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   Chapter 47 No.47

High Steaks By Christina Engela Characters: 5786

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


I'm in a room full of religious fanatics! He realized. "And worse – religious fanatics armed with super-soakers! Who think they can kill vampires with tap water and probably by seasoning them with garlic! Yea… what could possibly go wrong?" Deep down Carver became aware, on a very primal level, that contradicting them probably wasn't a good idea.

This left him to digest the sudden realization that he was in the company of – no, literally at the mercy of people who really thought vampires could be warded off by 'faith' – or killed by superstition. I suppose next they will pass out little silver crucifixes, he thought with mounting sarcasm. Question: What do you call a vampire after you squirt him with holy water in a water pistol? Answer: A wet, nasty death! Where were the fancy guns, the special liquid phosphorescent bullets? The hi-tech garlic impregnated blades? Those items were just as likely to be ineffective, but at least they would've made this outfit seem serious! These idiots were going to get themselves killed – and probably him along with them!

"I see your point." Carver nodded at last, placing the item down on the table while groaning inwardly and trying to not show any visible disdain, before asking "When do we start?" with mock enthusiasm.

"When d'you think?" Nurris smiled back as if trying to contain his enthusiasm. "Tonight!"

* * *

It wasn't until Sarge turned up on the Grauffis ranch – mysteriously appearing out of thin air in the center of the barnyard, beside Deanna's most famous son – Beck the Badfeller – that anything really started to happen there.

Sarge was an elderly yet upright and muscular man dressed in blue jeans, black safety shoes, green T-shirt and brown lumbe

you now – a hundred?"

"Seventy-five last month, Sarge!" Garfner grinned, looking up at the larger old soldier with his remaining eye. "Still healthy an' fightin' fit as ever!" He bragged.

"What in hades' outhouse are you doin' here?"

"Aw, you know me, Sarge!" The ancient corporal grinned, bashfully. "I was with the fishin' club when Beck the Badfeller found us – an' I jus' couldn't say no!"

"You never could!" Sarge guffawed. Sarge was glad to see a familiar face in the crowd, someone he knew from the old days. He remembered Corporal Prattley Simmons Garfner quite well. They'd served together on several occasions – until he retired with an honorable discharge after suffering wounds at the Battle of the Bump on Guatamalia Four. A lot of good men and women died on Guatamalia Four. And that was a very long damn time ago! Sarge was 76 years old himself now – but a very young 76. He'd been on pension for nearly twenty years as well, since shortly after seeing his last action, and had been making the best of his retired life, which – as far as he was concerned, wasn't really saying much under that particular set of circumstances.

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