by Roger Keller
“Sarah already cut him.” Derrico pushed past Hartmann and examined Vince’s face without touching him, like he was looking over a wounded fighting dog. “She evened the score. The issue is settled. We need Detective Lombardo, especially tonight. Now put that blade away you mook.”
Hartmann shook with rage while he sheathed the knife. Sarah cleaned her blade on the Chevy’s front seat.
“Hartmann, they trained you as a medic,” Derrico said. “Go get the kit and un-fuck his face.”
“Captain, if I touch him,” Hartmann smoothed out his beard and shook his head, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”
“Fine, just keep that anger hot for later,” Derrico said. “Sarah do you know how to stitch up a wound? Did Hartmann teach you?”
“Maybe.” Sarah rocked back and forth and crossed her arms.
“Move it Detective.” Derrico pushed Vince back toward the blue house. He shook his head “Un-fucking-believable. This shit I do not need.”
Hartmann stalked the porch like a caged animal while the others went inside.
Vince sat on a sagging, green couch and touched his face. “I think the bleeding’s stopped.”
“Idiot,” Derrico said.
Derrico handed Sarah a white box with a red cross on the lid. Sarah rolled her eyes and sat down next to Vince.
“Motherfucker.” Vince pounded the arm of the couch while Sarah swabbed the cut with rubbing alcohol.
“Quit being a baby.” Sarah said.
Vince’s eye twitched when Sarah stuck the needle in. She sewed Vince’s skin back together like a pair of ripped jeans, tugging the suture tight, and ignoring the blood trickling over her fingers. Three stitches did the trick.
“You should probably get him to a hospital,” Sarah said, “if you don’t want him to get an infection. I don’t really care, but, you know.”
“Later,” Derrico said.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” Vince said, holding a bandage to his face.
“You brought it on yourself,” Sarah said, “asshole.”
“Enough,” Derrico said. “We have work to do tonight.”
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Sarah said.
“For you, little girl,” Derrico said, pronouncing girl so it rhymed with oil, “nothing. You are going home to watch TV and drink some soda and eat cookies like a normal kid.”
Sarah cocked her head and sneered. “Ugh, can I just hang out here? There’s a bigger TV, our apartment sucks and like, our downstairs neighbor smells.”
Derrico raised his eyebrows. “You want to stay in this dump?” He looked out at Hartmann, pacing the porch. “I don’t care. Do what you want, little girl.”
Sarah tuned in a UHF channel on the wood cabinet TV and pretended to watch Star Trek.
“Lock up if you go anyplace,” Derrico said as he left. “And I don’t want your friends comin’ over and stealing my stuff.”
“My friends are too scared to come out here,” Sarah said.
Hartmann lumbered into the drug house, nodding to Derrico like he was still in the military. He elbow checked Vince on the way over to the TV. Sarah looked up at him and smiled.
“I’m proud of you, kitten,” he said.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“Next time,” Hartmann raised his voice so that Vince and Derrico could hear, “major arteries, like I showed you. Leave ‘em bleeding out on the ground.”
“We’re waiting on you, Hartmann,” Derrico said.
“You don’t have to go,” Sarah said. “Derrico’s not a real officer, anymore. He’s just a crooked pig. This town sucks. We should just leave. This whole thing feels wrong.”
“I’ll be back later.” Hartmann nodded toward Derrico. “Asshole ruined my buzz anyway. Now I’m feelin’ mean.” He bent down and kissed Sarah’s forehead. “You know how it is. When you take a job, you stick it out to the end.”
“Bye,” Sarah whispered, swallowing back tears. “Love you.”
Hartmann stomped toward the door. “Let’s go clean up Vince’s mess.”
Sarah peeked out the window and watched her father and the two corrupt cops drive away. She picked up the .30 carbine and filled her jacket pockets with spare magazines. The scene melted around her.
Everything re-focused in a forest. Sarah walked along a narrow, tree lined, dirt road. She swept the .30 carbine back and forth as she walked. A full moon lit her way like it was still dusk. Breaking twigs and rustling leaves alerted her to something big coming down the trail. Sarah ducked behind a tree. A second later Derrico came running toward her. Her eyes narrowed. She threw her leg out when Derrico passed and tripped him.
“Goddammit, what the-” he said, scrambling to get up.
Sarah aimed the carbine at his face. “Where’s my dad, you asshole? You officers are always leaving him behind.” Her eyes teared up.
Derrico looked around, mouth open in terror. “I don’t know where he is. We have to run, little girl.” He jumped to his feet and grabbed Sarah’s jacket, oblivious to the rifle. “There were so many of them. I never knew there were that many freaks left, these days.”
“If you run any further, I’ll shoot you in the back,” Sarah said.
Sarah heard something and looked back into the darkness.
“They’re coming,” Derrico said.
Sarah swept Derrico’s leg and sent him back to the ground. She dropped down and rested the rifle on Derrico’s chest like he was a pile of sandbags.
“What the hell are you doing, you crazy little brat?” Derrico struggled to get up.
The first of Derrico’s freaks showed up a second later. A thin, bearded, shirtless man rounded the corner. He was almost invisible in the moonlight. A young woman in a paisley shirt with a crown of dead flowers on her head joined him a second later. They wore faded bell-bottoms and sandals. The man tapped the woman’s arm and pointed at Sarah.
“Hippies?” Sarah said. “Ew, gross.” She checked the carbine’s safety. “Get the fuck outta here. Don’t make me shoot you.”
“They’re in a cult,” Derrico said, as he sat up and pushed Sarah back. “They aren’t hippies anymore.”
“You were like, seriously running from them?” Sarah said.
“There’s more,” Derrico said, “back at Reggie’s.”
Derrico drew a Walther PPK from his ruined tuxedo jacket.
“Where’s my dad, you dorks?” Sarah pointed the carbine at the freaks.
More hippies appeared, creeping out from behind trees and brush, dozens of them. Some were covered in blood or dirt. Most wore ragged clothes that were expensive once. They were fashion hippies back in the Sixties, rich kids that were slumming, then they’d gone weird.
“They’re behind us,” Derrico said.
Sarah swept the carbine’s barrel in a circle. “Looks that way. What the hell did you guys get into anyway?”
“Reggie burned their leader on some dope deal,” Derrico said. “That jackass Vince was in on it.”
“You should have just let my dad waste him,” Sarah said.
“Look,” Derrico addressed the crowd, “I am a police officer.” He held up his badge in a leather wallet. Sarah rolled her eyes. “I am issuing you with a lawful order to disperse.”
The crowd moved closer. They smiled and whispered to each other. The freaks giggled and pointed at Derrico.
“Boy, they sure look scared of your badge, captain,” Sarah said.
“Alright you mooks,” Derrico said. “You’re beef was with Vince and Reggie not me.”
The crowd parted. A tall man in a dingy white robe approached Derrico. He had dead wildflowers woven into his graying, blonde hair. An inverted cross on a length of frayed rope hung around his neck. The cross was made of rough wood and painted black. Sarah pointed the carbine at him.
“Oh, goody,” she said, “it’s the king of the hippies.”
“I am not a king,” he said. “I am a prophet, a guru. The Lord of-”
“Where is m
y dad?” Sarah said.
“I don’t know your father,” the Guru said, “but my flock has sent a few establishment pigs on to enlightenment tonight.”
Sarah tightened her grip on the carbine. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Look, looks like you’re going to meet your lord tonight, you weird creep.” A bird call echoed through the night. Sarah’s eyes brightened. She grabbed Derrico’s tuxedo and pulled. “Get down, captain.”
Muzzle flashes burst from the trees on either side of the road. Sustained automatic gunfire rocked the night. Tracers crisscrossed the road. Hippies fell like dominoes. The unseen gunners reloaded in seconds and raked the fallen bodies over a second time. Blood mist rained on Sarah and Derrico. It was all over in less than sixty seconds.
A few hippies managed to escape into the trees, but most of them lay riddled with bullets on the dirt road. Sarah helped Derrico up. A black man with a shaved head and sleeveless, denim biker jacket rose out of the brush on their right. Smoke rose from the M-60 machine gun in his hands.
“You OK there, captain?” he said.
“We’ll live, Reggie,” Derrico said.
Hartmann appeared on the opposite side of the road, a Stoner 63 light machine gun ready to go.
“You should’ve stayed at the house, kitten,” he said, then pointed at Derrico. “And you, where the fuck did you go?”
“The Captain ran out on us early on,” Reggie said. “Who’s the girl? And why does she got a weapon?”
“She’s my daughter,” Hartmann said.
“Yeah, that explains it,” Reggie said.
“Wow,” Sarah said. “You guys got ‘em all,” she kicked the Guru, “well most of ‘em.”
“That motherfucka still alive?” Reggie said.
The Guru groaned and writhed on the ground, blood soaked his dingy robe.
“That’s the problem with 5.56 rounds,” Hartmann said, “sometimes they just punch right through like an icepick.”
“Yeah, except I got that mother with my M-60,” Reggie said. “He should be stone fucking dead.”
“We have a lot to clean up,” Derrico said as he looked over the bodies and shook his head. “I’ve seen this too many times.”
“How are you still alive?” Reggie poked the Guru with his engineer boot.
“Where is detective Lombardo?” Derrico said.
“We’re the only ones that made it,” Hartmann adjusted the Stoner’s belt. “These freaks could really fight. We lost five men, but I estimate we racked up around thirty kills. So, I’d say tonight was a victory.”
“A victory you say,” Derrico said. “We have one good cop dead, all these bodies to bury.”
Sarah and Reggie made a face when he said good cop.
“You forgot my crew, sir,” Reggie said. “I mean, they were righteous dudes, even if they was all white. But, we got the money and the stuff, and there’s a backhoe by the barn. Ain’t nobody gonna be missing these fools.”
The Guru tried to stand, but his bullet shattered arms gave way, sending him back to the ground with a wet thud.
“What the fuck?” Hartmann and Reggie said at the same time.
Other wounded hippies twitched and moved. Sarah stepped back, careful not to touch the bodies.
“Our power is greater than your crude, mortal weapons,” the Guru said, sort of. The words that came out of his bloody mouth didn’t match the movements of his lips.
“Go get that backhoe, Reggie,” Derrico said, “and some axes.”
Sarah stood guard with the carbine while her father and Derrico searched the hippies. Reggie returned riding a rusty, smoke belching, backhoe a few minutes later. He leaned down from the seat and handed Derrico and Hartmann an axe each.
“Where you want the hole, boss man?” Reggie said.
“We’ll bury them where they fell.” Derrico grabbed an axe. “No one comes out here these days. And I ain’t carrying these bums any further than I have to.”
“They keep moving.” Hartmann brought his axe down on a female hippie’s neck for the second time. Her head rolled and stopped face up, at Sarah’s feet. Blue eyes fluttered and rolled. Sarah played her plain gold cross. The chain was looped around her wrist.
“Oh, just die.” Sarah kicked the head away. “Whatever magic that Guru had wasn’t very powerful.”
“That’s a good thing, little girl,” Derrico said. “I’ve seen something like this before, in Korea. Only the reds didn’t just lay there and take it when we cut ‘em apart.”
“I seen shit like this in ‘Nam, too,” Reggie said. “Ya know, there’s this bit in the Bible about King Saul havin’ a witch bring back the dead.”
“That wasn’t the first time someone attempted that. What we’re seeing here is older than the Pyramids.” Derrico focused his thousand yard stare off into the trees. He shook it off a second later. “And where is Vince’s body, anyway?” Derrico pointed his axe at Reggie.
“I left him with my men,” Reggie said. “It’ll look like they wasted each other.”
“Good idea,” Derrico said.
The scenes flashed by faster. Derrico stood over Vince’s fallen body outside of a farmhouse. He clenched his fists. Hartmann and Reggie posed the dead bikers around the fallen gangster-detective. Sarah read her dogeared paperback under the farmhouse porch-light and yawned.
An argument broke out between the survivors over who was to blame for the whole mess. Reggie swung a wide haymaker at Derrico. Hartmann grabbed his arm and held him back. Sarah looked up from her book and tapped the .30 carbine nervously.
The last scene was a solemn funeral procession down a picturesque Midwestern, main street. Townspeople wept openly as the hearse passed. Uniformed police, led by Captain Derrico, followed the hearse. Hartmann and Sarah stood with the mourners. Hartmann wore a sleeveless, Vietnam era fatigue shirt. He stood at attention. Sarah fidgeted in a faded pink dress, her hair in a ponytail. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.
*****
I faded back to reality a little bit at a time. The psychedelic mess on the flat screen solidified into an episode of Friends. Misty was sitting on the wood part of the floor, on a pile of blankets. She saw me and switched over to an episode of True Detective.
“I saw that,” I said.
“Fuck off.” Misty giggled. I guess she would’ve blushed if she was still human.
“How long was I out?” I said.
I looked around. Heather was perched on the arm of the couch. Her claws were out.
“Are you back?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“That got creepy for a second,” Misty said. “You looked really upset by whatever you were seeing.”
Heather relaxed and jumped on the cushion next to me.
“So, what did you see?” Heather said while she rubbed my arm.
“I uh,” I said, “saw your dad, among other things.”
Heather’s face softened and she sunk back into the couch like she’d been shot.
“Where is he?” she said in a sad whisper.
“Right now?” I said. “I don’t know. What I saw happened a long time ago. You were like fourteen.”
A single tear of blood rolled down Heather’s cheek. Misty sunk down into the blankets and disappeared.
“Fuck,” she said. “What else happened?”
“I saw your dad and a black biker, machine gun a bunch of hippies to death,” I said. “I saw you and your dad watching the funeral of a crooked cop. You were wearing a pink girlie dress.”
Heather wiped her face and laughed. “Wow, what else?”
“I saw you selling what I’m pretty sure was drugs,” I said.
“I used to do that, a lot,” Heather said. “If you saw that lame funeral, did you get to see the part where my dad and Reggie killed Vince, that bent pig?”
“No,” I said. “What the hell happened that night anyway?”
“My dad never really told me, that’s why I asked,” Heather said. “It was some kind of deal that
went wrong. And like, Vince got what he deserved.”
Misty managed to get within a few feet of the couch before I noticed her. She joined us on the couch, silently, practicing her sneaking abilities. Heather hugged her.
“How’s it going with Lee, anyway?” I said, not really wanting to talk about the vision anymore than I had to.
“I don’t know,” Heather said.
“Can’t you see what he’s doing right now,” I said, “see through his eyes?”
“How did you know I could do that?” Heather said. “Never mind. I‘ll check. It doesn’t always work.”
Heather shut her eyes and relaxed. Her foot tapped on the floor. Misty reached across me.
“What do you think she’s seeing?” Misty put her hand on Heather’s shoulder.
“I, can hear you,” Heather said. “Shush.”
Heather stiffened. I saw a flash from Lee’s point of view. He was loading an ammo belt into an M-60. Misty saw it too.
“Whoa,” Misty said. “I wonder what he’s gonna shoot.”
Heather jumped up. “Time to go. Fuck. It’s already started.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
Heather grabbed the Colt Python from it’s holster on the coffee table. “This one is going to be different.” She handed me the Python.
Misty’s eyes lit up yellow-orange. I checked the Python’s chambers, six silver tipped bullets waited. Heather looked over her sword collection like she was picking out some shoes. She handed Misty a Roman Gladius.
“Are we going to Lee’s?” Misty unsheathed the sword.
“Were going,” Heather said, “to kill some vampires.”
Chapter 8
There was no fucking around this time. We packed all our weapons and gear in under ten minutes. I filled my jacket pockets with silver tipped .357 slugs, while Misty stared in awe at Heather’s gun closet. Heather found a shoulder holster for the Python.
“Did you steal this from Travis Bickle?” I said, looking over the old school leather.
Heather smirked and kept rummaging through her gun closet. The display racks were opened up, revealing over a hundred other guns and countless thousands of rounds of ammunition.
“That movie was cool.” Misty attached a Gladius to a wide medieval belt. “Where did you get all the swords?”
