Blackjack Wayward (The Blackjack Series) (57 page)

The driver seemed to read his mind and said, “What you gonna do? Spritz us to death?”

Lucy laughed as did Sal, the driver smiled, and for a second, Owen did too then screamed in a voice so loud and hoarse it drowned out all other sound in the room and rushed the driver. Shaking his head, the driver rose on the balls of his feet, confident in his ability, but Owen took a halting step just out his reach and stabbed with the jagged end of the broom, putting all of his weight behind it. The tip wasn’t quite a point, more a collection of edges, but it drove into Lucy’s neck with a wet squelch and a small geyser of blood.

Lucy tried to scream, but it came out a choked gargle as she hit the floor. The driver made another grab for him, as the third man stood there, shock plain on his face. Owen never stopped moving, letting Lucy fall as he swung the other half of the broomstick at the small light bulb, shattering it with a brittle pop. The room fell into darkness, and Owen stumbled a step as the room was superimposed on his retinas for a split second. The driver cursed and Owen heard a flurry of movement as he hit the far wall, feeling along for the fire extinguisher.

“Fucking bloodbag,” the driver said, and Owen could feel him closing in. “I can see in the dark.”

Without a word, Owen pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle out in front of him, squeezing the release and felt the gout of fire retardant spray into the room. He aimed high and felt the spray spread around him in a thick mist. Any adjustment his eyes had made in the dark was lost in the thickening cloud and he kept spraying it as he started walking. The driver cursed louder and Owen moved away from his voice trying to work his way around to the door. He followed the lit line along the edge of the garage’s aluminum door, and had made it halfway across the room when the fire extinguisher was ripped from his hands by force. Faster than he could react, he heard a gust of air and felt the cold metal slam into his side, throwing him a few feet and down to the ground.

He tried to roll away, but felt the kick connect with his ribs with force of a two ton piston. Clutching his midsection, he gasped for a breath that wouldn’t come. He lashed out with blind punches and kicks, striking nothing, and again he heard a raspy laugh and felt a weight press on his chest, constricting his breathing. Pulling in only the faintest slips of air, Owen felt the edges of his vision close in and then felt hot rank breath on his face. A metallic smell, present despite the damage to his nose, filled Owen’s sinuses and mouth, and his mind connected with it instantly.

“Blood, you smell like blood,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The punch caught him in the mouth, crushing his lips against his teeth, splitting them into raw bloody meat. Owen grunted in pain and drew a deep breath, blood pouring into the back of his throat, choking him. He coughed and tried to turn his head, but a strong hand caught his face and held it there. Owen tried to swallow the blood pooling in his airway, but pressure around his head and neck kept his throat from working. He did not have to see the world around him to know it was dimming out.

“It’ll be over soon,” Sal said in his raspy voice. “I promise.”

He grabbed at the wrist holding him, struggling against it, but it was immovable and try as he might, he could not muster more than weak slaps at it. He felt up the length of the arm, his fingers starting to tingle, brushing Sal’s chin, but the man moved out of the way while keeping the pressure on Owen’s neck constant. He went back to working the arm, but his limbs felt floppy and weak, falling to his sides as his eyes closed and darkness descended.

A hiss intruded on the far end of his hearing and the Owen felt the pressure around his throat lighten. Opening his eyes, he saw Sal still on top of him, but looking at what seemed to be a road flare that sat in the middle of the room, coloring everything in reddish white hues. Spearing his index finger up, he caught Sal in the eye, feeling the viscous sclera spill over the fingernail. The man screamed arching back from Owen, who wriggled out from under him and used his elbows to get some distance. Coughing hard, he expelled blood in thick ropes that splashed on his clothing and the floor around him. The room was a haze, but most of the fire extinguisher’s foam had fallen to the floor.

The driver stood near Lucy, the haft of broomstick gone. He turned to the flare and didn’t see the newcomer until it was too late. One quick upward swing and the driver’s head came away from the neck tumbling across the floor before coming to a rest on its side a few feet from Owen.

“Oh shit!” Owen said, staring at the lolling thing, sightless eyes staring out of dead sockets and its fanged mouth frozen in surprise. Blood escaped from the neck, pooling around it.

Shocked to stillness, he could only watch as another man entered the room, by the flare’s sharp light, he recognized him as one of the old men who dropped money in his tip bucket. Still wearing the coat, a machete gripped in his gnarled hand, he two long strides and swung from the shoulder the blade coming in low, slicing through the Sal’s skull in a clean sweep, flipping his wrists in the same motion and slicing through the supple flesh at the neck, Sal’s head flopping off, hanging to the body by a flap of skin.

Resting on his elbows, Owen sunk down to the garage floor as the other man, the shorter of the two backed Lucy towards the same wall where Owen had been moments before.

“Owen help me,” she cried.

“Hey…“ Owen managed, as the newcomer cut Lucy’s head off and kicked it away from the body. It tumbled across the floor, coming to a rest at a weird angle, her wispy hairs awry. Heavy boots clomped up to Owen, who looked up at his savior. The harsh light of the road flare gave him a dreadful quality that Owen shrunk from, and when he reached down, Owen tried to slap the hand away. The old man squinted at him, batting Owen’s paltry resistance away and probing his neck, settling on his carotid artery and holding there for a second.

“He’s still alive, help me get him up,” he said, his voice a grumbling basso that could shake paint off walls.

The other man walked over and stared down at Owen, blood dripping from a machete in fat drops not a foot from him. Shaking his head, he said, “You and your damn strays, Hick. I’ll clear out some space in the back.” Walking away, he disappeared through the garage door.

Holding the machete back, ready to strike, the man said, “Did they turn you? Did you drink their blood?”

The question gave Owen pause.

“What the fuck is happening?” he said, and his voice was alien to his ears. Thick with trauma and blood, it sounded an octave lower and obstructed, like he was talking around a mouthful of food.

“Did they make you drink anything, kid?” the man said, clenching the machete through whitened knuckles. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

Owen shook his head. “Blood’s all mine.”

Looking down at him, the flare’s intensity dying as its burned through its fuel, the man caught Owen’s eye and pinned him like a man spear fishing. Owen felt the scales in that stare measuring him against some unknown rubric, and all he could do was stare back, his mouth a bloody snarl. Satisfied, the old man nodded and slid the machete away in a scabbard tied to his belt. He extended a hand, and Owen took it, letting the old man help him to his feet. Owen tried to walk and almost fell again, the old man’s steadying hand keeping him upright.

“Easy boy, take it easy,” the old man said, slipping Owen’s arm over his shoulders and guiding him out. “Sorry we were so late, kid. Milo drives like an old lady.”

“Uh, thanks,” Owen said as Milo reappeared in the doorway a gallon sized gas can in his gloved hands. He nodded to them as they walked by and Owen smelled the acrid stench of gasoline as Milo started splashing it around the garage. He turned his head, letting the other man lead him out the back.

“What the fuck,” Owen said, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. “Who are you people?”

“I’m Hick, the other guy is Milo,” he said. “You did good fighting them off like you did, didn’t think you had it in you.”

As they reached the door, Owen saw Milo step out of the room and light another flare, taking a couple of big steps away from the garage before tossing it in. Flames leapt out the door, the heat strong enough that he felt it as they crossed the threshold into the warm North Carolina evening. The air was crisp and clear and Owen took a heavy lungful as the old man half carried him to a huge Denali parked behind the cab he’d arrived in light years ago.

“Get him in, Hick, we got less than five minutes,” Milo said, clambering into the driver’s seat.

“You heard him,” Hick said. “Can you get up there?”

Nodding, Owen used the door for support and crawled into the Denali’s long couch style back seat. The slight bump in the middle dug into his back, but he found a good spot as the door closed.

“What the fuck was that?” he said, the vague image of Hick getting in on the passenger side dancing at the edges of his vision. Owen knew he should stay awake, aware that these guys could be as bad as the ones who just beat him to hell, but his body was incapable of complying and his eyes began to shut of their own volition, his brain easing him into unconsciousness.

“Vampires,” he heard Hick say as the darkness edged in.

Selected Artwork for Blackjack Wayward