Fanghunters by Leo Romero Page B

keep his balance. He
still slept like a baby. Once that hurdle had been negotiated and he was back
in the entrance hall, he stopped, and then slowly placed the rug down onto the
floorboards so he could rest for a second. He placed his hands on his knees and
exhaled.
    Man, that was tiring.
    Don’t worry, buddy. You only gotta go
across the street now...
    He groaned under his breath. He then
grabbed his jacket from the floor where he’d left it when he first came in. He
put it on and zipped it up. He dusted it down. Just a regular Joe, carrying
a rug to his car. That’s all I am.
    He was pretty confident he could get away
with a quick glance. A twinge of excitement suddenly flittered through him. I
might just get away with this! What a mastermind!
    Now reenergized, he hopped over to the
package and picked it up once more, hoisting it back up on his shoulder. He
steadied himself, then went to leave. He grabbed the metal sheet/door to pull
it away. An abrupt voice outside stopped him dead in his tracks. His eyes
widened.
    “There it is!”
    Dom froze his ears pricking.
    “In the deckchair like last time, huh?” came another voice.
    “Yeah, it must’ve fallen out my pocket.
It’s these frickin’ jeans, man. The pockets probably got holes in em.”
    “It ain’t the jeans that’s got the
holes, dude; it’s your brain!”
    They stopped talking for a second. Then:
    “Shall we check on Drake?”
    Dom instantly reached down with his free
hand and grabbed the rubber mallet he still carried in his belt. He lifted it
up by the side of his face, his chest tightening. If they came in, he would
have to fight. He’d have no choice.
    “Check on Drake? Why?”
    “Dunno. Got a weird feeling. Can’t
explain it but something ain’t right.”
    Dom’s eyes bulged in alarm, his heart
shooting up to his throat.
    “You’re imagining things, man. Nothing’s wrong. Marlon can handle any trouble.”
    “Yeah, I suppose you’re right...”
    A sigh of relief bolted from Dom’s chest.
He put away his mallet. He wiped the sweat now dripping off his forehead with
the back of his hand. He gave them a few seconds to start talking again, but
they didn’t. Only the odd caw of a crow could be heard. He turned his attention
back to the unconscious guy on the ground. Marlon. At least he now knew for
sure that there really were three guards. That and the vamp’s name was...
Drake. He rolled his eyes to the side to be met with the rug on his shoulder (Snug
as a bug in a rug!).
    “Nice to meet your acquaintance, Drakey
boy!” he whispered to it.
    He took a small sidestep and eased his neck
around the edge of the metal shutter. Through the crack, he could see the two
assholes now sitting in their deckchairs again.
    He huffed. They came back early... The
first time in four frickin’ days, they decide to come back early. Today of all
days! Why? Maccy D’s out of Double Quarter Pounders? His mind began to
work hard, making his head hurt. He couldn’t walk out the front now, not with
them sitting there. Yeah, he could just imagine walking past them with the rug
on his shoulder, giving them a wave and a story about him being the ‘removals
service’ they’d called for earlier. No way; he needed another way out. He stared
up the stairs and instantly shook his head. Where would he go once he got back
up there? He sighed as he scanned the corridor.
    His eyes fell on the kitchen.
    There had to be a back door in there; one
leading to a back yard that he could hit the street from. He nodded; it was his
only choice. But what if the back door’s blocked up like the front windows? Well,
he’d just have to pray...
    He didn’t waste another second. He got
moving through the hallway with quick, but quiet footsteps until he entered the
gloomy kitchen. He went past an old fridge that smelt funky, bare cupboards,
and a sink full of dirty, broken dishes. When he reached the end of the
kitchen, his Zippo lit up a door. The windows had been nailed over with