A friend got me a tryout with the Sonora Diablos, so I headed on down to Mexico, waving at the soldiers as I passed the border checkpoint. I liked Mexico, but I wasn’t so sure Mexico liked me – everything under the desert moon stings, pokes, or bites. The upside is the year-round warm weather. I can cruise comfortably in my ride, the windows rolled down day or night.
At the tryouts, I had put on lots of muscle, but still struck out a lot. I could feel my dream slipping away. The Diablos were my last chance. Rumor had it that Coach Morales would cut me any day, leaving me washed up at twenty. I don’t have a Plan C. I went all in, blowing through my savings early on. I am even low on steroids right now.
After the game, depressed from sitting all night on the bench, and still wearing my Diablos uniform, I staggered into a cantina, the Chupacabra. Drinking tequila, I eyed a dark-haired beauty sitting a couple stools down the bar, giving her my best major-league smile. She nodded back, and I slid over to buy her a drink.
“I love baseball players,” she gushed, placing her hand seductively on my bicep. “And you are so strong, too. Are you a star for the Diablos?”
“For now,” I bragged. “It’s just temporary while I get in shape, or until the scouts notice me.”
“Then what?” she asked, stroking the back of my neck. “You will leave me to become a rich American baseball player in New York City? You will be like the immortal Alex Rodriguez?”
“Exactly, but I would never leave you, sweetheart.”
“My name is Anita. I have met lots of rich Americans, and they are not so special. But I sense you are different. You are special, and destined for great things. What is your blood type? O-negative?”
“How did you know that?” I asked, the hairs rising on the back of my neck. I shook off a premonition of doom and of striking out with Anita. Keep up the conversation, I told myself. Be smooth. I could sense my luck was changing, at least in love. “My name is Johnny.”
“Johnny, a proud baseball name!” exclaimed Anita, casually placing her hand on my knee. “You want to be a major league player? I think I can help you get a two year no-cut contract.”
“No more steroids,” I replied abruptly. “All that hype about steroids being a wonder drug is bull. I don’t need drugs for stamina and strength. It’s not the size of your bat that counts, it’s how you use it.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” scoffed Anita, still smiling. She had a beautiful smile with perfect white teeth accented by her dark sun-kissed skin. She had movie star good looks. “Come to my home, my macho baseball player. You won’t strike out with me. You won’t ever strike out again. I will help you score big time in the major leagues. We will be partners.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I said, chugging down my drink and eagerly following her seductive hips out the door. My eyes swayed back and forth, almost hypnotized, as I chased after her. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s a guy thing. We have no control.
I could not believe my good fortune. This sort of thing never happens to me. I glanced both ways as we left the cantina, half-expecting to be mugged in the alley. Good luck with that, I thought, smirking. I’m broke! But tonight it looked like I was going to hit a home run. ‘My, oh my, fly away,’ as they still say in Seattle.
Anita walked up hill effortlessly in her stiletto heels, while I followed panting and out of breath. She took me up narrow streets atop a hill overlooking the town. Her home was painted up high class, just like her. Red tiles and blue painted brick, it looked down on the mere shanties below.
Anita led me by the hand through the doorway, upstairs to her bedroom, never bothering to turn on the lights. No chitchat, no more drinks, straight to bed. My kind of girl.
“Tonight, I give you a gift,” promised Anita, as we quickly shed our clothes. “And a curse.”
“Curse?” I asked, startled. “No way. I brought protection.”
In the dark, as I fumbled clumsily through my wallet for a condom, Anita caressed and kissed my neck ... and then ripped out my throat! What kind of shit is that? The bitch grew fangs and tore out my throat with her teeth – just like that, quick and neat. I just stared back at her in disbelief, a reflection of her next meal in her beautiful brown moonlit eyes. Damn, you know, some days just aren’t worth getting up for.
* * * * *
I died that night ... sort of. There was no funeral. I woke up on a wooden table in the city morgue, naked, splinters in my ass, with a tag tied to my big toe. Morgue workers approached from down the hallway, but in an instant I was gone, out a window. I flew like the wind, toe tag flapping in the breeze. I needed no explanation. I knew what had happened. I was killed by a vampire, and now I was one. This sucks!
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Chapter 2
How does a vampire support himself? I wondered. Crime? Murder and mayhem? Get a night job stocking shelves at Walmart?
CRACK!
No, not drugs.
CRACK!
The sound of a bat, the cheer of the crowd. I turned to see the familiar lights of Diablo Stadium. Of course! I am still on the team, still a Diablo. Can a vampire hit? Play baseball? I don’t see why not.
I ran faster toward the stadium, still naked, toe tag still flapping. I stopped. My senses were heightened. Such power. Such speed. I could be a lead-off hitter. I would never get caught stealing second base. But I needed clothes. I couldn’t play baseball naked. I passed a bum and, in a blur, snatched his clothes. His shoes did not fit.
The bum just stood there naked, crying, not knowing what happened. He looked down at the toe tag I left. “What the hell?” The bum shrugged, took another swig from his bottle, and staggered away.
The bum’s clothes itched. I could feel lice crawling everywhere. And the smell. I dismissed it. My newfound power was intoxicating. In an instant, I was in the stands. Fans all around cheered as the Diablos prepared to bat in the bottom of the first inning.
“Aye, you’re blocking my view. Find a seat,” snarled a burly fan as I gazed down at the field.
He had popcorn in one hand, a beer in the other, and wore a Diablo team shirt. Reflexively, I snarled, baring my teeth. Anita had given me a gift, but I was not wasting it killing the likes of this fool. In an instant I snatched his Diablo shirt and the popcorn. The popcorn needed more butter and salt, but the shirt fit perfectly. I leaped over the dugout fence and into the company of my teammates.
“You’re off the team,” shouted Coach Morales, noticing my disheveled appearance, blood still on my neck. “Get out or I’m calling the police. You’re nothing but a drunk!”
“I’m pinch hitting,” I demanded, snatching a bat from the on-deck hitter. “Don’t mess with me, Morales. I know where you live!”
Morales backed off, crossing himself as I snarled and bared my teeth. I strode confidently to the plate. The umpire took of his mask to confront me, pointing to the ground.
“Where are your shoes?” he asked. “You cannot play without shoes!”
“Didn’t you ever watch Field of Dreams?” I snarled. One of my fangs glistened from the stadium lights. “You remember Shoeless Joe? I’m Shoeless Johnny!”
“Crazy gringos,” relented the umpire, nervously turning his back to me and donning his mask. “Play ball!”
The pitcher, Miguel Dominguez, only threw fastballs. I knew I could easily hit off him. But the bright reflection from a cross dangling from his gold chain blinded me. I put my hand up to shield my eyes as the first pitch was thrown.
“Strike!”
“Time out!” I shouted, backing out of the batter’s box. I trotted over to third base. The fans booed. I snatched the third base coach’s sunglasses and returned to the plate. The glare from the cross was still too much. The next pitch, up high and inside, brushed me back and into the dirt. “That bastard,” I snarled, rushing the pitcher’s mound. Both benches cleared, but I was to the mound first, snatching Dominguez’ gold chain and throwing it to the stands. It
burned red hot in my hand. Steam rose from my blisters. I recoiled.
Diablos tried to save me from the other team. Maybe I was just a crazy gringo, but damn it, I was their crazy gringo, and no one from Nogales was going to kick my ass and get away with it. Being a home game, the fans were with me, cheering wildly and throwing beer bottles. One fan, shirtless and drinking a beer, caught Dominguez’ gold chain. He waved back at me like a long lost friend, holding the chain up for all to see, like a trophy of war.
After much shoving and shouting, the players settled back to their dugouts. The umpire allowed me to stay in the game because I snarled at him again, and because we were the home team.
“Play ball!”
The next pitch, another fastball, was in my sweet spot. CRACK! I easily hit the ball over the left field fence. That’s what I’m talking about! This vampire thing is going to work, I told myself as I rounded third base, headed for home, and returned high-fives and congratulations from Morales and my teammates.
Cameras flashed. Video ran. I would be all over the local news tomorrow. I hit three more home runs and ended the night with a bunt just to show off. A scout from the Seattle Mariners was waiting for me in the locker room after the game, with a two-year no-cut contract in hand.
“That was a hell of a game, son,” exclaimed Ronald Hassle. “Call me Ron. I see a bright future for you in the Seattle Mariners organization.”
“Seattle?” I asked. “Does Seattle have a domed stadium?”
“Oh, don’t worry about the rain,” insisted Hassle. “It’s hardly noticeable, once you get used to it. Think of it as moist Washington air. It’s good for the skin, too, and you don’t have to worry about getting cancer from sun spots.”
“It’s the sunlight that bothers me,” I replied. “I hate sunlight.”
“No worries there,” replied Hassle, pushing the contract across a table for me to sign. “The sun never comes out in the Pacific Northwest.”
“What about day games?” I asked, as I read the fine print. It’s all in the details. “Do I have to play the California Angels? I hate that ‘Big A’ with that stupid halo on top.”
“Of course we play the Angels,” advised Hassle. “Now, see here. What kind of question is that? Do you have a history of mental illness? Have you ever been institutionalized?”
“Never,” I said, quickly signing the contract. “Is that it? Am I in the major leagues now?”
“You might have to play for Tacoma a short time, but I see no problems,” promised Hassle, just now noticing the blood on my neck and shirt. “You are a natural. If you pass your physical, and the blood test, you’re in!”
“Blood test?” I asked.
“It’s just a formality.”
“Great!” I replied, shaking Ron’s hand. “I thought I would never get noticed. I was so desperate, I almost joined the Foreign Legion. Ron, you saved me from a fate worse than death!”
Remember, we are partners, announced Anita, her voice all around, but only for me. I looked about, but the vampire vixen was not to be seen. Partners for life, she repeated, my soon-to-be rich American baseball player!
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~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~
Walter Knight played football on Tucson High School’s last state championship team (1971). He served three years in the army, and the GI Bill paid for his college education, helping him earn degrees from Fort Steilacoom Community College, Central Washington State College, and the University of Puget Sound School of Law.
Walter lives a very quiet and private life, residing with his family and horses, dogs, cats, and fish atop a hill in rural Washington. Walt enjoys taking road trips to explore ghost towns and casinos.
To find out more about the author and his books, visit his web site.
www.waltknight.yolasite.com
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~BOOK PREVIEW~
THE MCKENZIE FILES
by
Barry K. Nelson
The United Protectorate is under attack by the Brelac, a bloodthirsty reptilian alien race bent on destroying humanity. A dark alliance between the Brelac and Vendetta, a separatist organization trying to bring down the Protectorate, spells doom for the human race – especially when it’s discovered the Brelac have created genetically engineered humanoid weapons called Reploids. Reploids are identical copies of real humans captured, killed, cloned, embedded with powerful psionic abilities, and programmed to serve the Brelac. They are untraceable and blend into human society so believably, the Reploids themselves do not know they are clones.
Colin McKenzie, part of a military team sent to a remote planet to investigate and capture a downed Brelac shuttle, turns on his commanding officer in an attempt to protect the shipwrecked crew of Brelac soldiers. But Colin is captured and reprogrammed – along with two other Reploids captured in stasis – to serve the government he was originally created to destroy. When a weapon powerful enough to bring the Protectorate to its knees is about to be unleashed, the Protectorate’s only hope of stopping it is this band of three Reploids.
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Prologue
Leon Maseklos felt a painful stiffness in his knees as he walked down the dimly lit corridor of the massive transport. His loss of agility was understandable, considering he had just awakened from a frozen sleep of nearly three hundred years. He drew in a deep breath, his lungs feeling raw as he sucked in the chilly filtered and recirculated air. Briskly rubbing his shoulders, he regretted failing to choose an additional garment to bolster his gray coveralls. But he soon forgot his discomfort as his excitement mounted.
There was only one reason why he’d been awakened from his long slumber – robotic probes launched from the ship had finally discovered a suitable planet for colonization. As the head of this expedition and commander of the fleet of six huge, rectangular transport vessels, it was his duty and privilege to wake first. After he confirmed the probe’s findings, he would rouse several key crewmembers from their cryo-suspension tubes. Later, selected individuals from the other five ships, each carrying the precious cargo of sleeping passengers and identical supplies and life-support materials, would be revived. Once they decided on a location for the colony base, constructed a suitable number of habitats and food propagation units, and transitioned aeroponics plants to the planet’s soil, the rest of the expedition would be revived. And then the real work would begin to relocate this select human populace from Earth to a new home.
The door to the ship’s main bridge slid open. Leon strode past several rows of instrument consoles to reach the data-analysis station. Manipulating the touchscreen, he summoned the desired information in a holographic projection directly before him. The long-ranged probes had indeed discovered a suitable planet. Its mass appeared to be slightly larger than that of Earth. Its annual trip around its sun would be slightly longer than Earth’s, and the axis tilt and rotational angle were definitely different, but they would cope. A global body of water separated several mountainous land formations. The atmospheric composition was within the desired parameters – large amounts of oxygen mixed with nitrogen and a small amount of argon. Present temperature across the globe was well within human tolerance, despite some extremes due to topography and elevation. Soil and water analysis yielded no toxic materials or potentially harmful microorganisms. At least nothing as deadly as the Pandora Simplex.
As Leon studied the target planet’s image, he felt a wistful twinge in his chest. The bright side of the orb, illuminated by a star very similar to the sun they’d left behind three hundred years ago, looked much like the Earth he remembered from historical pictures ... a large marble against the black backdrop of space, its vivid swirls of blue and green mixed with white. It would be a good home. It had to be.
He rechecked the ship’s status and then ran remote diagnostics to test the integrity of the cryo-chambers deep within the belly of each of the transports holding formation in orbit around the planet. Everything looked normal. As
he breathed a long sigh of relief, he again noted the scratchiness of his lungs, hopefully just a temporary aftereffect of extended cryo-sleep. The worry flitted through his mind that by stepping foot on this planet, they’d somehow instantly contaminate it. But he dismissed that thought. They had survived against insurmountable odds, and they deserved a new home after the senseless and inevitable demise of Earth.
He turned away when vivid memories flooded his mind. The waste and devastation ... the death. Historical reports he’d studied stated the gargantuan mass of jagged metal and ice, measuring more than four miles in diameter, had entered the Earth’s solar system in 2189 without any advance warning. The intruder seemed to purposefully speed past Jupiter and Mars on a direct course to its intended target – Earth – impacting with a force that surpassed a nuclear explosion. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and a huge portion of its metropolitan area were obliterated. The horrendous death toll was too high for anyone to accurately count. Earth’s environment was soon plunged into a global-winter effect as tons of soot and debris from the blast formed thick clouds that blocked out the life-giving sunlight.
Nations were plunged into chaos with food shortages and mass extinction of hundreds of species of plant and animal life. The worst came a later when a mysterious viral outbreak quickly spread among survivors. Victims suffered from bleeding blisters, fatigue, and loss of muscle coordination. Paranoia and psychotic behavior soon followed, culminating in murderous violence. The majority of those infected died within days. Others continued long enough to create havoc upon those not affected. It was believed that the viral organism was somehow released into the atmosphere by the icy asteroid. But that theory was never proven. Because of its ghastly symptoms, the pandemic illness was called the Pandora Simplex.
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