Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  T-Ball shuffled towards the dull red metal shipping containers. Stiff knees refused to bend properly, so his gait resembled that of a robot in an old Buck Rogers show.

  Stacked three high, nine containers crouched on the dock, waiting to be loaded onto the freighter.

  He leaned against the door of one of the containers to help steady himself, lighting a cigarette with quivering hands. Rudy had told him several times not smoke while on watch. The glowing cherry of the cigarette, he’d said, could be seen a quarter mile away. It would give away their position to an enemy force.

  But fuck Rudy and all that Joe Jock Military bullshit, man. If T-Ball wanted a cig, T-Ball was gonna have a fucking cig.

  T-Ball took a drag and breathed deep, pulling the smoke into his lungs. The nicotine acted quickly, giving him a pleasant sensation of spreading warmth and harmony. He closed his eyes, held his breath, then blew out bluish gray smoke.

  T-Ball opened his eyes. Smiling and satisfied, he put the cigarette back between his lips and stepped away.

  At no time did T-Ball notice the unholy thing less than eight feet away, squatting low, knees spread, hands flat on the pavement, arms shooting down between his legs from muscled shoulders. Barely breathing, black narrow eyes unblinking, the preternatural creature hunkered down pressed against the cold metal of the rusting shipping container. The thing’s muscles tensed, waiting for that moment of release through explosive motion. Using the darkness it knew so well as camouflage, it glared at T-Ball. The monster inhaled, its nostrils filled with T-Ball’s putrid scent of disease, decay, and lack of hygiene. The creature’s pale face wrinkled as it cringed in disgust.

  Completely undetected.

  The perfect predator.

  Shivering from withdrawal as much as from the cold, T-Ball hoped walking around would make him feel better. Get the blood circulating, that’s what he needed. Just get through this gig tonight, get paid, then take some time off.

  Go get laid.

  In the shadows, the creature touched a sharp, pointed fingernail against the concrete, then purposefully dragged it over the rough ground.

  A soft sound stopped T-Ball in his tracks. He couldn’t place it. He glanced around holding his AK – 47 awkwardly, close to his chest. Sweat popped out across his forehead. He had been formidable once. As a kid, he’d been a Golden Gloves champion. He had even thought about Olympic tryouts, going pro. Make some real money. But a series of screw-ups took him away from all that. The drugs sealed his fate, withering him down to a mere shadow of his former self.

  T-Ball was no longer a mercenary. He was just another junkie. Just another pathetic loser, and knew it. Get it together, motherfucker, he told himself. Maybe you should think about going to rehab or something.

  In the dark, the creature grinned sadistically. A malevolent, ugly smile revealed two fangs refined by evolution, or God, or the devil for rending through pliant flesh.

  A night bird called, its screech piercing the quiet. Gasping in terror, T-Ball spun around, his weapon held high in front of him. Eyes wide, panting like a dog, he scanned the nearby rooftops and the dull gray sky, looking for the source.

  Nothing.

  From the nearby shadows, the creature tried hard to keep from laughing. This was too easy. If this pathetic excuse for a human being was the best his enemies had to offer, this was going to be a walk in the park.

  Finally, disgusted with himself, knowing he had lost his edge, T-Ball relaxed a bit. He lowered his weapon to a more casual-ready position, something Rudy had taught him. T-Ball knew El Gecko would kill him if he ever found out how bad things had gotten.

  El Gecko had made his position crystal clear when he hired T-Ball. Relaxation away from the job made for a better worker. A few drinks, a snorted line or two, a joint here and there was fine. He had no problem with his men blowing off steam. But addiction, El Gecko would not tolerate.

  He called it El Gecko’s Rule Numero Uno. Addiction among customers was a good thing. It kept them coming back. Supply and demand, Economics 101. But addiction among drug suppliers? Bad for business. El Gecko told him he respected men who handled their business, took responsibility for their actions and their lives. Those who were addicts, and who could not or would not clean themselves would be “retired”.

  Damn. Rehab it is.

  On the other side of the dock towards the south end, Rudy continued his patrol. He glanced to his left towards the abandoned buildings at the edge of the property. Cheap plywood walls and roof covered in dull, colorless metal. Two rows of black windows, staring out at the night like soulless eyes. Long forgotten offices, he surmised. Years empty, abandoned, occupants long since retired, moved away, or deceased. The buildings’ only occupants now would be rats, spiders, and the occasional homeless person looking for a place to squat out of the cold.

  Rudy’s eyes darted with practiced precision from one strategic point to the next. He calculated angles and vectors, gauging trajectories in his head. The buildings sat less than 50 yards away. It offered an unobstructed view of the dock, the ship at its mooring, and the road leading onto the property.

  A good place for a patient, savvy sniper to set up and wait for an opportunity.

  Rudy reached down under his jacket to the web belt, a holdover from his military days, which held up his jeans. He unclipped a small black walkie-talkie. Out of habit, he glanced down at the channel indicator. El Gecko’s crew always used the same channel, and Rudy knew the settings had not been changed. But familiar, methodical habits gave him a sense of security and comfort. You could never be too careful in a business where the slightest slipup, the smallest inattention to detail, could end up costing you your life.

  Standing in the open, in the middle of the sniper’s Kill Box, Rudy looked around. No cover nearby. Those buildings, squatting like trolls, gawking at him made his skin crawl. He had not been shot yet. Perhaps an indicator that no sniper lay hidden. Then again, maybe they weren’t set up yet. Maybe they were waiting for the bigger fish to arrive.

  Rudy glanced again at his watch. The bigger fish would be arriving soon. Rudy squatted, took a knee, reducing his silhouette. Caution is beautiful thing, he smiled grimly to himself.

  He held the device near his face and keyed the mic. “T-Ball. Rudy. Come in,” he said in a hoarse whisper. No response. He keyed the mic again. “T-Ball. Rudy. Come in.”

  T-Ball, standing on the other side of the dock near the freighter, slung his rifle over his shoulder. He frantically fumbled through the pockets of his clothing until he found the walkie-talkie. He fished it out of the deep cargo pocket on the bottom of his field coat.

  “Yeah, Rudy,” he brayed, too loudly, his thumb stabbing the key button. “What up?”

  Rudy rolled his eyes. He had tried repeatedly to get T-Ball and the rest of the security crew to adhere to a more professional demeanor when speaking on the radio. It had been to no avail. Fucking cowboys, he thought. Goddamn amateurs.

  “Did you sweep and clear these office buildings earlier today?” Rudy asked.

  T-Ball thought Rudy had just spoken to him in a foreign language. “Did I do what?” He pushed a limp dreadlock out of his face.

  “Did you perform a sweep and clear?” Rudy repeated, impatient now with his so-called colleague.

  “I heard what you said,” T-Ball bit back. “Do you really think I ‘performed’ one of those?”

  Rudy bit his lip to keep his temper. “Of course, T-Ball. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked. Keep a sharp eye. I’m going to check the buildings.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” came T-Ball’s response. “Perform some of that ‘sweep and clear’ shit.”

  Rudy gritted his teeth as he clipped his walkie-talkie back onto his belt. He repositioned his rifle into a relaxed ready position. He stood up and moved silently through the fog towards the buildings.

  T- Ball had always been wilder than Rudy, louder, quicker to throw down, and less disciplined when he did. Rudy always thought things through, considered cons
equences, contemplated contingencies. T-Ball jumped in with both feet, no matter what. He gave no thought to what might happen next. Initially that go-for-broke enthusiasm had been part of T-Ball’s charm. Now, he had become reckless, and that meant dangerous. Unpredictable.

  Untrustworthy.

  Rudy knew T-Ball had fallen off the wagon, sucking on the glass dick again. If El Gecko found out, he would peel T-Ball’s skin off his body, layer by layer, with a knife dipped in human shit.

  Just to make a point.

  Rudy considered dropping a dime on T-Ball, outing him to El Gecko. Nah, he decided. Never been a squealer. No reason to start now. Most people wind up getting what they deserve in this world, he reasoned. And as raggedy-ass as T-Ball was flying these days, it would be only a matter of time before he fucked up and El Gecko would punch T-Ball’s ticket himself. Rudy would just sit back and watch.

  God knows, he had seen worse.

  T-Ball tried to stay alert like Rudy had taught him. He tried all the little tricks and mind games, but it was a losing battle. He hated to admit it, but he admired Rudy’s discipline. He wished he had that kind of discipline. Maybe he should have joined the Marines back in the day.

  Too late for that now. He was thirty-six years old, an alcoholic, a drug addict, a heavy smoker, a carrier of Hepatitis B, and a convicted felon. Not exactly a Marine Corps recruiter’s prime candidate.

  He drew deeply on his cigarette. A shadowy movement caught his eye. He peered through the mist. A shadow moved on the main deck of the freighter. He concentrated, looking harder, stepping forward across the dock.

  There it was again. The shadow was of someone large and hulking, moving near the cargo hold main doors.

  T-Ball’s dug into the recesses of another pocket. He pulled out a small metal-bodied flashlight. He pointed it towards the ship’s main deck, and signaled three short bursts of light through the fog.

  A few seconds later, the shadow on the deck solidified. A huge Oriental man stepped out of the blackness near the gangplank. He responded to the signal by sending a three-flash burst of his own, then moved back, fading into the darkness once more.

  Donnie Chen, T-Ball reminded himself. A kung fu expert. Crack shot with a gun, and deadly accurate with a knife, a sword, all manner of blades. A consummate killer, he did not kill indiscriminately, but could kill with great efficiency and zero hesitation.

  Not someone to have pissed at you.

  The creature in the darkness watched the two humans signal each other. He shook his head in amazement. Like something out of a bad movie, he thought. What next? Morse code? Carrier pigeons?

  T-Ball was still nearby, still clueless, still sloppy. The man was completely oblivious to how close to death he was.

  The creature wrinkled his sensitive nose again at the man’s pungent odor. He would be shed of this assault on his senses soon. The creature glanced up at the ship, observing the Chinese man. He knew instinctively by the efficient manner in which he moved this man was, in human terms at least, a dangerous individual.

  Wait ‘til they get a load of me.

  He flicked his tongue across his fangs, anticipation rising at the thought of the horror that would flood their faces at the sight of him. He glanced at his wristwatch. Even in the utter darkness, his vampire eyes read the dial easily.

  Time to get things started.

  CHAPTER TWO

  T-Ball took another drag from his cigarette. As he savored the familiar sting of the smoke roiling within his lungs, he noticed a newfound steadiness in his hands. Then he heard a low sound.

  A breath, gently sucked in on the night air, whispering his name.

  “T-Ball.”

  Practically jumping out of his sagging skin, T-Ball whipped around, his weapon at the ready. Eyes, bloodshot and bulging scanned behind him.

  Nothing.

  He scanned the area again, gun barrel moving left to right, back to left, up to down. He detected no follow up sounds or movement.

  T-Ball finally heaved a great sigh, his body crumpling into its usual bad posture. The weapon in his gnarled hands dropped to the ready position. He tossed his cigarette onto the pavement, crushed the glowing orange end with the heel of his scarred Dingo boot.

  Must be my imagination, he thought. Fuck these drugs, man! They’re turning me into a little pussy.

  On the weather deck of the Sulu Sea, Donnie Chen looked down at T-Ball shuffling around in the mist, huddling next to the crates like a bitch. He rubbed his own pockmarked face in thought.

  T-Ball was definitely someone Chen call TFL – Total Fuckin’ Loser. Personally, Donnie would have liked nothing else but to beat T-Ball’s skinny little tweaker’s ass within an inch of his miserable life, then toss his ass out of the cartel, penniless and broken. Or perhaps Kill him outright if that pleased El Gecko.

  But Donnie liked Rudy, which was noteworthy in itself. Donnie didn’t like many people. Rudy was honest, reliable, trustworthy. He could handle himself in a fight, and was not given to killing civilians. And he covered for T-Ball, showing loyalty. Donnie had respect for that, too.

  So, Donnie said nothing about his reservations concerning T-Ball to El Gecko. But Donnie knew the truth. He saw all the signs. Bad skin, dull hair, receding gums and hairline, weight loss, lack of basic hygiene, and some alarming neurological symptoms. T-Ball walked with a shuffling gait, and had developed a facial tic under his right eye in the past two weeks.

  T-Ball was back on crystal meth.

  Donnie didn’t like drugs very much; he never had. He never took drugs himself, and had no respect for those who did. He did not drink or smoke. Ever since he was six years old living in Orange County under the tutelage of his first kung fu instructor, Donnie had always walked the narrow path of a warrior. Never fight for no reason, but always be ready to fight. Be polite and courteous to everyone you meet, but always have a plan to kill them if need be.

  Always plan an escape route.

  Donnie turned his head seaward, and gazed across the glassy black waters of the bay. He could barely make out distant lights, obscured by fog. More clouds billowed in from the bay. The Maine Layer was particularly thick tonight, thicker than he had seen it in months. Donnie took it as an omen, a malevolent harbinger of things to come.

  He looked back down across the docks. It reminded him of those old spooky movies he had watched on TV as a kid. T-Ball was standing at the edge of Donnie’s sight, a ghostly figure hovering close to the ground.

  Right then, at that moment, Donnie realized didn’t much like the drug trade, either. It profited off the weakness of others, traded in human misery. It started people down a sure and certain path to self destruction. Others had told him druggies were going to get their drugs one way or the other. Why not them? And druggies chose their own path, right? Free will and all that shit.

  But Donnie had never really bought into that. People chose their own path, that much was true. But it seemed to Donnie that addiction actually stole that very freedom away from the addicted. And that was what made drugs so bad. Not that someone got high or got a buzz going but that they could not deal with reality when the ride came to a stop.

  And every ride, no matter how hard, how long, or how high, must come to an end.

  Donnie was about to look away, but something caught at the corner of his eye. A black shadow, deeper, darker, than normal, seemed to have materialized, taken on shape and weight, right behind the oblivious T-Ball. It seemed to pause, then it seemed to spread, as if it had arms, threatening to engulf its prey.

  On the dock, T-Ball was unaware that one of the ancient predators that had haunted men’s souls for eons, had uncoiled and slithered silently up behind him.

  Repulsed by him, sickened by the smell of tainted blood and old urine, the undead creature relished the thought of killing him. A complete waste of a human being, T-Ball had squandered whatever opportunities life had offered him.

  He wanted to torture T-Ball, kill him slowly, drain him within an inch of his life,
then start IV’s on him, replenish his fluids, bring him back from the brink. Then, he would torture him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  That would be a fun time.

  Practical concerns precluded that. More humans on their way, and he needed to stay focused on the big picture.

  Moving so swiftly he was nothing more than a dark blur, the vampire closed the gap of the last few feet, wrapped one arm like a constricting coil over T-Ball’s gun hand, his other hand slapping across T-Ball’s face, covering nose and mouth so fast T-Ball never even had a chance to scream.

  The unholy thing leaned his toothy mouth towards his victim’s ear.

  “T-Ball.”

  He then wrenched backwards, dissolving back into the same shadows from whence he came. T-Ball was lifted off his feet like a rag doll, completely overcome by forces he could not have understood even if he had known what they were.

  The creature grabbed the AK 47, ripped it from T-Ball’s hands as easily as a parent takes away a toy from a naughty child. He spun T-Ball around, who looked up, eyes wide and uncomprehending, into the mist and shadows. At first he was not sure what he was looking at.

  A pale face, devoid of any true color or pigmentation. Skin so waxy it appeared yellowish in the smudgy light, almost translucent. A hint of bluish veins running like delicate latticework underneath down the cheeks to the chin. Across the forehead. Black hair on the skull above, long and limp, hanging like seaweed, falling past the top of the ears. Black eyes, pupils dilated full open to bring in every scrap of available light. No whites at all, giving the creature the look of a Great White Shark. The sallow skin around them seemed dead. The mouth opened into a cavernous gash below the pointed nose, exposing two canines, elongated into sharp fangs, one on each side of his incisors.