David Wellington - 13 Bullets

Acknowledgments

A lot of people assisted me with the writing and preparation of this book. Id like to thank all my online readers. Every time I try to list them I end up forgetting people who deserved better, so this time I wont even try. You know who you are by now. Your comments and your support made this book possible.

I would certainly like to thank Alex Lencicki, who has been a great friend and a great business partner. Alex gave this book its first home and believed in it from the very start.

Jason Pinter, my editor, certainly deserves my thanks for his help in refining the manuscript and making this book stronger. Carrie Thornton has been encouraging my writing since before I had anything real to show and has never faltered in her support, for which I thank her.

Finally, Id like to thank my wife, Elisabeth. When I was struggling with how to finish the story, she suggested one possible ending: And then the goblin ate the vampire. The End.

About the Author

D AVID W ELLINGTON grew up outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He has since lived in Syracuse, Denver, and New York City, where he currently resides with his wife, Elisabeth.

In 2004 he wrote a novel about zombies called Monster Island and published it online on a friends blog, posting short chapters three times a week. The serial drew enough readers that in 2006, Thunders Mouth Press published it as a book. Two sequels followed.

Information about his books and other projects is available at www.davidwellington.net.

Incident report filed by Special Deputy Jameson Arkeley, 10/4/83 (recorded on reel-to-reel audiotape):

T hrough the rain there wasnt much to see. The all-night diner stood at the corner of two major streets. Its plate glass windows spilled a little light on the pavement. I handed the binoculars to Webster, my partner. Do you see him? I asked.

The subject in question, one Piter Byron Lares (probably an alias), sat at the diners counter, hunched over in deep conversation with a middle-aged waitress. He would be a big man if he stood up, but leaning over like that, he didnt look so imposing. His face was very pale, and his black hair stood up in a wild shock of frizzy curls. An enormous red sweater hung off himanother attempt at camouflaging his size, I figured. He wore thick eyeglasses with tortoiseshell rims.

I dont know what they teach you at Fed school, Arkeley, but Ive never heard of one of them needing glasses, Webster said, handing me back the binoculars.

Shut up. The week before I had found six dead girls in a cellar in Liverpool, West Virginia. Theyd been having a slumber party. They were in so many pieces it took three lab technicians working night and day in a borrowed school gymnasium just to figure out how many bodies we had. I was not in a good mood. I had beaten one of the assholes minions to dust with my bare hands just to find out his alias. I wasnt going to slow down now.

Lares stood up, his head still bowed, and took a leather wallet out of his pocket. He began to count out small bills. Then he seemed to think of something. He looked up, around the diner. He rose to his full height and looked out at the street.

Did he just make us? Webster demanded. In this weather?

Im not sure, I said. About a gallon of bright red blood erupted across the diners front window. I couldnt see anything inside.

Shit! I screamed, and pushed my way out of the car, across the sidewalk, the rain soaking me instantly. I burst inside the diner, my star bright on my jacket, but he was already gone and there was nobody left alive inside to be impressed. The waitress lay on the floor, her head nearly torn off her body. You read about them and you expect vampire wounds to be dainty little things, maybe a pair of bad hickeys. Lares had chewed most of the womans neck off. Her jugular vein stuck out like the neck of a deflated balloon.

Blood spilled off the counter and splattered the ceiling. I unholstered my service revolver and stepped around the body. There was a door in the back. I had to stop myself from racing to it. If he was in the back and I ran into him in the shadows by the mens room I wouldnt survive my curiosity. I headed back out into the rain where Webster already had the car running. Hed been busy rousing the locals. A helicopter swooped low over our heads with a racket that was sure to get complaints tomorrow morning. The choppers spotlight blasted holes in the shadows all around the diner. Webster got us moving, pulled us around the alley behind the restaurant. I peered through the rain at the Dumpsters and the scattered garbage. Nothing happened. We had plenty of backup watching the front of the restaurant. We had heavy weapons guys coming in. The helicopter could stay up there all night if it needed to. I tried to relax.

SWATs moving, Webster told me. He replaced his radio handset.

The Dumpster in the alley shifted an inch. Like some homeless guy inside had rolled over in his sleep. Both of us froze for a second. Long enough to be sure wed both seen it. I brought my weapon up and tested the action. I was loading JHPs for maximal tissue damage and I had sighted in the pistol myself. If I could have gotten my gun blessed by a priest I would have. There was no way this psychopath was walking away tonight.

Special Deputy Arkeley, maybe we should back off and let SWAT negotiate with him, Webster told me. His using my official title meant he wanted to go on the record as doing everything possible to avoid a violent takedown. Covering his ass. We both knew there was no chance of Lares coming peacefully.

Yeah, youre probably right, I said, my nerves all twisted up. Yeah. I eased my grip on the pistol and kicked angrily at the floorboards.

The Dumpster came apart in pieces and a white blur launched itself out of the alley. It collided with our car hard enough to knock us up onto two wheels. My door caved in and pinned my arm to my side, trapping my weapon. Webster grabbed for his own handgun even as the car fell back to the road surface, throwing us both up against our seat belts, knocking the wind out of me.

Webster reached across me and discharged his weapon three times. I could feel my face and hands burning with spent powder. I could smell cordite and nothing else. I was deaf for a good thirty seconds. My window exploded outwards, but a few tiny cubes of glass danced and spun in my lap.

I turned my head sideways, feeling like I was trapped in molten glassI could see everything normally but I could barely move. Framed perfectly in the shattered safety glass was Lares grinning, torn-up face. Rain was washing the blood off his mouth but it didnt improve his looks. His glasses were ruined, twisted arms of tortoiseshell and cobwebbed lenses. At least one of Websters shots had gone in through Lares right eye. The white jelly inside had burst outward and I could see red bone in the socket. The other two bullets had gone into the side of his nose and his right cheek. The wounds were horrible, bloody, and definitely fatal.

As I watched, they undid themselves. It was like when you run over one of those shatterproof trash cans and it slowly but surely undents itself, returning to its former shape in seconds. A puff of white smoke in Lares vacant eye socket solidified, plumped out into a brand new eyeball. The wound in his nose shrank away to nothing and the one in his cheek might as well have been a trick of the light. Like a shadow it just disappeared.

When he was whole and clean again he slowly removed the broken glasses from his face and threw them over his shoulder. Then he opened his mouth and grinned. Every one of his teeth was sharpened to a point. It wasnt like in the movies at all. It looked more like the mouth of a shark, with row after row of tiny knives embedded in his gums. He gave us a good, long look at his mouth and then he jumped over our car. I could hear his feet beating on the roof, and he was all at once on the other side. He hit the ground running, running toward Liberty Avenue.