The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS II:

  VAMPYRNOMICON

  Scott M. Baker

  Copyright © 2014 Scott M. Baker

  First Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-940344-11-9

  Published by Emby Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover by Brian P. Easton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1.

  Jessica Reynolds stood by the open manhole. The pungent odor of ammonia and human waste wafted out of the sewer, stinging her eyes and churning the bile in her stomach. Holding her breath and squinting against the discomfort, she leaned forward and stared down the access tunnel, but could not see the bottom. Despite the noon sun glaring overhead, its light penetrated only a few feet down the access tunnel, rendering the sewer ominously dark. Jessica did not have to see what was down there to fear it. What lurked below the streets of Washington was deadly, dangerous, and evil.

  She stepped back from the manhole and walked over to the midnight-black Dodge Ram. “Tell me again why you’re going down there?”

  “To flush out the nest,” said Drake Matthews. He slid on his brown leather jacket.

  “I thought we destroyed the nest a few nights ago?”

  “We did.” Drake slipped three wooden stakes into the special pouch stitched into the jacket lining. A bolt of pain from the cracked ribs he received in that struggle shot through his chest, a reminder of just how close a call they actually had.

  “Why the rush? We haven’t recovered yet from the last battle.”

  Alison Monroe stepped around from the open door of the Ram and joined Drake and Jessica. She loaded shells into a shotgun. “Because one master escaped. If we wait too long, she’ll create another nest.”

  Jessica looked over at Alison, who wore her usual hunting uniform, black leather pants with a black turtleneck sweater, both of which she filled out quite nicely. Jessica tried unsuccessfully to curtail her jealousy. “How large could the nest get in only five days?”

  “Masters have been known to sire up to two vampires a night. And each of those can sire vampires of their own.” Alison finished loading the shotgun. “You do the math.”

  “Fifty-one, to be exact.” Jim Delmarco joined the group. “That’s assuming that each vampire sired two more a day every day over the past five days.”

  “Why are you so sure the nest is here?”

  “It’s more of an educated guess,” said Jim. “This is where the police found the car that the master stole near Wolf Trap the night we destroyed the nest. Assuming the surviving master stole the car to drive home, and assuming she parked it near the nest, then this is as a good a place as any to start looking.”

  Jim reached under his jacket, pulled out a folded map, and spread it out on the Ram’s lowered tailgate. Jessica leaned over to look at it. The map showed the sewer system underneath Washington. Superimposed on the map in light blue ink was a street map of the city. Several streets had red ovals hand-drawn around them, with a small red X in between the ovals. Jim placed his finger on the X.

  “We’re here, where the police found the stolen car. I drove through the neighborhood two days ago, covering every street within a half-mile radius of this location, and noted all the abandoned buildings. There are more than a dozen closed stores on this and the adjacent street. A boarded up school two blocks to our west. And a whole street of condemned Federalist-style row houses three blocks to the east.”

  “We’ll start our search at the row houses and work our way back.” Drake unholstered his pair of Glocks and inserted into each firearm a magazine containing ten .40 caliber hollow-point rounds filled with holy water. He chambered one round into each Glock and slid the weapons into his twin shoulder holsters.

  “Why won’t you let me go with you?” asked Jessica. Although relieved that Drake did not expect her to crawl through the sewer, part of her resented that Drake would be down there relying on Alison rather than her. “I can take care of myself.”

  Alison rolled her eyes.

  Drake was more diplomatic. “I need you up here to make sure no one blocks the manhole in case we need to get out in a hurry.”

  Jessica feigned a smile. “I think I can handle that.”

  “I know you can.” Drake took Jessica’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned to the others. “We ready?”

  Jim finished folding the map and slid it into the pouch beside the two bottles of Heaven’s Fire, homemade napalm laced with chunks of crystallized holy water. He closed and secured the flap. “I guess so.”

  Alison switched on the high-powered flashlight she had taped to the shotgun’s barrel, then pulled back the slide to load a round into the chamber. “Let’s kick some undead ass.”

  The hunters stepped over to the open manhole. Drake crouched down and lowered his legs into the opening. When he had his footing on the access ladder, he began to climb down.

  “Drake,” Jessica called after him. “Be careful.”

  Alison stepped directly in front of Jessica. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.” She followed her boss into the manhole.

  Jim entered last.

  Jess stood alone in the street, cursing herself for being so useless.

  Descending into the sewer proved more difficult than Drake anticipated. The ladder was a series of rectangular rungs imbedded into the wall, each rung only an inch in diameter and slippery from moisture. Once clear of the manhole, the walls sloped slightly outward, forcing them to climb down at an awkward angle. After a descent of almost fifteen feet, Drake reached a small landing. Turning around, he shone his flashlight into the bowels of the sewer. It measured ten feet in width and twelve in height, with an arched ceiling comprised of red bricks. A two-foot drop led from the landing to the floor. A trough eighteen inches wide ran down the center of the sewer, carrying a stream of brackish water. From this height, the area on either side of the trough looked slippery. Instead of jumping, Drake sat on the landing and eased himself down. As expected, his feet slid under him when he touched the floor, struggling to get a grip on the coating of raw sewage and human waste.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Alison stepped onto the landing. “It smells like shit down here.”

  “What did you expect? It’s a sewer.” Drake took Alison’s hand and helped her off the landing. He noticed how soft and warm her touch was, and how she gripped his hand for several seconds after she climbed down.

  Jim joined them a moment later.

  Once all three were gathered, Drake swung the flashlight to the south. “This is one of the sanitation lines that carry sewage to the waste treatment plant. According to the map, if we follow this line for a hundred feet we should come to a storm drain that runs under the abandoned row houses.

  “Lead on,” said Jim with a lack of enthusiasm.

  “What exactly are we looking f
or?” asked Alison.

  “I’m not sure,” said Drake. “But I have a feeling we’ll know it when we find it.”

  “What’s the penalty for locking your kids up in their room?” asked Ted Marlowe.

  Bob Patterson kept his flashlight trained on the sewer walls, looking for damage. “Why’s that?”

  “Because it’s the only way I’m gonna keep Susan in line. She didn’t come in until two this morning.”

  “Kids will be kids.”

  “But she’s only fourteen, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, you’re the adult. Lay down the rules.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Rebecca ain’t a problem child.”

  “She’s not now. But she was a few years ago. I just kept her on a short leash.”

  “How so?”

  Patterson lowered the flashlight, shining the beam across the floor. “Two years ago, when she was sixteen, one of her boyfriends dropped by the house to pick her up. A real asshole. Pulls up in front of the house in this shitbox of a car, blaring rap music. He’s wearing a leather Harley Davidson vest, a black T-shirt with a pack of smokes rolled up in one sleeve, and a friggin’ ponytail. To top it off, Rebecca comes downstairs wearing her street slut outfit.”

  “And you let him live?”

  Patterson chuckled. “I followed them out onto the front porch. As they were getting into the car, I announced so the whole neighborhood could hear that if anything happened to my daughter that I didn’t approve of, the police would never find enough of his body parts to convict me.”

  “Jesus, man. Rebecca must have been pissed.”

  “She didn’t talk to me for a week. Neither did her mother, for that matter. Which wasn’t a bad thing.”

  “I wish my old lady wouldn’t talk to me for a week. Shit. She’s been all over my ass for three days now. Ever since—”

  Patterson sighed to himself. He never should have started this conversation because now Marlowe would never shut up. Marlowe was a nice enough guy and a good worker, but he could talk the ears off of a dead man. He drove Patterson crazy on these routine inspections when they walked through the sewers and checked each line for problems that required maintenance, which allowed more than enough time to ramble. This morning they were inspecting the storm drain lines that ran underneath the neighborhood. Since these lines carried rain water out of the area and into the Anacostia River, none of the sanitation troughs ran through here. Patterson preferred the routine checks of these lines. Sure, he and Tom still needed to wear the thick rubber boots and cumbersome overalls, but at least they weren’t traipsing through sewage and smelling shit.

  The two men walked for another quarter of a mile while Marlowe yammered on about some reality television show he had watched the night before. Patterson swept the flashlight from one wall to the other. He stopped to illuminate a large opening in the ceiling.

  Marlowe saw it at the same time. “Jesus, man. What the hell is it?”

  Patterson stepped underneath it and directed his flashlight up. The hole was four feet in diameter and extended up at a forty-five degree angle. He estimated the tunnel’s length at fifteen to twenty feet.

  Marlowe stepped beside Patterson and gazed up the tunnel. “What is it? An old lateral dump?”

  “Doubt it. This isn’t a sanitation line.” Patterson directed the beam against the tunnel walls. “Besides, the surface is too rough. Something dug this out.”

  Marlowe whistled. “Rats?”

  “If there’s a rat out there that can chew through six yards of concrete and gravel, I sure as hell never want to meet it.”

  Paterson concentrated the flashlight toward the far end of the tunnel. The beam barely illuminated a room. At least it looked like a room. In the dim light, Patterson could just about make out what appeared to be wooden beams running across a ceiling. “What’s above us?”

  “A string of abandoned row houses.”

  “Must have been a cave in.”

  “Then where’s the debris?”

  Patterson lowered the beam to the sewer floor and looked around. Nothing there but a few small chunks of cement. “I guess the only way to find out is for you to go up and have a look.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re fifty pounds lighter and ten years younger than me. And I’m your boss.”

  Marlowe unclipped his utility belt and slid out of his heavy rubber boots. He took his flashlight and inserted it into the strap around his hardhat. “Why do I always do the grunt work?”

  “Someday you’ll be a supervisor and then you can boss other people around.”

  “Can you give me a hand?”

  Patterson locked his fingers together and crouched. When Marlowe placed his foot in his hands, Patterson stood up and lifted his friend into the tunnel opening. Marlowe lost his footing and nearly fell out, but quickly regained his hold and started climbing. He crawled up a feet few and stopped.

  “Jesus, man. It stinks up here.”

  “What’s it smell like?” Patterson worried about a gas leak.

  “Remember that nest of dead rats we found last year? It smells like that, only a lot worse.”

  “No big deal. Something crawled up there and died, that’s all.”

  “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” chided Patterson. “Go on. The dead can’t hurt you.”

  The hunters stopped at an intersection of sewer lines. The sanitation line continued ahead of them. A second one branched off to their left at a ninety-degree angle. A retaining wall one foot high stretched across it. On the other side of the wall, the sewer was clean, with only a few pools of clear water near the walls.

  Drake turned to Jim and motioned toward the branch. “Is this the way to the row houses?”

  Jim pulled the map from his pouch and shone his flashlight on it. “According to this, that’s a storm drain line. It runs for about a hundred yards before it passes under the row houses.”

  Drake tapped his finger on the graphic representing the string of row houses. “And that’s where we’ll find the nest.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Jim.

  “It’s the ideal place for one. Those row houses are large enough to easily hold a nest. And there are no other occupied buildings around, so a nest could thrive there for months and stay undetected.” Drake reached under his jacket and withdrew a stake. “Let’s rock.”

  Sitting in the driver’s seat of the Ram and fondling the two-way radio, Jessica contemplated for the umpteenth time checking in with Drake. She did not notice the Metro Police squad car pull up behind the truck until the driver switched on the flashing blues and gave her a brief burst from the siren. Jessica looked up into the rearview mirror. Shit. The squad car had parked over the open manhole. She didn’t need this.

  The officer opened the door and stepped out. Jessica quickly sized him up. She estimated him at about six feet in height and weighing in at over two hundred pounds, but none of it fat. He had a well-toned physique that, although not intimidating, would certainly make most people think twice before challenging him. As the officer approached, Jessica noticed that he had not taken out his ticket book or placed his hand on his service revolver, which meant he did not view this stop as a potential threat. Maybe she could bluff her way out of this. Reaching up with her right hand, she unfastened the second and third buttons of her blouse.

  The officer stopped by the driver’s door of the Ram and leaned forward. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Is everything okay?”

  “No problem, officer. I broke down. That’s all.” Jessica shifted slightly in the driver’s seat, trying to display cleavage. His nameplate read Sergeant Wilson. Why did that name sound familiar?

  “Do you need me to call a tow truck?”

  “No, thanks. Someone’s coming to get me.”

  “Good enough, ma’am. Just please turn on your flashers so no one hits you.”

  “Sure.” Jessica went to turn on the hazard lights, onl
y to realize she had no idea where to locate the switch. She fumbled around with various switches on the dashboard and steering column before finally finding it. By then, her unfamiliarity with the vehicle had made Wilson suspicious.

  “Ma’am, if I could see your driver’s license, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  This is great, Jessica said to herself. Things can’t get much worse. She rummaged through her purse, took out her wallet and opened it, then pulled out her license and handed it over.

  “And your registration, ma’am.”

  Okay. Things could get worse. Jessica looked around the cab. She pulled down the visor. Nothing. She searched through the glove compartment. Nothing. She looked in the island between the front seats. Still nothing.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Jessica turned back to Wilson. “The truck belongs to my boyfriend, and he went to get a tow. He probably has the registration with him.”

  “I see.” Wilson moved back two steps and placed his right hand on his service revolver. “Please step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

  Jessica slid out of the Ram and closed the driver’s door behind her. Wilson motioned for her to move away from the vehicle and into the space between the truck and the squad car. Keeping Jessica in his peripheral vision, he examined her driver’s license. His eyes suddenly lit up. “Your name is Jessica Reynolds, ma’am?”

  “That’s me.”

  “With The Washington Standard?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The same Jessica Reynolds who wrote that expose on how some Washington cops were getting freebies from the city’s hookers in return for not busting them?”

  Jessica sighed. Things could get much, much worse.

  “You mentioned me several times in that article.”

  “I didn’t think anyone read it.” Jessica sounded more flippant than she wanted to.

  “Oh, they did. My supervisor, for one. He suspended me for two weeks without pay. And my fiancée. She broke off our engagement. But not before screwing a couple of my buddies on the force and humiliating me.”