Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

“There are kids’ bikes in the garage,” Bronson said.

Metcalf turned a dead-eyed stare on the vampire. “So?”

“Why make this a slaughter? Give me five minutes. I’ll go in first and tie everyone up.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me.”

“All I’m asking for is five minutes. What’s the big deal?”

“Christ. All that is is cattle in there.”

“Five minutes. Please.”

Metcalf’s eyes dimmed. “Two minutes,” he said.

The vampire nodded, then started scaling the outside of the house to the roof, moving quickly and in a manner that made Metcalf think of a squirrel. Metcalf set a timer on his watch, then looked up and watched as Bronson pried open a skylight and slipped inside. Within seconds he heard the anguished high-pitch wail of a dog. Before the timer on his watch went off, Bronson opened the front door and let him in.

“They have a dog,” Bronson said.

“No shit.”

“No shit. A German Shepherd. What a beautiful animal. I left it cowering in the bedroom. I hate seeing them like that. Anyway, here’s the good doctor.”

He stepped aside to show Dr. Ravi Panjubar lying on his stomach, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey with his feet and ankles bound behind him with a strip torn from a bed sheet. Bronson had also stuffed more of the bed sheet into the scientist’s mouth. The scientist’s eyes grew wide as he took in Metcalf. He tried to scream but the sound was muffled by his gag. Metcalf watched as the man’s face turned purple, then moved to him before Panjubar could choke to death. He removed the strip of bed sheet from his mouth. Only a hoarse rasping noise was left of the man’s voice, not enough to attract any attention from anyone passing by outside. Metcalf put a hand over Panjubar’s mouth anyway.

“I was right,” Bronson said. “He has two little girls. The oldest couldn’t be more than ten. I tied both of them up before they knew what was happening. His wife also. None of them saw me.”

Metcalf ignored his rambling. What difference would it have made if they did see him? There was nobody who had a clue about the compound, let alone any knowledge of who resided there, and besides, with the physical changes Bronson had undergone, no one would be able to identify him from any mug shot books he might still be in. Bronson had been a petty thief when Metcalf infected him, and had proven useful over the years. He was good at stealing cars and breaking into buildings, but he had grown soft, and besides, penny-ante crooks like him were a dime a dozen. Some time soon Metcalf would trade him in for someone more of his own mindset. Bronson was as thin as a pole, and if you ignored his white hair and oddly shaped head, he could’ve been any other mall rat. With his arms and legs cut off, he wouldn’t take up much space in Metcalf’s private lab, and when the time was right, Metcalf would find a good use for him. He was sick of all the damn bleeding hearts he had surrounded himself with. Thank God for Vanessa. At times he even found himself missing Serena. At least she was one ruthless cold-hearted bitch.

Sighing, he located a good spot on Panjubar’s neck and bit into it. Blood leaked out of the wound, and Metcalf sucked on the fluid and felt the warmth of it against his tongue. This was what was needed to secrete the virus. He bit down harder until the blood was gushing into his mouth.

A clattering of nails sounded on hardwood floors, then a German Shepherd raced into the room, its fangs bared, angry guttural noises coming from it. Almost as if it hit an invisible wall, the dog stopped, then tried to crawl towards Metcalf before turning and scampering away. From another room the dog whined in full agony, letting the world know that it would never forgive itself for its betrayal. Metcalf stopped his feeding. The blood had finished gushing, which meant the virus had spread.

Panjubar lay shivering below him, sweating profusely as if he had a bad case of the flu. Metcalf lifted the scientist onto his shoulder and carried him to the car, then lowered him into the trunk. Bronson had followed Metcalf outside and handed him manacles to secure the scientist’s wrists and feet. After that, they drove to where they’d earlier left their van. After Panjubar was transported to the back of the van, Bronson drove the Chrysler LeBaron away to get rid of it. Metcalf sat in the back of the van with Panjubar. The man was already delirious with fever and it would be pointless for Metcalf to explain anything to him.

Metcalf sat for a moment, then took a pint bag of blood from a cooler and squeezed it into his mouth. That was the problem with infecting someone, the quick taste of blood left you wanting much more. Maybe it was an effect of the virus secretion. Whatever it was, Metcalf could’ve gone through a dozen pints without being satisfied. He fought back the urge and had just the one pint. He watched Panjubar squirm for a while, then took another pint bag from the cooler and forced the opening into the scientist’s mouth. Once Panjubar tasted the blood, he blindly sucked down the full pint, making Metcalf think of a newly-born piglet. The feeding eased Panjubar’s spasms. Metcalf left him to go up front.

Metcalf drove to a prearranged location. Bronson emerged from a thicket of shrubs where he’d been hiding, and jumped quickly into the passenger seat. They continued from there to a parking garage in downtown San Jose, then both vampires joined Dr. Ravi Panjubar in the back of the van. Another two hours and the sun would be coming up, and it would be brutal to try to head back towards Los Angeles then, even with dark shades and wide brimmed cowboy hats. Later, when it was dusk again, Metcalf would drive back to the compound.

The two vampires sat in silence, the only noise being the soft moaning from their newly infected brethren-or a newbie as Bronson liked to call them.

“It’s going to get hot back here,” Bronson said, breaking the silence. His face looked strained as he stared at Panjubar squirming on the floor. “Stuffy too. How about us cracking open a window?”

Metcalf didn’t bother answering him. If he opened a window someone passing by would be able to hear Panjubar’s moaning. Bad enough Bronson was as soft as a sponge, but he didn’t have the fucking brains to figure something like that out? He focused his stare on a spot across from him on the van’s wall and tried to remain perfectly still, trying hard not to think about how the other vampire’s voice was affecting him like nails on a chalkboard. Bronson must’ve given up waiting for an answer. Outside of the soft moaning coming from Panjubar, for the next ten minutes there was mostly silence. Bronson interrupted it by fidgeting. He took a pint of blood from the cooler and made a face to exaggerate his disgust.

“If you can believe it,” he said, “before you infected me I was a vegetarian. Big cosmic joke on me, huh?”

Metcalf didn’t say anything. If Bronson had looked carefully enough, he would’ve noticed a muscle twitching along Metcalf’s left eye. He would have also seen that Metcalf’s hands were clenched at his side. Bronson’s display of disgust grew more exaggerated as he emptied the pint bag into his mouth. Metcalf kept his stare frozen straight ahead. After some more minutes of blessed silence, Bronson had to comment about how watching what a newbie went through was the part he hated most about these trips.

“Damn, you can already see his head changing shape. That’s gotta hurt. It gives me the willies thinking about it. Kind of like I can feel it in my balls.”

Metcalf turned his dead eyes to Bronson. The other vampire wilted under his glare.

“Not another word,” Metcalf breathed softly, holding up a finger for emphasis.

Bronson nodded and looked away, his knees bouncing up and down nervously. Metcalf closed his eyes, waiting for dusk, but also half-hoping Bronson would say one more word.