The Eye of the Moon

by AnonYMous

‘It might just be,’ Igor replied. ‘Mind if we come on through?’

  ‘Knock yourselves out,’ the officer replied.

  As Igor lugged the body through reception to the elevators at the far end, MC Pedro stopped and gave Officer Bloem an evil stare. Then he launched into one of his stupid and pointless raps. ‘Who’s gonna knock who out? I’m gonna knock you out, hear what I say, homie?’

  Bloem sat with a quizzical look on his face, unsure how to respond, and by the time he realized that Pedro’s rap made no kind of sense, the werewolf pair were stepping into the elevator and heading down to the locker room beneath the headquarters. He shook his head, then buzzed Captain De La Cruz using the speeddial on his switchboard. The Captain answered after one ring.

  ‘De La Cruz.’

  ‘Hey, it’s Francis on reception. Those two dogs you sent on an errand have just returned with a body for you. They’re on their way down now.’

  ‘Thanks.’ De La Cruz hung up.

  In the locker room, De La Cruz, Benson and Hunter waited excitedly for the elevator to arrive. When it did, the doors hissed open and the body of Patient Number 43 came flying out on to the floor. Igor had obviously grown tired of carrying it, and had launched it straight out in the direction of the three officers waiting in front of him in the middle of the locker room. The captive with the bag on his head let out a muffled yelp, indicating that he had regained consciousness.

  Pedro and Igor, still looking like a couple of mismatched cat burglars in their all black-outfits, stepped out of the elevator and stood triumphantly over their prisoner. Without their balaclavas to cover their heads any more, each was sporting the kind of deranged hairstyle that follows a particularly bad night’s sleep. Pedro’s hair looked like something that might be found on a Lego character, which was particularly unfortunate because his skin was an unpleasant yellow colour at the best of times. And this was not the best of times. Unaware that the removal of the balaclava had given him the World’s Stupidest Hairstyle, he stood with his hands on his hips and a smug smile on his face. His oversized companion stood with his arms by his side, wearing a witless toothy grin dominated by one particularly large fang in his top row of teeth.

  ‘There he is,’ growled Igor, pointing at the hooded figure on the floor. ‘That’s your guy. The man with no name from Room Forty-Three at the hospital.’

  De La Cruz stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of the cloth bag still tied around the captive’s head. ‘So this is the son of Ishmael Taos,’ he said with a contented smile. ‘At last we meet. Thought we wouldn’t find you hiding out in an asylum pretending to be a fruitcake, huh? Well, you thought wrong, buddy.’ He kicked the hooded man in the back, forcing another muffled yelp. ‘Benson, bring the cup here. Let’s get a taste of this guy’s blood.’

  The concealed entrance at the back of the showers was already open, revealing the secret room behind it. Benson, as vilely dressed as ever, mostly in brown, sprang up off the heels on his pointed black boots and began to float over to the large wooden table in the room. Reaching it, he swooped gracefully down and picked up the golden chalice that was resting on the table next to Somers’s book. Then, as though bored with floating through the air, he merely walked back over and handed it to De La Cruz. The third officer, the weaselly Hunter, took station at Benson’s side, eager to see what was about to happen.

  Still holding the chalice, De La Cruz knelt down, untied the rope around the captive’s neck and pulled the bag from his head. This revealed the terrified face of a man who was probably in his late twenties, but which had a childlike quality on account of his babyfaced looks and scruffy dark hair. He was breathing erratically, as if the shock of his abduction was inducing a panic attack, and his eyes were bulging, unable to hide the fear that had undoubtedly gripped him.

  If he had needed a spur to his terror, De La Cruz provided it as he began his transformation into a creature of the night. His face paled and thinned to that of a blood-lusting, merciless vampire, and his fingers turned to claws with razor sharp talons where once his nails had been. Long, pointed fangs sprang from both his jaws, forcing his lips into an obscene parody of a smile. For a moment he stood there, a dapper vampire in a smart dark blue shirt and pressed jeans, ready to begin the killing. As he licked his lips and readied himself for the murder of the terrified victim before him, Pedro stepped forward.

  ‘Hey! We had a deal, De La Cruz,’ he snarled.

  ‘Sure we did,’ the detective hissed back. ‘And I intend to honour it. You two have done well. As agreed, you shall have the first taste of blood.’

  Hunter, meanwhile, had been taking a long hard look at their prisoner, soon to be the meat of their feast. Unlike the others, he was studying the terrified man’s face. ‘You sure this is the right guy?’ he asked. ‘This bozo don’t look so tough to me.’

  Suddenly alarmed, De La Cruz turned to Benson. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked.

  ‘Let me get the artist impressions,’ the other replied. He floated over to the book on the desk behind them, opened it and picked out a selection of sketches on rough paper that had been folded up and tucked inside. These were artists’ sketches that Archie Somers had compiled over the years from people who claimed to have seen the Bourbon Kid and lived. Most of them had actually been based on descriptions provided by Sanchez Garcia, so they weren’t considered particularly reliable; nor would they ever be admissible as authentic pieces of evidence. He studied the pictures closely, glancing up to compare them with the panic-stricken face of their prisoner, who looked up at him, desperately hoping the scruffy cop would clear him. Benson could see the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Reckon it’s him,’ he said, smirking. ‘Let’s get a taste of his immortal blood. Then we’ll know for sure.’

  ‘Please! No! Don’t … please,’ the terror-struck young man pleaded, looking up into De La Cruz’s hateful eyes. It was too late. De La Cruz turned to Hunter and nodded. The latter reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bone-handled machete, the blade of which was almost two feet long, and wickedly sharp. He raised it above his head, then swung it down towards the man’s bound wrists. Hunter’s face had blood lust written all over it as he watched the blade slice right through the man’s left wrist. The severed hand fell to the ground as blood spurted everywhere, accompanied by the agonized screams of the victim.

  De La Cruz picked up the severed wrist and held it over the golden chalice, trying to catch every last drop, ignoring the screams of the prisoner, now half mad with fear and pain. When he was done he stood and passed the almost full cup to Pedro, who accepted it eagerly, immediately swallowing a huge mouthful of its contents. As he allowed the bittersweet, copper-tasting blood to slide down his throat and so into his veins, he felt the power of it engulfing him. It was a moment to savour, and he became so wrapped up in the enjoyment of it that he barely noticed Hunter and Benson begin their transformation into vampires. They were lusting at the sight of the blood spurting from the arm of Patient Number 43, longing for a piece of the action.

  Pedro’s already limited self-control deserted him. His eyes came alight, and the quickening brought about by drinking from the chalice caused his transformation into a werewolf to take effect almost instantaneously. This was not normally possible other than during a full moon, but he now had heightened powers. The drinking of blood from the cup had different effects on its beneficiaries. Pedro’s was the new-found ability to transform into his more powerful self in the blink of an eye. With a roar from deep within his being, he handed the cup to his giant companion, who followed his example, drinking deeply, and in his eagerness even wastefully allowing a little of the precious liquid to dribble down the side of his mouth.

  The screaming man on the floor began to sob like a baby, incomprehensible pleas for mercy mingling with his anguished howls. De La Cruz looked down at him, smiling in satisfaction, enjoying watching their captive’s suffering. The man rolled onto his right side and lay in the foetal position, wailing and sobbing in equal
measure. Yet unremarked by his tormentors, he was also seeking escape. He had only one hope of getting out of this situation alive. And he had had one piece of luck, for the blow that had removed his hand had also cut the rope binding his wrists. With his good hand he reached into the pocket of his pants and slowly drew out a cell phone. He had successfully kept this phone hidden about his person during his stay at Dr Moland’s Hospital. It was his most prized possession, a recent gift from his best friend as a reward for his good behaviour at the hospital. His only chance of survival was to call on that friend. The one and only person he could count on. His brother. His elder brother. The brother who had fought the vampire that had savaged their mother all those years before. The same brother that had since become known as Santa Mondega’s most feared killer.

  The Bourbon Kid.

  De La Cruz spotted the phone almost at once, and as soon as he saw the wounded man pressing buttons on it he kicked it out of his hand.

  ‘No use calling the police, you fuckin’ retard. We’re already here,’ he scoffed. Benson and Hunter both allowed themselves a howling laugh. These were high times indeed. Who did this moron think he was? Trying to call for help. What a fuckin’ loser.

  The two werewolves, however, were too busy revelling in their newfound strength to join the laughter. They were dimly aware of the cup being refilled and passed to each of their vampire accomplices in turn, but in their own euphoria they saw these things as though in a dream. After the last of the detectives had finished drinking his share of the blood, the golden chalice was passed around until it found its way back into the hands of Michael De La Cruz. Once again the senior detective and chief of the Filthy Pigs vampire clan roughly grabbed hold of the distraught prisoner’s truncated arm and held its bloody end over the cup. He pumped the arm violently to increase the output of fresh blood to fill the chalice once again.

  ‘Stick around, guys. There’s gonna be plenty more blood for everyone,’ he said, smiling hideously through his great gash of a mouth, now stained crimson.

  For the next five minutes the three vampires and two werewolves ripped their wretched prisoner to pieces, prolonging his agony by keeping him alive for as long as possible before finally tearing out his heart, so putting an end to his fading screams and cries for mercy. It was an end he welcomed with all his being.

  The locker room was now a bloodied mess. The dead man’s blood and entrails were smeared all over the floor and walls. The mess they had created meant nothing to his tormentors, who were too hyped-up to care. Invigorated after such an enjoyable kill, and with their blood lust sated for a while, all five sat around contentedly on the floor, occasionally looking at each other, sharing the acknowledgement of the beauty of their kill. It was a wonderful feeling. For the three members of the Filthy Pigs it was reminiscent of what they had felt when killing Stephanie Rogers, and also when drinking the blood of Jessica Xavier in the upstairs room at the Tapioca. For Pedro and Igor, the blood from the cup had brought a new sensation, and one they were both relishing. This was better than an orgasm by the light of a full moon.

  As the seconds ticked on, however, it began to dawn on the three vampires that this feeling, though intense, was actually no better than when they had killed Stephanie. It was good, sure, but shouldn’t it be better? Shouldn’t the blood of a descendant of an immortal have taken them to even greater raptures?

  As he looked around the room, Benson was the first to notice the white glow backlighting the screen on the cell phone that De La Cruz had kicked from their captive’s hand during the blooding. The phone was on the floor within distance of his left hand, so he leaned over and picked it up.

  ‘Looks like our guy called someone,’ he said, noticing that the call-duration time on the display was still ticking along. It changed from 04:53 to 04:54 as he watched. Shrugging at the others, he put the phone to his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Hi, this is Detective Benson of the Santa Mondega Police Department. Who am I speaking with, please?’ he said, smirking at his bloodied companions. He was an immortal now, so it didn’t matter who was on the line. There would be nothing they could do to harm him.

  Whoever was on the other end of the phone was breathing heavily, yet very slowly. The sound had a gravelly quality to it, and after a few seconds its unnerving resonance began to cause the smile to fade slowly from Benson’s face. ‘Who is this?’ he repeated, more sharply. The others looked on, noting the concern on his face and in his voice. The undead have a heightened sixth sense, and it was telling all of them that something was wrong.

  The breathing coming through the earpiece stopped a few seconds later when the recipient of the call hung up. The display on the phone showed the call duration timed at 05:25.

  ‘Who was that?’ De La Cruz asked, not attempting to mask the mild concern in his voice.

  Benson flicked through the menu options on the cell phone.

  ‘CALLS MADE – BIG BRO – DURATION 05:25’

  Thirty-Two

  Devon Hart’s evening had been shitty right from the moment the two men dressed in black and wearing balaclavas had walked in, smashing one of the front doors as they did so. He’d been stabbed in the hand by the larger of the two and bullied into giving them the information they required. That wasn’t the worst thing about his evening though, not by a long way.

  From the minute he’d witnessed the two intruders carrying out the unconscious body of Patient Number 43 he knew he was going to have to quit his job at the hospital and get as far away from Santa Mondega as possible. That patient was not to be messed with. Everyone in the hospital knew that. All of the other inmates there were either murderers who had pleaded insanity, or crazies predicting the end of the world and trying to ensure it happened. The only likeable patient they had was Casper, better known around the place as ‘Forty-Three’. He was a simpleton, very pleasant and well-mannered, but deeply paranoid and with a mental age of about eight. He was almost certainly the least aggressive of all the patients, but no one would ever have messed with him. No matter how mad or disturbed the other inmates were, there was one thing they all knew not to do: upset Casper. Do that, and you got a nocturnal visit and a nasty pummelling from his brother, a man whom no one wanted to fuck with.

  Casper’s brother didn’t visit the place often, dropping by maybe once every six or seven weeks. He’d always make sure his younger brother’s stay was paid up a few months in advance, and he’d insist on asking whoever was on reception whether anyone had upset Casper since his last visit. Because the receptionists were all too scared of him to risk lying about it, they sang like canaries, giving up anyone who’d made off with Casper’s crayons, given him a Chinese burn, or simply just changed the TV channel when he was watching Sesame Street. The culprits all paid for their actions and there were no repeat offenders, so generally Casper’s stay at Dr Moland’s Hospital had been quite a pleasant one. But that stay had ended, and as a result Devon Hart’s now had to.

  Right now, Hart was sitting in Cubicle 3 of the ground-floor men’s rooms with his head in his hands and his trousers round his ankles. His stomach had been in knots ever since he’d seen Igor and Pedro sling Casper’s body in the back of their camper van. It was now three a.m. His shift had just three more hours to go, and then he was never coming back. He’d made his mind up. Fuck whether he got paid or not, he just wasn’t going to show his face round these parts ever again.

  After thirty minutes of trying to take a crap and failing miserably he finally decided he’d had enough. He pulled his pants back up, flushed the toilet and headed to the row of basins to wash his hands.

  The mirror above the white plastic washbasin confirmed his deepest fears to him. He looked like shit. He felt like it, too, and not just because he was nursing a ragged hole in his now heavily bandaged hand. Truth was, he’d given Casper up too easily. It was not only that he feared the retribution of the kid’s big brother, either. He would have to live with the knowledge that he’d allowed two obvious thug
s to ambush and kidnap a total innocent. That would prey on his conscience for ever.

  As he pulled a variety of different grimaces at himself in the long mirror above the basins he tried not to think about what might have happened to Casper. The condensation on the glass seemed to spell out the word ‘Guilty’ right across his forehead. Guilty was how he felt. It was hard even to look himself in the eye, and eventually the sight of his reflection looking back and feeling sorry for itself made him feel sick. His mouth filled with saliva as if he were about to throw up. Suddenly overwhelmed by self-hatred, he spat it at his reflection, the fluid covering much of the pathetic face that was staring back at him.

  Devon didn’t have to stare at his reflection for much longer, because as the spittle started to slide down the mirror, the bathroom was suddenly plunged into darkness. It awoke him from his trance-like state and he snapped out of it in an instant.

  Power cut? Oh shit, he thought. What the fuck else can go wrong tonight?

  There wasn’t a glimmer of light anywhere as he staggered, arms out in front of him, towards where he thought the door was. Once he felt the painted wood of the door he swept his hands around until one of them settled on the doorknob, which he turned. The door swung open easily, but he was disappointed to find that the hallway outside was just as dark.

  Hart knew there was a flashlight in a drawer in the staff kitchen so he took a left turn into the hallway and walked slowly down it, with one hand on the wall and one out in front of him to keep him from walking into anything. He managed to make it about ten yards down the hallway in the silence and darkness before something sent a shiver down his spine. For a few moments he had been getting a taste of what it was like to be blind, and to some extent deaf. All he had been able to hear were his own quiet footsteps. Then he heard someone else take a step in the corridor behind him. He spun around in panic and called out in the darkness. ‘Hello?’