drums, too,” Poe added, pulling on her night vision goggles.
The driver made tsk tsk clicks and placed his .22
within easy reach. From the roof came the sound of running footsteps, bodies getting slammed, and a bevy of angry epithets. Some sections of the roof showed 339
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indentation from the weight of undead bodies getting walloped.
Two vampires landed right in front of the train, the crank headlights spotlighting them.
“My God!” Megan exclaimed. “That’s Kaleb!”
“And Joseph!” added Poe.
Acrobatic vamps in black ninja outfits pursued the two.
“It’s a good night for a costume party,” grinned Morales.
Sainvire stuck his talons at an overweight dead while a black clad Joseph finished his enemy with swift Double Dutch blows to the heart. Apparently Joseph had fists of fury. The two friends kept a sharp lookout for anyone trying to disrupt the cleaners who ran or flew ahead to clear debris off the tracks.
When all was clear, Sainvire half-carried Joseph by the shirt collar back to the roof. The handsome and affable vampire could not fly one lick. On the way up, Joseph paused to wave at his rapt audience.
“Poe, go! Shoot them!” Morales pointed at three extremely tiny vampires sweeping the tracks.
“You crazy, man?” the driver said. “Our mission lies in the hands of that sun dead and two vamps.
They’re the sweepers. The littlest guy’s named Ed. He can probably lift this train car with no problem.”
Sure enough, the creatures hauled debris away with their bare hands. Ed, the runt vampire, tossed an uprooted oak trunk with a flick of a wrist. Poe whistled in awe, damaging further her split lip.
“Amazing,” Megan said, staring at a female vampire lift a sand-filled drum and fling it twenty feet away from the tracks. “I’ve heard about these guys, but I thought it was all BS.”
Then it occurred to Poe. I should be up there.
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The train hadn’t gone far at all. They were still perilously close to Union Station, the biggest cattle operation in the city. And City Hall, inundated by ex-LAPD goons, was just around the corner.
Don’t know what it is, but it’s the same head-voice that tells me where to point my gun with supernatural accuracy, Poe said in conversation with herself. “The voice I trust more that any other,” she muttered.
“They’re almost done,” the driver said. “Then we can hightail outta here.”
“I need to get to the roof.”
“That’s not funny, Poe,” muttered Morales, punching her shoulder lightly. Poe’s face remained determined.
“Poe, you can’t possibly go up there,” Megan began, knowing that Poe had already made up her mind. She reverted back to her nervous habit of tracing her bite marks with her fingers. “Your back is banged, and you’ll need to balance up there when the train moves.”
“I gotta. I can shoot real good, especially with that rifle,” she said with a nod at the driver’s Winchester.
“That’s my good luck charm.”
“Yeah, but you can’t use it in this little room while driving a train. You got your .22 for that.”
“It’s suicide, you dummy!” Morales argued.
“Sainvire and Joseph will stop them.”
Checking her gear, she chucked out heavy ammo and weapons that were dead weight. There were half a dozen sidearms lifted from the makeshift headquarters.
“Hope you can use this stuff,” she said to the driver.
“Sure, kid,” he smiled. “I can always use some firepower now that you’re taking my good luck rifle away. By the way, I’m the only one who knows how to 341
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handle this bucket, so maybe one of you ought to guard me, eh?”
Poe made sure her pack was light and her guns loaded and ready to go. She sheathed throwing knives on her wrists holsters.
“I took some of the pills you gave me, Meg. I should be fine.” She glanced at the grim-faced Morales. He was stubborn in his silence on the topic.
He did not want the weighty responsibility of sending Poe to her death, and he was far too faint-hearted to go with her.
“But Poe–” Megan started. Poe didn’t let her finish but gave the woman a quick hug.
“The train’s not even moving.” Poe wanted to quote Sister Ann’s view on precarious missions: When there’s adrenaline and danger, there’s nothing you cannot do. But it wasn’t the time to be a wise ass, especially when hardly a trace of adrenaline trickled in her veins.
It’s the right thing to do, the voice whispered in her ear.
“This is for you,” she said to Morales, placing a Sig Sauer 9mm in his hand. “It has fifteen rounds, and here are