C.O.T.V.H. (Book 3): Extermination (14 page)

His entire body was drenched in sweat.  He lifted his hand to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes and had a very hard time even doing that. 
So this is what it feels like to die . . . not so bad really.
  He closed his eyes again. 
It would be so easy just to let go . . . just cross over into . . . whatever is after this.  Maybe I’ll even see Mom again and Donnie, Billy, maybe even Dad.  It would be so easy.
  Then his eyes fell on Cort snoring loudly in a chair against the wall and his father’s words came back to him.  “Someone has got to stay home and keep an eye on your Grandpa.”

He glanced over at the alarm clock to see what time it was but was rewarded with a constant blinking red twelve.  Cort grumbled in his sleep, his hands clutching 
The Cleaner
tightly in his grip.  He muttered something in his sleep, not opening his eyes.  It sounded a lot like “Please . . .”

The thunder seemed to grow much closer.  Jake's eyes opened wide.  
A little too loud almost like . . .
 The loud thump, thump, thump above him grew louder and closer. 
Footsteps!

It dawned on him then that there was no second story to this motel and surely no one in their right mind would be on the roof this time of night, in this type of weather.  He tried to rise out of the bed when Cort's voice spoke out in a very tired voice.  "Damn it boy go back to bed."

Jake looked over to see his grandfather’s eyes trained on the cracked popcorn ceiling. He put a wrinkled index finger up to his lips making a
shhhhh
gesture.  He'd heard.  He just didn't want whatever was walking above to know he'd heard.

Without moving his eyes Cort nodded at the nightstand next to Jake.  With what little strength he could muster, Jake reached over and opened the drawer with a loud squeak. Inside, next to a scarred black leather bound bible, was a well oiled .45 Peacemaker.  Jake slid the gun out then spun the chamber, making sure it was loaded.  He cocked the hammer back cringing at the loud click.

The ceiling gave a tremendous crack before a hole opened and a man crashed to the floor between the Bishop men.  Outside intense screaming suddenly eclipsed the rain and thunder, followed by the sudden repetitive boom of a half dozen shotguns being fired at once as well as the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire.  Extremely bright floodlights sprang to life in the parking lot and streamed in through the dirty rain streaked windows.

The creature stood to its full height.  He was a heavyset Hispanic man, dressed in mud-coated coveralls, with the name
Fernando
printed on the front of it. His thick black hair was matted with mud.   He threw up his arms shielding his eyes from the lights outside.  “Help me!  Help me!” he cried out.  “I can’t stop!  Please!  I can’t stop!”  His pleas turned into a loud snarl.

On pure instinct Jake rolled onto the floor, out of Cort’s line fire.  The old shotgun barked in Cort's hands and the creature's skull and bits of brain scattered over the already stained comforter. Fernando fell forward on top of the bed his head trying to pull itself back together.  His fangs snapped down hard like a bear trap that had just been triggered, just inches from Jake’s face.  “
Dios, ayúdame
!” he yelled out in Spanish.

Jake, in a panic, swung the pistol again and again against Fernando’s broken head, then punched the barrel of the pistol into his eye socket, his eyeball popped squirting fluid in Jake’s face.

Jake pulled the trigger repeatedly, blowing holes through the back of what was left of the Maker’s head, leaving bullet holes in the wall across the room. A click, click signaled the gun was empty so Jake shoved it harder into the grunt's eye.  It screamed out in a vicious growl, its human side now completely gone.  Leaving the empty revolver stuck in the monster’s head, Jake crawled across the floor to his Grandpa.

Cort pumped round after round of buckshot into the wounded beast, sending blood and flesh flying in every direction, much of it hitting Jake in his face and chest.  When the gun was empty he cast it aside and yanked his massive Bowie knife from his hip.  He thrust it through the beast's back slicing through its heart.

Putting one foot on the bed for leverage he yanked the bloodied blade free and swung it with both hands at Fernando’s neck.  In a half dozen chops the head rolled free.

“Grandpa!”  Jake screamed out in terror.  “The blood!  The blood!  It’s in my mouth!” he coughed trying to clear his mouth of the nasty tasting liquid.  “My eyes!” he rubbed frantically at it with both hands.

Cort didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto his grandson and ripped the bandages away from his chest.

“What are you doing?”  Jake managed between coughs.  “Please, Grandpa, help me!”

“I am helping you, Jake.”  Cort dipped his hands into the puddle of blood soaking into the bed’s sheets.  He placed both hands on Jake’s chest and rubbed them over the wounds.

“NO!”  Jake cried out as a scalding hot fire raced through his blood.  His body twitched and spasmed.  Cort gripped his right hand tightly in his own and prayed.  “God forgive me.”

It took nearly ten minutes for the blood to work its way completely through his system.  When it was done Jake lay motionless, his green eyes staring unmoving at the ceiling.  Cort gently touched his forehead. It was cool, the fever was finally gone.  He laid his head gently on his chest.  The heart beat strong and steady.

“Cort!”  Cat yelled making her way into the room.  “Cort!  Are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” he said still gripping his grandson’s hand tightly.  “We’re going to be just fine.”

“Cort . . .” Cat said taking in the situation.  Her eyes fell on Jake’s bloodied chest.  “My god . . . you actually did it didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he whispered.  “God forgive me, I didn’t have a choice.”

Jake’s eyes blinked, they roamed around the room taking it all in.

“Jake?” Cort asked gingerly.  “Can you hear me?”

Jake coughed, placing his hand over his mouth, “I feel like I’m going to . . . throw up,” he sat up with no effort and rushed for the door.

Cat stepped out of his way, her double barrel shotgun trained in his direction.

“Lower the gun, Cat,” Cort said, picking the Maker’s head up off the floor by the pistol still lodged in its head.

Cort pulled a small pair of pliers out of his back pocket and yanked the first tooth free.  “He’s going to be fine.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” she yelled.

Jake, oblivious to their ensuing argument, looked down at his burning chest, noticing for the first time that his bandages were completely gone.  His chest was covered in dark blackish blood.  Panic ripped through him as he staggered outside into the rain.

He got all the way to the edge of the parking lot before the whole world started spinning and tunnel vision set in.  Leaning against the side of the truck, he puked his guts out. Wiping his mouth with his hand he dropped to the hard concrete and began shaking.  His chest burned worse than ever.  He wiped frantically at the blood, trying to clear it from his wounds.  Tiny black stitches sticking up from his pale white chest and shoulder were the only indication he’d been injured at all.  "Oh . . . no . . ." Jake whispered, looking around to make sure no one else was around.  The motel was wild with commotion.  Men with guns were running back a forth from room to room, opening fire on anything that moved.  With a shaking hand, Jake reached up and checked to see if his teeth were extending. 
Am I turning?

Cort startled him as he tossed the grunt’s head past him.  It hit the parking lot and landed with a splash in a large puddle of water.  He gently laid a towel over Jake’s shoulder. "Here Jake, clean yourself up."

With Cort's help he managed to stand and lean on the truck.
 
A vampire, missing its right arm, staggered into the parking lot followed closely by six Hunters.  Cort cocked
The Cleaner
one handed and put a round of buckshot into the grunt’s left leg, severing it at the knee.  The vampire collapsed screaming like a wounded dog.

Jake barely noticed the sounds of gunfire that finished him off. His feet were still wobbly but he managed to walk out into the rain and look straight up, letting the cold water running off the carport wash over his body.  After a good minute he came back and wiped himself down with the towel, but couldn't stop shaking.  
Am I turning?
he thought to himself, panic setting in.
This can’t be what it feels like . . . no, no, I'm not turning, but . . . the wounds, the pain is gone.

“Jake?”  Cort asked looking down at his healed wounds.  “It’s going to be okay.”

“No . . .” Jake stammered.  “Grandpa . . . what’s happening to me?”

Cort grabbed him forcefully, holding him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry son, I did what I had to.”  He released his hug then gently held his grandson’s head in both hands staring into his eyes.

“What did you do?”  Jake just managed to get out.

Cat stood silently to the side, her gun still pointed in Jake’s direction.  “See, Cat, see for yourself.”  Cort said, stepping out of the way so she could get a good look at him.  “He’s still human.”

“Grandpa, Cat, please someone tell me what the hell is going on!”

Chris with his rifle in hand was suddenly at his mother’s side.  “We’ve got them fought back!” he yelled over the rain.  “So far it looks like ten grunts, one for each room.  What happened to Jake?  Is he okay?”

Jake noticed his grandpa ever so slightly point
The Cleaner
in Cat’s direction.

"I don’t know.  Jake, are you okay?” she asked carefully.

“We’re fine.” Cort answered, nonchalantly covering Jake’s chest and shoulder with the towel.

“I guess we’ll see,” she said lowering her weapon and walking across the lot into the rain.

“You said the others were all grunts?”  Cort asked Chris.

“Yeah,” he said cradling his rifle in the nook of his left arm. 

“The one that hit us wasn’t a grunt,” Cort said shaking his head.  “He was a Maker, but . . . he seemed confused.  Like he’d
just
been turned.  How many did we lose?”

“So far it looks like six hunters, and some young couple shacked up in number four.  Two of the hunters were Turner's men."

"Shit," Cort said, kicking a stray beer can across the lot. "I should have seen this coming.  I should have known.  After Anderson called I should have let everyone know."

"Know what?”  Chris exclaimed.  “That a legion of vampire grunts would attack us? How could anyone have foreseen this happening?  They’ve never hit anything this big!”

“I bet they said the same thing when we hit Twister,” Jake said pulling the towel from off his chest so Chris could get a good look.

“Jake?”  Chris said staring down at his healed wounds.  “You were nearly dead when you came in . . . what happened to you?” he said turning his body so he could readily put a bullet through Jake’s head.  Cort went to step in front of him but Jake eased him out of the way.  “Look, Chris, my friend, my brother, take a good look.”

Chris stared hard at Jake’s eyes, “Explain.”

“It’s the blood, the Maker’s blood.  It fixed me.”  He held his arms out to his sides, “It’s okay, feel my chest.”

Carefully, Chris extended a hand to Jake’s chest and felt his steady heart rate.  He pulled his hand away, his face flooding with relief.  “It’s a miracle.”

The floodgates of heaven must have closed because the downpour came to a startling halt.  Stray bolts of lightning flashed silently in the distance. Across the shiny parking lot Jake saw a weathered looking Wes Turner come pacing across the parking lot with five armed men hot on his heels.  Cat stood in front of him with her arms outstretched trying to calm him down. Buck was following closely behind his dad.

Wes Turner wore a wife beater showing off the long tattoos running up his neck and his massive forearms.  He looked like a skinhead biker from Hell.  Jake had never seen him look so bad.  The long days riding in the sun had burned his skin many times over giving him a dark leathery look.  He held a sawed off shotgun in one hand and machete covered with blood in the other.

"You happy Cort?" he screamed, walking up and getting directly in Cort's face.  "Is this what you wanted?" he yelled, motioning at the chaos around him.

Cat stepped in between the two men.  "Turner calm down.  It's not Cort's fault."

"Like hell it's not!" Turner said, his face turning a bright red.  He shoved Cat to the side and stood nose to nose with Cort.  

"If it weren't for you and your runt, my guys would still be alive!  A Hunter gets turned you put him down!  You know the rules!  John knew the location of every safe house in three states!"

Cort stared Turner in the eye matching him glare for glare.  Jake's eyes however, were focused on Buck.  The two had never settled up after what happened with Donnie.

“Hey, old buddy,” Buck snickered, “you puked on your pants."  

Jake looked down, his face indifferent to the thin vomit covering the bottoms of his gray jogging pants.

Cort spoke up, his voice a little over a whisper, "Tend to your wounded Turner.”  He turned his back, walking away.

Turner spit in his direction.  "The Hell with you Cort.  The Hell with all of you goddamn Bishops!  Always so cocky, so righteous!  You worthless, miserable old bastard, my men's blood is on your hands!"  He pointed at Jake.  "And you too, you piece of shit!  To think I spent a full year of my life helping your old man search for your whore of a mother.  If it weren't for you, and your worthless coward of a father none of this would have happened!"

Jake felt a rage pour through him that he had never experienced in his entire life.  It went beyond angry, beyond hate.  He was going to rip Wes Turner's head off and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.  Cort beat him there.

In less than a heartbeat Cort had turned, knocked Turner to the wet concrete and stood with his cowboy boot tight on his throat. 
The Cleaner
pushed firmly to his forehead.   Both of Turner’s weapons clanged hard on the pavement.