Free Blood Riders by Michael P. Spradlin Page A

“From what I saw, these things didn’t have much else on their mind but killing people.”
    “Yes, but the question is, why? How did these creatures you encountered get here? Where are they from? Have they always been here? If so, why reveal themselves now? Since your incident, Major, we have tracked and chased and followed every lead, no matter how minor, and we have come up with exactly nothing. Those . . . demons responsible for killing your men simply vanished. Not to be seen nor heard of until the Torson City Mining Camp incident one month ago. We believe the same group killed several humans and disappeared without a trace again. It is most odd,” Van Helsing said.
    “I’ll grant you that. But now that you’ve busted me out of the pokey, how do you expect me to find them, if you’ve got a whole ‘society’ trying to track them down and they aren’t finding anything?” Hollister asked.
    “I’ll be frank with you now, Major,” Pinkerton said. “Basically, we don’t have any other options. Aside from Declan’s son, who survived the last attack, you’re the only person we know of who has encountered these vampires and lived to tell about it.”
    “No one believed me,” Hollister said matter-of-factly.
    “Yes. Unfortunate but true,” Pinkerton said. “Now you have a chance at redemption.”
    “I don’t need to redeem myself,” Hollister said. “I told the truth. Exactly as it happened. I lived in a hole every day for the last four years, knowing that, and it’s the only thing that kept me sane. Save the redemption speech for Sunday school, Mr. Pinkerton.”
    “Very well. If not redemption, how about vengeance?” Pinkerton asked.
    Hollister reached inside the folds of his cavalry blouse and removed a small flask he had purchased that afternoon and filled at the hotel. He took a long swig of bourbon, then capped the flask and returned it to its hiding place. It warmed his gullet as it traveled down to his gut. Maybe General Sheridan had it right. Maybe a good stiff drink wasn’t so bad now and then. Especially when you’re about to ride off to face eleven kinds of hell. Maybe not a bad idea at all.
    “Now you’re talking,” Hollister said.
    T he rest of the night was spent around the desk, mostly listening as Van Helsing detailed the history of the vampire as compiled by the Order of Saint Ignatius, with occasional prodding from Pinkerton. At one point, Van Helsing read a passage from his journal.
    Their appearance is normal and quite human, until feeding on a human—then their facial structure changes. The chin grows longer, and fangs descend from the roof of the mouth. Their speed and strength is remarkable, but it is possible to kill them. Fire is one way, beheading is another, although given their strength and speed, getting them in a position to remove their head proves extremely difficult.
    “I killed one with an arrow,” Hollister said.
    “Ya. Ve have taken note of this, Major. Yours is the first verifiable recording of killing one by this method. Can you tell me exactly how it happened?”
    “There wasn’t much to it. It was a woman. She was strong. Unbelievably strong. With one hand she held me up in the air. I couldn’t breathe. Her face . . . changed . . . fangs . . . I pulled an arrow out of her thigh and stabbed her through the heart,” Hollister related.
    “Then what happened?” Pinkerton asked.
    “She . . . just . . . disappeared. Her body turned to dust and all that was left was a pile of her clothes and the arrows.” Hollister pulled the flask out again and took a little swig.
    “Is there anything else? Anything you might have forgotten or something you might have kept to yourself?” Van Helsing let the words hang in the air, the implication clear. No matter what shape Hollister had been in at the time, he had to know how ridiculous his story sounded.
    “No, I . . . you said these things could be killed by beheading them?” he asked.
    Van Helsing