by Alan Ryker
Dennis pinned Matthew Irving to the stall with one hand. The fear, the promise of the kill, it was taking over. He felt his human side slipping away, and he let it go. As if entranced, he said, "All I hear is your beating heart and rushing blood."
He ripped out Matthew's throat. He'd intended to keep his cattle alive, but he lost his self-restraint at that moment. He drank his fill.
Logan had always annoyed the shit out of Dennis. Dennis guessed the rancher figured he was old and senile enough that he could get away with saying whatever he wanted, and more than once he'd told Dennis what he thought of him. And Logan didn't think too highly of him.
He owned the property north of the Irvings' place.
Through the big picture window, Dennis saw the old coot kicked back in his recliner watching TV. It was a pitiful sight. Honestly, it would be a mercy to put the bastard out of his misery. Dennis knocked on the door, the upper-half of which was composed of nine small panes of glass. When Logan peered through the glass, Dennis just reached through and yanked him out. But he was surprised when Mandy Logan came running into the front room from the kitchen.
Mandy was the old man's granddaughter. She must have been home for the weekend from Lawrence, where she went to KU. Dennis didn't know her well, but thought she must be some sort of saint for visiting that angry old fart on a Saturday night. He grabbed her, too.
Dennis sat on top of the QuickStop. The night was beautiful. He'd always been a night person, which was good, considering his profession, but he'd never really experienced the night like he had since his change. He could see and hear everything around him so clearly. He could practically hear the stars humming.
Dennis was happy with his small herd, but knew he'd accelerated things considerably. It was important that he be prepared to deal with Keith, and for that he needed Patty Seller. Patty had worked at the QuickStop for years. She'd worked there part-time in high school, and for the past few years, she had worked their full-time. She was a cutie, thin with long legs and long hair. She had a big nose, but the rest of her made up for it. And she'd always been nice to Dennis. Roger, who owned the QuickStop, hated Dennis, of course, but Patty seemed to like him. She'd chat him up when he came in to buy something, and never got on him about hanging around. He'd come real close to asking her out on a few different occasions. But some of the kids called her Patty Smeller because of her nose, and he didn't want to have to deal with that.
At midnight, he heard her lock the front doors. A minute later she walked out the side door by the dumpster, where she always parked her old Chevy S-10 pickup. Dennis fell on her from above. He felt some bones snap, but she was still conscious and struggling. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and smacked her face into the concrete twice. Holding her up by her hair, he looked her face over. Her nose was smashed flat and blood ran from her forehead. That would do.
Dennis dropped her into the back of her pickup and drove off. A couple of miles outside of town he felt the shocks bounce and looked back to see Patty roll herself over the side of the truck bed. She managed to hit the grass shoulder, but she was still unconscious from the impact when he put her in the passenger seat. He couldn't believe she was still alive. He wouldn't have thought it to look at her, but she was tough.
After securing Patty in her own stall, Dennis's final stop of the night was Roy's house. It was one in the morning by the time he made it over there. He didn't see any lights on from where he stood, and he didn't want to circle the house for fear of waking the dogs. Instead, he walked straight up and stood beneath an open second-floor window and sniffed. Jessica. He took a few steps back and got a running start, then jumped, grabbed the window sill, and slid into the room in one fluid movement.
Jessica didn't stir in her sleep.
Her room was a mess. The floor was covered in clothes and magazines. Dennis smiled at the angry posters on the walls and the stuffed animals in the corners. He remembered being that age, when he'd worshipped heavy metal bands but didn't want to give up his comic books.
He stepped closer to the bed. Asleep, she looked younger than usual. Especially because she was normally scowling at him when he saw her. With her face slack, he could see more of the little girl and less of the sharp Harris bone structure. He wondered which features would become more prominent after he'd changed her.
But after watching her for a few moments, Dennis slid back out the window. That question would be answered another night.
Chapter 13
Sheriff Wheeler stood beside Pastor Conway in the doorway of the small church. The congregation flowed slowly inside, and the two men chatted between greetings. The Pastor wanted to talk about the recent activity with the cattle, and about the missing men. Wheeler didn't want to discuss any of that. He felt glad to be coming together with his happy community at church on a sunny Sunday. He watched them greet each other and chat on the lawn. His work could get him down. It never ended. The animal nature of some people wouldn't let it. But seeing those he kept safe all together like that made it worth it.
"Guys like that just get up and leave. That's what they do. They don't have the same ties we do," Wheeler said to the Pastor.
"You really think that's what happened?"
"Most likely." He didn't think that at all, but that was the answer that would end the conversation.
Roy approached with his wife Sheila and their daughter Jessica. Wheeler smiled when he saw Jessica. She looked very pretty in a floral print dress, but apparently refused to remove her many bracelets and necklaces. She'd fallen in with the wrong crowd for a bit, but she seemed to have gotten herself straightened out, and Wheeler guessed she'd be headed off to college after her senior year.
"Hello, Sheriff. Pastor Conway," Roy said. He smiled a bit bashfully.
"Hey there, Roy," Wheeler said with a bit of extra good will in his voice. He slapped Roy on the back to show he held no grudge. "How'd an ugly fella like you end up with these lovely ladies?"
Wheeler and the Pastor had just started talking again when Doris, the church secretary, came out of the church and joined them on the stoop.
"Pastor Conway, Rachel Irving isn't here."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No, she isn't answering her phone."
"I don't think she's ever missed a service before." Rachel always played the organ.
"I've been trying to get a hold of her," Doris said.
"I suppose we'll just have to start without her. See you after the service, Bill."
Pastor Conway walked straight up to the pulpit as Wheeler took the seat Deputy Thomas had saved for him with his family.
"Many of you have probably noticed the absence of Rachel's beautiful music," Pastor Conway began. "She is unable to join us today, so we'll have to make do. Let us begin."
They started with prayers that Wheeler knew so well he barely noticed them anymore, then sang a hymn. Rachel's absence from her place at the organ became conspicuous. Then the pastor began his sermon.
"Today I would like to talk to you about the burden of sin we all bear. We each carry a heavy load in our souls. Sometimes, it can wear us down. Sometimes, it seems like too much to carry. But as Psalm 32 shows us, when we turn to the Lord, we can find relief from that burden. Please read with me."
Wheeler read along, but he watched Roy Harris. Wheeler could never fault a man for being loyal to his brother, but he sincerely hoped that Roy managed to stay out of whatever disaster Keith was working to bring down upon himself. Roy was a good man, and he had a family to care for.
After they read the psalm, Pastor Conway said, "Sometimes, we can't help but wonder why evil profits in this life. Sometimes, it's hard to wait for our reward in the afterlife as we suffer in this life. But know that evil never truly profits, in this world or the next. Sometimes it may seem that it does, but know that while we feel light of soul when we turn to the Lord, the wicked feel the full weight of their burden. They are crushed under every ounce of it."
Wheeler wondered if
that were true. He worked to preserve the law, and tried to ensure that evil didn't prosper in this world, but it obviously did. He was no idiot. But was there a lightness of soul that one couldn't pay for, and a weight of sin that couldn't be bought off? It seemed mean-spirited, but he hoped so. And he hoped that Keith felt the crush of his sins every moment of every day.
Chapter 14
Sitting on his porch, a beer in his hand, Keith wore the same soot-covered clothes on Sunday that he had on Saturday. Roy pulled up in his truck and got out wearing his church clothes.
"Don't look at me like that," Keith said.
"Like what?"
Keith pointed to Roy's face. He killed the beer and popped open another.
"A little hair of the dog that bit you?" Roy asked.
Keith nodded.
"Actually, I'm not sure it's hair of the dog if you never stopped drinking."
Keith shrugged. "You here in your Sunday best to talk about my drinking?"
"No. We need to, but that's not why I'm here today."
Keith nodded, drinking his beer. He felt his fuse burning already. Even he was surprised by how short it had gotten.
"It was the sermon this morning," Roy said. "I wish you would have come to church and heard it."
"I sense a sermon coming on, regardless."
"Well, you should have heard Pastor Conway give it. It was about our burden of sin."
Roy looked like he was waiting for a response, but it was all Keith could do to keep his mouth shut. Roy usually didn't push Keith to the snapping point. He usually knew just when to stop. But Keith didn't think he'd stop this time.
"I've been feeling this burden real bad, but I didn't understand it until I heard Pastor Conway describe it. First of all, these things were people."
"Emphasis on were."
"That's what I said. And that's bad enough. These were people, and I blew one's head off."
Keith chuckled, remembering the frantic confusion of that moment.
"It's not funny! And regardless of what you think about whether or not these vampires are still people, they're definitely killing people. They were all human once. So every day we don't tell someone what we know is a day someone else might be getting turned into one of them monsters."
Roy paused. Keith sipped his beer.
"I can't take it anymore," Roy said. "I feel like I'm dragging around an anchor. I'm telling Sheriff Wheeler."
"Hell you are," Keith said. He snorted. "Wheeler."
"I'm telling Sheriff Wheeler so he can tell the proper authorities."
"They'll take everything," Keith said. "They'll—"
"It doesn't make sense anymore! Somehow it made sense once, but it doesn't now."
Keith stopped and breathed, so that he wouldn't shout. So that he wouldn't get to his feet. So that what always followed when he got to his feet wouldn't happen. "It doesn't have to make sense to you, Roy. You just have to do what you're told."
"Goddamn it, Keith!"
"Yell all you like. You're not telling anybody." Keith killed that beer and popped another. Warm like that, they went down fast.
"I'm a grown fucking man."
Keith looked at his little brother standing there in his church clothes, cursing and throwing a tantrum. "You're not telling anybody."
"Or what?'
And Keith stood up. "I shouldn't need to say what."
Roy stared Keith in the eyes. Keith gave him that. But he was bigger than Roy. He was stronger than Roy. And most of all, he knew that what Roy saw living behind his eyes was of a species completely different from what lived inside Roy. And Roy didn't even know he was holding it back.
So inevitably, Roy walked down the porch stairs. He spoke with his back to Keith.
"Fine then. Fine. I'd tell you that all the consequences will be on your head, but I don't think you'd care. But don't put a vampire anywhere near my property. I want nothing more to do with this. And I won't be coming around if you've got a vampire over here."
Roy headed for his truck. Then Keith thought of something.
"What about Jessica?"
Roy climbed in his truck and Keith went to the edge of the porch.
"What about Jessica?" Keith asked again.
"I don't know."
Roy drove away. Keith sat back down. He vibrated with something like rage and sorrow and he didn't know what it all was. And he didn't know why he couldn't stop.
Roy be goddamned. What did he know about burdens? Sheltered little mama's boy.
He didn't think Keith felt the weight of consequences?
Keith knew about burdens. Keith remembered Irene, laying in her hospital bed. So tiny. So tired.
He asked, "How can you ask me to do that?"
"I'm not asking you to do it. I'm just asking you to get it. Just bring it to me."
"How can you ask me to be a part of this? How could I live with myself?" She was nothing like Irene. She didn't even look like Irene. And his wife would never have asked him to do what she was asking.
She said, "Keith, please! The doctors said it could take months. I can't take months. They've given up on me. I'm here to die. Why should I wait in pain?"
"Because…" His mouth worked, but nothing came out.
"Nevermind. I know why. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
He wouldn't look at her. He was failing her.
"Come here, Keith. I said I'm sorry."
Keith went inside and into his pantry. He grabbed one of the four handle bottles of bourbon inside. He kept the stash for days like this, Sundays like this, when they wouldn't sell you alcohol. What did the state of Kansas expect people like him to do on Sundays? Kill themselves, he guessed.
Chapter 15
Sheriff Wheeler lived in a ranch house on a few acres just outside of town. He called it his country-boy bachelor pad. His hunting and fishing trophies covered the wood-paneled walls. His huge, overstuffed leather furniture faced his big-screen television. When a guy didn't have a wife and kids, a Sheriff's salary went pretty far. He even had a pool table.
Wheeler sat in the middle of his couch, eating dinner off a tray and watching TV. The telephone rang. He looked at it and sighed. He knew from many attempts that he could not reach the side table on which the telephone sat from the middle of the couch with a tray of food over his legs. He moved the tray, being careful not to tip it and spill his bottle of beer, and answered the phone.
"Bill Wheeler speaking."
"Sheriff, this is Tom Conway."
"What can I do for you, Pastor?"
"I'm a bit worried about the Irvings."
Wheeler had forgotten that they weren't at church. "Is anything the matter?"
"I don't know that anything is the matter, but I still haven't heard from them. I stopped by their place when I had a minute and no one answered the door."
"Maybe they went on a trip. Family got sick or something."
"Rachel wouldn't leave without telling me she wouldn't be able to play for the service."
"I see what you're saying. I'm not on duty right now, but if you call the office, one of my deputies will check on them."
"But I don't know that anything's wrong."
Wheeler accepted that he wasn't going to get out of checking on them. "I'm sure they're fine, but I'll go take a look."
"I'd feel much better. Thank you, Sheriff."
"No problem, Pastor. You have to look out for your flock."
Wheeler knocked on the Irvings' front door. No one answered. He stepped back and looked up at the two-story farm house. Everything looked okay. But it probably would.
In the back of his mind, he noted cattle lowing. A lot of them.
He walked around the house. The side windows were too high to peek into. When he reached the back of the house, he drew his gun. The backdoor stood wide open, the frame splintered at the latch.
Wheeler stepped quietly through the utility room on the back porch, holding his gun and his flashlight before him. As he made his way through the
kitchen and dining room and into the foyer, he noticed that some things were in disarray while others were untouched. It didn't look as if they'd been robbed, but there was a table pulled out of place, a chair knocked over, a bunch of books pulled from the bookshelf.
He made his way up the stairs. It was one of the rare times that he wished he wore normal shoes instead of cowboy boots. Since he couldn't help but make noise anyway, he said, "Matthew? Rachel? It's Sheriff Wheeler."
There was no reply.
In the bedroom the situation became clearer. There he found the real evidence of a struggle. Blankets were torn from the bed and trailed to the doorway. One piece of door trim had been yanked off the wall, and when he looked closely at a bloody place on the ground, he found fingernails peeled off between the floorboards.
He followed the trail back out. It looked as if several men had abducted the Irvings, literally dragging them from their bed. He could almost see them grabbing at chairs and books as they were pulled along.
He hadn't noticed it before, but the trail extended out from the back door. A worn dirt path went from the door toward the barn. Now he saw gouges where fingers had raked at the earth. He saw blood.
Wheeler jogged to the barn and found the noisy cattle. The barn interrupted a barbed wire fence, with the back door opening into a pasture. The cows stood along the other side of the fence, waiting to be milked. So the Irvings hadn't been there that morning to milk them. Wheeler reached for the handle of the huge metal sliding door and found that it was coated in dried blood. He slid the door open and aimed the flashlight inside, but the barn was so large that the beam only illuminated dust in the air. Taking one step inside the door, Wheeler aimed his gun forward in his right hand, and searched for a light switch with his left. It took him a minute to find and flip the switch. Just as he did something grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard. The gun fell from Wheeler's hand.
"Dennis?"
"Yes, Sheriff." Dennis smiled and squeezed harder. Wheeler felt his wrist bones grind together and fell to his knees groaning.
