by Andrew Dudek
I nodded. I knew exactly what he found.
“There was a fuckin’ massacre down there. ‘Bout a half-dozen dead kids, maybe thirty dead vamps. I looked around, but I didn’t see nobody that looked like my buddy Jesse, so I thought, ‘What would Jesse do in this situation?’ Why, he’d go and look for revenge. From there it wasn’t hard to figure out where the nearest vamp nest would be—look at this place, it was practically built for vamps to hide in—and here I am.”
His smile faded, along with his ironic detachment. “I know what you’re feelin’, kid. I been there. And I know what you’re thinkin’ of doin’. You think it’s your only option, but it ain’t.”
“What else do I have?” My voice sounded thin and shaky, even to my own ears, compared with the resonant boom of Bill Foster.
“I’m a member of group that kill things like them monsters in there.” He jerked a thumb at the old house. “So was your ol’ man. I think you got what it takes to join us.”
I blinked. “Really?”
He nodded. “You wanna die, and I get that, but that…that’s the coward’s way out. You know shit, Dave, shit that would make the hardest bootleggers wet their bunks. When you know stuff like that, you basically got three choices.”
He counted off on his fingers. “One: You can forget ‘bout it, put it out o’ your mind and go ‘bout your business. I reckon that ain’t an option for you. Two: You can spend the rest o’ your life cryin’ yourself to sleep at a night like a baby scared of the shadows. And three: You can get off your ass and do somethin’ ‘bout it. You can help us make sure that nothin’ like what happened to you happens to other kids.”
I felt myself stand up. I couldn’t remember making a conscious decision, but I found myself looking at Bill Foster in the eyes.
“What would I have to do?”
“Right now? Just come with me. We’ll get some backup out here and sort out the monsters in this old house. Then we’ll give your friends a proper sendoff and get you some proper trainin’.” He smiled. “What do you think, kid?”
I answered before I thought too hard, before I talked myself out of it. “Yeah. Okay.”
Bill Foster grinned and put a hand on my shoulder, a comforting gesture, a fatherly one. “Well, then, Dave Carver: Welcome to the Order of the Round Table.”
###
Author’s Note
Thank you so much for downloading First Kill! I hope you enjoyed Dave’s first adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it. As you may be able to tell, Dave Carver’s story isn’t done yet—it’s just beginning. I sincerely hope you’ll join him.
Keep reading to get a sneak peek at the first full-length novel in the story of Dave Carver: Thicker Than Blood. It’s set ten years after the events of First Kill, so the man you’ll soon meet is quite different than the one you just saw. Still, I hope you’ll enjoy it.
If you enjoyed this novella, please consider rating it and reviewing it at your favorite ebook retailer. Mention it on your blog, share it on your social media pages. I’m a new, young writer, and I need all the help I can get. I’d really appreciate it.
Thanks again!
Andrew Dudek
Preview: Thicker Than Blood
Ian Twine’s wife had been dead for three days by the time he was found by the men with the swords.
The rainforest of Guyana pressed in all around him, giant trees that dwarfed the California redwoods, where Ian had spent much of his formative years. They were unpleasantly tall, these trees, like something out of Earth’s ancient past, something from a pre-human era. The jungle canopy was high overhead, blocking out the sky, so Ian had no idea what time of day it was. Monkeys chattered and birds screeched. Somewhere in the distance a jaguar roared. The humidity was heavy, so oppressive that Ian felt like he’d be able to make more progress swimming than walking--he certainly wasn’t moving fast enough for the two men with the swords.
“Come on,” the older of the two, a tanned, giant man with a Virginian accent, a shaved head, and a wooly beard. “We gotta keep movin’. This place ain’t safe.”
Ian snorted, despite the horror of the situation. The man, Bill, was right: This place sure as hell wasn’t safe.
Three months before, Ian had heard rumors of a small village living in the Guyanese jungles, a tribe that’d had no contact with the world outside. A tribe that had never encountered modernity. They lived in huts, supposedly, and hunted with spears and bows and arrows. When he’d told Michelle of this rumor over dinner one night, her eyes had lit up. This was just what they needed, she said, to get their ratings back to their nineteen-nineties glory. Ian had been less sure. Their ratings weren’t what they used to be, sure--the market for televised naturalists seemed to have evaporated somewhat since that Australian guy had died--but they got steady enough ad rates that, along with the occasional grant, they could keep heading out into deep wilderness to film the animals and plant life they found there. Still, he’d had to admit: the title had come to him with perfect clarity, the way all of the best ideas of his career ever had: Ian Twine’s Lost Tribe. Maybe it wouldn’t bring him the best numbers of his life, but he could already picture the promos: Ian standing at the top of Kaieteur, a waterfall more than four times as tall as Niagara in the midsts of a thriving rainforest. And he’d never actually been to Guyana, despite the fact that it was one of the most impressive examples of biodiversity left in the world...
Yeah, he’d thought. This could work.
Ian and Michelle had hiked through the jungle for three days without finding so much as a hint of this lost village but getting some great footage: a jaguar devouring a capybara, swarms of piranhas, a bush dog and her pups. All good stuff, but not what Ian was here to find. He was beginning to get discouraged.
That was when they found the backpack. It was small--child-sized, in fact--and pink. It had stickers of ponies all over it. Ian had thought it looked like something that his youngest daughter, Ellie, would have loved. Something about it, though, out here in the dark, muggy jungle, made him nervous. It just seemed wrong somehow. When Ian had mentioned this, Michelle had laughed, called him a moron (good-naturedly, as she often did), and told him they needed to get a move on if they wanted to find a decent campsite by nightfall. Ian had still been nervous, so Michelle, still laughing, had set up the camera, with the pink spot right in the center of the viewfinder. When she bent to pick up the backpack, she triggered the trap.
A classic snare trap, the rope, which had been hidden by a handful of rotting leaves, wrapped around her leg and pulled her into the air so she hung, upside down, suspended from a branch. Ian laughed, pulling his utility knife from its pouch on his belt. “Now who’s a moron?”
And then they appeared. There were four of the manlike creatures appearing out of the jungle like strangely un-wispy ghosts. They advanced on Ian and Michelle, snarling like mad dogs. At first Ian thought they were men, perhaps some of the villagers he’d been searching for, but that thought was rapidly dismissed. These...things may have been more or less shaped like humans, but they weren’t. Their skin, for one thing, was gray and papery, hanging off of their bones like peeling wallpaper. The fingernails were long, curved, and sharp. They reminded Ian of the claws of a leopard or some other big cat. Their jaws hung open, giving them a slack look which would have been humorous if not for the mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. The canines curled from the gums like a snake’s and thick, clear liquid dripped off of the ends. Most disturbingly of all, though, most inhuman of all, were their eyes. They were black, all of them—pupils, irises, and sclera—completely black like a shark’s eyes. One of them grabbed Ian by the collar and flung him into the trunk of a tree, knocking the wind out of him. The second grabbed Michelle by the hair and held tight. She screamed as a third creature slashed with his claws at a rope that was disguised as a vine and she fell to the ground.
The monsters fell on Michelle with all of the hive-mind mentality of the piranhas they’d filmed the day before. The largest, strongest
of the four, began biting at Michelle’s throat while the others squabbled for places at her wrists.
Some distant, clinical part of Ian’s mind categorized these beasts: They feed like a pack of wolves.
Michelle wailed and screamed, but only for a few moments. She fell silent. Ian knew why. One of the vampires moved, and he could see the bloody ruin that was all that remained of his wife’s throat.
Ian howled, all scientific detachment blown away by the hurricane of this monstrosity. He threw himself onto the back of the largest of the creatures. Dimly, some part of him was aware that this was the one that had thrown him against the tree, that this was the one which had surely killed Michelle. He jabbed his utility knife into the side of the monster’s neck, over and over again until his hands, wrists, and forearms were covered with a thick black liquid. Spent, Ian fell to his side and stared up in astonishment.
The monster should have been on the ground with him. It should have been dead. The knife should have split open important blood vessels. But it stayed on its feet, staring down at Ian. There was nothing in those black eyes. Nothing like empathy or sorrow or guilt. Nothing human.
And the creature threw back its head, and it laughed.
What could Ian do? You didn’t need three doctorates—which Ian had—to see that Michelle was dead. The other three monsters were noisily, gruesomely ripping chunks of flesh from Michelle’s body and lapping up blood. He couldn’t think of her now. He had to think of his children: Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, and Ellie. They’d lost their mother. He couldn’t let them lose their father. What could he do?
He ran. The creatures let him go.
Ian didn’t see see any sign of them for the rest of the day. He slept--or tried to--in a hollowed-out, muddy hole under a redwood tree. He was too frightened, too traumatized, to start a fire, even though he knew this jungle could be dangerous without a fire to ward off predators. Something told him that it’d be even more dangerous for him to light a fire, that it would only serve to give away his position to those strange creatures.
He hiked all of the next day, heading north towards the coast, where most of Guyana’s cities are, before realizing that he was lost. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but there was no question: Ian Twine, world-famous naturalist, was lost in the wilderness. With a pained grimace, he put it down to shock and climbed a tree, trying to get a handle on his location.
The jungle stretched out for miles in every direction. There was no sign of people, no sign of civilization. Not for the first time, Ian wished he hadn’t left Michelle’s pack behind. They had had a satellite phone in there, plus some long-range radios. He could have used them to make contact with the network’s people in Georgetown, and they could have sent a chopper to rescue him. Instead, he had to walk.
His direction secured, he climbed down the tree and set to walking. Each time he closed his eyes he remembered the sight of those black-eyed creatures. They were beasts of darkness, he knew, something out of a nightmare. But the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon did less than nothing to ease his fears. The rainforest’s canopy was so thick in some places that it blocked the sun as fully as a parasol. Yes, those creatures were of the night, but this was a place of the night.
A few hours before sundown, as if to prove his point, Ian encountered one of the creatures. This one was smaller than the four that had killed Michelle, and obviously a female. It was hunched over the body of a dead capybara, ripping into its tough, piglike throat with those serpent’s jaws. The creature, so intent on its meal, or perhaps simply disinterested in Ian, never so much as looked up while Ian snuck by, holding his breath and praying the monster didn’t see him.
Monster. He found himself using the word in his internal cataloguing of the creature. It stuck in his scientific craw that he didn’t know where these...beasts fit into the natural order, but there was only one word that seemed to fit. Monster.
Late that evening was when Ian found the cabin. It was really more of a one-room shack, with glassless window frames and a door that wasn’t flush with the jamb, but it was the first sign of humanity that Ian had seen in two days, and he was overjoyed. Even better, there was a radio inside. It was an old one, but the microphone looked to be in good shape. He almost sobbed with joy when he turned it on and heard the static that meant it was working.
“S.O.S. My name is Dr. Ian Twine,” he said into the mic. “My wife’s been killed by some kind of...animals, and I’m afraid they’re stalking me. I’m somewhere in the jungle south of Georgetown, Guyana. I don’t know the exact coordinates. Please. I’m very wealthy--I can give you a reward.”
Ian couldn’t say whether anyone heard his message, because the only reply was static, but he repeated it over and over again for two hours until he drifted off to sleep.
Two things happened at once that could have woken him, and Ian couldn’t say which was which. The first was the sun’s morning rays pinching his eyelids. The second was something just outside the cabin growling. Screaming, startled awake and terrified, Ian ran, forgetting all of his scientific training, into the jungle.
Nothing chased him, so he decided he must have escaped the danger, whatever it had been. For now, he thought ominously, and laughed.
He was still laughing some time later—it was hard to tell exactly how long, because he’d his wristwatch had broken when the biggest monster had thrown him into that tree—when he heard footsteps in the jungle.
Ian ran. He could hear them behind him, his progress slowed by the necessity of passing logs and huge fallen branches. These things weren’t hampered in the least by these obstacles, though--they bounded over them with a grace that Ian had previously only associated with big cats. But these weren’t cats. For one thing they moved on two legs, like no other large animal in the world...well, except for one. Sure, lots of animals could move on their hind legs, but none of them could run with this kind of speed that way. Except for humans. And his pursuers, whatever they were, certainly weren’t human.
Ian didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this pace. A mile back he’d dropped his pack, hoping the noise in the bush would distract the monsters from his trail. No such luck, and now he’d lost his only reliable supply of fresh water. The jungle humidity conspired with the physical exertion to drain all of the moisture from his body. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and soaked the back of his khaki shirt. Not much farther, he thought. I can’t go much farther.
Though Ian knew better, the root seemed to rise out of the ground like a snake, twisted and bent, to trip him. His boot caught on one of the crooks. His right palm landed on a jagged rock and was slashed open. Blood poured from the cut.
Behind him, something screamed. Ian thought he knew the calls of every big animal in this part of the world, but he’d never heard anything like this scream. A high-pitched wail that he knew instinctively didn’t belong in the animal kingdom, but also didn’t emanate from a human throat. It was an in between scream, part human and part animal.
Ian rolled over just in time to see one of the creatures land on a downed log. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was one of the ones that had been there when Michelle died. It wore raggedy clothes and its hair was dark and shaggy. Its mouth hung open, showing Ian those teeth. For a moment, he wondered how these things could ever close their mouths with all of those long, dagger-like teeth in the way. His distant, clinical mind thought: Like a bat’s teeth.
And then they were there, vaulting into the monster’s path like a couple of track runners. The older man grunted with slight effort as he leaped over Ian’s still form. He was holding a square-bladed sword in one hand: a katana, I think it’s called, Ian thought dully. The man swung his sword and took the creature’s head from its shoulders before the horrible thing had time to react.
By the time the body hit the ground there was nothing left but a skeleton and some rags.
The large, bald-headed man squinted into the jungle, listening for the animal sounds to start up a
gain. “There’s at least three more of ‘em,” he said. “I’ll deal with it. You take this genius and start headin’ for water.”
For the first time Ian realized that there was another man with a sword standing over him. There was a strong hand on his biceps, helping him to his feet.
“Can you walk?”
The other man was younger, in his mid-twenties, maybe. He wore a sword on one hip and a holstered handgun on the other.
“I think so.Those things...killed Michelle.”
The younger man frowned. He had long, straight hair the color of a young wolf’s fur. His eyes were the same color as a cup of warm, inviting coffee. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken several times and never healed right.
“Yeah,” he said, “vampires will do that.”
Ian didn’t argue. Of course those things were vampires. If someone back in civilization had told him that he was about to run into a pack of ravenous vampires, he’d have laughed, but out here in this jungle, it didn’t seem so funny. Something about the jungle made it possible to believe in things that shouldn’t exist. Besides, what else could those monsters be? What could look so human and inhuman at the same time? What else could have those teeth?
“Come on, Doc,” the young man said. “We gotta get out of here.”
As they hiked south--which seemed to Ian to be the wrong direction--Ian could tell that the young man, who said his name was Dave Carver, was moving more slowly than he was capable of. He suspected it was too allow Ian to stay close, which the old professor was more than happy to do. The young man positively radiated strength. As long as Ian was in Dave’s presence, he felt safer.
