by David Teves
THE HUNTERS
By
David Teves
© David Teves, 2011
There are no vampires living in Gilroy, California, the garlic capital of the world, and that's precisely why I settled here. Gilroy's a small town, you see, though it's a taste bigger now than when I first arrived four years ago. It's about thirty miles south of San Jose, and just east of the Pacific mountain range that separates it from the tonier communities of Santa Cruz and Monterey that lie along the coast.
It's a farm town, plain and simple. Nothing special. But like I said before, it's the garlic capital of the world, and for me that makes it paradise. On thousands of acres surrounding the town, garlic's everywhere you turn your head or sniff your nose. Why, they even have a festival every year to celebrate the smelly herb. Thousands come from all over the nation, though what they see in things like garlic ice cream and garlic jam is beyond me. The important thing is that vampires hate garlic, and that's what makes this town so special.
Let me tell you about myself. My name is Ruben Cruz, and I'm a vampire hunter; a retired one that is. When my father passed the mantle on to me more than forty years ago, he warned that vampire hunting was a young man's game, and that there would come a time when I would have to hang up my wooden stake, so to speak.
"God means a vampire hunter to track and kill only a finite number of the undead, Ruben," he explained. "It's a thankless job, because it's a task that will never be completed. The undead will forever walk this earth, I'm sad to say. You'll never get them all. The best you can hope for is to cut a few out of the herd, and make damn sure vampirism doesn't become epidemic. That's all that God asks for."
Then my father's face turned cold. "And when your task is finished, you will have to find a safe place to spend the rest of your days, for the vampires will never let you rest. Once you have their blood on your hands you are a marked man, and once you stop being the hunter, it's just a matter of time before you become the hunted. You will have to find a place of your own, son. Someplace safe, someplace secret, someplace where you can live out your life in peace."
There was no hint of sadness that this terrible legacy was being passed on to his only son. It was a simple fact of life, something I had known all my life, a fact that had taken on its own reality since I was eighteen and was taken on my first kill. It was a job passed on to me like any other trade. My grandfather had been a vampire hunter too, and it had been so in my family going back countless generations.
As was the custom, on his sixtieth birthday my father left me, taking my mother to a place he had found. It was a tearful goodbye, but not unexpected. I had known from an early age that the hiding place could not be revealed, not to anyone. It was a place that would forever remain a secret. I would never see my parents again...
Over the years I grew thankful they had left me, for I'm sure I would have been a disappointment to my father. I was willing to take my place in the family business, but unlike the generations before me, I produced no heir. Don't get me wrong; it wasn't as if I didn't try. I've had a string of lady friends during my life, but none of them approved of my nomad ways, and none of them slipped up and gave me a child. I'm afraid that the Cruz branch of the vampire hunting industry has come to a dead end, so to speak.
But all this doesn't mean I ignored my duties. Before I retired I had more than forty kills to my credit. Not a record to be sure, but a respectable amount for a man hunting a most elusive prey. At least it earned me enough to retire.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. I can see the question turning around in your mind like a beacon: how does a vampire hunter earn his money? Well, the simple truth is that there's a bounty for each kill, similar to what they pay a tracker who hunts down a rogue mountain lion. This particular bounty is paid by an ancient, secret trust fund that provides for those chosen to carry out this work. I can't give you the specifics, but it's fair to say that when the killing was completed, I had a sizable nest egg, not enough to make me rich but enough to insure my comfort. Now all I needed was a place to go.
I came to Gilroy.
Not long after I arrived here, I was glad to discover I wasn't alone. Looking back on it, it made sense. If I could figure out that Gilroy would be a suitable hiding place, so would others, and as it turned out there were three other retired vampire hunters living in the town. Gilroy, it seemed, had a long history as a haven for vampire hunters.
Ferris Colegate is the oldest of our little group at seventy-five. He's been here fifteen years and told me there were others, now passed on, living here when he first discovered the town. Carl Winters and his identical twin brother, Quentin, are seventy and have been hiding out in Gilroy for over ten years. Me, at sixty-four I'm the youngest. That makes me the baby of our sad little troop.
I suppose you're wondering how we discovered each other. I mean there's no Royal Order of the Vampire Hunter's Lodge to join or anything like that. Oh, we all know from an early age that there are others like us, and occasionally we cross paths. I've gotten to know a couple fairly well before we went our separate ways. But vampire hunting is usually a solitary business. It's something done under the cloak of secrecy and tradition; it's the way it has to be done if you want to live long enough to enjoy your retirement.
Ferris Colegate was a widower, but after he settled here he married a Gilroy lady with a grown daughter and three grandchildren. Carl and Quentin? They're married to sisters. No, not twins. One is as skinny as a board while the other one's built for comfort, if you know what I mean. Me? I appreciate my freedom, even though freedom these days means staying within the city limits.
We all met because I've got a taste for tequila. Maybe it's part of my Mexican heritage, though my mother was full-blooded Irish and I can't rightly tell you when my ancestors left the homeland. In spite of my name, I can't speak a lick of Spanish except when ordering food. But a part of me likes tequila and some Mexican beer now and again, and once I settled in I allowed myself to do something I would have never dared in my younger days: become a regular at a bar.
Now, that might not seem like much of a revelation, but when you're a vampire hunter, being predictable can be a deadly habit. El Gato is Gilroy's best Mexican restaurant, with good food, a well-stocked bar, and pretty waitresses. It's a place where I can go on a hot Central California afternoon, nurse a drink and pretend the world is my oyster.
Ferris likes to have a drink now and again too, and that's where I met him while he was waiting for his wife to finish up shopping at Ford's department store across the street. It was one of those rare psychic connections. We looked at each other from across the bar and just knew. Next thing you know we're trading war stories and thanking God we're not out on the front lines anymore. I couldn't believe my luck! I had finally found someone else like me!
It was Ferris that told me about the twins and before you know it the four of us got together, and El Gato became our informal lodge. We were like a bunch of teenagers, enjoying the first tastes of freedom from our parents. We quickly became bowling buddies, barbecue buddies and all the rest. Ferris' wife, Eunice, even tried to hook me up with her baby sister, Bea. She's a nice lady, and I do enjoy her company, but I'm careful to keep my status as a free-lancer.
Ferris became our leader of sorts. I suppose it was because he was the oldest. He knew things about our heritage that had been a mystery to me all my life. No, I won't tell you. It's not that I don't trust you; it's just that there are others out there doing the job, keeping things safe so that you can go to the 7-11 in the middle of the night in relative safety. I wouldn't say a lick that would put them in danger. Let's just say that in spite of life's hardships, I'm proud of what I've done, and so are the others.
As I said, Carl and Quentin are identical twins,
but that's where the comparison stops.
Carl is probably the biggest bullshitter I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. I've never known a man who could talk so much about nothing in particular. I've often wondered how he had the temperament to be a vampire hunter. He's more like a chatty auto mechanic, the type of man who loves to have dirty fingernails and an audience that will listen to him yammer on about his views of the world.
Quentin is the quiet one, a perfect counterpoint to his twin. Quiet and thoughtful, he was the brains of their vampire hunting operation. These days he spends his time watching out for his brother and practicing Origami, the Japanese art of paper folding, a hobby that doesn't require dirty finger nails. Together, the two brothers boasted an impressive eighty-seven kills, mostly along the Atlantic seaboard.
"New England's the mother lode for vampire hunting, Ruben," Carl explained in his determined voice. "I bet you they've got more of them per square mile than any place on this planet. But if you want to take your chances and live out in the open, Texas is the place. I'd bet there aren't more than ten vamps in the whole state. Quentin and I spent a year there once, chasing down a bastard who didn't like the idea of having his heart pierced. It was slim pickings, I tell you."
"Maybe they don't like Country Western music," I suggested.
"I'll drink to that!" Carl replied, lifting his glass with a laugh.
We were a happy clan, and during those first four years their families became my family. We shared a lot of laughs and a few tears, and I'm not too proud to tell you it felt good. For the first time in a long time, I felt whole again, and life took on a more positive meaning.
But then Eunice got sick, and that began the whole stupid affair...
Eunice Colegate was a great woman, nine years younger than Ferris and still mighty attractive. When they first met, Ferris told her the truth about himself, and to his amazement she believed him without question. Me, I've never had the guts to tell anyone the truth. It's none of their business, and it doesn't increase the odds of finding someone warm to share the sheets with you. But Eunice, she was different. She loved Ferris right from the start and believed in him and every word he said.
Eunice liked to travel. She was gone, this way or that, for two or three months out of the year, visiting her daughter and grandchildren in Oklahoma, or going back to New England to see the change of seasons. Of course, Ferris never went with her. If he so much as got near the city limits sign out on the Monterey Highway he'd turn white as a sheet. He was much too old to chance an encounter with a vampire. It was just too risky. You see, even though they can be centuries old, vampires never age. Every year you get older and slower, but they stay young and vital--and quicker all the time. It's a little like spending your life chasing around a twenty-year-old. Hell, I guess I'd move quickly too if someone was chasing me around with an oak stake and a bottle of holy water! So you can see how Ferris wasn't going anywhere, but he also knew that Eunice had her life to live, so they reached an understanding: Eunice went on vacation with her sister while Ferris stayed home and commiserated with Quentin, Carl and I at El Gato.
Then the fine lady became ill, and by the time a diagnosis was made, the cancer had spread from her spleen and had taken over just about every corner of her body. Three months to live was what the doctor said, though we all expected he was being optimistic. Ferris, well, he was shook up good. Eunice was the love of his life, and he just took it as fact that he'd die before she did, since that's the way things usually go. But not this time.
We were at El Gato nursing a round of Coronas when Ferris told me the news. There wasn't much I could say.
"Life's dealt you a bad hand, Ferris," I offered lamely.
"That's right, Ruben, and it just isn't fair. I've seen enough pain in my life. I was hoping for a little peace, that's all. A little peace and a little love. Eunice gave that to me, but I guess God's got some other plan."
We didn't say much more. We had a few more beers and watched the clock go around a couple of times. It was almost closing time before he spoke of it again.
"She wants me to take her to the beach," he said evenly.
"Beach?"
"She asked me if I'd take her over to Carmel, just once, so she could see the sea before she dies. She honeymooned there more than forty years ago with her first husband. It means a lot to her, Ruben. She wants to see it one more time--with me."
"But you can't--"
"I know," he replied, his face drawn. "I can't go. And that fact is killing me."
"Haven't you explained the danger?"
"Sure, I've explained it, but I can't make her understand. She knows she's dying, and she can't accept my excuses. No matter what I tell her, she thinks my fears are just bullshit. She insists we'll be safely back at home long before sunset, and if I truly loved her I'd do this."
I shook my head. That was the problem with civilians. Their limited knowledge of vampires and their ways made involving yourself with them all the more dangerous. That's another reason why I remained single.
"The odds are in your favor, Ferris," I told him diplomatically. "The chances of you getting into trouble during the day are small, if you're careful."
"Careful and lucky," Ferris added.
"True," I conceded. I had made the statement out of sympathy for Eunice, but I knew full well what Ferris was feeling, and you would too if you had seen what we had during our days. "So, what are you going to do?" I asked.
Ferris was silent for a long moment, and then he sighed. "I guess I'm going to Carmel," he replied. He looked up from his beer. "Will you go with me?"
Now that was a question I hadn't considered, and I must admit it changed my thoughts on the trip entirely. No, I didn't want to go with him, but how could I refuse?
"It's crazy," I whispered.
"Carl and Quentin will go too," he added. "We're taking Carl's Travelall. It's big enough for the five of us and anything we need to take."
"That's comforting," I said sarcastically. I had a mental image of Carl's '63 International, with two-tone bumpers and New England rust covering most of its back half and that odd hole bored into the front of the hood. Carl bragged greatly about the International; claimed that if vampire hunters had a hall of fame, it would get its own display.
"When do we go?" I asked with a sigh, the image of Carl's International still dancing in my brain.
"Day after tomorrow. It's better if we go mid-week. There's less traffic to worry about, and besides...
"Besides what?"
"Eunice's getting weaker, Ruben. I don't know how long she'll last. The next time she goes into the hospital, I don't think she'll be coming out."
I spoke to the twins the next afternoon. Quentin wasn't any more excited about going to Carmel than I was, but out of respect for Ferris, he also agreed to go.
"We've got to be careful," he told me. "We've got to treat this like a hunt." Quentin looked out into the distance as if seeing a glimpse into the future. "I'm sure they know about us, Ruben," he said in a low voice, "and they're a patient bunch.”
I suspected he was being paranoid. I knew there was danger, but I didn't think there was an army of vampires waiting outside of town for four old geezers like us. But Carl was right about one thing: vampires have long memories. For years our cunning and youth had kept us alive, but we weren't young anymore. And staying so long in one place, though a blessing was also a curse. They might not be out there, but you could be sure they knew exactly where we were. The question was: what might they do about it?
Carl appeared to be unconcerned about the situation we were being thrown into. He seemed happy to have a chance to take his International on a trip. He had hauled the junker, which he affectionately called Elvis, all the way to Gilroy on the back of a flat-bed and then had spent his spare time lovingly rebuilding the V-8 engine and transmission and putting the rest of it into reasonably good shape. I had to admit the old truck ran good, but I couldn't help but think we'd be better off renting som
ething new and reliable from Hertz. Carl didn't care a coon's butt how the Travelall looked, hole in the hood and all. It was at least four different colors, and the seat springs looked like they would strike like a rattlesnake at any offending bottom that dared sit on them.
"Elvis might not look like much, but he'll get us where we got to go and back again, I guarantee you that!" Carl assured me when he caught me looking askance at his pride and joy.
"I'm sure he will," I replied, wondering why I was referring to a rested old panel truck as a "he". My face turned to a frown. "I don't know about all this, Carl," I added, shaking my head. "What if something happens out there? What if they're waiting out there, waiting for us to come out alone? We're all a little long in the tooth to be chasing down vampires."
"I suppose we don't have to worry that, Ruben," Carl said evenly. "If there's trouble, I don't think we'll be the ones who'll be doing the chasing."
I looked into his clear blue eyes and saw a man who spoke the truth. I also saw a man who showed no hint of fear. He was either the bravest son of a bitch I had ever met, or he had totally forgotten the hell he and his brother had seen during their years on the road.
"I hope you're wrong!" I said. "I swear to Christ I hope you're wrong!"
That night we all met at El Gato for a final pow wow. We agreed to leave early, do our business and be back on our way long before sunset. Carmel was a quaint, exclusive village south of Monterey, well known for its scenery and the rich and famous who could afford to live there. It was a beautiful, special place, and I could well understand why Eunice would want to see it one more time. I also knew that going there was insane.
There were several ways to get to Carmel from Gilroy. One way, and the way I believed to be the safest, was to head south out of town on Highway 101, cut over to highways 129 and 156 and head straight toward the coast. It was fast and efficient, but Ferris Colegate had other ideas. "I think we ought to take 152 over Hecker Pass," he said, pointing in the direction of the road that went directly over the mountains to our west.
