The vampires attack down south of the border.

In my vampire horror series BIG CRIMSON, the blood suckers prowl the night, blending in among the mortals, pretending long enough to find a victim to feed upon. In the first book, a young man named Kyle is the Good Samaritan who saves the life of a creature of the night named Jim, putting him in Kyle’s debt. Which is a good thing, because to save Jim, Kyle slew Zachariah Locke, the chief of a vampire clan who are now out to avenge their Maker and he needs all the help he can get. Soon, Kyle and Jim, and their neighbors are fighting off the Undead right and left. In the second book in the series, BIG CRIMSON 2: THE VAMPIRE NEXT DOOR, the tale of a vampire attack south of the border is related. Read about it below.

An excerpt from BIG CRIMSON 2: THE VAMPIRE NEXT DOOR:


“No sooner had she taken a seat on a bar stool than she was surrounded by a half-dozen guys, all wanting to buy her a drink. It was kind of comical at first, and from my vantage point, I could tell she was eating it all up, obviously having had an awful lot of practice wrapping men around her little finger.

“Then it happened, one overly exuberant and more than slightly drunk guy bumped another guy’s arm and spilled a drink all over her; it was the kind of thing that happened every night in a half-million watering holes from one side of the world to the other. She even laughed about it, but the guy whose arm had been bumped reacted badly—again, the kind of thing that happens every night where more than two people get together to get drunk. He turns to the guy who bumped his arm, and made him look like an oaf in front of the most gorgeous woman in the world, called him a very bad name, and sucker punches the dude in the face. You could hear the nose snap all the way over where I sat. It was over in a flash, with one dude on his back in the middle of the floor and the other one grasping his hand. Oh, and there was blood, gushing from the shattered nose and smeared on a bunch of skinned knuckles—like I said, nothing that doesn’t happen every night of the week.

“However, what happened next could only occur in hell…or so I thought.”

Mr. Brown looked down at the floor for a moment before he continued. “The whole place had gone silent. It was like everyone had sucked in their breath at the same time, but I distinctly remember hearing some ‘80s hair band wailing from the boom box Manuel kept behind the bar. Then, out of nowhere, came a noise—part cobra hiss, part mad dog growl—the kind of sound a demon would make while it’s fucking you in the ass. My head was going from side to side trying to figure out where the hell this sound was coming from, then I saw her, still perched on the bar stool, but she wasn’t the most beautiful woman of the century anymore. Her face was twisted into a snarl: lips pulled back, saliva dripping off perfect pearly whites. In an instant, I knew that demon sound was coming out of her, and that’s when her canines grew long, like a dog’s, right before my eyes.

“Before I could decide if it was all a tequila-induced hallucination, she launched herself off that stool and pounced on the poor guy on the floor like a big cat, sinking those fangs into the soft of his neck. Some woman screamed, then another; the gringos had seen enough, and there was a mad dash for the door, but the way was blocked by the bikers, every one showing their fangs now, as did the lowlifes and hustlers. It was as though that demon sound was a dinner bell. The tourists didn’t stand a chance. One poor guy just stood there, pie-eyed, while one of those bikers walked right up and chomped down on his jugular vein, and a lady sitting two tables away was pulled to the floor by two cabana boys. One of them bit into her neck, and the other hiked up her dress and found the big artery in her thigh.

“And me, I sat there, glued to my chair the whole time and watched every single gringo in Oro Carlos get massacred, simply refusing to believe what I was seeing. Even when all the tourists had gone down and the room was filled with the sucking sounds, I just sat there in the corner and took it all in; I sat there even when one of the bikers strode over to my table, grabbed me by my collar, jerked me up out of my seat, and bared his fangs. Even then, I didn’t believe it, didn’t believe the evidence of my eyes. Then Manuel was there, pleading with the biker, calling him Poncho and saying something in Spanish—the only words I could make out were marchado and Cruz. Poncho ignored him and pulled me close—I could smell the salty scent of blood in his breath—but Manuel reached over and pulled the crucifix from inside my shirt, the one I’d totally forgotten I still wore. That was it; Poncho took one look at the silver cross and dropped me like a hot potato. Then he went across the bar, kicked a cabana boy off a young gringo girl, and fed on her.

“And that’s how I learned vampires are real.”

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