Initial Confrontations by Shane Schofield

A few thin streams of cigar smoke wafted into the night sky. The fresh Cuban was hanging from the mouth of Lt. Mike Barnard. He was dressed in the standard S.W.A.T. uniform of the district he worked for, considered by most to be the most adept special weapons and tactics team in the entire city of state of California. He was very average in appearance, with a height of around six foot, and a weight that was acceptable to his height and build. He was fit, though his muscular physique was all but hidden by the tactical vest and body armor he was wearing. He kept his head shaved, had a clean-shaven face, and sported full brown eyebrows that match his sharp brown eyes.

Lt. Barnard commanded his own S.W.A.T. element, with eight team skilled members. He had grown to be close friends with all of them over the years, and was always a very fair commander, albeit slightly hard on them during drilling. He explained it by saying that if they were hurt for any reason in the line of duty, it would be his fault for failing them in training. His team’s skills were honed to a razor’s edge, and he would make sure it stayed that way. He looked up to see his superior approaching. Somehow he knew he would be going in. The lieutenant had a bad feeling about something thought. He shook the thought away and stubbed out his cigar.

At four o’clock that afternoon, a group of five men had walked into a Catholic church in down town San Diego and begun performing strange rituals. The minister tried to get them to leave, but they were intent on what they were doing. They just stayed on the altar as-if they couldn’t hear. The minister called the local police. Two officers arrived at sometime around five o’clock and went into the church while the minister and a few bystanders waited outside. Five minutes later their eviscerated bodies were thrown through a stained glass window onto the sidewalk. The church had since been pumped full of tear gas, and none of the killers had come out, so a S.W.A.T. team was ordered to go in and take care of the situation.

Lt. Barnard had his team stacked against the brick wall next to the door of St. Mary’s of San Diego. It was a heavy wooden door, and would be a chore for the battering ram. The battering rammer, Sgt. Tim Shannon, stood ready in front of it. Barnard’s team was well armed, with four sub-machine guns, two assault rifles, and two shotguns. They looked menacing in their body armor and Kevlar helmets, complete with gas masks. The point officer drew a flashbang grenade and pulled the pin, holding it ready. The lieutenant gave the signal.

The door of the church burst open with the impact of the battering ram, and wood splinters from the hinge exploded into the air. In an instant, two flashbang grenades flew into the church, and exploded. The officers rushed inside in two rows, one on each side of the doorframe, guns up and level. They ran down the center aisle toward the altar, scanning the rows of seats. The church was dark and empty. The power had been cut, so the team was using gun-mounted flashlights to see. Barnard walked toward the plush red altar carpeting. The first thing he noticed was a giant white pentagram drawn in chalk. There were candles burning along its perimeter. He turned and saw large splotched of congealing blood splattered onto the white walls. He looked to the corner and saw something through the haze of tear gas. When he stepped closer, he turned in horror to his men.

“Mother of God,” Barnard whispered into his helmet microphone. “There’s a pile of internals over here, must be from the police officers.”

Another team member came over and shook his head.

“They gotta be in here still.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Barnard pointed to the officer closes two him. “Malone, Travis, Stevens, and Lee check out the basement. Use that staircase to the left. I studied the blueprints of this place, and the door to my right also leads to the basement.”

Malone figured out the rest. “You want us to flush them up to you?”

“That’s the idea. Keep talking to me while you’re down there. And be careful, we’re dealing with some sick fucks.”

“Yessir.”

The four officers slowly opened the basement door and went down single file. Barnard set his three men up facing the right door; anything that ran up would by the business end of several gun barrels. The lieutenant began to search the altar some more, trying to avert his eyes from the pile of entrails.

“This is Malone, we’re at the bottom of the staircase, and we got no contact yet.”

Barnard acknowledged and kept looking, feeling like he was missing something. He traced his flashlight across the dark walls on the church. Some of the statues were torn off the walls, which seemed unusual, though the lieutenant didn’t know why.

“Malone again, we are entering the minister’s living area, no contact.”

Barnard concentrated on the statues lying shattered on the floor. Some of them rested more that ten feet off the ground—Barnard suddenly knew. He swung his flashlight to the ceiling. There, three figures clung to lamps, more than fifty feet above the ground. How in the hell did they get up there? He wondered. He spoke into his helmet microphone.

“This is Barnard, we have three suspects located, they appear to be unarmed, but they are hanging from the ceiling. We need some ladders or scaffolding or something. I say again they are…” His jaw dropped. The three figures had dropped from the ceiling and were now standing tall on the floor, staring straight into the beam of all four officer’s flashlights, with bright red eyes. Lt. Barnard raised his Colt M4A1 rifle, dumbfounded.

“Alright, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but keep your hands where I can see them or we will fire!” His earpiece came to life again.

“This is Malone, we are moving on to the activity room, no contact yet.”

Barnard replied. “Roger that Malone, we have three suspects apprehended, continue search—“ A voice bellowed through the church. One of the killers was talking. It was an inhuman, deep voice.

“Fool. You know not whom you deal with. You will pay for your ignorance in blood.”

Barnard couldn’t help but notice the bright white teeth that glinted in the flashlight beam as the criminal spoke. The other two had the same dental feature.

“What the fuck are you?” Barnard asked as he gripped his rifle tighter.

“I am, a child of Cain.” The being grinned wickedly. Muffled gunshots began to resonate from the basement.

Just then Barnard’s earpiece exploded to life.

“Mike! Mike! Under attack!” Gunshots drown out some parts of the screaming. “Something’s all over us! Stevens is down, Travis is missing! I can hear it! Oh God!” High-pitched screaming. “Ahhh! Come here you rat bastard son of a bitch! Get some of this!” More gunshots, then silence.

“Malone?” Barnard glanced back at the grinning vampire. “Malone!”

“He’s quite dead I’m afraid. You’ll see him in a minute.”

Barnard spoke evenly. “Bring it on you fairy tale mother fucker.”

He let lose with his M4, and cut an arc of fully automatic gunfire across two of the demons. The large caliber slugs exploded their chests in a puff of red. Their mangled bodies crumpled to the ground. To Barnard’s horror, they got up again seconds later, snarling. He fired another volley of shots across the neck of one of them. The head was decapitated, and the vampire fell again, but didn’t get up. Barnard began furiously reloading his magazine. The speaking vampire roared and leapt at the closest officer throwing him through a stained-glass window. Sgt. Tim Shannon fired a shotgun blast at it, and blew its left arm off. The vampire looked annoyed at the injury, and leapt at him. It landed an uppercut that tore Skinner’s head halfway off.

The last officer stitched a dozen shots into its side before it put its fist through his abdomen. The other wounded vampire began to run at Barnard, but he reloaded in time, and stacked thirty rounds into its center mass, blowing it back fifteen feet and disintegrating its head. He felt the wind get knocked from his lungs and he flew into a row of seats. He moaned and rose to his feet, his rifle had been knocked from his hands.

The speaking vampire began to walk toward him, blood pouring from its wounds. Barnard drew his Desert Eagle .50 pistol in a flash and fired all seven shots at it. He had aimed for the head but had only managed to get it five times in the chest. It fell over but was quickly staggering back to its feet.

“You weak pathetic mortal, I’m thirsty.” The vampire clutched the lieutenant in its vice-like grip and bodily picked him up. It sunk its teeth into the armor plating of his uniform collar. The demon grunted in dismay. The armor stopped the penetration.

“Suck on this,” Barnard grunted as he jammed the seven-inch blade of his combat knife through the neck of the vampire. It gurgled, and began to squeeze him with all its fury. He felt the air being pushed from his lungs, but he wriggled the knife around inside the flesh. Warm blood sprayed all over him. Then, the crushing stopped. He collapsed to the ground on top of the decapitated vampire.

He lay on his back, panting, unable to catch his breath. A shadow emerged from the basement door and walked towards him. He knew it was the fourth vampire. He knew he was dead. It was right in front of Barnard, and raised its claws into the air…

“Twwwwunk.” A large wooden projectile lodged into the vampire’s chest and it quickly fell, without a sound. Lt. Barnard glanced behind him to see the silhouette of a man holding a crossbow. He held out his hand.

“My name is David Prometheus, but most call me Father D. Come with me if you want to live.”