Original art by Rob Pegler
He was waiting for the Quincy Boys when they came out. He'd climbed up onto the fire escape above the alley, and watched the blue door near the dead end. That was where they slept, and they were usually up just after sundown. He'd already been out for an hour, himself.
A lot of people think vampires only come out at night, but that's not strictly true. There's usually an hour or so when the sun's below the horizon, or behind the buildings, and even though the sky's still light there's plenty of shadow about, and no direct sunlight to burn in. It's a good time to hunt, for those who want to risk it. People are on the move, thousands of them, crowding the streets and filling up trains, sitting around in traffic jams, travelling between work and home. If a few of them go missing, nobody notices for a good long while. Rush hour. Happy hour.
So he'd set out just before six, slipping up through the grate from the little concrete cave where he kept his spoils safely tucked away. He went fast and low, dashing through alleys and empty lots, scurrying through abandoned buildings and crawling through dark hollow windows, playing hide and seek with the sun. And by the time the light faded from the sky he was up on that fire escape, dirty little fingers tapping on the railing, watching the blue door.
They came out at quarter past seven, later than usual. Rushie led the way, like always, sauntering down the alley like he owned the whole block. Jimmy and Cole came after, following big brother like little lap dogs, shoving and smacking each other around. He crouched up on the fire escape, peering through the metal grille as they passed underneath him, playing peekaboo with the monsters. They moved on to the end of the alley and turned left, out into Quincy street, into the city.
And then he moved. He was over the rail in a flash, ignoring the ladder, dropping thirty feet to the ground like it was nothing. He landed in a crouch, head and eyes instinctively moving to look for danger, and then he was up and running. A low, scampering run, hugging the wall, like a mouse running along a skirting board. He reached the corner and ducked low, peering around it near the ground. They hadn't gone far, making their way through the sparse crowd on the pavement, cool and nonchalant, checking out the humans as they passed them by. They were in no hurry. They had all night to pick one out. And he had all night to follow them.
The Quincy Boys never saw him, though he followed them a lot. Most of the others he shadowed ever noticed him either. Every now and then, though, one would look back over his shoulder and see the little shape, huddled and hooded in the shadows, slipping down the street behind. They never caught him, he was too fast, and once he'd been spotted he was gone in a flash. But some remembered him, and kept a watch for him while they hunted. Some knew when he was there, but tolerated him as long as he kept his distance. Sometimes they talked about him to their fellows, and laughed at him skulking back there in the dark.
They called him the Salvage Man.
It took the Quincys a couple of hours to pick one out. They spent some time hanging around the mall parking lot, making catcalls and kissy-faces at the shoppers, until two security guards came out to move them on. Rushie threw one of them into the side of a van, then they just walked away while the other grabbed his walkie-talkie to summon the cops. The Salvage Man didn't wait around to see if the guard was dead or not. If the Quincys didn't care, then neither did he.
They spent the next hour at a bar, watching people go in and out, taking their time. The Salvage Man waited across the street, skulking in a doorway, watching them through the wide open doors as they sat at the bar and made a nuisance of themselves. Some would have given up, gone off to find someone else to follow, but the Salvage Man was nothing if not patient.
Finally, at around nine-thirty, they made their move. They'd been watching a girl at a far table—about twenty-five, brown hair, a little mousey—as she sipped a glass of wine and fiddled with her cellphone. When she finally left—having been stood up, perhaps, or on her way to meet someone—they got up to tail her. He watched from his doorway as the girl walked off down the street, looking for a taxi, oblivious to the three dirty thugs wandering carelessly behind her. When they were at a safe distance, the Salvage Man followed.
They grabbed her on Gehenna Street, just around the corner. For all their swaggering and nonchalance, they could move like lightning when it mattered. Rushie gave the signal and Jimmy was on her in a flash, like an attack dog let off his leash. The girl was lifted off her feet, the strong cold hand around her face before she could draw breath for a scream. And then they were gone, dragging her down the alley beside the laundromat, into the darkness. It happened so fast that nobody even noticed. Nobody but the Salvage Man.
As soon as they were out of sight, he scaled the wall of the old tenement on the other side of the alley. He was a good climber, even for a vampire, and it was an easy climb. Dropping to all fours, he scuttled across the roof like a bug and peered over the edge. There they were, behind a rubbish skip near the dead end of the alley, going to work on the struggling girl. The Salvage Man ducked back and settled onto the roof. He didn't bother to watch. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long.
They didn't rape her. Some did, before going for the throat, but the Quincys never seemed interested. Straight to the point, that was them. They didn't rob, either, and that was why he followed them. When the girl's dying gasps finally abated, they emerged from the alley and walked off, casually wiping the blood from their chins. Like three lads on the town, coming out of a pizza joint. They'd barely made it out onto the street before the Salvage Man dropped into the alley behind them.
The girl was shoved up against the skip like a bag of garbage, twisted limbs splayed out beside her. He worked fast, emptying her bag, pocketing her phone and wallet. A diary hit the ground and fell open. A page from three months ago, telling the girl she'd had a hair appointment, and to call her sister. The Salvage Man wondered if she'd remembered, and what they'd talked about. Throwing the bag aside, he searched her from head to toe, grabbing whatever he could see. Earrings, pendant, rings, all that glittered. He'd worry about whether it was worth anything later. He didn't bother with the ring in her belly button. And when he'd stripped her of anything he could sell, he looked at her wounds.
She had several bites—neck, arms, thighs. Jimmy, for one, was never happy with his spot and kept moving around. The heart had stopped, the blood beginning to congeal, but she was still warm and there'd be enough left to go on with. Eyes darting to check for danger, he stooped over the body and tucked in, going for the wound on her neck. When he'd drawn out as much as he could, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the warmth flow out from his belly, filling him up. Not enough. Never enough.
Then he was moving again, away down the alley and into the street, following the Quincy Boys again.
He'd had a name once. Couldn't rightly remember what it was. He couldn't remember much from those days. No faces, no names. He remembered the punches and the kicks, the welts and bruises. The names hurt less, but not by much. He remembered the old woman and the tea kettle. The little chink of light under the closet door, and the smell of burnt hair.
And then there was the girl. Tall and cool and straight out of a magazine. Burgundy lips on buttermilk skin. He remembered the way she smelled, the brush of her hair across his face, how cold her fingers were. That exquisite pain when her fangs pricked his neck.
She hadn't meant to turn him. He was no use to anyone, alive or undead. Maybe he'd just gotten back up so many times, no matter how bloody and broken, that doing it one more time was all he knew how to do. Worthless little animal, the old woman had called him. Didn't even know when to die.
He'd never bothered with the clans. He knew they wouldn't want him. Nobody had ever wanted him, except the girl, and then only until his heart stopped beating. He'd tried to hunt alone, but he didn't have the knack. He had the speed, but not the strength to subdue the prey, nor the charm to set them at their ease. And when the clans caught him poaching, sniffing on their patch, they schooled him before sending him on his way. Took a silver knife and burned the lesson into his face.
So he'd found a place to hide, a nice dark hole like his old closet, little chinks of light through the grate. And when they hunted, he followed, and watched, and waited. He was the hyena, following the lions. The carrion bird, pecking at the scraps. The poor little Salvage Man, picking up what they threw away.
They went for seconds at around ten-fifteen. The Quincys never took just one. They were growing lads.
It was a boy this time. About seventeen, skinny and awkward, tight t-shirt and baggy jeans. He was standing at the bus stop near the scrapyards, smoking a cigarette. Cole wandered over and asked him for a light. Cole was the little one, the baby face, and people trusted him. For a while.
The kid was fishing for his lighter when Rushie jumped him from behind. The flat of his palm caught the kid in the back of his head, knocking his face into the metal frame of the bus stop. Rushie wasn't gentle like Jimmy was. He liked to hear the bones go crunch.
They picked him up like a sack, carrying him into the scrapyards. The chain on the gate snapped with one pull from Jimmy, and they closed it behind them. The Salvage Man went over the fence, perching on it like a crow, before dropping into the yard beyond.
They were easy to follow. They never looked behind.
They dragged the kid to the back of the yard, near the low fence that seperated it from the railway tracks beyond. Rushie dropped him in the gravel, and Jimmy tore his t-shirt off. The kid had a couple of tattoos, and Jimmy grinned and fingered his pocket knife. Jimmy liked tattoos.
There was a cargo container nearby, filled with twisted bits of scrap metal. The Salvage Man scampered to the top, light and quiet as a cat. He stayed low, hugging the top of the container, and watched as Rushie pulled the kid up by the hair and went for the throat. Cole was ripping one leg of his jeans up the side, loking for the femoral artery. The kid started to struggle then, squealing and clawing at Rushie, but they grabbed his arms and pinned him. The Salvage Man ducked back, watching the sky while he waited. He'd never been fond of the squealing.
He heard the engine before they did. He lifted his head, looking back towards the gate where they'd come in. Headlights lit up the fence at the front of the yard, picking out the gates in sharp relief, and then they were smashed aside, half-broken from their heavy hinges as the van came through. It was old and grey and had cattle bars on the front. The Salvage Man knew it on sight.
The Quincys knew it too. Cole bolted before he even saw it, as soon as it hit the gate. Jimmy waited a few seconds, waiting to see what Rushie would do. Rushie was on his feet, dragging the limp, bloodied kid up beside him, but as soon as he saw the van his face went whiter than old dogshit. He seemed rooted to the spot for a second, dancing about as he wondered which way to run. Then he turned and threw the boy, tossed him like a sack over the fence behind him, like a guilty kid throwing his cigarette out the bedroom window. And then he was running too, following after Cole with Jimmy on his tail, darting between the piles of scrap.
The van slid to a halt a few metres from the cargo container, pelting the steel with grit and gravel, doors already opening. A man jumped from the passenger side, tall and lean and hard, wearing a grey t-shirt and dark pants. He had a baseball bat in one hand, a silver gleam to it, and the gun in his other hand was already sighting down on Jimmy. The shot sounded like a crack of lightning and down went Jimmy, the back of his head hanging open like a busted melon. The man was already running, sprinting past the withering heap of Jimmy without a glance. There was a girl on his heels, slim and quick, with green-brown hair and a long black shotgun. Off they went into the shadows, chasing Rushie and Cole, hunting the hunters.
The Salvage Man waited until he couldn't hear boots on gravel any more. Then, more slow and careful than ever he'd been, he peeled himself off the top of the container, rolled over to the edge, and dropped down.
He crouched for a moment, sniffing the air. What was left of Jimmy was rotting away across the yard. It smelled like old meat. He briefly glanced at the van, but thought better of it. Whatever was in there, it was more than his pathetic excuse for a life was worth.
His eyes moved to the fence.
The kid had fallen a long way. The fence was four feet high, but was built along the top of a retaining wall, seven feet again. At the bottom was a little grassy bank, sliding into a ditch beside the railroad track. He was lying there, arm twisted under him, his naked torso gleaming white in the gloom.
The Salvage man made the drop in one, back up and scampering as quick as he could. He didn't know how much time he had. The Quincys might double back, or the hunters come sniffing about. He had to take what he could and go.
The kid's wallet was in his side pocket. A few cards, a picture of some girl—blonde and round-faced, caught laughing at some silent joke. It was the cash the Salvage Man wanted, and there was plenty. Over a hundred bucks in twenties and tens, and one rumpled old fiver with a phone number scrawled on it in biro. He wondered whose the number was, and whether the kid had kept the note because of it.
Up above, in the distance, a couple of gunshots rang out. He wondered if he'd heard a scream.
Stuffing the money into his coat, he continued to search the body. There was a thin gold chain around the kid's neck, but he couldn't find the clasp. With a soft curse, he snapped it and fumbled it into a pocket. There were rings, too. He grabbed the kid's hand to slip them off his fingers, and the hand grabbed back.
The Salvage Man reeled back, falling against the bank and sliding down into a crouch. He scuttled backwards like a crab, eyes on the fallen kid. He was moving, pawing at the air, his chest heaving as he coughed up blood. He was trying to sit up.
The Salvage Man moved back a little further. He'd never found one alive before.
The kid's hand found a purchase on the bank beside him, and he managed to drag himself up. Blood from his neck trickled down over his chest. The grass on the bank tore away in his grasp and he fell again, dropping onto his back with a ragged groan. He rolled over, trying to get his feet under him, but he was too weak. One shaking hand brushed over his fallen wallet, leaving a bloody streak across the blonde girl's laughing face. His other hand was fumbling in his pocket, trying to dislodge something. A shiny white cellphone slid from his pocket and fell into the dust.
The Salvage Man's eyes lit up. He should run, he knew that. He should have been running already. But the phone looked expensive, he could get another hundred bucks for that. And there were still the rings . . .
Voices came from above, drifting faintly over the scrapyard fence. The Salvage Man tensed, looked up, but they moved on, and he heard the low rumble of the van starting up. The kid heard it too, tried to lift his head. He opened his mouth, but only managed a faint croak. The sound of the van drifted away, and the Salvage Man relaxed.
The kid slumped back with a quiet sob. His fingers were scrambling at the phone beside him, trying to find the keys. His eyes were glazed over as he struggled to focus. The Salvage Man edged forward.
The kid's fingers were still stabbing aimlessly at the cellphone keys when a grubby white hand darted down to snatch the cellphone away. A blurry shape was leaning over him, huddled and hooded, silhouetted against the night sky. The kid felt rough, cold fingers moving over him, grabbing at his hands. He felt the rings dragged from his fingers.
Spitting out a mouthful of coppery blood, he drew in a ragged breath and tried to gasp out a word.
"Help . . ."
He reached out a hand, a pale blur tinged with red, and tried to take hold of the apparition drifting in front of him.
"Get off." The Salvage Man pulled away, pushing the rings into his pocket. "Shuddup, get off."
The bloodied hand clawed its way down the sleeve of his coat, fingers catching at the loose threads. "H . . . help me . . . call . . ."
"Shut the fuck up!" he hissed, batting the hand aside. His eyes moved over the kid's wounds, still streaming blood. He hesitated, still hungry. It had been a long time since he'd tasted live blood. A long time since he'd killed.
Looking up, he caught sight of the pale, imploring eyes, staring out of a broken face. With a curse, he moved away.
The kid tried to rise again, but couldn't sit up. He was fading fast. He managed a harsh whisper, coughing up more blood. "Plea-se . . ."
The Salvage Man stopped in a low crouch, a few feet away, looking back at the writhing kid on the ground. He juggled the cellphone in his hand for a long moment, then stuffed it into his coat.
"Sorry," he said, and scuttled away up the retaining wall. A second later, he was over the fence and gone. Back into the night, back to his little concrete cave, where he kept his spoils safely tucked away.
The police searched the scrapyard in the small hours of the morning. They found blood, and footprints, and empty shotgun shells. They also found the Quincy Boys, or what was left of them. Dead vampires spoil fast. They found the tyre-tracks too, but didn't bother much with them. They had a good idea who'd killed the Quincys, and had no intention of stopping them. Some things just needed killing.
The police had been alerted by the ambulance crew, when they'd come to find the kid. He was lying in the ditch beside the railroad track, exactly where the caller had said he'd be, missing his shirt and valuables, but still breathing. They'd checked the number, and confirmed that the call had been made from the kid's cellphone. The caller had declined to give a name.
He couldn't rightly remember what it was.