Mr. Higgins abruptly body slammed me, knocking me to the carpeted floor. I thanked God that the Higgins’ had been image-conscious enough to buy really expensive and fluffy carpet. He snapped hungrily at my neck.
I will not lie. I was scared. I had a vampire on top of me trying to bite my neck, what would you expect me to be feeling? Somewhere in the living room Mrs. Higgins supported me, letting me know she was scared too by letting out an ear-splitting scream. That was mighty helpful of her. Didn’t she just pop this guy thirty minutes ago? What happened to Estrogen Rambo?
Mr. Higgins continued to snap at my neck. That’s another thing about vampires, they’re always hungry. And when they’re hungry, they can be incredibly single-minded.
I planted my right arm at his neck, holding him back momentarily, but this was not how I was intending to spend my afternoon.
Now, while I don’t necessarily go looking for supernatural trouble or any kind of trouble for that matter, that doesn’t mean I leave the office unprepared. I have a long history of people trying to kill me, most notably former co-workers.
I carried a .45 Colt, Gold Cup series, strapped to my back in a comfortable leather holster, a gift from my neglectful father who abandoned my mother and me when I was thirteen. Here, son, I don’t really love you, but here’s a .45-caliber to always remember me by. Consequently, it has become my best friend, my confidant, and my license to kick butt. It was also digging into my back at this particular moment as Mr. Higgins shoved me against the carpet, his hands dangerously twisting my fine leather jacket to the point of tearing.
Mrs. Higgins screamed again and something fell to the ground, shattering.
Mr. Higgins managed to nip at my neck, a rather painful experience. The tips of his fangs grazed my unprotected flesh and, I do believe, drew blood.
I wrapped my left leg around his and shifted my body weight. We rolled and Higgins ended up beneath me. His neatly manicured hand swiped at my head.
I reached around and pulled out the Colt, clicking off the safety. Shooting someone was really not as difficult as some people would like you to believe, especially in a heated and frantic moment such as this. It was rather like operating a mouse, just point and click, only the click was replaced with more of a BAM. Oh, sure, there can be moral issues to deal with later, but when dealing with the undead that stuff tends to fall by the wayside. Again, I’m speaking from much unwanted experience here.
So, to use a popular phrase, I pumped the dude’s head full of bullets. Four, to be exact. The upside to shooting someone who’s already dead, there’s less of a chance of any messy blood spraying all over you. Like now. See, no blood, Ma! Higgins flopped back and he was out cold. This, of course, would not kill him, but at least he wouldn’t be trying to bite me for the next ten or fifteen minutes.
I paused a moment, kneeling there above Mr. Higgins’s body, my gun still pointed at his head, just in case. But he seemed to be down for this round.
I breathed a sigh of relief, something I do far more than I would like to, and got to my feet. I checked the spot on my neck where he bit me. There was only a tiny spot of blood, nothing more. No need to visit Roberto at the Emergency Room.
I noticed that the vase with the floral prints had fallen and now lay on the floor, broken into tiny pieces like a jigsaw puzzle designed by some evil, sadistic puzzler.
“Mrs. Higgins!” I called out. I really didn’t want to go looking for her. I mean, what if she had some werewolf lying around here?
There was a brief moment where the only sound was that of my beating heart and that was pounding like a race horse. Then Mrs. Higgins’s head peeked out from around the doorway that the vase had been next to. Her hair was still perfect looking, bouncing ever so slightly, but her face was a mess. Her makeup had smeared all over. It was one of the more terrifyingly hideous things I had witnessed during my career as a PI, and keep in mind I just wrestled a vampire.
I pointed at her husband with my piece. “Your husband’s a vampire,” I said, which in any other situation would have sounded stupid. Here, however, it was a statement of fact reiterated just in case someone had been sleeping during class.
She nodded her head slowly, still peeking out from behind the doorway and was, in fact, looking at Mr. Higgins and not me.
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I suppose he is.”
A moment of awkward silence passed between us.
“Okay, so here’s the situation,” I said, “I don’t deal with dead or undead people.”
Mrs. Higgins’s squinted eyes flashed back and forth between me and her undead husband. “But that short little man at the bakery said . . .” her voice predictably trailed off. Having one’s undead husband lying in the living room would do that to you, I suppose.
By “short little man at the bakery” I could only assume she was referring to Giggles.
“You should stick to my motto,” I replied, “Never trust anyone under four feet.”
“But, my husband, he’s a . . .”
“Yes,” I nodded. “He’s a vampire.”
“But, he’s, and you’re . . .”
“I’m a private investigator. It says so on my business cards,” I pulled one from my jacket. “See, Alex Cheradon, Private Investigator. Not Alex Cheradon, Vampire Slayer. Which means I investigate private matters and such. Now, I know it’s going to require a bit of adjustment, but I’m sure the two of you can work this out. Besides, I’ve been told that vampires have an incredible amount of stamina, so I’m sure your love life will at least improve.”
“But, but, you have to do something!” she screeched.
“No, technically I don’t. Although I can recommend several fine and competent slayers in this fair city. They do charge quite a bit, but this is vampire slaying we’re talking about here.”
“But, but, but—” she stammered frantically.
Now, before I go any further, I have to clear up this one fact, just in case there’s any confusion. I am a PI. It’s not in my job description to deal with vampires or any other supernatural/demonic/evil creature that is most definitely not human. There are professionals for that sort of thing and I am not one of them. Does this make me a bad person? I don’t think so. Does it make me a practical person? Yes, I think that’s a safe definition. So it wasn’t like I was saying no to be cruel or anything. I was just being practical.
“You can’t leave me like this!” Mrs. Higgins screamed. And let me tell you, that woman had quite the set of lungs on her.
“Mrs. Higgins,” I started to say, intending to strongly reason my way out of this (It’s really not as cowardly as it sounds.) when Mr. Higgins suddenly jumped up.
I snapped my gun up, figuring that the rest of my bullets would put him down long enough for me to leave, but Mr. Higgins was a quick learner. He swatted the gun out of my hand and grabbed me by the throat. I thought he might just bite me and get it over with right then and there, but apparently he had something of a grudge after I pumped his face full of bullets. Much pain and torture was about to ensue, I could see it in what was left of his red eyes.
Higgins tossed me across the living room and my fall was broken by the bookcase. I slammed into it, breaking the shelves, and whatever knickknacks adorned them, and dropped to the floor, where the rest of the bookcase proceeded to collapse atop me, an altogether painful experience.
Mr. Higgins howled irritably. I assumed he wasn’t used to having to work this hard for a meal, which in turn begged the question: How long had he been a vampire?
Higgins leapt toward me, his hands stretched out in a claw-like fashion. Luckily however, I was lying amidst the wreckage of a wooden bookcase, along with some priceless knickknacks that were gouging my skin, but that was beside the point. My hand fumbled around the debris, searching for a sharp enough piece of the bookcase to pierce the lunging Mr. Higgins. I found one and I swung it forward, temporarily unaware of the cuts along my hand, into the general area where Mr. Higgins’s heart should be.
Higgins stopped, standing over me, all ready to chow down on what I was sure was a much needed meal for him, and looked down at the stake of wood jutting out from his chest.
Nothing still happened.
Having nothing really better to do, and also wondering why Higgins hadn’t done his magical transformation into dust, I followed his gaze.
The piece of wood had pierced his expensive, and now that I think about it, undoubtedly personally tailored suit, and lodged itself firmly in his chest. There was no burst of blood, the guy was dead after all, his heart wasn’t pumping anymore. The stake just stood there like some rebellious teenager refusing to listen to his parents.
Then I realized my mistake.
It was Formica, not wood. Cheap twits.
A Plan B would come in handy right about now . . .
Mr. Higgins overcame his sudden immobility and returned to the task of trying to drink my blood, although at this point it was probably safe to say that there was no “trying” going on here, we were down to pure “doing.”
I’d even settle for a Plan C, if I had one.
Mr. Higgins’s hands came down and reasserted themselves around my throat. He hoisted me up into the air, my feet dangling a clear foot off the ground. I heard some surviving knickknacks break; they sounded as though they were made from either glass or porcelain. I hoped they were expensive family heirlooms.
Forget plans, divine intervention, heck, any kind of intervention would be nice. Like maybe the A-Team bursting through the front door, or better yet, Captain Kirk beaming in with the nifty problem solve-all, a phaser.
I noticed my air was cut off as Mr. Higgins tightened his grip, closing in for his final bite. At this point my life would have flashed before my eyes, and maybe it did, but the lack of air was a little distracting, so there was a good chance I missed it.
So, I did the first thing that popped into my mind, aside from wanting to take Giggles with me when I died, and slammed my fists into his ears. It was a weak move, but it was enough to irritate him to the point where he wasn’t focusing on my blood. His grip around my throat loosened and the air returned, making the thinking and planning process a lot easier. I swung my knee forward, digging the Formica stake deeper into Higgins’s chest. It didn’t really do anything, except irritate him further, but that was okay, my thinking process still hadn’t cleared up. And besides, at his point I would go for just about anything. Like a giant battle-axe, a cold refreshing beverage, or even Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I swung my feet back and then forward, knocking firmly into Higgins’s chest. He teetered briefly, his grip on my neck disappearing as his balance became his primary concern. A Plan B was quickly forming in my mind: Run away. Run far away.
I dashed across the living room and through the doorway Mrs. Higgins had been peeking around. It led to a short hallway that ended in what looked like the kitchen. Unfortunately however, Mrs. Higgins stood there blocking my path. Would it be considered self-defense if I killed her?
“Is he dead?” she asked, her nasal voice quivering with each word.
“Yes, of course, he’s dead,” I replied as a howl rose up from the living room. “He’s a vampire! In order to be a vampire, you need to be dead!”
“But, the—the bookcase,” she stammered.
“Is Formica!” I shouted. Mr. Higgins replied with his own shout.
I turned around and saw the remarkably robust(For a dead guy anyway.)Mr. Higgins barreling down the hallway.
I whirled back around to Mrs. Higgins. “Sharp, big, something, NOW!”
My request was greeted with a scream. This is why I don’t like the supernatural.
Mr. Higgins grabbed me by my sorely abused coat collar and slammed me face first into the wall. It hurt. Much.
As the plaster ground into my teeth I noticed the borders. They were a deep mahogany. I bet they were real wood.
If I got out of this alive, Giggles was a dead man.
I twisted around and slammed my fist into Higgins’s face. Not the best offense against a vampire, but it bought me a couple of seconds.
I pushed Mrs. Higgins down the hallway and we stumbled into a large kitchen. There was white tile, light brown cabinets, undoubtedly made from real wood—or were they? It even had one of those stoves/countertops in the center of the room. Always thought those were kind of stylish.
Large, heavy pans hung above the stove. The real expensive kind.
I heard Mr. Higgins behind us.
I rushed forward and grabbed the biggest pan and swung it around as Mr. Higgins burst into the kitchen.
When I was in Little League, I had a heck of an arm before I broke it during a fight with Steven Kirston Jr. over who was going to play centerfield. After that I was good for about one or two swings, depending really on the weather, and then my arm would go out.
That’s pretty much stayed consistent over the years.
The pan connected solidly with the side of Higgins’s head. The dead flesh tore easily and Mr. Higgins’s head went a-flying.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, falls under the category of beheading. Hasta la vista, baby.
Mr. Higgins and his now separated head were both dust in seconds.
I set the pan down and leaned against the counter, taking a deep breath.
Mrs. Higgins stared in the direction her husband’s head had flown.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and said, “You know, this would have been a lot easier if you had just told me over the phone that your husband was a vampire.”
“Would you have brought wooden stakes?” she asked, not looking away from the head’s path.
“No,” I replied, “I would have turned you down and saved myself some gas.”
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FRUITBASKET FROM HELL
The Alex Cheradon Series Continues In:
A IS FOR AMNESIA, B IS FOR BULLET
LITTLE PEOPLE, BIG CRIMES
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****
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Krumbine is the author behind the pulse pounding, wisecracking Alex Cheradon Series, the high concept Christian fantasy "Heaven's Superhero", and the tongue-in-cheek paranormal romance "A Graveyard Romance." He can be reached at www.jasonkrumbine.com, [email protected] or on twitter @jasonkrumbine..
Also by Jason Krumbine
http://www.jasonkrumbine.com/
http://twitter.com/#/jasonkrumbine
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AMAZON US LINKS
The Alex Cheradon Series:
Fruitbasket from Hell
A is for Amnesia, B is for Bullet
Little People, Big Crimes
Reapers in Heels
One Stiletto in the Grave
Rupert & Me
Tales From Under the Desk
Holy Words from Under Desk
Dear Rupert
Other Books
Just Dial 911 for Assistance
Explorers of the Unknown
Heaven’s Superhero: The Third Creation
Outlawed Love
A Graveyard Romance
AMAZON UK LINKS
The Alex Cheradon Series:
Fruitbasket from Hell
A is for Amnesia, B is for Bullet
Little People, Big Crimes
Reapers in Heels
One Stiletto in the Grave
Rupert & Me
Tales From Under the Desk
Holy Words from Under Desk
Dear Rupert
Other Books
Just Dial 911 for Assistance
Explorers of the Unknown
Heaven’s Superhero: The Third Creation
Outlawed Love
A Graveyard Romance
>
Jason Krumbine, One Stiletto in the Grave (Reapers in Heels)
One Stiletto in the Grave (Reapers in Heels) Page 16
