It's Not Who You Were Born To

It's Not Who You Were Born To, Part Eight
by Scribe

Retribution

They were perhaps slower than usual driving out to the bluffs, but they didn't want to risk losing Dwayne. No one seemed to notice--and if they did, they quickly forgot it. It didn't pay to be too interested in the unusual in Santa Carla.

When they reached the cliffs, it would have been simple enought for David to heft the limp body over his shoulder and make his way down the stairs, but he didn't. Paul was anxious to have some contact with his slain lover, so David let him help carry Dwayne down into the sunken hotel. Once inside he let Paul take the boy, cradling him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. They made their way back to the room they'd shared before.

The room was still musky with the trapped scent of sex. Paul sat on the floor, holding Dwarne, while David stripped soiled sheets from the bed and replaiced them with some he'd 'liberated' from Max the last time he'd been to the older vampire's house. Paul rocked the dead boy, stroking his long, dark hair and whispering to him, assuring him that the darkness would only last a little while. When David came to stand over him, Paul looked up with pained, anxious eyes. David said quietly, "You can talk to him, man. Who knows what the dead hear?" He squatted and touched the wound on his neck. "Maybe it'll help him."

"Are you sure it'll work, David?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. There's more than one way to turn someone, but this is surefire--it doesn't leave anything up to the new one. The other one, you just give the blood to the new one, and let it work. They make their first kill, they're done."

"But what if they DON'T make a kill?"

David gave him a small smile. "You remember how you felt when you first woke up?" Paul made a face. He had awakened to a sensation that was like he'd been starved and denied water for about a week, while starting to go cold turkey from a mother of a heroin addiction. "Yeah, you woke up in the middle of it. Imagine what it's like to feel it coming on, and nothing you do helps. There's only one way to make it go away... one way." He shrugged. "Can you imagine anyone being able to hold off from that for long? C'mon, let's get him settled."

He helped Paul lift Dwayne, and they stripped away the rest of his fouled and torn clothes. They settled him on the bed. Paul tenderly tucked a sheet up around his shoulders. "I wish we could wash him. I hate to leave him like this."

David gripped his shoulder. We don't have time right now, man. Not if you want to do what I know you do." Paul looked back at David, his eyes glowing yellow, and David nodded. "It has to be tonight, and it has to be before we see or talk to Max."

"Why? Max wants Dwayne, wanted his mother. He might want to..."

"No," David said flatly. "Max wants things in a big way, no doubt about that. But he's settled here. He doesn't want to pull up roots, and that means..." David made a face, "discretion. His word for it. If he thought there was a way we could take care of Jake quietly, with no fuss or attention, then he'd be happy to have it done." David shrugged. "But this is going to be a production, man. There's gonna be bells, whistles, and sirens. No, if we talk to Max, he'll order us to leave Jake to the authorities. I still can't disobey a direct order, not when he puts some force behind it."

"Leave him to the authorities," Paul muttered. He snarleld. "Yeah, right. We DO have executions in Cali, but there's no gauranty, and the could hang around on death row for a fucking DECADE."

"And there's no way we can get him once he's really in the system--so it has to be tonight."

"I want him, David." Paul's voice was flat.

"I'm not going to challenge you on that, bro, as much as I'd like a piece of him." He rubbed his chin, squinting thoughtfully. "Okay, they had to have taken him to Santa Carla General, they wouldn't risk taking a shotgun wound, even a minor one, any farther off. This shouldn't be too hard--the place is a cracker box, and the security is Deputy Dawg level." He went to the room's closet, opened it, and began rummaging inside.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked.

"Disguise time, bud. I'm gonna have to go inside and do some reconnaisance, and I don't want my unique and distinctive style to make me a target later." He smiled, and his tone was joking, but his eyes were serious. Paul watched as David lifted, then discarded several items of clothing. Finally he stood before Paul, arms outspread. "What do you think?" He still wore his jeans, but that was about all that remained of his usual attire. He wore scuffed sneakers and a faded T-shirt. His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he'd donned a baseball cap.

Paul walked around him. "You look like your average geek. But..." His finger flipped the ragged edges of several large, blood crusted tears in the back of the shirt. "This might cause some comment."

"Yeah, damn, you're right." David rummaged again and came up with a windbreaker, donning it. "Better?"

"Damn, you look skanky."

"And?"

"And unremarkable."

David bowed. "Thank you. Let's go."

*****

"Yo."

The receiving nurse at the emergency room looked up to find a scruffy, bored looking young man leaning against the counter. He was holding a cardboard pizza box, and the scent of hot cheese and pepperoni reminded her that she STILL hadn't taken a supper break. "Can I help you?"

He lifted the box. Got a delivery here for..." He consulted a slip. "Damned if I know." He squinted. "Fuck, I think the guy making delivery must be workin' his way through med school, cause he writes just as screwy as any doctor. Can YOU tell what that is?" He showed her the slip.

The scrawl wasn't made any more legible by the large grease stain. "No, can't help you."

He scratched his head. "Lessee... Tony said the guy gave him some information 'bout where he was in the hospital. Um... Something about there were some cops hanging around on the floor just below his. He saw 'em when the elevator stopped at that floor."

The nurse thought for a moment. "Well, he'd probably be on four, then. The only officer in the hospital right now is standing guard over some guy who killed his family."

The delivery boy gaped. "No shit?"

The nurse shuddered. "He beat his wife to death, then shot his son." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "At least they THINK the boy is dead. Something really weird, we aren't sure what, happened on the way to the hospital, and the body is missing."

"Get out of town! You lost a stiff?"

"Some gang attacked the ambulance en route. They had an accident, and the body just disappeared. One of our guys got a concussion."

"Huh. Lotta weird ol' shit going on in the world, isn't it? Well," he started away. "Gotta go. This is my last delivery of the night, an' if I don't get it to him in..." he looked at his watch, "Woops! About five minutes, I have to eat the cost! Bye!" He sprinted down the hall toward the elevator, and the nurse went to the back of her cubicle to find that container of tuna fish in the mini-fridge.

*****

Officer Steven Moore was sitting on a seat outside the prisoner's room, arms folded, bored out of his skull. He hated babysitting duty like this. Not that it happened all that often--the crooks apprehended in Santa Carla weren't often banged up enough to require a hospital stay before being incarcerated. This one was an excepting. He was just lucky that the neighbor's shells hadn't been packing a heavy load, or he'd have lost part of his leg. As it was, with the bullet the kid had put in his thigh and the shotgun blast in almost the same place, he was going to look like Frankenstein on that leg. He'd heard a few of the doctors talking, and he might end up losing the leg somewhere down the line anyway--they'd had to do a lot of vein grafting, and his circulation was still for shit. If it didn't improve... And even if he kept it, he'd limp for the rest of his life.

*However long that will be. I hope they execute the fucker. I suppose he'll try to claim 'mitigating circumstances' and all that good shit. He'll have psychiatrists get up and tell everone one how Mommy and Daddy were mean to him, and that's why he got blind drunk and beat a woman to death, then shot a teenager.*

A middle aged nurse *Don't even get a young one to flirt with* came out of the room, made a few notes on a chart, and slipped it back into the bin fastened to the front of the door. "How's he doin'? Like I really care," said Moore.

"Oh, he's fine. As fine as someone can be who's had a major load of shot taken out of his leg, and is probably in the first stages of cirossis CAN be, I suppose. It's going to be a toss-up as to what gets him first, the liver damage, or the state," she said.

The cop grunted. "Which would be more painful?"

"Liver, hands down."

"Hope his appeals drag out."

There was the bing that signalled the elevator, and they both looked down the hall. A shabby young man carrying a pizza box stepped out, consulting a slip of paper. He started down the hall, peering at room numbers as he went. Steven had an absurd moment of hope that the scuzzbucket he was guarding had managed to call it in. Then he could confiscate it, and have a good dinner.

The nurse was frowning as the young man looked up, saw them, and speeded up, coming to them. She said, "Visiting hours are over."

"Not here to visit, lady," he said cheerfull, tapping the box. "Just doin' my job. Can you tell me which room O'Hoolihan is in?"

"As I said, visiting hours are over. Besides that, we aren't supposed to allow outside food for the patients. Their diets need to be strictly controled so that the doctors can prescribe treatments and medications properly."

The boy nodded agreeably. "Makes sense, but I think this is for a relative or somethin' who's sitting up with someone. Anyways, O'Hoolihan?"

"There are no O'Hoolihans on this floor. I'd remember a name like that."

"Damn," the boy said mildly. "Must be the next floor, then." He smiled at the officer. "Hi. What they got you here for?"

"Just watching over a prisoner till they get him transported. Son, you'd better go on, now. You'll just have to take that pizza back."

The boy scowled. "Not yet, I don't. One more bad delivery, and they'll dock me. I hafta try a little longer before I give up." He sighed. "If I DON'T find who it's for..." he studied the officer slyly. "I MIGHT be talked into parting with this for about seven bucks, if you and your buddies want to kick in."

The policeman was interested. "Seven is pretty steep for a mistake pizza."

"Ah, but THIS is a Monster Meaty, with extra cheese. This'll go you seventeen bucks normally. C'mon, two or three of you chip in and you have a bargain."

Moore sighed regretfully. "No can do. It's just me till six."

The boy shrugged. "Your loss, dude." He saluted them and headed back toward the elevators. "Have a nice one."

*****

Paul was waiting in a downstairs lounge area. David silently opened the box. Paul bent over it and took a deep sniff of the still warm pie. He smiled. "Man, I used to LOVE these things, when I could get 'em. How about you?"

David shrugged. "I was before their time. They smell good, but I can't really remember WHY. We need to get rid of this. It's a shame we can't feed it to Thorn--maybe it would give him the shits." David dumped the pizza out into a wastebasket. "And we don't want to leave this box around for finger printing." He started to rip the box into pieces.

Paul watched. "You've never been finger printed, have you?"

"No, but they've probably gathered my prints from half a dozen interesting places, but just don't have anyone to tie them to. No point in leaving any more evidence than I have to." He looked at the now filled wastebasket. "Ya know, this could work out nicely for the distraction. A little fire down here, and me raising a ruckus up on Jake the Snake's floor ought to stir things up enough to keep them occupied while you take care of what you need to." He clapped Paul on the shoulder. "C'mon--I'll point out the window to you." As they walked outside he was saying, "Just remember, you won't have too much time--make it fast, dirty, and satisfying, cause if you don't kill him, we won't be able to risk coming back."

David took him around the side of the building. Luckily this side faced a small parking lot, deserted at this time of night. "Get in position, but wait till you hear the ruckus and can be pretty sure that the cop has gone to investigate. And if the cop comes after you, don't take any chances, man. I seriously doubt he could kill you, but if he gets you incapasitated and confines you... Well, let's just say deep shit and not a step-stool in sight."

"I understand."

Paul's eyes were fixed on the window. David put a hand on his arm, then took his chin in his fingers, forcing the younger vampire to look at him. "I KNOW you understand, man, but this is some deep water you're moving in. That's the man who killed your mate up there." When Paul started to protest, David shook his head, "No, don't argue with me on this. Dwayne is yours, and you're his--I could see that, and I'm all right with it. It's great, man. Maybe someday I'll have that, too, but till then, it does me good to see you two together. The thing is, Paul, that your most basic instincts are going to be taking over here, and you STILL have to have some control over this. Just remember, you can't let anything happen to yourself. You can't leave Dwayne alone when he's gonna need you so badly. Understand?"

Paul gave David a brief, fierce hug. "I got it. Don't worry."

"Outstanding." David slapped his back. "Let's do it." He headed back around the side of the building to start his distraction.

Paul stepped close to the building, studying the facade. Brick, and they'd left at least a fourth inch space when they mortared them in place. "Piece of cake," he murmured. Brick was easy--STUCCO was hard. It had a rough surface that gave some purchace, but it tended to crumble at inopportune moments.

He glanced around as he pulled off his boots and tucked them into the carry on his bike, which was parked nearby. Then he stood and looked up again, letting his vampiric nature swim to the surface, feeling the familiar ache as his finger and toenails lengthened and sharpened. He gripped the bricks in front of him, nails grating on cement, and started up the building face, moving as quickly and surely as a lizard.

He came even with the third floor window, stopping between that one and the window for the room on the other side. He examined the window--two solid panes of glass, side-by-side, with no sign of any way that it could be opened from this side. No problem. The drapes were drawn, with only a couple of inches of space between the sides. Paul leaned over, peeking through, wanting a look at the man he had never met, but hated more than anything else in the world.

The head of the bed was cranked up slightly, and the lights were very low--only a low watt bulb in an upward tilted shade at the head of the bed. Paul didn't need much light with his night vision, though. He could see Jake clearly. There was no mistaking who he was--his leg was thickly bandaged, and both his wrists were handcuffed to the bed railing.

*This is the one,* Paul thought. *This is the man who beat my lover. Look at him--he's almost twice Dwayne's size, the fucking coward. He handled him, he was making plans to RAPE him.* As these thoughts ran through his mind, the changes were happening. His eyes glowed, his handsome features were distorted, subtly warped into something demonic. He was almost vibrating against the wall, whispering, "C'mon, David. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I can't hold back much longer."

Down in the first floor waiting room David turned the windbreaker inside out, changing it from blue to red, and fished a cigarette lighter out of the pocket. He whistled as he lit the cardboard strips in several places, using a longer strip to stir them well. When the flames had caught, he moved the wastebasket under the smoke detector, and moved a small table to cover all but the outer rim of the basket. That way if a sprinkler system went off, it would take a few minutes to put out the fire. Confident that it would work, he trotted to the stairs and started up them, two at a time. Things were going to move fast now.

Officer Moore looked up when the alarm started shrieking somewhere downstairs. The middle-aged nurse and a second, slightly younger one stepped out of their station, looking around anxiously and whispering together. The first nurse called down to the officer, "Sounds like it's on the first or second floor."

By now sleepy, but alarmed, patients (the ones who could move) were opening their doors. Some peered out, some stepped out into the hall. David burst through the door that led to the stairs at the other end of the hall, and all of them turned to look. A pretty young woman, wearing one of those embarrassingly inadequate hospital gowns, took a step back, cluthing the back edges closed, and said hesitantly, "Is the hospital on fire?"

David grinned at her. "Don't know about the hospital, baby, but -I- sure am!" He grabbed the startled young woman, bent her back, and kissed her, hard. He also grabbed a handful of ass and squeezed. When he pulled back, the woman slapped him vigorously, and added HER shrieks to the alarms (there were more now, the dampness of the pizza made for a lot of smoke, and it had hit the ventilation system, setting off alarms on the next two floors.

David had gone into the small kitchen area at the end of the hall and unplugged the microwave, brought it out into the hall and smashed it, wiggled his butt at the stunned onlookers, and gone back to see what else he could trash. The officer started after him. "Hey! Stop that, you!"

Outside on the wall, Paul grinned, his fangs sliding out, and swung over, smashing through the glass in one easy dive.

Jake had been looking blearily toward the door, thinking that it might be time to start yelling for them to let him the fuck up out of this bed. It wasn't that he was worried about getting burned--he was still too high to process what he was hearing. He was just ready to start raising hell on general principles. He didn't remember much of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours or so.

He knew that the brat had run again, and he'd tried to find him. He'd decided that maybe beating him, then fucking him bowlegged MIGHT take a little of the snot out of him. But the bitch wouldn't tell him where he was, kept saying she didn't know. Like hell she didn't. But he had to give her credit, she hadn't told, and he'd wallopped her pretty good. What had happened after that? Oh, yeah--he'd had a couple more drinks, and then the brat HAD come home. The little shit had come on to him, acting all hot and willing, and then...

"Fucker SHOT me!" he muttered indignantly, feeling the first twinge of returning pain. *Then the bitch next door shot me AGAIN! Why did she do that? What did I ever do to her? I'll have that cunt in jail for attempted murder. Yeah, and I'll sue her ass, too. Lay a nice fat civil suit on her and get the car, and the house, and... DAMN, it's starting to hurt. Why are they yelling outside?*

Then there was a crash, and yelling, and some sort of damn *beep beep beep*. Didn't they know that he was sick, and needed his rest? Then there was another crash--this time INSIDE his room, and a moist gust of warm air. He rolled his head on the pillow and blinked when he saw the curtains billowing into the room. There were shards of glass still stuck in the frame. Had a bird flown into the window? No, it was night time. Could be an owl. Maybe a bat? He tried to lean over and see if there was a feathery or furry body on the floor, but the cuffs clinked on the rails, holding him back. But there WAS something down there, and it rose up, and rose, and rose...

Jake dropped back on the starchy sheets, gazing up in confusion and dawning fear. It was a man--or rather a boy--or something very like one. The face was all wrong, and there was something wrong with the hands, and the mouth... And he couldn't be that tall. His blond hair was brushing the ceiling, he'd have to be a fucking GIANT. Then Jake noticed that the booted feet were dangling in mid-air, about even with Jake's mattress--dangling, with no support.

"What the fuck kind of drugs did they GIVE me?" he whispered.

"Jake?"

"I... I'm Jake."

The thing nodded. "I just wanted to be sure."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Dwayne's lover. You remember Dwayne--the boy you beat, and tried to molest? The boy you killed?" He drifted down--closer.

Jake cringed back, babbling, "D.Ts. I knew I'd get 'em eventually, but I thought insects, maybe rats, not... not... Oh, God, your EYES! WHAT ARE YOU?"

"I'm your own personal Death, asshole." Paul lunged, taloned hands outstretched. Jake managed to scream before the claws sank into his throat. Paul landed on top of him, one knee thudding down on the thick bandages wrapping his wounds. The pain of that was even more intense than that caused by the sharp points sinking into his throat, and Jake screamed again before Paul sliced over his vocal cords with one blade-like thumbnail. Stitches burst, and blood had seeped through the thick gauze padding even before Paul shifted slightly, balancing himself. All the carefully placed sutures were torn. Jake would bleed to death from this in a matter of minutes.

It didn't come to that.

With the fangs, Paul's smile was terrible. He pulled gore tipped nails out of Jake's throat, grabbed the man's forearm, and shook it. The cuff's clanking on the rail could be heard even above Jake's choking, bubbling attempts to cry out. "Pretty fucking nice of the law to truss you up like this for me, though I woulda kind of enjoyed chasing you down. It's fun when the scum runs. But like David said, this has to be fast, so..."

Jake attempted to scream when the claws raked down his face, bursting his right eyeball. Paul scratched again, hooking this time to draw the gelatinous orb out to dangle wetly against Jake's slashed cheek. He could hear the thing that was attacking him saying something, but he couldn't comprehend what it was. To him it was just noise filtering through the pain. "I don't think you HAVE a heart, but let's see."

The gown was ripped like tissue, and Paul started to try to work his way through the man's chest, cursing at the cage of ribs that kept him from his goal. He was bathed from fingertips to above his elbows with gore, and his face and torso were smeared and spattered with spray, but he felt no temptation to taste any of it.

Jake had stopped moving, aside from the faint fribulations of his heart, and the slight inflation of his lungs. Paul could glimpse these through the raw mess he'd made of the man's chest. He hooked his fingers in the ribs, jerking and cursing, trying to break through, but he kept lifting the torso with his efforts. Paul shifted, putting a knee across Jake's throat to give himself some leverage, ignoring the crunch and grind of cartilage and bone. He had just managed to crack two of the ribs over the heart when there was the thunder of footsteps outside. There was a pounding on the door, and he heard David shouting, "TIME! TIME! TIME! CHEESE IT--THE PIGS!" Then Paul heard David's lunatic laughter fading in the distance, pursued by the enraged cursing of the officer.

"Fuck!" But his task was done--Jake was most certainly dead. Paul made a couple more slashes, then turned and leaped through the window. He could hear the door to the room opening even as he caught a breeze and lifted himself toward the parking lot. Then there were shrill, horrified screams which cut off abruptly, then resumed. Even as he landed beside his bike he thought, *Huh. First one fainted, second one took over the screaming.*

He mounted the bike and started it just as David came thundering around the side of the building and made for the lot at a dead run. Paul was a little surprised when he didn't see the policeman or security right behind, but he didn't wait around to find out WHY there was no pursuit. As soon as David threw a leg over his bike Paul took off. David was right behind him. As they made the first turn, he heard sirens start up.

David pulled up alongside him and shouted, "Store!"

Paul nodded. The area was about to be swarming with police. They couldn't risk leading them out to the cliffs, so they had to get out of sight fast. They took a circutious route back to the boardwalk and entered the alley behind Max's video store. David had a key to the back door. He unlocked it, and they rolled their bikes into the storeroom, then relocked the back door. It was cramped, but there was JUST enough space.

It was silent and dark, save for the safety EXIT signs over the doors. Paul whispered. "Is it closed?"

"Should be. I'll check. You, uh..." he indicated Paul's hands, smiling. Paul looked at them. His arms were bathed in blood, gore and tissue clotted under his now human length nails. "you might want to freshen up a little."

Paul went into the employee restroom. This wasn't the first time he or David had needed a clean-up, and the room was well stocked with strong soap and a scrub brush. Paul stripped off his fouled shirt, shoving it into a plastic garbage bag. It would be disposed of in some remote corner of the hide-out later. Then Paul took the brush and soap and worked on himself as assiduously as a surgeon preparing for an operation. He scrubbed his face, arms, hands, and even soaked his hair and used the hand soap on it. When he was done he used Comet to scour the sink, and checked to be sure there were no spots on the floor or walls. Finally he put the brush to soak in a bucket of bleach, blotted himself as well as he could with the paper towels, and went back into the store room.

David was holding a flat package wrapped in clear plastic. He ripped it open, then tossed Paul one of the store's T-shirts. "We owe Max seven-fifty."

Paul pulled the shirt over his head. "All quiet?" David nodded. "We gonna try to make it back to our place before dawn?"

David shook his head. "Too risky. We'll stay over."

Paul made a face, looking at a large set of open metal shelves. "I hate that place."

"Me, too, but it's the only secure place we have besides the lair and Max's place. Help me." They took hold of the shelves and tugged. There was a faint squeal. The unit rolled on tiny wheels that were placed under the bottom shelf, far back behind the rim, invisible unless you lay on your belly and peered very carefully.

The shelf unit seemed to pivot, turning at a ninety-degree angle to the wall, revealing a shallow closet. The boys stepped into the dark, close space, gripped the bar handle in the middle of the door, and pulled back. The door slowly closed. When it was set, David felt along the frame, found the two deadbolts, and threw them. No one but the boys and Max knew about this. The original architect HAD known, but since he'd mysteriously 'disappeared' (along with all copies of the blueprints) after he'd finished the job for Max.

Paul and David settled on the floor, curling together in the narrow space. "Damn good thing we aren't claustrophobic," grumbled Paul.

"I'm just as glad that you washed, man," said David. He sniffed pointedly. "Ah, the delicate aroma of industrial cleanser."

Paul slapped at him. "Asshole." He was quiet for a moment. "David, you're sure that he..."

"Yes," David said firmly. "Three days, Paul. Three days, and you'll have him back. Don't worry about that."

There was another pause. "What about Max?" David didn't respond. "David? He's going to be mad, isn't he?"

David held the younger boy close, tucking his head down on his shoulder. "Don't worry about that, either. I'll deal with Max." He kissed the top of Paul's head. "That's what big brothers are for."

"Shit, I almost forgot. Shift over, man, I need to get in my pocket."

David moved obligingly. "What are you after?" Paul pressed something moist and spongy into David's hand. David felt it carefully. "What is it?"

"Guess."

David frowned, exploring it. "You didn't stop in the cafeteria, I know that, but all I can think of is a sausage and a couple of meatballs, unless..." he trailed off. Then he choked with laughter. "FUCK, Paul! You DIDN'T!"

Paul settled back down, saying smugly, "Well, you TOLD me you wanted a piece of him."