DarkWalker

by John Urbancik

  “The Precipice? Have we ever been there?”

  “We haven’t, no,” Liz said. “But I have. You’ll love it. It’ll love you. It’s better than wasting time in those other places. And it’s ladies night. Free drinks. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  Lisa was already tired. “Ten?”

  “Ten.” Liz hung up.

  At least she had time for a nap.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1.

  Nick Hunter wasn’t born with that name. Nick, maybe. But Hunter was as much vocation as name.

  He hunted at night.

  His pick-up was loaded with a variety of weapons and tools. He’d trained for years in various martial arts. Knew how to use a staff, a sword, a bow, and a gun. He had a scar next to his left eye so slight, you had to know it was there to see it; another on his arm was plainly visible, a straight red slash from shoulder to elbow. He got the first as a child falling off a fence. The latter had been made by a vampire’s desperate last gasp.

  He had a partner once. Lost her to the other side. Had to pin her to the earth with a stake and cut off her head.

  It was ugly work, and it paid shit, but it was a calling. A mission. A divine mission, one might say. Nick would, except he believed in neither God nor gods. He held his fate firmly in his own grasp. He lived and killed by the sword.

  He didn’t hunt just for fun or sport, but out of a sense of obligation. He’d survived a slaughter when he was thirteen. In a cemetery.

  Graves were supposed to be a final resting place. Consecrated earth. Holy. Sacred. They were not supposed to be cesspools from which Hell’s spawn erupted. Three creatures swept through his friends, his sister and brother. Blood sprayed everywhere.

  He never knew how many others managed to escape, but didn’t think any survived. One of the creatures ripped his sister open, reached into her body up to its elbows, and pulled out muscles, organs, and bones.

  Thirteen years old, Nick fled. Someone ran alongside him. Nick was fast, faster than any of his friends, so the creature chasing them caught his friend first.

  The cemetery wasn’t far from home. He left a trail of bloody footprints to his house, shut and locked the door, and screamed for mom or dad. Both parents were home.

  The creature tore the door from its frame. Only one had followed him, but it was enough; half an instant later, his parents were dead.

  The shotgun echoed like thunder. Nick’s hearing wouldn’t return for days. The creature’s chest burst open in a rain of gore. Nick clenched his eyes.

  Chris Hunter had rescued him. Raised him. Trained him.

  Chris Hunter died six years later.

  It was dangerous work, hunting. Nick had been doing it since the cemetery. Almost ten years now. He never concerned himself with whether he’d live to see tomorrow; he cared only on how many of those vile things he could take out before they finally got him—and enjoying it. After all, they’d robbed him of his childhood.

  2.

  Over time, a hunter developed a nose for it. Nick had slain three different types of vampires, but the basic elements never varied. They gave off a particular odor, a cross between blood and ash. It lingered.

  He could almost track them to their lairs by smell alone.

  Orlando, like any other city, had an infestation.

  3.

  It wasn’t quite dusk when Nick Hunter parked his truck downtown. He preferred hunting in small towns, where there might not be a lot of people. That wasn’t going to happen here. In bigger cities, there were a thousand little holes and alleys in which a creature might hide. But Orlando wasn’t quite a big city; it had a few square blocks of tall buildings, mainly banks, with some alleys and lanes between them. But mostly, Orlando was a suburb of itself. It spread out, not up, and left plenty of space for trees, greenery of all kinds, even woods, and a scattering of small, tiny, and minuscule lakes, and a few larger ones. Miles separated downtown from Disney.

  Nick smelled them here, and he wasn’t about to leave them to their business.

  In either side of his jacket, he had a half dozen stakes, silver and wooden. He kept a pistol at his back, tucked under the waistband. Knife in his jacket, another at his ankle.

  He cracked his knuckles, his neck, and then set off.

  He had parked downtown, between the interstate and the railroad. He had one thing in common with the beasts he hunted: they both preferred the infrequent streets and alleys, places where they were less likely to be interrupted.

  A series of warehouses ran alongside the tracks, some larger than others. Parking lots separated most. A fence surrounded one lot that was empty except for a trailer-sized mobile office. Another building was square, red bricks with tiny windows.

  Nick passed all this. Most creatures made dens in the places where the buildings were close together. More places to hide. Closer quarters. Less chance of stray eyes.

  As a rule, they almost never slept in coffins.

  To his right, the sun eased below the horizon. Nick reached an alley that seemed the right size; one of the buildings had been abandoned, which meant someone or something had claimed it as home.

  Debris littered the alley. Rusted metal frames, mostly unrecognizable, and random sheets of cut and bent metal. Besides the green Dumpster, the alley offered few places to hide.

  The garbage reeked of rotten food and chemicals. Rusted edges. One corner had rotted through. Silver dollar-sized roaches skittered about the ground there, in and out, oblivious to Nick’s arrival.

  Only the wind made any sound, a low whistle between the buildings.

  The Dumpster lid squeaked when it opened. He didn’t expect to find anything, but had to be certain. The putrid odor struck him like a sucker punch.

  Thick black bags filled the bin. A few had broken open, spilling slimy foodstuffs that hadn’t originally been black. A scattering of papers, nothing else. Nothing worth holding the lid open.

  Nick lowered it slowly, so it squeaked instead of slamming. Then he turned his attention to the abandoned warehouse. Someone had smashed three windows on the first floor, another two on the second. The top level was dark.

  Even over the stink of the garbage, he detected their awful stench. There were creatures here. More than one.

  4.

  Sometimes, the hunt was easy.

  More than once, Nick Hunter walked into the nest, found the vampire asleep or groggy, and put a stake through its heart. Or sliced off its head in a single, uncontested stroke.

  The worst? Tough to say. Could’ve been stalking Diane. Beyond ugly, it was tough. He thought about quitting rather than hunting his lover, but when the time came, he drove a stake between her breasts. Squeezed his eyes shut as he chopped off her head.

  No, it must’ve been the night he became a loner.

  Chris Hunter had been a hero, the ultimate father figure, just shy of a god. He taught Nick everything: how to fight, how to eat, how to speak properly. Related histories of the creatures they hunted, how they’d come from Europe on some of the earliest boats, wiped out Roanoke Colony, and then the natives. He knew at least a dozen different kinds, and was fairly confident three of those had been hunted to extinction.

  They’d gone into a den at the crack of dawn. Eight beasts already asleep, one snarling at the intruders. They’d never found such a large conglomeration of beasts. Chris Hunter blasted the creature’s head off with a single shot. Proceeded to dispatch the others, Nick at his side.

  The hunters hewed them down as they rose, wiping grins and startled looks from vampire faces. Fresh blood still stained their lips.

  Two minutes, nine dead. Not a bad night on the job. Except, there hadn’t been only nine creatures in this lair. The tenth came in from behind, twisted Chris Hunter’s neck, and snapped his spine before they knew it was there.

  Chris Hunter crumpled to the ground without melodramatics. Straight, eyes rolling back, sword in one hand, shotgun still in the other. No sound. No cry. No curse or breath, not even a last request.


  Nick emptied his gun in the creature, filling it with holes, slowing but not stopping it. This one was stronger than most, older, and enraged. It rushed Nick. Met his sword instead.

  Nick had dropped the pistol to hold the sword with both hands. The creature ran itself through to the hilt, snarling and spitting, eyes aflame, teeth gleaming. Nick pulled aside as it lashed out; thus, the beast scarred his arm, not his chest. They fell sideways together. The beast clawed at the sword as Nick pulled a stake from his jacket. Drove it through the creature’s throat. Another into its heart. Then he yanked his sword free and beheaded the damned thing.

  It was the first time he’d cried since the night Chris Hunter rescued him.

  5.

  Nick Hunter climbed through the broken window. It was more than large enough for a man to pass through—or a creature carrying its victim.

  Damn them.

  Flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, Nick scanned the room he’d entered. It was an office, empty except for a cheap aluminum desk and a tattered chair.

  He shined the light under the desk, into the corners, across the edges of the ceiling. The creatures could be anywhere. Their stink hurt his nose.

  The door out of the office was ajar. Half flimsy wood, half plastic window—which had been smashed so violently, only a few shards remained. Nick pushed through, sweeping the light in a quick arc.

  This entire wall had been lined with offices, maybe five or six of them. The rest of the warehouse was empty space. The bare rafters left few places to hide. The ceiling was three stories high, lined with air conditioning ducts and metal beams. There were stacks of skeletal beds, unfinished mattresses and box springs. A few wood pallets were piled near the center; more lined one of the walls, mostly broken, a few in splinters. This warehouse supplied its own stakes.

  Immediately above the offices, a grated metal gangway lined the second floor. Nick could see through it to the ceiling, including doors and the top row of offices. They didn’t continue to the third floor; the space there was empty and open. That would be the nest.

  Getting there would be difficult. The stairs might creak as he climbed, and they only went to the second level.

  A ladder near the far back, a series of metal rungs built in the wall over one set of stairs, was the only way up.

  Just to be certain, Nick checked every office on his way. Most were completely empty. In one, a stack of papers had been left on the wooden desk. Where the doors weren’t open, the windows had been smashed, providing sunlight during the day.

  The stairs groaned under Nick’s weight. He winced with every step.

  The gun felt deceptively reassuring in his right hand. Designed to slow, not stop. On the ladder, he’d be vulnerable.

  He hesitated. How many were there?

  They might already be out. For all the light that reached the third floor, it might have been midnight. By now, the sun had set. If not already hunting, they were awake. Maybe aware.

  He heard nothing.

  The moment’s pause passed quickly. He stuffed the end of the flashlight in his mouth, kept the gun in hand, and pulled himself up.

  The rungs, though showing some rust, were solid.

  At the top, he peeked over the edge. He saw the outline of blacked out windows. Nothing else through the dark. He took a deep breath. Then pulled himself up and over the top.

  Nick rolled forward, snatching the flashlight and swinging its beam first ahead of him and then to the right.

  One of the beasts launched at him, misjudging Nick’s leap and pouncing on his legs.

  Nick shot a hole in its ugly white head. It fell sideways, almost over the edge. Nick pounded a stake into its chest before it could react. A fountain of blood, black in the dark, spewed forth.

  Nick turned from the first beast to check for others.

  Two more. He shot one. The other ducked and rushed forward. Didn’t help, since Nick was still on his knees. Two shots, one to each knee. Silver bullets might not kill them, but the beasts couldn’t walk on broken legs.

  He staked the second. The creature spit up a sticky black phlegm. Eyes bulged.

  Nick put a stake through the back of the third.

  A quick check revealed no more.

  He waited a moment, rose, and swept the flashlight beam from end to end, across the ceiling, through the rafters, along the edge. He watched the windows. Listened.

  Heard only the whimpering of three wounded beasts. Mindless. Bone white skin. Not a hair on their bodies. Faces distorted. Vicious teeth.

  In Nick’s vast experience, this was the most common vampire.

  He withdrew the knife from his boot and proceeded to cut off their heads.

  6.

  Midnight. Witching Hour. Jack Harlow opened his eyes.

  The bed was comfortable enough. The ghost sitting at the end of it hadn’t made a sound; she still looked away, either ashamed or coy.

  The sleep had done him good. Jack felt rested, alert, anxious to get out into the night. He sat up. “You’re still here?” he asked the ghost.

  “You’re warm,” she said.

  He showered. Ghosts, when they did appear, never concerned him; what could they see of him they hadn’t seen before? With very few exceptions, spirits had little impact on the physical world. They affected the senses, primarily vision, sometimes touch (a chill in the air, a breeze, rarely more substantial than that).

  He kept the water cold and the shower brief, then toweled dry. The ghost never moved from the bed; she neither wavered nor vanished. Nor did she attempt to hide her face when he climbed off the bed.

  She’d been a pretty girl, a teenager when she died. Blonde curls, eyes clenched shut. She wore a simple bathrobe, relatively modern; she hadn’t been dead for centuries or even decades. Maybe only weeks.

  “You’re going out,” the ghost said.

  Jack nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see that. “Yep.”

  “It’s awfully late, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at the clock. “Quarter past midnight.”

  “Awfully late.”

  “Not by my standards,” Jack said. Then, fresh cash in his wallet from a hard day’s work, he went out.

  By 1, Jack found a club around the corner from last night’s bar, on Court Street, The Precipice, by the red letters on the blackened window facing the street.

  The lights were low. Always were. Smoke filled the air, poorly circulated, shrouding the dance floor in a haze. The walls had been painted black, lined with irregularly shaped mirrors. Booths along one wall. The dancers were in the back, under a chandelier of prisms; rainbows danced across the room.

  The bar was toward the front, U-shaped, attached to one wall and reaching half way toward the dance floor. Jack went straight to the bartender and bought a beer.

  He never danced. Rarely mingled. But the atmosphere drew him like a moth to light. As alive as he’d felt after a good four-hour nap, it was the throbbing bass line that powered his heart. Kept the blood moving. Kept him sane. Compulsion drove him to seek out the underground, to walk so near to the darkness that he felt its breath—but never its caress. He believed himself immune to the things he saw.

  Why should tonight be an exception?

  Jack finished the beer too quickly. The bartender happily brought him another.

  7.

  Change is sudden.

  Sometimes the build-up can stretch for decades or centuries. But one moment, it happens; one chapter closes, another begins. But change needs no lead-in. It comes and goes at will, perhaps randomly, perhaps by the design of some higher power. Perhaps fate.

  There are few other constants in the world.

  Like when a caterpillar emerges from its cocoon, a butterfly now, its metamorphosis complete—skin shed, legs lost, wings grown—change is irrevocable.

  8.

  While Liz danced, Lisa Sparrow checked herself in the mirror. The bathroom was small; she’d waited most of ten minutes to get into a stall. When sh
e finally got to the sink, it only ran cold. She rinsed her hands, touched up her lipstick, and generally liked what she saw.

  Of the music, only the thunderous beat made it to the bathrooms. They weren’t in the bar itself, but through a back door into a hallway shared with another club and a few shops.

  She told Liz she’d been here before.

  When asked if that was a good thing, Lisa had no real answer. Nothing had happened, good or bad; she’d gone out dancing, apparently with someone other than Liz, and went home. Slept. Woke the next morning to her regular routines. Exercise, shower, work, dinner, and either another night out or reading at home.

  If anything, the crowd felt darker this time. Black leather, silk, lace, dye. It wasn’t quite a gothic crowd, but closer than she’d remembered. The music was all 80s, mostly danceable, though once or twice the deejay inadvertently cleared the floor.

  Lisa slipped out of the bathroom, surrendering her tiny spot at the mirror to someone else.

  The hall, oddly enough, was nearly empty; no one lingered outside the clubs. The bouncer checked her wristband and let her back in. But something in The Precipice had changed.

  She recognized this as surely as she knew the difference between night and day. To her ears, the music was muted, the lights dimmed. Eyes were on her. From every shadow, every booth, every corner, someone watched, studied, evaluated her.

  The paranoia came suddenly, without warning—and without precedent.

  There, on the dance floor, she saw Liz. Her friend danced with eyes closed. Swaying alone . . . but in slow motion, as if through honey, as if every graceful movement met resistance.

  Reflections—off the prism chandelier, off beer bottles, off eyeglasses—blinded Lisa. Her heart raced to catch the frenetic music.

  She almost stumbled.

  And then she saw him.

  Clichés raced through her head: tall, dark, handsome. Steady, penetrating mocha eyes. He exuded warmth, confidence, unpretentiousness. He’d been scanning the dance floor—no, the whole bar—but when his eyes found Lisa, they stopped dead.