In Case of Carnage
Page 1
In Case of Carnage
Gerry Griffiths
Mighty Quill Books
Copyright Information
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and dialogues are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
In Case of Carnage © 2019 Gerry Griffiths
Cover art © 2019 by A.M. Rycroft
Editing by Deliaria Davis, Daniel Santiago
First edition 2019
Mighty Quill Books supports the creative rights of authors and the value of the copyright. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this work without permission from the publisher is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use content from this ebook other than for review purposes, please contact us at info@mightyquillbooks.com or the address below. Thank you for supporting this author’s rights.
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The Mighty Quill Books name and logo are trademarks of Mighty, LLC.
Table of Contents
Copyright Info
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Notes from the Publisher
Dedication
For Lori Michelle
Thank you for opening the door and showing the way
1
CASE NUMBER: 18-01-236
Clare Carver placed her bulky forensic kit by the body, avoiding the pool of blood inches away from Detective Bill Hendrix’s patent leather shoes. He observed her methodical process, jotting down specifics in his notepad.
The victim was a teenage girl, possible runaway. Skin smooth as Philadelphia cream cheese. Black Hot Topic T-shirt with a crudely cut hole haloing a green barbell belly button ring. Designer blue jeans fashionably snipped away at the knees. Red Keds high-tops without shoelaces. Green spiked hair in the rust-colored blood on the cement floor.
Bill crouched to inspect the weepy quarter-inch hole in her forehead, the gold shield on his belt digging into his gut. He noticed puncture marks on the girl’s neck, just under her right ear.
“Are those incisor wounds on her throat?”
Clare leaned forward for a closer look. “Possibly.”
“Too clean for an animal bite.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’d say it’s the work of a vampire.”
Clare gave him an incredulous look before bursting into laughter.
“Better not let Hank hear you say that.” Clare glanced at Bill’s gun. “Is that a snub-nosed thirty-eight?”
“Smith and Wesson. Same as Hank carries. Why?”
“They still make those? When are you guys going to get with the latest department issue?”
“What, those plastic guns? No thanks.” Bill shook his head, noting Clare’s firearm strapped to her side.
Clare pulled her handgun with slick precision. “You’re looking at a Glock 29 ten-millimeter with a ten-round clip, polymer frame, and non-corrosive coating, so it won’t rust like those pea-shooters you two call guns,” she bragged before holstering her weapon. “Standard issue, per the captain.”
“Hey, a lot of famous detectives carried thirty-eights. Dragnet’s Sergeant Joe Friday, Jim Rockford in The Rockford Files.”
“Bill, those guys weren’t even real cops. Please don’t tell me you’re packing those three-eighty automatics around your ankles.”
“They’re great little backup guns.”
“Next you’re going to tell me you use speedloaders.” She laughed, patting the two ten-round clips on her belt next to the tactical folding knife in a Velcro sheath beside her holstered high-tech semi-automatic.
Bill was about to reach into his jacket pocket when a mall security guard came into the room looking like he had just left his mother’s funeral.
“What are you two squabbling about?” Detective Hank Jenkins entered the storeroom right behind the despondent security guard. Hank slipped the man’s firearm in an evidence bag.
“Where’s Silverman?” Bill asked. Normal protocol required that the first uniformed officer on the crime scene be present to answer questions during the primary investigation.
“Other side of the mall. Checking surveillance.”
“Bill thinks the girl was bitten by a vampire.” Clare pointed at the dead girl’s neck.
“Jeez, Bill. Can’t you be serious for one minute?”
The disgruntled mall guard glanced at the dead girl, then stared down at his boots. “I can’t believe it. I take this lousy job to subsidize my pissant retirement, and look what happens.”
“Bill, this is Ralph Talbert,” Hank said.
Bill nodded at the security guard.
Hank said to Ralph, “Tell my partner what you told me.”
Ralph cleared his throat. “The last few days there have been a number of break-ins in the mall.”
Bill asked, “Why didn’t the mall manager report them?”
“Maybe he was in on it. I don’t know.”
“Go on.”
“They cut the padlocks on the metal gates, crawl under and jimmy the entry doors. So far, they’ve broken into about eight different stores.”
Bill asked, “What are they after?”
“Well, it’s weird. This mall’s got tons of electronics stores, stuff you could make good money selling at the flea market. These guys? They take clothes. They’ve even raided the kitchens in the food court.”
“How are they getting into the mall if the outside doors are locked?”
“Personally, I think it’s an employee who has access to a master key.” Ralph glanced over at the dead girl. “I swear, one of them was pointing a gun at me.”
Hank asked, “What do you mean, ‘one of them’?”
“There were two.”
Hank gave Ralph a hard stare.
Ralph shrugged. “Jesus, I thought I told you.”
A loud crash came from the main floor of the sporting goods store.
“What was that?” Bill snatched his gun out of the shoulder rig.
Hank stuffed Ralph’s gun into the side pocket of his coat. He drew his .38 snub-nosed out of the holster clipped to his belt.
Clare threw back the slide on her Glock.
Hank and Bill went first. Clare stepped out next with Ralph trailing behind her.
The sporting goods showroom was cast in shadows. A majority of the overhead fluorescent panels were turned off to conserve energy.
Hank spotted movement to his right. He signaled Bill and Clare.
A scrawny teenager stood in front of a smashed display case, shoving small boxes into a rucksack.
“Let’s see those hands!” Bill barked. “This is the—”
The kid swiveled around with a shotgun. The muzzle flash lit up as the boom thundered in the room. Bill shoved Clare to the floor and dove on top of her. Pumping another cartridge into the chamber, the gunman swung the barrel and blasted again. A rack of sleeping bags exploded in a goose down blizzard.
Hank fired a quick shot, striking the kid in the shoulder. The impact sent him toppling into the display case.
“I only winged him,” Hank cautioned.
The teenage boy lay on the floor amid ammunition boxes covered with glass shards. Hank kicked the shotgun out of the kid’s reach. Bill and Clare kept their guns trained on the suspect.
“Please don’t kill me,” the kid begged.
“You’re lucky we didn’t.” Bill grabbed the shotgun off the floor.
“Wait a minute. You’re not them.”
“Who did you think we were?”
“Aw man, you’re the cops!”
“Hey, where’s Ralph?” Hank turned, scouting the store for the security guard.
“Over there.” Clare pointed.
Ralph was dead on the floor, sprawled under the glow of a ceiling light. His face was a bloody pulp, riddled with buckshot, looking like the inside of a pomegranate.
Hank stared at the wounded teenager. “You screwed up big time, son.”
Bill bent down to scrutinize the boy. “He’s got the same bite marks on his neck as the girl.”
A red blossom bloomed on the boy’s shirt. The bullet had struck the right deltoid a couple of inches away from the shoulder.
Clare holstered her Glock. “I need to stop the bleeding.” She took a pair of blue gloves out of her pants pocket. She stretched the elastic before slipping them on. “Hand me one of those shirts for a compress.”
Bill grabbed a shirt off a rack. Clare wadded it up and placed it over the wound. She took the boy’s left hand and pressed it palm-side down on the compress. “What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
“Okay, Peter. Keep applying pressure.”
Clare glanced down at the boy’s right arm. “Guys, look at this.”
Two puncture marks on the forearm, too large for needle tracks.
“Jesus, Peter,” Clare said, “Who did this to you?”
“The vampires.”
Hank shook his head. “Kid, you’re in enough trouble. What are you even doing in here?”
“We thought it would be cool to hide out in the mall after it closed.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. A week ago?”
Hank saw the surprised looks on Bill and Clare’s faces. “Weren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
“We’d smoked a bunch of weed.”
“So who’s your girlfriend?”
“Sissy.”
“Tell us about the bite marks.”
Peter must have pressed too hard on his wound because he crinkled up his face. “They feed on us. I’m a donor. Sissy’s a blood doll. They take turns, pass us around like a bottle of Jim Beam.”
“So you and Sissy broke into those stores?”
“Yes, they made us.”
Hank frowned. “What do you mean, ‘made you’? Sounds to me like you could have escaped any time you wanted.”
“They have my sister. They’re holding her hostage. If we don’t do what they want, they’ll kill her.”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Peg. We needed the gun to rescue her.”
“How many of these . . .” Hank paused, rolling his eyes at Bill, “Vampires would you say there are?”
“Four. I’m telling you, they’re crazy.” Peter’s eyes widened. “These guys are stronger than shit!” He raised his head off the floor to gaze around. “Hey, where’s Sissy?”
Bill broke the news. “Your girlfriend is dead. The guard you killed shot her.”
Peter scrunched his eyes shut, tears leaking down his cheeks.
Hank asked, “Where are they keeping your sister?”
“Under the mall.”
“How do we find her?”
“Follow the corridor at the food court to the restrooms. The ‘Employees Only’ door to the right of the men’s room is unlocked. Take the stairs down to the basement. There’s a huge tunnel the delivery trucks use. Go right until you see a big ‘W2’ stenciled on the wall to your left with a black door. Their hideout is in there.”
Bill scowled. “You know, we have a problem.”
Hank let out a sigh. “And what is that?”
“They’re vampires.”
“This is a bunch of bull.”
“You know bullets won’t kill them.”
“My Glock will,” Clare chimed in.
“That might slow them down a bit”—Bill raised his eyebrows—“until the lead pops out of their bodies. There’re only four ways you can kill a vampire.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Drive a stake through their heart, cut off their head, expose them to sunlight, or set them on fire.”
“I can’t believe I’m standing here listening to this nonsense,” Hank said. “Let’s go find these jokers.”
Clare used her cell phone to call the security office. She told Officer Silverman to get back to the sporting goods store, on the double to watch Peter. She then called dispatch to summon an ambulance and notify the captain of their situation. Hank handcuffed Peter’s right hand to a pole next to the display case.
“Don’t move. Someone will be here shortly.” Clare stripped off her gloves.
They hustled out of the sporting goods store and dashed down the wide corridor that separated the specialty shops. Officer Silverman was already jogging in their direction and gave them a wave.
After reaching the food court, they headed for the restrooms. Hank spotted the door: Employees Only. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open. Cement stairs stretched down into the tenebrous gloom of the underground tunnels. He started down, Bill a step behind, Clare taking up the rear.
Halfway down, Hank heard a crack. He glanced over his shoulder. “What was that?”
Bill held up what looked like a stick.
“Is that an arrow?”
“Yeah, I broke off the metal tip.”
“Why?”
“The shaft has to be made solely of wood when driven through a vampire’s heart.”
Hank looked at what Bill had in his other hand. “You took a crossbow?”
“Yeah, I grabbed it on our way out of the store, along with some arrows.” Bill pulled another arrow out of the short quiver that was sticking out of the side pocket of his jacket. He pressed the end against the concrete wall, snapping the tip off.
“Jesus, I don’t believe you!” Hank continued down.
Clare tapped Bill on the shoulder. “Jeez, Bill. You’re really serious about this.”
“Clare, they’re vampires.”
“You know, it might not hurt to have a little chat with the departmental shrink.”
“Why? ’Cause you’re dating him?”
“No, I’m not!”
“Not what I heard.”
“Okay, we went out once, but—”
Hank barked from the bottom of the stairs, “Will you two keep it down!”
Clare and Bill rushed down the steps and joined Hank. They stood in the middle of a large tunnel with loading docks stretching in both directions, tapering into the darkness.
“The only way to gain access from the outside is through one of those entrances, which are controlled by the guard in the security office.” Hank pointed to an automatic roll-up door.
The tunnel was nearly twenty feet high—wide enough for two big rig trailers to squeeze past each other going in opposite directions. A network of yellow globe lights, various-sized plumbing pipes, and conduits of electrical wiring ran along the ceiling. The nearest loading dock had the store’s name stenciled on the side of the concrete ramp.
Farther on they found the black door next to the large “W2” painted on the wall. Hank stood on one side of the door, one hand on the handle. Bill and Clare steeled themselves against the wall.
Hank flung open the door. They stormed in—Hank sweeping left, Clare taking the right, and Bill up the middle—panning their guns about the large room. It looked like a den for the homeless. Filthy sleeping bags were strewn across the floor. Black garbage bags bulged with stolen merchandise. Empty f
ood containers were tossed in a corner. Trash was scattered everywhere. The stale, putrid air reeked of body odor and filthy clothes.
The room was deserted.
“Maybe they heard the gunshots.” Bill kicked a shoebox across the floor.
“I heard something!” Clare bolted out of the room. The two detectives charged out after her.
“There they are!” Clare pointed to two figures racing down the tunnel.
A scream came from the opposite direction.
“Damn, they split up,” Hank said. “Bill, Clare, go that way. I’ll follow these two.”
* * *
They were faster than a pair of doped-up track runners. The way they ran reminded Hank of apes loping in the jungle. The sounds of their feet slapping the pavement let him know they were barefoot. Probably didn’t have time to put on shoes. He wondered if they were armed.
His legs were already starting to burn. He needed to get back to his routine morning jogs, devote fewer hours behind the desk.
Hank slowed as he reached a bend in the tunnel. If they were smart, they would wait in ambush, attack when he came running blindly around the corner.
He stopped for a second to listen. He could hear air flowing through the ducts above his head, liquid surging down the pipes. Somewhere behind the walls, machines hummed, busy at work.
Hank slid along the concrete wall, edging around the bend. He found himself standing below the loading dock with the sporting goods store logo.
A forklift was parked on one side of the huge platform. Empty pallets were stacked high against a wall near a control panel for a giant gray compactor—the kind for flattening cardboard boxes. The twin doors remained open on the hopper, like crushing jaws waiting for a victim.
Half a dozen pallets stood in front of the closed door of the receiving area with merchandise covered in shrink-wrap. Hank pointed his .38, climbing the short flight of concrete steps leading to the platform. He crept past the forklift to the first pallet.
He could see the labels through the shrink-wrap: boxed camping stoves and cases of kerosene. He squeezed between two more pallets stacked high with boxes. It was like being wedged inside a narrow passage. A pallet skidded toward Hank, threatening to crush him against the pallet directly behind him.