by Matt Drabble
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
March 1999
Bennett Drake surveyed his old throne; he wore a heavy dusty overcoat that obscured his build and a dirty old faded fedora that he pulled down low to hide his features. His old house shone like a beacon in the night, the lights blazing full and bright, the home alive with the sounds of family life.
It had now been four years since his death and ultimate resurrection; his dark rebirth had seemed a blessing at the time, a miracle of a gift from beyond the walls. His plan had been to dominate the world, to take his knowledge and experience from his past life, and combine it with his new gifts. His immediate thirst had been for vengeance, but the practicalities of his scaling attempts were proving problematic. Whilst he was a ruler of the night he was unable to move freely through normal business hours, if he was to ever regain his fallen position then he would require access to the tedium of commerce. In his previous life it had been one thing to take and control the corners of the city, but his vision had lain far beyond the street level. For total domination, he had required an army consisting of senseless bloody and violent fists to take a stranglehold on the protection rackets, and the drug corners to build the foundations. This had to be followed by the sharper minds of lawyers and accountants, in order to process and launder the money that enabled him to build the towers. The trouble that he had now, was that he was simply unable to walk in the daylight hours up to the front door of his bank and make a withdrawal. He was dead to put it bluntly, both figuratively and literally, for now he needed the protection of the grave that his betrayers had buried him in.
He circled his old home for the fourth time, the silhouettes inside danced and twirled along with the cheery music behind the drapes, the party inside was in full swing now. There were seven cars parked on his ample driveway, all expensive and lavish, Drake felt a pang of lust for his old life. The lap of luxury in which he had sat was a far cry from his dishevelment that he found himself in now; his dwellings were now an old deserted and crumbling mill. The only benefit of his new lodgings was the lack of foot traffic and prying eyes, and his anonymity was paramount to his safety.
Since his disentanglement from his sire he had struck out on his own, forging his own destiny. He no longer fed on the vermin of the sewers; his diet now consisted of a larger prey. One of his main concerns about feeding on the rats was the obvious diseases that they must carry and the potential for passing their filth on. His nameless saviour had appeared to be severely mentally incapacitated, and whilst he was no doctor, the constant feeding on the sewer rats could only have had a detrimental effect on his rational faculties. Once he was ensconced in his new home, he soon erected his own hunting perimeter. There were old and crumbling railway lines that ran from the mill that would have carried materials back in the day. The now twisted metal lines lay broken and covered in wild weeds; he had followed the lines for about a quarter of a mile to a deserted train yard. The yard was littered with dilapidated train cars long since abandoned and left to rot. The containers were now host to an ever fluid and transient tramp population. One of his first trial and error experiments had been concerning the potential siring of his victims, he decided at first that an army of super powered vampires would be damn near unstoppable. It was only upon careful reflection that he came to realize that he would only have limited control over these people. When he had been turned, there had been no inbuilt loyalty of servitude to his master, he’d felt no automatic pledge of allegiance. He had freed himself from the bonds imposed as soon as possible, also thinking back, he had not felt his character alter, the turning had not made him evil. Whilst some of the myths were true, many others apparently were not, he had found an old crucifix lying dormant in the dirt. He had approached the twinkling icon slowly, knowing of the possible repercussions for his kind, but the silver cross had held no power over him. His thoughts were mainly clear and concise except when the hunger took hold, perhaps, he thought, the power and the need to feed could corrupt anyone eventually.
The crusty trunk that he had taken from his anonymous benefactor, contained as much information as he thought he would need, if only he could get the text translated. The illustrations were helpful; they had shown him the dangers of direct sunlight and he found himself weakened during the daytime and any kind of natural light hurt his eyes. He had tested his vulnerability by sticking his bare arm out into the sun, the impact had been instantaneous as his skin blistered, smoked, and burned. The pain had been monstrous and huge welts formed on his weeping arm as he pulled it back into the blissful dark after mere seconds; fortunately the healing was almost as swift. He found that his body required fuel commensurate with his excursions, his flesh would scar and tear but also heal, but the process left him ravenous. He knew that his strength and speed were substantially augmented, but his heart was susceptible because his chest felt weaker, the flesh and bone felt soft to the touch. He had painfully learnt that daylight weakened him and that direct sunlight was fatal. He had yet to test the garlic theory, as well as the ability to enter dwellings uninvited. The biggest problem he’d had to solve in the beginning, was the turning. Even if he managed to sire converts, what was to stop them from exponentially spreading and turning their own converts. Because of the need to feed, food would soon become scarce if his numbers expanded beyond his control, he would need cattle to survive and to rule. His initial experiments in turning had not gone well, his talent pool for converts was unfortunately well below the required standards. He’d partially drained his first trial, leaving the man alive after a brief feeding; however the man had merely weakened leaving him still alive but barely conscious. Next he had drained another completely drinking the man dry until death; however this had made him violently ill after feeding from the body as it became a corpse. He had remembered at that point the lessons about drinking from the dead, for some reason the blood became poison after death. He’d finally succeeded when remembering some old movie where the vampire had forced his victim to drink from his own veins after the feeding. The results had been mixed, even though his victim did indeed exhibit the signs of turning, the man’s brains had been long since fermented by whatever alcohol based liquids he’d been ingesting over the years. He’d had to wait months before he’d finally achieved his aim; a young runaway had stumbled into his lair one fortune filled night. He’d had to expand his hunting circle further and further as the bums began to slowly notice their numbers dwindle due to his feeding. There was an old quarry tunnel that he’d used to dump the corpses after draining and the bums seemed to be experiencing a primal subconscious instinct that was warning them to stay away. The youth had staggered in one night, high on something and oblivious to the danger, Drake had fed quickly, careful not to drain the boy too much. He’d then flicked open a vein in his wrist with an elongated razor fingernail. The boy had succumbed gingerly at first before drinking eagerly and deeply from his wrist. The youth had fallen into a great and restful sleep, crashing hard from the exertion. Drake had laid him in a cargo train car for the night and watched over him during the day resting in the shadows. He had waited and watched over his sire throughout the day’s long light, and when the boy had awoken he had been sober and more than a little confused. Drake had used his not inconsiderable force of will to control the young man as he would have any prospective employee back in the day. The boy was a runaway, a familiar story of a youth fleeing the life of a system designed for containment and not development. He had taught the boy, whose name he had never bothered to learn, everything that he knew and a few things that he merely guessed at. Over the next several weeks he had sent the boy to hunt and feed, he had used him for testing theories on their species. Silver had no effect, again the crucifix was equally useless, and sunlight was as explosive. Fire burned them as normal but strangely they both had a severe reaction to some wild garlic that Drake had found growing nearby. Once Drake felt that he had learnt everything from his sire that he could, including the turning process and the ability to control
a subject, he had chained the unfortunate soul one night after his feeding but before the boy’s. He had stretched the youth’s capacity for damage as far as he could, he had burnt him, stabbed him, smashed his face to pieces with a heavy rock in order to understand his own limitations. Eventually he had dragged the boy out into the approaching dawn still chained securely to the chair; Drake had secreted himself securely out of the harmful rays range and waited. When the sun made its first appearance of the morning the boy twisted and screamed as the ultraviolet beam of light roasted him. This time Drake noticed the death whilst painful, was quick and effective, but still left a corpse to dispose of. Since then he knew that he would have to seek out only the most effective and influential members of his new crew.
It had been some four years since his death and betrayal at the hands of Jimmy Dent and Abraham Kane, his fists clenched, and bones cracked in his rage. Here before him stood his house, his home, his throne, the symbol of his success and of his ultimate demise. The lights inside sang of life and vitality.
He ran around to the rear of the property in a flash, his veins pumping full of a fresh feed. The rear wall was around eight feet high, solid of stone and topped with vicious iron spikes. One adrenaline fuelled leap and he was grasping the metallic barbs, and then he was over. He landed softly like a cat, his body expertly attuned to the superhuman movement. He covered the distance between the rear wall and the house, sticking closely to the shadows of the enormous leylandii trees protecting the west side of the property. He was pleased to see that the new tenants had not bothered to alter the security lighting in the large garden, which allowed him subtle access to the rear patio doors. Inside the house, music blared out noisily as the party was in full swing, shouts and tipsy cheers soundtracked the shindig. Shadows danced past the blinds, high heels clicked and echoed on the stone tiles as dainty dancing feet and clumsy husbands intertwined with relief away from children and the threat of morning alarms. Drake felt the anger boil his insides, this was his home, his home. These intruders had no right, no right to take what he’d earned with blood and pain. He closed his eyes and felt their heartbeats pumping with excitement from the party. Blood soared through their veins pulsed by alcohol and pleasure, he felt himself turning feral and did not care. His hands turned to withered talons, razor sharp and eager to tear. His face turned to a shrunken blue leather mask, and his eyes were yellow and all seeing. His ears peeked and lengthened, he could hear every sound of the house, every creak, and every movement. His mouth stretched and his fangs extended, this was the hunter, the predator, the monster. In a place deep within himself, Drake knew that at this moment, he was losing his very core. His mind was shutting down for service, and his primal instincts were temporarily handling the controls. Drake had intended this to be a stealth mission, a covert trip down memory lane, but now he did not care. He was prepared to unleash the full limits of his abilities and consequence be damned. He reached out and took hold of the rear door handle, his hand trembled, and an invisible force seemed to block him, he tried to force his feet forward but they would not obey. His body rocked on the spot unable to proceed no matter how much he strained. He reached out and ran his fingernails down the thick double-glazed glass gently tap, tap, tapping.
“A voice chimed from within, is that you Adrian? Come in, come in”
Around thirty minutes later he stood in what had been his old study; the décor had changed in line the current occupier’s doctor’s sensibilities. He stood amongst the carnage, his shirt front drenched in the blood and gore of the party guests, crimson dripped thickly from his fingertips pooling on the lush carpet. He closed his eyes and shuddered with ecstasy, reliving the ultimate rush of power that had cut a bloody swathe through the house. He had shredded, and ripped throats, torn and feasted until he was stuffed before vomiting and feeding again like a Roman orgy of slaughter. The screams of males and females alike still filled his ears like a beautiful concerto; he had reclaimed his home if only for a brief moment in time. He had embraced the animal within and set it free to rule. He knew that this was his doomsday self-destruct weapon, he had let all of his processing thoughts fall from his mind engaging only the nature of the beast. This was no way to rebuild his empire, but it had felt good, despite the screams of the party he was safe in the knowledge that the sound would not have carried beyond the walls. Even so, it would not pay to hang around any longer; he quickly checked the master bedroom, stepping over the ruined corpse of the lady of the house. Her body was ripped naked of clothing, her immaculate and buffed skin paling as the blood seeped from her veins and ruined the thick shag pile. He walked around the body and opened the lavish fitted wardrobe and was pleased with the contents. The men’s clothes looked around the same size as him if a little big.
He selected an expensive looking dark suit, caressing the luxurious fabric between his fingers and remembering his past life of opulence. He looked down at his rags now stained with blood. He took the suit along with a dark shirt and headed quickly towards the on-suite bathroom. He knew that he was taking a risk by pausing as long as he was. But he was suddenly disgusted with himself and his appearance, even though he could not see it. He showered quickly, brutally scrubbing himself clean, it was actually quite difficult to shave without the aid of a reflection, so he trimmed his bushy beard as best as he could manage. He dressed eagerly, relishing the feel of quality on his back again. He added a pricey looking watch taken from the dresser and headed back down the stairs.
He carefully avoided the clutter of bodies lying strewn in the hallway as they had fled for the escape of the front door. He was about to leave when a sudden twitch caught his eye. Upon closer inspection he realized that not only was the man still alive, but he recognized him, Jackson Moon, his former accountant. It was the most unlikely moniker for a small nervous man, around five feet seven and a wiry squirrel, with a quick-witted mind for figures and loopholes. Drake decided that it must be fate to have placed this opportunity before him; he plucked the small accountant like a child and carried him out to the driveway.
With Jackson thrown over his shoulder, he rattled him, listening for the jingle to ascertain where the car keys were located. Having retrieved them, he depressed the remote locking button. A silver Audi flashed, and he heard the telltale sound of the lock opening. He quickly crossed to the car and slipped the man into the passenger seat. It had been years since he had driven a car, but the feeling soon returned like riding a hugely expensive and powerful bike. A quick search of Jackson had also revealed a leather wallet complete with driving license and home address. The accountant stirred, Drake tore open his left wrist with his teeth and allowed Jackson to gently suckle from it. At last he thought my first building block as he drove quickly for safety against the approaching dawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
April 2012
Ghost steeled himself before he entered the office, the Quebec bar down stairs was emptying fast; the last dregs had poured themselves out into the cold night air battling against the sobering effect. Jimmy was fuming inside, he could feel the pulsating waves of rage flowing through the door and washing over him.
Ghost had heard all about the Kofi led debacle from Langstrom, Jimmy had ordered an all out assault on one of the Parker’s main processing plants. In his infinite wisdom, Jimmy had decided to unleash the animals; Langstrom and McGinnis had been given a viewing directive, a strictly hands off approach. Ghost could easily guess that Jimmy’s instructions to Kofi and his boys had been such that they desired total privacy to make Jimmy’s point. It would seem that no matter how far they moved up in the world Jimmy was always going to be anchored to the street.
The Parkers however, were a real growing irritation, the inroads into their illegal activities were one thing, a limited drain from their income but not insurmountable since their more substantial forays into legitimacy. Ghost was not entirely beyond feeling the need to exert a protective fist to defend what they had earned, but he also knew that they must rise ab
ove the petty emotions to secure their legacy. Such an all out attack directed towards the Parkers, was most definitely a declaration of war. Now there would have to be a response and the Parkers would know that everyone was watching. If they ever wanted to be taken seriously, then the Parkers would have to answer. The most worrying thing for Ghost however, was that neither Kofi nor any of his boys were seen coming out of the warehouse. Langstrom and McGinnis had watched the pack move in, but they had never come out again; this could only be bad news. Either they had been ambushed, in which case they had a traitor in their midst that had slipped through Ghost’s net, or else Jimmy’s plans had been so far off the deep end that there was no trace left.
Ghost cursed himself for the thousandth time; his encounter at the casino had shaken him so badly that he had been out of the game for a millisecond, but it had been enough to risk everything. He knew that he could not yet mention anything that he had witnessed; there was no one that he could trust to believe him. Some things are just too fantastic to accept unless you saw them with your own eyes, and maybe not even then. Jimmy was a man of limited imagination and grounded in reality, whilst Eddie was a man of limitless imagination but no grounding. Jimmy would never believe him, he would want to trust him, of that he was sure, but Jimmy’s mind could not process these facts. Eddie on the other hand would probably accept the facts as he laid them out, but would he be of any use. Eddie would stalk the streets wearing cloves of garlic and armed with wooden stakes. It would be a very short time before Eddie was sectioned, and Ghost’s name was associated with a laughing stock. In their business, the sharks could smell weakness a mile away, as soon as blood was in the water they would be fighting battles on all sides and the Parkers would swoop.
