In Case of Carnage Read online

  He was shocked to see the forklift parked, unmanned, on the other side of the loading dock. Hank escaped from between the pallets before they slammed together.

  A hulking figure stood only five feet away.

  Hank closed his eyes briefly, thinking he was seeing things. When he reopened them, it was still standing there.

  Maybe Bill was right. Maybe they did exist.

  The only vampire Hank had ever seen was on the cover of a DVD case Bill had shown him to persuade him to take the movie home to watch. The vampire? Bela Lugosi, creepy with his sinister stare and lecherous grin, but still resembling a man.

  Not this vampire.

  Two short, stubby horns jutted from its forehead, its head smooth and hairless. Its face and scalp were inked with swirling, weird symbols and stars. Its eyebrows, both sides of its nose, lips, and even its chin, were pierced with rings and metal studs. Its earlobes were grotesquely enlarged with black disks. Its eyes were shaded with mascara, and its pupils were eerie, thin slits against green serpentine irises.

  It stood about five-ten, wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt and dark jeans. Its bulging muscles were a roadmap of ropy veins ready to burst, rippling like those of a bodybuilder on steroids.

  The vampire opened its mouth, giving Hank a preview of things to come.

  Hank couldn’t believe the size of its fangs. Every tooth had been filed to a tiny point, and its tongue was forked like a serpent’s.

  “Don’t move! You’re under arrest!” Hank reached under his jacket for his handcuffs when the vampire charged.

  Hank fired two quick rounds, nailing the bloodsucker in the chest.

  The vampire didn’t even flinch. It looked down at the bullet holes in its T-shirt. It dabbed some blood with its finger, ran the tip over its tongue.

  Hank aimed for the thing’s ugly head and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet grazed the side of the vampire’s skull, clipping off a horn. Blood gushed out and down its face. The vampire ran across the loading dock, one hand clamped on its head.

  “Stop!” Hank shouted.

  The vampire vaulted onto the rim of the compactor’s hopper. It was about to jump up onto the main housing when Hank fired again.

  The bullet struck the vampire in the leg, causing it to tumble into the hopper.

  Hank ran over. “Give it up!” He kept his gun trained on the creature. He warily approached until he was within a foot.

  The vampire lunged, its long, sharp nails piercing Hank’s jacket. One powerful yank slammed him up against the steel wall of the hopper.

  The vampire glared, flicking its tongue.

  Hank reached back with one hand, his fingers fumbling blindly on the control panel. He punched the red button.

  The hopper motor rumbled, then roared. The twin doors began their slow descent to crush the contents of the bin.

  Instead of trying to escape the hopper, the vampire started to drag Hank over the rim.

  Hank hooked the toe of his shoe under a lip of metal near the floor, anchoring himself. He grabbed the metal face to push back. The vampire refused to budge.

  Hank shot the vampire’s hand that was clutching his jacket. The bullet ripped through the palm, blowing out a bloody chunk from the back of its hand. Its grip relaxed, enabling Hank to pull free—just as the heavy doors came down on the fiend’s neck. The pistons pushed the doors deep inside the hopper like a guillotine, decapitating the vampire.

  Hank hit the red button, switching off the machine.

  A hand gripped Hank’s shoulder, hoisted him in the air, and threw him fifteen feet across the loading dock. The security guard’s gun fell out of his pocket. His service revolver clattered across the concrete loading dock.

  Another vampire skulked from behind the pallets, its face the spitting image of the one dead in the hopper.

  * * *

  Bill and Clare were on the far side of the underground passage when they heard the first shots.

  “Do you think Hank’s okay?” Clare slowed down to glance back.

  “Hank can take care of himself.”

  They edged around a bend in the tunnel.

  “Where’d they go?” Clare aimed her Glock, ready for anything.

  They stood in the middle of the thoroughfare between two loading docks.

  Bill craned his neck to look up. “Careful, they could be—”

  A woman screamed on the loading dock to their right.

  “Cover me.” Bill dashed up the concrete steps.

  When he reached the top, a muscular creep with facial tattoos—Christ, are those horns?—and black clothing held a teenage girl hostage.

  “Let the girl go!” Bill loaded an arrow into the crossbow. “Are you Peg?”

  The girl hitched a breath, unable to speak. The vampire laughed when it saw Bill’s weapon. With one hand, it wrapped its fingers around Peg’s neck and raised her off her feet.

  Bill leveled the crossbow. The creature glared, revealing razor-point fangs, and laughed. Bill took his shot. The vampire bellowed when the arrow buried itself into its right shin. It dropped the girl. Peg scampered toward Bill.

  He cocked back the bowstring and slipped another arrow into the crossbow. He waited for Peg to get out of his line of fire, then pulled the trigger. The arrow sailed to the right of the vampire.

  The vampire flew at Bill. It grabbed the detective, baring its fangs. It bit through his jacket clear down to the flesh of his shoulder.

  “Son of a—” Bill reached down, jiggled the arrow in the vampire’s shin. The vampire howled, shoving Bill back. Bill snatched another arrow from the quiver in his pocket. He drove the jagged tip into the vampire’s heart.

  The vampire gasped, flailing back its arms. It landed on the hard cement with a heavy thud.

  Bill looked at the trembling teenager. “You’re safe now.” He staggered over to the edge of the loading dock. “Clare! I’ve got the girl!”

  But Clare was gone.

  * * *

  The vampire stood beside a pallet of outdoor equipment. Hank drew the .380 automatic from his ankle holster. The vampire took one look at the puny gun and laughed. Hank fired three shots anyway.

  None of them hit the vampire. Instead, the bullets struck the bottom boxes on the pallet next to the vampire. Bubbling liquid leaked onto the cement dock.

  The vampire stared down at its bare feet in the expanding puddle. It took a deep whiff, eyes wide with alarm.

  Hank fired a single shot. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete, the spark igniting the fumes. Flames whooshed up all around the vampire before it could even think to run. The fire swept up its pant legs, consuming its body in a spiraling torch.

  Hank rolled across the cement and dropped over the edge of the loading dock.

  The shipment of kerosene camping fuel exploded off the pallet.

  * * *

  Clare wakened, slumped over the vampire’s shoulder. It was jogging down the tunnel, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a five-pound sack of potatoes.

  She could see a radiant glow further down the tunnel.

  Blood ran down her sleeve. Her neck stung. Oh, God, I’ve been bitten by a vampire!

  She’d lost her Glock, had dropped it when the creature clobbered her head. She reached around to her gun belt. She drew her combat knife, unfolded the blade.

  The vampire slowed its pace, turning its head. Clare got her first glimpse of its face. With horns, it looked like the devil incarnate, its face disfigured with ink and metal studs. The abomination sneered, displaying its filed teeth. A serpent tongue flicked out of its mouth.

  Clare stabbed the vampire in the side. She kept jabbing it until it finally released her legs. She slipped off its shoulder and landed on her feet.

  The vampire stopped, glaring at her.

  Clare thrust the blade into its neck.

  A wail gurgled from between its thin lips. The creature stumbled off toward a nearby ramp.

  Clare spotted a green traffic light susp
ended on the ceiling. A massive rollup door began to rise. Blinding light poured into the tunnel entrance. Clare shielded her eyes with her hand.

  The vampire screamed.

  Clare recalled Bill’s words. Direct sunlight could kill a vampire. But this couldn’t be sunlight; it was hours before daybreak.

  She strained to see in the blinding glare of the headlamps as the fire engine barreled down the ramp.

  The bumper smacked the vampire, throwing it under the truck. A wide tread tire drove over the vampire’s body, flattening its head.

  * * *

  Bill stared at the bland food on his lunch tray. He was bare-chested, as he had a large bandage covering his right shoulder.

  He looked up as Hank and Clare entered his hospital room. Clare brought a bouquet of flowers. She placed the vase on the windowsill.

  “How’re you feeling, buddy?” Hank leaned against the handrail of the bed.

  “Lousy. I got bit.”

  “So did I.” Clare showed him the dressing on her neck.

  “What happens now?”

  “Hank has agreed to put us out of our misery the moment we turn.”

  Hank nodded and gave his partner a sheepish grin.

  “Not funny, Clare.”

  “Jeez, lighten up, Bill,” Clare said. “They weren’t vampires, you idiot.”

  “Then what were they?”

  “Vampire wannabes,” she answered. “They’re called sanguinarians—blood drinkers. Only these guys went to the extreme. The weird tattoos, getting their tongues forked, wearing creepy contact lenses. Those horns on their foreheads were actually titanium implants.”

  “Why were they so damn strong?”

  “Their blood work showed high concentrations of bath salts, some hallucinogens, other weird steroid derivatives,” Clare said. “Don’t worry. None of them tested positive for HIV. They were so high, they actually believed they were vampires.”

  “They sure fooled me.”

  “Yeah, Bill,” Hank agreed. “They sure did.”

  Hank and Clare pulled chairs up to the bedside. The afternoon sun shone through the window. They basked in the warm room, their sole amusement watching Bill pick at his food.

  Hank had to admit, even he had been fooled by those sanguinarians. Bill and his crazy vampire theories. When would he learn that supernatural stuff was nothing but a bunch of mumbo jumbo and give it a break?

  2

  CASE NUMBER: 18-01-237

  “So what’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday.” Jackie stared over Hank’s shoulder, watching their waiter leave after taking their drink orders for pomegranate margaritas. “Can’t be our anniversary.”

  “I didn’t forget. You know how busy I am at work.”

  Jackie opened her menu.

  “Tell me you’re not still mad.” Hank gazed lovingly at his wife. She looked especially gorgeous: her blonde hair swept back to show off the pearl earrings her mother had given her, the gentle slope of her delicate neck, which he liked to nuzzle. She was even wearing The Green Dress, which she only wore for fancy dinners.

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  “Do I detect a lame attempt to get back in my good graces?”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “You could step it up a bit.”

  “I got you something.” Hank dipped into the pocket of his suit jacket and took out a small black velvet box. He placed the gift next to Jackie’s place setting on the table. “Open it.”

  Before Jackie could comply, someone at the front of the restaurant yelled something in Spanish.

  Hank and Jackie turned.

  A disheveled Hispanic man grappled with a waiter, who tried to drag him outside.

  “Hank, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The man looked like a migrant farm worker, his shirt and trousers soiled with dirt. He broke free from the waiter and bolted into the dining area. Many of the customers looked up from their meals in alarm. One woman screamed.

  Pandemonium quickly ensued as the man continued to shout in Spanish. He crashed into a table, knocking an elderly man out of his chair. Diners watched nervously as the intruder shambled between the tables.

  The crazed man staggered toward Hank and Jackie’s table.

  “Por favor, tienes que ayudarme!” the man pleaded.

  Hank pushed away from the table. He raised his hand for the man to halt. “Yes, I’ll help you but first you must—”

  The man’s head exploded.

  Wet slop blew into Hank’s face, splattering his suit. He wiped the muck from his eyes. Bloody bone fragments littered the white linen tablecloth. Gore covered the nearest walls. Men and women were screaming.

  What remained of the Hispanic man’s body slumped on the floor. Shredded pieces of his head, shoulders, and arms plastered the restaurant. Arterial spray from the gaping wound soaked the carpet.

  A man with a large, jagged piece of projectile bone wedged into his face moaned on the floor. A woman slouched at her table, a bloody hand cupped over her right eye.

  Hank examined his ruined suit. He touched the lapel with his forefinger. The blood felt gritty when he rubbed his finger and thumb together.

  He glanced over at Jackie. Her hair was drenched, covered in slop. Red globs speckled her face. He knew the cleaners would never be able to salvage the Green Dress.

  Jackie unfolded her cloth napkin. She began to clean her face.

  Hank grabbed his own napkin. He wiped away the blood and stuffed the small box intended for Jackie into his pocket.

  “My God, Hank! What just happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Surely, he would have heard a shotgun blast. What else could it have been? Hank drew his revolver, scanning the room for the shooter. Terrified people scrambled for the nearest exit. There was too much noise for Hank to get anyone’s attention.

  Hank holstered his gun. He helped Jackie up. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. Guess I won’t be wearing this dress again.”

  “Of all nights, it had to be tonight.”

  Hank’s cell phone rang. “Detective Jenkins,” he answered, then paused to listen. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He closed his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  “Who was that?” Jackie had managed to remove most of the blood from her face.

  “That was Bill. They found some bodies in a warehouse.”

  “Oh my God. Where?”

  “A couple blocks down the street.”

  * * *

  Hank waited for the uniformed cops to arrive to cordon off the restaurant. He passed on what information he knew to the officer in charge and explained he was needed at another crime scene. Before excusing himself, he gave Jackie a quick kiss and arranged for a patrol car to take her home.

  Hank exited the restaurant.

  More squad cars and emergency vehicles arrived. Emergency lights flashed further down the street. People stared as he passed them on the sidewalk. His clothes looked as if they’d been processed through a meat grinder. He ignored the gawking. Hey, when was the last time someone exploded all over you?

  Officer Silverman slouched at the warehouse entrance. When he noticed Hank, his hand twitched on the grip of his sidearm. “Stop right there!”

  Hank opened his jacket, displaying the gold shield that was clipped to his belt.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you. You should see yourself. You look like a zombie.”

  Hank was in no mood for idle chitchat, especially of the undead sort. “Well, I’m not.” He kept on walking and entered the building.

  Hank crossed the warehouse floor, its expanse the size of a high school gym. Clare worked the scene in a makeshift laboratory. Fluorescent lights illuminated the sophisticated-looking equipment that was arranged on four long tables. Two high-powered microscopes were on one end of a workbench. Empty wooden shipping crates were stacked against a wal
l.

  “Something tells me this isn’t a meth lab.”

  “And you would be right.” Clare didn’t bother to look up as she studied something on the floor. “This setup is more for wafer fabrication.”

  “Like microchips?”

  “Right again.”

  Clare scooped something up in a clear plastic bag. She glanced up at Hank. “I thought you were going out to a nice dinner. What happened? You and Jackie get into a food fight?”

  “Where’s Bill?”

  “In there.” Clare pointed at an opened doorway. “I have to warn you. It’s pretty bad.”

  Hank stepped into a dark hallway with a series of doors on each side.

  “Bill, you in here?”

  “First door on the left. Watch where you step.”

  Hank saw light flickering inside the room. He stood at the threshold and peeked in.

  “What do you think?” Bill shined the beam of his flashlight on the blood-stained walls. “An execution room?”

  Hank took his small Maglite out of his jacket pocket and shined the flashlight on the ceiling. It looked like the artwork of Sydney Pollack—as if whole cans of red and brown paint had been hurled against the walls and ceiling. “How does blood get all the way up there?”

  “Twin barrels under the chin might do it.”

  “This looks like a torture chamber.”

  “You might be right. Come see what’s in the next room.”

  This time, there was a decapitated body on the floor—no head anywhere. The upper torso had been savagely hacked, as if someone had shoved it into the mincing blades of a wood chipper.

  “There are more in the other rooms just like this one. Looks like they were being kept in holding cells. The doors were locked from the outside.” Bill shined his flashlight on Hank. “You look like Carrie after she got dowsed with the bucket of blood.”

  “Carrie who?”

  “You know, Carrie, the movie with Sissy Spacek.”