Chronicles of the Vampire Hunters: Creation, Page 3

Jake’s eyes frantically scanned over the room, searching for the source of the sound. It took him less than a half a heartbeat to find it. Something had managed to open the rust covered, corroded, nearly sealed shut window, all the way up. A feat he had never been able to manage.

  Jake's heart pounded like a jackhammer, threatening to rip through his chest, his breathing coming in gasps so heavy he was almost panting.

  A dark form with crimson, almost glowing red eyes moved in front of the closet, partially blocking out the light. Its breathing was ragged and excited, almost like a lion stalking a gazelle.

  Jake opened his mouth to scream but just barely managed a whimper. With both hands, he pulled the sheets tight over his head as images of aliens abducting people from their homes filled his mind. Where’s my bat? Where’s my bat! He screamed inside his head, his shaking hands frantically searching under his sheets for the comforting feel of cold aluminum. Sweat poured from his brow but he felt cold for the first time that day. Please God.  Please God! He prayed from the bottom of his soul. Make it go away! Just make it go away!

  The monster/alien shuffled closer. Jake could hear it breathing in deeply through its nostrils as if taking in his scent. Closer and closer it came until finally Jake could feel the creature’s breath pushing against his sheets.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, warm urine poured down his leg soaking the front of his pajama pants. Wake up! Wake up! He screamed in his mind. It’s all just a bad dream! Just a really, really bad dream! I’ll wake up any minute now and it will all be okay! The breathing grew deeper, more excited. He could almost feel its hand reaching for him. Any minute now . . . why haven’t I woken up?!

  Grabbing hold of his left arm with his right hand, he pinched as hard as he could but still didn’t wake up. My God, it’s not a dream . . . It was then that Jake knew the end was coming.  Soon they would have him in the mother-ship doing God only knows what. His parents would never hear from him again. Please . . . God . . . please help me . . .

  His prayers were suddenly answered as the door to his room opened a few inches flooding the room with light from the hall. His dad had decided to check on him one last time before he went to bed.

  Jake pulled the sheets down from around his head just in time to see John hit the monster like a defensive lineman sacking a quarterback. The creature slammed to the ground, John on top of it, his massive fists pounding into its face like hammers striking an anvil. Leaping to his feet in one swift motion, John grabbed the creature by its ankle with both hands and jerked it into the hall. The next thing Jake not only heard but felt, was the two of them crashing down the hall with enough force to knock the pictures hanging over his bed off the wall.

  Jake lay there too afraid to move for several long minutes before finally getting the courage to step out of his room. As his feet touched the carpet, his bare foot brushed against the cool aluminum bat, lying just under his bed. Grabbing it up, he crept over and peeked around the corner to see John wrestling with a short man wearing a shredded, bloody gray sports coat. “Mr. White?” Jake exclaimed.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was Marty White. The same man he let into his house just hours earlier. It was Marty but at the same time, it wasn't. Thick, four-inch long talons ran from his fingers. His cowboy boots were in tatters where claws protruded from his toes. His jacket and shirt were shredded and coated in dried blood. More than half of his Hawaiian tie was gone.

  Why would Mr. White break into our house? Jake tried to rationalize what he was seeing. He must be an alien in disguise! To his young, frightened mind, it was the only thing that made sense. Whatever that thing was, it most certainly was not human.

  Even though John was a foot taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier, the creature/man he was fighting was winning. John was on the defense, moving at speeds with martial arts abilities that would put Chuck Norris to the test.

  Jake gripped his bat tightly in a white knuckled grip. He had no idea of what to do. Part of him thought that maybe he was still asleep. The fight carried into the kitchen. Both men crashed onto the green and brown card table they had a conversation over just hours before. It collapsed to the floor under their combined weight.  John was back on his feet in a flash hitting the creature with everything he could lay his hands on, pots, pans, a toaster, a coffee maker, none of which even slowed the beast down. It’s claws slashed at John's face and chest.

  Jake watched helplessly as Marty cornered John against the counter. His jaws were filled with razor sharp teeth that snapped like a crazed beast.   John’s muscles strained as his hands pressed up against the creature's throat, trying to keep it from ripping his face off. Its claws wrapped tightly around John’s arms drawing blood. Only John's much longer reach kept them from ripping his throat out. Sweat poured down his face. Jake could see his dad didn't have much left.

  “Bishop!” the creature called out in a deep guttural voice, saliva dripping from its teeth.

  Something deep down inside of Jake snapped, the fear completely disappeared. He ran into the kitchen letting loose a violent rage filled cry and slammed the bat as hard as he could into Marty White’s head. “Mr. White stop!" he cried out as he swung. "Please! Stop!" Marty didn’t even acknowledge him. Jake swung for the fences, slamming the bat again and again into his body. Without even turning, the creature grabbed the bat in its clawed grip and yanked it from Jake's hands. It squeezed tightly, leaving large finger print indentations in the aluminum, and then tossed it across the room where it crashed through the kitchen window.

  Jake stared at his empty hands. Yelling out a cry of disbelief, he grabbed a giant butcher knife off the countertop and stabbed as hard as he could into the monster's back.  It was like plunging into solid rock.  The blade sunk at most two inches.

  The beast turned, grabbing at the knife, its face now less than a foot from Jake. Its red eyes held a haunted look filled with fear and confusion. It was the most terrifying thing Jake had ever seen. He fell back to the yellow linoleum, his eyes locked on the creature’s twisted features. John grabbed the knife in his massive hands and plunged it to the hilt then twisted it. The beast roared out in pain and turned back to face him. John yanked the knife out and thrust it deep into the side of its chest just below the left armpit, puncturing its heart. As the beast turned back to face him, a dark blackish blood sprayed from its lips, spreading across John’s hands and chest.

  The creature's crimson eyes rolled back into its head and it dropped to the floor completely motionless. Tears began streaming down Jake’s face, his moment of courage having faded after seeing the horrific look in Mr. White’s eyes. Before he could utter a single cry, John grabbed a meat cleaver off the counter and with two chops cut Marty’s head off. Jake screamed a high-pitched scream then fainted onto the floor.

  When he next awoke, he was laying on his parent’s king size bed looking up at the ceiling. The sound of running water was coming from the bathroom. Was it a dream? He thought to himself. Then he looked down at his still urine soaked pants. "Dad!" he cried out, “Dad!” he screamed again even louder.

  “I’m here! I’m here!” John said, coming out of the bathroom in his boxers, his hair soaking wet with a towel over his shoulder.

  Tears streamed down Jake’s cheeks. “Dad what’s going on? What . . . what happened? Where's . . . the monster?” he said shaking, his eyes searching around the room.

  John sat down next to him and wrapped his massive arms protectively around Jake, cradling him as if he were an infant.  "Shhh. It's okay.  It's okay.  The monster can't hurt you anymore."

  After several long minutes of crying, Jake looked up at him, his eyes puffy and red with tears still streaming down his face and said, "But, Dad, you said there’s no such thing as monsters.” Jake sobbed again. “Is there?”

  John looked down at his son with a sad, defeated look in his eyes.  He didn't answer.
 Instead, he carried Jake into his bedroom and helped him get out of his wet clothes and into a pair of blue jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. It was then that Jake noticed the deep claw marks running across his dad’s right arm. “Dad! You’re hurt!” he cried out.

  “It’s nothing son, nothing,” John said, looking down at his arm. When Jake was fully dressed, John took him into the bathroom and washed his face with a wet washcloth then carried him back into the master bedroom setting him gently on their bed.

  “We’ve got to pack up and get out of here,” John said. “There will be more of them coming.”

  “More of who? Why was Mr. White trying to hurt us? Was it . . . was it the aliens?” Jake asked, not at all sure of what was going on.

  “That wasn’t Marty.” John said, pulling a first aid kit and bottle of alcohol from under the bathroom cabinet. “And they aren’t aliens.”

  “Then what are they, Dad?” Jake stammered, his voice shaking with fear. "His eyes . . . they were so red! Those claws . . . Dad what was he?"

  John poured the alcohol onto the cuts of his arm over the bathroom sink. “Damn it!” he cried out in pain as it burned. Gritting his teeth, he dried his arm and covered the wounds with a large bandage.

  “Dad? What are they?” Jake asked again.

  John sighed. “I’ll explain everything later, right now I’m going to call your mom at the hospital and tell her we’re coming to pick her up,” John pulled a long sleeved, red flannel shirt over his shoulders then pulled on his blue jeans. “Then we’re getting the hell out of here. Go pack you a bag; we’re leaving this house in ten minutes."

  “What about Mr. . . . uh, the guy in the kitchen?” Jake asked. The last thing he wanted to see as he walked to his room was Marty White’s severed head staring back at him.

  “He’s gone. I took care of it,” John picked up the phone and began dialing.

  “What? How?” Jake asked.

  John angrily put down the phone. “Jake, do what I say!”

  Jake didn’t say another word but walked straight to his room. His eyes strayed to the kitchen to see the body was indeed gone. Only a large pool of black oil looking blood remained. Putting it out of his mind, he stepped into his room and jerked a suitcase from the top of the closet then as quickly as he could, stuffed it full of clothes. He stopped as he heard his dad’s raised voice coming from the other room.

  "What do you mean she never made it in?  My God, Pam, they found us.  They found us!" he yelled.

  Jake dropped the clothes in his hands and ran back into his parent’s room. John slammed the phone down then angrily knocked over the lamp on the side table smashing it against the wall. "Seven years. Seven goddamn years! And the bastards come now?” John paced back and forth. His eyes found Jake staring up at him. He took a deep breath composing himself. ”We have to go son.  We've got to get out of here."

  It was then that Jake realized something bad had happened to his mom.  "Why, Dad?  What's happening?" he asked frantically. "Where's Mom?" John tried to calm him, but at this point Jake was beyond upset, he was downright hysterical. "What happened to Mom?!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  John grabbed him by the shoulders harder than he meant to. "Jake!” he said, shaking him.  “Listen to me!  I need you to calm down!” Releasing his shoulders, he looked his traumatized son in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Jake, but I can’t have you falling apart right now. I know it’s a lot to ask after what you’ve been through tonight, but I need you to hold it together. We both just have to hold it together. Your mom needs us. Can you do that for me?”

  “Just tell me what happened to Mom,” he answered his voice barely above a whisper.

  John lowered his head, “She didn’t make it in to work.”

  “We have to find her!” Jake screamed.

  “We will, son, we will. But first, I’ve got to get you out of here before more of them show up. Now, finish packing your things.”

  Hesitantly Jake did as he was told. In less than two minutes time, he returned to his parents’ room, a suitcase tucked under his arm. Two suitcases lay across John’s bed, filled with clothes and family pictures from off the walls. Pushing down on them John clicked them shut. Then from the back of his closet, he pulled a long rifle case and three boxes of shotgun shells. Jake had no idea his dad even owned a gun.

  John pulled out a shotgun and loaded it with five shells then cocked it. “Grab your stuff. We’re leaving,” he said, walking down the hall, a suitcase tucked under each arm.

  Jake stopped at his room, it dawning on him that he didn’t have any shoes on. “Dad, I forgot my shoes!” He called out to him.

  “Leave them! We’ve got to go now!” John's panicked voice cried out from the front door. Jake came outside to find the suitcases dumped on the front yard. The shotgun held tightly to John’s shoulder. He was scanning over the yard.

  “What is it?” Jake asked, afraid to even step outside.

  “Get my bags and get in the truck,” he whispered. “Quickly, go now!”

  Jake jerked them up from the ground, running clumsily to his dad’s old '86 Ford F-250. Tossing them into the bed of the truck, he climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt.

  John walked backwards toward the truck, his eyes never leaving the darkness of the front yard. As Jake stared past him, he could just make out a lone figure standing at the edge of the yard looking back at them. "Why couldn't you just leave us alone?!" John yelled, his finger hovering over the trigger.  "I was out damn it!  Don't you understand?"

  The figure didn't move forward but didn't retreat either.  Jake heard the stranger say something he couldn't quite make out, before disappearing back into the night.  

  Climbing into the truck, John slid his gun behind the seat. Then started the truck, it’s diesel engine roared to life. He peeled out of the driveway, leaving their home behind.

  Jake stared at the house as it disappeared behind them. Somehow, he knew he would never set foot there again. "Who was that?" he asked. “In the yard? Was it one of them?” 

  "It doesn't matter," John said, glancing in his rear view mirror.

  "Well what did he say?" Jake asked, infuriated his dad was being so vague.

  John didn’t answer until they had reached the end of the block. "He said he was sorry," The truck pulled onto the highway speeding ten miles over the speed limit.  The clock on the radio said the time was now 4:26am.  Both father and son were beyond exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally as well.  

  Jake laid his head on his dad's lap, something he hadn’t done in years. Reaching back, John pulled a dusty red jacket from behind the seat and covered his son. Right before he dozed off Jake asked one last time, "Where's Mom?"

  "I don't know son.  I don't know,” John patted him gently with his right hand. Jake looked up at him one last time, and in the passing glow of a street light saw tears streaming down his cheeks.  With that image, he fell asleep.

  Nearly two hours later he was gently shaken awake by a rough, calloused hand on his shoulder. Sitting up he looked around.  It was still dark out. The slight orange glow of the sun was just peeking in the sky to the east.  They were parked on a dirt road seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Jake rubbed his eyes sleepily.  "Dad, where are we?"

  John looked straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "Jake, I have something I have to show you.  I don't want to, but you need to see this to understand what's happening to us," He stepped out of the truck and lowered the tailgate, pulling several large black trash bags out of the back then dumped their contents into the middle of the road where they were lit by the truck’s bright headlights. Jake was so in shock at this point that the sight of the Marty White’s dismembered; bloodied body parts dropping onto the dirt road didn't even bother him. Marty's dismembered head lay staring at Jake with its lifeless red eyes wide open.  
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  It all seemed so very unreal, as if he was watching it through someone else's eyes. John came back into the truck then killed the engine, shutting off the headlights illuminating the scene before them. They sat in complete silence, Jake was too tired and too in shock to say anything.

  As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, John finally broke the silence. "Jake, you're about to see something terrible, but also . . . amazing. Something so awful that no one should ever have to know about it. But I can't hide you from it any longer," he sighed lowering his head.  "All I can tell you is that the world isn't what you think it is."

  As the sun rose higher, its rays hit the body parts lying on the road.  One by one, they burst into bright blue flames.  Jake grabbed his dad's arm, too afraid to look too amazed to look away. After thirty seconds there was nothing left but charred, smoking pieces of skeleton.  Marty White’s head was now an eyeless, blackened skull. John looked over at his son with tears in his eyes.  "I've tried to shield you from this.  I tried to take you and your mother away from it all.  But they wouldn't just leave us be.  They found us," he grew quiet again.  "Jake." he said, "There are such things as monsters."

  Chapter 3

  Jake

  North US-87

  July 31, 1994 6:37am