Blood Crimes Book One

Chapter 4

Metcalf’s private lab was reminiscent of some nightmarish scene from the Island of Dr. Moreau, and like Moreau’s laboratory, was a place of pain and abomination. For Metcalf, the lab served dual purposes; it helped him gain insights into the effects of the virus, and it acted as a deterrent to the other vampires in the compound from thinking about challenging his authority. The test subjects were all infected with the vampire virus. Some were originally brought in as “cattle” and had the misfortune of being chosen for this capacity-which was a fate far worse than being milked until illness or anemia set in; others were members of the compound who needed to be made examples of. All of the test subjects had their arms and lower halves removed; which made them appear like grotesque doll-like creatures. Some were pinned to their tables by spikes through their shoulders, others were chained along the walls. All of them were in the midst of experiments that would’ve made even the infamous Joseph Mengelev cringe in horror.

Metcalf strolled casually around his lab examining his experiments. Those that were capable of screaming out fought hard to hold their tongues; they knew their situations, however horrific, could be made worse. Moans escaped from a few of them, whimpers from a few others, but most kept quiet. Metcalf stopped at a table where a test subject had reached six months without being fed. The subject had shriveled to the point of looking more like a prune than anything that could’ve ever been human. Its eyes appeared dead, its mouth gaping open. Metcalf pulled the spikes out from its shoulders and carried it to a scale. Only thirty-four pounds. Before the experiment was started, the subject had weighed more than double that. Metcalf brought it back to its table and pounded the spikes back where they’d been. Not even a whimper. Metcalf had doubts whether it was still alive. If it were dead it would be the first time that he witnessed a vampire dying due to starvation. Using an eyedropper, Metcalf squeezed a drop of human blood into the thing’s gaping mouth. A sucking sound came from it.

“Still alive, huh?” Metcalf noted.

He squeezed the remaining blood from the eyedropper into the gaping hole. The glaze over the vampire’s eyes faded and a flicker of life shone in them. Metcalf slowly fed it an ounce of blood, and as he did so, the vampire plumped out like a raisin that had been dropped in water. It stirred slightly, its tongue pushing out, then choking noises rattled from its throat as it pleaded for more blood. Metcalf continued to feed it blood until it was restored to its former condition. Four ounces of blood had brought the vampire fully back. The vampire lay with its chest heaving sucking in oxygen. Metcalf scribbled notes on a clipboard that hung on the edge of the table.

“Please, no more…I’m begging…end it…please…end it…” the vampire forced out, its voice not much more than a hoarse whisper.

Metcalf looked up and made a shushing noise to the vampire before moving on to check on other experiments. Although some of the vampires were made into these “guinea pigs” to teach the others in the compound a lesson, Metcalf took no sadistic pleasure in what he did, but neither did he feel the slightest hint of remorse. As far as he was concerned, these creatures didn’t even rate as lab mice, and he felt the same compassion towards them that a scientist might towards bacteria that was being examined under a microscope. These experiments allowed Metcalf to understand the virus at a more practical level, and that was all that mattered to him.

Smiling, he thought about how he could write a book on the subject…

Hell, make it a set of encyclopedias…

Early on he discovered that vampires could be killed fairly easily, at least easily for him, by cutting off their heads. Other than that method, which few other vampires had the strength to do without very sharp blades, they were damn hard to kill. Like goddamn cockroaches. Suffocating them, whether by drowning, gassing or simply sealing off a vampire’s nose and mouth, didn’t kill them; it only caused them to slip into a comatose state until oxygen became available. Metcalf had kept experiments submerged for months in tanks of water only to have them revive within seconds of being removed, and showing no discernable damage from their oxygen deprivation. He could burn them to death, but only after he had bought a cremation oven and was able to get the temperature to 2100 degrees Fahrenheit. Cooking a vampire long enough in a microwave oven also did the trick, but again, like requiring a cremation oven, it was impractical. The virus created a kind of super-immunity to lethal viral infections: Ebola, bubonic plague, hantavirus, and all the other viruses Metcalf exposed his test subjects to had little effect. Neither did exposure to deadly bacteria like meningitis or anthrax, nor any of the poisons that Metcalf had so far injected into their blood systems. Ingesting poison caused the same short-term violent reactions that ingesting any food would cause, but nothing more than that.

Metcalf stopped in front of one of his test subjects. Two days earlier he had injected the vampire with an ounce of venom from an Australian Brown Snake, which was enough to kill over ten thousand people. Outside of being somewhat dried out, the vampire looked no worse for wear.

“Would you like to be fed?” Metcalf asked it.

The vampire nodded glumly and Metcalf squeezed an ounce of blood into its mouth. After that ounce, the vampire appeared the same as before the snake venom injection. Metcalf scribbled notes on the clipboard next to the test subject. Over the course of a year, Metcalf had injected snake and spider venom, arsenic, cyanide, formaldehyde, ammonia, and numerous other poisons into this subject, all with little if any damage. As with viruses and bacterial exposure, poison seemed to have no real effect against the super-immunity caused by the vampire virus.

“You are a monster. A monster,” drifted in from behind him, a seemingly disembodied voice, barely a whisper. “You will burn in the fires of damnation. What you are doing to us will be done to you a million times over.”

Metcalf strained to hear where the voice was coming from and followed it to one of his vivisection experiments. Mildly disappointed, he understood why the test subject dared to speak out. It had nothing left to lose, or little, anyway. Metcalf had months earlier cut the vampire open and spread the skin apart so its insides were exposed, and over time had removed most of its organs. Spleen, liver, kidneys, esophagus and stomach were gone. Not much was really left other than its heart and one of its lungs.

The vampire’s jaundiced eyes held steady on Metcalf’s.

“You think you are a God?” it asked, its voice haltering, ghostlike. “You are nothing. Less than dirt, that’s what you are. Some day there will be justice and you will suffer worse than you’ve made all of us suffer.”

“That may be true,” Metcalf said. “But you know something, I don’t believe I asked for your opinion.”

Metcalf reached into the vampire’s chest and squeezed its heart in his fist. A sick gurgling noise escaped the vampire’s lips and its eyes rolled up into its sockets. Metcalf decided to alter his experiment. He took a loose spike and drove it into the vampire’s heart. Unlike the supernatural myth associated with a vampire, a spike through the heart didn’t kill it. The virus would cause the damaged heart to regenerate its tissue as it tried to heal itself. From personal experience Metcalf knew the pain would be excruciating. If the spike were removed, the heart would completely regenerate in seconds and be as healthy as before the injury, but with the spike in the way the newly generated tissue would wrap itself around the metal in a fruitless attempt for recovery. No, one spike through the heart wouldn’t kill a vampire, but maybe more than one would. Overtime Metcalf would discover how many it took, but he planned to stretch this experiment out and make it last years. He watched while the vampire writhed in agony, its mouth twisting as it tried to scream but in too much pain for any noise to escape. Satisfied that his point had been made to the other “guinea pigs”, he turned to the room and addressed them, asking if any of them had any other comments they’d like to share.

“Well?” Metcalf asked. “Most of you still have your tongues. Come on, if you have anything to say, let’s hear it.”

All he got back in response were a few soft moans.

He moved his gaze slowly around the room. Like the “cattle” in the feeding pens, the vampires pinned and chained around the lab looked away from him, none of them willing to meet his eyes.

“No complaints, huh? That’s good. I like to think I treat my lab rats as humanely as any other scientist. But I am always open-”

His phone interrupted him. The compound was thirty feet underground, but he had it built with a network of antennas and signal enhancers so that it allowed for cell phone reception. He took out his cell phone and saw that Serena was calling him.

“Jim was in Kansas City four days ago,” Serena said breathlessly.

Metcalf lowered his head into an open hand and rubbed his eyes. Christ, he wasn’t in the mood for this.

“So?” he asked.

“So? What do you mean so? We’re only four days behind him! We’re finally going to catch up to him!”

Metcalf rubbed his eyes some more. “Four days is a long time, Serena. He could be half way across the country by now.”

“Always the eternal optimist, huh? Let’s say he is. It doesn’t matter. My little private eye has a spectacular idea on how to flush him out.”

Metcalf’s patience was quickly eroding. He never liked the idea of having a private detective snooping into their business, but he agreed to let Serena hire one a year ago. He didn’t think anything would ever come of it and at the time it seemed the best way to mollify her.

“Serena,” he said, trying hard to keep his annoyance in check. “This obsession you have with Jim is not healthy, and this whole private eye business-”

“Metcalf, darling, who the fuck are you to talk to me so condescendingly? Fuck you, my darling! Aren’t you the one who’s constantly harping on how we need to keep the virus contained? That we can’t afford as much as a single rogue vampire or we’ll all end up starving to death? Isn’t that the tune you keep singing?”

“Serena-”

“Answer me!”

“Okay, yes, that’s the deal, but Serena, let’s be reasonable. Jim isn’t out there spreading the virus-”

“How do you know that?”

“Look at what he’s been doing. The way he’s been feeding. Going from city to city, leaving dead bodies-”

“How do you know that’s not just a smokescreen? That he’s not secretly building his own army and planning to come after us?”

Metcalf stopped to rub his temples. Her normally soft melodic voice had turned into a high-pitched nails-on-chalkboard type screech and it was giving him a headache.

“A little paranoid, are we? Come on, Serena, we both know it’s not in his nature-”

“You of all people! The most paranoid fuck alive, and you dare to call me that!”

Her voice had become like a tattoo needle the way it pricked at his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow down the throbbing deep in the back of his skull. Goddamn it! She knew she was full of shit, but he couldn’t argue with her. Technically she was right. The deal was no rogue vampires. Fucking bitch.

“Tell me how your private detective is going to flush him out,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Not to worry,” she cooed, her voice all at once back to its soft hypnotic tone. “It won’t draw us any attention. But we will be finding him soon.”

“If you say so.”

“Yes, my Darling, I do say so. And when we find him you will do as you promised?”

“Yeah.”

“Marvelous. Make sure to clear some space for him in that special room of yours. He’ll be a guest with you soon enough. Ta-ta for now.”

She hung up. Metcalf grimaced at the phone before slipping it back in his pocket. Nothing like a phone call from Serena to put him in the proper mood. In his mind’s eye he pictured her as one of his guinea pigs pinned to one of the lab tables. Ah fuck, the experiments he’d run on her. Thinking about it brought a thin smile to his lips, then he sighed and shook his head, trying to get his thoughts back on the present. A man can dream, can’t he? But Christ, thinking about what he would do to her did ease away some of the tension that had built up in his neck. He filled his lungs up, expanding his chest, and let loose one last sigh before turning back to his experiments.

Serena handed Zach her cell phone, then put her hands on her hips and stood naked examining herself in a full length antique mirror that was sheaved in decorative gold leaf and carvings of cherubs. Gregory and Wilfred relaxed behind her on eighteenth century red satin chaise lounges. The room they were in was mammoth in size-taking up the top floor of the seven story motel in Union Square that Serena had bought and converted six years earlier. With its Tommaso Geraci sculptures and Antonello de Messina paintings, along with its working stone fountain, the room could’ve been taken right out of a villa from her native Palermo, as opposed to a midtown Manhattan building.

“What do you think?” she asked them.

“A vision,” Zach said.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Gregory offered.

“Stunning,” Wilfred agreed. “Just looking at you is giving me a boner like you wouldn’t believe.”

Serena smiled at that. “Later, my darlings.” She had to agree with them. While her tits had shrunk to almost nothing, she had the long legs and thin narrow waist that would be the envy of any model. And her ass-she dared anyone to find a fifteen-year old girl with a smaller or tighter ass than hers! She turned enough so she could admire the way her hair flowed halfway down her back. Like with all vampires, the infection had turned it white but she dyed it the same coal-black it was before. For a few years she thought the white patch of pubic hair growing between her legs was an amusing contrast, but had since become self-conscious about it and was now keeping the area shaved. She liked the prepubescent look it gave her, and besides, it seemed to be the current style.

“So how was our brutish friend?” Zach asked.

“An absolute bore, but we have his blessing,” Serena said, laughing bitterly.

Gregory made a face. “It’s insane that we have to beg him for his permission.”

Serena took a deep breath, shrugged.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that he’s out of New York,” Gregory added. “But if you ask me three thousand miles isn’t enough.”

“A few thousand more would be better,” she said, her smile as bitter as her laugh had been. “If only we could drop him in the middle of the Pacific. But to be fair he does serve his purpose.” She paused to press a hand over her stomach, feeling how completely flat it was without even the slightest bulge, then ran her hands over her narrow hips. Her smile grew. This infection did have its advantages. “What color do you think for tonight?” she asked the three other vampires.

“Mahogany would be sublime,” Wilfred suggested.

Zach nodded his approval.

Serena took several steps towards Zach so she could caress his cheek and brush her lips against his ear. “Be a dear,” she asked him. While Zach went searching for her mahogany-colored outfit, she joined Wilfred on his chaise lounge and draped one arm around his shoulder while settling in his lap. Both their hands wandered towards each others’ genitalia. As they caressed each other, Gregory watched and masturbated. Zach returned several minutes later holding a reddish brown pair of leather pants and shirt in one hand and a pair of boots in another. His eyes widened as he looked from Serena and Wilfred to Gregory, and then back.

“Once again I’ve been left out of the action,” he complained with a rueful smile.

“Oh Darling, don’t be such a spoilsport. We’ll find you a tight little thing for later tonight,” Serena said.

She unwrapped herself from Wilfred so that Zach and Gregory could pull the leather pants over her. After the pants were on, they zipped her shirt up from behind and then helped her with her knee-high stiletto boots. While they did this, Wilfred prepared the heroin. The leather fit Serena like a second skin, the outline of her navel and nipples clearly visible, as was the thin slit of her vagina. She ran a hand over the leather, feeling the softness of it. Zach and Gregory did the same. Wilfred brought over a mirror with thin lines of heroin dividing it. He snorted one of the lines before handing the mirror to Serena. She did her line and then passed the mirror on. After three passes each of the mirror, the heroin was gone. Serena ran her tongue over the polished glass to pick up any of the residue, then closed her eyes to feel the rush from the narcotic. A warmness flushed her skin bringing her body temperature temporarily above that of a corpse. She could feel her heartbeat slowing, and then the euphoria. The infection dulled the effects of narcotics and made overdoses impossible, but it still did some good. She opened her eyes and smiled at Zach, who smiled lazily back at her. She could see that his pupils were already starting to constrict.

“Ninotchka’s?” she asked them.

The other vampires nodded. Ninotchka’s was the current flavor of the month-one of Manhattan’s trendiest hotspots. In another hour or so the place would be jammed tight with the rich and beautiful crowd. The thought of being squeezed in among all that warm, hot flesh was intoxicating to Serena. She’d be so close to them she’d be able to hear their blood pulsating through their veins and their hearts beating like mad. Not that she would be feeding on any of them. The heroin would keep her hunger suppressed, besides she had a large enough supply of fresh blood as it was. Early on before Metcalf moved to the west coast, they maintained “cattle pens” and milked their cattle each day. Serena never liked that, it was such a bother having to dispose of the used up bodies. Once Metcalf left, she came to other arrangements, first buying blood under the table from several blood banks, then infecting her sources when they eventually tried to discontinue their arrangements. Enough blood was being delivered each day to keep the twenty-two vampires in the house well fed. All in all, she was much happier with the arrangement.

She headed towards the elevator with her fellow vampires following behind, all their movements slower and more languid as the heroin took fuller effect.

“Just us four?” Zach asked.

“We’ll ask everyone tonight,” Serena said, her voice slowing to a soft drone.

Zach made a face, as did Wilfred. “Everyone?” Gregory asked. He shivered. “Some of them are just too embarrassing to be seen with.”

Serena touched him lightly on the face and gave him an apologetic smile. It was true. These three were infected for their company, and of course, the sex. Others were infected for different reasons, especially the ones who were wealthy and were made to transfer their funds to her. In her little hive all served a purpose.

“Darling, tonight is a night for celebration. Try to be magnanimous, won’t you?”

None of them argued with her. Not that it would’ve done any good.

Carol sat at the bar nursing her third shot of tequila. The place was one of those nondescript divey bars dotting East Cleveland that didn’t bother with music or entertainment and only served no-name brand alcoholic beverages and cheap beer. Dim fluorescent lights kept the room mostly in shadows, which was for the best: interiors of most condemned buildings looked better. It was an ugly concrete room with dirty floors and a ceiling that was crumbling apart and walls that were cracked and needed replastering. The only items decorating the walls were a broken Budweiser sign and a dingy mirror that badly needed cleaning and was hung behind the bar. It was the type of place Carol had become intimate with over the last three years, a place for alcoholics, drug addicts and degenerates. No one else would have any reason to drink there. Other than Carol there were four other people at the bar, another couple of dozen sitting at tables and a few others standing sullenly as they tipped back beer bottles and stared with predatory eyes at the few women in the room. Ever since Carol took a seat at the bar she could feel those predatory eyes boring into the back of her head.

She readjusted herself on her barstool. Thick layers of duct tape had been used to cover the seat where it had been torn, and a piece of the tape had curled up and was prodding her in a sensitive area. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of that. In a dump like this it would figure. A quick glance to either side of her showed that most of the other barstools had also been repaired with duct tape. Again, no surprise. A lovely establishment; the type of place where furniture got busted up and hastily repaired. The room reeked of stale beer, body odor and despair.

Carol lit a cigarette and blew some smoke from the side of her mouth, anything to get the taste of the room out of her throat. Her face froze as she caught a look of herself in the bar mirror. Under her red wig, her face had a washed out, tired look. Fuck, who could blame her? The guys in the bar, though, weren’t going to pay too much attention to a woman’s face, and Carol’s body, while thin, still looked damn good in a pair of very tight shorts that covered maybe an inch of her thigh and a tank top that exposed her belly along with a diamond stud piercing. Half the men in the place had already tried coming on to her, but she blew them off. She had her eye on one guy in particular; the one that Jim picked out when the two of them were camped out in their car across the street. Jim had good intuition about these things, and the more she watched the guy the more she was convinced Jim was right once again.

The guy, who Carol heard addressed as Duane, was talking to a nearly skeleton-thin woman who had the pale drawn look of a drug addict. As thin and haggard as she was she could’ve been anywhere from thirty to sixty. From what Carol could hear of their conversation, Duane had given her drugs recently and wanted services in lieu of payment, and she just wanted him to get lost-that she already made the mistake of fucking him once and she wasn’t going to do it again. He was a big man with a thick body, and he had a large ham hock-sized hand wrapped around her upper arm. She was trying to break free, but didn’t have a chance. With the way his face darkened, Carol had the impression that he was moments away from dragging the woman to the men’s room to force payment. His voice got too low for Carol to hear what he was saying, and the woman started to look badly scared. While he talked to the woman, he kept leering over at Carol. She caught his eye in the bar mirror and smirked at him. He did kind of a double take, making sure he saw what he thought he saw, then with a wolfish grin pushing up his thick lips, he let go of the woman he had been so intent with seconds before, and walked over to Carol. He stood so his body touched hers. Out of the corner of her eye, Carol could see the other woman glancing back nervously as she fled the bar.

“Cleveland’s got a smoking ban,” he said.

“Is that so?”

She blew smoke toward him. That amused the hell out of him. His grin grew more wolfish and he showed off small corn kernel-sized teeth. She couldn’t believe how small those teeth were, especially given how big the guy was. They were like fucking baby teeth. She couldn’t help smiling at that.

Duane mistook the reason for her smile.

“You see something you like?”

“Maybe.”

He edged closer to her. “You gonna keep smoking?”

“I have to. I have this oral fixation. I have to suck on something.”

He was close enough so that his groin pushed against her thigh. Fuck, she was glad she was breathing in cigarette smoke, otherwise she’d be gagging. The guy smelled like shit-like he had crapped in his pants days ago and never realized it. His breath was almost as putrid.

“How about I give you something else to suck on?” Duane said, his lips set in a heavy leer, his eyes dulling.

She downed the rest of her drink. “Buy me another drink and I’ll suck on that.”

He laughed, but it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He waved over the bartender.

“Hank, set this pretty lady with whatever she’s drinking.”

“Tequila,” Carol said.

“Tequila,” Duane repeated.

The bartender gave Carol a wary look. He’d been flirting unsuccessfully with her earlier, and she knew he wanted to warn her not to have anything to do with Duane, but he poured her a fresh shot of tequila and took the ten dollars Duane gave him. The bartender started to make change, but Duane told him to keep it. He kept his attention focused on Carol, and began stroking her thigh with a thick index finger.

“You got one smokin’ body, little lady,” he said.

She gave him a hard smile and blew more smoke in his face. He smiled the way a snake might stare at a small rodent, then took her cigarette from her fingers and flicked it to the floor before stubbing it out with his heel.

“I got something much better for you to suck on,” he said softly, a glint of violence in his eyes. “What do you say, little lady?”

“Charming. You mean right here in front of everyone?”

He laughed, gave a look towards the men’s room. “Nah, no need for a show. You and me can step into my private office. Then we can go back to my place and have us a special little party.”

She gave him a cool look, then reaching for his pants, she pulled his loose fitting chinos out enough so she could dump her shot of tequila in them.

“What the fuck?” he yelped, jumping back a step.

“Go fuck yourself,” Carol told him. “You think buying me a drink gives you the right to ask me to suck you off? I got news for you, asshole, you smell like shit.”

Duane stood frozen for a long few seconds, violence hardening his features.

“Uh, uh, you little bitch,” he said, shaking his head. He grabbed Carol by her upper arm the same as he did the other woman, and started to jerk her off the stool. “The skank ho’ I was going to fuck is gone ’cause of you, so you’re it. And you know why I smell like shit? Because you’re smelling my dick. I like to fuck little tight bitches like you up the ass so hard that the shit comes pouring out of them. So what’s it going to be, bitch? You going to take it willingly up the butt-hole all night, or do I got to knock your pretty little teeth out and carry you out of here? And if you think anyone here’s gonna give a shit-”

A rifle barrel poked him in the forehead, interrupting him. He let go of Carol and blinked dumbly at the bartender, who stood rigid with the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and one finger tensing on the trigger.

“Leave the lady alone.”

“Hank, what the fuck you doin’? This ain’t none of your business.”

“Fuck you it isn’t. Now get out of here!”

“What, you gonna shoot me, is that it, Hank? You that fucked up in the head?”

“If I have to, Duane, I’ll do it happily. Now get the fuck out!”

Duane grinned savagely, his eyes brightening and showing a mix of bemusement and fury. “You should know better than to fuck with me, Hank. Be seeing you around, dumbass.”

Duane reached for Carol as if he was going to touch her cheek, but the bartender poked him hard between the eyes with the tip of the rifle barrel. Duane lost his footing and stumbled backward, all the while grabbing at his head. He checked his palm to see if he was bleeding, saw that he was and his eyes flashed with rage. He pointed an accusatory finger at the bartender. “You are one dumb fuck. If you think this is over you’re nuts.”

The bartender lowered his rifle so it was aimed at Duane’s crotch. “You better just leave before I make a gelding out of you.”

Duane took a couple of hurried steps away, then turned to show Carol an obscene gesture he made with two fingers and his tongue. After that he slipped out the door. The bartender’s hands shook as he put the rifle back under the bar. His skin color had dropped to a milk-white.

“Was the rifle loaded?” Carol asked.

The bartender looked sick to his stomach. He nodded.

“Too bad you didn’t shoot that asshole.”

“Yeah, I probably should’ve.” He showed Carol a queasy smile. “I think you could use a drink, huh?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured Carol a shot of tequila on the house and pulled on his lower lip as he watched her drink it.

“It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to leave before he comes back,” he said. “You want I should call you a cab?”

Carol shook her head. “I’m staying only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. She reached out and touched the bartender’s arm, all the weariness in her face fading into a kind of melancholy. At that moment she was absolutely breathtaking. “Thanks for being my protector.” She slid off the barstool and headed towards the exit. The room went silent as everyone in the place stopped to watch her. The bartender broke the silence by yelling out to her that he wanted to call her a cab. “That psycho’s probably out there waiting for you,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” Carol told him.

“Let me at least walk you home then.”

“That’s really not necessary, but thanks.”

Carol waved to him as she left the bar.

She knew the bartender was right, that Duane would be out there waiting for her. She had done this enough times to know that, and besides, Jim’s intuition with these things was almost never wrong. She walked briskly away from the bar. It didn’t take long before she could feel Duane’s presence and imagine the soft padding of his running shoes as he raced to catch up to her. Good. This was what Jim needed before he could feed and, just as badly, this was what she needed. She needed to be brought back to that moment of helplessness from three years ago when that punk scumbag ripped off her clothes so he could bend her over and violate her. She needed that feeling so she’d have no remorse for Duane, and more importantly, so she could enjoy what was going to happen to him.

When she reached the next alleyway, Duane emerged from the shadows and rushed forward, overpowering her. He dragged her into the darkened alley. His filthy hand covered her mouth and muffled what were half-hearted screams for help. If he listened more carefully he would’ve realized the noises were more of a hysterical laugh.

“You fucking bitch ho’,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, his breath hot and smelling like spoiled cat food. She fought hard to keep from throwing up. She put up only a token resistance as he dragged her deeper into the alley and whispered to her all the things he was going to do to her, how he was going to leave her for the rats after he was done and how that shot of tequila was going to turn out to be the most fucking expensive drink she ever had a guy buy for her. This was what she needed to hear to get the white hot rage burning inside. She needed to hate this piece of shit enough to be at peace with what was going to happen. Some bleeding hearts would argue that what she and Jim were doing was entrapment, but fuck them. She did nothing to warrant this animal trying to rape her and worse, and if it wasn’t her it would’ve been some other woman being victimized. Fuck him, fuck everyone who might shed a tear over what was going to happen to this piece of scum, she was going to love every second of what was coming.

It came fast. Duane had thrown her to the ground and was pulling his foot back to kick her in the head when the bottom half of his face exploded into a pink spray. There was nothing left-mouth, jaw, chin, all of it gone. He fell to the pavement like a sack of guts. Carol watched as Jim emerged from the shadows. He bent over Duane’s mostly dead body and used a knife to slit Duane’s throat and drain the dying thug’s blood into a bucket until it was half filled. Just as Carol needed to be brought back to her place of hate and rage, she knew that Jim needed his victims to be predators, and just as importantly, he needed to save her from them. As long as these were bad men stopped in the middle of preying on the weak and innocent, he could justify what he needed to do to survive. Carol watched stone-faced as Duane turned into a corpse, and as Jim satisfied his hunger.

Jim stayed sitting on his haunches long after he finished feeding. He wiped the blood off his face with a towel that he had brought, then remained motionless like some sort of stone gargoyle. After minutes of this, he asked Carol if she were okay.

She nodded, said that she was.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Just a few bruises. I’ll live.”

“He almost kicked you,” Jim said glumly.

“But he didn’t. You stopped him before he could.”

Jim nodded, still looking glum, still unable to face Carol.

“I heard the things he whispered to you. I’m so sorry.”

Carol’s face tightened as she was brought back to just a few minutes before. She bent over the dead man’s body and searched his pockets, then counted the money she took out of a tattered and stained billfold.

“All he had was thirty-seven dollars,” she said.

“That’s too bad.”

“Fuck. Yeah it is. We’re going to run out of money in a couple of days.”

“I’ll get us more.”

“I’ll help you.”

He frowned, shook his head. “No need for that. I’m not putting you in any more danger tonight. I’ll do it myself.”

Carol didn’t argue. She knew it would be pointless. Jim stood up, still avoiding looking at her. She reached toward him and took hold of his face with both her hands and forced him to look at her. This had become a ritual for them. After every killing, he’d be overcome with a sense of worthlessness. Seeing him vulnerable like that would only stir up her emotions and make her want to do anything to ease his pain. She was never more attracted to him than right after a killing.

Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

“You did what you had to, Jim,” she said, repeating the same mantra that she did after every killing, but still with only genuine love and caring and feeling in her voice. “He was nothing but scum. He was going to rape another woman before he got interested in me. You stopped him from hurting me. He’s not worth suffering any guilt over, no more than if you had killed a rabid dog.”

Jim’s eyes softened as he smiled weakly at her, not because he believed her, but thankful for the effort. The two of them embraced with Carol’s thin arms squeezing Jim as hard as she could. Her mouth searched for his, but he pulled back. He didn’t want her tasting the dead thug’s blood, nor did he want to risk her picking up any diseases.

“After I clean up,” he promised her.

It was several hours later that Jim walked into a biker bar a few miles upriver from The Flats. There were maybe fifty Harleys parked out front, and the place was crowded with a mostly even mix of men and women. A live band covering Grand Funk Railroad songs from the 70s played on a small stage. Before finding the bar, Jim had brought Carol back to their motel, showered off the blood that had splattered on him and had changed into some clean clothes. He also used Listerine and, convinced it was now safe, embraced Carol before he left with a long passionate kiss. She still wanted to go with him, but he convinced her that it would be better if he went alone.

He squeezed through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Bud that he wasn’t going to be drinking, then found an inconspicuous spot to stand and watch the activity around him. It didn’t take long to spot the drug dealer supplying the room; if the guy wasn’t a drug dealer he had a serious bladder problem with the number of trips he made to the men’s room. He wore a black leather jacket, faded jeans and storm trooper boots, and had gang-style tattoos decorating his neck and shaved skull. Hooded grinning skulls wrapped in barbed wire, winged dragons and Chinese letters. He probably would’ve been good looking if he let his hair grow over his tattoos and his face hadn’t been scarred by a fire. Other guys in the bar would seek him out, and after a brief discussion, they’d head to the men’s room. The drug dealer was a big guy, but two much bigger guys dressed the same and with the same pattern of tattoos on their shaved skulls followed him into the men’s room for each transaction.

Jim waited until the drug dealer was approached by another buyer, then made a beeline to the men’s room. The band was playing Some Kind of Wonderful and the place was lively with all the attention turned toward the stage. Jim snaked through the crowd unnoticed. He found an empty stall and crouched on the toilet seat, sitting on his heels. A couple of minutes later a small crowd entered the men’s room. From the crack in the stall door, Jim saw the money and drugs trade hands. The customer left first while the drug dealer stayed behind to add more money to his roll.

In a fluid panther-like motion, Jim sprung forward, pulling himself head first through the three-foot opening between the stall and the ceiling, and landing inches behind the drug dealer. Before the dealer could react, Jim banged his head off the sink. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The sound of the blow made only a dull thud, but it was enough to get one of the bodyguards turning around.

“What the fuck-” the bodyguard started. Before he could finish his thought, Jim clanged his head off his partner’s. The bodyguard slid to the floor. His partner, though, wobbled on his feet, and stared groggily at Jim.

“You’re a fucking dead man,” he mumbled, his words coming out like a punch-drunk boxer’s. He reached clumsily inside his leather jacket, but before he could do anything else, Jim grabbed him by the collar and head butted him hard enough to knock him out. Using one hand he half-lifted and half-dragged the guy to the empty stall and propped him on the toilet so he was sitting up. Jim stood back and gave the man a hard stare. He didn’t like the fact that the guy had gotten a look at him, but fuck it, getting his head clanged the way he did probably left him too groggy to see straight. Besides, Jim didn’t plan on staying in Cleveland long, and as much as the world would be a better place without these three, it wasn’t his call. He left to get the other bodyguard, stacked him on top of the first, then did the same with the drug dealer. He locked the stall from the inside and slid under the opening at the bottom. Glancing under the stall he could only make out one pair of legs.

The drug dealer’s roll lay on the floor. Jim took off the rubber band holding it together and counted over nine thousand dollars. More than enough to keep him and Carol going for months.

A window opened up into an alleyway in back of the bar. Jim went through it and disappeared into the night.