strapped ourselves in. The noise from the engines drowned out any possibilities of conversation, and pretty soon, we were bumping along the runway.
Once we were airborne and settled into an even flight, we even walked around, looking out the dirty windows, watching the dawn approach from the east.
Denver proved the end of the line for Frontier Airlines, but we got into the larger airport without much of a problem and found the right terminal for flights east.
Trolling the terminal, I snagged a couple of expensive watches from a storefront, then set off looking for tickets. After a while we met two old ladies travelling with United Airlines to Philadelphia… how quaint, but they didn’t need their tickets more than we did. We left them in a bit of a daze, confused and ranting to the poor airport staff about cookies and cupcakes. Their money and tickets sat in our pockets, and we were on the plane and flying before we knew. No baggage, just a pair of off-duty Frontier Airline ground-staff going on a trip. In uniform.
We did get the stewardess treatment, I mean, we were on a seven hour flight, they had to give us stuff to eat and drink.
It gave me time to think, and as I sat on the window side, watching Midwest America pass below me at triple the pace we could have ran. Finch sat busy with a pad and paper, writing down as many details as she could from the briefing in Georgie’s dining room.
It took her a couple of hours to get it all together, scattered over many pages. When she’d done, we huddled together and talked in whispers.
Theresa Scholes, March 1959, En Route to Philadelphia
“There are two Căluşari teams going in,” I said, pointing out both starting positions on the map. Valérie shuffled in her seat to get closer. “One from the north side, and one from the south.”
“And this is where we’ll get our new weapon rolls?”
I nodded. “We hit one of the teams at the staging area, before they even start.”
“Then what?”
“Well, first we have to pick which team we steal the weapons from.”
“Explain.”
“Both Căluşari teams are to wait behind the main thrust until the doors have been breached. The north team’s task is to locate Amos, and deal with him directly.”
“Okay, the guys on the south side?”
“They’re under the same instructions to wait, but their job is to locate Tomas and assist Ivan and Constance. Again, they are not to approach, they are to locate and wait for back-up.”
Valérie leaned closer. We’d both freshened up since our sexual encounters in Gregor and were now close to our ‘undetectable’ status. “So Ivan and Constance are leaving Amos to a team?”
“I think so, their main objective has to be the main target, and that’s Tomas.”
She nodded in agreement. “But who’s our main target, Finch? Our target.”
I paused for a second, I hadn’t expected that one. “If we take the North team out of the game, it leaves us with the task of hitting Amos.”
“There is another scenario,” Valérie tapped the map. “We could hit the south team, and ignore Tomas, their original objective, putting a double team on Amos.”
“But that would put just Ivan and your Mom on Tomas; we’d be putting their lives at increased risk.”
“Do you care?” her face looked impassive, stoic to a degree of robotic.
“I wouldn’t want to jeopardize the hit on Amos by two teams getting each other’s way.” I placed my hand on hers, and found it shaking. “I mean, we could also be putting ourselves at greater risk. We have to think of the aftermath too. I don’t want to have your Mom chasing us trying to wreak some form of vengeance. She’s Council, and we have to remember that.”
Valérie’s expression slipped from resolute to pensive. “I suppose.”
“We have to remain on-task at all times,” I preached, happy to get her in a receptive mood for a moment. “It’s my vote that we take the place of the northern team, and we keep Amos as the primary target. As a personal note for any form of vengeance, that’s what I would choose.”
Valérie Lidowitz, March 1959, En Route to Philadelphia
Damn it if Finch wasn’t right.
Amos was also firmly first on my agenda. I didn’t even know Tomas, and a couple of sightings hardly inspired me to the same level as killing the man who had raped and killed me for years.
I nodded, all thoughts of trying to screw up the operation firmly out of my head. “You’re right.”
“Good.”
I pointed to the papers below the map. “Now tell me what we can expect inside.”
Finch smiled at me, and brought a map of the house to the top of her pile. “This is as good as I can remember.”
Well, she must have remembered pretty good, because she’d drawn the ground floor in real good detail. The front hallway would be used as a reception for the art show, and his main living and dining rooms for the exhibits themselves. The house looked quite enormous, and many other rooms on the first floor seemed to be taking the job of a base for ancillary staff, champagne, finger foods, and suchlike.
“What are these?” I pointed to the large walls Finch had drawn.
“Passageways within the walls.”
“Inside the walls?”
Finch nodded. “We don’t know what they’re being used for, but the access points are the circles here.”
Sh
e pointed out many places where the passageways could be accessed.
Next sheet.
“Upstairs, it’s mainly just two rooms, one main bedroom, one guest, and the bathrooms and toilets for each. But the rooms are massive in size.”
“Do we need to know about them?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it’d be better to look at the plans anyway.”
“True.”
Finch showed me the positions of the rest of the army’s starting positions, basically an oval of firepower round the house, most of them charging in the first wave. Căluşari in the second wave. Others left outside to clean up survivors.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announced from the small speakers above. “This is your Captain speaking. We’ve had a little assistance from a Denver tailwind for the last few hours, and I’d like to announce that we’ll be arriving in Philadelphia Airport twenty minutes early.”
But if we thought getting out of the airport would be easy, even for a couple of vampires, you’d be mistaken. We taxied for ten Minutes, and then the plane doors didn’t open for another ten.
I looked at my watch. 6:40
And we still had no idea where Tomas’s place actually was.
Being a speedy vampire gave us one advantage, we got through the terminal in five seconds, and we hit the first taxi in the rank.
“Huntingdon Valley,” I said to the driver handing him a twenty. “Get us there real quick, and you’ll get another fifty bucks.”
He needed no further encouragement, and we rocked back in the seats as he roared off.
“Where exactly?” he asked as we drove away from the airport.
“The Country Club,” Finch asserted. “Or near it anyway. There’s an art show in one of the big houses up there, and we’re late.” She flashed the driver a big smile.
“They must be paying you well,” he countered. “And I think I know where you’re talking about; it might be the old Ferguson place. Just to the south-east of the golf course?”
“That sounds about right.” Finch leant back in her seat with a satisfied look, nodding to me.
The End Begins
Theresa Scholes, March 1959, Outside Philadelphia
We’d gone about five miles out of the city. “How long to go?” I asked the driver.
He flashed a glance over his shoulder. “A couple of miles, no more,”
“Okay,” I looked at his speedometer, the pale white light showing in the growing darkness. I gave it a mile and a half, then tapped his shoulder. “That’ll do. Just drop us here, and point us in the general direction.”
The cab slowed. “You’re the boss.” He accepted the roll of ten dollar bills with a huge toothy grin. “Take this road for a few hundred yards, then hang a left along Scotch Road. It’s the first big house on the left, maybe half a mile on. You can’t miss it.”
We got out of the cab, and stood at the roadside until it had done a big U-turn, heading back to Philadelphia.
“He made good time,” Valérie said, looking at her watch. “But we’ve only got twelve minutes to locate the northern Căluşari team.”
At Valérie’s indication, we struck left through lightly mown countryside, on the edge of someone’s very large garden. “If we get to the north of the house, we can close in from that direction.”
It made sense to me.
Once we’d ran for about half a mile, we turned south, and edged our way through scrubland. Conscious of both the time and the need for secrecy, we pushed forward, until Valérie caught my arm, pointing to the south. “Vampires.”
Ahead were two men in dark suits, both armed with automatic pistols, large silencers fitted to the barrels. Beyond them, maybe three hundred yards away, stood a large house.
Valérie pulled my arm, and we slipped along a wooden wall. We’d only covered twenty yards when we saw another two men in front, crouched behind a bunch of shrubbery.
They were dressed in black, and wore Căluşari rolls around their waists. It sure looked weird to see those weapons strapped on someone else.
I looked at my watch: 7:06 pm.
I picked up a brick from a pile nearby and passed one to Valérie. “I got the one on the right.” I whispered. I shimmered invisible, and rose to run. I’d like to think that we would have been more attentive than these guys. I know we were barefoot, but I could hear our feet padding on the ground. I could hear the ‘swish’ of the bottom of our coveralls in the grass. As I neared my target, I’m not even sure he could have heard a cannon ball, because it seemed my heart beat out of my chest.
I raised the brick in my hand as I heard Valérie hit her man.
My guy had just a millisecond to turn his head slightly. Squarely on his sideburn, near his temple, a large hole appeared where my invisible brick hit his immaculately groomed hair. I slipped my hands under his arms, and cushioned his immediate fall to the ground.
I shimmered back, Valérie following my example.
“Do I just take his roll?” I whispered. “Mine’s a little guy, I could take his clothes too; the roll would tie up any looseness in the middle.”
“Great idea!” she gasped, and unzipped her coverall to her crotch.
In the growing gloom, two naked girls appeared, then slowly their white forms became covered in the dark, stretchy material that they felt so comfortable in.
Suddenly a buzz came from the ground in front of me.
“All sections report.” Ivan’s voice sounded recognizable even through the muffled speaker of a walkie talkie on the grass.
Each unit reported in by number.
“One.” “Two.” “Three…” all the way up to fifteen.
“C team one?” I picked up the handset, and looked incredulous at Valérie. She shook her head back at me, shrugging. “C team one?”
I clicked the handset button. “Ready.” I said in my lowest voice.
“C Team two?”
“Eh, ready.” The guy echoed my word.
“Armbands on,” Ivan’s voice rang out. “Anyone not wearing one will be considered a target. And remember, not all our team are vampires.”
“Armbands?” I looked exasperated at Valérie. I checked the pockets of my trousers, and came across a piece of cloth. I pulled mine out as Valérie did the same, piece of red cloth, maybe a foot long.
“Which arm?” she asked.
“Right, why not.”
I looked at my watch: 7:12.
We’d made it into position by one minute.
Valérie Lidowitz, March 1959, Outside Tomas’s House
“Now remember,” Finch said, crouched beside me, “we wait until the first wave advance, and we go in behind them.”
I gave her the moment of leadership, after all, she’d memorized the whole plan by herself. “Got it,”
“Feeling nervous?” she grinned at me, her teeth somehow looking luminous in the growing gloom.
“A little bit.”
“Ready to get Amos Blanche, once and for all?”
“Oh yeah,” I gritted my teeth, “that goat herder is going straight to hell tonight.”
“Go.” The handset sounded. “First wave,”
I heard figures rise on either side of our position. “Good luck.” I said, meaning every word. We’d been through extensive training, and now were waiting to put it all to good use. I gave the first wave a fifty yard start, then shimmered invisible, and rose to run, moving round the bush. In front of me, the garden passed quickly under my feet.
Through the fuzziness of the invisible shimmer I could see four men directly in front of me. Large windows lay on this side of the house, and a parking lot to my right, filled with big shiny cars. Armed men threaded their way towards the house, checking the cars for occupants as they did so. I looked to my left, and counted another seven men. My heart pumped wildly. As I drew my Bãtranes, adrenaline kicked in, and I felt as high as I’d ever done. I wanted to scream at the top of my voice.
Then the men to my front closed to within fifty
yards or so, then began to fire, still advancing.
Pop. Pop.
The sound of muted gunfire and the smashing of glass broke the evening air as windows on the lower level of the house shattered into a myriad of patterns. The running men charged through the already weakened glass.
I followed, my bare feet padding loudly on the mown lawn. Shots were returned from the house, but not many. Jumping over the pile of broken glass, I leaped inside, my invisible Bãtranes drawn and held in front, leading my charge. My first target presented itself, Sammie Souris; Amos’s bully boy. Right in front of my face, gun raised, trying to get an aim on the invading force. Oh, I was going to enjoy this. He’d been brought into the fold from a local gang, and risen quickly in Amos’s ranks.
I remember being passed to him once; the memory flooded back as I neared him. My body had already been broken from one of Amos’s beatings, my pussy already used and sore. Sammie had laughed as he took advantage of me, laughed at the jewel surprisingly passed to him, sneered at me as he held my broken arms above my head. I was already oblivious to any further pain he doled out.
Now would be the last day he’d laugh.
I jumped, twisting to one side and thrust my knives hard into chest and back. His body buckled at my unseen attack, and his free arm wind-milled at his side as my blades touched, scraping together inside his heart, a perfect stroke. I twisted my right hand, trapping the blade between his ribs as I picked an Aşchie from my belt, Bubinga, an African hardwood. I slid it down my blade, and pushed it mercilessly into his failing heart.
I didn’t even wait for Sammie to fall. I stood, my feet laced wide, searching the crowded room for Amos.
Then someone ran into me, knocking me to the ground. I rolled to recover, then crouched in readiness. To my front lay a body, its throat ripped open. A terrible vinegar smell from his blood assaulted my nostrils. I looked at this new creature and withdrew temporarily from the conflict around me. In that instant, I recognized that I’d seen my first dead Helsing, and that they were indeed a mutated race.