Oceanfront Dining

Chapter One

Assateague Island, Maryland

Rick Wills wiped a line of beaded sweat from across his brow. He hated the mid-summer humidity, but it was a great time to fish the surf. The full moon had illuminated most of the surrounding beach, allowing Rick to see he was completely alone.

Just me and the waves, he muttered to himself while pulling a thawed strip of mullet from his cooler. He shook the excess ice water from the bait and punctured the thick scales with the point of his hook.

Rick had been fishing the Assateague Island surf on nights like this for nearly twenty years. There had been a few good trips. Like the one about seven years ago when he hooked a thirty-inch flounder on a large strip of squid or the five-foot black tip shark that took a small croaker off the bottom. But most trips were like tonight; a lot of sweat, a lot of beer but not a single fish. That would never deter him though. In the last decade or so, this trip had become more of a sentimental journey than a fishing trip.

As a youth, his father had led the charge to the state park on the island. The two would come down for a long weekend in July and fish under the full moon. They'd sit in rusty old lawn chairs and pass the time telling stories and just catching up. It was here Rick had his first beer. A Budweiser in an ice-cold red and white can. It had tasted horrible, but he would give anything to relive that experience. His father passed away twelve summers ago, but Rick kept the tradition alive. The first few years were hard and many silent tears fell on the sands of this beach. He would come to the water, set out two chairs and drink ice cold Buds until the tears dried to his cheeks.

About eight years ago he started to fish again. He only brought one beer these days. He really did hate the taste but refused to forego the tribute to his father.

Come on, baby. Find me a big boy. Rick groaned as he tossed the three-ounce sinker and mullet rig out into the darkness of the Atlantic.

He knew there had been some small sharks taken in the last week, and that was what he was banking on. The sharks, dogfish really, were not huge but fought the good fight once they were hooked. And, with enough lemon and butter, they tasted pretty good on the grill.

A lot had changed since the last time Rick made this journey with his father. The state park used to draw mainly fishermen and families that didn't want to spend the big bucks for a week in nearby Ocean City. Now, the fisherman seemed to stay away until around October. The fishing was supposed to be better that time of year, and teenagers had replaced the family groups. This saved the kids a lot of money they could spend begging passersby to buy them a case of cheap beer. It was a lot louder these days, and the fishing could be better, but Rick was not willing to give up on things yet. Besides, maybe it wasn't louder and maybe the fishing was fine. Maybe he was just getting old and tired.

A trickle of cold water slipped across his flip-flops and between his toes, bringing Rick back to the task at hand. He took a few steps back and let his surf rod drop into the holding spike he'd placed in the sand hours ago, long before the sun had set. Reaching back, the fisherman pulled his rusty lawn chair forward through the sand. Groaning, he dropped into the plastic recliner and reached across his sand-covered blanket, flipping on the radio.

See how my O's did tonight, Rick whispered to himself as he tried to tune in any a.m. news radio. Through the crackle he heard a young woman's voice giving the news.

….plans to oppose the legislation. And in local news, the body of a nineteen-year-old student washed up on the beach near Sixty-Third Street this afternoon. According to police, the victim either drowned or was the victim of a shark attack. According to sources, the body was badly damaged while in the ocean. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending the notification of next of kin. In business, the stock… the reporter continued, but Rick's thoughts had trailed off.

The idea of a body washing up on shore made the hairs on the back of his neck prick upward. A cold chill crept down the fisherman's back, causing an erratic shrugging of his shoulders.

Easy, Rick, he muttered to himself, realizing he had missed the score of the ball game. Reaching back into his cooler, Rick pulled a cold beer from the ice. Smiling, he cracked into the can and raised it toward the star lit sky. Here's to you, Dad. Rick's voice cracked. I miss you, Pops.

His heart welcomed the brew as it trickled down his throat. He drank slowly, trying to savor the moment. Once the can had emptied, Rick crushed it and tossed it on the blanket.

Before he could begin to reminisce, something shifted in the sand dunes behind him. Rick expected to see another fisherman creeping over the mound and ask how they were biting. However, he saw nothing.

The hairs on Rick's neck stood up again.

In a flash of scattering sand and blurred moonlight, Rick felt something slam into his back, forcing his face forward into the sand. The nape of his neck turned instantly warm and wet. He knew he had to be bleeding.

Rick struggled to his knees and slid a hand across his shoulder blades, dragging his fingers through the warm fluid. His next instinct was to get to his feet and face his attacker.

The chance never came. A heavy blow crushed Rick's jaw, tearing into the soft skin of his cheek and knocking him onto his backside. He could taste the blood in his mouth and something that felt like a strand of dog fur was resting on his lips.

Then, in the moonlight, Rick saw his attacker. He was still screaming in disbelief when the creature's massive teeth tore the jugular vein from his neck.

Chapter Two

Long Island, New York

Eleven different posters listing missing pets lined a lone telephone pole, stapled to the brown, fraying and aged wooden structure.

Seven dogs and four cats, nothing bigger than a Basset hound, but all of the animals had gone missing over the last twenty days.

This is the place, Thane Harmon mumbled to himself as he shrugged off the early September chill and continued down the sidewalk. It was about fifty degrees, almost bitter for this time of year, even for Hempstead on Long Island. He would have preferred something warmer than the paper-thin trench coat on his back, but Thane knew that was not an option.

When a hunter went into a small suburban neighborhood like this, all of his tools had to be in place and completely concealed. With four wooden ash stakes strapped across his back and a belt full of children's water pistols loaded with holy water, he knew extra measures were necessary to remain inconspicuous. And that was without taking the six shot revolver resting in his shoulder holster into consideration. Just in case.

The easy part was over. The guys at research and analysis had poured over the Web for any of the modern signs of American vampirism. It was a lot easier to find a vamp today than even ten years ago. With the recent explosion of the Internet, a vampire could be tracked without ever leaving home. It had become the fastest way to catch the Reluctant form of the creature.

Thane's employer, Ransom, or Removing Alternative Nemesis for the Safety of Man, had determined there to be three main classifications of bloodsuckers. Each class was defined by very specific characteristics that encompassed the entirety of the group. Each creature dubbed as an Alternative had specific class breakdowns to make their detection and eradication easier. Vampires were broken down as one of three types: Reluctant, Seductive, and Productive.

A Reluctant was the easiest form to deal with. These vamps were just as their name stated. Normal men and women that had taken a partial hit off one or the other classes and survived the ordeal only to develop the disease. Usually, they were victims of a Seductive. Most of the Reluctant class never took to hunting man, but the thirst often led them to grabbing small house pets from backyards. Most often, this class took shelter together, usually in groups of three or four. There's strength in numbers and the vamps used this to protect themselves from the world around. The animal blood was not as satisfying to the cravings as human blood, which was why Reluctants were quickly dealt with. If taken out while still weakened and confused by the plight of the disease, removals went much smoother. This practice kept them from moving into one of the other classes. Once a Reluctant tasted human blood, the odds of continuing to feed on cats and dogs became very slim.

Seductives were creatures that graduated from the meek and passive qualities of being new to the disease and realized with bloodsucking came sex and passion. Smooth tongues and otherworldly charm marked this class. These vamps were the type to seduce a worthy target, accompany them to a secluded location, engage in any number of sexual acts and complete the night by draining them dry. Most often, there was nothing but a corpse to find if a Seductive was involved. The victims were usually so caught up in the moment they had no idea of their impending doom until it was too late. But, occasionally, a Seductive would slip up and lose their victim, leaving another Reluctant for Ransom to deal with.

The exact opposite of a Seductive was the Productive. Of all the classes, these were viewed as the highest priority for removal. Known for picking each victim carefully, with all intentions to leave the human alive and diseased, this class was most hated. Productives could create as many as five new vamps a week and with only thirty American Ransom members deemed as hunters, the creature's numbers bordered on out of control.

It was a Reluctant, or a group of Reluctants that had brought Thane to Hempstead today. As he looked at the signs posted to the battered telephone pole, one common trait stood out considerably. All but three of the eleven missing pets were last seen on Bethwood Street. So that is where the hunt would begin. He walked slowly along the weathered sidewalk, scanning each house for anything odd. He knew what to look for. Windows missing screens, curtains drawn closed, and dying plants or uncut grass. All of these were subtle signs that alerted a hunter to look a little closer at a potential nest. It would start with a sign like this. Thane would set up surveillance of the home to see if his hunch was right and the home was infested or the owner was just a victim of laziness. A Reluctant hunt was usually a multiple day ordeal. As Thane searched the homes along Bethwood Street, he realized today's hunt would be a quick one.

The address was ten twenty-one Bethwood. It was a simple house; a two-story colonial with white siding and dark blue shutters. There was nothing odd about the landscaping, just a few yews and an untamed barberry bush. The grass appeared to not have been cut in over a month, and the walkway to the front door had several sets of muddy footprints still fresh against the white cement. But these were not the signs that had Thane certain of his target's residency in the dwelling. It was the flat black paint slathered against the front basement windows.

Making sure there were no prying eyes from the surrounding neighbors, Thane slipped into the yard. It was always best to hunt early on a weekday morning. Most people had left for work already, and those that hadn't, were probably still asleep. Nevertheless, caution was always a necessity. There was no easy way to explain to the local authorities why you were wandering a neighborhood with a revolver, water pistols and wooden stakes. Especially since, according to the United States government, these creatures did not exist. Only the country's highest ranking officials were aware of the existence of Ransom and their mission.

Thane made his way toward the back yard and verified all of the basement windows had been covered with black paint. Once this was established, the hunter glanced to the first floor windows and the back door. There would not be an easy way in. There never was. The curtains were closed and the shades pulled for each of the first floor windows. They would not be an option. There was too much risk involved in going in blind through one of the windows. It was rare, but Reluctant vamps had, on certain occasions, set up booby traps to help keep their secrets safe. Most of the devices couldn't kill the hunter, but the thirty seconds lost on the trap could be the difference between sneaking up on the target and taking a lethal hit from a bloodsucker. If you don't know where you'll land, you shouldn't take the leap.

Thane checked the door and it was locked as he had expected. A quick inspection provided the door was locked at the knob and dead-bolted. No easy credit card entry this morning. This left the hunter with two choices, risk a booby trap or force the door open.

Pulling a small saw from his inner coat pocket, Thane slipped it between the door and the doorjamb. He maneuvered it down to the deadbolt and began to saw across the steel, moving slowly to keep the noise low and avoid drawing any attention. It was a laboring process, back and forth for nearly ten minutes to saw away three quarters of the steel bar. Once most of the way through, Thane stepped back and placed the saw back into his coat.

Next was the standard credit card move. He jammed a stiff, credit card sized plastic rectangle between the doorknob and frame, wiggling it until the lock separated from its hole in the parallel wood. The door was now unlocked and most of the deadbolt gone. It was time for the fun part.

Thane stepped off the concrete steps to the door and walked fifteen feet back into the yard. He glanced around one more time for prying eyes and charged toward the door. Lowering his shoulder as he moved up the steps, the hunter slammed into the light blue wood of the home's back entrance. The deadbolt gave with a loud pop that went off like a shotgun blast and the door gave way under the pressure of his shoulder. Spinning back, Thane slammed the door closed behind him. Nothing alerted a nosy neighbor faster than an open door and a loud noise.

Once the scene was secure, Thane quickly got his bearings. The home was quiet as he scanned the kitchen, nothing seemed out of place. He saw simple wooden cabinets that looked to be from the early sixties and had probably come with the house. The counter tops were green marble and uncluttered but covered with a coating of dust. That was another sign. Vamps were not very good housekeepers. This was going to be the place.

The air felt thick, and the stench of decaying meat was hanging in the kitchen. Thane pulled open the cabinets under a porcelain sink and checked the trashcan. No sign of anything rotting. A quick check of the cabinets above the counter revealed nothing as well. None of the mud from the front walkway had been tracked into the kitchen. It was time to move along.

The kitchen opened into an average living room with light brown carpet, a green couch and matching loveseat. The furniture would have looked more appropriate in a bad seventies sitcom than anywhere in this decade. Thane could visualize a picture perfect family solving all of their day's problems around the kitchen table. A sharp kick to the stiff cushions sent dust particles into the air. Next to the couch was a dark, cherry stained end table with a Tiffany lamp. Thane turned the switch with no result. Power must have been turned off.

Under the lamp was a silver frame with a picture of a young woman and two children. She was tall and slender with mousy brown hair and small, perky breasts; cute, but not gorgeous. Her kids, both freckled boys, looked to be eight or so. They were in swimsuits, with seemingly wet hair and could have been fraternal twins. The family was positioned in front of a waterslide, the type at most nearby theme parks. It looked like it had been a fun, memorable day. No sign of kids in the house though. Father must have custody.

Lucky for them.

Moving into the foyer, the smell of rot intensified. This was the front entrance way. The tiled walkway leading from the front door was covered in mud. It was too smeared to make out how many sets of prints had come into the house, at least two, maybe more. Just for kicks, Thane tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He cursed himself for not trying the front door originally. The dried dirt path led across the foyer tiles and onto a stretch of carpet, to a closed door, likely the basement.

Thane turned the knob, locked. Of course it was. He had been in the house too long now, and there was no time to pry this door open the subtle way. Pulling a pair of wooden stakes from under his coat, the hunter stepped back from the door and steadied himself. His foot slammed into the target, just to the left of the knob, splintering the thin plywood and throwing the door open. A stench of rot slapped Thane across the face, causing him to gag instantly. Choking back bile from his stomach, he slipped through the door and onto the creaking wood below.

Stepping softly as he moved downward, Thane scanned the basement.

It was cooler than the upstairs had been. The floor was dirt, unfinished and there was no light, aside from the few rays of sun that filtered from the open door behind him. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Through the near darkness, Thane spotted the cause of the thick air and stench of decay. At the base of the stairs, piled in a heap, were the rotting carcasses of several cats and dogs. There were at least fifteen of them. The pets from the street sign, no doubt. And some others whose disappearance had most likely gone unnoticed. On the top of the pile was a tan cocker spaniel. Its skin was pulled tight; with two puncture marks through the light colored fur near the small of its back. The fur appeared too small for the animal's skeletal frame. No question this one had been drained dry. The others, farther into decomposing, were nearly unrecognizable. One appeared to be a Scottie, but Thane could not tell for certain. The worst animals were at the bottom of the pile. Most of the fur was gone, and maggots wriggled in the meat of the protruding legs and snouts.

No doubt about it now. This was the place.

Thane finished his descent and glanced around the basement. Through the darkness, he spotted a pair of mounds lying prone to the dirt floor. Found them, he thought to himself. The forms were motionless, either asleep or playing possum.

It was time for the hunter to go to work.

In a