Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Chapter One: Hi De Ho, Infecterino! by Andrew Marc Rowe
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Chapter One: Urbex Predator by Jens Boele
Title: Urbex Predator
Author: Jens Boele
Publisher: Amazon KDP
Publication Date: February 4, 2024
Pages: 394
Genre: Horror/Thriller
A relic from the Cold War, the old barracks beckon photographers, influencers, and adventurers, shrouded in secrets and peril. Nela and Tess dare the eerie ruins for their photography thesis, while Zander, Yelka, Vivien, and Damon embark on a simultaneous shoot. Amid the abandoned shadows, Yelka’s group runs into Steven and his ruthless gang, initially outsmarting them. Yet, Nela and Tess fall victim to a nightfall ambush, escaping but torn apart. As adrenaline courses through the gang, they stalk Yelka and her friends, unleashing a relentless manhunt. Vivien becomes their captive, setting off a chain reaction. Tess encounters Damon and Yelka, while Nela, guided by Ben, the barracks’ security manager, races to find Tess. Yelka strives to rescue Vivien, trapped in an abandoned outdoor pool. On his lone pursuit, Zander witnesses the gang’s brutality, delving into a darker realm within himself, spurred by the horrifying thrill of Steven’s actions. The scene propels Yelka, Damon, and Tess into a frenzy, unleashing chaos to liberate Vivien. Nela and Ben, attempting to overpower the gang, witness Yelka and Vivien’s escape as the gang closes in. With the arrival of Steven’s older brother, Henry, the stakes are set; the old military hospital transforms into a battleground. No one is to leave alive, and a matter of life and death ensues. In the ruthless clash, Nela and Yelka emerge as the lone defenders, while Zander pursues a mission for his own catharsis. In Henry’s basement, dubbed his Hades, the teams converge for a pulse-pounding final duel, where survival is the ultimate prize. You can pick up your copy at Amazon.
Chapter One:
Silence was all that was left. Neither the shouting of the officers nor the marching thunder of the soldiers had remained from the Cold War. Finally, it was time itself that had defeated all enemies.
Unwavering, indifferent, and relentless, it gnawed at the foundations of what the Allied forces had left behind. Heat had cracked the asphalt, rain washed out the concrete, wind and storm had smashed doors and windows. Tar paper had melted in the sun and frozen in winter. Tiles had cracked in the freezing cold. Weather had crept into the woodwork and driven the paint out of the wood. Moss and ferns clung to exterior walls, clogging gutters, and water pipes. The forces of nature had achieved what those of the enemy had failed to do.
In the cold moonlight, Scott and Billy wandered between the former apartment blocks near the barracks. Six-story residential silos had probably housed the soldiers’ families at that time. Today they were surrounded by trees that had not been planted yet when the houses were abandoned. In the moonlight, the open front doors of the house looked like the entrance to a more sinister and terrifying world than the darkness of the woods. The night wind carried the heavy smell of forest soil and damp cellars to their noses. Now the nocturnal animals came to life and mingled their calls with leaves rustling.
“Wait!” Billy put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “There’s something up ahead.”
They stopped on a grassy path that once had been a road.
“What’s supposed to be there?” Scott folded his arms in front of his chest.
“Look …”
A black shadow emerged from the forest. Billy froze, Scott held his breath. It appears the animal was slowly approaching them. Gosh, let it be just a dog that has lost its way.
“It’s a wolf,” Scott whispered.
Billy felt Scott’s arm pushing him back.
“Damn, what do we do now?” Scott breathed frantically.
The animal approached slowly; head bowed.
“That’s a wolf,” Scott kept whispering, “that’s a wolf …” Breathing frantically, his voice grew louder with each word.
“That! Is! A! Wolf!” he shouted energetically, stamping his foot with each word, and waving his arms.
When Billy came out from behind his back, the animal had disappeared. His shoulders slumped. Scott exhaled in relief.
“Was that really a wolf?” asked Billy in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” Scott went on. “Anyway, it’s gone.”
“Can’t you even turn on the flashlight?”
“No, man. Not until we get inside. I don’t feel like getting caught by security anytime soon.”
Taking a deep breath, Billy let go of his tension. “And how is this even going to work? We’ve been walking through the forest for about half an hour now.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“How are we supposed to move those cables back to the car? Do you think I will run the route back and forth umpteen times?”
Scott abruptly stopped and glanced at Billy. “You aren’t even listening to me, are you? We will get all the cables out of the ceilings that night and stash them here. Then we’ll see what we got, and tomorrow night we’ll break down the gate and drive up here with the transporter. All right?”
Billy chewed on his lower lip. “Yes, but why don’t we go with the van already?”
“Because the broken gate would attract the security service in the morning, which would then catch us, stupid.”
Waiting for an answer, he glanced at Billy, “It’s not that hard to understand, though, is it?” Billy nodded mutely.
“But do you think there’s still a lot to earn here anyway? This place is kind of old, you know. I’m sure others have been here before and pulled the copper outta the walls.”
“Take a good look around. Do you see any graffiti? Do you see any trails? Has anyone been partying here?” Billy let his eyes wander. No, no one has been here for a long time. “Don’t ask me why, but this place is hot.”
Scott raised his eyebrows. “Now let’s get going.” Forgivingly, he patted Billy on the shoulder. “Otherwise, the Big Bad Wolf will get you right away.”
Sighing, Billy kept walking.
“This is probably just too far away from civilization. We’re just out here in the middle of nowhere. Nobody gets lost here …”
A bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the night.
Frozen, Billy stopped, Scott took a step back.
“What was that?” Billy’s voice trembled.
Scott stared into the night. “I’m sure it was just an animal.”
Billy shivered. “Was no animal, dude.”
Scott turned to him. “What else would that have been? The wolf probably took a deer. You know what kind of noises animals make when they’re scared to die?”
Billy shook his head quietly as he remained in a state of shock.
“See it like this—the wolf will feast now and leave us alone.” Scott smiled. “Is even better for us.”
After a brief silence, he added, “Think of the money!”
The wind had eased, the dark forest path lay in silence. Behind them, the moon illuminated the clearing where the houses stood. In front of them, there was darkness.
Billy whispered, “Wait,” and then walked on hesitantly. His legs were heavy as lead, his breathing shallow. “Wait for me.”
“Hurry,” Scott whispered softly.
As the path narrowed, the trees came closer, denying them the last light of the moon.
They could barely see anything when they noticed a motion in the shadows.
A large shade moved slowly between the trees.
It walked upright on two legs.
This was not an animal.
Billy felt an icy chill as his arms felt numb. He felt an invisible band tighten around his chest, draining his breath as Scott disappeared into the darkness.
“Scott?” He gasped for air.
“Run! Run Billy!”
Billy’s stomach clenched. He heard Scott try to shout something, but his voice turned into an uncontrolled gurgle. Like he was going to throw up. Then a rattle.
Billy wanted to run away, but he just stood there, unmoving and trembling, paralyzed with fright. He grabbed his cheek. His eyes stared into the forest, widening.
“Scott?”
A branch cracked.
Darkness surrounded him.
Silence.
About the Author:
Jens is a genre-bending author, specializing in horror and crime thrillers. His narratives often blur genre lines, weaving intricate tales that plunge readers into the darkest corners of the human psyche. Jens's storytelling brilliance lies in his fascination with the criminal mind; his villains are always profoundly human, offering readers a chilling examination of the psychological aspects of the criminally insane.
Jens sets himself apart by seamlessly integrating classic horror with the gritty authenticity of the present day. This innovative fusion imbues his narratives with a dynamic quality, seamlessly blending archaic thrills with contemporary intrigue, resulting in an immersive reading experience that resonates with both vintage enthusiasts and present-day readers alike.
Jens Boele's latest endeavor takes his work across borders, as "Urbex Predator" becomes his first book to be translated into English. A globetrotter with deep connections to the United States, Jens's passion for exploration and his international perspective, nurtured by family and friends in the US, shine through in his writing, offering readers a captivating blend of horror and cultural diversity.
Visit Jens’ website at https://jensboele.com/.
The First Chapter: The Siren's Scream by Thomas White
Author: Thomas White
Publisher: Savvy Books
Pages: 492
Genre: Mystery/Horror
An old mansion sits atop of a cliff, overlooking the ocean, in Santa Cruz, CA. A young realtor, Darcy Wainwright, manages to sell the dilapidated old house to Henry Childs, an obese nebbish who is obsessed with the property. In the backyard is a pool. Not an ordinary pool but a giant tide pool. In the tide pool is a siren with an evil agenda for revenge.
The Thornton Mansion was a talisman for the death and mystery that surrounded it. Unoccupied for years until Henry Childs was summoned by the house. As directed, he reached out to unsuspecting, novice realtor Darcy Wainwright. Darcy finds herself intricately involved with the house, its history and the haunting tide pool that filled the backyard. It was the pool that beckoned her, and it was the pool that would decide if she lives or dies. The Siren’s Scream. Available on Amazon.
Release Date: October 5, 2022
Publisher: Savvy Books
Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-1088067819; 480 pages; $21.14
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3TEz7kx
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-sirens-scream-thomas-white/1142494493?ean=9781088067819
Purchase your copy at the author’s website: https://thomas-white-author.com/
Chapter One
Sausalito, CA – Present Day
Henry Childs led a life of total inconsequence. He had no friends, no hobbies, no guilty pleasures. He had spent his thirty-eight years in the space behind his mother’s aggression, lacking the courage to reach for anything more than this pitiless world deigned to dish to him.
Edith Childs screamed at Henry from the other room, “Henry, I’m bored. I want to go for a drive.”
Henry’s face scrunched in disdain, and the folds in his ample neck turned red. There was no denying her, not that he had ever had the backbone to attempt anything so drastic. Henry Childs had spent his thirty-eight years in the space behind his mother’s aggression, lacking the courage to reach for anything more than this pitiless world deigned to dish to him.
With a stoic exhale, he paused his video game, gulped down his cinnamon roll, lifted his considerable bulk out of the comfort of his reclining chair, and began the routine that would eventually get his mother from her bedroom to her wheelchair and into the car.
He grabbed her yellow sweater to be sure that she would stay warm.
“Henry, I’m not a child. I know if I’m cold or not.”
He held up the cardigan and attempted to help her into it.
“I can dress myself, thank you.”
Then there was the transfer from her sitting chair to her wheelchair.
“For goodness sakes, Henry, you would think this was the first time you’ve ever done this. Move the chair closer. I’m not an acrobat.”
…the parade out to the porch.
“Henry, don’t scrape the wall. You’re always so careless. We have gouges up and down the whole hallway.”
…down the ramp.
“Don’t go so fast. Are you trying to launch me into outer space?”
…across the walkway toward the car.
“Do you have to hit every bump on the walk? Wait, go back, I think you missed one.”
…then finally into the car.
“Be careful of my head. I don’t want to lose what sense I have left.”
By the time the car door was closed, with his disintegrating mother safely ensconced inside, Henry had sweat running down his forehead and was breathing hard. His double chins were dripping from each crevice, and his shirt was beginning to stain from the accumulating moisture. He dropped her chair into the trunk, wiped his brow on his sleeve, and embraced his final moments of silence before he opened the door and plopped behind the steering wheel of his Nissan Murano.
“Which direction should we go today?” Henry asked, his gravelly voice too crusty for the confines of the car.
“Clear your throat before you speak, Henry.” Edith admonished. After brief consideration, she said, “South. Along PCH.”
He backed out of the driveway and headed for the Pacific Coast Highway.
“Be careful about the bushes, Henry.”
Henry Childs had never lived on his own except for the three months before his father died. Even in college, while taking computer science classes, he was quite content to stay in his room and leave only to go to class. When he was twenty-six, his father had arranged a job at a computer start- up company, and Edith had forced him into taking a small apartment a few miles from their old house. He had hated it.
He hated being alone and away from the security of his old room and had quickly fallen into a routine of getting up, going to work, and heading back to the apartment with several orders of take-out. She probably would have made him stay in that apartment had his father not passed away when he did.
“Henry!” Edith screeched, shattering the silence, “don’t let that guy do that. These drivers they’re always cutting you off. Your father used to do the same thing, and it drove me crazy. Why would he let them cut him off? I never understood.”
Henry sighed. Henry had never seen his father lose his temper behind the wheel. As a matter of fact, Henry could not remember his father ever raising his voice. Dead over ten years, Henry still missed him every day. Roland Childs had always been the shoulder Henry would seek out when he had been made fun of by the other kids at school, when a bully had thrown him to the ground, or when his mother had dismissed him without consideration. Where Edith was aggressive and rude, Roland was gentle and polite. For the millionth time, he wondered why he had ever married his mother.
Roland Childs had been a successful attorney, a loving father, and a faithful husband. While arguing a case in front of a judge one afternoon, he simply stopped talking and dropped to the floor. Henry’s world collapsed with his father. There was no solace now for the fat little kid with the ugly voice. Nowhere for him to turn for kindness or encouragement. He was trapped between loneliness and his mother. Yet, he remained his mother’s son, and upon the death of his father, he moved back into the big house once and for all.
When his father died, Henry had been working on an algorithm that would eventually help connect a server to a remote device. His contribution to the algorithm had vested him in the company, and when he finally cashed out ten years later, he found himself a very wealthy man… who lived with his mother… and drove a Nissan Murano.
Still heading south on PCH, they approached the beach community of Santa Cruz, a cozy burg nestled on the coast thirty miles south of San Francisco. As they entered the city limits, Henry stopped at a red light. Looking up ahead and to his right, he saw a strange cloud formation gathering atop one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. It appeared to hover, not moving with the ocean breezes or adhering to natural laws. It roiled within its confines and seemed to be attempting to form into some sort of shape. He began to feel a tingle on his inner thighs as they rubbed together under the steering wheel. There was a restlessness building in his heart beating beneath the mounds of flesh resting on his chest.
The sound of car horns pulled him out of his daze, and seeing as the light had turned green, he drove forward through town. Stopping at the next light, he saw the cloud had grown closer and was shifting into what looked like a woman’s face. It glided toward him in a menacing fashion. It cast no shadow, and no one in the other cars or on the street showed any indication that they noticed. The face turned toward him, and the mouth moved, “Henry, come to me.”
Henry’s eyes popped wide, and his jaw dropped. His breath was coming in short bursts, yet it seemed that he wasn’t inhaling at all. He turned to his mother, expecting to have to explain why a cloud was talking to him, but she had nodded off in one of her ‘eye-resting’ moments. He turned back to the cloud and heard her words again, “Come to me.” An aura of purpose cascaded around him. He was helpless to disobey this calling. Without consulting his mother, he changed lanes abruptly and prepared to turn toward this vision.
“What are you doing, Henry? Where are you going?” Edith said, starting out of her little nap.
Henry made up a story, unsure of the origin of the inspiration. “I’ve heard about a place that’s not far from here. I’ve always wanted you to see it.”
Edith flinched at the sound of his voice, as she always did, but a small smile appeared on her face. “Henry, do you have a surprise for me?”
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Henry said, “Why yes, that’s exactly it. Let me show you a surprise.”
He took a right and then a left, and the Nissan began a climb up a very steep hill. The cloud still hung in front of his car, and her eyes followed him, unwilling to let him go. Henry alternated between watching the road and the cloud. It had defined its form and, without question, resembled a face. It had stopped moving and now hung impatient; over what, Henry couldn’t tell.
At the summit, he paused and, without prompting, turned toward the cloud. He was being pulled, following an edict he felt in his gut. He coasted to a stop in front of an old, rusted gate. In front of the gate was a weathered realty sign that indicated this property was available.
Popping the gearshift into park, he lifted his considerable bulk out of the car and waddled to the gate. In rusted, corroded letters, the name ‘Thornton’ was spelled out across the two sides of the twisted, metal entrance. Using his weight as leverage, he pushed it open, and as it swung toward the house, the ancient hinges squealed out a warning that went unheeded.
Pouring himself back into the car, he drove past the stone turrets that stood sentry over this property and glided into the driveway.
“Henry, where are we? Do we know these people? What in the world are you doing?” Edith harped.
Henry stopped the car directly in front of the house. It was a mansion. A stunning mansion that sat deserted on the top of a robust bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Old age had won its share of battles over this grand palace, but Henry saw past the peeled paint and the rotted portico. This house was to be his home; he knew it. He knew it the way a child returning from summer camp knows the peaceful serenity of his own bed.
About the Author
Thomas White began his career as an actor. Several years later he found himself as an Artistic Director for a theatre in Southern California and the winner of several Drama-Logue and Critics awards for directing. As Tom’s career grew, he directed and co-produced the world tour of “The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Coming Out Of Their Shells”. The show toured for over two years, was translated into seven different languages and seen by over a million children. Tom served as President and Creative Director for Maiden Lane Entertainment for 24 years and worked on many large-scale corporate event productions that included Harley Davidson, Microsoft, Medtronic Diabetes, and dozens of others. The Siren’s Scream is Tom’s second novel that follows up Justice Rules which was nominated as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2010 Literary contest.
Tom’s latest book is the mystery/horror, The Siren’s Scream.
Visit his website at www.thomas-white-author.com or connect with him at Facebook.
Blessed: The Prodigal Daughter by A.L. Bryant
Author: A.L. Bryant
Publisher: HSW Publications LLC
Pages: 279
Genre: Supernatural Christian Thriller/Horror
BOOK BLURB:
On New Year’s Eve 2021 the staff at St.
Ann’s Hospital witness a medical miracle when a
semi-conscious woman walks into the
emergency room. The Jane Doe has been stabbed multiple times and as the staff
struggle to keep the woman alive in the end all they can do is stand back and
watch as their mysterious patient revives herself.
Glory wakes up in St. Ann’s
Hospital gravely injured from an attack she cannot remember. However, her
memory loss is no ordinary amnesia and she is no ordinary patient. Much to the
shock of the hospital staff Glory heals at three times the rate of an average
person. Soon the administration hears of her unique case and waste no time
convincing the recovering Glory to be a part of an experiment to discover the
origins of her power.
Once outside the comforting walls of the hospital it becomes
apparent that healing is just a small portion of Glory’s capabilities.
Abilities that to Glory’s distress are becoming increasingly unstable. Deciding
that the hospital’s experiments are in vain, Glory embarks on her own Journey
to discover the source of her power, unaware that she is a major pawn in a war
between two secret organizations.
The two syndicates continue to clash in their fight for
control and their battles result in several casualties. The crimes of their
warfare surface and draw the attention of Dennis Wilson, a NYPD Detective known
for solving his cases in the first forty-eight hours. Dennis follows the trail
of bodies out of curiosity. But when his curiosity causes the deaths of his
loved ones Detective Dennis becomes obsessed with the case.
In his overzealous attempts to find the murderer Dennis
becomes the syndicates’ next target. Now the Detective must run for his life
and the only person capable of saving him is the very person he suspects.
Blessed: The Prodigal Daughter is a hybrid of
government espionage and supernatural Thriller. This novel is intended for
audiences 18+ that seek an edgier outlook on Christian fiction. Blessed: The
Prodigal Daughter is the first installment of the Blessed trilogy.
Chapter 1
New Year’s Day, 2022
Manhattan, NY
Manhattan, NY
Nonskid clogs shuffled swiftly across the white and green checkered
linoleum floor. Somewhere a phone rang incessantly; several people succumbed to
coughing fits; a child cried. A vibrant current of white coats and green scrubs
barely avoided crashing into one another as charts passed smoothly from hand to
hand. Despite the beeps and sighs of machines and the increasing buzz of
frantic conversations, a single loud voice carried to every corner of the ER.
“What is it this time,
Silvia?” Cathy slammed a patient’s file on the cluttered desk next to the
computer, not caring if she hit the device. “It better not be another one of
your ridiculous premonitions.” A stray strand of steel-gray hair poked out from
her right temple, more wiry than the brown ones around it, having escaped the
strict French braid she wrestled her locks into before each shift.
Silvia shot an uncomfortable
look at the charge nurse. Cathy had worked her way up to her current position
at St. Ann’s Hospital over the course of more than twenty years, and the stress
of ER nursing had taken its toll. The bright-eyed CNA she had been at
twenty-one had long since been tarnished by long hours and harsh realities.
Silvia, a
small Latina beauty with dark brown hair that reached just below her
shoulder blades in a thick curly mass, found herself in the unfortunate position
of being Cathy’s newest punching bag. Silvia was a ‘believer,’ and Cathy
detested religious people. She considered them unintelligent and intolerant.
However, it didn’t matter how
much pressure Cathy piled onto Silvia; the younger woman remained undaunted.
Cathy knew with absolute certainty that Silvia would not last in this business.
Her dream world would shatter, broken by the heavy mallet of reality. Or—and
Cathy predicted this would happen first—she would be fired for all the trouble
her “premonitions” caused.
“Other nurses have told me
you’ve reserved a bed for a patient that isn’t even here. We’ve had one hell of
a busy night, patients stacked up outside trying to get in and an ambulance
every twenty minutes, and you’re trying to reserve a bed?” Cathy scoffed. “I’m
about ten seconds away from sending you home for good. Should I tell Dr. Clark
or Dr. Karin what you’ve been up to?”
Silvia understood that on a
night like this, with tensions high due to the constant stream of sick and
injured people, her actions could be considered career suicide. She felt more
embarrassed than grateful for her gift of foresight. Most people treated her
much like Cathy did—as though she belonged in an insane asylum. Her
“premonitions,” as Cathy called them, were unpredictable: sometimes they were
fulfilled right away; sometimes it took days or weeks or even months.
Already caught laying out a
gown, some extra blankets, and even epinephrine, Silvia did not attempt to
deny Cathy’s accusations. Even now, standing in front of the thunderous charge
nurse, she inexplicably held extra syringes, bandages, and gloves.
“I just felt I needed to
prepare…” Silvia let the excuse fade into silence, aware she had no defense for
her actions.
Cathy snatched the supplies
and tossed them carelessly onto the counter.
“I better not see you even look
in the direction of the ER. Understood? You either do the workup on new
admissions, or you go home.” Having said her piece, Cathy turned on her heel
and took one step.
“Something big is going to happen
tonight.” Silvia couldn’t help herself. “Trust me, if we prepare now—” She
stopped short as Cathy swung around with surprising speed, and cringed at the
charge nurse’s blazing eyes. Before Cathy could speak, another voice
interjected.
“I don’t see any harm. If
somethin’ doesn’t happen in the next two hours, we can always use the area for
another patient, and at the rate she’s been stockin’ that room, it’ll be ready
for anything.” The voice belonged to Cheryl, who—despite having less seniority
than Cathy in both years of employment and position—had considerably more pull
in hospital politics than the charge nurse.
Silvia shot Cheryl a relieved
smile and received a wink in response. The exchange did not go unnoticed by the
fuming Cathy, but it didn’t take her long to see how she could later use this
against her two foes.
With a smile that did not
reach her eyes, Cathy inclined her head. “Fine,” she said through gritted
teeth. Her glare turned to Cheryl. “You take responsibility for this.” With
that, she marched away, her head tilted at a self-righteous angle.
“So…” Cheryl looked at Silvia
over her reading glasses, her dark eyes dancing within her deep bronze skin.
Strands of silver interwove with her soft black hair, worn in a twist-out.
“Somethin’ big, huh?”
Silvia nodded; her eyes lit
with excitement. Her heart pounding, Silvia rubbed her hands over her arms,
trying in desperation to stave off an internal chill that left her shivering.
Whatever happened tonight, Silvia believed it would affect not only the people
in this hospital, but the whole city—maybe even the nation.
At 4:23 in the morning,
exactly two hours after her conversation with Cathy, Silvia paced back and
forth outside the ER. She waited in the ambulance entrance, ready. So far there
was no sign of anything big. Right now, she could imagine Cathy laughing
scornfully as she gave away the bed Silvia had prepared to some other deserving
patient.
She pulled her jacket closed
over her yellow scrubs and blew heavily on her hands.
“How you feelin’?” Startled,
Silvia whirled around just as Cheryl held a small cup of coffee in her
direction. Accepting the cup, she opened her mouth to reply, and then abruptly
closed it.
Tapping Cheryl on the
shoulder, Silvia pointed toward the ER entrance.
“Cheryl, what’s that?”
Cheryl squinted for a moment
and then looked at the younger woman as though Silvia had lost her mind. “It’s
a person…” Again she squinted. “I think.”
Both nurses turned and quickly
went through the double doors, tossing the cups of coffee into the trash bin at
the entrance. By the time the two made their way through the emergency room to
the front desk, the figure they had seen inching toward the door stood immobile
in front of a flustered front desk nurse.
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Chapter reveal: The Crimson Calling, by Patrick C. Greene
Title: THE CRIMSON CALLING
Genre: Horror
Author: Patrick C Greene
Website:www.PatrickCGreene.com,
Publisher: http://hobbesendpublishing.com
Find out more on Amazon
Centuries after the eradication of vampires and the death of their Queen in the Great Fire of London in 1666, the vampire population now numbers in only the hundreds. A few of the remaining survivors have regrouped and formed a High Council to unite their numbers. Now a new threat has arrived: modern day military is not only tracking members of the council, they are attempting to create their own vampire soldiers. Enter Olivia Irons. Ex Black Ops, doing her best to live a normal civilian life, but it never feels right. No family, no friends, trouble always close. When the Sanguinarian Council offers her the chance of a lifetime, the biggest risk of all seems like the only path left to choose. How will she answer The Crimson Calling?
Prologue:
The Italian Job
Sergio Toscatti wiped down the pristine MP5, the last of the guns that had arrived earlier that day. His crew, having inventoried this latest shipment from their American source, was already lighting cigarettes, rolling blunts, and pouring wine.
Sergio looked down the long, scarred work table and discreetly scanned the faces of his crew as he always did, looking for any signs of chicanery, potential betrayal, or worse, growing conscience. He had eliminated more than one of his employees in the past, and was sure he would have to do so again; all part of the black market gun trade. It was the last of the evening’s immediate business matters.
He tapped the old school long barrel .38 holstered at his side, the piece that had earned him the nickname “Blue Eyes” despite his irises being so brown they were almost black. The title was based on The Man with No Name character played by Clint Eastwood in the trilogy of westerns produced by Sergio’s countrymen in the mid-sixties.
The big gun was both an insurance policy and a flashy fashion accessory. If Sergio had run the statistics, he would have found nearly all of his “transactions” had gone much more smoothly since he had begun wearing the rig. As an added bonus, he also got laid more consistently.
Melina, exhaling smoke through lips parted and shaped perfectly to suggest a blowjob, returned Sergio’s gaze with eyes very much the blue of Eastwood’s iconic character. “Seeing what you want to?” she purred.
Sergio only smiled, noting both Carlo and Pierre deliberately avoiding his gaze. “You’re just such a sexy band of rogues. I can’t get my eyes off from you,” he answered in his charmingly slaughtered English.
Carlo ventured a nervous glance at Sergio, receiving a wink in return.
Melina nodded, crossing her arms and leaning back against the edge of the table. Ballsy little bitch she is, thought Sergio.
“All right. Listen up,” he shouted.
The others lined up along the front of the table, passing along a roll of sanitary wipes for the gun oil on their hands. Starting with Pierre on the end, Sergio inspected each of the four with the scrutiny of a drill sergeant. The Frenchman’s gaze darted around the sparsely lit warehouse like he was watching a pinball game, never landing anywhere for more than a split second, never meeting Sergio’s at all.
The American headbanger Muffin, who looked like a satanic Chris Cornell and knew it, smacked his chewing gum and brushed dust from his Iced Earth shirt, clearly bored.
Carlo, slight of build and far from confrontational, relied on a dazzling smile in any instance which did not absolutely require violence, and he flashed it now as he raised his wine glass, ever the charming bastard. Sergio imagined quick-drawing his six-shooter, shattering the glass with a precisely placed bullet and a pinging ricochet sound effect.
Her eyes never leaving Sergio’s, Melina wagged her head slightly, as if implying she was contemplating a renewal of the sexual element of their efficient, but often stormy working relationship.
“Congratulations to everyone, and thanks for all your hard works.” Unlike his marksmanship, Sergio’s English was hit and miss at best, but it was the only language they all knew. “By far, this is our biggest shipment yet. Already in this afternoon, I have buyers for roughly sixty percentage of all these guns.”
The crew responded with celebratory claps, whistles, and the raising of glasses.
“We will be very rich peoples in a matter of weeks.”
High fives, fist bumps.
Sergio narrowed his gaze, as he deliberately zeroed his keen stare on Pierre. “Hey, Pierre. Tell me something. What will you do with your cut of the monies?”
Pierre pointed at himself comically, his eyes suddenly as wide as silver dollars. “Me?” A nervous laugh escaped him. “Oh I dunno. Maybe, go to America? Vegas?”
Beside him, Muffin laughed cynically. “America sucks. And Vegas blows.”
Sergio suddenly drew his gun, spun it on his finger like Eastwood, dropped it smoothly back into the holster, and returned his gaze to his crew, never missing a beat. “You, Carlo. What will you do when you get paid?”
Carlo was speechless, startled by the furious quick-draw display. Sergio slowly stepped closer to him, letting the clacking sound of his hand-tooled cowboy boots echo through the gloomy warehouse.
“Something is wrong with Carlo. Don’t you think something is wrong with Carlo, Pierre? What could it be?”
Pierre pointed at himself again. “You want to know what I … what I … think is wrong?”
Muffin issued a quiet, fake cough, pushing away from the table and stepping past Sergio, careful to remain in his periphery.
Pierre glanced forlornly to his side, toward the guns lined along the table, none of which were loaded.
Sergio continued to stare a hole through Carlo.
Carlo smiled his dazzling smile, laughed his disarming laugh. “Hey, hey, Sergio. I feel like you are not trusting me right now. What can I do to prove I’m with you? Eh?” When Sergio didn’t answer, Carlo held his arms out wide, as if expecting an embrace. “Come on, my brother. I would never want to ruin what we have here!”
Sergio tapped the six-shooter. “Carlo, my friend. I swear if I was a faggot, I would fuck you so hard.”
All of a sudden, Sergio drew the gun, pushing it against the hollow of Carlo’s throat, drawing a startled gasp.
Pierre glanced at Muffin, Sergio’s ever-loyal enforcer, and knew Muffin would give chase if Pierre ran.
Melina uncrossed her arms and slowly walked backward to stay clear of any flying grue.
“No no no no no, come on, old friend!” Carlo sputtered.
“A few crates from our last shipment have gone missing … old friend,” Sergio said. “And you, Mister Charming, smart business dude, you have been acting strangely.”
“Wait! What … what about Pierre?”
“Pierre? Oh, Pierre knew, didn’t you, Pierre?” Sergio said, arching his dark eyebrows. “He just wasn’t sure how to tell me. Isn’t that right, Pierre?”
“Oh yes!” Pierre pointed at himself again. “I was waiting for the right time!”
Sergio sharply turned the gun to Pierre, taking a long step back from Carlo, who gasped, before deflating with relief.
“The only right times are the nows, Pierre,” Sergio intoned. Melina tried to stifle it, but snickered at the clumsy sentence structure. Sergio spun the gun toward her, infuriated by her disrespect. She merely rolled her eyes, every inch the jaded sexpot.
Sergio had almost decided to gun them all down and start fresh—when the lights went out.
“Shit! What the fuck?” Carlo cried.
Remaining cool, Sergio drew his Maglite from its little nylon sheath as deftly as he had the six shooter. He had it clicked on and was scanning the crew before any of them could react to the sudden darkness. “We’re all here, no?”
“We’re all here, boss. Relax.” Pierre, who Sergio would have expected to be the first to bolt, drew closer.
Sergio pointed the Maglite into Carlo’s eyes, the six shooter at his chest. “Are you doing this, Carlo?”
“No no no, boss. Never!” Carlo’s denial was as emphatic as a liar’s. But Sergio saw a fearful sincerity in his eyes.
“Muffin. Check the breakers box.”
Cursing under his breath, Muffin stalked away.
A flickering, dim beam suddenly emerged from Melina’s position, followed by a pair of smacks, the girl trying to coax more juice into the bulb. She raised it to inspect, casting herself in eerie, campfire-tale light. “Fucking piece of shit …”
There was a restrained rustling in the air above them, crossing Melina’s beam. She had only a millisecond to look up before a large pale spider leapt onto her face. With a yelp she was suddenly lifted into the high darkness. Her light clattered to the floor and fell black.
Pierre and Carlo gasped, and Sergio realized it wasn’t a spider that grabbed her, but a hand.
He shushed his men, shining his Maglite into the air where he’d seen Melina take off like a rocket. Crates of various goods were stacked twelve feet or higher, above which there was only whirling dust and space and rafters.
Keeping the thin beam trained on the edge of the top crate, Sergio stepped back carefully, now cursing the loud boot-steps he had relished just moments ago. Carlo was in cuddling range, preferring the man who was planning to murder him over the unfathomable darkness. His breath danced unnervingly across the little hairs of Sergio’s neck.
A small hand appeared at the edge of the crate, gripping it with shivering fingers. Carlo tensed, drawing even closer to Sergio.
Then Melina’s terrified face was there, shock visible in her eyes even through the long, curly strands of auburn hair falling before them. She brought her other hand around and made a “come on” gesture. She spoke with great effort. Sergio could not hear her, only read her lips: “Shoot … me …”
Obscenely long fingers clapped across her face and wrenched her head back, her muffled gasp echoing through the rafters. Her body was dragged out of sight in an instant.
Sergio realized Carlo was clutching his left arm like a woman. Whatever this did for Carlo, it offered Sergio no comfort. “Get your ass off me!” he stage-whispered. “My left boot, another gun.”
Carlo relinquished his death grip to grapple with the cuff of Sergio’s tight jeans, finding the little .25 after sending chills up Sergio’s spine with his scrabbling, corpse-cold fingers. Sergio shook his leg impatiently, sending the little gun sliding into the blackness.
“Dammit!” Carlo exclaimed, his voice shaking, as he searched on hands and knees. “Shine the light, Sergio!”
But Sergio ignored him, keeping the beam pointed at the swirling dust motes where Melina and her spider-fingered assailant had just been. “Muffiiiinnn!” he called, not liking the thin, high tone in his voice.
“Here!” Muffin called back. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Just get your ass over to here!” Sergio answered. He suddenly remembered Pierre. “Pierre! Where are you?”
Pierre had no intention of sticking around. From what he knew of the sellers with whom they had just done business, it was a simple leap of logic to realize they’d been set up. After seeing that bone-white killing hand, Pierre knew he was better off on his own.
Pierre felt his way along the crates, knowing when he reached the end it was only a few meters to the door, and the industrial sector beyond, where a rat or a coward, or even a shady gunrunner with a future, could hide-and-seek his way right into the heart of the city.
He found the door handle and pushed it, relieved it opened onto moonlit fog and wasn’t barricaded. His foot never touched the outside ground though. Something grabbed his collar, yanking him back inside with impossible speed.
Slamming back first into the crate, Pierre saw something like the finale to Star Wars in his mind’s eye; all starlight and explosions. Bouncing off the crate and hitting the floor, he scrambled to a stand. Pierre cried out, feeling his shattered ribs crunch and flex so painfully he could barely move. But move he would, if only so he could die outside.
He stumbled right into the chest of a man. A man who seemed rooted to the floor, for he did not move a fraction of an inch when Pierre ran into him. The impact left Pierre crying out as the shockwave registered in his ruined ribcage. He fell to his butt, holding his sides, trying not to breathe.
Then, eyes blazing with the cold white light of damnation were drilling into his, breath like grave dirt blasting his nostrils. Pierre tried to scream but had no air in his lungs. Icicle fingers grabbed his chin and wrenched Pierre’s head to the side. In his last seconds, Pierre remembered something from history class that had always terrified him.
Something about vampires.
Fangs pierced his neck like a giant staple, but did not stop there. The vampire clamped its jaws together, taking a huge bite of the muscle and tendon in Pierre’s neck, growling like a jungle cat as it wrenched its head sideways. Pierre died contemplating the strange feeling of blood pumping from his neck.
Sergio hadn’t responded when he asked what was happening, but Muffin could still hear the cowboy boots scraping and clopping about, and it sounded like a small firearm had clattered to the floor as well. That meant either Carlo or Sergio had had it hidden and now it had come into play. There had been no gunfire, so either they were struggling over it, or something else had come up. Judging by the power outage, the latter seemed more likely.
Sparking his Zippo, Muffin found his Glock where he’d hidden it between the wall and a supporting brace. He let the lighter go out and checked the magazine, happy to feel the weight of a full load, the smooth cylinder of the topmost bullet. He slapped the mag back in and skimmed the Zippo across his jeans to re-light it, holding it out to the side with his left hand while pointing the Glock straight ahead with his right.
The breaker box was about twelve to fifteen paces dead-ahead, well outside the light output of his lighter’s flame. He thought he heard an exit door open at the other end of the warehouse; likely Pierre making an escape. Good. Muffin never liked turning his back to the Frenchman, much less being with him in pitch black darkness.
Something shuffled between the rows of crates he was passing. The Zippo’s sphere of illumination extended eight feet or less, and the shuffling sound seemed to have come from a bit farther.
Muffin cursed the confining crates, wishing Sergio had made a deal with somebody else for their business headquarters. Warehouses were so fucking cliché anyway.
The boot clatter stopped. “Sergio!” he bellowed.
Muffin didn’t like this feeling, his heart pounding, something softly shuffling inches from his range of vision. It was nothing like the adrenaline rush of a well-lit gun battle. “SERGIO!” he called.
His heart sank as the darkness and silence grew heavier. Then: “TURN ON THE FUCKING BREAKERS, DUMBFACE ASS!” Sergio yelled. Muffin had never been so relieved to hear such obnoxious butchery of the English language.
Turning back to the aisle between the crates, Muffin almost jumped out of his skin. A squat, bald man dressed in dark military fatigues stood there. Muffin might not have seen him except his exposed face and hands were pale as white satin, and his eyes were like glowing ice.
Muffin raised the Glock. “Bad plan, crashing our party, fireplug,” Muffin quipped, then fired twice.
In the second that it took for his eyes to adjust from the muzzle flashes, the figure had disappeared.
“Muffin! What are you shooting?” Sergio demanded.
“Fuck this,” Muffin said to himself, turning to make a bee line for the exit—only to find the squat man standing in front of him, grinning with jackal’s teeth. Muffin tried to take a deep step back to make room for shooting, but the pale assassin grabbed his lighter and snatched it away, along with any hope of escape.
“NO!” Refusing to accept the inevitability and ease of his demise, Muffin discharged another two rounds, seeing in the muzzle flash that the demon was not in front of him but at his side, opening its toothy mouth wide.
Muffin’s long hair was a convenient handle, used to pull his head back so violently it broke his back. Muffin had the sudden idea of blowing his own brains out, but no longer had the necessary motor control. He didn’t even scream as the jagged teeth sliced and crushed his esophagus.
“MUFFIIIINNN!”
When the metalhead did not answer, Sergio realized his chances of survival had dropped dramatically, for there would be no light to expose their attacker. He finally relented and brought the Maglite beam down to help Carlo find the .25.
He instantly regretted it, for the expression of sheer terror on his countryman’s face nearly destroyed Sergio’s already decaying fighting spirit.
The erratic beam finally danced briefly across the handgun, and quickly returned to it.
“There! Go get it,” Sergio commanded.
Desperate, Carlo looked like a hideous man-monkey hybrid shuffling on all fours toward the prize. But once he had it, he rose to the height of a man. “Now we get this bastard, Blue Eyes.” Carlo ran to Sergio and the two came back-to-back, pointing their weapons into the threatening blackness.
“Now you see my loyalty,” Carlo said, and Sergio allowed himself a moment of regret for nearly killing the slender Sicilian. Then he realized he might need Carlo as a distraction.
“Okay, Carlo. We walk together to the corner where we can see everything, and we wait. You walk in front, and I shine the way. We see something, we both shoot.”
“You sure about this, Sergio?” Carlo asked, sensing Sergio’s motives. “We fight together, right?”
“Just go,” Sergio ordered, turning and pushing Carlo in front of him with the barrel of his pistol.
Carlo managed only a single furtive step before the side of his neck exploded, sending a hissing spray of steaming blood into Sergio’s beam. Carlo spun, looking to Sergio for help.
“Mi Maria, Mother of God …” Sergio whispered.
The tall, beefy vampire who had just slashed through Carlo’s jugular stepped into Sergio’s beam, smiling a bloody grin as he caught his victim mid-collapse.
“We share the last one,” the vampire said.
It took Sergio a moment to realize the nightmare with the crew cut had been speaking not to Sergio, but about him.
His skin crawling, he spun and found the bald one standing there, wiping his mouth with Muffin’s blood-soaked Iced Earth shirt. Sergio raised his gun, shooting the musclebound monster directly in the eye, and was comforted to hear a cry of pain.
Sergio wasted no time waiting to see how much damage he’d done. Keeping the Maglite beam as steady as he could, he plunged forward, in the general direction of the same exit door where Pierre had met his demise.
The taller vampire landed in front of him from an impossible leap, only three or four meters away. Sergio raised his pistol, squeezing off round after round in the general direction of his assailant, switching courses to head between a row of crates, and immediately cursing himself for it. The tight row left him trapped. If the pale killers decided to cover both ends-assuming the one he’d shot in the eye could still function-he was S.O.L. He wasn’t about to underestimate the fuckers.
But it wasn’t the vampires he found waiting at the other end of the row. It was a trio of … aliens? No. U.S. military operatives wearing night vision gear.
Sergio grew hopeful at first; assuming the soldiers were the proverbial cavalry, come to kill the monsters. Then the leader of the trio, a lustfully fit female, removed her headgear, exposing her face in Sergio’s Maglite beam.
It was the woman Devereaux, who hours ago sold him the very gun shipment he and his crew just processed. Only now she was in military tactical garb.
“What are you d—” Sergio’s question died when Devereaux essayed a perfect left crescent kick, breaking his wrist and sending the pistol clattering along the aisle to bounce off the crates like a hockey puck. She continued her momentum into a full spin, her right boot crashing into Sergio’s gut with wrecking ball force.
The gun runner fell to his back, smacking his head on the concrete floor. Now hurting fiercely in three places, Sergio simply lay there groaning.
Then the lights came on, and his eyes hurt too.
“What the fuck went wrong?” Devereaux impatiently asked one of her troops, Belfort, as he removed his night vision goggles.
“This one’s starting to … dissolve,” came the response.
Devereaux started down the aisle, pointing to Sergio and speaking to the soldier on her right. “Porter. Stay with him.”
The soldier grinned as he stepped close, nodding at Sergio. Sergio, trying to catch his breath and holding his broken hand gingerly, didn’t have it in him to stare Porter down, even if he could focus. Instead, he looked down the aisle to see what Devereaux was doing.
“Oh, you wanna watch?” the black soldier asked in a cocky, almost whimsical tone. “Come here.” Porter dragged Sergio by the collar. Seeing what was transpiring, Sergio almost felt sympathy for the predator who had nearly slaughtered him.
The squat bloodsucker was on his knees, shaking so violently he was a blur, blood and brain matter spewing from his eye socket. Six more soldiers, two of them wearing some kind of tanks on their backs, stood a few paces back, watching. Except for the stone-faced Devereaux, they seemed not only shocked, but dismayed. The taller vampire was leaning against the crates wheezing, a strange look of pained terror on his face.
As the bald vampire’s convulsions became more intense, the soldiers began to back away, warily looking toward the end of the aisle in case they needed to retreat. Blood and other fluids sloshed around the doomed vampire, hitting the floor with a sickening splatter.
A moment later, his entire body simply collapsed upon itself like an inflatable Halloween decoration just unplugged, putrescence oozing like molasses from his sleeves and pant cuffs.
The soldiers stared at the mess with grim expressions.
“This doesn’t look good for you, my friend,” Devereaux said to the other vamp standing nearby.
One of the soldiers picked up Sergio’s six-shooter and handed it to Devereaux. She opened the cylinder and dumped the remaining bullets and empty shells into her hand. She inspected them, rolled them around a bit, and turned toward Sergio. “Standard .38s?”
Sergio didn’t give an answer, but Devereaux didn’t need one. She handed the shiny pistol back to the soldier and stepped toward the still wheezing vampire. “Can you describe what’s happening, Frakes?”
The tall vampire, his icy eyes watering and his chest heaving, struggled to speak. “… You have to … help me …”
“Frakes, you knew the risks. You agreed to continually provide us with information on your condition, even if things went wrong,” Devereaux said coldly.
Frakes’ legs and hands shook. And in his eyes: good old-fashioned fear for his own imminent demise. “… No … help me, now … and I’ll … I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
Devereaux shook her head impatiently. “You’re obsolete now anyway.” She turned to the two soldiers with tanks on their backs. “Hose him.”
Frakes, feral in his desperation, tried to push away from the crate, hissing at the approaching executioners. They aimed what amounted to large-gauge pesticide spray nozzles at the shaking bloodsucker and blasted him. Frakes lunged at the nearest one, but dissipated into a roiling, hissing cloud of steam in the time it took Sergio to gasp.
Devereaux was already on her cell phone. “Devereaux here. Phase one successful. Phase two? Not so much. The stress of combat seems to overload their systems. Both subjects crapped out, one from a fucking bullet wound. Full report by 1200 tomorrow. Weapons recovered, test control subjects eliminated.”
Looking to Sergio’s babysitter, she made a thumbs-down motion. Sergio screamed his pleas to be spared—but Porter quieted him via a sharp blow with the butt of his assault rifle, before turning the gun around to make use of the other end.
Part 1:
Plans
Chapter 1
Liv huffed her exasperation, blowing a longish strand of red hair from her field of vision. She expected something like this to come along. But she had hoped to at least be settled into her new town and job before dealing with any drama.
The trio’s leader was hardly scruffy at all. In fact, Liv wagered he was clean cut, even handsome underneath his day-glo orange ski mask, except for the bad teeth. His weapon of choice: a shiny snub-nosed .38; great for waving around and directing traffic.
The sweaty, swarthy one that came next had chosen a ski-mask as well, his being lime-green, and wielded a scratched and scarred sawed-off ten gauge. The third member of the hold-up gang sported a hunting rifle; unwieldy at best, in this circumstance, with what appeared to be a dirty, ragged piece of a sky-blue windbreaker wrapped around all but his eyes.
“Everybody get your fuckin’ hands in the air so we don’t have to give you no lead poison!”
The twenty-ish leader, “Orangey” Liv internally dubbed him, spoke loudly but didn’t shout. Clearly this was not his first rodeo. Behind him, “Limey” was wildly glancing to-and-fro, crouched wide, his weapon held like a hose in the hands of a firefighter.
“Windy” stayed near the door, pointing the rifle at Rex, the cook and only male on staff during the twenty-four hour diner’s graveyard shift. Windy’s sexist attitude would give Liv an advantage to add to the many she already had.
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