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The Blade and the Bullet: Nacht

Novel By: tfg90

When there is a string of murders in Chicago, Daniel Cross is sent in to investigate, only to find that he must question his morals to end the killing. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Jun 23, 2012    Reads: 75    Comments: 10    Likes: 2   

"She had tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes. Her eyebrows were creased and her forehead was sweating. I could hardly tell whether the moisture on her cheeks was either sweat or tears. She was more scared than I could imagine, but who could blame her ya know? She took my hand a few moments before the end, and boy did she have a grip. After all the operations and so many days of just lying in bed, it was a surprise how strong she was. Her mouth moved a little, but I couldn't discern any words. She started shaking, but then went limp and her hand fell from mine."

The young overweight man started crying, his plump hand rising to wipe away the tears that dared to race to his hairy chin. He had to push up his glasses, a retro 50's pair, to get the job done properly. His large belly tucked under the tight white button-up and long black tie jiggled with each heave. He wore black dress pants and black shined shoes. As he leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees and his hands in his short brown hair, he let out a heavy breath and ceased his bawling.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just dump all of this onto you," he said to the man sitting opposite him in the mostly-vacant bus station.

The man sat in the seat as relaxed as possible, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms draped over the backs of the seats closest to him. His clothes seemed a couple sizes too big and stained with God-knows-what. His shoes, and old pair of Air Jordan's, were tattered and full of holes; his grimy toes poked out wherever they could. His long, unkempt hair and beard was matted with dirt and unimaginable substances. Underneath the muck, clinging to any exposed area was pale skin. Blue eyes looked down a straight and pointed nose at the plump young man.

"Think nothin of it, young scribe," he said, his voice a deep Southern drawl. "We've all got our stories to tell. All we need is someone to tell em to."

Something caught the vagrant's eye, but he did not make it obvious. Out of the corner of his eye, he followed a figure head into the men's restroom. A glimpse of a smile spread across his dirty face as he looked back to the young man sitting opposite him.

"If you would excuse me a moment," said the vagabond, to which the young man nodded as he sniffled.

The man rose from his seat and made his way to the restroom. He walked briskly, but carried a slight limp with each step of his left foot. His raggedy shoes threatened to slip off as he entered the lavatory, and he wouldn't have cared if they had

The man who had entered not a minute earlier stood at a sink, washing his hands. He glanced over to the tramp and took in his appearance; it clashed with his own wardrobe incredibly. Clad in a brown turtleneck, a pair of clean khakis, and spotless dress shoes, the man looked upon the bum with utter disgust.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his groaning tone asserting that he was of higher class.

"I'm sure you can," the other man answered, his thick accent gone. He lunged, the limp disappearing as if it had never existed. As they slammed against the wall, the attacker withdrew something from under his shirt. He pressed the silver blade to his prey's throat.

A soft, sickening sizzle filled the not-so-fresh air. Before he could scream, the man with the knife clamped a hand over the other man's mouth.

Only the man who screamed was not quite a man at all. And neither was the one who held him to the wall.

"Scream all you want, Dog. I don't care," the one with the knife said. "All I want is a couple answers. I'm gonna ask you some questions, and all I need from you is a yes or a no. Do you understand?"

The so-called dog pushed back against him, but was pressed back to the wall in a second.

"That's not the kind of answer I'm lookin for. Do that again and I poke out an eye," warned the filthy one. "Got it?"

"Yes," the prey answered, his voice muffled.

"Good." He grinned, letting his hand uncover the other's mouth. He gripped the turtleneck to keep the other in his place. "Is your name Jackson Gregory?"

"Yes," he replied with a gulp.

"Are you a werewolf?"

Jackson did not answer quick enough; his hesitance was met with a forceful blow to the gut. After being straightened up, he nodded.

"Did you slaughter those campers on the full moon? Answer quickly or I won't be as gentle."

"What are you talkin about, vamp?" Jackson's question was replied with a slash across his right cheek. He yelped in pain for a brief moment before being muffled again.

"Yes or no answers, Jackson," the vampire warned. "Try again."

"I didn't--"

The knife was a centimeter from Jackson's left eye in the blink of a soon-to-be-missing eye. "I swear I'll poke it out if you do not answer me correctly, Dog." His threat was laced with anger, impatience, and sincerity.

"Y-y-yes," Jackson stuttered. He started to shake, but was released a heartbeat after his confession. The vampire lowered the knife and took a few steps back, looking down at the knife as it shined in the fluorescent light.

"Thank you, Mr. Gregory. Feel free to leave if you wish."

Jackson stood still for a moment while he examined the vagabond. "If you ever come near me again with that knife--"

"Then how about this?" the vampire interrupted, pulling out a silver-looking pistol and pressing it against the werewolf's forehead.

"I'll… I'll…" Jackson stammered.

"You'll what? Shift?" the vampire suggested. "Go ahead. It's been ages since I've taken out of you bastards in your true form. Make my day, Doggie. Make my fucking day."

Jackson was still again, his frightened brown eyes darting from the gun to the one who held it. The two of them stood there for a long moment until the vampire smiled and nodded, backing away.

"Run along, boy. Before I change my mind," he teased, placing the pistol back in its holster on his back.

Jackson Gregory quivered as he passed his attacker, unsure about the seriousness of the vampire.

"Oh, one more thing," the vagrant said, hiding his blade so the werewolf could not see. Jackson froze a few feet from the door and looked back.

"I changed my mind."

The vampire flung the blade; it stuck in the middle of Jackson's chest. As he reached to pull it out, his attacker pounced and took hold of the knife. He twisted it and let it burn the werewolf's insides. Unlike before, Jackson's screams were silent.

The vagabond dragged his prey to the middle stall with ease and placed him on the toilet. He let his knife stay in the beast's chest for a little while longer as he looked down at his dying enemy. Just before he drew his last breath, the vampire slid out the blade and twisted Jackson's neck with a violent jerk.

He let out a soft breath while a small grin grew as he backed away, locked the door, and propelled himself up and over the door. He began to whistle Colonel Bogey's March as he turned the tap on one of the sinks and rinsed the blood off his knife. The procedure was done within a minute, and without a second glance, he sheathed his blade and stepped out of the restroom. His fake limp returned as he left the now-vacant bus station.


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