the steel-walled refrigerator room was having one. It was one thing to go out fighting, or be struck by a bolt of lightning while traversing the Rocky Mountains—or many other possible ways of croaking. But this —this was something else entirely. Without a chance of final pride, of a feeling that one had done something good in this final moment of life. No, this was sick, foul, without the slightest trace of anything good to take into the next life.
“Rockson, we can’t die like this, we just can’t,” Detroit Green kept mumbling over and over. Not in fear, just infinite disgust. Some of the newer men in the team were whimpering, though no one said anything. The whiz kids, Rockson saw, were taking it all in stride. But then deep inside, they, more than anyone else believed that the Doomsday Warrior was going to get them out of this. Even if he didn’t believe it himself.
But it wasn’t Rock who was able to make the first real dent in the Vampyres imprisoning net-armor, though every man continued to struggle furiously within their sticky cocoons—it was Chen.
His Ultra-Vibration, Breath-of-the-Dragon breathing, after five hours, allowed him to at last get his arm and hand free of the entanglement as he was able to slide it fractions of an inch at a time up the side of his body and into his jacket. Here he was able to reach and grab hold of a small but razor-sharp blade secreted inside a lining. He felt an actual shudder of relief course through his whole body as his fingers touched the metal. It meant they might have a chance.
Still Chen didn’t say a word to the others, on the chance that he wouldn’t pull it off in time—and it was possible that the Vampyre women were somehow listening in on them. Though he didn’t think that was the case, as they had no reason to worry. As far as the blood drinkers were concerned, all the men here were already dead meat, cans of fresh red tomato juice up on the shelf ready to drink at the next meal.
Chen slid the knife into the cocoon netting as far around to the side as possible, so if someone came in they wouldn’t see him slicing. The net stuff wasn’t just sticky—it was tough. Tough as bark, probably from some sort of mutated plant covering nearby. The Chinese martial arts master had to give the vampire women credit for having used their environment to the hilt. He had to slice back and forth and had cut an opening about three feet long from shoulder to hip.
Then the door suddenly opened and two of the Vampyres walked in. And they wasted no time but walked straight over to none other than Chen. Of course, it always had to be like that. Never a break.
“This is him—#6,” one of them said, grabbing the tag around his neck and looking at it.
“Let us out, let us out,” a few of the strike force began to howl. Rockson felt no animosity toward them. They were new, many of them. This was no way to die. But then the ball game wasn’t over until the fat lady moved her adenoids, or something like that. Rock never could get that ancient colloquialism straight.
“Type O, R7 negative. Queenie’s favorite flavor,” one of them smirked to the other. Their lips pulled back, revealing the long sharp teeth at the edges of their mouths. They were like animals, not even able to control their bestial reactions at the sheer thought of drinking his blood. Even Chen, who had stared down giant land-roving octopi, felt fear from these yellow-eyed she-mutants. There was something so cold about them, reptilian almost, without a trace of the warmth that lies in the eyes of mammals. How the hell hadn’t he seen that under the make-up?
“You’re going to be our Queen’s Sacrificial Blood Drink. Your blood will be shared with the gods,” one of them said standing just inches in front of Chen, looking at him through the multistrands of webbing.
As the other one reached down and started to insert a hypo through the fibers, presumably to drug him for easy transport and control,
“Rockson, we can’t die like this, we just can’t,” Detroit Green kept mumbling over and over. Not in fear, just infinite disgust. Some of the newer men in the team were whimpering, though no one said anything. The whiz kids, Rockson saw, were taking it all in stride. But then deep inside, they, more than anyone else believed that the Doomsday Warrior was going to get them out of this. Even if he didn’t believe it himself.
But it wasn’t Rock who was able to make the first real dent in the Vampyres imprisoning net-armor, though every man continued to struggle furiously within their sticky cocoons—it was Chen.
His Ultra-Vibration, Breath-of-the-Dragon breathing, after five hours, allowed him to at last get his arm and hand free of the entanglement as he was able to slide it fractions of an inch at a time up the side of his body and into his jacket. Here he was able to reach and grab hold of a small but razor-sharp blade secreted inside a lining. He felt an actual shudder of relief course through his whole body as his fingers touched the metal. It meant they might have a chance.
Still Chen didn’t say a word to the others, on the chance that he wouldn’t pull it off in time—and it was possible that the Vampyre women were somehow listening in on them. Though he didn’t think that was the case, as they had no reason to worry. As far as the blood drinkers were concerned, all the men here were already dead meat, cans of fresh red tomato juice up on the shelf ready to drink at the next meal.
Chen slid the knife into the cocoon netting as far around to the side as possible, so if someone came in they wouldn’t see him slicing. The net stuff wasn’t just sticky—it was tough. Tough as bark, probably from some sort of mutated plant covering nearby. The Chinese martial arts master had to give the vampire women credit for having used their environment to the hilt. He had to slice back and forth and had cut an opening about three feet long from shoulder to hip.
Then the door suddenly opened and two of the Vampyres walked in. And they wasted no time but walked straight over to none other than Chen. Of course, it always had to be like that. Never a break.
“This is him—#6,” one of them said, grabbing the tag around his neck and looking at it.
“Let us out, let us out,” a few of the strike force began to howl. Rockson felt no animosity toward them. They were new, many of them. This was no way to die. But then the ball game wasn’t over until the fat lady moved her adenoids, or something like that. Rock never could get that ancient colloquialism straight.
“Type O, R7 negative. Queenie’s favorite flavor,” one of them smirked to the other. Their lips pulled back, revealing the long sharp teeth at the edges of their mouths. They were like animals, not even able to control their bestial reactions at the sheer thought of drinking his blood. Even Chen, who had stared down giant land-roving octopi, felt fear from these yellow-eyed she-mutants. There was something so cold about them, reptilian almost, without a trace of the warmth that lies in the eyes of mammals. How the hell hadn’t he seen that under the make-up?
“You’re going to be our Queen’s Sacrificial Blood Drink. Your blood will be shared with the gods,” one of them said standing just inches in front of Chen, looking at him through the multistrands of webbing.
As the other one reached down and started to insert a hypo through the fibers, presumably to drug him for easy transport and control,
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