Vampire Hunter Logs

[Logan Hardson]

Why the sewers, you ask, huh? Because you have to go up the ladder from the lowest rung. The upper class of those I hunt now sit on the toilet, in their mansions, luxury apartments. They'a shitting. Their excrement and sewage are now a hideout for those at the bottom of the hierarchy of their species.
Sometimes you have to get dirty yourself to make a world a little cleaner.
I stand in the dark and listen. Amid the sounds of dripping sewage, I look for their murmurs, groans and uneven steps. They are wild creatures out of control. Traces of blood and dead rats are a signpost for me. I stop, my prey is close, I can feel it. From around the corner I watch his confused movements as a thrown brick distracts his attention. He fell before the empty bullet even fell. One less.



Dark and wet corridors filled with stinky odor on all sides. An endless labyrinth of the underworld. Vibrations of the walls from the footsteps in the streets above us, the steps of people who prefer "not to know".
I'm hunting. I light a cigarette so that the air blown smoke makes them aware of my presence. Let them know I'm here. The sophistication ends when the curtain comes down. I compensate for the excess ammunition with a prophylactic shot to the heart of another poor vampire who, in his vanity, dared to naively try show me his yellowed fangs towards me. The rest of survivors already know about the extermination, about the purpose of my unannounced visit, about the shoes I did not take off at their house.



Bodies are clumped at my feet in the narrow canal passages under Harper Rock.

[Logan Hardson]

There are several ways to find out where to look for vampires before you find out about them from a modest mention in a discarded newspaper, summarizing the poor fate of their next victim. Sometimes a few coins can motivate you to provide information, sometimes a few painful blows. And sometimes it is enough to light a cigarette on the dark corner of the right street and start listening to the conversations. Ironically, the taboos of these creatures are quite often discussed in whispers.



Misfits, for whom the sewers are already a disgust, still hide in isolation. An old factory, an abandoned apartment block, all kinds of forgotten buildings. They build their little kingdoms by feeding on incautious ones who have taken a step in the wrong place. However, they cannot stop thinking like a victim, feeling the threat that forces them to hide, avoiding the crowds. Little hideouts in a big city. At least they dared to go to the surface. They do not change their location very often, wanting to feel at least a substitute of "home". They are used to the dust, cold, loneliness, in which they arrange their corner, sleeping on piles of papers, old mattresses, a few carelessly arranged boards.
Like homeless people reconciled with their fate, having no ambition to improve their lives. The wildness of their nature prevents them from living otherwise.



Their evolution, however, sometimes gives rise to more "civilized" individuals, although this word will never be their characteristic. Their a little higher race learned to live among us, among people, learning our way of existence. They learned to walk our streets, to taste our food, to dance to our music. It was they who turned open war into a game of hide and seek. They are tempting you at the club, they are offering you a drink at the bar, and answering what time is it, when you are lating to work . Their hunt for us began to resemble theater, subtle and finesse. They hide their faces behind an image of fake humanity. They'a camouflaging in our world, hide their fangs behind a meaningful smile and tease us. They became the reason to track them down first, because they have the skill of unpredictability. They traded stupidy for tactics, anger for cunning. Muscles gave way to intelligence.

[Logan Hardson]

I met with my informant. This is about something bigger than another ordinary misfit hiding in a basement. Sometimes it's good to have uninteresting friends bringing interesting news. If at least half of his rumors are true, it was worth leaving an undrunk whiskey at the bar. Before midnight tonight, there will be an exchange of several dozen bags of human blood in exchange for firearms in the harbor at Rock Bay Docks. The more powerful bloodsuckers have made a deal with the gangsters from the slums. Nothing unites like barter. My task is simple - I must prevent them from cooperating, while destroying relations between them. With no source of blood for the vampires, they'll be forced to come out of hiding in desperation, making mistakes and losing their guard. The boys from the slums don't like it when someone tries to trick them, so I also have to set vampires up into betray, which will make them new enemies.



Time to pull out the toys, literally. The toy guns made of cheap plastic that the kids run around the playground with will serve me perfectly for the swap. If something seems silly but works, it's not silly. Fifty dollars is a small price to pay for making life difficult for vampires. The scruffy salesman gladly accepted the money without asking any questions as he handed me a bag full of cheesy toys. I could barely fit them on the back of my motorcycle.
I'm an hour ahead of schedule. The good old docks, the perfect place for an ambush and dirty business. Seagull ****, the stench of stored fish and murky dark water, nothing else. That there are also desperate people in this town who want to fish here. I get closer and lurk. Old boxes, barrels and containers let me hide and wait. I have to looking for a green barge coming from the south. If the informant wasn't wrong, it's going to be a bit crowded, so an open fight is out of the question. Today I have to act quietly. A cigarette only marginally allows me to relax. This is too important a night for me to allow myself to make mistakes.



The distinctive whirring of a barely operational boat focuses my attention. There they are. I creep closer, assuming a convenient position. I close my eyes and listen. Four... no, five hoodlums coming onto the pier. More footsteps are coming from the west. They are quieter, more subdued, more confident. They are vampire footsteps, three individuals. The night favors me, so I remain in the dark, approaching cautiously. They keep the goods in the back, guarded by only one vampire, the rest engaged in diplomacy. Their guard is twitchy, certainly not of the higher species, he is cannon fodder. Strong but stupid, I have to take advantage of that. I slit my hand and leave a sizable bloody mark on an old barrel, then wrap my hand in a rag and move away. I see him sniffing around, already smelling the snack I left for him. He has fallen into my trap. He left the bag and went to the smell of blood. It only took me 10 seconds and pure adrenaline for their trade goods to change contents. Job done, I disappear, now all that's left to do is wait. I climb to the roof of the warehouse to get a view of the entire docks. They continue talking, how much ******* talking can there be?
At least the lights of Harper Rock are flashing pleasantly on the surface of the water.



Okay, it's starting, they're calling their own. It's about to get interesting, but I'm done here.
The sound of gunfire falls silent in the distance by the engine of my motorcycle. The war I caused will tip the scales of victory in favor of the people, although I don't know for how long. Tomorrow's newspapers and radio broadcasts will make my morning pleasant.