Thicker Than Blood

By Andrew Dudek

Dave Carver doesn't wear shining armor or ride a white horse, but he does carry a sword. For centuries, the Knights of the Round Table have defended humanity from the worst monsters that exist beyond the realm of reason. Dave is a Knight of the Round Table. Or he was.
After a traumatic stay in a vampire prison camp, Dave has retired from his life of monster hunting and living in a dingy apartment in Manhattan, but when he's attacked by an agent of the vampires he must pick up his sword to defend New York City.
Dave is going to have to contend with a double-dealing diplomat, a pair of duplicitous vampire siblings, and a traitor within the Round Table on his quest to stop the vampires from turning the human race into a glorified cattle ranch.
And if he fails, the world is going to get a whole lot bloodier.

Thicker Than Blood is the first novel in the Dave Carver series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Dudek
• Release date: Oct 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310367229

Andrew Dudek

Andrew Dudek is the author of the Dave Carver series of urban fantasy novels. Currently he lives with his family in that most terrifying of places: New Jersey. He’s also really not as mentally disturbed as he may seem. Promise.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ian Twine’s wife had been dead for three days by the time he was found by the men with the swords.

The rainforest of Guyana pressed in all around him, giant trees that dwarfed the California redwoods, where Ian had spent much of his formative years. They were unpleasantly tall, these trees, like something out of Earth’s ancient past, something from a pre-human era. The jungle canopy was high overhead, blocking out the sky, so Ian had no idea what time of day it was. Monkeys chattered and birds screeched. Somewhere in the distance a jaguar roared. The humidity was heavy, so oppressive that Ian felt like he’d be able to make more progress swimming than walking—he certainly wasn’t moving fast enough for the two men with the swords.

Come on, the older of the two, a tanned, giant man with a Virginian accent, a shaved head, and a wooly beard. We gotta keep movin’. This place ain’t safe.

Ian snorted, despite the horror of the situation. The man, Bill, was right: This place sure as hell wasn’t safe.

Three months before, Ian had heard rumors of a small village living in the Guyanese jungles, a tribe that’d had no contact with the world outside. A tribe that had never encountered modernity. They lived in huts, supposedly, and hunted with spears and bows and arrows. When he’d told Michelle of this rumor over dinner one night, her eyes had lit up. This was just what they needed, she said, to get their ratings back to their nineteen-nineties glory. Ian had been less sure. Their ratings weren’t what they used to be, sure—the market for televised naturalists seemed to have evaporated somewhat since that Australian guy had died—but they got steady enough ad rates that, along with the occasional grant, they could keep heading out into deep wilderness to film the animals and plant life they found there. Still, he’d had to admit: the title had come to him with perfect clarity, the way all of the best ideas of his career ever had: Ian Twine’s Lost Tribe. Maybe it wouldn’t bring him the best numbers of his life, but he could already picture the promos: Ian standing at the top of Kaieteur, a waterfall more than four times as tall as Niagara in the midsts of a thriving rainforest. And he’d never actually been to Guyana, despite the fact that it was one of the most impressive examples of biodiversity left in the world...

Yeah, he’d thought. This could work.

Ian and Michelle had hiked through the jungle for three days without finding so much as a hint of this lost village but getting some great footage: a jaguar devouring a capybara, swarms of piranhas, a bush dog and her pups. All good stuff, but not what Ian was here to find. He was beginning to get discouraged.

That was when they found the backpack. It was small—child-sized, in fact—and pink. It had stickers of ponies all over it. Ian had thought it looked like something that his youngest daughter, Ellie, would have loved. Something about it, though, out here in the dark, muggy jungle, made him nervous. It just seemed wrong somehow. When Ian had mentioned this, Michelle had laughed, called him a moron (good-naturedly, as she often did), and told him they needed to get a move on if they wanted to find a decent campsite by nightfall. Ian had still been nervous, so Michelle, still laughing, had set up the camera, with the pink spot right in the center of the viewfinder. When she bent to pick up the backpack, she triggered the trap.

A classic snare trap, the rope, which had been hidden by a handful of rotting leaves, wrapped around her leg and pulled her into the air so she hung, upside down, suspended from a branch. Ian laughed, pulling his utility knife from its pouch on his belt. Now who’s a moron?

And then they appeared. There were four of the manlike creatures appearing out of the jungle like strangely un-wispy ghosts. They advanced on Ian and Michelle, snarling like mad dogs. At first Ian thought they were men, perhaps some of the villagers he’d been searching for, but that thought was rapidly dismissed. These...things may have been more or less shaped like humans, but they weren’t. Their skin, for one thing, was gray and papery, hanging off of their bones like peeling wallpaper. The fingernails were long, curved, and sharp. They reminded Ian of the claws of a leopard or some other big cat. Their jaws hung open, giving them a slack look which would have been humorous if not for the mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. The canines curled from the gums like a snake’s and thick, clear liquid dripped off of the ends. Most disturbingly of all, though, most inhuman of all, were their eyes. They were black, all of them—pupils, irises, and sclera—completely black like a shark’s eyes. One of them grabbed Ian by the collar and flung him into the trunk of a tree, knocking the wind out of him. The second grabbed Michelle by the hair and held tight. She screamed as a third creature slashed with his claws at a rope that was disguised as a vine and she fell to the ground.

The monsters fell on Michelle with all of the hive-mind mentality of the piranhas they’d filmed the day before. The largest, strongest of the four, began biting at Michelle’s throat while the others squabbled for places at her wrists.

Some distant, clinical part of Ian’s mind categorized these beasts: They feed like a pack of wolves.

Michelle wailed and screamed, but only for a few moments. She fell silent. Ian knew why. One of the vampires moved, and he could see the bloody ruin that was all that remained of his wife’s throat.

Ian howled, all scientific detachment blown away by the hurricane of this monstrosity. He threw himself onto the back of the largest of the creatures. Dimly, some part of him was aware that this was the one that had thrown him against the tree, that this was the one which had surely killed Michelle. He jabbed his utility knife into the side of the monster’s neck, over and over again until his hands, wrists, and forearms were covered with a thick black liquid. Spent, Ian fell to his side and stared up in astonishment.

The monster should have been on the ground with him. It should have been dead. The knife should have split open important blood vessels. But it stayed on its feet, staring down at Ian. There was nothing in those black eyes. Nothing like empathy or sorrow or guilt. Nothing human.

And the creature threw back its head, and it laughed.

What could Ian do? You didn’t need three doctorates—which Ian had—to see that Michelle was dead. The other three monsters were noisily, gruesomely ripping chunks of flesh from Michelle’s body and lapping up blood. He couldn’t think of her now. He had to think of his children: Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, and Ellie. They’d lost their mother. He couldn’t let them lose their father. What could he do?

He ran. The creatures let him go.

Ian didn’t see see any sign of them for the rest of the day. He slept—or tried to—in a hollowed-out, muddy hole under a redwood tree. He was too frightened, too traumatized, to start a fire, even though he knew this jungle could be dangerous without a fire to ward off predators. Something told him that it’d be even more dangerous for him to light a fire, that it would only serve to give away his position to those strange creatures.

He hiked all of the next day, heading north towards the coast, where most of Guyana’s cities are, before realizing that he was lost. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but there was no question: Ian Twine, world-famous naturalist, was lost in the wilderness. With a pained grimace, he put it down to shock and climbed a tree, trying to get a handle on his location.

The jungle stretched out for miles in every direction. There was no sign of people, no sign of civilization. Not for the first time, Ian wished he hadn’t left Michelle’s pack behind. They had had a satellite phone in there, plus some long-range radios. He could have used them to make contact with the network’s people in Georgetown, and they could have sent a chopper to rescue him. Instead, he had to walk.

His direction secured, he climbed down the tree and set to walking. Each time he closed his eyes he remembered the sight of those black-eyed creatures. They were beasts of darkness, he knew, something out of a nightmare. But the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon did less than nothing to ease his fears. The rainforest’s canopy was so thick in some places that it blocked the sun as fully as a parasol. Yes, those creatures were of the night, but this was a place of the night.

A few hours before sundown, as if to prove his point, Ian encountered one of the creatures. This one was smaller than the four that had killed Michelle, and obviously a female. It was hunched over the body of a dead capybara, ripping into its tough, piglike throat with those serpent’s jaws. The creature, so intent on its meal, or perhaps simply disinterested in Ian, never so much as looked up while Ian snuck by, holding his breath and praying the monster didn’t see him.

Monster. He found himself using the word in his internal cataloguing of the creature. It stuck in his scientific craw that he didn’t know where these...beasts fit into the natural order, but there was only one word that seemed to fit. Monster.

Late that evening was when Ian found the cabin. It was really more of a one-room shack, with glassless window frames and a door that wasn’t flush with the jamb, but it was the first sign of humanity that Ian had seen in two days, and he was overjoyed. Even better, there was a radio inside. It was an old one, but the microphone looked to be in good shape. He almost sobbed with joy when he turned it on and heard the static that meant it was working.

S.O.S. My name is Dr. Ian Twine, he said into the mic. My wife’s been killed by some kind of...animals, and I’m afraid they’re stalking me. I’m somewhere in the jungle south of Georgetown, Guyana. I don’t know the exact coordinates. Please. I’m very wealthy—I can give you a reward.

Ian couldn’t say whether anyone heard his message, because the only reply was static, but he repeated it over and over again for two hours until he drifted off to sleep.

Two things happened at once that could have woken him, and Ian couldn’t say which was which. The first was the sun’s morning rays pinching his eyelids. The second was something just outside the cabin growling. Screaming, startled awake and terrified, Ian ran, forgetting all of his scientific training, into the jungle.

Nothing chased him, so he decided he must have escaped the danger, whatever it had been. For now, he thought ominously, and laughed.

He was still laughing some time later—it was hard to tell exactly how long, because he’d his wristwatch had broken when the biggest monster had thrown him into that tree—when he heard footsteps in the jungle.

Ian ran. He could hear them behind him, his progress slowed by the necessity of passing logs and huge fallen branches. These things weren’t hampered in the least by these obstacles, though—they bounded over them with a grace that Ian had previously only associated with big cats. But these weren’t cats. For one thing they moved on two legs, like no other large animal in the world...well, except for one. Sure, lots of animals could move on their hind legs, but none of them could run with this kind of speed that way. Except for humans. And his pursuers, whatever they were, certainly weren’t human.

Ian didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this pace. A mile back he’d dropped his pack, hoping the noise in the bush would distract the monsters from his trail. No such luck, and now he’d lost his only reliable supply of fresh water. The jungle humidity conspired with the physical exertion to drain all of the moisture from his body. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and soaked the back of his khaki shirt. Not much farther, he thought. I can’t go much farther.

Though Ian knew better, the root seemed to rise out of the ground like a snake, twisted and bent, to trip him. His boot caught on one of the crooks. His right palm landed on a jagged rock and was slashed open. Blood poured from the cut.

Behind him, something screamed. Ian thought he knew the calls of every big animal in this part of the world, but he’d never heard anything like this scream. A high-pitched wail that he knew instinctively didn’t belong in the animal kingdom, but also didn’t emanate from a human throat. It was an in between scream, part human and part animal.

Ian rolled over just in time to see one of the creatures land on a downed log. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was one of the ones that had been there when Michelle died. It wore raggedy clothes and its hair was dark and shaggy. Its mouth hung open, showing Ian those teeth. For a moment, he wondered how these things could ever close their mouths with all of those long, dagger-like teeth in the way. His distant, clinical mind thought: Like a bat’s teeth.

And then they were there, vaulting into the monster’s path like a couple of track runners. The older man grunted with slight effort as he leaped over Ian’s still form. He was holding a square-bladed sword in one hand: a katana, I think it’s called, Ian thought dully. The man swung his sword and took the creature’s head from its shoulders before the horrible thing had time to react.

By the time the body hit the ground there was nothing left but a skeleton and some rags.

The large, bald-headed man squinted into the jungle, listening for the animal sounds to start up again. There’s at least three more of ‘em, he said. I’ll deal with it. You take this genius and start headin’ for water.

For the first time Ian realized that there was another man with a sword standing over him. There was a strong hand on his biceps, helping him to his feet.

Can you walk?

The other man was younger, in his mid-twenties, maybe. He wore a sword on one hip and a holstered handgun on the other.

I think so.Those things...killed Michelle.

The younger man frowned. He had long, straight hair the color of a young wolf’s fur. His eyes were the same color as a cup of warm, inviting coffee. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken several times and never healed right.

Yeah, he said, vampires will do that.

Ian didn’t argue. Of course those things were vampires. If someone back in civilization had told him that he was about to run into a pack of ravenous vampires, he’d have laughed, but out here in this jungle, it didn’t seem so funny. Something about the jungle made it possible to believe in things that shouldn’t exist. Besides, what else could those monsters be? What could look so human and inhuman at the same time? What else could have those teeth?

Come on, Doc, the young man said. We gotta get out of here.

As they hiked south—which seemed to Ian to be the wrong direction—Ian could tell that the young man, who said his name was Dave Carver, was moving more slowly than he was capable of. He suspected it was too allow Ian to stay close, which the old professor was more than happy to do. The young man positively radiated strength. As long as Ian was in Dave’s presence, he felt safer.

Not safe, but safer.

You know, Dave said while he looked over his shoulder for the fourth or fifth time, I used to watch your show when I was a kid. I loved nature documentaries.

Oh...oh, thanks. Ian shrugged. That’s very gratifying to hear.

At that moment, a large, dark shape crashed out of the brush in front of them, drawing a small scream from Ian. Dave smiled faintly, though, because it wasn’t a vampire—it was his partner.

The other man with the sword stared at him for a moment, then spat on the ground. Uh-huh. He pulled a small cloth out of a pouch on his belt and wiped a black liquid off the blade of his sword. When he was done he pulled out a canteen and took a swig.

Dave shot a nervous glance at Ian, then looked at the big man. You got them?

Yeah, I got ‘em, he said. But there’s a crew of hunters out there, too.

Thralls or groupies?

I don’t know, Dave. I didn’t get close enough to ask ‘em. He swallowed a little more water. Definitely vamp-related, though. They got a coupl’a chupacabras with ‘em.

That was a step too far into crazy territory. Ian could accept vampires—after all, he’d seen them for himself, even if he hadn’t known exactly what they were. But this? This was...insane.

Chupacabra? You mean the mythical beast from the southwest? Ian looked from Dave to the bigger man and back, expecting one or both of them to burst out laughing at the professor’s gullibility. I did a special on it early in my career. It doesn’t exist.

Yeah, the big man said, they do.

Take it easy, Bill, Dave said. He’s a straight—you know how disorienting this can be. To Ian, he said, "Chupacabra is just the word we use for any animal that’s been infected with vampire venom."

But...that’s...

Impossible? Dave was grinning now. Impossible’s what we do.

If you’re done coinin’ phrases, Dave, the big man, Bill, said, we oughta be gettin’ a move on. This part of the jungle’s vamp territory, clear and proper. We ain’t even s’posed to be here.

Dave grimaced, but Ian could see that he agreed with Bill. He took a swig from his own canteen, then handed it to Ian, and followed Bill into the jungle. This time neither of them looked back. They trusted Ian to keep up.

You know, Dave said, I’d argue we can be here. Dr. Twine called for help. Table personnel picked up his transmission. That’s a human requesting help against vampires. If that’s not our business, I don’t know what is.

Bill shook his head and swatted at a giant mosquito. The vamps ain’t gonna see it that way, kid, and you know it. This is their territory, whether you like it or not.

What should we have done, Bill? Let them kill him?

I’m glad you didn’t, Ian said. His voice sounded meek, even to his own ears.

Bill snorted and said nothing. We’ll be at the river soon, and we can call the ship and be outta here before—

A howl split the air, and Ian was surprised that he recognized this one: the hunting cry of a Brazilian Mastiff.

Bill cursed. They got our scent. Run! He set the example, crashing into the bush like a deer disappearing down a trail.

Dave moved to follow him, but Ian hesitated. The young man looked over his shoulder. What’s up, Doc?

I just...I don’t understand what’s happening.

Look, Dave said, I know you’re scared and confused, but right now, if you want to live, you need to run! And then he was gone, leaving Ian alone with the sounds of a rapidly approaching hunting dog.

Ian ran, faster than he could remember running in his life. He slapped low-hanging branches out of the way, ignoring stinging cuts as huge predatory flies bit his arms and neck. He leaped over rocks and logs and streams, dodged roots and snakes. The jungle turned into a blur, a whirling tornado of greens and browns, accompanied by the perilous sounds of barking dogs. Three dogs, he thought, accompanied by at least four human voices shouting in English.

He was running for his kids, he reminded himself. For Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, and Ellie. He repeated their names to himself as he ran. Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, Ellie. Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, Ellie. With each repetition of this mantra, he felt himself getting stronger, saw the jungle moving by faster. His arms spread triumphantly, he burst out of the forest into a small clearing.

Panting, for a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. But then his brain caught up and he felt his heart sink.

Dave and Bill were on their knees in the mud, facing a line of tanned men with tattered clothes and machine guns. One of them pointed his rifle at Ian and said, Get over there and kneel. Hands over your head.

Behind Ian four men burst out of the tree line. All of them were frightfully skinny and dressed in threadbare rags. One of them held a long-barreled hunting rifle. The other three held leases. On the other end of each leash was a beast that looked something like a bloodhound. The dogs were each about two feet tall and heavy with muscle. Their mouths hung open, revealing needle-sharp teeth. Thick, clear liquid dripped from their jaws. Like the vampires that had killed Michelle, each of their eyes were solidly, completely black. One of them strained against its lead, barking and snapping.

The man with the rifle spoke to the others. Did you see their swords? These are knights of the Round Table.

Here? The Round Table is not allowed in this jungle.

Bill arched an eyebrow at Dave. The younger man frowned and shook his head.

What should we do with them?

Take their weapons for a start.

One of the men stalked towards the prisoners. Bill kept his hands above his head as the gunman unbuckled the sword-belt around his waist and tossed it over his shoulder. Dave, though, threw a punch as the man approached. He missed and much of his body weight carried him to the muddy ground. Chupacabras howled in rage. The man cracked him across the face with the stock of his rifle. Dave hit the ground moaning. He came up a second later, though, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, his hair hanging in his face.

Stop, the man who was obviously the leader of the gunmen said. Roberto will want these two alive.

What about this one? someone said, putting a rough hand on Ian’s head. He’s no knight.

Roberto does not wish to be troubled with matters such as these. The leader looked at Ian now. His eyes were a dark green, not black like the vampires’ had been, but they were nearly as devoid of emotion. A chupacabra barked. The man smiled. Give him to the dogs.

Ian screamed as the hounds closed in on him. Their jaws flashed and closed around his throat, but only once apiece. His clinical mind raced back to his documentary on El Chupacabra: They drained the blood from their victims through a single tiny hole in the neck. These dogs were going to suck him dry.

Ian watched for a moment as Dave and Bill were stood up, their hands still above their heads, and marched into the woods. The last thing he saw was the column of