Terror on Gay Street: Halloween Nightmare
Chapter 3: Pre game show
Two days before Halloween, northern portion of Vancouver Island
Conquest demanded sacrifices and sacrifices demanded someone who had the stomach to cut the beating hearts out of living chests as the Aztecs had done before being brought down by the equally villainous Spaniards.
This was nowhere near the grand cities of Mesoamerica and there were no Spaniards here. This was a wooded area on a Canadian Island discovered by Captain Vancouver many hundreds of years ago.
The site was of no importance strategically to the warring vampires. It was secluded from human eyes and the winner would receive uncontested feeding privileges until some other vampire group came along with the strength to challenge their claim.
Perhaps a more accurate view would be that the leader of this vampire group would get uncontested feeding rights. Everybody else would just have to wait their fucking turn.
During the daylight all animals and birds avoided the forest for the scent and aura of vampires drove them away in fear.
Night fell and the vampires attacked.
Sacrifices require executioners, a high priest to the gods of violence. That executioner was known as Major Jasper Whitlock and already he was making a reputation for himself. A brilliant strategist and better fighter, he was feared and respect; and if anybody knew what his life was really like they would never again dream of putting themselves in his shoes.
Night fell and the vampires attacked. The vast majority of them were newborns; very powerful and unstable; there was no need for any kind of training beyond simple moves that even a three year old could comprehend.
Jasper begged Maria to give those under his command some better training but she punished him for being sentimental.
Jasper had a plan and now it was shot to hell. Such was the nature of reality. Most military battles boiled down to luck and setting up one's self at the right place while one still had the ability to do so.
Jasper's army was winning but his second life could end at any moment. A newborn flew at him from behind; Jasper spun around, ducked the strike and decapitated the newborn with a clawed hand.
Though he was just barely a newborn himself Jasper was lucid thanks to being force-fed a diet of vampire hearts which like performance enhancing drugs, cleared his mind and caused him incredible pain and withdrawal like symptoms. When this battle would end, Jasper would be shaking and quivering like an addict.
Running through the trees like a predatory cat, Jasper barely resembled a human with his massive clawed hands, red eyes and ripping fangs.
A vampire, not a newborn grappled with him and sunk its fangs into his neck. Ignoring the pain through the adrenaline haze, Jasper gouged the vampire's eyes out and a newborn fell upon his enemy. \
Jasper pulled away, not really knowing or caring which side this newborn belonged to. They were such unpredictable creatures. After this battle, they'd all be exterminated and then Maria's full time crew would find new replacements for the next confrontation.
Vampire wars rarely reached this far south but vampires had been driven north by mass immigration by warlike vampires from West of the Ural Mountains; who had fled their home nations due to vampire wars in Asian Russia and Mongolia. Many vampires fled to the north for easier feeding.
It only lasted minutes but before the night was old many vampires were dead; their hearts torn out and consumed like a bad street drug. Some of the more inexperienced newborns would even overdose on vamp heart. None of them would eat the hearts like Jasper so they lacked his lucid mind.
Major Whitlock stopped and stood still, waiting for his commanding officer. He waited and waited for nearly twenty minutes before Maria appeared.
Immediately, the beautiful, female, Hispanic vampire started to look over the Major like he was a prize race horse.
"You've done well today, Major," she purred seductively. Jasper's expression was distant, as if focusing on an object far, far away.
Brushing against him, his distant expression took on a pained element.
"I need you to engage in mop-up operations," Maria explained, circling him like a shark circling an injured seal. "Leave no one alive and maybe you can lay with me."
Jasper said nothing; his hollow expression gave away nothing. He merely nodded; masters never needed consent from their dogs.
Maria looked over her property. When she saw Jasper fall bleeding and dying from the dam that day she knew he was the one; her own little guided missile. She needed someone who had steel in their soul but also someone who when push came to shove would lie back and take it for no other reason than it came from authority.
Kimbly had been promising at first; but the German serial killer thrived on chaos and happily bit the hand that fed him, spitting in Maria's face through the harshest punishment.
The Austrian boy Alfonse Heinrich too had promise, except his morals would not be bent, so Maria had him killed.
Jasper was the perfect one. He always won the fights because he cared less about his life than the other bastards did.
It was through love that Maria broke Jasper; through his love for his lost mate, Maria managed to transform a man into a dog.
Jasper turned to leave and kill the last survivors but Maria stopped him. "Are you forgetting something?" she asked playfully.
Bowing his head like a bad dog, Jasper waited for his master.
Gently and with much enjoyment, Maria put a metal dog collar on Jasper's neck. His name was even on it. Major Whitlock
If he ever forgot his place in life, the collar reminded him of everything. The collar reminded him that he didn't deserve to live.
If Edward could see him now, he would hate Jasper because Jasper was a freak; unworthy of love, a living abortion—an abomination. He was a killer; he killed to live and was kept alive so that he could kill more. Like a slave aboard a galley, he had no hope and no tomorrow. All he had was an endless series of killings.
He knew all of this to be true for Maria his master had beaten it into him through the most horrific tortures.
Yet as Jasper ran through the young night, his superior vampire vision spotted the glowing lights of Port Angeles across the deep blue sea, turned black by the night.
Port Angeles; intellectually he knew that beyond that was the city of Seattle-where Edward lived.
Jasper was afraid. He was afraid that he might be seen by his old love.
Yet beneath all the mental conditioning, underneath all the beatings and dehumanization; a small core of Jasper Whitlock-Cullen remained like a seed swamped in the flesh of a rotten apple.
Jasper wasn't afraid of anything; Edward's love gave him that bravery. And so despite how much it frightened him, despite how much he knew the punishment would hurt, he had to do this. He needed to travel to Seattle and give closure to himself and Edward.
He needed to say goodbye.
He needed to break up with Edward.
Seattle, abandoned warehouse
Ocelot paced back and forth across the dust and dirt covered floor of the warehouse like a caged beast. It was two days to Halloween and there was so much to do but . . .
Ocelot's teeth began to chatter as if he were cold, yet he could feel no cold or warm anymore.
As he paced back and forth aimlessly across the litter covered floor he began to babble incessantly in Russian; listing off half-baked plans, aspirations that he used to hold and other miscellaneous information which had no bearing on anything.
Suddenly, Ocelot stopped his pacing and held his arms to his side. Compulsively, he began to scratch his arm through the white sleeve of his new shirt even though he could not feel the scratching.
He knew when he was touching an object and he could do simple things like operate the pedals of a car but no longer could Ocelot sense texture or temperature or even pleasure or pain.
The warehouse was unlit, only the glow of a streetlight outside cast its artificial light inside. Ocelot's face and features were cast in darkness save for a flash of his eyes or a gnash of his now yellowed teeth.
In the darkened warehouse was a table and some chairs; cheap folding furniture that Ocelot had to murder to get. After being dead for a year, he'd found that all his possessions were auctioned off and his bank accounts emptied by family and lawyers. He'd make them all pay in time.
Sitting on top of the folding table was a clean set of clothes, as his death suit was a bit rancid. He had luckily kept a stash of clean cowboy duds in an old safe house that his damn sociopathic family hadn't found and looted. There in the safe house he found ammo, guns, clothes, money, cigarettes and booze.
The money he had was stuffed into a duffel bag and earned through a good living in human trafficking; murdering and kidnapping women from foreign countries who tried to misery and poverty in their own countries.
The booze and cigarettes were another matter entirely. Stumbling, almost shambling into the side of the table, Ocelot nearly knocked over the bottle of vodka.
Ripping off the lid hastily, Ocelot smelled the high alcohol beverage and began to suck it down.
He roared in anger however when he found that he could not taste that oh so awesome of Russian beverages. He threw the bottle and it shattered on the concrete, splashing vodka and broken glass over the corpse of a dead transient girl named Bree Tanner.
The cigarettes were similarly unsatisfying; they tasted like wet cement and he threw down the burning tobacco. The red glow of the cigarette flickered and burned down.
Absentmindedly, Ocelot began to scratch his arm. He could feel nothing—wait, he could feel something.
Decay.
He was rotting, slowly but inexorably.
Ocelot was decaying and he could feel it. The formaldehyde he injected into his cold veins arrested the process but could not reverse it nor take away this soul ripping, brain deadening need he was feeling.
Tomorrow was Halloween and Ocelot needed his wits to pull off this operation. Coming back from the dead had given him knowledge and he knew what he must do. Some of that knowledge was esoteric; Ocelot now possessed much in the way of knowledge of the spirits and evil things that live between the spaces of the three dimensions we know of.
Other kinds of knowledge he possessed was more instinctual. He knew what it was his new body craved; he just refused to realize it.
Then, Ocelot saw the corpse of Bree Tanner. Her dead body, shot through the heart, was lying in just such a way that her face was cast with a single square of light from outside. The rest of her was in darkness.
Ocelot stopped dead and froze as he focused on Bree's dead, gelatinous eyes. Yes, he knew what was good for him. He knew . . .
Ocelot let out a strange, inhuman laugh. His upper half was shrouded in darkness; his guns glinted in the street lamp's glare. Grabbing one of his guns with a twitching hand, he held the gun by the barrel and held it like a club.
Shambling over to Bree's corpse, Ocelot grabbed her face with one gloved hand. It was gentle, almost like a grandfather stroking the face of a beloved granddaughter.
Then utterly without mercy he brought down the butt of his gun and smashed into her skull. Bringing his gun back for another blow, Ocelot's breath came out in spastic hyperventilation.
When the butt of his gun was covered in the blood of an innocent, Ocelot went down with his gloved hands and tore off the top of Bree's skull.
Nearly squealing with glee, Ocelot took one look at Bree's beautiful, tender brain and knew what he really wanted.
Digging his fingers into the squishy organ, he scooped it up and pulled it towards his mouth.
In the darkness, the sounds of chewing could be heard; frantic, stark raving mad chewing of a hungry animal. Ocelot nearly moaned with pleasure he scooped up more and more of Bree's brain until nothing was left.
And when it was all done . . . by god, how he felt!
The brain had done the trick for him. He could feel new life flowing through him. It was bracing, it was invigorating and it was making him feel ALIVE!
Ocelot stood up—no, jolted up and stood in the light. In the uneven light of the street lamp, only a small section of his face was lit up; shadows covered the rest.
Only Ocelot's eyes and a little of his nose could be seen. In his eyes was the gleam of madness once restrained by cunning but now was set wild to run free.
He knew what he was meant to do with this unlife of his. Slowly, his two dead eyes narrowed as his mind began to grow clear and sharp again.
Yes, he knew what he had to do. He'd escaped the fires of hell and now his mission was to bring hell to earth. He wasn't motivated to cause madness and destruction, madness and destruction were his motivation.
He wasn't a spy anymore; he was an architect and human bodies were his building material of choice.
Laughing maniacally, Ocelot laughed and laughed until his dead nerves almost, nearly began to ache. He laughed until he bent—nearly broke in half.
Snarling like the most primitive savage, the rawest primitive, Ocelot jumped onto the flimsy folding table and held his arms up high like a priest shouting to his flock of followers.
"THIS IS THE NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIE, SO RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" The old man howled at the top of his lungs.
He shouted it once more; that this was the night of the zombie and you need to run for your fucking life. He shouted it again in English, German, Russian and a few other languages he was fluent in.
Jumping off the flimsy table, the cheap furniture broke under Ocelot's eight but as he landed he felt as light as a feather.
Striking the concrete and rolling into a standing position, Ocelot felt like a million bucks.
Once more, his eyes were lit by the street lamp and nothing else. "Oh you'll pay, you weak mice," he whispered sadistically, "you'll all pay."
Seattle, Edward's home
Edward Cullen kneeled at the foot of his bed as his friend Peter used the washroom down the hall. As Peter happily brushed his teeth, Edward knelt in prayer.
He'd never really prayed in his life, none of his family ever had. Still, these were extraordinary times and Edward knew he had to do something. Religion had never been a part of his family life; his parents merely tried to raise his sister and him as best they could. Any religious instruction they received was in the form of learning the mythology of other cultures.
Anyway, Edward didn't believe in any god or such. The universe was too big for god; how could any deity only a few thousand years old inhabit such an ancient and boundless universe?
Also, Edward realized that the universe was too cruel for god. Since the loss of Jasper, the whole world seemed like a frightening, cold place. Everything looked like a child's nightmare, where every little shadow holds monsters and demons come to eat you up.
With Jasper gone, the world needed no Cthulhu or eldritch horrors to terrorize it or make it bleak and inhospitable. Edward was starting to feel like the protagonist of a Lovecraft novel. Maybe Lovecraft had been a repressed homosexual? It would explain by the pasty bastard was always so miserable and self-loathing.
As he was about to start praying, Peter knocked don the open door wearing pyjama bottoms and tank top. The buff Greek's hair was now messy from a shower and free of the grease he used to style it. His mouth was covered with toothpaste foam.
"Hey Ed," Peter spoke, "You have any coffee?"
"Why?" Edward asked. He was just about to engage in something very important.
Peter explained, "Your mom paid me a hundred bucks to keep you from committing suicide. If I'm going to do that I'll need to drink so much fucking coffee."
Edward looked at Peter in confusion, "So you're going to stay awake for the next three days?"
"Yup," affirmed Peter, "I've already had ten chocolate bars and five cans of Red Bull. I'll be up all night and day; I might play my favourite music and bring friends over for a party." He didn't bother to ask Edward if that was okay. "Because I want to keep you alive, man."
Edward sighed, it was a pain in the ass but he could live with it. "Okay, but keep it down. I need to sleep tonight."
Peter nodded, "Sure man, I'll just keep it light tonight and play some meatloaf."
Edward ignored Peter and waited until the man was down the hall of his home. He and Jasper used to share an apartment together but that place held too many memories, so Edward pooled together his resourced and moved into a small two story home in the suburbs of Seattle.
Edward believed in no god, he was praying to the one thing that really mattered to him.
Kneeling at the bed, Edward closed his eyes and clasped his hands together in prayer. Breathing in deeply, he chose his words carefully.
"Hello Jasper," he began simply, "if you're out there its Edward."
He shuddered as bad memories of the day on the Hoover Dam returned to him but he bravely pressed on. "I've been hurting, honey; I've been hurting real bad," his tone was pitiful, like a child who wanted a parent to kiss his scraped knee to make it all better. "It hasn't been easy, Jasper; I've only been existing, not really living."
Tears squeezed from out of Edward's closed eyes, "I feel like there's a hole in my heart and it just keeps bleeding and bleeding and nothing I can do will stop it."
"I want to die, Jasper. I know you would want me to live and be happy but I just want to die and be with you wherever you are."
The prayer abruptly stopped. Edward opened his eyes and looked around. He glowered and hung his head. This prayer wasn't helping one bit. His pain was still so sharp and unrelenting.
It wasn't like he enjoyed this. He wanted it to stop but he couldn't. It was like a broken bone but so much more severe.
Edward was shocked when Peter's music came blasting from the speakers downstairs. The Greek guido was playing music off his Motorhead album.
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man,
You win some; lose some, all the same to me,
The pleasure is to play, makes no difference what you say,
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is
The Ace Of Spades!
Peter was down in the living room, the speakers blasting loud enough to shake the house as the words of the great Lemmy Kilmister rang out like thunder.
Out in the open was a twenty-four pack of his favourite beer and a fresh pot of coffee. This weekend he was going to get so fucked up and he was going to keep Edward from killing himself. Could things get any better?
Cracking open a beer, Peter turned around and was surprised by the sight of Edward coming down the stairs.
Edward was out of his pyjamas and was now in a form fitting spandex shirt and some a pair of jeans that were so tight they left nothing to the imagination. How he got into those tight, form fitting jeans was a mystery.
As Edward walked down the stairs, he walked with some of the swagger and arrogance that he'd possessed when he was the premier top in the Seattle gay scene.
As he walked, his finely sculpted muscles flexed under the spandex shirt and the jeans showed off the curve of his firm ass nicely. He looked like sex on legs and for the first time in a long while he didn't look miserable. He just looked pissed off.
Peter liked pissed off and promptly handed Edward a beer.
Cracking open the beer, Edward looked at Peter with smouldering eyes. Though he admired his macho friend from time to time, this was the first time he regretted that Peter was straight. If he was even a little bit curious Edward would make Peter sing like a canary.
As dangerous as Edward felt, he knew that kissing Peter would probably earn him a punch in the mouth. Unconscious was not how he wanted to spend his evening. He'd already done that thanks to the fucking door.
Hesitantly, Peter asked Edward, "You want me to turn down the music man?"
Edward ignored Peter, the dangerous light still in his eyes. Sashaying sexily over to the stereo, he took the volume and turned that fucker up.
Shouting so that he could be heard over the booming of Motorhead, Edward ordered Peter, "Get that polish man whore you promised me!"
In the background, Motorhead threatened to wake up the whole neighbourhood.
You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,
But that's the way I like it baby,
I don't wanna live for ever,
And don't forget the joker!
Peter smiled at this and took a pull from his beer. Now, Edward was speaking a language he could appreciate.
Edward drank the beer without tasting it and informed Peter over the music, "Get as many whores and bitches as you can. I want to party and I could fuck anything."
Peter laughed, "Even a goat with a hat?"
"Get two fucking goats for all I care. I want to tear apart someone's asshole and I need a lot more beer than this. Get some women for yourself." He handed Peter his credit card, "And let's fucking make this the raunchiest Halloween ever."
Peter grinned maniacally. This was fucking awesome! "Yeah baby!" he roared gleefully and gave Edward a big high five.
To celebrate Halloween, both men pounded back their beers and grabbed another can each. "Wait," said Peter as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of cough syrup. He handed the bottle to Edward, who knew just what to do.
"To Jasper," Edward said solemnly, suddenly looking more like a grieving widower than a raging sex god.
"To Jasper!" Peter yelled as Edward took a big gulp of bitter cough medicine and washed it down by chugging a whole can of beer.
Peter did likewise, chugging down some cough syrup and drinking the whole beer without pause.
Then Peter got on the phone, calling Sweet Kapoyanis to try and get as many whores, male and female as possible.
It was going to be a weekend to remember.
Tune in next week when Jasper and Edward finally meet again and Zombie Ocelot's evil plan unfolds. On Halloween Night madness and mayhem unfold as the witching hour nears ;)
Thank you all for reading and reviewing.
Ta
Master of the Boot