I’ve resigned myself to plan for the worst, and hope for the best. If by some small miracle we do find a cure, that will be great. At the end of the day, though, that is only a half measure. The person would still have to get the shot in time before they turn or consume their first victim.
The only real solution is to take the head or pierce the heart of every vampire out there. It’s a long game we’re playing, so we’re going to need to buck up and remain steadfast if we have any chance of surviving.
I walk over to Shane and bend down beside him. His face is splattered with blood that has his shirt soaked through. I tilt his head to the left, and skim over the gangly flesh that has been gnawed on by his father. It’s doubtful that he’ll come back from that, but I don’t take the chance.
I take his head by the hair, severing it cleanly with the kukri. I drag his body over and dump the dead weight next to his father. Danny’s body tops the mound. Heads are shoved in between the bloody clothing.
The remaining rooms and spaces within the compound are checked for any vampires lying in wait. Given their recent track record with snatching nomads, and serving them up to their demon father, I need to make sure there aren’t any more caged in another area. Fortunately, there is no sign of vampires anywhere around.
I head back to the space where the bodies are, and search the shelves for any matches. I come across some lighter fluid and a butane lighter. I press the button, and a flame emerges from the tip.
I douse the dead with the flammable liquid, drenching their clothes thoroughly. The rest of the space is laced with the fluid until the bottle runs dry. These guys got what they deserved. In the end, they were just as bad as the vampires. They preyed on the weak.
My finger tests the button. It takes a few tries before the yellowish-orange gleam emerges from the tip. I toss the lighter onto the bodies. The mound of dead flesh and soaked clothing instantly jumps to life. The fire races over the dispatched heathens, engulfing the bodies within a matter of seconds.
Crackling and popping, the flames dance over the flesh of the three men. The heat presses against my face, sending me back a few steps. I slip the kukri into the sheath on my thigh, and leave the raging inferno to do its work.
Smoke, and the burning of human meat, taints the enclosed space. My nose scrunches up as I head down the narrow corridor. I make my way up the numerous flights of stairs until I reach the top.
The dense steel latch is pulled back on the hefty door that separates this dungeon of horrors to the outside world. My fingers wrap around the bar that is welded to the frame, and pulls back.
The door creaks open, allowing the sun’s harsh rays to bleed inside the dimly lit space. A thick haze filters out through the opening. My hand is braced over my nose and mouth to keep me from inhaling the smoke. I cough through the tiny slits between my fingers as I walk out into the punishment of the mid-day sky.
I move away from the building and stop. The heels of both hands rests on my knees while I’m bent over. I cough hard, trying to expel the smoke that managed to penetrate my lungs. My nostrils burn slightly. All I can smell is burnt flesh and scorched wood.
The heat outside is blistering and melds with the fire that is consuming the devilish family’s lair. It feels almost like I’ve moved from a frying pan to a furnace. There is no reprieve from the brutal sun. The depths of where the men lived was much cooler than the harshness of the wastelands. After setting that fire, the coldness has gone away.
White and black tinted smoke billows into the sky. The crackling of the building being eaten by the ravenous flames fills my ears. The sound is almost poetic in a way. What was once a den of pure evil, that fed on the innocence of good people, has turned the tables on the vile individuals.
I turn away from the smoldering structure, and eye the ragged truck that I was brought here in. The bike is lying on its side. I’m not sure, given its current position, if the solar cells have been able to charge any or not.
I jog over to the vehicle, and peer into the bed of the truck. The bike was tossed into the back haphazardly. It’s hard to tell if there is any damage or not, considering the frame and other components are used and already had wear. I move toward the rear and lower the tailgate. The chains snap taut. I hop up, and grab the handlebars.
The bike is stout. It’s much harder to handle when its contorted in such a manner, and there isn’t much room to work with. I shimmy the handlebars back and forth, trying to get them untangled from the wad of rope and other junk that is resting on top of it.
Daylight is burning every second that I have to fight with this damn thing. I continue to unwind the rope, and toss what junk is stuffed in the back of the truck to the ground. A high-pitched whining noise in the distance catches my attention. I stop and listen.
I stand up straight, head on a swivel as I glance around. It’s faint, but it’s growing louder with every second that ticks by. Sounds like it’s coming from the south. I glance back over my shoulder, and shield my face with my hand.
The brightness of the sun is blinding. The edge of my hand rests against my forehead, just above my brow. There. In the distance, I spot the reflection of something. Not just one, but multiple reflections.
Shit. Raiders.
Not what I need right now. This day is spiraling down the drain. It could’ve been the smoke from the fire I lit that drew them here, or it could just be bad luck on my part. Would be par for the course after all. I don’t regret incinerating that building and those vile men. I did this world a favor. Three less undesirables that won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.
I need this bike out now.
I turn back and focus on the task at hand. I have some time before they arrive. It’s not much, but it should be enough.
I toss more junk out. I finally unravel the tangled mess of rope from the bike, freeing the steel beast from its thick, woven web. I wrestle it upright. I flick the switch, to my right, which does nothing.
What the hell?
I do it again. Same result. Nothing happens.
The gauges remain lifeless.
There’s no hint that it’s even trying to fire up.
Fuck.
The band of raiders are closing in, and so is my window of slipping away without them knowing I’m here.
I lower the bike back down on its side, backtrack out of the bed, and hop down to the ground. I slam the tailgate shut and race toward the cab. I throw open the driver’s side door, and slip in behind the wheel.
The gleam from the silver key protruding from the ignition catches my attention. I guess they were so busy fighting with me that they forgot to take it with them. Lucky me.
I grab the end of the key. I peer into the side-view mirror. The rigs barreling this way become more visible. A large wall of dust trails in the vehicles’ wake.
I twist the key forward. The engine grumbles a gruff, hoarse grumble that doesn’t sound promising. It whines, sounding pitiful.
Shit. Come on, you hunk of junk. Work!
My foot pumps the pedal. I’m not sure how they’ve managed to keep this gas burning dinosaur running. It’s probably having a hard time starting because of the gasoline. Any fuel in the tank is likely bad. That’s why there aren’t many fossil fuel engines out here anymore.
I crank it again.
The engine spits and sputters, but finally comes to life. I’d rather take my bike, but don’t have the time to see why it won’t start. For now, this tin can will have to do.
I slam the door.
My hand grips the gear shift on the column and pulls it down into drive. I stomp the gas, and send the truck surging forward. The back tires dig into the dirt. Chunks of rock are excavated and fired out from underneath the spinning tires as the bed of the truck sways to the left.
The engine’s garbled mess clears out except for the high-pitched knocking noise. I just need it to hold together long enough to put some distance between me and the raiders.
Every crevasse the tires
discover sends the truck bottoming out. The impact rattles my teeth, but I maintain control of the truck.
Where the fuck is the paved road?
Maintaining this current course is going to rip this vehicle apart. Not sure how much more it can take at the speed I’m forcing it to go.
I spot the hint of the blacktop to my right. The thin layer of sand coating its surface is revealed by the blowing of the wind. I maneuver the truck to the right, narrowly missing a massive chunk of busted concrete jetting out of the ground. Rods of rebar protrude from the sides like spears fixed in the earth.
The truck climbs the embankment and finds traction on the evened-out pavement. I grapple with the swerving vehicle for control as it wants to wildly sway from left to right. The bike in the bed shifts its bulk about, slamming into the sides.
The gas pedal is mashed to the worn fabric floorboard. The speedometer surges past one hundred miles per hour. The vibrating of the truck increases as well. The faster I force the rig to go, the more evident the weak spots are.
I’m mostly worried about the feedback in the steering wheel. Its rattling and vibrating is growing more unstable. My hands fight to stay in place over the rigid grooves on the black, round wheel.
The stench of the fire grows less potent the farther away I move. The cloud of smoke billowing into the sky reduces in scope. The raiders must’ve stopped to investigate what was going on. I see no evidence that they’re continuing their pursuit in my direction. I don’t even know if they spotted me or not.
Still, I maintain my current course and rate of speed to ensure that I put enough distance between me and them. Time is of the essence, and recent events have shown that making any stops proves to work against me.
There is no rest for the righteous.
FOURTEEN
The knocking from the engine grows to the point that it sounds as if something is banging against the hood, trying to break free. Then, pop, smoke vents out from underneath the rusted steel hood.
At least I managed to get my bearings and back on track to Devil’s Fork. I had to leave the relative smoothness of the paved roads, and get back into the rugged terrain of this battered world to do it, though. I imagine on top of me riding this rust bucket hard, the unforgiving ground has punished the vehicle to the point that it is going to crap out soon.
The heat hasn’t let up either.
The back of my hand wipes the beads of sweat from my brow. I glance up through the windshield to find a cloudless sky. What I wouldn’t give for a torrential downpour of rain. Hell, a handful of clouds to help shade me some would be of some use.
I exit the cab, and force the rusted hinges to work. The door stutters and squeaks as I push it outward. The reddish-brown hue is coated over the thick bolts.
My arm swipes across my brow, catching the sweat building above my brow. I flick my wrist, discarding the moisture to the cracked earth beneath my boots. When it’s this hot, I like to travel at night. It’s much more dangerous because of the vampires, but the temperature can drop a good bit. It’s a tradeoff.
I move to the rear of the bed, and lower the tailgate. I wish Trevor, the Black Fields mechanic, was here with me to fix whatever is wrong. Have him do whatever is needed to get it back to an operational state. That isn’t an option right now, so I’m going to have to make do. Worst case, if I can’t get it running, then I’ll go at it on foot. Not what I want to do, but I’m left with little choices in the matter.
I step up into the bed of the truck, and skim over the bike. I’m lost as to how to get it down to the ground. I don’t really want to manhandle it off. I’ll probably mess it up even more, or run the risk of hurting myself in the process.
How did they get the bike into the truck at the gas station? I guess they could’ve strong-armed it up here, but their meager frames beg to table that thought. I wonder if they used a ramp or something similar.
I sift through the junk on either side of the bike. I toss out wads of rope and crates full of various steel components. Perhaps engine parts?
Hold on.
I notice something laying on its side and pressed up to the wheel well. Looks like a ramp or something that could be used as one. I bend over and maneuver the long piece of metal out. It takes a few moments to finally come free. It isn’t light by any means, and the weight of the bike resting on it doesn’t help any either. It’s rather narrow, but long enough that I think it’ll work for what I need.
I hop out and fix the end of the ramp to the edge of the tailgate. I test to ensure it’s secured in place. Both hands grab the edges of the ramp, and wiggle it from side to side. It doesn’t budge.
I climb back in and grab the handlebars of the bike. I muscle it upright from the clutter of junk that surrounds it. No easy task for sure. I carefully bring it back to where the rear tire toes the opening of the ramp. My leg goes over the width of the seat, and I sit down.
My head twists back over my shoulder, and I peer at the ground. Keep it steady and upright, and allow gravity to do the rest.
I carefully roll the bike backward onto the ramp. My boots make sure to keep the two-wheeled beasts from racing down too fast. I lean forward and continue on. It wobbles as it races down. I fight to keep it straight as the tires hit the ground.
The heels of my boots dig into the earth and bring the bike to a stop. A breath of relief escapes my lips. Glad that went like it did. Now the hard part begins.
I lower the kickstand, and lean the bike to the left. I sit up from the seat, and kneel down next to the engine compartment. I’m unsure what to even look for. It’s nothing more than a cluster of steel parts and wires that are intertwined within the frame.
Look for anything that could be loose or missing.
Easier said than done. Without knowing how it works, looking at this complex configuration makes one wonder how it even ran.
I lean forward, and focus on a cable that’s hanging loosely in the middle section of the engine. It doesn’t appear to be attached to anything. I pull up my right sleeve and reach inside. Thankfully, my hands are small enough to easily slip through the tight space.
The tips of my fingers wiggle, trying to snare the thick, black rubber cable. The way it’s positioned within the compartment is difficult for me to grab hold. I growl then sigh, venting my frustration.
After a few moments of my fingers working in tandem, they finally snare the slippery wire. I twist the cable upward and notice that it has a cap on the end. I peer inside the engine, and spot a place that it could possibly fit.
It’s in an odd place, but I manage to secure it back in place. It fits without issue. Hopefully, that’s all that was wrong. Time to test and see if I’m still screwed or back in business.
I stand up and sling my leg over the seat. The bike is prepped for starting, which brings the comforting glow of the dusty gauges to life. I focus on the power display, which shows that it’s managed to charge a fraction more before that cable came loose. It’s enough to get me to Devil’s Fork and away if I need to make a hasty retreat.
The bike grumbles, but finally evens out.
I allow the bike to idle for a moment and move back to the truck. I sweep the cab for anything of use before moving on. The front is void of anything of use. I move to the backseat and come across a pack that has been stuffed into the floorboard. I pull the brown leather pack toward me, unzip the top, and open it up. There isn’t much inside except for a few bottles of water and cans of food. The labels have been removed. I’m clueless as to what’s inside. Doesn’t matter, though. I’ll take it just the same. Beggars can’t be choosers.
A bottle of water is retrieved from the interior as I head back over to the bike. I twist the cap off and guzzle the warm liquid down. I drink about half of the bottle before stopping. It doesn’t stay the arid feeling inside my mouth, but it’s not as bad as it was.
After securing the cap back in place, I toss it back inside the pack. I slip the worn, tattered straps over my shoulders and mount the
bike. The goggles dangle from the right handlebar. Looks as though my luck is turning around. I slip them free, and secure them over my head.
My foot brings up the kickstand and secures it in place. I rev the engine a bit more before taking off. The bike lunges forward, and gains speed in a matter of seconds. I keep the throttle twisted toward me, pushing the two-wheeled beast full out.
The trek to Devil’s Fork is a desolate one, which brings a sense of relief to me. From what I’ve heard, most folks stay away from this area of the wastelands. Even raiders keep their distance from the devil’s playground.
Over the years, word has spread of another large nest that was within striking distance of Black Fields, and other settlements. Most didn’t dare to find the demon horde. Only a few brave souls ventured out to seek a pound of flesh from the demons as payback for the vampires’ heinous actions.
The stories told were grand, and boasted of how they charged the sprawling nest with reckless abandonment. Outfitted with everything from crossbows to firearms, they stormed the demons’ resting place to see that justice was served, and the corrupt lands are purified from their presence.
Their ultimate fate was uncertain, as they were never seen again. Some speculated that they slashed their way through hordes of undead creatures before being stopped. Others drew a more plausible plot that the foolish men were ripped apart before drawing first blood.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. Those men are dead, and the vampires still rule the world.
FIFTEEN
The sun has all but left me.
My biggest weapon against the undead has retreated.
It’s dipped down over the purplish backdrop of a dismal day, leaving me to finish my journey to Devil’s Fork in the fading light. Soon, the night will devour the wastelands, allowing the slumbering demons to awaken, and scour the earth for prey to quench their thirst.
There is no safe haven to retreat to in this godforsaken place, just wide-open tainted land as far as one can see. An endless sea of dead earth that spans for what feels like eternity.
Crimson Thirst (The Huntress Bane Book 2) Page 10
