The Hunger Read online

  “Were there puncture wounds in the neck?” asked DeFalco again, a trace of Brooklyn creeping into his voice as his frustration grew. He hated dealing with local cops. Always the unwelcoming attitude when they found out that he belonged to a higher order of law enforcement than they did.

  “Couldn’t tell,” said the tech. “There are ragged edges on the neck where the blade cut through, could have covered up puncture marks I guess.”

  “Why ragged edges?”

  “Because, agent” said Smith, “the experts believe that it was a dull blade that was used to separate Mr. Leroy McKinnon’s head from his body.”

  DeFalco shrugged and tilted his head in a questioning gaze.

  “Mr. Leroy McKinnon was the resident scumbag of this section of the City,” said the detective. “Lord of a six-block area. No dope or pussy moved here without his permission.”

  “And someone used a dull blade to cut through his neck. How many swings would that take?”

  “That’s the thing, DeFalco,” said Smith. “The experts,” he nodded at the forensics man, “think from the single blood splatter that it was one.”

  “And it covered up the puncture marks,” muttered DeFalco. “Girl’s getting smarter.”

  “Couldn’t have been a woman,” said the tech. “You know what kind of strength we’re talking about here. I’m thinking maybe a body builder. Or some kind of professional fighter.”

  “And what did your officers see when they came in the alley. I heard that they thought the perp was still in here when they started their sweep.”

  “Couldn’t have been,” said Smith. “Look at those walls. The shortest is four floors. And we didn’t find any ropes or hand holds.”

  “I didn’t ask about what you thought,” said the agent. “I asked what the cops saw when they came down this alley?”

  Smith glared at the agent for a moment, his lips moving in a silent curse.

  “The cops thought they saw someone at the end of the alley. They said it looked like the person blurred, changed somehow. Then they weren’t there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One of them saw something fly up to the rooftops. A bird, or…”

  “A bat?”

  “I know you now,” said Smith. “You’re the man they call the vampire Hunter. I hear that the FBI isn’t too happy with you right now.”

  “I’m still an agent in good standing,” said DeFalco, more Brooklyn coming out of his voice in his anger. “And as the agent in charge here I want all the information you have. At police headquarters. First thing tomorrow.”

  “You really believe it’s a vampire?” asked Smith. “I heard the Inquirer called her the Avenging Angel. Only kills the scum of the Earth.”

  “You tell that to Francine Lopez,” said the agent in an angry hiss. “She was no scum of the Earth. She was an innocent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And this Avenging Angel killed her just as dead as Mr. McKinnon here. Drained her of her blood and left a young, vital woman a corpse in an alley in Philadelphia.”

  “Well, avenging angel or no,” said Smith, “we’ll get her. I read she only works at night. The night is my shift, and I’ll get her if she keeps killing in my town.”

  “You can’t get her in the night,” said DeFalco over his shoulder as he walked from the alley. “You can only hurt her in the day.”

  * * *

  “Crazy motherfucker,” said Detective Jamal Smith as the FBI Agent walked out of the alley.

  “You think that he might have something with this vampire thing?” asked the forensics man.

  “In sunny Tampa?” asked Smith, shaking his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts or goblins either. No, this was done by a living breathing human. Probably a big strong male human. And the cops who arrived on the scene let their imaginations get away from them.”

  Still Jamal felt himself shivering as a chill ran up his spine. Like something monstrous was watching him at this very moment. What if the FBI man was right? Could there be something to this. The Inquirer seemed to think so.

  “Shit,” said Smith. “No fuckin’ way.”

  “What was that lieutenant?”

  “No fuckin’ way that this is supernatural. You just find everything you can find, and make sure that a copy of it gets on my desk. We’ll find this mother. And he’ll go down in a Florida prison.”

  * * *

  Marcus LaMons watched from the top of a building across the street from the alley, his supernatural vision looking through lights and darkness alike. His supernatural hearing listening in on the conversation. So one of them knows, he thought, watching the human in the cheap suit getting into the black Mustang. One who would bear watching. One who might lead him to the renegade. And one who would finally feel the fangs of the one once known as Marcus of Alexandria.

  He could feel a touch of the hunger now. An urge to go into the alleyway across the street and begin the slaughter. But with a thought he suppressed the urge. An ancient like he was no longer a slave to animal instincts. He could go for weeks without feeding, with little discomfort. Or hibernate for decades without the life force of another.

  His blue-green eyes glowed in the night as he looked up and down the street, wondering where the fresh meat had gone after doing her work. At least she is doing a better job of covering her tracks with the humans, he thought. Not that it would do any good. Mistakes would be made. And the humans would catch on to the mystery that was his race.

  Just as the Vandals and the Goths had destroyed the people of his birth, the humans were a threat to his present race. The race of night stalkers had power, it was true. But the humans had progressed in their abilities in the last two thousand years, to the point where they could destroy the planet if they so desired. And if a great number of humans knew of the race that lived on the fringes of their society, that fed on them like the cattle that they were, they would demand a war against the race. A war that the race could not win.

  Marcus reveled in the feel of the night breeze flowing through his long, sand colored hair. He looked at his artist’s hands, beautiful in their clean, manicured perfection. He had been large for the people in his time. He was not so large as the people in this time. But the blood of patricians flowed through his veins. And the strength of the warriors of the night dwelled in his muscles.

  It is time to go, he thought. The sun would soon be on the horizon. The first rays of dawn could destroy even an ancient like him, if he were caught unawares. Later, after a sleep in the soil of his resting place, he would be able to walk the streets in comfort, contrary to the popular belief of most of the mortals. But he would lose his special abilities, and be no more than one of the blind, deaf, crippled creatures who walked the streets of this city. No, the night was the time to walk the streets, with no fear of the mortals.

  A mist began to gather around Marcus, a mist that soon engulfed his form. A fog coagulated on the roof top, thicker and thicker. The predawn breeze from the ocean blew through the mist, spreading it out, breaking it up, until it was gone. And gone with it was the ancient vampire named Marcus of Alexandria.

  * * *

  This is a nightmare, she thought as she walked in the ankle high water of the storm drain. I hide like a rodent in the earth during the day, not like a human being. Because I am not a human being.

  She could feel the imminent rise of the sun, when she would lose all of her powers and become as the mortals. With a difference. They were alive, living and pursuing their lives under the powerful light of the sun. While she had to hide in the bowels of the Earth and wait until the night, or at least the afternoon, when she could walk as a mortal. While in the night she was almost invulnerable. Almost unstoppable.

  I felt him tonight, she thought. He’s here. The Vampire Lord had followed her to Tampa. She had sensed him in Atlanta as well, but had been able to avoid him while she made the city streets safe for the innocent. And a terror for the truly evil. She had gotten out of there before she had
to face him. A confrontation she was sure to lose.

  But here he was again. Before she had even made her presence known to the city. Every time he got closer. And he was only one of many who sought her death.

  I would welcome death, she thought as she crawled through the small opening in the side of the storm drain. An end to this hellish existence. A selfish thought she knew. Wallowing in a sewer of pity and regret. She had so much to do.

  I’ll never be done, she thought as she finished the crawl and stood up in the small side chamber used by maintenance crews to store equipment. This one had the look of not being used for years, and the manhole cover overhead was rusted in place.

  There would always be street scum preying on the desperate and hopeless people of the cities. No matter how many she killed there would always be more. A feeling of hopelessness washed over her. She realized that her best efforts would be like thrusting a hand into a bucket of water. No matter how hard she pushed her hand in, or how often, the water would always return to fill the hole. Just as new scum would always come to fill the roles of those she killed.

  Lucinda looked down on her coffin sitting in the middle of the chamber, her supernatural eyesight penetrating the total blackness of the chamber. The hated bed. My prison on this Earth. I don’t know if there is a hell, but this is close enough.

  She could forgo her sleep for this day if she wanted. She felt some fear at the thought that Marcus might be here, looking for her. She could use the day to get away, get out of town, go someplace he would never think to look for her. But if she didn’t sleep she would not regain her strength, and she would be weaker when the night came. And then she might have to face Marcus, or one of the others, when they were at the height of their powers.

  No, she thought as she climbed into the coffin and lay down on the soil of her resting place. The soil of the grave that she inhabited in the three days that passed before her rising. The pauper’s grave in the city that she called her home. I’ve just come to this place. I’ve only begun my work here. They have not yet come to fear the night. They think it is their cover, and their playground. But soon they will learn it is mine. And they will come to fear the streets.

  With that final thought Lucinda laid her head on the loamy earth, closed her eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Lucinda screamed a silent scream as the dealer, her pimp, punched a rock like hand into her stomach. The slim contents of that stomach surged up her throat as she vomited on her pimp’s shoes.

  “Bitch,” yelled Derrick. “You fuckin’ whore. Don’t you dare to came and ask for dope until you sell enough ass to pay for it.”

  Lucinda felt the hunger through the nausea of her retching. The dope sickness that came with withdrawal from the Heroin. A hunger that only one thing could feed. And this trash in front of her was the only person who could give her the food she craved.

  “Please, Derrick,” she whined through coughing up what little food she had eaten that day. “I need a fix. I need one now. Please give me a fix. Then I’ll sell ass all night long for you. You know I’ll pay you back.”

  “You know the deal, Lucinda,” he said with a smirk on his dark tan face. “No credit. You wouldn’t sell yourself for credit, now would you? So the answer is no, you whore. You can have a fix when I have my money.”

  Derrick turned to walk away, out of the tenement building and back to the street where he usually conducted his business. Lucinda felt the pain of the hunger coming over her, and knew that she couldn’t move from this spot until she had fed it. And her source was walking away from her.

  “Wait, Derrick,” she cried as she lurched to her feet and stumbled toward him. He turned to look at her and she slammed into his legs with all of her little bit of strength. She clasped his legs tightly with her arms and felt him fall under her tackle. He hit the floor with a grunt as the loose floorboards vibrated from the impact.

  “I have to have it now,” she screamed as she crawled up his body and clawed for his eyes. “Now Derrick.”

  “Bitch,” he yelled as her nails scratched his face. “You fuckin’ bitch. You’re dead.”

  Derrick grabbed her wrists and roughly pulled them from his face. With a roar he let go of her left wrist and brought his hand back, then swung it straight into her face. Lucinda could feel the cartilage of her nose shatter as the fist hit her. Then she was falling off of him to land on her back, the air pushed out of her lungs. She struggled to draw a breath and get back to her feet. Derrick stood up, pulled a knife from his pocket, and flicked it open.

  “You’re dead,” he repeated, reaching down and grabbing her short red hair, locking his finger into the strands. With a jerk that brought tears to her eyes he lifted her to her knees.

  “No one touches me bitch,” he growled into her face as he leaned over her. “No one.”

  He brought the sharp knife up to her throat, pressed it hard into the flesh, and drew it across her windpipe. At first she thought the blade hadn’t cut in. All she felt was the pressure coming across her throat. Then she was gagging on blood as it flooded into her air passage.

  Derrick shoved her head back and let her fall to the floor.

  “You’re dead, bitch. And I hope it takes you a long time to die. You’ll be an example to all of the others.”

  With that Derrick turned and walked out of the room. Lucinda could hear his footfalls in the hall as he walked to the entrance to the building. The door swung open with creaking hinges, then slammed hard.

  Lucinda lay on the floor trying to draw breath through her flooded airway, and failing. She could feel her life’s blood flowing down her skin to add to the pool under her head. She knew she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

  Lucinda yelled out as she sat up in the coffin. The dream, she thought. One of the dozen or so horrible dreams that rotated through her sleep periods. And this was, in her opinion, the worst.

  She looked around the room, but now the darkness was complete. Her night vision was gone with the night. She reached over the side of the wooden box, fumbling to find the electric lantern that she had left there. She closed her eyes as she flicked the switch, then slowly opened them to allow them to adjust to the light. The chamber looked different in man-made light, not quite as surreal as it had in night vision.

  There was her chest of clothing about ten feet away on the farthest wall. It had been almost as much of a problem pushing it through the crawling man sized opening as it had been to bring in the coffin. Next to it was the small kitchen chair, the only furniture in the chamber. The rest of the chamber was bare except for a tall metal locker that contained some of the maintenance tools used in the storm drain system.

  Lucinda pulled herself up and stepped out of the coffin, brushing the back of her head with her hand to knock the soil back into the box. She removed her shirt and did the same, making sure that the precious dirt of her burial place remained where it would do her the most good. While there was still some earth in boxes at the local Amtrac office freight storage, she made it a habit to be conservative with the soil. Because when it was gone, she would be unable to rest or restore her powers for the coming nights.

  Placing the light on the seat of the chair, she stripped naked and laid the stalking clothes on the backrest. She then opened the chest and rummaged through the clothing within, coming out with a summer suit and white blouse, along with some sandals and a purse. She transferred her ID and some toiletries, put everything in a gym bag, and climbed back through the opening and into the storm drain system.

  She rubbed her hands over her skin and it was instantly clean, free of the dirt that had gotten on her when she had brushed up against the many dirty surfaces on the way out of the chamber. She sniffed at her underarms and gave a satisfied shrug as she smelled the neutral odor that resided there. One of the advantages of being undead, she thought. She stayed clean and sweet smelling pretty much no matter what. Her breath stank of death and stale bloo
d, but a shot of breath mint would cover that up for the short periods of time requiring close contact with mortals.

  Lucinda walked naked through the ankle deep water to an exit chamber of the storm drain, a chamber with a man tall door and a painted ladder leading up to a working manhole cover. Lucinda pulled on the clothes and strapped on the sandals, then climbed up the ladder and listened for a moment at the manhole. The alleyway above sounded quiet, so she decided to risk it and pushed the manhole cover up and away from the opening. She raised her head into the shadows of the alley and looked around. There was no one observing her exit, so she climbed nimbly out of the hole and pushed the cover back over it.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light of day that flooded the street the alley opened onto. Once she could see fairly well she stepped out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. An elderly couple stared at her as she flashed a warm smile at them. They muttered to themselves as they turned and walked the other way.

  The skin of her face, hands and feet were stinging a bit as the warm sunshine impacted on her. She knew it would continue to sting as long as she was in the sunlight. But unlike in the movies, books and TV programs she would not burst into flame and fall to the street a blackened skeleton, at least not from the afternoon light. Nor would her strength be any greater than that of a normal human, and she was susceptible to injury from a variety of sources, though still hard to kill.

  Lucinda wandered down the busy street, looking at the vehicles in the asphalt, many expensive luxury cars and convertibles. The sun was gleaming off of the cluster of high rises surrounding the downtown skyscrapers. A pair of hot air balloons floated lazily through the blue sky, while a trio of military fighters from McDill flew high in the air, leaving white contrails behind them. A line of thunderheads gathered over the bay.

  The sidewalks were swarming with people. Some sweated in suits and dresses, many were in states of unclothing that would have garnered stares in northern cities, shorts, tank tops and sandals. Sunglasses were the norm. There was a diverse group of people, happy and sad, rich and poor, prospering and declining. White, Black, Hispanic and Asian. But all living relatively normal lives, not unlives.