As John and Ben climbed out of their car, a dull roar sounded in the distance. John’s spirits rose slightly as he turned to see five Harley Davidsons followed closely by a white van, throw up clouds of dust on the caliche road to the house. The bikes pulled to a stop behind Ben’s sedan.
The meanest looking man of the bunch killed the engine of his chopper then dropped the kickstand. Climbing off the bike, he pulled the dust-covered sunglasses off his face then dusted himself off. The tall biker stood six feet two inches tall with his head shaved completely bald with a pair of crimson eyes tattooed on the back of his it. Tattooed snakes and spiders completely covered his right arm leading all the way up his neck. His left forearm had well over forty, bloody long vampire fangs tattooed across it, one for each of his kills. Like the rest of his group, he wore a black leather vest. The top rocker of the patch on his back identified their group as The Slayers.
Though his appearance was much different than he remembered, John smiled warmly. It was his old friend, Wes Turner.
“Well, well, well . . .” Turner said, in a raspy smoker’s voice, “If it isn’t big bad John Bishop!”
“How are you Wes?” John said, pulling his leather glove off and reaching to shake his hand.
“I’m doing great brother,” He ignored John’s hand and gripped him in a tight bear hug, pumping his fist hard on John’s back. “What’s this?” he stepped back looking him over with a laugh. “Man you’re getting a little soft around the middle, what happened to the six pack?”
John managed a laugh. “That’s what happens when you try to play civilian.”
“Shit, man, I could have told you that. So how are you? How are you holding up?”
“I’m hanging in there,” John tried his best to smile. “It’s good to see you, Wes.”
“Same here, John. I’m sorry to hear about Julia, but I promise you’ll be doing a lot better in an hour or two. Isn’t that right boys?!” Turner said, turning to face his crew. “You boys ready to kill some vamps?!”
A loud, “Hell yeah!” erupted from the bikers behind him followed by whistling and laughter.
“Damn Wes, when’d you start running your own crew?” John asked looking over the mixed group.
“About six months after we lost Terry. Billy and his crew stopped calling me in for jobs. So I joined up with Franky Simmons, then Franky passed on a couple of years back and the boys elected me as Prez. Funny though, as soon as the shit really gets heavy who’s the first person Billy calls?” He gave Ben a nasty look. “How ya doing Morris? Still doing Billy’s grunt work?”
“Doing great, Wes.” Ben said ignoring that last remark. “How about you?”
“Oh I’m just peachy! I’m about to kill some vampires, make some money! If I had a fine bitch on my arm, I’d be damn near perfect! Hello, Talon! Still running with Billy’s crew?”
"Wesley," Talon nodded lighting up another Marlboro.
“Same old Talon! Not much for conversation. Just one word here, one word there. But still the best damn tracker in the business! Next to old Tank that is.” he motioned to a large stocky Mexican man sitting on a cherry red Fatboy.
John could tell by the look on Talon’s face that he wasn’t impressed. “How’s your wife and kid doing?”
“Well you know.” Turner shrugged his shoulders. “Same shit, different day. Rebecca is always bitching about something. If she wasn’t I’d swear she’d been replaced by an alien clone. And Buck, I tell you John, that boy is going to be one hell of a hunter when he grows up! Tough as nails, beats the shit out of kids at his school all the time! I couldn’t be prouder.”
“That’s . . . uh . . . great.” John said, uncertain of what else to say. “Well . . . uh . . . let’s get to it then.”
“You heard him boys!” Turner yelled. “Gear up!”
The bikers pulled various gear from the back of the white van, sawed offs, magnums, one guy even pulled two matching Uzis out of his saddlebags. Their armor of choice seemed to be almost entirely made up of leather jackets and motorcycle helmets with face shields. It might stand up to a grunt but any Maker would rip through it without much trouble. Should have spent less money on partying and more on gear. John thought to himself. Only Turner had any real armor, consisting of a chain mail collar with a top of the line custom fit chain mail lined flak jacket.
Ben loaded shells into a Remington pump action shotgun then leaned it against the car. Opening a large metal case, he pulled out a chain mail collar he had had custom made and with John’s help tightened it around his neck. Next, he slipped a long chain mail lined duster over his shoulders that ran all the way down to his ankles. His hands were covered with a pair of shark proof gloves. A bandolier of sharp metal spikes hung across his chest, and a single razor sharp hatchet hung from the belt on his waist, completing his ensemble. He clicked a headlamp on his head to make sure it worked then picked up his shotgun.
Once Ben was completely geared up, John grabbed a large roll of gray tape and a flashlight he had picked up at the pawnshop. Placing it next to the stock of The Cleaner, he wrapped the light tightly around it then pushed the button on and off several times, making sure it worked. Next, he loaded and strapped his two new sawed offs to holsters on his legs then strapped a sheathed machete to his back. Spinning the chamber on his .357, he made sure it was fully loaded. He wrapped a carpenter belt filled with railroad spikes, a very large claw hammer, and a pair of pliers around his waist.
Trying his best John just couldn’t manage to pull his heavy Kevlar vest together over his massive chest. “Benny? Would you give me a hand with this? Piece of shit is too small.”
“It’s the biggest the pawn owner had.” Ben grabbed hold of each side and pulled as hard as he could, trying to bring the straps together. Finally with a click they snapped. “How’s that?”
“I can barely breathe.” John panted, pulling at it. “Damn I miss my old gear. This cheap government crap isn't worth a damn.
“Yeah, yeah.” Ben said, checking over the rest of John’s armor. "I guess they just don't make them like they used to." He rolled his eyes. “How’s the arm?” He said checking the bandaged arm tucked under Kevlar coated shoulder pads.
John jerked his arm away. “How do you think it feels? It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
Ben shook his head disapprovingly. “You should sit this one out John. You’re still weak from the fever.”
“Would you sit it out if it was Cat in there?” Ben didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought. Now help me finish strapping this shit on so we can get to work.”
Ben looked away in defeat then finally nodding helped John strap the rest of his armor on. Both men checked each other over making sure everything was in its place and secure. “You sure you’re ready for this?” Ben asked pulling one of the straps on John’s Kevlar vest a little tighter causing him to grunt. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in the game.”
John answered by cocking The Cleaner one handed, then headed toward the front door. A hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.
“No offense old buddy,” Turner stepped past him. “But I’m taking the lead on this one. You’ve been out of the game for too long.”
John hadn’t been on a hunt that he wasn’t the lead on since he was twenty-one, and though it stabbed at his pride, he didn’t object. More important things were at stake. In addition, it only made sense, as most of the hunters were Turner’s men anyway.
“Alright!” Turner yelled out turning the headlamp on his head on. “This is how it’s gonna be! Myself, Tank and Ortega take the front door. John, you, Talon and Morris, take the back. Dozer, FatAss, and Diez take the basement entrance. Alright ladies, stay safe and keep your eyes open for John’s wife, she’s about five foot six with short brown hair.”
“Long brown hair,” John interrupted.
“Right, long brown hair.” Turner corrected. “Anyway, she’s the reason we’re here. So be careful where you shoot. Comprende?” Murmurs,
grunts, and nods came from Turner’s men. “Alright everyone get in position. It’s a good bet they know we’re here.” Turner pulled a double-bladed axe from off his back and nodded at John. "Wait for my signal."
"What's the signal?" Ben asked.
Turner laughed. "Screams and gunfire would be my guess."
"Turner. Be careful." Ben frowned. "We don't want any mistakes. Not with Julia involved."
"Morris, relax." Turner smiled. "Now . . . let’s have some fun!"
Hesitantly Ben followed John and Talon through a broken fence to the back of the house. A rusty swing set squeaked loudly in the wind. John stepped up to the back door. Talon placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “John, do not trust Turner’s men. These men are not the kind of professionals you are used to working with. They’re dangerous, unpredictable, and untrained.”
"He's right, John." Ben agreed. "These guys are a bunch of half assed amateurs cranked up on meth. Don't turn your back on them. Especially Wes Turner. He’s not the same man we grew up with."
John turned to ask what they meant but gunshots from inside shattered his train of thought. It was time to get into the game. Julia . . . I’m coming baby. John put his foot into the termite riddled backdoor. It shattered under his weight. Loud growls and snarls erupted from inside as the sunlight streamed in. Most men in that situation would feel terror, but John Bishop felt something he hadn’t felt since his last hunt so many years before, elation. He was born to do this. Pulling The Cleaner tight to his shoulder, he charged in with his friends at his back.
******
Henry awoke lying on a hard, dust covered floor. Bits of grainy dirt coated his lips. Turning on his side with a groan, he spit trying to clear it out of his mouth but didn’t have much luck. His mouth was completely dry. He rolled back and forth trying to move his hands and feet but they were bound tightly. He flexed his hands and felt hairs on his wrists pull free. Duct tape. He thought fighting back the beginning feeling of panic. Keep your cool, old man. Now isn’t the time to lose it. He glanced around the room frantically searching for any source of light, but it was pitch black, he couldn't see a thing.
The room had a musty stench to it, as if it had been sealed up for a very long time. “Hello!” He called out into the darkness. Silence was his only answer. “Hello! Is anyone out there!” he screamed even louder. The wind whistled loudly through a window or loose boards somewhere in the room, but he couldn’t place exactly where.
Think dammit- think! There’s got to be a way out of this. His gun had been left in the car. His belt that carried his spare ammunition was removed along with his boots. Turning slightly he felt a slight jab on his right butt cheek. They hadn’t found the tiny pocketknife he kept in his back pocket. Repositioning himself, he tried to reach his hands into the pocket. The knife wasn’t much, no more than a couple of inches long, but at the moment, it was all he had. He sat there for what felt like hours trying to move it into his hand. Unfortunately, they had gone numb after being bound for so long. Somewhere outside the room, there came a loud thump.
"Who's there?" he called out into the darkness. On the other side of the room, a door cracked open, revealing a large figure lit only by a faint flickering light. The figure dropped something heavy to the floor that looked distinctly like a body then pulled the door closed again. “Let me outta here!” he yelled out. “You dirty, cowardly son of a bitch! Let me outta here!”
A woman's voice moaned loudly. “Please just let me go! I’ll do whatever you want! Just please don’t hurt me anymore!"
"Don't be afraid,” Henry said, grunting as he tried to squirm toward the sound of her voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Henry, I'm a Texas Ranger and I'm here to help you."
"Oh thank you God!" She whispered. “Quick we have to get out of here before he gets back!"
"Before who gets back?" Henry asked again struggling with the tape on his wrist. “Who is he? What does he look like?”
“I . . . don't know who he is. I was on my way to work a few days ago and . . . and, this big, huge man grabbed me. I woke up here. There were several others in here with me, but he came and took them one by one. My God the way they screamed!” Her voice shook with fear. “Then . . . last night he came for me! But he didn’t kill me." She cried. "I don’t know why but he didn’t kill me."
Bishop. Henry thought to himself. Bastard brought me here to kill me, just like the others. "Calm down miss. I'm going to get you out of here. Now tell me, what's your name?" Finally, he reached the small knife in his back pocket and clicked it open then slowly began to cut the thick duct tape that bound his wrists.
"My name? It's Kelly." She answered
"Alright Kelly, just sit tight. I'll be free soon and together we'll get the hell out of here."
“Why is he doing this to us?” she asked barely above a whimper. “I’ve tried to live a good life. I’ve never hurt anyone. I don’t deserve this!”
“I know Kelly, I know. There’s no rationalizing it. The man is just a psychopathic lunatic that gets off on torturing folks. But I promise you, everything is going to be okay.”
He wasn't making much progress when the distinct sounds of motorcycles sounded in the distance. He stopped cutting listening intently. “Do you hear that, Kelly? Sounds like a whole mess of Harleys.”
"Damn," Kelly suddenly sighed, “never a moment’s peace.”
Henry heard her climb to her feet. "Wait." he said, confused. "Are you untied?"
"Oh shut up!" she said, in a very different voice than the one he'd been talking to moments before. "I've got bigger problems than you at the moment."
Henry heard the distinct sound of drywall cracking above him. He wished like crazy he could see just what the hell was going on. “Kelly?” He called out straining his eyes. “Kelly!” A loud crash sounded up above and several small pieces of debris rained down on him causing him to sneeze violently. He scratched and scratched his itchy eyes and nose with his shoulder until the sneezing subsided. “Kelly?” he called out one last time. There was no answer.
Henry swallowed back his fear and continued cutting but the knife was extremely dull. He'd been meaning to sharpen it but just hadn't gotten around to it. Gunshots rang out from somewhere nearby. A lot of gunshots. What the hell is going on here? After what seemed like an eternity, the door burst open flooding the room with light. Henry closed his eyes tight; his nostrils were filled with the stench of something burning. Again, the door slammed shut plunging him into darkness. Henry heard ragged breathing nearby.
“Kelly? Is that you?” He asked. A loud animal snarl was his only answer.
“What the hell?!” He screamed out just as the door again crashed open.
******
John spit out a mouthful of blood. Two grunts had hit them immediately after coming through the door. Talon had spit one of them with his lance, pinning it up against the wall but the other had hit John in the face knocking him hard into a kitchen cabinet. The Cleaner had flown from his hands.
Ben’s shotgun barked fire at the grunt, blowing the right side of its head to pieces. It’s broken body dropped to the floor twitching, the head slowly pulling itself back together.
Talon’s machete severed the head of the grunt he had impaled. It crashed to the floor but its hands continued to pull at the lance holding it to the wall. Talon had it held with all of his weight. John shook off his daze and climbed to his feet. Grabbing one of the railroad spikes out of his belt, he yanked the claw hammer free and with two swings had the spike sunk deep into the creature’s heart. Finally, its arms and legs stopped moving. Grabbing up another spike he did the same to the one Ben decapitated with his shotgun.
All three men stood panting. It was Ben that spoke first. “Well, it’s a start.” Gunshots continued to ring out from rooms all over the house.
John picked The Cleaner off the ground, his leadership instincts instantly kicking back in. “Alright boys! Let’s get back in the fight.”
******
Henry opened his eyes to see the gunshot riddled body of a very large man lying next to him. One of the men pulled an axe from off his back and walked towards him. "Don't you move one muscle. You do and I'll bury this blade into the middle of your head. Tank, keep him covered, if he moves an inch blow his head off."
“You got it boss,” Tank answered.
Henry screamed out in horror as the man with the axe, cut the man’s head off with three hard whacks. He turned and laughed at Henry’s horror.
Tank smiled an evil grin. "I think he’s one of them Wes. Let’s do him right now." He said, pulling the gun to his shoulder.
“Better safe than sorry.” the man with the axe, now known to him as Wes, said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” A familiar voice said, peeking his head in through the door. It was the Fed that he had seen with Bishop, ‘Agent’ Ben Morris. He was dressed in some type of long black duster. “Wait Turner I know this man.”
“Mind your own business Morris,” Wes said, shoving him back out the door.
“Wait, you’re not planning on killing him!” Morris yelled, shock filling his voice. “He’s human!”
Human? What the hell is going on here? “Look I don’t know what you boys are about but . . .” Henry started to say.
C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation Page 10
