Christopher Pike - The Last Vampire 03 - Red Dice.pdf - Christopher Pike - margozap

The Last Vampire 03

Christopher Pike

I am a vampire. Blood does not bother me. I like blood. Even seeing my own blood does not frighten

me. But what my blood can do to others—to the whole world for that matter—terrifies me. Once God

made me take a vow to create no more vampires. Once I believed in God. But my belief, like my vow,

has been shattered too many times in my long life. I am Alisa Perne, the now-forgotten Sita, child of a

demon. I am the oldest living creature on earth.

I awake in a living room smelling of death. I watch as my blood trickles through a thin plastic tube into

the arm of Special Agent Joel Drake, FBI. He now lives as a vampire instead of the human being he was

when he closed his eyes. I have broken my promise to Lord Krishna—Joel did not ask me to make him

a vampire. Indeed, he told me not to, to let him die in peace. But I did not listen. Therefore, Krishna's

protection, his grace, no longer applies to me. Perhaps it is good. Perhaps I will die soon. Perhaps not.

I do not die easily.

I remove the tubing from my arm and stand. At my feet lies the body of Mrs. Fender, mother of Eddie

Fender, who also lies dead, in a freezer at the end of the hall. Eddie had been a vampire, a very powerful

one, before I cut off his head. I step over his mother's body to search for a clock. Somehow, fighting the

forces of darkness, I have misplaced my watch. A clock ticks in the kitchen above the stove. Ten

minutes to twelve. It is dark outside.

I have been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours.

Joel will awaken soon, I know, and then we must go. But I do not wish to leave the evidence of my

struggle with Eddie for the FBI to examine. Having seen how Eddie stole and used the blood of my

creator, Yaksha, I know I must vaporize this sick house. My sense of smell is acute, as is my hearing.

The pump that cools the large freezer in the back is not electric but powered by gasoline. I smell large

amounts of fuel on the back porch. After I toss the gasoline all over the house, and wake Joel, I will

strike a match. Fire pleases me, although it has the power to destroy me. Had I not been a vampire, I

might have become a pyromaniac.

The gasoline is stored in two twenty-gallon steel tanks. Because I have the strength of many men, I have

no trouble lifting them both at once. Yet even I am surprised by how light they feel. Before I passed out, I

was like Joel, on the verge of death. Now I am stronger than I can ever remember being. There is a

reason. Yaksha gave me what blood he had left in his veins before I buried him in the sea. He gave me

his power, and I never realized how great it was until this moment. It is a wonder I was able to defeat

Eddie, who also drank from Yaksha. Perhaps Krishna came to my aid, one last time.

I take the drums into the living room. From the freezer, I remove Eddie's body, severed head, and even

the hard blood on the freezer floor. I pick them all up and place them on my living room barbecue. Next I

begin to break up the couch and tables into easy-to-burn pieces. The noise causes Joel to stir but he

does not waken. Newborn vampires sleep deep and wake up hungry. I wonder if Joel will be like my

beloved Ray, reluctant to drink from the living. I hope not. I loved Ray above all things, but as a vampire,

he was a pain in the ass.

I think of Ray.

He has been dead less than two days.

"My love," I whisper. "My sorrow."

There is no time for grief; there never is. There is no time for joy, I think bitterly. Only for life, pain,

death. God did not plan this creation. It was a joke to him, a dream. Once, in a dream, Krishna told me

many secrets. But he may have lied to me. It would have been like him.

I am almost done throwing the fuel around and tearing up the house when I hear the sound of

approaching cars. There are no sirens but I know these are police cruisers. Police drive differently from

nor-mal people, worse actually. They drive faster and the officers in these squad cars are anxious to get

here. I have incredibly sensitive hearing—I count at least twenty vehicles. What brings them here?

I glance at Joel.

"Are they coming for Eddie?" I ask him. "Or for me? What did you tell your superiors?"

But perhaps I am too quick to judge, too harsh. Los Angeles has seen many strange sights lately, many

bodies killed by superhumans. Perhaps Joel has not betrayed me, at least not intentionally. Perhaps I

have betrayed myself. I have gotten sloppy in my old age. I hurry to Joel's side and shake him roughly.

"Wake up," I say. "We have to get out of here."

He opens his drowsy eyes. "You look different," he whispers.

"Your eyes are different."

Realization crosses his face. "Did you change me?"

"Yes."

He swallows weakly. "Am I still human?"

I sigh. "You're a vampire."

"Sita."

I put a finger to his lips. "Later. We must leave here quickly. Many cops are coming." I pull him to his

feet and he groans. "You will feel stronger in a few minutes. Stronger than you have ever felt before."

I find a Bic lighter in the kitchen, and we head forthe front door. But before we can reach it I hear three

cruisers skid to a halt outside. We hurry to the back, but the situation is the same. Cops, weapons

drawn, have jumped out of their cars with whirling blue and red lights cutting paths in the night sky. More

vehicles appear, armored monstrosities with SWAT teams in-side. Searchlights flash on and light up the

house. We are surrounded. I do not do well in such situations, or else, one might say, I do very well—for

a vampire. What I mean is, being trapped brings out my most vicious side. I push aside my recently

acquired revul-sion for violence. Once, in the Middle Ages, sur-rounded by an angry mob, I killed over a

hundred men and women.

Of course, they didn't have guns.

A bullet in the head could probably kill me, I think.

"Am I really a vampire?" Joel asks, still trying to catch up with reality.

"You're not an FBI agent anymore," I mutter.

He shakes himself as he straightens up. "But I am. Or at least they think I am. Let me talk to them."

"Wait." I stop him, thinking. "I can't have them examine Eddie's remains. I don't trust what will happen to

his blood. I don't trust what his blood can still do. I must destroy it, and to do that I must burn down this

house."

Outside, through a bullhorn, a gruff-voiced man calls for us to come out with our hands in the air. Such

an unimaginative way of asking us to surrender.

Joel knew what Eddie had been capable of. "I waswondering why everything smelled like gasoline," he

remarks. "You light the place on fire—I have no problem with that. But then what are you going to do?

You can't fight this army."

"Can't I?" I peer out the front window and raise my eyes to the rhythmic thrumming in the sky. They

have a helicopter. Why? All to catch the feared serial killer? Yes, such a beast would demand heavy

forces. Yet I sense a curious undercurrent in the assembled men and women. It reminds me of when

Slim, Yalcsha's assassin, came looking for me. Slim's people had been warned that I was not normal. As

a result, I barely escaped. In the same way, these people know that there is something unusual about me.

I can almost read their thoughts.

This strikes me as strange.

I have always been able to sense emotions. Now, can I read thoughts, too?

What power has Yaksha's blood given me?

"Alisa," Joel says, calling me by my modern name. "Even you cannot break free of this circle." He

notices I'm lost in thought. "Alisa?"

"They think there is a monster in here," I whisper. "I hear their minds." I grip Joel. "What did you tell

them about me?"

He shakes his head. "Some things."

"Did you tell them I was powerful? Fast?"

He hesitates, then sighs. "I told them too much. But they don't know you're a vampire." He, too, peers

through the curtains. "They were getting suspicious about how the others died, torn to pieces. They had

my file on Eddie Fender, including where his mother lived. They must have tracked us here that way."

I shake my head. "I cannot surrender. It is against my nature."

He takes my hands. "You can't fight them all. You'll die."

I have to smile. "More of them would die." I lose my smile. "But if I do make a stand here, you will die

also." I am indecisive. His advice is logical. Yet my heart betrays me. I feel doom closing in. I speak

reluctantly. "Talk to them. Say what you think best. But I tell you—I will not leave this house with-out

setting it ablaze. There will be no more Eddie Fenders."

"I understand." He turns for the door, then stops. He speaks with his back to me. "I understand why you

did it."

"Do you forgive me?"

"Would I have died?" he asks.

"Yes."

He smiles gently, not turning to look at me. I feel the smile. "Then I must forgive you," he says. He raises

his hands above his head and reaches for the doorknob. "I hope my boss is out there."

Through a crack in the curtains I follow his prog-ress. Joel calls out his identity and a group of FBI

agents step forward. I can tell they're FBI by their suits. Joel is one of them. He looks the same as he did

yesterday. Yet they don't greet him as a friend. In an instant I grasp the full extent of their suspicions.

They know that whatever plague of death has been sweep-

ing L.A. is communicable. Eddie and I left too many bodies behind. Also, I remember the cop I freed.

The one whose blood I sampled. The one I told I was a vampire. The authorities may not have believed

that man, but they will think I am some kind of demon from hell.

Joel is handcuffed and dragged into an armored vehicle. He casts me a despairing glance before he

vanishes. I curse the fact that I listened to him. Now I, too, must be taken into the vehicle. Above all, I

must stay close to Joel. I don't know what he'll tell them. I don't know what they'll do with his blood.

Many of them are going to die, I realize.

The SWAT team cocks their weapons.

They call again for me to surrender.

I twirl the striker on the lighter and touch it to the wood I have gathered around Eddie's body. I say

goodbye to his ugly head. Hope the Popsicles you suck in hell cool your cracked and bleeding lips.

Casually, while the inferno spreads behind me, I step out the front door.

They are on me in an instant. Before I can reach the curb, my arms are pulled behind me and I am

handcuffed. They don't even read me my rights. You have the right to a pint of blood. If you cannot

afford one, the court will bleed a little for you. Yeah, I think sarcastically as they shove me into the back

of the armored vehicle where they threw Joel, I will be given all my rights as an American citizen. Behind

me I see them trying to put out the fire. Too bad they brought the firepower but forgot the fire engines.

The house is a funeral pyre. Eddie Fender will leave no legacy to haunt mankind.

But what about me? Joel?

Our legs are chained to the floor of the vehicle. Three men with automatic weapons and ghostly faces lit

from a single overhead light sit on a metal bench across from us, weapons trained on us. No one speaks.

Another two armed men sit up front, beside the driver. One carries a shotgun, the other a machine gun.

They are separated from us by what I know is bulletproof glass. It also acts as soundproofing. I can

break it with my little finger.

But what about the miniature army around us? They won't break so easily. As the door is closed and we

roll forward, I hear a dozen cars move into position around us. The chopper follows overhead, a

spotlight aimed down on our car. Their precautions border on the fanatical. They know I am capable of

extraordinary feats of strength. This realization sinks deep into my consciousness. For five thousand

years, except for a few isolated incidents, I have moved unknown through human history. Now I am

exposed. Now I am the enemy. No matter what happens, whether we escape or die trying, my life will

never be the same.

I'll have to tear up my credit cards.

"Where are you taking us?" I ask.

"You are to remain silent," the middle one says. He has the face of a drill sergeant, leathery skin, deeply

etched lines cut in from years of barking commands. Like his partners, he wears a flak jacket. I think I

would look nice in one. I catch his eye and smile faintly.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you afraid of a young woman?"

"Silence," he snaps, shaking his weapon, shifting uncomfortably. My stare is strong medicine. It can burn

holes in brain neurons. My voice is hypnotic, when I wish it to be. I could sing a grizzly to sleep. I let my

smile widen.

"May I have a cigarette?" I ask.

"No," he says flatly.

I lean forward as far as I can. These men, for all their plans, have not come as well prepared as Slim's

people did. Yaksha had them bring cuffs made of a special alloy that 1 could not break. I can snap these

like paper. Yet they are seated close together, these SWAT experts, and they have three separate

weapons leveled directly at me. They could conceivably kill me before I could take out all of them. For

that reason I have to take a subtle approach.

Relatively speaking.

Christopher Pike - The Last Vampire 03 - Red Dice.pdf

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