Vamp Town (The Monster Keeper Series Book 1) Read online

  VAMP TOWN

  Book One of the Monster Keeper Series

  Jeff Seats

  Original Concept by Liz Seats & Graig Riedler

  Copyright © [2016] [Jeff Seats]

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

  or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission

  in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form

  of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

  without a similar condition including this condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Published by SD Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9983896-1-5

  For my mother who wouldn’t know a vampire

  from a zombie but always believes in me.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  THE BUS DRIVER

  CRAIG

  OUT OF GAS

  LIZ

  ALEX

  ROADSIDE ATTRACTION

  INVESTITURE

  THE CENTER

  INCURSION

  SMALL TOWN U.S.A.

  DUTY CALLS

  HUNGER

  THE ACTION TEAM

  DINNER TIME

  THREAT RESPONSE

  A STROLL IN THE PARK

  ABDUCTION

  FEAR NO EVIL

  CORNERED

  VALLEY OF DEATH

  ESCAPE

  CONFLICT

  FAMILY FEUD

  END OF AN ERA

  AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

  EPILOGUE

  Author Note

  About the Author

  —— ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ——

  Thanks to my daughter Elizabeth and her friend Craig

  whose core idea of a bus load of people stumbling into a town

  populated by vampires lead first to a screenplay and then to

  this novel. They provided me the rib with which I molded clay

  around to form the body and then breathed life into it.

  —— PROLOGUE ——

  Russia 1792

  A PAIR OF EYES stared hungrily out from the dark shadows. Through the brightly lit opening, the monk watched two boys run down the hill towards the ruins; his lair. He curled and stretched his withered fingers in anticipation, skin milky white and almost translucent like old vellum stretched over bone. His breath became shallow and his pulse quickened. He could almost taste the sweet strength of the young blood flowing through their veins. He wanted to rush out to meet them, to sweep them up into his ancient arms, but the light, was not his friend and had not been for a very long time, so he contained his urges. Patience was necessary if one was an immortal.

  The bright light burned the ancient monk’s eyes and he had to close them for a moment or risk blinding. Typically, at this time of day, he would be slumbering in the dank, cold earth back inside the hill.

  He had not always been immortal. He remembered himself, Grigory Lazar, as a child slopping pigs on his family’s meager farm. Fleeing the life of a serf, he became a monk where he developed a reputation for the physical strength his years on the farm had brought him. Not long after, he was recruited into an obscure monastic order. Its sole vocation was to seek out the undead and exterminate them. Father Lazar was known as a proficient hunter within the secret circles of the church and was notorious throughout the realm of the immortals for his skills. He smiled to himself and let out an introspective sigh. He had liked that life.

  The voices of the boys became louder as they approached. Lazar opened his eyes to observe their progress. Good, they were much closer now. Soon the wait would be over. He closed his eyes again to shield them from the glare of the relentless sun.

  He could remember when he became an immortal with clarity as though it happened only a few days before, not 143 years.

  Lured to the sight of a nest, Lazar and his band of priests and monks—God's exterminators—were ambushed and eviscerated. All were killed except for Father Lazar who was spared and himself turned into the very thing he hated and had vowed to destroy; condemning him to an endless life filled with feeding off the blood of innocents. The irony of his last name being associated with that of the biblical Lazarus whom Christ brought back from the dead and Lazar being reborn as an immortal did not escape him and undoubtedly not his tormentors either.

  The hunter/monk could feel the changes occurring inside of him as he slowly transmuted over the course of weeks. Lazar prayed every day for the Almighty to save him. Please spare me this burden! Take me into your arms like my brethren. Each day he felt the ever-growing urge to consume the blood of a living human. Each day he was force-fed a mouthful of blood from one of the immortals own cut wrist. Finally, the day of his total transformation had arrived. The door to his darkened cell opened, then closed. When he lifted his head, he saw a beautiful young woman standing before him.

  The frightened girl saw the dirty cassock that he wore and, recognizing Lazar as a monk, she rushed to him desperate, landing on her knees begging for his protection; seeking his blessing. "Please save me, Father!" Those words rang in his ears for years.

  There she was looking to Lazar for help even as he fought the uncontrollable urge to gorge on her pristine blood. Seeing such innocent purity brought tears to his eyes.

  Lazar held out his hands helping her to rise and stand before him. The scent of her fear filled his nostrils. His face flushed. He could feel his heart race as he reached out and touched her chin. Her mouth quivered, he could see that she was about to say words of thanks or praise but before she uttered a single one he could no longer contain his new cravings. Acting on pure instinct, he opened his mouth and ripped into her neck with the fangs that had been growing over the past weeks.

  He tore her throat apart, lapping up the blood as it gushed out and down the hollow of her neck and between her breasts drenching her bodice a bright, crimson red. The sweet coppery taste of the blood was like honey on his pallet. He wallowed in the gore that was once a perfect body. He became light-headed from the fresh, warm elixir. The blood gave him energy, a vibrancy that he had never felt before. He knew that he could never go back; that he never would want to return to the life of a bleeder. He could feel immortality coursing through his veins, and he liked it.

  The sound of the applause that broke out from the immortals who had turned him still echoed in his ears as they emerged from the shadows surrounding him; welcoming him to their exclusive club of the undead.

  It was Easter Sunday, 1677, the day that he became a vampire.

  “Wait Vladimir!”

  Father Lazar opened his eyes as he heard Alexei call out to his younger brother. They were very close now.

  ««« ‡ »»»

  TWO BOYS RAN through the straw colored grass towards the waiting, hungry eyes. Vladimir, the younger of the two, ran wildly ahead of his older brother, Alexei, and bee-lined towards the bottom of the hill. His target was a dense cluster of gnarled old oaks growing out of piles of rock on the valley floor. Alexei stopped when he saw where his brother headed.

  “Vladimir!” Alexei yelled. “Mother said to stay away from this place. It is not safe!” Vladimir turned his head towards Alexei and laughed as he resumed his headlong run. Alexei continued the chase, and when he reached Vladimir, he grabbed his younger brother’s shoulder bringing him to a halt.

  “When father returns to the dacha he will be angry,” Alexei s
aid.

  “Father is in Moscow with his regiment. He won't return for another week. Mother will have forgotten anything she may discover by then.” Vladimir retorted.

  “But it is never you that he gets angry with. It is always with me, the oldest.” Alexei responded with anger.

  “You worry too much brother,” Vladimir said with a mischievous laugh and continued to run away from his brother.

  At the bottom of the hill, Alexei finally caught up with Vladimir. Alexei stood next to his younger brother panting, but before he could catch his breath, Vladimir flashed his brother a devilish smile and then continued his headlong run deeper into the stand of the tangled oaks leaving his brother behind.

  Alexei looked around. The oaks that surrounded him stood like guardians of the stones that littered the valley floor. He could tell that the block-shaped stones must have formed the walls of an old building.

  He watched Vladimir run into the place where the trees stood thickest and toppled columns lay on the ground. A bit further on from there, an overgrown arch, stood, framing an entrance that appeared to lead into the depths of the hillside itself.

  “Vladimir! Stop. It is not safe here. Please stop!” Alexei called after his brother.

  Just before Vladimir continued through the arch, he stopped and turned to his brother waiting for him to catch up.

  When Alexei reached his brother, he said, a bit breathlessly, “Mother told us not to go in there. It is cursed. Bad things happen to those who do not heed the warnings.”

  In a mocking tone, Vladimir responded to his brother. “What bad things? Monsters? The Devil? I tell you nothing bad happens in there.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  “I have been in there many times.”

  Alexei stood with his mouth agape.

  “There is nothing scary at all. In fact, a nice old monk lives through the arch.”

  “Have you seen him? Talked to him?” Alexei asked.

  “Yes, I have spoken with him, but I have not seen him out here in the sun. He always stays in the darkness of the shadows. He says that the light is bad for his aged skin. He just wants us to be his friends. Today, he wanted me to bring you to visit with him.” With a change of attitude, Vladimir continued. “I know mother counts on you to watch over me. I do not want you to get into trouble, so come in with me and protect me from a frail, old man. Please?” Vladimir reached up to grasp Alexei's shoulders and gave him the best penitent face that he could muster.

  Alexei weakened, “Well, you do what I say and if I say we leave we leave. Yes?”

  “Certainly 'dear' brother. I will do as you say. Always.” Vladimir let out a vexing laugh, turned and continued his headlong run through the arched opening and into the blackness beyond.

  Alexei started after him, stopped, picked up a largish branch as a weapon, and continued after his brother into the ruins. He had never been this far down the hillside before but Vladimir seemed more than familiar with this place. Alexei called out to his brother, “Vladimir, where are we going?”

  His younger brother turned back and shushed him. In a soft voice, he urged, “Quiet! You might scare him away.” Slowly Vladimir continued to inch further into the darkening shadows of the opening.

  Alexei cautiously followed through the arch and into a large, rubble-strewn, space and stopped. All around him, he saw the remains of an old Russian Orthodox church; the roof long since collapsed to the floor. He looked up but saw that the leafy canopy of the ancient oaks obscured the sky.

  Vladimir turned and waved, his gesture urging his brother to catch up. Alexei carefully walked towards his brother picking his steps deliberately not wanting to trip on the debris that littered the floor. Beneath his feet were tiled images of saints whose faces and halos had been chipped away. On the surface of the remaining walls icons could also be seen, but they too had been damaged, their saintly faces having been chiseled off.

  Vladimir stopped and peered into the darkness. He called out, “Father Lazar?” His voice echoed off the crumbling stone. “I brought my brother as you have asked.”

  There was a rustling noise and from the very dark shadows in front of them a hunched, old man materialized from wisps of the blackest smoke. He wore a threadbare monk's cassock and stroked a long and stringy beard with bony fingers. His skin was white as snow, lips cracked and red. His eyes glazed, alabaster orbs, pupils of onyx.

  Splotchy patches of sun filtered through the broad oak leaves and the decaying roof falling across the brothers and onto the floor; creating a definite line where the dappled sun did not reach any further into the ruined building. Father Lazar stood just on the other side of the line in the dark studying the two boys. He could not recall the last good meal that he had had. His isolation and the superstitions of the peasants had ensured that most mortals stayed away from his lair leaving his only source of sustenance coming from rodents and birds. Without the blood of humans, his vitality had ebbed, and powers faded. His body aged, deteriorating incrementally, as though he were a mortal again.

  The fragrance of the boy's sweet blood was like that of a heavily perfumed woman. The warm fluid pulsing through their veins gave off such an irresistible scent that his mouth salivated as he contemplated the tangy copper flavor of their blood. The urge to drink them dry was overwhelming, and he all but forgot the larger purpose that he had for these two. No, he would only drink from them sparingly and slowly turn them into immortals while molding them into tools for his vengeance.

  Father Lazar spoke in a tired, scratchy voice, “Such a good boy you are, Vladimir. Step closer, the bright sun is hard on these tired eyes of mine. Come.”

  Vladimir made a hesitant move towards the old monk with Alexei right beside him, branch in hand ready to use.

  Just as they stepped out of the light, the monk's withered hands darted out from the shadows. His bony fingers wrapped around the brother’s throats. Alexei was no longer in control of his muscles and his hand opened letting go of the branch; his weapon clattered upon the broken tiles, unused.

  Lazar lifted them up and pulled them into the opaque darkness. Their feet dangled and kicked. Their screams stifled by the firm grip of the monk’s hands.

  “Thank you my son. You have proven yourself to be an excellent friend.”

  —— THE BUS DRIVER ——

  THE BUS RATTLED its way up an empty stretch of forgotten highway, one of a fleet of ten buses owned by Cascade Stage Lines. The company had gotten a good deal on it and on all their other vehicles too. This one, Number 7, had a former life toiling away for Trailways and was retired in '99. To say that the owner of Cascade was cheap might be a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, he never painted over the original Trailways or Greyhound colors, but he always tacked on a brand new Cascade Stage Lines sign and rechristened each coach with a city's name. This one was the Pride of Ontario. There were others named after Bend, Baker City, The Tri-Cities, Klamath Falls and so forth, all towns serviced by the company.

  The Pride of Ontario was on its weekly run from Reno on through to K Falls, Bend, east to Baker City and then on to Ontario and ending up in Boise. A milk run as they said in the trade. Straight up north on Highway 97; a route that Eddie had been driving for the last ten years. Aside from some challenging winter weather and the occasional forest fire burning across the highway, not a bad gig. And the scenery never disappointed, even after all these years.

  Baker City was his destination tonight along with several of the passengers. Another driver would take over there and continue the remainder of the run into Boise.

  Traveling north on Highway 97 the volcanic ranges of the Sierras and then the Cascades were visible out the left side of the bus with deceptively open stretches reaching to the horizon out the right side. The majority of this bus’ route covered the area of Eastern Oregon that geologists called The Columbia Plateau, but regular people called it the High Desert. It wasn't flat like how picture books depicted deserts. Anyone who had traveled the area could see
that the earth had been chiseled over the eons by receding glaciers, floods, volcanic activity and rivers carving distinct paths into the red earth. This expansive land concealed hidden valleys and deep gorges and then rose up into hills that turned into mountain ranges. And, yes there were flat areas, lots of them.

  Eastern Oregon was a hard country not to be trifled with. Its sparse population was mostly ranchers or those who wanted to hide away from a busy world. It was a wild, empty, beautiful place with surprises around every bend and at the bottom of every dip in the road; where new things could be discovered, and almost anything could happen.

  Edward Conner, Eddie, was the driver of the Pride Of Ontario. In spite of being sixty-five years old and a retired Marine, he wore his thinning long gray hair pulled back in a neat ponytail as a sign that he wasn't ready to roll over and play dead. Eddie felt that there still was some youth still left in him which was why he wore the slightly too tight Hawaiian shirt, not one of those faggy, overly floral ones, this one was a classic; ocean blue background, white breakers with surfers and clumps of green palm tree-like islands dotting the ocean. Eddie was expected to wear a company issued jacket with the Cascade Stage Lines patch on the shoulder and company cap-like what cops or airline pilots wore, but the shirt passed muster for some reason, which he wasn’t about to question. He resisted wearing those gray pants, the ones with the black stripes on the sides—mostly because they didn’t come in big and tall sizes and while there was some play from the elastic sewn into the waist band it only helped so much—but he rarely got to win that argument. All things considered, though, Eddie was lucky to be working for such a loose organization that allowed him the long hair and his comfortable shirt. Couldn’t complain much about that.

  After over twenty years of living in Eastern Oregon he still only really knew the major roads and highways and that long stretch off the county road to his house that some called his driveway, which was the reason why he found himself and a bus load of people, lost.