by Jackie Ivie
With Just Cause
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
10th in series
Copyright 2013, Jackie Ivie
Smashwords Edition
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
“...and then a claw reached out and grabbed her neck, startling her into a scream!”
Edna’s dramatic rendering of her spook tale caused more than one listener to mimic the heroine of the story, sending squeals into the area about the fireplace.
Deandra looked over to the circle of women that comprised the 2100 Radical Society, a fringe survivalist group founded on the principles that 2100 was going to be the year when it all changed. Not that anyone knew what the group title stood for. Or even what it entailed. All their friends and families were told was they liked their space and needed two weeks every six months in order to achieve it. They were unofficial. Secret. They hadn’t even finalized the checklist of supplies they’d need. Who’d be responsible for which items. How they’d be purchased. That had been tabled due to endless debate... along with selection of which real estate they’d need to purchase for the official last retreat.
Truthfully? None of them qualified as a diehard survivalist yet. Except maybe Edna. In fact, they more resembled a book club. With wine tasting as part of the curriculum.
Most members were sitting cross-legged at the moment - although Angie, the tallest and thinnest of them, was stretched out on her side, tracing the lumps of a woven rag rug as if she hadn’t just reacted to Edna’s story as vividly as the others. Deandra smirked at Angie’s act. They’d all jumped. Deandra had even stuck her needle in the wrong hole of her 28 ct. evenweave fabric. And she’d heard the story before.
The members of the 2100 Radical Society, who’d planned this two week excursion into the dark ages, had more than succeeded at that goal. Rosa’s Bed & Breakfast was the end of the civilized world. At least, for this country. Why... Deandra had only found three electrical outlets, and that after a day spent looking. Worse. Any power was only available if the spring-fed turbine had enough amps stored. Or maybe it was the wind turbine that had to store the energy. Or somebody had to ride the stationary bike that powered their generator to gain it. Maybe all three. Or a combination. She hadn’t been paying attention and couldn’t remember – both things marking her a less-than-dedicated member.
Attention, memory, and tip-top physical condition were the clearest indicators of who’d survive in any breakdown of society and who’d be a victim. She’d joined the group because she wanted to get into tip-top shape and mental conditioning and liked escaping her dead-end job every six months and head out to the boonies - not because she believed the end was near. She pretty much gave lip service to the society’s bylaws. So if a post-apocalyptic zombie did get her... well. It would be her fault. She hadn’t paid attention to the energy portion of their tour because she’d been getting the last of her texts in before turning in her phone. She did remember the water situation, however. Any water had to be hand-pumped from the well outside and then brought in. If they wanted it heated, that required multiple trips to the one bathroom containing the enormous claw foot tub, each bucket hefted to and from the three coal stoves in the kitchens.
Actually...
This place didn’t really have a kitchen. Not in any modern sense of the word. The cooking area was a span of interconnected rooms that passed for kitchens. This ranch style building was all on one level, sprawled with a maze of hallways atop about an acre of wood flooring that creaked, and filled with antiques from the Western era that spawned it. There wasn’t even a map of the facility. If anyone wanted to find the kitchens, they just followed the mouthwatering aroma. Although she’d seen the stoves with her own eyes, she still had trouble believing they produced the fabulous foods served at mealtime without the use of at least one microwave.
Deandra shrugged and pulled her misdirected thread back out, squinting as the light flickered and then dimmed slightly.
Great.
She’d already drained some of the stored electricity? At barely 40 watt level? What she wouldn’t give to cheat and go for her LED lamp! But, that would be cheating. Then again, she’d already done that just by keeping her lamp hidden... along with its battery supply. They’d given the oath when they’d been stripped of their belongings: every internet pad, cell phone, hair dryer, and anything else they’d brought from the modern world. Every technological innovation was locked away somewhere in this place, chosen for its impenetrability. Nobody could get to them. Not until Day Fifteen. 0600. When their ride would show up to take them back to the airport and civilization. Not a moment earlier.
It was only Day Three now. Forget any upcoming apocalypse. She might not survive the trial one.
The light wavered again and Deandra sighed, wrapped her project around its hoop and thread bundle before packing it away in her quilted bag. She then reached over to pull the little chain that turned the table lamp off.
They’d found this place from a site that specialized in survivalist camps, and quite frankly, she was already itching for her cell phone. If this kept up, she’d be breaking into the yarn she’d brought for a knitting project. And she was one of the world’s worst knitters, by her own calculation.
“Well. Go on. What happened then?”
Someone prompted Edna back to her story, and Deandra looked toward them and the fireplace.
Actually...
It wasn’t even a real fireplace; more of a pit made from metal with a façade of cemented river rock. There was a funnel hovering above it as if to suck up smoke. Now that she’d turned off her light, the fire was the only source of light in the vastness of their great room. That fire pit was reminiscent of a ‘60s spy film, and looked out of place with the rest of this South Texan spread. Everything else was old-fashioned. Rustic. Threadbare. Archaic.
“The claw belonged to—”
This time the interruption was a dirt bike, coming at them loud and fast. Leaping obstacles if the wavering roar of rpm was accurate. Another loud burst came, like the rider gave it full throttle, and then a thud, and then the engine died. Just like that.
“What’s going on?”
Somebody asked it. Nobody answered. That made it easy to hear doors getting slammed deep in the bowels of the place. Shutters getting pulled in. Bolts dropping. Or something along those lines. Deandra slid from her chair to the floor, and scooted on her buttocks over to the nearest wall. Hiding was the appropriate first response to any threat. Hide and evaluate. Then determine the proper response. She’d helped draft that part of their membership response pact.
“Andale!”
“You certain?”
“Si! Si! El demonio!”
“Tonight?”
“Si! El Diablo del noches! Andale!”
Words filtered through the place, spreading like a fog. Deandra knew rudimentary Spanish, so she recognized some of that. Hurry. Night of the Devil? Or was it demon? And what was that about devil night? Was it a full moon or something?
“What are they saying?” somebody whispered.
The sound of gunfire erupted from the courtyard right outside the window. But that was ridiculous. It was probably fireworks. And it wa
s perfectly timed. No wonder they’d charged so much for this vacation spot. It came with theatrics. Pretty sweet. She listened as some of the members continued explanations.
“El Diablo means devil. Demonio is demon.”
“Yeah. And the other part is night.”
“You gotta be kidding me!”
Angie didn’t sound as nonchalant anymore. Her voice was high pitched and shaky.
“It’s all right. It’s all fake! I bet if I—”
Edna didn’t get a chance to finish once again. The sound of glass shattering was the culprit this time, immediately followed by the tinkle of shards showering onto Deandra and the floor about her. She didn’t move as a spattering of what sounded like real bullets peppered the area next, more than one making the funnel thing above the fire pit ring. Like a bell.
Man. Was she ever failing this survivalist stuff. When one picked a wall to hide against, one should choose one without a window. Or make certain the shutters were pulled shut first. Deandra added that to her mental checklist.
“Oh my God! They’re not fake!”
“Shush!” Edna answered. “Get into a ball, wrap your arms about your head, and use the surroundings! Have you forgotten everything?”
More thudding sounds punctuated the area, sounding a lot like bullets hitting the solid log walls of the place. And that was okay. Nobody ever died of gunfire hitting logs.
“But... those are real bullets! Someone is shooting at us!”
That voice didn’t resemble any of the eleven members of the 2100 Radical Society, but it was Edna answering again, her calm, steady voice clearly showed why she’d been elected their leader.
“Hunch down by the rock wall. Sherry. Ange. Everybody. Now.”
“Let me in! Mamacita! Let me in! Open the door!”
Heavy pounding followed the statement. Or accompanied it. Deandra couldn’t tell, since it was in a heavy Mexican accent and difficult to understand, and all of it happened simultaneously.
“No!”
Deandra didn’t have any trouble hearing the answer. It didn’t sound like it came from the plump, matronly, sweet-tempered owner of this place. The sound of a shotgun getting cocked didn’t, either. Both of them matched the fire-enhanced view of their landlady, however, her bulk facing the door and totally primed to shoot whatever came through it. Deandra should probably help. There was probably something better to do than sitting statue-still, wondering if any movement would result in sliced skin from the glass she still wore, but Deandra couldn’t think of what it might be.
“Open this door! Now!”
“Not to your murderous hide!”
Innumerable shots hammered at the door from the outside, coming rapidly and with precision at the handle. Probably from an AK-47. They backed the landlady away from the portal. That reaction looked more like the woman who cheerfully served their every need. And put a slight dent to confidence in Rosa’s ability to handle the situation, whatever it might turn out to be. Maybe a zombie stood on the other side of that door.
Come on, Deandra. There’s no such things as zombies. As for an apocalypse happening during a training retreat for one? What were the odds?
Whatever or whoever was at the door, kicked at it next, sending it wide with a thud. That move was accompanied by another spray of bullets about the area, as well as a whoosh of light as the fire reacted to the incoming air. Their hostess dropped to the floor, losing the shotgun. Deandra watched it slide along the floor to ricochet off a far wall. Rosa ended up crouched behind the fire pit wall, joining the huddled group of women already there, making an easy target. For the most incompetent shooter.
Geez. Even Edna.
The man yelled in triumph or something, before leaning backward to send more bullets into the ceiling. As if he was starring in a low-budget film. His action rained bits of dust and plaster and God knew what else into the scene. The combination choked, and made visibility foggy and indistinct. And when he finished it was just quiet. Scary quiet.
Deandra blinked against the dust spray, thanking the fates she’d spent her last Christmas bonus check on Lasik surgery like the group had recommended. Wearing contacts in this hail of debris would have been hell. Or worse hell than it already looked to be. Firelight glinted off flecks of dust, highlighting their intruder. And his attire.
Well. At least it wasn’t a zombie.
The guy standing there looked like he came right out of an old Western movie. Complete with cowboy hat, chaps, and he even wore a band of bullets crisscrossing his torso. The only thing out of place was his weapon. She’d been right. It was an AK-47. Good thing most of the 2100 Radical Society carried side arms. If they’d remembered them, that is.
“And now... your turn, Old Woman.”
Absolutely nobody answered him. Not in words, or with a bullet. So... either they were all failing because they didn’t have the guts to really shoot another person when it counted, or they’d failed by not bringing their pieces to this gathering in the first place. Deandra had hers. Sort of. It was stashed in the bottom of her project basket. Where it did no good whatsoever. But she had to try and reach it. There was going to be mass murder in front of her eyes if she didn’t do something. Anything. Everyone else looked frozen in place.
It was too late to say I told you so. And that they should’ve gone to Tahoe for their bi-annual retreat, which had been her vote.
Deandra scooted from the wall, going the length of her arms, but before she finished, the man cried out as a rope whipped through the entryway and looped about him. His body jerked backwards like a life-sized marionette. She was seeing things, but that didn’t stop the show. The intruder looked like he’d been lassoed; stopping his advance and making him lose his grip on his weapon. Then his entire body flew right back out the door as if pulled by a jet engine. Or something with tremendous power.
And that’s when she found out shattered glass didn’t do much damage through clothing or a ponytail style hairdo.
Deandra had the answer because one moment she’d been on her butt in the midst of said glass, and the next she was on her feet, her back against the wall beside the window frame, breathing shallowly and rapidly. She didn’t even know how she got there. And even better. She had her Derringer in her hand, while flickers of firelight showed the upended project bag she’d tossed. Without one recollection on how she’d managed all that.
It was up to her. Nobody else did much except peer at her over the rim of the fire pit.
Just great.
With her luck, it wouldn’t even be a zombie. It was probably an alien, and one just as vicious as the movies usually portrayed. The thought flashed through her mind before she stopped the stupidity. She reminded herself again that there zombies weren’t real. Or aliens. The man who’d just been ripped from the room had been very human. And very brutal. And very threatening. She shouldn’t care what happened to him, or how it happened. She should be grateful it was his shrieks of torment and pain coming from the courtyard right outside. And not theirs.
And then the sounds stopped. Just like that. Deandra took a deep breath, slid a finger under the curtain, and peeked.
CHAPTER TWO
Well. She had one answer. They didn’t call it devil night because of a full moon.
Deandra scanned the area to the count of three and then pulled her head back, awaiting some kind of response as she exhaled. None came. She nodded to the group of women watching her and then did it again, this time checking for movement. Nothing. The entire clearing was a dim bit of shadows and more shadows. And then the headlight beams sliced through the clearing from a lone moving vehicle.
A vehicle. A truck. Maybe even a 4-x-4. A real, honest-to-goodness modern vehicle was out there. Burning gas. Or maybe it was diesel. Didn’t really matter. That vehicle meant civilization. And that meant help.
The headlights glinted on the tripod concoction that held their windmill. And then it touched boots. Belonging to a body. Strapped at least eight feet in the air. It lo
oked like the intruder. Maybe. But she couldn’t be sure because the truck rounded a corner or something, and she lost the light.
Deandra narrowed her eyes, focusing on the spot. Darn Lasik surgery. They’d warned her it might affect her night vision, but it had seemed like a minor issue then. Now? In a scene without artificial light? Blurred night vision was definitely an issue, and not remotely minor.
The sound of an engine grew louder. That meant the vehicle was probably approaching. Brought by sounds of gunfire maybe? Or... crap. It might even be a compatriot of their intruder guy. Deandra moved the gun to her left hand, swiped her right along her shirt to dry the instant sweat that hit, and then palmed it again. She wasn’t the best shot, but she wasn’t the worst, either. And she was all they had at the moment.
A flash of the vehicle’s hi-beams lit the windmill. Touched for a full second or two. Disappeared. In that time she saw what she needed. That really was the intruder up there. Minus his hat. And his bullets. And even his chaps. He looked like a rag doll, his body strapped to one leg of the windmill. And he wasn’t dead. She could see his thrashing movements against his bonds. He was gagged, too.
Now... who could have such strength that they could lasso a man, yank him through a door, and tie him to a pole that far above the ground? And in that short a space of time? Without one hint of a bullet fired? Or any other sound? Who? Or... what?
The answer loomed into being, becoming a black mass that blocked her view. Light spilled into the area as the vehicle topped the last ridge leading to the hacienda, putting illumination on the man standing in the window aperture mere inches from her. Deandra gasped and jerked back, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, looking her over with the most quizzical expression on one handsome face. Really, breath-stealing gorgeous. Dressed in black for the most part, the dark color matching his hair and eyes, while the barest hint of stubble shaded his chin and upper lip. Absolutely perfect features. Wow. He was beyond gorgeous. Guys this handsome didn’t exist. Or if they did, they were somebody’s arm candy. Somebody really rich.
