C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation (13 page)

“
Sounds like a plan.” Ben said, climbing back into the car.

*****

Henry yawned deeply as he sat outside the Sandy Inn. Morris and Bishop had checked in a couple of hours before. The sun had set an hour after that. He had called Susie from the phone in the lobby. Strangely, Benjamin Morris’ file was marked locked, top-secret clearance only. This was getting stranger by the minute. He did his best to keep his eyes open but he was fading fast.

A loud crash awoke him from his slumber a little after midnight. Henry opened his eyes and the first thing he noticed was that his driver's side door was missing.

“
What the hell!” He started to yell as an arm reached through the hole where his door had been and yanked him out like a rag doll, causing him to bump his head on the doorframe. Groggily he reached with his right hand for the pistol on his hip. It was missing; he cursed himself inwardly for taking it off and setting it on the passenger seat before he had fallen asleep.

An ice-cold hand wrapped over his mouth. Henry pulled at it frantically but could not make it budge. Darkness began forming around the edges of his vision until finally he passed out.

*****

The alarm sounded at six am but John was already on his feet. He still felt horrible but the fever had broken sometime in the night. He was just glad it was a grunt that scratched him, if it had been a Maker he would be laid up for days. Though their claws wouldn’t turn a human like their fangs, they were still very poisonous to humans.

The Cleaner
was cleaned and loaded, his new Kevlar vest hung loosely open over his chest. It had been seven years since his last hunt. Seven years since he had watched one of his best friends get decapitated before his eyes. Seven long years. That was a long break for even the best hunters.

Ben rose groggily out of bed rubbing his eyes. “Ugh, damn John." he yawned deeply. "Did you get any sleep last night?”

“
I got enough.” John set
The Cleaner
back in its case then checked the two sawed off twelve-gauges he had bought from the pawnshop and the .357 tucked into the back of his waistband. “Time to go to work Ben.”

“
Alright.” Ben said, grabbing his glasses off the nightstand and putting them on. “Did you want to call Jake before we head out?”

John thought it over for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No. Why worry him.”

“
You’re sure? This might be the last time you talk to him.”

“
No. I’ll call him when I’ve gotten Julia back.”

“
Okay then.” Ben said, with a sigh then picked up the phone.

“
What are you doing?” John asked snapping the cases shut.

“
I’m calling my wife and kid. You know, in case I get killed?” Ben said, sarcastically. “Is that okay with you?”

“
Yeah. Of course.” John said, feeling bad that he had even asked. “Sorry Ben. I’ve just . . . I’m sorry.”

“
It’s alright, don’t worry about it. I know you’re anxious to get this done. I’ll just be a minute okay?” Ben picked up the phone and dialed. “Hey baby, it’s me . . . yeah, we’re about to head out. I just wanted to call and tell you I love you. Give Chris a hug for me and tell him I love him too . . .” he grew silent as he listened to his wife on the other end. “Cat, I don’t think . . . alright, alright.” He held the phone out to John. “She wants to talk to you.”

John picked up the phone. “Hi Cat.”

“
Hi John.” she said, in a thick Spanish accent. “Look. I’m sorry about what happened to Julia. But you get your head in the game okay? If my Ben is killed because you're not doing what you’re supposed to, you’re going to have to answer to me. Understand?”

“
Yeah Cat, I got you. I promise I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“
Good. Take care of yourself John and bring Julia home.”

“
Goodbye Cat.” John handed the phone back to Ben.

Grabbing up his gun cases, duffel, and the keys off the dresser John headed out the door leaving Ben alone to talk with his wife.
Time to get your head in the game.
He thought to himself.
God let me be swift. Let me be strong. Let me be your right hand of judgment on these monstrosities. Watch over my team and please God don’t let me get them killed. Watch over Jake and protect him and please God, let my Julia come home to me. Amen. Oh and God . . . if Terry’s up there with you, tell him . . .
John smiled to himself.
Tell him he’s just going to have to wait a little longer till we can share a six-pack again. Amen.

Tossing his duffel and gun cases into the trunk John climbed into driver’s seat. Turning on the engine, he put it on his favorite rock station and cranked it up until the speakers were at their max. Gun’s N Roses
Welcome to the Jungle
was on
.
Closing his eyes John let the music flow through him, putting everything else out of his mind. He barely noticed when Ben climbed into the passenger seat next to him.

“
Ready to go to work?” Ben asked.

John looked at his old friend, his mind clear and determined. “Let’s Rock and Roll.”

Chapter 7

John/Henry

The Carver Mansion, Midland, TX.

August 1, 1994 6:45am

John pulled the sedan into the drive of a very large house situated six miles east of Midland. The spooky old two-story loomed eerily above; its white paint long since chipped and faded. All of the windows were either boarded up or painted over, a sure sign that something inside did not want the sun coming in.

Twenty years ago, the Carvers had been one of the more prominent oil families in West Texas. George Carver’s net worth was estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars. However, like many big oil companies the bust in the early eighties hit him especially hard, almost bankrupting Carver Oil. Riker Oil and Drilling, seeing its chance to wipe out one of its biggest competitors, leapt at the chance to buy Carver out. Carver, who had built the company from the ground up, refused to sell. So Riker cut him out of the equation by offering the members of his board well over what the company was worth.

George Carver was ruined. So one Christmas Eve, not long after his company was stolen out from under him, George Carver walked silently through his house murdering his entire family with a large kitchen knife. Among his victims were three small grandchildren. The only survivor was one of his teenage grandsons, who had decided to camp out in the attic the night before. He came down that Christmas morning expecting to open presents, instead he found his family with their throats slit and his grandfather hanging from the rafters of the front porch.

It had been one of the biggest murders in Midland’s history and over a decade later, the house still sat empty. Not a single person had taken up residence there. Rumor had it the floors were still coated with the dried blood of his victims and that every night Mr. Carver's ghost wandered the halls, looking for the one grandson that had escaped his wrath.

Only brave teenagers looking for a cheap scare, or a place to get drunk or high had dared to go there after dark. The vampires could not have picked a more perfect place to use as a den. Secluded, abandoned, without any neighbors for miles coupled with its proximity to a small city made it a perfect base of operations. Containing well over a dozen rooms the mansion was nothing short of tremendous in size. It was a death trap for only three hunters. Nevertheless, John couldn't wait any longer. With or without backup he was going in. Julia could be inside that house, and he would do whatever it took to get her back.

“
Hell of a coincidence that the house these suckheads decided to take up residence in once belonged to a man screwed over by your father in-law.” Ben said, looking over the daunting task before them.

“
No, not really.” John replied, putting the car in park. “Riker screwed
a lot
of people over the years. I’m sure there are more than a few ghosts roaming houses emptied by that son of a bitch.”

“
Yeah no joke.” Ben agreed. “Is he still alive?”

“
Last I heard,” John nodded. “He’s had every cancer imaginable, but is just too damn mean to die off. Can’t say I blame the devil much for not letting him in. If Riker actually did die, he’d probably be running hell within a week.”

Talon was sitting on the tailgate of his truck with his back to the house. Two large caliber pistols sat in holsters on his hips next to his bone-handled knife, two sheathed machetes were strapped to his back and a long seven-foot lance sat across his lap. Unlike most hunters, Talon didn’t wear body armor; he preferred the freedom of movement over the protection of the restricting body armor. Only a sleeveless black t-shirt and the two leather straps holding the machetes to his back covered his chest. He puffed one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out.

As John and Ben climbed out of their car, a dull roar sounded in the distance. John’s spirits rose slightly as he turned to see five Harley Davidsons followed closely by a white van, throw up clouds of dust on the caliche road to the house. The bikes pulled to a stop behind Ben’s sedan.

The meanest looking man of the bunch killed the engine of his chopper then dropped the kickstand. Climbing off the bike, he pulled the dust-covered sunglasses off his face then dusted himself off. The tall biker stood six feet two inches tall with his head shaved completely bald with a pair of crimson eyes tattooed on the back of his it. Tattooed snakes and spiders completely covered his right arm leading all the way up his neck. His left forearm had well over forty, bloody long vampire fangs tattooed across it, one for each of his kills. Like the rest of his group, he wore a black leather vest. The top rocker of the patch on his back identified their group as
The Slayers.

Though his appearance was much different than he remembered, John smiled warmly. It was his old friend, Wes Turner.

“
Well, well, well . . .” Turner said, in a raspy smoker’s voice, “If it isn’t big bad John Bishop!”

“
How are you Wes?” John said, pulling his leather glove off and reaching to shake his hand.

“
I’m doing great brother,” He ignored John’s hand and gripped him in a tight bear hug, pumping his fist hard on John’s back. “What’s this?” he stepped back looking him over with a laugh. “Man you’re getting a little soft around the middle, what happened to the six pack?”

John managed a laugh. “That’s what happens when you try to play civilian.”

“
Shit, man, I could have told you that. So how are you? How are you holding up?”

“
I’m hanging in there,” John tried his best to smile. “It’s good to see you, Wes.”

“
Same here, John. I’m sorry to hear about Julia, but I promise you’ll be doing a lot better in an hour or two. Isn’t that right boys?!” Turner said, turning to face his crew. “You boys ready to kill some vamps?!”

A loud, “Hell yeah!” erupted from the bikers behind him followed by whistling and laughter.

“
Damn Wes, when’d you start running your own crew?” John asked looking over the mixed group.

“
About six months after we lost Terry. Billy and his crew stopped calling me in for jobs. So I joined up with Franky Simmons, then Franky passed on a couple of years back and the boys elected me as Prez. Funny though, as soon as the shit really gets heavy who’s the first person Billy calls?” He gave Ben a nasty look. “How ya doing Morris? Still doing Billy’s grunt work?”

“
Doing great, Wes.” Ben said ignoring that last remark. “How about you?”

“
Oh I’m just peachy! I’m about to kill some vampires, make some money! If I had a fine bitch on my arm, I’d be damn near perfect! Hello, Talon! Still running with Billy’s crew?”

"Wesley," Talon nodded lighting up another Marlboro.

“
Same old Talon! Not much for conversation. Just one word here, one word there. But still the best damn tracker in the business! Next to old Tank that is.” he motioned to a large stocky Mexican man sitting on a cherry red Fatboy.

John could tell by the look on Talon’s face that he wasn’t impressed. “How’s your wife and kid doing?”

“
Well you know.” Turner shrugged his shoulders. “Same shit, different day. Rebecca is always bitching about something. If she wasn’t I’d swear she’d been replaced by an alien clone. And Buck, I tell you John, that boy is going to be one hell of a hunter when he grows up! Tough as nails, beats the shit out of kids at his school all the time! I couldn’t be prouder.”

“
That’s . . . uh . . . great.” John said, uncertain of what else to say. “Well . . . uh . . . let’s get to it then.”

“
You heard him boys!” Turner yelled. “Gear up!”

The bikers pulled various gear from the back of the white van, sawed offs, magnums, one guy even pulled two matching Uzis out of his saddlebags. Their armor of choice seemed to be almost entirely made up of leather jackets and motorcycle helmets with face shields. It
might
stand up to a grunt but any Maker would rip through it without much trouble.
Should have spent less money on partying and more on gear.
John thought to himself. Only Turner had any real armor, consisting of a chain mail collar with a top of the line custom fit chain mail lined flak jacket.