In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  The detectives drew their weapons and stepped inside. The huge loft was the size of a basketball court, with thick stanchions throughout supporting the high ceiling. Rain spattered the windows overlooking the nightscape, the heavy drumming on the roof echoing inside the cavernous chamber. A constellation of pillar candles glowed about the large space, resembling a midnight vigil held for a fallen loved one.

  Bill walked up to a wall that was plastered with horror movie posters—titles like Fright Night, Nosferatu, From Dusk Till Dawn, Near Dark, The Lost Boys, Vampyres. Famous stars like Bela Lugosi in Dracula, Tom Cruise in Interview with the Vampire.

  As a joke, someone had drawn black fangs on Sarah Michelle Gellar, who was posing in a Buffy the Vampire Slayer poster.

  “What in the world?” Hank inspected a row of pine coffins, which were lined up near the wall with pillows and blankets.

  “Looks like we stumbled upon a coven of vampires.”

  “No, this is crazy.”

  The detectives entered a lounge area with a large sectional couch and three reclining chairs, all facing a sixty-inch plasma screen with state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers arranged around the home theatre for optimal viewing.

  Bill checked out the equipment. “Sweet setup.”

  Paused on the TV screen was as black-and-white shot of a middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo who was standing by a man in a tweed jacket. Both were staring up at an oil portrait of a sinister-looking man. The mysterious man on the canvas wore a dark coat with a high, scalloped collar. He sported a large black-stoned ring on the forefinger of his right hand, which clutched the handle of an elegant cane. An impressive medal was pinned on his chest.

  Something swooped from the rafters, skimming over their heads.

  Hank ducked. “Damn pigeons.”

  “Sorry, pal. That was a bat.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Trust me. It was a bat. I watched it fly over there.” Bill pointed to an enclosed addition made entirely of plywood. The crude structure was relatively square, roughly fifteen feet on every side. A thin strip of light emanated from beneath the door.

  The detectives crept across the room. Hank eased the door open.

  Five vampires sat around a circular table.

  The fiends wore dark clothes and capes. They hunched over individual blood bags, slurping through rose-colored straws like thirsty kids greedily sucking from their juice boxes.

  A large glass-door refrigerator unit stood in the corner of the room. Inside, red blood bags crammed the rows of shelves with enough blood to stock a small-town hospital.

  A pale, voluptuous vampirette in a sheer teddy stretched out on a purple velvet chesterfield.

  Bill cleared his throat. “Sorry to bust up snack time. Which one of you is Vorlock?”

  The older-looking vampire sucked his bag dry until it collapsed on itself. He faced the detectives. “I am Vorlock!”

  Bill pointed at the man’s face. “You . . . uh . . . you got something there.”

  Vorlock stuck out his tongue to explore the outer regions of his mouth and licked a dab of blood from his upper lip.

  “You got it.” Bill reached into his raincoat and retrieved a folded slip of paper. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  The other four vampires rose from the table. Their chalky-white faces contrasted with their black, slicked-back hair. The bloodsuckers smacked their ruby-red lips.

  “Surely you don’t think I am afraid of a silly piece of paper.” Vorlock laughed.

  “Maybe you’d prefer a different wood product.” Bill pulled the two stakes out of his raincoat. He handed a stake to Hank.

  Vorlock drew his cape over his face. The other vampires cowered, as though the stakes possessed the destructive power to turn them to dust.

  Bill swaggered in front of the doorway. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

  “It’s entirely up to you,” Hank added.

  The four vampires looked to Vorlock for guidance.

  Vorlock raised his arms, fanning out his cape. He let out a boisterous laugh. The other vampires joined in. The vampirette cackled from the sofa.

  “All right, pipe down!” Hank shouted. “Everyone put your hands on your heads! You’re all under arrest!”

  The vampires continued to laugh.

  “Now you’re getting on my nerves.” Bill pointed his gun at Vorlock.

  The elder stopped laughing. He gave his flock a menacing look, like a teacher silencing a rowdy classroom of students.

  Everyone quieted down.

  The vampires stood shoulder to shoulder in a half circle, Vorlock in the middle, preparing for a showdown.

  The vampirette glided from the couch. She assumed a combative pose in her revealing negligee.

  “This is your last warning,” Bill said.

  “What do we do?” Hank whispered. “They’re unarmed.”

  “Doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”

  Two vampires grabbed the table, shoving it to one side to clear a path.

  Vorlock threw back his cape. He leaped into the air like a giant bat, arms outstretched, flashing his long talon fingernails.

  The detectives fired single shots.

  Each bullet punched into Vorlock’s chest, the impact halting him in midair like a windshield smashing into an unsuspecting bug, before he landed flat on his feet. He gazed down to inspect the bullet holes in his shirt. He turned to the other vampires. “Don’t worry. It only stings for a second.”

  Bill grabbed Hank by the arm. “Did you see that? He didn’t even bleed.”

  They bolted out of the ill-constructed room. Somehow, by some unearthly power of teleportation, a vampire blocked the door—the only way out of the loft.

  Hank glanced at Bill. “How the hell did he do that?”

  “He’s a vampire! He can do anything!”

  Hank aimed his revolver at the vampire. “Move away from the door!”

  The vampire hissed.

  Hank fired.

  The vampire grimaced. He glared at the detectives while rubbing a spot on his chest with his slender fingers. “Your guns are useless on us.”

  Hank looked to his partner. “What now?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  Vorlock and the other four vampires marched out of their personal blood dispensary. The vampire at the door made number six. The vampirette had slipped from the room.

  “You’d better think fast,” Hank said. “You’re the supposed expert!”

  “Well, they don’t like crucifixes, definitely hate garlic.”

  “Forget all that!”

  “Then I guess we’re going to have to cut off their heads.”

  “What?”

  “Or we can drive stakes through their hearts.”

  “What if we just shoot them in the head?”

  “Works on zombies.”

  The detectives pointed their guns at the head of the vampire preventing their escape.

  “Hey, whoa!” The vampire held up his hands. “Don’t shoot!”

  Hank cocked back the hammer. “Suddenly you’re afraid of our guns?”

  “Please, I’m begging you!”

  “Careful, Hank. It’s trying to trick us.”

  Behind them came the distinct sound of a shell being ratcheted into the chamber of a shotgun. Hank and Bill turned slowly.

  Armed with a sawed-off shotgun, the vampirette stood in front of a table covered with burning candles. The flickering wicks outlined the curved features of her body through her thin nightdress, except for her upper torso, which was wrapped in a short coat. She aimed the twin barrels at the detectives.

  Bill shot her directly between the eyes.

  She fell back on the table, scattering the burning candles. Her head became a fiery torch as her teddy caught fire. She screamed, withering to the floor, her body engulfed in flames.

  Vorlock and the other vampires reached into their capes and drew Glock automatics and Uzi m
achine guns.

  Bill ducked behind a chair as gunfire erupted. “What the hell!”

  Hank dove under a table.

  Tracer bullets streaked across the gloomy room like laser beams in a Star Wars battle scene, riddling the movie posters on the walls.

  A vampire marched across the room, his Uzi spitting out nine-millimeter slugs.

  Hank aimed low, blowing out his kneecap. The vampire screamed. He staggered back, then fell to the floor.

  A vampire jumped up on the table, then shot down through the wood at Hank.

  Hank returned fire. His slug burst through the tabletop into the vampire’s groin. The vampire howled, tumbling off the table.

  Bill ran out from behind the chair and took cover behind a thick support beam. A vampire blasted lead up and down the opposite side of the post. Splintered wood chips sailed past Bill’s head. He stuck his gun hand out blindly and fired two quick shots.

  One shattered the vampire’s collarbone; the other drilled through his throat. Blood gurgled from the vampire’s mouth as his legs gave out.

  Hank dashed across the room for a better position, only to be caught in a fierce crossfire between Vorlock and the vampire guarding the door.

  With nowhere to run, Hank dove into a casket.

  Vorlock fired at the soft pine coffin.

  Bill noticed Hank’s dilemma and shot at Vorlock, forcing the diabolical creature to scurry for safety behind the plywood structure.

  The vampire by the loft’s front door bounded toward the caskets. He trained his submachine gun on the first casket and fired off a quick burst. He paused at the next coffin, blasted a deadly hail of bullets into the box, and then turned to the next coffin.

  Hank bolted upright, shooting the vampire in the windpipe.

  A crimson gush spewed out of the tiny opening. The vampire keeled over in the coffin next to Hank.

  Another vampire jumped from the shadows and fired at Hank. The force of the bullet grazing Hank’s shoulder pushed him back into the casket.

  Bill dispatched the vampire with a clean shot to the skull. He rushed over to check on Hank.

  Vorlock approached from behind and cracked him on the back of the head with the butt of his handgun.

  Bill fell to his knees, then slumped facedown onto the floor.

  Hank stared up from the casket at Vorlock. He raised his gun.

  Vorlock kicked the weapon out of his hand. The small revolver spun across the floor.

  Vorlock unfastened his cape and allowed it to drop to the floor. He removed his shirt, then unstrapped a Kevlar bulletproof vest and tossed it onto a chair. “I was baking in that thing. Must be all that extra padding.”

  “So it was you who stole our shipment.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Vorlock snickered. “You know, these vests really can stop a fifty-caliber slug. I know. We tried.”

  “I don’t get it,” Hank said. “What’s with the vampire crap?”

  “Hey, who doesn’t love vampires?”

  “So, what, you just sit around all night, watching movies and drinking blood?”

  “Pretty much. What can I say? I’m a big Dark Shadows fan. How about yourself?”

  Hank shook his head.

  Vorlock pointed at the big screen, directing Hank’s attention to the man in the portrait. “So you never heard of Barnabas Collins?”

  “Can’t say as I have.” Hank attempted to sit up but fell back. “Tell me . . .” he whispered.

  Vorlock drew closer. “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “. . . if this . . .”

  Vorlock leaned down over the casket. “You’re going to have to speak up. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  Hank glared up at Vorlock.

  “. . . HURTS!”

  He drove a wooden stake through Vorlock’s chest.

  A look of alarm came over Vorlock’s pasty face. He gasped, clutching the stake with both hands, then collapsed on his back.

  Hank sat up in the coffin.

  Bill rubbed the back of his head and gazed around at all the bodies. The vampirette had been reduced to a smoldering, charred husk. “Bet she wished she’d skipped this barbecue.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think Vorlock was especially fond of your choice of stakes.”

  12

  CASE NUMBER: 18-06-247

  Vic and Rich enjoyed one last cocktail, while Kate and Debbie scoured the living room, carrying empty glasses and dirty paper plates to the kitchen.

  “You sure throw one mean party.” Vic tipped his tumbler back to polish off his Black Russian. He crunched the ice cubes, savoring the faint taste of the Kahlúa.

  “Glad you approve.” Rich propped himself against the wet bar. “You okay to drive?” He leaned to one side.

  Vic shot out his hand to steady his friend. “You okay to stand?”

  “Apparently not.” Rich giggled.

  “So who were all those people you invited tonight?”

  “Our friends, you silly boy.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Kate strode into the living room. She slipped on her coat, then handed Vic his jacket. “We should really get going. It’s late.”

  Vic glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, you’re right. It’s after midnight.”

  Debbie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a dish towel. “Thanks, Kate, for helping me clean up.”

  “No problem. We had a great time.”

  Vic put on his jacket. He almost laughed when Rich strode over to the front door, trying not to stagger. Rich was always the gracious host, giving the best parties—though he often overindulged, passing out in the bedroom before the revelry was over. Vic was surprised he was still able to stand, let alone walk.

  Rich opened the front door. He leaned on the doorknob for support.

  Vic could hear the rain outside. As there had been no mention on the evening news weather report, he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella. “Shoot! I’m parked down the street.”

  Kate looked outside. “I don’t mind getting a little wet.”

  “No point in us both getting drenched. You wait here. I’ll get the car and pull up in the driveway.” Vic turned up his collar. He hesitated for a split second before bolting into the torrential rain. He had to be careful running in his dress shoes, as they had smooth soles. He didn’t want to slip and ruin a good pair of slacks.

  Vic tried to hurdle over a large puddle at the end of the driveway, but his right shoe landed in six inches of water.

  “Damn it.” He shielded his eyes from the rain with his hand and charged down the sidewalk, spotting their car. He stood in the street, fumbling with his car keys to open the driver door.

  A blunt object rammed into the small of his back.

  “Hand it over!”

  Vic froze.

  What the hell is this?

  He felt an icy chill course through his body.

  “Hand it over,” the stern voice said again—three simple words that sent shivers down Vic’s spine.

  The keys jingled in Vic’s trembling hand.

  The keys! I can use them as a weapon to gouge out his eyes!

  But that would require the courage to fight back, and right now Vic was scared out of his mind. “You can have my wallet. . . . It’s not much . . . but—”

  The prodding left his back. Vic felt the cold muzzle press into his neck. “Here, take them!” Vic raised his hand, jiggling the keys.

  He heard the menacing click of the hammer cocking.

  “Jesus, man! What the hell do you want? I’ll give you anything—”

  The gunman smacked Vic on the side of the head. Vic fell against the driver door. He felt his wallet yanked from his back pocket. He grabbed the door handle, twisting around as he slumped onto the pavement with his back to the car.

  Vic looked up, the rain in his face.

  His attacker stood over him, rifling through Vic’s wallet. The thug wore a dark, hooded sweatshirt. He held a large revolver in his right hand, big
enough to blow Vic’s head clear off his shoulders.

  Vic cringed, expecting the man to shoot him execution style. Instead, the man glanced over his shoulder.

  A dark shape crashed into him.

  Vic watched another man tussle with his assailant in the middle of the street. They rolled about on the wet pavement, fighting for possession of the gun. A desperate hand yanked the hooligan’s hood off his head.

  Vic knew he should get up, jump into the fray, assist the Good Samaritan who was risking his life for him, but his legs were rubbery like cooked spaghetti.

  If he could only muster the nerve, help his rescuer before someone got—

  He flinched when the gun went off.

  The man in the sweatshirt scrambled to his feet.

  The other man remained on the ground.

  Oh my God. He killed him!

  The man with the gun stared down at Vic.

  Interior lights started to come on in the surrounding houses. A neighbor opened his front door, curious about the gunshot.

  Vic’s attacker threw the hood over his head. He took off running, vanishing into the night.

  A woman rushed over to the prone figure in the street. She dropped to her knees, expelling a gut-wrenching wail, then fainted on top of the body.

  Another woman appeared. She crouched in front of Vic. “Oh my God, Vic. Are you hurt?”

  Vic looked her straight in the face. “Kate?”

  * * *

  An hour later, the street outside Rich and Debbie’s house buzzed with activity. A patrol car parked at each corner, their rooftop emergency lights flashing like beacons in the night. A reporter stood by a media van, interviewing a small group of people milling about in their bathrobes. Vic’s car was cordoned off with yellow police tape, and the street was littered with numbered evidence markers.

  Inside the house, Vic and Kate sat on the couch across from Hank, who had been assigned the case. Vic held a frozen packet of peas to the side of his head.

  Hank started to speak, then turned his head to sneeze into his coat sleeve. “Sorry about that.” His voice was scratchy and hoarse. He looked at Vic. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital? You may have a concussion.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Honey, are you sure?” Kate laid her hand on Vic’s shoulder. “You took quite a wallop.”