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

  Donnie had been the best of their class, the strongest, the fastest, the most gifted in every single area, from armed combat to house breaching. He was their leader, the one destined to take them into battle, yet he had died choking on his own blood, his ribs and organs crushed by a single Maker’s powerful hands.

  Livilla . . . Jake had never seen anything so strong, so terrifyingly evil. The gleam in her eyes as she choked Diana . . . she was enjoying it.

  The team had hit her with everything they had. Buckshot, crossbow bolts, razor sharp broad head tipped arrows, Chris’s .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Even with the sun trickling through the clouds, crisping her pale white skin, none of it had so much as slowed her down.

  The image of Billy cradling his grandson’s lifeless body would haunt Jake for the rest of his life. The pain in Amber’s eyes, the arrows sticking out of Whisper’s chest. It was a miracle she survived, Jake thought, doctors said another three inches and it would have nicked an artery and she would be just as dead as Donnie. Let’s be honest . . . it was a miracle any of us survived.

  They had all known the risks, had even come close to death before, but until that moment the thought of one of them actually dying hadn’t seemed possible. They were too good, too well prepared. Yeah, Jake thought, we were prepared all right. Our first hunt and half the team gets taken out of action by one goddamn Maker. We got cocky and we paid for our arrogance in blood. Donnie's blood. And now it's my turn to pay the piper. Only this time there's no team watching my back. I'm alone.

  For years they had looked forward to a day like today. To proving they had what it took to join the cause, that their families and trainers faith in them had not been misplaced. Jake, Donnie, Buck and to a lesser extent Chris, had laughed and often bragged about how well they’d do, how proud their families would be when they strolled into a building completely alone and come out with a pair of fangs in their hand.

  Donnie would have been the first. When he died he was just weeks away from his first solo hunt. Buck was next, but now he, like his father, was an outcast doing who knows what to earn a living. No Coalition member would ever do business with either of them again. Not after Bloody Wes Turner had abandoned a rookie team to go earn a few extra bucks. Not to mention the sabotage of Jake’s guns. It wasn't clear which of the Turners had sabotaged Jake's guns, but there was no doubt that it had to have been one of the two. They were the only other people besides Jake and his dad with access to their room. He's lucky Dad didn't kill him or Grandpa for that matter. He deserves to die for what happened to Donnie.

  Everything changed after Donnie's death. Billy had been completely gungho about his grandchildren following in his footsteps, but after Donnie he'd lost his nerve. Amber had been forbidden to ever pick up a weapon again. She’d been whisked away to Hometown, where they could live under the protection of the mysterious Watchers.

  Talon had taken Diana and Whisper back to their home in Oklahoma where they could be protected while their wounds healed. While Diana's injuries had been far less life threatening than her sister’s, emotionally she had become a complete wreck. Jake had spoken to her a half dozen times on the phone since Livilla had nearly killed her. Each time she’d broken down crying.

  Chris was with his father Ben, who had taken over as leader of the Coalition after Billy’s retirement. His first hunt wasn’t set to happen until sometime in November.

  John had been offered Billy’s job first, but he’d turned it down, wanting to focus all of his attention on finishing Jake’s training. He’d left his son alone once when he needed him, he wasn’t about to do it a second time.

  After what was now referred to as, The Great Hunt, the Coalition had exploded with membership. What was left of Mike Holloway’s group had quickly joined, followed by dozens of other smaller groups. It had grown into a multi-state militia made up of over four hundred hunters.

  Ben Morris used his affinity for organization and technology, along with his contacts and access to law enforcement databases, to wage a now very one-sided war. In just two months time, one hundred and seventy-seven grunts and twenty-two Makers, had been killed; the most in recorded history in such a short span of time. From all appearances the vampire leadership was in complete shambles.

  With his head leaning on the handle of his axe, Jake picked up the group picture taken on their night out to see Star Wars Episode I. These people were more than just his friends, they were his family, and he'd let one of them die. Dammit why didn’t I check those goddamn guns?!

  Doubts once again began running rampant through his brain. He had little confidence he'd ever be the hunter his dad and grandpa were, that he would ever live up to their expectations. His absolute greatest fear was letting them down and getting himself, or even worse, one of them killed. Like I did with Donnie.

  He still wanted to hunt. He wanted it more than anything in the world. He wanted to charge into vampire nests at the head of a team, making them pay for the pain they had caused him and his family. He would do it for his mom, for his dad's grief at losing the woman he loved, for the Williams, for Donnie, for Amber.

  However, to do that he first had to prove he had what it took to be part of a team. The best way to do that was with the test; a single hunt where he and he alone would enter a house and clear it.

  His training with the military had been the first step. But that was easy in comparison to what he was about to do. “If a man can’t hack it alone at least once, he doesn’t deserve to fight with a team,” Drill Sergeant Ortega had told them all as he ground them into the mud under the heel of his boot. “A team that operates smoothly, without hesitation, without mind numbing fear, is a team that survives to come home.”

  According to his Grandpa Cort, young Native American boys used to sneak up and slap the back of a sleeping bear to prove their manhood. It was a rite of passage. A solo hunt was the same thing. Though Jake would never say it to Cort’s face, he'd much rather slap the hairy ass of a grizzly than go toe to toe with a bloodsucking vampire.

  Knowing he could put it off no longer, Jake rose off the bed and pulled the chain to the ceiling fan, filling the room with light. He leaned Judgment against the dresser in the corner, pulled the .45 from under his pillow and slid it back in its place in his nightstand drawer then slipped into his faded blue jeans.

  Opening the bottom drawer of the dresser, he pulled out a pair of white socks with holes in the toes and slipped them over his pale white feet then slipped his black steel- toed hunting boots over them and pulled the laces tight.

  Climbing to his feet Jake walked slowly to his bedroom door. "Here we go," he whispered, leaning his head against the door. Taking a deep breath he slowly turned the knob and stepped out into the hallway.

  The dim glow from the kitchen was the only light on in the house. Jake crossed the hall and ducked into the bathroom shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Walking over to the toilet, he relieved himself and then washed his hands. Next he pulled his toothbrush down from its cup in the cabinet and covered it with a generous portion of toothpaste. Taking his time brushing his teeth, he stared at his features in the mirror. He worked the toothbrush back and forth rigorously and wondered if he would look different after he had killed.

  Jake now stood at six feet one inches tall and weighed in at two hundred fifteen pounds. He had short dark brown hair and his mother’s green eyes. His frame was large, but with more lean muscle than most varsity football players.

  He had often dreamed of playing football. There had just never been time for it. Public education and all of the amazing things that went along with it, things that every kid took for granted, hadn’t even been an option for Jake. He’d received an excellent education from Mr. Orwell, but it wasn’t the same experience as attending public school.

  There were lots of things he had never gotten to enjoy. He never hit a home run, never went to prom. I wonder what Amber would look like in a prom dress?

  Sometimes Jake longed for
the life he'd known as a small child, the freedom of never having to know that vampires existed. He wanted to drive fast cars or score the winning touchdown in the big championship game. It was a nice thought to have, but some dreams just weren’t meant to be.

  He didn't hold it against his dad and grandpa. He knew they were only trying to prepare him for a very hard life. A life he had chosen. After all, the real world wasn't all unicorns and glitter. It was full of real life monsters. Monster like my so called grandfather Richard Riker . . . and the ‘monster’ locked away in his basement. Tiberius . . .

  He couldn’t help but wonder what had become of the ancient Maker. Were there many other vampires like Tiberius? Cursed individuals that couldn't help but follow their nature? Like his mysterious savior, Michael, the vampire that had stopped Livilla from killing both he and Diana, that had kept his presence secret from Macro and his cronies when they’d stormed the Riker compound.

  As he spit into the sink Jake's mind went from Tiberius to the Watchers, or as others called them, Bigfoot. What had become of Chef? Or Mr. Orwell and his family? Or for that matter Nathan Bishop, the kind, yet mysterious man that strangely held the same last name as Jake?

  Jake rinsed his mouth and spat in the sink then rinsed his toothbrush before returning it to its place. Taking one more look at his face in the mirror, he turned off the light and stepped back into the hall. Walking by his room he grabbed a faded black t-shirt off the desk and a black, sweat stained Harley Davidson cap off his dresser. He slipped the shirt over his head and put the cap on over his messy hair then snatched up his axe and leaned it over his shoulder.

  John and Cort were already sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, talking in hushed tones and sipping from their steaming coffee mugs. On the floor next to the table was a large rectangular box messily wrapped in old Christmas paper with a big red bow. Their conversation stopped as he walked in.

  "There's the man of the hour," John said with a large grin. "Good morning, Jake."

  "Morning Jake," Cort said, taking another sip of his scalding hot coffee.

  "Morning Dad, morning Grandpa," Jake said. He leaned his axe against the cabinet and poured himself his own steaming cup of coffee.

  "Ready for your big day?" Cort asked.

  "I guess so," Jake replied stifling a yawn.

  "Did you get any sleep last night?" John asked.

  "Yeah I got a couple of hours in," he lied.

  "I remember the night before my first hunt," Cort said starting into one of his stories. "It was the middle of winter and there was at least a foot of snow on the ground. I sat up shaking most of the night. Never been so cold in my whole life! I swear when Dad got me out of bed that next morning I was damn near frozen to my mattress."

  Jake nodded as he blew on his coffee then took a sip.

  "Want some breakfast?" John asked, pushing a greasy paper plate of bacon sandwiches across the table.

  "No thanks. I'm not hungry," Jake said, taking another sip. His nervous stomach was running circles around his ankles. The last thing he wanted was one of his grandpa's greasy bacon sandwiches.

  Cort plucked one off the plate and plopped it into Jake's hand. "Boy, eat one of those sandwiches. It will do you some good. Today's a big day."

  Reluctantly Jake began to force one down. "Whaz iss?" he said, through a mouthful of sandwich, motioning towards the wrapped box.

  "Open it and find out," John said, grinning over the brim of his cup.

  Setting his own cup down on the kitchen counter and stuffing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, Jake walked over and studied the gift for a few seconds before leaning down and ripping the Rudolph the red nosed reindeer paper off. A long tan rifle case with three latches lay underneath. Jake's heart started pumping faster as he clicked all three latches one by one and lifted the lid. Inside was just what he'd been hoping to find. “The Cleaner,” Jake said in awe.

  “I know it’s a few days late,” John said, “but your first hunt just seemed a little more fitting than your birthday.”

  “Hell today is your real birthday anyway,” Cort said. “Today you become a Hunter.”

  Jake picked up the gun, admiring it in his hands. The smell of gun oil filled his nostrils. He gently turned it over feeling the weight, then ran his fingers along the inscription carved into the barrel. To my good friend, Roland Bishop. The Cleaner, 1920--J.M. Browning.

  John got up out of his chair and walked up beside him. Laying a hand on his shoulder he said, "Do you know how to use it?"

  Jake swallowed and nodded. He knew everything about this gun. It was a Winchester model 1901, 10gauge shotgun. It had been designed for and given to his great-grandfather, Roland Bishop, by John Browning, one of the greatest gun makers to ever live. He’d wanted to get his hands on it from the first time he’d seen it in action. In Twister it had made short work of every vampire Cort had pointed it at.

  "Now remember, it's a lot different than the pump actions you're used to. The barrel has been shortened to make it easier to use in tight spaces. It holds a total of five shells,” John cocked the lever back, “and one in the chamber. Take good care of her son. She's old but she packs one hell of a wallop. She'll clean out a vampire den faster than any gun I know."

  "Make damn sure to hold it tight to your shoulder when you shoot,” Cort added. “Otherwise it might break your collarbone."

  "Man this is awesome,” Jake smiled. “Thanks Dad. Thanks Grandpa. You know,” he turned it over in his hands, “Arnold used one kind of like this in T2."

  "Arnold? Who the hell is Arnold and what the hell is T2?" Cort said looking perplexed.

  "Come on Grandpa,” Jake rolled his eyes. “Arnold Schwarzenegger? Terminator 2?"

  "So he’s an Exterminator too?" Cort looked from Jake to John. “Is this guy a hunter? Do you know him?”

  John burst out laughing. “Pop . . .” he shook his head. “You really need to get out more.”

  "Grandpa, it's a movie! The Terminator . . . never mind," Jake rolled his eyes again.

  Cort stared at him over his cup of coffee, "Boy, you take good care of that gun. That was my daddy's gun. It ain't a toy."

  "Yes sir," Jake said growing serious.

  "Well boys," John said setting his cup in the sink, "I do believe it's time to go to work."

  "I reckon so," Cort said getting to his feet with a groan.

  Jake lovingly placed his new gun back in its case then laid Judgment next to it and latched the case closed. Picking it up by the handle he followed his dad and grandpa through the kitchen into their garage. John flipped on the lights. Inside was John's old Ford F-250, he still hadn't managed to part with it. Instead he’d had the engine rebuilt, the interior redone and a fresh coat of cherry red paint slapped on the outside. John walked around and dropped the tailgate.

  Two rifle cases were already loaded, as well as three duffel bags. Jake slid his rifle case in next to them. "All right Jake, inventory time," John said, his face now all business.

  Looking through the various bags Jake checked each item off in his head. When he was finished he looked up at his father, "We're missing a spare pair of gloves and extra batteries for the flashlight."

  "And?" John said crossing his massive arms over his chest.

  Racking his brain it took him a few seconds to realize what else was gone. "The safety glasses."

  John nodded with approval.

  Cort gave an exaggerated snort then shoved a pinch of chewing tobacco into his cheek. "Safety glasses? Hell in my day we didn't have nothing but our gun, a single flashlight that barely worked and a hatchet! You damn kids today are getting soft."

  John rolled his eyes, "I'd call it getting efficient, old man."

  Cort spat tobacco juice on the garage floor and mumbled low under his breath, "I'm not too old to whoop your ass."

  Jake added the missing glasses and with all of their gear finally loaded the three men climbed into the truck; John in the driver’s seat, Cort in the pass
enger seat, and Jake in the back. John hit the button on the garage door opener and flipped on the truck’s headlights. The heavy door rattled loudly as it crawled to the top.

  Jake stared out the window as the Ford pulled away from their house. Their boat sat covered in the driveway behind his grandfather’s rarely used Bronco. His grandfather’s new truck had been sold a little over two months ago.

  He watched the houses on their quiet little street pass by, almost as if in slow motion. Soon they were headed southeast on Loop 289 to US-87.

  In preparation for Jake's big hunt, John had the Coalition search for suspected vampire activity in the area. In record time Ben and Talon had found a case that fit the bill.

  "So where are we headed?" Jake asked, as the truck pulled onto the highway.

  John turned down the radio so that it was barely audible. "Well Jake my boy, you're in luck. According to Ben and his contacts, in a little less than two weeks time, a dozen people have disappeared in and around the tiny town of Patricia."

  "Patricia? I know Patricia. On the way to Midland, right?"

  "That's the one."

  “That’s very close to home,” Jake said.

  “Yeah. It is.” John agreed. “For my first hunt we had to drive two hundred miles.”

  Jake scrunched his brow. “Seems a little convenient. Maybe it’s not vampires at all, maybe it’s just drug related," Jake said trying to hide the hope in his voice that that's exactly what it was. Once again Donnie’s blood covered face popped into his head. "Maybe some new Cartel moved into the area and is setting up shop. It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it's a job for the FBI or DEA?"

  "Not likely. Patricia's population is only sixty-four residents. When twelve people up and disappear without a trace in exactly twelve days time, people take notice. Plus there is no real drug presence in the area. Patricia is almost entirely made up farmers, oil field workers and their families."

  "Good point," Jake conceded.

  "Would you two shut up?" Cort interrupted. "I'm trying to get some sleep. If Talon says it's a den, you can bet dollars to doughnuts it's a den. I've never seen a more thorough man than him.” The three men grew quiet for several minutes and Cort'’s snoring resumed.