“I hope he is,” Dracula says.
“Ditto,” Samantha says softly, and I reach out and squeeze her hand for comfort. She looks to me, and I can see she is genuinely touched.
“Be careful, Dick,” she says to me, and kisses me on the lips.
In that moment, my fellow fang-killers, I could have faced an army of vampires and simply laughed in the face of certain death.
“Now we’re gonna party,” I say, feeling right now that nothing could possibly go wrong. I sound bold, and in my voice there is the sound of braggadocio, a grandiloquence of determination and steel-nut courage. I am armed with my gimcrack of death, my fire-worthy habiliments of impending hecatomb and destruction - ready to produce an unholy internecion of blood and carnage. There is no sense of intorsion when I say that I am, right this minute, fearless.
I growl heartily to each and every one of my cohorts.
“Let’s kick their ass, shall we?”
The decision to do just that is unanimous.
Which is a pity.
Because yours truly has bad times ahead.
And to give you a hint - before this night is through, I’m going to hate the fact that I was the victory sperm that made it to the Big Egg leading to my birth.
* * *
We approached the most logical first target building – the main hanger for what once was reserved for the small jets and puddle-jumpers to Palm Springs. Like some cavernous monolith, defiant and silent, the hanger was rife with portent, and I knew just as sure as crap through a goose that there were fangs waiting within. I glanced at Dracula and the others – I was not the only one with this preternatural sixth sense; my compadres, hardened by many a battle, were equally frosty to this, what could be, our final approach.
And then the thunderous, explosive sounds of wings, coupled with hisses and snarls.
Hell is unleashed swiftly on our group.
We open fire in unison, and the gore-fest commences in earnest.
I am knocked and sent flying from my position at the very entrance of the hanger. I am a human glider, as I smash into a row of hedges some forty feet from the hanger exterior. I am now officially separated from my friendly platoon of fellow fang fighters, as I try to shake free the shocking wave of pain extending from the top of my head to my tip-tip tippy toes. I look to the entrance of the hanger, and see the three little tykes responsible for attacking me in tandem, and swatting my ass silly across the tarmac.
They are children.
And they now charge toward me like miniature rhinoceri.
And while that impending threat looms large ahead, I am suddenly reminded of a terrible, terrible reality.
It is now close to midnight.
Oh, bugger!
I had completely forgotten to spank the old Slack Spaniel.
This was not good, and I now revised my earlier assessment of how low things could get.
I was, needless to say, surrounded within a few moments. My RPG and grenades were a few feet away, thrown off my shoulders as soon as I hit the ground. I glanced furtively toward the hanger, and could hear a panoply of gunshots, but could discern nothing of the current fate of my fellow combatants.
I was utterly alone. Except for the three apostates from hell eyeing me with famishment.
The vampires were small, but they were child-turnovers – fresh ‘bites’, but taken as kids. Which meant, my fellow boner-batters, that I was in for one mean cluster-fuck of a fight.
The sweet little girl who probably looked like Shirley Temple before the Big Change, charged first. Her fangs found my right wrist, and she began milking me like Elsie the Cow. I screamed, fell, tried to throw the little darling off. No go. She hung on like an Alabama tick.
I put my .357 to her head, and made the air go green with vampire brain stuff. But lest you think I had solved my problems entirely, the two other Little Rascal Bloodsuckers (one even looked a bit like Alfalfa) were on me in a New York Minute.
The first one sunk his incisors into my other wrist, instantly breaking the bone. I screamed so loud I felt like Maria Callas at the Met going for a High C. The second precocious youngster went for my heart – and was happily chewing away at my Kevlar Vest when I politely decided to separate his head from his shoulders.
That left Alfalfa, who was still sucking at my wrist like Monica on Bill. My universe of existence became a gray mat of indescribable pain. I was not presently enjoying the Body Electric.
I was weakening. Blood loss and broken bones, along with systemic shock, sent me crumbling to my knees. The child vampire still alive (and we use the term loosely, kidees) was still latched on to my wrist, an inhuman lichen determined to swarm and spread over the pond of plenty.
I dropped my gun. And took a chance the remaining strength I had within me. I grabbed Blood Boy’s neck, in a chokehold, and snapped it hard, hoping that I could sever the spinal cord in one glorious moment of triumph.
The kid’s body went limp, and the supernatural jaws of death relaxed against my broken wrist. The vampire looked up at me, pissed to the max at this dirty piece of treachery on my part, and then slipped into unconsciousness.
My troubles were far from over.
One, it was two minutes to midnight, and I had yet to Massage the Mambo King between my legs. Old Willy needed a solid jerk, and my dancing card at the moment was a bit full. Reason being, I had to neutralize this last little bastard of a bloodsucker with either a stake or a bullet to the brain. And two, both my wrists were broken, thus my hands were useless. The blood loss was so severe, dizziness washed over me, along with waves of comforting impulses that urged me to either barf or pass out – either option of which would have me awakening as one of Them.
And then my luck changed. Sort of.
From around the corner, a figure appeared. As it drew near, stumbling, staggering, in fact, I could see it was an old woman, probably drunk (or drug ridden) with a face of such primogenial, dare I say, antediluvian cragginess to it, that carbon-dating to determine age and composition under different circumstances would not have been inappropriate. She stares at me as if indeed I was the Living Dead. Not far from the truth, at the end of the day. I realized she was one of the many indigents who occupied the periphery of the airport, and was relatively immune to monster attack based on pure and simple culinary undesirability.
She stops in front of me, swaying back and forth like a sunflower in a Texas breeze.
“Help me,” I moan.
“Sure,” she smiles, her lips drawn into a kind of crooked grin. “Whad’ya want, cutie?”
“There,” I said, indicating the unconscious vampire boy. “It’s a vampire. I need you to pound a stake through its heart. There’s a hammer and wood in my vest.”
The drunken bagwoman (sans bag, at the moment) stared a moment longer at me, then took a look at the sleeping vampire-kid. She nodded.
“Yep. Sure looks like one of them…”
“It is,” I assure her.
She waddles over, and I immediately sniff the delicate, yet putrescent aroma of urine commingled with a few other things I don’t care to analyze too closely. In short, she has all the personal body ambience of a decomposing skunk. But hey … who am I to judge.
I’m one minute from The Boner Of No Return if I don’t a) get the vampire staked and b) Shoot A Load from here to Tuesday.
The bag lady, who now suddenly has the nimbleness of a gazelle in the Serengeti, fairly hops over to me, takes out my hammer and stake, then without hesitation, drives the wood into the kid-bloodsucker’s chest. There’s the usual scream, foaming, spasming … and then all is quiet once again in Christendom.
“Good job,” I say, truly impressed.
“Thanks,” shit-for-pants bag lady smiles at me in return. “Need anything else?”
Well, as a matter of fact …
“There’s $20 dollars in my pocket, sister,” I say, with the great despair of one about to receive lethal injection for crimes innumerable against humanity. “T
ake it, and then this is what I want you to do.”
I tell her of my “need.”
At first she is expressionless. And then she smiles.
I see now that she has no teeth, and that her gums are black with fungus.
I again cry for mommy from someplace deep inside, yet am oddly thankful for the lack of teeth, in this instance.
She takes out my wallet, and the money, and then reaches for my pants. The zipper is drawn. Out comes Mr. Playful.
The warm, wet bastion of salvation takes over, and I repress the urge to privately promise to kill myself at a later date.
For those of you who haven’t already guessed … I have now reached my lowest moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Fun Mouth Poo-Poo Pants (as I refer to her now) has come and gone (and so have I). I hear still distantly the sounds of gunfire from within various hangers – my friends no doubt in the heat of battle with a coterie of fangs.
I stand at last, and test my balance. Not to sound remotely crass, but I am in pretty fucked up shape.
“So, Officer Pitts,” a voice hisses from somewhere behind me. “We’re alone at last.”
I turn, my heart sinking.
The Grand Master is leaning casually against a lamp-post not far from me. He’s dressed in simple jeans, a shirt and a jacket. About as casual as you can get for a night out of Kill The Cop. That cop, of course, being myself.
“You don’t look well,” he says … smiling.
“Feel great, fuck-face. How about you?”
He laughs. The prick.
“I couldn’t help but catch the love-action with your very mature lady friend,” he says, walking toward me. “I was moved. Truly.”
“We go way back. Way back behind the haystack,” I quip, suddenly wishing I was a nameless rabbit somewhere in Montana. Even faced with imminent death, I am exceedingly embarrassed.
The Grand Master nods. “Very romantic.”
I take a few steps back myself. Oh, as if that’s going to really fucking help…
“I almost hate to see you die, Pitts. You’ve done an admirable job of surviving where so many others have not.”
I look furtively around. I am alone. I have the depressing notion that this may very well be the end of the line.
“I could, however, make you one of my slaves,” the Grand Master shrugs, musing on the possibility. “Would you like that, Dick?”
“I can hardly wait,” I say with false bravado.
“Though I suspect with your will – you would find a way to make trouble with me, even subjugated so.”
“I’m a troublesome soul,” I say wearily.
“Yes, which is why it’s better if you just die.”
He now stalks toward me.
And then a miracle in our times transpires.
A shot from behind me rings out – and I see the Grand Master’s head snap back. He screams in agony and rage. When he looks back in my direction, I see that his left eye is gone, obliterated by the bullet shot by my unseen savior.
He screams again, clawing at his face.
“Holy water! Oh, you will pay dearly for this!”
He howls, and I swear to god, his fangs grow three inches out of his mouth. So do his finger nails. He continues to scream, and then suddenly dematerializes in front of my eyes.
I am stunned, frozen where I stand.
I slowly turn.
From around a hedge, the shooter appears.
It is little Jennifer. And she holds a Glock automatic in both hands, the barrel still smoking from the discharge.
“Sorry I was late, Dick,” she says softly.
“Jennifer …” I sputter, and walk over to her on very unsteady legs. I fall to my knees, and hug her. I do not want to let go, and she does not protest. “How the hell did you get here, honey?”
“I didn’t want to stay in that house. So I snuck in ahead of you guys in the car trunk. It was easy.”
I pull back, and laugh, shaking my head, tears running down my cheek. I believe I am crying not so much because I’m still alive, or because a child just saved my life … no, I believe I’m hysterical because a child – my Jennifer – had the moxy to take such brilliant initiative.
And clearly, she’s a born vampire killer.
I try to play parent, and attempt to take the Glock from her hand, but it is apparently I can do nothing with my broken wrists.
“I’m pretty handy with this,” Jennifer considers the gun, then looks to my wrists. “And you’re hurt bad, Dick.”
“I’ve seen worse,” I say … though I can’t remember in recent history how worse.
Dracula suddenly appears, along with Colonel Kellog and Father Gastroni. They are all bleeding, though Dracula seems the least damaged. Clearly, some biting took place, and everyone took a licking. I confess to being mildly surprised that some of my friends are not dead.
And then I see that Samantha is absent.
“You okay?” Dracula asks, approaching quickly.
“Far from it,” I say, my wrists useless stumps at my side. “Where’s Sam?”
“She got separated from us,” Colonel Kellog responds, and as he speaks, blood flows freely from his mouth. He looks to Jennifer.
“What in the name of sweet Christ on rubber crutches is she doing here?”
“She saved my life,” I reply tersely.
“She’s just a kid,” Kellog says.
“No,” I respond. “She’s one of us.”
Jennifer looks up to me and smiles, and I put a useless paw on her head, a benediction as it were from one warrior to another – a knighthood for the little lady.
Dracula offers a little grin. “Ah, I see in my mind what happened. Very courageous, child.”
“Thanks,” Jennifer said. “Let’s find some more of those fuckers and kill them all.”
We’re all stunned into momentary silence.
“Sorry,” Jennifer lowers her eyes. “I’m a big potty mouth.”
“You’re forgiven,” I say quickly, then look to everyone. “We have to find Samantha. I have a bad feeling –“
“Yes, so do I,” Dracula nods. “But there is still the Grand Master. He’s out there. Waiting.”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I say.
I then explain to my friends in thirty seconds what Jennifer did to the Grand Fucking Master himself.
I do believe Colonel Kellog may have something akin to an epileptic seizure in front of me – disbelief and chagrin immersing his face into a deep purple. Gastroni and Dracula merely exchange a look of profound astonishment.
“He’s hurt. The holy water shell must be agonizing for him,” Gastroni whispers.
“Which makes him far more dangerous now,” Dracula frowns.
“How could he get more dangerous?” I say.
“Don’t ask,” Dracula says. “Now let’s go find Samantha.”
We are about to fan out when we hear the scream.
“Help me!”
* * *
We turn and run, though Dracula is already in motion so quickly, he essentially evaporates before our eyes.
We follow the weak screams of what we recognize to be Samantha’s voice. I lag behind the others in the herd charge, my speed greatly reduced by my injuries. Jennifer stays by my side, though she has the presence of mind to continually hold vigil for any further fang attacks.
We turn the corner of the last hanger on the west end of the airport, and find Samantha propped up against the hangar wall. Her body is oddly twisted, her legs particularly – and her hands are both nailed to the wall by rusted metal spikes.
“Oh, Jesus,” Kellog mutters.
I kneel down next to Samantha and touch her face. “You hang on, beautiful,” I say.
“Trying,” she whispers bravely. “The Master nailed me good. No pun intended.”
I smile at her courage. Dracula doesn’t waste time with small talk. He pries out the spikes with his bear hands – a feat only a vampire could accomplish wi
th superhuman strength. Dracula makes it look easy.
Samantha flops forward, and I am there to brace her with my arms and useless wrists.
Kellog and Gastroni rotate in full circles, holding vigil for anything that flies and sucks.
Which, as shitty timing would have it, now becomes an immediate problem.
The wings and hisses surround us. We look up and around us.
It’s literally going to be raining vampires within seconds.
Dracula lifts Samantha up bodily, and places her in my arms, cradle-position.
“Take cover!” he points to a small utility shed ten feet away.
I don’t hesitate, as I yell to Jennifer. “Jenny, with me.”
Thank god Jennifer doesn’t argue. She also recognizes the need to protect both myself and Samantha, since at the moment, we’re unable to effectively defend ourselves. Both ‘hand-icapped’ … again, no pun intended.
I enter the utility shed, with Jennifer right behind me, though she turns on her heel, gun up to the sky. Samantha is still conscious, and I hear her whisper: “Oh, dear god.”
We all see it.
The once moon-lit sky is now suddenly black. For a moment, one would think that the airport is about to be enveloped by a thick smoke, or some rain-filled cloud that has challenged climatic rules of precipitation by descending to near ground-level. Sadly, either scenarios are not viable.
The sky is black with vampires.
The roar of the wings is deafening.
“The Grand Master has summoned every vampire in the city,” she whispers.
And it looks to be very true. Like locusts, the vampires begin to descend.
“We’re fucked,” I mutter under my breath.
Jennifer stares out at the flying death coming our way. Her expression is inscrutable. But her grip on her Glock remains firm and unwavering.
Dracula, I can see, is painfully aware of the dilemma facing us all. He could easily escape now, probably even transporting Samantha quickly into that weird vampiric ether of unending possibilities and metamorphosis. But he will not leave us … he will not leave his friends.
Monster Vice Page 19
