Chance in Hell

  Copyright © 2011 Patrick Kampman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:0615475027

  ISBN-13:9780615475028

  E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9835922-0-4

  CREDITS

  Cover Artwork by Deborah Grieves

  http://www.cynnaliafantasyart.com

  Model Photography by Random Acts

  http://randomacts.biz

  Edited by Sarah J. Stevenson

  Layout & Cover Design by Russell Godwin

  DEDICATION

  To my buddy Tim.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First I would like to thank both Sarah Kampman and Heidi Tetz for taking the time to give me feedback and encouragement throughout the book’s development.

  I would also like to thank: Sarah J. Stevenson for making sure that I crossed my i’s and dotted my t’s; Deborah Grieves for the smoking cover art; Russell Godwin for laying it all out; and lastly my cats for ensuring my keyboard never got cold.

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  CREDITS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  “This the corpse?” came a thick Boston accent and a tap against my side. A shoe? I was down and someone was kicking me. It was one of those days.

  “Nah, he’s still alive. The stiff’s over there in the blue truck,” came another voice. “Well, most of him is, anyway. Don’t worry; you can’t miss him.”

  The voices echoed through my aching head as I heard footsteps moving away from me. There were more voices off in the distance and I struggled through the pain to figure out what was going on. Slowly I won the battle, finally opening one of my eyes partway for a split second.

  “Hey, Cassara, he’s coming to!” came a new voice, female, this time from immediately above me. I managed to open both my eyes and was greeted by the blurry form of a short woman with close-cropped spiky hair. She was dressed like a paramedic.

  The retreating footsteps stopped, then got louder, until a few moments later another form joined the first. They both swam in and out of focus above me. The new one was wearing a cheap blue sports coat over a white button-up that, even with blurred vision, I could tell was heavily stained around the collar. He had short dark hair combed back with some greasy-looking product and wore mirror shades a couple of decades out of fashion.

  “You okay, buddy?” asked the paramedic.

  “What’s your name?” It was the standing guy. He had the thick Boston accent I had first heard, which was strange considering I was pretty sure I went unconscious in California.

  “Uhhhh…” It took a second. “Chance?”

  “Chance,” the man in the blue blazer repeated back to me. “Okay, Chance. So, what happened?”

  I tried to think of a good lie, but my mind wasn’t cooperating, so I chose to just omit a few facts. “Dunno. I was standing here when a guy ran by me. As I watched him go, something slammed into my back and I was out.”

  The man grunted and asked the paramedic to get him if I remembered anything useful. “Sure thing, Detective.”

  The detective walked off to what I presumed was the body they had talked about earlier. The paramedic asked me a few more questions, then told me an ambulance was on its way. I unsuccessfully tried to convince them that I was fine. It looked like I was getting an ambulance ride whether I liked it or not. At least I had student insurance, crappy though it was. I hoped it would work here – I was a long way from Austin, Texas.

  The last thing I actually remembered was standing in a California parking lot waiting to meet my contact. He was supposed to hand off a package that I was being paid to destroy. Unfortunately he seemed to be running for his life when I met him. He came around the minivan I was standing behind, grabbed me, gave me a terror-filled look and then he was off. It wasn’t quite the meeting I had expected. I didn’t even have the chance to ask him anything.

  Confused, I had watched him flee, not realizing there was someone right behind him until I kind of felt something. It was like the pressure you feel when you’re deep underwater, a weight surrounding and pressing in on all sides. Now, I knew what vampires felt like, at least to me: cold, like the dead things they are. This was definitely something different. I had just started to turn when he rounded the van. He was either going too fast to stop or just didn’t care, because he slammed into me, knocking me out cold with the impact. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing, because then I fell face first into the pitted blacktop, which would have really hurt had I been conscious.

  I was getting bored with lying there waiting for the ambulance so I tried to see what was going on, but I couldn’t get a good look at anything from my vantage point. All I could make out were lots of tires and shoes. I tried to move, but the paramedic told me to stay still. So instead I listened. I heard plenty of sirens and enough snippets of conversation to piece some facts together.

  Apparently the first guy, my terrified contact, only made it another twenty yards before getting himself stuffed into the front windshield of a truck. The only witnesses were the second victim (me) who was knocked unconscious and couldn’t give them any details, a couple of teenagers who found the body, and an elderly lady who saw the perp running from the scene. She was being taken to the police station to give a description to a sketch artist. Before she left, she went on about how he was wearing a trench coat, which she thought very odd for August.

  The teenagers were still hanging around, asking if the guy was dead (he was) and how he got that way (“Wish I knew,” said the detective).

  I listed to the detective become increasingly agitated with their questions until someone eventually came and put me on a stretcher and hoisted me into an ambulance. Not long after, I was outside the emergency room, where I spent the next hour lying on a gurney until a doctor finally found me. Five minutes after that, the doctor determined that I had a mild concussion and some abrasions on my face. The scrapes were dressed, and I was released into the custody of an officer who explained that I needed to give a statement at the station; then I’d be free to go.

  The ride from the hospital to the police station was quick, and at least I got to ride in the front seat of the patrol car. The officer had a cousin who went to the University of Texas, so we chatted about the Longhorns’ chances at a championship this year. Along the way I decided to take a look at my face.

  I wasn’t vain, but it was my face and I had grown attached to it. I glanced in the side view mirror and, to my relief, it wasn’t as bad as I feared. On the other hand, that was probably because all I could see was the large bandage covering my left cheek, and the smaller one taped to my forehead.

  The officer saw me staring at myself and said, “Don’t worry about it, kid. You were lucky. The other
guy.…” He shook his head and didn’t finish the thought, instead leaving me with the parting wisdom, “Besides, chicks dig scars.”

  At the station I waited around for another hour before finally giving my statement to the greasy-haired Detective Cassara from the parking lot. I had no choice but to give him my real name. I answered the questions as best I could, leaving out only why I was really there. That would have been a little complicated.

  I would have had to explain that I was a vampire hunter from Texas. I had been one of five hunters in Robert’s crew. We had contracted for this easy job out in California. It wasn’t even killing vampires. We were just about on our way when Robert got a line on a vamp that had supposedly killed a family out at a ranch in Central Texas. We decided to take a little detour to check it out. It was a setup, and now the rest of the team was dead and I was on the run.

  I panicked and decided to follow through with this job, eager to put fifteen hundred miles between me and the Texas vamps that attacked us.

  Most people don’t believe in monsters, at least not real ones. I wasn’t interested in being locked up in some loony bin, so I told detective Cassara a modified version: I was in California to scout out graduate schools before the fall semester started. I had just parked my car and was going to visit the university campus down the street. He asked a bunch of questions several different ways and then, satisfied, said I was free to go. I gave the cops my contact information in case they needed to follow up with me.

  That’s when I remembered I had been holding my phone when I was hit. I needed it to check on my mom and my brother. I didn’t know if the vamps knew who I was, or if they would go after my family. I quickly searched my pockets; my phone was gone. There was, however, a funny-shaped key in the pocket of my cargo shorts that hadn’t been there before. My contact must have slipped it in my pocket when he bumped into me.

  I asked Cassara if he had seen my phone. He said he hadn’t, but that he would ask the officers at the scene. He suggested that if they hadn’t found it, I should go to the wireless store across the street and get a new one in case he needed to get in touch with me about the crime. In retrospect, it was pretty good advice.

  While he called about my phone, I went into the restroom, took out the key, and examined it. One end was orange and plastic with the number thirty-two in faded letters. The other end was a stubby metal key that looked like it would fit a locker. I had no idea where the locker might be, and my contact wouldn’t be telling me anything, at least not without the help of a medium.

  I left the bathroom and checked back in with Detective Cassara. I hoped my phone had slid under a car or something and that the officers had spotted it. It wasn’t expensive, but the SIM card had all my contact numbers in it. Cassara shook his head and apologized, saying no one had found it, but that they’d take another look around the scene and I should check back with him tomorrow.

  With that piece of good news I signed my statement, said goodbye to the detective and walked out of the station into downtown San Jose.

  Chapter 2

  It was late afternoon by the time I left the police station. I had no idea where I was, I felt like crap, my head still hurt, and I was hungry. Plus I assumed that this key wasn’t the actual object I was looking for. That meant I had to find the locker it belonged to and hope the package was inside it. And if it was, then I had to figure out how to destroy it.

  On top of that, I was pretty sure the guy who was supposed to pay me was now the hood ornament of a Ford F150, and he sure didn’t slip any money in my pocket when he left me the key. I was down to three hundred dollars in cash. I could use credit cards, but they left a trail, and I didn’t want to start doing that until I absolutely had to. For all I knew, the Texas vampires would be smart enough to track me down that way.

  I decided my best course of action was to track down some food, because I was lousy at everything on an empty stomach. Then I’d call a cab to take me to the parking lot where I hoped my car still sat. I had paid twelve bucks to park, so it had better still be there.

  As I was leaving the station, I stopped a cop to ask where I could get a bite to eat. He gave me a couple of suggestions and I opted for the sandwich place that he said was only a few blocks away.

  I started walking, wishing my head would stop pounding. Just to add another layer of misery, a dozen Harleys rumbled past me on the way to the deli. My head was not happy. I reached back and felt the bump where the guy had run into me.

  Like the cop said, a couple of blocks down I saw a sign across the way for the deli. Parked in front of it were the dozen bikes that had passed me earlier. I hurried across the street and went inside, hoping the food was good. That’s why I asked a cop; they usually didn’t eat at places that sucked.

  When I entered I had second thoughts. The place smelled faintly of wet dog. Either they were having some plumbing issues or it was one of those pet-friendly places where everyone brought their animals and talked about pet care and god knows what. Except I didn’t see any animals.

  Regardless of the odor, the place was hopping. I waited ten minutes in line behind the tattooed bikers. The guy in front of me wore a jacket with a stitched patch that read “Midnight Cycle” with a picture of a Harley transposed over a full moon. The musky smell was stronger the closer I got to the counter. I tried to remember if we were next door to a vet; either way I wouldn’t be ordering the special.

  I ended up asking for a Reuben, chips, and a drink, and then managed to grab the last empty table. While I waited for the guy at the counter to call my number, I checked out the bikes through the window. There were a dozen of them, give or take, all hogs tricked out with shining chrome and custom paint jobs. I remembered the old 600 Ninja I had for a few years. I preferred Harleys, but had never been able to afford one.

  Bikes were a lot of fun, except when it rained. And then there were the dates. Girls and bikes were hit-or-miss; they either loved them or were scared to death of ‘em. I ended up selling my Ninja and picking up a Miata. It was slightly more practical; at least it had a top.

  A moment later I heard a high-pitched whine. The noise grew to an obnoxious level as more bikers descended on the shop. This was obviously a different club. The new group rode street bikes – the kind clad in brightly-colored plastic rather than the chrome and leather of Harleys. These were the bikes that tore down roads at 175 miles an hour rather than rumbling by at a leisurely pace. I admired the exception that pulled up, a huge V-Max, and then I admired the pretty Asian girl who got off it. She was tall and lean, and when she took off her helmet my admiration grew. It must have been obvious because she smiled and winked as she walked past my table to stand in line.

  The deli guy finally called my number. I grabbed my food, refilled my soda, and sat down. I realized that I hadn’t had anything to eat since the Grand Slam breakfast at four o’clock that morning. I tore open the bag of chips, dumped them in the basket next to my sandwich and started to eat. The cop who recommended the place was right: the sandwich was good, and I had almost gotten used to the animal smell that permeated the place. I had just started getting busy with my food when a woman’s voice interrupted me mid-bite.

  “Mind if we sit here?”

  I looked up to see the pretty Asian girl with the V-Max along with a couple of her friends, a wiry-looking Asian guy with frosted hair and a stacked girl with mocha-colored skin.

  A quick look around showed me that there were no open tables. In fact, one of the tables was actually being shared by a couple of members from each of the biker groups. “Groups” was the wrong word, I realized suddenly. These were gangs. Certainly the Harley guys were, anyway. Most of them bore the Midnight Cycle logo on a jacket or t-shirt.

  Then it hit me: this must be some kind of gang meet, discussing the local drug trade or whatever, and here I was eating right in the middle of it. My typical luck. Fortunately, some of the patrons were obviously cops, so I didn’t expect any trouble. I guessed that was why they chose this l
ocation in the first place. No way anyone would try something with all the police.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  She sat across from me, dropping her receipt and a key attached to a bright pink rabbit’s foot on the table. The other two sat beside us. I felt a little weird eating in front of a group of bikers I didn’t know, but my hunger won out. Besides, gangbangers or not, none of these three were all that intimidating. The other two ignored me completely, engaged in a conversation about what movie to go see that night. The animal smell had come back. I looked around but no one else seemed to notice it. At least, no one made any comments. I shrugged it off.

  The girl opposite me leaned back in her chair and said, “So, you a student?”

  “Yeah, though not around here. I go to UT.”

  “Texas, huh? Cool. I went to Berkeley. You heading back soon?”

  I nodded. “First thing in the morning.” It was an easy lie. In an ideal world, that’s exactly what I would do. Unfortunately, I didn’t know if a horde of vampires was waiting for me back there, and I thought I should lie low until I figured out a plan. I needed to at least check with my mom and brother to make sure they were safe, and try to find out what was going on before blundering back.

  “Nice bike,” I said, nodding at the red V-Max backed to the curb outside. One of her friends snorted at my comment.

  “Don’t get her started.”

  “Thanks!” she said, ignoring her friend as she took off her ballistic jacket, revealing a nicely filled out white tank top. “I just got it a few months ago.”

  “And that’s all we’ve heard about ever since. Unfortunately, now that’s the only thing she wants to ride,” said the guy sitting next to me, elbowing me conspiratorially. The girl sitting across from him shot him a look; the girl in front of me just rolled her eyes.

  I took a better look at her. She was in her early to mid twenties. Pretty. No—really pretty. She had some muscles, but not in a freakish way. Her long dark hair was perfectly straight. She had no bangs and tucked a portion of her hair behind an ear so she could peer out. She caught me looking and stared right back. I don’t know what it was, but something told me not to give in. I was a champion at staring contests back in elementary school. Eventually she smiled and looked to the side; I glanced down at my food.