by Declan Finn
“No.”
“You really think there might be a problem?” asked Ibrahim “Bram” Javaherian. He was a young Persian Catholic who had been with the Vatican Ninjas for only a few years… well, that was Rodgers’ assessment. He was too young, otherwise.
Rodgers knew more about Marco than he had ever let on, but couldn’t say much of it, due to the seal of the confessional. Heck, Rodgers had baptized Marco. Had taught Marco catechism. He had all but shaped Marco, or so he had thought.
When Marco had his first confession, Father Rodgers had expected very little from him. He was only seven. The first words were standard—“Bless me Father, for I have sinned, this is my first confession”—and was followed by a sincere, “Is it a sin to want to kill someone?”
Rodgers had answered just as seriously. “There are ways it is sinful. Who did you have in mind?”
“The people who knocked down the buildings.”
The priest frowned. He had been worried about this from the moment that Robert had reported what Marco had seen. “We must pray for those people, Marco, so that they change their ways.”
The young Marco had nodded slowly. “What if they don’t change? It would be self-defense to kill them, wouldn’t it? My teacher told me that self-defense was okay.”
Rodgers had thought, I should ask them what they think they’re teaching in these “stranger-danger” courses. “Yes. But it is most likely that a soldier would be the one to fight them like that.”
Marco nodded, and considered it. “Then when I grow up, I should do that. Thank you.”
Had that been the end of it, Rodgers would not have worried. Really, he wouldn’t have. Marco had been a child, and there were more than enough children who wanted to play soldier for real one day when they grew up. In and of itself, that was nothing. When Marco took Krav Maga, it had been seen as a phase, the same as with most children and karate.
Then, last year, months before the vampire plague had started, Marco came into the confessional and said, “Bless me, father for I have sinned, it has been a month since my last confession.”
Rodgers had given him a big, hearty laugh. “Marco, what could you have done in a month? You’re too busy to sin. I mean it, I’ve seen your schedule.”
“Remember how we once talked about killing in self-defense?” Marco asked casually.
The priest nodded solemnly. That was a first confession he was never going to forget, even if he had tried. “Yes. What makes you bring it up?”
“You’ve met Lily, right?”
Rodgers rolled his eyes. He had always known that young woman would be causing trouble some day. “What have you and she done together?”
“We didn’t do that much. I can’t promise what would have happened next, but we had been interrupted.” Marco stared at his hands absently, and held them up. They were red and encrusted with blood that had already turned black. “I killed him.”
The priest leaned forward. “Marco, are you all right?”
Marco squeezed his eyes shut a moment, then stared at the priest blankly. “Yes. I’m fine. Lily’s fine. The gang has cleaned up most of the mess. They gave me some restaurant wet-naps to clean off my mouth.” He shrugged, as though it had just been annoying. “I bit him, you see.”
“Marco, wh—”
“Why did I come?” Marco finished for him, even though Rodgers had wanted to ask What happened? “I came here because I made him suffer. I didn’t really mean to, that was just improper technique on my part. I’ll do better next time. No, the problem is that I liked it. Well, that may be a problem, I’m not entirely certain. Isn’t it a common thread from Washington to Churchill that it’s so much fun to be shot at without being hit? And it’s a good thing war is so terrible, otherwise we’d be doing it more often? I get that part.”
Marco grinned. Some of his teeth was still stained with blood. “You see, I killed the little bastard because he was trying to kill me, and I enjoyed spilling his guts onto the sidewalk.”
Rodgers nodded slowly. He had heard confessions from soldiers who had told him much worse. “Marco, if this is about the anger we’ve talked about before—”
Marco held up his hand. “Oh, no. My prayer life is fine. You know how I know it’s fine? Because this doesn’t happen more often.”
Rodgers blinked a few times, coming back to the here and now. That was over a year ago. While he and Marco had been working on Marco’s anger problems, it was something he had been worried about for some time. Marco’s prayer life was…interesting. He had memorized the psalms, read a daily breviary.
Eventually, Rodgers would learn that someone had pulled a knife on Marco and Lily and tried to mug them. That man had been a one-off. Marco may have never killed anyone else ever again.
But that was before the vampires had come, and death was a daily occurrence.
Bram Javaherian nudged Rodgers with his foot. “You awake?”
Rodgers nodded, and sighed. “Yes, I am. As for Marco… if Amanda believes him to be in danger, then he is in danger.” He leaned into the aisle as he saw Ninja Troop Leader Hendershot in the cockpit. “Did Amanda’s password get us clearance?”
Hendershot gave a thumbs up without calling back, and the jet started moving.
Bram chuckled. “Wow, that was fast. Didn’t expect us to be airborne already. Especially during a terrorist lock down. It took days for even minimum air space to open up the first time this happened.”
Rodgers leaned back in his seat and thought about it for the moment. “Yes. I can understand that. I believe there is much more to Madam Colt than we first expected.”
* * * *
San Francisco
In the beginning, Marco’s job was straightforward and simple.
For example, at the very first place he visited, he had patiently listened at a crypt door for signs of life. He slowly and methodically placed four bottles on top of the crypt, two of them with rags. He calmly lit the rags, put away the lighters, then kicked open the door.
They had just torn into a new kill, already dead. “Surprise.”
He ripped the Molotov cocktails from the doorway above and tossed them to the floor beyond the foot of the stairs, letting the flaming alcohol consume the floor, and block the way. He broke the next two bottles over the stairs, letting the holy water seep into the stone. Before anyone could react, he closed the doors, sliding a stake through the outside lock.
The earplugs attached to the iPod cried out the question, “How many of them can we make die?”
* * * *
New York
Amanda Colt had had more than enough. When she got out of the rubble, she was going to make it to San Francisco and beat “Mister” Day to death.
Assuming she could beat him to death.
She even had a plan. Sure, Day would have a twelve-hour head start, but she could manage something. The country’s airports would be shut down for a terrorist attack, but she had the security clearances from back in the day …
Except that would require a plane, dummy, she thought. Clearances are nice, but you don’t own a jet.
It didn’t matter. She was going to make it if it killed her. No matter how many different plans she came up with since she woke up, it always came down to one plan: running. Like many vampires of her age and skill, she’d been able to cross distances in the blink of an eye. But running from New York to San Francisco from sundown to sunup would be a challenge.
How fast would she have to run? Three thousand miles in about nine hours… make it twelve, since she was going west through time zones… She would have to run at about two hundred and fifty miles an hour.
I wonder if I can move at those speeds without blasting my clothes off and shattering my bones. And can I do it without blood?
Amanda winced, and not because she was buried under a building. She’d been buried alive… okay, buried undead… for hours already. This was after Day had beaten her to within an inch of her afterlife. Had he been thorough and not assum
ed the explosion would kill her, he could have easily twisted her head off. The blood she would need to heal from that alone would eat up plenty of time—a whole five minutes, which already felt like far, far too much time to waste.
But she was going to have to do it. She couldn’t see any other options. She had spent every waking moment pondering the problem, and that was the only conclusion she could reach. She would have to run from Brooklyn, over the Verrazano, through New Jersey, and… North around the Rockies? Or over them?
With that consideration laid out, she had only one thing left to do. Pray.
Please God, let me get to Marco in time. Please. I try not to ask for too much, honestly I don’t. And I don’t know how much of this is for me, and how much is for Marco, but if he needs me, I want to be there. I’m going to need speed. I’m going to need to run. I’ve done it for short distances in combat, but if You could help me do it over long distances? Without blood? Yes, I know I am asking for bricks without straw… or vampires without blood… but Day must be stopped. And Marco… You know how I feel about Marco. Probably better than I do, considering how confused I am on the subject.
I can offer You nothing, as everything I have already belongs to You, from my soul to my friendships. I just need—
She felt the rubble shift above and around her. She started to panic. She could feel the sun still up. She could feel it above her.
Her heart stopped again, only in pure terror. She was going to die. She’d never see Marco again. At that moment, she wasn’t entirely certain what would be worse.
Rubble disappeared right off of her, and she braced for the worst.
“Mistress Colt,” came the voice of Jennifer Bosley. “Had enough of your dirt nap?”
Amanda looked up. It was pitch black—at least to the naked, human eye. The president of the New York City Vampires Association stood over her, smiling down with her great big grin.
“President—”
“I was being sarcastic, Amanda,” Bosley said, and reached down. Amanda took her hand and yanked her to her feet. “I told you, call me Jen.”
Amanda looked around. She knew the sun was up—every vampire did—and there wasn’t even a glimmer. The entire area had been surrounded by a giant circus tent.
“How did you do this?”
“Your friend Enrico knows some people. Especially in construction.”
Amanda glanced at Bosley. “Enrico? He’s still talking to me?”
“He is now.” Bosley smiled. “Terrorism brings out the best in people. Especially when we’re all united in hurting them a little.” She looked over Amanda’s clothing. “You look like a building dropped on you, love. I have blood and a change of clothes put off to the side for you. Don’t have any underwear.” Bosley laughed. “Hope that won’t be a problem.”
Amanda ignored the jokes. “The man responsible is a Mister Day. He’s been—”
“Around a while, I know,” Bosley told her. “I know about Day. I also know he’s been in town. Had I known what he’d been up to, I would have told you… and possibly the NYPD.”
“You could do that?”
“You don’t get to be my age without learning how to contact the proper authorities, dear. They come in handy sometimes.”
Amanda nodded slowly. I suppose I have, too. “I have to get to Marco, warn him.”
Bosley held up a hand. “I’ve already done the warning bit. However, if you want to get to him, we’re already on it.” She looked off to the side and called “Back it up!”
The tent parted a little, and a van pulled in.
“We have a coffin in the van. We’ll use that to load you onto a private jet.”
“You can do that? I have my own ways of doing it, but you—”
Bosley rolled her eyes. “Never underestimate the power of political donations to the right politicians. Also, I have friends with security clearance.”
“We’ll have to compare notes sometime.”
“Right.” Bosley clapped Amanda on the shoulder. “Off you go. Have fun saving your boyfriend.”
“He’s not—” Amanda sighed. She knew what Bosley meant. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, love. You may not make it out alive, though, you realize that, don’cha?” she asked, her London accent slipping in.
“I know . Day is a horror.”
Bosley shook her head. “Nah, love. I’m a horror. Day is a walkin’ catastrophe. Haf of wha’ I know about ’im scares me, and I ain’t easily scared. If dere were a ’orseman of war, he’d be it. Scary as that is, I think he’s not even a top man.”
Amanda knew that phrasing. Last time she heard that in a discussion, it was in relation to— “He’s part of Mikhail’s organization.”
Bosley hesitated. She cleared her throat, and her accent became as melodious as usual. “There’s what I know, and what I suspect. None of it will help you kill him right this minute. Go. Save your pet. I’ll be here. ”
Amanda nodded, turned to the van, and then paused.
Something was wrong. Yet another disturbance “in the force.”
This one was easy, though. She had felt it before, first in Poland, and then in Afghanistan—a feeling of dread as old as the dawn of time, and maybe even a little before that. It was a time when she had been known by a different name, a different alias, and where the locals had called her Sitt Alghul—Lady Vampire.
She knew very little about him, and what she did know was that him needed to be followed, hunted, and killed. Preferably before the United States of America suffered utter annihilation.
She turned toward the van, and ran for it.
* * * *
San Francisco
Kristen Kelly ran her fingers through her hair and wondered exactly why she had been called in today. It wasn’t like anyone had expected San Francisco to have riots and blood in the street—heck, half the population was too high to even be mildly aggressive.
Detective Kelly shook her head, and pondered exactly what was going to happen next. They didn’t have a large Muslim population in San Francisco, at least nothing that could even remotely rival New York or New Jersey, or even Dearborn. If she were in Brooklyn at that moment, she would have a somewhat different day ahead of her—possibly in riot gear on Atlantic Avenue.
She frowned to herself, and pondered Merle’s reaction to the attack in New York—his first call was to her. Ironic, since her first call was to him. Not to anyone on the NYPD, not to her relatives in New York, but to Kraft. And he had been frantic from the way he sounded. Scared out of his mind for her. It was sweet, even touching. It was…
Kristen shook her head. But I don’t want to be in love with him anymore, dam nit. She growled to herself in frustration. She needed something to do, anything would be preferable to just sitting there and wondering what would happen next.
A hand waved in front of her face. Her eyes snapped forward, and locked on to her Lieutenant. “Yes sir?”
“Kelly. Welcome to the human race.” She was handed a slip of paper. “Someone’s decided to start wreaking havoc.”
“Really?” Kristen asked. “Do we have a hate crime spree on our hands?”
He shook his had. “No, and that’s the odd thing. Seems someone’s desecrating cemeteries for some reason.”
* * * *
Nest number ten—the Whelan grave—developed a slight problem for Marco. Four vampires leapt over the flames and him. He locked the door, wheeled round, and tossed the knives from his sleeves, nailing both. As the knives left his hands, he reached for the stakes at the base of his neck, also cut for balance. He killed a third with a throw, but the fourth and final one leapt to one side. Unfortunately for the vampire, Marco was in the mood for hand-to-hand.
Marco grinned at him, baring his teeth. His iPod was still playing, only one earbud playing in one ear, telling him to fight until he died or dropped.
The vampire leapt for Marco. The New Yorker sidestepped and slashed down with the stake, tearing half its throat
out. It rolled to its feet and smiled as it turned.
“I was in ’Nam, boy.”
“And I’m from Brooklyn.”
The vampire paused, wondering if this was of significance. Then he bared his teeth again and went into a decent combat stance. He had been trained for knife fighting…not for Marco.
Catalano reached for the small of his back, and drew down on him with a squirt gun, firing holy water into the vampire’s eyes and chest. He fell back, blind and in pain, clutching at the burns.
Marco strolled over to him and stabbed down into his skull, driving the stake through his brain. He crumpled, paralyzed.
The vampire hunter dragged the paralyzed body over to the local Catholic Church and found they had a baptismal font for grownup full-body immersion, bigger than a hotel bathtub and five feet deep. Marco slashed the vampire’s throat with a wooden blade before taking both of the vampire’s hands and thrusting them underneath the water. His mouth stretched into a silent wail of pain as his hands dissolved, held there until the very bones disintegrated. Marco then lowered the vampire’s feet into the pool.
It took an hour to get up to just below its heart. Marco then dissolved the arms, and then tossed in what was left of it, murmuring, “And tell them Marco says hello.”
He definitely preferred violent rage to flashbacks.
Chapter 17: Run For Your Life
September 12, San Francisco, 3:00 am
Marco first stabbed the vampire in the base of the spin, so it could no longer walk. He stabbed it again in the neck so it couldn’t move its arm. Then he twisted so he could make it hurt some more.
At this point, Marco didn’t know where he was, how many placed he had burned down, or how many vampires he had killed. What has started as an exercise in controlled rage had spun out of control.
“You seem to have been most busy, Marco Catalano of Greenpoint,” a soft voice said behind him.
Marco froze, the vampire still in his grip. “Yes. What are you?”
“Someone who wants to kill you. Well, I should say you and everyone else.”
