by J. Thorn
Dax ran for the shed where the biker gang had been sleeping. He grabbed one of the old red gas cans as he moved and felt at least a gallon or two sloshing around inside. With the lighter in one hand, Dax used his other to empty the gasoline onto the ground in front of the door. He bent down then and lit the fuel, stepping back as the flames came to life and engulfed the shed. Dax listened as the creatures inside wailed when the flames and the heat took over, the fire consuming their flesh.
When the Screamers fell silent, Dax walked back toward the front of the gas station. In the morning, at least he’d have his pick of the best motorcycle to ride—a biker gang of one.
14
The morning sun rose on the horizon, the rays already warming his face when Dax brought the motorcycle to a stop on the side of the road. He’d followed the signs for Highway 49, only briefly riding on the interstate and avoiding downtown Jackson, Mississippi.
Where Dax had pulled over on the stretch of empty highway, there were no sign of gas stations or houses. Just trees and the open road. He dropped the kickstand and dismounted from the bike, needing a moment to rest his aching back.
Looking both ways, Dax contemplated his next move.
Any doubt surrounding his “special abilities” had died with the Screamer crew sent to find him. A Master by the name of Bronwyn had sent a group of evolved vampires after him. They had been a different kind of creature than he’d encountered before, too—able to hide the glow in their eyes and survive during the day. How was Dax supposed to tell human allies apart from advanced Screamers? Dax made a mental note to ask Papa Midnight the next time the old man appeared in one of his dreams.
At least the Master’s biker gang hadn’t wanted to kill him. Dean had even told him that he’d been given orders from Bronwyn to bring him back alive. As corny as it sounded in his head, Dax had killed the messengers. They had belonged to her. What would she do when she found out he had destroyed her disguised band of bikers? Would Bronwyn send out more of her minions, or would she come after Dax herself?
These questions led Dax back to the one he’d been asking himself for the last couple of days.
What am I supposed to do?
Dax felt torn between his responsibilities. On the one hand, he had to protect the children—Monica, Kevin, Anthony, Kim, and Kanesha. God willing, he hoped that they were still out there somewhere. Dax couldn’t let anything happen to them. He had enough death on his hands already. The children needed him, and he was all they had left.
But the world needed him, too. If Papa Midnight was correct, this Angel he’d mentioned was the key to everything. Dax still didn’t know what it meant, but he felt that if he could find the Angel, it could help him end the vampire’s reign of terror.
And despite all of this, Dax still didn’t understand why this burden had fallen on his shoulders personally.
Yet, it seemed that didn’t matter, and he might never find the answer. He was an important weapon in this war, and he owed it to himself, the children, and all of humanity to be responsible and fulfill his duty—something he had fallen short of in his previous life, which had itself led to his incarceration.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to make any difficult decisions now. Whether he decided to save the children or to look for the Angel, both were to the north according to Papa Midnight. He smiled as he looked back at the Harley.
“At least I’m enjoying the ride.”
He got back onto the bike and revved the engine, the rumble of the pistons reverberating across the Mississippi Delta. Dax had never been much of a motorcycle guy, but riding the Harley down the open highway had relieved some of his stress.
And with a big decision looming, he hoped the highway would provide him with answers, as well.
15
Dax rode for miles without seeing another person. The Mississippi highways seemed to run through sparse land, but despite his not seeing many towns, he passed a church every few miles. And, for some reason, one in particular caught his eye.
He pulled over and set his feet on the ground, keeping the bike idling—just in case. Looking to the west, he noticed that he’d only have a few more hours of daylight. Though he hadn’t seen any Screamers since his encounter with the biker gang, Dax had already decided not to risk it by riding at night.
Surveying the land, Dax dropped the bike into first gear. The church sat back at least a quarter of a mile from the road, and a dirt path running through tall grass snaked to the front door, which was painted red. He inched up the dirt path with the intention of keeping the bike hidden behind the grass for however long he stayed.
The church’s white, wooden siding had turned smoke-gray, some of the paint peeling like heavy snowflakes. The roof sagged at the edges, and the steeple burned orange with rust. Someone had boarded the windows up also, and judging by the color of the plywood, this had been done long before the Blackout.
As Dax rode along the dirt path, he listened for any noise coming from inside. He heard nothing but the low rumble of the engine and the wind rustling the tall grass surrounding the church and swallowing the old, overgrown graveyard on the grounds.
He parked the bike behind the church, deciding it was best to hide it around back rather than out front, despite the tall grass. This way, the bike wouldn’t be visible from the road, and it would be hidden from anyone who might approach through the trees behind the church. He then walked back around front, going around the other side this time, listening again.
The front door had not been boarded like the windows, which seemed a bit strange. He grabbed the handle, finding that the door was locked.
He walked over to one of the nearby windows and then pushed on the plywood with some force. The panel crumbled, the wood loose and rotten. Grabbing his flashlight, he turned it on and shined it inside the church. It appeared to be clear, so Dax hopped through the window.
The wooden floorboards groaned when his feet landed. He shined the flashlight around. The pews remained, but with white drop cloths covering them, although these had slid from several to partially expose the finished wood. White drop cloths had been spread over other items in the church, too, including the altar and wall hangings. It appeared to Dax as though this congregation had been renovating, but the church had died like the rest of the world—its corpse left to rot in the cruel Mississippi summer.
Dax walked down the center aisle, shining his light around the inside of the church. He stopped halfway to the altar and gazed up at the wall to see that one of the drop cloths had slid off of a painting. With his flashlight, he illuminated the face of Jesus, the prophet standing on top of a mountain with his hands spread wide.
“You been watching what’s been going on down here from that mountain top?” Dax asked the painting.
No reply.
He continued down the center aisle, stopping in front of the altar. He stepped up and yanked at the corner of the drop cloth that had been covering it. A squeak startled him as it fell, and he jumped as he turned around and flashed the light on the floor. A rat was scurrying, and Dax followed it with the flashlight beam until it disappeared behind the altar.
“God damn,” he mumbled to himself, breathing heavily. He glanced back up to the painting of Jesus. “Sorry.”
To his right, a door led to a wing that looked like it had been added to the structure recently. He’d noticed this addition when he’d walked around the church, and the way it jutted out from the back corner of the building. The paint on the wooden siding of it hadn’t faded or peeled as it had on the rest of the church.
Dax stepped down from the altar and walked toward the door.
On his way, he flashed the light into the first pew, and he noticed something. Sticking out from beneath the drop cloth sat a backpack. Dax sat down in the pew and unzipped the main compartment. When he flashed the light inside, his eyes went wide—three cans of mixed nuts, several bags of beef jerky, and two large bottles of water.
He unscrewed a bottlecap and downed hal
f of one bottle without taking a breath. The water tasted stale and warm, but that didn’t slow him down. Next, Dax picked up a bag of the beef jerky and tore it open, which was when his mind finally caught up with his stomach.
What is this stuff doing here?
The door closest to the altar opened then, the knob slamming into the wall behind it. Three people emerged from the darkness. Dax stood up and shined the light on them—all young women.
Dax immediately raised his hands, pointing the light at the ceiling. He started to move down the aisle, but the three women surrounded him, knocking him into a seated position with his back pinned against the pew.
At first, Dax thought they looked like a typical group of friends after a night of clubbing. He guessed their ages to be in the mid-20s or early 30s, and they all wore black clothing and dark make-up. The woman closest to him had auburn hair with blonde streaks flaring out from her temples. To her left stood a thin but muscular blonde with almond-shaped eyes and the sides of her head shaved clean. On the redhead’s right stood a black girl with long braids and a sneer on her face that could have cut steel.
“Look, I’m not here to hurt anyone,” Dax said. “There’s a knife on my waist, and that’s the only weapon I have. Feel free to take it. How did you get in here? The place was boarded up.”
The women didn’t respond. They simply stared at him.
“Okay. I’ll be on my way now.” Dax stood up, but the women pushed him back into the pew.
Remembering how the bikers had tricked him, he looked into their eyes. Was it possible they were Screamers? But then he remembered the backpack and what he’d found inside of it. It didn’t seem necessary for Screamers to hide their identity with the use of food and water they didn’t need. Despite the women’s silence and their stone-faced expressions, he had a hunch that they were human—warriors, even. Like him.
“It’s clear you don’t want me here,” Dax said. “I’ll leave.”
He stood again, assuming that now they would let him go. The redhead—the woman closest to Dax—growled at him.
Dax stared at her and laughed. “Listen, I think there’s a—”
The fist entered his field of vision in a blur and Dax heard the punch before he felt it. He slid down in the pew as blood gushed from his nose.
He blinked the tears away in time to see all three women coming at him.
16
Ambrose held court on the third floor of the mansion. Since the flooding, it had become the second floor. Two guards stood outside the door while two more flanked the sprawling mahogany desk he sat behind. The vaulted ceilings stretched up into darkness while painted portraits of men from the 1700s and 1800s hung on the walls. Ambrose didn’t know them. And he didn’t care to.
He couldn’t remember the last time the world’s four most powerful Master vampires had stood together within the same four walls. And as Ambrose hosted the detente, he had the power to set the agenda. He’d decided to meet with each of the Masters separately before bringing them all together.
Jaraca, the leader of South America, was to be first.
Of the three, she felt the least threatening. Jaraca had survived many generations, being a descendant of an Imperial Incan king. But the South American faction had evolved differently, mostly in isolation because they had survived in a thin strip of land between the Atlantic Ocean and Andes Mountains. Jaraca’s descendants simply hadn’t had the benefit of trade with other civilizations, as other factions had in ancient Europe and Asia. Geography and climate made it easier for ideas to travel east to west on the continents.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Ambrose signaled his two guards to open the door.
The double doors swung open and Jaraca marched toward him with two of her own guards following her. She wore a white fur coat and had her dark hair bundled on the top of her head.
Jaraca walked to the center of the room and then stopped.
“Welcome,” Ambrose said. “Please, have a seat.”
“I would prefer to stand,” Jaraca said. “In fact, where I come from, it is rude to remain seated when a guest enters the room.”
Ambrose smiled and stood up. He bowed to her.
“I meant no disrespect.”
Jaraca sneered. “This whole process has been disrespectful. You bring us here to this filthy place, and then you make us wait around until you’re ready to see us? You treat us like nothing but servants.” She thumped her right fist on the middle of her chest. “I demand some respect.”
“I am sorry you feel that way. But again, I meant no disrespect.” Ambrose decided to change the subject. “I take it your journey was fine?”
“Oh, cut the small talk. Why am I here without the other two Masters?”
“I thought it would be best if I met with each of you individually before we gather together. This way, I can see to your specific needs before we negotiate.”
“I need nothing from you.”
Ambrose grinned. Her tough attitude did little to hide her insecurities. She knew her place in the pecking order of the Masters.
“That’s not entirely true,” Ambrose said. “You do need something from me.”
“And what is that?”
Ambrose stepped out from behind the mahogany monstrosity. He adjusted his coat, and then sat down on the top of the desk.
“You are aware that the one who has been prophesized is near, correct?”
“Of course. Why else do you think I’m here?”
“Then you must understand that he cannot be defeated alone.”
“Nonsense,” Jaraca said. “He is nothing but a weak human.”
“Now, you know as well as I do that that is not true. He is the one with the ability to destroy us in our hidden lairs. The ancient text says as much. And he has already killed my most powerful henchman.”
“Deservingly so.”
Ambrose narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I know what your slave did. He destroyed Jing’s top lieutenant. You think you won’t have to answer for that? Jing is downstairs right now, itching to come up here and rip your throat out.”
“Killing that lieutenant was an unfortunate accident—not what I had planned. But we have bigger problems now. If the human succeeds, we all perish. He will hunt us down, one by one, murdering us in our secret lairs. We must show unity and convince both Jing and Bronwyn that we all need each other. First, we must all band together to capture the human, and then we can collectively decide what to do with him.”
Jaraca bit her lip as she stared at him. “Say I help you. What is in it for me?”
“The same thing that is ‘in it’ for all of us. We destroy the only force in this world that can harm us. We rule the human race and breed them to feed us for all eternity.”
Jaraca was silent as she contemplated what Ambrose had said to her. And before she could speak, he answered the question rolling around inside of her head.
“You cannot win.”
“What?” Jaraca asked. She put her hands on her hips and her lips twisted into a snarl.
“Stop playing games with me. We both know that you are at a disadvantage. Your powers have not evolved to my level, or Jing’s or Bronwyn’s. Not only that, but your army is smaller, as well.”
Jaraca turned to face her guards, both of whom looked at the floor.
Ambrose shook his head. “It’s time for you to swallow your pride and allow me to lead this campaign, or you and your followers are going to die a painful, final death.”
Jaraca stared at him, and was shaking her head when their meeting was interrupted.
17
Bronwyn strutted into the room with her chin up and a swagger in her step. She ignored the guards at the door, who didn’t try stopping her. She noticed there were two more of Ambrose’s thugs standing on each side of a mahogany desk, and two of Jaraca’s guards flanked her.
Taking in the scene, Bronwyn studied the room and smiled. The decor was tacky—so amusing, when Americans
tried to give their interior design a European flair. And she had seen evidence of plenty of failed attempts within this city founded by French explorers. While many of the customs and the architectural style had come from France, though, most of the modern design came off as a shabby imitation.
Turning her attention away from the gaudy chandelier hanging from the ceiling, Bronwyn moved to the center of the room and stood behind Jaraca. Ambrose sat on top of the desk, running his hand through his gray hair. Although the North American Master appeared to be the oldest of the four of them, he was not—Bronwyn was. She had been turned while in her early 30s, so she got to keep her youthful beauty for all of eternity. Ambrose, on the other hand, carried a bit too much weight. His silver hair complemented a beard that was more salt than pepper. His distinguished looks promoted an air of intelligence and wisdom, as he had been turned much later in life. The look suited him, but Bronwyn had learned how to use her porcelain skin and sultry curves to her advantage. And while Jaraca had also used a combination of feminine charm and an ample bosom, she didn’t have the same level of experience as Bronwyn.
“I have not called for you yet, Bronwyn,” Ambrose said.
“Yeah, well, I’m getting bored,” Bronwyn said. “Jing is too uptight for my tastes. But please, do not let me stop you two. Continue with your conversation.”
Jaraca glared at Ambrose. “We’re done.”
“Ah, so I guess you could say my timing is perfect.”
“Would you care to speak to me alone?” Ambrose asked, turning to look at Jaraca.
“There’s no need for that,” Bronwyn said, stepping closer to the two Masters. “I mean, we’re all friends here, right? Well, except for Jing.” She looked at Ambrose. “I think he wants to tear your black heart out.” She ran her index finger down his chest. “And what a shame that would be.”
“What do you want, Bronwyn?” Jaraca asked.
