The New Hero: Volume 1

by ed. Robin D. Laws

  Ignoring the screaming pain in his arms, Finnegan clambered over the opening and along the suspension rail into the floatplane, gritting his teeth as he hauled himself into the cockpit. Eve was already in the back seat, unable to take her wide eyes off the spreading fire. The plane had no self-starter and there was no time to start the engine manually, so Finnegan pulled the release lever. The floatplane dropped away from the doomed zeppelin.

  The wind hit Finnegan in the face like a blow. In an open cockpit with no goggles and a tiny windshield, he squeezed away tears and tried to decipher the German writing on the controls. The floatplane was nose down, and the ocean was coming up far too quickly.

  Wires sang and the wood creaked as Finnegan forced the stick back, praying he could pull the plane out of its dive without tearing the wings off. A sudden burst of orange light reflected off the sea as the zeppelin burst into flames, but the wind drowned out the sound of the explosion.

  Finnegan braced his feet against the rudder pedals and held the stick against his stomach as the sea got closer and closer. A wing strut failed with sharp crack, but the others held. A patch of fabric tore off the upper wing, flapping like a banner in a hurricane. Slowly, agonizingly, the plane approached the horizontal.

  Spray exploded as the floatplane hit the water. For a moment Finnegan was afraid that the drag from the floats would either rip them off or pitch the plane’s nose into the sea, but it righted itself and he kicked the rudder over, using the plane’s momentum to steer it toward shore. Overhead the blazing zeppelin almost filled the sky.

  From the shelter of the beach, they watched the zeppelin die. Its nose was a burning skeleton, drooping toward the sea as the gas from the forward bags burned off. The fire spread aft, peeling away the silver skin to reveal the metal framework beneath. Eve gasped as the zeppelin broke in two and both parts drifted down amid a welter of flame, the ironwork sagging in the intense heat. The pieces settled on the ocean for a few seconds and began to sink.

  For a long time they said nothing. Then Finnegan put his hand gently on Eve’s shoulder and said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He turned and headed for the bay where the Lady Luck lay at anchor.

  ‘China?’ Eve took a sip of her drink.

  ‘That’s what Louie says,’ Finnegan told her. ‘After the Armistice von Falkenburg and his crew didn’t want to surrender. They must have taken that zeppelin all the way across Russia. Louie’s buddy in Shanghai said they tried to set themselves up as warlords but the Kuomintang chased them out.’

  ‘So they came here? Why?’

  ‘Who knows? They probably figured they could make a living as pirates. Ships and planes vanish out here all the time. I wish the thing hadn’t blown up, though. Do you know how much cargo a zeppelin can carry?’

  Eve smiled. ‘I don’t see you as the airship type. Too slow. Landing that floatplane with no engine is more your style.’

  Finnegan ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t the wind screaming on the way down, it was me.’

  Eve chuckled, a low, rich sound. ‘A big, tough pilot like you? I’ve been on scarier rides at Coney Island.’

  Fangs and Formaldehyde

  Monica Valentinelli

  Between the skin shows and an endless supply of cocaine and hard liquor, the city of Las Vegas was perfect for any predator, mortal or otherwise. Usually, the mortal predators lurked in noisy casinos, preying on unsuspecting tourists. Vampires like Atlas, on the other hand, typically took to the streets to find their next meal.

  ‘Wow. Is that a vintage Ducati? My dad had one of those,’ a blonde girl shouted from a nearby crosswalk. Although she reeked of baby powder and cigarettes, her long legs and creamy skin reminded him of Constance, his missing wife.

  Atlas walked his bike over to the curb and lifted up his visor. ‘It’s a 1959 Ducati Super Sport. Do you know anything about motorcycles?’ The left mirror was the only part that wasn’t genuine.

  ‘Not any that old.’ The blonde girl admitted. After a few moments, she said exactly what Atlas hoped to hear. ‘I’d kill to ride one again.’

  Atlas didn’t believe in luck, but if he did—he’d be asking the Good Lady for help. ‘Want a quick ride?’

  Like most humans Atlas encountered recently, the girl hesitated. He wondered if she didn’t like the way he looked. Even now, he was painfully aware of the deep battle scars crisscrossing his bronze face.

  The girl shook her head and backed away. ‘Sorry, but I’m with my parents.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Atlas shrugged her off and quickly wove back into traffic. Sure, he could have played with his food, but then he’d be late for his weekly poker game. He didn’t like to be late. Not for anything. Poker taught him when to bluff, when to call and when to fold. The better the players, the more he picked up.

  He was still learning.

  A scream queen ringtone screeched in his ear. Even before he answered the call, he suspected it was Damian wondering where he was.

  Atlas pressed a button on the side of his helmet. ‘How’s the buffet coming, Damian? I’m running a little late.’ It was customary for that week’s host to provide some warm blood before the cards were dealt. This week, their game was on the top floor of Bermuda Bay.

  ‘No go, Mr. A. Gotta cancel.’

  Atlas tapped his helmet. ‘I don’t think I heard you correctly.’

  ‘No players? No game, Mr. A. I can’t get a hold of Gramps. Him and Moira are gone.’

  Even though Gramps resembled a ninety-year-old man, his vampiric age was about the same as Damian’s. A professional saxophone player and former boxer, Gramps still performed on the Strip for an enthusiastic crowd filled with bloodstalkers and humans.

  Moira was a tiny little thing who wore purple wigs and followed Gramps around. Unlike him, she wasn’t much of a gossip, so no one knew how old she was or where she came from. Atlas admired his sparring partner. Moira was the only bloodstalker he knew that could keep up with him.

  That’s odd, Atlas thought. Neither Moira nor Gramps had ever missed a game.

  ‘What about Carla? Can’t she play?’ The mortal was Damian’s one weak spot and both of them knew it. A former singer, Carla devoted most of her time to masking her wrinkles with heavy makeup and cosmetic surgery. Although Atlas had no idea why, Damian enjoyed her high-pitched laughter and terrible dancing. Atlas cringed every time she opened her mouth.

  ‘Look, Mr. A,’ Damian lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘She’s sick.’

  From the tone in his voice, Atlas knew something was wrong. Most bloodstalkers didn’t scare easily, unless somebody new was breaking the rules. Rule number one: a vampire must avoid strong emotions at all costs. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t have time to explain. I’m leaving town. Tonight.’

  Atlas sped up. It wasn’t like Damian to jump ship. Whatever happened to Carla, it frightened one of the least paranoid vamps he knew. ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’s it? You’re not coming after me?’

  Atlas growled into the receiver. Damian owed him money and information, but he wasn’t the only one. ‘I want to talk to Carla before you take off.’

  ‘Then meet me in Room 672 at the Revenant.’ Atlas could tell Damian was struggling to keep his voice down. ‘You have thirty minutes, Mr. A. Then I’m history.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five.’

  A few right turns later, Atlas pulled into the parking lot of the Revenant Hotel and waved a wad of hundred dollar bills in front of a valet’s face. Not only did the valet park his bike underground, he also told him where the staff entrance was and which slots were scheduled to pay out. Atlas made up some excuse about stripping for a bachelorette party, but by that point the valet lost interest in him. As long as he tipped well, the locals didn’t think twice about who he was or what he was doing.

  On his way up to the sixth floor, Atlas accidentally ran into a hotel maid. Hungry, he pinned her face-first against the wall. The woman was too t
errified to scream, but he threatened her anyway. Tilting the maid’s neck, Atlas sampled just enough blood to keep his hunger in check. Fortunately for both of them, the frightened woman fainted and collapsed to the ground. Since a corpse was a lot harder to cover up than a bloodstalker’s bite, he tried not to kill his victims.

  Flying up the rest of the stairs, Atlas reached Room 672 and tried the handle. The door burst open with a loud bang.

  ‘Come on in, Mr. A.’ Damian filled the doorway. His eyes were blood red and his veins pulsed with anticipation.

  ‘You don’t look so good, Damian. Don’t you want to sit down?’ The signs of Damian’s intense emotions were all there: red eyes, bulging arteries, angry rashes all over his skin. If Damian didn’t calm down, his blood would eventually burst through his brain and kill him. Atlas knew several mortals who would sacrifice their souls just to learn that little secret. Over the years, he had convinced several hunters that a combination of holy water, juniper and garlic were the tools of their trade. The truth was: vampires were their own worst enemies.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question. Don’t you want to sit down?’ Atlas carefully pushed him aside and locked the door with a decisive click.

  ‘Not here to chat.’

  Damian lifted a chair and hurled it at Atlas, who managed to roll out of the way. Circling the other bloodstalker, Atlas snarled, hoping he’d back down. His tactic failed. Damian leapt high into the air and pummeled Atlas with a flurry of sharp punches. The older vampire dropped to his knees and clutched his jaw, feigning an injury. This time, his ruse worked.

  ‘Why’d you do it, Mr. A?’ Damian leaned over him and traced one of his deep scars with a long fingernail. ‘Can you tell me that?’

  When he was close enough, Atlas grabbed Damian’s arm and twisted it until he heard a sharp popping noise. Taken off-guard, Damian howled in anger and swung his other fist. Atlas caught it and squeezed.

  ‘Are you finished?’ Atlas asked him, wondering when he would take the hint. Even with his preternatural speed, Damian wasn’t in the best condition to fight. ‘You’ve got about five minutes before the convulsions set in. Then you’re on your own.’

  Damian pressed his lips together, forming a white line. Atlas squeezed harder and cracked his knuckles. For whatever reason, that seemed to do the trick. Damian’s eyes turned pink then rapidly faded back to white.

  ‘Guess we should have that talk now. Right, Mr. A?’

  ‘Guess so.’ Atlas released his grip on the younger bloodstalker and leaned against the wall. ‘Now, you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

  ‘Only if you tell me what that awful stench is.’ Damian collapsed into a chair and readjusted the bones in his arm. ‘Doesn’t that smell turn off your victims?’

  Atlas licked his lips. It seemed the kid figured out something he didn’t. Was that why he had a hard time feeding lately? ‘It’s catnip.’

  Like every other bloodstalker before him, Damian froze. It was common knowledge among vampires that cats could detect their true nature. Rule number two: a vampire should avoid cats at all costs. Although he hated the little fuzzballs, Atlas kept a bag of catnip in his pocket. He figured that the best way to avoid being pegged as a bloodstalker was to pretend that rule didn’t exist.

  ‘So you’re the one. Fire, too?’

  ‘Yep.’ If Damian wanted a show, he was prepared to give him one.

  ‘Prove it.’

  Atlas cocked his head and rolled his lighter across the bottom of his boot. Once lit, he slowly passed his hand back and forth through its bright yellow flame.

  Damian sank deeper into the chair. ‘Is the rest of it true then, Mr. A?’

  ‘What part?’ Atlas had heard a few rumors. That was the only downside to living in a city that never slept. There was always someone willing to spill your secrets―especially if you paid them enough.

  ‘That you help other bloodstalkers.’

  Atlas had heard that one before, but it always surprised him when someone else said it. As much as he hated to admit it, there were still a few remnants of his mortal identity left inside his rotting heart.

  He carefully chose his next words. ‘When it suits me.’ If the other vamps in town thought he had gone soft, they’d gang up on him.

  Damian spat at the floor. ‘Then you did do it.’

  ‘Do what?’ Atlas grabbed a deck of cards out of his jacket and offered it to him. If he could get Damian to shuffle some cards, maybe they could have a quick game while they talked.

  Damian eyed him suspiciously. It took him a few minutes before he finally blurted out his accusation. ‘You made Carla sick.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Atlas shook his head. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He didn’t give a damn about Carla. What was Damian thinking?

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I think. I see the way you and Moira look at each other. She probably told you to do it.’

  ‘I got news for you, Damian. I have better things to do than go after Carla.’

  ‘Like what? Helping some other vamp?’

  Atlas growled. Damian wasn’t thinking straight, but it was obvious he wanted his help. ‘I do this, I do this my way.’

  Damian chucked his cell phone at him. ‘Press the little camera button.’

  His large fingers made it difficult to press the tiny buttons, but eventually Atlas figured out where the photos were. Atlas tried not to smile. He’d spent a lot of time studying the latest gadgets and it was finally paying off. If a younger vampire like Damian was able to figure out how old he really was, he’d probably run away screaming. For good reason, he thought.

  Ancient vampires were few and far between. The longer a vampire lived, the more enemies they made. The more foes they encountered, the more likely they were to lose control. Naturally, a lot of superstitions popped up about what it took for a bloodstalker to survive. He knew that some of them, like the benefits of bathing in a priest’s blood, were true.

  Still, Atlas was surprised that he wasn’t already dead. He lost count of how many enemies he’d made over the years. The last time he was attacked, he was in Germany with his wife. Someone hit him from behind and knocked him out. When he woke up, Constance was gone. Panicked, he traveled for years hunting her down, but he never found anything but rumors. Hell, he wasn’t sure she was still alive. If it wasn’t for Moira and Gramps, he’d still be out there, searching for her.

  From his travels, he learned he could substitute a body bag for a coffin, which was a hell of a lot cheaper and more portable. With the Mojave and Sonoran deserts at his disposal, his options for a decent haven were endless. For whatever reason, Las Vegas was starting to feel like home.

  ‘You still with me, Mr. A?’

  Atlas scanned through the pictures, snapping back to the present. It was clear from the gruesome images that Carla had been affected by something, but he wasn’t sure what. Her skin was covered with purple bruises, her eyes were sallow and unfocused, and her mouth was slack. If Atlas didn’t know any better, he’d think she had been turned into a zombie. Either someone had a sick sense of humor, or there was a new predator on the loose, one that knew a little necromancy.

  ‘She still alive?’ Atlas processed as many grisly details as he could from the tiny pictures, but he needed to inspect her in person. If necromancy was involved, he had other signs to look for.

  Damian shook his head. A toxic blend of human emotions marred his boyish face. ‘She wouldn’t talk or eat or nothing for three days. I didn’t want her to suffer any more than she had to, so I killed her. I had to.’

  Atlas gave Damian a minute to feel something he shouldn’t. Less than ten years old, Damian’s vampire life wasn’t that much different from his previous one. A former drug dealer, he still worked and played with several humans, which was dangerous for everyone involved. Atlas frowned. Was it possible the supernatural wasn’t involved here? Some idiot mortal could be taking the saying ‘Whatever happens in this city, stays in this city’
a little too far.

  ‘Do you think this has anything to do with Gramps or Moira?’

  Atlas leapt to their defense. ‘Don’t think either one of them cared that much about your pet. Where’d you dump the body?’

  ‘In an alleyway. Cops blamed it on a gang.’

  Even though that impressed him, Atlas suspected Damian was holding something else back. ‘Any idea where she went before she got sick?’

  Damian reached into his pocket and handed him a business card. Then he sighed, a worthless gesture since vampires didn’t breathe. ‘There’s this new doctor in town, so I sent Gramps and Carla over there to check things out. I was going to buy her a facelift for her birthday.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You sent a human to check out a doctor accompanied by a vampire?’ Atlas imagined his fist smashing into Damian’s freckled face.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Damian threw his hands up. ‘I trust Gramps more than I trust you.’

  ‘You have a lot to learn,’ Atlas warned him, remembering the third rule he had been taught. Vampires don’t trust other vampires. Sooner or later, all bloodstalkers had to come to grips with the fact that they were all killers. Damian should have done his own dirty work. ‘Where is this place anyway?’

  ‘Doctor Sage’s office? Right off of Fifteen.’

  To keep up appearances, Atlas pretended to weigh his options. He already knew he was going to check the place out to look for Gramps. ‘Unless you have anything else to tell me, I suggest you get lost.’

  ‘No hard feelings, then?’ Damian hopped up and nervously edged toward the door.

  Atlas pointed a finger at him and cocked an invisible trigger. ‘I’ll be seeing you again, Damian Alfonso Scaglia.’

  As soon as Atlas heard the door click, he lit a cigar and practiced pulling the smoke in and out of his lungs. Most vamps only smoked in public, but there was something about this exercise that helped him concentrate. What was the connection between a lover-turned-zombie and two missing bloodstalkers? Or were these events completely random?