The Vampires Of Livix Twin Pack (Volumes #2 & #3) Read online

  THE VAMPIRES OF LIVIX TRILOGY

  The Vampires of Livix Trilogy – Volumes 2 & 3

  Paranormal Romance

  By

  J GORDON SMITH

  ** Novel Quality Guild Member **

  #1 Best Selling Author

  Ayton & Greene Publishing Company

  Detroit, Michigan

  Copyright © 2012 by J Gordon Smith

  The Vampires Of Livix Novels

  1 -:- One Night Burns

  2 -:- The Night Discovered

  3 -:- Behold This Night

  Menace Me With Death (Short Story)

  Aravant In The Highlands (Short Story)

  Official Author Web blog: J Gordon Smith

  THE NIGHT DISCOVERED

  The Vampires of Livix Novel – Volume 2

  Paranormal Romantic Suspense

  -:- Zero -:-

  THE TRUCKER TIPPED his boot into the accelerator. The dual exhausts rattled against the back of the cab as black smoke belched out from the chugging diesel engine. The truck cab lifted reacting to the torque twisting through the drive train into the double set of axles. The wheels ground forward pulling the rig away from the dock.

  Checking his mirrors, and by the flickering florescent lighting giving everything a gray tint, he saw the swirling sea of cattle herded deeper into the maze of unloading chutes – filling the front end of the slaughterhouse machinery. He crushed the paper printout signed by the floor foreman against the big steering wheel as he gripped and turned its wide rim. The paper listed the radio frequency ear tags of the hundred and twenty steers he delivered from the half dozen Howell farmers he worked with.

  He hopped down from his cab and crunched across the gravel toward the payment office. Exterior wooden stairs led to the second story trucker entrance. The sun bleached treads creaked under his weight while the well used entry door shined in the exterior lights where paint rubbed off from abrasive coats, trousers, and boot kicks. Barn door grab bars bolted to the steel portal replaced the regular door handle that broke off long ago, finally rugged enough to survive the constant abuse by rough and busy truckers. Most truckers got paid for miles driven so sitting at a dock or any other barrier like a door became another pause in the infinite delays that sucked away their money. This trucker worked with the farmers as an independent so he made money directly on the cargo but he still only made money when his wheels rolled.

  He came to the glass window and slid the paper dock sheet through the slot.

  Cheryl, one of the office accounts payable girls came into view, “… that’s right Joan. The Massai tanker truck will be here soon. He needs that paperwork ready to go. When you see him you’ll understand why … Oh, hi Fred. What’s the load today?”

  Fred leaned his bulk against the little counter between them and smiled. Cheryl worked the third shift and Fred often timed his deliveries to chat with the petite younger girl, younger meaning probably in her early thirties. He liked her easy smile. “The usual hundred and twenty. The scale weights and totals are signed like we need.”

  Cheryl scanned the dock sheet. She made circles and initialed it in several places. She stamped each of the three sheets with a blocky date-wheel stamp. She pulled off two sheets and filed them in a folder marked with today’s date and already overflowing.

  “Looks like it’s been a busy day the way the stuffing is nearly falling out of that folder.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s been busy. The stores are calling for more product anticipating the Labor Day grilling rush and the store promotions they are sending to their printers. Their purchasing agents are in a tizzy.” She held her hand out over the slot.

  “– Sorry,” Fred dug in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. The chrome chain connecting the wallet to his belt zippered across the sharp edge of the counter. He dropped his wallet open and slid out the slaughterhouse debit card. He dropped it through the slot to Cheryl.

  She flipped the card around and swiped it through the debit machine quickly keying in her codes on the keypad and giving the card back to Fred.

  “It’s heavier already.”

  Cheryl smiled, “Don’t spend it all in one place –”

  The exterior door flung open. It hammered against the rubber pucks mounted on the wall to catch it. An athletic trucker the size of a center guard filled the doorway. He breathed heavy with adrenaline. His eyes darted back and forth. His broad beam of a chest and bull-like arm pushed at the door. Powerful sausage fingers seemed to dent the already abused metal. A black leather biker’s jacket wrapped him tightly. Chains and zippers and buckles dangled around the jacket and clanked with each contact of his knobby black boots on the blistered and discolored tiles covering the hallway beams.

  Fred gulped involuntarily and faded from the counter.

  The leather jacketed trucker leaned toward the glass.

  “Joan, he’s here –” Cheryl yelled back through the office, “You need to bring the documents out NOW!”

  Joan walked briskly from somewhere behind in the office. Fred saw her jaw jutting angrily forward at Cheryl’s apparent meanness. Then Joan saw the enormous leather jacket darkening the light through the payment glass. She saw the trucker’s feral hungry eyes latch onto her movement. He licked his lips and ground his teeth together. The muscles on his jaw clenched and bulged from the sides of his face. A mix of pain, hunger, and violence crackled from his eyes hooded under black brush-like brows.

  Joan’s body slackened and her face paled from fear, “H-h-here it is.” Joan tossed the papers on the desk and scurried away. Cheryl snatched the papers from Joan and went about banging the date stamp on the dozen papers like killing cockroaches. Some pages received two or three marks when one seemed sufficient while other exuberant marks painted the desk outside the paper's margin.

  The leather jacketed trucker flipped through the papers, wrinkling many of the crisp sheets still warm from the high speed laser printer. His voice boomed at the glass, “Where’s the Purity Test results?”

  “Joan!” Cheryl moaned, “I’ll be right back.” Cheryl launched from the chair like a deer, snatching at a ring of keys lying to the side of her counter. She needed to unlock the lab door and get the paperwork herself.

  The leather jacketed trucker fidgeted in the narrow hall before the window. Fred stood back. He realized his wallet still dangled at the end of its chain. He casually reeled in the links and slipped the wallet back in his pants pocket. He’d verify his debit card remained safely in his wallet when he himself came safely to his truck and had the cab doors locked tight. He wanted to leave but getting to the door meant brushing against that pier of anger. Fred waited as if caged with a hungry bear, quiet and shrinking back. The leather jacketed trucker glanced at Fred with the corner of his eye and Fred felt how the large pupil rimmed in a thin iris sucked at his soul but then thankfully the withering eye swiveled back around to the glass.

  “Here you go,” Cheryl returned, “The lab tech had it ready in his outgoing bin.” She dropped the second copy to her pile of retains from this shipment while poking the trucker’s copy to him through the slot. “It’s tank trailer number forty-seven eight nine.”

  “Thanks.” The trucker grunted. He paused at the door crumpling the papers into an inside jacket pocket. Then he banged his shoulder into the door and stamped down the steps. The door whipped back on its rebound and bashed hard against the jamb.

  “Whew!” said Cheryl, slumping in her chair. “He’s what I hate about third shift.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Driver from Massai Inc.” Cheryl said, organizing her papers.

  “Never heard of the c
ompany. Are they getting stuff for chicken feed and need FDA lab tests?”

  “Oh, not chicken feed. We used to supply the feed mills but they never want to pay or delay payments so much that we get upside down on cash flow. More regular and valuable sales from Massai. They are particular about our handling the blood from the floor to the tankers and the lab results since they are some sort of blood products company. Maybe they only do research since we don’t have any FDA dealings. That’s only my guess. We don’t really know. And no one is brave enough to chat with him.”

  “Strange fellow.” Fred hefted his belly into his chest, “I always thought I was a big boy, but I’m only a shadow of that guy.”

  “You’re not kidding. The unloading guys won’t even talk to him. The foreman tosses the tag sheets through a slot in his mostly rolled up window. The guy has the heater on full blast even in the summer with a dozen new pine-scented air fresheners dangling from the vents. Sometimes the fans make such a breeze the paper gets blown out while the foreman tries pushing it through the slot and he has to retrieve it for the trucker. I know because the trucker brought the sheet up here smeared with ramp swamp. Of course, I don’t say anything.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” Fred eased toward the door, “I should get going. Hope the rest of your shift goes easier.”

  “It will.” Cheryl pushed her keys to the side of the desk, “I know when I see him one shift I won’t usually see him for another three nights.”

  “Back to the routine then,” he tipped the brim on his baseball hat.

  “Yes. See you next load Fred.” Cheryl waved.

  At the back of the trailer he swung first one door and then the second closed. He spun the latch lever. The gripping ends groaned into pockets as they wedged the last inch of the doors closed. The secondary safety catches clinked and banged into place holding the latch lever until the next loading stop. He glanced at the dock as he walked toward his cab.

  Even with the dozen dock ramps butting against the plant, and quick work by the unloading teams, the dock remained full with a line of incoming trucks snaking along the street outside. The slaughterhouse ran three shifts six days a week and sold every neat little plastic-wrapped tray that popped out of the packaging equipment on the other end as fast as the truckers filled this end.

  He slammed his cab door and drove forward onto the street.

  -:- -:- -:-

  Fred pulled into the parking lot of the Livix Duck Club.

  “You can’t park that stinky rig here.”

  “Yeah?” Fred jumped from the last step and slammed the cab door. “Mr. Outback thinks otherwise,” Fred touched his belt and showcased the long sheath of his deer hunting knife strapped there. The militia medallion riveted on it spoke as much as the knife behind it.

  “Alright. But who are you here to see?”

  “Big Bruce. Is he in?”

  “Yeah. He’s in the underground range. See Sammy at the grill.” The guy pushed back the door for Fred. Fred settled the brim of his ball cap slightly higher and strode in. Sammy pointed the way through another door and winding metal stairs down two levels underground. Fred recognized the construction. A maze of ocean shipping containers welded together and buried underground. Fast easy bunkers for protection. The tang of diesel revealed backup power systems somewhere.

  The Livix Militia was part of the larger statewide network of independent survivalists. True Believers by some of the more radical members. Most of the members joined for the camaraderie of a boys club and many used it to get away from the wife and kids a couple of nights a month and blow off steam with a pint. Fred belonged to a Howell group but they counted less than a dozen members. Livix had always been better funded from its broader and more diverse membership. They even had a few true ex-military along with the brigade of weekend warrior lawyers and engineers. Their dentist member ensured their teeth stayed straight too.

  Fred grabbed percussion muffs from the hooks on the wall and pushed through the heavy door into the shooting range. The gun room monitor came to the counter. Fred asked, “I’m looking for Big Bruce.”

  Rapid but muffled semi-automatic shots burst from somewhere on the other side of the next door. The monitor pointed to his ears and Fred put the hearing protectors on. Then the monitor pressed a lock solenoid and the sound door opened for Fred.

  He stepped across the threshold into a dozen stalls arranged like supermarket shopping isles. Fred spied how the range aisles were made from enough forty-foot shipping containers bolted side by side and end to end with their sides sliced out with cutting torches to fill a decent over-night truck stop. Big Bruce stood in isle six squeezing the trigger of his pistol in rapid succession. The recoil lifted the muzzle slightly with each round but Bruce tipped it back on target from muscle memory. Fred waited by the door until Bruce finished his clip.

  “What can I do for you?” Bruce asked as he dropped the clip to the sideboard and slid in another preloaded clip until it clicked in place. Bruce cocked the action and set the gun down thumbing the safety. “Come on over.” Bruce boomed, “I’m reloading clips.” He spun a box of bullets around and flicked off the lid. Then he grasped a clip in one hand and a fistful of bullets in the other and pressed them quickly in the clip with a practiced and calloused thumb. Fred knew from his own experience that loading against those clip springs can tear up your hands.

  “I think I found an interesting piece of information for you.”

  Bruce put down his already loaded clip. His hand hovered over the next clip, “What kind of information?”

  “I found you another vampire.”

  Bruce picked up the clip, “Oh, we’ve got a lot of vampires we’ve found already.”

  “Did you know a vampire picks up blood from the slaughterhouse?”

  “No. We don’t have any members working at the slaughterhouse.”

  “I heard they get a tanker full every three days.”

  Bruce tossed the remaining shells in their box and set the second unfinished clip down, “Interesting.” He pulled off his hearing protectors and bellowed, “Phil, get over here.”

  Phil came out of the monitor’s room, another box of bullets in hand, anticipating Bruce.

  “No, I’m not out of rounds. You work at Vermilion on that little military project?”

  “Yeah. Lab tech.”

  “I think Fred here has found where the vampire feeding tube starts, we thought it might be synthetic. We’ll have to explore this. It will fit in with the party we’ve been considering.” Bruce flipped his protective glasses onto the sideboard and dropped his hearing protectors beside them. “It’s Fred from Howell, right? I appreciate the tip. If your group wants to borrow the range some time then let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  -:- One -:-

  “I woke,

  she fled,

  and day brought back my night.”

  – edgar allen poe

  The empty end of the hunter-green park bench throbbed hotly as the sunlight bared down upon it. The morning heat already pushed me under the shadow cast by the broad reach of the old oak yet the metal bench dragged heat toward me. I separated myself from the hot iron by poking my sweatshirt under my thighs and again looking furtively for another possible perch.

  My first weekend free of vampires and I felt mostly normal again. Maybe. Horrible scars knifed my heart deep from my first encounters and how it ended so badly. Wounds that might never heal. I killed two of the monsters in self defense but still my mind relives that horror. The fear.

  My heart twinges and rent tears from pushing away Garin. I loved Garin – possibly my only True Love. But too much mixing with the undead. Too much of their world. I knew I did not want to be a vampire – and I feared that being involved with one, Garin in that way, would surely and inexorably drag me over that cliff. I chose to live! Even though my heart disagreed and protested the loudest when I remained still and quiet in the night.

  So I distracted myself. I kept my mind occupied
with a variety of methods including sitting on the park bench reading my Kindle. My latest book recommended by Fillian at Fillian’s Books pointed me to The Fire Gem. I liked the strong main character. I wiggled on the bench and read.

  “I smelled you across the valley,” growled a voice penetrating like daggers through her chest. A reflective platinum dragon lounged on the upper balcony. “Are you here to take my vast horde of treasure?”

  Koren glanced across the barren, empty balcony. “No, we came to find the Forge.”

  The dragon hunched forward and said, “I have not heard talk of the Forge for centuries!”

  Roller blades and blue jeans startled me from my novel. The skater roared across the cracked sidewalk too close to my knees. He ground his heel brake into the concrete and spun around, “Sorry Anna –”

  I recognized the voice. He pushed sweat off his brow into his recent haircut, his face sharply lit with sunlight. The light cut across the angle from his shoulders to his waist accentuated with a slightly tight and sweaty mauve T-shirt. The roller blades made him taller. Nearly unrecognizable and alarmingly attractive.

  “It’s me. Brett from the coffee shop.” He said before my thoughts fully collected. He skated toward me.

  “I’ve never seen you without your flannel,” I could smell his fresh and still pleasant sweat. Later it would be a stinky-locker-room aroma but for now ok, or maybe a little better. I tipped my flustered thoughts, “Nice haircut. You look different without that coffee shop around you.”

  “I know what you mean. I see one person in one spot or doing one activity and they are defined by it. Step away from the situation and you don’t recognize them.” He moved on to, “I like how you change your hair practically every day. Something for me to look forward to that I’ve missed – you haven’t been visiting in a while.”