I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) (4 page)

Mohammad here or whatever his fucking name
was had one eye cocked all warily on him and the other guy, his
alert up.

There was a soda cooler plugged into the wall
near the door where Boone had walked in. He’d passed it and the
cloaked figure that stood before it walking over to the clerk. The
man from the RV was standing in front of the cooler and Boone
wondered if it was figuring out what it wanted to drink or if it
was checking Boone out in the reflection from the sliding door.

Boone had his back to the thing now and he
didn’t much like the feeling, but he figured the vamp wouldn’t
attack him here in the bodega. It had no reason to.

Even if it did, Boone had his shirt jacket
unbuttoned, the Smith & Wesson under his arm accessible, his
hand hovering near the silver-dipped stake hanging from the lanyard
off his shoulder, concealed inside the flannel. He had knives
sheathed grip-down under each pants leg and he wore a Glock
17—identical to the ones Gossitch and Santa Anna and the other guys
in his crew carried—at the small of his back.

Boone figured he could plug the bloodsucker
before the fucker knew what had happened. By the time homeboy
comprehended its situation it would be too late, the silver
coursing its way through the vamp’s blood to its heart and brain,
the vital organs, homie dead right there, just like that.

A heap of dust on the floor. That would be
that.

The clerk asked Boone if he wanted anything
else in heavily accented English.

“Yeah, chief, one second.” Boone turned and
walked over to the cooler. The vampire wasn’t going to attack him.
Unless it was provoked.

“Yo homes, pass me a chocolate milk,
a’ight?”

The vamp—Boone had no doubt this thing was a
bloodsucker, he’d known it as soon as he’d entered the bodega, its
presence
, he had a sixth sense for i.d.-ing these things—it
just stood with its back to him. It didn’t acknowledge his
presence.

“Homeboy.” Boone stood behind the thing,
turned to his side, presenting less of a target if it struck. He
kept one eye on the cloaked freak and one eye on Saheeb. The camel
jockey had to think something was up—two Caucasians in his shit
hole of an establishment at once? What were the odds…

“Yo, I’m talking to you.”

He voiced it as a challenge and if the
bloodsucker wanted to throw down here, Boone was ready to pin its
undead ass to the fucking wall with the quickness. The thing had
four inches on him but Boone carried more muscle on his frame and
had no doubts in his mind that he could take the fucker out.

“Hey, please,” the clerk behind the glass had
a Pakistani or Indian accent. Boone couldn’t tell which and
couldn’t care less. He didn’t see much difference between those
peoples anyway. “No problems in my store, okay?”

The thing at the soda cooler turned slowly
and faced Boone. Even from a distance of less than five feet its
face was cast in shadow from the boonie hat it wore. The shadows
seemed to be swirling around its face, inviting Boone to look and
get lost in their hypnotic gloom. Boone knew vampires, knew what
they were about, knew how they could suck you in if you weren’t
careful. So he watched its hands as he stepped up to the soda
cooler. Its hands were gloved in thin black leather. Looked like
calfskin.

Boone watched the vampire’s gloved hands and
walked right up to it and now he could
smell
it. Its odor
was rank, sweat and something else…
the
grave
? Boone
didn’t think it was his imagination but the air around the thing
was chillier than the rest of the room. He had to be sure, so as he
rolled the door to the cooler back and leaned over slightly to
reach inside, he looked into the shadows of its face as he
spoke.

“Damn son. No Quik.”

The thing by the soda cooler said nothing as
Boone retrieved a Coke, walked back to the counter, paid the clerk
for his drink and smokes under the glass, took his change and left
the store.

Boone hit the street and his adrenalin was
pumping.
Party
time
! He turned the corner out of site
of the K-car and walked a couple of yards before stopping and
leaning against the side of the bodega. The Christmas lights
blinked overhead.

He slipped the pack of smokes into one of the
outer pockets of his flannel and saw the nose of the Pontiac poking
around the side of a boarded-up beauty salon. Hamilton and Jay
waited in it for Gossitch’s go. Somewhere beyond them Madison
waited in the van.

Boone checked the bottle cap. It thanked him
for drinking Coke. He hadn’t won shit. He took a slug of the
carbonated sugar water and thought it would taste better in a glass
with ice and Bacardi.

Boone looked up and spied Stash on the corner
across from him. The apparition was just standing there like it
often did. Stash had a way of just showing up and hanging around.
No one but Boone could see Stash, a fact that didn’t bother Boone.
Stash had always been coming and going, as long as Boone could
remember.

He’d wave but the ghost would ignore him.

The little bell on the bodega door chimed and
Boone casually turned his head. The tall vamp was making its way
back across the street in the muted glow of the morning, through
the rain, which wasn’t as heavy now.

Boone saw how Bowie was in line about five
people back from the RV’s rear door.

He spat out a mouthful of the soda and
upended the bottle, pouring the amber liquid out onto a sidewalk
already darkened with rain. He looked across the street to the
corner but Stash was gone. Boone drew his M29 and held it straight
down by his side in his right arm where no one in the RV or on the
line could see it.

The vamp disappeared through the front door
of the trailer and the lights of the Pontiac flashed twice.

It was a go.

Boone’s black work boots destroyed the red
and green reflection that the Christmas lights cast in a puddle as
he stepped from the sidewalk to the street and strode to the
RV.

“It’s a go!” Gossitch repeated into the
radio, cranking the K-Car up and shifting it into drive.

The Pontiac’s engine roared to life, its
tires squealing as it caught on the rain-soaked asphalt and darted
forward through the intersection.

The front door to the RV opened and a black
woman, all skin and bones and kinky hair, stumbled out of it to the
street, stuffing a wad of greenbacks into the pocket of her daisy
dukes.

Gossitch floored the accelerator, the rear
wheels slipping under him for a second and then he had it and the
car shot forward. The blue and white coffee cup tumbled from the
dash. He had both hands on the wheel, one at ten and one at
two.

Santa Anna ratcheted back the pump on his
Ithaca, forgetting he had a live round chambered. The shell flipped
end over end from the underside ejector port, bouncing off the
dashboard and disappearing among the floor mats.

The rear door to the RV opened before the
front door closed behind the kinky-haired woman.

“Hey nigga, what the fu—”

Bowie shouldered his way to the front of the
line, yanking a toothless man out of his way, the blanket falling
away from his frame, the 9mm Commando SMG on its sling coming out
and up, tracking on the door as he reached out and up and pulled
himself into the RV behind Boone.

The kinky-headed woman yelped and ran, the
Pontiac almost swiping her as it screeched to a halt besides the
RV, its front end crashing into the RV’s front door, slamming it
shut violently. The Pontiac was pressed against the side of the
larger vehicle, cutting off exit through the front door.

As Boone leveled the business end of the big
Smith & Wesson, Bowie behind him, eight pairs of eyes inside
the RV looked around in various states of shock, disbelief, and
confusion. Two were obviously locals, worn and haggard volunteers
hooked up to IVs, red flowing out of their veins into collection
bags. The other six had come with the trailer and all of these but
one wore smocks like nurses in a hospital. As Bowie passed Boone,
stepping further into the trailer, a couple of them took steps
back, startled at the site of the homeless man and the small
M-16-looking weapon he brandished. Another hissed at him, jaws
opening to reveal ivory fangs and a mouthful of ugly promises.

The tall vamp in the hat and gloves stood
near the front of the RV, watching the scene unfold.

The tinted windows were curtained and the
only light came from the florescent bulbs running along the
ceiling.

“Down! All of you down! Down!” Bowie yelled
at them, waving the stubby barrel of the Colt menacingly.
“Down!”

The two volunteers rolled off their gurneys
on either side of the aisle and cowered on the floor, but not one
of the six others made a move to follow suit.

“We got silver bullets in these bitches!”
Bowie shouted and for good measure fired a six round burst through
the ceiling of the RV. The shell casings made a little jingle as
they littered the floor. One of the two civilians shrieked in
fear.

The lights overhead flickered but stayed
on.

All but two of the original eight in the
trailer had gone flat and lay there, looking for direction from the
duo that remained on their feet.

The K-Car screeched to a halt outside, the
line of volunteers long scattered and gone.

“What’s with you motherfuckers?” Boone barked
at the two standing. “Didn’t the man just tell you to
get-the-fuck-down?”

“Maybe they don’t believe we got something
special for them.” Bowie patted the barrel of his SMG.

“You two!” Boone indicated the civilians on
the floor. “Go. Move.”

They scampered past the two armed men and out
of the RV.

“Now…” Boone loosed the stake he wore at his
side on its lanyard from his shoulder and held it up for all to
see.

“I said get down motherfuckers!” Bowie roared
again but neither of the two left standing made a move to
comply.

“Punk-ass motherfuckers—” Boone’s face was
bright red and he was cursing gibberish and spittle as he lost
control, crossing the space between himself and the closest of the
standing vampires, grabbing it by its cold, clammy neck. He pulled
it close to him and pressed the tip of the wooden stake to its
cheek, one eye on the tall vampire in the front of the RV the
entire time. “You got a fuckin’ problem with your fuckin’ hearin’
you bloodsucker whore son a bitch—”

The tall vampire stood where it was, watching
and waiting. Bowie shifted the barrel of his Colt towards it and
sited down the barrel on the thing.

“Give me a reason,” he whispered.

Boone dragged the tall thing’s compatriot
down the aisle bodily, the creature hissing at him but making no
move to resist. He slammed it from side to side against gurneys.
Medical supplies overturned, showering to the floor. Charts and
papers fell and fluttered off the walls. The thing he manhandled
showed its fangs, but it was terrorized and not looking for a
fight.

“Boone!” called Gossitch. The crew chief and
Santa Anna were in the trailer behind Bowie. Hamilton and Jay were
poking their heads and the barrels of their Colts through the door,
watching what was going on. Madison wouldn’t have left the van and
the van wouldn’t have moved yet.

Boone rammed the vampire against a
blacked-out, curtained window. The glass gave and the thing
screamed as the muscular man thrust it halfway out of the trailer.
Even with an overcast sky the pale sunlight was poison to its
being. The vampire fought against him, grasping at the window
frame, trying to pull itself back into the trailer. Boone held it
at arms length a few moments longer, the thing screeching in agony
and smoking.

“Boone!”

He yanked it inside and the thing collapsed
to the floor, smoldering and whimpering. It started to crawl away
from him.

“When the man says
get
the
fuck
down
,” Boone roared at the four figures already
prone. “You get the fuck down!”

“Give me the word, Boone.” Bowie had the tall
vampire locked in his rear field site. Gossitch and the other men
in their crew were transferring boxes of cash and insulated cases
of blood to the cars outside on the street.

“Kreshnik…” the wounded thing on the floor
was calling plaintively to the sole standing vampire.

Boone turned his attention to the tall
vampire.

“What about you, huh?” Boone took a few steps
forward. Was it his imagination or did it get darker the closer he
came to the thing? He held the stake up. “Smell it, bitch? You
smell the silver?”

The vampire reached up slowly with one gloved
hand. Bowie aimed past Boone’s shoulder, ready to cut the thing in
half with a burst of silver-dipped lead. It removed the boonie hat
and they could see its face. It was the face of a relatively young
man, but a face grey and colorless, cold and without emotion.

The vampire leaned forward at the neck, its
movement barely perceptible, and it inhaled, its equine nose
twitching ever so slightly.

“Smell it, don’t ya’ bitch?”

“Boone, let’s go.” Gossitch was calling from
somewhere, but Boone was caught up in the moment. It was as though
there was no one in this space but himself and the thing that stood
before him, watching him, unafraid.

“Come on…” Boone mouthed the words, wishing
the thing would attack so he’d have an excuse to stake it. But it
stood there, immovable, and its eyes met his. They looked at him
and into him, through him, beyond him, and Boone shuddered.

“Motherfuck—” he shook his head, breaking the
spell, and started forward, intent on skewering the fucker. Bowie’s
hand on his shoulder stopped him.