Invierea by Bruce T. Jones

Author:Bruce T. Jones [Jones, Bruce T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 1633933490
Goodreads: 31171120
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2014-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FRUSTRATED BY THE continued string of events that were out of my control, yet I was responsible for, I yearned for the old days. Kill the bad guys; accomplishing the purposes of my making held a calming satisfaction I could never recreate elsewhere. I was frustrated … and thirsty. Thirsty for something a little more exotic than my home supply, I don’t know why, but the rarer the blood, the more euphoric the experience. I headed off to the blood bank at Sixty Seventh and Second Avenue.

A faint light omitted from the window of the interior stairwell leading to the refrigeration unit on the third floor. Before ascending the wall, I noticed the steel door was not completely secure. Pulling it open quietly. I detected muted voices from above. Creeping into the vestibule, I ascended, gliding step by step up the dusty stairwell. At first glimpse I counted five men and three women, all dressed in the costume rejects from the movie The Lost Boys. The one perched on the highest step took immediate exception to my presence.

“Can I help you?” Immediately, all of his companions veered around, alarmed by his stern inquisition.

Aroused by the aroma of blood filling the stairwell, I continued my ascent. I was ready to feed, and these fools were in the path. “You do not belong here, leave now.”

A gauntlet of idiots cradling half emptied donor bags all looked to the top of the stairs for their leader’s rebuke. Apparently, they had already pilfered the refrigeration unit.

“No,” the lanky fellow at the top hissed as he flashed a rather genuine looking set of pearly spikes. “You need to leave while I am feeling generous.”

Sensing his mortal insecurities, I realized I had stumbled into the New York chapter of the Freakazoid Breakfast Club. “Wrong place, wrong time … last chance to get the hell out.”

“Ooooo.” As he taunted, several laughed in allegiance. “I tell you what, skank, if you get the fuck out of here right now, I might let you live.”

“Yeah, get the fuck out,” several others echoed.

One thing I never tolerated well was phonies. Disrespectful phonies I loathed even more. I marched right up middle of the club meeting, forcing several to remain seated as I passed. Grabbing King Douche by the throat, I elevated him off the floor, then slammed him against the wall. One of the more ignorant pawns began to rise to his defense. A swift sidekick to the head sent him careening down the stairs, the collateral pin action collecting a few of his bros in the process.

I stared intently into Count Fake-ula’s terror-filled eyes. I forced his mouth open, exposing his rather elaborate, high-priced dental work. Just as I broke off the first artificial fang, two more of the goon patrol scurried to his defense. With a sweeping motion of my hand, they tumbled down the stairs head over heels.

“Douche bag, you want to play games, might I suggest zombies next time. This undead thing, not very wise … unless you are.

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