C.O.T.V.H. (Book 3): Extermination (2 page)

“Easy, Pop,” John leaned back in his chair.  “You don’t want to break the line.”

“I know how to catch a fish!”  Cort reeled until the fish was just breaching the surface of the water.

Jake dipped the net in and yanked the fish into the boat.  Cort fell back to his chair breathing heavily. 

Jake stared down at the catfish tangled in the net.  “We’re gonna need a smaller boat,” he said, keeping his face as serious as he could manage.

John took one look at the small, barely 13in catfish and fell back into his chair laughing hysterically.  “Aww man!  Stand back, Pop!  It’s a monster!”

Jake joined his laughter, turning Cort’s cheeks a bright red.  Cort untangled the fish from the net then pulled the hook from its mouth with a pair of pliers out his front pocket.  He dropped the wriggling channel cat into the live well without uttering a word.

John’s distracted laughter continued until one of his rods suddenly leapt out of the boat and disappeared over the side.  The boat grew completely silent.

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” Cort smiled leaning back with his hands behind his head, “I’d say that was planned.”

Later that night, Jake sat in his faded green lawn chair feeding twigs into a small fire built in the center of their camp.  It had been a good day.  They’d nabbed seventeen more fish between the three of them, five of them over five pounds.  What made it even better was that he hadn’t thought about Donnie’s death more than a dozen times.  Much less than the usual once per minute play by play his mind forced on him. 

The guilt of Donnie’s death still sat heavily on his shoulders.  He couldn’t help but feel responsible. 
I should have checked my guns . . .
stop it!  There was nothing you could have done!  It was the Turners’ fault.  Yeah . . . the Turners . . . I still should have checked my guns.

Cort sat across from him in a blue lawn chair, oblivious to Jake’s inner anguish.  His large bowie knife chipped away at a thick dry piece of wood.  He tried hard to hide it, but Jake could tell the elder Bishop was nervous.  If there was one thing that scared Cort more than anything else it was being outside after dark.  He preferred the relative safety of his barred doors and window.  As usual his trusty .357 Colt Python sat holstered at his left hip, ready for a cross draw.  His hand was never more than a couple of inches away from it.

Grandpa sure does look old,
Jake thought, immediately feeling guilty for even thinking it.

Cort was nearing sixty-nine years old and it was starting to show more with each passing day.  His once strong, stout frame was thinner than it once was.  He’d cut back his long gray hair to where it was easily hidden by the green and tan camo cap he wore.  His calloused, weathered hands were eaten up with arthritis, his arms a roadmap of scars.  In his over fifty years of hunting, he had seen it all.  Had killed more vampires than he could recollect and had sacrificed more than Jake could even begin to imagine. 

“Hey Grandpa?” Jake asked looking up from the flames.

“Yeah Jake?”  Cort replied not looking up from his carving.

“Can I ask you something?  Something kind of . . . personal?”

“Sure, why not,” Cort replied, flicking a small sliver of wood into the fire.

“What happened with my grandmother?  Why did she leave?”

Cort furrowed his brow as he cut an especially large chunk out of his stick, “Well . . . to tell you the truth Jake . . . it’s complicated.”

“There’s nothing complicated about it,” John said, dropping an armful of firewood to the ground.  “She left because she was selfish.  She didn’t care about anything or anyone but herself.”

“That’s not fair, John,” Cort gave his son a sad look.  “She stuck around as long as she could manage.  This isn’t an easy life for anyone, especially someone that  . . .”

“Bullshit,” John interjected, “She was a coward, plain and simple.  She knew what kind of world she was marrying into when she first met you.  There were no shocking revelations that drove her away.  She just turned chicken after Tommy Turner got killed and Wes came to live with us.”

“Dad,” Jake said sadly, “she’s still your mother.”

John’s features hardened, “Let me tell you about my so called
mother
.  One Saturday morning my little brother William, Wes, and I woke up like we normally did and went outside to play cowboys and Indians.  A couple of hours later
she
came outside and called us in to eat breakfast.  She set a bowl of cereal in front of me, in front of Wes, patted me on the head, then without a word took Will and left.  No goodbye, no I love you John, have a nice life,
nothing!  That
is how I remember my
mother
.  She’s the woman that stole my little brother.  Nothing more,” John stormed away, leaving the conversation.

“Man . . .” Jake looked back into the flames, “Dad is still pretty upset about it, huh?”

“Yeah it’s not easy growing up without a mother,” Cort frowned.  “Sandra’s probably the closest thing he has to one.”

“So what happened to her?” Jake asked.

“She was living in Virginia last I heard.  Remarried with three or four kids.  Of course they’re all grown now, probably with kids of their own.  Far as I know Will doesn’t even know who I am.  He was only four when she took him away.”

“You never tried to contact him?”  Jake asked.

“And bring him into this mess of a world we live in?”  Cort shook his head.  “No.  I can’t do that to him.  He’s out, he’s safe, that’s all that matters.”

“But he’s still a Bishop,” Jake replied.  “He should at least know where he came from.”

“I doubt very much that he even knows that name,” Cort flicked another piece of wood into the fire. “I doubt I’d even know him if I saw him.”

“Do you still love her?” Jake asked, picking a stick off of the ground and rolling it back and forth between his palms.

“She was the love of my life,” Cort answered, biting his upper lip.

Man how sad . . . I don’t know who I feel for more.  Dad for the anger he can’t let go of, or Grandpa for the love he had to let go of. 
“I always wondered what happened to them.  I saw the family pictures of Dad and Will and Grandma hanging on the wall, but I never asked because I figured it was just too painful for you.”

“That’s life,” Cort sat up in his chair, readjusting the holstered revolver on his hip.  “You’ll learn as you get older that things don’t always go the way you plan, especially when it comes to something as complicated as love.”

“Greetings!”  A voice called out from the darkness, causing both Cort and Jake to stand.  Cort pulled his revolver, cocking back the hammer.

“Don’t shoot!” A figure emerged from the darkness with a stringer full of fish in one hand and a red fishing pole in the other.  He smiled sheepishly, holding both hands above his head.  “Sorry if I scared you,” he stammered.  “I was just wondering if you might have a sharp knife I could borrow or maybe a wet rock.  I’ve got a stringer full of fish and my knife is quite dull.”

‘Greetings?’ Quite dull?’ Who talks like that? 
Jake’s own hand slowly wandered to the pistol tucked tightly into the back of his waistband.  His other hung loosely to his side, just within reach of his axe,
Judgment,
that was imbedded in a large log near the fire
.

“That’s a big gun,” the man stood stock still, staring down the barrel of Cort’s pistol.  “Mind if I lower my arms?”

Cort holstered the big pistol but kept his knife gripped tightly in his other hand.  “Go right ahead,” he said, in a friendly tone.  “Sorry.  Damn hogs have overrun this part of the country.  You can’t be too careful.”

The man lowered his arms then stepped closer to the fire.  He had short brown hair hidden under a gray and black Bass Pro Shop cap.  His blue eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of Buddy Holly glasses.  He couldn’t have been more than thirty.  “I ran into a pack of about ten of them down near the water.  Big creatures, one of them must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.”

“That’s a nice haul,” Jake nodded at the stringer.  “What were you using for bait?”

“Liver,” he smiled brightly, admiring his own stringer.  “Works like a charm every time.”

“That’s for sure,” Cort nodded.  “Nothing beats chicken liver.  Well have a seat,” Cort motioned to John’s empty lawn chair.  “Jake, would you get my sharpener out of my tackle box?  It’s in the back of the truck.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake nodded.  He headed for the truck but kept both eyes fixed on the stranger.  He looked harmless enough, but if there was one thing that Sgt. Major Castle had taught him, it was that a Maker could take on any shape, any disguise.

Jake picked up his axe, acting as if he were going to put it in the back of the truck.  He clicked on his flashlight and searched through the box until finally finding the sharpener.

Jake stepped back into the camp and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” the man smiled, showing a mouthful of perfect pearl white teeth.

With his left hand he reached into his front pocket and withdrew a small red Swiss Army knife.  He pulled open the blade and ran it through the sharpener.  “Where are you guys from?” he asked, not looking up from his work.  “Lubbock?”

“Abilene,” Cort lied.

“How about yourself?” Cort asked.

“Lubbock.  I am an English professor at Texas Tech.”

English professor huh?  That might explain why he speaks so . . . properly.  Just like Mr. Orwell, then again Orwell is over three hundred years old.

Jake leaned against the bed of the truck, his axe gripped tightly in his right hand.

“How has the weather been down there?” the stranger asked.  “Have you had much rain?”

“No.  Not much at all,” Cort replied.  “It’s just too damn dry.”

“That is the truth,” the man replied.  “I have been coming here for years and have never seen the lake this dry.  Oh dear!” he cried out, putting his finger up to his mouth.

“You okay?” Cort asked, his fingers brushing the grip of his pistol.

“Yes.  I’m afraid I just cut myself is all,” he held his finger up to the flickering light.  Sure enough a thin stream of red blood covered the tip.  Jake relaxed.  The man was clearly human.  No Maker would bleed red blood.  Their blood was almost as dark as oil.

“Can I get you a band-aid?”  Cort asked.

“Yes, if you have one,” the man nodded.

Cort opened the passenger door of the truck and pulled a first aid kit from under the seat.  “Here you go,” he said handing him a band-aid.

The man wrapped up his finger, then stood up handing the sharpener back to Jake.  “Well thank you gentleman.  I appreciate it.  I had better get these cleaned and get back home.  It is getting late.”

“No problem at all,” Cort nodded.  “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Guy,” the man nodded.  “Thanks again.  Goodnight.”  With that he headed off into darkness.

A few minutes later John, quiet as a corpse stepped back into camp.  “He’s gone.”

“Think he was telling the truth?”  Jake asked.

“The blood looked real enough,” Cort shrugged, “but who the hell knows.  His language was a little off.”

“I watched him until he got back to his camp,” John laughed.  “He tripped over a tree root and fell into the lake.”

“I say we head home.” Cort sheathed his knife, then picked his carving off the ground and tossed it into the fire.  “Goddamn vampires.  I haven’t been on a camping trip in twenty-five goddamn years.  The first time I do, they wreck it.”

“Come on Grandpa,” Jake said, “he was probably just some guy!  We can’t just call it quits because some loser struts into our camp looking for a knife sharpener.  Besides it’s my eighteenth birthday.  Can’t we just pretend, just for one day, that every person we meet is
not
a vampire?”

“Pop’s right, Jake,” John placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.  “Camping out was just a bad idea.”

“Man this sucks,” Jake sulked. “Every time . . . every damn time something good happens we have to call it off because of vampires.  I hate this crap!”

“I know it Jake,” Cort said, already starting to take down his tent.  “That’s just the way it is.”

John backed their boat into the driveway a little after 2am.  Cort unhitched it then placed a block of wood behind each tire. 

John pulled his truck around, parking it in the garage.  Jake punched the ten-digit code into the alarm and heaved open the heavily fortified door leading into the house.  The three men stepped inside and set the alarm.

“Get some sleep, Jake,” John said, hanging his keys on the
Gone Fishing
key rack next to the door.

“Looks like there’s a message on the machine,” Cort said, taking his cap off and dropping into Billy’s old chair.  He pushed the button.  The machine beeped.

“Hi Jacob,” Amber’s voice said a little over a whisper.  Jake stopped what he was doing and turned to listen, his heart jumping into his throat. 
I’d forgotten how much I love the sound of my name on her lips.
 

“I was hoping to talk to you,” she continued, “but I guess . . . I guess you’re too busy with, well you know hunting trips and things like that.  I know your first solo is coming up soon,” she sighed.  “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now, Grandma and Grandpa just won’t let me.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with you.  I just think they don’t want me getting hurt or killed like Donnie.  Luckily Grandpa’s been out of town since yesterday morning and Grandma isn’t the phone Nazi he is so . . . anyway, I just wanted to wish you happy birthday and tell you that I miss you.  Tell everyone I said hello and give them my best.  Be careful out there, Jacob.”  The machine beeped again ending the message.

“John.”  It was Talon’s voice on the next message, “you aren’t going to believe this but I found a hunt for Jake.  It’s close too.  Only an hour drive from Lubbock.  I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.”

In a matter of seconds Jake went from the top of the world to the very bottom.  He’d known for years that his solo hunt was inevitable, but somehow he thought there would be more time. 
So much for a perfect day . . .