Fanghunters

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PART FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  FANGHUNTERS 2: THE BLOOD ORDER — EXCERPT

  FANGHUNTERS

  Fanghunters

  Copyright © 2015 Leo Romero

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The venom wore off and he was back in the sun-proof basement.

  His eyes zoned in on the dirty ceiling, the same old questions surfacing in his mind. Where am I? Who am I? How long have I been here?

  And as usual, he had no answers.

  He got up on his elbows and looked around the gloomy, candle-lit chamber in a daze, his head tender. He laid eyes on some other guy lying in a heap in the corner. He nodded in recognition; it was his companion, the other fanghead. He was out of it, the venom still working him. It had them both; captive, enslaved.

  And then, like clockwork, it struck. The itch. The urge. Protect the Father. At all costs.

  He scrambled to work, putting the needs of the Father ahead of his own, his urges and desires for more venom an equal if not greater driving force. Gotta serve the Father, gotta protect the Father. Need venom, stop the pain...

  He rolled onto his front, about to get up on his haunches to spring into action. He stopped dead, a frown emerging on his worn face. Something was now prodding into his thigh.

  He looked downward. What is that?

  He rubbed his thigh into the concrete floor; the thing jammed uncomfortably into his quad. “Man, what is that?” he asked the gloomy basement, totally nonplussed. He immediately rolled onto his back and stuffed a hand into the pocket of his scuffed jeans. He touched something cool and smooth. He whipped it out and held it up to his face. For a few seconds, he just stared stupidly at it like it was an alien artifact lost for centuries in the desert of some remote planet. The leather thing in his hand then flopped open; he watched it cascade down like a plastic waterfall, revealing a long forgotten existence that was now just flotsam at the back of his subconscious.

  Huh?

  He gazed at all the plastic cards facing him, wondering with a brief bout of clear amnesia where the hell they’d come from.

  Who? What? Where? were the first questions that sprang up in his scrambled brain. With his free hand and a sudden sense of curiosity, he went through the contents of the wallet. He found loose change, a condom, a blood donor’s card. He ran a finger across a VIP card to a Chicago nightclub with the name ‘Mr. Dominic Dempsey’ stamped across it.

  His eyes widened. A loud bell went off in his head; he stared at the surrounding gloom in bewilderment. Mr. Dominic Dempsey? Mr. Dominic Dempsey...

  Something then fell out of the wallet and landed on his chest. He rolled his eyes downward to lay them on the photo now sitting there. A photo of people his hazy mind at first didn’t recognize. There were a blond guy and a couple of darker haired guys. He snatched the photo up and stared intently at the smiling faces, the triggered memories sending his mind on a carousel of emotion.

  Hey, that’s me, he thought to himself with weird bemusement. The blond guy’s me!

  He then saw Dad and his little brother, Eddie. Eddie...

  “Eddie,” he said in a soft whisper, just as something in his heart abruptly unlocked. The calcified shell the venom had built around it began to crack as the hot emotion of unconditional love melted it away like lava poured over a chocolate egg. From nowhere, his senses stirred. His lips began to tremble. He caressed the photo with his index finger, wondering where those people had gone, wondering where he had gone.

  Me: Dom. My name is Dominic. Where has Dom gone? Where are you, buddy?

  His fingers fell on the thing dangling around his neck. It tinkled as he lifted up to his eyes. It was a dogtag. And then he remembered. His brother bought it for him for his twentieth. His brother: Eddie. The little guy. Dom looked around him in the gloom of the dank basement with a dizzy mind that was sobering fast; his eyes fell on the other fanghead again. He was still out of it. That poor bastard didn’t know where he was or who he was either. The venom had messed him up good, stolen his soul, locked his heart away in a cast-iron box, turned him into a programmed android, existing merely to serve, compensated with a venom fix. Dom’s eyes widened in grim realization of what he’d become; a slave.

  And now he wanted out.

  He gazed upon the creased photo in his hand in dumb awe, déjà vu making his head spin. In his mind, he saw family barbeques, trips to the beach, going for a bowl and a movie with Eddie. Normal, happier times.

  I wanna go back, he then realized.

  I wanna go back to who I was, to those I love...

  He stared around him at the crypt in grim wonder and a dark thought surfaced in his mind. How did I end up like this? What... happened?

  Before he could answer, a shifting sound made his head turn. The Father was rising. Nightfall had arrived. Time to feed. He rose from his resting place—the makeshift tomb constructed from an old septic tank—and stood there overseeing his brood like a corrupt Emperor. In the candlelight, his eyes glowed yellow-green like cat’s eyes. His lips parted, exposing fangs that gleamed like polished tusks. A horrible mix of fear and affection juddered through Dom’s veins. His body wanted the venom, but his mind was telling him to run, get the hell outta there. Now!

  The Father laid eyes upon him. Dom froze. The Father noticed the thing in his hand. He frowned. “What is that, my son?” he asked, his voice deep, commanding.

  Dom shivered in response. He quickly shoved the photo into his pocket. “Nothing, Father,” he replied in a voice laced with nerves. Father? Why am I calling this guy ‘Father’? He’s not my father. Who the hell is he?

  The Father’s brow furrowed deeper, a scowl now emerging on his face. He held out a claw and curled his fingers toward his chest. “Bring it here, boy!” he ordered in a voice that was laden with a cultivated rage. The echoes caused the other fanghead to stir, but not awaken.

  Dom sucked in a lung of dead air and began to shake his head. “No. No way!”

  The Father turned on his eyes; they glittered and danced in the murk like agitated fireflies. Like a fool, Dom locked onto them; his jaw instantly became slack. For a brief moment, those eyes widened, injecting Dom with that cold sensation; the one that raced up and down his spine like an electrical charge, rooting him to the spot. He wanted to shake his head but knew he was doing the exact opposite. He was beyond control of himself. The Father had him iced and that was that.

  “Come here!” the Father demanded, and Dom was immediately drawn, unable to resist no matter how hard he tried. He found himself sucked into those whirlpool eyes, the Father’s cold hands on his shoulders in an instant.

  The Father’s glowing eyes fell upon him. “Show me,” he demanded.

  Dom reluctantly re
trieved the photo and held it up for him to see. The Father glanced at it in disdain, his top lip curling up. He tore it from Dom’s hand; Dom gasped, the trance he was under swiftly shattered. He staggered back, shaking his head as if waking from a bad dream.

  ‘This is your family now!’ the Father said in a firm voice before he mercilessly tore the photo to pieces.

  Dom’s eyes widened. “No!” he shouted, each sound of ripping photo paper like a gash in his newly rediscovered heart.

  The Father dropped the pieces to the ground, a malevolent grin propping up his face. Dom stared at the ribbons of torn photo on the ground. The only connection he had with the ones he truly loved was now severed. A surge of rage shot up into his chest, usurping any mind control. He rushed forward, throwing out a fist; it connected with the side of the Father’s head. The Father cried out in rage. The other fanghead sprang into life.

  Dom went to throw another punch. The Father retaliated. He grabbed hold of Dom’s shoulders and pulled him in. Dom’s eyes widened. The Father was trying to sink his fangs into him, wherever he could; his neck, his arm, his hand, desperate to sedate him with venom. Dom pushed back with all his might; he managed to throw the Father off just as his jaws clamped together, catching nothing but air. The Father hissed in frustration. He toppled to the side, falling back into his crypt.

  Dom glared down at him in anger. The rage mushroomed and he went to deliver the killer blow, to sever the psychic link between the two for eternity. He lifted his foot up, ready to stomp down upon the Father’s head. The Father quickly snapped his head up, his eyes whirling and dancing. Dom froze, unable to bring his foot down. He clenched his teeth and pushed against the icing, but it was useless. The Father continued to ice him in place. Dom growled in frustration, his mind wanting to do one thing, but his body ordered to do another. The stalemate continued, both of them fighting for supremacy over the other. Dom put all his might into it, urging his foot to go down, to smash into the Father’s head, stomp it to pulp, break it in—

  A jolt to his midriff knocked him off to the side. Dom hit the dirty cement floor with a groan. He zoned back in, his eyes focusing in on his attacker. It was the other fanghead. Even though his face was mostly shadow, Dom could see his wild and distant eyes, dribble spilling out between his clenched teeth. Dom quickly got to his feet.

  “Kill him!” ordered the Father as he lifted himself half out of his crypt.

  Dom’s head whipped around to meet him.

  “Kill him,” the Father repeated, getting back to his feet.

  The fanghead turned back and now there was a snarl of hate carved into his face. He dived into Dom, whose self-survival instinct tweaked. He snatched an empty bottle from the litter on the floor and swung it around. It crashed into the onrushing fanghead, obliterating on impact with a hollow pop. The fanghead followed through, smashing into the brick wall. He hit the deck in a crumpled heap.

  Dom watched him with bulging eyes, his chest heaving. A claw then wrapped around his throat. In the next instant, he could feel the father’s hot, rancid breath on the back of his neck. Ivory tusks touched his skin; they were like hot needles, ready to shoot him up with a narcotic tranquility, to tame the beast that had suddenly erupted and wreaked this havoc.

  The points of the fangs pierced his skin in a painful jab, a sensation that had been previously thrilling, now agonizing.

  Dom gasped in shock. He wedged his arm back behind him, jabbing the broken bottle neck into the Father’s face. A wail of pain echoed around the basement. The Father recoiled, grabbing at his now torn face.

  Dom spun to face him. He was suddenly rooted, not knowing what move to make next. The father’s head then suddenly jerked upwards, his eyes bloody and raw. He roared, Diving for Dom. Dom whirled and ran for the entrance door. His shoulder barged into it with a grunt. It burst open, releasing the night air, illuminated sickly orange by nearby streetlights. He threw the door shut behind him as he escaped the dungeon-like basement. He ran up the concrete steps two at a time, before running away into the night in a fearful panic. Far away.

  Never looking back for the Father. Not even once.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The address on his driver’s license was an apartment block over in Humboldt Park. 745 Coolidge Avenue, Apartment #654. Dom stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared at the block with trepidation in his heart like it was an old haunted mansion or The Munsters’ getaway. It was dark, grimy, barely a light burning. He checked his watch: it was two am.

  He sucked in a nervy breath of cold air. The journey over from the basement he’d just escaped from was a mishmash of déjà vu, anxious uncertainties, and a whole bunch of loneliness. He took the bus, using the few dollars he had in his wallet. He sat near the back, turning that driver’s license over and over in his hands like it was some ancient relic that held clues to who he presently was and who he’d been. It told him where he’d been living before he ended up the victim of a vampire, and that was about all. It was all still a haze.

  As the bus cut through the streets of Chicago, and he watched the Windy City buzz by, thoughts and feelings began to stir inside him; old memories, places he’d been, seen, places he’s always wanted to see. It was totally the wrong time for that; right then he wanted to fit all the existing pieces into the jigsaw, not create new ones that had no place in the old him.

  He sat there, a bag of raw nerves, biting his dirty finger nails, semi-conscious of the junkie-esque state he was in: trembling, clammy, twitchy. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled by any cops looking to make a cheap arrest, right then he was prime meat for that. And the paranoid state he was in was no help. But one thing was clear: he needed shelter, and he needed a place to gather his thoughts and work out his next move.

  The bus finally pulled into Humboldt and that déjà vu went into overdrive. He stepped off the bus, lightheaded like he’d been drinking. Neon signs bathed him in an artificial glow, reflecting off the wet sidewalk. It had been raining on this side of town. Over to the left, a few hobos were sleeping on benches, huddled up against the cold. For a moment, Dom thought he recognized one or two of them, but then supposed it could just be his mind playing tricks on him in his desperation to regain some kind of sanity.

  He checked the local map pasted to the station wall, running his finger along the drawn streets, working his way back to Coolidge Avenue. While he did, his memory began stirring, kicking into gear the more he stared at the map. He’d known these streets like the back of his hand; that hand was just a bit rusty right then. He nodded his head, his instincts beginning to switch into gear. He knew he had to make a right at the end of the street. And that’s where he went. Head down, he passed the few hoods and hustlers that were obligatory on the night streets of Chicago, hoping they wouldn’t bother him. A few girls were offering services; Dom moved past them like they weren’t there. Clouds hung in the night sky, threatening to unload on the ground below. There was an icy bite in the air. He kept on walking.

  The more streets he moved through, the more his memory slotted into place. He found himself going down streets without thinking, his instinctive navigation system taking control. The closer he got to his apartment, the more apprehensive he became. He wanted to be off the streets, get back home, and get his head together. He made it to the KFC drive-thru that marked the top of his street. The sign read: Coolidge Avenue. His heart skipped a beat. He was almost there. He passed by the Iranian minimart where he always bought his bottles of Bud and toilet roll. A hobo was propped up against the front of the store, his legs splayed, paper bags dotted around him. Dom nodded his head: Old Harry. It was Old Harry sitting there; the guy he’d throw a few quarters if he had any spare. Good to see nothing’s changed...

  He marched along the sidewalk, leaving Old Harry behind, knowing he was so close to his apartment. He scanned the area with wide eyes and then it was there. His apartment block, sitting there, waiting.

  He stopped and watched with baited breath, a weird sens
e of dread and relief flooding him. Something about the block was off. Just nerves, buddy, he told himself. Just nerves...

  He wanted to get off the street and into shelter. He sucked in a breath and stepped up to the stairwell. It was quiet. Well at two am on a weeknight that wasn’t unusual. The engine of the odd car on the street below punctuated the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the stairwell. Dom remembered his apartment was on the third floor. So, up he went, his feet scratching on the cement steps. He made it up the first two stairwells, the familiarity now enveloping his mind more than the venom. He looked out onto the second-floor landing to see the small bikes belonging to the twins that lived in the apartment directly below his. The ones with the perma-pigtails and grins. He felt a grin emerging on his own face at the sight of them; it was a relief against all the horror and anxiety of breaking free from his chains.

  He moved into the stairwell once more and jumped up it two steps at a time, his heart stopping dead. Excitement was now surging through him. He jumped out into his landing and he squinted his eyes. He could see the slanted angle of his front door. A navy blue that looked even darker in the night. He nodded and ran his hands through his hair. He puffed his cheeks. You made it, buddy.

  He grinned as he strode along the corridor, going past all the other doors; the elderly couple who always said ‘hi’ on the odd occasion they saw him. The cute brunette, Eloise, who always had a beaming smile, and not forgetting the moany old bastard who lived in the end apartment, who Dom was now struggling to name...

  It was all like a bucket of cold water in the face. His head swam with memories.

  When he got to his front door, he stopped and turned to face it like a soldier saluting his sergeant. It stared back at him, dumb. Dom licked his dry lips and nodded. “Welcome home, buddy,” he whispered. He went to enter, when a horrifying thought struck him. Oh, Christ, I don’t have a door key.