Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  “What the fuck you doing, you junkie-assed motherfucker?”

  Johnnie kept the AA-12 pointed at Jorge, but reached up with one hand, took off his sunglasses. He tossed them aside onto the metal table.

  “I’m starting a war,” Johnnie whispered intensely. His eyes went cold. His mouth was a thin, cruel line across the lower part of his face. “Against law enforcement. And you’ll be the first casualty..... COP!”

  Jorge’s heart threatened to explode. “Do I look like a fuckin’ cop to you? I ain’t no fuckin’ cop!”

  “Our contact within the police say otherwise,” El Gecko stated.

  “Then your contacts fucked up. I ain’t no fuckin’ cop.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “This should be fun,” Johnnie said. “You wanna go get something to eat after this? I know a great all-night diner up on El Cajon Boulevard.”

  El Gecko grinned, and it was ugly. It reminded Jorge of pictures he’d seen on TV of jungle predators right before they rip into their prey.

  Then, incredibly, Johnnie’s abdomen ripped open, from right to left, intestines spilling out. Jorge dived for the floor as Johnnie’s finger squeezed the trigger, firing off a wild round.

  Pandemonium ensued.

  El Gecko lunged for the door. He got about three steps before some impossible blur, an unseen force, neatly decapitated his head from his body. Bright red blood spewed ten feet from his spurting neck, peppering the overhead. His body dropped like a load of bricks to the deck.

  Donnie opened fire in the direction of El Gecko, hoping to kill whoever had just killed his boss. While lying on the deck, Jorge shot Arthur, who had gone for his own gun. Arthur took a slug to the leg and fell to the deck, putting him down to Jorge’s level. Then he got two slugs to the chest. His head dropped to the floor, dead weight.

  Jorge scrambled for cover behind a metal storage cabinet. He pointed his gun in front of him, trying to find the next target.

  Donnie stopped firing. Silence enveloped the compartment. He waited, listening. He heard nothing. He ducked behind a crate for cover.

  “Jorge,” he called. “Is it true? Are you a cop?”

  “Fuuuuck no, it ain’t true, mortherfucker,” he replied. “You ever seen a cop do the shit I’ve done on this job?”

  Donnie thought about that. It made sense. “Stay where you are. There’s someone else here. I’ll kill them first. Then we’ll talk.”

  Jorge gulped. He knew what it meant when Donnie wanted to “talk”. He was not out of the woods yet.

  Donnie slowly rose until he could barely see over the crates. Eyes scanning the pools of bright light and juxtaposed depths of darkness, he couldn’t really see anything. But he knew someone – something! – was in here with them. And it would never let Donnie walk out of this compartment alive. He decided it prudent to double back, attempt to outflank whoever was doing this.

  He slowly crouched down, head out of sight. He spun on one foot one hundred eighty degrees..... and his heart stopped.

  White skin, blazing black eyes, unearthly evil, and a razorblade mouth filled his eyesight. The vampire grabbed the muzzle of the rifle, pushed it out of the way. He moved in for the kill, wrenching Donnie’s head to the side so quickly he did not have a chance to scream. Long fangs sank into the carotid, his powerful lower jaw crushing Donnie’s windpipe.

  Donnie, kung fu expert, expert marksman, consummate warrior, died in a matter of seconds.

  From his hidden position, Jorge could see nothing. He had thought he had heard something, but it stopped quickly, and he had not heard anything else after that. With the exception of his own breathing, there was no sound at all on the mess decks.

  He looked back to where Donnie had last been. No movement. But he noticed a black stain on the floor. As he looked at it more closely, he realized it was not black, but a deep crimson red, liquid, and it was spreading across the deck.

  Something massive was heaved upwards out of the darkness. Jorge fired twice, both bullets hitting the mass. It fell with a thud onto the tiled deck. He peered from his position and realized that what had been tossed out like last week’s garbage was Donnie Yen’s corpse.

  “Jorge.” A whisper. “That is what you call yourself?”

  The voice came from nowhere, and yet came from everywhere.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “ Someone who knows you are not like these others.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “They are trash. Human garbage. Pathetic dregs from the shallow end of the gene pool. Their lives mean nothing. Their deaths mean less. You, on the other hand, are different. I mean you no harm.”

  “Then step out where I can see you.”

  From behind an iron column, something that resembled a human body, still clinging to the shadows, materialized, as if out of thin air. Whoever it was stood there, hands by their sides, not moving.

  Jorge kept his gun trained on the person’s center of mass. “Step out where I can see you.” The person started to slowly walk forward. “Hands up where I can see them!” The person walking towards him complied.

  Then he stopped right at the edge of the light. Jorge could see his shoes. Italian. Expensive. The pants leg. Dark blue. Pinstripe, maybe. Nicely tailored. Clean lines. Proper length, ending precisely at the top of the instep of the foot, the fall of the fabric immaculate.

  The rest of him remained hidden in shadow.

  “Step out where I can see your face.”

  “No.”

  “Motherfucker, I’m about two seconds away from putting two rounds in your chest.”

  “Please do not.”

  “Why not?

  “My shirt.”

  “What about it?

  “It is quite expensive.”

  “Then step out where I can see you.”

  “It is best if you do not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “So you will not be forced to lie later when they ask you what I look like.”

  “Who?”

  “Your colleagues in law enforcement.”

  “Man, I told you, I ain’t no fuckin’ cop!”

  “There is no need to continue your charade, Reginald.” The vampire noticed the look of shock on Jorge’s face. “I came here this night for you.”

  “To kill me?”

  “To protect you.”

  This made no sense whatsoever. “Have we met?”

  “Not face to face.”

  Jorge remained guarded. “Even if I was this Reginald cat, why would you want to help me?”

  The vampire glanced at his watch again. “Time has become a factor for me. I really must be going.” He stepped back, deeper into the shadows. “Tell the truth. They will believe you.”

  “Wait!”

  The vampire stopped.

  “What... what are you?”

  “Something... other than human.”

  “Hold on!”

  “Yes?” His terse response carried an impatient edge.

  “Did you kill everyone outside?”

  “All but one very brave Latino.”

  “Rudy.”

  “Rudy. I rather like that name.” The vampire turned to walk away.

  “How did you do all this?” Jorge yelled.

  “Magic, my boy. Magic”

  Wait!”

  “Do not despair. We shall meet again under less traumatic circumstances. I promise. Ta-ta for now.”

  And then he was simply… gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A new day dawned, cloudy, overcast, and gray. Angry, low-hanging clouds threatened a drenching downpour. Fog continued to envelope the docks and the shoreline, a undulating white blanket. The sun, a pale yellow orb, hung close to the Eastern horizon. The air, still cold and damp, remained stagnant. Heavy. Condensation beaded on every exposed surface.

  A typical January morning in San Diego.

  The docks, quiet the night before, now buzzed with police activity. Vans, police c
ruisers, and ambulances parked haphazardly, scattered about, roof lights silently flashing. Coroners and technicians huddled together, examining the carnage littered across the pavement. Even the most hardened cops stood aghast.

  A police videographer walked around, stone-faced and grim, eyes concentrating on his two-inch viewfinder as he documented the scene. He slowly tilted and panned his camera, sweeping in smooth steady movements. Every so often, he would stop and move in for a close-up of something significant. Nearby, Detectives stood, coffee cups in one hand. Pointing around with their free hands, they spouted theories of what had happened here.

  None of them even came close.

  Detective Sergeant Reginald Downing, San Diego Police Department, on loan to a Federal Joint Task Force, who until recently had been known as Jorge, sat, feeling removed from it all. Eyes distant and unfocused, bloodshot from exhaustion and shellshock, he perched himself atop a massive Marine cleat on the wharf beside the gangway to the Sulu Sea. Resting his elbows on his knees, his spent firearm dangled loosely between the intertwined fingers of both hands.

  He mentally replayed the events of the last few hours over and over in his mind. Stark images assaulted him, a sadistic videotape on continuous loop. Questions flooded his mind. How had the others found out was undercover? Contacts within the force, huh? Who? And how many? Did their reach go as far as Reggie feared it might?

  It made sense, though. Reggie knew when El Gecko was bluffing, and last night he was telling the truth. Wealthy, powerful men like El Gecko and Johnnie had informants everywhere. They had to. It was often a matter of survival.

  It could be a beat cop on the street, or an administrator in an office. You find someone who’s underwater on their mortgage, has alimony or child support problems, a sick parent in the hospital or a nursing home. Grease their palm every once in a while with enough money to keep them afloat, and you’ve got your stoolie. If they step out line, get greedy, or grow a conscience, you threaten their family. Keeps ‘em in line every time. Trapped by their own dishonesty, they feed you intel.

  Of course, you can get lucky and find a cop who’s just greasy enough to be greedy. They take the money to supplement their lifestyle, or to fund a more comfortable retirement than an honest cop’s pension provides. Or maybe they simply get off doing something dirty under the table.

  And if they get out of line, no sweat. You just kill ‘em. Make the body disappear. Make sure you leave no forensics. Find another stoolie (never hard to do!), and you’re home free.

  But someone in his own Police Department had dropped a dime on Reggie. He had to find them, and plug the leak. Good thing he had no idea who that might be. If he knew now, he’d simply take them out.

  No arrests, no warrants, no trial by jury. No due process; just pure revenge.

  Summary execution.

  Reggie’s eyes darted furtively around the dock. He watched the forensic videographer swoop silently in for a close up of Aldo’s intestines. Real Academy Award winning stuff this guy was going for. Beyond him, Reggie saw two white coverall clad technicians attempting to put T-Ball’s remains into a body bag. The pieces fell apart under their own weight.

  To his right, ambulance attendants and uniformed cops hauled body bags, heavy and cumbersome, down the gangway from the main deck of the freighter. About fifty feet away, two senior homicide detectives, both of whom he had met in the past and neither of whom names he could remember, huddled together talking. To him, they looked deep in conversation. Something serious. Discussing clues, blood spray patterns maybe?

  Then they both grinned and, heads back, laughed uproariously. They continued to sip their coffee and eat the Danishes they held in their hands.

  Disgusted, Reggie glanced further to his right. In the distance, he could make out Rudy, bloodied and solemn, sitting quietly and ramrod straight in the back of a police cruiser, hands cuffed behind him. Rudy stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused – the thousand-yard stare - like the good soldier he was, and never looked Reggie’s way. He’d go to prison, take the full weight. He’d never say a word, never cop a plea. It would be a matter of honor to him.

  Reggie absently rubbed the side of his face with his forearm, then looked down at the concrete. One person killed seven armed people in a matter of minutes, got away without a trace, and left him alive.

  But why? Reggie did not recognize the voice he’d heard. And the mystery man admitted they had never met in person. What did this guy care if a nameless undercover mid-career cop got killed in the line of duty?

  And this drug thing wasn’t over, either. Not by a long shot.

  A late model police car, unmarked but unmistakable to the trained eye, crested the small hill in the distance near the guard shack. It slowed as it moved down the dirt incline and onto the dock.

  Reggie noticed the car, a dark brown Crown Vic, as it stopped and the engine cut out. Reggie wondered, did this kind of “unmarked car” really fool anyone?

  He knew what they wanted. A part of him tensed, dreading the confrontation. But another part off him was just too tired, too scared, too confused, and too pissed to give a damn. After last night, the last thing Reggie cared about was getting his ass chewed by an overweight, over-the-hill, too-long-in-the-tooth admin pogue. He just hated having to deal with the Departmental bullshit.

  The car doors clicked opened, swung wide, like the spreading wings of an ugly steel insect. Detective Sergeant Nick Castle got out the driver’s side. Tall, thin and wiry, he had runner’s legs and a fighter’s body. A Hispanic man with a Caucasian name, he had boxed as a kid to keep from getting picked on, and currently trained three nights a week in mixed martial arts. He seemed to be scowling behind his unnecessary sunglasses. Not because he was angry, but because he was always under stress, didn’t handle it particularly well, and wore a perpetual frown. An honest cop, he wore an older, inexpensive suit, cheap store-bought tie, and ten - year old scuffed shoes.

  On the passenger side, a large foot, adorned inside a shiny black oxford shoe, stomp to the ground below the open door. Reggie’s eyes moved up as Captain Morris Horn pushed his massive body out of the seat. The car lifted visibly as Horn’s weight shifted onto his tree trunk legs.

  Horn, a very dark black man, adjusted his eyeglasses atop his nose. Dark eyes, bloodshot, having not slept well. Built like a grizzly bear with a legendary temper to match, he smoothed his deep blue tie against the pale shirt covering his barrel chest. At six foot four, over two hundred and sixty pounds, a touch of gray over a deeply lined face with pockmarks from acne when he was a kid, Morris Horn looked more like a retired pro football player than a veteran cop with twenty years on the force, seven major felony convictions that put perps in jail for life (or more!), ten Departmental Commendations, and two Medals of Valor.

  Horn’s hard glare focused on Reggie across the busy dock and zeroed in on him with laser-like intensity. The corners of his mouth turned downward. The lines across his forehead deepened. He grabbed his trouser belt at the sides with both hands, giving it a slight, mindless tug upwards across solid belly. Horn was not obese; he was thick, a refrigerator on legs. He stalked forward, an unblinking predator closing the distance on his prey.

  Reggie knew what was coming. He realized suddenly he was still holding his firearm in his right hand. The barrel seemed like an extra finger jutting downwards. He shoved his handgun into the waistband at the back of his pants.

  As they got closer, Reggie stood up and put his hands behind his back. He willed himself to relax, concentrating on his breathing, feeling his heart rate drop. He watched serenely as Capt. Horn jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction.

  “Downing!” he barked from fifteen feet away. “What the motherfuck happened here?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Captain.” A calm voice will turneth away anger, right? He nodded to Castle, who looked apologetic. “Nick.”

  Castle nodded back. “Reg. You all right?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Don’t give
me any of your super-cop smartass bullshit,” Horn growled. “You got a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Kid Fuckin’ Genius!”

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” Reggie said, wishing the old bastard would just fucking retire. “I’m fine.”

  “’You’re fine’? ‘You’re fine’? I don’t give a flying fisted fuck if you’re fine. I wouldn’t give a flying fisted fuck if you were laying in that meat wagon over there with a Goddamn tag on your toe.” He pointed to the ambulance. “Looks to me like there was a goddamned bloodbath out here last night, and somehow, miraculously,” he gestured towards the sky, his condescension dripping with scorn, “you’re the only one left standing.”

  Reggie nodded, already bored, already knowing what was coming next. “You’re right. That’s exactly what happened.” He paused.

  “So who did this?”

  Downing raised his hands in a timeless gesture of innocence. “Not me, Cap’n.”

  Horn, caught off guard, was silent for a moment. “I know it wasn’t you. Who was it?” He glanced around at the carnage. “A rival gang?”

  Reggie shook his head.

  “How many of them were there?” Castle asked gently.

  “Just one.”

  “Don’t be bullshittin’ me this early in the morning, Whiz Kid,” Horn warned. “I haven’t had enough coffee for this shit.”

  Reggie remained unmoved, imagining a life without Horn in it.

  “Just one.”

  Now both Horn and Castle were speechless. They were accustomed to being lied to, by everyone, all the time. They knew the truth when they heard it. Reggie was telling the truth.

  “One man took out seven people, all armed, most military trained, at multiple points on the dock and aboard that ship, but left you alive?”

  “Yes.”

  Mentally digesting this, Horn and Castle both looked around the docks at the body bags, the blood, the mess. This sheer magnitude of slaughter, all at the hands of one man?

  Incredible.

  “Who could have done this and gotten away clean?” Castle asked. “Mercenary? A Special Forces commando, something like that?”

  Reggie shrugged. “Maybe. He seemed to know how to use the night.”