Nocturnal

  Copyright 2016 Mark Allen

  No portions of this novel, with the exception of brief passages quoted for the purpose of critique and review, may be used, edited, transmitted for transcribed in any language and by any means both known and unknown at this time without the express written permission of the copyright holder.

  For my mother, Dale J. McCorkle, who always believed that her 10-year-old son had talent.

  For my wife, Fiona, who has put up with me all these years, and who saw me through the dark days of my cancer, and its continuing effects on my life going forward.

  You believed I would survive even when I thought I was toast.

  You saved my life in more ways than one.

  And to my Grandfather, Edgar W. Allen, Sr., who gave me my first typewriter (a manual, no less!) in 1972.

  PROLOGUE

  Journal entry, Wednesday 25 January.

  Damp, clammy darkness threatening drizzle greeted me when I reanimated tonight.

  Nothing new there.

  Throughout the daylight hours of the past 100 years or so, I succumb to the “Sleep of the Dead”. When night falls and I come back to life - if one can call my existence living, I come back stiff as a corpse. Bone-on bone joints groan like rusty gate hinges. Atrophied muscles spasm as neurons fire electrical impulses across synapses and I recover from eternal nothingness.

  Nothing new there, either.

  I do not dream anymore. I had never thought about it until recently, while reading a newspaper in a local all-night coffee house in Normal Heights. One of those beatnik bohemian places, funky and retro. My epiphany struck around four in the morning as I began to consider driving back to Kensington.

  It does not disturb me that I do not dream. Not since I was a young man. Not since when I still saw the world through human eyes. When I still felt the sun’s warmth on my face.

  Back when I basked in the sound of Danae’s laughter. Reveled in the warmth of her body.

  Before I became this thing that I became.

  No point in self-pity, though. Bad things happen. Keep moving. Things are what they are; they cannot go back to the way they were. In real life, there are no “do-overs”. So get it right the first time.

  Quality counts.

  Even if I could change the past, would I? Probably not. No incentive anymore. All that is long since gone. I do wonder sometimes about what life I might have had if Danee and I had escaped. If I had gotten out of the Life sooner. The Dark Path I now walk is a ripple effect, an unintended consequence of bad decisions made by a stupid, arrogant young man during a woefully misspent youth.

  I do not blame society. I do not blame my parents. I do not blame peer pressure. I made my own decisions. I knew they were bad. I knew they were wrong. I made them anyway.

  I brought this all on myself.

  This is my blunt, brutal philosophy. Honesty in all things, both great and small. I “call it like I see it”, even when it comes to me. It requires more strength than one might imagine.

  I just “keep on keeping on”, as a wary, laconic Texan I knew once advised me back in the summer of ‘47. Night after night.

  Year after year. Ad infinitum.

  And now, on to the task at hand: I have a rather busy night ahead. I have not done what I am about to in a while. Quite a while, actually.

  But I am up to the task. My skillset is unique to my Kind. And once lethal, deadly skills have been taught, learned, and perfected to the point their execution becomes a matter of muscle memory and instinct rather than conscious thought, they never truly leave.

  Those skills stay with you, live within you the rest of your days. They lurk just below the surface, savage serpents underneath a thin veneer we call civility. Taut springs, waiting to be sprung. Waiting to be called upon once again.

  Wanting, more than anything, to be called upon once again.

  Concentrate on the work. Deadly work is afoot tonight.

  Not for me. Oh, no. Most certainly not for me.

  I do not concern myself with getting caught or killed. I cannot remember the last time I did. I die tonight, then I die.

  After all, I have already died once. It was not so bad. I remember I was bleeding out at the time. A quick pierce of my carotid, a flash of exquisite pain bordering upon pleasure. A momentary flash of white light, then swirling darkness and welcoming shadow. And then - serenity.

  Like I said, not so bad. That unique experience delivered me into an existence devoid of fear. Who amongst you can make that claim?

  Nowadays, men shudder in fear of ME.

  Men fear that which they cannot contain, control, classify, or comprehend. They do not hear me treading behind them in the night. They do not see me coiled in the shadows, eyes wide and unblinking, ready to strike with the blackness of the night.

  They never know what is happening until it is already too late, their lives draining away. Spilled like thick red water, splashing with a sickening wet sound across the floor.

  I am that glimpse at the edge of the light. I am the thing that goes bump in the night. I am the demon nightmares are made of.

  I have been called malevolent, corrupt, evil.

  I have been called Monster.

  Satan walking the earth. Death incarnate.

  To which I respond, yes. I am all of that.

  And more.

  I live quietly. I work. I consume. I go out for a meal occasionally. I keep the human race at arm’s length. I am indifferent to their affairs. I would ignore them entirely but for one compelling interest: they are my food.

  I choose my targets carefully. The others, I leave in peace. But I declare here and now, may God have mercy upon anyone who tries to hurt me or mine. For I, most assuredly, will not.

  Which brings me back full circle to tonight’s work. I shall once again hide in the shadows, partner with the darkness, strike without warning, and slaughter without remorse. Once again I shall prove why mortal men are right to fear me.

  To tremble at my name.

  I.

  Am.

  VAMPIRE.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rudy Valdez popped the collar up on his brown leather bomber jacket against the damp night. January in San Diego meant mildly warm days, cold nights. Thick cloud cover usually burned off in late morning. Then another heavy bank of clouds – the Marine Layer – would form over the water, creep up the coastline, engulf the bay, and slither inland a few miles. Drifting in from the Pacific Ocean, tonight’s fog blanketed everything it touched.

  Congested, Rudy sniffed, wondering if his stuffy head was a reaction to the temperature change, the ever-present pollution, or if he might be coming down with a cold. But what, at this point, difference does it make, he asked himself. Forget it for now. I have more immediate, more important things to worry about tonight.

  Standing on a seldom-used dock in a run-down section of the city south of the high rise hotels and tourist attractions, but north of the Naval Base with its sleek, modern warships, with the still, dank night air beading moisture on his jacket, he heard a foghorn, forlorn and monotonous in the distance. It sounded far to the north and west, out on the water, past the channel, heading out to sea. Probably a heavy freighter, loaded with cargo, sailing on the high tide.

  The foghorn certainly did not come from the Sulu Sea, the rusty, hulking 180 ft. freighter currently moored at the dock. The ghostly gray and black ship squatted next to the pier. She bobbed slightly on the tide, her neglected hull devoid of fresh paint, its topside lights off. No smoke unfurled lazily from the stack above the engine room. No boilers stoked in preparation for departure. Her engines were at cold iron.

  In the darkness of the moonless night, and with the haze from the fog, Rudy could barely make out the gangway that stretched from the ship’s quarterde
ck down to the concrete pier.

  Beyond the freighter, San Diego Bay remained obscured by mist. Silent waters swirled liquid black. The sky above tinted a dull gray from the lights of downtown reflecting against the cloud cover. Although the lights created a muted glow against the clouds, the hotels and skyscrapers of downtown San Diego hid, completely blanketed.

  Compactly built, muscular and wiry, Rudy gripped the AK – 47 just a bit tighter. He’d been around firearms all his life. He cradled it easily in his hands, the weapon as much a part of him as his own beating heart.

  Raised in Tennessee by a decent but emotionally aloof police officer father, he left home at 18, right after high school, and joined the Marines. He Rudy and his dad got along. Both seemed fine with that. He told his father about joining the Corps that evening after he had already signed the papers. His father, mildly surprised, grunted over his burger and fries, nodding his endorsement of his son’s decision.

  Nothing more was said.

  Six years and three combat tours later, and spending his last year stationed at Camp Pendleton, Rudy left the Corps. He didn’t have a problem with killing, and he had escaped the ravages of PTSD that had devastated so many of his fellow Marines. Rudy was grateful to whatever God lived in heaven that he had not been burdened with an overactive conscience.

  His command tried repeatedly to convince him to reenlist and “Stay Marine!” as the posters barked. But Rudy was convinced he could land a good paying job in a matter of days or weeks. He considered going to work for the CIA, NSA, or some other alphabet organization. He figured the work would be similar to what he’d already trained for; he could make more money, and enjoy better living conditions. But during the early stages of applying, he saw the same Government bureaucracy shoved under his nose by the very pencil pushers with the power to hire him or tell him to take a hike. Inefficiency and redundancy had gotten good men killed when he was in the Marines. He wanted no more of it. He decided to explore other opportunities.

  But the economy was the worst it had been in 80 years. Jobs never materialized, or went to others. Resumes never elicited responses. On the rare occasion when he did get a callback, promises from managers and HR personnel were nothing but blue sky. Eventually, with a growing sense of anxiety and indignation, Rudy realized he was officially in deep shit. His options were gone. Time to swallow his pride. He’d apply to return to the Marine Corps.

  The meeting lasted less than ten minutes.

  Rudy listened in shock as grizzled Gunnery Sergeant Grimes delivered the bad news. Combat grunts were coming back to the Corps in droves because of the crap economy and high unemployment. The Recruiting District had already met their quota for returning veterans for the Fiscal Year. The bottom line was, the Corps couldn’t do anything for him. Rudy knew the Gunny was giving him the straight skinny. Too bad it didn’t help.

  Going home to Tennessee never entered his mind.

  Six months back, in some dive bar in Imperial Beach, Rudy overheard a drunken jerk badmouthing Marines and worse, the Marine Corps.

  “Hey! Anybody know what the Marine Corps calls a Marine who can put the right size nut on the right-sized bolt? Skilled labor!” the drunk, a mountain of a man with a Navy tattoo on his arm guffawed.

  “What do you have against the Corps?” Rudy asked, turning full on him.

  The drunk sized Rudy up and sneered at his diminutive size. “Why? You want to be a Marine when you grow up?”

  Rudy simply stared at him, his face betraying nothing. The sailor stood over six foot two, weighed an easy two hundred and forty pounds. He possessed arms the size of Rudy’s thighs, but his gut was bigger than Rudy’s chest.

  The silence grew taut. “What the fuck you staring at, pee-wee?”

  “The biggest, dumbest, drunk piece of shit Squid I’ve ever seen.”

  The drunken sailor’s eyes registered confusion. “Huh?”

  “Were you born this Goddamned stupid, or did you have to fucking work at it?”

  The big guy swung at Rudy.

  Big mistake.

  Rudy nimbly ducked the sailor’s sloppily thrown haymaker, and knocked him out with one powerful punch square to the point of the chin, hard enough to sublux the jaw, dinging the nerve centers under the ear. The sailor’s face registered shock and disbelief for an instant, then his eyes rolled up in his head. The lights went out, and he fell backwards to the ground, landing with a great thud on the floor.

  Bottles rattled on the bar and nearby tables.

  There was a brief moment of stunned silence in the bar. Everyone stared down at the unconscious behemoth, then up at Rudy, who stood all of five foot seven and weighed one sixty dripping wet. When the unconscious ass-hat’s friends decided to jump him en masse, Rudy obliged by fully demonstrating what one well-trained, highly motivated Marine could really do in a combat situation.

  Less than two minutes later, four other sailors lay scattered across the filthy floor, either unconscious or wishing they were. All were bleeding, two of them profusely. At least one would never sire an offspring.

  And standing at the center of it, not even breathing hard, grim and determined to not be taken down, stood Rudy

  “There a back way out of here?” he asked the bartender.

  The bartender motioned his head towards the back of the bar. Rudy retreated, sliding out the back.

  Outside in the parking lot, a man approached him. A big Hispanic man, expensive clothes. Lots of bling. Rudy recognized the two men with him as bodyguards, obviously professionals, and obviously men not to be trifled with.

  So Rudy simply stood his ground.

  “Guillermo Calderon,” the Big Man introduced himself. Everyone calls me El Gecko.”

  “Rudy Valdez.”

  “You got skills. I want you to come work for me.”

  “Doing what?”

  They all smiled. Rudy had no idea who this guy was.

  El Gecko, in a rare moment of complete veracity, told Rudy: “I am an international drug smuggler. Marijuana and heroin, mostly; we bring it up from Latin America into the U.S. I like keeping violence and bloodshed to a minimum. It draws the attention of law enforcement. Prices go up, profits go down. Bad for business.”

  “Basic law of Economics,” Rudy replied. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “When violence occurs, I don’t want undisciplined cowboys going wild, shooting everything in sight,” El Gecko answered. “Innocent bystanders, children. I only want professionals who know what they are doing.”

  “Admirable,” Rudy said, “but again, why me?”

  “You’re a Marine. You’re cool under pressure, and know how to take out the garbage.”

  “How much money?”

  “About ten times what you made on active duty.”

  Rudy couldn’t help but smile “Then it looks like I’m you’re man.”

  Now here he stood, six months later, tired and in a foul mood, pulling what was essentially glorified guard duty on a foggy dock on a cold night, searching the shadows for anyone who was not supposed to be there. All he really wanted was a mug of strong coffee, followed by a good night’s sleep in a warm bed. But here he was, and he was making almost ten times what he had made in the Corps.

  He breathed in and out slowly calming his nerves. Nights like this limited his vision and narrowed his potential kill zone. Truth be told he’d simply watched way too many old horror movies as a kid when the Old Man was pulling double shifts at the precinct to make ends meet.

  He moved forward, striding across the dock, his tightly laced steel-toed combat boots sounding dull thuds with each step. The cold dampness seeped through his blue jeans. He felt the skin on his thighs contract, the hair follicles rising. His boots kept his feet warm, at least. Next time he was out here, he told himself, he’d wear some thermals.

  He stopped near the middle of the dock, pulled out a small flashlight. He turned it on, then waved it in a modulated, horizontal back-and-forth pattern towards the ship. Mome
nts later, a tiny yellow beam pierced through the night, a prearranged response from the guard on board. Satisfied, Rudy turned the flashlight off and moved forward once again, continuing his patrol.

  Stay sharp, he told himself. Stay alert.

  His index finger slid off the side of the weapon to caress the trigger guard, a subconscious sign of his anxiety. Something isn’t right tonight, he thought.

  Trouble’s coming. I can feel it.

  At he top of the gangway, Stephen Thompson, better known to his friends as “T-Ball”, stepped off the ship. Gaunt and haggard, he wore threadbare, tattered clothes, unlaced sneakers, and unkempt dreadlocks. He stood over six feet, but weighed less than two hundred pounds. He was wasting away beneath his ill-fitting clothes. He was smoking meth, “sucking the glass dick” again, and was not eating properly. Malnourishment combined with the chemically enhanced hyper drive metabolism had him losing almost five pounds a week. He could see his ribs now when he looked in a mirror, and his muscles were atrophying.

  T-Ball was feeling the effects of downing a half bottle of rotgut whiskey he’d purchased a scant hour ago. His head buzzed, but not in a good way. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t take a deep breath. His stomach roiled and heaved, threatening to spill upwards at any moment.

  Detox was a bitch.

  Cold to the bone, he clutched his soiled Army Surplus field jacket closer to his unshaven throat. He shuddered, then lurched down the gangway. Looking as if he might pitch face forward at any moment, he finally made it onto the pier. Wobbly legs stood upright like rickety splinters underneath him.