Montana Jack and the Vampires of Mars

By Bill Wyza

Montana Jack is a Mercenary, a Bounty Hunter...a Hero. The outpost on Mars has not been heard from in weeks...the last known transmission spoke of something evil...something utterly unspeakable loose within the underground facility. Only one man is qualified to investigate. Come aboard and experience the first adventure of the most dangerous hero on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257392445

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

Are you sure you want to go in there?"

That was the question Dox asked each person who approached the unmarked entrance to the club.

Two eager tourists, armed only with wide grins and fat wallets, stood at the base of the concrete steps that led to a nondescript door.

They tried unsuccessfully to choke back the laughter and lingering effects of the evening’s activities, and nearly stumbled off the narrow landing.

Dox folded his muscular arms neatly across his ample chest and waited for a reaction. Perhaps they didn’t hear him. Perhaps they didn’t take his question as serious as they should. They stood together, teetering from side to side, like fresh meat ready for the slaughter.

He shook his head in exasperation, convinced that, like so many others, they had no idea what awaited them behind the door he guarded. He reminded himself that it wasn’t his place to chase away easy marks such as this. He was not responsible for their poor decisions. Still, he felt a slight pang of sympathy for them, and offered one last piece of useful advice for them to consider: People die in there, you know…

Their smiles quickly faded into dry, deadpan stares. With a brief shared glance, they turned away from the door, walked down the steps, and returned to their otherwise safe and boring lives.

Dox grinned ever so slightly. He felt relieved that they chose to find other means of entertainment – and therefore would most likely live to see another sunrise. Unfortunately, this was not always the norm. This same pattern repeated itself often throughout the night, and in most cases, resulted in a curious or overconfident visitor who found his way behind the unmarked door. What that visitor didn’t know was that this was no ordinary club, and it attracted an extraordinary clientele.

There were a dozen or more circular tables scattered about the smoky room. Each of the flimsy wooden tables was marred with scores of damage and faded discolorations. Around each of these tables were a collection of mismatched chairs occupied by rogues, thieves, and mercenaries. Throughout the night and well into the morning, this ramshackle collection of fortune hunters gambled, drank, argued, and fought. For them it was business as usual; a night on the town, a way to relax.

An anxious throng of eager spectators gathered around three prominent men who sat at a large table in the corner of the room.

Above the table hovered a perpetually thick layer of gray smoke just below a faded yellow lamp.

Each man seated around the table focused intently on the cards held in his hand. They were oblivious to the watchful eyes trained on their every move. Directly in front of them, in the middle of the table, sat an impressive pile of dull metal credits in a scattered mound. Those credits represented a very large sum of money - more money than most of the people in this room were used to seeing. Tonight, however, it wasn’t so much the money that was at stake, but it was the outcome of the game at hand.

The men who sat around this table ‘found’ money like this on regular basis, so to them, the money was not the most important consideration. No, it wasn’t about the money at all. Reputations were at stake, and that was more valuable to them than any pile of credits.

Orin was one of the players caught up in this game of life and death. He was a young man, and looked quite a bit out of place seated next to his older, more seasoned opponents. His long blond hair was clean and neatly brushed, and his face was smooth and fresh, without flaws or blemishes. He was a handsome young man in any circle, but here, among the hardened rouges and mercenaries, he looked like shiny pearl in a murky pond. He was clearly unsure of himself, and his wide, crystal blue eyes darted back and forth nervously across the table confirming his uneasiness to his opponents.

The jittery crowd waited in mixed silence for Orin to answer the current bet. All eyes were on the frightened young man, and he felt their burning gaze and the weight of their stares.

Sweat glistened on Orin’s forehead. He wiped away the tell tale sign with his sleeve. He was in big trouble, and he knew it. In fact, everyone in the room knew it by now. The current bet was high - high enough, in fact, to take all his remaining credits. He had no choice but to play on – regardless of the consequences.

With an unsteady hand, Orin reached out and pushed his last few credits toward the middle of the table. He paused there with his arm outstretched. All eyes in the room were fixed on his hand. He could not look at his opponents, nor could he look away. Finally, he drew back his hand and placed it in his lap. He swallowed deeply and tossed two of his cards onto the table. Two new cards were tossed back; they landed flat, face down in front of him. Orin slowly reached out and touched the two new cards. He was unable to lift them from the table. His fingers tapped lightly on their colored surface.

Across the table, one of his elder opponents cleared his throat, which was a not-so-polite signal to get on with the game.

Orin slowly pulled the cards toward his body and lifted them off the table. With a gentle push, he slid the new arrivals beside the other cards. Orin stared straight ahead, his once spirited eyes frozen in a persistent gaze. He did not blink, nor did he speak. A thick sheen of sweat greased his brow, and his lips turned pale and thin.

Unconsciously, he swallowed hard and choked back a thin breath. His shoulders remained raised and stiff; the veins on his neck were puffy and red. The crowed sensed his increased anxiety, and murmured again in nervous tones.

Razi, who was much older than Orin, sat on the opposite side of the table. His thick, leathery skin was a sharp contrast to Orin’s smooth, delicate features. Razi’s hair was a mottled nest of silver and black strands, cut in uneven lengths, and in need of a thorough washing. A long, jagged scar, likely the result of a sharp blade, creased one side of his face. His jaw moved back and forth, driven by pulsating muscles below his ears. His clothes were a tattered, battle-worn uniform of some long dead army. In front of Razi stood a healthy stack of credits. He reached out his thick, soiled hand, and scooped up a group of the precious bounty. Some of the credits fell from his fingers as he reached out to the middle of the table. He stared intently at Orin, who tried in vain to avoid his steely gaze. Razi intended to make this bet a personal one. He slowly let the credits rain down onto the pile.

The crowd watched and waited for the last of the credits to land. When the final credit struck the table, the crowd fell silent again.

Orin stared at the pile and slowly closed his eyes in defeat. Razi pulled back his arm, leaned into the back of his chair, and smiled a ruthless, heartless grin. His twisted smirk exposed an uneven row of rotted and broken teeth. He tossed a single card away, and a received replacement card from across the table. He took the new card and slipped it into his hand without even the slightest glance. The crowd came alive again in nervous whispers and gasps.

Only the dealer, who remained conspicuously quiet during this entire exchange, was left to make his bet. He sat back in his chair and coolly leaned to one side. His jet-black, wavy hair framed a chiseled, square-jawed face. His eyes hid behind a pair of dark glasses that reflected the men across the table. The full-length jacket he wore could not disguise his bulk - this was a man of considerable strength and speed. His firm jaw showed no expressions, and with one hand, he walked a single credit back and forth across his knuckles. His other hand tapped the stack of cards that remained on the deck. Razi sneered across the table at him in an effort to coerce a reaction: he failed.

Without a single shift in body language, the Dealer pushed a sizable pile of credits outward into the middle of the table. Razi’s sneer faded away.

The now agitated audience waited to see how many cards would be exchanged, as did the other players across the table.

Orin, still visibly shaken from his own previous bet, watched intently for the Dealer’s next move. His already pale skin faded into patchy blue-gray hue. It was as if all the blood in his body turned ice cold.

Razi, still confident in his own position at the table, picked at his thick fingernails with a large, serrated knife. He flicked bits of dirt and debris into the air with a grin. He waited and watched.

The Dealer didn’t move - he only sat, rigid in his chair and waited. The crowed became more agitated with each passing moment.

Razi leaned in close to the table and prominently displayed his knife. His blew a hot breath onto the blade and shined it against the cloth of his sleeve. He examined the polished steel, which reflected the dim lights into the eyes of the nervous spectators, and leaned back again into this chair.

Finally, the Dealer reached out and took his drink from the table. Without hesitation, he brought the drink to his lips and downed it in one smooth motion. Then, to the shock of everyone in the room, he set the glass on the table - face down - directly in front of Razi. A collective gasp escaped from the crowd. Razi shot a confused look across the table at this surprise move. Orin could only watch in silence from his own chair since he knew now that the best he could hope for was to get out of the game alive; he didn’t want to imagine the worst.

Razi straightened up and stared at the Dealer with narrow, focused eyes. He hoped that maybe there was a mistake – a misunderstanding. He leaned back in the chair, and the crowd took a step farther away from the table, in anticipation of a sudden outburst.

Razi held his gaze for a long, tense moment. His jaw flexed and his teeth scraped together. Calling me out? he asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

The Dealer did not respond right away to his question. He let the words float around the room for all to hear. Finally, his response was a simple one: Yes.

The crowd again gasped and murmured among themselves. A few of the less adventurous stepped farther away from the table, and at least several more left the room entirely. It was definitely on.

Razi thought about his next move for a moment. He knew there was no way out of the game at this point since a call could not be turned down, not without a fight at least, and those fights usually ended with several dead bodies lying prone on the greasy floor. He thought about the guns that he kept strapped to his thighs, and he also thought about the knife still on the table. He thought about a lot of things. What he didn’t think about was backing down. Today was not the day he would stand down. Not with all these people watching. Too much was at stake.

Without hesitation, Razi leaned forward and pushed in all the credits that sat in front of him. Call accepted. Alright, let’s do it, he said. His voice cracked a little when he spoke, so he cleared his throat. The awestruck crowd stood back even farther.

The Dealer pushed in all his credits - a much bigger pile than Razi’s, but that’s the way it worked: all credits on the table. Both men glared at one another for a moment, then in unison, turned to face young Orin.

Orin hoped against hope that they forgot about him - no such luck. He didn’t think it was possible, but the game had just gone from bad to worse. He was caught without enough chips to match the call - which was serious offense in a game like this. Both men stared across the table and waited for his answer. The room fell silent as all eyes burned into the back of the young man. Orin could not hold their gaze, and his eyes dated back and forth nervously.

Well… started Razi in a deep, guttural voice that chilled Orin’s spine, …you know the rules, boy… He let his words sink in, then added, Don’t play the game if you can’t pay the stakes.

Orin shook visibly - he knew Razi was right. He played the game…and he knew the rules…and now it was time to make good.

The crowd moved in closer to await the young man’s response. Orin looked around the room and his eyes pleaded for someone to step up and make it all go away…but no one did. Instead, he swallowed hard, and stretched his hand out on the table. With a thin sigh, he held his palm flat and spread his fingers wide apart.

Razi gazed across the table to the Dealer, who returned a slight nod. With that signal, Razi picked up his knife and positioned it across Orin’s outstretched fingers, the tip fixed firmly on the table.

Orin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His mouth was a dry wasteland and his body shook visibly - but he was ready.

Without hesitation or remorse, Razi snapped the knife blade across Orin’s finger, severing it mid-knuckle. Orin choked back a scream and stuffed his bloody, throbbing hand under his arm to stop the bleeding. He rocked back and forth in agony until a kind woman brought him a rag in which to wrap his hand. She tightly fixed the rag around his wound and picked up the severed finger and placed it in a container. She stuffed the small container in Orin’s pocket. If he was lucky, and hurried, he could have it reattached. But more importantly, he was now even with the house, and kept his honor as well. It would have been much worse had he refused to face the knife. Orin got up from the table and vanished into the crowd. For Orin, at least, the immediate danger had passed.

Razi now turned back to face the Dealer. He held out the now bloody blade and let it drip on the pile of credits in the middle of the table. He wiped the blade clean on his sleeve and set the knife beside his cards. The crowd burst into another chorus murmurs.

I guess it’s just you and me..." said the Dealer.

Guess so. Let’s get on with it."

The Dealer grinned and flipped his cards over. The crowd gasped and stepped back away from the table in one concerted motion. Razi stared at the cards in disbelief. If his skin had any color it would have faded to gray. Lying on the table in front of him was the only hand in the game that was unbeatable. The odds of getting this hand were astronomical…it simply never happened. When this hand was presented in a game it often was met with accusations of foul play. Razi’s expression changed from surprise, to humiliation, to anger. Why you dirty, cheatin’… were the only words to escape his fetid mouth. In a flash, the Dealer shot across the table, took up the knife, got behind Razi, and placed the blade across his exposed neck.

Chaos exploded in the room as most of the spectators hurried to get away from the melee.

Now, he said to Razi in a soft, steady voice. Are you gonna play nice? The Dealer’s face was a mere inches behind Razi’s disfigured ear.

Razi crinkled his brow as he thought hard about how quickly he was overtaken, and how easily he found his own knife at his throat. He had never been bested with such ease before, and this looked like a good time to take a step back, swallow his pride, and live to fight another day. Yes, he whispered back, barely perceptible over the frantic tones of the dispensing crowd. It was humiliating to give in so easily to one man, but at least he would live through this game and perhaps, get revenge another day.

The Dealer pulled the knife from his neck and shoved Razi away from the table. Go on, now. Get out of here… he said.

…before I change my mind.

Razi reached up and felt where the knife creased his neck. He watched the Dealer slide all the money into a small case. Consumed with anger, Razi slowly turned away from the table and started for the door. The crowd parted into a wide path that led from the table to the exit, but instead of exiting the room, Razi stopped and paused. His face was now flushed red with rage. He spun around and pulled out a gun from hidden within his clothes.

The Dealer simultaneously whirled around and tossed the knife across the room before the gun could come to aim. The blade penetrated deeply into the flesh of Razi’s forearm and embedded into the muscle and bone. He dropped the gun and fell to his knees with a grimace of pain and fear. He clutched his wounded arm close to his body. Razi looked up just in time to see the Dealer bound across the room with vengeance in his eyes. The case of credits swung feely in one hand in time with each of his long strides.

The Dealer pressed a large boot onto the blade of the knife and forced it deeper into Razi’s flesh. His cries of agony filled the room and silenced the crowd.

You should have left when you had the chance, said the Dealer. A large, silver-plated, semi-automatic plasma pistol rose up from inside the jacket and poised inches from Razi’s scarred face.

Convinced he was about to die, Razi struggled to ask one last question of the man who held his life in the balance: Who…who are you?

The crowd, which until now had been huddled against the farthest walls in the room, took a simultaneous step closer to hear to the answer to that one question. Everyone in the room wanted to know the name of the man who had so quickly, and with such precision, taken down a well-known thug such a Razi.

The Dealer held Razi’s gaze for a long, agonizing moment. He let the room again become silent and still.

Razi stared back at his own reflection in the tall man’s mirrored glasses.

Jack."

Razi’s eyes darted back and forth as he searched for the name in his memory. He knew no one named Jack with such impressive skills as this man.

Jack watched the frightened thug struggle with his simple name, so he added, Montana…Jack.

Razi’s face went pale. His jaw fell open and his eyes grew wide and barren. He knew that name, as did most of the now stunned crowd, but more importantly, he knew the reputation that preceded the legendary name. He also knew for certain that he was lucky to still be alive - if only for a few more minutes.

Jack stared down at Razi for a moment that seemed to last an eternity. Without another word, he stepped over Razi’s prone body and slipped out the door and vanished. The door closed slowly and snapped shut – the room was deadly silent.

Razi slumped down onto the floor and nursed his injured arm.

He mumbled something under his breath and shook his head.

After a few moments of shared glances and calculated silence, the crowd erupted into excited whispers about the legend of Montana Jack. They all struggled to absorb the fact that Jack was more than a legend - he was real. But would anyone believe them?

CHAPTER 2

Jack strolled down the busy street with the confident swag of a seasoned gunfighter. Each person he approached instinctively stepped aside and gave him plenty of room to pass. Maybe it was his towering height, his intimidating gaze, or his wide build. Maybe it was his long, flowing black jacket. Maybe it was a combination of both. Whatever it