Blackjack Wayward

Selected Excerpts



It felt good.

For the first time in almost a year, I was out and on the loose, looking for trouble. This time on the other side, but it felt the same. It felt great.

I was in the outskirts of Kansas City, on patrol, driving the team’s converted ex-UPS truck. What team? The Midwest All-Stars, a team I hadn’t heard of until Superdynamic handed me a one-way ticket to Missouri. I didn’t care how bush league the team was, how far away from the major crises of the world they were. I was out there, doing it, and it was wonderful.

Blackjack was dead, in spirit and in name. I was Shadowshaft now, another dig from Superdynamic, an effort to knock the oversized chip off my oversized shoulder. I knew what he was doing, trying to reign in my old-time murderous ways, to teach me humility, force me to start from scratch. What he didn’t realize was how much I enjoyed it. This was supposed to be him rubbing my nose in the dirt, showing me what was what. Maybe I was just too stupid to know better. I was loving it.

And I hadn’t even gotten into my first scrape.

One week in, after the hurried arrival at Charles B. Wheeler Downtown Airport, a welcome from the leader of the Midwest All-Star, Powermaster - yes THAT Powermaster, the one from the New York fight versus the Superb Seven - and I was out on the streets, prowling for bad guys at three in the morning.

Listening to the police scanners, I’d gotten one call so far. Some lady whose husband came home drunk and she didn’t want to let him in. The police handled it, but I was down the street, ready for anything.

There were rules, though. Superdynamic had set them down in stone.

The first rule was don’t use your strength. I was back to toting a bow, designed by Super along with an entire compliment of arrows in order to minimize the damage I could do to body and property. Tasers, smoke gas, anything that would bring down a bad guy without killing him outright. The bow was designed to take my superhuman strength into account, and reduce it dramatically, so the arrow wouldn’t penetrate a human being’s fragile body. It also had a recording device onboard with GPS and WIFI, so he could not only keep track of me, but know what I was doing.

Yeah, and that was just the first of a long list of rules designed to emasculate Big Bad Blackjack and turn him into inoffensive little Shadowshaft.

Hell, I even was starting to like the stupid new name.

Rule six (or was it seven) stipulated I had to go to great lengths to hide my identity. My face was pretty well known. I was five points down from Ted Bundy in the poll that SuperD had shown me, so it was important that people didn’t recognize me. I had grown my hair long, a goatee - which itched like hell - and my costume had a facemask and hood designed to conceal me further. In addition, I had to wear shades everywhere I went.

I still got strange looks, but then again, I’m six foot six and almost three hundred pounds.

The surgery that saved my life added an inch to my height, but the painkillers I was taking were making it hard to lose the extra weight I gained while laid out. Every day was a better one than the last, so I wasn’t too worried. Soon enough, I’d be off the heavy meds and I could start working out. I never knew that there were workout regimens for supers, even as strong as I was. I figured I had to juggle train engines, or something ridiculous, but SuperD showed me a workout gym designed to task even my muscles back at his home base in Mali. But the time I could go into that gym and lift anything without pain was far away. Right now I was on a regimen of twenty pain-killing drugs a day and I was actually popping closer to twenty-five. These were horse pills, too. Huge and hard to swallow, designed for my overactive chemistry. If a regular human were to take just half of one, they’d fall into anaphylactic shock and a coma they’d never come out of. The pills were growing less effective by the day. Just thinking about the pain made me dig into my harness for the bottle and pop one in my mouth, downing it with a half a bottle of water.

Driving that big truck made me feel like a bringer of pain, a badass on the road, like a Hell’s Angel, deputized to beat some f*ckers to the ground. The roar of the engine as I roamed the worst parts of Kansas City felt good beneath me, like the angered howl of an avenging spirit.

Then the call came. I was far, maybe a ten-minute drive, but the call came. I turned the truck into a clumsy turn, putting it on two wheels momentarily as I lost control on a spin. Stepping on the gas, the engine growled and the tires tore into the pavement, taking me to trouble.

“211S at Brother Bank and Trust on Minnesota Avenue and North 8th street,” called out the dispatcher, with the most important part added at the end. “Be advised, enemy supers reported at the scene.”

The local authorities had an anti-super designated SWAT, but I was already on my way, I would be there before anyone other than the first responding officers. I’d be there faster than the rest of my team, who I had called as soon as the word came in. Our home base was somewhat in the way, so I expected a call or two from the guys, asking for a pickup, but none of them responded as I drove past, no doubt sleeping through the call.

It didn’t matter, I was almost there and I was ready.

I was back.

I stormed out of the truck, leaving it down the street from the bank and checked all my systems as I ran towards a back alley. I fired up my LCD contact lenses with full sonar-based telemetry, getting a readout of everything in the vicinity. The bad guy’s vehicle was a heavy SUV, and a quick check of the license plate with the Kansas City DMV showed it to be reported stolen just two hours before.

Radar told me no one was in the car, and switching through the visible light spectrum, to infrared emissions, I saw the distinct outline of three humanoid figures inside the bank, closer to the rear of the building. I drew an arrow from my main quiver on my back, as the onboard computer read my wishes and selected a standard piercing head to install into the ready shaft, angled outward for an easier draw. The system lock was immediate, even though I was looking away from the car. When I gazed back, the nearest tire facing me was designated as target four, with the three figures assigned one through three. My entire rig was integrated to the LCD eye, the radar/sonar scanners in my suit and the arrowhead selection suite in my quivers so all I had to do was think it, and the device provided me with what I needed, including a direct line to local authorities.

The silent alarm had drawn a pair of KC cop cars, who I had been in contact with during my approach. They had begun the perimeter as other units were inbound, but at my request, the two officers had come in with sirens and lights out. We were radio silent at the moment, but all I had to do was wish it and the channel would go hot. Or I could just scroll through a series of over a hundred pre-recorded commands, like “Retreat!”, “Assault through the front,” and many others to cover just about every eventuality. Superdynamic had designed the arrows and the bow, but he’d given me free reign on the remainder of the suit and I’d let my creative juices flow.

The costume itself was a work of wonder, with a new design of my old semi-rigid cape, a tactical harness with dozens of gadgets and tools, including an integrated smoke grenade system, and a vanish polarizer that allowed me, if I stood still, to nearly disappear, even in broad daylight. I had also rebuilt my boots, my trusty old Asskickers, though I was under explicit instructions to only use them in cases of emergency, hence the need for the truck while on patrol. All of it was integrated to a watch computer I had rebuilt from scratch (with ten times the processing power).

The piercing arrow streaked through the air, popping the front passenger tire of bad guy’s SUV and my LCD immediately updated the target status as “eliminated.”

With the villain’s method of egress taken care of, I turned my attention to the villains themselves, scanning through the light spectrum to try to identify my targets. One of them was huge, monstrously so, almost nine feet tall, and burdened with heavy sacks that were probably full of money. Another was a small, lithe fellow, similar in body shape to Cool Hand Luke, but he had some tech on him, particularly near his extremities. The final villain was a woman of average height, wearing some sort of trench coat. From how she waved her arms, it was clear she was in charge.

What frustrated me and kept me from going in was the inability of my onboard tracking system to get a valid ID, even while interfacing with all of Superdynamic’s databases.

The reason for the return to the bow and arrow bit was Dee’s way to keep me from killing half the world all over again. He knew how dangerous I was, more so than most, and the whole point of my attempting the hero business was so I would walk away from that horrible past. That had been my first instinct when come out as a hero originally. Yeah, long before all the nastiness, I had tried to become a hero. But that was another story.

The bow and arrow created a buffer between my superhuman strength and any bad guy unfortunate enough cross my path. Some guys could take a punch, but few could take one of mine in anger. The whole gadget rig allowed me to bring down villains without turning them to pulp.

The big guy started coming out, and I instinctively fired up my stealth system, engaging hidden photovoltaic cells within my suit that created the illusion. He came out into the back alley, carrying a massive webbed bag which held over a dozen money bags, walking right past me before tossing the money in the open trunk of the stolen SUV. My targeting system finally identified the guy as Rockhead, a muscle-bound elementalist with Class-C earth control powers, and Class-B physical attributes. The guy wasn’t a challenge.

He finished forcing the last of the money bags into the trunk, then cocked his head in my direction curiously, settling his attention on the front tire.

“What in the...” he murmured, strolling to the arrow jutting out of the damaged tire.

As he doubled over to pull the arrow, I selected a taser arrow, setting it to 25% and put it into his back.

Rockhead let out a muted scream as he twitched backward, reaching for the source of pain somewhere in his lower back. He pulled the arrow out (the head was engaged and still attached to his clothing) as he shook violently, turning to face me. I raised the taser setting to 35%, making him drop to one knee. His face was wracked with pain and confusion, as my stealth suit made it seem like he was under attack by a flare of fabric, rather than a human being.

“Attack,” he managed, and only then did I realize he had a communication system jutting out of his left ear.

“Dammit,” I said, raising the setting to 75% and running toward him. I powered a kick into his face, but he managed to summon up enough of his power to change into his namesake rock form.

Unaffected by the taser arrow any more, he came to his feet and took a swing at me. I wasn’t supposed to do it, but it was almost instinctive, I fired my rocket boots. Flying over his blow, I spun over him and fired a gas arrow, exploding it at his feet. He might have been covered in heavy rock, but he still had to breathe air, and in an instant the whole area around him was replete with tear gas.

His partners responded as I was finishing my spin, arriving at the alleyway and seeing their companion under attack. The slim fellow was bare-chested, with tall, spiked yellow hair that would have made Billy Idol proud, with heavy gauntlets and boots, far too big for a guy his size. The woman had long, straight black hair and wore a long, leather trench coat.

Tracking told me the thin guy was Crankchain, a techie with a semi-suit that allowed him Class-B strength and toughness. Unfortunately, I had nothing on the girl, but instead of introductions, I fired a pair of flash-bangs in their direction and turned my attention back at Rockhead who was unaffected by the tear gas. He was tearing huge chunks of wall from the back of the bank and hurling them at me. I turned and twisted, avoiding each, rising higher in the air to add distance, when a huge metallic hand flew hard into me, knocking the air out of my lungs, and the bow out of my hands.

“Bring him back, Crank,” the woman shouted, and I started flying back toward the rear entrance to the bank, held aloft by the metal fingers clasping my body. The device was magnetic somehow, or anti-grav, and while it moved slowly, I was in a bad position to escape.

Crankchain held his handless arm in my direction, controlling my movement, apparently unaffected by my flash-bangs. His face was a twisted rictus grin, insane and rabid, eager to inflict pain. As I came closer, I also got a good look at the unidentified girl, whose doe-like blue eyes, soft lips and pale face were completely out of place beside the insane lunatic Crankshaft.

I strained against the fingers, breaking one open.

“He’s breaking out!” she said.

“That’s impossible,” Crankshaft spat, firing the other hand at me. I had enough leverage to destroy the first projectile hand, ripping it apart and falling to the ground.

Right into Rockhead’s grasp.

He caught me as I fell and I was back in trouble. Crank’s second hand held off, floating near us, ready for anything.

“F*ck this a*shole up,” Rockhead said, spurring his partners on, though I was pretty sure he meant that more for the girl.

“I’ll hit you too,” she said, moving closer, but Crankshaft followed his companion’s advice, slamming his fist into my grappled form.

The construct was so big the blow struck both Rockhead and I, with me bearing the brunt of the shot. Still, it hurt the big guy more than me. I felt his footing fail, and he staggered a half-step back, loosening his grip slightly.

I fired off the smoke system, surrounding us both in a special formula that concealed us from even infrared and ultraviolet scanning, and forced myself out of his grasp. He was fast, though, and came back at me. I caught his wrists mid-pummeling blow, and held him.

Then my legs failed.

At first it was a twitch, then the right knee buckled. A second later, the agonizing pain swept upward from the joint into my hips, and I collapsed to the floor. The worst part was realizing it wasn’t because of a strain from catching Rockhead’s powerful blow. I had done that easily, almost without effort, but my new found body wasn’t responding as I wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it. The pain was reminiscent of Lord Mighty cracking my bones apart, and I fell to the floor, clutching my injured joint.

Rockhead misunderstood what was happening, thinking his blow had felled me, and continued pummeling me with abandon. I barely felt his blows against my back and head, more aware of the tears flowing down my face, the slow quivering of my body, overwhelmed with pain, unwilling to cooperate.

“Rock, you’ll kill him, dammit!” the girl shouted, but the big guy was having too much fun pounding away. He followed his bosses’ instructions, but only after another half-dozen punches, that made the ground crack beneath me.

“F*ck you up, motherf*cker,” he shouted, putting his foot on my shoulder like a big-game hunter gloating over a kill. “Crank, take a pic, bro.”

“This guy ruined my hand!” Crankchain was complaining, standing over the damaged appendage.

“Forget him,” the woman continued. “Let’s get out of here!”

The pain in my leg was starting to settle, reaching a crescendo that I was slowly becoming accustomed to. Rockhead took his foot off me, taking a step towards Crank.

“Oh, f*ck this guy. You f*cked my boy’s hand, you know that?” he said, stomping on my head. It was a tickle against a flood, it was a scratch while being drawn and quartered. I almost laughed, if not for a lack of control of my body.

Rockhead punched me in the head and tried to pick me up, throwing another blow into my stomach. I was doubled over, making a hard target so he ripped at my arms, punching me in the face to get me to give him a clearer target.

“Come on, you little faggot!”

Something possessed me. I fought the pain, or managed to weather it, clenched my jaw so hard I heard my teeth straining, and threw the hardest punch I had thrown in ages.

It caught Rockhead flush in the jaw, spinning him as it lifted him off the ground, sending him soaring into the night like a missile, invisible to us in an instant.

My roar echoed through the alley like the dying cry of a lion.

“Oh, my f*cking-” Crankshaft said, his mouth agape, bewildered that his tough guy companion had taken a punch that sent him soaring for miles. He was interrupted though, by the girl unleashing her powers on me.

A vortex of murder and darkness opened up at her outstretched hand, her face a twisted mask of rage, and hell itself was spat out at me. I screamed, as my pain returned, now stretching across my body, her horrible power tore at my spirit and soul, ripping me apart. My voice was like a wail of death, as a beast is torn asunder. Flecks of madness shredded my skin and clothing, pressing me back against the floor as she brought her free hand to strengthen her assault. In the back of my mind, a flashing against my cornea told me her name was Despoil, a Class-X power just recently identified and wanted across the planet. She wasn’t just stronger than me, she was almost to the level of Retcon and Apostle, two of the most powerful creatures ever to walk the earth.

I wasn’t just in trouble. My newly repaired body was failing, my powers near useless, my bow an afterthought and I was in the hands of one of the most dangerous creatures alive, moments away from certain death.



Zhou dropped them off at the hotel, the only indication that he wasn’t staying with the others was Gabril’s mention for him not to return to late.

“Wait a minute, where’s he going?” Walker said, suddenly serious, watching Zhou tear off from roundabout the Hotel Tamanaco down the long hill leading to the rest of the city of Caracas.

“Party time,” Gabril said, not giving the matter much thought as he hurried to catch up with Alicia, already halfway to the lobby doors. He made it just in time to open the door for her, illiciting a pleasant smile from his boss.

“Hey!” Walker said, having not moved an inch.

Alicia stopped, almost all the way inside.

“What is it?”

“Call him back,” he said. “We can’t split up.”

She was confused, then dismissive, shrugging him off and heading inside. Walker chased after Alicia, grabbing her arm.

“You have to take this stuff serious,” he said, but her glare was murderous.

“Hey, bro,” Gabril said, interceding between them. “No grabbing, okay?”

“I’m not kidding,” Walker said, releasing Alicia, but not backing down otherwise.

“Don’t ever f*cking-”

“Call him back,” Walker said.

“Hey, bro. Easy with the crazy. Zhou does DJ’ing and stuff. He goes to bars and he’s up all night. It’s cool.”

Walker turned his stare to Gabril, avoiding Alicia’s fury.

“We need to stay together,” he said. “Rule number one.”

“Listen,” Alicia said, pressing forward through Gabril into Walker’s space, “You ever touch me like that again, you better be ready to back it up, motherf*cker,” she said, snapping her finger into his chest.

Walker was confused, not sure why they weren’t following his orders and commands, but the f*cker didn’t know she had studied Aikido for ten years, and had all kinds of training, thanks to her dad’s paranoia and a long string of specialized courses, like tactical driving classes, weapons training with former Navy SEALS, even going so far to captivity training, to survive abduction, to be more prepared than her potential kidnappers.

“Call him back,” he said, nonplussed by her physical threat.

“I want to hear you say it,” she said, inching even closer, forcing him to take a half-step back.

A man walking past saw the commotion and came closer. He was a big guy, young and eager to show off in front of Alicia.

“Cual es el peo?” he said.

“No hay problema,” Gabril said, still trying to act as a shield between his employer and Mr. Walker.

Walker’s expression changed, from confused and taken aback, returning to his usual defensive glare, moving to position himself between the newcomer and Alicia.

“You got a problem?” he asked.

The new guy was maybe six foot six, muscular but heavy-set, and towered over Walker, but one look at the brit made him take a step back.

“No English,” he said. “Este tipo le esta causando problemas, señorita?”

“No hay problema,” she said, realizing they were causing a ruckus in the hotel lobby. Walker wasn’t saying anything, his face expressionless and his body ready for the big guy to get braver, but the newcomer noticed that and didn’t want any trouble over some random hot girl. Still, he had his pride to massage.

“Tienes suerte,” he said, backing off and heading to the door. “Maricón.”

Alicia left them both behind, moving to the elevators, eager to stop the staring eyes, lest someone would recognize her. Walker didn’t relent, though, following her with Gabril in tow.

“Hey,” she heard the Brazilian say as he entered the elevator, “Take it easy on Miss Alicia, okay?

As the doors were almost closing, Walker slid inside, leaving Gabril, the big Venezuelan, and the gathering crowd behind.

“Oh, Jesus!” she said.

Walker chuckled, “Look, I’m sorry about all that.”

“About what, the first part, the second part or the third part?”

She had him nonplussed, as he tried to figure out the third one, then he smiled, “Oh, this?”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Barkley,” he said, giving her ample time to respond, but when she didn’t, he went on; “Danny...ah...well, he and I go way back. To his son, Nicky. You knew Nicky...”

He stopped again, but she stared at the changing floors in the readout.

“Of course you did. I mean, we met at his twenty-first party. You...” he laughed, reminiscing. “You must’ve been fifteen or something. Anyway, Danny puts me on this, and all I see are security flaws. I don’t even get off the plane and there’s a bunch of f*cking Russians waiting for me. Your team isn’t vetted, you’re not working together. You’ve been compromised and there’s no damned sense of urgency. I don’t care that you’re treasure hunters, the same principles apply. You’re staying at...”

He looked at the numbers counting as they rose to the tens. The highest floor was the twelfth and the subsequent penthouse.

“You’re at the penthouse?” he said, incredulous. “See, this is what I mean, you’re too high profile. From what Danny told me, you have some serious competition on you so you have to lay low. Have you even swept the rooms?”

The door slid open onto the Penthouse, and she finally spoke.

“Mr. Walker. You’re fired.”

They were waiting in the second penthouse, the one under construction. The team was smaller now, five of the members were seriously injured, and three more had recused themselves, taking flights out of Maiquetia Airport, stopping first in Germany, then back to mother Russia. It was to be expected, they were the least experienced and all related. They came and went as one.

Tihkonov didn’t much care about that anymore. He’d been in this shit South American country two days and he was already tired of all the stupid little dark people and their pitter pat semi-language, he was tired of the heat, though he had been told Caracas was as 2,000 meters and quite mild, and most of all, he was tired of his stupid team, a bunch of goddamned miscreants who couldn’t even stop a single man.

“She’s here,” the man on watch said, looking out under the door with a flexible camera. “Ms. Berkley is with a companion.”

“Can you identify the companion?” Tihkonov asked, slapping a 32 shell drum magazine his AA-12 autoloading shotgun. Around him, the other five men were readying their DRD Paratus-18 suitcase guns, pulling the individual components - stock and trigger assembly, barrel and grips, and a scope - from the case and putting their assault rifles together. The watchman at the door was armed with only a pistol, but he just needed to secure their egress point by the elevator.

It was all planned to the last detail. Break into the penthouse, secure the perimeter, disarm those present, which now included a second person, then “negotiate” with Ms. Barkley to get the information Tihkonov’s employer needed, information they had failed to receive in a previous failed mission. The failed mission before the last failed mission, another “negotiation” with a British national that was unwanted in the region.

This time, thought, they had the advantage of surprise, numbers and firepower. The companion had to be Superman for this mission to fail.

He followed her, and she couldn’t believe it, leaving the door wide open and standing there.

“Get the f*ck out!” Berkley finally said. “I have a gun in the other room, don’t make me go get it.”

Walker smiled.

“I was trying to apologize,” he said.

“I don’t care about sorry,” Alicia snapped. “I don’t have to keep you around, okay? That was the deal with Uncle Dan. This was a test and you failed it.”

Walker opened his hands wide, defensively, “I’m just trying to get you to understand the gravity of the situation, and you’re completely ignoring me.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re not giving me reason to do anything other than ignore you. Motherf*cker with a little-man’s complex. Shit, and you’re tall.”

“I was sent here to protect you, Miss Berk-” Walker stopped, his head snapping to the door area where he had heard a commotion.

“What the f*ck do we need protection for anyway?”

Someone knocked outside, and a muffled voice called out, “Room service.”

“I didn’t-” Alicia said, but Walker raised on finger to his lips and backed out of the suite’s foyer into the bed room. Before he disappeared into the room’s darkness, he pointed to the door, and motioned her to go open it.

“Oh, f*ck,” she said, hearing only her soft breathing, and the pounding of her heart.

Another knock, and it was pretty obvious there was more than one person outside by the rumbling. Alicia looked back at the bed room, where Walker had vanished, and thought of going after him, but something told her that she wouldn’t find him there, that he’d be gone already.

Something came over her, a calmness she hadn’t known in years, and she walked to the door and opened it. A wave of humanity rode over her, grabbing her and forcing her back into the room. She held back a scream as one of the men pulled her hair, another grabbed an arm, and another groped her as they threw her to a couch.

Alicia slammed her back hard on the wooden frame of the couch, and before she could bounce back, she had a large caliber rifle barrel in her face.

“Where is it?” Tihkonov asked Alicia, as his men dove into the two rooms in pairs, beam lights from their rifles leading their way through the dark. “Where is the primer to Lazar’s journal?”

But she didn’t get a chance to respond as a ruckus broke out in the room. The angle of the door didn’t permit neither Alicia nor Tihkonov a chance to see what was happening, but one man screamed, then something broke with a loud crash, a mirror or a heavy lamp, then something slammed into the near wall and it was over.

“Alexei!” Tihkonov shouted, pressing the barrel hard against Alicia’s chest.

“What’s going on?” one of the men in the other room shouted, coming back into the main room of the penthouse. Their search was cut short, but it was clear that Walker wasn’t in the room they were searching.

“Alexei!”

But there was no response and no other sound coming from the room where his two men had entered and now disappeared.

“Go,” Tikhonov said, motioning for the two other men to guard the entrance into the room.

“He has their guns,” one of his men, called Jufi, said. He was the toughest and strongest of the group, but his face showed worry.

“We have your friend,” he shouted into the room. “Come out or I shoot one of her tits off.” Tihkonov aimed at one of her breasts, pressing hard, making Alicia gasp.

“What’s happening?” asked Goram, the watchman, who had another man in tow outside in the hall.

The leader waved them off.

“Last chance,” he said, cocking the AA-12 shotgun so he could hear the action, even though he wasted a shell. “I’m going to shoot her tits, man!”

But the only sound inside the room came from the breeze coming in from the open door to the balcony toying with the drapes.

Jufi knelt by the door, his rifle read. “Let’s rush him,” he said, but a commotion broke out in the hallway. Goram screamed, and something crashed into the wall, just beside the door.

“He’s right outside,” Jufi said, aiming his rifle toward the door.

“Don’t! You can hit our guys!”

Tihkonov picked up Alicia and hid behind her, shielding his form from a stray shot, as the fight outside finally came to an end with a loud meaty thwap, and the drop of a body to the floor with a long groan.

“Goram!”

The only sound he could hear was the groan, and low scratching against the wall.

“Shit!”

The angle which he held Alicia, forced her to look at herself in the mirror, and she tried to suppress a smile for the next ten or fifteen seconds as silence descended over the penthouse.

“Goram?” he called again, but no one responded.

“Did they get him?” Jufi asked, his attention and that of the last remaining man on the front door.

“Pay attention to the room!” Tikhonov hissed, throwing Alicia to the floor at the feet of his men. “And watch her.”

He inched to the door, feeling the sweat between his fingers and the stock of the shotgun. Another mission gone to f*ck, he thought bitterly, coming up to the door, and throwing himself outside, AA-12 shotgun leading the way.

But only his two men were there, both down. Goram, the one nearest the door was out, a bloody crack on the side of his head dripping blood all over the floor and his weapon, the stock caked with blood, lying nearby. The other man, Osvald, was the groaner, clutching his chest and rocking from side to side, his face a grimacing mask of pain.

Tikhonov aimed down the hall, hoping to catch a target in the other Penthouse, which had until just minutes before been their home, but he saw nothing, just the door ajar as they had left it.

“Where did he go?” he asked Osvald, but the man was nearing shock, starting to shake violently, probably suffering from internal bleeding near his lungs, based on how he was holding his chest. The man coughed when he tried to respond, unable to keep pressure in his lungs, and quickly loosing the fight against the pain.

Then he heard all hell break loose back inside, including a roar of pain from Jufi.

“Shit!” Tihkonov said, spinning and running back inside. “Guys what-” he paused, seeing Walker standing over the reeling forms of Jufi, who was nursing a badly broken nose, and the last man, who was motionless.

Walker was unarmed, breathing heavy, but otherwise unmarked by the excitement.

“Who are you?” Tihkonov asked, raising the aim of his AA-12 slowly, but Tommy just beckoned him. The Russian leveled the weapon, and was about to fire, when a whistle caught his attention. It was Alicia Berkley, hiding along the side of the wall, just a few feet from where he had thrown her, aiming one of the DRD Paratus-18 suitcase guns at him.

“Drop it,” she barked from behind cover of a large wooden coffee table.

Walker, now with a smile, beckoned him inside again.

Tihkonov couldn’t believe his fate, as he lowered the weapon and got manhandled into the very couch he had thrown Ms. Berkley a short time ago.

“Now you answer some questions,” she said, holding the rifle like a pro. Hell, she held it better than a couple of his guys. Alicia looked over at Walker for approval, but he just shook his head, moving closer, and slamming his right heel into Tihkonov’s face.

She wanted to complain, to scream at him for not following her lead, but the cold, dead look on Walker’s face, the heavy breathing and the coating of sweat across his chest and face, but most importantly his eyes gave her pause. He had exerted himself like a man after a twelve round boxing match, and his mouth was agape, each massive breath clawing for air, but his eyes were calm, and it was disconcerting to Alicia that she just stared at him in awe.

“Who dares, wins,” he whispered.

Tihkonov took the blow and collapsed on the floor, covering his mouth, which was now an exploded gash of blood, which he spat on the carpeting along with a half-dozen teeth.

“We know everything we need to know,” Walker said, looking over at Alicia, casting a curious glare at how she was holding the rifle, how unlike a rookie.

“I’m not going to approve killing him,” she said, trying to be as definitive as possible.

Walker finally smiled, “I don’t work for you, remember?”

Alicia motioned to the rifle, “I have this.”

His smiled widened and he let out a heavy snort. “Okay, we do it your way,” Walker said and powered a kick into Tihkonov’s midsection so powerful that she heard a couple of ribs snap as the Russian screamed and held onto his side.

“There,” Walker said, walking to check on the only other man that was somewhat okay, Jufi, and punching him in the collar bone with such ferocity that he almost passed out.

Alicia shook her head, bewildered.

“I didn’t kill them,” Tommy said, shrugging. “Here, give me that. Pack your shit and lets roll. And call back Zhou, we have to get out of here.”

They stared at each other, for what seemed like a full minute, then she kissed him. It was what was required, and his soft, flushed lips parted to welcome her inside. To her delight, there was no shock or pause, or homosexual surprise. Nor was he too brusque, despite the pounding of blood through his body from physical exertion, and the suddenness of her advances. He held her in his sweaty arms, his hands caressing her bottom and breasts intermittently, as she reached down and freed his belt and pants with the efficiency of a cat burglar, revealing his thrusting manhood, threatening to destroy the fabric of his tidy whiteys. He rubbed himself against her pelvic bone, the move sending a rush of blood through her body that almost tickled her in pleasure. She rocked her hips up and forward to welcome him in. Wearing no undergarments herself, the folds of her insides parted in eagerness to make his acquaintance, and he thrust forward as was necessary, pressing into her through his clothing.

Then one of the Russians coughed, and their lips parted.

“I guess you’re hired back,” she said, feeling her wetness permeating through his underwear as she withdrew a thumb’s worth of Mr. Walker from herself and looked around.

Her refractory period on near-sex was as impressive as his was not, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself as she reached again for the suitcase rifle he had thrown to her, the same weapon she had moments ago tossed aside.

Walker cut a pathetic figure, his wet boner pressing against the stretched underwear, so she tossed the rifle at him, taking control.

“Watch them,” she said, walking to the room, and flashing an approving smile as he struggled to regain his senses. She entered her room and flicked on the lights, revealing the fun Mr. Walker had. One of the Russians was conscious, crawling toward a wall slowly, thought for what reason, Alicia couldn’t tell. He was hurt bad, somewhere in the midsection, and his face was flushed with pain. She sauntered past him to the suitcase that lay on the bed, and saw the second man wedged between the wall and the bed, immobile. His leg was mangled forward along the knee, and Alicia imagined the pain from having the joint bent against itself would be too much for a living man to endure.

She threw off the light sweater and the skirt, naked save for her boots and took them off as well before donning a pair of panties, figuring Mr. Walker’s cold defensiveness would return, barring any further fun. Atop she put on black leggings, a scoopneck knitted sweater dress with long sleeves, and threw the boots back on, zipping the small rolling suitcase as she came back out to the penthouse’s main room.

Walker was leaning over one of the injured men, the leader who had man-handled her earlier, whispering something to the Russian as he searched his pockets.

“What are you doing?”

He stood up, thumbing through the man’s wallet.

“Letting him know what happens if I ever see him again,” Walker said, lacking the menace that the original message must have had.

“I’m ready,” Alicia said, reaching for a rifle.

“Leave it,” Walker said, and led the way toward the elevator.

The elevator door slid open three floors down, letting in an elderly couple, maybe in their late ‘70s, dressed as if for the ball. Chatting away in Spanish, they didn’t notice Tommy and Alicia’s ragged condition, nor did they realize that they were spared a double tap from Walker’s scavenged pistol as he nervously watched the door open expecting more of Tihkonov’s team as late arrivals.

It was a damned mess, Alicia thought, all the contingencies of a police investigation rattling in the back of her mind, along with a growing bill of bribes and payoffs, which would no doubt inflate her already tiny budget.

Once the couple settled in for the last dozen or so flights down, Tommy got a stupid grin on his face, and Alicia didn’t know if it was from the satisfaction of winning the previous conflict, or the irony of how ragged they looked versus the old couple, who were wearing their finest. She elbowed him, shrugging in inquiry, but Walker just shook his head, breaking into a slight chuckle that for the first time drew the disapproving glare of the gentleman, who was mid story, and unused to being interrupted. Perhaps it was the older man’s haughty demeanor, dismissive and forgoing, that made Tommy talk.

“So,” he said, rubbing a sore spot in his chin. “Maybe I need to be gentler.”

Alicia didn’t follow, aware that the couple was turning to face them, the old man furious of the interruption.

“With my recommendations, I mean,” Tommy added.

“Disculpe?” said the older man.

“Que mal educado,” the woman scoffed. Alicia and Tommy both knew enough Spanish to understand her insult was more broad than just a slight at their schooling, but also swept into bad parenting and even faulty genetics. They were only now becoming aware of how rough they looked, Tommy in particular, glaring at the torn clothing, scuffed elbows and knees, and the odd spatter of blood staining the fabric.

Alicia was aware of the older couple’s attention, but she couldn’t help but smile at Tommy’s forthcoming apology.

“Maybe,” she said. “I guess I need to listen to advice a little better?”

Tommy smiled, nodding, then turned to the older man severely.

“Oh, don’t mind this,” he said, casually lifting the nine-millimeter and showing it off, before slipping it into his waistband.

“No he matado a nadie hoy día,” he said in broken Spanish, which meant “I haven’t killed anyone today.”

The woman gasped audibly and turned, pressing the bottom floor several times. The man stared at the weapon in Tommy’s waist, his haughty demeanor a vain attempt to recover his lost dignity.

“Que coraje,” the old man said.

Tommy’s glare told the man all he needed to know, “F*ck off.”

“Maybe less of that,” Alicia said, disapproving again.

“Right,” he said, flashing her a grin and hiding the pistol.

“Was that twice you jumped the balcony?” she asked.

Walker thought about it for a moment before nodding. “Wasn’t too far a jump,” he said as the door slid open and the couple abandoned the elevator.

Berkley held the door open for Tommy, who still leaned against the back wall.

“I’m a work in progress,” he said.

“Aren’t we all,” she said, digging into her purse for the satellite phone. “So, call Zhou back?”

“Please,” Tommy said, smiling and walking past her toward the hotel exit.



Lucy Schultz worked at the bank as a teller, and Owen had wanted to have sex with her since high school. She was one of those girls that was all reserve, modest to the point of mania, but her classic looks drove all the boys wild. The joke was her mother tied her virginity up in the basement and wouldn’t let it loose for anything short of a medical degree. They had spoken the way kids do in high school, in fleeting, asinine conversations, and hardly at all since. He dredged a memory of them running into each other at the store last year, passing each other without a word.

Now she was leaning on the stage, her eyes never leaving him as he went through the set. She was playing it up, propping her breasts on her crossed arms as she looked up at him. Lucy’s smile revealed her intent, and her heavy lipstick and blush made her almost doll-like. Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, thin enough that it moved in independent wisps as she watched him. What struck him more than anything else were her eyes, dark green and outlined in thick eyeliner, following him as he played the guitar. They looked hungry, and though they were disconcerting, he smiled internally, blessing the power of rock and roll.

“Hey you,” she said, once he had finished the set and come down the side of the stage. Her voice was the sound of singing crystal and Owen crouched low on the stairs doing his best to find her eyes and stay there.

“Didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” he said and she smiled. The mixture of that smile and those eyes sent a little flutter through him.

“Just felt like getting out,” she said, and he knew she could sense his excitement. “That was a great show. I didn’t even know you played.”

“Yah, for a long time, I been on the local circuit for a couple of months now. I never thought I could spend too much time in a bar.”

“No shit,” she said and he was shocked to hear her curse. “Well we got to celebrate, ‘cause that was a hell of a show. Meet me at the bar, first round’s on me.”

“Hells yes,” Owen said, unable to hide a smile. “Give me five minutes.”

She nodded and walked away, and Owen struggled to peel his eyes away as two old guys came to the stage, dressed in coats and jackets despite the warm evening. The shorter of the two slipped a five in the tip bucket, the only currency of any kind resting there, and said, “Nice set.”

Owen nodded his thanks and hurried to store his gear in the stage’s back corner, where it would rest until closing time. Part of his pay was the free drink coupons in his pocket, and he hopped the short stage, doing his best to establish a nonchalant amble as he joined Lucy at the bar. She smiled at his appearance slinging a thin arm around his neck and planting a big kiss on his cheek. He laughed, knowing her lipstick stained his cheek and not caring. As promised, she paid for the first round; cheap whiskey shooters that they downed before they glasses cleared the bartender’s hand. She waved for a second round as he felt the liquor burn its way into his belly and without hesitation grabbed the refilled glass and drained it. His felt the dull wave in his mind as the alcohol saturated blood washed through him and he surrendered to it.

It didn’t take long for Owen to start counting the passage of time in drinks, but he didn’t feel drunk. His nose wasn’t numb, his mind felt mostly clear, and he stopped, content to revel in his buzz. Lucy kept pounding back drinks, all of them shots, and somewhere along the line, she leaned into him and kissed him hard. She molded into him and he made room for her, drawing her tighter for a passionate, if clumsy embrace as her tongue probed his mouth and lips. He reciprocated, and found that her breath tasted like alcohol, but that something else lingered there. He almost stopped, but her free hand drifted below the bar, stroking his penis through his jeans. Small explosions of pleasure radiated from around her hand and when he looked at her, he saw an animal need there that absorbed and amplified his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, the words slurred. He took her hand, but when he tried to lead her out back to his truck, she shook her head, biting her lip in with a seductive smile.

“Got a ride already,” she said, dragging him towards the front door.

He paused for a second, thinking of his gear, but the gleam in her dark green eyes was so ripe with promises that it overwhelmed his senses. And besides, the bar owner was a friend, he wouldn’t mind if Owen got his stuff in the morning.

Owen let Lucy lead him outside, pulling her close for a kiss that she melted into before separating and pulling her cellphone. She spoke softly, giggling at the person on the other end of the line. Owen looked up and saw the stars twinkling in the sky, the moon hung full and low. Lucy came over and nuzzled his neck, brushing her lips and tongue across the soft flesh under his jaw. He slipped a hand low cupping her buttocks, the thin fabric of her dress pressing through to the panties beneath.

She lifted his hand away with playful slowness, “Not here.”

“My place,” Owen said.

Shaking her head with mock seriousness, she said, “Trying to lure a good girl like me home? You should be ashamed.” Lucy took her head in his hands and brought his ear next to her lips, “You’re coming with me,” she whispered, her breath tickling his flesh. Finishing the sentence with another hard kiss, she parted from him as headlights pulled into the unpaved lot. The cab was a dull yellow, and as the driver got out, Owen got a strange vibe from him, but Lucy basically pushed him into the back, barely giving him enough time to sit up before she was on him. Their lips met, her hands found the naked flesh of his chest under his shirt, and she encouraged the same, his hands exploring the soft contours of her body.

They stayed like that a while, and Owen used it to properly acquaint himself with Lucy Schultz’s body. He ran hid hands up under the hem of her dress, sliding his fingers into the cup of her bra, looping the other hand around to cup her ass. He tried to work his way inside the smooth fabric, but she stopped him with a coy shake of the head. Reaching the limit of his ability in their current state of dress. He looked up as the car hit a pothole and found they’d come to an abandoned auto mechanic’s garage. Registering that it had been Rudy Hardwick’s garage, before he’d suffered the stroke two years previous, he looked at Lucy and said, “You live round here?”

She shook her head and something was different about her, more predatory. That look of hunger he saw earlier was amplified to the point where she looked ravenous, and the way she stared at him made him understand on an instinctual level that she wasn’t longing for sex. He tried to open the door, but the driver was there, despite being in the driver’s seat just before Owen spoke. He pulled the door open from the outside and grabbed Owen under the armpit, his arm looping around Owen’s neck in a solid grip. Struggling proved useless as the driver pulled Owen from the vehicle as if lugging an unwieldy suitcase, spilling his lower body onto the pavement.

Lucy climbed out of the car, crossing the seat and coming out the same door Owen had been forced through.

“Oh, God,” she said, collapsing to her knees. “It’s too much!”

“Keep it together,” the driver said, maintaining his hold, and though Owen was squirming, he made no progress in shaking the man’s arm. Try as he might, he could hardly move at all, and the man’s arm closed on his chest with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He gasped a quick breath as Lucy knelt next to him.

“Lucy, what the…,” was all he got out before she slapped him flush across the face with an open handed swat that sent stars splaying across his vision. He shook his head and she brought the same hand back, her knuckles colliding with his temple and rocking his head hard enough that the tendons in his neck creaked. His head rolled in a limp pendulum and he felt a dull throbbing behind his eyes.

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Lucy said, but Owen heard it through muffled ears.

“It gets better,” the driver said with a menacing smile. “Let’s do this inside.” Owen’s body would not follow instructions as the cab driver dragged him through a door into what used to be a storefront. Stripped down to the bare walls, they walked around a desk that led into the garage. Owen saw Lucy had not followed, instead getting behind the cab’s wheel and driving out of sight. They moved into the garage and Owen was plunged into darkness. A thin, meaningless line of light poured in through a crack in the garage door, but nothing Owen could see with.

“Who you got,” said raspy a voice hidden in the darkness. Something in that voice drove the buzz from Owen’s mind, and he started looking around, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. He felt the driver grab the waist of his jeans and bend at the waist, throwing him to the floor. There was the sickening feeling of free fall, halted by the concrete floor of the garage. Every ounce of air exited Owen’s lungs in a gust, and his teeth clicked hard at the impact as he felt every vertebrae readjust. Grunting in pain, he writhed as he felt muscles clenching.

“Some pretty boy Lucy picked up,” the driver said, his accent strange. “You got the stuff?”

Silence reigned and Owen stopped moving, perking his ears. He heard the rustling of clothing and finally, a light came on, a single bulb hanging from an overhead socket. It lit the whole of the enclosed space and Owen saw Lucy coming through the same door he’d been carried through. At first her expression was of exhaustion and her breathing heavy, still overcome by her near-sex experience. When she looked down on him, though, her features changed and he saw such malevolence that it made him cringe. She took a step towards him and he instinctively scooted along the smooth floor on his butt, keeping his distance.

She stopped, laughing and that’s when he saw them, protruding an inch from her incisors, fangs that tapered into fine points.

“What the f*ck are you people playing at?” he said, managing a chuckle. Was this some bullshit game?

“You hear that Sal,” the cab driver said, false mirth lacing the words. “He wants to know what’s up.”

The dim bulb’s light seemed to gleam off them and he squinted trying to get a better look. The driver and the man called Sal stopped, each of them smiling, showing their own fangs over their lips. Owen pivoted his head to take in all three of them, Lucy in her dress, her figure still vulpine and inviting, the driver in his cheap shirt and slacks, tall and thin, not looking to possess an ounce of muscle. Yet he’d manhandled Owen with no effort. The one the cabbie had addressed as Sal was a little less than average height and thin to the point of malnourishment. His skin was pulled tight across his skull, his cheekbones about to burst through and he was pale, making his dark eyes that much more stark. He clothes fit well, and he moved with an effortless grace that made Owen think of the big cats he saw loping around their pens at the zoo.

Pulling a syringe from his pocket, he stepped towards Owen, uncapping the needle, letting the hollow plastic end hit the floor with careless vigor. Looking around, Owen saw the garage had been stripped as bare as the office, the exception being a broom sitting in the corner closest to him. Lucy and the driver stood near him, but their attention was on whatever lurked within that syringe, and Owen moved with a burst of speed, crossing the distance and grabbing the broom. The driver reacted fastest trying to cut Owen off, but changed direction at the last second unleashing a jab that caught him full on the chin.

The world blacked out for a moment, and when Owen’s eyes brain caught up with his eyes, he saw Lucy standing over him, her face awash with glee; her fangs on display in her wide smile.

“I always wanted to f*ck you, Owen,” she said, the mocking hint of playfulness in her voice. “But this is so much better.”

He was leaned against the wall, still half standing, and felt the broomstick still clutched in his hand. Jutting the round end at her like a spear, Owen managed to catch her in the throat hard enough to make her gag. She took a lurching step back coughing hard, her hand at her throat and Owen didn’t hesitate, swinging the broom two handed at her head. Dazed as she was, she almost caught it, her hand coming up with enough speed to alter the broom’s course, and instead of catching her across the face it angled up into her head, glancing off her skull with a dull crack.

She let out a stiff whimper, but didn’t seem to feel any further affects. The driver was on him in a second, and Owen turned and took a punch meant to crush his skull on the bicep. The force of the blow was enough to send him staggering into the garage’s wall and bounce off, but Owen brought the broom up to block the follow up punch. The driver’s fist broke through the broom handle in an explosion of wooden splinters, its momentum carrying into Owen’s nose with a crunch and transferring it to him sending him into the wall again. Instead of bouncing, the wall seemed to absorb his motion in a bone jarring second. He felt his legs give, but steadied them using the wall to prop himself up as the driver faced up, his guard up, his eyes alight.

Trying to shake his mind back to sharpness, Owen saw Lucy still rubbing at her head, but it seemed more a reflex than in response to discomfort. Sal had stayed out of the conflict, but Owen noticed he still held the syringe, and the syringe was now empty. Still holding the broken pieces of the broomstick, one in each hand, Owen raised finger to the only sharp pain he felt at the moment, a raised bump on his neck. His finger came away with the smallest trace of blood, nothing compared to the flood escaping his mashed nose.

“Did you f*cking bite me,” he asked, his voice thick and dull because of his blood stuffed nostrils.

“Not yet,” Lucy said, but he could feel something eager in her words that chilled him. She circled him, and Sal advanced, filling the space she’d just left. They seemed to be waiting for something. The driver still stood ready for him to fight, blocking Owen from the door. Panic screamed at the edges of his mind, but Owen tamped it down with a brutal reality check. He knew if he didn’t do something now, he was dead, and it wouldn’t be pretty. His eyes flitted around the room but the place was bare, the only thing he saw was a fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall parallel to him.

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.

“F*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck,” 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 f*ck 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.