Free Vampire Dreams (Bloodscreams #1) by Robert W Walker

off into the ravine with something large and black atop it, tearing out the human prey from the window, latching onto a passing tree just moments before the vehicle hit the water. The top where the creature had been lying seethed with an acidic smoke at the touch of the water.
    Jim Bradley, neck broken, felt his limp body being heaved up and up into the branches of a gnarly tree, his last sensation the smells of pine sap and blood intermingling with the smell of an animal, a smell he had not forgotten since childhood, the odor of a nest of rats found beneath the old rotten boards of his father's tool shed. The last thing Jim saw was the humanlike eyes of the monster which had hooked itself once again upside down to the top of the tree and had hooked its prey up in the manner of a large IV, to feed on Jim's blood.
    Only now did Jim realize that he had fallen prey to a vampire bat as large as a man.
    -6-
    News of a car going off the road at or near the Combs Hill Bridge had the entire town's attention this day. It was towed out of the water and into Andover by Bunnell's Shell Station, old Jacob “Bun” Bunnell doing the hauling himself. Semi-retired, Bun still enjoyed hooking cars out of the Spoon.
    A group of interested bystanders were on hand both at the scene of the accident and at the station when Bun finally towed in the wreck. It was chock full of dents and rips, especially to the top, as if it'd flipped over onto an enormous boulder. The windows were all smashed up and the windshield shattered but holding.
    “Crazy fool had to be doing a hundred,” Bun told waiting ears.
    Whoever was in the car was nowhere near the wreck. John McEarn's TV report flashed scenes from the salvage--the license plate number and the car itself as Bun was having it cranked out of the five-foot shallows of the Spoon where it curved away from the bridge some distance down. Everyone was relieved that the car had out-of-state license plates, and that it was an unfamiliar car. The community had had its share of loss already. State patrolmen on the scene were relieved that the old bridge had sustained no damage. The car had apparently come careening off the bridge, barely missed going over at that point, but the driver fought to keep it on the road for another fifth to a quarter mile, one patrolman told viewers at home.
    Abe Stroud heard the report and shook off sleep to listen. He must've turned the TV on, but he didn't recall doing so. He didn't remember waking.
    “Skid marks and tire trail where it dug up earth and rock tells the tale,” said Sheriff Briggs, inching out the patrolman.
    Crazy man.
    Drunk.
    Cocaine, maybe ... all suggestions from TV reporter John McEarn.
    Abe Stroud leaned on his elbows, trying to take in the information as it came over. McEarn was apparently doing this live. Stroud recognized the area as one very near where he and the others had stomped through the woods on the trail of missing Timmy Meyers.
    “What about the body?” he wondered aloud, just as John McEarn's voiceover said, “Thus far the body has not been located. It is estimated that the swift current carried the driver downstream, and will possibly deposit her along the shore at some future date. It is not known whether or not there were any additional passengers in the vehicle. A lady's handbag was found on the seat, and police theorize the handbag belonged to the driver, but identification of the victim has not been released, pending notification of the family.”
    Stroud saw Chief Briggs hanging about, a look on his face that bespoke his confusion; or was he angry because McEarn hadn't interviewed him on air?
    Stroud wondered if Briggs had a diver on his payroll, someone who'd go in after the body. If not, Stroud would put in for the job. He'd done it before, and while he did not welcome the notion ... if there was no one else, he'd do it.
    But for now, lying in bed, he still felt weary, his eyes still burning from tiredness. The stress of the last few