Predatory
It is a starless night, not unlike many winter nights in this city. The clouds pass over the sky, keeping even the moon hidden from sight. Only the dirty yellow that emanates from the rusting posts that curve over the sidewalks provide any light of use.
Barren are the streets at this hour. As only the insane would leave their homes after the dark falls, there are few who break the curfew, but there are reasons to fear the dark, reasons to stay inside since the cops became useless figureheads of a failed society. The wind is slow and icy, litter floating in the air. An abandoned page of a week old newspaper wraps itself around a man’s leg.
Standing below the flickering light of a failing lamp post, the man shakes off the paper. His leather jacket reflects the dirty light, his skin taking on a jaundiced glow. He keeps his hands inside the pockets at his waist, and leaning against the neglected streetlamp, he waits for possibly someone as insane as himself.
An engine roars in the distance, and the man shakes his head. A single light pierces the blackness, a line of blue shines bright enough to scream at everyone looking for a victim, and the waiting man laughs to himself. The vehicle finally comes into view, a dark sedan speeding past his place of waiting. Its passenger side headlight is shattered as is a large portion of the windshield.
“Runner,” a coarse voice comes from behind.
The man under the light shrugs, “Seems as though he has enough of a reason.”
A match is struck; the other man protecting, the flame with a cupped hand, raises it to the cigarette hanging from his lips. “They never get far,” he speaks through several breaths of cancer.
“Yeah, I suppose they don’t.”
The newcomer keeps his distance from the circle of yellow the lamp spills onto the ground; a derby keeps much of his face shielded with the help of the darkness. “What’s got you waiting around in this dump?”
“Little of this, little of that.”
The lit cigarette illuminates part of the shy man’s face; little outside the salt and peppered goatee is remotely visible, however. “Yeah well, I’m gonna get something to eat and turn in. I hate this cold shit weather.”
“It’s always cold here,” the man bathed in the filthy light speaks. His voice trails off as some movement in the condemned building across the street catches his roaming eyes. “Go ahead and turn in, old man; the cold helps me think.”
An orange glow flies through the air just as the other man turns. The unfiltered stick shatters with red and orange ambers flying in all directions, dying before they touch the ground a second time. “Take it easy. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” The passive man listens for the footsteps to fade away. Passing his parted fingers through his thick black hair; he looks back to the building across the way.
Most of the windows had been boarded long ago, the wood beginning to betray its usefulness as the rotting brown had long given way. Termites had likely set up shop in there and thrived long ago, but surely by now even they are near dead. The front door had been torn from its hinges as well, but that’s new.
From his place across the street, he could see much of the door hanging in the frame, the top hinge still hanging as if it wanted to remain in place. “What the hell?” he says under his breath.
“Stupid teenagers, always finding trouble.”
Cautious with every step, he silently makes his way up the small stoop, his eyes moving over each brick in the search for booby traps. No strings or anything out of place, he runs his fingers over the hanging piece of brass that once held the splintered door in place. “Kicked in,” he reasons to himself with a whisper. “Kids looking for some place to worship their hormones.”
He removes his fingers, and the wood gives away. The tarnished brass rings loud with each time it hits one of the three stone steps. “Shit,” he says with a quick exhale and darts inside under the protection of the darkness. Sure enough, footsteps are frantic on the floor above him.
He can barely make them out in the pitch blackness. Three, maybe four, bodies scramble down the dilapidated stairs without care for their own welfare, obviously fearful of the simple noise. One in the front stands as though he has a gun in hand, but there is no way to be sure. He crouches down, hiding behind the remnants of two walls that have long fallen over, keeping his eyes peeled on the dark blobs of who knows what that stands only meters ahead.
They whisper to one another. The language is definitely not English–he is sure the moment he hears the alien word meaning ‘Human’ and another he thinks means ‘filth’. He’s grabbing at straws mostly, he hasn’t taken time enough to learn the new language of the Suckers, and he has better things to do, after all.
Three bodies ascend the stairs and leave one of their numbers to keep watch. A small smile on the face of the intruder pulls at the skin on his face. ‘A little fun tonight.’ His thoughts pour over the intention he has in mind as he pulls a blade from the inner pocket of his coat.
He fits the grooves of the knife between his middle and ring finger, the blade jutting from his closed fist. Keeping to his hiding place as the guard begins his patrol of the living room. The male voice enters his ear drums, whispering in a language that is immediately not English. Likely cursing the thought of being left alone to watch over something he can barely make out as ’stupid rats’.
Low to the ground, he leans forward with his left hand sprawled, keeping himself level and ready to pounce. As the unlucky guard steps close to the fixed trap, the hidden man lunges forward; the lusterless blade slices easy through the fabric and skin on the guards’ leg. The hidden man twists the blade, tearing away at the Achilles tendon. Blood flies into his face with the exit of the knife.
Leaving his concealment, he throws his forearm into the useless leg, throwing the guard on his back. Quickly covering his mouth before a word or sound can be uttered, he drops with his body weight into the chest of the watchman. Skin tears, bones crack, and his bloodied knife pierce the muscle lining. The guard gasps for a breath unavailable, and immediately his eyes roll backward.
It takes only seconds for the deflating sound to follow. Almost as though it is a balloon, air seeps from the hole in the torn lung, and the guards’ chest caves in. Skin sags from the bones, and the smell is all too telling. If there were light, the body should be turning green about now, quickly decomposing, but the smell is almost enough to make the killer vomit. The guard is less than nothing as his skin falls from his decomposing frame. Another hour and even the bones shall be nothing but dust.
At the base of the stairs, he can hear bits and pieces of a conversation, more of those idiotic words he can barely understand. No words which he can readily recognize. His foot touches the first step, and his curiosity gets the best of him. Testing the stairs with a single foot at a time, he climbs the surprisingly stable staircase without a sound that gives him away. Their voices are louder, yet there isn’t a word he can understand coming from their mouths.
‘Goddamn Suckers,’ his thoughts curse over and again.
With his back close to the wall, he slides himself through the shadows. The three featureless masses are standing over another two bodies lying on the tiled floor directly opposite his position. The stalker continues to move slowly and deliberately to an overturned couch; the molded fabric is perfect to wipe the blood from his blade. He never takes his eyes off the three targets, and he wonders why the other two unconscious morons decided it was safe enough to ignore the curfew.
They won’t nearly be so easy to take down, not as easy as the lone bastard. Improvising is on his mind as he reaches inside his coat once again to remove a ceramic pistol from its holster at his chest. He takes the chance and peaks over the couch and takes aim at the blackened figure close to the window. The safety is removed with a flick of his thumb, and he lines the sights with his right eye. Slowly, he squeezes the trigger; the sound of compressed air is louder than he’d like.
He ducks behind the couch to reload.
The cartridge falls to the floor, and he knows they have him. He forces the bolt forward and hangs his upper torso over the decaying furniture to take quick aim at the furthest figure from him. The garlic pellet blinded the first one just as he planned, but in the few seconds he could muster, he aims for what he thinks is the head of the next target. His aim is not as careful, and he fires perhaps too quickly.
Gargling and gasping for air, the second target doubles over as fluid promptly pours from the bottom of his head. The gun is tossed away, and the prowler returns to his knives. Facing the undistracted Sucker, he shows the feral son of a bitch what his knives are made of, and he’s stupid enough not to be afraid. The knife in his right hand makes a swift slash through the vampire’s shirt.
Blood spills, a stream following the movement of the knife, painting the black floor. It could be a show of pain or anger–either way, the savage’s mouth is wide open, and he snarls at the intruder. With an open hand, he swipes with his sharpened fingernails down, missing the aggressor and leaving himself open.
An open palm strikes the vampire’s cheek bone, his hand aches at the impact, but it throws the creature further off balance. He closes his fist and pummels his the top of his victims head as if his hand were a hammer, and with his left hand, he sends his knife into the soft flesh at the base of the skull. Silently, the vampire falls limp to the floor, almost breathing for the moment he starts to drown in the thick fluid flowing down over his face from the gaping wound in his neck.
Both knees crack as he rises to his feet quickly, his eyes tracing the sounds coming from the floor where he’d left the other savage bleeding out. Slurping away at blood that pools onto the ground, it doesn’t take heed to the danger just hanging over its head.
“Goddamn,” he speaks without any sense of amazement. “Bloodlust is a horrible thing.”
The stalker’s heavy boot settles atop the feeding vampire’s neck. Without another word spoken, he braces his body weight onto the fragile bones of his victim, crushing and separating each of the vertebrae with each twist of his foot.
He wipes the sweat from his face. The window letting in some of the nasty light from the street, he stares down at the lifeless form of a woman. She lies beside a younger nearly identical looking form. “Mother and Daughter,” he says. “Wonderful. A cult with a fetish.”
There is nothing that could be done for the mother; they didn’t bother to try and turn her or even use her as an extended feeder. Likely, that was what this younger girl was intended to be; he thinks of a thousand ways to send her home, at least find some sort of family that might be left. Each of the thousand ideas falls upon his deaf ears.
All this fighting and he’s tired. He leans down and picks the girl up off the filthy floor, propping her in a seated position against the wall. These savages had done a number on her; her pretty frame all battered and bruised, she put up a good fight before they took her. She would have been tortured before they fed from her, perhaps for days. These mindless leeches, they only thrive for their next meal.
His breath heavy, he takes in a deep breath, enjoying the aroma of her sweat. Her flesh is soft and sweet to the taste as he bites down, her blood pouring into his mouth, quenching a thirst no human could ever know.
She wakes and begins the screaming. He had hoped to avoid all of this; instead of interrupting his meal, he forces her head down, holding her in place. He knows it’s painful, but he’s hungry. Besides, she’ll be gone in a minute…maybe two.