Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Affirmative. What’s up?”

  “Can you slide by my location? I’m in front of the high school on Sherman.”

  “10-4. Be there in fifteen.”

  Kilpatrick pulled up behind the marked squad parked on Sherman Boulevard and flashed his spotlight at the squad to catch the cop’s attention. The officer got out of his car and walked back to them, holding a sheet of paper in one hand. Kilpatrick buzzed down his window, and the cop handed him the paper.

  “These are stuck under every windshield wiper on every car in the neighborhood. My partner and I have been taking them off, but I don’t know that we got all of them.”

  Kilpatrick turned on the dome light and held the paper so they both could read it.

  Citizens of Chi-No Take Action!

  Our sons and daughters are dying at the hands of the foul creatures that have been allowed to infect our city and live among us. The Government defends them, and the Police protect them, but you can answer to a Higher Power.

  Fire is God’s offering today as it was twenty years ago, and the time has come to take it again. It is no coincidence that fire is the one thing that can kill the unholiest of the Devil’s creations. Let us cleanse our city and destroy the ancient and profane evil. Let us unleash God’s power to sanctify the land so that we may create a new city for our children and grandchildren.

  Don’t wait for a Government that will do NOTHING! Defend your children now!

  Kilpatrick looked up at the cop. “Did you call this in?”

  “Sure. Squads 39 and 71 are also here. I’m collecting; they’re patrolling.”

  “You got a description of a suspect or vehicle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Look familiar?” Vall asked as Kilpatrick raised the window.

  “Yeah. The Brothers of the Sun. Some of this is right off one of the websites I looked at the other night.”

  Vall nodded. “This is exactly what they did in Chicago, and the city burned. I got an idea. Those cops in their marked squads aren’t going to catch anyone napping. Let’s you and me do a little hunting of our own. Maybe we can surprise him.” Their black car, with its government license plates and side-mount spotlight, wasn’t totally inconspicuous, but it was a hell of a lot better than a marked squad with a light bar and reflective markings that could be seen blocks away.

  Kilpatrick’s head bobbed with an enthusiasm Vall had rarely before seen. Cops loved a chase, and a hunt . . . well, a hunt was only one step away from a chase. Kilpatrick started cruising up and down the adjoining streets at patrol speed, about twenty miles per hour.

  “There’ll be two of them in the car,” said Vall.

  “How do you know?”

  “Think about it. Brother One has to drive, of course. But he doesn’t want to stop the car and get out every time he leaves a flyer, so he has a partner in the passenger seat. All they have to do is pull up close alongside a parked car, lower the passenger window, and Brother Two reaches out and slips a flyer under the wiper blade. Isn’t that how you gave out parking tickets when you were a rookie and too lazy to get out of the car?”

  Kilpatrick gave him a sideways glance. “No. What if they’re on foot?”

  “They won’t be. They’ll be in a vehicle, where they can have their guns and Claws at the ready. And I’ll lay odds they’re in a dark Turo.”

  The light seemed to dawn on Kilpatrick. “The guy who shot you was in a Turo.”

  “Bingo.”

  The conditions for a hunt couldn’t be better. It was a clear night, the roads were dry, there were no citizens out and about to get in the way, and best of all—there was almost no traffic. Not even the paperboys were out yet.

  “Listen, meatball. If we get into a chase and Brother Two bails, I’ll take him. You stay with the driver.”

  “He could shoot you.”

  “Even if he hits me, I’ll have him.” There wasn’t a human on earth who could match a vampire’s agility, celerity, and strength.

  “Unless he kills you.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” Vall saw taillights far ahead, taillights similar to those burned into his brain. “Put us out here. The shit’s going to hit.”

  Kilpatrick looked at him and picked up the mic. “131, Three Dispatch. Put us out with Squads 38 and 39, area of 48th and Center.”

  “10-4, 131.”

  The fact that they were only a few blocks from where Aurora Finch’s body had been found last night wasn’t lost on Vall. It seemed likely the Brothers were purposely targeting the neighborhood that had been impacted the most by the girl’s death.

  “Keep the squad radio on the district channel. Go up to 51st Street and turn south.”

  “Listen, squid, don’t tell me how to do the job. I was doing this before you were a gleam in CNPD’s eye. You see something?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kilpatrick turned onto 51st. About a block and a half down a car sat in the middle of the narrow street, its bright brake lights a dead giveaway.

  “It’s our boys,” said Vall.

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me.”

  Kilpatrick keyed the mic again. “131 to 38 and 39. Come to 51st and Center.”

  “10-4, 131.”

  Kilpatrick closed on the car ahead, and Vall could see the car’s brake lights flash on and off alternately. Every parked car they passed had a yellow flyer on its windshield. “It’s a Turo. Illinois plates.”

  “131, all squads. Wanted in the officer shooting of December first is a black Turo, Illinois plates. Vehicle is southbound on North 51st Street at Wright. Two occupants. Considered armed and dangerous. 131, KSA536.”

  “10-4, Squad 131. You have channels two and three. Continue broadcasting,” answered dispatch.

  Kilpatrick glanced at him. “You’d better be right about this, or I’m gonna look like a fool.”

  “And that would be different from what? Don’t worry, I’m right. Just a little closer, and I’ll be able to read the plate.”

  Kilpatrick drove another half block. Their quarry sat, unspooked.

  Vall read off the plate. “Illinois GL61257.”

  “131, all squads. Suspect vehicle has Illinois plates George Lincoln 61257. Southbound on 51st at Wright.”

  “He’s made us,” said Vall, as the Turo’s brake lights went out, and the car shot forward, tires squealing.

  Kilpatrick flipped on the siren, and the wail, like hounds on a chase, filled the night. “131 in pursuit. Black Turo four-door, Illinois George Lincoln 61257, southbound on 51st, blew the red light at Lisbon, east on Lisbon.”

  “Marked squad to take over as primary,” ordered dispatch.

  “Shit! He’s headed for the expressway.” Kilpatrick keyed the mic. “Eastbound on Lisbon at 49th.”

  The Turo slowed, and its passenger door opened. “He bailing! Let me out. I’ve got him.” Vall opened his door and held it while Kilpatrick pulled over and stood on the brakes. With a dive, Vall hit the ground. He rolled to his feet on the sidewalk and spotted his prey about half a block ahead of him. Three marked squads flew past him down Lisbon, their sirens screaming and light bars spewing red and blue lightning. The suspect was athletic, sprinting at top speed, but Vall’s only worry was that he’d dart between buildings. The Claw became deadly only when vamps didn’t see it coming.

  But the man was no fool. He raced west on North Avenue and ducked into the narrow walkway between two buildings. Vall stopped short of the passageway. If he followed, he’d be stepping into a fatal funnel from which there was no escape from a Claw. But if he was fast enough maybe he could overtake the man before he got a shot off. The hesitation was brief. There was far too much at stake.

  Duvall dropped down to the ground and darted into
the passageway hard and fast and low. Few gunmen, even members of the Brothers of the Sun, were ever prepared for a target that skimmed the ground, and Vall hoped this one was no exception. A shot rang out from the rear of the buildings, the sound magnified by walls that were no more than three feet apart. He heard the Claw scream over his head, followed by a second close enough to give him a buzz cut. The Brother was quickly adjusting to his low target, but he had to peek from his cover behind the building on Vall’s right to do so, giving away his position. Like a shadow shifting over the ground, Vall was through the passageway. A Claw struck the concrete right in front of him, but he was no longer on the ground. He sprang into the air, ran up the side of building on his left, pushed off, and swooped down on the man like a leather-clad bird of prey.

  The gunman got another round off, and Vall felt it tear through his coat. Vall’s momentum plowed the man backward into a concrete stairwell that descended to the cellar of the old building. Vall came down on top of his opponent, his hand on the gun, caring about nothing else. Wrapped up together, they tumbled down the steps, both wrestling for possession of the weapon, and at the bottom of the stairwell, the gun went off one last time.

  Sound and blood exploded in the confined space. The ringing of the shot echoed off the concrete, and blood splattered the walls of the stairwell like red graffiti. Vall wasn’t sure if he was hit by the Claw or not until he staggered backward and fell against the steps, giving him his first good look at his foe.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The bullet had hit the man in the throat at an upward angle and taken off the back of his head.

  Vall grabbed his radio and switched it to the district channel. The pursuit was still going on. The wail of sirens in the background made it hard to hear the broadcast, but it sounded like they were going to head east on the Interstate toward Chicago. Vall waited for a brief pause, then broke in.

  “131W, suspect down, 38th and North, rear.”

  “10-4, 131W, stand by,” answered dispatch, sounding annoyed.

  Take your time. This one’s not going anywhere.

  KIL STEPPED ON the gas. After slowing to allow Duvall to dive out, the district squads behind him took the opportunity to roar past him. Department policy dictated that the lead car in a pursuit had to be a marked car. Kil supposed it was to make sure any idiot stupid enough to try to flee the police knew for certain that the big car with the siren riding his butt was indeed a cop car. Heaven forbid the police confuse anyone by pursuing in an unmarked car.

  The squad’s tires squealed, and the car shot forward, but Kil was still at the end of the parade of chase cars. The Turo, as predicted, turned south onto the expressway, and the lead chase car, Squad 38, took over the broadcasting duties.

  “Black Turo, southbound on 41, passing Wells, high rate of speed.”

  “10-4, 38, Sheriff’s Department has been notified,” answered dispatch.

  The police had jurisdiction over the city’s streets, but the expressways were ruled by the Sheriff.

  There was still almost no traffic on the roads, not even the expressway, and Kil found himself pushing one hundred miles an hour just to keep up with the car in front of him. The ramps to the Interstate were coming up fast, and Kil knew they couldn’t be negotiated at that speed, but no one ahead of him was slowing down.

  “131W, suspect down, 38th and North, rear.”

  “10-4, 131W, stand by.”

  It sounded like Duvall had his man. From what Kil knew about vampires and the Brothers of the Sun, any confrontation would be a fight to the death. That Duvall won the battle unfortunately meant they’d have no suspect to interview, and the way the Turo was flying, this asshole had a death wish, too.

  “Eastbound ramp, high rate of speed!” The cop’s voice rose in volume in direct proportion to the pursuit’s speed. “He hit the barrier. Rollover! 94 eastbound, just east of the stadium. Slow it down! Slow it down!”

  “All squads, 38 advises suspect vehicle involved in rollover, 94 East, east of the stadium, all squads to reduce speed,” repeated dispatch.

  Kil was on the Interstate seconds later, where squads were already working to close down all lanes of the expressway to normal traffic. It would be a hell of a morning rush hour. The Turo had flipped over the low ramp barrier, rolled across four lanes, and hit the concrete barrier at the edge of the right-hand shoulder, bursting into flames. The wreckage burned like a bonfire, hot and bright, sending flames and smoke high into the predawn night.

  Shit. It didn’t take a genius to know there’d be no survivor to interview.

  Eighteen

  Fort Dearborn

  August 15, 1812

  WULF STOOD NEXT to Cade on a sand ridge and watched Fort Dearborn burn to the ground. Orange flames tore at the sky like the claws of a dying beast, and the westerly wind carried cinders and ashes in a brilliant arc of color that ended, like a gruesome rainbow, somewhere over the great lake.

  “Is this your doing, Cade?”

  Cade raised an angled black brow. “This is war, the doing of foolish mortals. You know that.”

  “I know that Captain Heald made a bargain at council with the chiefs. The stores in exchange for safe conduct to Fort Wayne.”

  The red light of the fire reflected in Cade’s eyes, lending him a devilish air, and the breeze whipped his long hair toward the burning fort. “The whites broke their promise. They promised guns and ammunition to the chiefs. Did they think the Indians stupid? Did they think they could drop the guns down their well and dump the powder in the river and think no one would notice?”

  Wulf didn’t answer. Heald had indeed been ill-advised in his actions. Wulf himself had seen the pollution of the river. Powder and whiskey had swirled on the surface of the slow-moving Chicago like a foul brew, lending a particularly rank stench to the already humid air. Still . . . “Were there any survivors?”

  Cade opened his mouth, as if tasting the fire on the air, and ran his tongue over the points of his fangs. “A few. Heald and Kinzie were spared. The Indians are holding a handful of others as captives. The injured will be tortured and put to death later tonight. I could make arrangements for you to have one, if you like.”

  Wulf was hungry, but the thought of feasting on someone injured in a massacre hit too close to home for him. “No.”

  Cade laughed softly. “Do not despair over men and their follies. Mortals will always wage war. You should join my colony, Wulf. I could teach you much. Le père is old and soft in his ways.”

  Wulf rarely felt hate any more, for hate was a mortal emotion and scorned as such by the undead, but it was very close to what he felt now for Cade. “My allegiance is to the Nathusius, and it always will be.”

  “Nothing stays the same, young one, not even in our world. Certainly not in the world of man. The whites will return to this place, and when they do, I will be here waiting.”

  “Good bye, Cade.”

  Cade said nothing in return, his eyes still on the inferno. Wulf turned away and clambered down the ridge.

  He roamed the sand dunes bordering the lake until he found the bodies. They lay where they’d fallen, for no one remained to bury them. He picked his way among the corpses, but none were left alive. He saw officers who’d been tomahawked, and he recognized the body of the fort’s surgeon, hacked to pieces like meat butchered and cut up for stew. A woman, her dress a bloody shroud, had been cleaved into pieces, her breasts slashed, and her abdomen cut open. All the horses had been stolen, as had the wagons and provisions. One wagon sat on the sand a ways off, a solitary symbol of what had been a peaceful procession of dozens of soldiers, civilians, women and children. He wandered among the bodies until he came at last to the wagon, curious why it had been left behind. He looked inside, and there, heaped like a pile of animal carcasses, were a dozen beheaded children.

  Wulf lowere
d himself to the ground, sat on the sand among the carnage, and for the first time in fifty-five years, cried.

  Nineteen

  KIL DIDN’T SEE HIS partner for the remainder of the night. They were both tied up on their respective scenes, and, per Department policy, Duvall was sent home one hour before dawn, at six. Kil worked until nine, finishing up paperwork. He loved the overtime at time-and-a-half, especially in light of Candy’s condition and their planned move, but there was no denying that a fourteen-hour work night was hard. He’d be thirty-four soon, and his body didn’t bounce back from the double-shifts the way it had when he’d been a twenty-one-year-old recruit out of the academy.

  All in all, though, it had been a good night. They weren’t any closer to knowing if Carlos Silgar, the legendary leader of the Brothers of the Sun, was behind the vampire poisonings or if the Brothers were simply henchmen for a third party, but the chase had been a heart-stopper, he’d nailed the city for a couple hundred dollars in overtime pay, he had the next two nights off, and no cops had been hurt—not even the squid. Not to mention that a couple of slugs were pushing up daisies, or whatever grew in hell.

  He was halfway home before he wondered when he’d started thinking of his boyhood heroes as slugs.

  KIL GOT ALMOST eight hours of sleep and woke to the heavenly smell of roast chicken, yams, and fresh rolls hot out of the oven. Candy wanted to have dinner over with before Duvall arrived. It wasn’t polite to eat in front of someone, she said, not even a vampire. He tore into the feast with no complaints that she’d skimped on his meal, but she’d spent an equal amount of time on her appearance, and that irked him, for she’d done it solely for the squid.

  “I want to make a good impression,” she’d said when he’d complimented the smooth waves she’d styled into her typically blown and teased hair and the ivory two-piece dress she’d put on. “I’m sure Duvall hasn’t had the opportunity to meet too many cops’ wives before.”

  Kil wasn’t sure why Candy felt it was her duty to represent wives everywhere, but when the doorbell rang at seven o’clock, he made a point of telling her he’d answer it. He was still the master of his house, and that would never change.