Prologue
Jake/John
The Bishop Residence, Lubbock Tx.
May 30, 1997
4:09am
“Jake, whatever you hear do not
come out of this room!” Jake’s
dad’s hands shoved him forcefully into his Grandpa Cort’s safe room/gun
vault. The pounding on the barred
front door grew fiercer by the second.
Glass from the windows crashed inwardly and the reinforced ceiling shook
violently and cracked as something heavy crashed into it again and again. Jake knew the rebar and iron bars would
only hold them at bay so long, any minute now they would be inside the house.
“Come on you dirty sons of
bitches!” his Grandpa Cort screamed from the living room. “Come get some of this!” The
Cleaner, a ten gauge shotgun handed down from Jake’s great-grandfather,
blasted away in the older Bishop’s hands.
“John! Make it quick
son! They’re almost inside!”
John grabbed a pump action 12
gauge off the wall and a box of shells and tossed them to Jake. Then he grabbed a razor sharp machete
down and laid it on the floor at Jake’s feet. “Load the gun.
Hold it tight to your shoulder, remember to squeeze, don’t pull the
trigger. If anything gets through
this door you keep blasting until it’s not moving then you take its head. You have
to take its head to kill it. Do
you understand?”
“Dad, I can help you!” Jake pleaded, fumbling to get the
shells into the shotgun.
“Not this time kid.” John ruffled his brown hair. “It’s nothing personal but you’d just
get in the way. Pop and I have got
everything under control.”
“Then . . . come in here with
me! You and Grandpa both, we can
all fit! We’ll just wait until the
sun comes up.”
“This is our home, son.” John said solemnly. “They’re not taking this from us. Not again.”
An even louder crash sounded in
the living room. “Johnny!” Cort yelled. “Dammit boy!
It’s game time and you’re late for the kickoff!”
John grabbed two more shotguns off
the wall, another machete, and two boxes of ammo. He winked at his son then slammed the heavy steel door
closed and locked it behind him.
Jake angrily pounded his fist
against it. “Dad!” he yelled in
anger.
The door was at least six inches
thick but Jake could still hear the muffled sounds of almost continuous
gunfire. Terror gripped his
heart.
Please God! Please let
them be okay! He prayed. Please! Something
heavy slammed into the door hard enough to dent it inwardly. Jake fell backwards over an ammo box
and hit his head on a shelf, firing his shotgun into the steel door. Buckshot ricocheted around the room
missing him by mere inches.
His ears rang as darkness crept around the edges of his vision. With his left hand he touched the back
of his head and felt sticky blood in his hair. He tried to sit up but the room started spinning violently. Jake slumped to his side, closed his
eyes and dreamed. Dreams of his
mother’s loving, green eyes, of his father crying as he embraced his father for
the first time in seven years. They were replaced by darker dreams of his other grandfather,
Richard Riker’s butler whipping his leather belt into Jake’s back again and
again as the old man looked on laughing a terrible hacking laugh.
His Grandpa Cort’s familiar voice
finally broke into his nightmares. “Jake?
Jake? Come on kid wake up.” The old man’s weather hand slapped his
cheek. Jake’s eyes popped open and
looked right into the eyes of a bloodied Cort Bishop.
“What happened?” he muttered
groggily.
“You hit your head.” His father’s voice said. Jake turned his head to fast and again
the room started spinning.
“Easy now kid,” John said squeezing his hand. “Take it slow and try not to move too
much. You might have a concussion.”
“What? What happened?
How did I get in the safe room?”
Jake muttered looking around at the dozens of guns hanging on the wall.
“What’s the last thing you
remember?” John asked.
“Uhhh . . .” Jake had to think very hard for several
long seconds. “I remember someone
knocking at the front door. You
got me out of bed, Grandpa yelling something about football . . . after that
it’s just a blur.”
“Great,” John said to Cort.
“He’s definitely got a concussion.
It was vampires, son. Six
of them.”
“What!” Jake exclaimed trying to sit up.
“Easy, easy.” John gently pushed him back down. “Pam Williams is on her way here to
check you out. Just lie still till
then, okay? I don’t want to move
you until she says it’s okay.”
“But, but the vampires!” Jake yelled.
“It’s okay.” Cort grunted, climbing back to his
feet. His knees giving a very
audible pop. “It took some doing
and the house is trashed, but we killed them all.”
“Holy shit.” Jake muttered slipping back to sleep.
“You’re out of it right now, so
I’ll over look that.” John smiled
at Cort.
A tall African American woman with
short black hair placed a hand on Cort’s shoulder. “Hey now fellas?
How are we doing?”
“We’re doing okay, Pam. A little shook up with a few cuts and
bruises, but I think we’re okay.”
John smiled giving her arm a gentle squeeze and a pat. “I think Jake might have a concussion
though.”
“Is that so?”
Pam said kneeling down and giving Jake a good once over. “John, Cort, go in the other room and
have Holloway take a look at your wounds.
I’ll be in a few minutes once I’ve checked Jake out.”
John nodded noticing for the first
time the big gash running across his forearm. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me, son.”
John stepped into the living room
where three of Mike Holloway’s guys were keeping guard. Mike, a heavyset cowboy, complete with
a big straw hat and pair of cowboy boots stepped back in from outside, where he
had been talking to the police.
“So what’s the damage Mike?” John asked grabbing a towel from the
kitchen and wrapping it around his arm.
“I’ve got an old friend in the
Sheriff’s Department, used to be a hunter. He’s covering things with the PD. Though there were more than a few that wanted to come in and
have a look around. Discharging
firearms and such . . . luckily my man convinced them to look the other way. How’s the boy doing?”
“He’s doing alright.” John nodded. “Pam is checking on him now. It’s a damn good thing you guys were still in town when
these bloodsuckers hit. Thanks
again for coming so fast Mike.”
“No problem at all, Hoss” Mike smiled. “My pleasure.
It’s just a damn shame you two killed them all before we could get
here.”
“Well, what can I say? When you’re good, you’re goo . .
.” Cort said plopping down in his
old worn recliner. The chair
immediately broke apart, dropping Cort flat on his back.
“Son of a bitch,” he cursed trying
to pull himself up. “Well don’t
just stand there looking ugly! Somebody
give me a hand!”
John and Holloway both gave each
other a half smile before reaching down and pulling Cort to his feet. “Son of a bitch.” He repeated looking
down at his ruined chair. “I loved
that chair.” He shook his head in
anger. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
John placed a hand on his
shoulder, “It’s just a chair, Pop.”
Cort shrugged it off, “Just a
chair my ass! Look at this
place.” He said motioning around
the room. Almost all of the furniture
was covered in black vampire blood, the ceiling had collapsed where one of the
grunts had managed to punch his way through. All of the windows were shattered and the front door hung
off of its hinges. Bullet holes
riddled just about every wall.
“The house is completely destroyed!”
“It’s just a house,” John said in
a tone suggesting it was much more than that. “Just a house . . .”
He had spent almost his entire childhood in that house.
“How the hell did they find
us?” John said picking a broken
picture of his old friend Terry Williams, up off the floor. You’ve lived here for what Pop? Forty years?”
“It’s that goddamn
Coalition.” Mike Holloway said
heatedly. “I warned you John, I
warned you and Billy that everyone knowing everyone else’s business was a bad
idea. We should just keep everything
independent like it’s always been.”
“Mike. Not now.” Cort
said angrily.
“I’m just saying . . . “
“Mike. For all that’s holy, man my house just got destroyed! My grandson is laying in there dying!”
“He’s not dying, Pop.” John rolled his eyes.
“Shut up boy! He’s lying in there, severely wounded, so I don’t need this
whole oooohh the Coalition is so evil and
we’re all so stupid for supporting it, speech right now!”
“Alright, alright.” Mike said holding his hands up in
defeat. “Excuse the hell out of
me. Man he’s cranky.” He whispered
loudly to John.
“Yeah well, you’d be cranky too if
a bunch of vampires decided to kick your door in, in the middle of the
night.” Cort said giving his chair
a hard kick for good measure.
“I’ll buy you a new damn chair!” Mike said throwing his arms up in the
air.
“I don’t want a new chair!” Cort roared. “I
want that chair! I’ve worn my ass imprint into it just
right. Do you have any idea how
long that took?”
“I’m guessing forty years.” Mike said sarcastically.
“Your goddamn right it took forty
years! Forty of the most
comfortable sitting years of my life!
I watched Super Bowl number one in that damn chair!”
“I’m going to go check on
Jake.” John said excusing
himself. Man Pop is upset about Jake. He thought to himself. He knew the older Bishop was just using
the chair as an excuse to vent his frustrations. He had always been like that. John supposed it was just easier for him to do that than
face what was really eating at him.
John stepped into the room to find
Pam checking Jake’s pulse. “How is
he doc?” he asked leaning against
the dented door.
“He’s going to be fine.” She smiled weakly. “Just a concussion. Looks like he hit his head pretty
good.”
“Yeah I think something hit the
door and Jake got spooked and accidentally fired off a round then tripped over
some boxes. Poor kid.” He said shaking his head.
“Here, lets get him on his feet
and get him into his room.”
“Ummm, might not be such a good
idea.” John said sourly. “His room has a few of our, ‘guests’ in
it. Well, what’s left of them.”
“Ohhh. Okay then, where can we lay him? Let’s get him into the backseat of my truck, I’m taking him
and the old man to a hotel. We all
need to get a few hours sleep in before we have to come clean up the place. Mike and his guys will keep an eye on
things until we get back.”
“How’s Jake doing?” Cort said poking his head around the
corner.
“He’s okay, Pop. It’s just a bad concussion. We’ll need to keep an eye on him for a
few days.”
“Damn.” Cort cursed.
“The boy should have been ready.
He’s more than old enough.”
“He’s only fourteen, Pop.” John said.
“That’s a year older than you were
when you started training.” Cort
ran his hand through his long gray hair.
“Johnny, he could have been killed tonight.”
“I sure could go for some
Poptarts.” Jake said
groggily. “Cherry Poptarts. They’re the best . . .”
“Shhh, Jake.” Pam said touching his forehead. “Just take it easy, Jake.”
“Yes Mom.” He muttered. “Mom? Mom! Where have you been? I’ve missed you so much.”
John sighed then lowered his head
to his chest. “You’re right, Pop. I hate to say it but it’s time. I’ll call Billy and get him signed up
for the training next year. If
he’s going to do it, he might as well get the best available.”
“Not to rain on your macho vampire
killer parade, but why don’t you guys just get out of here? Move to New York City, or Miami or just
about anywhere east of the Mississippi.
Didn’t you say that vampires can’t cross the river?”
“I’m not running again, Pam.” John said coldly. “I tried that once. It didn’t work.”
“I know that, John.” Pam argued. “But Julia wouldn’t want this for her son. You know she wouldn’t.”
“Pam. Enough. This is
our life. You chose to stay out of
it, we didn’t.”
Pam sighed. “There is no arguing with you
people.” She said angrily. “You’re just as stubborn as Billy. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’ll tell you what, next time you
get hurt, don’t call me.” She
picked up her bag pulled out two bottles of antibiotics and tossed them at John
then headed for the door. “If Jake
gets any worse take him to the ER.
You two, get your wounds stitched up and get on those antibiotics before
you both get sick and die. You
know how poisonous those scratches are.
What am I saying? Of course
you know! You’ve both been
scratched at least a hundred times by those monsters!” she stormed out still
ranting.
“Well . . . that was
awkward.” John said looking down
at his son.
“You’re telling me,” Cort
nodded. “What the hell did she
mean by you people?”
“Pop . . .” John shook his head
laughing. “Go pack a bag. We’re going to a hotel.
“Hotel? I’m not paying to stay at some damn hotel.”
“I’m paying, Pop.”
“Yeah? Hell then, lets get going,” He said heading down the hallway
to his room.
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