The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Chapter Two





As he prepared to let loose a volley of rapidfire, Taylor yelled, “I’m going to die…”



“Do you want to?” a young woman’s voice quizzed of him, as the door opened and she grasped his rebreather unit, pulling him backwards.



Once they were inside the small room, the young woman slammed the door shut and locked it, with a snap of the wrist.



“You can die if you want,” she told Taylor, “but you don’t have to, yet.”



The young woman was tall, a long-haired brunette with well-defined cheekbones and eyes, of hazel green.



The room was an office and, the brunette stood with her backside against the edge of the desk, facing the door, where he stood.



“Names Juliette, Juliette Marx, merchant… hello…” She pronounced, extending her arm and offering her right hand.



“Taylor… Taylor Foxx, with two ex…” he answered, looking around himself, still panicked, white-faced and wide-eyed.



He stared, Taylor couldn’t help it: she was striking, in a black one-piece, cut low at the cleavage, a tight belt cinched round her slim wait, from which hung a holstered blaster, over that she wore a long coat and, knee-high tights boots, with an impressive heel, all in black, bar the red lining to the coat. He nnoticed too, that she carried knives in a scabbard affixed to each boot. ‘Aye,’ he drooled, ‘she is impressive.’



Her attire was at complete variance with the light clothing, the colonists wore, all of which were hand-made.



Still, there was something indefinable about her, a confident air that unnerved the young man; and for a long moment, Taylor continued to stare, she seemed like a goddess to the young man.. Juliette noticed, but did not comment, as she knew many found her intimidating.



Briefly he wondered if she were of The Brood, which he’d heard of.



They were genetically modified humanoid constructs, designed to fit tasks that no human could do, or wanted to; or would charge to much to do.



Often designed to expire at the end of use, The Brood were a perfect workforce for the corporations, in The Outer fringe; genetically perfect human variants, bred for domestic, industrial and, otherwise menial, or dangerous jobs, that humans either did not want, or want charge ‘too much’ to do. They had proved a boon to the mighty conglomerates, on The Outer Fringe of space, were few humans had gone; other than the colonists, who had followed the few pioneers.



The colonists were seen as an irritant to the corporations, with whom the often came into conflict. And, Taylor Foxx was the son of a colonist and, he wanted little to do with ‘them’; but, they sent the soldiers. And, it had been the soldiers who had killed both of his parents, leaving him in the care of his uncle, in this colony who hardly wanted, nor needed him. Yet, he was kin.



“The doors sealed,” she informed him, as if in reassurance. Her words drawing him from his reverie, yet with no knowledge of the background to her remark, Taylor was not comforted.



“Just wait till it goes quiet, we can get to my freighter then…” Juliette added.



“Goes quiet?” he queried, still feeling confused by the speed of events.



“Gas, I brought it for the colonists and, with the marine’s so close, they’ll be using it soon. So wait till it goes quiet… alright?” She told him with a smile.



Taylor nodded his assent.



Minutes passed by, while each in the room shared glances, until finally there was silence outside the door.



“How did you know?” Taylor hissed.



The brunette smiled, “I brought the gas. Now, I wonder if they read the instructions?”

Juliette stood away from the desk, then made her way across the room, to where Taylor sat: “Move your…” She instructed and Taylor stood, cautiously aware of the continuing chance of death increasing, once the door was open.



“Are you sure about this?” He asked, as the brunette unlocked the door and began to open it, a broad grin on her face.



“Oh, I’m sure… you see, the way I figure it…” she began, stepping over one dead marine then another.



Following close behind, Taylor dropped the helmets visor and levelled the machine pistol.



“Have you got the safety off?” Juliette quizzed, teasing him.



Taylor looked down, then inwardly smiled: the safety was still on, as was the emergency lighting, albeit the klaxon had ceased sounding. But, there were bodies wherever he looked; marines, colonists and palace guard, each of wearing a gas mask.



“So how come they’re all dead…” He said, voicing his question aloud, while being very careful where he put his feet.



As if in answer, Juliette simply smiled.



“Easy…” she told him, “Recall I did say, I did wonder if they read the instructions? Well, they didn’t…”



“I don’t understand…” Taylor confessed.



“Well, if they’d bothered to read, it said to avoid contact with the skin…” Juliette grinned and indicated to first one, then another body.



“And…” she added, “do you see the council guard wearing the textbook coveralls and respirators, as requested?”



Juliette paused at a tee-branch, at the end of the corridor.



“The way to the interview seemed more direct, without the directions…” The klaxon and, the flashing red light was an irritant neither needed.



“So, where to?” Taylor asked, needing an answer.



He was scared, for although he was dressed as such, he was no marine, lacking the one attribute a soldier needed, ‘fight’.



Taylor was still untested in that area, but he had proven adept at ‘flight’, hence his survival so far, during this crisis at the colony.



‘Survival’s a funny thing,’ he idly mused, eye focussed on Juliette’s derriere; ‘so pert and muscular, I bet she could crack walnuts.’



Then he blushed profusely, as Taylor thought back to his childhood and, loving strict parents, who would have balked at him thinking ‘like that’.



And his blush turned into a smile, as he thought back to a sweeter time, with his grey-haired Mother, before her death; when corporate mercs had taken the land she loved so much, land that she had cared for since their arrival at the colony…



Yet all of that had to be brushed aside.



“You’ll head right and make to the access port to the main hanger. That is, if you want to get to your ship…” Taylor informed her, boldly.



Looking down the corridor to the right Juliette asked him, “So how do you know?”



Shamefaced Taylor admitted, “I’m the son of colonists, ‘a local’ and, I know more about this place than any marine, doing the companies bidding…”



Juliette’s mouth opened, as if say something in answer, other than simply, “oh.”



“So, we turn right then?” Taylor quizzed, albeit unnecessarily.



“Yes,” she responded, thoughtfully. “We turn right…”



Taylor stared at the young woman’s face, anxious that she suddenly appeared worried.



“But, be careful…” Juliette warned, “I brought more than gas…”

Chapter One





Easing the flexiglass eyeguard up onto his helmet, the young colonist looked wide-eyed in each direction and, a corridor that led to his terror, given form.



To the left he heard marine’s, taking no prisoners, as they fought their way to the main chamber. The floor was littered with many of his comrades, hence utilising the battle armour of a marine, for camouflage.



Yet, to the right, the tunnels twisted toward that same chamber, from which an elite group of freedom fighters had launched a counter-attack which left many many many dead and, even greater weapons were employed… both depleted nuclear material and gas…



To these men, the young man would be viewed as a coward, having run from a firefight, during which he’d decided to live… hence running.



The freedom fighters were from the inner enclave so would hardly recognise him as a colonist, as they had so little contact with them, aside from their own comrades.



What made it all worse for Taylor Fox was the sounds and sight of battle being augmented by the flashing lights and the wailing of klaxons.



Tears ran the anxious young man’s cheeks, as the battle neared, from both sides.

“I’m going… to die…” Taylor shouted, his fingers tightening around the machine pistol in his hands.



Taylor believed death was imminent. And, so it seemed.



Yet, amidst the noise of explosions, gunfire and men dying, against the backdrop of dim, flashing red light, Taylor did not hear a lock click open from the room adjacent to where he stood.



Prepared to let loose a volley of rapid-fire he yelled, “I’m going to die…”

Seventeen minutes





Taylor Reese woke after his second coffee, making his way through to the front hall and the mirror; it was oval and reflected more than it saw.



Alongside psoriasis on his earlobes and forehead, Taylor’s hair was less, yet increased in amount of grey since his Father died, six months prior.



He got dressed slowly, knowing the day would wait for him. Then leaving through the back door, Taylor locked up, before double and treble checking that he had checked all the windows next, to ensure they too were secure, before fastening the lock to the wrought irons gates across the drive, before walking up it. Turning left he passed a few homes, listening to the birdsong, which lightened his mood somewhat.



Then at the end of his road, he took the left turn, leading down a snaking narrow road, enshrouded by trees either side, to the little bridge and the stream below. He ignored the straight road, which led to a crossroads and Wales to the right, Parkgate and The Dee straight on. Instead he chose to take the path passed a few houses, a hawthorn hedge and the road to his left, as he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face. It was a good day and within a seventeen minute walk would get better still, he knew.



With the golf club to the left and a farmers field ahead with cows standing in it and, a tree at the corner he always found impressive, standing proud as it did and done so for many, many years. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder at all that it must have seen in years passed, as he walked his walk.



As his mind wandered his feet continued to move, taking him past well–appointed bungalow’s with long driveways, open to one another; then onward and passed the letter box on a post to his left and, then on the bend a sandstone block with Anglo-Saxon designs carved in it, while he walked on the road, a white-washed cottage to his right. He then continued on, past homes that would bring millions on the market, many of them old. And to his right, behind the hedgerows were fields and a long pathway with a cottage at the roadside, which stood to the right of the entrance to the autistic home.



A few feet further on he crossed to the left where wooden fencing stood between him and woodland, leading to where he intended to go, The Mere his ‘peaceful place.’



*



Taylor walked passed the red-bordered triangular sign on a grey metal pole, that had the symbol of a duck on it, to remind motorists to slow down and that the ducks have the right of way. The sign stood near to where the fence ended and just before the pebble-dashed bin of many-sides.



Briefly he looked back and up the hill, hearing a noisy music and an equally loud music, minutes before he saw the car. Taylor turned back, a tad irked that here was yet another motorist who could not appreciate the Mere’s serenity.



As the car drove by, he checked out the driver and, the registration.



The driver was a young attractive blonde; driving, as he would expect a young man would, at speed, the windows open and music blaring.



He noticed that after ‘f’ and ‘s’ there was a ‘999’ and he smiled: “Potential female suicide [potential] – stay off the road and contact the police.”



Taylor liked telling stories; both weeding and waiting at busstops provided thinking time, in which he often found a story or two, filling otherwise boring moments.



He walked on, looking passed one bend and ahead the next and then the Mere, the man-made lake, Taylor so loved.



The water sparkled in the sunlight, ripples dancing with light, which caught his eye and caused amusement, for no other reason than it did. This was his place, his peaceful place and, everything about it’s beauty made him feel lighter, more at ease with himself and the world he lived in.



The castellated wall surrounding the roadside was old, Norman certainly, the area itself being recorded in the Doomsday Book.



Far ahead, where the old wall ended, a mother and daughter were feeding the ducks and, Taylor found vicarious pleasure from the smiles on their faces.



Opposite the sluice that once powered a water wheel there was a small waterfall, to the right of the white-washed cottage with the long drive and Taylor crossed the road, to peer over the railing’s, to the falling water.



He looked, listened and smiled, continuing to do so for several long minutes.

Then Taylor turned, to go sit in his spec on the wall...



As he did, still feeling the flow of nature, caught from what he had seen and heard, so was oblivious to the sound of the car speeding down the hill toward him.



An inch or so away from him, Taylor realised there was a blue-car coming toward him and, he stepped back.



Once the car had passed, he turned his head to look at the cars registration, telling himself, ‘Now there’s someone to steer away from!”



*



Taylor had felt a tad shocked from his near miss and decided to head for home and as he crossed and made to walk up the hill, he was unaware that the blue-car had taken a U-turn at the top of the hill and was at that moment heading back toward him.



Just before the car swerved to his side of the road Taylor felt an awareness of danger and turned his head, clenching his right fist around his house-keys, the tip of a Yale key protruding between his middle-finger and fore-finger.



The car pulled up by the kerbside and the driver snarled at Taylor, “You got a problem?”



The driver’s window was open, the fellow wore all dark clothing, his hair was slicked back, his skin looked oily and the fellow had several spots on his chin.



Right hand ready Taylor almost smiled, as he answered: “Aye, you nearly hit me.”



“Well… well… you crossed at the wrong place…” the driver spluttered. He seemed so angry that briefly Taylor wondered, ‘Is it steds, not amphet?”



The atmosphere was tense and the driver’s knuckles showed white on the wheel.



“And you were speeding,” Taylor reminded him quietly, looking him directly in the eyes, his own fists clenched, a Yale key protruding between the forefinger and middle-finger of his right hand still. He was ready, if needed.



Evidently the driver was surprised by Taylor’s answer as he ceased talking and his mouth hung open; but he quickly found his impetus once more and snapped angrily, “You got a death wish?”



Taylor hardly wanted to tell the truth on that one.



But, this was a different moment of time, from back then. And, this was a situation to be dealt with in the now, of this moment.



Taylor looked for movement from the driver. He was expectant of violence; of the driver’s hands dropping from the wheel, the door being thrust outward and having to kick it shut, fast. Yet as the driver looked flustered, seeking further words, there was none movement he had anticipated..



‘Typical…’ Taylor mused, as he turned away from the car, to walk back the way he had come: ‘Seems the louder they are, the less their words mean…’



Then, as Taylor neared the first bend, the driver found voice once again. Yet, by then his words meant as little to Taylor’s world, as he did so. It was still sunny “…and there’s a beer in the fridge…” he muttered, as he increased his pace.



*



Taylor walked homeward beneath the green of the overhanging branches and, thought back to his confrontation, with a degree of humour.



“Whatever his issues were,” he pondered aloud, “he was definitely…” Taylor sought the right descriptive word and, found it, “…ratty.” Thinking of the driver’s gaunt appearance ‘ratty’ suited his appearance and, Taylor smiled.



Taylor neared the last of the bends in the road and, with thought of the recent past dispelled by the beauty of the green his mood was lightened somewhat. He began to watch the cars pass by, reading their registrations, as was his habit.



As he neared the brow of the hill, he read a plate, IL666L0L that briefly intrigued Taylor. ‘Somehow,’ he mused, ‘I have to write that into a story.’



He’d already seen the driver, a burly man in a fawn suit, shorn of hair, with dark penetrating eyes. It was enough for Taylor to work with; his description and the registration. But, the story he wrote of would not talk of Steve, the driver of the Nexus, who had spotted Taylor in his rearview mirror.



“That’s twice I’ve seen ‘im doin that!?” The stocky fellow queried of circumstance.



He picked up his handset and called his colleague Jeff on his voice-activated speeddial: “Jeff, it’s Kevin…”



“Yeah-huh!?” His colleague was a man of few eloquent words; but he was ruthlessly efficient, literally so.



“I need a favour,” Kevin O’Neill began…



“Yeah huh?”



“Hang on!” Kevin instructed as he took a sharp right turn, without signalling and, then pulled into the kerbside to finish his conversation.



“Well, this fella’s been reg. spotting. I think he’s local and… I don’t want him to be a problem…”



“I understand…” Jeff assured him, then added; “Where’s local? And, what’s he look like?”



“I’ve just left Mere Road…” Kevin told his colleague and, then began to describe Taylor Reese…

I was at home and Dad was in the lounge, when he began telling me a story that had happened in about 1965.



We’d been in our home for a couple of years when my Dad had decided to paint the wall opposite the picture window in the living-room, that had only a thin wash over plaster, till then.



He had painted the wall with a new version of an established paint, which he had used many times before. But, when he had stood back to check out his work he’d not been at all happy with the finish, so he’d written to the manufacturers, with his personal customers report and, the firm had sent a fellow out to check Dad’s story.



The had walked into our front room, noting the antiques on the walls; the wall hanging of the stag; the crossed swords over a breastplate on the hearth and, the mock tudor beams on the ceiling, before inspecting the painted wall.



Having finished, he turned to my Dad, pointing to the wall and began, “The trouble with paint on these old walls…”



That’d been when my Father had stopped him talking further, explaining that our home was less the 5 miles from the project herself…



The fellowhad seen the beamns and threst and, he’d forgotten just where he was, in a bungalow, built in the early sixties.

COMMENTS

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moonkissed
22:58 Jul 02 2014

This is why I love your Dad.

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