C.O.T.V.H. (Book 3): Extermination Read online

  Chronicles of the Vampire Hunters:

  Extermination

  by

  Dustin J. Palmer

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Dustin J. Palmer on Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Dustin J. Palmer

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Books by Dustin J. Palmer

  Chronicles of the Vampire Hunters:

  Creation

  Judgment

  For Zane:

  A future Vampire Hunter. Not even a bullet could slow you down.

  Prologue

  Jake

  White River Lake Reservoir, TX

  September 8, 2001 6:53am

  The aluminum boat dipped slightly as Jake stood up and grabbed a soda from the blue and white cooler he was using as a chair. He snapped closed the lid then dropped back on top of it, cracking open his Dr. Pepper with a loud hiss.

  The late summer sun crept into view on the eastern horizon, its warm rays awakening the world around it. Far across the lake a dove cooed and was swiftly answered by its mate.

  Jake took a long sip from his ice cold drink then leaned forward adjusting the drag on his red and black Abu Garcia reel, a birthday present from one of his best friends, Chris Morris.

  The wind picked up, increasing the boat’s drift. A line of murky waves beat gently against the aluminum hull. Across the lake a lawnmower fired up. Man, what a beautiful day, Jake thought, pulling his sunglasses off the brim of his tan Texas Tech cap and placing them over his eyes. I couldn’t ask for a better birthday than this. Just me, my dad, my grandpa, and a couple of lines in the water. Now if the fish would just bite it will be damn near perfect. Hell, even if they don’t bite it will be perfect.

  “Man this is the life,” Cort echoed his thoughts. He unscrewed the top of his blue thermos and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Man you said it, Pop,” John reeled up two turns tightening his line. “I say we give up hunting altogether and become professional fishermen. We could hit the road, work some tournaments, heck we’d be famous in no time.”

  “I think we would need to be able to catch some fish first,” Jake chuckled, opening the empty live well and peering in. They’d been out on the lake since 5am and had yet to get a single bite.

  “Details! Details!” John laughed.

  “I’m all for it,” Cort agreed, screwing the top back on his thermos. “We’ll hit all the major circuits and have our own fishing show within a year. By the time we’re done people will be saying ‘Bill Dance who?’”

  “All right I’m in,” Jake said, “but only under one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Cort asked.

  “You have to cave in and buy a new boat.”

  “And what in the hell is wrong with this one?” Cort lovingly patted the steering wheel.

  “Well for one I’m sitting on a cooler instead of an actual chair and two . . .” Jake reached over and yanked on a long piece of gray duct tape that had been holding the black steering wheel together. When he was done unraveling he had a foot and a half of tape in his hand.

  John laughed so hard he spit out his Coke.

  “Boy!” Cort grabbed the tape out of his hand and began carefully wrapping it back around the steering wheel. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Well, do you see my point?” Jake smirked.

  Cort looked over at John, who himself was sitting on a chair with half the stuffing ripped out, “You just gonna sit there and let your son tear up my boat?”

  “Jake, stop tearing up your grandfather’s boat!” John yelled loudly. “Do you have any idea how much this thing is worth?! Why it’s got to be at least, two, maybe even three hundred dollars!” Both John and Jake roared with laughter.

  “Smart ass little punks,” Cort said angrily. “I should kick both of you out right now and make you swim to shore. That would teach you to knock my boat! Two or three hundred . . . I’ll have you know this baby was top of the line when I bought her!”

  “Yeah I bet it was, in 1972!” John laughed even louder.

  “1972?!” Jake sat up, pretending to be shocked. “I had no idea it was that new! I could have sworn I saw HMS Titanic painted on the side!” He leaned over the side of the boat pretending to search for the name. “I just assumed it was an old lifeboat that someone slapped an outboard motor on.”

  “That’s it!” Cort started to reel in his line. “Reel up! We’re going in. Knock my boat will you? By god we’ll see how well you like fishing from the bank.”

  “Grandpa . . .” Jake said trying to hold back his laughter. “I’m sorry. Really. I promise I won’t make fun of your boat anymore.”

  “Yeah, I promise too,” John snickered. “I’m sorry, Pop. I don’t know what got into me.” He started to laugh again but quickly stifled it. “Your boat is a gem floating upon the seven seas.”

  “You mean sinking,” Jake said under his breath.

  “What’s that?” Cort asked.

  “I said . . . sinkers! I need some more sinkers,” Jake said cracking a smile.

  “Uh huh . . .” Cort glared at him then turned to John. “You know, he gets that from your mother’s side of the family, don’t you? Julia never talked that way and I know that kind of attitude didn’t come from me.”

  “Yeah right,” John snorted, “Julia had a tongue as sharp as a whip and as deadly as a cobra. And as for you, I guess you’re just a big ole teddy bear, aren’t ya? I bet Billy and Talon would have a thing or two to say about that!”

  The jovial mood tapered off at the mention of Billy’s name. It had been nearly two months since Donnie’s death and the grief was still fresh, especially for Jake.

  “Have either of you heard from him?” Jake asked, staring at the swaying tips of his two fishing poles.

  “No,” Cort said rubbing at the nape of his neck, “I haven’t.”

  “Ben said he talked to him about a week ago. Said he sounded just awful, like he’d been drinking,” John said.

  “Drinking?!” Cort exclaimed. “Ben must have heard wrong. I mean, surely he’s not hitting the bottle again.”

  “What? Is Billy an alcoholic?” Jake asked.

  “A raging alcoholic,” Cort answered. “The man just can’t handle his liquor. Does some crazy, downright dangerous things when he’s drunk. I’m surprised Sandra would let him start up again.”

  “Just telling you what I heard,” John pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. “I haven’t talked to him since the funeral. Whenever I call, Sandra makes an excuse for him not to come to the phone.”

  “Yeah . . .” Jake trailed off, remembering Sandra’s once smiling face. “Same here. Every time I call Amber it’s the same thing. She’s asleep, or she’s in town or she just can’t come to the phone right now. I don’t know why they won’t let me talk to her. I just want to hear her voice, you know? To make sure that she’s doing okay, that they all are.”

  “I’m sure Amber is doing just fine,” John stared off across the lake. “Billy and Sandra just don’t want her in this lifestyle anymore. So they’re going to keep her out of it as long as she’ll let them.”

  “Hell I’m betting they won’t be able to keep her out for long,” Cort said. “My
guess is once she turns eighteen she’ll be back in the fight. She’s got too much of Terry in her to give it up.”

  “I wish she would give it up,” Jake frowned. “Billy and Sandra have lost enough already. They don’t need to lose her too.” And neither do I.

  “Well at least they’re all safe in Hometown for the time being,” John said. “Maybe one day Billy will come out of this funk he’s in.”

  “I sure do miss his laugh,” Cort said sadly. “That man had the most contagious laugh I have ever seen. I’d give damn near anything to hear it again.” He lowered his head to his chest, “I don’t know if he can bounce back from this. When he gave me that recliner . . .” Cort shook his head. “I know how silly it sounds but I knew then that things would never be the same for him.”

  The tip of Jake’s pole suddenly bent over violently. Jake snatched it up giving it a hard jerk. The line didn’t move. “Damn . . . I’m hung up.” He pulled hard on the line, trying to break it free.

  “Looks like you’ve snagged yourself a big ole tree bass!” Cort joked. “Come on boy break the line, you’re pulling the whole damn boat.”

  “I’m trying!” Jake said wrapping the line around his hand. With a hard yank he popped the line. “Can you pass me the tackle box, Dad?”

  “Sure son.” John reached behind him and passed the black and white box up to Cort. Cort passed it to Jake without looking away from his rods.

  Cort cleared his throat, “Jake son, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  “Oh yeah . . .” Jake said, lifting the lid of the box and searching for a swivel, hook, and sinker. He picked up a tiny jar of some odd looking pink bait. The faded green price tag said in had been bought at Sears and Roebuck. “Sears and Roebuck?” Jake exclaimed. “Sears used to sell bait? Man, Dad, how old is this stuff?”

  “I forgot I had that,” John laughed. “It’s probably older than you are.”

  “Why don’t you throw it out then?”

  “I might need it sometime,” John shrugged. “You never know. I’ve caught fish on things you can’t imagine.”

  “Jake?” Cort said seriously, “We need to talk. About Amber.”

  “What about her?” Jake asked dropping the jar back into the tackle box.

  Cort cleared his throat, “Well, we need to talk about,” he cleared it again, “about race, son.”

  “About race?” Jake said looking up. “What race?”

  “Her race. Your race.”

  “Pop, come on,” John said, “you can’t seriously have a problem with Amber being black?”

  Cort gave his son a hurt look. “Now you know better than that. Did I say anything when you and Pam Williams dated?”

  “You and Pam dated?” Jake exclaimed. “When was this?”

  “No you didn’t,” John answered his father. “You never said a word. Though Billy sure did,” he smiled. “But it didn’t have a damn thing to do with race. It had to do with me being a Hunter.”

  “Wait a second, don’t deflect the question,” Jake said tossing a red and white bobber at his dad. “When exactly was this?”

  John nabbed it out of the air tossing it back at his son, “It was years ago, before you were born. Before your mother and I got together.”

  “Well what happened? How come you two didn’t you know . . . make it?”

  John shrugged. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “Did Mom know?” Jake asked.

  John rolled his eyes, “Of course she knew. Her and Pam were best friends. And if we had made it you never would have been born!”

  Cort reached over and gently gripped Jake’s arm. “I don’t have a problem with it. I want to make that very clear. But there are plenty of people that do.”

  “Grandpa,” Jake patted his grandfather’s weathered hand, “I know you’re not a racist. Honestly, I don’t care what other people think. I really don’t. We live in a world where vampires feed on humans. Race should be the least of anyone’s worries.”

  “Yeah, it should,” Cort agreed releasing Jake’s arm. “But most people don’t know about vampires. They don’t even know they exist.”

  “Well anyone that doesn’t agree with it can go to hell,” Jake said. “Life is too short, especially for people in our line of work, to worry about what others think.”

  “Amen to that,” John agreed.

  “I’m proud of you, Jake,” Cort smiled to himself. “You’re turning into one hell of a man.”

  “Thanks Grandpa,” Jake said tying the swivel to his line. “It doesn’t matter much anyway,” he cut the line with his teeth then spit out the excess. “Amber won’t even return my phone calls.”

  Cort’s pole suddenly jerked so hard it was nearly pulled over the side of the boat. Cort dropped his plastic coffee mug to the deck and jerked the old yellow pole with all his might. “Get the net!” he yelled.

  Jake dropped his own pole to the deck and tried to untangle the faded green net from the anchor.

  “Dammit boy, get the net!” Cort yelled again, fighting with the fish. “Oh man this is going to be a big one!”

  Jake finally managed to untangle it then leaned over the side ready for a monster to emerge.

  “Come on baby! Come on!” Cort pulled back on the rod. “Get ready boys here she comes!”

  “Easy, Pop,” John leaned back in his chair. “You don’t want to break the line.”

  “I know how to catch a fish!” Cort reeled until the fish was just breaching the surface of the water.

  Jake dipped the net in and yanked the fish into the boat. Cort fell back to his chair breathing heavily.

  Jake stared down at the catfish tangled in the net. “We’re gonna need a smaller boat,” he said, keeping his face as serious as he could manage.

  John took one look at the small, barely 13in catfish and fell back into his chair laughing hysterically. “Aww man! Stand back, Pop! It’s a monster!”

  Jake joined his laughter, turning Cort’s cheeks a bright red. Cort untangled the fish from the net then pulled the hook from its mouth with a pair of pliers out his front pocket. He dropped the wriggling channel cat into the live well without uttering a word.

  John’s distracted laughter continued until one of his rods suddenly leapt out of the boat and disappeared over the side. The boat grew completely silent.

  “You know, if I didn’t know better,” Cort smiled leaning back with his hands behind his head, “I’d say that was planned.”

  Later that night, Jake sat in his faded green lawn chair feeding twigs into a small fire built in the center of their camp. It had been a good day. They’d nabbed seventeen more fish between the three of them, five of them over five pounds. What made it even better was that he hadn’t thought about Donnie’s death more than a dozen times. Much less than the usual once per minute play by play his mind forced on him.

  The guilt of Donnie’s death still sat heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. I should have checked my guns . . . stop it! There was nothing you could have done! It was the Turners’ fault. Yeah . . . the Turners . . . I still should have checked my guns.

  Cort sat across from him in a blue lawn chair, oblivious to Jake’s inner anguish. His large bowie knife chipped away at a thick dry piece of wood. He tried hard to hide it, but Jake could tell the elder Bishop was nervous. If there was one thing that scared Cort more than anything else it was being outside after dark. He preferred the relative safety of his barred doors and window. As usual his trusty .357 Colt Python sat holstered at his left hip, ready for a cross draw. His hand was never more than a couple of inches away from it.

  Grandpa sure does look old, Jake thought, immediately feeling guilty for even thinking it.

  Cort was nearing sixty-nine years old and it was starting to show more with each passing day. His once strong, stout frame was thinner than it once was. He’d cut back his long gray hair to where it was easily hidden by the green and tan camo cap he wore. His calloused, weathered hands were eate
n up with arthritis, his arms a roadmap of scars. In his over fifty years of hunting, he had seen it all. Had killed more vampires than he could recollect and had sacrificed more than Jake could even begin to imagine.

  “Hey Grandpa?” Jake asked looking up from the flames.

  “Yeah Jake?” Cort replied not looking up from his carving.

  “Can I ask you something? Something kind of . . . personal?”

  “Sure, why not,” Cort replied, flicking a small sliver of wood into the fire.

  “What happened with my grandmother? Why did she leave?”

  Cort furrowed his brow as he cut an especially large chunk out of his stick, “Well . . . to tell you the truth Jake . . . it’s complicated.”

  “There’s nothing complicated about it,” John said, dropping an armful of firewood to the ground. “She left because she was selfish. She didn’t care about anything or anyone but herself.”

  “That’s not fair, John,” Cort gave his son a sad look. “She stuck around as long as she could manage. This isn’t an easy life for anyone, especially someone that . . .”

  “Bullshit,” John interjected, “She was a coward, plain and simple. She knew what kind of world she was marrying into when she first met you. There were no shocking revelations that drove her away. She just turned chicken after Tommy Turner got killed and Wes came to live with us.”

  “Dad,” Jake said sadly, “she’s still your mother.”

  John’s features hardened, “Let me tell you about my so called mother. One Saturday morning my little brother William, Wes, and I woke up like we normally did and went outside to play cowboys and Indians. A couple of hours later she came outside and called us in to eat breakfast. She set a bowl of cereal in front of me, in front of Wes, patted me on the head, then without a word took Will and left. No goodbye, no I love you John, have a nice life, nothing! That is how I remember my mother. She’s the woman that stole my little brother. Nothing more,” John stormed away, leaving the conversation.