A Final Taste of Blood Read online

  A FINAL TASTE

  OF

  BLOOD

  By

  Wayne C. Rogers

  This story is dedicated to Betty

  Vietnam--Early February, 1968--TET Offensive—A Vietcong tunnel complex 40 Kilometers northwest of Saigon

  U.S. Army tunnel rat, Ben Freeman, could feel the sweat running down his face as he crawled frantically through the black, underground tunnels of Chu Chi province in a futile attempt to reach safety. He had a red-gelled military right-angled flashlight in his left hand and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol in his right.

  The handgun was cocked and ready to fire.

  The other two soldiers on Freeman’s team had been brutally murdered, their bodies ripped apart and their heads decapitated from their torsos. Freeman knew because he’d found them twenty minutes ago. Not knowing what else to do, he had removed their dog tags to take back to Army headquarters. That was when he’d heard the sound of what had killed them coming his way. Freeman had suddenly remembered his father’s advice before shipping out to Nam: “Run whenever practical so you can live to fight another day.”

  Freeman decided it was time to take the advice.

  The only catch was he had to survive whatever had killed them in order to get back to safety.

  ******

  Like every tunnel rat in Tom Wergen’s unit, Freeman had heard the story of how Steve Thompson had done battle with a quai vat back in the fall of 1967 before being killed himself by North Vietnamese soldiers.

  And, like everyone else in his unit, he hadn’t believed a word of it.

  Now, it was a different story.

  Whatever was behind him, Freeman could sense it getting closer as he drew nearer to the shaft ahead. The red beam from his flashlight zeroed in on the entrance, capturing the opening with its inviting allure.

  Freeman told himself not to be scared, but it was no use. His hands were shaking and his breathing was too fast. He didn’t know what had killed Morgan and Bremer; nor, the two-dozen Vietcong bodies he’d come across while running the tunnels. He only knew one thing…that it was now after him and was gaining with every passing second.

  The opening to the shaft was within reach.

  Freeman and the other two grunts had originally come this way, and he didn’t need to check for booby traps as he entered the tall shaft. He rose swiftly to his feet, grabbed the sides of the rickety ladder with the pistol and flashlight in his hands, and began to climb upward. He got to the top where the opened trap door was located and started to stick his head up into the bright sunlight. That was when he felt a tight grip around his left ankle and was jerked off the ladder.

  Landing face down on the packed dirt floor, Freeman felt the wind knocked out of him and his cheek bone fractured. Unfortunately, there was no time to lay there and recuperate. Whatever had his ankle began to drag him back into the black tunnel. The flashlight was left behind as he listened to the creature grunting in excitement, the red beam barely catching the leathery, clawed hand that held his foot.

  The tunnel rat struggled and somehow managed to flip his body over and onto his back as he was dragged away from the warmth of the sunlight. He aimed the handgun at the darker shape in front of him. Firing the semi-automatic pistol several times, Freeman screamed only once when the muzzle flash high-lighted the quai vat. The creature had spun around to glare down at him with its red, demonic eyes and drool oozing from between its pointed teeth.

  Freeman dropped the empty handgun and pulled out his survival knife from the sheath tied around his left forearm. He kicked out hard with his combat boot at the arm dragging his body and grinned with satisfaction at the sound of breaking bone. The scaly creature reached back to grab him by the throat with its good arm and that’s when Freeman slashed out, cutting a long gash in the dead-like flesh.

  The quai vat howled at the tunnel rat like a rabid dog, and then snarled with spittle flying from its mouth. It then pounced upon Freeman, and that was the last thing the soldier remembered.

  ******

  When Ben Freeman finally awoke, he’d found himself in a military hospital, his stomach and chest stitched and taped up with bandages. His face was also bandaged tightly so his cheek bone could heal properly.

  What he soon discovered was that Special Forces Captain Mike Malloy had heard the shots and had jumped down into the shaft with his M-16, shined his flashlight down the tunnel and seen the creature ripping apart Freeman’s chest. The Green Beret had then emptied his assault rifle at the hideous monster, watching as it vanished like a streak of light into the surrounding blackness.

  Captain Malloy had dragged Freeman’s mangled body back to the shaft and then carried it up the ladder with the help of his A-team. The Green Beret had then lifted Freeman up into a fireman’s carry, placing the man on his shoulders. He traveled to the LZ that way. A helicopter was waiting to fly them out of the bush. Two medics were on board, and they somehow managed to keep Freeman alive for the ride to the hospital.

  Las Vegas, Nevada—Late September—Present Day

  Ben Freeman awoke in bed with a startled expression on his face, popping up into a sitting position like a Jack-in-the-Box. His face was covered in perspiration, and he was breathing heavily.

  His wife of forty-seven years, Sheila, opened her sleepy eyes and saw him sitting there with the covers around his waist, his body trembling.

  “Another nightmare?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Freeman said, glancing over at her.

  He was still as much in love with his wife now as he had been since meeting her through her brother, Mike Malloy. Sheila was the anchor in his life, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that to his friends at the casino where he worked.

  “Why don’t you lie back down?” she said.

  Freeman gave her a half-hearted smile, and then slipped out from beneath the covers. Standing alongside the bed in his boxer shorts, he looked like a man in his early forties, instead of his sixties. Only the jagged scar reaching down from his chest to his stomach spoke of things best forgotten.

  “I’m going outside on the balcony for a few minutes,” he said. “I need to get some fresh air. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “Okay,” Sheila said.

  She watched him walk across the bedroom to the sliding glass door.

  Pulling the curtain aside, Freeman unlocked the door and slid it open. He stepped out onto the wooden balcony, closing the door behind him, and faced the other condominiums across the way. There was a slight chill in the air even though it was still September, but it didn’t bother him. As far as he was concerned, it never got that cold in Las Vegas though it did occasionally snow during the winter. If his body was shivering, it was from the nightmare he’d had.

  Freeman stared upward at the full moon that seemed to tower over the vast county. The clear, yellow orb was beautiful and enchanting to him. Freeman continued to gaze unconsciously at it, lost in his own private thoughts when the sliding door opened and his wife stepped outside.

  Sheila tied the belt around her cotton robe, and then placed her arm around her husband’s waist, giving him a gentle hug.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Are you any closer to solving the riddles of the Universe?”

  Freeman shook his head and smiled. Then, placing his arm gently over her shoulder, he pulled Sheila closer and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I love you, Ben Freeman,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t want to frighten you,” he said, “but I think the quai vat is coming for me. Call it a gut instinct, but I feel as though the creature has been after my ass for nearly five decades and has now found me here in Las Vegas.”

  “Be
n, that’s crazy.”

  “I can’t seem to shake the feeling that it’s here to kill me and anyone else who gets in the way,” Freeman said. “I hurt it in Vietnam, and then managed to escape thanks to your brother. I believe the creature’s still pissed off and wants revenge.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Maybe being scared is good. It can keep you from being surprised by an unexpected attack.”

  “This isn’t Vietnam,” Sheila said.

  “I know.”

  “Come on back inside,” Sheila said, “and I’ll give you something else to think about.”

  “Like what?”

  She grinned. “Come inside and find out.”

  As he stepped into the dark room and started to close the door, he suddenly had a premonition. It was as if the specter of death was looming over his shoulder. Freeman gazed back at the full moon and a strange thought entered his mind. The ex-tunnel rat wondered who the creature was murdering at this very moment in Las Vegas.

  As Freeman finished closing the door and hurried over to the bed, the moon shined its glowing radiance into the bedroom through the partly-opened curtain before being hidden behind a large set of black clouds that had drifted in over Vegas.

  Las Vegas, Nevada—Same Time—Flamingo Wash

  Though it wasn’t freezing, Homer was wrapped up in as many clothes as he could get on, covering everything with a Goodwill Army trench coat, an old pair of combat boots, and a World War II flight cap with ear muffs. One never knew when the weather might change, especially with October peeping around the corner.

  Homer had seen it all during his years as a homeless man, living on the streets in one of the wealthiest cities of the world. Rolling his grocery cart full of junk down the storm channel with its front, left wheel squeaking loudly, he gazed up at the moon that was now hidden behind a thick-cloud covering. With the night just about over, he hoped to curl up beside his roommate, Melvin, in the shanty underneath the nearby overpass. He was happy with life and started whistling an old show tune from South Pacific.

  As the homeless man drew closer to his shanty, a huge black shape emerged from the enclosure and patiently stood there, waiting for him to return with his new finds. The shape was silent and its red eyes gleamed in Homer’s direction. Homer saw the massive black shape that was mixed in with the other shadows beneath the overpass. Homer stopped to stare at it in suspicion. He knew about the murders that had taken place in the various channels around town during the past summer. This made him leery of anything that didn’t fit into his little world.

  “Is that you, Melvin?” he called out.

  The shape began to take on more form as it left the safety of the shadows. A much larger, younger man who went by the name of Melvin was now standing there with his demonic eyes aimed at old Homer. Melvin was bundled up like his roommate, wearing a tattered Army trench coat and well-worn combat boots for all the walking he usually did at night. There were, however, a few disparities about the being that caused Homer to still be leery. The red eyes certainly didn’t help the situation. There was also the problem with Melvin’s head. It appeared to be slightly askew as if the neck has been broken and the head twisted sharply to the side.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes and head, boy?” Homer asked.

  Melvin didn’t say anything as he started down the slanted concrete wall and then quietly approached Homer.

  “Say something, Melvin. You’re starting to scare me.”

  But, the younger man continued to remain silent. He did, however, smile wickedly.

  The old man’s initial suspicion finally gave way to outright terror as he reached inside the heavy coat and pulled out a sharp butcher’s knife that had seen better days. He gripped the knife by its loose handle and waved it threateningly at what had once been his roommate.

  “Homer,” the thing said in a low voice. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Come any closer and I’ll cut you from your neck to your balls,” Homer warned. The homeless man then waved the knife in the air, acting as if he was Zorro. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Good. It will make killing you that much easier.”

  The young man’s chiseled face began to morph into something that wasn’t quite human...something that was hideous and frightening to behold.

  Homer couldn’t stop himself from screaming.

  Dropping the knife, he spun around and took off running, attempting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Melvin. Unfortunately, because of the arthritis in his knees, he didn’t get very far before the creature jumped upon his back and drove him face down into the dirty water on the floor of the channel.

  There was a loud animalistic cry as the creature ripped off Homer’s head, using a fast swipe of its clawed hand. The head rolled away from the body and came to a stop with its wide, disbelieving eyes staring upward in hopelessness.

  Leaving the bloody head where it was, the Melvin/creature rose to its feet and grabbed one of Homer’s ankles. It dragged the body back down the wash and up the slanting wall to where the shanty was located.

  Las Vegas, Nevada—Flamingo Wash—Next morning

  Both sides of the East Flamingo Wash were a hive of activity and had yellow crime-scene tape stretched around the drainage system where the murder had taken place. Several marked and unmarked police cruisers were parked outside the taped area with patrol officers and homicide detectives milling around, questioning a couple of kids, and keeping the television and newspaper reporters back, along with their cameramen. Curious bystanders who had strolled over to the area from their apartment complexes were also there. It was just one more thing the police had to deal with to keep the area from getting contaminated.

  On the side of the storm channel closest to East Flamingo, the morgue wagon was pulling away with Homer’s body in the back as Crime Scene Technicians scoured the lot on both sides of the wash for clues. Passing the wagon as it pulled out onto the busy highway, a gray Ford Taurus drove slowly into the area and stopped where a uniformed patrolman was standing. The driver showed the officer his badge, asked him a question, and then drove over to where the yellow tape was flapping in the breeze that had kicked up without warning.

  Lieutenant Frank Peterson killed the engine and climbed out of the car, looking like an older model for GQ magazine in his expensive three-piece suit. He closed the door of the Taurus, stepped over to the crime-scene tape, scooted under it, and walked down the slanted wall to where two civilians were huddled together in a private conversation. One man (Detective Dwayne Matthews) was slightly overweight and dressed in an off-the-rack sports jacket and a pair of rumpled dress slacks. The second individual (the lead CSI Investigator) was an older man with a mustache and was wearing even cheaper clothes and eye glasses that had probably come from Wal-Mart.

  As Peterson drew nearer to the couple, Matthews turned and nodded at him. He had a small notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. The investigator said something else to the homicide detective, and then left, nodding at Peterson as he made his way back up the wall.

  “What do we have?” Peterson asked.

  The metal shopping cart with its load of goodies was only a few yards away with splatters of dried blood filling the areas in between.

  “It’s a serial killer, Frank,” Matthews said. “Chuck just confirmed it. The death is the same as the others.”

  “You owe me twenty, Dwayne.”

  Matthews grimaced, and then removed his billfold from his back pocket. He took out a twenty dollar bill and handed it over.

  “The question is how do we catch this son-of-a-bitch?” Peterson asked, pocketing the money. “This is the fifth murder since May. All of them have been inside, or near, the various storm channels. Did the victim have a roommate?”

  “A younger man in his late twenties shared the shanty with him. The guy’s name is Melvin. He’s 6’ 4” and strong as an ox. He’s also disappeared, which makes him the prime suspect.”

  ”Yes
, but did he have any connection to the other victims?”

  “He was homeless, Frank.”

  “Not good enough,” Peterson said. “We need a motive besides being homeless. I could see one murder taking place as an act of passion. You know, someone killing another person over an object or maybe something different.”

  “I don’t know,” the other cop said. “Everyone was homeless and lived in the drainage system. Nobody had anything worth stealing and committing murder over.” He paused for a second and thought about the situation. “I have some men questioning people along the channel. The only thing we know for sure of is that the killer strikes on a full moon.”

  “When’s the next one?”

  “You’re going to love this. It’s on Halloween Night.”