With Just Cause

With Just Cause

by Jackie Ivie

A Vampire Assassin League
Novella

“We Kill for
Profit”

10th in series

Copyright 2013, Jackie Ivie

Smashwords Edition

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold
or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to
historical events, real people, or real locales are used
fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

“...and then a claw reached out and grabbed
her neck, startling her into a scream!”

Edna’s dramatic rendering of her spook tale
caused more than one listener to mimic the heroine of the story,
sending squeals into the area about the fireplace.

Deandra looked over to the circle of women
that comprised the 2100 Radical Society, a fringe survivalist group
founded on the principles that 2100 was going to be
the
year when it all changed. Not that anyone knew what the group title
stood for. Or even what it entailed. All their friends and families
were told was they liked their space and needed two weeks every six
months in order to achieve it. They were unofficial. Secret. They
hadn’t even finalized the checklist of supplies they’d need. Who’d
be responsible for which items. How they’d be purchased. That had
been tabled due to endless debate... along with selection of which
real estate they’d need to purchase for the official last
retreat.

Truthfully? None of them qualified as a
diehard survivalist yet. Except maybe Edna. In fact, they more
resembled a book club. With wine tasting as part of the
curriculum.

Most members were sitting cross-legged at the
moment - although Angie, the tallest and thinnest of them, was
stretched out on her side, tracing the lumps of a woven rag rug as
if she hadn’t just reacted to Edna’s story as vividly as the
others. Deandra smirked at Angie’s act. They’d all jumped. Deandra
had even stuck her needle in the wrong hole of her 28 ct. evenweave
fabric. And she’d heard the story before.

The members of the 2100 Radical Society,
who’d planned this two week excursion into the dark ages, had more
than succeeded at that goal. Rosa’s Bed & Breakfast was the end
of the civilized world. At least, for this country. Why... Deandra
had only found three electrical outlets, and that after a day spent
looking. Worse. Any power was only available if the spring-fed
turbine had enough amps stored. Or maybe it was the wind turbine
that had to store the energy. Or somebody had to ride the
stationary bike that powered their generator to gain it. Maybe all
three. Or a combination. She hadn’t been paying attention and
couldn’t remember – both things marking her a less-than-dedicated
member.

Attention, memory, and tip-top physical
condition were the clearest indicators of who’d survive in any
breakdown of society and who’d be a victim. She’d joined the group
because she wanted to get into tip-top shape and mental
conditioning and liked escaping her dead-end job every six months
and head out to the boonies - not because she believed the end was
near. She pretty much gave lip service to the society’s bylaws. So
if a post-apocalyptic zombie did get her... well. It would be her
fault. She hadn’t paid attention to the energy portion of their
tour because she’d been getting the last of her texts in before
turning in her phone. She did remember the water situation,
however. Any water had to be hand-pumped from the well outside and
then brought in. If they wanted it heated, that required multiple
trips to the one bathroom containing the enormous claw foot tub,
each bucket hefted to and from the three coal stoves in the
kitchens.

Actually...

This place didn’t really have a kitchen. Not
in any modern sense of the word. The cooking area was a span of
interconnected rooms that passed for kitchens. This ranch style
building was all on one level, sprawled with a maze of hallways
atop about an acre of wood flooring that creaked, and filled with
antiques from the Western era that spawned it. There wasn’t even a
map of the facility. If anyone wanted to find the kitchens, they
just followed the mouthwatering aroma. Although she’d seen the
stoves with her own eyes, she still had trouble believing they
produced the fabulous foods served at mealtime without the use of
at least one microwave.

Deandra shrugged and pulled her misdirected
thread back out, squinting as the light flickered and then dimmed
slightly.

Great.

She’d already drained some of the stored
electricity? At barely 40 watt level? What she wouldn’t give to
cheat and go for her LED lamp! But, that would be cheating. Then
again, she’d already done that just by keeping her lamp hidden...
along with its battery supply. They’d given the oath when they’d
been stripped of their belongings: every internet pad, cell phone,
hair dryer, and anything else they’d brought from the modern world.
Every technological innovation was locked away somewhere in this
place, chosen for its impenetrability. Nobody could get to them.
Not until Day Fifteen. 0600. When their ride would show up to take
them back to the airport and civilization. Not a moment
earlier.

It was only Day Three now. Forget any
upcoming apocalypse. She might not survive the trial one.

The light wavered again and Deandra sighed,
wrapped her project around its hoop and thread bundle before
packing it away in her quilted bag. She then reached over to pull
the little chain that turned the table lamp off.

They’d found this place from a site that
specialized in survivalist camps, and quite frankly, she was
already itching for her cell phone. If this kept up, she’d be
breaking into the yarn she’d brought for a knitting project. And
she was one of the world’s worst knitters, by her own
calculation.

“Well. Go on. What happened then?”

Someone prompted Edna back to her story, and
Deandra looked toward them and the fireplace.

Actually...

It wasn’t even a real fireplace; more of a
pit made from metal with a façade of cemented river rock. There was
a funnel hovering above it as if to suck up smoke. Now that she’d
turned off her light, the fire was the only source of light in the
vastness of their great room. That fire pit was reminiscent of a
‘60s spy film, and looked out of place with the rest of this South
Texan spread. Everything else was old-fashioned. Rustic.
Threadbare. Archaic.

“The claw belonged to—”

This time the interruption was a dirt bike,
coming at them loud and fast. Leaping obstacles if the wavering
roar of rpm was accurate. Another loud burst came, like the rider
gave it full throttle, and then a thud, and then the engine died.
Just like that.

“What’s going on?”

Somebody asked it. Nobody answered. That made
it easy to hear doors getting slammed deep in the bowels of the
place. Shutters getting pulled in. Bolts dropping. Or something
along those lines. Deandra slid from her chair to the floor, and
scooted on her buttocks over to the nearest wall. Hiding was the
appropriate first response to any threat. Hide and evaluate. Then
determine the proper response. She’d helped draft that part of
their membership response pact.

“
Andale!
”

“You certain?”

“
Si! Si! El demonio!”

“
Tonight?”

“
Si! El Diablo del noches!
Andale!”

Words filtered through the place, spreading
like a fog. Deandra knew rudimentary Spanish, so she recognized
some of that. Hurry. Night of the Devil? Or was it demon? And what
was that about devil night? Was it a full moon or something?

“What are they saying?” somebody
whispered.

The sound of gunfire erupted from the
courtyard right outside the window. But that was ridiculous. It was
probably fireworks. And it was perfectly timed. No wonder they’d
charged so much for this vacation spot. It came with theatrics.
Pretty sweet. She listened as some of the members continued
explanations.

“
El Diablo
means devil.
Demonio
is demon.”

“Yeah. And the other part is night.”

“You gotta be kidding me!”

Angie didn’t sound as nonchalant anymore. Her
voice was high pitched and shaky.

“It’s all right. It’s all fake! I bet if
I—”

Edna didn’t get a chance to finish once
again. The sound of glass shattering was the culprit this time,
immediately followed by the tinkle of shards showering onto Deandra
and the floor about her. She didn’t move as a spattering of what
sounded like real bullets peppered the area next, more than one
making the funnel thing above the fire pit ring. Like a bell.

Man. Was she ever failing this survivalist
stuff. When one picked a wall to hide against, one should choose
one without a window. Or make certain the shutters were pulled shut
first. Deandra added that to her mental checklist.

“Oh my God! They’re not fake!”

“Shush!” Edna answered. “Get into a ball,
wrap your arms about your head, and use the surroundings! Have you
forgotten everything?”

More thudding sounds punctuated the area,
sounding a lot like bullets hitting the solid log walls of the
place. And that was okay. Nobody ever died of gunfire hitting
logs.

“But... those are real bullets! Someone is
shooting at us!”

That voice didn’t resemble any of the eleven
members of the 2100 Radical Society, but it was Edna answering
again, her calm, steady voice clearly showed why she’d been elected
their leader.

“Hunch down by the rock wall. Sherry. Ange.
Everybody. Now.”

“Let me in! Mamacita! Let me in! Open the
door!”

Heavy pounding followed the statement. Or
accompanied it. Deandra couldn’t tell, since it was in a heavy
Mexican accent and difficult to understand, and all of it happened
simultaneously.

“No!”

Deandra didn’t have any trouble hearing the
answer. It didn’t sound like it came from the plump, matronly,
sweet-tempered owner of this place. The sound of a shotgun getting
cocked didn’t, either. Both of them matched the fire-enhanced view
of their landlady, however, her bulk facing the door and totally
primed to shoot whatever came through it. Deandra should probably
help. There was probably something better to do than sitting
statue-still, wondering if any movement would result in sliced skin
from the glass she still wore, but Deandra couldn’t think of what
it might be.

“Open this door! Now!”

“Not to your murderous hide!”

Innumerable shots hammered at the door from
the outside, coming rapidly and with precision at the handle.
Probably from an AK-47. They backed the landlady away from the
portal. That reaction looked more like the woman who cheerfully
served their every need. And put a slight dent to confidence in
Rosa’s ability to handle the situation, whatever it might turn out
to be. Maybe a zombie stood on the other side of that door.

Come on, Deandra.
There’s no such
things as zombies
.
As for an apocalypse happening during a
training retreat for one? What were the odds?

Whatever or whoever was at the door, kicked
at it next, sending it wide with a thud. That move was accompanied
by another spray of bullets about the area, as well as a whoosh of
light as the fire reacted to the incoming air. Their hostess
dropped to the floor, losing the shotgun. Deandra watched it slide
along the floor to ricochet off a far wall. Rosa ended up crouched
behind the fire pit wall, joining the huddled group of women
already there, making an easy target. For the most incompetent
shooter.

Geez.
Even Edna.

The man yelled in triumph or something,
before leaning backward to send more bullets into the ceiling. As
if he was starring in a low-budget film. His action rained bits of
dust and plaster and God knew what else into the scene. The
combination choked, and made visibility foggy and indistinct. And
when he finished it was just quiet. Scary quiet.

Deandra blinked against the dust spray,
thanking the fates she’d spent her last Christmas bonus check on
Lasik surgery like the group had recommended. Wearing contacts in
this hail of debris would have been hell. Or worse hell than it
already looked to be. Firelight glinted off flecks of dust,
highlighting their intruder. And his attire.

Well.
At least it wasn’t a
zombie.