Bloodlines Part 1

by Drew D'Amato

  “FUCKING RADUSONS!” Jake screamed again. It would be his last words on Earth.

  The blond man pulled the trigger again, twice. Jake saw the two bullets enter his chest. They found his heart and his body fell back. As he fell, his body dissolved into thin air—a quick fading dissolve, that took about two seconds to go from matter to nothing. If anyone had paid enough attention they would have been surprised to find that no body hit the floor. However, the confusion from the random violence was enough for everyone to panic.

  The crowd acted like bees in a car—making a lot of noise and moving a lot, but nowhere closer to escape. The music continued to play. Upstairs in the VIP room, the four others were already at the banister with a good idea of what to expect. With his gun out, the blond man ran through the center of the club. Matt noticed him first.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Directly below, a man with long black hair looked back up at him. The man smiled, showing his fangs. Matthew decided to go for him. He put his right foot on the top of the banister and leaped. He did not fall straight down as a human would. Instead, he glided toward the man. The man went for his handgun, a Walther P99, from under his jacket. Falling toward him, Matthew beat him to the punch. He grabbed his own—a 1911 .45 caliber from behind his back—in mid-air and shot the guy twice in the heart. The guy dissolved into nothing like Jake, and Matthew landed right where the guy had stood.

  Paul jumped off the banister next. Jericho and Michael were the last ones left upstairs. Jericho had his legs ready to go, when a guy from the back of the VIP room appeared out of nowhere with a small machine gun in his hand aimed at Jericho. Michael noticed this and pulled out his Desert Eagle .357 semi-automatic from underneath his trench coat, and fired. His first shot hit the guy in his shoulder. The guy stumbled back. Michael shot him again, this time in the chest, and the guy dissolved.

  “Thank me later,” Michael said and then jumped off the banister. Jericho followed after him.

  Jericho landed in a crouched position. His fangs protruded out of his mouth. He pulled out two silver-finish, Desert Eagle .50 caliber semi-automatics from their under-arm holsters. Two Radusons looked at him, their fangs showing over their bottom lips. One was to his right; the other to his left; both at a 45-degree angle from his face. He shot one shot from each gun and eliminated the two of them in a second’s worth of work.

  When he stood, Jericho saw Matthew in front of him with anticipating eyes.

  “JER, DUCK!”

  Jericho fell to the floor without question. Matthew raised his right hand and shot a Raduson standing behind Jericho. Jericho stood back up. Before he could thank him, Matthew’s eyes blinked. He started to disappear as his body made an attempt to fall to the floor. When Jericho started to notice him disappearing, he shot blindly through Matthew’s dissolving body. Not sure where he was aiming his shots, he managed to kill Matt’s killer.

  “Fuck. Michael, PAUL!” Jericho screamed.

  He glanced back up at the VIP balcony. Jericho jumped and cleared the banister without any effort. He looked back over the dance floor trying to gather where everyone was. The white, body-building bouncer from downstairs rushed up the spiral staircase. He just saw Jericho jump up to the VIP room. He didn’t know what motivated him to approach the guy after that, but it wasn’t sanity. He approached Jericho from behind with a can of mace in his hand. When Jericho started to turn from the dance floor toward the bouncer, the bouncer responded like someone putting water on a grease fire—doing the first thing that seemed like the right idea, but was actually the wrong one—and sprayed Jericho in the face. The pepper spray stunned his face as hard as it would anyone, but it wore off within seconds. It was still precious seconds he couldn’t see, and he might have lost someone close to him—or his own life—because of it. Out of defense and a little bit of anger, he punched the bouncer dead in the nose. His face was shattered, his legs buckled and he fell limp, but still lucky to be alive even though now with a permanently-damaged face. Jericho had barely used any strength.

  “Asshole, this isn't your war!” Jericho scolded the limp body.

  Jericho looked back over the banister at the hysteria. The place was packed with panicked young people. The club was a fire marshal’s worst nightmare—only one exit. After a closer look, he saw there were at least three Radusons in the club, and only Michael and Paul left. Michael was presently in a gunfight with two Radusons at the main bar. Paul kneeled on the floor without a gun in his hand, looking down the receiving end of the blond man’s gun. Jericho went to aim his gun and save Paul, when three bouncers grabbed him from behind. They managed to bring his body to the ground and started a futile attempt to hurt him. Jericho didn’t get to see the blond man empty his clip into Paul’s chest; the last few bullets just shot into thin air after Paul disappeared.

  Michael and the two Radusons took turns popping up behind opposite ends of the bar shooting at each other. Michael had miscounted, and pulled the trigger of an empty gun on his last turn. The click resonated over the music still playing. The two Radusons stood up from behind the bar, understanding that sound. They started to smile.

  They jumped over the bar’s counter, into the actual bar, still grinning. The two did not take too much time, just in Michael’s senses everything happened a little slower. He backed up from them, as the two Radusons aimed their guns from inside the bar. Michael noticed the broken bottles of alcohol on the island and inside the bar and thought fast. He took out his Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket and threw it at the bar. The two Radusons flinched at first. When they saw it was only a lighter, they laughed and reaimed—then everything went a flambé. The lighter skimmed off the top of the bar and landed in a puddle of broken tequila bottles on the floor inside. The flame rushed along the alcohol like it was gasoline, and soon the entire bar started to burn. The two Radusons got caught in the fire and burned right up; then they dissolved.

  Jericho continued to struggle with the bouncers. The biggest bouncer laid on top of him as the two others kicked him in his ribs. He threw the big one off of him, and slapped the one to his left making him keel over. When he turned to his right the third bouncer, Ed, stabbed him with a switchblade and ripped it down his chest.

  “You ruined my shirt,” Jericho said.

  With Ed staring at him, Jericho ripped the knife out of his chest. Ed watched with disbelieving eyes as the large wound in Jericho’s chest healed right before him. The skin regenerated like boiling wax hardening, and soon the chest looked unscathed, no trace of the wounds. Jericho smiled, letting the shock of these events freeze him.

  “Now run.”

  Ed ran to the other two bouncers who were now getting to their feet. He got them to follow him to the back of the VIP where there was a hidden exit that every employee was aware of. Jericho turned back to the main floor and found the blond man—Smythe—approaching Michael from behind. Michael was busy looking for the rest of his comrades, unaware of him. Jericho jumped off the banister and crashed onto Smythe before he could get a clean shot at Michael. When he landed, his guns fell out of his jacket.

  Get your guns—he checked; he found nothing but leather—I’m dead.

  The blond killer with clear, grey eyes and darkness in his soul smiled; he saw the look of disorder on Jericho’s face. The empty hands coming out of Jericho’s jacket said whatever was left to be said. He brought his Uzi up toward Jericho and howled a wide laugh. Jericho, the perfect solider, never took his eyes off his enemy to look for his weapons. That was why he was able to see a way out.

  Smythe had the audacity to get himself a silver—he hoped it was silver—bar piercing in his tongue. Jericho jumped at that possibility. He punched his hand into Smythe’s open, laughing mouth. Smythe fell over from the impact of the punch and Jericho fell on top of him. While on top of Smythe, Jericho ripped his tongue out. It felt like digging out a damp bunch of weeds. Dark, recycled blood sprayed out of his mouth. The quick pain did not freeze Smythe’s actions as much as
seeing what Jericho was up to. At the last second he understood.

  Jericho, with his fist holding the pierced tongue, punched Smythe in the chest; crashing through his rib cage like it was made of wicker. The tongue-less Smythe disappeared with a disbelieving look on his face.

  “It fucking worked,” Jericho said with no longer anyone underneath him. Then a hand grabbed Jericho’s shoulder. From the feel of the grip, he knew the owner was on his side.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Michael said. “Everyone’s dead. All of them, and the rest of us.”

  They got up and looked into each other’s eyes like two friends finding each other for the first time after so many years. They looked to the entrance. Going against the wave of hysterical people trying to escape, came four London cops toward them. Jericho and Michael turned and ran through the large, stained-glass, second floor windows.

  Pieces of blue, white, and red glass shattered onto the cobblestone street below. The sharp glass appeared to roll right off them. Seconds later the cops got to the broken window. When they looked out, they saw no trace of them. It was a fifteen foot fall. No human could take that jump in stride and run out of sight that quickly.

  “What the hell happened here?” one of the cops asked.

  “I don’t know,” another one said. “Something unholy.”

  TWO

  1

  The peaceful green grass of England’s backcountry welcomed the full moonlight. The sky had a bluish-black tone, not too soon before midnight. The rolling hills of this farmland were so common that on this estate no level land existed for more than thirty yards. On the farm were animals—a few cows, chickens, horses, and sheep. This landscape appeared to be the kind that would only attract calm, peaceful people. People not looking for trouble, but just to relax.

  Two figures in black leapt into the fenced in area that held the animals. Passing a few cows, they ran deeper into the middle of the farmland. They reached the hill where the sheep slept outside. They grabbed a sheep each, and continued their stride like receiving a hand-off. They sat down under a lone tree on top of a hill. The sheep struggled to get free, but these two had more than enough strength to contain them. They were stronger than mortal men. They were blood suckers, immortals, beings with superpowers—vampires. They existed, and the way they actually lived would surprise most human beings. But true to the myths, they still did need blood—warm blood. Blood from a mammal, preferably a human, but these sheep would do the trick.

  Michael slashed his sheep’s jugular with his fingernails so that it bled faster. He drank the blood aggressively, as if it was his first drink in days. His hair got some blood caught in it as he gulped his meal. Jericho lied on the ground with a dead sheep drained of almost all of its blood on its side next to him.

  “Remember that shit about missing the hell?” Jericho said looking up at the stars with a euphoric look in his eyes, like a college student peaking from an acid trip.

  “Yeah, what the fuck were we thinking?” Michael said between gulps.

  “We lost a lot of good men tonight.” Jericho sat up.

  “They lost a lot of theirs. What do you think this is going to mean about the meeting?”

  “It means the same as before—nothing. Nothing is going to change. The meeting is going to be another failed attempt at peace. I’m going to call him.”

  “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “He never is.”

  Jericho took out his BlackBerry. Vampires have to stay organized. He called the first number on his speed dial. After two rings, a voice on the other end spoke.

  “Jericho how is your vacation?” the voice on the other line asked.

  “Interesting. Matt, Paul and Jake are dead.”

  “You ran into some of our friends?”

  “Yeah, they were at the same club. We took out all of them.”

  “You never take out all of them.”

  “I know. Look we’re going to have to leave a few hours earlier…like right now.”

  “Innocents?”

  “A few, it happens.”

  “I understand. Where are you now?”

  “Well it’s just Michael and me. We are at a farm in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Ok, you guys sit tight, recharge and relax. I will call you after I have the arrangements.”

  The line on the other end went dead.

  “What did he say?” Michael asked, dropping his sheep that was of no more use to him.

  “He’ll call back in a little while and let us know where we have to go.”

  “How many more of them do you think are in the area?”

  “It’s Europe, it’s their town.”

  “And now they know we were here. They’re going to be upset.”

  “Fuck ‘em. As long as we get this information back, than this trip and the lives it cost, will not be in vain.”

  Jericho turned and looked over the hill, to the farmhouse itself. He heard something far off in the distance.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “No, but I see it.”

  Jericho looked again and noticed two pairs of lights, one on top of the other, little white circles making their way toward them. It sounded like a truck.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jericho said.

  “Oh…It’s probably just the guy who owns the place. Let’s stay, I need some fresh blood.”

  “You just had a whole fucking sheep.” Jericho looked at him, asking: you can’t be serious about this. Killing innocents was not their way, but there were always a few who broke that important rule. Those caught were not given a second chance to make the same mistake again.

  “I’m kidding, don’t look at me with doubt.”

  “It just wasn’t funny—it’s not our way.”

  “Not his way.”

  “Which makes it our way; look I’m getting out of here, you coming?”

  The headlights approached closer. The type of vehicle it was could now be identified. The old pick-up truck was about seventy yards back and gaining.

  “Let’s go, there’s been enough witnesses for one night,” Jericho continued.

  The truck now was about forty yards away. A swift WHOOFT came through the air and Michael was hit with an arrow in his calf. He didn’t flinch in pain. It was like a pin prick to him.

  “What the fuck,” Michael said as he pulled the arrow out of him and looked at the arrowhead. “An arrow.”

  “This isn’t like the US, you know England’s got real strict rules when it comes to gun ownership. Is the head silver?”

  “No, no risk.”

  “Still let’s get the hell out of here.”

  These farmers did not have the means to kill them, but the vampires also feared the two in the truck identifying them as more than human. Having to clean up loose ends would not be good for the farmers’ sake.

  “Look, I’m getting out of here, you’re on your own,” Jericho said.

  Another arrow came from the truck, just missing them.

  “I’m with you, let’s go.”

  The two ran away from the truck and toward a group of trees about a hundred yards away.

  “If we can get to those trees, we can get away without them seeing anything,” Jericho said.

  They ran at their fastest speed, which was about fifty miles per hour. The truck moved at faster than seventy. It would catch up to them before they could make it to the trees. Jericho’s phone rang in his jacket.

  “We’re in trouble here. Where do you want us to go?”

  “The jet’s at Gatwick Airport. It’ll be fueled and waiting by the time you get there; James is there too. You just have to make it there. It’s at gate 13, remember it has 5632H on it. Look for that.”

  “All right thanks, I have to go.”

  The truck had gotten within twenty yards of them, and they were about fifty yards from the trees.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Michael said.

  “Do what I do.”

&
nbsp; The truck got within ten yards of them. The man in the passenger seat, the farmer’s teenage son, stuck the top half of his body out of the truck. He aimed his bow well. He was sure he would not miss with his next shot. It would be better for him if he missed. The vampires would not be able to leave witnesses who saw men take an arrow to the neck and then kept on running. Above all else, the vampires had to keep their secret safe, and they were actually running for the sake of those in the truck, not their own. The son started to release his grip on the arrow to let it fly. Jericho quickly raised his gun and fired one shot at the windshield, missing both passengers, just as he intended. Both passengers flinched. When they looked back up there was no one in front of them.

  “What the bloody hell?” the kid said.

  “Shite!” his father screamed, and then slammed on the brakes. The truck stopped less then a foot away from two big trees. The two farmers got out; searched for any sign of the trespassers. They found nothing.

  “Where the hell do you think they went?” asked the father.

  “I don’t know, do you think you might have run them over?”

  “Definitely not. Did you see what they did to those bloody sheep? What the hell kind of people were they?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I don’t like this.”

  “Son,” the father sensed a tickle of fear, “get back in the car.”

  The two of them got into the truck, backed up, and drove away. Against the full moon, two bat-like figures flew across its image.